High Gloss Finish

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In preparation for collaborating on an op-ed about the meaning and importance of the fact that Cristiano Ronaldo’s team paid $375,000 to a woman who had accused him of sexual assault I thought I would watch Ronaldo, Cristiano Ronaldo’s 2015 self-titled self-hagiography. I was curious about its gender story.

The only woman who features in this languid cinematic pan over Ronaldo’s material and physical assets is Ronaldo’s mother, and she features significantly — she is no small part of his domestic life. In the film, she identifies herself as a victim of violent domestic abuse at the hands of Ronaldo’s father (who died in 2005). She takes tranquilizers to calm herself when watching important matches. She describes Ronaldo as an “unwanted child” — she had wanted an abortion. Abortion, however,  was only recently decriminalized in Portugal, in 2008. Thank goodness, she and her son declare. This is no small part of CR’s personal mythology. He is the redeemer – the man who redeems his father and his mother. The man who redeems his own unwanted existence.

And then there is the peculiar erasure of the identity of the mother of his cherubic first child, named, like the film, after him. No one knows who the mother is or the nature of the pregnancy. The film underlines Ronaldo’s insistence on keeping this information close. Normally it is not a child’s maternity which is in question but its paternity. Cristiano Ronaldo has the money, the power and the legal team to reverse even this most basic ordering of things. 

He is surrounded by marble, steel and glass — he lives in a corporate fortress not quite as imposing of that of his agent, Jorge Mendes who, at one point, says that not only is Ronaldo like a son to him — Ronaldo’s mother, Mendes says at a family dinner, is the mother he wished he’d had himself. 

Women who are not Ronaldo’s mother figure only in the background as they gather in screaming hoards outside his hotel, outside practice fields — at one point in the film a woman runs onto a field and is tackled. She is actually introduced to him. Benevolent god that he is, he takes a picture with her. As she is led away, tears streaming down her face, she says to the camera that she hopes he will follow her on Twitter.

Feeling this.

FIFA World Cup 2018 Russia"France v Croatia"

Pussy Riot’s World Cup final intervention.

Kick Him When He’s Down (Mood)

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Yrsa Roca Fannberg, The Death of a Former Giant (watercolor on paper, 2009)

Follow Caster

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Caster Semenya’s Twitter (@caster800) & Instagram (castersemenya800m) are everything. That is all.

A pick me up

Apologies for posting an official pop music video, commercial and all. This got me out of a political funk for just a few minutes. Its weird sport energy reminds me of The Knife’s (much more minimal) video for “A Tooth for an Eye”.

Locker Room

Brian de Palma’s Carrie opens with a nightmare. After a humiliating gym class, Carrie retires with the girls to the locker room. Her classmates are filmed in a dreamy haze — brushing silken hair, slipping perfect bodies out of and into their clothes. Carrie is taking a shower; water courses over her white skin. The camera is so close, her hands reach between her thighs and water streams between her legs. The scene is sexual. She starts to bleed and freaks out because she has no idea what a period is. Naked, wet and bloody she flees the shower and runs into the pack of teenage amazons. These beautiful monsters tease her by waving tampons in her face, they call her names and push her back into the shower — she cowers in the corner, still wet and naked, as they throw sanitary napkins at her. Blood is everywhere in Carrie. The whole film circles back to this moment — Carrie, bleeding; a pack of girls, laughing at her. By the movie’s end, she will be covered in blood and set her world on fire. Sex and horror; sex as horror. Her mother’s prophetic warning loops and warbles over the soundtrack: “They’re all going to laugh at you!” And they do — the whole crowd, gathered in the space where the film began — in a high school gymnasium — laughs at Carrie, as she stands there — humiliated, shamed again in her naiveté.

This locker room is a social space of a certain kind of privacy; it is where we learn that the private is always already public.This locker room is coercive: the locker room of our nightmares is not that of the spa, it is that of the school. This locker room is the space of sexism’s subconscious — this is one reason why it figures so often, and so prominently in film. It is where we imagine our private self is exposed. It is where our bodies are forced into the most primitive disciplining structures.

That “you can see there was blood coming out her eyes, blood coming out of her wherever” did not disqualify Trump — in either the media or the public’s eye — is a neat reminder of how deeply disgust with women’s bodies is integrated into everything that feels normal. Thus the exchange between Trump and Bush: they are sharing the fear of/disgust with women’s bodies as a kind of sex talk. This is how sexists shake hands.

You can hear the violence of this locker room in the phone messages that Richie Incognito left for his teammate Jonathan Martin — he promised to shit in his mouth, slap his “real mother” across the face and more. The player who complained is mocked for not being a man. This sexualized violence frames the locker room at Penn State — the place where Sandusky took boys to shower. In this not-quite private place sexual assaults were witnessed by athletic department employees. None of these men knew, really, how to talk about what they saw.

This locker room is a real and an imaginary space. It is an overdetermined space in American culture because we have absorbed sports and its changing rooms into the nation’s architecture. This locker room is a threshold space, a space of transformation. It is where our bodies are absorbed into the grid, as either sexual subject or sexual object. As human or as thing. We all pass through this space — much as we pass through women’s bodies — and emerge into the world as one thing or the other.

Qualifier: Brenda Martinez leans in

US Olympic Track and Field trials, final for the women’s 1,500 meters. Just watch.

Serena

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Five Drills, Brad Killam and Zachary Cahill

Julia Lazarus: The Brittleness of the Player’s Body

Die Brüchigkeit der Spielerinnenkörper from julia lazarus on Vimeo.

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