Misogyny For Fun And Profit.
Generational, industrial, social, technological, and sexual revolutions notwithstanding, one of the consistent hallmarks in modern, postmodern, and post-postmodern art has been the subtle and not-so-subtle depiction of the subjugation of women. In previous episodes, we've examined the role of women in science fiction cover art as sidekicks, hand models, and maidens in jumpsuits awaiting rescue. Still, despite its reputation as a progressive, barrier-breaking, egalitarian genre, sci-fi still tends to play to its core audience of 18-34 year old single males, the lowest common denominator of whom would doubtless prefer an Adonis ideal for their protagonist, leaving the female of the species relegated to a supporting role, for whatever reason.
There's cold comfort in the knowledge that at least sci-fi artists were merely parroting a trend followed by generations of covers created for westerns, romances, and the guiltiest of all the demonizers, the thriller:
The Hard Sell is relatively tame in its imagery, showing off only a veiled ass and a pair of heels as a trigger for the fetishists in the audience; with the discarded brassiere dangling from a come-hither fingertip acting as the strongest suggestion of disrobement. The art isn't nearly as sick as the plot of the book itself, which seems to involve a scumbag businessman using his cuckold wife as a wedge to broker deals in the cutthroat lingerie trade.
The intentions of the gun-toting heavy on the cover of Run For Your Life! are at least a little more overt, if still ambiguous; is he assaulting the redhead or abducting her? He can't possibly be protecting her, seeing as he's inconveniently placed her between him and whoever he's pointing that rod at. Also note Red's attire; an off-the-shoulders nightie, which only adds to her supposed fragility. Why, if it wasn't for Secret Agent Studly in back of her, she might swoon right away into the mist.
The positive difference between the previous two books and The Chinese Visitor is that in the latter the woman presumably depicted on the cover is actually the protagonist. The rub, such as it is, is that Anna Zordan's chief talent is apparently her nymphomania; because female operatives can't possibly be bothered to handle a gun or learn self-defense, so the author takes the easy way out and makes sex her weapon of choice. Again shown on the cover all but naked, clutching a scrap of a slip to her body; but at least she had the good sense to choose a matching pair of shoes before running for her life.
At least the woman swooning on the cover of Addicted To Murder was presumably felled by the mass poisoning plot hinted at on the back cover and not by the heavy hand of an off-screen misogynist hero. (with a heart of gold, of course) Almost all of the covers featured here have red as the dominant color, in contrast to the blues and greens of science fiction. Naturally, red can be the color of passion, whether it manifests itself as love, lust, or outright violence. The starburst of red behind our tumbling heroine is the most overt suggestion of violence visible, and it's only just that, a symbol of an action against the innocent, not just women in particular.
Plant Poppies On My Grave, in keeping with the silliness of its title, has matching silly artwork, which isn't to say it doesn't work. While there's only the slightest shade of red used, (and even that may just be due to sun damage over the years) the scenes it samples pretty much bubble with percolating fist- an gunfights. The brooding dude in a suit on the left whispering secrets to his pet pistol, the larger-than-life Obersturmführer on the right, and lording over them all, the half-dressed fräulein with a rash on the back of her neck.
Finally, and somewhat refreshingly, the iconic Modesty Blaise, who, despite her stature as a pop culture mainstay, still boasts sex as the primary arrow in her quiver. There's more red on this cover than on any other, and the only violence lies in the set of Modesty's hips, and maybe that Luger in her other hand. Of course, a female protagonist, and a strong one at that, should come as no surprise when she's written by a man, Peter O'Donnell. It just goes to show that guys were living vicariously through their fantasy creations decades before they were rolling up night elf sorceresses to play in World Of Warcraft.
...
Just as it's regrettable that nearly every story told requires a victim to propel it along, and that victim invariably is a woman, it's also a shame that in the off-chances that the woman is written into a position of power and strength, she's hobbled by the very things that supposedly would be spinach to a male hero: sexuality, hot-bloodedness, brutality.
Sometimes a woman doesn't have to be naked to be humiliated.
⎋
There's cold comfort in the knowledge that at least sci-fi artists were merely parroting a trend followed by generations of covers created for westerns, romances, and the guiltiest of all the demonizers, the thriller:
The Hard Sell is relatively tame in its imagery, showing off only a veiled ass and a pair of heels as a trigger for the fetishists in the audience; with the discarded brassiere dangling from a come-hither fingertip acting as the strongest suggestion of disrobement. The art isn't nearly as sick as the plot of the book itself, which seems to involve a scumbag businessman using his cuckold wife as a wedge to broker deals in the cutthroat lingerie trade.
The intentions of the gun-toting heavy on the cover of Run For Your Life! are at least a little more overt, if still ambiguous; is he assaulting the redhead or abducting her? He can't possibly be protecting her, seeing as he's inconveniently placed her between him and whoever he's pointing that rod at. Also note Red's attire; an off-the-shoulders nightie, which only adds to her supposed fragility. Why, if it wasn't for Secret Agent Studly in back of her, she might swoon right away into the mist.
The positive difference between the previous two books and The Chinese Visitor is that in the latter the woman presumably depicted on the cover is actually the protagonist. The rub, such as it is, is that Anna Zordan's chief talent is apparently her nymphomania; because female operatives can't possibly be bothered to handle a gun or learn self-defense, so the author takes the easy way out and makes sex her weapon of choice. Again shown on the cover all but naked, clutching a scrap of a slip to her body; but at least she had the good sense to choose a matching pair of shoes before running for her life.
At least the woman swooning on the cover of Addicted To Murder was presumably felled by the mass poisoning plot hinted at on the back cover and not by the heavy hand of an off-screen misogynist hero. (with a heart of gold, of course) Almost all of the covers featured here have red as the dominant color, in contrast to the blues and greens of science fiction. Naturally, red can be the color of passion, whether it manifests itself as love, lust, or outright violence. The starburst of red behind our tumbling heroine is the most overt suggestion of violence visible, and it's only just that, a symbol of an action against the innocent, not just women in particular.
Plant Poppies On My Grave, in keeping with the silliness of its title, has matching silly artwork, which isn't to say it doesn't work. While there's only the slightest shade of red used, (and even that may just be due to sun damage over the years) the scenes it samples pretty much bubble with percolating fist- an gunfights. The brooding dude in a suit on the left whispering secrets to his pet pistol, the larger-than-life Obersturmführer on the right, and lording over them all, the half-dressed fräulein with a rash on the back of her neck.
Finally, and somewhat refreshingly, the iconic Modesty Blaise, who, despite her stature as a pop culture mainstay, still boasts sex as the primary arrow in her quiver. There's more red on this cover than on any other, and the only violence lies in the set of Modesty's hips, and maybe that Luger in her other hand. Of course, a female protagonist, and a strong one at that, should come as no surprise when she's written by a man, Peter O'Donnell. It just goes to show that guys were living vicariously through their fantasy creations decades before they were rolling up night elf sorceresses to play in World Of Warcraft.
...
Just as it's regrettable that nearly every story told requires a victim to propel it along, and that victim invariably is a woman, it's also a shame that in the off-chances that the woman is written into a position of power and strength, she's hobbled by the very things that supposedly would be spinach to a male hero: sexuality, hot-bloodedness, brutality.
Sometimes a woman doesn't have to be naked to be humiliated.
⎋