I am anticipating seeing the Barbie movie with a mixture of excitement and dread. It’s a Greta Gerwig film, which means it will be a sharp and funny satire of Barbie, Mattel, and our ridiculously consumerist culture. On the other hand, my name is Ken, and this is a movie about . . . Barbie. My nemesis. The name which, unwisely wielded, can move me to violence. My cross to bear.

My mother was Barbara or Barb, and I’ve had good friends named Barb, one of whom sometimes went by Barbie and would deck anyone who mentioned “Ken.” I was one of the lucky few who survived.

I’ve never been comfortable with the whole world of Barbie—her misshapen body and sex toy breasts, her maniacally upbeat attitude, and the relentless marketing to impressionable and vulnerable young girls looking for role models and wanting to fit in. My own daughters played some with Barbies alongside their far more realistic Fischer Price Little People, American Girls, and stuffed animals, and they put away their Barbies with the rest of their childhood toys. They didn’t grow up to be overdone fashion hounds or to chase boys—in fact, they’re both refreshingly practical and grounded, even if one collects too many tchotchkes for her own good.

Still, the material culture surrounding Barbie—attempting to numb the pain of meaninglessness—bothers me. No matter how many idealized role models Mattel and its ilk churn out, it’s all in the service of profit—even the attitude of Mattel executives tolerating a sharply critical movie because they also knew it will make them a shit-ton of money. This is consumerism feeding capitalism, manipulation masquerading as nurture. I’ve spent my life trying to become less attached to things, and Barbie is the ultimate material girl. I suppose it’s good to give young girls positive role models—I just wish they didn’t have permanently pointed toes to fit in those fabulous pumps.

And Ken, that glassy eyed bimbo whose only function is to establish Barbie’s heterosexuality while leaving his own in doubt. Ken, face it. You’d be happier if you just admitted that you were as gay as a maypole. At least your feet look human.

Is there a conclusion to all this? Well, I’ll probably end up plunking down my six bucks to see Barbie (I’ll watch it in an inexpensive neighborhood theater) and wash it down with a chaser of Oppenheimer, so I can feel good about watching serious cinema. And we’ll go on amusing ourselves to death. And Mattel will only get richer and richer until they rule the world. Where’s the hand basket, honey? We’re headed for hell.

Ken Redux

Watched the film—ended up paying eleven bucks, not six, but it was a cool nonprofit theater with all the kinds of people who got the satire. Boy, is Ken a bimbo. All six hundred thirty-seven of him. And poor Alan. America Ferrara (previously Ugly Betty, who wears glasses and isn’t ugly) is a mom who draws flawed Barbies, and Ryan Gosling (previously Lars with the Real Girl) is in love with a doll who becomes a real girl, but he’s still a doll. And plain girls become beautiful when they take off their glasses.

Barbie has an existential crisis and rallies all her incarnations to shake off their brainwashing and fight for their agency. Ken has an existential crisis and . . . he’s still a bimbo. A bimbo with hope for growth but still a bimbo. Without too many spoilers, Ken finds his masculinity. And patriarchy. And horses. Then he learns patriarchy is hard. And it’s not about horses.

The film really does celebrate Barbies in all their campy excess, and it really does savage consumerism and patriarchy, frequently with tongue in cheek, and is even compassionate to bland, accessory Ken and his attempts to find himself and be someone in his own right—all largely what I expected. It goes in so many directions and tackles so many issues in a film about a plastic plaything that I often found myself unsure of what it was trying to say. Perhaps that’s intentional, and it’s really trying to ask questions rather than answer them. It’s definitely more than a piece of fluff to be dismissed in one viewing, and I may watch it again once it comes to streaming, if only for the laughs (there were several genuine lol moments in the theater).

Oppenheimer still calls, and we need to watch that on IMAX for the full, boneshaking, earth-shattering effect. It’s interesting that a film that tackles ostensibly far heavier topics relies so much on visual impact to make its point—maybe calling Barbie just a plastic plaything is akin to calling an atomic bomb just a bunch of metal, wires, and enriched uranium. Should be an experience.

Memo to everyone who has been behaving badly on my feed:

I recently was told that people were shouting at each other on my feed. I spend very little time on social media, particularly Facebook, because it has become a cesspool, and I was oblivious until someone apologized for blowing up my notifications. I have deleted the Facebook app from all my devices, so I actually don’t get any notifications. The only reason this post exists is that I created it on a quieter platform and absent-mindedly cross-posted to Facebook.

For those who missed it, I am an “old cis het white man”, and I don’t want to intimidate anyone. My post was intended as a self deprecating bit of humor.

• Old—I’m 61. Close enough.
• Cisgender—My parts are male, and I feel male. Check.
• Heterosexual—I’m unambiguously straight.
• White—I am so white.
• Man—See cis.
• Intimidating—a lot of people who look like me have made life hell for a lot of people I care about, so I’m just making it clear that I’m safe for them.

I don’t see anything terribly subversive there. If you took that as an attack on your dignity, nope—I was talking about myself and how I want to be perceived.

I’d like to point out that that this is my feed—my space on Facebook—and some of you have barged in and started shouting insults. As this is my digital home, I will not permit anyone to be disparaged, insulted, or attacked. It might help you to know that I was persistently bullied throughout my childhood, and I will not permit that to happen to anyone else anywhere that I have the power to prevent it. I am shutting down comments on this post and deleting the ones that have been made. I am not reading them, because I refuse to waste my limited emotional energy watching people I have called family and friends savage each other in an online cage match.

I have committed to making my home a safe space for everyone, and there are ground rules:

• This is a safe space for anyone of good will.
• Disagreement is permitted and encouraged, but it must be done respectfully. Behave, people.
• Disgust and contempt are corrosive and are not permitted.
• I try to listen to all honest viewpoints, but I have no time for ad hominem.
• This applies to everyone, regardless of affiliation or political position. While I am disappointed with their behavior of late, I grew up among Evangelicals, and they are still my people. Don’t assume I will let you trash them.

Facebook (and politicians and much of popular culture) makes money by dividing and enraging us and calling it “engagement”. Difference does not require division nor does it imply evil intent. Don’t accept the lies we’ve been fed, that tell us it’s all their fault. Sometimes life is just hard, and it’s more productive to work on solutions together than to look for scapegoats.

Finally, Jesus (whom I want to be like) told us to forgive our enemies and welcome strangers as neighbors. Let’s take that seriously, even if, especially if, it is hard work.

Note: Facebook won’t let me post this and turn off comments. I don’t want any more argument, so I’ve just hidden the post for now.