Witchcraft Barbie, accessories sold separately

Oh, Barbie. The name that has launched a thousand think pieces, and trust me, I've read them all. From the pink-fueled fanatics to the radical critics, and your weird uncle's screed buried ten comments deep on Facebook; yup, I read that all that shit. I started my dive into Barbieland when my feminist movie night watched Tiny Shoulders. Opinions about this doll are as diverse as her questionable career choices – doctor, lawyer, astronaut, Czech folk dancer… you name it, Barbie's done it. Now, this new movie has ignited the ultimate showdown: a cosmic clash between those who worship the blonde goddess, those who see her as a patriarchal nightmare, and those who claim the film is radical woke feminism gone awry(not even close, btw. It's brought to you by fucking Mattel.)

Of all the think pieces, the Wild Hunt's was by far my favorite. Hold onto your wands, because Meg Elison decided to throw the ancient myth of Inanna into the Barbie blender, and it works. Yep, we're talking about a descent to the underworld, folks. To be honest, nothing seems more hellish to me than southern California, and I would prefer my Malibu Dreamhouse, well, not in Malibu. So I get it. While the Wild Hunt might be down for that intellectual deep dive, I'll let you read that piece for yourself. The parallels are there, and intentional or not, I can see what they're saying. But that wasn't the part of the movie that choked me up.

Let's talk about the real bombshell – Barbie wants out of plastic paradise and into the realm of cellulite, stretch marks, and vagina ownership. The beauty of that moment; her hands in Ruth Handler's, feeling the beauty and wonder and magic of an incarnation into this real and harsh world? The montage of women of all ages? A loving female Creator giving her female creation informed consent and agency, free of original sin? That's magic.

And that's where Barbie got my cynical little heart. I, a frumpy brunette with big ass feet and disappointing boobs who had longed so desperately to be Barbie, for the magic of adolescence to hit me like a pink Jeep Wrangler and jolt me into Barbiehood... I had it good. She would want to be a real woman like me here on Earth, cellulite and all. Sure, it's a Margot Robbie version of womanhood, not a Stella Gramina one. 

But it still is a pretty fucking dope choice to make.