The Burden of Needing Perfection

Barbie, Poor Things, and how marginalized art has to get everything right.

The best art serves as a mirror, a protest, a celebration, and a window into the souls of those who create it. When crafted by the hands of those from marginalized communities, art assumes an even more profound role, carrying the weight of voices long suppressed, stories systematically sidelined, and identities often erased. It becomes more than mere expression—it transforms into a vehicle of resistance, a path to hope, and a love letter to communities that refuse to be forgotten.

The goal of art created by marginalized communities, then, is often complex. It is, first and foremost, an act of reclaiming space in a narrative from which marginalized people have been conspicuously absent or grossly misrepresented. Through the stroke of a brush, the snap of a camera, the choreography of bodies in motion, or the poignancy of words on a page, our job as artists from these communities is to assert our existence on our own terms. We challenge the monolithic ideals imposed upon us by a society that often seeks to marginalize us further into the shadows of invisibility and periphery.

All of that said, to truly understand the importance of what marginalized artists do, one must understand the disparities and gaps found in the industries where we artists are fighting for space.

Despite years of advocacy and incremental progress, the Hollywood Diversity Report 2020 highlighted that only 14% of lead actors, 13% of directors, and 17% of film writers in Hollywood were from underrepresented racial and ethnic groups—figures that starkly contrast with the demographic fabric of America itself. This imbalance not only marginalizes the wealth of stories that emerge from varied communities but also perpetuates stereotypes, reinforcing a cycle of exclusion and misunderstanding.

In my industry, publishing, the disparities are no less stark. The 2019 Diversity Baseline Survey by Lee & Low Books revealed that 76% of publishing staff, review journal staff, and literary agents are white. This homogeneity at the decision-making level directly influences which stories are told, whose voices are amplified, and ultimately, who is seen as worthy of the mantle of authorship. Which is largely why only 6.28% of all registered authors in the US were Black as of 2020.

The implications of these exclusions are profound. When marginalized artists are stifled, it not only impoverishes the cultural landscape but also reinforces the insidious notion that some experiences are more valuable, more universal, more inherently worthy of attention than others. This is not merely a matter of missed opportunities for individual artists; it is a collective loss, a diminishment of society’s avenues towards progress.

This data, and these realities, are why the personal, political, and entertainment discourse around the film, Barbie, has been such a lightning rod. Even beyond typical misogyny.

To that last point, let me be clear: as a man, my focus in this essay is not to ponder the merits of Barbie, but rather, to unpack why the film is expected to stand for so much.

Transparently, I found Barbie to be an entertaining spectacle. Yet, it is a film that, by its very nature and origin, is entangled with a certain brand of white feminism that, while offering moments of fun and nods to empowerment, lacks a deep, intersectional interrogation of sex, race, and class. But the ultimate point of this essay is that lacking those things should be fine—it’s a movie based on a line of toys that were deeply problematic for decades—not a bell hooks book.

Ultimately, the film means a great deal to many women, and I love that for them.

But herein lies the larger issue: people shouldn’t expect that the billion-dollar earning Barbie, a product of a billion-dollar intellectual property, owned by a billion-dollar man-led corporation, will serve as a monument of comprehensive feminist thoughts and actions. At best, this expectation is misguided. At worst, this expectation creates reductive discourse that moves us nowhere.

The film operates within the confines of the most overt end of the capitalist scale, where the primary objective is not social revolution but profit. Even though that profit is made by leveraging the façade of social revolution. This is a phenomenon that we’ve seen a great deal of in recent years, capitalism dressing up as progressivism to gain even more market share (see corporations and the Black Lives Matter movement circa 2020). Thanks to Barbie, Mattel made a great deal of money, and the ultimate takeaway wasn’t that more women-centered films should be made, instead, the takeaway at Mattel was to make more movies about toys generally.

Barbie did exactly what it was supposed to do. It entertained, made money, and introduced many people to baseline concepts of feminism. But expecting Mattel to deliver a groundbreaking feminist manifesto that would change the world is akin to searching for profound existential truths in a McDonald’s menu. The critique here is not of the film's failure to be all things to all feminists but of our societal desire, and more importantly, our societal need, for such a monolith in the first place.

In other words, Barbie is not the problem—people are the problem.

For many women, the trauma endured in industries that scrutinize and marginalize, that demand conformity while simultaneously preaching individuality, finds a semblance of solace in the world of Barbie. Here is a story that, though wrapped in the hot pinks of Barbie Land, touches upon a truth seldom acknowledged: the right to be imperfect, to be oneself without the heavy chains of expectation. And yet, the fervor with which some women have embraced Barbie, elevating it to a pedestal it seemingly never sought, underscores a deeper, understandable desperation. It is the hunger for stories that validate our existence.

I know this feeling well, having lived with it throughout the entirety of my Black boyhood and manhood. It’s why the film, Black Panther, meant so much to me and many other Black people. Though, at the end of the day, it did not usher in a new era of Black representation or anti-racism. But why would it? It did about as much as a film can do when produced by a massive corporation such as Disney.

There’s a sad irony—that Barbie, a film which at its heart preaches the gospel of imperfection, should be burdened with the weight of being treated as a perfect representation of womanhood—is reflective of broader societal anxiety. We live in a world where the complexity of women's lives, the depth of their desires and fears, have often been reduced to men’s narratives, to symbols incapable of bearing the fullness of their truth. Barbie, in its essence, is an attempt to break free from these constraints. Yet, in the zeal to find a vessel for women’s collective hopes and frustrations, some have seemingly missed the moral core of the film.

Barbie is not perfect, nor should it be treated as if it is. To demand such from it is to engage in the same cycle of expectation and disappointment that has long plagued our dialogues around gender, identity, and representation. It is to overlook the beauty in what the film actually is, especially for those needing to simply see joy-filled womanhood.

Forcing perfection on Barbie also undermines the very essence of America Ferrera’s Oscar-nomination-earning monologue within the film, in which she states: “Like, we have to always be extraordinary, but somehow we're always doing it wrong”.

Gloria (America Ferrera) does her best to reassure Barbie (Margot Robbie) of her worth in Barbie (2023), Warner Bros. Pictures

Many people need to step back and accept that it’s okay if Barbie is not extraordinary in every way. That’s the point.

Instead, what has transpired since Barbie’s release, and more specifically, since its Oscar nominations, is the same thing that often happens with marginalized art. It has been navigated through a lens of broader cultural and societal fear that unless a piece of marginalized art perfectly encapsulates every facet of a complex ideology, it fails. This binary mode of thinking—where the art must either be perfect or wholly condemned—limits our capacity for nuanced criticism, understanding, and enjoyment. Though, again, I understand why this happens so often.

The trauma of existing in a patriarchal society is why, for millions of women, Barbie has become the chosen ground for contention. The arena where battles over representation, identity, and the very essence of feminism are waged with fervor and passion. How often, after all, does a cinematic venture that amasses a billion dollars at the box office dare to orbit around the gravitational pull of feminism, even if its execution is marred by white feminist imperfections, and compromises that betray its potential for radical discourse?

In this context, Barbie is not merely a film; it is a symbol, a soft place to land for generations of women thrown into craters of misogyny and sexism.

This is why the numerous accolades and nods of recognition Barbie has garnered, particularly those from the Oscars, carry such profound significance for its admirers. These nominations do not merely acknowledge a film's cinematic achievement; they serve as a broader societal validation, a collective acceptance to the importance of narratives that place women's rights, autonomy, and liberation at their core. In a world where such themes are often trivialized, or ignored altogether, the act of recognition by one of the most prestigious and influential platforms in the entertainment industry signals a potential shift in the cultural zeitgeist—a show of progress in the murky waters of gender politics.

But one should interrogate, does it really?

The consequence of so many women placing all their chips on Barbie’s perfection is not trivial; it frames public discourse, and casts a shadow on the merits not only of other cinematic works but also on the individuals who exist within the project. This is exemplified in the overshadowing of America Ferrera, a woman of color, whose Oscar nomination for her role in Barbie has been eclipsed by conversations centered around the star of the film, Margot Robbie, and her absence from the nominee list. The need for Barbie to do all things has derailed many conversations about the things it has done.

Even deeper, the focus on Margot Robbie’s “snub” versus America Ferrera’s nomination is a perfect metaphor for Barbie’s equity gaps. A film that sought to engage with feminist themes, yet failed to explore them through a more intersectional lens, inadvertently perpetuated the cycles of exclusion and erasure of women of color in real life amongst its fans.

Another example of Barbie fans focusing on the film’s ‘perfection’, versus its core tenants, can be found in its juxtaposition to the film, Poor Things. The film was also nominated for best picture at the Oscars, and stars Emma Stone, who was also nominated for an Oscar for her role. It emerged as a poignant feminist counterpoint to the glittering spectacle of Barbie. Within the quieter realms of indie cinema, Poor Things weaves a nuanced tale of feminism, sexuality, class, and the intricate web of societal constructs that bind and define us. Emma Stone's portrayal offers an exploration of a character's journey to self-actualization within a confining patriarchal society, a similar, yet more visceral character arc to Margot Robbie’s Barbie role. Presenting a more introspective and intersectional examination of themes that Barbie approaches with broader strokes.

The conversation, however, should not be about which film does feminism better. But rather, why after Barbie made over a billion dollars, Poor Things has made less than 15 million dollars. Though it was an indie film, if Barbie was truly a vessel to move feminism forward, wouldn’t some of its fandom and dollars have trickled into the equally feminist and Oscar-worthy Poor Things? Especially, seeing as it was released months later.

There was no audience or box office trickle down to something such as Poor Things, because that’s not what Mattel intended for Barbie to do. Which is the same reason why Barbie’s feminism did not elevate the discourse surrounding the myriad injustices afflicting women across the globe—the countless women ensnared in the violence ravaging Palestine, the women in the United States facing criminal charges for miscarrying, or the trans women who, year after year, find themselves disproportionately targeted, their lives cut short by a society that refuses to recognize their humanity. Mattel did not seek to make a film that could be a launchpad to conversations and learning about the many issues ailing women. And so they didn’t.

Again, expecting more from Barbie is our fault, not theirs.

Palestinian Barbies created by Wafa Ghnaim to help Palestinian girls feel seen and affirmed in light of Mattel not making an actual Palestinian Barbie.

We have to truly consider the delineation between the use of feminism and the advancement of feminism. Barbie, in its vibrant glory, was engineered by Mattel within the former, leveraging feminist motifs as adornments rather than tools of broad genuine progression. This is not to diminish the joy it brings nor the conversations it ignites, but to acknowledge the boundaries of its reach.

Progress, when filtered through the lens of capitalism, is often more about appearance than actual advancement. The success of Barbie does not signal a shift in feminist thought or a significant stride towards gender equality; it signifies that feminism can be packaged, sold, and consumed. The film, and the response to it, offered beautiful moments. However, to mistake these moments for a wholesale advancement of feminism is to misunderstand the nature of the system we operate within.

Capitalism, by its very design, is adept at co-opting movements, at turning dissent into dollars. It is a system that can celebrate the idea of feminism, so long as it remains profitable. Within the system, Barbie is joyous and entertaining. But we must recognize the difference between how it appears to create progress versus actual, substantive change.

Hence, our engagement with Barbie, and indeed with all art, must be nuanced. We can enjoy Barbie for what it is—a spectacle, a moment of fun, a fragment of progress. But we must also be vigilant in supporting art that accomplishes what Barbie cannot. Works like Poor Things, which mainstream commercial audiences often avoid.

The honest conversation we must have about the extent of Barbie’s capitalistic progress is not a dismissal of what is, but an invitation to dream of what could be. It is a call to recognize the value in both the spectacle and the quiet, profound moments of art that challenge us to see the world anew. By understanding the limitations of capitalism in advancing feminism, we can better appreciate the other spaces where progress is also being made, often away from the spotlight, in the margins, where the heart of the movement beats strongest.

So, let us enjoy Barbie for what it is, but let us also commit to supporting works that reach for what it is not.

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If you haven’t pre-ordered my debut poetry collection, “We Alive, Beloved,” remember pre-orders are deeply important for marginalized authors. Pre-order numbers tell booksellers and the media that a book has the potential of being successful and should be supported.

You can pre-order here: https://www.simonandschuster.com/books/We-Alive-Beloved/Frederick-Joseph/9781955905640