“You think I’d let him
destroy me and end up happier than ever? No [BLEEP]-ing way.
He doesn’t get to win.” Gone Girl’s Amy Dunne has been called
a lot of things, both in her world and in ours. “I said she was complicated.”
“Nick! Everyone knows ‘complicated’ is code
for ‘b-[BLEEP].’” Ever since director David Fincher
brought Gillian Flynn’s best-selling novel to the screen in 2014,
we’ve remained torn over whether Amy is an anti-hero or a villain—
a feminist icon or an irredeemable monster. “She went to extreme lengths
to make herself look victimized by men whose only sin was
not to pay her the attention she demanded at all times.” Amy has been called everything
from a femme fetale for the Me Too era,
to a plan old psychopath. “I’ve killed for you.
Who else can say that?” She’s continued to leave viewers
polarized over whether anyone should root for her—
or even sympathize with her. The divided reaction to Amy Dunne
speaks to our own feelings about female rage, a notably quiet
kind of anger that we normally expect women to suppress. “Cool Girl never gets
angry at her man. She only smiles in a chagrined,
loving manner and then presents her mouth for [BLEEP]-ing.” As Gone Girl shows us
through the story of a woman whose bottled-up disappointment
in her husband gradually curdles into murderous resentment,
this kind of repressed anger isn’t just common—
it’s accepted. “I know a few housewives.
That evening glass of wine starts coming at noon,
or prescription pills.” This is why, to some, Amy is
an anti-hero for letting that anger out, and for treating those everyday
transgressions like crimes deserving of vengeance. “He took and took from me
until I no longer existed. That’s murder.
Let the punishment fit the crime.” Here’s our take on Amy Dunne
as an exaggerated embodiment of female rage, what our reaction
to her says about our own gendered expectations,
and why Amy’s revenge doesn’t have to be empowering
to feel cathartic. You’re watching The Take.
Thanks for watching, and be sure to share and subscribe. This video is brought to you
by Mubi, a curated film streaming service showing
exceptional films from around the globe. It’s like your own personal film
festival streaming anytime, anywhere. “The primal questions
of any marriage: What are you thinking?
How are you feeling? What have we done to each other?” There is little doubt that
Amy Dunne is somewhat irrational. She faces a situation that,
however galling, is more or less typical:
Her marriage is failing, her husband is cheating on her,
and she’s losing her sense of self in the world. “I feel like something
he loaded by mistake. Something disposable.” But Amy’s response isn’t to get
a divorce, like most people would. It’s to concoct an elaborate set-up
that will end in her suicide, and Nick’s arrest and execution. “Then, Nick will die, too.
Nick and Amy will be gone.” This is an extraordinary solution
to an ordinary problem, yet there’s a cold logic to it as well:
Amy’s extreme reaction calls attention to just how often
we downplay these transgressions, and it forces us to reckon with
the disparity in how we expect men and women to behave. Much of the horror in Gone Girl
stems from just how normal Nick and Amy’s relationship seems. Their marriage is slightly unbalanced
and quietly dysfunctional— like a lot of marriages. “Everyone told us,
and told us, and told us— marriage is hard work.
‘Abandon all hope, ye who enter.’” And in these characters,
we can recognize exaggerated versions of the gendered roles
we’re asked to play to keep those dynamics alive. “When I met Nick Dunne,
I knew he wanted Cool Girl. And for him, I’ll admit,
I was willing to try.” Amy represents a hyperbolized idea
of society’s high expectations for women. She’s a classic overachiever
who thinks she can succeed at anything that she sets her mind to—
even crime. “I want a blood test.
I want a paternity test.” “I love tests.”
“Amy!” Amy’s need to be exceptional
has been with her since childhood. Her parents even created
a children’s book character based on her called Amazing Amy,
one that taught Amy from a young age that the world would always expect
more from her. “When I was ten, I quit cello.
In the next book, Amazing Amy became a prodigy.” Amy’s perfectionism proves to be
a double-edged sword. When she applies it to her own life,
she accomplishes remarkable things. “Amy is a decorated scholar.
She forged a successful career in journalism.” But when it comes to her relationship,
it creates an incredible strain. Amy is a winner—and seeing
her marriage falter because Nick refuses to keep up with her
destroys that perception. “We were the happiest couple
we knew. And what’s the point
of being together if you’re not the happiest?” Again, Amy and Nick’s dynamic
isn’t unique. Women are conditioned to put
more effort into their relationships; research shows that they still take on
most of the unnoticed responsibilities, like emotional labor and housework. “You need to clean, poorly,
like he would.” Meanwhile, men tend toward
social loafing, a psychological phenomenon where people put in
less effort in a group setting than they would individually,
assuming someone else will pick up their slack. The level of effort, commitment,
and emotional availability that’s required to be “a good husband”
is remarkably lower. “More games?” “Yeah, I just wanted to
shoot some folks.” “What’s the laptop for?”
“Laptop-ing.” And when Amy expects
as much from Nick as the world expects from her,
he feels unfairly targeted. “I would get knots in my stomach
just coming home, knowing she would be sitting there,
dissatisfied, before I even walked in the [BLEEP]-ing door.” But Nick also overlooks the fact
that he’s not even doing the bare minimum in their marriage. Amy’s expectations may be
inordinately high, yet Nick can’t even maintain
a baseline faithfulness to her— even when he thinks his wife
has been kidnapped. “We’re having a vigil tonight
for your missing wife, and this morning, you’re kissing
your college girlfriend goodbye!” Nick moves Amy away
from everything she knows, forces her to adapt
to his hometown and his life, all while he ignores and cheats on her. “He did the exact same thing
with her.” “That is the most disgusting
thing I ever heard.” “Thank you.” Nick never seems to consider
Amy’s feelings— if he even thinks about her at all—
which forces her to go to drastic lengths to get his attention. “You don’t know if
she has friends, you don’t know
what she does all day, and you don’t know
your wife’s blood type?” “Sure you all are married?” Nick’s descent into betrayal
and neglect is gradual, which is what makes it
all the more infuriating for Amy: She feels she’s been deceived. “I inspired him to rise to my level.
I forged the man of my dreams. But Nick got lazy.
He became someone I did not agree to marry.” After all, she also agreed
to play a role: In the film’s most iconic monologue,
Amy explains how she pretended to be the kind of Cool Girl
she knew Nick wanted. “I wax-stripped my [BLEEP] raw.
I drank canned beer, watching Adam Sandler movies. I ate cold pizza
and remained a size two.” She knew it was all a charade,
but Amy also knew that this is how the game is played—
and that if they could only keep up the act,
they could both be happy. But when Nick doesn’t hold up his end,
it leaves her playing another role. “I don’t get why you’re daring me
to be someone I don’t wanna be. The nagging shrew.
The controlling bitch. I’m not that person.” As she learns, it doesn’t matter
how well Amy plays the Cool Girl, because ultimately, the game is stacked
in Nick’s favor. As a man, he’s allowed
to remain oblivious and take advantage of all her efforts,
while the failure of their marriage only takes its toll on her. “Last night, I went
from desperate to pathetic. I became someone I don’t even like.
The kind of woman I used to mock.” In the end, Amy decides
the only way she can win this game is by turning those stereotypical
gender roles against Nick. “Nick Dunne dumped his beloved
like garbage.” As Gone Girl author Gillian Flynn
describes, Amy is “someone who knows all the tropes [...]
about being a woman and is not afraid to use [them]
to get her own way.” “Nick loved a girl
I was pretending to be.” The Cool Girl, the expectant mother,
the battered wife, the rape victim, the helpless prisoner; “Oh, my God.
Oh, I’ve encouraged him…” “You can’t blame yourself.” Amy weaves all of these
various identities into her scheme, using the perceptions
and assumptions around them to punish the men in her life. This is, of course, partly why
her character is so disturbing: as Flynn says, “[S]he’s made of
a bundle of stories that she’s pulled together. And at the [center],
she’s nothing.” But it’s also the reason
Amy is such a potent symbol. She’s nothing but the tropes
she performs, and she reveals that our culture is too inclined
to see women in the victim’s role: indifferent to their problems
until it’s too late, or oblivious to what
their innocence might hide. “Make them stop seeing her
as America’s Sweetheart and see her for what she is,
which is a mind-[BLEEP] of the first degree.” “For you, it-it sucks.
But you-you gotta have a grudging respect for your wife
at this point, right?” Plenty of viewers have offered
their armchair diagnosis of Amy— that she’s a narcissist, or suffering
from antisocial personality disorder. “She's framing me for her murder.”
“You married a complete psychopath.” But despite the pervasive idea
that there’s something wrong with her— and despite all her twisted crimes
and manipulations— many still find themselves
on Amy’s side. Even David Fincher agrees, saying,
“There are parts of the movie where I go, oh yeah, ‘Go Amy.’
I love Amy.” So what is it that draws us
to a character who seems so cold, calculating, and even a little crazy? “You think you’d be happy
with a nice Midwestern girl? No way, baby. I'm it.” “You're delusional!” One of the biggest factors is exactly
what leads Amy to her scheme in the first place:
Nick really does seem to deserve some kind of retribution. “Oh, look. He's being a good guy,
so everybody can see him being a good guy.” “Oh, you really don't like him, do you?”
“What's to like?” Even total strangers seem to pick up
on something that’s especially smarmy about Nick, something that is
disingenuous about him. “Or else you swing into your
momma's-boy charm offensive and that can feel glib.” Nick has a generally unpleasant
attitude that only makes it all too easy for the public to believe
he could have murdered his wife— and at first,
that goes for the audience as well. “When I think of my wife,
I always think of her head. I picture cracking her lovely skull.” By the time we finally learn
Nick didn’t kill her, we’ve also seen that he’s
not necessarily innocent. Even discounting the stories of
physical abuse that Amy invents to frame him, we’ve already seen proof
that Nick is abusive in other ways— and there’s clearly a dark side to him
we can’t ignore. “Nick, why have you kept this stuff?
It's like a little box of hate.” “I don't know, Go! Maybe I hate her!” But we’re also used to seeing
Nick’s behavior not just normalized, but celebrated. In many ways, Gone Girl feels like
a reaction to the lazy, self-involved manchild archetype who dominated
screens in the years leading up to the film’s release. “Nick's idea of culture
was a reality TV marathon, with one hand down his boxers.” Seeing Nick punished feels like a
cultural backlash to all the do-nothing men who get everything
they want without really trying— who get the girl anyway,
and who always get to be the good guy. “He needed to learn.
Grown-ups work for things. Grown-ups pay.” Nick’s laziness and ineptitude
is contrasted against Amy’s cunning and sheer artistry— “And because you're you,
you don't stop there.” another reason we may
find ourselves rooting for her. “Meticulously stage your crime scene,
with just enough mistakes to raise the specter of doubt.” After all, it’s not often we see
a criminal genius who, as Rosamund Pike claims,
“could never have been a man. She's purely female.” Amy isn’t just brilliant: She has
near-total control over her emotions. She’s unnervingly good at putting up
the feminine mask that lets women curb their reactions to avoid
being labeled hysterical— and using it to her advantage. Amy’s ability to detach herself
emotionally and remain unflinching in her commitment is just part of
what lets her pull off her scheme. Her character is actually
defined by strengths— like creativity, critical thinking,
and self-regulation— that she twists into particularly
effective abuses instead. “To fake a convincing murder,
you have to have discipline.” And in the process of her plotting,
she manages to prove that she’s largely been underestimated. “And Nick thought he was the writer.” When things don’t go
according to her master plan, Amy’s still able to improvise. She turns to her ex-boyfriend Desi
for help out of desperation, yet she knows exactly how to play
the role he demands. “I've been so mistreated for so long.
I've forgotten how to behave.”
“I'll move in here tomorrow,
and we'll work it out together.” And when Desi has outlived
his usefulness to her, Amy shifts seamlessly into the next phase,
doing whatever it takes to keep going—without hesitation. In the end, Amy provides us with
the ultimate revenge fantasy against entitled men,
and she tops it off with an infectious, albeit toxic, self-regard. “The only time you liked yourself
was when you were trying to be someone this c-[BLEEP] might like.” We can empathize with her reasoning
and appreciate her impressive flair for the dramatic—and all together,
it’s powerful enough to have us questioning why we’d cheer on
something we’d never openly condone. “She's telling a better story.” “No, Nick. She is telling
the perfect story.” Gone Girl has all the macabre magnetism
of the true crime genre— something Amy knowingly references
by adding credible, consumable elements to her story. “You need to package yourself so that
people will truly mourn your loss. And America loves pregnant women.” She makes sure to include
stories of domestic violence in her faked diary entries, “What scared me was
how much he wanted to hurt me more.” and she knowingly plays into
what the journalist Gwen Ifill termed Missing White Woman Syndrome:
taking disproportionate interest in and extending extra sympathy
and resources toward endangered white women. “Amy Elliott Dunne,
we care about you, and we will not forget.” Amy turns her life into
the kind of thriller she knows an audience won’t be able to
turn away from—and that includes us. “And if I get everything right,
the world will hate Nick for killing his beautiful, pregnant wife.” Amy’s exploitation
of these very real examples of victimized women
has earned Gone Girl its fair share of criticism. For playing into certain tropes—
like the manipulative wife who traps her husband with pregnancy,
or the idea that women make false allegations of sexual or physical abuse—
the film has been criticized as anti-feminist. “There's Amy. She's graduated
from being raped to being murdered.” Author Gillian Flynn told
Time Magazine that she’s even “been called a misogynist”
for creating a woman character who dares to weaponize her femininity
and use it for evil. “Wounded, raped wife battles her way
back to her husband, and he deserts her. They'll destroy you.” From a certain viewpoint,
the film is about Amy terrorizing and dominating Nick,
then essentially imprisoning him, forcing him to be
who she wants him to be for the rest of his life. “You went on national television
and begged for me to save your life. And I obliged.
But I want that Nick.” As Vox’s Emily VanDerWerff puts it,
“It depicts a men's rights activist's worst nightmare come to vicious,
bleeding life.” “She said I raped her.
First degree, felony rape.” “Did you do it?”
“Did you do it?” But as Flynn herself has countered,
the idea that a woman character can’t or shouldn’t be evil
is sexist in itself. To decry Amy as anti-feminist,
just because she does bad things, is an argument that relies on the
same old-fashioned gender stereotypes the film is investigating
and critiquing. Several critics have compared Gone Girl
to Fight Club, another David Fincher film in which a
charismatic, yet dangerous anti-hero pushes back against oppressive ideas
about gender and domesticity, channeling their suppressed rage
into violence. “I want you to hit me
as hard as you can.” “We’re so cute.
I want to punch us in the face.” As the New Yorker’s Joshua Rothman
elucidates, “In both stories, the characters rebel against the unbearable myth of
attainable perfection, substituting for it an alternative one of transcendent,
authentic, freedom-giving destruction.” “It's only after we've lost everything
that we're free to do anything.” “I am so much happier
now that I'm dead.” Yet whereas men—and even some women—
may see Tyler Durden’s rebellion as something principled and empowering,
they’re just as likely to sed Amy Dunne’s actions as selfish
and insane. The difference in those responses represents
the very sexism that Gone Girl is trying to call out:
We expect women to be victims, to quietly accept the everyday injustices
they endure. “And she floated down
past all the other abused, unwanted, inconvenient women.” While we may not agree with Amy Dunne’s
methods, if we’re honest about this imbalance, we can at least understand
where her madness comes from. “She is good.” “Amazing Amy
and the Humbled Husband.” As Gillian Flynn has said,
“Women have spent so many years girl-powering ourselves [...] we’ve left
no room to acknowledge our dark side. Dark sides are important.
They should be nurtured like nasty black orchids.” “Year four, flowers.
She led me outside to the dying rosebush in the backyard.” “That's symbolic.” Amy Dunne is fully in touch
with her dark side, and there is genuine catharsis in seeing
her nurture it and allow it to bloom— even if we recoil in horror
at what we uncover. “I can't watch you play house
with that thing for the next 18 years.” The rage and resentment she feels
is extreme yet relatable, and Nick and Amy’s story is emblematic
of just how much tension exists within our gender dynamics. “Promise me we'll never be like them.”
“Like who?” “All those awful couples we know.” As Ben Affleck himself puts it,
Gone Girl is “an indictment of how we lie to one another until,
eventually, the mask falls off.” “And then all we did
was resent each other, and try to control each other.
And cause each other pain.” “That's marriage.” The fact that we may find ourselves
rooting for Amy, despite all the bad things she does,
speaks to just how much we expect women to keep up their mask—
to do all the work of maintaining the lie. “When two people love each other
and can't make that work, that's the real tragedy.” And it shows us how terrifying,
yet liberating, it can be to watch as someone stops pretending
and finally lets it all go. “All right, you can stop
pretending now.” “I'm not pretending.
You were perfect.” If you’re new here,
be sure to subscribe and hit the bell to be notified
about all of our new videos. This video is brought to you by Mubi,
a streaming service we love. Every day, Mubi premieres a new film,
whether it’s a movie you’ve been dying to see
or one you’ve never heard of before. There is always something new
to discover. So, in this world where it’s very easy
to spend hours debating what you should watch,
Mubi is like having a really cool friend with amazing taste in movies
making it so much easier for you. They feature hard-to-come-by
masterpieces, indie festival darlings, influential arthouse and foreign films,
lesser known films by your favorite famous directors, and more. Plus, you can even download the films to
watch offline, and there are no ads, ever. This month, Mubi will present the
exclusive streaming premiere of Beats. In this film, dynamic director-producer
duo Brian Welsh and Steven Soderbergh invite audiences into the illegal
rave scene of 1990s Scotland. The coming-of-age story is one of the
most pulsating flicks of the year. We can’t recommend Mubi
highly enough. You can try it out now for free
for a whole month. Just click the link in the
description below.
