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Beth Wiesemann

Does anyone remember those movies made back when men were men and women were dames and broads? And when people got shot and never bled? And when the backdrops were all plywood and paint? And when the moving cars went past the same background 15 times? And when people stopped in the middle of the scene to sing for no reason? You know - the good old days?

Is anybody else disillusioned when they watch movies they loved as a kid and realize they were bad on certain levels? And I don't just mean seeing the string on the space ship. Recently I got a chance to watch an old Charlie Chan movie. I loved Charlie Chan when I was a child, but I have to say I was amazingly naive about the blatant stereotyping. As an adult, that kind of puts a disturbing spin on things. Charlie Chan is supposed to be Chinese, but the actor playing him is about as Chinese as the Ramen Noodles™ I had for lunch last week. Seriously, it takes more than a funny mustache and constant lack of pronouns to make you Chinese. And certainly his African American chauffeur could have done more than accidentally back into things and look perpetually startled.

Nowhere does uncomfortable stereotyping come into play more than with women in these movies. What exactly did they teach women in acting classes back in the forties? Let's see...Lesson One: No matter what part of the U.S. your character is from, always speak with a British accent. Logically then, Lesson Two would be: If you're not pretty enough to play a classy woman, be's sure yuz kin speak liken you done been birthed in a shack up in those there mountains. Because there is always good character work for the homely women in the movies if they can be the lovable hillbilly or ignorant maid.

Let's recap briefly. If you're pretty, you get shoulder pads, wide-brimmed hats and the vague hint that you were descended from royalty. If you're homely or "big boned", you get a sleeveless dress, ill-fitting bra and the notion that you probably had moonshine brewing in your bathtub. Lesson Three: At least two hours a day, work on perfecting the sharp intake of breath. No matter what happens in any movie, one of the female characters has to gasp in horror; even if it's a romantic comedy. Women in old movies were constantly surprised by something. Really good actresses were able to draw their hand up to their mouth at the same time. The gasp and the hand flip were not easy to synchronize.

Lesson Four: The climactic outburst. This is basically a rhythm lesson. Be sure to...always stop for...a beat between...everything more than...two syllables. Add a slight quiver to your voice. Then you want to...start ADDING...a new EMPHASIS....to the LAST....thing BEFORE...each PAUSE!! Start slowly at first. Gradually you want to speed it up so that you can sound hysterical enough to prompt the male lead to slap you across the face. And that's DRAMA! Cut and print.

I'm especially irritated by the portrayal of women in horror movies. The only time in real life that I ever saw a woman faint was when my friend choked on a piece of lettuce. When she came to, her arm wasn't dramatically draped across her forehead either. Unfortunately, we also didn't have a chaise lounge to carry her to or some bug-eyed, handwringing nitwit in an apron and an ill-fitting bra to go fetch any smelling salts for her.

What's with the blood-curdling screams? I loved the old monster movies from the 40's and 50's, but I felt rather inadequate as a young girl because I was afraid I would grow up and start screaming at everything. Is that really how women react when they're scared? When I'm scared I cuss a lot. Perhaps there's a sharp intake of breath, but at the most I'd say my scared scream is more of a whimper; kind of how my dog sounds when I accidentally step on her paw. The only time I let out a true blood-curdling scream is when my cable goes out or the weatherman interrupts my show with a tornado warning. Those are the kinds of screams that make that dangly little thing in the back of my throat bounce up and down. (Please feel free to let me know if my medical terminology is sailing over your head.)

Musicals were something that I never cared for. Boo and hiss at me all you want, but when it rains, we all run for cover. We don't tap dance in the middle of the road. When is the last time you were arguing with someone and felt the need to stop cold and break into a showtune?

Although, it would be kind of nice when I'm having a stressful day at work, to just sweep everything off of my desk, climb onto it and break into song. The cleaning lady could just shove her mop and pail aside, turn off all the lights except the one over my desk so I can dance in the spotlight. All of my co-workers would gather around in a circle and look up at me with adoring smiles as they did the back up singing. My supervisor, who I'll call "Nicole", would pop up from her desk and glare at me with her hands on her hips. All of the other managers would lean out of their cubicles one right after the next, in time to the music. The big boss - let's call her "Melissa" - would bring everything to a crashing halt when she opens her office door and slams it into the wall. Everyone would turn around and gasp in horror. The cleaning lady would wring her hands and scramble for her mop. One by one, all of the managers would lean back into their cubicles, out of sight. Then I would ever so slowly start tapping my foot on my desk. (Because I always conveniently wear tap shoes to work.) Cue music as I start doing a shuffle slide across everyone's desk. Papers fly everywhere! Nicole doesn't know how to react as she scrambles to catch everything. Eventually my coworkers jump up and join me in a tightly choreographed number that we all SOMEHOW JUST KNOW! As we all twirl by Nicole, she realizes how futile it is to be kneeling on the floor, trying to clean up the mess and simply tosses everything aside and joins us. Melissa now looks perplexed, her hand flies up to her mouth as everyone closes in around her in a semi-circle and sings the rousing chorus in such merriment, even she gives in and sings a line. Of course, the music stops for some unknown reason so we can clearly hear that our boss is, in fact, tone deaf. Everyone laughs. Then the music would magically start back up as we all sing the final line and collapse into one exhausted heap. The cleaning lady would just shake her head, slip the strap of her ill-fitting bra back under her sleeveless dress and turn off the lights before shuffling off with her mop and pail.

THE END