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Bloody Women

Bloody Women is a horror film journal committed to platforming viewpoints on horror cinema, TV and culture by women and non-binary writers.

Good For Her: On Shortcut and Bad Boyfriends

 
Shortcut.jpeg

By Stefania Sarrubba

CONTAINS SPOILERS FOR SHORTCUT

“Love that journey for her; for him… not so much.” could be the unofficial tagline of Shortcut, one, ahem, sharp short film from Censor director Prano Bailey-Bond.

Written by Conrad Ford, this 2016 gem plunges the knife — or rather, a pair of rusty scissors — right into the centre of toxic masculinity. 

As the protagonist couple drives into the night, viewers get reluctantly acquainted with Kurt (Danny Devall), designated driver and Sunshine’s (Joana Borja) horrible boyfriend. A top lad more interested in his slicked-back hair than his sleeping girlfriend’s safety, Kurt has no idea what fresh hell awaits him at the next turn, right by an ominous “scissors danger” traffic sign.


Shortcut delves into emasculation in a gloriously graphic way guaranteed to make mensquirm in their seats. Released as part of Film4’s horror series Fright Bites, it offers a glimpse into some of the elements that would make Censor so visually intriguing just a few years later. Like Bailey-Bond’s feature debut (opening in the UK this week), this 5-minute film abounds in grim, neon lighting and gut-wrenching gore as it crosses the lines between reality and imagination. Shortcut, however, differs from Censor in at least one crucial aspect. The short film’s over-the-top overtones manage to turn its pivotal, most violent scene into a moment played for laughs.


Shortcut is terribly funny, and props go to Devall for his delivery. Kurt displays such an insufferable array of problematic behaviours in under four minutes that the audience isn’t exactly devastated at the idea of him writhing in excruciating pain. 

A cheater and an irresponsible driver actively endangering his partner’s life, this male lead must have a “bad boyfriend of the year” sash with his name on it hidden in his closet. This, according to the unscripted laws of the genre, is enough for him to deserve unspeakable suffering.


Whilst an unsuspecting Sunshine is still enjoying her car nap, Kurt stops for a quick wee. And here it is, an arm entering the frame from behind a bush, wielding a pair of scissors as a weapon of choice. Those who wish Bailey-Bond wouldn’t just go there are sorely mistaken. As if crawling out of a TV screen, the scissors zap and chop Kurt’s most precious asset, and it’s a hyperrealistic sight to behold.

What did he think the scissors sign stood for? A short fringe alert? Nah, he probably thought he was entering some girl-on-girl action zone catered to his intoxicated, watery-eyed gaze. Well, think again, my dude.


Shortcut doesn’t shy away from breaking the ultimate taboo about masculinity in a refreshing manner. Other instances of cinematic castration have cemented themselves into popular culture, particularly in rape-revenge narratives. Two of the most prominent examples are rape-revenge fantasy I Spit on Your Grave (1978) and comedy horror Teeth (2007), featuring rapists saying goodbye to the supposed centre of their virility. 


Emasculation occurs as the culmination of a sexual act in both films, proving these stories might be female-fronted but are still enslaved to the male gaze. In the 1970s seminal horror, Jennifer (Camille Keaton) gives a hand job to one of her rapists before severing his penis. On the more recent Teeth, quite self-explanatorily, Dawn’s (Jess Weixler) own curse and superpower reside inside her vagina. The fact that, in the finale, she accepts to have non-consensual sex in order to protect herself from dangerous men is quite the oxymoron.

In Shortcut, on the other hand, castration isn’t the punishment for something abominable such as rape, nor is connected to anything remotely sexual. Bailey-Bond and Ford flip the argument for onscreen, gratuitous violence as art — too often used when addressing casual cruelty against women in horror — on its head in a way that is both shocking and entertaining. 

The short doesn’t stem from the vagina dentata (Latin for toothed vagina) trope either. Fully explored in Teeth, this myth was a cautionary tale discouraging rapists by putting the blame on women as threatening creatures. On Shortcut, Sunshine is not responsible for Kurt’s emasculation. A mere, distracted bystander who benefits from her bad boyfriend’s untimely demise, this female lead is more similar to the “good for her” woman than she is to Jennifer or Dawn.

Originated from the meme-worthy Arrested Development (2003-2019) scene starring legend Jessica Walter, this trope has found its way in internet culture to define aloof, female villains getting away with appalling crimes. These are usually at the expense of those who have wronged them, especially their shitty male partners. 


The expression most recently described Florence Pugh’s character in folk horror Midsommar (2019). Hailed as a feminist tale, the Ari Aster-directed film sees protagonist Dani not just being a spectator, but the ultimate culprit of her bad boyfriend Christian’s (Jack Reynor) murder in that ghastly, but oh so pleasing finale. 


While Sunshine isn’t directly involved in Kurt’s likely fatal injury, it is interesting to finally see a Black woman in the overwhelmingly white “good for her” canon. Shortcut’s female protagonist’s journey is relevant in relation to Dani's, as one could argue that both characters are in no fit state to be in control of their actions.


Sunshine is cradled by the soothing night sounds, lulled into a false sense of security by a supernatural, scissors-wielding force at work for her. In Midsommar, Dani is a grief-stricken lead who is manipulated and steered by the members of a pagan cult. They both smile once the despicable deed is done, unbothered by the screams of those boyfriends who have treated them unfairly.

Stefania Sarrubba is a feminist entertainment writer based in London. When she's not working on her infinite, absolutely non-comprehensive watchlist, she can be found thinking about your dog, rage knitting and mostly just staring into the void.




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Olivia Howe