Dear Dickhead: A Feminist Exploration of Vulnerability and Connection

Dear Dickhead: A Bold Exploration of Feminism and Vulnerability

DEAR DICKHEAD, authored by Virginie Despentes and translated by Frank Wynne, continues to challenge societal norms through its unflinching portrayal of modern femininity. For years, the French author and filmmaker Virginie Despentes has championed a vital yet often overlooked demographic: “the old hags, the dykes, the frigid,” as she articulates in her groundbreaking feminist manifesto, “King Kong Theory.” She captures the essence of those women who rarely receive acknowledgment in the commercial landscape of consumable femininity.

Despentes’s characters are not your typical archetypes; they include the institutionalized, those filmed in the throes of passion, addicts, bigots, and even cattle in an abattoir. Her debut novel, provocatively titled “Rape Me,” features two young women who embark on a violent spree fueled by the trauma of a sexual assault. Despentes herself, a survivor of gang rape at the age of 17, considers this harrowing experience the cornerstone of her identity as both a writer and a woman who refuses to conform to traditional femininity. Her works resonate with a unique class of rageful punks, where the inherent physical vulnerability of being female is a recurring theme. In her narrative world, merely existing as a woman is often depicted as a relentless battleground.

Despentes’s latest literary venture, “Dear Dickhead,” is an epistolary novel that intricately weaves the correspondence between Rebecca, an aging film star, and Oscar, an author facing allegations of sexual harassment. Oscar serves as the titular “dickhead,” although Rebecca herself exhibits certain misguided, self-absorbed traits. What begins as thoughtless online vitriol—Oscar expresses his disgust at Rebecca’s transformation into a “fat, scruffy, with repulsive skin” figure on Instagram—quickly evolves into a complex and almost familial relationship.

Initially, Rebecca responds with understandable hostility, hurling back insults that would be deemed unprintable in more conventional forums. Oscar’s feeble apology—claiming he never expected her to see his scathing post—holds little weight. Yet, in a surprising twist, Rebecca finds herself responding almost against her better judgment; she begrudgingly acknowledges that Oscar’s audacity to both criticize and compliment her “commands a certain respect.”

The depth of their exchanges expands rapidly, traversing topics from mutual insults to discussions about Marguerite Duras, the insidious cult of Pilates, and the inadequacies of language in articulating the nuances of violence. As Despentes poignantly notes, “We have 45 words to describe shades of blue and only one to describe rape.” Interspersed throughout their correspondence are insights from Zoé, a young feminist blogger who accuses Oscar and becomes intricately involved in the lives of both characters. However, it is the dynamic volleying between Oscar and Rebecca that drives the narrative forward, and as the pandemic locks down Paris, their intimate connection deepens.