On Katie’s season of The Bachelorette back in 2022, our sex-positive, nature-loving America’s sweetheart did the unthinkable: she opened up about her sexual assault. It was a startling episode of television. There she was: poised, cocktail dress flowing, hair and makeup done to the nines, vulnerable in a completely alien way. It was staged like it would change the world, and maybe it did. The men stood in a solemn row, nodding sympathetically as she ran through the details of a night that changed her life. She explained that she was not a victim but a “survivor”, she encouraged the men always to remember the importance of consent. They all nodded solemnly again.
The whole thing made me furious.
Of course, I wasn’t angry at Katie, exactly. I still remember the quiver in her voice and how she wrang her trembling hands as she panned the sea of male suitors with her eyes. The risk was tangible in that room; it was judgment day for her survivorship, first by the men, then by America.
It was the spectacle that made me angry. Katie’s story, with all of its twisted emotions and complications and hangups, became a narrative arc to educate men about the importance of consent––all to a 75% female audience. Was this the producers’ endeavor to affirm the rights of women to date safely and freely without the threat of assault? Or was it something more insidious? To me, it felt more like posturing. Look how good we are, look at these important women’s issues we’re discussing it seemed to say. All the while closing the walls in on its audience––this is your reality.
In a patriarchy, of course, assault permeates everything. It’s in our schools, our social movements, and our television. But something about this elementary consent conversation seeping its way into a comfort show for a female audience felt strangely violating. Of course, “education” was burdened on female viewers. We wouldn’t catch an anchor on ESPN reminding a gaggle of baseball players about the importance of consent. They wouldn’t interrupt Breaking Bad with a not-so-subtle PSA about survivorship. Even the idea of educating men on the topic of sexual assault was meant for female eyes only.
I felt the same way watching Ally Pankiw’s I Used to Be Funny. Starring Rachel Sennott as a stand-up comedian turned shut-in, Sam, the film released to largely positive reviews. Critics praised its careful balance of humor and tragedy, the way it reflects the cruel monotony of life after assault. I liked these things too. Sennott’s portrayal of Sam is layered and filled with complicated feelings. She mourns a version of herself that no longer exists, she attempts to recreate the life she had before to no avail. The humor heightens the melancholy––there are traces of a life well lived that feel like a ghost in Sam’s new world.
The film loses its touch in the details of the assault. Within the first ten minutes, most viewers can clock the situation. Sam’s lethargy, the “incident” her friends keep tiptoeing around, the way her life has been reduced to a single room in her shared apartment. For me, and many viewers, this would’ve been enough. We would’ve said: yes, this feels recognizable, let’s get into the weeds of her feelings. But the film continues to hint at this unnamed incident. As Sam becomes more invested in the missing person's case of a girl she used to nanny, this incident becomes increasingly central and increasingly obvious.
And we see it. The father. A lot of alcohol. A bruise. A court case where they hit all the marks––what were you wearing? Why did you stay so late? Why were you there if you didn’t want it?
This, too, feels familiar but not in the fresh, real, honest way that everyone keeps insisting upon. The setup––where the audience witnesses the assault (or at least everything around it) and can attest to its truthfulness––feels like it's not crafted with survivors in mind. Instead, it’s like watching a one-sided argument. We know Sam to be the victim and look how she’s treated. See? Sexism does still exist. It could’ve been a Twitter thread instead of a feature film.
We watch a terrified Sam cower as Cameron (Jason Jones) makes an unwanted advance in the dead of night––we can practically smell his alcohol-soaked breath as he towers over her. We sit with Sam as she shakes in her hospital bed, fumbling her way through the last couple of hours, still in shock. Then, we’re whisked away to court to hear an unsympathetic prosecutor pull out all the usual rape culture tricks.
In an audience full of Rachel Sennott fans (women and queer people), the heavy-handedness was almost insulting. We watched the movie with an invisible straight man standing toward the back, leering over us asking what the point of all this was. The movie's strength came in its subtly, but we were rewarded with none of that. So much of the film was crafted for an audience member who would never enter the theater.
The last couple of years have been fraught with “imperfect” victims facing down the court of law and public opinion. Of course, Amber Heard led the charge, followed by Megan Thee Stallion who, even after successfully proving that Tory Lanez shot her, was called a liar and a clout chaser. Evan Rachel Wood, FKA Twigs, and Angelina Jolie have all faced defamation lawsuits after speaking up against their abusers. These are women whose crimes range from fighting back to daring to leave at all.
Watching these cases in quick succession was enough to make any woman want to lock herself inside for the rest of her life. I was excited to see a film that identified with the messiness of victimhood. One that wasn’t afraid to shy away from the grimy nuances, the times women have hit back and been punished. Instead, I Used To Be Funny tries to imagine the perfect survivor, making it unconvincing (as all female narratives are) to many male viewers and alienating still to its target audience.
Perhaps this is all dreadfully unfair. I’m sure there are a million women who felt held and seen by Pankiw’s depiction of survival. And maybe it’s a good thing that conversations about rape culture have found their way into the media, even if it’s always going to be female-led. Maybe what I’m really feeling is tired. Rape culture is everywhere––it is inescapable, it is constant, it is our reality.