Greta Gerwig’s Barbie (2023) has been celebrated for its playful critique of gender dynamics, bringing pink-fueled debates about patriarchy and matriarchy into mainstream conversations. But while it glimmers with feminist intent, the film trades nuance for a dollhouse version of gender politics, leaving crucial complexities boxed away.
I didn’t think twice before choosing Barbie as a pop culture artifact for one of my graduate school reflection assignments. The choice took me back to the time when Tofa, my friend, and I went to watch Barbie on the big screen, fully aware we were going to dislike it -- but the extent of our dislike? That was unfathomable to both of us.
While Barbie’s global success, propelled by Mattel’s corporate muscle, raises interesting questions about how feminist struggles are commodified for mass appeal -- questions that complicate its messaging -- those are discussions for another time. I mean, there must be some reason why Sultana’s Dream, despite its similarly imaginative take on matriarchy, didn’t spark as much hype -- perhaps because it lacked Barbie’s neon glow and the backing of a toy empire, not to mention the wildly different contexts of time and place.
I’m not here to dismiss other perspectives, but for me, there are still aspects that warrant critique.
The film tries to reflect the kaleidoscopic diversity of women (a Hijabi Barbie, a Barbie using a wheelchair), but when it comes to men, the narrative stays flat. Masculinity is shown as one-size-fits-all: Universally privileged and conveniently devoid of intersectional nuance. This oversimplified take makes patriarchy look like an all-men-against-all-women club, erasing the struggles queer men face within heteropatriarchal societies and ignoring how privilege and oppression overlap across intersections like class, race, and sexuality.
Take Bangladesh, where effeminate men -- another kind of “alternative masculinity” -- are stigmatized, bullied, and ostracized. These men don’t bask in patriarchal privilege; they battle a heteronormative framework that penalizes their divergence from the husky-voiced, physically strong, hetero ideal; and they’re not alone.
Queer and trans men globally face legal, social, and economic marginalization, as seen in contexts as varied as Turkey (Shakhsari, 2014) and Bangladesh (Hasan, Aggleton, & Persson, 2018). To imply that all men enjoy patriarchy’s spoils is not only reductive -- it’s factually incorrect.
If we’re serious about dismantling patriarchy, we need to understand its complexities -- not just the Ken-doll version
Even Barbie’s exploration of male privilege in the “real world” feels uneven. When Ken revels in admiration despite his “funny” wardrobe, the film misses a chance to ask: What about men who defy conventional masculinity? The stares they receive are far from admiring. In countries where queerness is not only marginalized socio-culturally but also criminalized legally, admiration is unlikely to be part of the equation. This gap in Barbie’s narrative paints a picture of privilege that many men don’t recognize in their own lives.
It’s not just about men, though. Barbie’s dichotomous portrayal of privilege and oppression erases nuances in women’s experiences, too. For instance, while the movie attempts inclusivity by featuring Black women, it strips them of cultural specificity. End of the day, Barbie is white, positioned at the top of the social pyramid, leaving little room for culturally diverse representations of womanhood. Arab Christians, Black Muslims, and Afro-Natives are not depicted in ways that reflect their unique cultural elements.
It’s like a makeup brand bragging about an inclusive shade range, but forgetting undertones -- diversity that looks good in theory but falls flat in execution. This absence of cultural specificity underscores the film’s neglect of class and intersectionality. Across cultures, women negotiate with patriarchy in ways that don’t always align with feminist ideals. The film’s patriarchal monolith lacks the cultural and contextual textures that define real world gender dynamics.
Patriarchy, after all, is not one-size-fits-all. It’s an ideological system that mutates across contexts, stratifying both men and women along lines of race, class, and sexuality. Connell and Messerschmidt’s work on hegemonic masculinity reminds us that the patriarchy Barbie lampoons favours the heterosexual, able-bodied, husky-voiced Ken over his queer or racially marginalized counterparts. But Barbie presents this hierarchy as a gender war, men versus women, while missing how men and women can oppress -- and support -- each other in different ways.
Gerwig’s Barbie shines as a cinematic spark for gender discourse, but its overuse of “patriarchy” as a blanket term ends up smothering nuance. By portraying men as a homogeneous group universally empowered by patriarchy, the film obscures the intricate realities of privilege and oppression. If we’re serious about dismantling patriarchy, we need to understand its complexities -- not just the Ken-doll version.
So, again, at the risk of sounding like one of those critics who disliked Barbie just because they’re men -- let me clarify: It’s not simply because I’m a man. Well, perhaps partially, because as a man who advocates for more frequent conversations about transnational feminism and third-world feminisms within both academic and activist spaces, I recognize the importance of centering intersectionality in these discussions.
Social change isn’t just about bold gestures; it’s about asking the hard questions -- rethinking what kind of social change we should aspire to and how we can achieve it. While Barbie is bold and bright, let’s remember that true social change isn’t plastic -- it’s intersectional.
Mashaekh Hassan, Graduate Teaching Assistant, Centre for Women, Gender, and Sexuality Studies, Florida Atlantic University.