part 2 Portrayals of Masculinities, Male Violence, and Entitlement

Mary Grace Lao

The second part of the book focuses on the male characters in Jessica Jones. While the series is critically acclaimed for its representation of female characters, it is equally important to look at the many ways masculinity is portrayed as these choices reflect the highly gendered society within which the narrative situates itself. Evident in these chapters are the different ways toxic masculinity manifests at the intersection of white supremacy, entitlement, and rape culture. Toxic masculinity is inherently anti-feminist and misogynist, though contemporary toxic masculinity complicates traditional notions of dominant and hegemonic masculinities to include beta and geek masculinities, and those who identify themselves as being involuntary celibate (or incels) (Ging 2019). These non-dominant forms of masculinity use victimhood, mirroring feminist philosophies of gender and power imbalance (Banet-Weiser 2018), as a way to justify anger and feelings that “the world owes me” (Ging 2019).

In the first chapter in this section—which focuses on the range of masculinities portrayed in the series—Jessica Seymour argues that Jessica Jones follows a particular narrative in which hyper-masculinity is toxic and destructive. Seymour considers masculinities as a set of practices, echoing R. W. Connell (2005), who notes that masculinities are rooted in “processes and relationships through which men and women conduct gendered lives” (71) embodied in experience and culture. These practices, Seymour contends, are based on “popular conceptions of masculinity and femininity,” and are thus key to understanding these popular conceptions from the perspective of the audience.

Brett Pardy’s chapter on militarization again echoes Connell’s (2005) writings, in which masculinity is often understood as being intertwined with violence. For Pardy, the militarized masculinity portrayed by Will Simpson reflects a romanticization of excessive violence as a necessary and even celebrated American tradition. Simpson’s embodiment of the militarization of the police is all the more timely, as Pardy points out, given the recent intensification of police brutality against racialized communities. This is evident in the Black Lives Matter (BLM) movement that began in 2013, and more recently, in former US president Donald Trump’s militarized response (Haas 2020) and the young white civilian men who have taken it upon themselves to attack BLM protesters (Allam 2020). Pardy argues that Simpson’s embodiment of militarized masculinity reinforces the “bad apple” narrative, whereby individual police officers are blamed for losing control as a substitute for a deeper indictment of the institutional and systemic problems plaguing law enforcement.

The intersection of race and gender is also evident in the ways that Black masculinity is portrayed in the series. In her chapter, Seymour emphasizes the importance of seeing different representations of Black masculinity, not just for those in positions of privilege, but also for young Black men. This is true for both Luke Cage’s and Malcolm Ducasse’s Black masculine identities. Both characters’ embodied masculinities are reminiscent of what bell hooks (2004) calls the “Black male cool . . . defined by the ability to withstand the heat and remain centered,” a “willingness to confront reality, to face truth, and bear it not by adopting a false pose of cool while feeding on fantasy; not by black male denial or by assuming a ‘poor me’ victim identity. . . . [But by] daring to self-define rather than be defined by others” (138). For Luke, this is reflected in his well-cared-for bar and the unravelling story of his deceased wife, Reva, in season 1. We further learn about Luke in his own series, Marvel’s Luke Cage (2016–18), where he becomes a celebrated figure in his local community—albeit reluctantly—as the so-called Hero of Harlem. Part of his role as the hero is to watch out for young Black men, to make sure that they do not fall into a life of crime while simultaneously working with law enforcement to combat organized crime.

Malcolm’s masculinity, however, goes in a different direction. In particular, it stems from his efforts to overcome his drug addiction and hustle his way to working for Jessica at Alias Investigations in season 2, and eventually working for Jeri Hogarth in season 3. He never returns to his original career as a social worker, and the audience sees Malcolm’s shift in masculinity, as he becomes more confident and assertive in his abilities, reflected through his clothing, which change from comfortable but clean T-shirt and jeans in season 2 to well-fitted power suits in season 3. We also see Malcolm’s romantic and sexual relationships in more detail in the latter season, learning that he was once in a monogamous relationship with Nichelle in college prior to his run-in with Kilgrave and his becoming addicted to drugs. He also begins to have multiple sexual relationships, notably with Trish in season 2 and, in season 3, with Zaya Okonjo, a co-worker at Hogarth and Associates. In season 3, he ends up being Hogarth’s “fixer,” the antithesis of his earlier aspirations to becoming a social worker. He acknowledges that this line of work eats at his conscience when he says to Hogarth, “I just put an entitled drunk back on the road. I’m not sure that qualifies as good. . . . My job title is ‘Investigator,’ not ‘Fixer’ ” (Lehman 2019). While Malcolm’s ultimate goal in season 3 is to open his own firm as a private investigator, he must first play by a white woman’s rules (Hogarth) and acquire her approval before he can forge his own masculine identity.

There is a stark contrast between the masculinities portrayed by Luke and Malcolm and those of Simpson and Kilgrave. Luke, Malcolm, and Simpson all wished to restore peace, though by different means: Luke and Malcolm by working with Jessica, and Simpson by way of a more vigilante approach, in this case killing those he deemed “in the way” of his goal. Like the white-supremacist men who attacked and murdered BLM protesters and were arrested without much struggle, Simpson, thanks to his privilege as a white, cisgender, heterosexual man with both social and financial capital, is “allowed” to express violence under the guise of “vigilante justice” with little consequence. Despite his violent outbursts in season 1, he somehow redeems himself in season 2, just before he is killed. Compare this to untold numbers of Black men who have been killed as a result of violent and excessive force, including Eric Garner and Tamir Rice in 2014, Philando Castille and Alton Sterling in 2016, and, more recently, George Floyd in 2020, among many others. Unlike the countless white men who are empowered to practise vigilante justice, these Black men are often criticized for not having “listened to the police,” this claim then used to justify the violence inflicted upon them. In an echo of Judith Butler’s (1988) notion of gender performativity, Black men are not allowed to express the same kinds of emotions and reactions as white men. Their gender performance must be calm at all times if they are to avoid “looking suspicious.”

We also see in these chapters how expressions of a range of masculinities affect not only the male characters in Jessica Jones but also the other characters around them. Anastasia Salter and Bridget Blodgett focus on geek masculinity, once thought of as deviating from a hegemonic masculinity rooted in muscularity and physical strength (Connell 2004), and hyper-masculinity. For Salter and Blodgett, Kilgrave represents the ultimate geek man and embodies the ultimate “nerd power fantasy”: good-looking, suave, and sensitive while simultaneously possessing mind-control abilities, he represents a white-supremacist entitlement that allows him to take and use what he sees. Kilgrave’s toxic geek man reflects some of the ways that toxic geek masculinity has sought to delegitimize women and girls as “fake geek girls’” and “girl gamers” in comic, fan, and gamer spaces. We have seen the manifestation of these types of toxic entitlement in the 2014 Gamergate controversy, and more recently among incels, whose feelings of sexual inadequacy stem from the belief that they are entitled to have sex with women. They blame women and alpha males (Chads) for their lack of heterosexual relationships (Tolentino 2018).

This nuanced portrayal of the villain gives way to a different kind of relationship with the audience, one that is deeply rooted in gender and power. Mary Grace Lao’s chapter challenges the viewer’s relationship with masculinity, specifically that of violent men. Lao argues that the “active” role that the audience takes on in their “relationship” with Kilgrave highlights the myriad ways white men are often excused for their misogynistic behaviour. Both Salter and Blodgett’s and Lao’s chapters focus on Kilgrave’s toxic masculinity through the example of Brock Turner, a cisgender, white, upper-class, educated, heterosexual man who was released from prison after serving three months for raping an unconscious woman behind a dumpster (BBC News 2016). Critics of Turner’s highly flawed trial and sentencing have pointed to the news media’s choice to publish his yearbook photos alongside headlines that tended to focus on his achievements as an “Olympic hopeful” (Sprankles 2016), rather than print his mug shot, which they see as evidence of a bias in favour of white men and a perpetuation of the “boys will be boys” trope evident in rape culture discourse. Kilgrave, like Turner, attempts to paint himself as an inherently “good” person who only became evil due to childhood trauma—someone capable of rehabilitation who therefore should not be judged for his indiscretions.

The chapters in this section harken back to Seymour’s observation that the hyper-masculinity portrayed by men in the series has toxic consequences for others. Thinking about the key concepts of toxic masculinity, white supremacy, intersectionality, entitlement, and rape culture, this section attempts to show how toxic masculinity affects not only the individuals who embody it, but also the rest of us with regards to our interpersonal relationships, our cultural practices, and the gendered expectations we continue to confront in our day-to-day lives.

References

Allam, Hannah. 2020. “Vehicle Attacks Rise as Extremists Target Protesters.” NPR, June 21, 2020. https://www.npr.org/2020/06/21/880963592/vehicle-attacks-rise-as-extremists-target-protesters

Banet-Weiser, Sarah. 2018. Empowered: Popular Feminism and Popular Misogyny. Durham, NC: Duke University Press.

BBC News. 2016. “Brock Turner: Stanford Sex Attack Swimmer Freed from Jail.” BBC News, September 2, 2016. https://www.bbc.com/news/world-us-canada-37259537

Butler, Judith. 1988. “Performative Acts and Gender Constitution: An Essay in Phenomenology and Feminist Theory.” Theatre Journal 40 (4): 519–31.

Connell, R. W. 2005. Masculinities, 2nd ed. Los Angeles: University of California Press.

Ging, Debbie. 2019. “Alphas, Betas, and Incels: Theorizing the Masculinities of the Manosphere.” Men and Masculinities 22 (4): 638–57.

Haas, Benjamin. 2020. “Trump’s Militarized Policing of Portland Has No Place in the US.” CNN, August 7, 2020. https://www.cnn.com/2020/07/24/opinions/trumps-militarized-policing-of-portland-haas/index.html.

hooks, bell. 2004. We Real Cool: Black Men and Masculinity. New York: Routledge.

Lehman, Michael, dir. 2019. Marvel’s Jessica Jones. Season 3, espisode 1, “AKA The Perfect Burger.” Aired June 14, 2019, on Netflix.

Sprankles, Julie. 2016. “These Brock Turner Headlines Are beyond Tone Deaf.” Bustle, June 6, 2016. https://www.bustle.com/articles/165164-8-brock-turner-headlines-that-totally-miss-the-point.

Tolentino, Jia. 2018. “The Rage of the Incels: Incels Aren’t Really Looking for Sex. They’re Looking for Absolute Male Supremacy.” New Yorker, May 15, 2018. https://www.newyorker.com/culture/cultural-comment/the-rage-of-the-incels.