Laurie Penny: Hey Baby - Playing out feminism's fantasy

Hey Baby’s not big or clever, but boy is it cathartic

Let’s be clear: this video game is neither an incitement to real-world crime nor a manifesto for lasting social change.

There are moments in life when every girl wishes she were packing an AK-47. As a morose-looking sort of person, I regularly get instructed to smile by strange men in the street, and without wishing to criticise men’s indisputable right to pass public judgement on absolutely any woman’s appearance and demeanour, too much of that sort of thing can make even the gentlest soul long to execute the leering scumbags with a great big gun.

Now, there’s a video game that lets you play out that fantasy.

The makers of Hey Baby have created an urban street simulation from the point of view of a woman walking home in the evening. As you pulverise digital aggressors into a welter of pixellated meat, headstones appear displaying their obnoxious comments. It’s not big and it’s not clever, but it is cathartic.

Video-game violence can often feel uncomfortable -- especially against a backdrop of real-world tragedy. Hey Baby, however, is neither an incitement to real-world crime nor a manifesto for lasting social change.

“It’s definitely not feminist to fantasise about shooting men,” says Ellie Levenson, author of The Noughtie Girl’s Guide to Feminism, “although I can imagine it might be quite satisfying sometimes.”

Across the web, furious male commentators have decried the game as sexist, but part of their anger might also have to do with discomfort about a system that models male privilege from a female perspective.

"You can file Hey Baby with any of the games which suggest that hyperviolence is an acceptable response to an everyday frustration," says the author and games critic Kieron Gillen. "The game isn’t about mowing down men. It’s about male privilege, and how male privilege feels."

“It fills me with rage that a stranger on the street feels at liberty to demand that I smile, and now someone's made a game that’s an outlet for that rage,” wrote Leigh Alexander, a games journalist. “So many guys in the street are jerks that I often feel like I have to force a polite attitude.

"It takes my power away and makes me an object in front of people I don't even know, and that's not OK, whether they're nice about it or not.”

Hey Baby taps into the everyday violation of private space that is part of the lives of most women living in cities.

The most subversive aspect of the game is the way it translates what men often see as individual compliments or comments into an atmosphere of sustained threat not so different from that of most first-person shooter simulations, where players understand that violent monsters might lurk around every corner.

Video-game violence often evokes the darker sort of petty wish fulfilment. “It’s about expressing transgressive thoughts, and that’s not always positive,” says Gillen. Men’s transgressive fantasies, as ever, get plenty of airing -- from games such as Grand Theft Auto to pornography to brooding films such as A Clockwork Orange or this week’s The Killer Inside Me, we are bombarded with opportunities to contemplate the darker side of men’s desires.

Men’s violent thoughts are so deeply encoded in our cultural orthodoxy that, when a real-life tragedy such as last week’s Cumbria massacre does occur, we are invited to understand it in a context of bloodthirsty fantasy, which is implied to be fundamental to the male psyche under stress. This line of argument is deeply insulting to men, not to mention to victims of violent crime and their families.

All human beings have ugly thoughts, and the disjunction between everyday transgressive fantasy and the type of violent, premeditated hate that obtains a real weapon and goes on a real murder spree is enormous. And contemporary cultural production sees plenty of use in exploring men’s violent impulses, often to the point of insensitivity.

But what about women’s dark, secret fantasies? We get plenty of cues as to what advertisers think women should fantasise about, mostly involving giant shoes made of chocolate, younger-looking skin and wild sex with men who wear a particular brand of deodorant. But what if there were more? What if women, too, had bad thoughts and private daydreams too transgressive for polite society? What if we fantasised about responding with criminal violence to everyday harassment? What if we wanted to make men afraid? What if we wanted money, status and power? What if we wanted to rule the world?

In 1861, John Stuart Mill declared in The Subjection of Women that male culture would be incomplete “until women themselves have told all that they have to tell . . . As yet, very few of them may tell anything which men are unwilling to hear.”

Almost two centuries later, the true subversion of projects such as Hey Baby is their revelation of how rare it still is that culture and media are experienced from a female point of view -- especially if that point of view isn’t smiling, sexy and submissive.

Laurie Penny is a contributing editor to the New Statesman. She is the author of five books, most recently Unspeakable Things.

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There are only two rules for an evening drink: it must be bitter, and it must be cold

A Negroni is the aperitif of choice in bars everywhere from London to Palermo - and no wonder.

The aperitif has the odd distinction of being the only alcohol that can always rely on a sober audience: it is the opener, the stimulant, a spur to the appetite for good food and good conversation. This preparatory beverage is considered the height of sophistication, and certainly nobody labouring in field or factory ever required a pep to their evening appetite. Still, to take a drink before one starts drinking is hardly clever behaviour. So why do it?

One reason is surely the wish to separate the working day from the evening’s leisure, an increasingly pressing matter as we lose the ability to switch off. This may change the nature of the aperitif, which was generally supposed to be light, in alcohol and character. Once, one was expected to quaff a pre-dinner drink and go in to dine with faculties and taste buds intact; now, it might be more important for those who want an uninterrupted meal to get preprandially plastered. That way, your colleagues may contact you but they won’t get much sense out of you, and pretty soon they’ll give up and bother someone else.

The nicest thing about the aperitif, and the most dangerous, is that it doesn’t follow rules. It’s meant to be low in alcohol, but nobody ever accused a gin and tonic or a Negroni (Campari, gin and vermouth in equal portions) of that failing; and sherry, which is a fabulous aperitif (not least because you can keep drinking it until the meal or the bottle ends), has more degrees of alcohol than most wines. An aperitif should not be heavily perfumed or flavoured, for fear of spoiling your palate, yet some people love pastis, the French aniseed drink that goes cloudy in water, and that you can practically smell across the Channel. They say the scent actually enhances appetite.

Really only two rules apply. An aperitif should be bitter – or, at any rate, it shouldn’t be sweet, whatever the fans of red vermouth may tell you. And it must be cold. Warm drinks such as Cognac and port are for after dinner. Not for nothing did Édith Piaf warble, in “Mon apéro”, about drowning her amorous disappointments in aperitifs: fail to cool your passions before sharing a table, and you belong with the barbarians.

On the other hand, conversing with your nearest over a small snack and an appropriate beverage, beyond the office and before the courtesies and complications of the dinner table, is the essence of cultured behaviour. If, as is sometimes thought, civilisation has a pinnacle, surely it has a chilled apéro carefully balanced on top.

The received wisdom is that the French and Italians, with their apéritifs and aperitivos, are the experts in these kinds of drinks. Certainly the latter are partial to their Aperol spritzes, and the former to such horrid, wine-based tipples as Lillet and Dubonnet. But the English are good at gin and the Americans invented the Martini. As for Spain, tapas were originally snacks atop a covering that kept the flies out of one’s pre-dinner drink: tapa means lid.

Everywhere, it seems, as evening approaches, people crave a drink that in turn will make them salivate: bitterness, the experts tell us, prepares the mouth to welcome food. The word “bitter” may come from “bite”, in which case the aperitif’s place before dinner is assured.

I like to think that a good one enables the drinker to drown all sour feelings, and go in to dinner cleansed and purified. Fanciful, perhaps. But what better lure to fancy than a beverage that exists only to bring on the evening’s pleasures?

Nina Caplan is the Louis Roederer Pio Cesare Food and Wine Writer of the Year

Nina Caplan is the 2014 Fortnum & Mason Drink Writer of the Year and 2014 Louis Roederer International Wine Columnist of the Year for her columns on drink in the New Statesman. She tweets as @NinaCaplan.

This article first appeared in the 22 September 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The New Times