Asexuality and Queerphobia in ‘Sherlock’

Sherlock is a fantastic show. As you can probably guess, it’s inspired by the works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, but imagined in modern-day London. Benedict Cumberbatch’s Sherlock is arrogantly cerebral and painfully introverted, finding a perfect foil in the loyal and more rational ex-military doctor John Watson (Martin Freeman). Together, they form your classic unlikely pair that brings out all the best in each other, intensified by the adrenaline rush of high-stakes crime solving. The jokes are witty, the pacing is breakneck, and the emotion is genuine.

Sherlock promotional still.
Sherlock promotional still.

Written by Erin Tatum.

Sherlock is a fantastic show. As you can probably guess, it’s inspired by the works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, but imagined in modern-day London. Benedict Cumberbatch’s Sherlock is arrogantly cerebral and painfully introverted, finding a perfect foil in the loyal and more rational ex-military doctor John Watson (Martin Freeman). Together, they form your classic unlikely pair that brings out all the best in each other, intensified by the adrenaline rush of high-stakes crime solving. The jokes are witty, the pacing is breakneck, and the emotion is genuine.

One of the main appeals of the show is the allegedly overt homoeroticism between Sherlock and John. It’s been television standard for a while now to feature bromances that play to the audience with tongue-in-cheek gay subtext. However, showrunners Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat delight in turning every episode into a perpetual game of gay chicken. The driving force behind the development of Sherlock and John’s relationship seems to be “let’s see how gay make them before we’re obligated to establish legitimate sexual tension.” They live together, work together, and regularly admit to their love and infatuation with each other. Almost every other character will either tease John about his implied crush or outright assume that they are a couple.

Sherlock and John hold hands while escaping.
Sherlock and John hold hands while escaping.

That feels pretty progressive, right? There’s been a recent onslaught of praise for bromances as essentially the only vehicle for mainstream acceptance of queer subtext, as if male emotional expression in itself is queer. If the “Johnlock” dynamic were allowed to persist on its own, I might be willing to begrudgingly stomach yet another instance of subtextual breadcrumbs being hailed as a watershed moment for queer inclusion. The problem is that any potential for alternative readings of their relationship is deliberately and painstakingly squelched by John’s constant and resentful vocalization of his heterosexuality.

Sherlock’s sexuality appears to be a source of fascination for John from the get-go. He professes to being open-minded, curiously interpreting Sherlock’s lack of social awareness to a carefully constructed veil over his personal life and somehow extrapolating that back out to internalized homophobia. John insists that he’s perfectly fine with Sherlock having either a girlfriend or boyfriend. All self-loathing queers need to snap out of their funk is lukewarm tolerance from straight people! Undeterred by Sherlock’s indifferent denial of a relationship with anyone, John conducts similar interrogations of Sherlock’s other friends, but fails to draw any concrete conclusions on Sherlock’s romantic history or orientation.

Mrs Hudson and John.
Mrs Hudson and John.

For someone who considers themselves to be so liberal towards others, John certainly has a lot of anxiety about his own sexuality. He reacts to every playful insinuation or misguided perception of his relationship with Sherlock with weary and sometimes angry defiance. When (spoiler alert) John informs their elderly roommate Mrs. Hudson that he’s met someone, she excitedly asks if it’s a man or woman, acting surprised when he informs her that he’s engaged to a woman. Growing impatient with her goodnatured skepticism, John irritably shouts, “I am not gay!” Insert laugh track here. This is why I can’t get behind any endorsement of bromance as the best mainstream queer tofu. Fuck the people who worship countless heterosexual male friendships as groundbreaking because they include a few zany domestic scenarios and the occasional double entendre. John’s sexuality is used and abused as the butt of the joke and he’s not even gay, which is somehow almost more insulting than if he were actually gay. The implication is that each reference to homoeroticism chips away at his manhood and slowly unravels his self-assurance, suggesting that no matter how progressive you claim to be in the abstract, to be queer is to be always anticipating humiliation. Moffat and Gatiss, we are well aware John is straight. Making him squirm for shits and giggles is unnecessary and juvenile. If you coyly stigmatize and degrade an identity to obsessively remind the audience everything that your characters are not, you wind up being just as exclusionary and discriminatory as shows that steer clear of queer subtext altogether.

highfunctioningsociapath
Sherlock deftly deflects mental health stigma.

Of course, any discussion of queer baiting draws focus from the other elephant (not?) in the room: Sherlock’s probable asexuality. Sherlock himself proclaims that he is a “high functioning sociopath,” but his difficulty grasping social cues as well as his astronomical intelligence also parallel the traits of Asperger’s. John in particular links this supposed diagnosis to his peculiar absence of romantic interest. When John investigates the matter with Sherlock’s friends, he isn’t trying to determine if Sherlock has a preference for men or women, he’s trying to suss out whether or not Sherlock has the capacity to feel at all. I should acknowledge that the narrative has never concretely established Sherlock actually having a mental disability. Nonetheless, the message that disability and asexuality are linked is unfortunate in a number of ways.

This aspect of the show creates an ideological war within me. On one hand, the tired and apparently benign stereotype that disabled people fundamentally lack any sort of sexual impulses makes me want to rip my face off and feed it to hyenas. On the other hand, asexuality is a completely legitimate orientation that should be respected and the fact that Sherlock may or may not have Asperger’s is entirely coincidental. Don’t think too hard about it though! The fact that that Sherlock doesn’t want to get laid only comes into play to underscore his characterization as a freaky weirdo with adorably oblivious, borderline misanthropic tendencies. Sherlock’s asexuality ironically leaves open a wider array of pansexual opportunities in the minds of many viewers. By the laws of television, the absence of something (especially sex-related) must be alluding to the presence of something. His romantic apathy is so uniform and universal that you can make an argument to pair him with just about anyone. It’s nearly impossible in modern society to fathom anyone being completely devoid of sexual desire. Consequently, a lot of viewers choose to simply attribute this potential lack to Sherlock’s extreme social awkwardness. He may want someone, but his chronic inability to feel empathy could obscure what’s going on behind the mask.

Sherlock kisses his friend Molly after realizing she has feelings for him.
Sherlock kisses his friend Molly on the cheek after realizing she has feelings for him.

To be fair, Sherlock does not deny accusations of loneliness and has rare moments with women that could be interpreted as ambiguously romantic. I don’t care who Sherlock ends up with or if he ends up with anyone at all. The point is that I wish that it would be portrayed as acceptable for Sherlock to be asexual even if that’s not the case. He doesn’t want to pursue anyone, so why should we perceive his choice as repressive denial? This assumed cat and mouse mysteriousness conveniently also influences viewers to judge femininity and female characters on their ability to properly facilitate traditional masculinity within Sherlock, ergo sexual activity. Sherlock doesn’t need to wait around for whoever is judged as sufficiently Manic Pixie Dream Girl enough to awaken his libido. His friendship with John illustrates that Sherlock can still be a compelling character with emotions and compassion and meaningful relationships without having a love interest. He doesn’t need to have a partner to satisfy cliché character development and growth arcs. He is fine on his own, especially if he wants to be that way.

Sherlock and Molly kiss passionately.
Sherlock and Molly kiss passionately.

The writers have recently thrown the audience a few bones since we apparently can’t have a male lead without a few panty-dropping moments. (Spoiler alert) Much of the comedy during this series three premiere stems from the wild speculation as to how Sherlock faked his own suicide. One theory features Sherlock sharing a dramatic kiss with Molly, a lab assistant whose unrequited crush on Sherlock is regularly presented as pathetic and delusional. The other theory shows Sherlock sharing a giggle with his arch nemesis Jim Mortiary before suddenly leaning in for a kiss. It’s no accident that both accounts are initially established as actual events, revealed as fantasy sequences only when an outside character interjects and abruptly shatters the illusion.The person who proposes the homoerotic Sherlock/Mortiary hypothesis is a Gothic teenage girl addicted to social media, in a not-so-subtle lampoon of the yaoi fangirl stereotype. (A ballsy move in light of the predominantly female Johnlock fanbase.)

Sherlock and Moriarty have a moment...at least according to some.
Sherlock and Moriarty have a moment…at least according to some.

Needless to say, the episode was fantastic. I always enjoy when creators are able to poke fun at their own material. However, as far as the messages it sends, I’m reluctant to fully embrace it. I’m a sucker for shows that boldly go meta, but the undertones of those silly fantasies are hard to ignore. The fact that Sherlock kisses people in both sequences feels too deliberate. It’s as if Sherlock’s capacity for intimacy is meant to be the moment where the audience recognizes this chain of events as absurdly implausible. But why? If we’re all supposed to be secretly rooting for Sherlock to blossom into a Lothario, why does it feel so laughably ridiculous? Further, gleefully dangling wish fulfillment to tease the question of Sherlock’s orientation mocks the perceived inadequacy of and frustration with its absence. Fueling the widespread conviction that Sherlock has to be lusting after someone deep down contributes to continued asexual erasure.

There are many great things about Sherlock. It’s far and away one of the strongest television series in recent years. Ultimately, that doesn’t make the show immune to valid social critique. For a franchise that capitalizes on and even structures itself around queerness, Sherlock is pretty damn queerphobic. To laud subtext as representation is lazy, but more importantly, a show that regularly invokes queerness as mean-spirited comedy shouldn’t be considered a milestone because it perpetuates discrimination and pats itself on the back to boot. Giving a minority a thumbs-up while winking at the status quo is just two-faced demographic pandering. If there’s a case that Sherlock needs to solve, it’s why we continue to confuse vaguely defined tolerence with progressivism.

Gillian Anderson, Feminism, and BBC’s ‘The Fall’

The most important thing The Fall is doing, though, is calling out misogyny. Yes, Gibson gets to hand it to Spector, the serial killer, labeling him a “weak, impotent” misogynist, but we already knew that. What I find more intriguing is the way the show implicates the police force and the audience itself for the casual misogyny, assumptions, and stereotypes that perpetuate victim-blaming.

The Fall Poster Text

Spoiler Alert

The Fall is a BBC2 crime series starring Gillian Anderson of X-Files fame as Detective Superintendent Stella Gibson in charge of a serial killer case in Belfast. In a lot of ways, The Fall reminds me of the show The Killing because both feature female leads who are strong, capable, and dogged. The way in which The Fall differs, though, is that it impressively wears its feminist agenda on its sleeve.

Before I get into all the amazing things that The Fall is doing right, I want to get out of the way the biggie that I think it’s doing wrong. While this series is taking huge strides to turn a particularly sexist genre on its head, The Fall, like many crime shows, exploits the bodies of the women who are victimized. The camera lovingly caresses and lingers upon these women’s terror, their struggles, their bound limbs, their exposed flesh, and finally their corpses. The excuse can be given that it’s all in the name of “getting into the killer’s head”, but the camera’s gaze goes too far into the realm of prurience, ultimately becoming gratuitous and indulging in fantasies of rendering women helpless and objectified. This is a dangerous trope that threatens to dehumanize its female characters (and women in general), which is the OPPOSITE of what The Fall is trying to do.

Victim
Soon Annie Brawley is bound & prone weeping for her life, her vulnerability sexualized.

Granted the objectification and sexualization of victimized women is disturbing (to say the least), but conversely The Fall provides its lead heroine a strong, unapologetic sexuality. Stella Gibson picks out a sexual partner at a glimpse (fellow officer James Olson who seems to be working the Irish equivalent of Vice), openly propositions him for a one night stand, has sex with him, and then refuses to engage with him afterwards because he can’t keep it casual. Gibson takes on the traditionally ascribed male role as sexual pursuer as well as the one who dictates the terms on which the encounter occurs.

Superintendent Stella Gibson is a woman who knows what she wants.
Superintendent Stella Gibson is a woman who knows what she wants.

Due to an unexpected turn of events, Gibson is repeatedly questioned by her police force colleagues about her relationship with Olson, each interrogator is male, and each is accusatory and incredulous at Gibson’s behavior, judgmental of her unapologetic sexuality, her unwitting role in Olson’s infidelity to his wife, and her lack of remorse for her actions as well as her lack of attachment to a man with whom she spent a single night. In a way, these men even go so far as to heap some measure of blame on Gibson for Olson’s death. With a self-satisfied smile, one of her questioners asks, “When did you first meet Sergeant Olson?” Gibson replies,

That’s what really bothers you, isn’t it? The one night stand. Man fucks woman. Subject: man. Verb: fucks. Object: woman. That’s ok. Woman fucks man. Woman: subject. Man: object. That’s not so comfortable for you, is it?

DSI Gibson seems to always have to hold her ground when it comes to her male colleagues.
DSI Gibson has to hold her ground when it comes to her male colleagues.

My jaw dropped when Gibson delivered this speech. She simply and elegantly exposes all the sexism inherent in everyone’s attitude toward her private sexual relationships. She unearths the wider cultural misogynistic discomfort with female sexual agency. I wanted to clap or call someone and say, “It’s happening! Feminism is hitting mainstream TV with a brutal right hook!” Yes. Yes. YES.

Inherent in Gibson’s self-assurance about her sexuality is an even greater independence and self-possession. Gibson is the shining star of a cast full of strong, capable women who take charge when necessary and are very professionally accomplished. In fact, the serial killer solely targets women he finds threatening and emasculating due to their career success (we may or may not learn more about this in the as-yet unproduced Season Two). Not only are many of the female cast members strong, but they’re well-developed AND friends with one another. First, we’ve got the up-and-coming Constable Dani Ferrington played by Niamh McGrady.

Ferrington deeply regrets not taking the break-in at the house of future victim Sarah Kay
Ferrington regrets not taking seriously the break-in at Sarah Kay’s home.

Ferrington very casually comes out as gay to Gibson, her commanding officer. Gibson takes the information just as casually, which is refreshing. Ferrington also strives to protect Gibson by cleaning up her hotel room of its evidence of “male company”. Gibson doesn’t hide her encounter with Olson, but Ferrington’s effort to shield her friend and superior’s private life is admirable. Not only that, but Ferrington comes clean about having responded to a break-in call from one of the serial killer victims and admits that she may have been knocking on the victim’s door while the murder was occurring. Though this admission means Ferrington may face potential charges of incompetence and blame, she behaves with integrity, putting the case above her personal stake in the matter. Ferrington is ambitious, honest, and loyal, and Gibson recognizes and appreciates those qualities and promotes her onto the serial killer case.

Another example of powerful women not only liking each other but working together (and not competing) is the relationship between Gibson and the case’s pathologist, Dr. Tanya Reed Smith, depicted by the talented Archie Panjabi (Panjabi also adds a bit of much needed diversity to the cast).

Chief Medical Examiner Reed Smith & DSI Stella Gibson
Pathologist Tanya Reed Smith & DSI Stella Gibson

Reed Smith is a highly respected police medical professional…who arrives at a crime scene on her motorcycle (badass).

The doctor arrives in style.
The doctor arrives in style.

Together, Reed Smith and Gibson examine crime scenes, review the details of the case, and talk about their personal lives. We find out Reed Smith has two daughters and is deeply troubled when she has to perform exams on live victims. With Reed Smith, Gibson lets down her guard and is far more open and honest than she can be with her male co-workers about her transient lifestyle and the duality she finds necessary to separate her professional and private lives. The women bond, sharing coffee and alcohol in friendship and as an important release from the stress of the case.

Strong female characters: Reed Smith & Stella Gibson.
Strong female characters: Reed Smith & Stella Gibson.

In an unexpected turn of events, Reed Smith shares with Stella a bit of information gleaned from a college friend about an old abusive boyfriend who may match the killer’s M.O. Gibson interviews the victim, and we see this as a potential break in the case. This plot development is crucial because it illustrates the power in the unity of women. Though the old abuses went unreported, this network of women remembers the crimes. Gibson is then able to use her new-found knowledge against the serial killer (Paul Spector played by Jamie Dornan).

The most important thing The Fall is doing, though, is calling out misogyny. Yes, Gibson gets to hand it to Spector, the serial killer, labeling him a “weak, impotent” misogynist, but we already knew that. Even other misogynists can probably recognize that murdering women for sexual pleasure is over-the-top. What I find more intriguing is the way the show implicates the police force and the audience itself for the casual misogyny, assumptions, and stereotypes that perpetuate victim-blaming.

Gibson geared up at a crime scene.
Gibson geared up at a crime scene.

Gibson must insist that the victims not be identified as “innocent” because it implies some women, especially ones coded as sexual, might then be more deserving of brutal murder. Gibson refuses to indulge the media in the virgin/whore dichotomy, and she also declares that no judgements against the victims or their life choices are allowed. With the early blunder in which Ferrington and her partner didn’t take the break-in at victim Sarah Kay’s house seriously, we begin to see that this kind of stereotyping and victim-blaming can be deadly. It takes the emphasis off the perpetrator, and it increases the likelihood of repeat occurrences of crimes against women while also making those crimes less likely to be solved. The Fall is then exposing institutional sexism and misogyny in a radical and important way.

Gibson stalks her prey: a woman killer
Gibson stalks her prey: a woman killer

I’m excited to see what Season Two of The Fall will have in store. I trust it will continue to depict its female characters with integrity while ferreting out corruption within the police force and illuminating the nuances of institutional misogyny. It’s wonderful to have a well-produced, well-written, and excellently performed TV show that really strives to advance a feminist agenda. Though this approach seems revolutionary, it’s bizarre that we have so many crime shows that focus on the victimization of women that somehow do NOT employ a feminist lens. I hope The Fall is the first of many crime shows that don’t use the abuse and murder of women as a punchline or an empty premise, but as a means to expose a great inequity in our world that must be corrected or else women will continue to be beaten, abused, raped, and murdered at an alarming rate.

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Amanda Rodriguez is an environmental activist living in Asheville, North Carolina. She holds a BA from Antioch College in Yellow Springs, Ohio and an MFA in fiction writing from Queens University in Charlotte, NC. She writes all about food and drinking games on her blog Booze and Baking. Fun fact: while living in Kyoto, Japan, her house was attacked by monkeys.

Friendship, Fandom, and Female Agency in ‘Lost Girl’

Supernatural shows and crime shows are a dime a dozen, but something amazing can happen through the fusion of the two. Putting a no-nonsense Action Girl at the center is just icing on the cake for Lost Girl, which has consistently managed to capture lightning in a bottle for four seasons.

Lost Girl logo.
Lost Girl logo.

Written by Erin Tatum.

Supernatural shows and crime shows are a dime a dozen, but something amazing can happen through the fusion of the two. Putting a no-nonsense Action Girl at the center is just icing on the cake for Lost Girl, which has consistently managed to capture lightning in a bottle for four seasons. The show follows Bo (Anna Silk), a succubus, and her human companion, Kenzi (Ksenia Solo), as they unravel the mysteries of the Fae, a secret supernatural society hidden in plain sight. At the beginning, episodes tended to fit the mold of a campy CSI parody. Expect rapidfire snarky one-liners. One of Lost Girl‘s most endearing qualities is its embrace of all things cheesy. Plus, you’ll be treated to countless cameos of every Canadian actor that you’ve seen in anything ever.

Bo doesn't mess around.
Bo doesn’t mess around.

Over time, Bo’s overarching journey to find her identity takes increasing president in the narrative. Torn between the factions of dark and light Fae, she perpetually struggles to retain her independence in a world defined by labels. Drawing obvious parallels to society’s stringent policing of women’s roles, pretty much everyone Bo encounters tries to force her to pick a side or fill her with self-doubt by insisting they know her true nature – evil and manipulative. Her rebellious nature also applies to her sexuality. As a succubus, Bo feeds off sexual chi to survive, meaning that superficial constructions of orientation don’t hold much weight since intimacy is essential. While the idea that a woman literally needs sex to live could inspire a flurry of unfortunate stereotypes with respect to slut shaming and biphobia, no one bats an eye at Bo’s sexual appetites and she has serious romances with both men and women. If anything, her queerness seems to have set off a domino effect of subtle pansexuality in the rest of the cast. Trust me, you won’t find another show with more ambiguous same-sex sexual tension.

Lauren and Dyson hug it out.
Lauren and Dyson hug it out.

Now, it may make you groan to see yet another female protagonist saddled with a love triangle. Lauren (Zoie Palmer), a human doctor, and Dyson (Kris Holden-Reid), a werewolf, vie for Bo’s affections. Their rivalry did feel a little high school-esque for awhile, with many Lauren/Bo fans viewing Dyson as nothing more than a one-dimensional heterosexual love interest for the sake of it (which he kind of is, but to be fair, you can only do so much with the macho personality type). Far more intriguing than Dyson and Lauren’s initial sparring is the budding friendship between the two. Imagine, love interests that don’t have to be defined by antagonism or possessing someone! The fact that Dyson and Lauren discover that they can form a relationship outside of their respective entanglements with Bo is a testament to the writers’ commitment to the characters individually and willingness to explore all types of chemistry, not just romantic.

"Kenzi" flirts with "Bo" (as Dyson).
“Kenzi” flirts with “Bo” (as Dyson).

In keeping with that theme, Lost Girl always finds new terrain to explore, frequently through “alternate universe” episodes where anything goes. There doesn’t appear to be any fandom fantasy that the writers aren’t willing to at least momentarily indulge, particularly with romantic pairings. Sometimes the AUs reach Inception levels of intricacy as a way of nodding to multiple fan bases at once. A recent episode featured Bo traveling through Dyson’s memories via Dyson’s point of view with the caveat that her subconscious would insert people that she knew. As a result, Kenzi flirts with Bo (as Dyson) and Bo has sex with Lauren…as Dyson. Yes, four pairings in one fell swoop. That’s why it’s just plain fun to be a fan of Lost Girl. Fandoms are often maligned by showrunners as rabid, obsessive, and demanding, threatening to destroy coherent narratives by relentlessly pressuring the creative team to cater to their every whim. I’ve been a long-time fan of several shows that I wound up bitterly regretting because the writers develop so much resentment for fan feedback. Lost Girl managed to find a brilliant way to make fans feel heard without derailing story arcs.

Bo and Kenzi.
Bo and Kenzi.

The pièce de résistance of the series is Bo and Kenzi’s friendship, which provides a rare shining example of an unbreakable bond between women. Given that Bo’s love life is constantly in flux, she needs someone to be her rock. Kenzi vocally confirms her heterosexuality in the pilot. At first, I was annoyed that it was such an unnecessary #NOHOMO announcement. In hindsight, immediately designating their relationship as arguably the only dynamic without sexual undertones enables Bo and Kenzi to represent an entirely different sort of love. Each of them will drop everything for the other, including partners. Women are always encouraged to see other women as competition and liabilities, so it’s refreshing to see a friendship with such mutual respect. No matter who they end up paired off with respectively, you get the feeling that they’ll always be in each other’s lives. I think we all need a little reassurance that ultimately, true friends never really leave us.

With any TV show, you’re going to have people complain about declining quality. Lost Girl is no exception. However, I have to give the writers credit for not being afraid to try new things. Each season has fallen into the pattern of having a nebulous mega-villain. That admittedly gets a little stale, but I ultimately stay because the interpersonal relationships are so damn charming. My favorite recurring theme of Lost Girl lies in the simple reminder that relationships are complicated and there’s usually a lot more to them than meets the eye. By refusing to pigeonhole anyone’s characterization, the writers allow the cast to form a group connection that feels organic precisely because they’re so mismatched and fallible. If all else fails, it’s always delightful to watch a fiery succubus kick some ass with good old-fashioned girl power.

Exploring Bodily Autonomy on ‘American Horror Story: Coven’

From the get go, female sexuality in Coven is positioned as dangerous, sometimes deadly and something that people will try over and over again to control. In the first episode, a young witch, Zoe Benson, comes to the knowledge of her powers by accidentally killing the boy she chooses to have her first penetrative sexual encounter with, one of the few fully consensual sex acts we see on Coven. She literally kills a man with her vagina. The message that female sexuality is dangerous if not deadly is hammered home with the language Cordelia uses to welcome Zoe to the school for witches. The other girls claim that Cordelia wants them to suppress their witchy powers, and she responds, “Not suppress–control.” She expresses the idea that their powers are dangerous unless they are strictly controlled. This is not a subtle metaphor for the repression and control of women’s bodies and sexuality.

This is a guest post by Gaayathri Nair.

The horror genre is not commonly kind to women. It has a tendency to rely on violence against women for cheap thrills and is notorious for positioning women as passive objects. Ryan Murphy and Brian Falchuk have claimed that American Horror Story: Coven is an explicitly feminist season of American Horror Story. Previous seasons of American Horror Story have attempted to address sexism and misogyny in the horror genre. However, both American Horror Story: Murder House and American Horror Story: Asylum relied heavily on both the objectification of and violence against women as a plot device.

There are definitely cool things about Coven. The core cast is made up entirely of women, and each one of them is richly developed and three-dimensional. Overall, the show is deliciously complex and there are many plotlines that attack certain issues in an interesting way. One of the key concerns of Coven appears to be bodily autonomy, both in terms of gender and race, and many of the storylines can be read as explorations of the issues surrounding bodily autonomy. I think that the first episode of Coven serves as a great microcosm for how the show handles these issues so I will focus my analysis on that while bringing in content from later episodes where relevant.

Coven opens in 1834 New Orleans in the house of Madame Delphine LaLaurie, a real historical figure. She is having a dinner party and over the course of the dinner party we are introduced to the fact one of her daughters has her eye on Bastian, a house slave. Later that night, La Laurie’s nighttime ablutions are interrupted by her husband telling her that during the dinner party her youngest daughter Pauline had sex with Bastian. What follows next is horrifying. La Laurie abuses Pauline physically and verbally and then says, “You know what we’re gonna say? We’re gonna say that he took you by force like the savage he is.” Bastian pleads his innocence stating that “Pauline came on to me and I told her I belong to someone else.” Bastian is a helpless victim in a power game being carried out by two white women. Bastian is taken upstairs to La Laurie’s torture chamber where she says, “Bastian, if you want to act like a beast then we’re gonna treat you like one.” She then proceeds to place a bull’s head over his own and turns him into a Minotaur, the literal embodiment of racist assumptions about black men–part man part beast. The whole scene is thick with imagery that calls to mind the myth of the black buck or brute .

   american-horror-story-minotaur

The scene works well at subverting the myth as Bastian’s clear innocence is juxtaposed with LaLaurie’s depravity. The other slaves in the attic have been horribly tortured and when one of them asks her, “Why are you doing this to us?”  La Laurie flippantly replies, “Because I can,” once again reinforcing the power structures at play. It is thought that between 1865 and 1895 approximately 10,00 black men were lynched, ostensibly for the crime of raping white women, although only about one third of these people were actually accused of rape and those who were, were mostly in consensual relationships with white women. Bastian has no bodily autonomy; he is completely at the mercy of the white women who own him. Pauline uses his body because she can and Delphine dehumanises him because she can. It illustrates the truth about the destructive racist myths that surround black men that they are just that–myths. Black men have much more to fear from whiteness than the other way round.

From the get go, female sexuality in Coven is positioned as dangerous, sometimes deadly and something that people will try over and over again to control.  In the first episode, a young witch, Zoe Benson, comes to the knowledge of her powers by accidentally killing the boy she chooses to have her first penetrative sexual encounter with, one of the few fully consensual sex acts we see on Coven. She literally kills a man with her vagina. The message that female sexuality is dangerous if not deadly is hammered home with the language Cordelia uses to welcome Zoe to the school for witches. The other girls claim that Cordelia wants them to suppress their witchy powers, and she responds, “Not suppress–control.” She expresses the idea that their powers are dangerous unless they are strictly controlled.  This is not a subtle metaphor for the repression and control of women’s bodies and sexuality.  She emphasises that the world they live in is dangerous and they must protect themselves as best they can by only using their powers in tightly controlled situations.

Coven’s exploration of the repression and control of female sexuality falls down for me later on in the episode where there is a graphic depiction of a drugging and gang rape of one of the young witches. Madison Montgomery is a character who appears to be modeled on Lindsay Lohan–a once successful film star whose career has become overshadowed by substance abuse problems and her eccentric behaviour is drugged and gang raped by frat boys who film the attack on their phones. This is obviously meant to call to mind the Steubenville case.

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Madison sizzles on the screen; she is sexy, confident, and aggressive. It is unsurprising, from an analytical perspective, that she is the one who is raped. The manner in which it happens and her interactions with the instigator before the fact, where she commands him to go get her a drink, makes it seem like she is being punished for her confidence and sexual availability by being drugged and raped by a pack of frat boys. This ultimately serves to support rape culture narratives. I cannot see anything subversive about this story arc. Madison gets her revenge when the frat boys try to escape on their bus by using her telekinetic powers to flip it over–killing most of them. I think the writers view this as the ultimate feminist payback fantasy, especially as Madison is the quintessential imperfect rape victim, one who would be unlikely to ever see justice through the court system.

There are some positives; for example, it is made exceedingly clear that it is the frat boys who are at fault. However the damage is done, regardless of intention the show reinforces, not subverts the myth that only “bad girls,” i.e. girls that have sex on their own terms and dress provocatively, are the ones that get raped. This flies in the face of the truth about rape–that it is something that can happen to any woman regardless of her dress or demeanour. The show does get one thing right: drug-facilitated rape is one of the most common forms of rape, but that type of rape doesn’t just happen to sexually aggressive beautiful girls.

Rape culture positions women generally (because of the impossible standards) but “bad women” in particular as being deserving of or asking for their assaults. While we know that it is the frat boys who are at fault, the juxtaposition of Madison’s actions with the rape creates a certain subtext. If only she was nicer, if only she wasn’t so rude and arrogant, this would have never happened to her. The lead frat boy clearly wanted to take her down a peg.  At its core, the whole story arc serves to reinforce rape culture tropes. Furthermore, the depiction of the gang rape is deeply disturbing, cutting between Madison’s point of view and the rapists. It is fundamentally objectifying and serves to glamorise violence against women.

 ahs-coven-queenie

These lessons about female sexuality are followed through in later episodes, particularly episode three where Queenie, the only fat and black witch that lives in the house, attempts to seduce the Minotaur that has been sent by Marie Laveau, the voodoo practitioner, to attack the witch school in episode three. She winds up being attacked; we don’t know exactly what happens to her but it is severely debilitating. Once again a woman who was, perhaps problematically, trying to own her sexuality is punished for it. Queenie also equates herself as a fat black woman as something analogous to Bastian the Minotaur–society sees them both as something monstrous. I can’t decide if presenting this actually subverts or supports the idea. Fat women generally and fat black women in particular are constantly dehumanized in our society and this scene could be read as purely reinforcing that; at the same time it holds up an uncomfortable mirror to the world we live in. Queenie is not being mocked or used for laughs, she is expressing her sadness at the way the world sees her. The fact that the words are coming from Queenie’s own mouth makes them a powerful indictment of a world that treats women like her as less than human. At the same time, Queenie is just another sad fat chick reinforcing dominant narratives about fatness. At least Queenie is not a “sassy black woman” a trope that confines most fat black women in pop culture.

Another way in which Coven explores bodily autonomy and sexuality is in how ageing affects women. It speaks to the way in which women of a certain age are made invisible in our society.  Jessica Lange’s character, Fiona, is the supreme, the most powerful of all the witches and therefore their leader. Over the course of the season we learn that a new supreme is rising and that means her power is waning. In the first episode we are treated to the sheer desperation she feels. She pays a doctor to give her experimental treatments that have never been used on humans, and her anxiety is more pronounced with each moment she is on screen. When the injections do not work she resorts to sucking the life force out of the doctor and killing him. This gives her what she craves for about a minute. Delphine La Laurie also goes to extreme lengths to preserve her youth using blood and pancreases harvested from her slaves to make a poultice to keep her young.

The portrayal of these two women is very much wrapped up in the male gaze. A large part of what is making Fiona unhappy is that she no longer gets the attention she craves, especially from men, and in Delphine’s case her need to keep the roving eye of her husband is reinforced throughout the season. These women reveal the obsession with youth and beauty that is forced upon women, but Coven fails to truly capture the ways in which these are societal expectations–not ones that are innate to women on their own. Delphine and Fiona are evil or morally complex in their own ways and the dire lengths they go to for youth and beauty are just another expression of their ruthless natures. The idea of the “vain sorceress” is as old as Snow White and I was a little disappointed to see it play out in Coven. A fixation on youth and beauty is not something that makes women evil; it is something that is pushed on to women by a culture that only values women for their youth and beauty, no matter what other qualities they might have. Women’s bodily autonomy is constrained by the narrow social roles that are enforced upon us.

The failings of Coven are unsurprising considering it is a mainstream television show in the horror genre. I think that a pro-woman intention has tangled with the male gaze to create a product that both supports and subverts misogyny and is as objectifying as it is empowering. I have to give Murphy and Falchuk credit for creating a vehicle for so many talented women and giving them interesting and nuanced storylines. My hope is that things only get better from here.

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Gaayathri Nair is a freelance writer and feminist activist. You can find more of her work at her blog A Human Story and on twitter as @A_Gaayathri.

Ja’mie: Mean-Spirited Impression of a Private School Girl

Power dynamics mean something in comedy. Making fun of someone less powerful than you is sort of like beating up someone who’s small, or taking advantage of someone naive. It’s not very sporting, and it makes you look mean. The problem is that the same person can be powerful in some contexts and not in others. A rich, white 17-year-old girl, for example, might be very powerful in contexts where she’s bullying her classmates at school, but less powerful in contexts where she’s trying to meet the demands of a sexist culture. If you’re an adult man nearing 40, it’s hard to make fun of the way a teenage girl dresses, flirts, and moons over boys without starting to look kind of petty.

This guest post by Katherine Murray appears as part of our theme week on Child and Teenage Girl Protagonists.

Ja’mie: Private School Girl features a drag performance from Australian comedian Chris Lilley that’s sometimes funny and sometimes uncomfortable to watch. Join me as I do the least funny thing in the world, and try to explain how a joke works.

1

Power dynamics mean something in comedy. Making fun of someone less powerful than you is sort of like beating up someone who’s small, or taking advantage of someone naive. It’s not very sporting, and it makes you look mean. The problem is that the same person can be powerful in some contexts and not in others. A rich, white 17-year-old girl, for example, might be very powerful in contexts where she’s bullying her classmates at school, but less powerful in contexts where she’s trying to meet the demands of a sexist culture. If you’re an adult man nearing 40, it’s hard to make fun of the way a teenage girl dresses, flirts, and moons over boys without starting to look kind of petty.

Currently airing on HBO, Ja’mie: Private School Girl  has plenty of funny moments as well as plenty that seem more mean-spirited, and the combination creates an uncomfortable viewing experience. Ja’mie, portrayed by Lilley, is a narcissistic and socially tone-deaf villain who was previously featured in We Can Be Heroes: Finding the Australian of the Year and Summer Heights High. Like The Office’s David Brent before her, Ja’mie craves admiration from others, but rarely does anything commendable. Instead, she inadvertently reveals herself to be racist, snobbish, bullying, and homophobic, while trying to sing her own praises. Private School Girl is the first series to focus exclusively on Ja’mie, following her through her day-to-day life as she prepares to graduate from the exclusive Hillford Girls Grammar School, and attempts to win the coveted Hillford Medal.

Ja’mie is one of Lilley’s most popular characters, and it isn’t hard to see why. A quick YouTube search returns some really funny clips from Heroes and Summer Heights High, where most of the comedy comes from Ja’mie’s hypocrisy. In Heroes, Ja’mie tries to gain recognition for her charity work—sponsoring African children through a World Vision analog—but reveals herself to be shallow and racist as soon as she tries to explain the project. She admits that she doesn’t know the names of any of the children she sponsors, because their names are “weird,” but she sings to their pictures “in their language” by making up words and clicking her tongue. When she learns that most of the children she sponsors were killed in a horrible flood, she’s devastated by the idea that this might hurt her chances at winning Australian of the Year, and calls the charity to make a customer complaint.

In Summer Heights High, Ja’mie is an exchange student at the titular public school, and she continually insults her classmates for being poor and ugly under the guise of finding common ground. She introduces herself by giving a prepared speech about how private school students are more likely to go to university and earn more money, whereas wife-beaters and rapists are statistically more likely to come from public schools. “People always go, ‘Private schools create better citizens,’”she says, “But I would say they create better quality citizens.” Later, when she campaigns for an end-of-year dance, she begins by telling everyone that dances give poor people (or “povos”), like them, something to live for. Under her leadership, the dance then becomes so expensive that no one can afford to buy tickets.

As of this writing, four of Private School Girl’s six episodes have aired, and the funniest moments rely on the same type of humour—scenes where Ja’mie congratulates herself for being nice to everyone, juxtaposed with documentary-style footage of her bullying other students. Fittingly, her nemesis at Hillford is an unpretentious girl named Erin who seems genuinely nice, and cares about helping others. Ja’mie recoils in disgust whenever Erin says or does anything heartfelt, and hypocritically accuses her of faking kindness in order to be admired. Though one might wish there were more characters for Ja’mie to play against, those scenes work really well, as do most of the scenes where we see Ja’mie whiplash between the falsely humble face she wears around people she wants to impress, and the vicious, Eric Cartman-like monster within.

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Unfortunately, there are other scenes in Private School Girl where it seems like the joke is just “Ha! She’s a girl!” which makes things a little uncomfortable. Chris Lilley also gave this cringey interview where he said that straight guys love the show, because “The show is sort of like making fun of girls. It’s doing all the annoying things that our girlfriends do.” Unless the annoying things their girlfriends do include grossly misusing charity outreach programs and tyrannizing strangers at school, I’m not sure that “annoying things girls do” is an awesome target for a grown man’s comedy—especially when the annoying things aren’t otherwise hurting anyone else.

For example, there are lot of scenes where Ja’mie and her friends talk over each other excitedly, dissolving into a wall of noise and screeching for seemingly endless minutes. In the first episode, there’s a scene where they goof around, taking a long time to say goodbye to each other, yelling back and forth about how they’ll miss each other SO MUCH, and how they’re best friends, before running back for hugs. There are scenes that are just about Ja’mie being excited because a cute boy accepted her friend request on Facebook, or because she gets to throw a party. In most of these instances, the events aren’t exaggerated to the point that they become absurd and therefore funny — instead, they feel like a fairly true-to-life impression of a certain type of teenage girlhood, and it feels like the show takes for granted that it’s OK to just make fun of that.

From a practical standpoint, the scenes aren’t particularly funny — they feel too much like watching a real reality show, where people you don’t particularly like have conversations that aren’t particularly important. At the same time, there’s an uncomfortable undercurrent, since the inclusion of most of these scenes tells us that they were supposed to be funny—that there’s supposed to be something inherently laughable in the way that (some) teenage girls talk to each other, or the way they express their emotions—so laughable that you don’t even need to make up a joke for the scene; you just have to show it. As satire, it’s a far cry from the wicked hypocrisy of Ja’mie’s charity mission in Africa.

There are other jokes, though, that cut a little closer to the bone, and most of them involve Ja’mie’s brazen but awkward sexuality. Mistakenly believing herself to be a good dancer, she repeatedly tries to gain attention by performing sexually charged (or “slutty”) choreography and undoing the top buttons on her uniform to show her bra. She flirts with her school principal and, when a boy stays over at her house, she makes sure to casually pass by his room wearing only a towel. She constantly seeks reassurance that she’s not fat, while obsessing over the idea that her breasts are too small, and there’s an ongoing plot about the etiquette of sexting. Internet spoilers assure me that the ongoing discussion of Ja’mie’s breasts, and whether or not she should flash them, is building toward conflict in the final episodes, but, as others have pointed out, it isn’t always clear whether the show is making fun of Ja’mie or of the culture that’s placed her in this position.

When it comes to sex, teenage girls are at a disadvantage. They’re subject to conflicting demands, telling them both that the need to be sexually available and that sexual availability is not OK—they inhabit a world where developing a sexual identity is a Choose Your Own Adventure that always ends in scorn. Although I’ll withhold judgement about the finale until I’ve seen it, there’s an uncomfortable sense that Private School Girl has so far treated Ja’mie’s conflicted sexuality as another instance of her personal hypocrisy—that she’s pretending to be modest when really she’s the kind of girl who wants to flash her tits, or she’s pretending to be sexually experienced when really she’s too frigid to get it on—rather than a relic of a culture that would shame her both for wanting and not wanting sex.

Altogether, Private School Girl works really well when its satire is aimed at racists, bullies, and snobs, but significantly less well when it’s aimed at the more diffuse target of “girls.” Watching it, you come away with the sense that Chris Lilley has gotten a little bit too good at playing this character; that he’s revelling in his ability to imitate a certain set of mannerisms, while the point of the joke has been lost.

 


Katherine Murray is a Toronto-based writer and couch potato who yells about TV on her blog.

Are You There, Hollywood? It’s Me, the Average Girl

The expectations for girls in film and television are incredibly mixed. It is naïve to say that girls nowadays are just expected to be a sexy sidekick or afterthought. With more strong female roles popping up in bigger budget films such as Harry Potter and The Hunger Games, there is the expectation that girls should also be intelligent and incredibly clever (while also being visually pleasing). I love Harry Potter and The Hunger Games for giving women these intense and interesting character traits. However, I remember thinking after I saw/read the series, “Wow, I’m not nearly as clever as Hermione and could never be as brave as Katniss.” There isn’t really a place for the all-around average girl. The first two examples of strong female protagonists that I could think of are in fantasy franchises. Are real female characters really that difficult to come up with? Real female characters are often created with good intentions but tend not to work on a larger scale.

This guest post by Carrie Gambino appears as part of our theme week on Child and Teenage Girl Protagonists.

The expectations for girls in film and television are incredibly mixed. It is naïve to say that girls nowadays are just expected to be a sexy sidekick or afterthought. With more strong female roles popping up in bigger budget films such as Harry Potter and The Hunger Games, there is the expectation that girls should also be intelligent and incredibly clever (while also being visually pleasing). I love Harry Potter and The Hunger Games for giving women these intense and interesting character traits. However, I remember thinking after I saw/read the series, “Wow, I’m not nearly as clever as Hermione and could never be as brave as Katniss.” There isn’t really a place for the all-around average girl. The first two examples of strong female protagonists that I could think of are in fantasy franchises. Are real female characters really that difficult to come up with? Real female characters are often created with good intentions but tend not to work on a larger scale.

The underrated movie from 2009, Whip It, had a real-life storyline, but it wasn’t widely complimented for its feminist take-back, only for its poor performance at the box office. The plot surrounds Ellen Page’s high school-aged character who is bored with her small-town life in Texas and wants to branch out. She takes up roller derby against her parents’ wishes, meets a guy blahblahblah …

Except [spoiler alert] she finds out the guy is an asshole and ditches him after he comes crawling back to her. More on this later.

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Ellen Page in Whip It

Believable story lines with unique female characters aren’t known to sell at the box office, as shown by Whip It. It had all the makings for a feel-good movie–maybe not an Oscar winner, more like People’s Choice or a sleeper SAG award winner.

For the time being, the most relatable she-roes are on television. 30 Rock and Parks and Recreation show flawed, funny women in professional roles surrounded by a cast of misfits. Tina Fey, as described in her memoir, Bossy Pants, wanted the cast of 30 Rock to be a group of real-looking people, and not just young Hollywood copies. She mentioned that too many attractive people on a show is confusing. I can vouch for Fey on this theory (see: Pretty Little Liars and literally everything on the CW). Too many pretty people in one program loses the show’s integrity and the audience’s ability to relate. Remember the ABC Family original series, Wildfire? You shouldn’t but that’s beside the point. I couldn’t tell the characters apart in the commercials, much less the actual show. All I could gather was that there was a horse and a lot of pretty brunettes on a farm.

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Wildfire TV poster

 

30 Rock’s Liz Lemon was in a constant struggle of balancing her personal life and work life. We can all identify with that. I cannot identify with the sitcom aspect of her life, as no one can, but if my life had writers, it would go a lot like Liz Lemon’s—not always passing the Bechdel test and wondering how I could get a guy at a bar to buy me mozzarella sticks instead of another drink.

Yes, 30 Rock and Parks and Recreation are not meant for younger audiences but they serve as worthy role models. Their characters serve as extensions of both Fey and Poehler as well. Amy Poehler is an advocate for young girls’ empowerment as shown by her website, Smart Girls at the Party.

Another expectation that television and movies thrusts upon women is that having a romantic relationship is something that should be a common experience for all girls at a young age. I cannot really even name a movie or television show that doesn’t end in a happy, romantic way for the female lead. Both Liz Lemon and Leslie Knope found love despite their independent natures. I agree that it is much more appealing for audiences to see the characters happy in the end, but does that always mean that a romantic counterpart has to represent that happiness? I can’t help but think that this notion has seeped its way into the life of girls of all ages. At my grandmother’s wake, a distant relative of mine who I had literally just met asked me if I had a boyfriend. That was the follow-up question to “where did you go to school?” Could she not think of anything and figured the only commonplace question for a girl my age was if I had a boyfriend? Oof.

I don’t advise that film do away with romantic storylines because it can be educational as well as entertaining when done correctly. But a balance of the female protagonist’s plot should be heavier than that of the love interest. Drew Barrymore’s Whip It had a healthy balance of female empowerment and romantic sub-plot that didn’t leave the audience dwelling on Landon Pigg’s surprising display of douchebaggery in the film.

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Molly Ringwald as Andi in Pretty in Pink

Young female protagonists who find “love” within the film and are additionally attractive by mainstream media standards, are more of a hindrance to a young girl’s self-esteem. The inner-monologue of comparisons begins: “If she found a boyfriend by looking like that, I should try to look like her.” It subconsciously shows teens that because the girl was pretty, the romantic relationship aided in the result. I remember watching Pretty in Pink for the first time. I couldn’t believe that Molly Ringwald’s character still ended up with the snobby, rich guy who was ashamed of her a few scenes earlier. Had I been a character in this movie, let’s be honest, I’d be Ducky.

Of course, it must be noted that the lack of women of color in film and television is astonishing and must be changed. Scandal and The Mindy Project are great but shouldn’t be the only ones I can think of. (However, I was pleased when I saw Doc McStuffins while babysitting–it’s the cutest kids show about an African American girl who is a doctor for her toys.)

There are a lot of problematic themes on television and in movies that cause young girls to try to live up to impossible expectations. One can only hope that the next generation knows enough to take a step back and make decisions based on its own set of values. The tag-line for the Whip It is “Be Your Own Hero.” While it’s the moral of the movie, it should also be a message that we hope young girls are taking in.

 


Carrie Gambino is a recent Mercyhurst University graduate hailing from snowy Buffalo, New York. She spends her time keeping up with politics while living that #postgradlife.

 

 

Powerful Realism and Nostalgia in ‘My So-Called Life’

Almost 20 years later, we need more of what My So-Called Life gave us a taste of. We need teenage girl protagonists to be sexual, not sexy. We need honest portrayals of what it is to be a teenager–not only for teenagers who need to see themselves in faithful mirrors, but also for adults who are still trying to figure themselves out.

My So-Called Life
My So-Called Life

 

Written by Leigh Kolb as part of our theme week on Child and Teenage Girl Protagonists. 

Recommended listening: “Dreams,” by The Cranberries; “Spin the Bottle,” by Juliana Hatfield; “Return to Innocence,” by Enigma; “Late At Night,” by Buffalo Tom; “Genetic,” by Sonic Youth; “Blister in the Sun,” by Violent Femmes“Red,” by Frozen Embryos

Our teenage years are often unfulfilled and disappointing. We relentlessly try to find ourselves, to make things good, but those short years are over quickly, and we don’t truly get it until much later.

These years are much like the short-lived My So-Called Life, which aired from 1994 to early 1995, and was canceled after just one season. The protagonist of My So-Called Life, Angela Chase (Claire Danes), is a powerful representation of those short teenage years. She  is self-centered, horny, and emotional. She is pulled from every direction, trying to separate from her parents and evolve with new friends. She has high expectations and deep disappointments. Angela and her friends are painfully accurate portrayals of what it is to be a teenager.

As sad and unjust as it is that the show only lasted one season, there’s something poignant about how it was short and open-ended, yet packed such intensity into 19 episodes. My So-Called Life is, essentially, a mirror image of adolescence not only in narrative, but also in format.

Angela Chase
Angela Chase

 

My So-Called Life is a gold mine for feminist analysis–the show includes many thoughtful critiques of what it means to be a young woman in our culture, what it means to be a wife and mother, what it means to be a man, and what it means to be gay. Topics typically reserved for superficial after-school specials (sexuality, drug use, abuse, coming out) are treated with an intensely real humanity that many critics have argued completely changed the genre of adolescent and family dramas.

Being a teenage girl in our culture is fraught with cultural expectations and disappointments. Angela–along with girlfriends Rayanne and Sharon–are portrayed not as caricatures, not as virgins or whores, not as good girls or bad girls. They are complex and sexual; they are selfish and confused; they are wonderful and awful.

Teenagers are typically–biologically–self-centered and sexual, and the power of nostalgia drives us to consider and reconsider our teen years (in them and after them). My So-Called Life stands the test of time because it deals with these issues through characters and plot lines that reflect reality.

Self-Centered

Early in the season, the writers frame most episodes with lessons that the students are learning in school. Kafka’s Metamorphosis is juxtaposed with Angela changing her looks (dying her hair red) and feeling misunderstood by her parents. Angela sits in a class about JFK’s assassination, and says she’s “jealous” that she hasn’t had that defining moment in life that she’ll always remember where she was when it happened. Malcolm X’s words are turned into a lament about a zit. Students flirt and make out, ignoring the art on a field trip to the art museum.

On the surface, these woven-together stories seem jarring–we watch Angela turn everything into an insignificant comparison to her own life. But this is exactly what we do in adolescence. We pout that nothing important has happened in our lifetime without understanding the weight of history because we think that we are the center of history. There is scientific proof that teenagers’ brains function differently–it’s important to remind ourselves of that.

My So-Called Life, specifically through Angela’s narrative, portrays that era of life perfectly. Creator/writer/producer Winnie Holzman said, “I just went back to what it was like to be a teenager for me. Sure, Angela’s me. But at the risk of sounding. . . whatever, all the characters were me.” Holzman researched further by teaching at a high school for a couple of days, and realized that teenagers were “exactly the same” as they always had been (which is perhaps why the show still seems so real).

Defining self
The unending journey to define “self”

 

This selfishness is not presented with judgment or disdain, though. All of the characters–teens and adults alike–have human motivations, which we sometimes like, and sometimes don’t. Their selfishness is examined through the consequences and normality of being self-centered as a teenager, and how that looks and feels different when one is a parent or teacher. Angela worrying about a zit over Malcolm X’s words seems off-putting, but it’s painfully real.

Angela’s relationships with her friends–Rayanne, Rickie, Brian, and Sharon–also highlight the inflated sense of self that navigates us through those formative years.

Horny

One of my favorite aspects of the show is the way young female sexuality is portrayed. Angela is horny as hell. Those fresh, out-of-control adolescent sexual urges are clear and accurate throughout the series, and the writers deal with teenage sexuality with truth and nuance that is too rare in portrayals of teenage sexuality (especially teenage girls’ sexuality). Angela’s inner monologues about–and eventual makeouts with–Jordan Catalano reveal that intensity.

Intense
Intense

 

Angela is clearly sexual, but also struggles with the disappointing reality of teenage male sexuality when Jordan tongue-attacks her with a terrible, awkward kiss, or expects sex before she’s ready. She wants him so much, but the expectations and imbalance of sexual power are crushing. Angela is never anti-sex, but she is nervous. She speaks with her doctor about protection, and opens up to Sharon. Her reasons for not being quite ready don’t have to do with her parents or religion–it’s about her. And that’s just how it should be.

Meanwhile, straight-laced Sharon is getting it on constantly. She shares with Angela that the expectations that disregard female agency are problematic, but she enthusiastically enjoys sex. While Sharon seems the most judgmental and prudish, she has a fulfilling and active sex life. Angela realizes–as do we–that sexual acts don’t define a person, but sexuality is an important part of who we are.

Rayanne is known by her peers as promiscuous and “slutty,” but we are also challenged to look beyond that. She wants to define herself, and that’s the label that has stuck–so she decides to be proud of the designation (she and Sharon share sub-plots about their sexual reputations). Her sexual experiences–the drunken night with Jordan being the only time we know she has sex–don’t seem to be healthy or for her. All of the characters needed more seasons to have their stories fully realized, but Rayanne especially needed more than 19 episodes to be explored.

My So-Called Life turns the virgin-whore dichotomy on its head. Young women’s sexuality–the intensity, the confusion, the expectations–is presented realistically, and the message that when it’s good, it’s good, is loud and clear.

Intense
INTENSE

 

Angela and Jordan’s makeout scenes are, well, amazing, and the female gaze is often catered to. When Angela is skipping geometry study sessions to go make out with Jordan in the boiler room, we understand why she’s doing it. That episode has some excellent commentary on young women’s educational motivations, especially mathematics. When an instructor laments that it’s “so sad” when these smart girls don’t try, another instructor says that it’s because of their low self-esteem.

While that’s not an untrue assessment, it’s also important to recognize that in Angela’s case, she was horny as hell. We brush off boys’ behavior–the idea that they can’t stop thinking about sex in their teen years–but girls are right there, too.

As Angela tells a confused Brian, “Boys don’t have the monopoly on thinking about it.”

My So-Called Life reiterates that idea, which is heartbreakingly rare in depictions of teenage girl protagonists.

Commentary on the pressures that teenage girls face are woven throughout the show.
Commentary on the pressures that teenage girls face is woven throughout the show.

 

Nostalgic

The Greek roots of the word nostalgia are to return (home) with pain. We often think of nostalgia as telling stories with old friends, or looking through old yearbooks as we reminisce. But it’s much more than that.

Angela says, “I mean, this whole thing with yearbook — it’s like, everybody’s in this big hurry to make this book, to supposedly remember what happened. Because if you made a book of what really happened, it’d be a really upsetting book.”

My So-Called Life ends with Angela stepping into a car with Jordan and driving away. Jordan has just met her mother, Patty, and the two sit and visit. Patty has been waiting for her old high-school love interest to stop by for a drink (and a business conversation), but he doesn’t show up. Patty and Jordan share a fairly intimate conversation, and both seem to understand something they hadn’t before.

Jordan comes outside, asks Angela to come along with him, and says that her mom says it’s OK. In understanding her own trajectory from teenager to adult, Patty has released Angela.

It’s sudden, it’s unclear, and it’s vague. It–the show, and adolescence–goes by so quickly, and we can’t fully understand it until we look back at the literal and figurative pictures of our life. Not just the smiling yearbook photos, but those things that remain inside.

We don’t know exactly where Angela is going at the end of My So-Called Life, and neither does she. The restraints and possibilities of adolescence can be overwhelming, and as life changes into adulthood, the restraints and possibilities both tighten and grow. By looking back–in all of its pleasure and pain–into those years of intense growth and confusion, we can better know ourselves.

Angela rides away with Jordan at the end.
Angela rides away with Jordan at the end.

 

When My So-Called Life originally aired, I was in middle school. Our antenna didn’t pick up ABC, so I wasn’t able to watch it in real time. I knew, however, from the occasional Sassy magazine that I wanted to be Angela Chase, and I wanted Jordan Catalano. Years later, after living through almost all of the plot lines of the show, I watched the entire series. And then again, years after that. I’m struck by how much I can still feel what I felt at 15 by listening to Angela’s internal monologue. Good television, like good literature, can do that–take us, through fiction, back to times and places. Whether those times and places are crushing or celebratory, there is a distinct pain in going back–that nostalgia that shapes us and creates our realities.

asdf
Imagine the power in seeing this ad as a teenage girl: “Yes, I DO know how it feels!”

 

Almost 20 years later, we need more of what My So-Called Life gave us a taste of. We need teenage girl protagonists to be sexual, not sexy. We need honest portrayals of what it is to be a teenager–not only for teenagers who need to see themselves in faithful mirrors, but also for adults who are still trying to figure themselves out.

That season of our lives is fleeting, open-ended, and ends abruptly. It’s meaningful but unfortunate that My So-Called Life so accurately portrayed those particular aspects of adolescence.

 


Leigh Kolb is a composition, literature and journalism instructor at a community college in rural Missouri. 

Kickass Women of Color on TV: ‘Sleepy Hollow’ Edition

There are precious few characters of color and particularly women of color on screen. Characters of color usually serve the primary function of helping white characters through dilemmas. If they are given their own plots, expect their storylines to be zany comic relief while the white characters deal with the serious business. …It’s 2013, so I say it’s about time that we allow women of color to shine in their own right without tacking on white ladies as a wink to ratings or as an apology, wouldn’t you agree?

Sleepy Hollow title card.
Sleepy Hollow title card.

Written by Erin Tatum.

There are precious few characters of color and particularly women of color on screen. Characters of color usually serve the primary function of helping white characters through dilemmas. If they are given their own plots, expect their storylines to be zany comic relief while the white characters deal with the serious business. Orange Is the New Black is a big step in the right direction, but many have been quick to point out that although the women of color are delightfully nuanced and the white protagonist can be downright irritating, the show probably wouldn’t have gotten off the ground without an affluent white woman as the main character. It’s 2013, so I say it’s about time that we allow women of color to shine in their own right without tacking on white ladies as a wink to ratings or as an apology, wouldn’t you agree?

Ichabod Crane and Abbie Mills.
Ichabod Crane and Abbie Mills.

Fortunately, Sleepy Hollow is here to step up to the plate. Lt. Abbie Mills (Nicole Beharie) could easily go head-to-head with Olivia Pope as far as badass ladies of color. Mills finds herself teamed up with Ichabod Crane (Tom Mison), who is mysteriously resurrected nearly 250 years after his death in the Revolutionary War. Crane initially assumes that Abbie is a freed slave, but after a crash course in US history, comes to accept the cultural changes fairly well. Despite the potential for cross-generational discrimination across both racial and gendered lines, Crane values Abbie as a colleague from the very beginning. Of course, it’s questionable how realistic this adjustment is for someone of Crane’s era, pro-abolitionist or otherwise. Regardless, you can’t argue that the immediately established mutual respect isn’t refreshing. By sweeping the time skip under the rug in their relationship, both characters avoid being bogged down in politics. Crane and Abbie depend on each other to defend Sleepy Hollow from a host of ghoulish monsters in a series that merges elements of fantasy, drama, and buddy cop sitcom.

Jenny Mills.
Jenny Mills.

Abbie is allowed to be her own person with her own strengths and flaws. She cares about Crane, but she doesn’t exist to prop him up. They are each other’s intellectual equals who rise and fall together, but they can and do frequently separate on their own adventures. Abbie also has an interesting character foil in her estranged sister Jenny (Lyndie Greenwood). The two girls were orphans in the foster system. One day, they were attacked by a monster in the woods. Abbie encourages Jenny to lie about what they saw, claiming to police that she couldn’t remember anything. Jenny tries to tell the truth and is consequently declared clinically insane and thrown in a mental hospital, while Abbie walks away unscathed before being taken under the wing of a (white male) police officer determined to keep her on the right track. The concept of the white savior certainly comes into play here. Why do white people get to determine who is worthy of redemption and who isn’t when it comes to troubled youth of color? Abbie struggles with her conscience and her position of privileged authority due to the fact that she indirectly caused her sister to rot away in an institution for being honest, which is a rather blunt commentary on the apathy of the state to the plight of the individual. It turns out that the cop had been helping both sisters in secret. Jenny is also 110% BAMF. She, Crane, and Abbie are the Holy Trinity of this show.

Katrina Crane: "No, I really am just a plot device!"
Katrina Crane: “No, I really am just a plot device!”

Don’t forget, we have to find a way to shoehorn white femininity in there somehow! Crane’s wife Katrina (Katia Winter) is a witch condemned to purgatory as punishment for casting the resurrection spell over Crane. I don’t know if it’s supposed to be a commentary on her power or lack thereof, but it’s definitely an odd narrative choice. She’s allegedly one of the main characters, so it’s weird that the others can only interact with her via dreams or near-death experiences. Additionally, it disconcerts me that Crane’s romance feels like a forced, clunky afterthought to the main action. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a big proponent of prioritizing pretty much anything else over a love interest, but if you’re going to keep throwing it at the audience, at least make it convincing or enjoyable. Katrina seems to only exist to shout ominous prophecies at Crane before he regains consciousness. Without spoiling too much, the writers have gussied her up with some plot anvils to force viewers to remain invested in her. I’m not feeling it. She sits in the woods with a smoke machine while Crane runs around yelling her name and sweating. I don’t care and no amount of sudden revelations will make me care. Katrina is embarrassingly extraneous to the action.

Katrina’s absence leaves Abbie to share most of Crane’s emotionally intense moments. Katrina may be influencing things from afar, but the show makes it clear that Abbie is Crane’s true support system and partner. That’s probably the biggest difference between the two women. Katrina sits on the sidelines and Abbie gets shit done. Stereotypical idealized white femininity is delicate and dependent, with some subtle manipulation sometimes thrown in to avoid total passive sexism. In Sleepy Hollow, these traits appear to hinder her appeal instead of amplifying it. Rather than enhancing her enigma or desirability, the essential “whiteness” of Katrina’s characterization renders her a one-dimensional paper doll in a cast of charismatic heavyweights. I can’t complain too much in the end though, because she makes it possible for Abbie and Crane’s relationship to grow outside of the obligatory sexual tension.

Ichabbie 4eva?
Ichabbie 4eva?

With that said, Ichabod and Abbie (dubbed “Ichabbie”) have a sizable fan base that wants them together romantically. I’m torn – on one hand, I think it’s good to have models of strong male/female friendships where their development isn’t measured by whether or not they became a couple. On the other, Katrina has the personality of a shoebox and it’s becoming increasingly difficult not to read subtext into Abbie and Crane’s phenomenal chemistry. At least at this point, they can grow together independently of the romantic question. If the writers do decide to pursue that route, I hope it’s just a spontaneous move and not drawn out for the angst milking. Regardless of who Crane ends up with, I want Katrina to die or preferably turn out evil. Nothing against the actress, but I need her to stop pointlessly wasting screentime.

Amandla Stenburg as Macey Irving.
Amandla Stenburg as Macey Irving.

But wait, it gets even better! Amandla Stenberg (aka Rue from The Hunger Games) plays the police captain’s recently disabled daughter, Macey. Triple representation, fuck yeah! (Apart from the actress not being disabled in reality, but I guess we have to pick our battles.) She’s cute, sarcastic, and sassy. The writers seem to be veering towards the “having a disabled child destroyed my family and could ruin my life” angle for the captain, so fingers crossed that they’ll avoid that stereotype clusterfuck, especially given that they’ve resisted most other cliches. I’m cautiously optimistic.

sleepy art

To sum up, you should all be watching Sleepy Hollow.

HBO’s Dark Comedy of Geriatrics and the Nurses Who Love Them In ‘Getting On’

But Laurie Metcalf hammering a nail into the wall with a gynecologist’s ducklips thingy is priceless, as is a confused patient’s eyes clearing as Niecy Nash holds her hand. Here is perhaps where the show’s delicate balance between comedy and compassion becomes most apparent; the understaffed nurses are, at times, ridiculous in their adherence to bureaucracy and hospital politics, but they, and the patients they serve, are also given moments of generosity and human connection.

Written by Rachel Redfern

[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PhGQxLFS_P4″]

It is a wide wonderful world filled with HBO. My love for the brilliantly gritty channel has grown exponentially the past three years, starting with the toe-curling, cherry-popping of my innocence that was True Blood and from there, it took over my computer screen in a way I never knew was possible: Game of Thrones, The Sopranos, Girls, Deadwood, The Wire, Veep and we haven’t even mentioned their miniseries yet.

And for every person who protests against the channel’s, hmm, illuminating use of sex and violence (and perhaps not entirely unjustly—there were a few scenes in Game of Thrones that made Quentin Tarantino raise an eyebrow) can it be denied that going back to a network show after a satisfying three-day binge of cable, feels lackluster and overly clean without the free-flowing use of the F-word?

Therefore, I give you Getting On, the latest British show to make its way across the pond in a cabled retelling, leaving us asking, is it a show ahead of its time?

Getting On is a dark comedy from creators Mark Olsen and Will Scheffer (Big Love) following the daily trials of the beleaguered Billy Barnes Extended Care Unit. There, we meet its aging female patients–ambitious director of medicine Jenna James, Laurie Metcalf (Roseanne), kiss-up head nurse Dawn, Alex Borstein (Family Guy), empathetic nurse DiDi, Niecy Nash (Reno 911), and neurotic supervisor Patsy, Mel Rodriguez (Community).

Three comediennes: Laurie Metcalf, Alex Borstein, and Niecy Nash
Three comediennes: Laurie Metcalf, Alex Borstein, and Niecy Nash

 

Obviously, the setting is a bit unusual, and potentially disturbing; some are concerned about the show trivializing a difficult time of life and the rigors of hospital work. Yet, death happens to everyone, so in the same way that we can all relate to the subject matter, it also makes us, at best, a bit uncomfortable, and for some, possibly a painful reminder of someone they’ve lost.

Which makes the whole comedy setting seem so insanely inappropriate, but perhaps brilliant at the same time? I mean, at least ER had hot doctors and a lot of people who made it out alive; you get the sense with Getting On that there won’t be that many George Clooneys and even less chance that the fountain of youth will appear in the final season.

But Laurie Metcalf hammering a nail into the wall with a gynecologist’s ducklips thingy is priceless, as is a confused patient’s eyes clearing as Niecy Nash holds her hand. Here is perhaps where the show’s delicate balance between comedy and compassion becomes most apparent; the understaffed nurses are, at times, ridiculous in their adherence to bureaucracy and hospital politics, but they, and the patients they serve, are also given moments of generosity and human connection.

getting on1
DiDi (Niecy Nash), our hero.

However, will Getting On resonate with an older audience? The original British version never made it past the third season, but I’m hopeful, as the show has some incredible dialogue and fantastic acting.

And besides its unusual setting, the show sports three main female characters (all middle-aged) taking care of elderly women. Basically, Getting On defies every statistic about women in Hollywood by single-handedly employing almost every woman over the age of 40 located in Los Angeles: women with wrinkles, saggy boobs, and poorly executed fashion choices; women of color, women with money, women without it; foul women, funny women, fantastic women. I even loved episode two’s racist, homophobic grandma that kept throwing up on everyone and then throwing things at everyone.

While the show isn’t perfect, it’s boldly treading into off-limits territory (or at least boldly following in the footsteps of it British predecessor) and exposing both funny and profound elements of growing old.

Now, let’s hope that the show isn’t cut off while still in its prime.

Was ‘Jem & the Holograms’ a Good Show for Little Girls?

Jem Coloring Book

As a little girl growing up in the 80s, I loved the show Jem & the Holograms. I confess that I still have a bunch of the songs from the show that I listen to from time to time (occasionally subjecting my spin class attendees to a Jem track on my workout playlists). Looking back now as an adult feminist, I’ve wondered how the show influenced me and whether or not that influence was a positive thing. *I did a similar assessment of another of my much-loved 80’s cartoons called: She-Ra Kinda Sorta Accidentally Feministy.*

There are a few potential not-necessarily-empowering aspects of Jem. Firstly, the show is fashion-obsessed and revolves around the characters’ fashionability. Unlike most cartoons where the characters mostly wear the same outfit in every episode, the thin female bodies of Jem‘s characters are adorned in multiple wardrobe changes often within a single 20-minute episode. Fashion and modeling, we know, are traditionally coded as female. The fashion world is extremely hard on women, placing undue emphasis on their bodies, especially on the thinness of those bodies. The drummer (and Black bandmate) Shana, however, designs clothing, so there is an aspect of fun creative expression at play here. Not only that, but the band Jem & the Holograms gets into the world of fashion and music in order to maintain the foster home for young girls that they run.

Starlight Girls

In this light, being on the cutting-edge of fashion, making money, being famous, and maintaining their record label (Starlight Music) is all a means to a philanthropic ends. The band often performs benefit concerts, singing many songs that deliver a positive message about fair play, hard work, creativity, education, and friendship to its young, predominately female audience. Jerrica Benton (Jem’s alter ego) must become a savvy business woman in the advent of her father’s death in order to run her inherited huge record label while living with her beloved foster girls, trying to give them good, happy lives. Jerrica and her friends are capable, ambitious women who thrive in the business world and do so for noble reasons. That type of female representation is all too rare in any pop culture medium, and it definitely had a positive effect on my impressionable younger self.

Another aspect of the show that could be a negative for little girls was all the female rivalry. The primary focus of the show was the often high-stakes band rivalry between Jem & the Holograms and their nemeses (another all-female band), The Misfits.

Misfits Close-up
The Misfits: Roxy, Pizzazz, & Stormer

The Misfits were mean, reckless, and ruthless in their pursuit to beat Jem at everything. They’d lie, cheat, commit crimes and sabotage, and endanger the lives of Jem and her bandmates in order to win at any cost. They even had a song called “Winning is Everything.” True story.

[youtube_sc url=”http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CMlneySmI3g”]

Though Jem passes the Bechdel Test with flying colors, this dangerous female rivalry is troubling, reinforcing mainstream media’s insistence that women can’t be friends; they must, instead, compete for resources, men, and general approval. Instead of the bands being able to cooperate and collaborate, they are mostly at each other’s throats (with The Misfits, of course, being the instigators). The upside of this rivalry is that the major players are all women. The characters with all the talent, power, and agency are women. The epitome of this is the all-powerful matriarchal figure of Synergy. She’s a basically sentient hologram generating computer system. She gets Jem and her crew out of countless jams, operates as home base for their operations, and acts as a concerned, maternal mentor for them. Though Synergy is a computer system, she has awesome power and Jerrica/Jem often goes to her for counsel.

Synergy to Jem
“Synergy, create a hologram of Jem.”

Not only that, but even the cruel Misfits are given depth over time. My favorite character (on whom I had a serious girl-crush) was Stormer, the blue-haired Misfit who was a bad girl with a heart of gold. When her bandmates crossed the line, she would always undermine their machinations in order to do the right thing, often saving the day. We also learn that Pizazz, the ringleader and front woman for the band, struggles with her former identity as: Phyllis, a rich girl with a neglectful father whose approval and attentiveness she could never garner. Despite the contentiousness of the rival bands’ relations, the fact that women are the primary actors and reactors gives the show a variety of female perspectives and permutations, which is what’s so often lacking in current female representations in film and on TV.

My beloved Stormer storms off.
My beloved Stormer storms off.

In fact, there are hardly any male characters in the show at all. There are only two to speak of: Jem/Jerrica’s love interest and road manager, Rio Pacheco, and The Misfits’ slimy band manager, Eric Raymond. Later the lead singer of The Stingers, Riot, enters the scene with his ridiculous hair and obsession with Jem. These male characters’ relevance and even usefulness was often in question. Eric was incompetent at all of his scheming in a distinctly Road Runner style. Jem/Jerrica couldn’t even confide her secrets in Rio, and he was often left waiting in the dark for situational resolutions. I often questioned how healthy for young girls the representation of the love triangle involving Rio, Jem, and Jerrica was. It was bizarre that Jem was Jerrica, so Rio was essentially cheating on his girlfriend…with his girlfriend. There was even an episode where Jerrica gets tired of being herself and her Jem personae, so she dons a hologram of a completely new appearance. Rio falls in love with her, too, and they share a kiss. Though the inherent deception on all sides of the relationship is not good role modeling, maybe it’s important that Rio loves Jerrica no matter what physical form she takes on.

I am in love with this Rio & Jem cosplay duo.
I am in love with this Rio & Jem cosplay duo.

The band itself, Jem & the Holograms, was also surprisingly racially diverse. The drummer, Shana, was Black, and the lead guitarist, Aja, was Asian. They later added a new drummer, Raya, who was Latina, when Shana took up bass guitar. Though the front woman for the band (who couldn’t actually play an instrument) remained a white woman, with the addition of Raya, there were actually more women of color in the band than white women. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen that kind of ratio on a TV show that wasn’t specifically targeted at people of color.

Jem and all the Holograms
Jem, Kimber, Aja, Raya, & Shana

Though the show’s focus on romantic love, fashion, and female rivalry are of dubious value, there are definitely a lot of good things going on with Jem & the Holograms: the notion that fame and fortune should be used for philanthropic means, that female friendships can be strong and form an important network of support, that a sense of community is crucial, especially that of an older generation of women actively participating in that of teenage girls, that the arts should be respected and fostered, and that the virtues women should value in themselves should include honesty, compassion, fairness, determination, and kindness. Maybe I’m biased because I always thought the show was “truly outrageous,” but the good seems to outweigh the bad, giving us a series about women that tried to teach little girls how to grow up to be strong, ethical, and believe in themselves.

‘The Killing’s Bullet: The Quintessential Lionhearted Heroine

What is so remarkable about Bullet in the aftermath of this attack is that she bravely continues her quest to recover Kallie, never once giving into fear or despair, nor losing the “faith” she wears on her wrist and professes to Sarah Linden. Instead, her scars make her all the more willing and determined to connect with others–chiefly Detective Linden and her streetwise partner, Detective Stephen Holder–in a deep and profound way. Her great humanity in the face of overwhelming evil and her sacrificial actions towards those she cares about, including a prostitute named Lyric who coldly spurns her, transcends perceptions about her sexuality and render her a universal character that people from all walks of life, backgrounds, faiths, religions, ethnicities, etc. can strongly relate to and identify with.

 

killing
Bullet (Bex Taylor-Klaus) from AMC’s The Killing, Season 3 (2013)

 

This is a guest post by Natalia Lauren Fiore.

Part 1 in a two-part series about “Lionhearted Heroines”

Bullet is the tough yet faithful boarding school dropout turned scrappy Seattle street-kid who unexpectedly resurrected the third season of AMC’s The Killing. She shows her “faith” wrist tattoo to lead homicide detective Sarah Linden, whom she calls “the north star” for fighting the crime brutally visited upon the wayward youths that inhabit her “block.” As a lesbian tomboy on her own in a big city, Bullet learns to rely on her inner strength to survive even when her overriding empathy and selflessness make her vulnerable to the horrific dangers that her desire to protect others prevents her from foreseeing. When her best friend, Kallie, a teenage prostitute neglected and discarded by her mother, disappears, Bullet tirelessly searches the streets and, without flinching, confronts a rough pimp named Goldie, who threatens her with a firearm. Later that evening, Goldie apprehends Bullet in his apartment and, at knife point, rapes her in retaliation for the confrontation.

“You know why I got 'Faith' on here? Because no one’s got it in me but me.” - Bullet, The Killing
“You know why I got ‘Faith’ on here? Because no one’s got it in me but me.” – Bullet, The Killing

 

What is so remarkable about Bullet in the aftermath of this attack is that she bravely continues her quest to recover Kallie, never once giving into fear or despair, nor losing the “faith” she wears on her wrist and professes to Sarah Linden. Instead, her scars make her all the more willing and determined to connect with others–chiefly Detective Linden and her streetwise partner, Detective Stephen Holder–in a deep and profound way.  Her great humanity in the face of overwhelming evil and her sacrificial actions towards those she cares about, including a prostitute named Lyric who coldly spurns her, transcends perceptions about her sexuality and render her a universal character that people from all walks of life, backgrounds, faiths, religions, ethnicities, etc. can strongly relate to and identify with.

Bex Taylor-Klaus, the 19-year-old actress who won the role, was herself so moved by her character that she was inspired to reflect in writing about Bullet’s strength and beauty which carries a universal truth for us all:

Yes, I am a straight girl who plays a gay character on TV. No, I am not ashamed. The point of Bullet is not that she is gay. There is so much to her and I look up to the strength and determination this girl has. I get the beautiful opportunity to play a character I can admire and learn from on a daily basis. Bullet knows who she is and can accept herself for it all, even if others can’t or won’t….Not everybody is that strong. My biggest worry is that people will look at her and just see a gay kid, when that’s truly only a tiny piece of Bullet’s puzzle. Look at the big picture. People are a medley of different things and that is what makes us so interesting. Don’t lose sight of the beauty just because you see one thing you may find ugly.

To adapt Bex’s opening line: yes, I am a straight girl who has been besotted with Bullet (and the brilliant girl who plays her) from the moment she pulls her best friend, Kallie, from the ledge of a Seattle Bridge following the opening credits of the first episode.

Bullet on the bridge.
Bullet on the bridge.

 

[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TDYHyZ5RUtY”]

Like Bex herself, I am not ashamed to adore Bullet.  As Detective Stephen Holder (played by the endearing Joel Kinnaman) remarks when he first meets her, she’s “pretty unforgettable”–a description that captures her lasting impact on him and on all those she seeks to protect.  Indeed, Holder and Bullet get past their initial mistrust of each other–aided by Bullet’s mistrust of men in general–to form one of the most beautiful friendships, fraught with angst and tenderness, ever portrayed onscreen.  The two are, in many ways, twin souls who struggle to appear tough even when they are broken. Together, they embody Aristotle’s quote about true friendship: “A friend is a single soul dwelling in two bodies.”  Their unlikely affection and mutual admiration, although tested many times, is steadfast and powerful, so much so that when Holder loses Bullet, he is more devastated than we have ever seen him–as if he has lost part of himself.  In his moment of intense grief over her death, Holder becomes the conduit for the audience’s overwhelming sadness as we share in his mourning of her.

the-killing-Scared-and-Running-3-1024x681
Holder (Joel Kinnaman) embraces Bullet.

 

[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x5Nx3E1ELd8″]

In the end, with identical stubbornness, the two betray each other–Bullet, desperate, telling a lie that inadvertently compromises the investigation and Holder, enraged, turning an icy cold shoulder to the girl he once sought to help–obstinately refusing to answer the phone when she urgently calls him later that night.  This, of course, turns out to be a fatal mistake, which ensures Holder’s imminent down spiral once he discovers Bullet’s body butchered in the trunk of the killer’s car.

But Bullet would not have been as “unforgettable” had it not been for the incomparable Bex Taylor-Klaus, who blazes in each scene–truthfully portraying Bullet’s fierce yet compassionate courage and faith. We’ll be hard-pressed to find another TV performance by a young breakout actress that quite matches what Bex accomplishes as Bullet. Bex so completely embodies Bullet that when she is found dead, it is as though a real-life person–a best friend, a sister, a daughter–has been lost.  Through her performance, Bex makes the audience, even those who initially find her bravado somewhat off-putting, come to care deeply and passionately about a lesbian street girl (she suffers a heartbreaking unrequited love for a young prostitute named Lyric) whose apparent impenetrable toughness hides a selfless, vulnerable spirit.

In a recently published ARTS-ATL article entitled “30 Under 30: Bex Taylor-Klaus bites the bullet and lands dream role on AMC’s ‘The Killing,’” Bex articulates her profound understanding of Bullet: 

“As an actor, you’re given a character as a kind of shell and it’s your job to breathe life into it. Bullet’s the one who breathed life into me…I knew everything she wanted to do when she grew up. I knew who she was, who she wanted to be, and then I watched it all get taken away.”
[youtube_sc url=”http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6UQkOn7nEu4″]


One of the greatest demonstrations of Bex’s astounding ability to translate her understanding of Bullet for the audience occurs in Episode 3 during a beautifully shot two-scene sequence that captures the aftermath of Bullet’s rape.  In a heart-wrenching moment, Bullet’s full inner beauty emerges even as she is at her lowest point, when she stares at her reflection in a bathroom mirror, examining the fresh, bloody wounds the rape has inflicted.  Bex brilliantly captures Bullet’s fractured self in that moment, revealing fear, devastation, disgust, humiliation, and rage through her eyes and facial expressions.  These emotions that she has never before felt so acutely ignite her burning resolve to save her best friend, so when Holder chases after her on the bridge later that day, she buries her fear and mistrust and tells him about that “nobody, nothing pimp” named Goldie.  Later on in the episode, when Holder fails to apprehend Goldie, Bullet bravely and forcefully tells him off, and when he confronts her about whether Goldie has “done something to” her, she answers only with an instruction to “do your job” and “find her (Kallie).” Once again, Bex is superb–naturally conveying Bullet’s selfless devotion to her friend, even in the midst of the biggest crisis she has ever experienced.

[youtube_sc url=”http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-khchRvOJuk”]


Bullet never does get the chance to tell Holder, or anyone else, about what Goldie did to her–nor does she get the chance to tell Holder what she found out from the girl at the train station about the identity of the killer.  Her life is ended so suddenly and cruelly that she leaves behind her a bitter trail of unanswered questions that could never be resolved satisfactorily in the wake of her death. It is these answered questions, combined with the magnitude of Bullet’s–and by extension Bex’s–potential epitomized by her intelligence, her kindness and compassion, her acceptance, her longing, and her grace–that we mourn mightily as the case stalls toward a resolution. For a fleeting period, it seems these virtues which she demonstrates so freely even towards those who don’t deserve them, are blissfully rewarded when Lyric, the previously unattainable object of her affection, appears to “see” Bullet’s heart for the first time and reciprocates its longing with a tender kiss:

[youtube_sc url=”http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x3xUI7sRINA”]


For a day, Bullet experiences what it is like to be loved in return and we are afforded a rare and precious glimpse into the blissful life she should have been granted:

[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SNUqL8RWmLA”]


But the next day, Lyric is reunited with Twitch, the hustler she thought had abandoned her, and in a heartbeat, she turns her back on Bullet, cruelly claiming, “I don’t belong to you…I’m not gay, you know” (Season 2, Episode 8 “Try”). Already reeling from the mercilessly unjust suffering she endures during her brief life of which Lyric’s cutting rejection is the tipping point, the viewers’ reaction to Bullet’s death, and the absence of Bex in the role, was swift, heartfelt, and defined by a large volume of online fan art that was created to pay tribute to the murdered “Lionhearted Heroine,” as they began calling her:

The lionhearted heroine with a thousand faces. (Bullet image created by Maren Usken.)
The lionhearted heroine with a thousand faces. (Bullet image created by Maren Usken.)

 

Even though I do not possess the artistic talent or ability to paint a portrait, as many other talented fans did to remember and honor Bullet, I shed more tears for Bullet than I have since my father’s death when I was 8 years old.  She became like a sister to me, as Bex did in the role.  I loved her. I miss her. Like Holder, I will never forget her.  And, by her own eloquent admission, neither will Bex, who encapsulates our collective sorrow, but pays tribute to Bullet’s faith:

“I saw a woman with a similar haircut—an older woman with the haircut and similar style and it made me smile at first like ‘Oh look – Bullet when she grows up.’ And then all of a sudden I was standing in the street and it hit me…the realization that that’s not ever going to be what Bullet gets to do. Some people are saying how much she’s meant to them, they’re sad she’s gone and I’m saying she’s not. If she really meant that much to you, keep her alive inside of you. She’ll always be there. Keep her in your heart, whatever poeticness you’d like to put on it, whatever poetic words you want to put to it—keep her alive inside of you. She’s always be there. She always has. She’s a really strong character and strong, strong person. Even though she’s dead on the show or in the ‘real world,’ she doesn’t have to be dead inside. If she did really have an effect on you, she will always be with you.”

Bullet takes a drag.
Bullet takes a drag.

 

Still…In Season 4, Episode 5 of PBS’s beloved series Downton Abbey, a male valet says to his wife, a maid who is attacked in the same way that Bullet is attacked by Goldie in Episode 3 of The Killing: 

”You are not spoiled. You are made higher to me and holier because of the suffering you have been put through.”

 If she had to die, brave Bullet deserved a death worthy of the “higher, holier” human being she was–a girl who did not dwell in her suffering nor let it define her, but rose above it and used her pain to compassionately protect her street-family from suffering what she did.  Ideally, though, with all she silently suffered through, she deserved to live and to fulfill, as Bex articulated, “all she wanted to be.”  By extension, Bex, who, to use a phrase from Miley Cyrus’s song, “came in like a wrecking ball” and all but stole the entire season with her nuanced and engaging portrayal, deserved the opportunity to develop her performance of Bullet’s character beyond Season 3, as affirmed by AMC’s recent decision to cancel the series for a second time which many attribute to the irrevocable loss of Bex’s Lionhearted Heroine.

Check back  for Part 2: “18 Lionhearted Heroines From Film and Television

Bullet lives on.
Bullet lives on.

 

A version of this post first appeared at Outside Windows.

 


Natalia Lauren Fiore received a B.A. in Honors English and Creative Writing from Bryn Mawr College and an M.F.A in Creative and Professional Writing from Western Connecticut State University, where she wrote a feature-length screenplay entitled Sonata under the direction of novelist and screenwriter, Don J. Snyder, and playwright, Jack Dennis. Currently, she holds a full-time tenure track teaching post at Hillsborough Community College in Tampa, Florida, where she teaches English and Writing. Her writing interests include film criticism, screenwriting, literary journalism, fiction, the novel, and memoir. Her literature interests include the English novel, American Literature, and Drama – particularly Shakespeare. She blogs at Outside Windows and tweets @NataliaLaurenFi.

 

Why ‘Veronica Mars’ is Still Awesome

Veronica Mars Season 1

 

“Why,” you ask, “are you writing about Veronica Mars, a TV show that’s been off the air for years?” A few reasons. Mainly because the show is, was, and ever shall be kickassly awesome. The premise always sounds silly: teenage girl detective solves cases and fights crime, but it’s so much more than that. Veronica (embodied perfectly by Kristen Bell) is wicked smart and a wicked smart-ass. She’s an independent, dogged, talented, funny, intelligent, perpetual underdog with an enviable fashion sense (I always wanted to dress like her) and a knack for getting into and out of trouble. My other reason for writing this review is because creator/writer/director Rob Thomas is fulfilling every V Mars fan’s fantasy and making a movie that follows up on the canceled show.

 

Veronica Mars movie poster
Veronica Mars movie poster

 

It’s hard to say whether or not the movie will be any good. It takes place at Veronica’s 10-year high school reunion where she’ll be, once again, solving a murder. I think it’s worth checking out because the show itself was smart, funny, and engaged in important social issues with its strong female protagonist. Now, you might be asking, “If I’ve never seen the show, why should I care?” Answer: Because the show Veronica Mars is simply put great television. I admit, I’m something of a hater. Even the shows I like, I usually find a lot to critique. While Veronica Mars isn’t perfect, it tackled big issues with wit, compassion, and ovaries, such as class, race, the intersectionality of class and race, homosexuality, trans parenting, adoption, suicide, abuse, abandonment, addiction, animal cruelty, the stigma surrounding female teen sexuality, and on and on. In Season One, the two major mysteries that Veronica is trying to solve are:

  1. Who murdered her best friend?
  2. Who raped her?

 

Veronica Mars Camera Car
Veronica taking seedy pictures for a surveillance job.

 

How many shows have you seen where the heroine is a struggling rape survivor? How many shows have you seen where the heroine is hunting down her rapist to make him pay (because Veronica doesn’t just believe in justice…she believes in revenge)? The theme of Veronica’s rape is on-going, continuing into Season Two when she finally solves the crime, and painful feelings and memories are dredged up in Season Three when she sets out to catch a serial rapist on her college campus, truthfully representing the fact that sexual assault survival isn’t something people just “get over”; it’s something they must deal with in multiple ways throughout their entire lives. I love the way Veronica refuses to be silent. Despite being humiliated at the sheriff’s office when she reports the crime, despite the fact that she can’t remember who her assailant is because she was drugged, Veronica’s doggedness allows many of us who were cowed into silence to vicariously live through her strength and perseverance. In Season Three, Veronica shares her power with the survivors of the serial rapist (who shaves his victims’ heads to further humiliate them). She shares her story with them and repeatedly declares herself to be their advocate and champion when no one else seems to care whether or not justice is served. For that alone, I love this show.

I also admire the relationship she has with her father.

 

Keith giving Veronica a directive that he knows she'll ignore.
Keith giving Veronica a directive that he knows she’ll ignore.

 

Keith Mars (another case of perfect casting with Enrico Colantoni) is raising his very smart, independent (read: defiant) teenage daughter on his own. Together, they joke and laugh and communicate. Keith may give Veronica too much freedom and may trust her a bit too much, but, in the end, we always know he’s doing the best he can, making all of his choices with her best interest at heart. What really gets me is that they unabashedly love each other. Veronica chooses her father over her unsupportive so-called “friends” and peers. Keith doesn’t stifle his daughter, while teaching her that hard work and tenacity is what sets her apart from her wealthy classmates. It’s rare to see a single father scenario on TV, and it’s even rarer to see it done half as well as Veronica Mars does it.

I also adore Veronica’s friends. Her best friend Wallace Fennel (portrayed by Percy Daggs III) is so sweet and so genuine. He proves time and time again that he’s a much better friend to Veronica that she can ever be to him. Veronica is humanized as we see her flaws when she takes advantage of Wallace’s friendship, but Wallace is so good-natured that he that he usually just goes along for the ride (though he does call her on her selfishness from time to time). I think it’s great that there’s NEVER any sexual tension between them. They are friends and neither of them wants or seeks more EVER. This is a good example of realistic friendships and Rob Thomas knowing there’s a line between drama and melodrama.

 

Veronica and Wallace plot and scheme.
Veronica and Wallace plot and scheme.

 

Then there’s Mac, played by the adorable Tina Majorino. Cindy Mackenzie is known as “Mac,” in part, because of her last name, but mostly because of her badass computer skills. When Veronica and Mac team up, it’s like fireworks of awesome gooey brains just flying all over the place. I love that these two smart gals find each other, and they talk about waaaaay more than just boys (another instance of the show passing the Bechdel Test), for starters: hacking databases and email accounts, setting up remote surveillance, and dealing with Mac’s discovery that she was adopted. Their relationship is pretty great because they’re encouraging of each other, supportive, and they have complementary skills, all of which make them an awesome sleuthing team.

 

Veronica & Mac try to convince Parker to go out.
Veronica and Mac aren’t afraid to get goofy.

 

There’s a lot to love about this show. Its plethora of cameos, quick wit, and hilarious pop cultural references are part of the amazing package deal. If you’re a V Mars fan, you’re probably wondering why I haven’t mentioned the Duncan and Veronica vs. Logan and Veronica vs. Piz and Veronica deal. I guess it’s because most shows geared towards women and young girls have a love triangle scenario. Though I got sucked into the love triangle like everyone else did, I think what’s so special about Veronica Mars is that its heroine isn’t defined by her romantic relationships. She is so much more. She’s a daughter, a friend, a spy, a scholar, an excellent snickerdoodle baker, a photographer, a dog lover, and, above all, a confident, sassy young woman who lives by her own rules and has an amazing, unlimited future ahead of her. Do I even need to say it? We need more role models like Veronica Mars in film and on television, and we need them STAT.

I even came up with a super fun drinking game for it called Vodka Tonic with a Lime Twist & Veronica Mars. I hope you’ll play! [End shameless plug.]