What really sucks about the way Joss Whedon writes is that he sort of has this idea that if he writes about women being strong and confident, that is all it takes for women to appreciate his work. Like, even if the villain constantly belittles a woman for being a woman and people are constantly harassing her and sexualizing her, it’s okay because she’s strong and she can take it.
The biggest difference between Whedon’s version of Wonder Woman and Jenkins is that in Whedon’s version Wonder Woman is A Woman. She (and the audience) must be constantly aware that she is a Woman, that she is Sexy, that she is overcoming incredible odds because she has the terrible disadvantage of Being Born A Woman.
Whereas in Jenkins’ film Diana simply exists. There are some points made by other characters about her being a woman, like when Steve won’t sleep with her because he feels it’s improper, or when his secretary says, “Oh yes, put specs on her, like after that she won’t be the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen”, but Diana is almost completely unaware of her status as a Dreaded Woman. Her excitement over a baby? She’s literally never seen one before. Her little makeover seen? Spends the whole thing looking for something comfortable she can fight in. She basically never mentions the difference between men and women, never even says that women are better or whatever because she was raised by them.
Joss Whedon would have never let Wonder Woman forget she was a Woman. She would have constantly been making comments about it, wether positive or negative, as would everyone around her. In Whedon’s heyday that might have flown a lot better, but now women seem to be a little sick of grrrrl power. They just want power. They just want to exist, both on screen and in life, without constant reminders that they are Women and that they must pay for that at every turn.
headcanon for the Taaco twins in order to justify my over-blingification of
poor, one-meal-per-day-poor, at-least-we-have-a-roof-over-our-heads poor, everything
that shines is gold to you. You want this uselessly complicated “exotic fruit,
emerald flower, ivory soft” soap; you want the perfume in a shiny golden box
that leaves glitter on your fingers; you want that too-rich food that swears it
contains two dozen different types of carrot and has too much cream; and you absolutely don’t care if it’s tacky or
unhealthy or actually cheap. You want what you imagine luxury is, and luxury is
to have Everything.
the better. No time for subtlety. No time for refined shit. You want to swallow
everything you can because you never have anything anyway – let me have this,
let me have this.
her first dress in a thrift shop: it’s covered in thirty different patterns,
overly-saturated, obviously made in bad quality fabric, with too much ruffles
and poorly painted wooden pearls and plastic sequins and loose golden threads.
It’s the ugliest piece of shit, but it’s a lot, it looks like a lot. She wears
it until she can’t anymore, and even then, she still keeps it because hey, who
knows, maybe someday she’ll make a new dress out of it? You have to keep these
things, they might get useful again someday. She says that of all the clothes
she owns and never throws anything away. “You never know”, she says. You never
these super cheap, way too bright to be true jewels you can buy dozens of at
the local market: he pierces his ears himself, in dozens of places, just so he
can wear more of these pseudo-gold plated hipster earrings with suns and stars
and intricate patterns that leave green stuff on his skin and cause the holes
to bleed and leak pus two times out of three. He still wears them, and still loves
them. Who cares if it’s not an actual diamond? A shard of glass shines just as
bright, with colourful tiny patches of light that dance on the palm of his hand
whenever he holds it in front of a candle. Plus, it’s not like he could ever
get an actual fucking diamond, so.
is not not-to-be-poor, but to look like
time Barry buys Lup an actual good dress, something made of silk, maybe, or
comfortable velvet, something colourful and shiny but something nice, she straight-up refuses to wear
it. It’s too much, too real. How much money did he put in this? Why didn’t he
save it in case something happens? She just can’t have that. They argue until
Lup can’t even find words to put on the gut-wrenching feeling she has and bites
her lips until she tastes blood, incredibly frustrated and angry and afraid, so
afraid, of this fucking real nice dress.)
looks nice, pretty boneboy, handsome faced reaper man, and like, Taako knew
this, Kravitz’s a man with style – so
he eyes his jewellery at the Chug N Squeeze, and sure, he’s not wearing much:
two small earrings, a couple of bracelets, a broche with his goddess’ insignia
on it. It’s a small round crow with a bright orange eye. It catches the light
in a way Taako’s jewels don’t, and suddenly, something nasty turns his blood to
ice when he realises it’s because it’s an actual fucking gem – and the rest is
too solid and heavy to be gold-plated.
wearing solid gold jewellery, and for the first time in forever, Taako, bright,
loud, pseudo-fashionable Taako feels cheap.)
argue when people call them too-much, greedy, shallow. They don’t care. All
they have are rhinestone bracelets, fake crystal stones, glittery nail
polish, colours and cheap glamour: they’re the king and queen of fake it ‘til you make it, so they
just. Don’t. Fucking. Care.