In the “Terminal Masculinity: Men in the early 1990s” article, Susan Jeffords offers a
highly illuminating account of the presentation of the “oppressed white man” in
Hollywood films, in context of its fit in the Reagan era of politics. Although
Jeffords explores the “hard body white hero” in several films, in this post, I
will draw on the parallels of Beast from Beauty and the Beast and The
Terminator from The Terminator.
Disney’s
highly commercially successful adaptation of Beauty and the Beast deviates from the original story in quite interesting
ways, the most salient, Jeffords suggests, being that Disney shifts the story from
one about “Beauty and the Beast,” as the title proposes, to a celebration of
simply, “Beast.” Particularly, Jeffords writes that several alterations work to
spotlight Beast as “helpless,” and thereby, free of fault and accountability
for his behavior, because he simply doesn’t know any better (152).
For
instance, in the Disney film, Beast is painted as childish, clumsy, untutored,
petulant – this is shown through his mannerisms: his lack of ability to read,
to use silverware, even to play in the snow (151). Here, Jeffords points out
that what’s most important is that Belle is the one to teach him all of these
things. To reinforce this emphasis on Beast – his learning, his growth, his arc
– the Disney version adds that in order to break free of his spell, he must
learn the ultimate task: how to love someone else. This addition not only
pushes the audience to focus on Beast’s character growth and interiority, but also constructs Belle’s
character to exist merely as a tool to solve his problem.
Jeffords
writes, “Belle is less the focus of the narrative than she is the mechanism for
solving Beast’s ‘dilemma’” (150). Indeed, with Belle’s clearly innate goodness
and kindness, Beast is able to complete his character arc – from a selfish,
childish white male who didn’t know any better, to a selfless white male who is
perfect now, thanks to Belle’s love and affection. This idea underlines
Jeffords’s contention, that the Beast’s arc “forwards the image of unloved and
unhappy white men who need kindness and affection, rather than criticism and
reform, in order to become their ‘true’ selves again” (148).
To
me, this idea is extremely revealing. In my childhood, flooded with Disney VHS
tapes, I never thought to question the authenticity of the love between Belle and the
Beast. Yet, with Jeffords’ analysis, the love in Disney’s version definitively
pales in contrast to alternates of this classic story. In contrast to earlier
versions, in which Beast hospitably “anticipates all of Belle’s wishes,” in
the Disney version, Beast is “as much as a prisoner in his castle as Belle”
(151). Mysteriously, Beast is able to be painted as a “prisoner” whilst simultaneously
reigning absolute control over his entire castle, Belle and her father, and an
extremely extensive list of servants – all of whom Disney actually decided to
make animate (150). In fact, Beast has control over everything except his
appearance, which is locked and sealed in its “ugly” form that maintains
conventional masculine qualities – strength, breadth, height. It’s no surprise,
by the end of the story, Beast is “beautiful” again inside and out, fixed by
our little wrench – I mean wench, Belle.
This
cold-to-warm, selfish-to-empathetic, “hard body to family man” character arc of
the white masculine male is absolutely echoed in Terminator 2. I have never seen The
Terminator, but Jeffords’ analysis provides me with enough information to
mute any personal desire to. Although objectively entertaining, Terminator 2 mimics Beauty and
the Beast in its glorification of the male hero, the Terminator, and minimization
of the leading female, Sarah Connor. This idea is perhaps best seen in the way the Terminator
exceeds his role as John Connor’s protector. Jeffords writes, in the first
film, Sarah Connor was told that she would be “the mother of the future” (161).
She terminated the terminator, and she gave birth to the son who would “save
the human race” (160). Yet, what is really interesting is that despite such a
high status, Sarah Connor is knocked off of her most presumptively urgent and primary role – John’s
mother.
Rather,
Sarah is painted as “more animal than human . . . her emotions as a mother are
primitive, stemming more from her animal instincts than from any loving
relationship between two people” (163). With that, Sarah’s role as mother is “replaced”
by none other than a machine – worth noting, a white, muscular, domineering
male machine. This inversion is truly incredible. The Terminator, an inherent
killer, is now not only “the protector of human life,” but also its “generator”
(160). What’s more, the Terminator’s ascension to his paternal and maternal
status is aided by the exact same qualities that he possessed all along: his
resilience, his strength, and most notably, his relentlessness. In the first
film, the Terminator was feared to “never stop!” Now, these words are praises: “it
will never stop caring for John” (163).
Like
the Beast, the Terminator’s shift from bad to good is qualified by his ability to
learn. Jeffords writes that learning is a universal characteristic of the new
masculinity. Of course, protecting and perpetuating masculinity in film isn’t
anything new – Hollywood’s worship of the white male and his hardships is pervasive
in past, present, and probably future: “these films of 1991 argue, if there is
to be a future for humanity at all, it lies in the hearts of white men” (177).
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