The debate defending Barbie has once again ignited as the Oscar season approaches.
Whether intentional or not, the Academy generously bestowed eight nominations upon this 2023 global box office chart-topper with a feminist theme, including Best Supporting Actor, yet conspicuously omitted the two most significant categories—Best Director and Best Actress. In response, Ryan Gosling penned a lengthy essay proclaiming, "There is no Ken without Barbie," staunchly supporting the two female creators.
It's no wonder that fans can't help but draw connections—women's efforts yielding credit for men—reminiscent of the reenactment of patriarchal societal rules within the film itself. Reality and fiction harmonize again, prompting admirers of Barbie to rise in criticism.
The question arises: Is it permissible for a female viewer not to like Barbie? When I express my dislike for Barbie, does that imply aligning with the patriarchal forces it criticizes?
I don't like Barbie.
When discussing Barbie, phrases like this invariably pop into my mind. For instance, it could be a better movie. But defining "good" may inevitably spark endless debates. So, I attempt to narrow the scope further—within the realm of films addressing feminist themes- but it fails to satisfy me.
When Barbie premiered in 2023, I entered the cinema with high expectations, only to succumb to drowsiness amidst two hours of intense viewpoints accompanied by saturated, colorful visuals. I dozed off, only to wake up with Ken's kingdom on the brink of collapse and Barbie leading women to reclaim their dominance, eliciting hearty laughter from the audience.
Perhaps it was my viewing state—I should have entered the cinema with extreme mental alertness, prepared for a resonant experience. So, I dismissed the thought of saying, "I don't like Barbie."
Upon a solemn revisit via streaming, attempting to stand on the side of feminist advocacy firmly, my eyes and ears once again succumbed to exhaustion.
Admittedly, Barbie articulates fundamental feminist ideas highly creatively. Yet, for most viewers, it might seem "basic" to necessitate such a vehement expression.
For instance, the film's most extended monologue delivers a passionate speech, unveiling the challenges women face universally. While this vehement criticism garnered applause from many women, it's precisely this aspect that tires me of Barbie.
There are a thousand ways to convey feminist ideals, yet it chose the simplest, most blunt, and least cinematic approach—perhaps the definition of "cinema" needs reevaluation. Barbie resembles a three-part essay, presenting points, with the protagonist delivering them and everyone applauding, thank you, goodbye.
Its cleverness lies in wrapping a set of correct statements in disconnected audiovisual language—add some color, some song and dance, some humor, and people unwittingly spend a pleasant two hours in a visual spectacle and spicy commentary, perhaps even without much thought, fully embracing this joyful utopia.
But is that enough? For female viewers struggling with the inability to spread feminist ideas, it might be, as it vehemently attacks what everyone wants to criticize.
Barbie becomes an effective and powerful window. With the help of capital, it cathartically expresses the emotions women couldn't collectively express before. Women could unabashedly wear pink during the film's release, revel in festivities, take photos, check in, and purchase various pink-themed merchandise.
The film's dialogues were widely disseminated, declaring a manifesto for a vast number of women. Barbie successfully became a symbol, willingly accepted even though everyone knew it was a manufactured symbol.
It is not a film.
For another segment of viewers who love films, Barbie resembles a grand marketing advertisement more than a movie. It uses the medium of film as a product facing the consumer market, a means that connects emotionally with female consumers.
However, suppose we were to discuss Barbie from the perspective of the film (art), removing those redundant cultural symbols. It appears suspended and faded, like a large-scale lecturing event aided by a pink PowerPoint presentation.
Satirizing patriarchy can establish a female camp at the fastest pace. However, the irony of Barbie is a fleeting touch that persuaded Mattel, the behind-the-scenes investor, to willingly mock themselves, content with being stepped on.
Neither Ken nor Allan are compelling male characters, and the kingdom they establish is so fragile and easily overthrown with a few inciting words. Is the male alliance in the real world so weak? Does toppling the Barbie paradise and overthrowing the false patriarchy truly signify the victory of feminism?
The film introduces a crisis in Barbie's existence using "death" as a catalyst, but the actual storytelling conveniently sidesteps this severe issue. Throughout the film, how Barbie grows seems to be downplayed. On the other hand, Ken, portrayed by Ryan Gosling, ventures into the real world, discovering the rules of patriarchal society from scratch, leaving a more lasting impression.
Even if Ken is a comedic character, he successfully diverts attention from the real crisis facing women. Is being objectified like Barbie the most significant issue? Is anxiety about physique and beauty the most important problem? Is the inability to confront one's genitalia the most significant issue?
In my view, none of these. Barbie skillfully avoids discussing the reproductive organs—discussion about fertility—and consequently bypasses the discussion of the most significant survival dilemma women face.
"Motherhood is the most subtle method by which women are made slaves," as Simone de Beauvoir said in The Second Sex. Society naturally binds women with reproduction, family, and child-rearing, training them to exist solely for the "function" of giving birth, providing unpaid labor for the family, and perpetually placing them at a disadvantage in a patriarchal society, unable to attain true equality in wealth and political rights.
When the film confines Barbie's age to her twenties, with a beautiful bubble of romantic entanglements, it conveniently avoids addressing the truly complex aspects of life.
What if Barbie gets married? How does she raise children? How does she return to the workforce? Does she have good job options? Does she have to continue sacrificing for the next generation and the next? How does she find herself? Where is the time, money, reliable social alliances, and security? Is wearing a pretty suit the definition of a career woman? Do the women lawyers, doctors, and artists shaped in the image of the perfect Barbie not face these concrete challenges?
Like a traditional fairy tale, the prince and princess live happily ever after, and so does Barbie. She and Ken distinguish between themselves, declaring the happy ever after to this fairy tale. However, the real crisis for women appears afterward—Barbie dons a suit, and then what? Can she smoothly break through the more substantial, more insurmountable barriers ahead? The thorns and boulders formed over thousands of years are beginning to emerge. The skirmish with the youthful Ken before the grand feast is a little bit of mustard.
Yet, for those defending Barbie, this mustard has already caused a significant ripple. After all, people see the absurdity of the patriarchal system.
Then what? We continue our lives, remembering Ken's humor: pink, lots of pink. If anyone is a true winner, victory does not belong to Barbie but still rests with the behind-the-scenes investor, Mattel. After all, the outdated brand image of the Barbie doll has finally been upgraded.
Disliking a successful feminist film does not mean opposing feminism. Watching Thelma & Louise from 1991 affirmed this for me.
The film authentically presents the crisis women face throughout the road trip—no need for the protagonists to explicitly and intensively narrate a plethora of hardships. Dignity-deprived housewives, women surviving in low-paying industries, indifferent and cruel husbands, sexual violence from strangers—these are all conveyed through images, the language of cinema, offering a vast "landscape" of women's crises.
Those men are all "Kens," but in their original weak state, they emit more vital energy than Ken. Using family status, rape, sexual harassment, fraud, and theft, they are sufficient to trap two women into crises continuously. The female victims are perpetually unable to speak the truth of their victimization in a male-dominated society, only able to escape, discovering that death is the best way home.
When the two women in the film ignite the truck driver's gas tank with a gunshot—that explosion represents their anger.
When the two women traverse the desolate and dangerous desert roads late at night—that journey represents the life they face.
When the two women are surrounded by countless police cars—that dust raised by absolute male dominance symbolizes the entire patriarchal system's cage.
When the two women exchange affirming glances—that silent acknowledgment of true freedom and seeing through everything is the punctuation mark of their growth.
True feminism cannot achieve an ideal ending in a "happy ever after" scenario; instead, it inevitably involves a struggle where either you die, or I die—usually with a woman's death as the endpoint.
Thelma & Louise confronts the real crisis of women, revealing the truth. Let's not forget that Callie Khouri, who wrote the script, won the 1992 Oscar for Best Original Screenplay—a victory for feminism.
Perhaps what I initially expected from Barbie was a discussion like this. I don't despise revelry; I willingly embrace it. But after the revelry, what can we leave behind from the film? What can we savor—these are my greater expectations of Barbie.
Just like Everything Everywhere All at Once, which swept the Oscars last year, although not loved by many audiences as a feminist film, Michelle Yeoh's victory was a heartening triumph—perhaps more significant for those who love Barbie.
Share your thoughts!
Be the first to start the conversation.