It’s 1am and I am in a place that I swore I would never be, having just been handed a shot of some questionable liquid of that peroxide shade of green. With the deafening boom of the music cutting through the sweat and rolling eyes of a sea of students, I try to focus on not losing the tight grip that I have on my messy group of friends. The cyclical nature of the nights events hits, just like it does every Saturday night and I find myself back in the midst of preying eyes and wandering hands that I so desperately do not want. Complements are thrown like an anchor waiting to sink and I am expected to express my thanks and gratitude to the ‘man’ who hasn’t once looked to see what colour my tired eyes are. The distinct aroma of fragile masculinity is strong but why should I be the one to wrap them in bubble wrap and stick on a caution sticker for protection? Time’s Up on the song I have heard for the fifth time tonight. And Time’s Up on this routine Saturday.
It’s 4am and I am glued to the screen of my exhausted laptop, watching this years anticipated Oscars. I swore that I would never be able to stay up this long. The sting of my eyes a constant, I watch as the sea of a-list celebrity’s walk the red carpet and try so desperately not to lose the tight grip that they barely have on the certain future of Hollywood. The cyclical nature of the ceremony hits, with the shows 90th year strapping the ‘it’s about movies, not politics’ tagline. Cut to the ignorant bliss of ‘butter-wouldn’t-melt’ white men who have only been grazed by a bullet in the firing line because the gang-leader got caught out. Aside from those in question adorning a square metal badge in the corner of their million dollar suits, 2 and a half hours into the show, it was Time’s Up on the nights schedule as the most important montage of the night was shown. It was almost too little, too late, but the impassioned speeches of a trio of women subjected to harrowed experiences with Harvey Weinstein demanded all the time in the world.
It seems almost unreal that we have started yet another year with a reel of revelation after revelation. It seems even more unreal that it takes one Hollywood producer to act as the inhumane poltergeist to finally shock the nation, as if this kind of relentless behaviour hasn’t been the underlying theme to every other existing industry. Time’s Up, #MeToo, countless non-fiction and real-life stories of abuse and assault. The campaigns have already raised millions of dollars for victims with and without the star-studded voice – seeking solace in the fact that they are not alone.
Awards season is now over, and the 3 hour Oscar spotlight of Hollywood has once again demised. These women have finally been heard, but at what cost? Cut to ‘Ladybirds’ Greta Gerwig becoming the 5th female director to be nominated in the whole 9 decades of the shows history. A figure that is not only shocking, but has been quietly accepted as the norm in Hollywood culture. The same culture that has paraded women as these overly sexual beings with their only purpose being that of fulfilling their heroic male counterpart desires.
These women have long been subject to the male gaze that Laura Mulvey coined 45 years ago – dressing the objectification with distracting beauty as a welcomed compliment. No wonder its happening off-screen if it so broadly happens in front of millions in the red seated cinemas. The trailblazers of the Times Up movement have hit Hollywood with an almighty force – striving to make as clear as the reflection in the golden statue that changes need to be made. Instead of teaching women how to say no, we need to teach these men in ‘power’ how to not be abusive in the first place.
It’s 2.30am. A rippling applause cuts through the eerily electric room as Jordan Peele makes history as he becomes the first black recipient for ‘best original screenplay’. Peele’s intensely remarkable ‘Get Out’ is a social thriller that punctures the Zeitgeist and ignites the much needed truth of modern racism and the real-life depiction of the uncomfortable conversations of race within the boundaries of horror.
Peele had made history that night.
Hollywood is moving forward.
Next award.
Gary Oldman wins the Oscar for best actor in a category that I couldn’t be bothered to listen to. Donning his Time’s Up pin and cowardly demanding change in his acceptance speech – it was an ironic kick in the face of the efforts of the nights courageous victims. Accused of abuse in 2001, Oldman joins the list of industry giants that sit amongst the smog of defiance. Without action, comes ignorance. These white men that continue to wet their lips with the bubbles of supremacy and over-priced champagne. The 90th awards becomes just like any other and the show proves that its only concern is a performative one as a domestic abuser is slapped on the back and congratulated for his on-screen talents.
It’s 3am and I am back in the place that I swore I would never be, having lost the grip on the small group of people that I entered the vortex of sticky floors and stolen ID’s with. The peroxide liquor now replaced with a tall glass of luke-warm tap water, I begin to regain the small sense of sober awareness that had been disguised by the layers of cheap wine and even cheaper perfume. The remains of the night can now be seen through a slightly clearer pair of rose-tinted glasses as I listen to the swarm of excuses as to why this guy won’t leave my side or why it’s probably for the best that I head back to his student flat on the other end of town.
Until now, I’d never questioned the drunken behaviours of the nights events and it is still my instinct to fully expect the uncomfortableness that I feel when trying to politely decline the advances of men twice my age. Why should I feel a wave of guilt and subtle fear when I am frozen under the spell of fragile masculinity? Instead of being on the stage of the Oscars that night I was on the platform of a nightclub battling to have my words be heard over the sounds of recycled chart music and the inner fear of my own thoughts when trying to say no. In a world where sexual harassment was seen as a rite of passage for women and young girls in every situation across the world. An almost unavoidable situation. Times Up on the awkward, guilt-ridden conversations. 2018 needs to be the year that time is well and truly up on abuse and harassment, from the crucial audition for a Hollywood movie, to the stage of a basement club on Saturday night.
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