bechdel taser: and this one time at bechdel camp…
My report on American Reunion comes replete with hazy memories and vague descriptors. I saw the production over a month ago, in one of those fancy pants media screenings because I was interviewing the writer and director for Melbourne’s Student Youth Network (SYN). I saw it at a silly hour of the morning while under-slept and over-caffeinated, accompanied by the heterosexual man with whom I host breakfast radio. We signed an embargo, and I felt fancy.
The first American Pie film was the first and only time my mother put down her censorship foot. Not because of the adult content, but because “it is dreadful”. I’d already seen it—Alyson Hannigan was on the poster after all—but repeat viewings were verboten. I was never quite sure how much I agreed with her assessment. Sure, Jason Bigg dancing about sans attire was about as amusing as Not Without My Daughter, but I didn’t really have critical thinking skills until I hit puberty. Van Helsing was the first film I ever criticised.
But Jessica (Natasha Lyonne) was cool and clever, and the boys in the sex comedy never really got their goal until they learned how to respect/pleasure women. That’s a pretty cool message for a film ostensibly looking at the construction of virginity and heterosexual relations in our society and saying “Yes! Let’s keep these!”
I never saw the sequels. My compulsion to keep abreast of every Buffy alumni waned after David Boreanaz’s Valentine. I was assured by Alex, my heterosexual, after Reunion that they focused on the core group of boys—until they split off into the Band Camp oeuvre of spin-offs.
That was one of my problems with Reunion. Instead of taking the opportunity to show us what became of the entire ensemble, it still sees things through the lens of Bigg > the other boys > whoever else. It’s American Pie meets The Hangover.
One of the most illogical conceits of the film is the transition of Michele (Hannigan) into the caricature of a sexless wife. At the beginning of the film, she has a little wank scene. But this is the character who launched “one time at band camp” into our cultural lexicon. After the initial suggestion of female pleasure, her wants give way to pragmatism as she spends much of the film baby-sitting. The desire of the directors to make Jim a relatable everydude meant her libido had to be pushed away, so that he could spend the rest of the film sexually frustrated. Like the every man in every other film of this ilk.
The film fails the Bechdel Test. I’m sure we’re all surprised. Still, it’s frustrating, given how many of the female cast members return for small roles or cameos. They could have grounded the film, and said something – anything – about the equivalent problems for women in their early 30s, but they are not given the chance.
Then there’s Kara, a new character. A new model of youthful femininity to take the place of the worn out old things relegated to their bit-parts while the boys hold court. Jim used to baby-sit Kara and now Kara wants to lose her virginity to Jim. You could say it’s a nice touch, having a female character on the sexy-time war path, but if this were any less empowered, Kyle Sandilands would be credited as executive producer. The boys, 13 years ago, wanted sexual pleasure from the conventionally arousing young women at the own level. Only at the last minute did Jennifer Coolidge cruise in to promote an image of the mature and sexually confident woman, nabbing one of the lads. For Kara to set her sexual sights on such an average character is nothing but wish-fulfillment for a set of nearly middle-aged homeboys who can only believe they’re still virile if barely legal girls are mooning for them.
Oh, and she has her breasts out most of the time. Alex noted she was, in most likelihood, chosen because they beat out those of any other auditionees. Not a surprising touch, but I huffed nevertheless. It was bizarre, to come out of the movie and have him in awe of the writers. He had some choice compliments about how tight the script was, and how many threads were tied up or brought back from the first three film. And he got to tell them in person. I had a radio station’s reputation to uphold, so I didn’t offer these words to them. It’s insidious—films like American Reunion do nothing for women, but by pleasing their target demographic with whatever else, they can perpetually undermine the role of women without a second thought, and without being called on the practice. At least I didn’t pay to see it, I guess.
You know what would be quite nice? A reunion of Clueless, Bring It On or 10 Things I Hate About You. I’m aware the lack of Ledger would pose a problem for the latter production, like Brittany Murphy for the former, but goddamn I want some more satisfying nostalgia hijinks.
