“There’s No Place Like Hom(o)”: Compulsory Heterosexuality and the (Failed) Suppression of Queer Desire in The Wizard of Oz

When we view Victor Fleming’s immortal classic The Wonderful Wizard of Oz we sympathize with Dorothy’s quest for home, fixate on her gaudy ruby slippers and shudder at the hideous visages of the flying monkeys (and their master). We often scrutinize the meaning of the shift to glorious Technicolor or rhapsodize about the fantastical scenery of the Emerald City and haunted forest. Rarely do we infer a narrative about sexual subjectivity in this tale with an adolescent female protagonist—especially one with queer undertones. However, upon close inspection Dorothy’s journey, along with that of her compatriots, assumes the form of a trek to destroy their own queerness through magical reparative therapy; an expedition fueled by heteronormative conceptions of compulsory heterosexuality (what theorist Adrienne Rich identifies as the assumption of male-to-female sexual attraction, and the embodiment this affords, as the innate, and therefore superior, norm). The Wizard's final inability to grant Dorothy's wish, however, allows for the formulation of non-normative subjectivities and bespeaks the importance of the personal and public acceptance of the validity of queer identities. Therefore, in The Wizard of Oz the mandates of compulsory heterosexuality are first troubled, then denied by the reinforced actuality of non-normative embodiment.

The queerness of Dorothy’s character is apparent from the film’s start. Rather than assisting with pastoral chores or showing an interest in her rural home in the manners of a “proper” girl from Kansas she focuses on the relationship with her quadruped pal Toto and actively dreams of a land “somewhere over the rainbow;” the contemporary, evocative symbol of the LGBT community. Yet, Dorothy’s non-normative existence is initially a disengaged one and when she becomes aware of her “folly,” through the mumblings of the charlatan Professor Marvel (whose humbug prophecies mirror the fallacious threats of heterosexual patriarchy), she vows to become a good, “normal” girl and live in a state respectable to her heterosexual grandmother. In a stroke of queer salvation—hello, she gets transported into a world where a witch floats around in a pink bubble and little people wear fashionable flower pots for accessories—her efforts toward the construction of a false, non-queer identity are immediately stilted.

 Still, throughout the majority of her travels in Oz, her interest lies in the return to a gray, and thus unquestionably unchallenged, heterosexual existence; a retreat to her “home.” She accepts the diverse companionship of those with a similar yearning—for a brain to help them think normally or courage to transform them from a “dandylion”—while simultaneously rebuking the sexual advances of the evil “lesbian” of a witch who wishes to possess her because of her attractiveness and her fashionable red shoes: and the line reads “I’ll get you, my pretty…” She evens goes so far as to (accidentally) dissolve the ultimate icon of queerness in Oz; an action that seems an attempt to subconsciously exhibit her superiority over the aberrant Wicked Witch.  Thankfully, Dorothy’s strivings for normality ultimately fail, as the Wizard has nothing to effectively challenge her concretized queer identity; no real way to send her back to a home, an existence, with which she no longer phenomenologically aligns. Thus, when Dorothy returns to Kansas she is convinced of the realness of Oz, the mythical manifestation of her queerness, and refuses to coalesce with the others notion that the land is a dream. Perhaps it is for this reification of their actual lived existence that The Wizard of Oz is such an integral part of the queer film canon? Or maybe it's just because we like Dorothy's shoes.

"I've Got So Much To Tell You:" Coraline as Trauma Narrative

Coraline, famed director Henry Selick’s newest stop-motion venture, is both a work of visually-striking surrealistic fantasy/horror and a refreshingly non-saccharine “children’s film.” The story of a young girl’s relocation by seemingly unaffectionate botanist parents, Coraline follows the titular character’s discovery of, and adventures into, an alternate reality contained within her home. Though this “other world” first appears to be one of excessive splendor and delight it soon dissolves into a ghoulish nightmare, controlled by a infanticidal “other mother,” from which Coraline must rescue the ghosts of the mother’s previous victims, her family members and herself. Though the substitution of a young, easily perturbed girl for a heroic figure, the phantasmagorical nature of her quest and the stunning visual effects in themselves make the film immensely enjoyable it is for another reason that I find Coraline to be an especially interesting animated children’s film: the plot’s covert resemblance to the recovery narratives of trauma survivors. The implicit discussion of such an adult topic within the frame of a film style supposedly targeted at younger audiences permits Coraline to transcend the limitations of typical animated fantasy films and become an efficacious tale of triumph over distress that is relatable to viewers of all ages.

Despite the fact that the origin of Coraline’s trauma is uncertain—whether it was instigated by the stress of the move or even dates to an earlier incident is never disclosed—the evidence of her trauma is apparent from the film’s start, in relation to the dynamics between the youngster and her parents. Though Coraline’s distant relationship with her parents appears at first to be based in actuality (what parent doesn’t occasionally tire of their children’s constant dependence) the continuously overexaggerated nature of her mother and father’s apathy calls Caroline’s perception of reality into question and hints at the manifestation of one of the main effects of trauma: dissociation. Dissociation is a psychological defense by which victims of trauma instinctively separate themselves from their immediate—and perceptively dangerous—environment through a disruption of their consciousness. This reaction often results in the unsettling metamorphosis of the surrounding environment, an outcome evident in the disparity between Caroline’s treatment by her mother at the beginning of the film and her mother’s compassion at its conclusion.

Aside from Coraline’s dissociative dealings with her parents the very presence of the “other world,” so different from Coraline’s real life and yet so similar, suggests the centrality of trauma to the film’s narrative. Like dissociation, fragmentation, or the process of splitting one’s consciousness into multiple—and frequently contradictory—parts, is a common result of trauma. Coraline’s impossible discovery of the “other world” behind the brick wall of a hidden door in her home, while certainly fantastical, is accordingly exemplative of this process of fragmentation; it is, truthfully, the tails-side to the coin of her life, luxurious while the other is mundane, loving where the other is cold. Yet Coraline is not just a narrative of trauma but also of recovery, and thus her dissatisfaction with the “other world” comes at the time when her connection with the real world is resuming. Coraline’s confrontation of the “other mother” in an attempt to save her own parents serves as a challenge to her fears (whatever they may be), an important first step in the rehabilitation process, while her operation to rescue the ghost children functions as a “survivor’s mission,” an attempt to raise awareness or exact justice that is also an integral facet of recuperation from trauma. Ultimately, however, it is Coraline’s ability to speak candidly about her trauma and be listened to that cements her ability to recover. By speaking about her ordeal to Wybie, who first refuses to validate her remarks but eventually concedes his trust, she is able to resolve her trauma and commence leading a frank and productive life. As she admits in her last line Caroline has “so much to tell,” and it is that telling that will allow her to remain whole and happy.

Howl's Moving Patriarchy

Howl’s Moving Castle, Hayao Miyazaki’s 2004 directorial follow-up to the critically-acclaimed Spirited Away, has been met with mixed critical reactions, due in large part to its departure from Miyazaki’s earlier works. Set in a remote Western location, rather than the identifiable East of Miyazaki’s other films, Howl’s tells the story of Sophie, a young girl that escapes from a moribund life as a hatter to one of magical vitality following her transformation into an elderly woman by the nefarious Witch of the Waste. In a thematic shift rivaling that of the films changed location Miyazaki foregoes the traditional ecocritical subjects of his works to espouse an anti-war message. Howl, the titular wizard with which Sophie comes to live, refuses his summons to become a member of the king’s army—an action that, while it places Howl’s ragtag “family” in danger, allows the group to locate the prince whose disappearance triggered the war and bring it to an end. Yet, these deviations pale in comparison to the presence of a discourse of male domination in the film of a director long-celebrated for his steadfast and admirable heroines. It is Miyazaki’s adoption of romanticized patriarchal conceptions of beauty and love that prevents Howl’s Moving Castle from attaining status as a truly transcendent film.

The presence of patriarchal thought in Howl’s Moving Castle becomes evident when, within the first few minutes of the film, Sophie checks her appearance in a mirror as she prepares to leave her hat shop and shakes her head in disappointment. This preoccupation with body image, based in unobtainable standards fashioned by men and propounded through a masculinist rhetoric that results in female subjugation, pursues Sophie throughout the rest of the film. When warned to be weary of Howl, who is known for stealing the hearts of young women, she replies with stalwart, denigratory conviction that she needn’t worry because Howl only targets beautiful girls. In what seems a step toward positive self-affirmation Sophie, upon the discovery of her transformation, remarks on the proper fit of her originally over-sized dress. Alas, this action is later countered by a self-disparaging comment concerning the weight of her significantly older, feeble—and therefore less conventionally beautiful—self. Yet, it is not only Sophie’s actions that reveal the ruling force of hegemonic beauty ideals in the world of Howl’s Moving Castle; the voice of patriarchy manifests in the speech and acts of the great wizard, Howl, himself.

Incurably vain, Howl revels in the power that his handsomeness affords him. That is why at one point in the film, when he accidentally dyes his flaxen locks red, he descends into a fit of despair, invoking the spirits of the dark to end his life because there is “no point in living if I can’t be beautiful.” However, Howl’s vainglorious aesthetic judgments are not merely directed toward himself. They are also aimed at Sophie, who becomes the object of his affection upon his discovery of her true identity. When Sophie, in the persona of Howl’s mother, sets out on trek to the palace to dissuade the king from requiring Howl to join his army he chastises her for wearing an old hat when he went through so much trouble to beautify her dress. In fact, it is only when Sophie is aware of the approval and love of Howl at the end of the film that she fully reverts to her nubile form—an effect that overextends the importance of stereotypical feminine beauty, as Howl cannot possibly love an old woman, and, in an echo of Howl’s earlier assertion that Sophie is “my girl,” emphasizes her role as a lovely possession. Despite the moving nature of the love story between Sophie and Howl, and the anti-war sentiment, Miyazaki’s reliance on patriarchal, domineering formulations of beauty and love to emotionally fulfill his narrative removes Howl’s Moving Castle from a position of innovative preeminence and places it in the realm of the traditional male-centered heroic fantasy narrative that his work generally opposes.

"Just a Girl"

Spirited Away is among the most celebrated of the films by legendary Japanese director Hayao Miyazaki—and for good reason. With its marvelous traditional animation style, poetic images and well-rendered dialogue this story of a young girl’s escape from a spirit-infested, abandoned amusement park is at times hilarious, horrific and overall—pardon the pun—magical. Yet it is not just the aesthetic and technical aspects of Spirited Away that distinguish it from the larger body of critically-acclaimed animated films, including those of Miyazaki himself. Rather, it is the identity of Chihuro, the film’s protagonist, and the intense portrayal of her maturation that marks Spirited Away as an integral piece of the animated film canon.

Contradictory to the classic dichotomy of the male protagonist/savior and female object/damsel in animated fantasy films, especially the ever-pervasive works of the Walt Disney Corporation, Chihiro is a young girl who, through dignified perseverance, finds a sense of self. She begins the film as a sullen and frightened child, angered by her parent’s decision to uproot their family and move to the country; a choice that will require her to begin a new school and formulate new friendships. It is the uncertainty triggered by this disruption of her adolescent routine that raises Chihiro’s apprehension of the amusement park when she and her parents accidentally happen upon it during their trek. Despite her overwhelming fear, however, Chihiro, after being separated from her parents when they are magically transformed into pigs, is able to manage her own way through the park. Relying on her own determination, and the goodwill of a few spirits she befriends, Chihiro continues on to accomplish numerous feats. She obtains a job at a spirit-world bathhouse, is blessed by a medicine spirit, saves the life of the boy she falls in love with, ends a family feud, helps a spirit named no-face—whose fear of solitude and displacement metamorphoses him into a bratty monstrosity reminiscent of Chihiro’s earlier self—find a friend and single-handedly saves the lives of her parents. Unwilling to be the Disney princess who waits trapped in her castle/tower for the salvation of a prince on a steed Chihiro takes her fate into her own hands, and in the process learns the very methods of adaptation, alliance and self-assuredness that she lacks at the films start.

Still, it is not merely Chihiro’s development into a self-dependent female character, but also her identity as a non-magical human protagonist, that makes Spirited Away so uniquely important. Unlike the other heroines in Miyazaki’s films—such as the titular witch of Kiki’s Delivery Service or the supernatural warrior in Princess Mononoke—and even the enchanted or trained women in Disney films (think Sleeping Beauty or Mulan), Chihiro is nothing more than a tenacious ten-year-old girl who does the best she can when placed in a difficult situation. In spite of this lack of mystical characteristics Chihiro survives, overcoming denigration at the hands of the more powerful, phantasmal characters through cunning and compassion. By situating a non-traditional, non-magical character in the role of the protagonist of an animated fantasy film Miyazaki celebrates both the triumph of humans, especially youth and women, in the face of unrelenting adversity and the human ability for growth and change. In the rebellious words of Gwen Stefani, the princess of 1990s ska, it is because Chihiro is “just a girl” that she is able to realize her own strength and worth in a world that is strange and generally unkind to her.