The ultimate goal of Big Brother, that we know what to think before we think it, has been realized. Is it some kind of miracle, or sinister joke, that people don mental straight jackets of their own volition, twist themselves into contorted shapes, and grin like apes? Movies, art, no longer risk the unknown, but are forgone conclusions, drained of life.

"The Notorious Bettie Page" is a bland case history, fit for a freshman college feminism course. Its lesson is schematic, right-angled and linear: "See how women are objectified, exploited, abused, then tossed on the trash heap, by a male-dominated society."

Bettie Page, supposedly, was the "pin-up queen of the 1950's," the ass millions of men ejaculated to. (All reviewers repeat that phrase, "pin-up queen of the 1950's," like a choir of monkeys.) Her history as an American sex bomb is familiar: Southern, abused by her father, raped, etc. In this movie she is a naif, an innocent unaware of the prurient interests she serves and shamelessly profits from. Although she believes in Jesus, she enjoys frolicking nude before a camera lens -- just the wholesome girl-next-door sex-slave American males supposedly fantasize.

From the mouth of writer-director Mary Harron herself, Oxford-educated AND ex-punker (do you smell the combined rot of privilege and "hipness" as I do?): "I feel that without feminism, I wouldn't be doing this. ... I don't make feminist films in the sense that I don't make anything ideological. But I do find that women get my films better." What a cozy clique.

The movie merely goes through the motions of telling the story of a human life, it's subject and purpose having been eulogized and interred well before the movie began. Ms. Page has a boyfriend, but we are shown next to nothing about their relationship. In fact, there are no intimate or detailed relationships in the film.

One can't ignore its smug simplicity. In New York, where Ms. Page tries her best to fit into and appease a man's world, letting herself be tied up in the ropes of bondage and tightly laced into the black leather boots and bodices of S & M, the movie is black and white. But down in Miami, where she goes to get away from it all, gleefully takes off her clothes, and is photographed by a "liberated" female, the movie turns into color.

Like hell Harron doesn't "make feminist films," doesn't "make anything ideological." Ideology has become so internalized, so assumed, so programmed, that it's almost invisible. Big Brother must be smiling.

Is the sentiment of this review positive or negative?
negative