Entry tags:
Hell is a teenage girl
Rabbit, rabbit! It's October and at least half the country is dreaming of eating men alive. Let's talk about Jennifer's Body (2009).
Written by Diablo Cody, directed by Karyn Kusama, and incredibly underappreciated by critics, Jennifer's Body spins a very funny, stealthily poignant horror movie out of a premise with the genius of a one-liner—when a virgin sacrifice to the powers of darkness turns out to be not so much of a virgin, a succubus is born and only her plain-jane friend can stop her—and a plot that commits to flipping the superficial misogyny of hottie vs. nottie to explore the demons of female rage and loyalty underneath. Megan Fox stars as the eponymous Jennifer Check, the reigning hot cheerleader of Devil's Kettle, Minnesota, so named for its local geographical mystery of a seemingly bottomless waterfall. Kids and scientists throw stuff down it all the time and none of it ever appears to come out. That concludes the most fun you can have in this town while staying legal. Big fish, small pond territory, all right? But what a fish. Slender and pneumatic in low-slung jeans and nipple-hugging crop-tops, Jennifer has wolf-blue eyes and twining dark hair and a cultivated trick of saying outrageous things in a tiny, pouty, little-girl voice; her bee-stung mouth drops open to reveal white, white teeth in a way that suggests absolute receptivity and then comes out swinging with opening lines like "It smells like Thai food in here. Have you guys been fucking?" Her sickest burns are reserved for her would-be admirers, the mean-girl swagger that passes for sophistication in high school: "He thinks he's cute enough for me and that's why he's in retard math." "He's into maggot rock. He wears nail polish. My dick is bigger than his." The heart-shaped pendant nestling just above her jailbait cleavage reads "BFF." Its twin swings around the throat of our milk-blonde, bespectacled, nerdy-cute narrator Anita Lesnicki (Amanda Seyfried), whose Jennifer-bestowed nickname "Needy" illuminates the tensions of their long relationship just as much as the starry eyes with which she watches Jennifer twirling the high school flag. Whatever it was like when they were grade-schoolers playing with dolls in a sandbox, with the deforming pressures of adolescence they have fallen into one of those id-and-superego spirals that can lock girls together, especially girls with different insecurities, "tits were her trademark" Jennifer always pulling "dork like me" Needy along on some irresponsibly adult adventure, glamorous and irresistible and nowhere near the grown-up she looks or sounds like. "Boo," she mourns when it takes more than a casually issued order to get Needy to disregard her own boundaries yet again, this time into blowing off a night with her genuinely nice boyfriend Chip (Johnny Simmons) to accompany Jennifer to the town's dive bar in pursuit of an indie singer she's been stalking on MySpace. Finger-marking the air with affected disappointment: "Cross out Needy." It works like a charm, albeit a malign and slightly sad one. It works on the audience, too. By the time Needy's having to decide, amid the Grand Guignol of the third act, whether she's willing to let Jennifer keep getting away with murder now that it's more than a figure of speech, we understand that the stakes have escalated only in degree, not kind.
In many ways, I think Jennifer's Body was for me the experience I had been promised with Buffy the Vampire Slayer (1997–2003) and never actually got—the daily horrors of high school expressed in supernatural terms and a slangingly snarky argot that never undercuts itself so much that the beats of real emotion have no room to land. The deaths in this movie have weight. In a small town that really feels rural, Midwestern, recession-hit, we see parents grieving, teachers lost for words, students drifting numbly through the hallways as the blunt-force trauma of a devastating fire gives way to the deeper panic of an unsolved series of gruesome murders. ("Did you hear what Colin Gray looked like when they found him?"–"Lasagna with teeth?"–"You heard!") For every dry jab of humor at the sight of Jennifer sashaying a radiant catwalk through a crowd of weeping, shocked classmates, there's a swirl of unease at the depth of her indifference, as if the studied carelessness of her introductory scenes has become effortlessly, affectlessly real. One minute she's casting a territorial eye toward Chip, the next falling into bed with Needy herself, at least until Needy kicks her out of it with a justified yell of "What the fuck is happening?" It's a nightmare not just because Jennifer's now-supernal levels of babe-hood have begun to wax and wane with the bloody disappearances of local boys, but because Needy can't tell whether to be more frightened of her friend or more frightened of losing her. The love in this movie has weight, too. Romantic, familial, whatever complicated and codependent thing twines between Jennifer and Needy, it's worth noting that while there are fright-flick moments aplenty in this story—spiky black vomit chased with a predatory whisper of are you scared, hallucinations of blood and of Jennifer crouching feral as Lilith at the foot of the bed in which Chip and Needy are sweetly, awkwardly, seriously getting it on for the very first time—they are always underlaid by the ordinary, awful fears of adolescence, when the night terrors of children bleed into the existential awakening of adults. That your friends will turn on you, that your parents won't save you, that the people you love won't heed you, not really, not when it's important. That you were always alone, even when you thought you had allies. That you were always too late to save anyone, even yourself. The nature of demonic possession in this script is sketched broadly enough to allow for the interpretation that what we might otherwise term "Jennifer" is for most of the runtime really more like "the demon where Jennifer used to be," but that doesn't change the fact that whether it's Jennifer's body or Jennifer herself in the climactic showdown with Needy, what they're fighting over is not really the serial man-eating that has terrorized Devil's Kettle for months but just how bad a friend Jennifer has honestly been for years. It's heavy stuff. It just comes out in lines like "She's just hovering. It's not that impressive" and "Do you buy all your murder weapons at Home Depot? God, you're butch." I was not necessarily as charmed by similar dialogue in the more realistic Juno (2007), for which Cody won an Oscar for Best Original Screenplay. What can I say? Add a succubus, it works for me.
I saw this movie with![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
rushthatspeaks as part of the Boston Women's Film Festival at the Brattle Theatre; it was introduced by Strictly Brohibited and cheered by an audience split audibly between people who could quote it from memory and people whose high expectations were being fulfilled, which is a delightful thing to hear for a triple-threat female cult favorite whose critical reception was mixed in the extreme. I think it helps that while it's happy to reverse the conventions of its genre, e.g., boys in this story serve as the doomed, disposable equivalents of women in slasher flicks, it also insists on digging past the obvious. Rush said afterward that they couldn't find a better word for Jennifer's death by indie band than "insulting" and it's really true. Low Shoulder (Adam Brody, Juan Riedinger, Ryan Levine, and Sal Cortez) are an all too recognizable class of villain these days, mediocre white men who commit inconceivable harm in the course of line-cutting their way to the special privileges they feel are only their due. "Do you know how hard it is to make it as an indie band these days?" the lead singer demands with what only sounds like reason if you have an overwhelming sense of entitlement where your empathy should be. "There's so many of us and we're all so cute and it's like if you don't get on Letterman or some retarded soundtrack, you're screwed, okay? Satan is our only hope." Actually, we met them playing a nowheresville roadhouse like Devil's Kettle's Melody Lane with its scuzzy neon and its "sticker toilet" and its clientele of hardened barflies and desperately aimless teens for the simple reason that they just aren't all that good. But that won't stop them, not when they have someone else to pay the price for their success. "We're going to have to butcher you. And bleed you. And then Dirk here is going to wear your face. Relax, I'm kidding about the face. The rest is going to happen, though." That's the kind of human low-water mark these guys are, they can't even commit murder for Satan without being half-assed hipster ironic about it, tossing their flippant justifications over a bound and gagged, terrified Jennifer and busting out with a communal serenade of "867-5309/Jenny" mid-ritual like someone missed the point of A Clockwork Orange (1971). They are taking a life and they can't even take it seriously. There's a deep, nasty, real-world horror in that shallowness and it's twisted like a knife every time the soundtrack reminds us of their signature hit, "Through the Trees," whose wailing, anthemic grief cannot have ever been felt by any of these utterly self-centered men with their killing that doesn't make them Charles Manson and their eyeliner that doesn't make them Brandon Flowers and their greed that doesn't make them worth the life of an eighteen-year-old girl who did nothing more to deserve her brutal death than thirst after a hot singer and be led shell-shocked in the aftermath of violent tragedy into his blacked-out van. Succubus-Jennifer ripsawing her way through her prey is gory and upsetting, especially as the boys escalate in sympathy from a bereaved jock with the IQ of a goalpost (Josh Emerson) to the sweet-tempered Goth befriended by Needy (Kyle Gallner) to Needy's own beloved Chip, who in the classic failure mode of horror heroes has made himself vulnerable by not listening to the character who sounds the craziest, i.e., the heroine. Needy finally being forced to defend her boundaries against her BFF in the bloodiest and most irreversible of ways is visceral, relatable, and sad. Low Shoulder are the meat of the movie's horror and it is supremely satisfying that Cody and Kusama recognize them as such, so that once Needy has gotten through the ruinous business of reckoning with the monster they left of her friend, she can turn that anger where it properly belongs. Over the credits, that raw, inimitable voice kicks in like a boot to the chest, a white-hot wave of adrenaline, scouring as exorcism. Go on, take everything, take everything, I dare you to—
Beyond the title and the killer play-out of "Violet," I could detect no overt allusions to Hole in this movie, which doesn't stop it from feeling as though it's in dialogue with nearly every song ever growled, sneered, or screamed into a microphone by Courtney Love. I was especially reminded of "Miss World," "Celebrity Skin," "Reasons to Be Beautiful," and above all the Orphic fury of "Use Once & Destroy." It does not give an inch to the male gaze, but it's not interested in telling a pretty story for women, which does not mean there's not a lot of strength wrapped up in that mess. It deserves critical reappraisal, but I'm not sure it's so much lesser that the audiences for whom it was made scream for it as loudly as they do. I don't see a lot of movies that could double-feature as readily with Dance, Girl, Dance (1940) as with Pretty Poison (1968) and I especially don't see them featuring a cameo by Lance Henriksen, which after everything Jennifer's Body had already done for me frankly felt like a gift. With teeth. This friendship brought to you by my forever backers at Patreon.
Written by Diablo Cody, directed by Karyn Kusama, and incredibly underappreciated by critics, Jennifer's Body spins a very funny, stealthily poignant horror movie out of a premise with the genius of a one-liner—when a virgin sacrifice to the powers of darkness turns out to be not so much of a virgin, a succubus is born and only her plain-jane friend can stop her—and a plot that commits to flipping the superficial misogyny of hottie vs. nottie to explore the demons of female rage and loyalty underneath. Megan Fox stars as the eponymous Jennifer Check, the reigning hot cheerleader of Devil's Kettle, Minnesota, so named for its local geographical mystery of a seemingly bottomless waterfall. Kids and scientists throw stuff down it all the time and none of it ever appears to come out. That concludes the most fun you can have in this town while staying legal. Big fish, small pond territory, all right? But what a fish. Slender and pneumatic in low-slung jeans and nipple-hugging crop-tops, Jennifer has wolf-blue eyes and twining dark hair and a cultivated trick of saying outrageous things in a tiny, pouty, little-girl voice; her bee-stung mouth drops open to reveal white, white teeth in a way that suggests absolute receptivity and then comes out swinging with opening lines like "It smells like Thai food in here. Have you guys been fucking?" Her sickest burns are reserved for her would-be admirers, the mean-girl swagger that passes for sophistication in high school: "He thinks he's cute enough for me and that's why he's in retard math." "He's into maggot rock. He wears nail polish. My dick is bigger than his." The heart-shaped pendant nestling just above her jailbait cleavage reads "BFF." Its twin swings around the throat of our milk-blonde, bespectacled, nerdy-cute narrator Anita Lesnicki (Amanda Seyfried), whose Jennifer-bestowed nickname "Needy" illuminates the tensions of their long relationship just as much as the starry eyes with which she watches Jennifer twirling the high school flag. Whatever it was like when they were grade-schoolers playing with dolls in a sandbox, with the deforming pressures of adolescence they have fallen into one of those id-and-superego spirals that can lock girls together, especially girls with different insecurities, "tits were her trademark" Jennifer always pulling "dork like me" Needy along on some irresponsibly adult adventure, glamorous and irresistible and nowhere near the grown-up she looks or sounds like. "Boo," she mourns when it takes more than a casually issued order to get Needy to disregard her own boundaries yet again, this time into blowing off a night with her genuinely nice boyfriend Chip (Johnny Simmons) to accompany Jennifer to the town's dive bar in pursuit of an indie singer she's been stalking on MySpace. Finger-marking the air with affected disappointment: "Cross out Needy." It works like a charm, albeit a malign and slightly sad one. It works on the audience, too. By the time Needy's having to decide, amid the Grand Guignol of the third act, whether she's willing to let Jennifer keep getting away with murder now that it's more than a figure of speech, we understand that the stakes have escalated only in degree, not kind.
In many ways, I think Jennifer's Body was for me the experience I had been promised with Buffy the Vampire Slayer (1997–2003) and never actually got—the daily horrors of high school expressed in supernatural terms and a slangingly snarky argot that never undercuts itself so much that the beats of real emotion have no room to land. The deaths in this movie have weight. In a small town that really feels rural, Midwestern, recession-hit, we see parents grieving, teachers lost for words, students drifting numbly through the hallways as the blunt-force trauma of a devastating fire gives way to the deeper panic of an unsolved series of gruesome murders. ("Did you hear what Colin Gray looked like when they found him?"–"Lasagna with teeth?"–"You heard!") For every dry jab of humor at the sight of Jennifer sashaying a radiant catwalk through a crowd of weeping, shocked classmates, there's a swirl of unease at the depth of her indifference, as if the studied carelessness of her introductory scenes has become effortlessly, affectlessly real. One minute she's casting a territorial eye toward Chip, the next falling into bed with Needy herself, at least until Needy kicks her out of it with a justified yell of "What the fuck is happening?" It's a nightmare not just because Jennifer's now-supernal levels of babe-hood have begun to wax and wane with the bloody disappearances of local boys, but because Needy can't tell whether to be more frightened of her friend or more frightened of losing her. The love in this movie has weight, too. Romantic, familial, whatever complicated and codependent thing twines between Jennifer and Needy, it's worth noting that while there are fright-flick moments aplenty in this story—spiky black vomit chased with a predatory whisper of are you scared, hallucinations of blood and of Jennifer crouching feral as Lilith at the foot of the bed in which Chip and Needy are sweetly, awkwardly, seriously getting it on for the very first time—they are always underlaid by the ordinary, awful fears of adolescence, when the night terrors of children bleed into the existential awakening of adults. That your friends will turn on you, that your parents won't save you, that the people you love won't heed you, not really, not when it's important. That you were always alone, even when you thought you had allies. That you were always too late to save anyone, even yourself. The nature of demonic possession in this script is sketched broadly enough to allow for the interpretation that what we might otherwise term "Jennifer" is for most of the runtime really more like "the demon where Jennifer used to be," but that doesn't change the fact that whether it's Jennifer's body or Jennifer herself in the climactic showdown with Needy, what they're fighting over is not really the serial man-eating that has terrorized Devil's Kettle for months but just how bad a friend Jennifer has honestly been for years. It's heavy stuff. It just comes out in lines like "She's just hovering. It's not that impressive" and "Do you buy all your murder weapons at Home Depot? God, you're butch." I was not necessarily as charmed by similar dialogue in the more realistic Juno (2007), for which Cody won an Oscar for Best Original Screenplay. What can I say? Add a succubus, it works for me.
I saw this movie with
rushthatspeaks as part of the Boston Women's Film Festival at the Brattle Theatre; it was introduced by Strictly Brohibited and cheered by an audience split audibly between people who could quote it from memory and people whose high expectations were being fulfilled, which is a delightful thing to hear for a triple-threat female cult favorite whose critical reception was mixed in the extreme. I think it helps that while it's happy to reverse the conventions of its genre, e.g., boys in this story serve as the doomed, disposable equivalents of women in slasher flicks, it also insists on digging past the obvious. Rush said afterward that they couldn't find a better word for Jennifer's death by indie band than "insulting" and it's really true. Low Shoulder (Adam Brody, Juan Riedinger, Ryan Levine, and Sal Cortez) are an all too recognizable class of villain these days, mediocre white men who commit inconceivable harm in the course of line-cutting their way to the special privileges they feel are only their due. "Do you know how hard it is to make it as an indie band these days?" the lead singer demands with what only sounds like reason if you have an overwhelming sense of entitlement where your empathy should be. "There's so many of us and we're all so cute and it's like if you don't get on Letterman or some retarded soundtrack, you're screwed, okay? Satan is our only hope." Actually, we met them playing a nowheresville roadhouse like Devil's Kettle's Melody Lane with its scuzzy neon and its "sticker toilet" and its clientele of hardened barflies and desperately aimless teens for the simple reason that they just aren't all that good. But that won't stop them, not when they have someone else to pay the price for their success. "We're going to have to butcher you. And bleed you. And then Dirk here is going to wear your face. Relax, I'm kidding about the face. The rest is going to happen, though." That's the kind of human low-water mark these guys are, they can't even commit murder for Satan without being half-assed hipster ironic about it, tossing their flippant justifications over a bound and gagged, terrified Jennifer and busting out with a communal serenade of "867-5309/Jenny" mid-ritual like someone missed the point of A Clockwork Orange (1971). They are taking a life and they can't even take it seriously. There's a deep, nasty, real-world horror in that shallowness and it's twisted like a knife every time the soundtrack reminds us of their signature hit, "Through the Trees," whose wailing, anthemic grief cannot have ever been felt by any of these utterly self-centered men with their killing that doesn't make them Charles Manson and their eyeliner that doesn't make them Brandon Flowers and their greed that doesn't make them worth the life of an eighteen-year-old girl who did nothing more to deserve her brutal death than thirst after a hot singer and be led shell-shocked in the aftermath of violent tragedy into his blacked-out van. Succubus-Jennifer ripsawing her way through her prey is gory and upsetting, especially as the boys escalate in sympathy from a bereaved jock with the IQ of a goalpost (Josh Emerson) to the sweet-tempered Goth befriended by Needy (Kyle Gallner) to Needy's own beloved Chip, who in the classic failure mode of horror heroes has made himself vulnerable by not listening to the character who sounds the craziest, i.e., the heroine. Needy finally being forced to defend her boundaries against her BFF in the bloodiest and most irreversible of ways is visceral, relatable, and sad. Low Shoulder are the meat of the movie's horror and it is supremely satisfying that Cody and Kusama recognize them as such, so that once Needy has gotten through the ruinous business of reckoning with the monster they left of her friend, she can turn that anger where it properly belongs. Over the credits, that raw, inimitable voice kicks in like a boot to the chest, a white-hot wave of adrenaline, scouring as exorcism. Go on, take everything, take everything, I dare you to—Beyond the title and the killer play-out of "Violet," I could detect no overt allusions to Hole in this movie, which doesn't stop it from feeling as though it's in dialogue with nearly every song ever growled, sneered, or screamed into a microphone by Courtney Love. I was especially reminded of "Miss World," "Celebrity Skin," "Reasons to Be Beautiful," and above all the Orphic fury of "Use Once & Destroy." It does not give an inch to the male gaze, but it's not interested in telling a pretty story for women, which does not mean there's not a lot of strength wrapped up in that mess. It deserves critical reappraisal, but I'm not sure it's so much lesser that the audiences for whom it was made scream for it as loudly as they do. I don't see a lot of movies that could double-feature as readily with Dance, Girl, Dance (1940) as with Pretty Poison (1968) and I especially don't see them featuring a cameo by Lance Henriksen, which after everything Jennifer's Body had already done for me frankly felt like a gift. With teeth. This friendship brought to you by my forever backers at Patreon.
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This comment on a truly thoughtful and in-depth review which you should send to some kind of feminist film library brought to you by 2018, Full Widescreen Screaming Nightmare Edit. At least we’re not watching pan-and-scan.
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Thank you. We had planned on the movie something like a month in advance, but then it turned out to be exactly the thing to see on the night. My internal soundtrack is now alternating between Hole and Team Dresch. It seems to be doing me good.
Also, I feel like a succubus would come in super handy these days. That doesn’t mean I don’t feel bad for the titular one ( How could HS have been worse? Oh.)
I think you're meant to. It's really not a movie about how women can't be friends. It's a movie about how you can love a friend and they can honestly be terrible at it and you might not have stayed friends anyway and you will still avenge them. What else would you do?
This comment on a truly thoughtful and in-depth review which you should send to some kind of feminist film library
Aaagh. Thank you. I am so out of touch with anything resembling communities. I am trying to get better at it. I just said yes to an invitation to an event in Providence called Noir at the Bar.
brought to you by 2018, Full Widescreen Screaming Nightmare Edit. At least we’re not watching pan-and-scan.
I know, but the things you can see in HD . . .
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Low Shoulder (Adam Brody, Juan Riedinger, Ryan Levine, and Sal Cortez) are an all too recognizable class of villain these days, mediocre white men who commit inconceivable harm in the course of line-cutting their way to the special privileges they feel are only their due.
Oh boy. I saw the movie for the first time earlier this year, and I can only imagine what it must have been like to see it in the midst of the Kavanaugh morass.
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Thank you!
I am sorry that its dismal reception appears to have discouraged Cody from working further in horror film, as I gathered from the presenters and the internet. Jennifer's Body behaves like some things I've read, but really not like a lot of things I've seen, especially not from a major studio. I would love to have seen whatever she did next. It looks like she specializes now in midlife dramedy.
(It's harder for me to tell how much it derailed Kusama. She didn't make another movie until 2015's The Invitation, but then again Debra Granik had nothing in theaters between Winter's Bone (2010) and Leave No Trace (2018). Women in Hollywood don't make movies with the frequency they deserve.)
I saw the movie for the first time earlier this year, and I can only imagine what it must have been like to see it in the midst of the Kavanaugh morass.
The credits sequence was so cathartic!
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That's still an achievement!
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Look, I'll be sorry I asked, but—?
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https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SbyZUZuzzyE
Jesus he's super fucking negging her. And why would DIANE KEATON invite him up??
"Sylvia Plath!" (brandishes copy of Ariel) "Interesting poetess whose tragic suicide was misinterpreted as romantic by the college girl mentality."
"Oh, yeah, well, I don't know, some of her poems seem neat, to..."
"Neat? I hate to tell you, this is 1975. Neat went out I would say at the turn of the century."
What a DICK!
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I agree with that. I saw it really obviously in action with Carol (2015), which was frequently praised for its sumptuous style by the same mainstream reviews that found it emotionally cold or at least opaque. It's not cold at all. Its protagonists aren't hard to get close to. I saw it with two other queer AFAB people and we all thought the scenes between Blanchett and Mara were electric. It's just that if you can't read chemistry between women, especially women in a closeted era in which all moves of investigation let alone courtship must be made through very careful codes until relatively (to a straight, as often as not male viewer) late in the game, then apparently their relationship feels detached, arbitrary, difficult to get hold of, and you say as much in print and look to queer and/or female viewers like a critic who just didn't see the actual movie.
There must already be a book of feminist film criticism called The Movies Men Don't See.
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You and Osprey Archer are doing an excellent job posting that book, entry by entry. I'm enjoying reading the installments.
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b) It's just that if you can't read chemistry between women, especially women in a closeted era in which all moves of investigation let alone courtship must be made through very careful codes until relatively (to a straight, as often as not male viewer) late in the game...
I love you forever.
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To my honest shock, Google turns up nothing. I will think seriously about it.
Thank you.
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Thank you. That is an honor of a thing to hear.
I know more about making books happen when they are fiction and poetry than nonfiction, but I will do what I can to learn.
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That's just really nutty, because even straight male critics can grasp courtship rituals in, say, Jane Austen movies. When they feel like it, I guess. But there have been endless books and movies about gay male courtship in the closet and signalling, right? Or do they just literally not see it because it doesn't affect them? Wha. This reminds me of the conversation going on at rydra's about how the women of Watergate were literally invisible -- secretaries and stenographers and typists and so on (unless they were thrown under the bus, like Rose Mary Woods).
Also if you didn't write up Carol yet, I'd love to see that at some point (no pressure!).
Also also if you haven't seen Desert Hearts, I think you might really like it https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0089015/ It's based on Jane Rule's Desert of the Heart, a novel in which NEITHER WOMAN DIES OR GOES INSANE HOW ABOUT THAT https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Desert_of_the_Heart (suddenly I feel like I'm repeating myself....I might have gone on about this before).
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EXCELLENT This review made me so happy!
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I'm so glad!
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Thank you! I hope you get it.
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Thank you! It was so much fun and there's so much in it. Even the people who praise it just as a comedy are missing the point.
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Listening to "Use Once & Destroy" now. That's an excellent title, and the song is good.
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It's one of my favorites. I love its recombinant chorus and the katabasis it builds.
"I went down to rescue you / I went all the way down / I went down for the remains / Sort through all your blurs and stains."
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You're welcome. Thank you for saying so.
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Thank you! And thank you for saying it with that grin.