You can just tell it’s the end of summer, because the pointless douchebaggery to real article ratio has gotten really out of control. But this (via) may really deserve a special award for mega-douchebaggery of levels beyond what our primitive instruments can measure. When it was first coming out, I wrote some posts making fun of the trailer for (500) Days of Summer, and I actually let people make me feel bad about not giving the movie a chance. Perhaps, I thought, these folks are right and this movie doesn’t fall somewhere on the epic fail to misogynist trash scale. But no one told me that it’s misogynist trash from the opening credits:
The opening credits for my film include the standard legal disclaimer that ‘any resemblance to people living or dead is purely coincidental’. But then it adds: ‘Especially you, Jenny Beckman. Bitch.’
Yes, the article is by screenwriter Scott Neustadter, and from the very beginning, both this article and his movie engage in one of the classic paradoxes of this sort of misogyny: To call someone a “bitch” for dumping you is to imply that she was wrong and mean-spirited to do so, but the fact that you wield the word “bitch” to describe women who believe they own their own selves is evidence that she was actually a wise woman for getting rid of your sorry ass. It’s not exactly Schrödinger’s cat, but it’s nonetheless a puzzle. By making the case that his ex-girlfriend had no right to dump him, Neustadter actually manages to make the case that all women should probably steer clear, and that includes his current girlfriend. Let’s investigate.
I was on the rebound from a relationship that had ended months before in New York, where I had been working for a film company.
I had been desolate. You know the drill. Sleepless nights, long days watching Swedish movies and listening to The Smiths on a constant loop.
But when I met this girl in London, my depression lifted, my heart filled with love again and I felt that this could only be the result of divine intervention.
From the beginning, we see his problems, starting with the unbelievably misplaced pretentiousness of his Smiths obsession. The Smiths are a great band—-one of the all-time best—-but that tends to put them in the pantheon of the people’s music, not something that douchebags should have a right to wear, along with Swedish movies, as evidence of their unique snowflake-ness. But worse—-and as a big time music fan, this is painful for me to say—-is the way that he holds women responsible for his happiness. This sets up the objectification and anger he has that some woman believes she has a right to say no to a relationship with him. Can’t she see that she’s here on earth to keep him from torturing the rest of the world with the pity parties he throws himself when he’s not being validated by a woman’s attention?
Hey, I’m not a cynical person. I’m aware of how love can put a bounce in your step, and how being rejected or (gasp!) having to break up with someone can leave one wallowing in sadness. The newly single have every right to lay around and weep for awhile, and listen to whatever pitiful music that they want. (I like overtly painful country western, myself.) But then you pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and realize the only person responsible for your happiness is you. Ironically, the people who find love the most easily seem to be the ones who are the most content with themselves. The grasping and neediness that Neustadter displays here is exactly the sort of thing that sends most sensible potential love interests fleeing, which is sensible. A person who needs you to complete them is going to act entitled and downright vampiric, like I do when I’m really hungry and someone’s stalling my access to food. Or my cat does when she decides if I don’t wake up right now, she might die.