Pole dancing. From its origins in the 1890s “Hoochi Coochi” dance troupes, gentleman’s clubs and sleazy speakeasies, it has established itself as a multi-faceted phenomenon embraced by individuals worldwide for exercise, self-expression, and empowerment. Motivated by a variety of reasons — from social needs for support and community, psychological needs for autonomy and self-acceptance, to fitness-related goals — diverse communities now use this stigmatised art form as a means of reclaiming agency over their bodies and sexuality, and challenging societal rules (Nicholas, et al., 2018; Mottley, 2022; Pfeiffer, et al., 2023). However, beneath its sequinned surface lies a complex interplay of power dynamics, linguistic constructions and gender norms that shape its cultural significance.
Pole dancing culture as it exists today can be traced back to Fawnia Dietrich (Griffiths, 2023), a Canadian “exotic” dancer, who began offering pole lessons to non-performers in 1994 as a way of proliferating the art form as more than just an erotic spectacle. Since then, pole dancing studios, training programs and online communities have become a widespread occurrence, with social media democratising access to the practice to individuals seeking to explore its physical and creative dimensions (ibid.). This shift is reflective of broader societal changes in attitudes towards the expression of female sexuality, the feminine body and sex work. Yet, despite its growing popularity and cultural acceptance, pole dancing has yet to shed its historical confines, remaining a contested terrain fraught with lingering stereotypes and tensions surrounding gender, power and representation.
By critically analysing pole dancing through the lenses of Foucault’s theories of power and knowledge (1978), Derrida’s deconstruction of linguistics (1978), and relevant feminist literature, this essay aims to gain a deeper understanding of how pole dancing intersects with broader discourses of misogyny, sexuality, and embodiment in the 21st century.
The first glaring issue with pole dancing culture rests in its very denomination as an “exotic art form”. First associated with Eastern European, Middle Eastern and North African travelling troupes in the 18th century, the terminology serves as a mechanism to differentiate their performances from socially acceptable and respectable art forms. The sensual nature of their dances — coupled with exaggerated costumes and makeup, courtesy of the Orientalist sensibilities of the period — stood in violation of the predominant ethos surrounding sexual expression, discourse and enjoyment. Using Foucault’s concept of how power operates as a pervasive force influencing knowledge, discourse and the regulation of bodies in society (Foucault, 1978), the term “exotic” — carrying with it connotations of otherness and fetishisation of Eastern cultures — positioned these dances outside ‘polite society’, depicting them as inherently sensual, primitive and inferior (de Lauretis, 1990).
Moreover, Foucault’s analysis of discourse emphasises how language serves as a site of gender power relations, shaping the contours of acceptable knowledge and behaviour (King, 2004) In the case of pole dancing, the discourse surrounding it was, and still is, heavily influenced by prevailing attitudes around the regulation of female desire and pleasure. The use of Orientalist imagery (Said, 1994) in the characterisation of pole dancing underscores how language operates to simultaneously dehumanise and eroticise these artists, reinforce dominant notions of sexual repression and censorship, and regulate and control bodies that deviate from normative standards of behaviour.
The Good, the Bad, and the Deconstructed
Cultural discussions and perspectives were coloured by pole dancing’s label as an inherently provocative form of entertainment catering to the sexual desires of men, which situated it snugly in the arms of the Male Gaze (Mulvey, 1975; 1999). Well into the 21st century, feminist scholars still grapple with erotic dance culture, oscillating between condemning it as a form of sexual exploitation to hailing it as a brilliant reclamation of female sexual agency (Bradley-Engen & Ulmer, 2009).
The former perspective is echoed in the writings of Ariel Levy (2006) in her condemnation of “Raunch Culture’, a term she used to describe the infiltration of contrived sexualities that once existed in the “sex industry” into mainstream culture. Levy argues that pornographic and sexually explicit content is a mechanism for men to exercise their control over female bodies and sexuality, and that to claim female empowerment in the wilful wielding and encouragement of sexualisation and eroticisation is a performative action that happens within the narrow confines of this patriarchal objectification. Similarly, scholars argue that positioning sexual liberation at the pinnacle of the feminist movement ignores and undermines the influence of the backdrop against which it is placed — a society that routinely normalises sexual violence against women and privileges male sexual pleasure (hooks, 1984; Raymond, 2013; Stokes, 2012).
However, others have highlighted how, by subverting notions of idealized femininity, pole dancing culture functions as a site of resistance within feminist discourse (Dodds, 2013). In her review of Mulvey’s work, Studlar (1985) challenges the passivity of female bodies in their objectification, suggesting instead that they are not objects but active holders of the Male Gaze. This critique of female passivity resonates with feminist authors who examined the undercurrents of counter-power expression in pole dancing and sex work, recontextualizing ideas of femininity and sexual agency (Holland, 2010). This decentring of dominant gender binary and sexuality norms was investigated by Jensen & Thing (2022), whose findings revealed an intentional renegotiation of traditional ideas of gender and sexual expression.
Portland’s Pole Palace – Inclusive safe space for exploring bodily autonomy (Image courtesy https://www.pole-palace.com)
Derrida’s concept of deconstruction emerges as a powerful framework to shed light on the shifting meanings of female empowerment, agency and sexuality within pole dancing culture. As he outlined, deconstruction involves the examination of language and discourse to unpack the inherent contradictions and ambiguities present within them. In his explanation of “free play” in linguistics (1978) — the notion that signified concepts are ever-changing and their establishment is deferred — he highlights how words can have multiple meanings that change with time, societal attitudes and hegemonic control over language.
By interrogating the binary oppositions underpinning traditional understandings of masculinity and femininity, modest and provocative, or even the passivity of “looked-at-ness” (Mulvey, 1999) and the activeness of holding the Male Gaze, deconstruction offers a means to understand the fluidity of gender roles and bodily autonomy within pole dancing culture (Whitehead & Kurz, 2009). Since the destabilisation of fixed categories opens up space for alternative modes of self-expression, evolved understandings of gender identity, sexuality, attraction and liberation can be continuously reconstructed as the discourse surrounding the practice changes (ibid.).
As evidenced by history, the development of language used to describe and examine pole dancing culture has undergone tremendous shifts owing to feminist social movements, the development of cultural and racial sensitivities, and technological advancements that democratise access to and encourage participation in public discourse. In line with Derrida’s line of reasoning, as societal norms and expectations changed and evolved, so did the meanings in the language used to discuss this marginalised art form and those who perform it.
In conclusion, modern pole-dancing culture behaves as a microcosm for broader societal tensions regarding essentialist notions of power, gender and sexuality. Peeling back layers of discourse and power dynamics within it reveals a tapestry of resistance, empowerment and subversion that challenges normative ideology and invites critical engagement with the fluidity and complexity of human experience.
Don’t knock at my door, mister, just come straight in Spread flowers, put on perfume and rejuvenate me (Aao Raaja – Gabbar is Back, 2015)
These words, repeated multiple times over an upbeat backing track, create the chorus of Aao Raja, the breakout song from the blockbuster movie Gabbar is Back (2015). Enhanced by close-up shots that follow the hands of Chitrangada Singh’s ‘Rani’, slowly tracing up her legs, exposed waist, chest, and neck as she sensually dances with other female performers, this song is just one example of many that have made popular Bollywood cine-culture their home. Not a novel occurrence, they contribute to a phenomenon unique to South Asian films – the Item Number.
Chitrangda Singh in Aao Raaja (Gabbar is Back, 2015)
In modern India, engaging with sexualised women is either constrained or viewed with societal shame, resulting in clandestine and taboo attitudes surrounding the public perception or imagination of female sexuality (Shah & Cory, 2019). Consequently, due to the restricted, secretive, and alluring connotations associated with these subjects, item numbers emerge as an acceptable means to openly confront and engage with notions of women and sexuality in the public sphere (Shah & Cory, 2019). This essay aims to explore the sexualisation of women in popular Bollywood item numbers, using feminist media theories to dissect how they are represented through the item numbers’ formulaic aesthetic.
The term emerged as common parlance to refer to a cine segment featuring a conventionally attractive woman – often coded as a sex worker, a racy song, a vivacious dance and an atmosphere radiating sexual energy and excitement (Brara, 2010). Tracing the genealogy of this term back to 1950s Bollywood, item numbers referred to the risqué musical performances by Bollywood’s token ‘vamp girls’ – staple fixtures within the film’s cast that provided ribald entertainment to audiences (ibid.). Sexualised by their revealing costumes, provocative mannerisms and suggestive lyrics, these ‘vamp girls’ existed as estranged counterparts to the female leads of the same films their songs appeared in. They were immodest when the heroine was unassuming, brazen when the latter was demure, and – most notably – attainable when the heroine was not.
While their iconic presence on the screen and promotional posters had always brought scores of audiences to the cinema (Brara, 2010), it was only in the 1990s that item numbers cemented their distinctive existence outside their productions due to the widely popular music video channel MTV. As Brara (2010) writes, the infusion of the term’ item number’ into the South Asian lexicon attests to its significance as a “cine-sexual concept that is savoured by spectators, incarnated in contemporary Bollywood films and broadcast by the print and visual media, quite apart from film magazines”.
The Annihilation of Women under the Male Gaze
I’ve become a mint for you to consume, darling I’ve become a cinema hall for you to watch, darling Munni’s degraded herself for you, darling (Munni Badnaam Hui – Dabangg 2010)
The opening shots of the item number Munni Badnaam Hui (2010) starkly encapsulate the concept of the Male Gaze introduced by Laura Mulvey in her influential essay “Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema” (Mulvey, 1975). The song begins with a shot of a woman’s navel and tilts up, focusing on her exposed abdomen and breasts and lingering on her face for a fraction of a second before pulling away to reveal a cabaret nightclub full of lascivious men. Immediately, it becomes clear that the initial subject on screen is not a real woman but a cardboard cut-out. In these few seconds, the reduction of a Munni, a female figure, to a mere object of sexual desire is cemented, providing the basis for the aesthetic construction of the rest of the song, reinforcing Mulvey’s argument that films play on erotic ways of looking structured around a masculine perspective, objectifying women through cinematographic alignment with the heterosexual male desire (ibid.).
Freud’s ideas on Scopophilia underpin Mulvey’s concept of the Male Gaze – the pleasure derived from transforming and viewing another as a source of pleasure. Mulvey defines this as an active form of spectatorship, involving ‘taking other people as objects, subjecting them to a controlling and curious gaze’ (Mulvey, 1999). This objectification of the female form necessitates deliberate cinematic, narrative and framing choices aimed at transferring the agency and identity of the on-screen woman to her male counterpart, keeping in line with Freud’s phallocentric theory of woman as a ‘symbol of lack’ and man as the central element of organisation in the social world.
Mulvey (Mulvey, 1999, p. 838) posits that,
“Traditionally, the woman displayed has functioned on two levels: as erotic object for the characters within the screen story, and as erotic object for the spectator within the auditorium, with a shifting tension between the looks on either side of the screen.“
Bollywood’s incorporation of ‘displayed women’ into item numbers, which emerge as disparate cine segments within the film’s plot-driven narrative, marries their twin functions of being desired by off-screen audiences and their on-screen surrogates. As Brara (2010) explains, the insertion of item numbers in films allows for a brief removal of context and narrative flow, enabling this erotic spectacle to exist in a vacuum. This absence of narrative context– or rather, the blissful ignorance of a plot – mirrors the privacy created by conditions of modern screenings, which, as Mulvey (1999) describes, “promote the illusion of voyeuristic separation” and “give the spectator an illusion of looking in on a private world.” (ibid.)
Malaika Arora in Munni Badnaam Hui ( Dabangg 2010)
With reference to Munni Badnaam Hui, the erotic objectification of the woman on screen happens in parallel to the bolstering of the three-dimensional space occupied by the on-screen male, embodying an ego ideal that audiences can liken themselves to. While Munni sings provocative lyrics laced with double entendres, she fades into the background as the male protagonist, Inspector Chulbul Pandey, played by Salman Khan, emerges into focus. While he dances to the upbeat music as well, the treatment of his presence by the camera is in stark contrast to that of Malaika Arora’s Munni. There is no overt focus on his hips, chest or legs, and neither are there fastidious close-ups of his eyes, lips and backside in time with provocative lyrics. His shots are eye-level, pulling the audience into his point of view, while Munni’s on-screen presence is visualised through low-angled tracking shots, urgently guiding the audience’s attention to specific parts of her body. In doing so, once the male protagonist becomes the focus of the song, his presence makes apparent the trivial nature of Munni’s sexuality – an object of desire, but an object nonetheless.
The trivialisation of women is one of the three ways in which, as Gaye Tuchman described in her work “The Symbolic Annihilation of Women by the Mass Media” (2000), the image and characterisation of women are destroyed in media. Through a substantive analysis of the portrayal of women in broadcast and print mass media, Tuchman emphasised that trivialisation, in combination with exclusion and condemnation, contributes to the symbolic destruction of women as a social group through implications of their culturally defined value – or lack thereof – in matters of discourse. (ibid.). I believe this claim also finds pertinence in the restrictive portrayal of the ‘vampy women’ of Bollywood films.
The concept of item numbers birthed a distinct cinematic role in Bollywood – theItem Girl. Unambiguously an objectification – with the word ‘item’ denoting a promiscuous, attractive woman in Mumbai slang (AMS Sexual Assault Support Centre, 2015), these roles are defined by three prominent characteristics: (1) her fleeting appearance on screen, usually to perform the item number, (2) her inconsequentiality to the film’s plot, and (3) her overt sensuality (Brara, 2010; Kamble, 2022; Jha, 2014; Purohit, 2019). The lack of narrative impetus offered by these female roles reduces them to conduits of erotic spectacles that serve to attract audiences, specifically heterosexual male viewers, and catalyse box office earnings (Purohit, 2019). Frequently, the female performer assumes an anonymous identity within the cinematic narrative, denoted solely as ‘the item girl’ within the credits. Tuchman’s critique thus resonates when considering the reduction and subsequent destruction of women in item numbers.
Mulvey’s theory has long since been contented by scholars, citing neglect of alternative feminist perspectives, assumptions of passivity of female audiences, generalisations of masculine spectatorship practices, and overdependence on Freudian psychoanalyst ideas (Gamman & Marshment, 1988). Author bell hooks’ introduction of the concept of the ‘oppositional gaze’ (1992) poses the argument that Mulvey’s Male Gaze primarily reflects the experiences of white women and fails to consider the intersectional differences in engagement with cinema, thus inadequately addressing the experiences of women of colour. Gaylyn Studlar’s work on fetishism and masochism (1985) challenged Mulvey’s determinist views on the subject, claiming that it restricts male viewers to a controlling role, seeing the female as an object to possess but never to identify with or view as a symbol of authority. Studlar (1985) also challenged the notion of women as a ‘symbol of lack’, suggesting that the female is not an object but an active holder of the male gaze.
However, with close reference to the lyrical narrative, camera movements and mise en scene of Bollywood item numbers, the relevance of Mulvey’s theory rings true and clear. As seen in Munni Badnaam Hui, the stripping of Munni’s agency and perspective occurs immediately and overtly by deliberately excluding her face. Her introduction happens through repeated shots of her exposed back, contrasted by cutaway shots of the male lead’s reaction to her performance. These emphasise the power dynamics at play early on – it is the men, taking on the active role of watching, singing and dancing with Munni, with whom lies the agency to further the plot and the ability to be likened to by the audience. This consigns Munni to a ‘bearer of meaning’ (Mulvey, 1999) which is bestowed upon her by the men on screen.
On-Screen Power in the Age of Raunch Culture
When I come and dance with you I’ll shake my hips around Strike down your gaze with mine (Kamariya – Stree 2018)
The focus of feminist media studies has been to analyse how film, television and print reinforce hegemonic power structures. Borrowing from Foucault’s power, discourse and knowledge creation theories, Theresa de Lauretis (1987) explored how power operates in constructing gender and sexual identities and how desire and identity are represented and maintained in discursive practices. In “Eccentric Subjects: Feminist Theory and Historical Consciousness” (1990), de Lauretis quotes Catharine MacKinnon to emphasise how male dominance expresses itself through objectifying the female. By asserting itself as the only “way of knowing”, the male perspective differentiates men from women by eroticising the latter, therefore defining the social, cultural, and, in film, audience perception towards women. An analysis of the item number Kamariya epitomises MacKinnon’s claim that “Men look at women. Women watch themselves being looked at.”
Nora Fatehi in Kamariya (Stree 2018)
An unnamed female performer performs Kamariya, the sole dancer surrounded by a crowd of enthusiastic, drunken men. The protagonist, played by Rajkumar Rao, holds a party blower in his mouth that unfolds as he watches her dance – an incontestable allegory to the sexual arousal he feels. The camera circles her in slow motion as she dances, zooming in on her exposed waist, chest and back, alluding to how the men on-screen pick apart her body with their hungry eyes. A significant detail in her treatment by the camera is how she is portrayed as so sensual that she is unattainable to the men, implying that she holds power over them. However, a closer inspection of the framing of shots in time with suggestive lyrics would show that this power exists within the confines of her objectification by the men on screen and the camera. The control that she wields is a product of her eroticisation. The heterosexual male perspective is thus impressed upon film audiences – the woman is othered by virtue of her sensuality (de Lauretis, 1990).
Jacques Lacan’s theoretical framework of ego formation and identification posits that individuals develop their sense of self through identification with external images or objects. In the context of Bollywood item numbers, the women in the audience are confronted with a narrow and sexualised portrayal of femininity on screen, shaped by the male perspective, through which they may perceive and identify themselves. Over the years, scholarly discourse on item girls’ empowerment within this narrow portrayal has attempted to reframe this objectification as sexual liberation. Shah and Cory (2019) argue that “item numbers intentionally subvert the (heterosexual) Male Gaze” by serving as a means for women to reclaim the narrative, thereby reclaiming control of their bodies and their sexuality. This line of reasoning is echoed by post-feminist scholars concerned with gendered power dynamics that see sexual freedom as the key to female independence and emancipation (Gill, 2007; Genz & Brabon, 2017) and evidenced by an increasing sexualisation of twentieth-century cultural products termed ‘Raunch Culture’ (Levy, 2006).
In her book “Female Chauvinist Pigs: Women and the Rise of Raunch Culture” (2006), Ariel Levy argued that Raunch Culture was a product of unresolved conflict between the women’s liberation movement and the sexual revolution. She defines Raunch Culture as a mechanism through which women may gain power and status in a patriarchal society (Levy, 2006). However, in a misogynistic system wherein she exists as a sexual object, a woman cannot rise above her rank without perpetuating the same system that dehumanises and exploits her body (ibid.). This paradoxical battle seems to wage in the scholarly discourse and ethos surrounding item numbers. The item number as an acceptable means for Indian men to engage with the sexuality of women, as pointed out by Shah and Cory (2019), mirrors its usability as a medium for women to familiarise themselves and freely experiment with ideas of their ‘inherent’ sensuality.
Borrowing from psychoanalytical literature to discuss the sexualisation of women by Bollywood item numbers, the Maddona-Whore dichotomy based on Freud’s Oedipus complex emerges as a significant factor in understanding their success. Referring to the phenomenon of viewing women as two distinct and separate personas – the sexless ‘Madonna’ or the sensual ‘Whore’ – this trope has made itself known in a wide range of mass media (Kimbell, 2002; Greer, 2016). Separating women into these two opposing categories allows men to assign specific characteristics to them, thereby assigning them hierarchical cultural and moral values. Bollywood has historically written the ‘vamp girls’ of item numbers as ‘Eastern interpretations of Western women’ – sexually liberated, immoral, loud and opinionated (Jha, 2023). This characterisation, in complete opposition to traditional Indian ideals of a respectable, ‘good’ woman, allows for and encourages objectification.
While headstrong women in Bollywood films are not scarce, the distinctive feature that sets them apart from item girls lies in how the latter are presented. Item girls are intended to be watched and desired without invoking empathy from the audience, unlike the former, who actively engage viewers emotionally at different junctures in the storyline. This definition holds to date, with the objectification of Munni, Rani, and the nameless dancer from Kamariya wedged into the narrative of their respective films to highlight the opposing ‘respectable’ qualities of their films’ heroines.
To conclude, the intricate analysis of Bollywood item numbers using feminist media theories unravels a complex interplay of power dynamics and objectification that contextualises the societal reception and attitudes towards them. Kamariya’s stint in the upper echelons of Bollywood music charts – similar to Munni Badnaam Hui and Aao Raja – reveals a system that accepts, normalises and celebrates the sexualisation of (certain) women. As Bollywood continues to produce item numbers, their cultural significance and impact on societal perceptions of women persist. The analysis presented here underscores the need for a critical examination of these representations and a broader discourse on the evolving role of women in popular cinema, challenging ingrained power structures and stereotypes.
In the words of Ariel Levy (2006),
“Objectification is rooted in disrespect, condescending views of the opposite gender, and power struggles. When men realize that they have the capability to fundamentally respect women, and women realize that they have the power to present themselves as empowered, fully capable people, raunch culture may moan its last and final faked orgasm.”
Second-wave feminism, a period of feminist activity beginning in the ’60s and spanning roughly two decades, was influential in kickstarting the fight against patriarchal institutions prevalent in broader sects of society. This included the treatment of women in cinema. Since the gender bias present in Hollywood cinema at the time involved portraying women as the subordinate and men as the superior, studying and critically analyzing patterns in films and elements of cinematic storytelling concerning the representation of women became an issue of great importance for feminists.
Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema is an essay written in 1973 by highly acclaimed British feminist film theorist Laura Mulvey and published in 1975 in the influential British film journal Screen and, later, other anthologies including a collection of her essays titled Visual and Other Pleasures. Highly influenced by the works and theories of Sigmund Freud and Jacques Lacan, in her essay, Mulvey steers the perspective of film theory towards a more psychoanalytic framework. She uses psychoanalytical theory to attack the male-dominated viewpoints deeply embedded within old Hollywood cinema. Her essay was the first to intersect the three concepts of film theory, feminism and psychoanalysis.
Although his essay was written in 1975 regarding misogyny in old Hollywood cinema, we can see the hegemonic continuation of male dominance in Hollywood and regional films today. Further in this article are cited several examples of films subservient to male-centric viewpoints. Mulvey’s essay was written to recognize and dismantle the filming strategies that exist to provide narrative pleasure to men alone.
Male Gaze
Mulvey intends to use psychoanalysis to make the argument that the visual and anthropomorphic components of film storytelling are dictated by a male-dominant viewpoint, exploiting the female form to provide the audience with a pleasurable experience. This is where the term Male Gaze comes into play. First introduced by Laura Mulvey in her essay, this key term in feminist film theory refers to a sexualized way of looking that objectifies women whilst simultaneously empowering men. In the male gaze, women are framed to appear as hypersexualized objects of the male desire. Her thoughts, emotions, ideas and needs are secondary to his, and her highest desire is to be ‘wanted’ by the male.
“In a world ordered by sexual imbalance, pleasure in looking has been split between active/male and passive/female.”
Laura Mulvey
Mulvey’s ideas of male gaze and fascination with the female form are very closely tied to the Freudian concept of scopophilia. Scopophilia was defined by Freud as a deep-seated sexual pleasure derived from looking at others, subjecting them to a controlling and curious gaze. In extreme cases, scopophilic desires could manifest into voyeuristic behaviour, producing Peeping Toms who derive sexual pleasure from witnessing and actively controlling an objectified other. Essentially an active process, fetishistic scopophilia leads to women being erotically objectified in film, coding them so that they connote ‘to-be-looked-at-ness’. Moreover, the experience of watching a movie in the cinema nurtures this desire by providing an environment that allows the viewer to remain anonymous, shrouded in darkness, introducing a voyeuristic element in watching something that was created to be watched.
Jacques Lacan’s idea of the mirror stage, where infants identify themselves in the mirror, also influenced Mulvey’s theory. She claims that the narrative is manipulated in such a way that the audience finds themselves identifying with the main male character. They feel and see what he feels and sees. They empathize with him since he is the ego ideal or ideal self, evoking emotions of compassion, admiration and jealousy thus creating a love-hate relationship between viewer and character. For example, in John Hughes’ critically acclaimed 1985 American film The Breakfast Club, the main character John Bender (Judd Nelson) is the main character. The audience, although aware of his deviant behaviour, sympathizes with him since he is framed to appear likeable despite his flaws. Molly Ringwald’s character, Claire Standish, is the ‘princess’- unattainable, perfect and out of Bender’s league, and by extension, the audience’s as well. As the narrative progresses, she falls in love with Bender, and since the audience at this point identifies with him, they can possess this glamourized woman too.
Bender and Claire in The Breakfast Club
Apart from being an extremely sexist representation of women in film and mainstream media, the male gaze has proven to be a significant contributor to sexism in the real world. By portraying women as the weaker, fairer and, in several ways, the inferior sex, the idea that their purpose is limited to becoming a supporting role in the life of a male is enforced. Impressionable young girls, exposed to this narrative from the very beginning, grow up being very aware of their potent sexuality, which is both demonized and deified by the male population. Male children too are raised with the notion that they are the more powerful sex, and these archaic gender roles and stereotypes are reinforced by the media. Not only is the male gaze prevalent in mainstream cinema, but it can also be seen in commercials, music videos, television shows and a host of other media where women have little to do with the subject matter. This sexualization, commercialization and objectification of female bodies exists due to the assumption that the male-centric viewpoint is the norm and that in order to sell a product, a movie or a song, one must visually appeal to the masculine audience.
The stories are always catered to the heterosexual male- forcing the audience to view the story from this perspective, regardless of their heterogeneity. By restricting itself to this rigid mise-en-scene reflecting the dominant ideological concept in cinema, Hollywood plays into the male fantasy that women are meant to be looked at and men are to do the looking.
“The determining Male Gaze projects its view onto the female form which is styled accordingly.”
Laura Mulvey
Every part of the woman- from her characterization, her personality, her clothes, her behaviour down to the smallest detail- is manufactured to imply and maximize her sex appeal and erotic nature. Women adopt a “traditionally exhibitionist role” in cinema and, function as passive erotic objects of desire for both the characters on screen as well as the audience. It is within this narrow narrative that her characterization takes place, and thus she is limited to remaining an evoker of response from the male lead. The seamless unification of the looks from either side of the screen allows for the story to continue ‘logically’ with no explanation needed for the convenient sexualization of the woman. While some filmmakers attempt to avoid characterizing women as mere sexual objects by providing them with a complex backstory, more often than not the writing pales in comparison to the portrayal of her sexuality.
For example, David Ayer’s 2016 American superhero film Suicide Squad introduces Harley Quinn, one of the only female members of the team, in a scene where she strips down to her underwear in front of a group of soldiers. This scene involves close-ups of her body and long shots of her revealing more skin, focusing on her breasts and genitalia. This scene offers nothing to the development of the storyline, neither does it provide any insight into other aspects of her character. It was put there to please the viewers. She is portrayed as a hypersexualized object, meant to elicit a response from the men onscreen and in the audience. None of her male counterparts had anything remotely close in terms of displays of sex appeal in their introductions.
Harley Quinn (Margot Robbie) has personal motives influence her decisions- mainly her relationship with Jared Leto’s Joker (her actions being motivated by her ties to a man). However, her backstory is barely explained and so poorly written that it’s clear that she was put on screen to be looked at. The explanation offered for her overt sexuality- that she is ‘clinically insane’- makes it seem like it is okay to derive pleasure from her presence. Whilst her male teammates like Deadshot (Will Smith) and El Diablo (Jay Hernandez) are clothed in some form of protective clothing, Harley waltzes around in a skimpy torn T-shirt, a pair of booty shorts and high heels. Although Robbie’s performance received high praise, the movie was rightfully criticized for relying heavily on her characterization as a ditzy sexpot.
Suicide Squad isn’t the only superhero film guilty of perpetrating this narrative- most superhero blockbusters are rife with the objectification of female characters to cater to male fantasies. Catwoman (Anne Hathaway) in The Dark Night Rises (2016) and Black Widow (Scarlett Johansson) in the Avengers movies are portrayed to be powerful, strong female superheroes…in skintight latex suits that cling to every curve. This creates an illusion of the ’self-actualized warrior female’ within the framework of the patriarchy. She has qualities that the male lead can respect like being skilled in combat or physical prowess, but she is also sexually desirable.
Anne Hathaway as catwoman in The Dark Knight Rises (2016)
Phallocentricism
Mulvey’s theory was also influenced by the concept of phallocentrism, i.e., the ideology that the phallus or the male sexual organ is the central element in the organization of society. Man exists first as a person of the world, and woman is then created and defined by her lack of a penis. Mulvey stated that the narrative intentions of the director, the interactions between the characters on screen and the experience of the audience are guided by an entirely phallocentric view. The audience is always provided with the option of fulfilling a pleasurable desire, albeit a male-centric one, since women on screen are coded for extreme erotic, sensual and visual impact.
“The meaning of a woman is sexual difference, the absence of a penis as visually ascertainable, the material evidence on which is based the castration complex..”
Laura Mulvey
Due to women’s lack of a penis, Mulvey stated that men saw them as strangers, and this led to castration anxiety, i.e. metaphorical and literal fear of emasculation. Therefore, women could never be looked at as equals lest they are considered dangerous, instead, they were deemed beautiful, mystical creatures, slaves to their own sexuality. According to the patriarchal rules, the male figure is the one forwarding the story and the one the spectator identifies with. The woman is subject to his actions and by extension to the audience.
Considering it’s supposedly a depiction of a more advanced, technologically and intellectually superior society, sci-fi in Hollywood often fails dismally in its appropriate representation of women. Luc Besson’s 1997 cult classic sci-fi film The Fifth Element is the most quintessential example of this. In the film, Leeloo (Milla Jovovich) is constantly referred to as the saviour of the human race, due to her being a product of genetically engineered human cells that were spliced together in a lab along with the essences of four other classical elements. From her very creation in the lab, she is portrayed as a sexual object on display, isolated and glamourized. As her body is being manufactured, the camera slowly pans up her legs, while her genitalia remain hidden by conveniently positioned machinery. The scientists in the laboratory watch her body being created with their mouths agape, even exclaiming that she’s ‘perfect’- no doubt referring to her physical appearance. The camera’s focus on the men actively viewing her passive body is exactly what Mulvey examined in her essay.
Leeloo, although supposedly the all-powerful key to saving humanity, is depicted as naïve and innocent but simultaneously framed in a sexualized manner. Throughout the movie, there are several sequences where she is under the mercy of Korben Dallas (Bruce Willis) and he takes advantage of her naivety under the pretense of helping her. Since the movie explains that she was technically ‘born yesterday’ with no knowledge of human morals, rules and basic social interaction, her unawareness of her inherent sexuality can be brushed aside, and her actions are supposed to be considered whimsical rather than provocative. For example, the scene in which she undresses in front of two men- Cornelius and David, who are extremely flustered by her nudity- is completely unnecessary to the storyline, showing how “innocently oblivious” she is to her own physical attractiveness, and is present so the audience can derive pleasure from it.
Dallas with an unconscious Leeloo in The Fifth Element (1997)
Even though Leeloo is the one who saves humanity at the end of the movie, her actions are prompted by Dallas confessing his love for her, ultimately making him the main figure who progresses the plot. Along with more recent culprits in the sci-fi genre like Tron Legacy (2010) films reinforce the idea that no matter how powerful the female character is, she is still a woman and needs a man to save her, either from her overpowering emotions, a villain or unfortunate circumstances.
While it’s been made evident that egregious examples of the male-centric narrative are still present in Hollywood films, Bollywood is also full of similar culprits. Item numbers, ever so popular in Bollywood films, exist solely to cater to the male gaze. These songs check all the boxes outlined in Laura Mulvey’s definition of the male gaze- from framing the female character in a sexualized manner, limiting her characterization to that of an object of erotic desire, making her a passive player in her relationship with the male lead and providing extreme close-up, cut up shots of segments of her body namely her posterior, exposed belly and cleavage. The provocative lyrics further sexualize the woman. The word ‘item’ itself suggests that the woman isn’t a person, but an item being advertised and sold to the audience.
In the song Munni Badnaam Hui from the 2010 Bollywood film Dabanng, Malaika Arora’s character sings about her oozing sex appeal and how she was left powerless, captivated by the hero. She lists off her physical attributes in a way to make her seem desireable- her cheeks, her eyes, her figure and even her stride. She repeatedly says she’s unattainably sexy, yet she “turned from special to normal” for the hero.
A still from the song Munni Badnaam Hui from Dabanng (2010)
In the song, the lyrics directly address the audience. So to the viewer, it sounds like this extremely attractive, mature woman, who has so far been untamed and unattainable, is intoxicated by you, is in love with you, and wants to sleep with you. After the film’s release, the song was compared to Sheila ki jawaani from the movie Tees Maar Khan released in the same year, yet another provocative item number featuring actress Katrina Kaif. These comparisons saw a huge amount of online debates over which woman was sexier and which one people would rather sleep with, reducing both women to mere objects to be won and possessed.
Criticism
Although written over 40 years ago, Laura Mulvey’s essay continues to influence several discussion about film theory, and still provokes strong reactions. Most common of which is that both men and women are sexualized in cinema.
While this is true, the argument fails to note the regularity, intensity and normalization of the sexualization of women in cinema. While some theorists insist that men and women receive equal treatment in the media, a satirical Tumblr page called The Hawkeye Initiative was quick to debunk these claims. The Hawkeye Initiative involved replacing female superheroes in movie posters with Hawkeye, a male superhero from the Marvel Comics, in the same pose. This was done to highlight how the female characters were made to pose in highly sexualized ways, often to emphasize their buttocks, breasts and face. Although this yielded hilarious results, it also brought to light how female bodies were sexualized to such a degree that our society accepted it as normal.
Other theorists argue that, if a Male Gaze exist in cinema, surely so does a female gaze. As far as a direct equivalent goes, I don’t think there is a female gaze, nor do I think there ever will be. Since the power dynamics between the sexes are such that women have always been under the power and control of the patriarchy, a female gaze will not have the implications and consequences of the male gaze, since it would require heterosexual women to be considered the dominant sect of society.
Rosh Writes 