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Title : 20 minutes of movie trailers — yes, I went to the movies — left me feeling utterly creeped out by Hollywood.
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20 minutes of movie trailers — yes, I went to the movies — left me feeling utterly creeped out by Hollywood.

This is what I was forced to look at before getting to see what I'd paid to see (and which ended up putting me in the worst mood for seeing what I'd come to see):







Notice how they all have strong female characters at the center but everything is paranoid, violent, and sexual. This is what Hollywood gives me? I felt like I was dragged into the mind of one of the sexually abusing Hollywood producers. Of course, the actresses do what they are told, and I, the little person in the dark, passively sit there watching this fantasy. I'm free to leave. Why don't I?

With trailers, you keep thinking this is almost over, and the actual movie will start next. But the trailers went on and on and I watched and judged. Hollywood is sick. Evil. Corrupting our soul.

Then the movie I came to see started (after the short film about how we're not supposed to talk and we ought to look out for our personal belongings (thieves slithering along the floor, presumably, or so I thought, paranoically)).

The movie was "I, Tonya," which brimmed with domestic violence. Not only did Nancy Kerrigan get slammed in the knee with a police baton in that one famous incident, but Tonya Harding got smacked around in dozens of unfamous incidents. From the screenplay:

He’d beat the living hell outta me. And I thought it was my fault. Look, Nancy gets hit one time — and the whole world shits. For me, it was an all the time occurrence.

Why am I sitting here watching a woman getting abused? I've heard that in crowded theaters, there's lots of laughter. That led one reviewer to say:

Give Harding a redemptory arc and humanize her character? I can get behind that. The thing that’s harder to champion is the way I, Tonya sets about doing it. For, you see, the path it takes is akin to watching an R-rated, live-action Looney Tunes cartoon. It is casual violence, domestic abuse, misogyny and psychological torment wrapped up in goofy frivolity. The perpetrators? Clownish buffoons with bruised fists. Wise-cracking Gorgons who will throw a kitchen knife at you if you step out of line. Portraits of the lowest socioeconomic class painted in broad, chaotic colors so that we’re programmed to laugh at their exploits, no matter how brutal and disgusting they end up being presented as actual humans.

The film wants to have its own cake and eat it, too. Midway through, Margot Robbie’s Tonya looks us directly in the eye (because the Brechtian breaking of the fourth wall is one of the film’s central conceits) and tells us outright that we’re complicit in the abuse she suffered at the hands of her husband, Jeff Gillooly (Sebastian Stan) because of our lurid fascination with the media coverage. But, wait. Weren’t we just doing the very thing that she calls us out on? Weren’t we just getting a kick out of the seamy details of Tonya’s domestic life, set to various needle drops of popular ‘70s and ‘80s radio hits?

Yeah, well, I didn't feel complicit. I felt distanced and sensitized to the insensitivity to violence, and, anyway, there was no crowd in my theater, so there was no laughing all around me to give the place a jaunty comic feeling that would then make me susceptible to getting called out as complicit.

Thus articles 20 minutes of movie trailers — yes, I went to the movies — left me feeling utterly creeped out by Hollywood.

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