Extra: Surrendering to Barbie

Joe emerged from our Friday matinee of Barbie manifesting pink SUVs in the movie theater’s parking lot. “Look!” he exclaimed with amazement. “They’re all pink!” I informed him he was hallucinating, and that the vehicles in question were, in fact, white. But his misperception was understandable after spending two hours plunged in a cotton candy dreamland that would make even the drabbest among us want to reach for the pink.

And while the rest of America raided its closets or bought sparkly new outfits to show unbound Barbie fervor, I, ever the contrarian, wore black and grey. My palette was a holdover from a mere month ago -- before I succumbed to Barbie fever and its attendant marketing juggernaut. I had originally planned to boycott the film.

At some point, however, I gave in. It might have been when the infectious new Dua Lipa earworm from the Barbie soundtrack burrowed its way into my psyche. Or when the news media started to cover the phenomenon with the same tenacity as it reserved for Ron DeSantis’s spiraling presidential campaign. But mostly, it was sheer curiosity that led me to see this movie that had reached the apogee of Zeitgeistiness. 

I am still processing my reaction to Barbie. It is no trifle. While it may at first have felt like an unsolicited Women’s Studies issue dump, I got to thinking.

As a male who did not play with dolls, I needed some investigation to learn that the challenge in making this film was that its heroine has at once no backstory and too many (from Malibu Barbie to Mermaid Barbie to Sporty Barbie to Cowgirl Barbie). I had certainly never pondered that the 1959 arrival of a first-ever adult doll had revolutionary implications because little girls had previously only been encouraged to imagine themselves as mothers-in-training while playing with baby dolls.

My sister’s response to the film was one of disappointment -- she wanted a sweet summery confection that would explore the various Barbies and not go above the heads of the little girls wearing pink tutus. My sister-in-law, who has not yet seen the film, hoped that it would not be hijacked by serious issues even though she articulated a natural, hard-won grasp of the film’s core message of impossible patriarchal expectations.

Try as I might to empathize, I have never walked a mile in Barbie’s high heels. What I expected to be mindless summer entertainment turned out to be a bait-and-switch that made me reflect on my male privilege. 

I told Joe I wanted to see Barbie again. I might get more out of it knowing what I’m in for. 

Wearing pink clothing to see the film initially seemed like a capitulation to marketing; now I see it as an expression of solidarity with Barbies everywhere. I own a bright coral polo shirt that I plan to trot out for my next trip to Barbie World. If you can’t beat the ubiquitous Barbies, you might as well surrender to the pink.