Never Fear: Unlikable Black Women on ‘Orange Is the New Black’ and ‘Luther’

When I searched my mental rolodex for Black female characters in film or television who are unlikable my mind continued to circle. I was lost.

Viola Davis at the SAG Awards
Viola Davis at the SAG Awards

 


This guest post by Rachel Wortherley appears as part of our theme week on Unlikable Women.


“Thank you … for thinking that a sexualized, messy, mysterious woman could be a 49-year old, dark skinned, African-American woman who looks like me.” – Viola Davis, Screen Actors Guild Awards (2015).

Viola Davis resounded these words in her acceptance speech at the 21st Annual Screen Actors Guild Awards when she won for “Outstanding Performance by a Female Actor in a Drama Series” for the ABC hit series, How to Get Away With Murder (2014). Davis’ speech shows how images of Black women in television are only beginning to change.   Before the inception of ABC’s Scandal (2012), a Black woman in a lead television role had not existed since 1968’s Julia starring Diahann Carroll.   Since Scandal, Fox’s Sleepy Hollow (2013) and How to Get Away With Murder have been allowed to flourish on network television. Viola Davis’ portrayal of Annalise Keating is brass, vulnerable, sexy, and threatening–all of which is the complete opposite of misconceived images of Black women as docile, maternal, and continuously doting. She is usually a figure who serves others while sacrificing her personal wants and needs.

Mo'Nique as Mary Ann Johnson in Precious
Mo’Nique as Mary Ann Johnston in Precious

 

When I searched my mental rolodex for Black female characters in film or television who are unlikable my mind continued to circle. I was lost. With the exception of Mary Lee Johnston (played by actress and comedian Mo’Nique) in the 2009 Lee Daniels’ film Precious, I could not name one character. Writers and executives appear to have an inherent fear of writing women of color as unlikable, even evil. Often a character who looks and feels like Annalise Keating is ascribed as the “angry Black woman.” In fact, Alessandra Stanley, writer for the New York Times, attributed this ignorance in her article, “Wrought in Rhimes’s Image: Viola Davis Plays Shonda Rhimes’s Latest Tough Heroine,” in which she accuses the series’ executive producer Shonda Rhimes and Annalise Keating of being angry Black women. Meredith Grey (Grey’s Anatomy) and her angry rants should takes notes, lest she be an “angry white woman.”

Then I remembered two recent characters from television. Yvonne “Vee” Parker of the Jenji Kohan, Netflix series, Orange is the New Black (2013) and Erin Gray of Neil Cross’ BBC series, Luther. Kohan and Cross create two women, whom also happen to be Black, who are unlikable and even volatile in the perception of general audiences.

Lorraine Toussaint as Yvonne "Vee" Parker in Orange Is the New Black
Lorraine Toussaint as Yvonne “Vee” Parker in Orange Is the New Black

 

Jenji Kohan is masterful in her conception of Vee because the quality that makes her unlikable is her ability to be likeable.   In Season 2, Episode 2: “Looks Blue, Tastes Red,” we flashback to see Tasha, a chubby, little, 11-year old Black girl croons the Christina Aguilera ballad “Beautiful” to prospective adoptive parents. She can recite the periodic table and memorize up to 56-digits of pi. Yet, despite this they choose another child.   Suddenly a tall, dark figure, big hair, in sunglasses approaches, sits, and lights a cigarette.   She looks over and Tasha and recognizes that she is from a group home. The woman asks if Tasha cares to learn “the trade” (the drug trade) and Tasha refuses. She wants to find her “forever family.” In that moment, Vee awakens Tasha to the reality that she may die waiting for her forever family and in the same moment Tasha becomes “Taystee Girl,” a nickname that will follow her into Litchfield Prison.

A couple of scenes later a teenage Taystee, who dons a uniform from the local fast food restaurant, is headed to work. Once again, Vee approaches Taystee to convince her to join the business. Here, Taystee continues to be resistant. She wants to make her own way. However, the third time, Vee does not approach her, rather Taystee goes to her.   Taystee, crying and desperate, turns to Vee lamenting that her situation in the group home has worsened. This time around, Vee rejects her until Taystee proves that she can be an integral asset to the business. As in the beginning of the episode, she shows off her math skills as she did for the adoptive parent and this time it works. Vee takes Taystee under her wing.

Danielle Brooks as "Taystee" on Orange Is the New Black
Danielle Brooks as “Taystee” in Orange Is the New Black

 

Kohan uses these flashbacks in order to demonstrate the humanity beneath the face of prison. In Taystee’s flashback audience see that she was a lonely child searching for her “forever family” but she unfortunately found refuge in the wrong person. A pivotal flashback occurs when Taystee arrives from the craft store with googly eyes, owl, and horse stamps.   Her idea is to label their heroin with a stamp in order to market it better. Despite the context of the conversation, what audiences learn is that Taystee is a businesswoman with bright ideas who wants to move beyond working for a “connect.”

As Taystee vocalizes this information, Vee is in the kitchen cooking dinner for R.J. (another young employee of Vee) and Taystee. In this moment, Taystee gazes at Vee as though she is a God-send. Here, Vee is the nurturing, maternal figure that Taystee has always wanted. Another scene in which Vee’s maternity is showcased occurs in real time at Litchfield prison. Vee quickly becomes close to Suzanne who is known to fellow inmates as “Crazy Eyes.” Suzanne who is afraid of Piper—due to Piper’s brutal beat down of another inmate in the previous season—becomes withdrawn around her. Vee sees this and tells her: “at the end of the day, you are a garden rose and that bitch is a weed.” That moment allows for Suzanne to “see” herself for the first time and it solidifies her loyalty to Vee.

Uzo Aduba as Suzanne "Crazy Eyes" Warren in Orange Is the New Black
Uzo Aduba as Suzanne “Crazy Eyes” Warren in Orange Is the New Black

 

Vee’s declaration to Suzanne is the same method that allows her to insert herself into the lives of the other inmates: Black Cindy, Janae, and to some extent Poussey. Each of these women has experienced some type of loss in their past. Janae, a promising career in track and field, Black Cindy, her daughter, and Poussey her true identity. Vee is their opportunity to prove their worth at the prison amongst the women; to them she sees their purpose. She also becomes the maternal figure of the Black women in the prison where that role is vacant. The Hispanic inmates have Gloria, while the Caucasian inmates have “Red.” Vee’s ability to charmingly seduce individuals is what makes her most diabolical. Her maternity is sinister, a quality that is comparable to the description of the elms in playwright Eugene O’Neill’s play, Desire Under the Elms. Like the elms, Vee appears to “protect, yet subdue.” Vee predatorily isolates the group, specifically Taystee, from Poussey who quickly sees Vee as a danger. Vee uses her feelings of isolation in order to hurt her. For audiences the separation of Taystee and Poussey is the first offense. The second and third come to fruition in the form of injuring Red and allowing Suzanne to take the blame. As Black Cindy attempts to stand up to her, she and Janae quickly see that Vee’s physical threats are to be taken seriously. She is willing to discard of anyone in order to get what she wants. Just ask Taystee’s friend R.J. whom she sleeps with and murders all in one night.

On the flipside of this is DS/DCI Erin Gray on Neil Cross’ BBC series Luther. Erin is the only woman on the police force which includes Detective Chief Inspector John Luther (Idris Elba). She is meticulous, driven, and she follows rules by the book. Despite her name, there are no “gray” areas in her concept of the law, just black and white. Erin is the only woman in newly formed “Serious and Serial Crime Unit” therefore has to prove herself as a woman and a woman of color. The first time audiences meet her she asks DS Justin Ripley, Luther’s partner, in reference to Luther’s police tactics: “is he really as dirty as they say?” Ripley quickly comes to his defense and continues to do so as the season progresses.

Nikki Amuka-Bird as DCI Erin Gray in Luther
Nikki Amuka-Bird as DCI Erin Gray in Luther

 

Erin continues to question Luther’s methods. A prime example occurs when Luther orders her and Justin to confiscate the mobile phones of the public at a crime scene investigation. Erin questions, “On what grounds?” However, Justin explains that to Luther “confiscate” means something different. Erin does not completely understand Luther’s policing nor agree with them. This comes to a head when she witnesses Luther breaking into DSU Schenk’s computer files—in actuality he is obtaining files to set a teenaged prostitute free from her employer. As a result, she becomes suspicious and reports the case. However, she alerts Justin to her concerns, inadvertently allowing him enough time to wipe the history from Schenk’s computer. As a result, Erin is embarrassed and humiliated in front of her superior. She leaves the Serious and Serial crime unit in disgrace.

This moment is what allows Gray to join the unit that investigates police corruption and she is promoted to Detective Chief Inspector.   She joins forces with formerly retired DS George Stark to investigate Luther and bring a case against him. In the process, Gray attempts to convince Ripley that Luther needs to be stopped. Season three is when Gray begins to become unlikable for audiences. According to most audiences Gray is labeled as “annoying,” “grating,” and a “stupid bitch.” Upon my first viewing, I also found Gray unlikable. However, now I understand why audiences dislike her.

Erin Gray and Luther
Erin Gray and Luther (Idris Elba)

 

Gray’s biggest fault is that she goes against not just the main character, but a multitude of characters who support Luther. One of them being the beloved psychopath Alice Morgan (Ruth Wilson).   Audiences are quick to love the deliciousness of a possible intimate relationship between Alice and Luther and seemingly overlook the fact that when we meet her she murders her parents and the family dog, and gets away with it. She is clever, delightful, and continuously fights for John Luther. Alice like many of the women on the show has been saved by Luther (he cunningly helps Alice escape the mental institution). Erin is threatening because even as she faces the barrel of a gun in season three, she does not need to be saved by John. Erin’s ability to be independent of the main character is what makes her unlikable. She works to better herself and the law. It is also significant that the majority of women in the shows history who need saving, including the victims, are Caucasian women.   While I am not advocating that Black women or women in general, should be diminished to damsels in distress, it is obtuse that a majority of victims are of a specific demographic and gender. In a sense this disparity establishes how audiences are supposed to see Erin Gray in comparison to others. Because she is not a victim, she is other.

Though Vee’s story on Orange is the New Black is closed by Rosa, the escaped inmate who runs Vee over with the prison van, seemingly killing her, Erin’s is very much open. In the aftermath of her attack, audiences last see Erin on a stretcher, shell shocked, and speechless. For audiences her non-death may have been a disappointment, but she has been scared straight into ultimately believing in Luther. Viewers of Orange is the New Black and Luther have equally been satisfied in some capacity by each woman’s demise.

Unlikable white women characters
Unlikable white women characters

 

Claire Underwood, Maxine Lund, Mavis Gary, and Hannah Horvath are just a few of the many unlikable female characters in film and television. They are met with distaste, yet this quality places them under a microscope because they are often people we know. Viola Davis’ statement in congruence to Vee Parker and Erin Gray demonstrate that minorities, whether they are Black, Hispanic, or Asian, want to diversify their roles in film and television. While the general landscape of roles for women of color appear to be expanding on television, film continues to fall behind in the diversity of characters. She should be liked and disliked, loathed and loved, and the bitter pill to swallow, yet the one that we need.

 


Rachel Wortherley is a graduate of Iona College in New Rochelle, New York and holds a Master of Arts degree in English. Her downtime consists of devouring copious amounts of literature, television shows, and films. She hopes to gain a doctorate in English literature and become a professional screenwriter.

Why We Love Janice and Why We Love to Hate Janice

Is Chandler going somewhere, just minding his own business? Chances are that Janice is just around the corner. As Janice once put it, “You seek me out. Something deep in your soul calls out to me like a foghorn. Jaaa-nice. Jaaa-nice.”


This guest post by Artemis Linhart appears as part of our theme week on Unlikable Women.


You can hear her presence from a distance. If it isn’t the laugh that tips you off, it might just be her nasal, loud voice – the stuff that Chandler’s nightmares are made of. As a viewer, you can also feel her presence from a distance. Is Chandler going somewhere, just minding his own business? Chances are that Janice is just around the corner. As Janice once put it, “You seek me out. Something deep in your soul calls out to me like a foghorn. Jaaa-nice. Jaaa-nice.”

This holds true for all 10 seasons of Friends. Just when you thought she was out… they pull her back in.

The thing about Janice though, is that she is more than a running gag. What is established early on in the first season as the on-again, off-again love interest and general catchphrase provider, the inescapable fate of Chandler Bing’s love life, is in fact a statement about our – the fans’ – loyalty and commitment to the characters of the show.

Clearly, it’s a Love Hate Thing. The character evokes in the viewer split feelings of sympathy with both Chandler and Janice herself.

Why We Love Janice

She’s fun.

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She may be whiny, but Janice is up for all sorts of fun stuff. Spending a day with her seems like a great thing to do – even though “Joey and Janice’s Day Of Fun” did nothing to change Joey’s feelings about her. Phoebe may be the only one to genuinely like her, but Janice truly cares about all six of the Friends and shows that she’s a fun person to be around.


She’s confident.

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Not only is Janice confident when it comes to her style – she pulls off bold fashion choices with ease and, while others might be amused by her outfits, she wears them with pride – but she also never fails to show how strong a person she is. Janice knows what she wants and is not afraid to go ahead and get it.

When she hears about Joey hating her, instead of being offended or shamed, she confronts him and wants to make things right.

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She has a good heart.

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Janice is loyal to Chandler despite all the pain he has caused her. She truly cares about him. Remember the customized candy hearts and the Bullwinkle socks she gave him for Valentine’s Day? Those were gifts that really showed how thoughtful she is.

Forget lobsters! – Janice is the Bullwinkle sock to Chandler’s pair of Rockys. She might get lost in the sock drawer at times, but she’s sure to resurface every once in a while for Chandler to mix and match.


She’s supportive.

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When Chandler pretend-moved to Yemen, she helped pack, bring his luggage to the airport and, on top of it all, agreed to a long-distance relationship.


At one point, she did actually make Chandler happy.

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And we love a happy Chandler.


It is always fun to see Chandler’s pitiful tries to break up with her.

janice-image-1

New Year’s, Valentine’s Day, you name it. Chandler may be the worst breaker-upper there ever was.


Why We Love to Hate Janice

We feel the pain.

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Empathy, folks. We’ve got it.


It’s not just Chandler who suffers.

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Joey, Rachel and Ross also get their fair share of Janice-induced agony.


We are protective of Monica and Chandler’s romance.

For Monica, there might even be a hint of jealousy involved. After all, Mon/Chan is the One True Pairing.

[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_CZiZiBF7YQ”]


It makes us part of the group.

We love our Friends. They hate Janice. We know Janice is awesome, but we love to be on their side and hate Janice together.

[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VLgpoSYVTx4″]


Oh… My… God.

[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oNjjeZO2AZ4″]

Admittedly, she is quite a bit irritating.


In conclusion, this video pretty much sums it all up:

[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7rhoZrJXxsI”]

 


Artemis Linhart is a true Friends geek. She works and watches in Vienna, Austria.

“I’m Not Bad, I’m Just Drawn That Way”: The Exceptionally Beautiful Anti-Heroine

And if you’re anything like me, every reader of this site wants the same thing: to see more portrayals of women on film, televisions, and beyond that reflect their complexities, strengths and weakness alike. We want a greater range of body types, a greater representation of lifestyle choices, a broader world of occupations and skill sets and backstories and destinies.


This guest post by Jessica Carbone appears as part of our theme week on Unlikable Women.


“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.” This expression is meant to remind those who hear it not to conflate a beautiful face with a beautiful soul. However, when it comes to starring roles for women on television, the most important tool an actress can bring to the table is traditional, indisputable beauty. Why is this so valuable? Because from a storyteller’s perspective, it’s the perfect narrative loophole—if your main character is physically gorgeous, no matter what horrendous moral or criminal violations she might commit, viewers are still going to be hungry to see her on screen. Some newer anti-heroines deliberately break this mold (see Hannah Horvath on Girls), and we should be happy about that—whether she’s the hero or the villain, a female character can be much more than eye candy. But a beautiful actress unlocks some very interesting plotlines in the modern television writer’s rooms, and with the rise of the antiheroine, a woman on television can now get away with murder—literally and figuratively. But to do that, she can’t just be smart, funny, and fierce—she’s also got to be HOT.

just a few of the pretty TV heroines who escaped criminal punishment for their murderous deeds over the last decade. From left to right, Blake Lively as Serena van der Woodsen, Gossip Girl; Evangeline Lilly as Kate Austen on Lost; Tatiana Maslany as Sarah Manning from Orphan Black
Just a few of the pretty TV heroines who escaped criminal punishment for their murderous deeds over the last decade. From left to right, Blake Lively as Serena van der Woodsen, Gossip Girl; Evangeline Lilly as Kate Austen on Lost; Tatiana Maslany as Sarah Manning from Orphan Black

 

A pretty girl on television has never been an oddity—but it used to be easier to know that the attractive lead character was virtuous, just as the mustache-twirling side character was the villain. But with the first appearance of Tony Soprano, a violent gangster we could root for, writers began to craft all main characters as internally conflicted and morally compromised, crime-fighter and criminal, mama bear and femme fatale. (See Dexter, Hannibal , and Mad Men for more of this archetype). Audiences are willing to tolerate a lot from male antiheroes, partially because of historical precedent—as men have traditionally been in power, we expect our leading men to wield their power both for good and evil. But a good woman who goes bad? That prototype is sexy and revolutionary as hell—and we see that reflected in the constant shaping of the beautiful villainess, a woman who gets by being bad because she looks so good doing it. To be a woman aware of and in control of her sexuality is to be newly powerful, potentially dangerous, and thus, perfect material for the perfect anti-heroine.

Nancy Botwin
Nancy Botwin

 

The introduction of Weeds, a half-hour comedy about a pot-dealing widow, shone a whole new light on the suburban femme fatale, especially one who comes into her own by way of her criminality and who, newly single and newly living a life of crime, gets to be a fully sexualized force of nature. Nancy Botwin (played by the radiant and ballsy Mary-Louise Parker) would do anything to keep her upper-middle class lifestyle in check—be it selling dime bags to teenagers, collaborating with a Mexican drug cartel, or romantically tie herself to any number of criminals (a fraudulent DEA agent, the murderous mayor of Tijuana, a sleazy insurance magnate). Through everything, Nancy kept her family safe with her sexuality—even in the first season, Nancy has sex with a competing dealer to defend her territory. In many ways Nancy acts as though she’s invincible—something she believes because society confirms her ability to pass unnoticed through the criminal underground. When you’re an attractive prosperous white woman in a world dominated by impoverished non-white men, it’s easy to escape because you don’t look like a criminal. And yet Nancy’s good at her job because she’s selling herself as part of the product. Hell, Snoop Dogg even names her product “MILF weed,” because its delightful effects are exactly like Nancy. What makes Nancy an admirable yet deeply troubling anti-heroine is that she doesn’t mind being objectified in order to get what she wants—sometimes she even embraces it, because it’s an effective method of negotiation. In Season 3, she literally shakes her moneymaker to get a brick of product from another dealer.


[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qtlElBLg354″]

Nancy does the brick dance


What starts as a dance of awkward desperation very quickly becomes something fun for her—another moment for Nancy to hold all the cards, and get what she wants.

“Get a good look at me”
“Get a good look at me”

 

While Nancy discovers her powers of seduction on Weeds, many of our best antiheroines stride into view fully aware of their desirability. Fiona Goode, of American Horror Story: Coven, is a new version of the Wicked Queen prototype, updated and empowered for a 21st century kind of sexuality and MILF-status. As portrayed by the eternally flawless Jessica Lange, Fiona is the reigning Supreme (head witch) of the Salem coven, a inherited title passed down to a witch who shows mastery of her craft (which includes the power of concilium, mind-control, often demonstrated as flirtation and coercion) as well as blossoming health and beauty. Power and beauty are inextricably linked in Coven, and so Fiona is obsessed with her looks, to the point where she tries to sell her soul to a voodoo spirit to guarantee “life everlasting—no aging, no decrepitude, forever.” Fiona knows exactly how powerful beauty is, because she’s wielded it from a very young age—at age 17, she killed the reigning Supreme so she could claim the title, and given that the lone witness was in love with her, she had someone to cover up the crime (and future crimes as well). Fiona’s desire to eliminate all competition is strengthened by her love affair with the Axe Man, a murderous ghost who can be summoned to do Fiona’s bidding. (All the men on Coven are sidekicks or love interests, never once dominating the storyline, and that’s radical all by itself.) Whether Fiona is actually in love with the Axeman is unclear, but one thing is for certain—Fiona’s best weapon throughout her life has been her beauty and desirability. Whether or not the writers of Coven stand behind Fiona’s deeds, there is no question that she holds the screen, as well as all the other girls in the coven, in her thrall—when you hand a role like this to Lange, it comes a performance that’s part camp, part feminist tour-de-force, and you can’t help but admire it, even when she slaughters everyone in her wake.

"Who's the Baddest Witch?"
“Who’s the Baddest Witch?”

 

It’s one thing to wield beauty deliberately, to bend the universe to your will the way Nancy and Fiona can. But can a beautiful anti-heroine ever accidentally wield this power? Even with intelligence, ingenuity, and fearlessness to wield, does beauty become the most defining characteristic of an anti-heroine?

Olivia Pope
Olivia Pope

 

The last thing a real anti-heroine wants to be is a “damsel in distress,” and yet Olivia Pope, Scandal ’s most morally messed-up “gladiator,” is constantly finding herself in scenarios where being an object of lust is the only thing that will actually rescue her. Olivia Pope (played by the fiercely intelligent Kerry Washington) conceives of herself as a hero, a champion for the underdog, someone who “wears the white hat” and has an unfailingly good gut sense of right and wrong. But whatever ivory, bone-white, or champagne-colored hat she wears, Olivia is almost never championing the underdog. In fact, for the first two seasons of Scandal, the vast majority of her clients are powerful people needing a “fixer” to protect their image. And what better champion to call upon then, than a woman who is all perfect surface and no moral core? True, Olivia is constantly calling people out on their vile actions, but very often she is speaking more to the Scandal audience (or to her adoring employees) than to the actual person needing a shakedown. Yet Olivia is never punished for this hypocrisy because, as the series progresses, she is primarily valued for her beauty and the influence it wields—specifically, on the men who can’t resist her. But she never fully understands what that power means.


[youtube_sc url=”http://youtu.be/iJ3UBneiB9I”]

Fitz and Olivia


We know that Shonda Rhimes writes brilliant, passionate women of all orientations, races, ages, and life experiences. (We’ll be thanking her for Cristina Yang for years to come.) The development of the Rhimes heroine prototype makes for better and better television, and there’s no question that Olivia is part of that tradition—but she’s also a setback. Because every time she is imperiled, every time it looks like she will finally receive some comeuppance for any of the multitude of crimes she has committed, there’s a guy who loves her ready to swoop in and protect her. What the show does by making Olivia so desirable is actually reduce her exceptional qualities, and treats her more like a cardboard damsel in distress. (Unlike Fiona and Nancy, Olivia doesn’t suffer from the same delusions of untouchability, and that’s a byproduct of knowing just how hard she’s had to work as a black woman—class and race are a huge yet currently unexplored part of the Scandal storyline.) And while we’d like to say that Olivia’s love interests are merely incidental (and make for great soapy plotting), you could practically write a drinking game around what I call the “Pope” test. (Take a drink for any scene where two men talk to each other for more than a minute about someone other than Olivia. That’s one sober hour of television.) If Olivia really is claiming to choose herself, you’d think that would also mean choosing to take back the conversation about her own beauty, and what it can do. But instead of reckoning with that power, she constantly tries to throw it off, to disregard it or dismiss it as unimportant. And that doesn’t make her look strong—it makes her look naïve.


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Start at 0:52


So when we talk about television’s anti-heroines, which would we rather have—women behaving badly who are also, conveniently, beautiful? Or women who go full anti-heroine, knowing that they can be pretty when they need to? Making a female protagonist unaware of her own power, wherever it comes from, neuters her strength as a character. If Nancy didn’t know that she could get away with being a drug dealer, she’d never discover how much she could fight her own battles. If Fiona hadn’t known she was beautiful, she never would’ve become supreme. When will Olivia sit up and realize just how much she can take control of the men in her life, and use or discard them as she needs to? Rhimes has said repeatedly that she never intended Olivia to be a role model, that she “has always been an antihero,” and maybe that’s true. But maybe Olivia needs to realize that she might not be bad at the core, but being drawn that way sure makes being bad easier. And taking ownership of her sexuality, her allure, her ability to draw people in and make them love her isn’t a sign of weakness—it would be a sign of self-knowledge, and a new coat of armor. Just ask Amazing Amy. Or Cersei Lannister. Or Six.

Cersei Lannister, Six from BSG, Rosamund Pike as Amy
Cersei Lannister, Six from BSG, Rosamund Pike as Amy

 

Of course, it does pain me to think that we need more beautiful villainesses, more femme fatales, more female bodies on screen to ogle over and objectify. Haven’t we had enough of that? And if you’re anything like me, every reader of this site wants the same thing: to see more portrayals of women on film, televisions, and beyond that reflect their complexities, strengths and weakness alike. We want a greater range of body types, a greater representation of lifestyle choices, a broader world of occupations and skill sets and backstories and destinies. But if we’re going to ask for more valid portraits of strong women, we also have to validate more sources of power—and maybe in looking at television’s most beautiful antiheroes, we have to consider the value of beauty as a legitimate weapon, used for both good and evil. When it comes to my nightly viewing schedule, I’d rather have lots of beautiful girls acting out across the moral spectrum than simple pretty ingénues any day.

 


Jessica Carbone spends her days researching food history and editing cookbooks, and her nights writing film, television, and literary think pieces for The Rumpus, The Millions, and The Los Angeles Review of Books, among others. She lives in Washington, D.C.


Recommended reading:

From The Artifice,Olivia Pope as modern antihero

From Complex,the women of American Horror Story: Coven rewriting male-dominated television”

From Flavorwire,Just Because There’s No Tony Soprano doesn’t mean we can’t have female antiheroines”

 

Cristina Yang As Feminist

As people, no matter what gender, it is seemingly second nature to want others to like us and to portray our best selves to them. Just look at the ritual of the date or the job interview. That Cristina defied this action (though we have seen her star-struck when meeting surgeons like Tom Evans and Preston Burke) made her not just a feminist character, but a truly human(ist) one.

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This guest post by Scarlett Harris is an updated version of a post that originally appeared on The Scarlett Woman and appears now as part of our theme week on Unlikable Women. Cross-posted with permission.


When it comes to “likable” female characters on TV, up until she departed Grey’s Anatomy last season, Cristina Yang probably wasn’t one of them.

She was abrasive, unfeeling, career-driven, ruthless and selfish. Everything a woman shouldn’t be, according to patriarchal norms.

Perhaps she could’ve been more like the ousted Izzie Stevens, who was bubbly and sexy and baked cookies. Or the virginal and highly strung April Kempner, whom Cristina praises for having “virgin super powers,” enabling her to be super-organized.

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But I, like many Bitch Flicks readers, loved Cristina just the way she is. She had her eye on the prize, wouldn’t compromise her personal beliefs or goals to be liked by her peers or loved by a man, and she had “tiny little genius” hands that enable her to roll with the big guns.

This is why Cristina Yang is one of an increasing cohort of “feminist”—or “strong female”—characters on television.

For one thing, she refuses to rely on her looks or her feminine wiles to get ahead. In “This is How We Do It” in season seven, she rejects Owen’s compliment about her beauty, saying, “If you want to appease me, compliment my brain.”

And in season seven’s final, we saw Cristina exercise her right to choose and schedule her second abortion on the show, after much (mostly solo) deliberation. While excluding the opinion of her significant other and biological contributor to the fetus wasn’t the most respectful thing to do, ultimately it came down to her choice, and she chose to terminate the pregnancy.

In season two, Cristina divulged that she was pregnant to Dr. Burke and, again, made the decision to get an abortion on her own. Whereas a character like Izzie seemed to serve the anti-abortion agenda (she gave up her own baby for adoption when she was a teenager growing up in a trailer park, and convinced a HIV-positive woman to carry her pregnancy to term), Cristina resisted the societal pressures to tap into her maternal instincts and give birth to a child she does not want. Shonda Rhimes has since proved that she’s one of the only truly pro-choice producers in television, and I have written further about her stance here.

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Regardless of whose agenda could be seen as being served by Cristina’s character, she acted without fear of what other people will think of her.

As people, no matter what gender, it is seemingly second nature to want others to like us and to portray our best selves to them. Just look at the ritual of the date or the job interview. That Cristina defied this action (though we have seen her star-struck when meeting surgeons like Tom Evans and Preston Burke) made her not just a feminist character, but a truly human(ist) one.

When Grey’s Anatomy first debuted, it seemed that Cristina Yang was positioned to challenge and grate on the audience, with Meredith or Izzie being more palatable to viewers. As the seasons continued (some would say dragged on), the women of Grey’s Anatomy were proven to be anything but likable, cheating on their spouses, meddling in medical cases that would see them lose their licenses and be sued for malpractice, grieving, quitting, and just dealing with the challenges that being a surgeon and a person throws at you. Though Seattle Grace/Seattle Grace Mercy West/Grey Sloan Memorial Hospital/what the hell is that hospital called now?! is a fictional medical institution, it’s one of the realest portrayals of not just women but people on TV today. Like Cristina’s departure last season, it will truly be a sad day when those doctors leave our living rooms for good.

 


Scarlett Harris is a Melbourne, Australia-based freelance writer and blogger at The Scarlett Woman, where she writes about femin- and other -isms. You can follow her on Twitter.

 

Evil-Lyn: Fantasy’s Underrated Icon

A character with few rivals and even fewer scruples, Evil-Lyn was arguably one of the better developed villains in the show. And in the annals of females from sci-fi/fantasy, her name should be spoken of in the same breath as Wonder Woman and Princess Leia.


This guest post by Robert Aldrich appears as part of our theme week on Unlikable Women.


The female antagonist has historically been an underwritten, under-explored, and often under-appreciated role in fiction. Going back throughout history, the female villain has almost invariably been seen as more novelty than respected foe, more a token deviation from the norm than anything worthy of real development. The trend started in the modern era with Irene Adler testing her mettle against Sherlock Holmes in the short story “A Scandal in Bohemia,” though by the time comics and sci-fi/fantasy had come into their own, most heroes had their “token women opponents.” Going further, we can find a few sparse and rare examples, such as Milady de Winter from Alexander Dumas’ The Three Musketeers, Morgan LeFay in the Arthurian Legend, all the way perhaps to Delilah in the Biblical story of Sampson.

While literature was at times more progressive, television and movies still depicted the female antagonist as one who relies on guile and lies (and maybe sex appeal depending on the writers and the era), but rarely if ever are they seen as comparable adversaries. From James Bond to the A-Team, from Flash Gordon to the sword-and-sandal epics of the 1950s into the 1980s, most female antagonists were evil queens or villainous witches who send forth minions to do their work. They were bosses or femme fatales who enacted complex schemes but who faltered when confronted directly with the hero. This is often because no matter how powerful they may appear to be socially, their actual might is negligible. And moreover, they tend to disappear as randomly as they appeared, providing a single-story novelty of the woman-villain, or the feminine agent who only seemed to exist to facilitate the plans of their male superiors.

Then came Evil-Lyn.

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Joke all you want about the corniness of 1983’s He-Man and the Masters of the Universe cartoon series (and there’s plenty to joke about), but the show’s writers created a wholly underappreciated female icon in Evil-Lyn, the self-titled Sorceress of Darkness. A character with few rivals and even fewer scruples, Evil-Lyn was arguably one of the better developed villains in the show. And in the annals of females from sci-fi/fantasy, her name should be spoken of in the same breath as Wonder Woman and Princess Leia.

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The world of He-Man is one of classical pulp fantasy. Science and high technology co-exist on a world that is full of marvels that defy comprehension (and sometimes reason). Benevolent monarchs, feudal societies, and creatures of more varieties than can be imagined, all make up the foundations of daily life. It’s here on Eternia, a world at the center of the universe, that cosmic forces are personified as colorful individuals or encapsulated in simple objects such as rods, gems, staves, and swords.

Over the course of the show, we’re introduced to a menagerie of dynamic characters like He-Man, Skeletor, Orko, as well as many other fan favorites. Among the many characters are three prominent females: the Sorceress (a pseudo-deity who sees over the forces of good), Teela (Captain of the Royal Guard and sidekick to He-Man), and Evil-Lyn. Initially conceived as a counterpart to Teela in the action figure toy line (because this was the 1980s and of course there was a toy line), Evil-Lyn would almost immediately transcend that balancing role and become something different, something outside the hierarchy of power and roles found in most traditional fantasy stories.

Probably the most distinctive element of Evil-Lyn was her thirst for power, which was terrifying considering the power she already commanded. Evil-Lyn’s magical might was matched by very few (principally only Skeletor himself, the show’s primary villain, and the Sorceress of Grayskull). Outside of those two key and central figures, Evil-Lyn had few if any peers.

Also fundamental to her character, as well as underscoring her magical prowess, is that Evil-Lyn never demonstrated any combat prowess. While not unheard of for female characters in traditionally male-targeted shows, she stands out in a show like He-Man because everybody is a master combatant. The aforementioned Teela is the Captain of the Royal Guard and debateably as capable a fighter as He-Man. The Sorceress, from whom pretty much all the powers of good derive their might, gets involved in many a battle (often in the form of a great falcon known as Zoar). Even He-Man’s own mother, Queen Marlena, is actually a combat pilot (Lt. Marlena Glenn, and reputedly one of Earth’s first female astronauts). Every woman in this show was capable of throwing down, except Evil-Lyn.

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This isn’t a short-coming on her part, however. It’s a testament. In a world where physical might and combat prowess are universally required, that she doesn’t have (or certainly never demonstrates) the requisite skills speaks volumes to the intelligence, cunning, and magical might that she does command. Unlike the “evil witches” in other fantasy stories, however, Evil-Lyn doesn’t rely on henchmen or artifacts to work her will. She is shown throughout the run of the show to have little need for henchmen or intermediary agents, nor does she often rely on magical amulets or great artifacts. Even her oft-present orb staff appears to be more trinket than necessity. Her magic is her own and she has more than enough for almost any need.

While Evil-Lyn is powerful, she is also ambitious. Her role as Skeletor’s aide is on the promise that he will grant her greater power (or that she will take his when the opportunity presents itself). Beyond working with Skeletor, Evil-Lyn works with anyone else she chooses, more than occasionally executing her own schemes independent of Skeletor’s plans or ambitions, loaning out her skills and knowledge to other malevolent forces in the pursuit of greater power.

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The 1987 live-action movie deviated somewhat from the depiction of Evil-Lyn, but only in downplaying the verbose demeanor she showed in the cartoon and replaced it with a colder and harsher, otherworldly presence. Played by Meg Foster, Evil-Lyn showed fewer magical powers and less boisterous personality, but she lost none of her critical role to Skeletor. Indeed, we see instances where he confides that his success in conquering Eternia and holding the people is due almost solely to her, while there are hints of perhaps more than a partnership (maybe even romance?) at play between the two.

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Almost two decades after the first series aired, He-Man would be rebooted for the 2002 animated series. This series would develop Evil-Lyn even further as well as more firmly establish her as more than mere henchman to Skeletor. She undermines Skeletor’s plans by aligning with other factions (namely Kobra Khan and the Snake Men), all in the pursuit of power. In the wake of this betrayal, we learn that Skeletor and she once were partners before he was turned into the deformed warrior-wizard we all know today.

Looking at Evil-Lyn as a character, she was almost without peer. Never before in pop culture – especially children’s entertainment – had a female character been so unmitgatingly evil, so self-serving, and yet so powerful. In the He-Man franchise, she is one of the great powers of the world, whom no one dares underestimate. She has no minions, and has no need for any. She is no diabolical queen, sitting scheming atop a throne, and hiding behind others. She is a mercenary who does what she wishes and goes where she pleases.

 


Robert V Aldrich is a novelist and speaker based out of North Carolina. His most recent book, Rhest for the Wicked, is now available, and he publishes a blog and serials at his website, TeachTheSky.com. You can follow him there, or on Twitter @rvaldrich.

Triumphing ‘Mad Men’s Peggy Olson

What exactly, then, makes a character “unlikable”? How can we define this complex term? Broadly, a character is unlikable when they behave in an amoral or unethical way (which, of course, depends upon our individual morals and ethics), particularly when their motivations are unclear. However, when it comes to female characters, this term seems to diversify and pluralize.

This post by staff writer Sarah Smyth appears as part of our theme week on Unlikable Women. 

In the proclaimed “golden age of television,” female characters, it seem, get a pretty raw deal. Not only is there a lack of female-driven shows (or, perhaps more accurately, a lack of critical consensus surrounding female driven shows), but there’s also a keen hatred towards any female characters deemed “unlikable.” Take, for example, Breaking Bad. Despite Walter White becoming a drug kingpin, murderer, and rapist, Skyler, his wife, elicited a vitriolic response from the audience. Most worryingly, as the actress who played Skyler, Anna Gunn, noted, this response was deeply rooted in sexism and misogyny: “I finally realized that most people’s hatred of Skyler had little to do with me and a lot to do with their own perception of women and wives. Because Skyler didn’t conform to a comfortable ideal of the archetypical female, she had become a kind of Rorschach test for society, a measure of our attitudes toward gender.” 

A charming example of the response towards Skyler...
A charming example of the response toward Skyler

Aside from the deeply troubling attitudes toward “unlikable” female characters from the audience, another problem we encounter when attempting to examine “unlikable” female characters is the programme’s lack of detailed, nuanced and critical explorations and examinations of these characters. Returning to the problem of Skyler, Bitch Media’s Megan Cox puts it neatly: “While the show revolves around Walt’s struggles along the spectrum of morality, Skyler never gets much space to be an independent character. Her story really revolves around the choices her husband makes. It’s hard to build empathy with a character whose internal conflicts are never fully explored—instead, she often seems to just be getting in the way of the story, as another obstacle for her husband.”

What exactly, then, makes a character “unlikable”? How can we define this complex term? Broadly, a character is unlikable when they behave in an amoral or unethical way (which, of course, depends upon our individual morals and ethics), particularly when their motivations are unclear. However, when it comes to female characters, this term seems to diversify and pluralize. With a strict code of behaviour, even in the Western world, women can be more easily identified as “unlikable.” We’re supposed to dress in a certain way. We’re supposed to behave in a certain way. We’re supposed to be excellent partners, mothers, daughters, sisters, and friends. We’re supposed to have a “hot” body. We’re supposed to be sexy but never sexual ourselves. We’re supposed to be strong but not too strong, ambitious but not too ambitious, smart but not too smart. We’re supposed to be pleasing, pretty and altogether agreeable. And we’re supposed to have a sense of humour about the whole darn thing. Any departure from these set of expectations and we risk being marked as a deviant, a failure, a thoroughly unlikeable woman.

In Mad Men, Peggy Olson is often constructed- and construed, both by other characters and the audience – as “unlikable.” Introduced on the show as Don Draper’s secretary at advertising powerhouse, Sterling Cooper, she goes on to develop a hugely successful career as a copywriter, breaking several glass ceilings along the way. What is notable about her character, particularly in the early seasons, is the way in which Peggy fails – or refuses – to exploit her sexuality in the workplace. Unlike the other secretaries in the office, she fails to look sexy or even stylish. This is particularly crystallised in the pilot episode, “Smoke gets in your eyes,” when Peggy is mocked by her colleagues, Pete Campell and Joan Holloway, for her dowdy dress sense. As the show progresses, however, it is clear that Peggy will not play by the rules of the blatantly sexist workplace, rules which, as Joan demonstrates, the women clearly internalise. There is only one notable moment when Peggy attempts to “sex up” her look. In a season two’s episode, “Maidenform,” Peggy finally takes Joan’s advice to “stop dressing like a little girl,” and goes to the strip club where her (male) colleagues are enjoying a sleazy night with their account, Playtex, dressed in a revealing outfit. However, what’s clear is that Peggy refuses to do so in order to make herself appealing to men. Earlier in the episode, the boys mock her in a meeting for being neither Jackie or Marilyn but Gertrude Stein. Peggy retorts that she’s neither Jackie nor Marilyn because she refuses to be categorised by their male world. By boldly defying rigid and narrow expectations of femininity, and by displaying her sexuality only when its on her terms, Peggy not only retains a level of control and autonomy that was rare in the 1960s. More crucially, she refuses to be perceived as attractive, appealing or likable for her male colleagues.

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A rare moment of Peggy displaying her sexuality

For the audience, however, this may not make her character “unlikable” as such. In fact, this kind of badassery is exactly the kind of thing which earns Peggy a worshipping Buzzfeed article. What becomes more troubling – and, arguably, unlikable – is the development of her character, particularly in the later seasons. Peggy becomes bitter, harsh and critical, particularly towards her colleagues. Seemingly disillusioned with her career, she becomes a harsh task master, and lacks any sense of humour in the office or outside of it. Her already “outsiderness” from being a woman intensifies as her hostile attitude fractures her relationships with her colleagues further. As James Poniewozik in Time puts it: “Where have you hidden our Peggy, Mad Men? And how did you replace her with this hostile, unpleasant basket case, lashing out at everyone in sight and pining over a long-lost married man [Ted, an older married man who also happens to be her boss]?”

Poniewozik suggests that Peggy’s unlikability both from the audience and from the other characters on the show is precisely down to the show’s writing: “The problem here is that right now Angry Lovelorn Peggy is all the show is giving us. Right now, though, the balance [between her personal and professional life] seems badly off; what we see of Peggy at the office is refracted almost entirely through reminders that she’s shattered over Ted to the point of seeming like a different person… It isn’t about the show being obligated to make Peggy perfectly likeable, or empowered, or happy. It is about maintaining the complexity of a character who, over six seasons, has become the de facto female lead; or, at least, if her character radically changes, providing a reason beyond, ‘She went through a really bad breakup last season.’”

In one particular episode, “A Day’s Work,” Peggy mistakes flowers sent to her assistant, Shirley as her own. Thinking they were from Ted, she spends the day fretting over them before throwing them out and leaving an abrupt message for Ted with his assistant. When Shirley finally reveals who they were actually intended for, Peggy, angry and embarrassed, demands a new secretary. Peggy is presented as petty, selfish, and thoroughly unlikable. This is magnified later in the episode as her demands for a new secretary results in Dawn, a Black woman, being assigned as the new receptionist, something which the firm’s partner, Bert Cooper objects to purely on racist grounds. In this moment, Peggy fails to recognise both her privilege at being white within the working world. But, more crucially, she fails to recognise and empathise with someone who faces disadvantages and obstacles in the workplace, something she faced only a few years previously.

Peggy's confusion over the flowers reinforces her "unlikeability"
Peggy’s confusion over the flowers reinforces her “unlikeability”

However, we may judge, pity, and despise female characters like Peggy, but we must always triumph them. For as long as we have “unlikable” woman – well-developed, nuanced, and centralised woman, particularly on television – we not only defy highly gendered codes and expectations and triumph deviancy. We can also further gains toward producing characters as complex, multifaceted, and unlikable as male characters.

The Real Hated Housewives of TV

Naturally, we are all on these anti-heroes’ sides, despite their bad deeds. And Tony Soprano, Don Draper, and Walter White all have an antagonist: their wives. They call their husbands out on their lies, moral failings, and oppose them. Thus, they are seen as the nagging wife that everyone hates.


This guest post by Caroline Madden appears as part of our theme week on Unlikable Women.


On August 23, 2013 Anna Gunn, who starred as Skyler White on Breaking Bad, published an article in The New York Times titled “I Have A Character Issue.” Her article discussed the cruel and sexist online backlash that her character–and even Anna herself–received.

She wrote, “My character, to judge from the popularity of Web sites and Facebook pages devoted to hating her, has become a flash point for many people’s feelings about strong, non-submissive, ill-treated women. As the hatred of Skyler blurred into loathing for me as a person, I saw glimpses of an anger that, at first, simply bewildered me.” She continues, “It’s notable that viewers have expressed similar feelings about other complex TV wives — Carmela Soprano of The Sopranos, Betty Draper of Mad Men. Male characters don’t seem to inspire this kind of public venting and vitriol.”

Gunn writes that she understands that since Walt is the shows protagonist, the audience will root for him. These male anti-hero dramas and character studies started with The Sopranos, and Mad Men, and Breaking Bad continued on with the genius success that changed television forever. Naturally, we are all on these anti-heroes’ sides, despite their bad deeds. And Tony Soprano, Don Draper, and Walter White all have an antagonist: their wives. They call their husbands out on their lies, moral failings, and oppose them. Thus, they are seen as the nagging wife that everyone hates.

Anna Gunn as Skyler White in Breaking Bad
Anna Gunn as Skyler White in Breaking Bad

 

There are many hate groups for Skyler White, including the “I Hate Skyler White” Facebook page with over 30,000 likes. On these boards you can find typical comments like Skyler is a “controlling shrew,” and a “shrieking, hypocritical harpy who doesn’t deserve the great life she has.” (Umm…what? Did you even watch the show? Their life got progressively worse each episode.) And that she “needs to die, hate her strongly.” They even remark on Gunn’s appearance, saying how Skyler “got fatter as the show progressed.” So the consensus among viewers is that Skyler was a drag, a ball-and-chain, and overall an annoying bitch. All because, in Anna Gunn’s words, “Skyler didn’t conform to a comfortable ideal of the archetypical female, she had become a kind of Rorschach test for society, a measure of our attitudes toward genders.” And that attitude looks pretty horrible.

But Skyler’s arc of the show is just as captivating as Walter’s Mr. Chips-to-Scarface transformation. She had a loving husband and a quiet suburban life in a nice home, while still struggling to make ends meet. And then by the end she’s the shell of her former, self- trapped in a shitty apartment with two children. Her reputation is ruined, her brother-in-law killed, and her sister she loved dearly now hates her. Her life turned completely upside down. All because of Walt.

Of course Skyler is not without flaws or faults; she had an affair to deal with her shattered home life, and she was insensitive to Walt’s feelings when he did not want to receive cancer treatment. She and Walt already had underlying tensions in the marriage before he broke bad. But Walt has just a few more faults with all that murder, manipulation, and that little meth cooking habit. Think of all the lies she had to deal with, over and over again from Walt.

All she was doing was trying to protect her family from the danger, and what more of a dilemma when that danger is someone they all once knew and loved. How do you make the right choice in that situation? Why do audiences not even give her ANY shred of understanding? Why is she just vehemently hated? Viewers cannot put themselves in her shoes and think of how they would handle those life-changing events? Nope, she’s just a bitch.

January Jones as Betty Draper in Mad Men
January Jones as Betty Draper in Mad Men

 

Betty Draper is not only hated as a character, but many hate January Jones’ acting. Many feel that she is a bad actress, too wooden, bland, one-note and cold. But regardless of your opinion on her acting, I think she is good at the part, for Betty is cold and blank. Now whether this is intentional on January’s part or it just ends up fitting because January is wooden all on her own, that’s up for debate.

Betty Draper receives tons of online hate, bloggers calling her to be killed off, articles entitled “No Sympathy for Betty Draper” and montages of Betty’s worst parenting moments titled “Ugly Betty.” Online comments on Reddit and other sites include a high number of c-bombs, and comments like “Betty is a fucking, annoying, immature, bitch.” and “I want to slap that bitch every time she is on the screen”

It is very easy to dislike Betty Draper. Is Betty a bad mom? Yes, she is 90 percent of the time. But Don Draper’s a bad dad. Is Betty terrible to most people? Yes. Isn’t Don just as terrible to people? Answer: most definitely yes. With Don being the main character, we are able to see flashbacks of his childhood, letting the audience understand why Don causes so much damage to his family and friends, and why his inner psyche is so troubled. But we do hear from Betty’s as well. And if you’re really listening, you can see why she is the way she is.

Her mother focused terribly on her appearance, telling her “You’re painting a masterpiece, make sure to hide the brushstrokes.” In other words, you can be nothing but perfect. Isn’t that a lot of pressure to put on a child? Can’t you see how that would affect Betty? We do see that throughout the show. Betty must always maintain her trophy wife status, meaning be beautiful and thin. (She has extremely disordered eating habits throughout the show.)

Betty is literally a character ripped from the true-life 1950s/early 60s housewives Betty Friedan studied in her book The Feminine Mystique. Like many housewives of that time, Betty Draper went to college, (anthropology at Bryn Mawr) just to buffer the time until she found a man, and then went on to literally do nothing with that degree. Taken from Freidan’s book, “Each suburban wife struggles with it alone. As she made the beds, shopped for groceries, matched slipcover material, ate peanut butter sandwiches with her children, chauffeured Cub Scouts and Brownies, lay beside her husband at night- she was afraid to ask even of herself the silent question– ‘Is this all?”

We see Betty’s trapped in the confines of domesticity described above in the earlier seasons. Don convinces her it’s better for her not to work at modeling, so we see Betty’s ‘busy day’ at home. Breakfast for kids, a load of laundry and housework done by 1 o’clock, then sitting alone smoking and drinking wine at the kitchen table. This is the monotony of her day, nothing to do with her life but wait until Don comes home. If he even comes home that night.

That blankness that Betty has is exactly described in The Feminine Mystique, the hundreds of housewives she interviewed who were trapped in their homes with nothing to feed their minds, just like Betty. I think why people loathe Betty the most is because she doesn’t change. She starts out as a frail oppressed housewife filled with anger and bitterness, but never combats her oppression. Even with a new husband and new life, she still gets worse. She doesn’t learn from her mistakes.

But neither has Don, really. He makes small steps throughout the show, but he still has a long way to go. Mad Men seems to be culminating in the idea that although times and decades may change, people don’t. And both Don and Betty are on that same trajectory. It may be easy to hate Betty because of the way she acts, but she has inner wounds as Don does. And they both have moments of cruelty and honesty, steps back and forward.

Edie Falco as Carmela Soprano in The Sopranos
Edie Falco as Carmela Soprano in The Sopranos

 

The online community was not as potent in the late 90s early 2000s as it is today, so viewers did not have a platform to express their negative opinions as much as they do today. But there are still comments to be found, from DVD rewatches, like, “I wanted nothing more then to see Carmela shot in the face!” or “She should have been whacked from the start!” And, “Carmela Soprano, the whiny bitch who deludes herself into thinking she can have a mafia boss husband and expect her family to lead a moral life at the same time. She wants the luxury but not the consequences. It’s hard to imagine somebody to be so dense, and it hurts the show in my opinion.”

Hard to imagine? Hurts the show? How can someone not see Carmela Soprano as a complex, intriguing character? She is a woman who deals with Catholic guilt over Tony’s sins; she knows she is just as guilty as he is for standing by him. Carmela Soprano is dense? This woman knows her husband has sex with nearly everything that walks. She knows that all those old friends aren’t in the witness protection program- they’re dead. And that is her whole inner conflict. She knows all this but chooses to stand by Tony anyway. No one’s interested in that dynamic? At all? If Carmela was whacked from the start where would the show even go?

These sexist jabs show that some fans have the inner desire for the show to be all whacking all the time. No diversion into the “soap opera” marriage and family boring stuff. And it’s hard to separate that from sexism, since relationship stories are considered “girly things” These viewers are deluded if they think the family stories were a waste of time. Some of Tony and Carmela’s arguments are incredible works of acting from Edie Falco and James Gandolfini, such as this one.

[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o9oY7zpan18″]

Without these familial conflicts (in addition to his childhood flashbacks and explorations) why would Tony even be in therapy, the entire point of the show itself? Carmela Soprano “hurts the show”? I think not.

I’m not denying that the men, despite all their flaws are complex characters, they truly are, and are a testament to the rich and nuanced writing of these brilliant television shows, Breaking Bad, The Sopranos, and Mad Men. But the wives are, too. Without these women, where is Tony Soprano’s story? Don Drapers? Walter White?

Walter’s loving family is what drives him to start the meth business. At the beginning his only defense is that he did it all to “take care of his family.” Don Draper’s arc and story about the effects of his childhood on his relationships with women and family is nothing without his wife Betty. Tony Soprano’s therapy sessions, the crux of the show, deal with his conflicts between his two families- the mafia, and his wife Carmela.

Online, you can see tons of battles between these female characters of who is the bigger bitch, Skyler Vs. Carmela Vs. Betty. You certainly don’t see who is the bigger Dick? Tony Vs. Walt Vs. Don anywhere. One has to wonder if we had complex shows where female characters were the protagonists, the flawed anti-heroes…would their husbands receive such hate online?

You can hate a character, and you can hate a female character. But do you have to express that hate with such highly sexist remarks? These sexist remarks are oversimplifying these complex female characters that the brilliant writers of The Sopranos, Breaking Bad, and Mad Men have given us. These comments show why audiences can’t handle a complex female character, which Carmela, Betty and Skyler are.

Tony Soprano, Don Draper, and Walter White will forever remain heralded as the most complex and fascinating television characters of all time. But the women? Just a bunch of bitches.

 


Caroline Madden writes about film at Geek Juice, Screenqueens, and her blog. You can usually find her watching movies or listening to Bruce Springsteen. She has a BFA in Acting from Shenandoah Conservatory. 

 

With an Outspoken Anti-Heroine and a Feminist Lens, ‘Young Adult’ Is Excellent

In this witty, hilarious, and bittersweet dramedy, Theron plays Mavis Gary, an author of young adult books living in Minneapolis. Mavis’ life is a hot mess. She’s divorced, drinks her life away, and the book series she writes is coming to an end. She was the popular mean girl in high school who escaped to the big city. Mavis returns to her small hometown in Minnesota full of Taco Bells and KFCs intending to reclaim her old glory days and her ex-boyfriend, who’s happily married with a new baby. As she fucks up, she eventually questions what she wants out of life.

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This repost by Megan Kearns appears as part of our theme week on Unlikable Women.


We so often see men as wayward fuck-ups. Ben Stiller in Greenberg, Zach Braff in Garden State, Jack Nicholson in As Good As It Gets all fill this role. Selfish asshats who do the wrong thing, lack ambition, or screw someone over for their own selfish needs. And yet they’re somehow loveable and charming. You champion them, hoping they’ll succeed and grow…just a little. Audiences want female leads nice, amiable, and likable. Not messy, complicated, complex, and certainly not unlikable. Heaven forbid! But that’s precisely the role Charlize Theron steps into in Young Adult.

In this witty, hilarious, and bittersweet dramedy, Theron plays Mavis Gary, an author of young adult books living in Minneapolis. Mavis’ life is a hot mess. She’s divorced, drinks her life away, and the book series she writes is coming to an end. She was the popular mean girl in high school who escaped to the big city. Mavis returns to her small hometown in Minnesota full of Taco Bells and KFCs intending to reclaim her old glory days and her ex-boyfriend, who’s happily married with a new baby. As she fucks up, she eventually questions what she wants out of life.

Young Adult is a fantastic film, the best I’ve seen all year. I seriously can’t say enough good things about it. Diablo Cody’s feminist lens and sharply funny dialogue fuse with Jason Reitman’s knack for bittersweet direction, buoyed by stellar portrayals.

A force of nature, Theron gives both a subtly nuanced and bravura performance. In her Golden Globe-nominated role, she makes a flawed, cranky, bitchy, selfish, alcoholic charismatic and likable. When she’s doing something despicable (which happens all too often), I found myself cringing yet simultaneously rooting for her. That’s not easy to do. Theron, who’s been called a transformational chameleon, particularly for her award-winning role in Monster, melts into this role. She imbues Mavis with depth, caustic wit, raw anger and vulnerability. It’s hard to see the boundaries where Theron begins and Mavis ends.

Suffering from depression, Mavis tries to drown her sorrows, unleashing a destructive tornado of chaos. Even though Mavis fled her small town, she’s haunted by the prime of her youth. Most of us have moved on from high school. But Mavis hasn’t grown up yet. With unwavering determination and delusion, she thinks if she can recapture the past, all her problems will be solved.

With her popular girl swagger, you can picture how she sashayed down the halls in high school (and probably shoved people into lockers or hurled insults). That same bravado fools her into thinking she can bend the world to her will.

She finds an unlikely ally and confidante in nerdy, sarcastic yet tender Matt (Patton Oswalt), a former bullied classmate in an achingly touching performance. Some of the best scenes contain Mavis and Matt volleying their biting banter.

What made the film brutally funny is Mavis tosses retorts people think but would never dream of actually saying. She says hilariously wrong things. Matt asks her if she moved back to town, she replies, “Ewww, gross.” She shamelessly throws herself at a married man. When Matt reminds her Buddy has a baby, she retorts, “Babies are boring!” And trust me. I’m not doing Theron’s comic abilities justice.

Uncomfortably funny, hilariously heartbreaking, Young Adult passes the Bechdel Test several times. In one scene, the bandmates in the all-female group Nipple Confusion (love that name!), who also happen to be Mavis’ former high school classmates, briefly debate Mavis and her dubious intentions. Mavis confronts compassionate Beth (Elizabeth Reaser), her ex-boyfriend Buddy (Patrick Wilson)’s wife and the object of Mavis’s vitriolic hatred. Also, Mavis confides in Matt’s sister Sandra (Collette Wolfe), who desperately wants to escape small-town life, about the course her life has taken.

I felt a sigh of relief while watching this film. It felt fantastic to have a woman quip snarky comments that maybe she shouldn’t say but she does anyway. Because Mavis doesn’t give a shit what people think. She doesn’t conform to other people’s standards of who she should be. Most movies suppress women’s rage. Not this one. As the awesome Melissa Silverstein at Women and Hollywood wrote:

This film is a fucking bitchy breath of fresh air.

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Hollywood purports a double standard that only men can play unsympathetic roles. If a female actor portrays a complex character, she’s too often labeled a bitch. People don’t usually want to see complicated or unsympathetic women on-screen.

Besides the fabulous Kristen Wiig in the hilarious Bridesmaids, Lena Dunham in Tiny Furniture and Julia Roberts in the god-awful My Best Friend’s Wedding (which Young Adult strangely parallels – both contain selfish female protagonists struggling to recapture the past, hoping to break up a wedding/marriage), there really aren’t many examples of women in this kind of unlikable or flawed role.

In an interview with Silverstein, outspoken feminist (woo hoo!) Diablo Cody shares her inspiration for creating an unlikeable character:

The idea of a cold, unlikeable woman or a woman who is not in control of herself is genuinely frightening to people because it threatens civilization itself or threatens the American family. But I don’t know why people are always willing to accept and even like flawed male characters. We’ve seen so many loveable anti-heroes who are curmudgeons or addicts or bad fathers and a lot of those characters have become beloved icons and I don’t see women allowed to play the same parts. So it was really important to me to try and turn that around.

With female writers comprising 24 percent of ALL writers in Hollywood and women in only 33 percent of speaking roles in films (god that makes me cringe), it’s vital to have more women writing scripts to yield women’s diverse perspectives and stories.

Young Adult is entirely told from Mavis’ perspective. As Mavis scribes the last book in Waverly Prep, a Young Adult series, her writing mirrors events and feelings in her own life. It could have easily veered off course to examine how Mavis’ inappropriate flirting (or rather throwing herself at him) affected Buddy. But the film astutely anchors itself to Mavis, a unique female voice.

I often lament the lack of female-centric films as most either feature men in the spotlight or have women as merely secondary characters. If we want more diverse films, including those where women are front and center, we need to support those films by voting with our dollars and going to the box office.

At first, it seems Young Adult might succumb to the same fate as so many other films and end up revolving around Mavis finding love. Men go on quests and emotional journeys. They learn. They grow. Women often stagnate. Or more common, their lives revolve around men. They wait around for love, seek love, find love, and turn themselves inside out for love…and ultimately a man. We don’t often see them doing things for themselves.

That’s the rare beauty of Young Adult. It’s not really about Mavis finding love. It’s about confronting your mistakes, letting go of the past and growing up. Too many movies reinforce the notion careers and friends don’t count. It’s only your love life that matters. Only love can save you. But sometimes, you can save yourself.

Life is messy, complicated, and difficult. Women can be too. It’s about time we see more roles reflecting that on-screen.

 


Megan Kearns is a blogger, freelance writer and activist. She blogs at The Opinioness of the World, a feminist vegan site. Her work has also appeared at Arts & Opinion, Fem2pt0, Italianieuropei, Open Letters Monthly, and A Safe World for Women. She earned her B.A. in Anthropology and Sociology and a Graduate Certificate in Women and Politics and Public Policy. Megan lives in Boston with more books than she will probably ever read in her lifetime.

Hate to Love Her: The Lasting Allure of Blair Waldorf

In an interview with the ‘New York Times,’ Gillian Flynn says, “The likability thing, especially in Hollywood, is a constant conversation, and they’re really underrating their audience when they have that conversation. What I read and what I go to the movies for is not to find a best friend, not to find inspirations…It’s to be involved with characters that are maybe incredibly different from me, that may be incredibly bad but that feel authentic.”


This guest post by Vanessa Willoughby appears as part of our theme week on Unlikable Women.


Blair Waldorf, the spoiled, plotting socialite of the CW’s Gossip Girl, is not your typical high school student. This Upper East Side Queen Bee is not a relatable character, nor as literary critics would say, a reliable narrator. Competitive by nature, Blair moves through New York City’s elite social world with the shrewd cunning of a cutthroat and cynical business titan. Despite her poised exterior, Blair is initially presented as the eternal underdog to her best frenemy, the free-spirited Serena van der Woodsen.

Yet during its six-season run, fans of the show rooted for Blair as though she were Scarlett O’Hara—a stubborn anti-heroine with grandiose dreams that often clashed with self-destructive desires. In order to catapult Blair from an emotionally flat, cardboard-cutout Mean Girl into a multi-faceted character, she is someone whose deep insecurities and anxieties are nearly equal to her undeniable beauty and privilege. Unlike Serena, who seems to always benefit from some higher source of convenient luck, Blair struggles with her looks, most notably her body image.

Cecily von Ziegesar, author of the series used for the basis of the show, says in a profile with New York Magazine, “I always resented books that tried to teach a lesson, where the characters are too good: They don’t swear, they tell their mothers everything…I mean, of course I want to be the responsible mother who says, ‘Oh, there are terrible repercussions if you have sex, do drugs, and have an eating disorder!’ But the truth is, my friends and I dabbled in all of those things. And we all went to good colleges and grew up fine. And that’s the honest thing to say.” Gossip Girl may exude the flamboyance of a melodramatic soap opera but the character of Blair Waldorf still manages to embody the familiar woes and hangups of a recognizable teenage girl.

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Like many teenage girls who feel that they are never enough as they are, Blair constantly searches for a version of her best self that always eludes her grasp. It’s fitting that Blair’s role models are Audrey Hepburn and Grace Kelly. These iconic actresses, with their regal beauty, trademark style aesthetics, and air of worldly sophistication, reflect Blair’s need to merge her perception of femininity with a quiet yet commanding power. Does she pull this off? Her friendship with Serena, which can easily swing from loving to toxic, exposes her vulnerabilities. Her perfectionism merely functions as a coping mechanism. In season one, episode nine, “Blair Waldorf Must Pie!,” viewers learn that Blair is bulimic. After facing a dysfunctional and stressful Thanksgiving, she resorts to binge-eating and then making herself throw up. She may not be able to control every aspect of her life as though she were a Hollywood director, but she can control her relationship to food. As the seasons progress, Blair’s bulimia is not treated as her defining characteristic or the foundation of her identity.

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When discussing the role of the unlikable female protagonist in an essay for Buzzfeed, Bad Feminist author Roxane Gay notes, “These novels [Gone Girl, Dare Me] depict women who are clearly not participating in their narratives to make friends and whose characters are the better for it. Freed from the constraints of likability, they are able to exist on and beyond the page as fully realized, interesting, and realistic characters.”

In the case of Blair Waldorf, her narrative begins with a power struggle between herself and Serena, her childhood partner in crime. When Serena returns home to Manhattan after attending boarding school in Connecticut, Blair’s natural instinct is to panic. Her relationship with Serena is bound by equal parts jealousy and mafia-level loyalty. Serena’s return means that Blair will be stripped of her title as Constance Billard’s Queen Bee. Blair learns that Serena slept with her boyfriend, Nate Archibald, right before Serena shipped out of Grand Central Station. She turns against Serena and commands her newly-appointed court to do the same. Blair is not depicted as the Girl Next Door; in fact, it’s a label that Blair would find a bit insulting due to its implications of commonality. If anything, Serena, with her heart of gold and It Girl charm, is the one who is pushed as likable. Blair is a character that is free from the constraints of likability, but her power-hungry and slightly paranoid motivations, however selfish, do not make her lifeless or cartoonish. Blair’s rocky relationship with Serena prevents her from serving as the resident villain. On the contrary, it emphasizes her weaknesses.

The social pecking order of Gossip Girl revolves around class, rather than outright wealth. Echoing the conflicts of an Edith Wharton novel, the female protagonists exist in a familiar yet distorted version of New York. Blair’s vulnerabilities include her see-sawing feelings toward Serena and her tendency to make decisions shaped by the promise of social-climbing or revenge. Ultimately this pushes her into the arms of Chuck Bass, Nate’s best friend. For some viewers, Chuck and Blair’s courtship of mindgames and manipulation were reason enough to call the pairing and Blair unlikable, to say the least. But unlikable doesn’t have to constitute unwatchable or monstrous.

In an interview with the New York Times, Gillian Flynn says, “The likability thing, especially in Hollywood, is a constant conversation, and they’re really underrating their audience when they have that conversation. What I read and what I go to the movies for is not to find a best friend, not to find inspirations…It’s to be involved with characters that are maybe incredibly different from me, that may be incredibly bad but that feel authentic.”

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Despite the extremes of Chuck and Blair’s battle tactics, which include marrying a Prince (Blair) and a deep-seated aversion to commitment (Chuck), their relationship has the same Will they or won’t they? curiosity in the same vein as Heathcliff and Cathy in Wuthering Heights or Carrie and Big in Sex and the City. Blair and Chuck breakup only to reunite, both infused with a sense of fragile pride that is also a vice. Their antics aren’t aspirational. At one point, Chuck “sells” Blair in order to keep his father’s hotel empire. In a conversation with the New Yorker, Margaret Atwood, in response to the question of the likable female character says, “This does still come up. It is indeed a ridiculous question. The qualities we appreciate in a character are not the same as those we would look for in a college roommate.”

None of the characters are exactly the type you’d want for a college roommate. Even Dan Humphrey, the Brooklyn “Outsider,” is not as morally pure as he’d like to believe. He’s just as snobby and self-righteous as Blair, thus making it a surprising yet believable turn of events when they later get together in season four. Regardless, it’s Blair, with her determination, her ability to swiftly flip the switch from charming to threatening, who makes a much more interesting and compelling character than Golden Girl Serena. Edan Lepucki writes for The Millions, “But what if a character isn’t Unlikeable, but unlikeable? What if you just didn’t like him or her? That’s a valid personal response, and certainly a good a reason as any to stop reading. But it’s such a personal response that it’s irrelevant to the critical gaze.” We don’t have to like Blair in order to root for the success of her schemes or even feel sympathy for her self-induced conflicts.

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What made Gossip Girl and Blair Waldorf interesting was not the character’s attempts to achieve role model status. The fact that fans of the show that identified with Blair may have even misinterpreted the message or lack thereof. Emily Nussbaum when writing about The Mindy Project observes, “Female viewers, especially, have been trained to expect certain payoffs from romantic comedies, vicarious in nature: the meet-cute, the soul mate, and, in nearly every case, a ‘Me, too!’ identification. Without ‘Me, too!,’ some folks want a refund.” Blair, in all of her messy contradictions and complexities, would lose what makes her fascinating if she were written to be likable.

 


Vanessa Willoughby is a writer and editor. Her work has appeared on The Toast, The Hairpin, Thought Catalog, and other print and online publications. Find her @book_nerd212.

 

 

‘Young Adult’s Mavis Gary Is “Crazy” Unlikable

Mavis is truly transgressive. Not only is her plan against most people’s moral code, it shows no solidarity for the sisterhood and no respect for the institutions women are most conditioned to aspire to: marriage and motherhood. Mavis alienates feminists and traditionalists alike. Not that she cares–she only wants to appeal to men. And she has done so, seemingly effortlessly, for a long time.


This guest post by Diane Shipley appears as part of our theme week on Unlikable Women.


When the 2011 film Young Adult opens, things aren’t looking good for 37-year-old Mavis Gary (Charlize Theron). She’s divorced, her long-running gig ghost-writing the cheesy YA series Waverley Prep is coming to an end, and she spends her days asleep in front of the TV and her nights drinking herself into oblivion. So, naturally, when her high school boyfriend Buddy Slade (Patrick Wilson) includes her on a mass birth announcement email, she heads back to small town Mercury from Minneapolis in a misguided attempt to win him back.

“Win me back! Ha.”
“Win me back! Ha.”

 

Mavis is truly transgressive. Not only is her plan against most people’s moral code, it shows no solidarity for the sisterhood and no respect for the institutions women are most conditioned to aspire to: marriage and motherhood. Mavis alienates feminists and traditionalists alike. Not that she cares–she only wants to appeal to men. And she has done so, seemingly effortlessly, for a long time.

Now her marriage is over and her future employment looks uncertain, she isn’t facing up to her problems – she’s exacerbating them. She’s been using everything from alcohol to junk food to sex to try to feel better, but nothing’s worked. Her reasoning is that the time she felt best was in high school with Buddy, so trying to relive those days is the only logical solution.

When women in movies are unlikable, it’s usually in specific, gender-coded ways. The only acceptable imperfections for the female lead in a romantic comedy are clumsiness and occasionally, bossiness (as long as she gets her comeuppance). Women who are unabashedly lusty are either killed off (Fatal Attraction) or tolerated so long as they make fun of their looks and sexuality (Rebel Wilson in Pitch Perfect, Melissa McCarthy in Bridesmaids). When they’re trying to steal someone else’s husband, usually they’re superficial and two-dimensional, like Sarah Jessica Parker in The First Wives’ Club. A male character, meanwhile, can be shlubby, make fun of his friends, ignore his family, and still be the hero of the story.

Young Adult gives us a woman as immature as any Judd Apatow avatar, who is unapologetic about being outspoken, and refuses to be coy about either the fact that she’s beautiful or that she’s intent on getting Buddy back. She’s refreshingly and entirely unconcerned with being nice. She says things like, “Babies are boring,” and “I like your décor… is it shabby chic?” When her former classmate Matt Freehauf (Patton Oswalt) refers to the assault that left him with a bent penis, neurological damage, and difficulty walking, she enthuses, “Oh, you’re hate crime guy!” And after Buddy tells her they can’t be together because he’s married, her sincere response is, “I know, we can beat this thing together.”

“What do you mean, 'grow up'?”
“What do you mean, ‘grow up’?”

 

Roxane Gay mentioned Young Adult in an insightful essay on unlikable characters, saying, “Some reviews go so far as to suggest that Mavis is mentally ill because there’s nothing more reliable than armchair diagnosis by disapproving critics… The simplest explanation, of Mavis as human, will not suffice.” She’s right to imply that we shouldn’t pathologize women for being complicated or unkind. Yet it’s not that much of a leap to conclude that Mavis is mentally ill.

She not only telegraphs this, she tells us. We see her pulling out her hair when she’s alone, lining it up in strands. Later, at her parents’ house, when she moves a hand to the back of her head, her dad says, “You’re not still pulling it out, are you?” signaling that this is a chronic issue. During an impromptu drinking session with Matt, she blurts out, “I have depression.” But the moment that’s key to understanding Mavis’s state of mind is when Buddy’s wife Beth (Elizabeth Reaser) explains that she teaches the “special needs” children she works with about emotions using a chart to illustrate the facial expressions that accompany each one. Mavis stares at it blankly before asking, “What about neutral? What if you don’t feel anything?”

Roger Ebert’s otherwise excellent review of the film said that if Mavis weren’t an alcoholic, she “would simply be insane.” The Guardian called her “ever so slightly bonkers.” And while YA author Maureen Johnson recognised that Mavis has serious mental health problems, she also went on to say that she’s “insane.” She isn’t, because that isn’t a thing: “insanity” is a legal defence, not a diagnosis. When someone wants to belittle a woman, they often call her “crazy,” say she’s “nuts” or “insane.” Whether the person in question is mentally ill or not, this helps stigmatise mental illness, drawing an artificial line between “them” and “us,” as if mental health isn’t a spectrum. As if millions of people don’t experience mental health problems all the time. For many of us, it’s something that makes a character more relatable, not less.

Yes, Mavis is either in deep denial or experiencing delusions about how her ex feels about her, and she needs to take responsibility for her appalling behavior. Plus, as she acknowledges twice, she’s showing all the signs of alcoholism. But she’s also survived on her own for years without a real support system, living in a major city and succeeding in a competitive field, as shallow as her writing might be. She’s even retained a girlfriend from high school. Considering how hard depression makes it to just get out of bed, she’s a fucking champion.

Killing. It.
Killing. It.

 

It’s plausible that depression is the reason for much of Mavis’ conduct, including her drinking. But it’s hard to tease out how much of her temperament is due to mental illness, and how much is her core personality. From what we hear about her time in high school (including that she called Matt “theatre fag”), she’s always been lacking in empathy, but maybe her mean girl act was a protective mechanism. We don’t know, and the fact that writer Diablo Cody and director Jason Reitman don’t spell this out is a gift. Mavis being cruel and self-centred makes Young Adult more complex than many portrayals of mental illness. Too often, it’s either the basis for a “psycho” horror movie or an “inspiring” story where someone turns out to be sweet, charming, and boring as soon as they’re medicated.

A lot of the reviews I’ve seen suggest that Mavis has no character arc, that she isn’t changed by the events of the movie. But she is. When she has sex with Matt, she’s in a stick-on bra and tights, her hair limp, dress stained, and make-up smeared. It’s a stark contrast to the start of the film, where she gets dolled up to go to bed with a man she’s never met before. The next morning, she offers the coffee pot to Matt’s sister Sandra before pouring herself a cup. She even admits to Sandra that she’s not as successful as she’s making out, that she doesn’t know how to be happy. It seems like she might be about to make some major changes, but then Sandra blows smoke up her ass, enables her, and says she doesn’t need to change a thing.

Mavis accepts this, agreeing that she’s probably OK after all. But she still goes back to her hotel room, shows her dog some affection for the first time in the film, and throws Buddy’s old sweatshirt into the trash. More significantly, as she finally finishes the last Waverley Prep in a diner on the way home, she has her lead character waving goodbye to high school and never looking back.

Things aren’t wrapped up neatly, it’s true; we don’t know if Mavis will actually seek psychological help, if she’ll go to AA, or if she’ll just slump back onto her sofa and carry on falling asleep to the dulcet tones of early-2000s reality shows for the next 20 years. Here’s a movie that acknowledges that change is hard and often infinitesimal; that credits us with the intelligence to draw our own conclusions about the lead character’s fate. Personally, I hope that 57-year-old Mavis is sober, I hope she has a luscious head of hair, and I hope she’s found a job that fulfills her. She might not ever be a “people person,” and she’ll certainly never be perfect. But she’ll at least always be interesting.

 


Diane Shipley is a journalist, feminist, and fan of photos of miniature dachshunds. Find her on Twitter @dianeshipley, on Tumblr, or in the UK, where she lives, for some reason.

 

Ruthless, Pragmatic Feminism in ‘House of Cards’

Claire is a horrible human being for many, many reasons–but her abortions aren’t included in those reasons. The show makes that clear.

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This repost by Leigh Kolb appears as part of our theme week on Unlikable Women.


Season 2 spoilers ahead! Season 3 will be released on Netflix on Feb. 27, 2015.


Novelist Elmore Leonard said, “If it sounds like writing, I rewrite it.” I think about that often when looking for or critiquing the dearth of feminist film and television. We often wring our hands over the Bechdel Test and the lack of “Strong Female Characters.”

Ideal feminist media would be like Leonard’s ideal writing–films and shows that don’t feel like they’re trying to be feminist. They just are. Complex women and women’s stories that aren’t just pieces of the whole, but are woven in seamlessly throughout the narrative–that’s what I want.

House of Cards delivers.

After Season 1 debuted on Netflix to critical and popular acclaim, Amanda Rodriguez and I both wrote about House of Cards and the wonderfully complex female characters (see: “The Complex, Unlikable Women of House of Cards” and “Claire Underwood: The Queen Bee in House of Cards“). The simultaneously awful and wonderful female characters whose stories were essential to the action in every single episode. Nothing ever felt forced, and the fact that these women were both sympathetic and loathsome was an absolute delight for those of us feminist viewers who are tired of “strong female characters” who pay lip service to some kind of surface-level inequality.

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House of Cards’s feminism is remarkable, because it feels wholly unremarkable.

Season 2 debuted on Feb. 14, 2014, and although Netflix doesn’t reveal exact numbers, Variety reports that the viewership in the first few hours “soared,” with many subscribers watching multiple episodes at once.

And since the only Olympic-style sport we are interested in in our home is the long-form binge watch, we were finished with season 2 by Saturday night. Within the first two episodes, I was fairly certain this was the most feminist TV drama I’ve seen–because what we want (complexity, equality, and representation) is woven in seamlessly. House of Cards is not primarily about a man. It’s not primarily about a woman. It’s about people.

In the promo materials for season 1, we saw Frank Underwood sitting alone in Lincoln’s monument. Ostensibly, he’s the show’s protagonist. And in season 1, I suppose it did often feel that way.

However, the season 2 poster features Frank again sitting in Lincoln’s seat, but Claire is sitting on top of it also. From the first shot of season 2–Frank and Claire running together–we know that Frank isn’t really our sole protagonist at all anymore.

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The first two episodes tie up many loose ends from season 1, and introduce new ones for season 2. In the first episode, Claire picks up her appointment with the fertility doctor not, as we learn, to become pregnant herself, but to find out more about the drug that Gillian is on so she can threaten to withhold her insurance from her, thus getting what she wants from Gillian. “I’m willing to let your child wither and die within you,” Claire says to Gillian. Frank pushes Zoe Barnes into the path of an ongoing train, and she is killed. Frank, who has taken his place as vice president, courts Jackie Sharp to be the House Majority Whip. Why? Her military record of having to order strikes and kill people (including women and children) shows Frank that she is a bastion of ruthless pragmatism, which is how he and Claire move forward; and with this, season 2 begins.

In the following episodes, Claire faces her rapist (who assaulted her in college, and now Frank must give him an award for his military service), and honestly tells Frank how she wants to “smash things” and how much she wants to talk about it. These scenes were excellent because she didn’t let Frank be the vengeful husband. She stopped him, and then kept her power by talking about the assault. It wasn’t presented as if her sexuality was Frank’s to protect; the experience was hers. She wants to let her husband in, but she doesn’t want him to avenge her honor. That’s her job.

When she goes on national television and admits to having an abortion, she says that it was to end the pregnancy that resulted from the sexual assault. She named her attacker, and a young woman called in to the show, saying that he had assaulted her as well. This kicks off a season-long story line about a military sexual assault bill that pits women against women and shows the politics of justice as being just that: politics.

Claire bares all–in her own way–on national television.
Claire bares all–in her own way–on national television.

 

But here’s the rub: Claire had three abortions, not one, and none were from the rape. She is matter-of-fact with her doctor and press secretary that she had three abortions, and we learn that one was during the campaign with Frank, and two were when she was a teenager. One could see these story lines as using infertility, rape, and abortion as plot points.

And you know what? It’s fantastic. I love that these typically silent or exploited topics get so much air time in House of Cards, and that Claire is more human for having gone through so much, yet she uses it all for political and personal gain. (A recent study showed that when female characters consider or have an abortion in film or TV, they are disproportionally killed or at least punished.)

When done properly, I applaud these female-specific plot points. These events are plot points in women’s lives, and they should be used well on screen. House of Cards does just that.

Historically, men have wars and external, political struggles to define and provide fodder for their journeys (both fictional and non). We see this represented with Frank’s visit to the Confederate re-enactors and his war miniatures. Women’s struggles and choices–infertility, sexual assault, and abortion–are widespread and underrepresented. To have Claire live through and use these experiences is refreshing and brilliant (and appropriately villainous).

The season goes on to show the fallout that Claire receives from admitting to having an abortion (even though she publicly says she had one after a rape), including an attempted bomb attack by a man whose wife had had an abortion, and the angry, vitriolic protesters outside her home. (She tells Megan, the young sexual assault victim at one point, “They’re loud, but I think we need to be louder.”) What a great message.

Claire is a horrible human being for many, many reasons–but her abortions aren’t included in those reasons. The show makes that clear.

Jackie–Frank’s replacement and sometimes-ally sometimes-adversary–is a force. She, in her relationship with Remy, is the one who initially isn’t interested at all in a relationship. She gets tattooed to help deal with the pain of the deaths she was responsible for in the military. She’s powerful and political, and we see her as both the enemy and ally throughout the season.

Jackie, adding on to her poppy tattoo (symbolic in its remembrance of bloodshed in war, and therapeutic in its pain).
Jackie, adding on to her poppy tattoo (symbolic in its remembrance of bloodshed in war, and therapeutic in its pain).

 

In addition to the complex shaping of women’s stories and the characters themselves, the way the show handles masculinity and sexuality seems revolutionary.

In season 1, it’s evident when Frank goes back to his alma mater that he had had a sexual relationship with a close male friend. There wasn’t much hoopla about this, it just was what it was. In season 2, Claire, Frank, and their bodyguard, Edward Meechum, have a threesome. The next day, Frank says to Meechum as he gets in the car, “It’s a beautiful day.” And that’s all there is to it. Meanwhile, Rachel has developed a relationship with Lisa, and it’s portrayed as a loving partnership (although the camera does linger on their sex scene while it artfully pans away from the aforementioned threesome).

There’s no moral focus or panic about people’s sexuality. It just–is what it is. No fanfare. And the fact that we get to see women having orgasms (in season 2, an especially steamy scene between Jackie and Remy) is a pleasant detour from the norm as well.

In what continues to be one of my favorite articles regarding feminist media, “I hate Strong Female Characters,” Sophia McDougall says,

“Nowadays the princesses all know kung fu, and yet they’re still the same princesses. They’re still love interests, still the one girl in a team of five boys, and they’re all kind of the same. They march on screen, punch someone to show how they don’t take no shit, throw around a couple of one-liners or forcibly kiss someone because getting consent is for wimps, and then with ladylike discretion they back out of the narrative’s way.”

The women of House of Cards are not “Strong Female Characters.” They are well-written characters with a great deal of power, which they wield alongside the men. They are integral parts of the narrative. When female complexity and power is written into the narrative, everything else–including passing the Bechdel Test–effortlessly falls into place.

This is ruthless pragmatism: feminist style, and it is excellent. In a sea of male anti-heroes on TV, it’s time that women share the stage. House of Cards shows its hand, and it’s a royal flush, with the queen right next to the king.

 


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

 

 

The Complex, Unlikable Women of ‘House of Cards’

These women are complex, if not likable, and that’s a good thing.

Daddy Issues, Menopause and Female Power
Daddy Issues, Menopause, and Female Power

This repost by Leigh Kolb appears as part of our theme week on Unlikable Women.


This article covers Season 1. See here for commentary on Season 2.

Frank Underwood (Kevin Spacey) is the vengeful House Majority Whip who lusts after power and is ambitious and unscrupulous in his attempts to get what he wants.

In fact, most of the characters fit that description.

We know that the anti-hero is in. Many of the protagonists in critically acclaimed dramas (Walter White, Nucky Thompson, Jax Teller, Dexter Morgan, Don Draper, the list goes on…) are not traditionally heroic and make decisions that are illegal and “immoral.”

Frank Underwood is a twenty-first century Iago, building his empire on a tenuous pile of cards. He looks at the camera and includes the audience in his thought process (much like Kenneth Branagh’s Iago in Othello). The Macbeth references also are clear, as Zoe Barnes (Kate Mara) scrubs a stain out of her carpet or as Claire Underwood (Robin Wright) is consistently associated with water.

Just as Frank conjures a centuries-old tradition of villainous pseudo-heroism, the women of House of Cards also represent the kind of ruthless ambition that we find so compelling in characters.

And as “The Women on House of Cards Are Just as Evil as the Men” points out:

“The show would be way less interesting if only the male characters were running around town sleeping with people they shouldn’t be sleeping with and bribing people they shouldn’t be bribing while their female partners and peers waited patiently at home.”

Zoe is a scrappy reporter when we first meet her, and she quickly transforms herself into a front-page journalist because she gets the right source.

In bed.

She draws him in with a photo, goes to his house in a push-up bra and a low-cut shirt, and gets tips of all kinds. In the first episode, the most powerful women have broken into power via cleavage, marriage and tokenism (the new White House Chief of Staff Linda Vasquez, who Frank helped promote because of her ethnicity and gender). It didn’t look so good at first, but like any good story, the characters unfold as the series goes on, revealing that Claire is ambitious at all costs, Zoe holds the cards in her relationship with Frank, and the women, at the end, are instrumental in upending and beginning to unravel Frank’s plans.

Zoe Barnes
Zoe Barnes

 

For Zoe, she is both empowered and disempowered by men who treat her like she is their child. When she shoots to stardom (via Frank) at The Washington Herald, Tom, her editor, is dismissive of her work and yet knows he needs to promote her and reward her because Margaret (his boss) wants her star-power, since Tom’s beloved hard-news print outlet is barely staying in business.

When Zoe and Tom get into a fight after she turns down the White House Correspondent gig, he accuses her of being arrogant.

Zoe: “You think when a woman asks to be respected she’s being arrogant?”
Tom: “Are you accusing me of sexism? No TV for a month.”

He’s limiting her TV appearances as punishment, but of course it sounds like he’s talking to a child and taking television away as a punishment. The line between father and boss is blurred.

Zoe’s understanding of respect is obviously convoluted as Frank constantly asks her about her parents, and her father, and if they know she lives like she does (in a shabby, dirty apartment). “Are you cared for,” he asks. “Do you have a man, who cares for you? An older man?”

When Frank visits Zoe on Father’s Day, he encourages her to call her father. While she’s still on the phone, she starts undressing him, he undresses her and goes down on her in the most graphic sex scene in the season. She’s breathless while she’s on the phone, and hangs up only after promising her father “I’m going to try and come, OK?” The line between father and lover is blurred.

Later in the season, Zoe establishes herself in a new lucrative job at Slugline, a woman-owned new media company where the reporters have free reign to post what and when they want and are not “tied to a desk.” Janine joins her after leaving The Washington Herald. Janine was her enemy at the Herald, and represents a somewhat older, jaded version of Zoe. When the two begin to work together, they make great strides. Zoe finishes her relationship with Frank and works with Janine to do real, legitimate reporting (which is quickly unraveling Frank’s web of lies). Zoe is poised to be the most successful and have the most journalistic integrity by letting go of the older men in her life (who represent a patriarchal power structure) and working with women and peer collaborators.

Meanwhile, Claire, who matches her husband in power and ambition, changes her company and re-evaluates her own life as the season progresses. She lays off half of the staff and her clean water nonprofit, including Evelyn, her office manager (after having her fire everyone). Evelyn desperately points out to Claire that she is in her late 50s, and she would have no job prospects. Claire doesn’t bend.

Claire Underwood
Claire Underwood

 

Shortly after, Claire goes to a coffee shop where an older woman is working the register, and can’t figure out how to ring her up. A young woman comes and shows her, as Claire looks at them, certainly thinking of Evelyn and her own possibilities.

She courts Gillian, a young, beautiful woman who has had individual success in clean water initiatives. Gillian resists the corporate atmosphere, and Claire says,

“I know what it is to be capable, beautiful and ambitious… I want to enable you, to clear the way for you.”

Gillian accepts.

And Claire starts getting hot flashes. “This is new to me,” she tells a female dinner party guest who sees her standing in front of the open refrigerator. Her coming menopause serves as a reminder that she is getting ready to enter a new phase of womanhood, which she doesn’t seem ready for.

Gillian, meanwhile, announces her pregnancy and Claire seems uncomfortable. Even though she tells Adam (her once and sometimes lover) when he asks why she and Frank didn’t have kids, “We just didn’t–it wasn’t some big conversation. I thought about it once or twice, but I don’t feel like there’s some void. We’re perfectly happy without.”

But by the end of the season, she’s visiting a doctor and having a consultation about her fertility. She doesn’t tell Frank, but the window of opportunity for her to have a baby isn’t closed yet.

Gillian goes against Claire’s orders, and Claire suggests she take some time off after Gillian snaps, “I threaten you, don’t I?” Gillian hires a lawyer and claims Claire fired her for being pregnant, trapping Claire in a potential legal battle that she cannot win. The youthful ambition she wanted to guide and empower didn’t want either.

No one is good (nor should they be, or the show wouldn’t work so well). Janine tells Zoe she “used to suck, screw and jerk anything that moved just to get a story.” And while she’s a working journalist, she obviously didn’t fuck her way to the top (nor did Zoe). They are on their way to the top, but it’s only because they’re working together.

Claire and Frank are in a surprisingly power-balanced relationship, and it only truly suffers when he puts his goals over hers. Claire elicits sympathy, disgust, anger and fear from the audience (sometimes all in one episode).

These women are complex, if not likable, and that’s a good thing. Zoe and Janine are close to the truth about Frank, Claire’s career and fertility hang in the balance and at any moment, the house of cards they’ve all helped build may come tumbling down.

 


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