Dr. Cox and the ‘male gaze’

There’s a scene in the TV show Scrubs where Dr. Cox is going through a mental breakdown. When he finally comes clean to the protagonist (JD) about his illness clear proof of his madness is given by the fact that, though they are talking face to face, Dr. Cox is actually watching himself have the conversation from the other side of the room. I watched this scene when I was younger and thought that I must be having a severe mental breakdown, though I was sure I was pretty fine; Dr. Cox described so vividly what I did each day, observing myself from the other side of the room, observing myself from another’s eyes as I went about my ordinary business in public.

Thanks to Mulvey, I know now that I am not ‘mad’ (insofar as who isn’t), but have grown up subjected to and subjectified by, the ‘male gaze. Since reaching awareness of the sexual nature of my body I have gone about my life watching myself from the other side of the room, something which Dr.Cox and the male writers of the show have never done.

When I watch myself I'm acutely aware that I am a bearer of meaning, not a maker. I make my face, I construct the outward presentation of my identity through my clothing and the books and films I like yet I am devoid of real personhood. Daily shouts at me from men in cars, gropes on a night out or even a patronising introduction to Marxist theory with a hand on my knee remind me that, for all my learning and careful colouring, I am not human but a sexual object and a signifier of male desire. All human beings in their desire relate and pedestal those they long for to an extent, plastering on them idolatry of heroines and heroes, using representations in books and film as a map to ‘true love’ or coolness. With most men, however, I have often found it goes deeper than idolatry. I find that I am lack, a vessel into which patriarchal ideals of who I am will be filled. I am the Manic Pixie Girl who never picks her nose and my learning and colouring merely add to the prettiness of a living doll.

This restriction on who and what I should be being ruled by men’s desires was recently made clear by a male friend. While I was laughing heartily with a group of friends he noted my behaviour and said ‘when you’re young it’s endearing but you can’t act like this when you’re an ugly old woman’. I am never happier than when I am this ‘endearing’ self with a biological clock and yet my happiness must be subsumed by what the male gaze requires of me. Hearty laughter into my wonderful old age will be a very enjoyable political act.

Paris Hilton demonstrates how the male gaze can be harmful to men