The world of Barbie

Americans have devised a film about Barbie where women's happiness ends up subsumed to the fact of enjoying a uterus (so they can visit the gynecologist and, ultimately, give birth), as well as in the power to dominate a world that, commanded by men, would be violent, disorderly, and pathetic. Indeed, as writer Leslie Jamison recently recalled in New Yorker, of the more than two hundred professions with which Mattel's creators adorned the planet's most famous doll, in order to turn her into an independent woman, they never dared to include the natural labor of motherhood. The creator of the contraption herself, the brilliant Ruth Handler, affirmed this, confessing that being a woman who stays home all day taking care of children is a fucking bore. In fact, her creation perfectly fulfills the idea of an impossibly beautiful and athletic body for whom the possibility of pregnancy seems a biological madness.

This is the real theme of Greta Gerwig's film, which already begins by emulating Stanley Kubrick's hominid scene, while the heroine of the theme transforms into the famous monolith and Helen Mirren's voice tells us: "In the beginning, girls could only play at being mothers. Does that sound fun? Why don't you ask your mother?" It is very funny, therefore, that after watching for two hours how the filmmaker brilliantly plays with the labor, aesthetic, and existential hardships with which heteropatriarchy drives most women in the world crazy, her human Barbie ends up getting all dolled up (and looking just as good) to go get her nether regions checked at a private clinic. As always happens, the Yankees are masters in the art of adopting the tenets of the most progressive critical theory, ensuring that ---in any audiovisual product--- the winner of the game is the family.

As a member of the gender harmed by the film, I would say that Barbie is very witty in defining the male universe as something much more affected and ridiculous than dangerous. A few months ago, feminists committed the recklessness of killing off James Bond, the last hero who portrayed the customs of the heteropatriarchy under the sublime grace of Don Juanism. With no reference to cling to the old customs (and privileges) of our sex, now Hollywood has finished castrating us completely, denying us even the privilege of a universe of existential tranquility in which we can devote ourselves to climbing onto a horse like a cowboy or even doing something as great as spending an afternoon killing ourselves with beers while we touch our testicles on the sofa. Fortunately, the stronger sex (nor the apologists of Artificial Intelligence) have not yet revoked our power over sperm production.

That the movie Barbie has commercially surpassed other experiments of the Californian industry like Oppenheimer or Indiana Jones (namely, the umpteenth regurgitations of men tortured by their genius or by their unheard-of inability to retire), certifies that Hollywood has already set its periscope on turning the basics of feminism into big bucks. That feminist empowerment is situated in the realm of the mainstream is magnificent news for women; it is also good that independence does not imply stopping giving birth, for all that relates to the survival of the species. After all, men can always end up dedicating ourselves to gynecology, which we still know something about. Also to deconstructing ourselves, of course, because we still have a long way to go before we become fatally boring beings. Luckily, on paid platforms we can still watch Rocky.