Miss March (review)
Virgin/Whore: The Movie
If you wanted to explain to a mentally challenged hamster about the virgin/whore dichotomy — that is, the feminist theory that mainstream American culture acknowledges only two states for women: either as a completely sexually untouched and preferrably ignorant saint, or a ruined, shameful, and worthless slut — you could do worse than to show it Miss March. You might have to strap the little mite down, however, attach electrodes to its tiny damaged brain, and download the movie directly into its cerebellum, because even this poor creature might be too sophisticated to get anything remotely like entertainment out of this stomach-churning flick.
As an example of Hollywood’s utter disdain for women, particularly in movies aimed at young men, Miss March hits a new low, punishing women with any apparent sexual knowledge and experience with insults, injury, and even death… and the more they make themselves available to men, the more harshly they are punished. One woman who merely indicates that she would like to spend some time with one male character then is forced by the film to unwittingly drink a glass of dog urine (and she enjoys it, of course, because that’s the kind of thing stinkin’ filthy whores do). But she gets off relatively easy: another woman gets stabbed in the face with a fork by the man she is fellating, and another — perhaps the most sexually aggressive woman the film offers — is sucked out a bus window, presumably to her death, while she in the process of offering herself to a man.
This, you see, is funny, as far as Miss March is concerned. How not? Its overarching joke is that Eugene (Zach Cregger), who has been in a coma for four years, suddenly awakens and discovers that his high school girlfriend, Cindi (Raquel Alessi), is now a Playboy bunny. This is funny because she was once a proper virgin, when she and Eugene were cheerleaders for teen abstinence, though they were going to have sex for the first time on prom night, until Eugene got conked on the head before they could do the deed. The joke is on Eugene: his virgin — the one who was going to be his alone — is now a whore. He has been unmanned. It’s perfectly clear the movie does not acknowledge Eugene as a man, because he is constantly disparaged and belittled, most notably when he is feminized by being forced to wear not only a T-shirt with an illustration of a woman’s breasts on it but also a girlie pink hoodie. It’s right and proper for a woman to be a virgin, you see, but not a man.
So, in the world of Miss March — and presumably in the worlds of many of the young men at whom this movie is aimed — women are worthless, interchangeable, and literally disposable. The men aren’t much better, of couse, but at least the world caters to their worthlessness. For at the behest of Eugene’s friend Tucker (Trevor Moore), the two guys — two of the most unappealing morons ever to appear onscreen — hit the road to the Playboy Mansion so Eugene can reconnect with Cindi, even though she’s now a whore. That a place like the Playboy Mansion, a sort of Disney World for horny men, where all the rides and attractions are women, even exists is a clear endorsement of Miss March’s mindset. And yet that’s not enough: Hugh Hefner himself must grace this endeavor by appearing in the role of “The Shriveled-Up Prune of a Misogynist,” who imparts such manly wisdom as “There’s a bunny deep down inside every women.” Even ugly-ass bitches. It’s true!
To be fair, on the road the Playboy Mansion, the movie does admit that there are other options open to women beside “virgin” or “whore.” A gal may also choose to be a crazy bitch, like Tucker’s “girlfriend” who doesn’t object to being insulted as a form of foreplay but, jesus, goes off the deep end when he stabs her in the face while she’s sucking him off, as if stabbing her in the face with a fork was wrong of him to do. A gal may also chose to be a hot lesbian, like the pair of Russian supermodels who pick up the hitchhiking lads so that the boys can drive, leaving the girls to get freaky in the backseat. (It’s okay to be a lesbian, you know, as long as one’s primary reason for existence is catering to the sexual pleasure of men.)
I barely even know where to begin with the subplot about Tucker’s friend, a rapper named Horsedick.MPEG (Craig Robinson: Zack and Miri Make a Porno, Pineapple Express), and his hit song “I’ma Fucka White Bitch.” (I’m guessing on the spelling variants here.) Except it appears designed, perhaps even moreso than the entire rest of the movie, to rile up anyone with even a hint of the feminist about them, perhaps so that Cregger and Moore — who also wrote and directed this atrocity — may dismiss any objections to their film by decrying feminists’ supposed lack of a sense of humor.
Nothing about Miss March is funny, and it’s some of the most brutal misogyny a mainstream comedy has tried to bandy about recently. Perhaps the only thing that might mitigate its viciousness is its childishnes. For when the movie isn’t finding “humor” in bodily injury and human feces, its primary theme appears to be: “Sex is about a man putting his pee-pee where?! Inside a disgusting skank? Gross!”
Perhaps all that’s needed by way of education is for the mental four-year-olds responsible for this nightmare to grow up and meet some actual, flesh-and-blood human women.