[one commentator:] The feting of Poor Things – a heterosexual middle-aged man’s fantasy about nymphomania, with the flimsiest covering of “satire” and a tagged-on message about female genital mutilation being “bad” – merely confirms that feminism still has a long way to go. […]
[another commentator:] This kid loves her body! She has no sense of limitations or propriety! She’s wild and free! Bella learns to enjoy her body. She learns to read. And then she learns to appreciate the joys of employment in a Parisian brothel where she “asserts herself” by bravely informing the punters that they stink. Don’t worry, though, she still loves having sex with them! By this point, I had lost the will to live.
The grotesque, surreal comedy of this film is undeniable. […] We do not know the gender of the implanted infant brain. We are never told exactly what happened to her womb. Can Bella menstruate or get pregnant? Who cares? In a situation where transplants, hybrid animals and bubbles of gastric juice are portrayed in meticulous and fantastical detail, the inconveniences of the real-life body of a sexually active child-woman are too boring to explain.
The film’s message is clearly one of personal discovery and freedom from shame. Yay to that. But how can it be that, in 2024, we are supposed to believe that it’s shocking and surprising for a woman to enjoy sex? And how liberating can it be to have the brain of your own baby implanted into you and then go and work in a brothel? I despair. […]
[yet another commentator] For me, to declare Poor Things feminist would not only be reductive to feminism but also to the film. Yes, Bella has loads of sex and […] focuses only on her pleasure. While shagging her way round Europe, she escapes men who wish to control her – another win for the “Poor Things is feminist” school of thought.
But for everyone who felt empowered watching her story play out on screen, another five felt cheated out of a true depiction of the female experience. For some, the sheer amount of on-screen sex veered into a male fantasy of womanhood, directed and written by a man, and epitomising the male gaze.
[and another:] Bloated wank fantasy or simple-hearted bildungsroman? Poor Things is both. The plot is this: Frankenstein creates a manic pixie baby dream girl who’s also a socialist PhD hooker who’s also a thoroughly modern Millie and striking fashion plate who makes no emotional demands and is also a really intelligent nymphomaniac without a jealous bone in her body. With her fresh mind, literal interpretation of events and gorgeous looks, she’s just so bewitchingly bold and artlessly instinctual and unspoilt that she drives men mad with lust and love and longing. But those men just want to control her.
Bella’s “adventures” are 98% penetrative heterosexual sex and 2% conversation. I was particularly grateful for her foray into brothel life, because men who write stories can’t imagine any job for women except prostitution, and then they turn themselves inside out spaffing off about how it’s all just so philosophically interesting, and add insult to injury by putting these masturbatory, self-justifying thoughts into the mouths of fictional women.
[one more:] […] Greta Gerwig’s Barbie, which featured a similar plot, an overwhelming reliance on fish-out-of-water humour, and a similar propensity for didactic, simplistic morality. In both films, a woman created by men goes on a quest for self-determination and meaning, realises she hates the horrors of the “real” world, and decides to settle for a sense of slightly enlightened equilibrium back in her cloistered old world. In both films, I found it astounding that the surface-level allusions to feminist ideals were greeted with such outsized praise.
Poor Things reminded me of the Tumblr-level gender politics of my high school years, which dictated that a woman’s power is inherently linked to her anatomy and fucking as much as you can is a source of uncomplicated liberation. There’s nothing particularly wrong with those ideas, but Poor Things makes no effort at all to complicate or question them […]
Some of my favourite films are women’s stories by men. But Poor Things struck me as self-congratulatory and fake deep, obsessed with its own radical approach to a female coming-of-age story. It feels like Barbie for people who thought they were a little too smart for Barbie, but still want their discussions of gender politics served up to them in neat little inspirational speeches.