Trinidadian rapper Nicki Minaj’s most recent single
“Anaconda” (2014) has gathered a lot of attention both for the song and for the
accompanying video that focuses prominently on the twerking and undulating rear
ends of Minaj and her backup dancers (examples of feminist readings include this from Autostradle and this by Black feminist bell hooks). The video has been viewed over 241
million times on Youtube and helped Minaj earn her highest charting single in
the United States. As a fan of Minaj, I wanted to think about the possibility
of reading this video through a queer lens, especially the all-female spaces
the video uses and the power that Minaj appears to have over the consumption of
her own body. In reading “Anaconda” as a queer text, I am employing Cathy
Cohen’s definition of queer as that which contests heteronormativity. For
Cohen, “heteronormativity works to support and reinforce institutional racism,
patriarchy, and class exploitation” (455) and thus even heterosexual or
straight-identified individuals can be queered by their resistance to these
intersecting systems of oppression. I read “Anaconda” as contesting traditional
ideas about the female body and female pleasure that are linked to white
supremacy and patriarchal norms.
As Adrienne Rich and Audre Lorde both argue, female
connection and intimacy is received as threat to patriarchal control in a
society where access to the female body is prized as the right of straight men.
With the exception of a scene where Minaj performs a lap-dance on the rapper
Drake, the “Anaconda” video occurs entirely in spaces with female or feminine
bodies. Some of these spaces appear to be outside of mainstream society all
together – either fantasy spaces, like the set where Minaj demonstrates an
absurd parody of a cooking show, or places outside of our time all together,
like the rainforest setting where Minaj freely plays with the buttocks of her
dancers. Even the more traditional settings, like the exercise class, are
clearly parodying or mocking ideas of a “realistic” setting. This could
discredit the entire video as entirely unreal, but it also can suggest that we
are seeing a fantasy space where Minaj is playing out her desires. Minaj’s
lyrics further reference her own sexual pleasure; she playfully alludes to
receiving oral sex and the necessity of large penises to achieve maximum
pleasure.
Throughout the video, Minaj controls everything happening
around her – including the curvy bodies of her dancers. Her playful jiggling of
her dancers’ rear ends suggests both her ability to adopt the traditionally
male role of accessing the female body and the potential for same-sex desire.
Of course, as Adrienne Rich notes, we might also understand these moments as
being like much “so-called lesbian pornography” which is “created for the
[straight] male voyeuristic eye.” The video definitely offers plenty for
straight male viewers, yet it also opens the possibility that other ways of
viewing are encouraged and thus opens some space for other folks to desire the
bodies shown in other, potentially more queer ways. We could easily read the
entire video as performed for the male gaze, yet the actual male presences
suggest a more queer relationship to the male viewer. When Minaj performs a lap
dance for Drake, the male rapper is shown as entirely controlled by the female
body on his lap and he is powerless to follow her when she chooses to leave him
behind. She may approach him on her knees, but she walks away triumphantly and
he is left seated and presumably unsatisfied. The absurd spectacle of Minaj’s
cooking show culminates in her putting whipping cream on her cleave – either encouraging
the viewer or referencing a woman’s physical response to pleasure. In this same
segment, Minaj’s use of bananas obviously references the male sexual organ and
her violent treatment of the bananas suggests that the penis – as
representative of the patriarchy – can easily be cut into small pieces and
devoured.
The United States has a long and nasty history of reading
the African American female body as hypersexual and less than human. “Anaconda”
could be read as participating in this stereotyping of Black women as overly
curvy and sexually available, yet Minaj’s celebration of her rear end suggests
she may have some measure of control over this image. She is choosing to celebrate her rear end and
does not believe her ample curves disqualify her from access to ideas of
classiness or success; we see her in designer clothes and we see her in workout
clothes, suggesting that skinniness need not be the only goal for exercise or
health. Minaj’s tirade against “skinny bitches” and celebration of larger women
suggests a queer resistance to ideas of the ideal body that are linked to
images of white femininity. Now, that does not mean that I think the video
portrays an entirely progressive view of women’s bodies – these bodies are
still petite with skinny waists alongside larger rear ends and breasts. Not all
body types are celebrated, but this is a distinctly different vision from a
more common ideal presented in mainstream popular culture. The song’s use of
the sample from “Baby Got Back” by Sir Mix-a-lot similarly seems to mock or
queer the idea that men, like the original rapper, should be able to have the
last word on women’s bodies.
While I think that I have shown ways in which “Anaconda”
queers ideas about race, gender, and sexuality, I am somewhat torn about the
ways that the video relates to Cohen’s idea of “class exploitation.” Like many
popular music videos, “Anaconda” is full of product placement, especially for
Myx Moscato, a brand co-owned and endorsed by Minaj. The video’s visuals more
broadly are clearly intended to draw in a large audience – controversy sells! –
and thus boost views and sales. At the same time, we could argue that Minaj’s
visibility as a woman of color in the music industry and her apparent control
over much of her image messes with certain ideas about who belongs in higher-class society. Of course, that doesn’t mean she
doesn’t have a lot of privilege, including access to the money that means she
has a flawless appearance. Ultimately, the video reminds me that queer texts are complex texts and not
necessarily just progressive (if they
are at all).
Questions:
1.
How does spectatorship - or who is watching the
video - determine whether or not we should read it as queer? Is this still a
queer text if consumed by a straight man who simply objectifies Minaj’s body?
Does the video resist a straightforward “straight” reading?
2.
Much of the video seems to rely on the female
bodies all appear very similar; almost all are similar to Minaj’s body. What
does this do the politics of the video? If we read the video as contesting one
set of beauty norms, does it just replace them with another one? Is this
progressive or just more of the same?
3.
How does the video relate to ideas about sexual
desire? Are the “big butts” a stand-in for other parts of the body? Does the
butt replace male desire or is it simply presented as being there for male
pleasure?
No comments:
Post a Comment