Romantic Comedies: Porn for Women

I've been saying this for years:

"Romantic Comedies are Making Kids Miserable"

I will address the narrative fallacies of the romantic comedy genre, but first let me first shortly examine its male equivalent--pornography (slightly NSFW)...

Young men, from early adolescence on, are socialized for years on a steady diet of pornography, rendered easily accessible today via the internet. The imagery and archetypal mythology of pornography is tied inextricably to the male's sexuality, through years of Pavlovian conditioning. Each exposure is rewarded with orgasm, just as the experimental chimp is rewarded with banana when a certain button is hit. This, over time, forges robust connection between the pleasure-impulse and the particular semiotics of pornographic film. This must obviously color young mens' impressions of their female companions and of their sexuality, with predictable results.

The (often-cretinous) male lead in a porn plot is rapaciously pursued by one of the Cum-Craving Sluts! The sex act is decontextualized, and rendered as a predictable given, once an appealing young woman-object enters the orbit of the male lead (and by projection, the viewer). Erotic display, foreplay, and oral sex are rendered primarily for his benefit, and theatrical orgasmic gesticulations will erupt immediately from the woman-object without any obvious connection to actual pleasure or orgasms experienced by her. Her role is to project signals of the process of orgasm with suitable duration and intensity for him to achieve the event of his own orgasm. The sexual solipsism is breached only by occasional encouragements mechanically projected by the woman-object (usually along the lines of "Oh yeah, f*ck me harder!"). Since the characters usually enter the scene as strangers, and leave as such, there is little, if any room, for mutual sexual communication and exploration. Nor is this desirable.

Focus is given at the climactic moment to the male orgasm, emphasized by the visual emphasis of the "cumshot." Most often, orgasm is experienced by the male lead as a completely isolated experience, him having "pulled out" prior to ejaculation, and usually seizing the erotic reigns at the climactic moment (literally) with his own hands. The male does not touch the woman-object at the crescendo of orgasm, except by the propulsion of his ejaculate onto her supplicate body as a violent projectile.

Thus, the male lead subject seizes agency as the cause of his own orgasm. Never is he vulnerable or beholden to the woman-object. He has given, but "owes" for nothing (having facilitated his own orgasm). There is no post-coital embrace. The scene ends abruptly. The sex act remains decontextualized, an event unmoored from past or future. There are no consequences--emotional, spiritual, or physical--for either participant.

* * *

Nothing new; straight out of anti-porn feminist theory. What is less acknowledged is the malicious role the romantic comedy genre plays upon the romantic development of the adolescent female. As with porn, archetypal characters are presented as unrealistic stereotypes, designed to cheaply salve the audience's emotional impulses more than to reflect accurately real-life experience.

The male archetypal subject in porn is actively pursued by his fantasy woman-object, so too is the female romantic comedy archetypal subject wooed without obvious cause or merit. Her desirability is a given. The test of his worthiness is what grants the plot its narrative tension. He must along atone for his faults, labor against fate, and summon his sincerity for them to live happily ever after. Her agency is reduced to passive observation and judgment of his behavior. Her character is amoral, since it is not her redemption, but his which is a necessary prerequisite for romantic realization. The female lead is thus shorn of moral agency, and thus responsibility.

This leads to the Little Princess Complex--pretty girls can do no wrong. Also, it presupposes the Boys Will Be Boys Complex--cute boys are boisterous by nature, but ultimately endearing in their incorrigibility. The Little Princes Complex dehumanizes the female in two ways: by reducing her to her mere aesthetic value as a romantic object, and by absolving her of the need and ability for moral responsibility. The Boys Will Be Boys Complex grants the male more space for moral agency, characterization, and humanity, but still reduces him in an essential way.

Firstly, he is guilty until proven innocent, and cannot hold his female jury to the same standard applied to him. Secondly, in the end his moral conduct is immaterial. In a temporal twist on Christian mythology, his salvation is found in her grace. He must prove his love for her, more than he must prove his uprightness, and then she will extend her grace to him. Happily ever after...

History does not exist for the characters in romantic comedies. All actions are forgiven once tension has served its narrative purpose, and all morality and practicality are sublimated to the teleology of Plot. The characters are prisons of our agenda for them: love or else! Their romantic connection is not born of mutual empathy or inner experience, but rather of a narrative fait accompli. Their duty is not of romantic edification, but rather to reconcile themselves to the fate rendered to them. This presupposes of course that the pairing was "natural" all along.

Certainly, sticking one's head in the ground to glaring deficiencies in the connections born of modern romance--characterized often by capriciously random encounters or mere convenience--does not offer promise as a long-term romantic strategy. Furthermore, the implication that only one party with have to "work at it" is bound to lead to heartache and resentment. Lastly, the alluring conception of human beings as emotional tabula rasas--impervious to past slights and patient in the wake of pain--is dangerously naive.

Most perilous, however, is the tragic-ironic place where the two media--porn and romantic comedy--meet. Their messages are diametrically opposed. Each partner will expect his/her opposite to play supplicant. Neither acknowledges their own personal moral responsibility. Furthermore, the two media divorce the two concepts of romance and sex into gendered spheres. Each becomes the total dominion of its respective gender. Sex belongs to men and is defined by them. Romance to women. Incongruity characterizes both. The connection between sex and romance is broken, and the different but complimentary roles played by the two genders in each sphere is disregarded in favor of a schizophrenic dualism.

With a whole generation of young men coming up convinced that the only proper connection with a woman is "doggy-style," and with their female peers wondering why their boyfriends don't take the night-flight from Paris just to ask how they're feeling, it's little wonder that...

Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus

BONUS! Free yourself from the grip of The Porn Machine (via N+1)

Yoga, Official Mystic Activity of Late Capitalism

yo⋅ga [yoh-guh] - noun: A ritual and regimen involving svelte blonds in stretchy black pants, tank tops, and roll-up rubber mats. It emphasizes breathing and flexibility. Great for stress. Everybody who does it seems skinny. Involves vague feelings of eco-consciousness, too.

Yep, lots of sex appeal in yoga.

I'll go out on a limb here and argue that the majority of yoga enthusiasts in trendy urban neighborhoods have never heard of the concept of Hatha Yoga--or of Yogi Swatmarama, its 15th Century originator. This is what most Westerners think of as "yoga." Yogi Swatmarama originally conceived of his physical regimen as a preparation for long periods of meditation, "a stairway to the heights of Raja Yoga" (enlightenment through meditation). In other words, "yoga" (as commonly mis-understood) is a means to a means to an end. It prepares the body in order to make possible the meditation that will itself make possible the eventual enlightenment.

Non-believers doing yoga to get skinny is kind of like appropriating the bend-and-kneel Islamic prayer to tone your buns and a thighs.


"Allaahu Akbar! Feel the burn!"

Ok fine, say our bendy patrons of lulumon atheltica ("a yoga-inspired athletic apparel company with over 100 locations in Canada, the United States, Australia and Hong Kong"), maybe our interests veer more towards the yuppie than the yogic. What's the harm? You can loose weight, "increase your range of motion," and purge all the stresses of modern living!

Here's the thing--all you mystical weekend warriors looking to get "Stronger, Better, Wiser, Lighter! ☮"--you have wrapped your pliable thighs in a tight embrace of the very source of your angst and malaise.

Yes, the moment you debited a hundred dollars to your Visa for that 100% recycled post-consumer content yoga mat, you lost it. When you entered that air-conditioned, hermetically-sealed, Windex-scrubbed glass box of a yoga studio, you lost it. When you looked around you and meditated either on how super-skinny you already are, or should be, you lost it. When you strutted your way to be seen purchasing an organic açaí protein smoothy, you lost it. And when you told all your friends how yoga has totally changed your life, you did so wafting a subtle air of faux humility barely able to cloud the self-righteous avarice of the fab yogic elect--and you lost it.

But now, after an hour of heavy breathing and narcissism, cells bathed in oxygen and antioxidants, you're feeling pretty good. These days, you simply have to come back every week, or every other day, to "decompress."

And you might be addicted to therapy. Or maybe even heroin, too.


"For the love of God, I neeeed to perform the down dog pose!"

After each respective dosage of therapy, yoga or heroin, you'll feel pretty good (in the case of the latter two, you'll feel pretty slim, too). But then after a while, the Crisis creeps back into your life. Sobriety makes you feel frazzled again. Threadbare. Stressed. So, you head back to the studio to sweat a little--to wash out your soul like you wash your clothes. But there is no solution, only maintenance.

Oh ye bendy Seekers, realize that yoga is the new Opium of the Masses! That old-time religion was just too involving, it turns out. Plus, it didn't do much for those embarrassing love handles. So why not distill some Hindu wisdom, containing the highest possible concentration of marketable content? A 90 Proof shot of spirituality. A high-potency multivitamin for the soul.

In shooting up just enough therapy into your beleaguered veins, you've perpetuated your spiritual demise. In making a creeping madness "manageable," you've assured the insanity's ultimate success. All that stress that you pursue yoga to expurgate is normalized and its ultimate cause ignored. It is responded to like a routine hunger easily satiated by a nice lunch.

Even worse, you've intensified the Crisis by becoming even more of a consumer--of yoga, its image (spiritual skinniness!), and related "essentials" (Nike Dri-Fit™ high-performance tank!). But your life remains, as in the suburban dystopia of Revolutionary Road, filled with "hopeless emptiness." An existential drift sweetened just enough with an relentless torrent of consumer items and experiences, of which yoga is just another example. By cheapening yoga with consumerist commodification, you've vexed another route of potential escape (what the old-time Yogis called moksha) for yourself and others.

The word "yoga" was derived from the Sandskrit yuj, meaning "to control." Ask yourself, the next time you are standing in line for salads with a flock of other identically-attired Yuppie Yoginis, just who is controlling whom?