#69 ‘Tootsie’
Wigs, Wokeness, and the Man Who Had to Be a Woman to Respect One
Tootsie (1982) is often hailed as a feminist comedy, a progressive farce, a “sensitive” satire where Dustin Hoffman learns what it’s like to be treated like a woman. Which, of course, begs the question: Why do men only believe misogyny exists after they try on pantyhose?
Hoffman plays Michael Dorsey, an insufferable, unemployed actor whose reputation for being “difficult” (read: arrogant, manipulative, and allergic to direction) gets him blacklisted. So what does he do? Reflect? Apologize? Grow? Of course not. He puts on a dress and lies his way into a soap opera role as “Dorothy Michaels,” a no-nonsense, empowered Southern nurse—and is immediately applauded for being the strong female character women apparently couldn’t write for themselves.
The film spins this as redemptive. Michael, living as Dorothy, finally sees the sexism women face: being dismissed, patronized, objectified. And we, the audience, are supposed to clap for his epiphany like he just cracked cold fusion. Yes, Dustin. Women are treated like garbage. But they didn’t need your cross-dressing intervention to find that out.Jessica Lange plays Julie, Michael’s co-star and eventual love interest, whose biggest narrative function is to fall for Dorothy, get confused, and then forgive Michael once he rips off his wig and monologues about how she “taught him to be a better man.” And let’s be clear: she does the emotional labor. He gets the character arc. She gets gaslit on national television and is expected to swoon because he learned something.
The film’s central joke—that a man in a dress becomes a better person—is delivered with charm, yes, but also condescension. Michael doesn’t become a woman. He performs one. And somehow, that’s framed as more subversive and powerful than anything the actual women in the story manage to accomplish. Teri Garr’s Sandy is neurotic and expendable. Lange’s Julie is saintly and two-dimensional. The real story is the man behind the mask, as always.
To its credit, Tootsie has sharp writing (thank you, Elaine May, ghostwriting uncredited miracles as usual), a killer supporting cast (Bill Murray is a deadpan gift), and enough screwball pacing to keep the manipulation moving. And yes, Hoffman gives a layered performance, toggling between ego and empathy. But the film congratulates itself too loudly for noticing sexism, then takes a bow without cleaning up the mess.
3 out of 5 falsies
(One for the script’s wit. One for Lange’s grace under narrative pressure. One for the moments of real insight that slip through the self-congratulation. The missing stars? Still waiting for a version of this story where a woman gets to be funny, flawed, and free without needing a man in drag to tell her how strong she is.)
