Dear Writers, I Will Not Allow You to Quietly Bury Your Queers

However, for some reason, the siren song of shock value makes writers unable to let sleeping dogs lie. Happiness (or let’s be real, any positivity) just isn’t authentic enough. Queer characters have a bull’s-eye on their backs because their suffering is interpreted as a commentary on the cruelty of the human condition, even if their death has nothing to do with their identity. It’s symbolic! The potential pathos payoff of a queer martyr is too tempting to worry about silly junk like the importance of representation or overcoming adversity. Queer kids, you can totally have a meaningful future, until your death is required for timely social commentary or for the sake of artistic profundity! But you still kind of sort of existed when it was relevant to other people, so isn’t that enough? Ah yes, you can always depend on that token queer waiting in the slaughterhouse when you’ve run out of ideas and/or creative integrity.

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Skins and Degrassi are just two recent examples of this unfortunately common trope.
Skins and Degrassi are just two recent examples of this unfortunately common trope.

Written by Erin Tatum.

Queer representation has increased steadily over the past few years. Like all characters, some portrayals are better than others. It unfortunately seems to be an unspoken rule that writers have a lot more room with laziness or clichés when it comes to creating queer characters. The logic behind minority characters and particularly queer characters tends to follow the philosophy of “make ‘em as one dimensional as you want, you get a gold star for just admitting that they exist!” Thus anyone who isn’t a cis, straight, able-bodied white male has a lot of hurdles to climb. Many writers have recently expressed enthusiasm about LGBT community inclusion, which has been both a blessing and a curse. Really, how many unrequited crush storylines can you do? Often, “queer” becomes code for “resident narrative punching bag and straight romance prop.”

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Naomi Campbell (top) and Adam Torres (bottom).
Naomi Campbell (top) and Adam Torres (bottom).

Nonetheless, sometimes writers strike gold. Two prime examples include Naomi Campbell (Skins) and Adam Torres (Degrassi), a lesbian and female to male (FTM) trans* guy respectively. Naomi (Lily Loveless) is everyone’s favorite snark knight with an interest in politics and a growing attraction to Emily (Kat Prescott). Naomi grapples with her sexuality, her fear of vulnerability, and fierce opposition from Emily’s twin sister Katie. After a river of tears and several passionate monologues, Naomi and Emily, aka Naomily, finally get their happy ending. They even survive a godawful love square. The queer community fell as deeply in love with Naomi and Emily as they did with each other and the couple was almost universally hailed as the most iconic queer coming-of-age story of our generation. Adam (Jordan Todosey) faces similar obstacles. Although he is confident in his identity, he faces constant opposition from his reluctant mother as well as bullying and harassment from his peers, which drives him to self-harm. He fights for everything from sports participation to bathroom rights. Adding insult to injury, he is rejected by a slew of girls because they can’t accept him as authentically male. In an ironic twist, he ultimately finds himself happy in love with an extremely conservative Christian girl, Becky (Sarah Fisher). Degrassi received tons of positive press for introducing TV’s first transgendered teen.

Of course, the characters and the execution of their representation weren’t without fault. Once you strip away all the jaded hipster dialogue and pretty outfits and tortured sexual tension, Naomily’s storyline is fairly formulaic – one person experiences perpetual gay panic while their dogged love interest gets dragged through the mud and back into the closet. Naomi’s involvement with politics only functioned as a premise for her to interact initially with Emily and then completely disappeared. Naomi and Emily’s sole purpose individually is to be hopelessly codependent on the other, so much so that most fans just refer to them by their portmanteau. They never existed outside of each other’s narratives and their relationship was the entirety of their character development. By the same token, I can’t name an Adam plot that didn’t relate directly or indirectly to him being transgendered. The fact that most of Adam’s love interests bypassed him to date his cisgendered brother Drew sends a painfully deliberate, albeit possibly unintentional, message to the audience. In spite of everything, the incredibly compelling performances of the actresses allowed these characters to transcend stereotypical stumbles and become sympathetic and relatable. Naomi and Adam were clear fan favorites.

Naomily
Naomi and Emily (top) and Becky and Adam (bottom) being adorable.
Naomi and Emily (top) and Adam and Becky (bottom) being adorable.

However, for some reason, the siren song of shock value makes writers unable to let sleeping dogs lie. Happiness (or let’s be real, any positivity) just isn’t authentic enough. Queer characters have a bull’s-eye on their backs because their suffering is interpreted as a commentary on the cruelty of the human condition, even if their death has nothing to do with their identity. It’s symbolic! The potential pathos payoff of a queer martyr is too tempting to worry about silly junk like the importance of representation or overcoming adversity. Queer kids, you can totally have a meaningful future, until your death is required for timely social commentary or for the sake of artistic profundity! But you still kind of sort of existed when it was relevant to other people, so isn’t that enough? Ah yes, you can always depend on that token queer waiting in the slaughterhouse when you’ve run out of ideas and/or creative integrity.

Here’s where the shit hits the fan. As a longtime devotee of both Skins and Degrassi and someone who was deeply emotionally invested in both Adam and Naomi as individuals and their potential to attest to and bring about an evolving social landscape long overdue, I’m about to get unapologetically salty. Buckle up.

Naomi and Emily finished their original arc with an emotional reconciliation.
Naomi and Emily finished their original arc with an emotional reconciliation.

Everything had turned out well for Naomi and Emily. Skins changes casts every two years, so we hadn’t seen them since 2010. The show is notoriously scant with mentions of previous characters once they’ve moved on. Fan reaction was thus understandably elated when it was announced that the couple would return for the show’s final “celebratory” season this past July, which claimed to serve as an updated epilogue for a handful of popular characters. Though Naomi and Emily were somewhat nonsensically shoehorned into an episode with another character as the main focus, everyone was excited to see what new challenges they were facing. Optimism is an Achilles’ heel when it comes to the Skins franchise because the writers conflate maturity and character development with total disillusionment and misery. Showrunners and father/son co-creators Brian Elsley and Jamie Brittain passed the torch of Naomily to little sister Jess. Nepotism is always the surefire way to have a job well done! That’s like letting your younger sister play with your favorite Barbie dolls and giving her full permission to toss them down the garbage disposal. Still, Jamie himself stated that Naomi and Emily get married in the future. The outcome couldn’t be too catastrophic, right?

Naomi attempts to comfort Emily as they face the reality of her terminal diagnosis.
Naomi attempts to comfort Emily as they face the reality of her terminal diagnosis.

Think again! Naomi and Emily are reduced to window dressing as the primary character Effy enjoys a glamorous life in the London stock investment world. Effy and Naomi are roommates while Emily does a photography internship in New York (the first time Emily has been given an interest outside of Naomi). Proving her mediocrity as a writer, Jess saddles Naomi with cancer and makes her entire plot – a B-plot for crying out loud – about the impact her illness has on Effy. We have less than an hour to get reacquainted with a character that we haven’t seen in three years, you give her a terminal illness in the B-plot, and the fucking plot isn’t even technically about her. Naomi decides to keep Emily in the dark to protect her because that’s ~the noble thing to do, alluding to their fragile trust issues after mutual infidelity. I don’t even understand why Kat was in the credits when Emily has so little screen time. Emily visits Naomi once early on in blissful ignorance and they have sex while moaning pornographically as Effy tries to get it on with her love interest. Haha, the hilarity of gay sex. Naomi then deteriorates super graphically, vomiting in Effy’s lap and eventually being confined to a hospital bed. When it’s confirmed that the unnamed cancer is terminal, Effy caves and tells Emily. The last we see of Naomily is Emily curled up sobbing by Naomi’s side, with Naomi’s fate left ambiguous but pretty much sealed.

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

The backlash was intense and venomous. Naomily was one of the few queer couples with a solidly positive ending. Sure, plenty of people would argue that their cheating storyline was weak as hell (myself included), but that was redeemed for many when Naomi won Emily back for good. The ink was dry, their chapter was closed, etc. There was no reason to mess with a good thing, save for the obvious elephant in the room: ratings and easy exploitation. Naomily was the piece de resistance of the franchise and their reputation arguably preceded and eclipsed that of the show itself. The PR team knew that Naomily fans were a large demographic. However, the ratings ploy aspect of it isn’t even that logical, since it was already announced that the series was canceled before filming on the final season started. Accusations and mudslinging began to fly. The Brittains have had a remarkably antagonistic relationship to the Skins fan base. We are talking levels of contempt that would put Ryan Murphy and the Glee fandom to shame. As the seasons wore on and the gimmicks got cheaper, fans became increasingly vocal about their disappointment. Given the Brittain’s penchant for routine, pointless character death and the immense outcry that it always provoked, Naomi’s death was seen as a blatant middle finger. Heather Hogan, AfterEllen contributor and former staunch defendant of all previous Skins fuckery due to Naomily’s flawlessness, announced that she would not be reviewing the episode precisely because it needlessly extinguished a shining example for an entire community. When you’ve lost your most irrational stan, that’s when you know you’ve shit the bed. For their part, the Brittain siblings responded to the onslaught of genuine dismay with all the grace and poise of constipated five-year-olds denied their nap time. Jess deleted her Twitter multiple times and in response to Heather calling them out on their contribution to the alarming frequency of queer women character deaths, Jamie tweeted back “I couldn’t care less.”

middle finger

The wound was so deep that people vowed to turn their backs on the beloved actresses, questioning whether they knew about the outcome of the script when they signed on for the project. On one hand, it’s important to remember that actors are just doing their job and everyone has to make a living. However, the sense of betrayal definitely resonates on some level. If Lily and Kat did know that Naomi would end up on her deathbed, it’s a little depressing to think that they would be willing to self-destruct characters that launched their careers for an easy paycheck, when they themselves have spoken of the overwhelmingly positive response to and significance of Naomily. Jess defended herself by stating that even if Naomi did die, it effectively didn’t matter because Naomi and Emily would always be gay. I tried to make a joke here, but I couldn’t because the argument is too nonsensical. The stupidity transcends my wit. I didn’t know that was possible.

Adam’s departure was equally shoddy. Following the launch of his epic romance, he quickly faded into the background. Rumors were swirling for months that Jordan Todosey wanted to leave Degrassi. There were also concerns about Jordan’s shelf life as Adam, given that several of Adam’s storylines revolved around his decision to begin testosterone treatments and Jordan isn’t trans*. This is one of those instances that underscores the importance of casting someone who actually matches the character’s circumstances in real life, although Jordan’s performance was consistently strong. Normally I loathe casting multiple actors to play the same character, but on this rare occasion, it would have worked, especially since Jordan wanted to leave anyway. They could have gotten a trans* guy to take over the role post-testosterone. I should have anticipated that Adam’s actual resolution would be much more asinine.

Adam has a chat with Imogen and showcases his, um, updated style.
Adam has a chat with Imogen and showcases his, um, updated style.

Adam suddenly returns front and center for the early block of season 13 episodes, which should have been our first red flag. All of the previous meticulousness that had gone into making Adam look masculine has vanished and his style throughout his final return is basically just Jordan awkwardly shoved into frumpy layered flannel and baseball caps, making her look more like a lesbian suburban soccer mom than a 17-year-old boy. I know Jordan had been phoning it in with Adam and growing her hair out, but this was just embarrassing. I don’t mean to imply that trans* guys who don’t present as traditionally masculine are less legitimate, but letting Adam running around with a mullet and what appears to be unisex 80s clothing from the local Goodwill does a deep disservice to his character in that his central concern has always been passing as masculine and sometimes even cisgendered.

Don't worry, this incredibly disturbing visual serves no purpose! He'll be dead by the end of the commercial break.
Don’t worry, this incredibly disturbing visual serves no purpose! He’ll be dead by the end of the commercial break.

Anyway, what better use of Adam’s last few episodes of screen time than a gratuitous and nonsensical love triangle! The writers answered the prayers of many a fangirl in the most unsavory way possible by putting him at the center of a girl-on-girl rivalry as soon as he was in a stable and loving relationship. Long story short, Adam and Becky have a fight, prompting Adam to make out with his friend Imogen. He feels so wracked with guilt that he immediately jumps in the car and texts Becky. The distraction causes him to crash into a tree. We have the lovely treat of seeing him bruised and bandaged in a coma for all of one episode before he quietly passes away. Vomit. Fans were obviously upset. Showrunner Stefan Brogren bailed himself out by advising fans via Twitter not to watch Degrassi if they don’t like it. He must have time traveled all the way back to sixth grade to come up with that zinger. Since Adam’s death, some half-assed attempts to turn him into a sacrificial lamb for texting and driving awareness have fallen flat because a) you could’ve given that plot to any other fucking character b) are you really doubling down on PSA duty with the trans* kid? and c) his original intent in terms of “audience lessons” (if you’re going to reduce him to that) was done with such care and empathy that it makes this plot seem like a bag of horse shit. Letting him by defined postmortem by texting and driving spits on his legacy. I have the urge to insert that middle finger gif every other sentence.

In abstract, the writers’ defenses of their chosen character deaths were lazy yet plausible. The Brittains pointed out that many young people have their lives tragically cut short by cancer and Brogren essentially made the same argument for texting and driving. Both statements are true. In those situations, death does not discriminate. But you can’t sit there and honestly tell me that those decisions were pure coincidence, even if only on the unconscious level. Really, you just happened to kill the LGBT character? That’s like robbing someone’s house and then claiming that they can’t prosecute you because some burglaries go unsolved, despite the fact that you’d been scoping out their house for months and knew they were vulnerable. As for why this explanation is fucking ridiculous on a show specific level, Naomi’s appearance was anticipated to be a 45 min. ratings victory lap about what she had been up to since going to university. You could have shown her cleaning pools, for fuck’s sake, as long as she had a few cute scenes with Emily. We hadn’t seen her in three years and we aren’t ever going to see her again, so why on earth would you choose to nuke the crown jewel of your family franchise with a cliché cancer tragedy fapfest? On a similar note, Degrassi has been known for writing off characters in as little as a single line of dialogue or simply by never mentioning them again. Past explanations for character departure include going to Kenya and moving to Paris to model. You’re telling me you couldn’t send Adam to Europe for a fancy testosterone trial or something?

didnttry

Overall, the petulant indignation of these writers in response to sincere criticism of snuffing out crucial representation speaks volumes about just how much further the media has to go in terms of its handling of queer subjects. If even the most three-dimensional portrayals can be milked as award bait and then thrown under the bus for any totally non-sequitur issue of the week, it isn’t really all that progressive, is it? Groundbreaking would be showing that queer people have a new chapter worth living for, even if they have to fight for it. Groundbreaking would be showing queer characters happy in relationships without immediately punishing them with supposedly random acts of fate. Groundbreaking would be showing that queer people can and do go on to lead successful, fulfilling lives.

Writers, what you’re doing isn’t groundbreaking. It’s self-serving. You are jumping on a bandwagon and then cutting your own creations loose the second they become inconvenient. You can’t dust your hands off and tell me shit happens. Try again. Push harder. Instead of shocking me with publicity stunts, make me marvel at just how committed you are to actually telling a character’s story authentically . Lastly, don’t you dare fucking tell me to sit down and shut up. You made a big show of initially bringing our community’s “real” stories into the spotlight and now you have the gall to cherry pick our reaction and whine that we should have been grateful for the inevitable shit sandwich all along? We have precious few torchbearers of alternative identity. The capitalization on such fragile issues is sickening and myopically focused on garnering brownie points for the status quo. I can assure you that the impact of these characters transcends the incubator of your tragically narrow mind and maybe that makes you bitter. At the end of the day, in spite of the most idiotic departures you can think of, these characters symbolize an intense hope and tenacity for those who might not have any other allies in their corner.

For all these reasons and more, I will not allow you to quietly bury your queers.

‘Elementary’s Joan: My Favorite Watson

Anglophilia also contributed to BBC Sherlock fans rejecting Elementary, but Anglophilia all too often functions as a flimsy cover for flat-out racism. … Because they can hide it behind hipster “I liked this centuries-old character first” and the “Keep Calm and Fetishize Your Former Colonial Oppressors” vogue. And because racist people are often not particularly concerned with how racist they are. Especially with sexism along for a kyriarchical yhatzee!

watson
Lucy Liu as Elementary‘s Joan Watson

Written by Robin Hitchcock

Having recently written about my new TV crush Abbie Mills, I feel compelled to sing the praises of another woman of color making television a better place: Lucy Liu as Joan Watson on Elementary.

I, like a lot of television viewers, felt predisposed to dismiss the CBS series as a too-soon, too-similar knockoff of the BBC’s Sherlock. I thought setting it in New York City and casting Lucy Liu as Joan Watson were superficial moves made to solely differentiate the Modern Sherlock TV Adaptations beyond “one came second.”

So when it debuted last year, I wrongly dismissed Elementary. But indifference was not enough for a lot of television fans. The cool kids who are 100 percent fine with 79,481 adaptations featuring the public domain characters Sherlock and Watson, but HOW DARE THOSE SELLOUT HOLLYWOOD BASTARDS MAKE A 79,482nd?

Anglophilia also contributed to BBC Sherlock fans rejecting Elementary, but Anglophilia all too often functions as a flimsy cover for flat-out racism. My Bitch Flicks colleague Janyce Denise Glasper mentioned viewers “boycotting Elementary due to Liu’s Asian background” in a great piece on the actress’s versatility last spring, and I balked, “how can they be so unapologetically racist?”

Racist reaction on BuzzFeed to Liu's casting
Racist reaction on BuzzFeed to Liu’s casting

Because they can hide it behind hipster “I liked this centuries-old character first” and the “Keep Calm and Fetishize Your Former Colonial Oppressors” vogue. And because racist people are often not particularly concerned with how racist they are. Especially with sexism along for a kyriarchical yhatzee!

Top: Pinterest pin Bottom: The Great Mouse Detective's Dr. Dawson
Top: Pinterest pin
Bottom: The Great Mouse Detective‘s Dr. Dawson

With that sooooo-2012 background established for behind-the-times people like myself, let’s move on to the important issue: Joan Watson is THE BEST.

I almost wrote, THE BEST WATSON EVER, but I would have to watch and read several thousand more adaptations before I could state that with any statistical confidence. So I’ll just hyperbolically say, as my brain does when I am watching Elementary, that she is The Best.

Joan started off on different footing than many other versions of Watson not only because of her sex and race. One of the most compelling particularities of Elementary as an adaptation is that is centers Holmes’s drug addiction; with Jonny Lee Miller’s Sherlock fresh out of a sixth-month rehab stint at the start of the series, and Liu’s Watson having just signed on as his sober living companion, a career she transitioned into after accidentally causing the death of one of her surgical patients. This initial role gave Watson a real reason for being there, and for putting up with Sherlock’s nonsense, as their relationship formed. Which not only put some slack back into the audience’s suspension of disbelief, but presented an entirely different status balance between this Holmes and Watson, one that is frankly less creepy to watch (particularly with a woman in the role). It also fits perfectly with the compassionate nature essential to Watson’s character, regardless of sex.

Lucy Liu and Jonny Lee Miller
Lucy Liu and Jonny Lee Miller

But even with a plausible justification for her patience, Watson must still be a master of exasperation, given Sherlock Holmes is one of the all-time annoying weirdos of the literary canon. Good thing Lucy Liu can write a sonnet of frustration with an eye roll and create a symphony of had-enough with the angry clomps of her chic boots storming up the stairs to her room.

After Joan’s tenure as Sherlock’s sober companion ends, she chooses to continue doing detective work with him instead of moving on to her next client. The plot required Watson to stick around for more than a few months, but instead of accomplishing that with some glossed-over contrivance, Joan’s personal satisfaction with her shifting career paths became a major story arc in the first season. We even see her friends and family weigh in out of concern while ultimately respecting her decisions about her own life! I literally got misty-eyed when Joan changed her television-equivalent-of-Facebook work status to “consulting detective.”

Joan's career change
Joan’s career change

While watching Joan’s relationship with Sherlock transition from guardianship to partnership has been a pleasure, it was only through the depiction of Joan herself changing. She got to be a real character instead of a sidekick. That’s more than you can hope for for a lot of female co-leads of a TV series, much less a woman of color cast in a traditionally white male role.

Seed & Spark: It Just Got Better

Although I don’t share a common background with many people that I meet, I can relate to them thanks to my shared vocabulary: the lexicon of water-cooler moments provided by Bright/Kaufman/Crane, Angelou, Sorkin, Kaling, Chaiken, Fey, and so many others — and I will always be grateful for that. Entertainment and popular culture are universal languages that anyone can buy into as long as she’s willing: social capital as accessible as cable (and the Internet). That the same 35 lesbian-related films are available to stream on Netflix, Hulu, and Amazon Prime — which is only about 20% of the overall “Gay and Lesbian” Genre tag — is frustrating because we’ve made so much progress offline. The fact that there are fewer than 200 films total that we can rent, stream, and buy on major platforms is discouraging, but it doesn’t mean that’s how it has to be forever.

Casablanca (reimagined)
Casablanca (reimagined)

 

This is a guest post by Allie Esslinger. 

I grew up at the knee of amazing storytellers; talk was cheap and all we could afford.  There was never a nest egg, but I always had a cache of stories…and I had television. And…I watched a lot of it. Malcolm Gladwell theorizes a person needs 10,000 contact hours to be brilliant in any one area: serialized, episodic content is my only shot.

I should also mention that I was raised in Alabama — home of the Crimson Tide, Rick Bragg, and the only ABC affiliate that did not air Ellen’s coming out episode in 1997.  It took me a long time to understand myself in the context of the world at large because I didn’t have much access to it.  A lot of progress has been made, but there’s still a lot to be done.

The idea that I made it through thousands of hours of programming and 20 years of life before I ever saw another mixed race lesbian is astonishing. There are 200+ LGBTQ film festivals each year, but only 17 films with a queer female character made it to theaters in 2012. If you aren’t lucky enough to get to OutFest or Gaze or Frameline, it can take months or even years to find a film that got buzz when it premiered– and especially ones that didn’t.

Last month I was finally able to see the full short film Social Butterfly, which was at both Sundance and SXSW in 2013.  It stars Anna Margaret Hollyman and was writtern and directed by Lauren Wolkstein, one of Filmmaker Magazine’s Top 25 to Watch, among other accolades.  It’s a different circumstance — the film was bought at the festival and is currently playing on television in France — but there are so many films that go undistributed out of festivals and then aren’t available again unless the filmmaker themselves are willing to promote, distribute, and make us all aware of their film rather than start a new project.

Despite my love for the gang on Friends, my affinity for high schoolers on the CW, and my complete and utter sympathy for every doctor to ever time an inner monologue to a catchy indie rock tune, I never felt like I had a character who I could identify with on a personal level. Although I generally agree that the beauty of the best films and series is that their stories transcend their characters and their settings, I also maintain that sometimes it’s nice to have the film do the leg work. I don’t always want to be metaphorically related to the person I’m watching on screen. I want it to be obvious (like this new campaign we started on our Tumblr that will re-imagine classic romances as lesbian romance films through their key poster art). It’s not just that the lack of well-produced, well-developed lesbian stories has a negative effect on queer women — it hurts society to never see diverse depictions of this diverse segment of the population. And that’s something we can fix.  

When I was a sophomore in college, I walked into an Honors seminar with a blank index card waiting for me as I sat down. On one side, Dr. McKenzie had us write the most important question we could ask ourselves, and on the other side, we wrote the one thing the world needs most.  Before he read the answers aloud, he explained that the exercise is the foundation for politics–the work of connecting the self with the needs of others. Since we only had 30 seconds to think of these answers, I learned in less than a minute what is most important to me as an individual and a world citizen.

What does the world need most?

               Hope.

What’s the most important question I can ask myself?

               Am I being helpful?

That index card was like a globe spinning on its axis, and then all of a sudden, it was laid  out flat like a roadmap–self-awareness and optimism as the compass.

Although I don’t share a common background with many people that I meet, I can relate to them thanks to my shared vocabulary: the lexicon of water-cooler moments provided by Bright/Kaufman/Crane, Angelou, Sorkin, Kaling, Chaiken, Fey, and so many others–and I will always be grateful for that. Entertainment and popular culture are universal languages that anyone can buy into as long as she’s willing: social capital as accessible as cable (and the Internet).  That the same 35 lesbian-related films are available to stream on Netflix, Hulu, and Amazon Prime–which is only about 20 percent of the overall “Gay and Lesbian” Genre tag–is frustrating because we’ve made so much progress offline.  The fact that there are fewer than 200 films total that we can rent, stream, and buy on major platforms is discouraging, but it doesn’t mean that’s how it has to be forever.

Until 1968, “Section II” of the Motion Picture Production Code outlawed lesbian characters in film. I am reclaiming our namesake as the premier space for relevant content and the people who love it. We want to help deliver diverse content with strong minority characters in major roles so that more people are included in–and compelled to be a part of–more water cooler moments.

Section II is a new Benefit Corporation dedicated to improving the representation of queer women in popular culture. Even in 2013, part of that equation remains “visibility,” but I’m also talking about divergent stories, different formats, contemporary issues being presented without making “issue films.”   We’re building a destination platform for curated, high-quality, lesbian-related films and series committed to the idea that seeing positive portrayals of people we identify with is good for us and good for the people who love us.  We’re a new option for both filmmakers and audiences alike — a place for all the best content.  The model for releasing a film is changing, but I don’t think that should worry filmmakers.  Knowing where a film can live takes away the pressure to modify a film’s premise in order to find an audience.  Of those 17 films with a theatrical release, Pitch Perfect was the only one was from a major studio that GLAAD deemed a positive portrayal based on their Vito Russo Test.  You won’t find a bigger Pitch Perfect fan than me, but after years of looking for queer women in film, 1 positive portrayal out of 101 studio films remains disheartening.

Last year I produced a sizzle reel for a film that is currently looking for funding, called Pretty Girls.  It will be a second feature for the talented team at Invisible College, Andrew Gitomer and Jonathan Stromberg.  My plan for last summer was to follow suit and produce three trailers for films that I wrote or co-wrote, all of which would fit nicely (I’m biased) on Section II.  Last Spring I was in the throes of pre-production and creating comps and worrying about finding investors for the slate of films when the idea for the platform emerged.  And then the opportunity to develop it was presented through the Dogfish Accelerator, a program designed to make filmmakers think more like start-ups and give themselves better odds for longevity.  It’s been a long sprint as we work to test and plot-out enough of this idea to pitch to investors next month, and it’s been invaluable to have the chance to talk with film lovers, filmmakers, and distributors to make sure we’re creating an ecosystem that will sustain all the different segments who want to see an increase in quantity and quality of lesbian-related films.

I was so excited to have the chance to write a post for Bitch Flicks because it’s a site that has taken matters into its own hands–it addresses a void by building a community around conversations that want to take place.  It’s what we want to do at Section II.

I considered writing a fan letter about Ingrid Jungermann’s post-gay agenda and Julie Goldman’s irreverently endearing brand of stand-up comedy.  I could write about how I geeked out when Lauren Wolkstein accepted my Facebook friend request or when I finally had a good reason to introduce myself to Lena Waithe.  I could’ve recycled my analogies about how Brooklyn is like Paris of the 20s because everyone is doing cool things that spur me to figure out the anatomy of a platform launch. But I realized that Section II is a fan letter, and that what I’m most excited about is this process of delivering it to everyone else who is excited about the direction lesbian-related films and series are heading.

We launch this month with a showcase site designed to show you that we’re serious about outstanding content and the talent behind it.  I hope you’ll join in on the fun.

[youtube_sc url=”http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jMYG8yD9lqQ”]

 


Allie Esslinger Color 

Allie Esslinger is a Southern transplant living in Brooklyn. Her company, Olive Juice Films, has produced projects across genres, including documentaries, feature films, web series, live comedy, and commercial campaigns. She earned her BA in International Affairs at the University of Alabama, her MA in International Affairs and Media Studies from The New School, andher MFA in Creative Writing (Screenwriting) from Full Sail University. She is developing Section II, an online and streaming platform for curated, high-quality lesbian content. 

Facing the Horror of ’12 Years a Slave’

Spirituals and folk songs were essential in African American history–they allowed slaves to communicate and to collaborate. They were a subtle way to resist slavery and develop community (which was exactly what chattel slavery sought to demolish). White people–as the aforementioned overseer demonstrates–often co-opt these important black cultural pastimes, which is something to keep in mind as we seek to hear and see–but not take–African American stories.

12 Years a Slave
12 Years a Slave

 

Written by Leigh Kolb

As we walked out of the theater from seeing 12 Years a Slave–still tear-stained and overwhelmed–a wealthy-looking white couple filed out behind us.

“That didn’t seem like 12 years,” the woman said.

“It seemed like it to me,” the man replied.

My husband and I discussed which comment was worse–hers, that seemed to diminish Solomon’s terrible journey, or his, that indicated the film was too boring or long.

I wondered what would have compelled this couple to come see this particular film. Awards buzz? Prestige? I don’t know, but I was both horrified and unsurprised at their reaction.

While I don’t imagine their response was shared by most, or even many, audience members, there was something about that retirement-aged white man in a crisp popped collar that made me seethe.

I think, more than anything, this couple represents the response of so many whites in the face of our brutal history.

Because our American history–built on slavery–is so frequently whitewashed, we are not confronted enough with our short-term memory loss and the privilege of not hearing or seeing the cruelties of our recent past.

White audiences rarely have to feel uncomfortable. We are typically the protagonists, the victors, the complex characters. Our stories are universal–or at least they’re marketed as such.

Hopefully, this is starting to change.

12 Years a Slave is the first time a slave narrative has been given the Hollywood treatment, which is almost unbelievable. The slave narrative at its very core is a hero’s journey, and the fact that filmmakers have not looked to these first-person accounts as screenplay material points to a much larger issue in our society.

Solomon as a free man with his family
Solomon as a free man with his family

 

White America is so deeply ignorant and/or ashamed of its history, these stories are pushed aside, relegated to African American Literature classes. These stories are otherized, even though they are our history.

12 Years a Slave–which will surely be nominated for and win its fair share of awards–is an amazing film. The acting and Steve McQueen’s directing are brilliant, the score is perfect, and its importance is poignant. It is interesting, though, that the director and most actors are not American (with the exception of Brad Pitt, who plays the good-guy Canadian who helps Solomon regain freedom). Chiwetel Ejiofor, who plays Solomon, is incredible. Michael Fassbender’s Edwin Epps is horrifying.

It’s difficult to see our white American selves as the enemy, and for black American directors, I can’t imagine the obstacles against telling those stories. (I’ll think there’s been some kind of real breakthrough when a Nat Turner film gets made for mass audiences.)

Solomon, kidnapped and sold into slavery, with Epps
Solomon, kidnapped and sold into slavery, with Epps

 

One of the powerful aspects of the film is its score. The first half of the film features Hans Zimmer’s punctuated horror music, which seems mildly out of place but also perfect, because we are watching a horror film. The vocal music we hear–painfully infectiously–is a white overseer singing “Run, N-gger, Run.” It fits well with the horror theme. This folk song, however, began as a song that slaves would sing, and then it was co-opted as a threat instead of a chant. At this point in the film, everything that Solomon had, that was his, is gone and has been sold.

Another perfect soundtrack choice during these scenes is when Bible verses and sermons are spoken as an abused slave is wailing, or the cruel overseer is spewing pejoratives. This is a not-so-subtle reminder that slavers and those who supported slavery used Christianity to defend the practice.

Solomon
Solomon

 

We only start hearing slave spirituals and folk songs sung by the slaves themselves about halfway through the film–in resignation, almost, as if there is nothing we all can do except cope with the terrible situation. When Solomon starts singing along to “Roll Jordan Roll” after a fellow slave dies in the cotton field, we know he has changed.

Patsey
Patsey

 

Solomon’s story isn’t over there, thankfully, but when he starts singing, we know he has changed.

And so have we.

At least we should.

Solomon has–to an extent–resigned and begun to see himself as part of the groups of slaves (more so than when he was lynched, which was one of the most excruciating scenes, next to the rape and whipping of Patsey, played by an incredible Lupita Nyong’o). He is now part of a community, which he wasn’t before, and this makes his return to freedom painful–because they are still enslaved. Spirituals and folk songs were essential in African American history–they allowed slaves to communicate and to collaborate. They were a subtle way to resist slavery and develop community (which was exactly what chattel slavery sought to demolish). White people–as the aforementioned overseer demonstrates–often co-opt these important black cultural pastimes, which is something to keep in mind as we seek to hear and see–but not take–African American stories.

Black Americans have many other stories besides the tragedies that are starting to seep onto the big screen. It’s incredibly important that we be forced to see these tragedies because we are still so remarkably racist, and we haven’t learned our history.

However, we need more than that. We need much more than the “lonely slave narrative” to actually effect change.

One of the previews before 12 Years a Slave was for All is Lost, which was being promoted heavily at the theater. This film is about a man who gets lost at sea. That’s it. No dialogue, no other characters–just one white man being tousled about in the ocean.

While I’m sure it’s a lovely film (and I’m SURE crisp-shirt Richie Rich will love it), it’s amazing that these films can get made–repeatedly. “White man has problem.” “White man has problem.” “White man has problem.”

However, with black films we’re slipping into “Important Black Film” territory–and we need more than that. We need films that accurately portray the years of suffering that we’ve denied. And from a screenplay perspective, what rich source material we have to work from.

Then, and only then, can we move from the jarring and uncomfortable horror music to songs sung in harmony–songs of mourning, of celebrating, of coping, of togetherness. Only when we face the horror can we go forward together.

 


Recommended reading: “Acting Right Around White Folks: On 12 Years a Slave and ‘Respectability Politics,'” by ReBecca Theodore-Vachon at RogerEbert.com“Hollywood Finally Catches Up With History,” by Salamishah Tillet at The Root; “The Seven Stages of Important Black Film Fatigue,” by Stacia Brown at The American Prospect; “The Racialicious Review of 12 Years a Slave,” by Kendra James at Racialicious“Despite Success Of 12 Years A Slave, Many Stories Set During The Period Still To Be Told,” by Tambay A. Obenson at Shadow and Act; “The ‘Lonely Slave’ Narrative Continues To Thrive In Hollywood,” by Tanya Steele at Shadow and Act



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

‘Wadjda’: Can a Girl and a Bicycle Change a Culture?

At its heart, this film is about how young Wadjda, played by newcomer Waad Mohammed, navigates her culture and adolescence as a Saudi girl, her relationships with other girls and women, and what seems to be the changing attitudes of her country

Wadjda Poster resize

Written by Amanda Rodriguez

I’ve been waiting for Wadjda to come to my local Fine Arts Theatre for months so that I could review it for Bitch Flicks! Wadjda is noteworthy because it’s the first Saudi Arabian film to ever be directed by a woman, Haifaa Al-Mansour. At its heart, the film is about how young Wadjda, played by newcomer Waad Mohammed, navigates her culture and adolescence as a Saudi girl, her relationships with other girls and women, and what seems to be the changing attitudes of her country (more on all that later).

[youtube_sc url=”http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3koigluYOH0″]

Personally, though, I was intrigued by the storyline of her new-found passion and desire for a bicycle.

Some background: I’m a late bloomer. I learned how to drive a car and ride a bicycle at the ripe age of 28. As a woman in my late 20’s, I became obsessed with learning to ride because of the freedom and exhilaration that the bicycle promised. The speed, the control, the sexiness of the road bike, the hint of danger, and the allure of the new experience all kept me riding clumsy circles around my parking lot with a neighbor friend holding the saddle (and therefore keeping the bike upright). For me, learning to ride a bike was not a matter of course as it was with most of the people I know, so I could identify with that longing for the unattainable that Wadjda embodies. Eventually, I learned to ride and became obsessed with it, pedaling my Bianchi 30, 40, 80 miles at a time. I also got really into following professional cycling (more on that later, too…I promise it’s relevant).

Director Monsour, herself, knows a thing or two about doing that which seems impossible. Though she had the permission of the Saudi government to make her film, she was forced to hide in a van for most of the outdoor filming, as it would be unseemly for a woman to give direction, especially to her male actors.

Haifaa Al-Mansour makes history as Saudi Arabia's 1st female director.

Monsour’s heroine also defies convention with her insistence on buying a bike to race her male friend, Abdullah.

 

Abdullah gives Wadjda a helmet.

Wadjda also wears brightly colored hair clips, Converse sneakers with green laces, and listens to American music. I find it somewhat troubling that Wadjda’s markers of rebelliousness are primarily associated with her exposure to Western culture, but her mother (a generation older) is a complex mix of culture and gender role compliance as well as rebelliousness: her daily work commute is three hours because her husband doesn’t want her working with men, she scolds one of her friends for not wearing a veil with her abaya, she claims Wadjda’s Western music is evil and that girls can’t ride bicycles because it will affect their childbearing abilities, she threatens frequently to marry Wadjda off, and when Wadjda must don a full abaya at the command of the school headmistress, she looks on with glowing pride as it is a treasured rite of passage.

Wadjda & her mother perform dawn prayers.

On the other hand, Wadjda’s mother values her daughter’s happiness and ability to dream, she wears a nose stud, and she rejects the idea of her husband taking a second wife, willing to face drastic consequences if he doesn’t respect her wishes. This shows that over the generations, Saudi women are changing, with mothers imparting traditional values to their daughters while still giving them an increasing measure of freedom and autonomy. Monsour says of her own parents, “They are very traditional small-town people but they believed in giving their daughters the space to be what they wanted to be. They believed in the power of education and training. They taught us how to work hard.” Monsour also asserts that, “[P]eople want to hear from Saudi women. So Saudi women need to believe in themselves and break the tradition.”

I admit that when I saw all the women in the streets and in cars wearing full abayas, I was shocked at the imagery. I immediately perceived them as ghosts flitting through the public sphere with heads down, trying to escape all scrutiny, all notice. As a feminist, I bristled against these uniforms that hide the female form, declaring it taboo and the property of her husband. As the women sat waiting in a hot van with only their eyes visible, I realized, though, that the plight of women in Saudia Arabia isn’t that different from that of women in the US. It is a spectrum, with the US on the opposite end. Saudi culture insists women be completely covered, whereas US culture demands skin, cleavage, form-fitting clothing, and sexiness while simultaneously judging the women who do and those who don’t conform to that standard of femininity. Both cultures insist that the female body is a matter for public debate with the dominant patriarchy making the final judgment (as is apparent in US culture with the current backsliding on reproductive rights due to conservative male decision-making). The female body in both cultures then does not belong to individual women.

The strangely similar treatment of the female body in both US and Saudi culture brought up another intriguing comparison for me: women and bicycles. Abdullah (among others in the film) declare to Wadjda that, “Girls can’t ride bikes.” Now, you might think in the US we get off the hook because most little girls (unlike myself) do, in fact, learn how to ride bikes at an early age, and nothing is thought of it. However, how many of them are encouraged to become professional cyclists? Though there are plenty of American women just like Wadjda who won’t take no for an answer, who follow their dreams to become competitive athletes and cyclists, what does the cycling world look like for them? They’re grossly underpaid, under-represented, and there’s hardly any media coverage of their events. Female cyclists (and, in most cases, female athletes in general) aren’t taught to dream big like their male counterparts, and if they do actually achieve success in their sport, where does it leave them? Mostly, it leaves them in anonymity (do you know the name of the most acclaimed female cyclist in the word? doubt it, but I bet you know the name Lance Armstrong) without nearly the recognition, range of events in which to participate (there is NO female equivalent of the Tour de France), and their rate of pay is a mere fraction of that of male professional cyclists. In essence, US culture is telling us that girls can’t ride bikes. Think about that whenever you want to get all righteous on the Saudi gender inequality issue because we sure as hell haven’t gotten it figured out here in the States.

If there is one theme in Wadjda that cannot be overstated, it’s: The personal is political. In Wadjda, the story of a young girl learning to ride a bike has profound cultural, religious, and gender implications. Her stand is powerful and brave, but more importantly, she never questions the rightness of it. Wadjda never once doubts that she should be able to own and ride a bike. It takes many, many small, personal commitments and triumphs like Wadjda’s to build the foundation of a movement for change.


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.

 

A Role of Her Own: A Celebration of Satyajit Ray’s ‘The Big City’

Arati is, in fact, a great screen heroine. She is elegant, giving, gritty and spirited. Committed to supporting others, she has a strong personal and public moral code. She cares for both her loved ones and her fellow female co-workers. She buys presents for every member of the family when she gets her first salary and, although he has hurt her, she does not hesitate to praise her failing husband when she is with others. At work, Arati is not frightened of asking her boss for a raise and she learns to bargain with her colleagues for extra commission pay. When Edith’s virtue is slighted at work (the boss believes Anglo-Indians to be inherently promiscuous), she speaks out against the injustice and makes an extraordinarily risky yet heroic move. It is important to note that Arati is not regressively presented as a maternal martyr but as a dynamic, engaged worker and citizen.

The Big City (1963)
The Big City (1963)

 

Written by Rachael Johnson.

For most lovers, and scholars of ‘World Cinema’, the great Indian director Satyajit Ray will be forever identified with the Apu Trilogy. Chronically the coming of age of a young Bengali boy in the early part of the last century, the critically-acclaimed Pather Panchali (1955), Aparajito (1956) and Apur Sansar (1959) still feature in highly regarded Greatest Films of All Time lists. While they remain prized, influential films, 2013 has given us the opportunity to look at other great works by Ray. Re-released by the British Film Institute to celebrate its 50th anniversary, Mahanagar (The Big City) is one that particularly caught my eye. It proved a pretty special discovery.

A sign of the city
A sign of the city

 

Set in 1950s Kolkata, The Big City is an intimate, insightful examination of the role of women in post-Independence India. The heroine of the tale is Arati Mazumdar (Madhabi Mukherjee), a lovely, kind-hearted housewife who lives with her bank clerk husband, Subrata (Anil Chatterjee), and their small son Pintu. They share their modest, lower middle-class home with Subrata’s elderly parents and teenage sister. As he is finding it hard to make ends meet, it is decided that Arati should also help support the family. She procures a job as a door-to-door saleswoman. Initially fearful of stepping out into the city streets, Arati soon adapts to the world of work. Gaining confidence and customers, she displays a considerable talent for the business. She meets people outside her family for the first time and strikes up a friendship with a stylish Anglo-Indian colleague called Edith (Vicki Redwood) who introduces her to lipstick.

Arati with co-worker Edith
Arati with co-worker Edith

 

But all is not well at home. Horrified by the very idea of his daughter-in-law working, Subrata’s deeply conservative father, Priyagopal (Haren Chatterjee), cold-shoulders the couple. The retired school teacher is particularly ashamed of his son. He believes that he has failed as a husband and that a woman who works suffers great hardship. Interestingly, he feels no shame in asking his former pupils for financial help. Subrata embodies urban post-colonial India and comes across as a quite genial and relatively modern husband. There are nicely-observed scenes at the beginning of the film where he shows engaging support for his wife who is naturally nervous at entering the workforce for the first time. He defends their decision to his father. ‘Change comes because it’s necessary,’ he says. However, Subrata too becomes increasingly threatened by Arati’s new role. She is forced to mollify his masculinist sense of worth. ‘I’m still the same. Just a housewife,’ she says. But he still tells her to quit her job. It is a cruel demand as it shows that Subrata does not care about Arati’s personal happiness and sense of self-worth. It also demonstrates a lack of logic and imagination. The request is all the more discouraging because he is a customarily gentle, likeable man. The Big City is not a polemic and Ray does not express an openly judgmental attitude towards his male characters. The film does, however, indicate that their narrow-mindedness is irrational and self-defeating. The director shows, through the illustration of a potentially disastrous life-changing event, that such reactionary, patriarchal attitudes are dangerous to the survival of both men and women. Unchanging concepts of gender serve neither the family nor community. Ray is, therefore, interested, in both the consequences of women’s participation in the workforce for both the individual and her society.

Awakening
Awakening

 

Ray wonderfully shows what work and economic independence mean for Arati personally. His portrayal of her struggle and advancement is both tender and progressive. Ray’s heroine is both good at her job and fulfilled by her work. It energizes her. ‘I work all day, and yet I don’t feel tired,’ she tells Subrata. There are many beautifully-observed moments in the movie but one scene in particular captures Arati’s own feelings towards her emerging role and independence. When she receives her first pay packet at work, she goes into the bathroom and opens the envelope to examine the pristine notes. In front of the mirror, she holds them to her chest and then smells them. She is pensive, a little bemused, and simply, understandably, proud of her success. At home, she tells her husband, ‘If you saw me at work, you wouldn’t recognize me.’  She is, of course, deeply hurt when Subrata asks her to give up her job. Ray addresses social change in humorous ways too. In one amusing scene, a stunned Subrata, having tea in a café, watches Arati, in black shades, cross the busy street outside. She runs into the husband of a friend and accompanies him into the café. It is an entirely innocent meeting but Subrata listens to their conversation behind a newspaper. Arati has two selves for two worlds. At home, she hides the lipstick she wears in the big city. These tensions are handled with delicacy and wit. Thanks to the well-drawn characterization and Mukherjee’s fully-realized performance, Arati’s growth always strikes the viewer as believable. Her spark is actually evident from the very beginning of the story when she wakes Subrata up in the middle of night to tell him, ‘I’m going to work.’

Arati (Madhabi Mukherjee) and husband Subrata (Anil Chatterjee)
Arati (Madhabi Mukherjee) and husband Subrata (Anil Chatterjee)

 

Arati is, in fact, a great screen heroine. She is elegant, giving, gritty and spirited. Committed to supporting others, she has a strong personal and public moral code. She cares for both her loved ones and her fellow female co-workers. She buys presents for every member of the family when she gets her first salary and, although he has hurt her, she does not hesitate to praise her failing husband when she is with others. At work, Arati is not frightened of asking her boss for a raise and she learns to bargain with her colleagues for extra commission pay. When Edith’s virtue is slighted at work (the boss believes Anglo-Indians to be inherently promiscuous), she speaks out against the injustice and makes an extraordinarily risky yet heroic move. It is important to note that Arati is not regressively presented as a maternal martyr but as a dynamic, engaged worker and citizen. Her husband respects her decision and praises her for standing up against injustice. Manifesting a generosity of spirit, The Big City also shows that people can change. It promises that both Arati and her husband will join forces and work to support their family. Even her father-in-law asks her to forgive his behavior.

With her disapproving father-in-law
With her disapproving father-in-law

 

While it is a tale filmed in black and white, and rooted in particular time and place, The Big City has immeasurable universal appeal and contemporary significance. Although it is not without melodramatic elements, it tells a very human story with both wit and kindness. It has a progressive sensibility and great heart. A sensitive study of a woman’s personal awakening and growth, it also understands that the personal is deeply political. The Big City has a wonderful heroine and a memorable central performance. Mukherjee’s turn as the strong, gracious Arati is quite mesmerizing. Newly restored, it is, in addition, gorgeous to look at. Now part of the Criterion Collection, The Big City is not difficult to track down. It is a beautiful film and I cannot recommend it highly enough.

 

Miss Piggy Turned Me Gay

Miss Piggy taught me that femininity and glamour are constructs. They are costumes anyone can wear providing you have the right attitude. I was a slightly effeminate little boy who collected My Little Ponies and owned a pair of Jelly sandals. Miss Piggy showed it was okay to be girly, that there was even power in being feminine.

The Muppet Movie
The Muppet Movie

 

This is a guest post by Maximilian Mosher.

I’m sorry to disappoint you but Bert and Ernie are not gay. They’re not. When Jim Henson and Frank Oz created them for Sesame Street they were intended as a tribute to the grand tradition of mix-matched comic duos—Laurel and Hardy, Abbot and Costello, Felix and Oscar of The Odd Couple. The fact that in the decades since people have come to view them as a gay couple says more about the normalization of homosexuality and the decline of the comic duo than anything intended by the Children’s Television Workshop.

“They’re puppets,” explained Steve Whitmore, who’s performed Ernie since Henson’s death. “They don’t exist below the waist.” But denials have only added fuel to the fire. With a smirk, gay men enjoy “outing” these symbols of childhood with the same relish they used to reserve for “outing” Hollywood actors. With a continued dearth of same-sex role models in popular culture, Bert and Ernie have been enlisted as gay marriage symbols, appearing on placards, buttons, and t-shirts. Men dressed in Bert and Ernie costumes have even been married at gay pride parades. When it came to celebrating the Supreme Court’s ruling on the Defense of Marriage Act last June The New Yorker chose not an image of a flesh and blood couple but an illustration of the two Muppets cuddling.

It’s not just allies who suspect same-sex shenanigans at 123 Sesame Street.

“Bert and Ernie are two grown men sharing a house and a bedroom,” claimed the Reverend Joseph Chambers on his radio show. “They share clothes, eat and cook together and have blatantly effeminate characteristics… If this isn’t meant to represent a homosexual union, I can’t imagine what it’s supposed to represent.”

The Reverend clearly knows nothing of the show or, for that matter, fashion. Ernie has only ever worn horizontal stripes. Bert, being the more practical one, wears vertical, along with a very 1970’s turtleneck. As for being effeminate, Ernie is a disorganized mess while no stylish gay men would allow the caterpillar that stretches across Bert’s forehead to go un-tweezed.

Bert and Ernie sleep in separate beds, are rarely physical with each other, and never say lovey-dovey things. In fact, they seem ready to murder each other most of the time. (“Sounds like a lot of couples I know,” I can hear you saying.)

But everyone has it wrong. Bert and Ernie are meant to teach children they can be friends with people different from themselves. There’s nothing “gay” about them, save for Ernie’s love of bubble baths. If Reverend Chambers is really worried about kids being introduced to queer culture he needs to move past Bert and Ernie. He should condemn an entirely different show and an entirely different Muppet.

It was Miss Piggy who turned me gay.

The Great Muppet Caper
The Great Muppet Caper

 

Despite the celebrity cameos and pop culture spoofs, Sesame Street was always meant for children, but Jim Henson was wary of being seen as a kids’ entertainer. It took years for him to get it on the air but The Muppet Show, which ran from 1976 to 1981, was meant to correct this misconception. Henson sought to prove a show with puppets could have universal appeal.

Like Walt Disney and the creators of the Warner Brothers’ cartoons before them, Henson and his Muppet Workshop forgot to create female characters. (When a girl was needed on Sam and Friends, Henson’s first TV show, he’d throw a blonde wig on Kermit. If only Reverend Chambers had seen that!) There was the odd exception, such as a purple Muppet named Mildred who, with a perm and cat’s eye glasses, resembled a Fraggle librarian. But at the beginning The Muppet Show was an overwhelmingly male affair with male characters performed by male puppeteers. Like a true star Miss Piggy would have to invent herself.

The Muppet performers had used a homely lady-pig puppet in a few TV specials but she lacked a name and distinctive personality. Before the first season of The Muppet Show, Muppet designer Bonnie Erickson replaced the puppet’s beady black eyes with large blue ones and dressed her in a silk dress with lilac gloves. A permanently attached handkerchief was used to conceal the puppet’s arm rod. Paying tribute to Peggy Lee, Erickson named the puppet Miss Piggy Lee, but the “Lee” was swiftly dropped to avoid offending the singer.

Initially Miss Piggy lacked a distinctive voice. Frank Oz and Richard Hunt shared the responsibility of performing her, with the latter giving her a flouncy British accent and a stuffy, Margaret Dumont-ish character. But as Oz gradually took over, Miss Piggy’s personality asserted itself.

During one rehearsal, Henson and Oz were working on a scene in which Piggy slapped Kermit. Oz thought a karate chop was funnier, paired with a dramatic “hiii-yah!”

“Suddenly, that hit crystallized her character for me,” Oz told the New York Times. “The coyness hiding the aggression; the conflict of that love with her desire for a career; her hunger for a glamour image; her tremendous out-and-out ego…” As they say, a star was born.

Miss Piggy in prison
Miss Piggy in prison

 

Befitting a diva who stepped out of the chorus, Miss Piggy soon took over. With practically no other females to compete with (other than the androgynous guitarist Janice, originally designed as a big-lipped tribute to Mick Jagger) Piggy would grow in stature to become the only woman the Muppets needed. Her costumes multiplied. Her production numbers became more elaborate. She peppered her speech with ridiculous bastardizations of French, a habit perhaps inspired by the legendary Hollywood agent Sue Mengers. Miss Piggy thought nothing of throwing herself at male guest stars, or stealing scenes from great beauties like Raquel Welch.

Pigs, despite their documented intelligence, are thought of as dirty, rotund, and as far away from showbiz glamour as possible. But as a little kid I never took Miss Piggy as a joke. I accepted her beauty and elegance sincerely. For me, she was the star she believed herself to be. This was perfect training for my eventual love of drag queens, who also don sequined gowns, feather boas, and demand you take their star personae seriously.

Miss Piggy taught me that femininity and glamour are constructs. They are costumes anyone can wear providing you have the right attitude. I was a slightly effeminate little boy who collected My Little Ponies and owned a pair of Jelly sandals. Miss Piggy showed it was okay to be girly, that there was even power in being feminine.

Of course, simmering just below her fuzzy peach surface, Miss Piggy had a well of anger and aggression that busted out in karate chops, punches, and kicks. When she got mad, Frank Oz lowered her voice from its regular high-pitched coo to a low, gruff, streetwise snarl. Being a lady is all well and good, but when the going gets tough, the pig gets rough. A lilac glove can sometimes conceal a fist.

Miss Piggy is a pushy, bullying, manipulative, insecure, egoist. There’s more Diana Ross in her than Peggy Lee. She should be unlikeable.

But she has one trait that humanizes her. She loves Kermit. He’s her Achilles Hoof. Her love for him is pure, passionate, and pathetic. She humiliates herself over and over just to get his attention. As Frank Oz said, quoted in Brian Jay Johnson’s new biography of Jim Henson, “She wants that little green body so badly.” And Kermit, for the most part, brushes her off and ignores her. Loving someone incapable of reciprocating is a tragedy every queer person who’s fallen for a heterosexual can understand.

Miss Piggy and Joan Rivers
Miss Piggy and Joan Rivers

 

Miss Piggy eventually snagged Kermit via a surprise wedding at the end of The Muppets Take Manhattan (1984). The ceremony was performed by an actual New York City minister, and in the years since, puppets and performers alike have enjoyed teasing fans about whether the characters are “actually married” or not. Either way, the union of frog and pig and the nullification of their romantic tension brought a symbolic close to the Muppets’ Golden Age.

I love Miss Piggy, but I realize her characteristics as I’ve listed them aren’t exactly those of a role model. With her diva behavior and camp aesthetic, Miss Piggy is a throwback to the closeted gay world before the Stonewall Riots, when queer men worshipped Mae West and a sharp, sardonic tongue was their only weapon. By the time The Muppet Show was at its height, gay men had already moved on to body-building and Donna Summer. Perhaps this is why Pride Parades feature Bert and Ernie and not Miss Piggy. Miss Piggy, with her exaggerated femininity, barely concealed aggression, and pining love of a “straight” man, reminds gays of their past. Bert and Ernie as a committed couple is a more useful symbol for gay activists still fighting for same-sex marriage, even if it is a projection of fans. Puppeteers aren’t the only ones who can pull the strings.

 


Max Mosher is a freelance writer who has written for the Toronto Standard, WORN Fashion Journal, the Utne Reader, and Hello Mr. magazine. He tweets under @max_mosher_. Despite his best efforts, he’s more Kermit than Miss Piggy.

 

How Is The Sex, Masters and Johnson?

But, the biggest question for the show will obviously be, um, what about the sex? Sex is in the title: the opening sequence bathes in it, and every episode features it. As a big proponent of women’s sexuality I’m pretty much all for it, however I desperately hope that Masters doesn’t just become cheap exhibitionism driving up late night ratings; I want to know that Masters of Sex is trying to tell us something in all of the orgasmic moaning (fake or real).

Written by Rachel Redfern

tumblr_mubxz18hbQ1rfpmn4o1_1280
Provocative, even now

Masters of Sex is Showtime’s newest protégé, a mid-century period piece steeped in desire–a desire for what though? Considering that Masters of Sex is only on the sixth episode, the show is still finding its stride, with its characters and dialogue still evolving.

However, I have high hopes for the show. Lizzie Caplan (Virginia Johnson), chooses provocative projects and usually plays fascinating, complex characters: a sociopathic hippie in True Blood, a relationship-squeamish woman in Save The Date, and an emotionally damaged party girl in Bachelorette.  Unfortunately, while we’ve learned a bit about the motivations and back-story for Mr. Masters (Michael Sheen), Johnson remains still undeveloped. The show makes a big deal about Johnson being a unique, sexy, fascinating woman and showing her interest in being a scientist, but I’m still curious as to what’s driving her. But, the show is only beginning, and hopefully her character’s development will begin to grow and we’ll get more of a peek into what’s helped her become such a confident woman, as well as fostering her fascination with scientific studies.

But, the biggest question for the show will obviously be, um, what about the sex? Sex is in the title: the opening sequence bathes in it, and every episode features it. As a big proponent of women’s sexuality I’m pretty much all for it, however I desperately hope that Masters doesn’t just become cheap exhibitionism driving up late night ratings; I want to know that Masters of Sex is trying to tell us something in all of the orgasmic moaning (fake or real).

Episode 101
Don’t lie, you would have looked too.

One thing I’m loving though, it’s two women picking all the material, which is fantastic for a show that is portraying the way that society’s view on sexuality, especially female sexuality, is changing. And I think that a lot of people were curious, and maybe a bit worried, wondering how Masters of Sex was going to be dealing with sex, women, and stereotypes. There are still so many myths and legends, images and dichotomies, and pop psychology and moral sermonizing that happens anytime women and sex are placed anywhere near each other, that it was very possible for Masters to become another fluffy, giggle-fest of boob shots and phallic jokes.

Masters of Sex showrunner, Michelle Ashford, discussed the staff’s perspectives on the show’s sex scenes, and how much they’ve chosen to include; turns out, they’ve been selective and thoughtful—sifting through hours of scenes, trying to ensure that they’re engaging and fulfilling the narrative, instead of just becoming pornographic. In fact, Ashford admitted that she finds many sex scenes boring without any real relevance to the story; in the case of Masters, they’ve tried to take a different approach: “We knew we had to figure out a new way to do sex so that there was always story pulling through it. And there had to be a point of view to the sex, so it’s either tragic or it’s funny or it’s confusing … but it could never be showing sex just to be sexy.”

masters-of-sex-standard-deviation-michael-sheen
Intimacy tells their story

Are they successful in telling the story of sex in their scenes? I would argue that yes, they are: Masters and his wife, Libby (Caitlin Fitzgerald), have terse, dutiful sex, while Virginia is direct and free-spirited, and the young Dr. Haas (Nicholas D’Agosto) is controlling, searching, experimenting. Each character’s experiences (not necessarily their proclivities) reflect their relationships with each other and themselves. Perhaps, at this point, the sex scenes are where the story is, and it’s where we learn the most about each character.

So what do you think? How is the show evolving? Are the sex scenes merely exhibitionism? Is the show helping the way we think about sex? How do you think it’s portraying sex?

See also: “Why You Should Be Watching Masters of Sex,” by Erin Tatum at Bitch Flicks

Zombies and Revolution: An Interview with Esther Cassidy, Producer of ‘Birth of the Living Dead’

Zombie fans among our readers will have read my conversation with Amanda last week about Birth of the Living Dead, the new documentary about game-changing horror classic Night of the Living Dead. On Halloween, I got a chance to sit down with producer Esther Cassidy and learn more about the film, the gender politics of George Romero’s work, and the broader symbolism of zombies.

Zombie fans among our readers will have read my conversation with Amanda last week about Birth of the Living Dead, the new documentary about game-changing horror classic Night of the Living Dead. On Halloween, I got a chance to sit down with producer Esther Cassidy and learn more about the film, the gender politics of George Romero’s work, and the broader symbolism of zombies.

Producer Esther Cassidy
Producer Esther Cassidy

Birth of the Living Dead, a passion project for zombie-loving director Rob Kuhns and his (life and work) partner Cassidy, was initially intended to be a “making of” documentary featuring interviews with the cast and crew of Night, but 2008’s One for the Fire stole that thunder. So Cassidy and Kuhns changed tack. They already had experience with socially conscious journalism from their 2001 PBS documentary Enemies of War, about the El Salvadoran civil war, and Kuhns’ work for Bill Moyers got him access to archival footage from Moyers’ tenure as Lyndon B. Johnson’s Press Secretary, from 1965-67 – a.k.a. the years immediately preceding the release of Night of the Living Dead. The upshot is a documentary that superbly locates Night in the context of the US in the late sixties and skilfully analyzes the relationship between horror and sociopolitical climate, both then and now.

“A lot of people don’t realize that horror can make a political statement,” Cassidy observed. She’s a horror fan, powerfully affected by a viewing of Night in college, but, unlike Kuhns, she says she didn’t realize how much she appreciated the film until she came to make this documentary about it. This is a transferable result: Birth is likely to give viewers a renewed appreciation for Night and a deepened understanding of the social forces that influenced the making of modern zombies.

The two major cultural events to which Birth returns again and again are the Vietnam War and the race riots. In a late-sixties milieu, their specific impact lay in their relation to two major factors: the failure of sixties counterculture and the rise of mass media. Cassidy was quick to name the latter as an important component of today’s zombie obsession. Citing the devastation wrought on New York by Hurricane Sandy last year, she proposed that the renewed cultural interest in zombies this century can be linked to an awareness of both how connected we are and how fragile those connections are. “Everyone born since 1945 wakes up every day surprised we haven’t blown ourselves up yet,” she said of our generations’ apocalyptic mentality. Zombie films are a space where we can ask what resources we can muster to survive in a world where everything can change in a heartbeat, where the only certainty is death, and now even this is undone.

Gary Pullin's gorgeous graphics.
Gary Pullin’s gorgeous graphics.

The failure of institutions is a major theme of Night, and no commentator fails to note the “suspicion of authority and unmitigated bleakness” (to quote the narration of Birth). There’s a revolutionary impulse here, a desire to overthrow the forces of war and racism and capitalism and consumerism through a dramatic world-altering event, but there’s also a hopelessness, a fear that perhaps we can never really change anything. The two warring impulses are surely familiar to everyone who has ever felt dissatisfaction with the status quo. I see the current popularity of zombies as reflecting a powerful sense of collective guilt and frustration. Zombies are the systemic forces to which we are subject and which we cannot control, but these same systemic forces are us – they are the result of human actions and human institutions.

Without the rule of law, mass media, and other social and cultural institutions to perpetuate them, racism and other systemic oppressions need no longer be cynically viewed as inevitable aspects of human existence. (The fact that they are still uncritically included in most of the popular zombie stories today bespeaks both a cynicism so deep it borders on nihilism and a profound artistic laziness.) What’s so brilliant about Night is that the conflicts within the farmhouse are to do with survival, not tribalism, and that the racially-coded violence is perpetrated by the forces of social institutions. Neither war nor racism is over, despite decades of activism and protest, so it’s no wonder Night‘s dark ending still speaks so powerfully to audiences. The fact that mainstream zombie fare today does not engage with critical social theory the way Night does instantiates this collective disillusionment on a metatextual level too. What comfort is there? Romero offers, “There’s always the refreshment stand.”

POPCORRRRRN
POPCORRRRRN

Night of the Living Dead is far from an actively misogynistic movie, but it does fail to address the vector of gender oppression, which makes its social engagement, otherwise so sophisticated, seem thoroughly incomplete. Cassidy can provide a feminist counterreading for most of the female characters in the movie, from the teenage girl whose desire to help her boyfriend leads to the downfall of the escape plan, to the strong mother whose love for her daughter is her weakness, but she’s under no illusion that Night is an explicitly feminist text. As she points out, you have to look to Romero’s series of sequels – Dawn, Day, Land, Diary, and Survival of the Dead – for some genuinely well-rounded and interesting female characters. The man has learned, and his work has developed accordingly.

Perhaps, then, there is ultimately a message of hope for redemption, for a new radically reconstructed world, but it requires a lot of work and self-critique and undeniable pain and horror and times of bleakness and despair. And that seems to be missing from a lot of present zombie stuff, wherever engagement with social issues is missing. Without that engagement, zombie stories are cynical voids of human feeling, all style and no substance, pure money-grabbing consumerist culture. They are zombies, in the most Baudrillardian way, and our only comfort is the refreshment stand.

Hope rests in the people who don’t succumb to nihilism. One of the most interesting strands in Birth is the portrayal of an after-school program to promote literacy through film, where Night is a teaching tool for Brooklyn kids – mostly kids of color whose families aren’t exactly high on the socioeconomic ladder – and it’s fascinating to see how much the film engages them. Cassidy herself works with Downtown Community Television Center to “provide outstanding media arts education to underserved populations.” There are ways in which people are attempting to engage horror with a social conscience. And hopefully Esther Cassidy and Rob Kuhns are going to do more of it with their proposed forthcoming work, on the influence of the Holocaust and the atom bomb on horror, SF, and monster movies from 1945 to the present. I eagerly await it.

Birth of the Living Dead opens at New York’s IFC Center on Wednesday.

Max Thornton blogs at Gay Christian Geek, tumbles as trans substantial, and is slowly learning to twitter at @RainicornMax. He thinks way too much about zombies.

“I Kind of Like It When She Calls Me a Bitch. It Makes Me Feel Like Janis Joplin”: Third-Wave Feminism in ‘New Girl’

There is no denying that 2013 has been a tough year for women. As a North Carolinian, I have watched as all but one Planned Parenthood in my state got slated for shut-down due to “health requirements” passed by our Republican lawmakers. At the national level, politicians have made too many rape-apologist comments to keep track of. As a feminist and former Women’s Studies major, it’s important for me to develop thick skin, and with it, an arsenal of uplifting weaponry that will keep me sane and optimistic about our future as women. Which is what has brought me to love the Fox television show New Girl. Yes, New Girl is, ultimately, a sitcom, and it is questionable whether sitcoms can hold up to serious feminist criticism or if we should just laugh along and not take them too seriously. But what’s the fun in that? When “lighthearted” media is so often blatantly sexist (the song “Blurred Lines” and its accompanying video have given feminists enough ire to last the entire year) we should acknowledge those forms of media that, even in subtle ways, subvert the sexist norm.

The cast of New Girl
The cast of New Girl

 

This is a guest post by Susan Mackey.

There is no denying that 2013 has been a tough year for women.  As a North Carolinian, I have watched as all but one Planned Parenthood in my state got slated for shut-down due to “health requirements” passed by our Republican lawmakers.  At the national level, politicians have made too many rape-apologist comments to keep track of.  As a feminist and former Women’s Studies major, it’s important for me to develop thick skin, and with it, an arsenal of uplifting weaponry that will keep me sane and optimistic about our future as women.  Which is what has brought me to love the Fox television show New GirlYes, New Girl is, ultimately, a sitcom, and it is questionable whether sitcoms can hold up to serious feminist criticism or if we should just laugh along and not take them too seriously.  But what’s the fun in that? When “lighthearted” media is so often blatantly sexist (the song “Blurred Lines” and its accompanying video have given feminists enough ire to last the entire year) we should acknowledge those forms of media that, even in subtle ways, subvert the sexist norm.

The premise of New Girl is as follows: Jess (played by Zooey Deschanel) is a recently-single thirty-something-year-old woman who moves into an apartment with three men: Nick, Schmidt, and Winston.  The underlying feminist elements in New Girl are often subtle, which is what lends them so much power.  Just when we’re expecting another average romantic-comedy sitcom, the rug gets pulled out from under us.  This happened to me while watching Season 1 of New Girl for the first time.  Jess picks up her best friend Cece from the bar and brings her back to the apartment to crash.  Jess warns the boys that when Cece’s drunk, “She’s really grabby, really physical, really loose with her body.”  Immediately the scenario seems too predictable: a bunch of men will take advantage of a beautiful, drunk girl.  In fact, the opposite occurs.  Cece practically forces the boys to dance drunkenly with her, while they try clumsily to impress her.  It’s an interestingly equal power dynamic; Cece is drunk and thus not in control, and yet, the boys succumb to her every whim.  They couldn’t take advantage of her if they tried.  The episode takes an interesting turn when Schmidt offers to let Cece sleep in his bed.  He “sheepdogs” her into his room, closes the door, and says he’ll sleep on the couch.  This scene took me completely by surprise and illustrated how deeply ingrained sexist imagery is in our imagination: I was abruptly surprised by the fact that Schmidt was not going to take Cece to bed when she was drunk.  It was a shocking and somewhat sad realization that I expected the wrong thing to happen; it had almost never occurred to me that a man would not take advantage of this beautiful, drunk woman.

Jess and Julia
Jess and Julia

Jess vs. Julia: Second Wave vs. Third Wave

Jess is a prime example of third-wave feminism because she is a new image of what independence and power look like.  In Season 1, her roommate Nick begins dating a lawyer named Julia.  From the first time Julia and Jess met, Julia was standoffish and cold, quite different from Jess who is friendly and bubbly to a fault.  When Jess needs Julia’s help getting out of a traffic ticket, Julia tells Jess condescendingly that her whole “thing” (meaning Jess’s ultra-femininity and friendliness) might work in front of a judge.

The tension between Julia and Jess reminds me of the very real tension between those who identify with second wave feminism and those who identify with third wave.  Julia has had to combat sexism within her line of work and has done so by taking on traits that would typically be deemed “masculine.”  Jess, on the other hand, is unapologetically feminine.  When the two women break down and finally have it out in the bathroom of Nick’s bar, Julia tells Jess, “If I acted like you at work, no one would take me seriously.”  This is a sad but true fact for women who work in male-dominated fields, like law.  However, Jess counters, “Well if I acted like you at work, my students would turn in really weird, dark dioramas.”  Second-wave feminism of the 1960s and 1970s often took the physical form of women who were trying to stake their claim in society by emulating men in manner and appearance (think of the “hairy legged man-hater” stereotype of feminists).  Third-wave feminists know that female and feminist power can and should be claimed by everyone, including those second-wave feminists, but also by men, people of color, trans-people, and, finally, feminine women.  Jess sums up this point perfectly when she tells Julia that even though she works with kids all day and wears polka-dots, “that doesn’t mean I’m not tough, and smart, and strong.”

Nick and his girlfriend
Nick and his girlfriend (who happens to be a stripper)

 

I got another jolt while watching New Girl when roommate Nick begins dating a stripper, and receives no judgment from Jess or any other female character.  Jess supports Nick’s girlfriend’s decision to strip and even pushes Nick to date her because she’s such a headstrong woman.  It is so rare in television and in real life to find women who accept other women’s career and life choices, especially if that choice is to work in a sex industry.  But that is one tenant of third-wave feminism that has caught on particularly well with young feminists.

The feminist movement, like any social movement, has had its fair share of shameful, or at least embarrassing, moments.  Recall the 1968 anti-Miss America pageant demonstration, in which feminists paraded a sheep in front of the event to represent contestants.  Organizers of the demonstration later regretted the tone of the protest because it pitted woman-against-woman instead of uniting them against an oppressive institution.  Now, in the era of New Girl, feminists have realized the power of female friendships and mutual support.

Jess and Cece
Jess and Cece

Female Friendships

New Girl’s ability to portray female friendships accurately is noteworthy.  The premise of the show–that a recently single woman moves into an apartment full of men and hilarity ensues–seems clichéd at first.  And it is, at times.  There are countless scenes of the seemingly hilarious debacles when two genders live together (in one episode, Schmidt finds one of the tampons that Jess has hidden around the house).  But, after all, it is a cable sitcom, and so we must cut it some slack.  After all, the show does make up for the predictable three-guys-and-a-girl scenario with scenes of genuine friendship among women.   For starters, Jess has a diverse group of friends (for television standards); her best friend is an Indian woman (Cece) and her other friend who appears regularly is a lesbian (Sadie).  Within these women there is no gossiping or snarky behavior.  When Jess suspects that Nick’s aforementioned girlfriend Julia may not like her, she confides in Cece and Sadie for their support.  Nick tries telling the women that they’re imagining things, but Jess points out to Nick something about female relationships that is all too true: when girls fight, a lot of it goes unsaid.  There is real conflict between the women in New Girl, but none of it is the catty back-stabbing behavior that we are used to seeing on television.

Winston, Jess, and Schmidt
Winston, Jess, and Schmidt

Writing Diversity

Unsurprisingly, New Girl’s main character, played by Zooey Deschanel, is an attractive white woman (despite the show’s best efforts to portray her as awkward, she is still undeniably cute).  For this reason, New Girl is not particularly revolutionary in its racial makeup.  With the advent of Orange is the New Black, feminist viewers have gotten a taste of race done right in television (although, not without problems; OITNB has been called a “modern slave narrative” because of its use of a white protagonist as a vehicle to portray black and Hispanic characters).  However, New Girl’s ability to successfully joke about race deserves notice.  OITNB has garnered a lot of praise–and rightly so–for addressing race in a serious and respectful manner.  But New Girl is a sitcom, after all, and has to be funny to be successful.

Modern Family, another sitcom, positions itself as a, well, modern representation of American families.  Unfortunately, many of their jokes rely on tired clichés about race and gender (including the nagging wife, the fiery Latina woman, the effeminate gay man, the crotchety old Conservative white man).  One episode in particular that made me roll my eyes consisted of the family’s newborn baby conveniently throwing up any time gay marriage was mentioned.  It seems to me that Modern Family is trying to get away with these lazy, stereotypical jokes by positioning them as ironic; after all, how can it be offensive if it’s purposefully trying to be modern?

Winston and Cece
Winston and Cece

 

New Girl, while driven by a traditional female protagonist, has a surprisingly diverse cast.  Schmidt is Jewish, Winston is Black, and her girlfriends include an Indian woman, Cece, and a lesbian named Sadie.  The show is surprisingly, almost shockingly, successful in its abilities to joke about race and sexuality in ways that are truly original and funny, and not at all hurtful (disclaimer: because I am viewing the show from a straight, cisgender, white point of view, it is always possible that my privilege allows me to miss offensive humor).  One episode in particular delves into the issue (or rather, the perceived issue) of Winston being the only Black housemate.  Upon seeing Winston interacting with a group of strangers who are Black, Schmidt begins to fear that Winston is not being “his blackest self.”  The episode continues with Winston taking advantage of Schmidt’s naïve idea of what it means to be Black.  Instead of Black stereotypes being the joke (i.e., Black people smoke crack), Schmidt’s assumptions, laced in liberal open-mindedness, are the joke. (We’re laughing at Schmidt for having the assumption that Winston smokes crack.)  Along the way, clever jokes of racial differences are made: Schmidt tells Winston that both of their “people” have done great things for America; African Americans have produced some of the best jazz music, while Jews have produced some of the best managers of jazz musicians.  Another episode concludes with three white roommates taking turns at making Woody Allen jokes, while Winston simply ads, “Yeah, I have nothing to contribute here.”  New Girl doesn’t pretend racial differences don’t exist; it acknowledges them, laughs at them, and moves on.

At the end of the day, it’s difficult to assess how great an impact a sitcom can have on society.  Can twenty-five minutes of cable television enact real change in a society so permeated by racism, sexism, and every other damaging –ism?  I’d like to think so.  The people whose minds need to be changed are not always the ones marching on the streets, reading feminist blogs, and participating in grassroots activism.  They are the ones sitting on their couches, watching television.  So if a show like New Girl can subtly inject feminist values into the mainstream canon, that is something to celebrate.  And now, more than ever, feminists need something to celebrate.

 


Susan Mackey is a recent graduate from Appalachian State University. She lives in Charlotte, North Carolina, where she teaches preschool and writes about art and feminist issues in her spare time. 

 

Call for Writers: Male Feminists/Allies

Call for Writers

 

When we talk about feminism and action for gender equality, we often focus on women–those who fight and create and push against patriarchal forces. For our November Theme Week here at Bitch Flicks, we are focusing on the male feminists and allies who are fighting and creating and pushing against patriarchal forces. We want writers to consider fictional male characters (from film and television), men who are activists and allies in and out of media, and the importance of men in the fight for equality–both on screen and off.

In the article, “I’m a male feminist. No, seriously,” John Brougher says,

“Sexism doesn’t just hurt women, it breaks our very humanity. And ultimately, that’s why I’m a feminist. Because women deserve to be treated as equal human beings, and it hurts every single one of us when that’s not the case.”

Many men get this. We love those men. This month, we want to give a week of Bitch Flicks to these male feminists and allies who get it.

We would like to avoid as much overlap as possible for this theme, so get your proposals in early if you know who or what you would like to write about. We accept both original pieces and cross-posts, and we respond to queries within a week.

Most of our pieces are between 1,000 and 2,000 words, and include links and images. Please send your piece in the text of an e-mail to btchflcks[at]gmail[dot]com, including links to all images, and include a 2- to 3-sentence bio.

If you have written for us before, please indicate that in your proposal, and if not, send a writing sample if possible.

Please be familiar with our publication and look over recent and popular posts to get an idea of Bitch Flicks’ style and purpose. The final due date for these submissions is Friday, Nov. 22 by midnight.

 

 

Bitch Flicks’ Weekly Picks

Check out what we’ve been reading this week and let us know what you’ve been reading/writing in the comments!

recommended-red-714x300-1

 

The Seven Stages of Important Black Film Fatigue by Stacia Brown at American Prospect

Why ’12 Years A Slave’ Is Different From ‘The Help’ And ‘Django Unchained’–And Why It Matters by Alyssa Rosenberg at ThinkProgress

It’s Time To Say Good-Bye To TV’s Strong Black Woman by Nichole Perkins at BuzzFeed

13 Myths Hollywood Uses to Hide Discrimination Against Women Directors by Maria Giese at Women Directors in Hollywood

Voices: Halloween–A White Privilege Christmas by Arturo R. García at Racialicious

The Big O: Oscar Could be Swayed by Leto’s Feminine Mystique by Susan Wloszczyna at Women and Hollywood

15 Fantastic Horror Films Directed by Women by Alison Nastasi at Flavorwire

Creator/Producer Lorne Michaels Responds To Lack Of Black Women On ‘SNL’ Criticism by Tambay A. Obenson at Shadow and Act

Queen Latifah, Patti Labelle, Venus Williams to Be Honored at Black Girls Rock! by Evelyn Diaz at BET

Why White People Can’t Quit Blackface by Camille Hayes at Bitch Media

‘Homeland’ And The Delicate Art Of Withholding by Linda Holmes at NPR

Heroines of Cinema: 10 Great Films About Female Sexuality by Female Filmmakers by Emily Craig, Matthew Hammett Knott and Sophie Smith at Indiewire

Season of the Witch: Conjuring Strength Through Power by Alyssa Rosenberg at Women and Hollywood

Tina Fey’s New Show Picked Up By NBC #Blessed by Eloise Giegerich at Bust

 

What have you been reading/writing this week? Tell us in the comments!