Barbieland
Authors: Broussard Anna Maria 
Published: June 2024

Greta Gerwig’s 2023 film Barbie presents Barbieland as a matriarchal society, and arguably as an asexual utopia where the various iterations of Barbie, Ken, and other Mattel dolls live in harmony. The movie critiques the system of compulsory sexuality that pushes a rejected Ken into his takeover of Barbieland. Further complicating this asexual reading of the Barbie is the history of the Mattel dolls as unsexed, a criticism that has been laid at the feet of many asexual individuals whose lack of sexual desire often renders them as inhuman. While the blossoming field of asexuality studies has sought to counter the misconception of asexual people as somehow unsexed and inhuman, robust depictions of asexuality are still rare onscreen. While Barbie never explicitly claims an asexual identity, she also never shows any sexual desire, not even for Ken. I propose that an asexual critical lens, a practice of reading texts for traces of asexuality, can be used to read Barbie and to critique our society’s preoccupation with compulsory sexuality. 
But first, what is asexuality? Julia Sondra Decker defines asexuality as “the experience of not being sexually attracted to others … [and] not valuing sex or sexual attraction enough to pursue it” (3). To further broaden and complicate the definition of asexuality, CJ DeLuzio Chasin, for instance, suggests that for some, asexuality is seen “as primarily being about a disidentification with sexuality (that is, a strong sense of being not sexual or nonsexual as opposed to being sexual)”, while for others, “asexuality is primarily about a positive identification … that is, a strong sense of being asexual/ace as opposed to non-asexual” (407). These additional conceptualisations revolve around either distancing oneself from sexuality or embracing asexuality as an identity, or even a combination of both. The variety of definitions of asexuality are arguably an integral part of its complexity.
Defining asexuality has been a primary concern for asexual activists, many of whom point to the creation of the Asexuality Visibility and Education Network (AVEN) as the beginning of the understanding of asexuality as a contemporary identity category that falls under the queer umbrella. Research into asexuality is relatively new, with the bulk of scholarship occurring within the past fifteen years. During this time, asexuality studies has emerged as a thriving academic field of study, largely informed by feminist and queer theory.
In the introduction of their edited volume Asexualities: Feminist and Queer Perspectives, Karli June Cerankowski and Megan Milks explicitly describe asexuality as queer, stating that it explores “new possibilities in intimacy, desire, and kinship structures” (3). Even further than exploring alternative possibilities outside of normative sexual structures, asexuality scholars also go so far as to interrogate the assumption that all people experience sexual attraction.
While this assumption of sexual desire has been described by multiple asexuality scholars, the best-known and most-cited definition comes from Kristina Gupta, who uses the term “compulsory sexuality”, drawing from Adrienne Rich’s concept of compulsory heterosexuality, which describes the process in which heterosexuality is constructed as a political institution that disempowers women (632). Gupta defines compulsory sexuality as “the social norms and practices that both marginalize various forms of non-sexuality, such as a lack of sexual desire or behaviour, and compel people to experience themselves as desiring subjects, take up sexual identities, and engage in sexual activity” (132). In other words, compulsory sexuality hinges on the assumption that everyone experiences some form of sexual desire, so therefore participation in this system of compulsory sexuality is mandatory. Because of this, asexuality is often considered an invisible orientation, with representations of asexuality being rather scarce and the voices of asexual individuals, up until very recently, going largely unheard. As Sherronda K. Brown states, “asexuality … would be more recognizable if it were not so strongly regarded as an impossible or wrong way to exist” (37).
The evidence of compulsory sexuality is pervasive, as seen in market-driven media advertising using sex to sell commodities and in pop culture depictions of romance and sexuality that render asexuality as virtually non-existent. Gupta cites recent scholarship on the role of sexuality in contemporary capitalism, stating “the capitalist marketplace attempts to incite sexual desires in order to sell products that promise to fulfill those desires” (138). Sexual desire here becomes something that can be manufactured and sold, through products such as the overtly sexualised Barbie doll, for instance.
Another aspect of compulsory sexuality is the proliferation of sexuality not just in advertising, but also in popular culture. The vast majority of film, literature, music, theatre, etc. are love stories, with sex playing a major role. There are very few representations of overt asexuality in contemporary popular culture, though this has expanded in more recent years. Ela Przybylo and Danielle Cooper created a methodology to include asexual representation and interpretation through what they call “asexual resonances” where asexuality may be hidden, invisible, ignored, or not overtly identified. Instead of trying to find a clear or “correct” example of asexual representation, Przybylo and Cooper allow for a “queer broadening of what can ‘count’ as asexuality” (298). In other words, Przybylo and Cooper provide a potential for an asexual interpretative lens to read for asexuality in pop culture where it may not be overtly named as an identity. Similar to this asexual interpretive lens is that of Stacy Wolf, who in A Problem like Maria: Gender and Sexuality in the American Musical attempts to interpret straight characters in American musicals as lesbians (4). In other words, Wolf asks: what if these characters could be read as lesbian? This same what if could be used to ask how we could read characters as asexual. So, where Stacy Wolf uses “lesbian”, I wish to use the same methodology for reading characters as “asexual”.
It is with this lens that I seek to read Barbie as asexual, or at least containing strong asexual resonances. In using an asexual lens, we can read Barbie as an asexual icon, but we can also view how the Barbie movie critiques the system of compulsory sexuality and sets up Barbieland as an asexual utopia. Several critics have already read Barbie as an example of asexual representation, with numerous social media posts, podcasts, and YouTube videos breaking down their asexual interpretations. Articles from 2023, such as Kelly Pau’s Salon article “Barbie Has Become an Asexual Icon and We Should All Learn from Her” and Scarlett Harris’s “Barbie Might Just Be Asexual – and the Movie Proves It” are just two examples of how Barbie has been recognised by people in the asexual community.
For instance, in a Vogue interview from before the film’s premiere, Barbie actress Margot Robbie herself seems to make the case for an asexual interpretation of Barbie. She is quoted as saying “okay, she’s a doll. She doesn’t have organs. If she doesn’t have organs, she doesn’t have reproductive organs. If she doesn’t have reproductive organs, would she even feel sexual desire? No, I don’t think she could”. Because she is a doll, as Robbie notes, she cannot feel sexual desire. Barbie, first of all, is a fantasy, with Mary F. Rogers stating in her book Barbie Culture that “her femininity is fantastic” (14). She is an overly idealised feminine doll; nothing more than a fantasy. Robbie, in the same Vogue interview, further states, “she is sexualized. But she should never be sexy. People can project sex onto her”. In other words, Barbie can be anything. We are the ones who project sex and sexiness onto her, but the doll itself (or herself) is not automatically sexy. Viewed in this way, an asexual existence is the default, or the norm for Barbie. Compulsory sexuality is thus unknown in Barbieland.
Gerwig’s film begins with Barbie as a monolith, this figure of fantastic femininity and womanhood, that allows little girls to put down their baby dolls and tacitly refuse motherhood, and thus compulsory sexuality. Soon, we switch to Barbieland, a fantastical utopian vision of the world of the Barbie doll, where the laws of physics are suspended as we follow the dolls in their daily routine, again free from compulsory sexuality.
Utopia is often defined as a no place, one that does not exist except in our imaginations. José Esteban Muñoz describes utopia as offering “a critique of the present, of what is, by casting a picture of what can and perhaps will be” (35). There is a potential in queerness to imagine what could exist. Muñoz further depicts queer utopias as enacting a future vision by looking to “queer relational formations” (28), which I would argue would include asexual relational formations through nonsexual intimacy.
Barbieland is such an asexual utopia. Every night is girls’ night, where the Barbies just still enjoy life to the fullest through their dance parties. There is no sense of the dolls having romantic relationships or sex, especially considering that they all lack genitals. Their relationship, among all of the dolls, seems to be one of friendship and fun, not sex or sexual desire. Living a full life in Barbieland with nonsexual intimacy among friends is imagined as the everyday and ideal. Barbie, who is so often viewed as an unattainable sexual fantasy, is instead allowed to just be in Barbieland. She is the centre of Barbieland, where the Barbies are all in charge. Barbie is also not romantically or sexually interested in Ken. Instead, they have a friendship, where Ken seems to want to pursue Barbie, he even sees himself through Barbie, but she remains mostly interested in her own life, her accomplishments, and dancing with the other Barbies.
Now of course, this utopian vision is flawed. As Muñoz states, utopian vision is often viewed as “naively romantic” (27). So too is the vision of Barbieland. The Barbies themselves are naïve about the “real world” and live in an almost childlike innocence. The characters are still dolls, after all, not fully realised humans. It is when real human feelings begin to seep into Barbie through the human that used to play with her that things begin to change for the worse for Barbie. She starts to experience “flaws”, such as flat feet and cellulite, and must travel to the real world to “fix” it.
Barbie’s innocence highlights one of the most common misunderstandings of asexuality: that asexual people are often infantilised and considered immature or repressed. Megan Milks discusses this very tendency, and how asexual identifying people are read as “not-yet-human but also not-yet-liberated” (107). Barbie is viewed in this very way, especially considering that she is not human; she is a toy with literally no genitals. She is not quite human, but I would not argue that she is not liberated. Barbieland, for her, is a liberating society. Her entrance into human society is where she suddenly becomes immature. However, there is a legitimate critique suggesting that a society of genitalless dolls is an asexual utopia.
However, this is a fantasy land, not real life. Asexuality, in real people, does not mean unsexed or desexualised, lacking in sex organs, or somehow not fully human. Barbieland could be viewed as an asexual utopia; however, this utopian vision is neither perfect nor unproblematic.
The infantilisation and objectification of Barbie starts to set in once she has to enter the “real world”. She is an innocent fish out of water, trying to figure out her way into a world that sexualises her, which she does not yet recognise. Sarah Ahmed, in The Cultural Politics of Emotion, explains discomfort as belonging to a set of queer feelings. She states that “discomfort is not simply a choice or decision … but an effect of bodies inhabiting spaces that do not take or ‘extend’ their shape” (152). Barbie does not belong in the “real world” where she immediately feels preyed upon from being sexualised. Barbie thus confronts the world of compulsory sexuality, which so often looks like compulsory heterosexuality (especially for women). As Ken enters the real world, he discovers the patriarchy, and becomes even more entrenched in the idea that as a man, he is owed affection from Barbie. Ken then becomes a symbol of toxic masculinity, which goes hand in hand with compulsory sexuality.
Ela Przybylo, in Asexual Erotics: Intimate Readings of Compulsory Sexuality, contends that “compulsory sexuality is not only the celebration of sex or sexual desire but it is the uneven application of this celebration, the idea that white men deserve sex and that women owe them this sex” (138). Przybylo here is specifically discussing the “tyrannical celibacy” (138) of the contemporary incel movement (which often blends misogyny with white supremacy), but this depiction of compulsory sexuality can be applied to the behaviour of the Kens in Barbie as well. Ken believes that he is owed sexual access to Barbie (even if he doesn’t quite know what that means), which she will not give. As the Kens attempt to turn Barbieland into Kenland, they brainwash the Barbies into giving up their agency in order to get their attention. Eventually, the Kens begin to demonstrate toxic masculinity, expecting subservience from the Barbies and even fighting amongst themselves for the Barbies’ affections, which the Barbies later use to their advantage to save the day.
The nonsexual intimacy that Barbie offers Ken is at first considered unthinkable, but it is recognised in the end when the Barbies defeat the Kens. The Barbies thus do not give in to compulsory sexuality, and the Kens agree. The nonsexual relationships are restored, with another Ken exclaiming, “I miss my friend Barbie” as they have a hug together, demonstrating that in the end they are all able to exist alongside one another as friends, not in a sexual way and not in a way where one has more power over the other. 
While Ken might believe that Barbie’s rejection makes him somewhat less of a man, Barbie feels otherwise. For her, she is not interested in Ken because that is not her story. In the end, Barbie wants her own story, and helps Ken find his as well, apart from being in a romantic relationship. Barbie and Ken reconcile at the end, but they do not get together. Barbie remains alone, and arguably, asexual. Her story is not a romance.
The very end of the movie sees Barbie choosing to forego her flawed asexual utopia and come to the real world, after being allowed to view and feel the joys and pains of womanhood. She is allowed to go from being a desexualised object to a fully realised woman. However, just because she gains genitals does not mean that she is no longer asexual. Asexuality is also not the state of having no sex organs; asexual people are not plants or dolls, as it were.
Instead, perhaps we should take an imaginative leap off the screen, to ask about her potential future as an asexual woman. What if she still ends up alone? Happy and alone? Not an unsexed object, but an asexual subject. Still beautiful and whole, and able to just be?
Our current moment within which asexuality is newly legible is the moment in which we as moviegoers are watching and interpreting this film. An asexual lens works as an interpretative possibility for twenty-first century audiences who are newly enunciating asexuality as its own sexual orientation.
With Barbie, asexuality can find a place among contemporary audiences. While Barbie began as a doll, her character became more than that. The Barbies themselves also became fully realised characters, still living their perhaps oversimplified lives in their imperfect utopia. Barbie chooses to enter the real world, but her asexuality still remains. She does not choose to enter into a relationship with anyone. Instead, she chooses body autonomy.
References
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