I love fan theories, or headcanons, as some like to call them. I love them. I really do. I love the silly ones. I love the sad ones. I love the ones that could be true. I love the ones that are so insane they're perfect. I love them all.
Apparently, IndieWIRE critic Sam Adams does not agree with me.
Okay, I can see how fan theories might annoy some people. They're pervasive. They're divisive. They start fandom wars. They confuse the living hell out of non-fandom members when they come up in a random Google search. I get it, you don't like it, you wish people would just chill out or keep it to themselves.
Well, I have bad news for you, sir. That's not going to happen. Fan theories, whether you like it or not, are here to stay. I'm not going to even try to explain all the ins and outs of fandom culture. I'd need an entire blog for that. But I will tell you a story. Just bear with me for a minute here and I promise I'll explain myself.
My boyfriend is a huge dork. Not, like, smartest-kid-in-the-school, pocket-protector-wearing, makes-a-nuclear-reactor-out-of-paper-towel-rolls kind of dork, but, like, a pop culture addict kind of dork. And what a lucky girl am I, because guess what? Me too. We're total nerds together. It's kind of amazing. So, we went to Comic-Con together in May. He went to meet Roddy Piper. I went to meet Robbie Thompson. And I went in costume as Castiel, because to me, that was just the height of cool: going and meeting the TV writer who writes episodes based around your favorite character, dressed as that character? Once-in-a-lifetime experience, right there.
Now, in the weeks leading up to the con, we showed each other the movies/TV shows/wrestling matches starring our favorite people, just so we could understand why each of us wanted to meet those celebrities. He showed me Piper's best matches. I showed him my favorite episodes of Supernatural. But before I did, months before, when I was first planning my costume, I tried to explain to him the nature of Dean and Castiel and their relationship. "Well, Dean's a human, and Cas is an angel..." I began, about to do my usual lead-up of now this is just speculation it's not been confirmed yet but it's a very widely accepted fan theory...and then I realized, wait, Ian has never seen Supernatural. He doesn't know who Dean and Castiel are. He has no idea. I don't have to apologize for my views on this. I can just flat-out tell him.
"About half the fandom takes Dean and Cas's relationship at face-value, and believe they're just very good friends. But the other half - and I'm in this sector - interpret their relationship as romantic," I told him matter-of-factly. "We pick up on clues that the showrunners may or may not have intended to leave. It's not confirmed by the show yet whether their relationship is canon or not. It's just a very, very popular, intensely-believed fan interpretation."
"Oh, I see," was Ian's reply. And then we moved on to discuss costumes. I only brought it up because I wanted to warn him not to wear anything remotely Dean Winchester-like at the con, unless he was up for some serious teasing. When I showed him an episode of Supernatural, I made sure to choose one wherein Castiel interacted with both Dean and Meg, just to show him both sides of the debate. And that was that.
But when I hung out post-Comic-Con with him and his friends, one of them was very vocal about his opinion that the Dean/Castiel romance "is a load of bullshit." At one point I made a comment about how I preferred more subtle hints of their romance, because it let the fans truly interpret it for themselves, and I disliked more heavy-handed or obnoxious references and lines like "You know, the angel in the dirty trenchcoat who's in love with you." Before I'd even finished this sentence, the guy jumped in to insist "that's because they're trying to make fun of the idea that this relationship could EVER be romantic." "So basically, they're making fun of people like me," I translated. The guy shrugged it off. "Yeah, pretty much." And then the subject was dropped.
I hate incidents like that. Ian and his friend, without even meaning to, pretty much demonstrated the absolute best way to respond to a fan theory, and the absolute worst way to respond to a fan theory. The best way, even if you think the fan theory is ridiculous, is to just go with it. Let that fan, be it a super-fan or a casual fan, ramble about their interpretation of the story, and then let it go. If you agree with it, great. If not - let it go.
But when his friend insisted that the showrunners of Supernatural actively go out of their way to make fun of the fans who believe in the Destiel theory, it was more than just annoying. It hurt. I wanted to ask, "And what harm, exactly, is this fan theory doing to you? Like are you really so afraid that it might actually be true, that you can't even entertain the thought for five seconds?" It wasn't that he disagreed with me. He was entitled to his opinion. But the way he reacted with eye-rolling contempt, as if believing in the Destiel theory immediately demoted me to "mindless fangirl" status? That really stung.
People who forcibly oppose fan theories remind me of politicians. They really do. They will never be convinced that the fan who came up with the theory has a leg to stand on. They will not only go out of their way to let the whole world know that the theory is WRONG, but they will also go out of their way to discredit the fan who came up with the theory. I've seen comments on those Pixar movie posts ranging from "meh, nice, but it's too out there to be true" (reasonable enough) to "oh my god you are insane get a life you dumbass" (not so reasonable). I don't mind being disagreed with. And I'm sure no one else who supports a fan theory minds, either. What we do mind is being told that we are "crazy" or "stupid" or "fake fans" for coming up with the idea in the first place.
And that was the problem I had with Adams' indieWIRE piece. Is the guy entitled to his opinion? Sure. Fan theories aren't canon. They don't have to be accepted as fact - and they shouldn't be. It's a matter of interpretation. But guess what? You don't have to believe in a fan theory to respect the fan who came up with it. And slamming someone else's interpretation, or personally attacking someone for coming up with a theory you don't agree with, is mean. The fastest way to kill someone's passion for something is to make fun of them. Snorting, rolling your eyes, and calling someone a "fake fan" (or, to use Adams' phrasing, a "so-called fan") because they dared to interpret something differently than you did is a douche move. It's a surefire way to make sure that person never speaks up again. And I know, because I've been there.
So, to all the people who agreed with Adams' take on fan theories: shut up. We get it. You are allowed to think that it's ludicrous to believe that every Pixar movie takes place in the same universe. You are not, however, allowed to say that someone is not a "real fan" because they do believe that.
And to all the people who come up with these fan theories: keep it up. But I beg you, don't waste your breath trying to convince the haters that it's true. They'll just blow you off. But don't let that stop you from putting yourself out there in the first place, because you know what? I met a Supernatural writer. I told him, "I believe in Destiel." I told him that while I was standing there, in front of him, dressed like Castiel. And you know what he said?
He told me, "You go right ahead. If that's how you see the show, you go right ahead and believe that. We put the show out there, that's our job. How you interpret it, that's up to you."
How you interpret it, that's up to you. Words to live by.
Wednesday, September 23, 2015
Wednesday, September 16, 2015
The genre judgement conundrum part II: learning to love horror
August 2006. 13-year-old Avery sees a Blockbuster VHS case (my God, those are archaic words, right there) in her dad's hand. "What's that?" she asks.
Dad holds it up so she can see the title. The Rocky Horror Picture Show. "What's that?" she asks again, because up to this point, her only exposure to this cult classic has been the Kidz Bop cover of "Time Warp," which she hasn't listened to in forever because, at this point, she has clearly outgrown Kidz Bop. (But, being the child-at-heart she is, if she still listens to those old CDs time to time...well, who's going to know, really?)
"It's an old musical. From the 1970s." Her mom and dad exchange a look. Is their child old enough to see this? After all, their objective thus far has not been to censor her viewing material (she's been allowed to watch Big Trouble and My Cousin Vinny and The Replacements--movies that most of her friends would have had to see behind their parents' backs) but this is considered widely to be the most raunchy musical of all time. Can they really...?
Finally, assuming (and rightly so) that most of the jokes will go over her head, her mom casually says, "You should watch it with us. It's got Meat Loaf and Tim Curry in it. You'll like it."
And for the first forty-five minutes or so, she does. She giggles at "Dammit, Janet," gets up and dances to the Time Warp, and squeals in delight at her first sighting of Dr. Frank-N-Furter. "That is Tim Curry?" she gasps, not recognizing the man who co-starred in Pirates of the Plain and Home Alone 2--some of her favorite movies of the day. She's a little nervous when Rocky is born, but when she sees not a hideous Frankenstein monster but a muscle-bound jock running around in shiny gold underpants, she starts laughing again. So far, as her parents predicted, she loves it. Sure, a lot of the sexual references are lost on her, and she's a little confused as to why Frank-N-Furter seems to be gay or at least bi (since she knows, from years of watching Eddie Izzard, that "most transvestites actually fancy women"), but those are minor things and overall she's happy.
And then comes Meat Loaf's entrance. And, with it, his gruesome death at Frank-n-Furter's hands. That's when she starts to cry. That's when her parents start to think, oops, might've introduced this one a bit too soon. They let her watch for a bit longer, right up through "Touch-a Touch-a Touch Me," which they hope she will find sufficiently funny to erase the memory of Meat Loaf's untimely demise, but they're careful to shut off the movie before Eddie the Delivery Boy's final...uh...resting place is revealed. Because if she can't handle an ice pick and some blood, they know she won't be able to handle that.
One year from now this movie will be one of her favorites, and she will go to see the play live, dressed as Magenta and singing to every song, squirt gun in hand and a smile on her face. But you couldn't convince her of that now. Not for all the money in the world.
~
So fast-forward now to Halloween 2012. After a lifetime of actively avoiding horror movies, I was facing a conundrum because, you see, my teacher had put The Exorcist on his syllabus, as it's one of the most famous (and, admittedly, one of the most groundbreaking) horror films of all time. Most of my classmates are psyched. It's a great horror film, they insist, and it's just perfect that we're watching it on Halloween night. I'm sure they're right, but I have a problem. I hate horror. I really, truly hate it. There are few times that I've seen a horror film and not hated it: The Blair Witch Project, Let the Right One In, Psycho, and of course Tim Burton's Sleepy Hollow. That's it. The number of horror movies that haven't terrified me into oblivion can actually be counted on one hand.
My mother always said that my problem with movies--and she still says this, now, in 2015, when I'm a college graduate who consistently sleeps with the lights off--was that I had a hard time telling fantasy and reality apart. Maybe that's true. All I know is that up to my college days I could not watch a horror movie without my parents holding my hands. In fact, during a Genres class at Interlochen, we watched Diary of the Dead to study "documented" horror, and I was so shaken I had to leave halfway through the screening and, afterwards, spent the night at a hotel with my parents because I was too afraid to sleep alone in the dorms. I believe by now I have hammered the point home: horror and Avery did not mix. Just couldn't happen.
But on Halloween night, 2012, I caved for the sake of my grade. My teacher was very nice about it, but he would not let me get out of seeing the film. He let me bring my girlfriend and looked the other way when I buried my face in her shoulder during the worst parts, but still I had to sit there, without sneaking out of the room, and watch the movie. And I hated it. Take away the terror factor and I still doubt I'd have liked it; I can see why it's hailed as a masterpiece, but The Exorcist just isn't my taste. But I could handle it. I hated it, but I watched it. The whole thing. Levitation, head-twisting and all.
And I cannot stress how big a deal it is that I stayed for the whole thing. Up to that point I'd even avoided horror films that were part of a class (see: Diary of the Dead incident) and skipped out on Halloween parties because my friends always wanted to watch, well, the Halloween movies and I couldn't do that. I still covered my eyes during certain parts of Lord of the Rings, for crying out loud. I went out of my way to avoid anything scary, much to the frustration of just about any teacher who had me in their class wherein a horror movie was present. This same teacher, the one who gently refused to put up with my B.S. where The Exorcist was concerned, had already had to convince me the previous semester that Planet of the Apes was really worth a second look and that Alien was not, in fact, more terrifying than Paranormal Activity.
So willingly going and not only seeing The Exorcist, but taking notes on it and calmly discussing it in class the following Monday, proved something to me: whether I loved or hated them, I could watch horror movies. I could handle it. I would not collapse into a panic-stricken jelly lump just because a movie had some scary scenes in it. I could do it.
I started pushing my boundaries that very night. I let my girlfriend talk me into seeing Scream - my very first Wes Craven movie - and discovered a simple fact about me and horror films: if it could be defeated, I wasn't afraid of it. A flesh-and-blood killer was something I could deal with. I didn't like gore and I didn't much care for the supernatural (hence my disdain of films like Saw, The Evil Dead, and The Exorcist), but as long as there was a way to defeat the villain I could not only watch a horror film, but find some enjoyment in it. I didn't love Scream, but there were a lot of parts that made me laugh and, unlike Diary of the Dead, I didn't regret going to see it.
More incidents like that one followed. I went to see Warm Bodies, the first - and, to this day, the only - zombie film that I absolutely loved. I started watching Supernatural, a show that I'd avoided for years because I thought it would be too scary, and delighted in watching the villain get defeated in every single episode. Ditto for Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I realized that I'd been scorning horror for years, without realizing that there was so much that I already liked (Tim Burton, Alfred Hitchcock, German expressionist films like Nosferatu and The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari - heck, Roman Polanski's Fearless Vampire Killers had captivated me long before Twilight Fever rocked my high school), and I had been limiting myself out of fear. I resolved not to do that anymore.
When I transferred to Oakland University, my World Cinema teacher showed us Somos Lo Que Hay (translation: We Are What We Are) the same week that I re-watched Let the Right One In for the first time in years. I fell in love with foreign horror - especially of the European variety. I came to the realization that what I really loved, not just tolerated for a grade's sake but loved, was psychological horror. I watched The Sixth Sense and loved it. I watched The Shining all the way through for the first time, and loved it. I watched Silence of the Lambs, I watched all the Hannibal Lecter movies, and I loved them. That fall I saw Peeping Tom in a film theory class and absolutely adored it. My love of psychological horror stemmed from my love of Tim Burton, of Loki the God of Mischief, of the Goblin King and Alex DeLarge and all my other "favorite villains" - the idea that everything isn't what it seems. I realized that without pre-conceived assumptions and fear getting in the way, I could see whatever the hell I wanted to.
I also began to understand my own rules. I needed to have some degree of control over the movie. I needed to be able to pause it and walk away if I had to. I needed to have someone with me, or at least near me, to remind me that it was only a movie. With those few guidelines in place, what couldn't I watch?
I still have moments of doubt, believe me. No power on this earth can make me sit through the Evil Dead or Saw canon. And good luck convincing me to ever, for any reason, sit through an episode of The Walking Dead. I won't go through haunted houses or haunted mazes (acting in one my senior year of high school was more than enough, believe me) and I will never, ever go to an amusement park "fright night" again. I didn't suddenly morph into a horror-lover. I have my limits. If I see a movie that I might like, but looks like it's a scary one, I'll wait for the DVD, thankyouverymuch, and there are plenty of deal-breakers for me. Zombies are a red flag. Cannibalism is pushing it. Possession is a hard limit. And God forbid I ever see anything with the word "exorcism" in the title again.
But this Halloween I will watch Nightmare on Elm Street with Ian. I've always wanted to see it, but dodged it based on the assumption that it would be too scary for me. But it's a fantastic movie, or so I've always heard, and it's one of the defining horror classics, and it's got all the elements I love: a villain with a dark past who attacks his victims on a psychological level, highly stylized aesthetics, and the headship of a kick-ass director. (No one can see Red Eye and not believe Wes Craven was a genius. I'm 100% sure of that.) Maybe I'll have a sleepless night or two over it. But I'm not worried.
After all, I've already handled Pazuzu. After that, how bad can Freddy Kruger really be?
Dad holds it up so she can see the title. The Rocky Horror Picture Show. "What's that?" she asks again, because up to this point, her only exposure to this cult classic has been the Kidz Bop cover of "Time Warp," which she hasn't listened to in forever because, at this point, she has clearly outgrown Kidz Bop. (But, being the child-at-heart she is, if she still listens to those old CDs time to time...well, who's going to know, really?)
"It's an old musical. From the 1970s." Her mom and dad exchange a look. Is their child old enough to see this? After all, their objective thus far has not been to censor her viewing material (she's been allowed to watch Big Trouble and My Cousin Vinny and The Replacements--movies that most of her friends would have had to see behind their parents' backs) but this is considered widely to be the most raunchy musical of all time. Can they really...?
Finally, assuming (and rightly so) that most of the jokes will go over her head, her mom casually says, "You should watch it with us. It's got Meat Loaf and Tim Curry in it. You'll like it."
And for the first forty-five minutes or so, she does. She giggles at "Dammit, Janet," gets up and dances to the Time Warp, and squeals in delight at her first sighting of Dr. Frank-N-Furter. "That is Tim Curry?" she gasps, not recognizing the man who co-starred in Pirates of the Plain and Home Alone 2--some of her favorite movies of the day. She's a little nervous when Rocky is born, but when she sees not a hideous Frankenstein monster but a muscle-bound jock running around in shiny gold underpants, she starts laughing again. So far, as her parents predicted, she loves it. Sure, a lot of the sexual references are lost on her, and she's a little confused as to why Frank-N-Furter seems to be gay or at least bi (since she knows, from years of watching Eddie Izzard, that "most transvestites actually fancy women"), but those are minor things and overall she's happy.
And then comes Meat Loaf's entrance. And, with it, his gruesome death at Frank-n-Furter's hands. That's when she starts to cry. That's when her parents start to think, oops, might've introduced this one a bit too soon. They let her watch for a bit longer, right up through "Touch-a Touch-a Touch Me," which they hope she will find sufficiently funny to erase the memory of Meat Loaf's untimely demise, but they're careful to shut off the movie before Eddie the Delivery Boy's final...uh...resting place is revealed. Because if she can't handle an ice pick and some blood, they know she won't be able to handle that.
One year from now this movie will be one of her favorites, and she will go to see the play live, dressed as Magenta and singing to every song, squirt gun in hand and a smile on her face. But you couldn't convince her of that now. Not for all the money in the world.
~
So fast-forward now to Halloween 2012. After a lifetime of actively avoiding horror movies, I was facing a conundrum because, you see, my teacher had put The Exorcist on his syllabus, as it's one of the most famous (and, admittedly, one of the most groundbreaking) horror films of all time. Most of my classmates are psyched. It's a great horror film, they insist, and it's just perfect that we're watching it on Halloween night. I'm sure they're right, but I have a problem. I hate horror. I really, truly hate it. There are few times that I've seen a horror film and not hated it: The Blair Witch Project, Let the Right One In, Psycho, and of course Tim Burton's Sleepy Hollow. That's it. The number of horror movies that haven't terrified me into oblivion can actually be counted on one hand.
My mother always said that my problem with movies--and she still says this, now, in 2015, when I'm a college graduate who consistently sleeps with the lights off--was that I had a hard time telling fantasy and reality apart. Maybe that's true. All I know is that up to my college days I could not watch a horror movie without my parents holding my hands. In fact, during a Genres class at Interlochen, we watched Diary of the Dead to study "documented" horror, and I was so shaken I had to leave halfway through the screening and, afterwards, spent the night at a hotel with my parents because I was too afraid to sleep alone in the dorms. I believe by now I have hammered the point home: horror and Avery did not mix. Just couldn't happen.
But on Halloween night, 2012, I caved for the sake of my grade. My teacher was very nice about it, but he would not let me get out of seeing the film. He let me bring my girlfriend and looked the other way when I buried my face in her shoulder during the worst parts, but still I had to sit there, without sneaking out of the room, and watch the movie. And I hated it. Take away the terror factor and I still doubt I'd have liked it; I can see why it's hailed as a masterpiece, but The Exorcist just isn't my taste. But I could handle it. I hated it, but I watched it. The whole thing. Levitation, head-twisting and all.
And I cannot stress how big a deal it is that I stayed for the whole thing. Up to that point I'd even avoided horror films that were part of a class (see: Diary of the Dead incident) and skipped out on Halloween parties because my friends always wanted to watch, well, the Halloween movies and I couldn't do that. I still covered my eyes during certain parts of Lord of the Rings, for crying out loud. I went out of my way to avoid anything scary, much to the frustration of just about any teacher who had me in their class wherein a horror movie was present. This same teacher, the one who gently refused to put up with my B.S. where The Exorcist was concerned, had already had to convince me the previous semester that Planet of the Apes was really worth a second look and that Alien was not, in fact, more terrifying than Paranormal Activity.
So willingly going and not only seeing The Exorcist, but taking notes on it and calmly discussing it in class the following Monday, proved something to me: whether I loved or hated them, I could watch horror movies. I could handle it. I would not collapse into a panic-stricken jelly lump just because a movie had some scary scenes in it. I could do it.
I started pushing my boundaries that very night. I let my girlfriend talk me into seeing Scream - my very first Wes Craven movie - and discovered a simple fact about me and horror films: if it could be defeated, I wasn't afraid of it. A flesh-and-blood killer was something I could deal with. I didn't like gore and I didn't much care for the supernatural (hence my disdain of films like Saw, The Evil Dead, and The Exorcist), but as long as there was a way to defeat the villain I could not only watch a horror film, but find some enjoyment in it. I didn't love Scream, but there were a lot of parts that made me laugh and, unlike Diary of the Dead, I didn't regret going to see it.
More incidents like that one followed. I went to see Warm Bodies, the first - and, to this day, the only - zombie film that I absolutely loved. I started watching Supernatural, a show that I'd avoided for years because I thought it would be too scary, and delighted in watching the villain get defeated in every single episode. Ditto for Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I realized that I'd been scorning horror for years, without realizing that there was so much that I already liked (Tim Burton, Alfred Hitchcock, German expressionist films like Nosferatu and The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari - heck, Roman Polanski's Fearless Vampire Killers had captivated me long before Twilight Fever rocked my high school), and I had been limiting myself out of fear. I resolved not to do that anymore.
When I transferred to Oakland University, my World Cinema teacher showed us Somos Lo Que Hay (translation: We Are What We Are) the same week that I re-watched Let the Right One In for the first time in years. I fell in love with foreign horror - especially of the European variety. I came to the realization that what I really loved, not just tolerated for a grade's sake but loved, was psychological horror. I watched The Sixth Sense and loved it. I watched The Shining all the way through for the first time, and loved it. I watched Silence of the Lambs, I watched all the Hannibal Lecter movies, and I loved them. That fall I saw Peeping Tom in a film theory class and absolutely adored it. My love of psychological horror stemmed from my love of Tim Burton, of Loki the God of Mischief, of the Goblin King and Alex DeLarge and all my other "favorite villains" - the idea that everything isn't what it seems. I realized that without pre-conceived assumptions and fear getting in the way, I could see whatever the hell I wanted to.
I also began to understand my own rules. I needed to have some degree of control over the movie. I needed to be able to pause it and walk away if I had to. I needed to have someone with me, or at least near me, to remind me that it was only a movie. With those few guidelines in place, what couldn't I watch?
I still have moments of doubt, believe me. No power on this earth can make me sit through the Evil Dead or Saw canon. And good luck convincing me to ever, for any reason, sit through an episode of The Walking Dead. I won't go through haunted houses or haunted mazes (acting in one my senior year of high school was more than enough, believe me) and I will never, ever go to an amusement park "fright night" again. I didn't suddenly morph into a horror-lover. I have my limits. If I see a movie that I might like, but looks like it's a scary one, I'll wait for the DVD, thankyouverymuch, and there are plenty of deal-breakers for me. Zombies are a red flag. Cannibalism is pushing it. Possession is a hard limit. And God forbid I ever see anything with the word "exorcism" in the title again.
But this Halloween I will watch Nightmare on Elm Street with Ian. I've always wanted to see it, but dodged it based on the assumption that it would be too scary for me. But it's a fantastic movie, or so I've always heard, and it's one of the defining horror classics, and it's got all the elements I love: a villain with a dark past who attacks his victims on a psychological level, highly stylized aesthetics, and the headship of a kick-ass director. (No one can see Red Eye and not believe Wes Craven was a genius. I'm 100% sure of that.) Maybe I'll have a sleepless night or two over it. But I'm not worried.
After all, I've already handled Pazuzu. After that, how bad can Freddy Kruger really be?
Tuesday, September 15, 2015
Hannah Montana, Harry Potter, and the Hollywood habit of blaming everyone but yourself
So, fun fact: before I wanted to be a filmmaker, I wanted to be Hilary Duff when I grew up. Well, not necessarily Hilary Duff. Maybe JoJo, or Ashley Olson, or Selena Gomez or Emma Roberts or, of course, Miley Cyrus. Didn't matter who I patterned myself on, the point is that I wanted to be a Disney Girl. I'd never say as much out loud; I'd phrase it as "I want to be an actress," but I wanted the whole package. I wanted the Tiger Beat photospread, the sold-out pop concerts, the chain store clothing line. I wanted to be Starlet Avery, instead of being the ordinary twelve-year-old girl I really was.
And hey, I could have been, if my parents had thought it was really what I wanted. Had I lived in Burbank, CA instead of middle-of-damn-nowhere Michigan, I could have had a shot at being Hannah Montana. Why not? I was a cute, sassy preteen girl with a giant ham for a dad and mad piano skills. I could dance. I could model, I could pose. I had braces, but sometimes girls need someone who's a little "ordinary" to look up to, isn't that the Disney press-conference line? I could have been, if it had been serious, if it had ever been more than a fantasy.
But thank God I realized that wasn't what I wanted. Acting was fun, but creation was more fun. It was better, I eventually realized, to be Woody Allen than Ashley Olson. Better to be a jack-of-all-trades who could write, shoot, edit, and star in your own movie, rather than someone who said other people's lines both on and off the camera and was literally paid to be cute because, as Mara Wilson so accurately pointed out, when the cuteness goes away, so does your career.
I'm not perfect now, but I'm relatively happy. A few days ago I got into a lecture/argument with my mom, who basically reminded me to shut up, stop complaining that I don't have my dream job (I'm only 22; what the hell did I expect?) and count my f'ing blessings, already. I have a fantastic boyfriend who has gone above and beyond to make me feel loved and supported, and parents who have sacrificed for me and gone to bat for me and cheered me on since the day I was born. I live in a house with a swimming pool in the backyard, my parents let me drive the car pretty much whenever I want, I'm educated and not in debt. I'm working on my next movie, and I'm positive this one will be in more festivals than the last. I'm damn lucky. I'm no popstar, but I'm damn lucky.
Now, does someone want to give Miley Cyrus that talk that my mom gave me? Because I think she needs it.
Look, I clearly can't comment on how it feels to be a child star, because I never was. And I'm not stupid, I know that most people who were raised in the spotlight turn out to be addicts or worse...but wait, is that really true? What about Mara Wilson, Cole Sprouse, Emma Watson, Dakota Fanning, Hilary Duff, or Daniel Radcliffe--people who went to college, got married, had families, found new jobs and new lives apart from show business, or else went on to be successful in their careers despite being the dreaded "child stars?"
We look at entitled dumbasses like Justin Bieber, or lost souls like Lindsay Lohan, and assume that must be where children who are raised in Hollywood end up. It's inevitable. There's no escaping it. It's why Miley Cyrus dirty-danced with a married man at the VMAs. It's why she got naked in her music videos. It's why she smoked salvia and runs around in onesies and curses like a sailor. She's just trying to show that she's grown up, give her some space, dammit; she was a child star, she is to be pitied.
Except I don't feel sorry for her. Not one little bit.
And let me be clear, I have no comment--actually, one sort-of comment, but that's it--on Cyrus' revelations about her gender identity and sexuality. Good for you, Miley. If you're down to date any consenting person regardless of the plumbing God gave them, more power to you. If you identify as androgynous, no problem. Hell, if you come out as trans I wouldn't bat an eyelash; it's your body and your life and you can do whatever you need to do with it.
My problems with Miley Cyrus have nothing to do with where she falls on the LGBT spectrum. I do, however, have a problem with her apparent belief that having any kind of negative experiences in her Disney career somehow gives her a get-out-of-jail free card.
In an interview with Marie Claire, Cyrus claimed that being on Hannah Montana caused her to develop body dysmorphia. Furthermore, she claimed that working 12-hour days gave her anxiety attacks and prevented her from having a normal childhood. Now, all of this may well be true, or it may be exaggerated; I don't know. I do know that the entertainment industry has a long history of high standards and impossible demands when it comes to women's bodies (and, honestly, male bodies too, in most cases) and that teenagers are particularly susceptible to the effects of said impossible standards set by that industry. But...hold up...wouldn't you know that, if you've ever watched, say, one hour of TV in your life? Look at Pretty Little Liars for crying out loud, you've got 28-year-olds playing 16-year-olds; do you really think normal high school girls look or dress like that? Even at age twelve, I knew that being Hollywood-standard pretty came with a price; being unwilling to pay that price was part of what drove me into filmmaking instead of acting.
And to the other point, Miley, you were a twelve-year-old with a six-figure job. Did you think that would be easy? Again, this isn't a case of hindsight. Even when I was ten years old, reading Disney Adventures because I was too young for Popstar, I'd come across articles interviewing the Harry Potter kids (more on them later), all of whom gave full, detailed descriptions of what it was like to be a kid on a movie set. Long hours. Tutoring instead of going to school. Uncomfortable costumes. Demanding directors. Unpleasant shooting conditions. I refuse to believe that if I, at age ten, could read an interview in Disney Adventures and think, huh, this acting stuff isn't really that glamorous, is it, that Miley Cyrus couldn't have come to the same conclusion before landing the role of Hannah Montana.
Furthermore, Cyrus claiming that the show was the sole reason for her body issues or anxiety issues is kind of like me exclusively blaming Interlochen, my former boarding school, for giving me an eating disorder. I was sixteen, living away from home for the first time, and naturally it was a hell of a stressful time. Certainly that stress may have contributed to the situation--but there were so many other factors, and I firmly believe that if I hadn't gone to Interlochen, it would've happened when I went away to college. Or if I'd lived at home for college, I'd have developed that same disorder when I moved out into my first apartment. You get the picture. My circumstances may have exacerbated my issues, but they didn't create those issues. It's not my dorm counselor's fault that I couldn't handle being on my own, nor is it her fault that I didn't ask for help before the problem got out of control.
I'm not saying that Miley Cyrus is a bad person. I am saying that I would have a hell of a lot more respect for her if she would take responsibility for herself and her actions. And as a recent college graduate who is currently working in a fast-food restaurant, allow me to tell you, Miley, that there are much worse jobs you could've had. You could have worked at McDonald's or a super-store like Target, to put yourself through college. You could have lived with your parents until you were 25. You could've been a single mother, or gone to community college because you couldn't afford a 4-year degree, or did what my mom did and wait until you were married with a kid to get your master's degree. My mom has given me a lot to live up to. But I don't mind. And you can bet that if I had gone the Hollywood-starlet route, she wouldn't have let me get away with whining to a magazine that my job just sucked and gave me all kinds of mental issues...but only after it made me a multibillion-dollar household name.
Daniel Radcliffe once said that in the early days of his career, when he was a little kid on the Harry Potter set, he would occasionally whine to his father about how hard his job was. To which his father would reply, "Well, at least you're not down a coal mine." Radcliffe later admitted that fear of failure, and the pressure of fame, led him to drink while on-set of the final Harry Potter film and occasionally turn up hungover for filming, until he recognized his behavior as "unhealthy and damaging" - his words - and went sober in 2010. Notice, however, that while he acknowledges the role that fame played in his troubles, he does not blame his drinking on 12-hour workdays or unwanted beautification; he acknowledges that it was his own fear and insecurity that got him into trouble. And he is quick to credit the Harry Potter franchise for kick-starting his acting career and providing him with experiences that he otherwise never would have had.
I tend to go looking for information on the way the film industry affects people who are so deeply involved in it because, obviously, that is where I want to be. And when my time comes - and I am still optimistic that it will - I don't want to be like Miley Cyrus. I don't want to use my fame to my advantage, and then denounce the very thing that made me successful. I want to be Daniel. I want to be that grounded, and that self-aware. I want to be able to look back at the work that made me who I am, and be proud of it, and think to myself yep, that's it, that was the way to do it.
And hey, I could have been, if my parents had thought it was really what I wanted. Had I lived in Burbank, CA instead of middle-of-damn-nowhere Michigan, I could have had a shot at being Hannah Montana. Why not? I was a cute, sassy preteen girl with a giant ham for a dad and mad piano skills. I could dance. I could model, I could pose. I had braces, but sometimes girls need someone who's a little "ordinary" to look up to, isn't that the Disney press-conference line? I could have been, if it had been serious, if it had ever been more than a fantasy.
But thank God I realized that wasn't what I wanted. Acting was fun, but creation was more fun. It was better, I eventually realized, to be Woody Allen than Ashley Olson. Better to be a jack-of-all-trades who could write, shoot, edit, and star in your own movie, rather than someone who said other people's lines both on and off the camera and was literally paid to be cute because, as Mara Wilson so accurately pointed out, when the cuteness goes away, so does your career.
I'm not perfect now, but I'm relatively happy. A few days ago I got into a lecture/argument with my mom, who basically reminded me to shut up, stop complaining that I don't have my dream job (I'm only 22; what the hell did I expect?) and count my f'ing blessings, already. I have a fantastic boyfriend who has gone above and beyond to make me feel loved and supported, and parents who have sacrificed for me and gone to bat for me and cheered me on since the day I was born. I live in a house with a swimming pool in the backyard, my parents let me drive the car pretty much whenever I want, I'm educated and not in debt. I'm working on my next movie, and I'm positive this one will be in more festivals than the last. I'm damn lucky. I'm no popstar, but I'm damn lucky.
Now, does someone want to give Miley Cyrus that talk that my mom gave me? Because I think she needs it.
Look, I clearly can't comment on how it feels to be a child star, because I never was. And I'm not stupid, I know that most people who were raised in the spotlight turn out to be addicts or worse...but wait, is that really true? What about Mara Wilson, Cole Sprouse, Emma Watson, Dakota Fanning, Hilary Duff, or Daniel Radcliffe--people who went to college, got married, had families, found new jobs and new lives apart from show business, or else went on to be successful in their careers despite being the dreaded "child stars?"
We look at entitled dumbasses like Justin Bieber, or lost souls like Lindsay Lohan, and assume that must be where children who are raised in Hollywood end up. It's inevitable. There's no escaping it. It's why Miley Cyrus dirty-danced with a married man at the VMAs. It's why she got naked in her music videos. It's why she smoked salvia and runs around in onesies and curses like a sailor. She's just trying to show that she's grown up, give her some space, dammit; she was a child star, she is to be pitied.
Except I don't feel sorry for her. Not one little bit.
And let me be clear, I have no comment--actually, one sort-of comment, but that's it--on Cyrus' revelations about her gender identity and sexuality. Good for you, Miley. If you're down to date any consenting person regardless of the plumbing God gave them, more power to you. If you identify as androgynous, no problem. Hell, if you come out as trans I wouldn't bat an eyelash; it's your body and your life and you can do whatever you need to do with it.
My problems with Miley Cyrus have nothing to do with where she falls on the LGBT spectrum. I do, however, have a problem with her apparent belief that having any kind of negative experiences in her Disney career somehow gives her a get-out-of-jail free card.
In an interview with Marie Claire, Cyrus claimed that being on Hannah Montana caused her to develop body dysmorphia. Furthermore, she claimed that working 12-hour days gave her anxiety attacks and prevented her from having a normal childhood. Now, all of this may well be true, or it may be exaggerated; I don't know. I do know that the entertainment industry has a long history of high standards and impossible demands when it comes to women's bodies (and, honestly, male bodies too, in most cases) and that teenagers are particularly susceptible to the effects of said impossible standards set by that industry. But...hold up...wouldn't you know that, if you've ever watched, say, one hour of TV in your life? Look at Pretty Little Liars for crying out loud, you've got 28-year-olds playing 16-year-olds; do you really think normal high school girls look or dress like that? Even at age twelve, I knew that being Hollywood-standard pretty came with a price; being unwilling to pay that price was part of what drove me into filmmaking instead of acting.
And to the other point, Miley, you were a twelve-year-old with a six-figure job. Did you think that would be easy? Again, this isn't a case of hindsight. Even when I was ten years old, reading Disney Adventures because I was too young for Popstar, I'd come across articles interviewing the Harry Potter kids (more on them later), all of whom gave full, detailed descriptions of what it was like to be a kid on a movie set. Long hours. Tutoring instead of going to school. Uncomfortable costumes. Demanding directors. Unpleasant shooting conditions. I refuse to believe that if I, at age ten, could read an interview in Disney Adventures and think, huh, this acting stuff isn't really that glamorous, is it, that Miley Cyrus couldn't have come to the same conclusion before landing the role of Hannah Montana.
Furthermore, Cyrus claiming that the show was the sole reason for her body issues or anxiety issues is kind of like me exclusively blaming Interlochen, my former boarding school, for giving me an eating disorder. I was sixteen, living away from home for the first time, and naturally it was a hell of a stressful time. Certainly that stress may have contributed to the situation--but there were so many other factors, and I firmly believe that if I hadn't gone to Interlochen, it would've happened when I went away to college. Or if I'd lived at home for college, I'd have developed that same disorder when I moved out into my first apartment. You get the picture. My circumstances may have exacerbated my issues, but they didn't create those issues. It's not my dorm counselor's fault that I couldn't handle being on my own, nor is it her fault that I didn't ask for help before the problem got out of control.
I'm not saying that Miley Cyrus is a bad person. I am saying that I would have a hell of a lot more respect for her if she would take responsibility for herself and her actions. And as a recent college graduate who is currently working in a fast-food restaurant, allow me to tell you, Miley, that there are much worse jobs you could've had. You could have worked at McDonald's or a super-store like Target, to put yourself through college. You could have lived with your parents until you were 25. You could've been a single mother, or gone to community college because you couldn't afford a 4-year degree, or did what my mom did and wait until you were married with a kid to get your master's degree. My mom has given me a lot to live up to. But I don't mind. And you can bet that if I had gone the Hollywood-starlet route, she wouldn't have let me get away with whining to a magazine that my job just sucked and gave me all kinds of mental issues...but only after it made me a multibillion-dollar household name.
Daniel Radcliffe once said that in the early days of his career, when he was a little kid on the Harry Potter set, he would occasionally whine to his father about how hard his job was. To which his father would reply, "Well, at least you're not down a coal mine." Radcliffe later admitted that fear of failure, and the pressure of fame, led him to drink while on-set of the final Harry Potter film and occasionally turn up hungover for filming, until he recognized his behavior as "unhealthy and damaging" - his words - and went sober in 2010. Notice, however, that while he acknowledges the role that fame played in his troubles, he does not blame his drinking on 12-hour workdays or unwanted beautification; he acknowledges that it was his own fear and insecurity that got him into trouble. And he is quick to credit the Harry Potter franchise for kick-starting his acting career and providing him with experiences that he otherwise never would have had.
I tend to go looking for information on the way the film industry affects people who are so deeply involved in it because, obviously, that is where I want to be. And when my time comes - and I am still optimistic that it will - I don't want to be like Miley Cyrus. I don't want to use my fame to my advantage, and then denounce the very thing that made me successful. I want to be Daniel. I want to be that grounded, and that self-aware. I want to be able to look back at the work that made me who I am, and be proud of it, and think to myself yep, that's it, that was the way to do it.
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