Quick, do me a favor: Picture a leading man in a romantic movie. What do you see?
There are only two possible answers here: a devilishly-handsome, awww-shucks Matthew McConaughey type, or a schlubby-cute Seth Rogen/Vince Vaughn. Maybe a hybrid of the two, a Mark Ruffalo kind of thing if you’re thinking creatively. And if you asked the same question regarding a female romantic lead, you either come up with these chilly, inaccessible blondes in the vein of Jennifer Aniston/Katherine Heigl, or you have the mostly-brunette, adorkably-petite fictional baby of Zooey Deschanel and Natalie Portman: the Manic Pixie Dream Girl.
The Manic Pixie Dream Girl, first coined by film critic Nathan Rabin in 2005, is a stock character in the cinematic world. It's a girl who's slightly-to-officially crazy and quirky-looking and comes into the life of a ho-hum, nothing-matters-to-me, Peter-Pan-Complex-having guy and changes him for the better, even if it means lots of strife and struggle and all that good stuff. The girl sprinkles her weirdo-fairy dust all over him and POOF, there's a psychological change that happens in this boring guy's head: he de-borings. Because she, in her (sometimes) tininess and (always) wackiness, possesses magical powers that the real life, even-keeled woman does not.
Sound familiar? Probably because you’ve experienced this same story over and over again in your movie theatre seat.
Maybe the Pixie Girl meets the male protagonist in the waiting room of a psychiatrist's office while she listens to The Shins on giant headphones.
Maybe she meets him in a mall, where she's playing a holiday elf because the jazz singing career is not working out so great.
Maybe she's a sometimes-cartoon manifestation of a slutty-repped out-of-town super heroine with ever-changing hair colors and an army of evil ex-boyfriends.
Maybe she has that same hair-changing color thing but is a bookseller at B&N who likes to ride the train for fun and drink too much sometimes.
Maybe she's an avid salsa dancer and pet ferret owner who likes spicy food and just can't seem to find her keys, ever!
Maybe she’s a former-lesbian comic book artist who likes to wear leather and have deep talks on swing sets.
Maybe she's chasing after some underground band in Brooklyn while trying to break it off with her abusive Israeli boyfriend.
Maybe she’s in a jogging and photography club, takes spontaneous trips to random states on dates and sings in a post-punk band that dresses up like sea creatures.
Maybe she's a restless commitment-phobe who plays house in Ikea and just loves The Smiths.
Maybe she's NOT A REAL PERSON.
I hate the Manic Pixie Dream Girl and the dream that comes along with her.
I hate this chick, because she perpetuates a newly-lax attitude among the male-kind regarding the pursuit of women. In no way am I endorsing centuries-old behavior of females sitting on their asses, waiting for dates to come along. At the same time, I am not NOT endorsing a new initiative that guys should up their game. They see a pixie like Summer (as in “500 days of...”) and wonder when their own passive-aggressive co-worker will wordlessly grab them in the copy room to claim them for her own.
This whole idea that a girl can capture a guy's attention just with her bevy of unique obsessions/agenda to "be free" is complete crap. These Manic Pixie Dream Girls are never focused on getting the guy to like them — they just focus on themselves and their personal discovery and in doing so, ooze some chemical out of their pores that attracts the guy with utmost power and force. Doesn’t that sound fantastic, falling in love via self-absorption? The MPDG never tries, she just does.
In real life, there is no such oozing chemical. Pheromones do something, I guess, but that's left on sweaty basement dance floors. Outside said basements, people actually have to make a mutual effort to get together. No magic wand available. No spontaneous, life-changing trip to an abandoned scenic outdoor locale.
It's the little things like stupid phone calls (if people still do that — not really sure if they do, but they should) and opened doors and laughing over coffee until it comes out of someone's nose. The Manic Pixie Dream girl will not sit on a couch and watch TV with the guy she’s kidnapped to transform into her male counterpart/soul mate. No-siree. Random break-ins to public pools for pool sex to acoustic guitar background music? Yes. Greasy Chinese takeout? Nope. Romantically-lit dive bar karaoke with her surprisingly-throaty singing voice? Yes. Walking the dog down the block? No. You get the picture.
Do people actually DO these things? Are there pools to break into without security cameras? Does every girl wearing a vintage pinstripe dress also have the voice of an indie angel? It’s cool that the MPDG puts the power into female hands to romance the guy (and by romance, I mean ever-so-chill hint-drop as a lead to passionate love-making), but it’s ridiculous to even picture myself pulling any of the shit that these girls do onscreen. The best MPDG-inspired move I can think of involves buying a bottle of wine and two cheap glasses at World Market, inviting the guy in question back to my dorm, prancing about the tiny room to look for a corkscrew, pouring us each a little to drink, and asking him to tell me his life story. Quaint, slightly unrealistic, but kind of doable. And kind of stupid of me to assume the guy likes/doesn’t feel emasculated by pinot noir.
Yes, I am a confident young woman, mostly un-manic and completely un-pixie (I prefer falsa magra, a term I learned from Indulgent Midlife-Crisis Nightmare Girl hit, “Eat Pray Love”). But do I feel like screaming at the top of my lungs when I see instagram-y Facebook pics of real life MPDG-impersonators at parties? Yes. Because in my heart, I’m aware that their tiny, retro, guy-chasing schtick is working out better than my whole writing about things I want instead of getting them schtick.
Does the Manic Pixie Dream Girl ever listen to Top 40 hits? Does she ever rock a pair of sweatpants? Pretty sure this would be called “surrender.” The second you kill the Urban Outfitter’s soundtrack-singing birds that fly behind her, she turns into a REAL GIRL, stripping her of that special alternative magic. And that makes her sound like a pot brownie. Ugh.
All I’m trying to say is that guys need to be wary of the MPDG dream It’s on par with the Disney princess complex that many of us girls had/have, and neither is healthy or realistic in the slightest. There will be fake Prince Charmings and fake Clementine Kruczynskis no matter where you go, but here’s the kicker: even actual Prince Charming and actual Clementine are fake. Opt out of the cinematic dictation of love (or whatever it is that you’re looking for on any given night) and try to find someone who isn’t a stock character. Look for someone who’s got one extra dimension.