Can someone show me where the male gaze is used in Man of Steel and Batman v Superman? I keep trying to thing of where it might be hiding, but I just can’t find it.
Like, take Lois’ bathtub scene, right? She’s curled up into a ball (after all that stress I don’t blame her) and the most we see of her above the water are her shoulders and collarbone area (along with her knees). Not once does the camera or Clark try to sneak a peak: they both focus on Lois’ face. We don’t even get a POV shot from behind her head to show her looking up at Clark. It would have been an easy way to show more of her bare back, but that never happens.
There’s no male gaze at play there, so where is it? Can someone tell me?
Some aunts take you to mass, but Sharon’s took her to the shooting range.
Sharon Carter grew up knowing the feel of bullets in her fingers, not rosaries. She learned Mandarin, German and Japanese, not Latin, because Latin was a dead language and Sharon, even at eight, knew her work would be for the living.
The Winter Soldier did not leave witnesses, but he had left her by that cliff outside of Odessa. Was Natasha an exception? Or did she not count as a witness? Had he looked at her and seen the same black button eyes reflected back at him, the on/off switch, the tick of clockwork?
Years later, Natasha watched the Soldier slam into the freeway concrete. The bullet holes in her abdomen had healed, and she knew this thing did not consider itself a person.
They were animate objects, both of them, useless in the witness stand. He hadn’t pulled the car transmission out, after all, hadn’t stripped the cell phone in the victim’s pocket, or shot up the rocks at the side of that road outside Odessa. He hadn’t shot her. He had left her there, breathing, and the Winter Soldier didn’t leave witnesses.
On cold nights, Natasha dreamed of ballerinas: porcelain, exquisite, their ribs jutting out stark under their skin.
The helicarrier rumbled under her feet and Fury ran a fond hand along one metal wall, like Coulson did with that car of his, the way Sharon stood in the Triskelion and nearly glowed.
Fury called it cancer once, after Loki’s attack was over, once Barton was back in the fold and New York saved. Maria kept in step behind him as Fury walked the helicarrier halls, reviewed the damage, as he mourned.
Sif put on her armor in cold mornings and thought, “Once I wished for this.” What did she wish for now?
No matter. She was tired. She was mourning. But she could imagine no life but this. Any other life would make her pale and fade. This one made her burn, iron at the heart of a flame, the heart of a star, and she could imagine no other way worth living.
The Cavalry once killed twenty men with a single pistol, they say.
Or maybe it was fifty.
The Cavalry once killed a hundred men, they say, on other days, around other campfires, these future agents of SHIELD, these gossipy children. On horseback, they tell the freshmen, and snicker. A hundred men.
The number trips off the tongue. The methods vary, the numbers, and they all trip off the tongue easily—what is twenty dead villains? A hundred? A good day’s work. We’re the heroes, after all.
Fifty, twenty, a hundred—they’re all just syllables. All just sizes of victories, not a careful count of gasping faces.
The Cavalry killed twenty—fifty—a hundred men, and Melinda May saw the light go out of each of them.
As a child, Melinda used to steal the plastic lid off the kitchen trash can, mount it on one arm, and charge out into the backyard to save the world with her plastic shield.
Clint taught his kids handstands and cartwheels from his circus days. They play-wrestled in the grass until Cooper decided he was done with this whole physical contact thing, or until they knocked Clint’s hearing aids out.
Natasha taught the kids to throw knives into fence posts, and pretended those skills were from a circus or lazy country summer days, too.
Hope van Dyne was scared of heights from age seven onwards. The first time she had to get on a plane (age ten), she sat stony-faced, staring out the window, not looking at her father, the half-moons of her nails biting deep into her chubby palms. When she was thirteen years old, she asked her father for flying lessons.
That should have been her first hint, that when she asked for flying lessons for her birthday, he did not automatically realize this was about her mother.
But perhaps– perhaps even if it had been true, the airplane crash, perhaps her father still would not have understood. He was not the kind of man who found the things he feared most, tracked them down, and then slew them with their own poison.
Laura hadn’t fallen for Clint first; she had been struck first, though. And, yes, she had heard all the possible jokes about Cupid and his arrows, thank you very much for your contribution.
But it was still true: she hadn’t fallen first. Laura had been struck, first, curious about this boy—distracted, rumpled, so very human—and his perfect, perfect aim. You don’t get perfect marksmanship by being born with it.
Laura sat forward the first time she saw him, this circus kid who gulped from a stained coffee cup before stumbling onstage and proceeding to take eighteen perfect shots, with three different bows, four of them without even looking.
Laura leaned forward. These things were not gifts.
In an open-air cafe in Lagos, Nigeria, Wanda had close-bitten, black-painted nails. She put real sugar in her coffee. When she said we, these days, she did not always mean Pietro. But, sometimes, she did.