Fight Scenes as Ideological Conflict: A Note on “Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse”

I’ve seen Spider-man: Into the Spider-Verse three times in theaters since December. It’s a brilliant superhero movie, with an endearing protagonist in Miles Morales and a creative animation style that really makes it feel fresh.


The last time I saw it, I went with a friend who isn’t into superheroes. He is always gracious and lets me talk endlessly about what I love about them, and pushes my brain to think more in-depth about things that I would have otherwise. Before seeing the film, we had talked about what I thought were the most effective fight scenes between a villain and a protagonist. In my view, superhero movies pack more of a punch when there is an ideological conflict between the hero and the villain, and not just “good vs evil.” Captain America is a basic example: Steve Rogers embodies the ideals of America (freedom, equality, etc.) whereas Red Skull, embodying Nazi ideology, is Steve’s antithesis. When they have a physical confrontation, the stakes feel higher because their ideological conflict plays out in the fight scene. Captain America punching Red Skull in the face is a physical representation of American values winning out over Nazism. Black Panther also did this with T’Challa and Killmonger, with the two characters representing opposing ideas on how Wakanda should be ruled. T’Challa (initially) believes in keeping Wakanda isolated and true to its traditions before later embracing Nakia’s mission to use the nation’s resources to help the rest of the world. Killmonger, by contrast, wants to use the resources to conquer the rest of the world and seek revenge for the wrongs committed against black people by colonizers. When the two characters fight in the vibranium mines towards the end of the movie, the stakes are higher because whoever wins that battle shows that character’s ideology to be the “correct” or “heroic” position – the one people should look up to.

Of course, that’s not to say that fight scenes between characters who are connected more emotionally than ideologically aren’t fun to watch. They are, but I feel less invested in a fight between a mustache-twirling “I want to rule the world!” villain and a do-gooder. I’m also less invested in a fight between a hero who is seeking revenge for a wrong done against him or her – “I’m going to defeat you for killing my friend” and all its iterations.

With all this in mind, I want to write about the conversation I had with my friend about the fight between Kingpin and Miles Morales in Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse. Spoilers under the cut.

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Anatomy of a Trope: When Women are the Last to Know about their own Goddamn Bodies

It’s no mind-blowing statement to say that genre films as a whole haven’t handled motherhood very well. If mothers aren’t absent altogether, they’re twisted into an antagonist in some sort or figured as a spectacle of failure. Lucy Fisher, in her book Cinematernity: Film, Motherhood, Genre, argues that “motherhood in the cinema has been a site of ‘crisis.’ In many films, the mother is blamed for her transgressions or for the ills she visits upon her offspring” (p. 30). Other writers, such as Hana Shafi, have taken particular genres to task for their antifeminist tropes: “motherhood is presented [in horror films] as inherently scary. These movies understand that even without blood, monsters, and ghosts, motherhood frightens us. We are afraid of the idea that a mother would do anything for her child—and as much as we encourage this self-sacrifice, we also tend to punish it. Mothers are shown as weak, desperate, extreme. Horror movies suggest that, if they could, mothers would do things like murder their son’s fellow campers to avenge his death. They would, in fact, do anything for their children, including becoming monsters themselves.”

Even sci fi and fantasy don’t quite escape this negative view of motherhood. Both Feminist Frequency and io9 have made videos about the “mystical pregnancy” trope, which is everywhere in genre films. Feminist Frequency takes the stance that the trope is a type of “biological terrorism,” where women are reduced to their biological functions, while io9 showcases some ways in which women become superheroes while pregnant (though their video does showcase how supernatural conception is usually non-consensual). It’s significant that io9 points out the ways in which this trope is evolving to give women more agency, but it’s also worth recognizing that overall, motherhood on screen isn’t always given a positive lens, and itself can be a way for “progressive” genres to perpetuate violence against women as a spectacle.

While such tropes have been well-dissected by other critics, I want to turn my attention to a related staple in genre films and tv that has recently been bothering me. I haven’t found a name of an existing trope that fits what I’m talking about (if you know it, please leave some resources in the comments!), but it’s basically this: a woman doesn’t know she is pregnant, and finds out because a male character recognizes the bodily signs or is able to read her body in such a way that he is the one to tell her before she is even suspicious. As a result, the pregnancy is made mystical in some way (even if not literal), and/or the male character is elevated to some kind of prestige because he knows a woman’s body better than the woman herself.

This trope has especially bothered me in geek circles because it elevates already-overhyped male characters. It also reduces women to be passive incubators, in a way – they aren’t acutely aware enough of their own bodies to recognize when they are pregnant, or if it’s too early to realistically know, their agency in knowing their own bodies is removed in favor of showcasing how perceptive a male character is. To illustrate, I’ll look at instances such as Sherlock season 3, Hellboy, and Torchwood before turning to more positive examples like season 2 of Wynonna Earp.

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The Violent Masculinity of the BioShock Franchise

I wasn’t always an avid gamer. My first real introduction to video games (aside from Mario Cart and Super Smash Brothers being played in my dorm lounge in college) is the fault of my friend, Michael, who got me hooked by sitting me down and having me play the introduction to BioShock on his laptop. This occasion wasn’t even that long ago – it’s been barely two years, but since then, I’ve been hooked on story-driven games, and the first BioShock game remains one of my favorites.

After finishing the series, Michael and I happened to talk one day about our obsession with Rapture, and I was (maybe not all that) surprised to hear that he did not finish BioShock Infinite due to his discomfort with the politics of the game. It makes some sense: while the games are very much connected, the enemies of BioShock and BioShock 2 are different from those of Infinite, and the fact that the player has to fight characters that he/she/they may be sympathetic to in Infinite doesn’t quite match the satisfaction of defeating Frank Fontaine and Sofia Lamb in the first two games.


The PC protagonists of the BioShock franchise

The shift between BioShock 2 and Infinite, I think, is important. While the first two games give players a protagonist that is somewhat absolved of wrongdoing via their backstories and construction of Rapture, Infinite removes those possibilities and implicates the presumably straight white male player in the violence of the world. While players do have important choices to make in each BioShock game that determines light or dark endings, I still think those choices are excused in the first two games to some degree – and excused in a way that Infinite does not allow. To illustrate my point, I want to read Infinite against its predecessors, BioShock and BioShock 2, rather then taking it as a stand-alone game. I also want to focus on the topic of violence and masculinity, in keeping with the theme of gender on my blog.

Spoilers for all of the games, as well as trigger warnings for discussions of violence.

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Empowering the Other or Reveling in The Bad Old Days? Two Readings of “The Shape of Water”

I have a friend and colleague who is a film scholar. He writes about cinema, primarily queer cinema and how queerness is represented both behind and in front of the camera. I write a lot about history and how our portrayals of history are working, but I also love monsters because I’m a medievalist (and we have no shortage of strangeness in medieval studies). Needless to say, when we saw The Shape of Water, we had a lot to talk about.


The Shape of Water won the Oscar this year for best picture, and to be clear, I really did enjoy the film – but there was some debate over whether or not it was groundbreaking (it was) or the “safe choice” (it also was). This debate, I think, nicely parallels the discussions I’ve had with my friend about the portrayal of the Other (namely, people of color and LGBT+ people). While I had a positive reading of the characters and their growth, my friend read it more negatively because it repeated tropes that we, as culture, would do well to bury when crafting our narratives.

This post presents two readings of The Shape of Water: one sees the characters receive meaningful growth throughout the film. The other sees the film as repeating tired tropes and portrayals of history that keep women of color and queer characters from being fully realized in a historical drama.

To be clear, I think both readings are valid, and any person can love or hate The Shape of Water as they please. I also think both readings can coexist, and we can see a piece of art or media as a flawed and complex product of storytelling.

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The Imperfect Feminism of Some YA Fantasy Books

Lately, I’ve been struggling to find a YA fantasy novel that I’ve really liked – and yes, I know that I’m generalizing an entire genre, but hear me out. Fantasy – YA or not – is one of those genres that I really, really want to enjoy, but a number of things make it tough for me, personally: first, I’m a medieval lit scholar, so any fantasy that draws on vague ideas of the middle ages tends to bother me when it repeats tired tropes. Second – and this point is related to the first – fantasy is one of those genres where anti-feminism can be a huge problem because many authors draw on the middle ages or the vague historical past. The idea that life for women was “hard” and that they were little more than breeders is incorrect yet widespread in historical fiction, so it’s no surprise that fantasy which draws on the historic past tends to insert some of that anti-feminism in stories with no relationship to our actual history.

So, getting to YA fantasy, specifically.

I’ve read a number of fantasy novels written by (primarily white) female authors and targeted towards younger audiences that seem to adopt the trappings of feminism. There’s a “strong female protagonist,” usually one who kicks a lot of ass, who finds herself in an environment that is completely foreign to her. Something about the protagonist’s awesomeness attracts the notice of a (usually) broody male love interest, and after a number of adventures, the two fall in love and overthrow some kind of oppressive power structure.

Of course, this is an extremely loose and general overview. Fantasy YA novels themselves are more nuanced than this, and even those that aren’t can still be enjoyable. I’m not suggesting anything is wrong with this general outline. What is wrong is the particular way many YA fantasy books develop their romances. The romance aspect is going to be the subject of this blog post, and below, I want to explore how some books use the appearances of feminism while drawing on the anti-feminist trappings of the vague medieval (or historical) past to create love stories that may do more harm than good. In particular, I’ll be analyzing books such as A Court of Thorns and Roses by Sarah J. Maas and others.

SPOILER ALERTS for ACOTAR and some plot points for other YA books. Also TRIGGER WARNING for discussions of assault and rape.
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Why do we always skip the Phoenix Saga?

I love the X-Men. I watched the animated series as a kid in the 90s and when I first started picking up superhero comics, X-Men was the first team I fell in love with. At the risk of sounding a little bit pretentious, I’ll admit that I haven’t been completely satisfied with the film adaptations – sure, there are exceptions (Days of Future Past and Logan were phenomenal, and other films have their moments), but overall, I’ve felt that the big studios are trying to make a quick cash grab.

That’s why when the upcoming Dark Phoenix film was announced, I had to roll my eyes.


Jean Grey is one of my favorite superheroes, and the films have never really done her justice. X-Men: The Last Stand is notorious for its butchering of the Dark Phoenix Saga, and though I’m not a critic who insists that movie adaptations need to follow the source material to a T, the mishandling of the famous comic arc has been the subject of a number of feminist criticisms. Generally, the film is lambasted for making the Phoenix a part of Jean rather than the cosmic entity as portrayed in the comics. In The Last Stand, Professor X reveals that he had to suppress Jean’s innate power because it posed a threat – not just to humanity, but, implicitly, to the symbolic order in which men are the most powerful heroes.

Part of my fear with the upcoming Dark Phoenix film is that it will do the same. Entertainment Weekly revealed that the movie will feature a space journey in which a solar flare “awaken[s] a long-dormant power in Jean Grey.” iO9 comments: “What’s interesting here is that these details are implying that rather than being a cosmic force that encounters Jean (as in various iterations of the comics canon), the Phoenix is something that’s always been inside Jean, just waiting for the right trigger to appear.”

While a number of critics have unpacked the implications of trying to suppress innate female power in the X-Men films, I want to focus on something slightly different. The current X-Men franchise is repeating the sins of its past in not only changing the essence of the Phoenix Force, but in failing to set up the Dark Phoenix storyline by completely ignoring what made the original Dark Phoenix Saga so impactful in the first place: the preceding Phoenix Saga. In this post, I want to briefly discuss how ignoring the Phoenix Saga makes adaptations of the Dark Phoenix Saga more problematic, both on the level of narrative and the level of portraying female characters with cosmic power.

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Anatomy of a Trope: Sleeping With the Target in Spy Flicks

Yesterday I saw Kingsman: The Golden Circle. To be clear, I loved the first film, and I did enjoy the sequel, despite some major problems in the narrative. I do love the characters: Eggsy is fun to watch, as is Harry Hart and Merlin. I’m also a fan of men in well-tailor suits beating up bad guys and over-the-top, ridiculous fight scenes set to upbeat music.


But Kingsman has gotten a lot of attention for a particular scene in which Eggsy has to seduce a woman (named Clara, played by Poppy Delevingne) to plant a tracking device on her, which he hopes will lead the Kingsmen to Charlie, Clara’s (ex?) boyfriend and one of the major antagonists of the film. Simple enough, but like me, a lot of viewers found the scene uncomfortable for a number of reasons. First, the tracing device had to be planted on a mucus membrane so some chemical could be absorbed into the bloodstream – so naturally, that means the woman’s vagina. Second, as Eggsy is fingerbanging the target, the camera pans down her body so we get an up-close shot of CGI vulva. What the actual hell?

Kaila Hale-Stern for The Mary Sue wrote about her discomfort watching that scene, and I want to make clear that I absolutely agree with putting responsibility on Matthew Vaughn. I also want to express some sympathy for actor Taron Egerton (who plays Eggsy), who had to be diplomatic while promoting the film and who was clearly uncomfortable with the scene – so much so that he refused to be the one to film it (the hand shown in the film was actually that of Poppy Delevingne’s husband).

But I want to also use this post to respond to other things that have been said about this scene, mainly Vaughn’s commentary and something Egerton said that has been repeated around social media. Vaughn told Entertainment Weekly:

“Some bloody feminists are accusing me of being a misogynist. I’m like, “It couldn’t be further from the truth.” It’s a celebration of women and the woman being empowered in a weird way in my mind, which will cause a big argument again I’m sure. It’s meant to be tongue-in-cheek and crazy… I was surprised when people are saying to me, “I loved the movie. I think it’s great, but I was offended by that.” I said, “Really? That’s more offensive than exploding heads, massacres in church, swearing, people being cut in half?” I was like, come on. It’s just a joke. It’s not even graphic […] For the 20 percent who were offended by it, there are 80 percent who are rolling around laughing so hard. Those 20 percent of people just need to lighten up a little bit. It’s about pushing boundaries and having a bit of fun. It’s not meant to be offensive, and it’s definitely not misogynist or any attack on women. That’s for sure.”

Egerton told Screen Rant:

“It’s what Matthew [Vaughn] does, it’s his signature thing. He likes to do something that shocks. In Kick-Ass it was Chloe Grace Moretz saying the C-word, in Kingsman 1 it was the bum shot of the Swedish princess, and in this one it’s the thing. And, you know, it’s not to everyone’s tastes, but it certainly gets people talking. All it is is explicitly showing what Bond alludes to and says in a double entendre kind of way.”

Together, these comments got me thinking: is the scene different than what Bond does, or any spy for that matter? Is the whole “sleeping with the target” trope inherently misogynistic, or is there a way to do it that is empowering?

In this blog post, I’m going to compare the Kingsman sex scene with a number of other instances of spies or secret agents sleeping with a target, hopefully illustrating why I was so uncomfortable with Kingsman while also exploring the trope as a whole.

Trigger warnings for misogyny, including rape and graphic images of violence against women. Also a brief mention of homophobia and the “Bury Your Gays” trope.

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“My Middle Ages Will Be Intersectional Or It Will Be Bullshit”

Medieval Studies has a reputation of being a conservative field dominated by white men – and to be fair, a lot of it is. But while there is a large percentage of scholars who are actively pushing for diversity, it doesn’t help when one of our own reinforces the status quo. Over the weekend, a white tenured faculty member wrote a blog post targeting a junior scholar of color, attacking her for pushing for diversity. This blog post also pointed out her race… as if that was a reason to discredit her work. It spiraled out of control from there – the bullying professor tagged a notable alt-right troll, who in turn wrote a blog post filled with numerous pop culture references that was meant to threaten physical violence – if not in real life, then at least online. You can read a comprehensive overview of the whole incident here, or, if MSM is more your style, there’s a link here.

I’ve signed a number of letters in support of the targeted scholar, and I’m notably not using names in this post to partially shield myself from potential blowback (I’m a coward). But the purpose of this blog post isn’t to repeat things already said by medieval scholars or reaffirm my personal commitment to diversity in my professional life. Instead, as a nerdy pop culture blog, I want to respond to a number of things: first, I want to explore the subtle use of pop culture imagery as a weapon in alt-right troll’s blog post and how the weaponization of pop culture imagery works in our current social climate. Second, I want to turn away from the negativity and highlight some of my favorite women of color characters in medieval pop culture and talk a little bit about how their presence (when done well) can enhance our understanding of history in addition to being good for representation and diversity in non-academic realms.

Trigger warning for discussions of racism and violence.

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Asking Tough Questions: Ms. Marvel and Tokenism in the Classroom

I’m proud to say that teaching the first volume of G. Willow Wilson’s Ms. Marvel in my college fiction classes has become somewhat routine. In each of the zillion times I’ve helmed an “Intro to Fiction” course, Ms. Marvel has always been someone’s first encounter with a “Muslim superhero” (I put that term in quotes because of the difficulty in defining that term) and it has always been someone’s favorite work of the semester. Most of our conversations revolve around how Ms. Marvel undoes stereotypes that pop culture at large attaches not just to Muslim figures, but heroes and villains more generally. Thus, Ms. Marvel becomes a tool that I use to help students look at the media they consume more critically, precisely because it is “outside the norm.”


Recently, I had the privilege of guest teaching Ms. Marvel for a 300-level course. At my university, these courses are typically reserved for professors and senior grad students. Having never taught anything myself above a 100-level course, I was admittedly quite nervous – these undergrads were smart, sharp, and would keep me on my toes. They did not disappoint: while I didn’t have to go through my usual schtick of “here’s is why representation is important,” I did have to teach in a way that required me to adapt and formulate ideas on the fly. I’ve never been very good at that, even as a student myself. So, when a student pointed out that Ms. Marvel was problematic because of tokenism, I froze. In teaching 100-level classes, this point had never been brought up by my own students, and I myself had never considered it. I was at a loss for how to respond, and looking back, I’m still quite sure I made a mess of it.

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Gendered Space: The Alamo Drafthouse Wonder Woman Screening

If you’re excited for the upcoming Wonder Woman movie and have been keeping a close eye on on the press, like me, then you may know that a bunch of people have their boxer briefs in a twist because of an upcoming women-only showing of the film.

Alamo Drafthouse is a popular movie theater chain in Texas, and one location in Austin has recently announced a planned showing for June 6 in which only women (and people who identify as women) are allowed to attend. On top of that, the theater released a statement saying, “Everyone working at this screening — venue staff, projectionist, and culinary team — will be female.”

So of course, men flipped their shit.


People have been calling the event sexist and threatening to boycott the film and the theater. None of these threats had much effect, however. The Alamo Drafthouse defended their event, offered a second women-only showing, and made plans to expand the event across the country.

While it’s satisfying to sip a cup of male tears, I want to put snarkery aside for a moment and actually think about this whole situation. People (mostly white men) have been trying to make the argument that if the tables were turned in any way, the situation would not be seen as positively. How would a showing of Black Panther for African Americans-only go over? What about a men-only showing of any film?

They’re right in one regard – a men-only showing of a film would definitely not be the same. But why? The answer, I’d argue, has to do with purpose and privilege.

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