Because what male dinos don’t see is that Jurassic World isn’t just another sci-fi action movie. With its park populated entirely by lady-dinos, it’s a “Gaia-ist conception of how dinosaurs might solve their own crises”… that passes the goddamn béchamel test, OK? Case closed. It’s like Little Women, but Goliath, Beaked, Horned, Scaly Women, or like Mad Magyarosaurus: Fury Road (though, admittedly, the human roles in Jurassic World just don’t cut it like they did in the latter film).
Men can’t handle the fact that the whole aim of the film is to upend the desires of the Indominus Rex — herself an emblem of heteronormativity and old-fashioned ideas of feminine longing. Audiences think she’s just some kind sociopathic terror, but the reason she’s gone so batshit is because she’s caught up in all these projections of what women are supposed to want. “Way down deep in the reptile brain,” she’s just going through something all us modern gals go through: yes, she wants a career, yes, she wants success, but really, society keeps telling her she needs a man, yet here she is on this Lesbos-like island! She wants some D (ugh, fine, penis-ish cloaca), but there’s no penis-ish cloaca to be found! So she begins to pillage, to destroy — and ultimately, it’s other, more enlightened female dinosaurs (the Velociraptors and the T-Rex) who fight against the normative sociosexual quagmire she’s gotten herself in. Male dinosaurs sense that they are irrelevant to this fantasy, and it’s like: please. Go watch Goodfellas (because all that ball-busting has been scientifically proven to make female viewers literally explode. They’ve been laying down tarps before screenings at the Film Forum). Us ladies can ovary-punch on our own, thanks!
Ovary-punching, btw, means backhandedly complimenting each other, preferably in the presence of tampons, feminine condoms, pregnancy tests, placentas, cover-up, and chocolate. (And it’s just the way it is that Jurassic World gals always congregate around the mauled carcass, just like the Golden Girls.) Men cannot be present for ovary-punching because their icky cigars (aka PHALLIC SYMBOLS, amirite?) and card games (ladies: what’s a card?) and drinks (um, I don’t understand what these things are) and retractable penises and large caudal chevrons and distinct cranial crests make everything they do inexplicable, and it’s like, no thanks, pour me another glass of period blood. To a man, the Indominus Rex is a vicious killer, but to women, she’s just someone who’s been fed one too many societal norms. I can imagine what Jurassic World be like if it were told by a man, and it isn’t pretty:
Chris Pratt plays Owen, the rugged hero on a motorcycle who’s so in touch with the most important core values of life as to also be able to communicate with other, prehistoric life-forms: he’s a Velociraptor trainer. Meanwhile, Bryce Dallas Howard plays Claire, an off-putting careerist whose professional aims have turned her into a callous, heartless wretch in expensive capes, who forgets the ages of her nephews. When the hyper-ambition of Claire and the CEO of their dinosaur theme park leads to mass destruction, it’s up to Owen to save the day (with Claire at his side, even shooting something, once!) and help Claire realize a thing or two about caring, family, and maybe — someday even — motherhood.
Hah! Good thing that’s not exactly the plot of the film!
So, dinoEs. Sip from thy DivaCups, shake those booties (and egg-laying-facilitating medullary bones!), and at all costs, cover those ears (do we even have those?) the next time you hear some man mention Jimmy the Gent or Billy Batts, because you will literally just fall down dead.