‘Parenthood’ is about showing us rounded human beings, triumphantly showing us their strengths and compassionately portraying their weaknesses. The interconnectedness and communication of this family is inspiring, and the series is always true to its characters’ unique psychology.
Despite my largely cynical personality, I found myself really enjoying the NBC TV series Parenthood. The show follows the intergenerational lives of the Braverman family living in Berkeley, California. The family is very close-knit, helping each other raise children, weather difficult times, and answer tough questions. Sometimes bordering on goody-goody or saccharine sweetness, the show mostly impresses me with the breadth of important issues addressed and the true-to-life character depth and psychology.
First, let’s address the ways in which Parenthood falls short. The cast is predominantly white. Crosby (Dax Shepard) marries a Black woman, Jasmine (Joy Bryant), and they have two children together, who constitute most of the non-white main characters on the show.
Aida is born to Jasmine and Crosby
With a cast that big, mainly casting periphery characters of color is a missed opportunity to dig into the intersection of race, culture, class, and family. Though in a limited, somewhat unsatisfactory way, the show does, however, capitalize on Crosby and Jasmine’s life together to delve into issues of interracial family. In a plotline about interracial dating, Adam (Peter Krause) and Christina’s daughter, Haddie, dates a young, Black man, which they forbid under the guise of his age and experience, when it’s clearly more about their discomfort with his class and race. It’s unclear whether or not the show truly acknowledges the racism of Haddie’s parents.
Haddie and Alex: young love
Parenthood also intersects race, class, and adoption themes when Julia and Joel adopt Victor (Xolo Maridueña), an abandoned 10-year-old Latino. Though the way the Braverman clan embraces Julia and Joel’s new son wholeheartedly is full of warmth and humanity, Victor’s representation brings into high relief the lack of class diversity depicted on the show. Though the character Sarah Braverman (Lauren Graham) struggles with money, she has the wealth and home of her parents to fall back on.
The entire Braverman clan comes out for Victor’s adoption day
I waited five whole seasons for them to introduce a queer character. We all thought it would be young Drew, the quiet, sensitive younger brother of Amber and son of Sarah. Nope! In the very last episode of the most recent season (Season 5), Parenthood showed a long absent Haddie (Sarah Ramos), home from college, in love with a woman.
Haddie kissed a girl…and she liked it
Talk about a token LGBTQ character. She’s not even on the show anymore! It felt like Parenthood wanted to show us it was down with the gays without having to deal with any of the issues, hardships, or questions that come with being a young, queer woman in the US. Haddie also dated Alex, a Black man, so the implication is that she’s boundary-pushing and possibly a LUG. Not cool, Parenthood. Not cool.
Props for NBC’s on-screen lesbian kiss
Its shortcomings with regard to race, class, and sexuality mean that Parenthood disappointingly represents a narrow, unrealistic demographic of people. Though that seems like a massive fail, now we get to talk about the ways in which Parenthood succeeds. As I already referenced, the show deals with adoption and infertility with its Victor storyline. Not only that, but tackling the “C word,” the gentle-natured Christina (Monica Potter) is diagnosed with breast cancer. While Christina eventually goes into remission, she struggles with sickness, lack of energy, a desire to see her children through their challenges, loss of self-esteem, the death of close friends who also have cancer, and, most importantly, her own agency, her own ability to choose how she will live, how she will face cancer, and how she will prepare herself and her family for her potential death.
Christina shaves her head while undergoing chemotherapy
Fear, insecurity, trust, and love are repeatedly called into question when Parenthood deals with infidelity. We see Camille and Zeek secretly separated before they slowly repair their marriage due to an affair Zeek (Craig T. Nelson) had, showing how time, history, and forgiveness are crucial to any long-term relationship. We see Crosby destroy and slowly rebuild his family when he sleeps with Gaby (Minka Kelly), Max’s aide, which highlights how Crosby needed to grow up, accept responsibility for his actions and choices, and become more steadfast in his relationships. We see Adam and Christina weather a kiss Adam’s assistant, Rachel (Alexandra Daddario), plants on him during a rainstorm, showcasing the need for honesty and compassion within a marriage. The series primarily features male partners transgressing against their female partners, but in the most painful and drawn out indiscretion of all, we see Julia kiss another man and lie about it for a time, which leads to a separation and a difficult custody situation.
Julia and Ed acknowledge their shared attraction
Both characters are sympathetic: Julia (Erika Christensen) is desperate, lonely, and feels invisible, while Joel (Sam Jaeger) feels betrayed and unsupported by his wife in the pursuit of his career. We can also see both of their faults in the situation: Julia is selfish and can’t handle being a stay-at-home mom even though she rashly quit her job, and Joel is rigidly unforgiving and untrusting, refusing to communicate or work on their underlying marital troubles. It’s rare to see an honest, balanced, yet sympathetic portrayal of a drowning relationship due to infidelity.
Parenthood features a teen abortion without judgement. Drew’s (Miles Heizer) girlfriend, Amy (Skyler Day), becomes pregnant. Amy decides to get an abortion, and Drew, in his awkward, teenage way, tries to support her choice and be there for her. Despite his attempts to be a good boyfriend, their youthful relationship disintegrates as a result of the very adult situation they find themselves in. My major complaint is that much of this happens from the perspective of Drew, and we only get glimpses of how Amy feels and how, over a year later when Amy and Drew reconnect, Amy is still troubled by the secret she keeps from her family.
Drew and Amy’s relationship falls apart after her abortion
One of Parenthood‘s pet issues is Asperger syndrome and more broadly autism spectrum. In Season 1, Adam and Christina’s son, Max (Max Burkholder) is diagnosed with Asperger’s. Together, the family rally, compassionately supporting Max to give him structure, safety, and a quality education that doesn’t discriminate against him. Later on, the show introduces Hank (Ray Romano), a love interest of Sarah and a mentor for Max, who is pained to discover that he, like Max, is autism spectrum.
Max and Hank share their love of photography
The series strives to show that despite the very real challenges they face, neither Max nor Hank are incapable of normal lives or of being loved. There aren’t a whole lot of representations of autism spectrum individuals that don’t tokenize them as a “character with a disability”–certainly very few make them primary characters on TV, and even fewer cast them as love interests.
I was impressed with the very real, honest depictions of addiction, in particular the plight of the loved ones of addicts. Sarah’s ex-husband, Seth (John Corbett), is an addict and an absentee father. He flits in and out of his children’s lives, promising to change and disappointing them each time. Amber (brilliantly, viscerally performed by Mae Whitman) is so sensitive that when we meet her, she is acting out, a lost teen with little self-worth who’s hardened her heart to her deadbeat dad, while her younger brother, Drew, yearns for his father, constantly forgiving him and eternally holding out hope that he’ll have a real relationship with his father this time. Sarah, herself, never gives up on Seth, and (while I think it’s unrealistic that Seth does, in fact, go to rehab and eventually maintains his recovery since it happens more often than not that people don’t ever recover) the Holt family exemplifies dysfunction and the behavioral patterns of living with an addict.
Drew finds his wasted father playing a show
For example, Sarah can’t ever choose the potential partner who has his shit together. She’s always drawn to the one who needs her most. Amber also grows up to embody this same trait when she falls in love with deeply troubled war veteran, Ryan (Matt Lauria). Ryan’s storyline allows Parenthood to delve into PTSD as well as the way in which veterans come home haunted. While I’m disappointed that the show has yet to explore PTSD as a result of sexual violence and/or trauma (especially considering how real that storyline is for so, so many people, especially women), Ryan’s arc and the way in which it intersects with Amber’s is crucial for revealing to us how much she’s internalized that responsibility of caring for someone who isn’t healthy.
Ryan nearly dies as a result of his PTSD-motivated reckless behavior
One storyline that I’ve been incredibly pleased to see is that of Camille (Bonnie Bedelia), the matriarch of the Braverman family. Her family takes her for granted and neglects her needs, invalidating her as a human being. They’ve so cast her in the role of “wife” and “mother” that they don’t see her as anything but an extension of themselves. This is clear in the resistance she meets from the entire clan when she wants to explore her love of painting on an extended, solo trip to Italy followed by her family’s baffled disbelief that she wants to sell the house in order to travel more and not be weighed down by that behemoth of a home. I’ve not often seen a story like this that calls out husbands and children for forgetting that their wives and mothers are human beings with separate hopes and desires.
Zeek realizes his love for Camille is the most important thing in his life
Bottom line, Parenthood is about showing us rounded human beings, triumphantly showing us their strengths and compassionately portraying their weaknesses. The interconnectedness and communication of this family is inspiring, and the series is always true to its characters’ unique psychology, revealing to us that every choice each of them makes is connected in a subtle way. If Season 6 would show us more race, class, and LGBTQ diversity, Parenthood would go from being a really good series to a really great one.
Bitch Flicks writer and editor Amanda Rodriguez is an environmental activist living in Asheville, North Carolina. She holds a BA from Antioch College in Yellow Springs, Ohio and an MFA in fiction writing from Queens University in Charlotte, NC. She writes all about food and drinking games on her blog Booze and Baking. Fun fact: while living in Kyoto, Japan, her house was attacked by monkeys.
However, we did our analysis to counter the recurring popular narrative that abortion is totally absent from media representations. Abortion stories are there, and they’ve always been there. Now that we know that, and we’ve identified them, we can begin delving into more detailed analyses of these stories.
Click on the infographic to view the full-size image. Designed by Jessica Harrington, Kate Giambrone, and Julianna Johnson.
This is a guest post by Gretchen Sisson. She is working on Abortion Onscreen, which involves research of depictions of abortion in film and television.
Whenever you set out to say something about abortion, you’re going to be faced with criticism; whenever you attempt to say something serious about popular culture, the rigor of your intellectual pursuit will likely be challenged. Despite that, we’ve been generally pleased with the response to the study. People seem interested in discussing what stories they’ve seen, and which they find most compelling. I thought that – for this audience of cinephiles – I might respond in more detail to some of the comments and questions that keep cropping up.
So, there are more examples of abortion on television and movies than there used to be. That does not seem that interesting.
True, it’s not. There are more movies being made, more television shows, more channels for distribution – unless the increase is in prevalence (it’s not), this isn’t inherently noteworthy. However, we did our analysis to counter the recurring popular narrative that abortion is totally absent from media representations. Abortion stories are there, and they’ve always been there. Now that we know that, and we’ve identified them, we can begin delving into more detailed analyses of these stories.
Movies and television are always more dramatic than real life. So why is this interesting?
It’s true, lots of things are more dangerous on television and in movies. Cars and planes are more likely to crash; patients are more likely to slip into comas (and come out of them). There is more violence, more suspense, more drama overall – that’s what makes stories interesting.
However, it’s interesting that many medical procedures are less risky on television. CPR, for example, is consistently much more successful on television than in real life. Not only is it more effective at reviving people, it is also almost never shown to result in complications (such as broken ribs) that are fairly common in real life emergency situations. Yet, abortion is consistently shown to be more dangerous. (In this study, we specifically looked at the mortality rates of abortion on television; in future investigations we hope to look at other complications such as infertility and adverse mental health outcomes.)
It’s true that a dangerous abortion may be a more interesting story than a safe abortion. But why would a storyteller include an abortion, if their primary goal was to include medical complication? Why not have a character experience acute appendicitis? Or miscarriage with hemorrhage? Or any number of dramatic, possibly (but rarely) fatal conditions? The fact that abortion is often used in this way tells us something about why it’s included at all.
Furthermore, many of the deaths associated with abortion were not caused by the abortion itself. As you can see, many of the characters who got an abortion (or just considered getting one) later died as a result of accident or violence. This sort of karmic linking between characters associated with abortion and dramatic deaths is telling; it seems that abortion is used not as a way of creating drama in and of itself, but as a way of condemning characters.
Realistic abortion stories would be boring. Why would media makers want to include them?
This is the Chekhov’s gun principle. Why include an abortion if it’s not dramatic? But realistic abortion can be dramatic. It can involve drama if the character is conflicted and agonizing over her decision. It can involve drama even if she knows immediately that she wants an abortion, but must find a way to pay for it, or face protestors on her way to the clinic, or consider what the unplanned pregnancy means for the future of her relationships. Many movies and television shows have shown realistic abortions in compelling dramatic ways: Friday Night Lights, Parenthood, Fast Times at Ridgemont High, to name just a few. I don’t accept the premise that realistic abortions are inherently uninteresting. Furthermore, it seems that common, stigmatized experiences would provide ample opportunities for creative storytellers to say something new, interesting, dramatic – maybe even profound – without resorting to a bloody ending.
When, historically, are these abortion stories set? Shouldn’t some abortions be portrayed as dangerous?
This observation is exactly why we chose not to comment on the motivations of screenwriters and producers. For example, in Vera Drake, Revolutionary Road, and Dirty Dancing, illegal abortion is portrayed as dangerous. This could be a very progressive commentary on the importance of legal access to abortion. Conversely, the legal abortion story in Ides of March – which ends with the young woman committing suicide when she believes her abortion is going to be disclosed on the national stage – is, at its core, a message of stigma.
Furthermore, because our sample began in 1916 (when abortion was dangerous) and included the decades filmmakers had to follow the Hays Code (which said abortion stories could not have happy endings), we recognize that there are innumerable reasons and motivations for abortion to be portrayed as dangerous.
Ultimately, though, the aggregate linking of abortion and risk creates an ongoing social myth about abortion as dangerous. We do not live in a world where people talk openly about their abortion experiences. We’ve all driven in cars, so when we see crashes or chases in movies, we can integrate that into our overall idea of what “driving” is, and the fictional narrative, while entertaining, plays a relatively small part in shaping that idea. However, we don’t all have abortion, or talk to people we know about their abortions (or even know that we know people who’ve had abortions), which makes the stories we see in the media all the more important cultural understanding of what abortion is.
What’s next?
We really want to use this study as a jumping off more for exploring more detailed questions about abortion stories in film and television: Who gets abortions? Why? What does abortion care actually look like in popular culture? You’re welcome to check out abortiononscreen.org to see more about where we hope to go in the future.
Gretchen Sisson is a sociologist at ANSIRH, a reproductive health research group at the University of California at San Francisco, whose work focuses on abortion, teen pregnancy and young parenthood, adoption, and infertility. You can find her on Twitter @gesisson.
In the final episode of ‘Prime Suspect,’ the long-running British series, Jane Tennison (Helen Mirren), a hardworking, hard drinking detective who has sacrificed so much of her life for her job and made more than a few enemies, skips her own retirement party and walks out and into the rest of her life. In the other room, her colleagues are jovial, waiting for the stripper they hired, preparing balloons, and liberally dipping into the refreshments.
But Jane is uncertain.
In the final episode of Prime Suspect, the long-running British series, Jane Tennison (Helen Mirren), a hardworking, hard drinking detective who has sacrificed so much of her life for her job and made more than a few enemies, skips her own retirement party, and walks out and into the rest of her life. In the other room, her colleagues are jovial, waiting for the stripper they hired, preparing balloons, and liberally dipping into the refreshments.
But Jane is uncertain.
Jane in the final episode, the weight of everything she’s seen finally catching up with her.
She’s triumphant as she’s solved her last case, but it’s taken a clear toll on her. She’s tired, she’s unsure what else she can be other than a cop, is struggling with her alcoholism and the reality of how few people she has in her life to lean on, and yet, she’s free of the relentless politics and bureaucracy she’s faced throughout her career and has finished it she way she intended. For all she’s sacrificed, she’s lived the life she wanted and refused to compromise either personally or professionally. And after seven series of watching and cheering her on, we’re sure she’ll be okay. If she’d gone to the party, there’d be cause to worry about her.
Prime Suspect ran for seven series airing between 1991 and 2006, earning Emmys, Golden Globes, and BAFTAs as well as serving as an inspiration of several character-driven and female-led police dramas. The series was created by mystery writer Lynda La Plante after discovering there were only four female Detective Chief Inspectors (DCIs) in Scotland Yard at the time and Tennison was based on Jackie Malton, a celebrated officer with success in homicide, fraud, and robbery divisions.
Prime Suspect title card
The first series followed Jane’s journey to gain the respect of her male colleagues as she leads her first investigation, fighting to be taken seriously at every turn. The idea of the police force as a boys’ club colors much of the first series and continues to a gradually lessening degree throughout the rest of show’s run as Jane earns respect (and contempt) for her own merit. Subsequent series feature groundbreaking investigations for a show of the time period, probing into institutional racism, pedophilia, agism, genocide, police brutality and misconduct and well as a rather shakily handled portrayal of gay prostitution, a mistreated Transwoman character, and a sensitive depiction of abortion.
Prime Suspect relentlessly delves into dark territory; the cases are horrific and the victims ghettoized by police bureaucracy, and without Jane at its centre, never losing focus of the goal of obtaining justice for the victims and securing convictions and Mirren’s fierce portrayal of her, it could easily become depressing and marred by its focus on interviews and interrogations over of gun fights and chases. Jane is the rare female character who is allowed to be flawed, yet continues to be likable both in the perspective of the narrative and in the viewer’s eyes. Even if you dislike her as a person, it’s impossible not to respect her and to be a bit awed by what she does. And she is not always easy to like.
The show doesn’t shy away from graphic forensic evidence
From the start, Jane is abrasive and difficult, as in the first episode, she begins angling for a promotion right after her colleague dies. Frequently, she is too harsh on suspects after deciding their guilt and asked variations of, “What kind of person are you?” She also feigns empathy to get information, a tactic that works even accidentally as it becomes her default mode (notably in series 4). Most interestingly, Jane is often wrong and insensitive: she commits the cardinal sin of a woman in power by not supporting other women, goes after the wrong man and causes a hostage situation, appears racist for not wanting to work with a her former lover, a Black detective, as well as several other incidences.
In series 4, Jane’s breakthrough case is reopened and with her entire career called into question, she goes off investigate on her own. This involves visiting her suspect’s elderly mother, pretending to be a family friend and bringing her out to an isolated pier when Jane harshly interrogates her, in a manner bordering on abusive as the old woman grows increasingly frightened. In the end, she proves her suspect’s guilt but in a manner that sets her in the worst possible light for the audience.
Before she is given an investigation to lead, Jane is invisible to her male coworkers, who talk about cases around her
As a leader, her refusal to compromise means she is determined to catch the guilty party, while her co-workers urge her just to get someone to confess, guilty or not. She’s tough, telling her squad in her first briefing, “All I ask is your undivided loyalty and attention. … You don’t like it, put in for a transfer.” She is also very clever, shown in series 2, when she eliminates a possible identity for a murder victim by putting her own watch with the victim’s effects and allowing her mother to falsely claim it.
Mirren’s acting skills are highlighted in tense interrogation scenes
But for all her prickly meanness and seeming detachment, Jane really cares about getting justice for victims and becomes deeply emotionally involved. After long periods of procedural drama, the show imbues a great deal of cathartic release in the moments when she celebrates a victory by pumping her fists and cheering and in the private moments where Jane, overwhelmed and exhausted, breaks down and cries.
It’s her frustrations dealing with bureaucracy or snags in her investigations that frequently lead her to do things like snap at her subordinates, splash wine on her supervisors, and find solace in smoking, drinking, and sex.
Prime Suspect is also noted for its straightforward depiction of workplace sexism. Rather than catcalls, pranks, or groping, sexism manifests itself in subtle gestures meant to undermine her authority, such as suggestions that she is irrational or hormonal and her male coworkers being promoted over her.
Jane’s biggest detractor is Detective Sergeant Bill Otley, while DI Frank Burkin and DS Richard Hawley become two of her supporters
Moreover, as the first series goes on, Jane slowly gains the respect and support of her colleagues, they take orders willingly and the entire squad sign their names on a petition to keep her on the case when their superiors threaten to remove her. Throughout the program, Jane’s constant refrain (made humourous thanks to Mirren’s role in The Queen) is: “Don’t call me Ma’am I’m not the bloody queen.” She tells people she wants to be called “boss or guv,” but never ma’am. At the end of the first series she knows she has gained their respect once the squad calls her guv.
Jane is an interesting character to examine in a feminist critique as it doesn’t seem that she would consider herself a feminist. Even as Jane advances through the force, within the show’s narrative, the pinnacle of her success is not when she reaches the highest rank but when she gets to a point where her colleagues complain about her and her supervisors sabotage her not because she’s a woman but because of her personality and her leadership. In the last episode, as she prepares to retire, she is celebrated as the first female DCI, to which she responds, a detective first, woman second: “First Jane Tennison DCI.”
Still, there are several incidences when Jane uses her gender to her advantage. Notably, in the first series, she hides in the women’s locker room when she knows her supervisor is looking for her to pull her off the case, knowing it’s the only place he can’t go. Later, when interrogating her suspect’s girlfriend, she fusses over her appearance to uncharacteristic degree as she knows the girlfriend will be less contrary if she believes Jane is concerned with her appearance. In another series, she gets information unavailable to a male officer when she has a drink with two prostitutes and talks to them about their friend’s murder, establishing a friendly bond when a man propositions her that makes them comfortable with her.
Hyperaware of how she is perceived, Jane knows that if she shows any weakness, she will lose all the respect she’s gained. In series 4, she has difficulty dealing with DS Christine Cromwell (Sophie Stanton), a woman who does things a lot like she did in earlier series: going off on her own to investigate, losing her temper in front of the press, and sharing a close relationship with a male colleague. These things make Jane fearful both of associating herself with a woman who could be perceived to be sleeping her way to the top, and of the perception that she could be giving Cromwell special treatment or unearned sorority. As a result, Jane in harsher to female subordinated than males and sets them to a higher standard as she believes they need to be tougher to make it in the department.
After Cromwell proves herself, Jane takes her under her wing and acts as her mentor
Eventually Cromwell proves herself clever and determined, leading Jane to develop a productive partnership with her, as the two investigated in a pair for much of the rest of the investigation.
Another recurring theme in the series is Jane’s struggle maintaining stable relationships. Her relationship in the first series is introduced as loving and supportive, with Jane excited to meet his son, but quickly crumbles with the stress of her new job. Jane, as anyone who knew her would expect, puts the investigation first, complains when he laughs about what the tabloids are saying about her, and is unable to make dinner for his business partners. The boyfriend yells at her that she cares more about “your rapists and your tarts” than him, and leaves her without discussion after a fight. In the next series, she has moved on and taken the break-up in stride, but in the rest of the program Jane seems lonely when she is given silent moments, begins to a routine of eating frozen dinners and drinking alone and puts up with less before ending her relationships. In series 4, she has new boyfriend, who makes question her priorities: “This is the first time in my life I’ve had the feeling that I don’t want to get up, go to work, don’t want to screw up another relationship.” Still though, he refuses to support her when things get difficult and is gone by the next series. Without fail, Jane refuses to stay in a relationship with any man who can’t acknowledge the importance for her career.
The pressure begins to get to Jane as she talks a moment to collect herself.
At the end of series 3, Jane finds herself pregnant and despite realizing this is her last chance to have a child, decides to have an abortion. It’s a difficult decision for her and not one she takes lightly, but it’s presented as the right thing for her to do based on where she is in her life and what she wants for her future. True to the character, Jane’s decision-making process is not fraught with meaningful glances at mothers with babies or discussion with her friends or family; instead, she when she calls the doctor to arrange it, she is calm and businesslike. Only after it’s arranged does she take a minute to mourn, turning away from the camera and the audience to cry, showing only her shoulder moving up and down for an extended shot.
Jane Tennison is a fascinating character whose DNA is found in several of its predecessors. Notably, the failed American remake, a serviceable cop show with Maria Bello as its strong lead and The Closer, whose creators have acknowledged the debt they owe to Prime Suspect.Gillian Anderson has also compared her role inThe Fallto Jane Tennison
But there is only one Jane, the kind of woman who leads with a quiet integrity who manages to be both poised and ruthless, who tries to wear different lives that don’t fit her and has the courage to cast them off, always knows what she wants and what she values: giving justice to her victims, and solving crimes instead of succeeding in departmental politics and earning promotions. It’s a series that deserves revisiting.
Elizabeth Kiy is a Canadian writer and freelance journalist living in Toronto, Ontario. She recently graduated from Carleton University where she majored in journalism and minored in film.
Too many times, films singularly depict abortions as religious immoral decisions or heavy emotional burdens, but such a topic does not always have to be heavy hitting and controversial.
In the saccharine land of rom coms, plots can be trite, characters undefined and sappy sweet endings all too predictable for most movie-goers. And the worst part is that rom coms are usually geared toward women. No one wants to watch the same movies with the same formulas. If you’re like me, you’ve been looking for something different, endearing, and more in touch with reality.
That’s where Obvious Child (2014), by writer and director Gillian Robespierre, comes in. Unlike rom coms centered around getting the boy or choosing love, Obvious Child is about what a woman chooses for herself–in this case, an abortion. It follows Brooklyn comedian Donna Stern (Jenny Slate), who “gets dumped, fired, and pregnant just in time for the worst/best Valentine’s Day of her life.” The best part about the film’s description is that it focuses on the nature of Donna’s choice and how after everything, she ends up all right.
With the help of Robespierre’s friends and coworkers, Anna Bean and Karen Maine, they wrote and produced a short film version in 2009. Robespierre said, “We were frustrated by the limited representations of young women’s experience with pregnancy, let alone growing up. We were waiting to see a more honest film, or at least, a story that was closer to many of the stories we knew.” Too many times, films singularly depict abortions as religious immoral decisions or heavy emotional burdens, but such a topic does not always have to be heavy hitting and controversial.
What I loved about the idea to this film (and why I chose to donate to it) is how imperative it is to see women’s issues addressed in different ways–with humor and wit. I also loved the women power behind this film, something we seldom see. Kathryn Bigelow is not the only female director tackling hard issues in interesting ways.
The film has been accepted to the upcoming Sundance Film Festival, but it still needs financial support to be complete (donations support final touches and distribution). It is currently seeking funding on Kickstarter. $10 gets you an online screening of the original short film. It’s a few thousand dollars short and just has 11 days to go! Sometimes, women have to go to extra lengths to support their sisters and get better pop culture representation. Ladies, give the gift that will give back to yourself! The best part is that you can do this from the comfort of your own home. In a time when abortion rights and access become increasingly limited in the United States, sometimes it’s movies like Obvious Child that can entertain us, but also send an important message that when it comes to abortion, whatever we choose, we’ll be all right.
Read Bitch Flicks’ review of the original short film here.
_____________________________________ Katrina Majkut is the founder and writer of the website TheFeministBride.com. As a “wedding anthropologist,” she examines how weddings and relationships are influenced by history, pop culture and the media. Her goal is to bring to light the inherent gender inequality issues that couples may not even be aware of within wedding traditions and the wedding “industry,” and to start dialogue around solutions that empower women to take positive action toward equality in their relationships and marriages.
So, these are the important things in Sixteen Candles: Samantha’s family forgets her birthday; she’s in love with a hot senior who’s dating Caroline (the most popular girl in school); and there’s a big ol’ geek (Farmer Ted) from Sam’s daily bus rides who won’t stop stalking her. Oh, and Long Duk Dong exists [insert racist gong sound here]. Seriously, every time Long Duk Dong appears on screen, a fucking GONG GOES OFF on the soundtrack. I suppose that lines up quite nicely with the scene where he falls out of a tree yelling, “BONSAI.”
Since the entire movie is like a machine gun firing of RACIST HOMOPHOBIC SEXIST ABLEIST RAPEY parts, the only way I know how to effectively talk about it is to look at the very problematic screenplay. So, fasten your seatbelts and heed your trigger warnings.
The 80s were quite possibly a nightmare.
Movie poster for Sixteen Candles
This repost by Stephanie Rogers appears as part of our theme week on Child and Teenage Girl Protagonists.
Holy fuck this movie. I started watching it like OH YEAH MY CHILDHOOD MOLLY RINGWALD ADOLESCENCE IS SO HARD and after two scenes, I put that shit on pause like, WHEN DID SOMEONE WRITE ALL THESE RACIST HOMOPHOBIC SEXIST ABLEIST RAPEY PARTS THAT WEREN’T HERE BEFORE I WOULD’VE REMEMBERED THEM.
Nostalgia is a sneaky bitch.
I wanted to write about all the wonderful things I thought I remembered about Sixteen Candles: a sympathetic and complex female protagonist, the awkwardness of adolescence, the embarrassing interactions with parents and grandparents who JUST DON’T GET IT, crushing hard on older boys—and yes, all that stuff is still there. And of course, there’s that absolutely fantastic final wedding scene in which a woman consents to marry a dude while under the influence of a fuckload of muscle relaxers. OH WAIT WHUT.
Ginny Baker getting married while super high
Turns out, that shit ain’t so funny once feminism becomes a thing in your life.
The kind of adorable premise of Sixteen Candles is that Molly Ringwald (Samantha Baker) wakes up one morning as a sixteen-year-old woman who still hasn’t yet grown the breasts she wants. Her family, however, forgets her birthday because of the chaos surrounding her older sister Ginny’s upcoming wedding; relatives drive into town, future in-laws set up dinner dates, and poor Samantha gets the cold shoulder. It reminded me of the time my parents handed me an unwrapped Stephen King novel on my sixteenth birthday like a couple of emotionally neglectful and shitty assholes, but, you know, at least they REMEMBERED it.
Anyway, she rides the bus to school (with all the LOSERS), and in her Independent Study “class” the hot senior she likes, Jake Ryan, intercepts a note meant for her friend Randy. And—wouldn’t you know it—the note says, I WOULD TOTALLY DO IT WITH JAKE RYAN BUT HE DOESN’T KNOW I’M ALIVE. Well he sure as fuck knows NOW, Samantha.
Samantha and Randy, totally grossed out, ride the bus to school
So, these are the important things in Sixteen Candles: Samantha’s family forgets her birthday; she’s in love with a hot senior who’s dating Caroline (the most popular girl in school); and there’s a big ol’ geek (Farmer Ted) from Sam’s daily bus rides who won’t stop stalking her. Oh, and Long Duk Dong exists [insert racist gong sound here]. Seriously, every time Long Duk Dong appears on screen, a fucking GONG GOES OFF on the soundtrack. I suppose that lines up quite nicely with the scene where he falls out of a tree yelling, “BONSAI.”
Since the entire movie is like a machine gun firing of RACIST HOMOPHOBIC SEXIST ABLEIST RAPEY parts, the only way I know how to effectively talk about it is to look at the very problematic screenplay. So, fasten your seatbelts and heed your trigger warnings.
The 80s were quite possibly a nightmare.
Long Duk Dong falls out of a tree (BONSAI) after a drunken night at the homecoming dance
The first few scenes do a decent job of showing the forgotten-birthday slash upcoming-wedding fiasco occurring in the Baker household. Sam stands in front of her bedroom mirror before school, analyzing her brand new sixteen-year-old self and says, “You need four inches of bod and a great birthday.” I can get behind that idea; growing up comes with all kinds of stresses and confusion, especially for women in high school who’ve begun to feel even more insecure about their bodies (having had sufficient time to fully absorb the toxic beauty culture).
“Chronologically, you’re 16 today. Physically? You’re still 15.” –Samantha Baker, looking in the mirror
While Samantha laments the lack of changes in her physical appearance, her little brother Mike pretends to almost-punch their younger sister. When he gets in trouble for it, he says, “Dad, I didn’t hit her. I’d like to very much and probably will later, but give me a break. You know my method. I don’t hit her when you’re just down the hall.” It’s easy to laugh this off—I chuckled when I first heard it. But after five seconds of thinking about my reaction, I realized my brain gave Mike a pass because of that whole “boys will be boys” thing, and then I got pissed at myself.
The problem with eye-rolling away the “harmless” offenses of young boys is that it gives boys (and later, men) a license to act like fuckers with no actual repercussions. The “boys will be boys” mantra is one of the most insidious manifestations of rape culture because it conditions both boys and girls at a young age to believe boys just can’t help themselves; violence in boys is inherent and not worth trying to control. And people today—including political “leaders”—often use that excuse to justify the violent actions of men toward women.
Mike Baker explains to his dad that he hasn’t hit his younger sister … yet
Unfortunately, Sixteen Candles continues to reinforce this idea throughout the film.
The Geek, aka Farmer Ted—a freshman who’s obsessed with Samantha—represents this more than any other character. The film presents his stalking behavior as endearing, which means that all his interactions with Samantha (and with the popular kids at school) end with a silent, “Poor guy!” exclamation. Things just really aren’t going his way! And look how hard he’s trying! (Poor guy.) He first appears on the bus home from school and sits next to Samantha, even though she makes it quite clear—with a bunch of comments about getting dudes to kick his ass who “lust wimp blood”—that she wants him to leave her alone. Then this interaction takes place:
Ted: You know, I’m getting input here that I’m reading as relatively hostile.
Samantha: Go to hell.
Ted: Come on, what’s the problem here? I’m a boy, you’re a girl. Is there anything wrong with me trying to put together some kind of relationship between us?
[The bus stops.]
Ted: Look, I know you have to go. Just answer one question.
Samantha: Yes, you’re a total fag.
Ted: That’s not the question … Am I turning you on?
[Samantha rolls her eyes and exits the bus.]
POOR GUY! Also homophobia. Like, all over the place in this movie. The words “fag” and “faggot” flood the script and always refer to men who lack conventional masculine traits or who haven’t yet “bagged a babe.” And the emphasis on “Man-Up Already!” puts women in harm’s way more than once.
Samantha looks irritated when her stalker, Farmer Ted, refuses to leave her alone. Also Joan Cusack for no reason.
The most terrifying instance of this happens toward the end of the film when Ted ends up at Jake’s party after the school homecoming dance, and the two of them bond by objectifying women together (and subsequently creating a nice little movie template to last for generations). The atrocities involve a very drunk, passed-out Caroline (which reminded me so much of what happened in Steubenville that I had to turn off the movie for a while and regroup) and a pair of Samantha’s underwear.
This is how we get to that point: After Jake snags Samantha’s unintentional declaration of love during Independent Study, he becomes interested in her. He tells a jock friend of his (while they do chin-ups together in gym class), “It’s kinda cool, the way she’s always looking at me.” His friend responds—amid all that hot testosterone—that “maybe she’s retarded.” (This statement sounds even worse within the context of a film that includes a possibly disabled character, played by Joan Cusack, who lacks mobility and “hilariously” spends five minutes trying to drink from a water fountain. Her role exists as nothing more than a punch line; she literally says nothing.)
Joan Cusack drinking water (queue laughter)
Joan Cusack drinking a beer (queue laughter)
Jake’s girlfriend, Caroline, picks up on his waning interest in her and says to him at the school dance, “You’ve been acting weird all night. Are you screwing around?” He immediately gaslights her with, “Me? Are you crazy?” to which she responds, “I don’t know, Jake. I’m getting strange signals.” Yup, Caroline—IT’S ALL IN YOUR HEAD NOT REALLY.
Meanwhile, in an abandoned car somewhere on school premises (perhaps a shop lab/classroom), Samantha sits alone, lamenting Jake’s probable hatred of her after their interaction in the gym where he said, “Hi!” and she freaked out and ran away. Farmer Ted stalk-finds her and climbs into the passenger seat. Some words happen, blah blah blah, and a potentially interesting commentary on the culture of masculinity gets undercut by Ted asking Samantha (who Ted referred to lovingly as “fully-aged sophomore meat” to his dude-bros earlier in the film) if he can borrow her underwear to use as proof that they banged. Of course she gives her underwear to him because.
Ted holds up Samantha’s underwear to a group of dude-bros who each paid a buck to see them
Cut to Jake’s after-party: everyone is finally gone; his house is a mess; Caroline is passed out drunk as fuck in his bedroom; and he finds Ted trapped inside a glass coffee table (a product of bullying). Then, at last, after Jake confesses to Ted that he thinks Samantha hates him (because she ran away from him in the gym), we’re treated to a true Male Bonding Moment:
Ted: You see, [girls] know guys are, like, in perpetual heat, right? They know this shit. And they enjoy pumping us up. It’s pure power politics, I’m telling you … You know how many times a week I go without lunch because some bitch borrows my lunch money? Any halfway decent girl can rob me blind because I’m too torqued up to say no.
Jake: I can get a piece of ass anytime I want. Shit, I got Caroline in my bedroom right now, passed out cold. I could violate her ten different ways if I wanted to.
Ted: What are you waiting for?
C’MON JAKE WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR GO RAPE YOUR GIRLFRIEND. Or wait, no, maybe let’s let Ted rape her?
Jake: I’ll make a deal with you. Let me keep these [Samantha’s underwear, duh]. I’ll let you take Caroline home … She’s so blitzed she won’t know the difference.
Ted carrying a drunk Caroline to the car
And then Ted throws a passed-out Caroline over his shoulder and puts her in the passenger seat of a convertible. This scene took me immediately back to the horrific images of two men carrying around a drunk woman in Steubenville who they later raped—and were convicted of raping (thanks largely to social media). This scene, undoubtedly “funny” in the 80s and certainly still funny to people who like to claim this shit is harmless, helped lay the groundwork for Steubenville, and for Cleveland, and for Richmond, where as many as 20 witnesses watched men beat and gang rape a woman for over two hours without reporting it. On their high school campus. During their homecoming dance.
Jake and Ted talk about how to fool Caroline
People who claim to believe films and TV and pop culture moments like this are somehow disconnected from perpetuating rape need to take a step back and really think about the message this sends. I refuse to accept that a person could watch this scene from an iconic John Hughes film—where, after a party, a drunk woman is literally passed around by two men and photographed—and not see the connection between the Steubenville rape—where, after a party, a woman was literally passed around by two men and photographed.
Caroline looks drunk and confused while Ted’s friends take a photo as proof that he hooked up with her
And it only gets worse. Caroline wakes up out of nowhere and puts a birth control pill in Ted’s mouth. Once he realizes what he’s swallowed, he says, “You have any idea what that’ll do to a guy my age?” Caroline responds, “I know exactly what it’ll do to a girl my age. It makes it okay to be really super careless!”
It makes it okay to be really super careless.
IT MAKES IT OKAY TO BE REALLY SUPER CARELESS.
So I guess the current anti-choice, anti-contraception, anti-woman Republicans found a John Hughes screenplay from 30 years ago and decided to use this cautionary tale as their entire fucking platform. See what happens when women have access to birth control? It makes it okay to be really super careless! And get drunk! And allow dudes to rape them!
Of course, believing that Caroline is raped in Sixteen Candles requires believing that a woman can’t consent to sex when she’s too “blitzed to know the difference” between her actual boyfriend and a random freshman geek. I mean, there’s forcible rape, and there’s not-really rape, right? And this obviously isn’t REAL rape since Ted and Caroline actually have THIS FUCKING CONVERSATION when they wake up in a church parking lot the next morning:
Ted: Did we, uh …
Caroline: Yeah. I’m pretty sure.
Ted: Of course I enjoyed it … uh … did you?
Caroline: Hmmm. You know, I have this weird feeling I did … You were pretty crazy … you know what I like best? Waking up in your arms.
Fuck you, John Hughes.
Caroline wakes up, unsure of who Ted is, but very sexually satisfied
And so many more problems exist in this film that I can’t fully get into in the space of one already long review, but the fact that Ginny (Sam’s sister) starts her period and therefore needs to take FOUR muscle relaxers to dull the pain also illustrates major problems with consent; her father at one point appears to pick her up and drag her down the aisle on her wedding day. (And, congratulations for understanding, John Hughes, that when women bleed every month, it requires a borderline drug overdose to contain the horror.)
Ginny’s dad drags her down the aisle on her wedding day
The racism, too, blows my mind. Long Duk Dong, a foreign exchange student living with Samantha’s grandparents, speaks in played-for-laughs broken English during the following monologue over dinner: “Very clever dinner. Appetizing food fit neatly into interesting round pie … I love, uh, visiting with Grandma and Grandpa … and writing letters to parents … and pushing lawn-mowing machine … so Grandpa’s hyena don’t get disturbed,” accompanied by such sentences as, “The Donger need food.” (I also love it, not really, when Samantha’s best friend Randy mishears Sam and thinks she’s interested in a Black guy. “A BLACK guy?!?!” Randy exclaims … then sighs with relief once she realizes the misunderstanding.)
Long Duk Dong talks to the Baker family over dinner
And I haven’t even touched on the problematic issues with class happening in Sixteen Candles. (Hughes does class relations a tiny bit better in Pretty in Pink.)
Basically, it freaks me out—as it should—when I watch movies or television shows from 30 years ago and see how closely the politics resemble today’s anti-woman agenda. Phrases like “legitimate rape” and “forcible rape” shouldn’t exist in 2013. In 2013, politicians like Wendy Davis shouldn’t have to stand up and speak for 13 hours—with no food, water, or restroom breaks—in order to stop a bill from passing in Texas that would virtually shut down access to safe and legal abortions in the entire state. Women should be able to walk down the street for contraception in 2013, whether it’s for condoms or for the morning after pill. The US political landscape in 2013 should NOT include talking points lifted directly from a 1984 film about teenagers.
I know John Hughes is a national fucking treasure, but please tell me our government officials aren’t using his screenplays as legislative blueprints for the future of American politics.
The feminism of Working Girl, “respectability politics” in 12 Years a Slave, female filmmakers on Twitter, comedy and reproductive rights, female sexuality on primetime, “Black Actress” on YouTube, and a comic about abortion laws… check out what we’ve been reading this week, and let us know what you’ve been reading and writing in the comments!
This week we’ve been reading about how an actress prepares for violence in a film, women directors, the common flaw of TV’s strong women, and more. Tell us what you’ve been reading and writing this week in the comments!
Though our adversaries might be impermeable to facts and logic, this thing isn’t unwinnable. We just have to use the right strategies to get through to people. If After Tiller can’t change the minds of anti-choice die-hards (and maybe it can! I haven’t asked any!), then it might at least be a mobilization tool for our side to recruit activists from among the undecided.
One of the first classes of my master’s degree was called “Religion and Politics in the US,” and one of the assigned texts was Ziad W. Munson’s The Making of Pro-Life Activists: How Social Movement Mobilization Works. Rather to my surprise, I learned that anti-choice activism does not on the whole result from strong anti-choice convictions: in fact, movement involvement often precedes the formation of convictions. People come into contact with the movement at times of major life transition – through new friends at college, say – and begin their activism for primarily social reasons. Beliefs come later. This is not only a good poststructuralist account of subjectivity (holla at Foucault and my homegirl Judith Butler), but it’s also a useful lesson to those of us on the other side. Though our adversaries might be impermeable to facts and logic, this thing isn’t unwinnable. We just have to use the right strategies to get through to people. If After Tiller can’t change the minds of anti-choice die-hards (and maybe it can! I haven’t asked any!), then it might at least be a mobilization tool for our side to recruit activists from among the undecided.
I’m not kidding. I genuinely think After Tiller is the most important film that will be released this year.
Reproductive Justice League!
Directors Martha Shane and Lana Wilson portray the daily lives of four late-term abortion providers, LeRoy Carhart, Warren Hern, Susan Robinson, and Shelley Sella. They chose these doctors because they are the only providers of third-trimester abortions left in the United States. All four were friends and colleagues of Dr. Tiller, and all four clearly derive at least some of their professional motivation from the desire to pay appropriate tribute to the memory of his sacrifice. This is not a film about the anti-choice movement. As the directors state in their press notes:
We decided to represent the anti-abortion movement as it is experienced by the doctors themselves – as a constant presence in the background, whether standing outside their clinics in protest, or lurking in the air as a potential threat – but not as the main story.
This is a film about the individual human beings, the everyday heroes, who provide this essential service, and the daily workings of their clinics. It is their story, a project in which they chose to participate in order to be humanized in the eyes of those who would vilify them as “baby-killers.” I hope some anti-choice hardliners will see the film, because they surely couldn’t ignore the truth about these four doctors:
How good they are, providing a desperately needed service, and treating their patients with oceans of compassion.
How human they are, getting up daily and keeping at their work despite the dangers and psychological toll of the constant threat from anti-choice terrorists, and relying on the love and support of their families to keep them going.
How moral they are, clearly thinking about the issue deeply every day of their lives, and fully aware of the moral burden of being the last resort for pregnant people who don’t want to be pregnant. Even an unyielding anti-choicer would have to admit that these doctors are far from cheery baby-murderers. They all have backgrounds in midwifery or obstetrics. They like babies! They want babies to live and be loved and have wonderful lives! That’s why they provide this service, to spare the babies who wouldn’t live and be loved and have wonderful lives.
How feminist they are, living out their commitment to women’s rights, and trusting pregnant people’s personal moral reasoning. One doctor speaks very movingly of her absolute refusal to morally infantilize pregnant people, of her unwavering faith that anyone seeking a third-trimester abortion will have been through all the ethical legwork necessary to make such a heart-aching decision.
And make no mistake, this film is also the story of the patients. It’s gut-wrenching to hear the testimony of the parents-to-be whose desperately wanted baby is so ridden with fetal abnormalities as to be unviable; of the rape survivor who spent the early months of the pregnancy in traumatized denial; of the sixteen-year-old Catholic who doesn’t think she will ever forgive herself, but feels abortion is the least worst option for her at this time. All the patients have given this decision immense amounts of thought, and they all urgently need this service.
Worryingly, it’s not clear how much longer late-term abortions will be available in the US (and the filmmakers do not omit the fact that medical costs alone are far beyond the means of most people, let alone the price of traveling to either Albuquerque, Boulder, or Germantown, MD). None of these doctors are getting any younger, and there isn’t exactly a clamor to replace them. This is by far the most troubling aspect of the film. All of the doctors speak of formative experiences seeing the terrible impacts of criminalized abortion on both women (who suffer tremendously from DIY abortion attempts) and children (who, unwanted, are sometimes horrendously neglected and abused). Those of us who have only lived in a post-Roe world have not seen this firsthand; we don’t know that world and we don’t have that drive.
This film is a remarkable spur to much-needed action. I feel compelled to speak out to from my own context of mainline Christianity, which is too often evasively silent on the topic of reproductive justice. George Tiller, murdered on a Sunday as he served at his beloved Lutheran church, did not worship the forced-birther God of the anti-choicers, and neither do I.
Go Team Leftist Christians for reproductive justice!
Older women in film and TV are generally a stereotypical lot. They’re usually sexless matrons or grandmothers who perform roles of support for their screen-stealing husbands or children. These older women are typically preoccupied with home and family, lacking a complex inner life because they are gendered symbols of, you guessed it, home and family. Occasionally we see older women who go beyond that trope, even defying it to focus more on power, prestige, winning, and their own personal success and public image rather than that of others. Two potent examples of this are Patty Hewes from Damages and Victoria Grayson from Revenge.
The award-winning actress Glenn Close brings Damages‘ corporate lawyer and anti-heroine, Patty Hewes, to life with complexity, subtlety, and sheer force of presence. Patty Hewes is the uncannily successful proprietor of the law firm Hewes & Associates. She has high-up connections that she thinks nothing of exploiting, and she has no problem circumnavigating the law and propriety to win a case or to get what she wants. She thinks nothing of, say, attempting to murder her protege, Ellen, and succeeding in murdering Ellen’s fiance or blackmailing witnesses or judges. Patty has a reputation for ruthlessness, and, basically, people know she’s not a woman to be fucked with because she will toy with her opponents before unleashing an unholy shit storm that utterly destroys them. She’s beyond smart; she’s brilliant. She’s dedicated, ambitious, addicted to winning seemingly unwinnable cases, and cares more about her career than she does about anything else in her life.
Patty Hewes: You do not want to fuck with her.
The much acclaimed Madeleine Stowe portrays the equally ruthless Victoria Grayson on Revenge. The playing field is different: instead of a court of law, Victoria reigns supreme as a filthy rich socialite in the Hamptons who, like Patty, plays deep games of power and manipulation and is a woman who gets what she wants. Victoria shamelessly throws around her wealth to gloatingly buy off people and services, and if that doesn’t work, she capitalizes on her cool poise to threaten unspeakable reprisal if her powerful will is not obeyed. In all honesty, it was hard to find emotive pictures of Victoria because Madeleine Stowe masterfully plays her character’s unruffled containment, with emotion only briefly escaping through her eyes or a momentary flash of facial expression before disappearing beneath a well-practiced veneer of composure.
Victoria Grayson sits in her signature chair smugly triumphant about…something. To be fair she’s usually smugly triumphant.
Both Patty and Victoria have elegant homes and expensive wardrobes that are further embodiments of their success. They both play the game. It is usually a game of their own making where the rules are known only to them and are likely to change when it suits them. Both are detached and calculating, having trouble relating in genuine, meaningful ways even to the people who mean the most to them. In fact, their closest loved ones tend to despise them the most for the atrocity of their actions. However, their maternal instincts (or lack thereof) are points of differentiation. Patty has a son, Michael, and she wrests custody of his daughter from him primarily to teach him a lesson. She is cold and harsh with Michael, and once she has sole custody, Patty is distant and downright absent from the upbringing of her granddaughter, Catherine. We also come to find out that she aborted a child in her youth, choosing her career over motherhood. This sets Patty up as a typical Hollywood example of the masculinized female authority figure. Her lack of maternal instinct is set up as proof that her power has dehumanized her, implying that a woman who succeeds in the masculine world of corporate law can’t possibly be a good mother with a happy home life. Aside from the glory of her career, Patty’s life is depicted as empty and lonely; her nights are filled with solo booze consumption, and the only companion to whom she can freely relate is her pet dog, Cory.
Patty feeds her beloved Cory.
While she is a twisted excuse for a mother, Victoria has a ferocious maternal instinct. She ascribes the utmost importance to her role as “mother.” Though her games, plots, and intrigues enmesh her children in a suffocating web of deceit and motherly control, Victoria’s goals (however misguided) are always designed to protect and benefit her children. For example, Victoria offers her daughter Charlotte’s boyfriend $20,000 to piss off, and in her mind, she’s doing it to save her child from a boy who is unworthy and with whom a lasting relationship is doubtful. Victoria also has her son, Daniel, viciously beaten in prison in order to show the court that his life is in danger and he should be remanded to house arrest under her direct care and supervision. Power, in Victoria’s hands, hasn’t robbed her of her maternal instinct; instead it has made her love dark and hard and cruel.
Victoria bears the strongest distaste for Emily Thorne, her son’s fiancee; her maternal instinct telling her (correctly) that Emily is up to no good.
Patty and Victoria also differ in the depictions of their sexuality. Patty is basically an asexual being, especially after her vitriolic divorce from her cheating husband, Phil. The show alludes to her complex sexual past (with two marriages and a sordid affair with a witness resulting in the birth of her son), but no relationships or trysts materialize throughout the series because when would she have the time? Like her maternal instinct, Patty has surrendered the freedom of sexuality in return for power and prestige.
Patty sacrifices what society tells us it means to be a woman for masculine power.
Victoria, on the other hand, has a passionate sexuality that is as fierce as her ambition, as fierce as her maternal instinct. Equal to the contained control of Victoria’s public facade, is the pure abandonment of her sexuality. Unlike Patty, Victoria desperately wants love. Revenge shows that Victoria’s denial of love and the denial of the honesty of her sexual desires (first with her painter/counterfeiter Dominik and later with her husband’s coworker David Clarke) in exchange for money and power has lead her to deeper darkness, deeper emptiness, and a dwindling moral compass. The supposition seems to be that a woman can’t be rich and powerful while feeling love and tenderness.
Victoria rapt in her lover David Clarke’s arms.
Both Patty and Victoria live in a perpetual state of guilt and remorse for their actions. Victoria suffers from interminable guilt for helping her husband frame her lover, the only man she ever loved, David Clarke, for terrorism and murder. She does this, presumably, because she is afraid to lose her wealth, her position, and the power that come with them. Victoria identifies her past crimes as “heinous.” In flashbacks, there’s a softer edge to Victoria, an openness and a willingness to love and to connect. Over the years, we see that her choice of power over principles has eroded her ability to empathize and turned her into the stereotypical ice queen. Eventually, we see a shift in Victoria where it seems she can no longer bear the guilt she suffers, and she seeks to purge herself of her crimes through confession (of course she manipulates the situation to ensure her own immunity…and it doesn’t end up happening).
A seemingly pivotal moment for Victoria as she prepares to board a federal plane to Washington and make her confession.
Patty also feels unassuageable remorse about many of her decisions, most notably her youthful abortion and the path on which it set her life. The symbolic weight that the abortion bears and the resulting demonization of Patty for her choice are disappointing. The implication is that if Patty had had the child instead of aborting it, she would’ve been a better person, contented and whole. This idea goes against the very grain of Patty Hewes. Would her ambition have dissipated upon the birth of her daughter? Her love of power, the law, the game, and manipulation disappeared when she looked at her screaming newborn? None of those things happened when she later gave birth to her son, so the reality is that having that child instead of aborting it would’ve made her gravely unhappy and trapped her, and she probably would’ve fucked up that kid’s life and its sense of self even worse than she fucked up Michael’s.
Though we learn much of Victoria’s past which casts her in a more sympathetic light (i.e. her mother was a gold digger who resented her, allowed her to be molested, and then kicked her out when she turned 15), she remains aloof and composed, while Patty has more moments of genuine vulnerability. Barefoot, curled on her couch with Ellen and her dog, Patty becomes human. Her temper tantrums where she wrecks her desk and throws her oft-held whiskey glass across the room show the depth of her frustration and impotence. Her wracking sobs and hysteria after she’s given the order for Ellen’s murder show the viewer the true emotional cost of her choices…and that she makes them anyway.
Patty loses it after giving the order to have Ellen murdered.
It’s no secret that I’m fascinated by women with power. I wrote about the machinations of women and corporate power in my review of Passion, and I wrote about the ruthless Claire Underwood of House of Cards (another aging anti-heroine). Patty Hewes and Victoria Grayson are both complex, compelling characters. The way they inhabit their power is endlessly watchable. Despite their borderline amorality, it’s infinitely gratifying to watch both of them at work, setting up the players and knocking them down in a life-sized game of chess. Unfortunately, there is such a profound darkness and emptiness in both Patty and Victoria as well as in their lives. They have cut themselves off from human connection and have lost the ability to love the simpler things in life. The message is “power corrupts,” but I wonder if Victoria and Patty are extreme examples of this because they are women, as if femaleness automatically bestows qualities of nurturing, affection, connectivity, and compassion. The implication is that the kind of power these women seek is outside the feminine realm, and to grasp it, they must reject their very nature, which leaves them a hollow shell of a person. It’s all too rare that we see a subtle, powerful woman who commands respect who hasn’t sacrificed her humanness in the bargain. Though I love these wicked, wicked anti-heroines, I want to see more balanced representations of women with power who aren’t demonized and damaged due to its pursuit.
