The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
Arts
Thursday, November 29, 2018 — 5
WARNER BROS.
CHANEL
In Sept. of this year, Chanel
released Boy de Chanel in Seoul,
with plans to launch a global
release in early 2019. Their
inaugural line of men’s makeup
is fairly pared down, with
offerings of “tinted fluid” in (an
abysmal) four different shades,
an eyebrow pencil and a matte
lip balm. Despite its humble
catalogue, the announcement
initially felt like a liberating step
forward for a beauty industry
that is becoming something of
a microcosm for the erosion of
gender norms. After a little bit
of consideration, however, that
foundation doesn’t set quite as
evenly as one might think. Boy
de Chanel is a definitive moment
in
normalizing
the
use
of
makeup for people who present
masculinely, but it is also a cry to
reinforce the gender binary in a
realm already laden with it.
Chanel wields decades of
unmatched multinational cache,
and the power to set standards
in its respective trades. Earlier
this
year,
it
exposed
the
underpinnings of its tweed box
jacket, revealing a streamlined
overview of its sales in 2017 for
the first time in over a century.
The lining can stand up to its
finely woven shell — clocking in
at almost $10 billion in annual
revenue, it continues to dominate
markets as a luxury brand,
outselling
more
outwardly
progressive names like Gucci,
Louis Vuitton and Dior. For a
venerable force in fashion that
can, from a numbers standpoint,
walk its talk better than any of
its competitors, it’s a mark of
something when it engages with
a social movement that was once
considered deviant, or at least
unconventional. Whether or not
that engagement is productive is
a different conversation.
The gendered designation of
cosmetics is a perennial issue
that is varied widely depending
on
its
cultural
context.
Historically speaking, its usage
of cosmetics was associated
more with class than it was
with gender. In aristocratic
systems, most notably Imperial
European systems in the 17th
and 18th centuries, those with
inherited power would wear
white powder, wigs and rouge
as a visual assertion of their
status. Ancient Roman nobles
would paint their nails with the
blood and fat of pigs for similar
reasons; makeup was a way
of distinguishing oneself as a
member of a privileged group.
Towards the end of the 19th
century, however, a socially
conservative wave in religion,
championed by Queen Victoria,
along with the development of
psychology and the study of sex,
concurrently placed cosmetics
at the cross-section of vanity
and a strict sense of devalued
femininity. The modern beauty
industry, despite the capitalist
— duh — concept of being able to
make more money marketing a
product to a range of markets as
opposed to one, still very much
adheres to and enforces these
norms.
Sexology
and
psychiatry
were the two defining hands
in how society has viewed
and continues to view gender.
Inversion theory, one of the
earliest conceptions of same-
sex sexuality, was an attempt
to put words to and legitimize
an identity that, until then, was
only thought of as a form of
deviant behavior and was often
swept under the rug. While
SAM KREMKE
For the Daily
Makeup is de-gendered
STYLE NOTEBOOK
noble in its cause, it conflated
gender expression and roles with
sexuality and failed to separate
societal notions of same-sex
sexuality
from
pederasty.
Sexual inversion theory and
the work of early psychiatrists
(see:
Sigmund
Freud)
also
placed a lot of emphasis on the
environmental
factors
that
might shape sexuality.
The culmination of religious
conservatism and conjectures
from social scientists of that
era resulted in the idea that (A)
same-sex sexuality and gender
expression that deviated from
what was considered “standard”
were the same thing, (B) these
behaviors were not inherent
and, therefore, either a set of
reversible choices or a result
of something that went wrong
during childhood and (C) they
were indicative of sickness,
sexual perversion and predation
of the highest order. The stigma
placed on occupying any space
on the gender or sexual spectrum
that wasn’t rigidly adherent to
the cis-heteronormative status
quo was subjective and context
dependent (as it continues to
be), but could be and often was
absolutely dire. Notions of what
is meant to be a man and what
it meant to be a woman at this
time were effectively under
the purview of medicine, law
and religion — and the beauty
industry marketed its wares
accordingly.
Rigid gender expectations
still exist, but they slowly
began to erode over the course
of the 20th century. The first
glint of expressive freedom
in America’s eye was during
Prohibition, when many urban
speakeasies were also places
with an anything-goes policy.
Harlem
ballroom
culture
exploded in popularity at this
time, and artists au courant
such as Marcel Duchamp did
not shy away from poking
fun at gender norms in their
work (Duchamp himself very
famously had a drag persona
called Rrose Selavy). Drag’s
relevance in the mainstream
consciousness grew over the
course of the 20th century and
played a part in deconstructing
societal expectations by both
poking
fun
at
unrealistic
gendered
expectations
and
celebrating
femininity
and
freedom of expression. Part of
the reason that drag was able to
survive in spite of such blatant
disregard for an institutionally
backed binary was that it was
considered
performance
art.
While it still wasn’t treated with
the same level of regard as other
mediums due to its association
with gay culture, it created a
space in which the concept of a
man throwing on a little pressed
powder wasn’t so alien.
Cinema’s
march
to
ubiquity as the most popular
form
of
entertainment
also
re-indoctrinated the concept
of the idealized male. It was no
secret that the likes of James
Dean and Cary Grant wore
foundation on screen, and while
other masculine attributes were
reinforced by this medium,
gliding in the background of
“washing your face makes you
gay” culture was an aesthetic
standard that could be achieved
by wearing makeup. On the
other end of the spectrum,
stage performers, who were
undoubtedly
influenced
by
drag queens and attitude shifts
brought on by the gay liberation
and feminist movements of the
late ’60s and early ’70s, blew the
lid off of what the mainstream
consumer could expect to see
from a visual standpoint.
An entirely separate online
drawl belongs to the influence
that
David
Bowie,
Prince,
Siouxsie Sioux, Boy George
and their ilk had on creative
expression.
Punk,
glam-rock
and other movements of the
time spawned artists that went
beyond enhancing their own
features or smearing kohl in
their waterline for a touch
of
externalized
melancholy.
Pigment became a vehicle to
forge new identities that could
change over time.
Stage personas championed
by
these
idols
were
about
exploration
in
every
sense,
often blowing the roof off of
gendered norms and creating
something entirely alien. They
were about materializing ideas
and recovering a sense of agency
over what people can present to
the world around them. Though
the concepts put forward by
wildly
famous
artists
were
tangental at best to the general
public,
their
popularity
indicated that people were ready
to embrace the idea that visual
communication is not attached
to sex or gender identity. Though
it was motivated by rebellion to
his record label, Prince briefly
changing his name to a symbol
that
fused
gender
together
at the height of his fame best
encapsulates the collective work
done by entertainers of the 20th
century.
Entertainment
and
other
forms
of
media
are
both
institutions of influence and
societal barometers when it
comes to group dynamics like
representation,
stigma
and
realms of acceptability. Time’s
arrow has marched forward into
the era of information, in which
technology has both redefined
media and agents of influence
to mean almost anything and
allowed it to act much more
quickly. People with access
to the internet are flooded
with content on a daily basis
and the visibility that content
has created has been a huge
catalyst for the expansion of
what’s considered “normal.” As
social networking has become a
platform for people to develop
their own personas and have a
greater impact on normalization,
it has enabled brands and other
organizations to function in the
same way — both influencing
and tailoring their products and
brand identity according to their
interactions with consumers.
Beauty lines like Milk, Fenty
and GCDS have facilitated a
wave of inclusivity as well as
interaction between industry
and the individual, reposting
selfies they’ve been tagged in
and showcasing MUAs across
the gender spectrum. Queer-
centric Fluide wears their heart
on their sleeve — proclaiming
themselves as a “celebration
of kinship, love and queer
glamour,” reflecting that in the
models they work with and the
organizations they give back
to. Brands having the agency
to interact with individuals
at an immediate level and act
as one themselves, their core
philosophy and what they do
as
companies
is
becoming
more and more central to their
success. The words and actions
of a company’s founders, as
well as those that are given the
authority to represent it, are
now paramount — companies
need to be transparent and
consistently incorporate their
morality into what they do.
The
declining
reign
of
gendered constructs indicate
that
inviting
all
creatures
to experiment with you is a
winning mantra for cosmetic
brands.
As
GCDS
founder,
Giuliano Calza, put it for The
Flow
House,
“Everyone
is
battling for gender equality and
beauty diversity. I just consider
it necessary and something that
should already exist, something
that should be guaranteed. If
you handle it normally, everyone
will think it’s normal. That’s
why I try to push for beauty
and unconventional ideas in my
communication.”
Quality of the product, the
standards of beauty you set and
the people you choose to support
ultimately manifest themselves
in the groups that will spend
with you, or whether they will
spend at all.
Beauty lines from luxury
giants like Chanel have their
reputation
to
rely
on,
but
their respective social market
economy is a rapidly expanding
current that will move and
shift without regard to it.
Symbolizing opulence isn’t a
big enough balance to cover a
dusty move like taking the same
formulas and repackaging them
to appeal to fragile masculinity.
Boy de Chanel symbolizes an
earnest effort to democratize
cosmetics, but as one of the
premier purveyors of face paint,
it would carry a lot of weight
if Chanel’s focus was a little
bit less “Men Are from Mars,
Women Are from Venus.”
The genre-blending ‘Black
Christmas’ has an impact
FILM NOTEBOOK
Here’s the issue. I’m among
the most avid horror fans I
know, and the genre’s most
classic, scariest features don’t
terrify me one bit. In particular,
the ’70s can be considered as a
sort of fertile breeding ground
for new horror ideas. Not all of
them were widely adopted into
the popular consciousness, but
they were certainly creative.
Now, many of these films are
idolized, not only as the most
successful, but as the scariest
horror can be.
Whether I’m watching “Texas
Chainsaw Massacre,” “The Last
House on the Left” or even
one of my personal favorites,
“Halloween,” I am consistently
more interested in the craft than
I am strictly terrified. The body
horror of “The Exorcist” and
the ghostly apparitions of “The
Amityville Horror” play for
laughs, not scares. These films,
for all their fearless innovation,
have aged far from gracefully.
And I’m not the only one
who feels this way. Whenever
I suggest watching a horror
movie with friends, the titles
that come to the top of our list
are rarely older than 15 years
(with the notable exception of
“Silence of the Lambs”). Horror,
for all of the wonderful, electric,
introspective
things
it
has
meant to me, is also ephemeral
in its generational impact. Of
course, there is an exception to
all these generalizations about
a decade of horror movies:
1974’s “Black Christmas.” It
is a film that not only stays
resoundingly unsettling to this
day, but is a lost horror gem that
institutionalized myriad slasher
tropes.
“Black Christmas” follows
two nights at a sorority house
during the holiday break. We
can hear nothing but faint
cheerful voices from within
the house and unsteady, ragged
breathing from a masked lurker
right outside. The ground is
snowy, the air is frigid and the
stalker prowls around without
any clear purpose. That’s why
he’s so frightening. Whether
for personal vendetta or gleeful
masochism, he could be stalking
the girls inside for any number
of reasons or none at all.
Before
“Black
Christmas,”
horror had rarely placed a
camera in an attacker’s point of
view. Every murder that happens
doesn’t feel as detached and
punishing as much cinematic
violence does. The brutality
is kinetic and impossible to
look away from because we as
viewers seem, on some level,
to partake in the stabbing and
the strangling. More than this,
there is a sense of inevitability
to the stalker’s rampage, a
feeling that the audience is
not only responsible for his
aggression but also helpless
to resist it. Three features
of “Black Christmas” — the
panting breathing, POV mask
shots and obscene phone calls to
foreshadow the killer’s rampage
— were borrowed by none other
than “Halloween” three years
later. From there, they took off
to horror and thriller flicks for
years afterword.
One of the few elements of
“Black Christmas” that did not
deeply pervade the parade of
serial killer stories of the ’80s is
probably one that has aged the
best. These slasher films almost
always had a “final girl,” which
turned into an archetype of
sexual punishment that killed
off the promiscuous and only
allowed the virginal to survive.
However, “Black Christmas,”
even
in
1974,
transcended
this dry and sanctimonious
stereotype.
In
fact,
its
protagonist Jess is pregnant
during the events of the film.
She is an indelible character and
among my favorites in horror,
not because she follows common
horror archetypes, but because
she defies them and acts only on
her own agency.
Aside from the film’s modest
influence
on
whole
horror
subgenre, it holds up well today
for one reason: It’s terrifying.
It’s one of the few older horror
movies that provoked me to
scream, to jump back in my
seat and to peek at the screen
only
through
interlocked
fingers. “Black Christmas” is
unrelentingly tense, a wound
machine
that
threatens
to
implode at any given moment. But
to label the movie as a slow-burn
would be an oversimplification.
“Black
Christmas”
upholds
its promise for violence with
murder
sequences
that
are
breaktaking in their ambition
and unforgettable in their gore.
The greatest thing about
“Black Christmas?” It is both
a Halloween and a Christmas
movie.
That
means
it
is
acceptable to watch from Oct.
to Dec. — like right now! If
you’re like me, and have never
been frightened by older horror
movies,
I
can’t
recommend
this enough. If you’re also
comfortably into the holiday
season but can’t resist some
decent scares, this is more than
ideal.
ANISH TAMHANEY
Daily Arts Writer
CHANEL