BBC – Bitch Flicks

Sherlock Holmes and the Case of Forced Heteronormativity

Irene Adler never needed Sherlock Holmes or any man (including the Czech King who hired Sherlock to face her in the first place), and when she finds love (with a man who is neither the king nor Holmes), it’s on her terms. Irene Adler only appears in one of Conan Doyle’s stories because she has her own life, and it does not rotate around nor even involve Sherlock Holmes. She is a clever, intelligent, resourceful, sex-positive woman in control of her own life, her own body, and her own destiny, and deserves not only a writer to do her justice, but a series to completely center her and all her fantastic escapades.

Trigger Warning for the sexual assault, physical abuse, and murder of female characters.

The BBC will soon be releasing its Sherlock Christmas special called Sherlock: The Abominable Bride, and I know I’m not the only person tired of women in Sherlock being portrayed as “abominable,” less-than Sherlock and the other male characters in the show, and forcibly subjugated – often reduced to tears. Sure, the male characters on the show are often shown as far from Sherlock’s intellectual equal, but the female characters are treated far worse story-wise than the men are. However, the BBC’s Sherlock is far from the only Sherlock Holmes adaptation to treat its female characters badly, often far worse than the original Sir Arthur Conan Doyle stories. Not only are women subjugated to make the men look better, women are used as props to heteronormatize Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. But women are human beings, just like men, not objects. And Sherlock Holmes has been adapted so many times, while I’m still waiting for a series on the fabulously infamous Irene Adler, one of the only people to ever “outwit” him.

Sherlock Holmes is one of the most frequently portrayed fictional characters of all time, though most often played by heterosexual White British cismen and anthropomorphic animals, with Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Silk Stocking and the upcoming sHerlock being rare exceptions. Conan Doyle’s famous detective can easily be read as any sexuality, mostly because he prioritizes work over everything else, and therefore has practically no love life whatsoever. Story-wise (ignoring Conan Doyle’s excuses for Sherlock’s singlehood), he could very well be asexual, and indeed he is a hero for the asexual community. He could also be bisexual, homosexual, heterosexual, or any other sexuality, and could be any combination of those with any romantic orientation – aromantic, biromantic, homoromantic, heteroromantic, etc. Collectively, most of the adaptations of Sherlock Holmes result in erasure of sexual and romantic orientations that are not heteronormative. This is particularly damaging to the asexual community, due to their strong identification with Sherlock Holmes and what they see as his queerplatonic relationship with Dr. John Watson.

Whether Holmes’ relationship with Watson is queerplatonic, romantic and/or sexual, or more traditionally platonic is up to speculation or interpretation. However, nearly every adaptation forces heteronormativity onto the character one way or another, usually with female characters, and even while sometimes simultaneously queerbaiting the audience, seemingly for both humor and fanservice. This is particularly evident in BBC’s Sherlock (see Erin Tatum’s amazing Bitch Flicks post), Sherlock Holmes (2009), and Sherlock Holmes: Game of Shadows (so much queerbaiting, including a lovely choreographed waltz). Meanwhile, in numerous adaptations of Sherlock Holmes canon, including those directly listed above, female characters mainly or only exist to heteronormatize Sherlock Holmes and his friend (or possible “friend”) Dr. John Watson. Occasionally, and more in the past than in the present, Watson’s importance to the narrative is even minimized to make room for Sherlock to have a romance, such as in Sherlock Holmes (1922) starring John Barrymore as the title role, though also in House M.D. (played by Hugh Laurie), to an extent.

In They Might Be Giants (George C. Scott as Holmes/Justin and Joanne Woodward as Watson) and Elementary (Jonny Lee Miller as Holmes and Lucy Liu as Watson), the roles of Watson and the heteronormatizing woman are combined, as a female Watson to a male Holmes ensures that any close feelings between Holmes and Watson can be read as heteronormatively romantic. This is albeit, thanks to good writing and acting, done in a way in which Watson does have some agency, especially in Elementary, as written about in Robin Hitchcock’s post for Bitch Flicks.

Despite female adaptations of Watson becoming more popular, Irene Adler, though having only ever appeared in one of Conan Doyle’s stories, “A Scandal in Bohemia,” and briefly mentioned in a few more of them, is most often used when Hollywood or the BBC desires to heterosexualize the detective. Indeed, Irene Adler is often portrayed as the Catwoman to Sherlock Holmes’ Batman, particularly in Sherlock Holmes (2009) and Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows (2011), played by Rachel McAdams to Robert Downey Jr.’s Holmes. However, women are often objectified in Sherlock Holmes adaptations to the point that they are often damsels in distress (such what Irene Adler was reduced to in the BBC’s Sherlock, played by Lara Pulver to Benedict Cumberbatch’s Holmes) or women in refrigerators, to which Irene is also not immune. In Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows, Irene Adler is (infuriatingly!) fridged in order to make Holmes sad and revengeful and oh so heterosexual amidst all the homoeroticism he has with Jude Law’s “Hotson” (as if the detective couldn’t possibly be bisexual…). She is then soon replaced in his (somewhat) heteronormatized heart by a racist depiction of a Roma woman, played by Noomi Rapace.

However, Irene Adler is not the only choice for fridging. For example, in Chris Columbus’ Young Sherlock Holmes, Holmes’ love interest Elizabeth (played by Sophie Ward to Nicholas Rowe’s Holmes) survives until the very end of the film, thereby fridging her for motivational and heteronormative purposes less within the prequel film itself and moreover in the larger Sherlock Holmes storyline. By killing off Elizabeth, this adaptation also seeks to justify Holmes’ singlehood throughout the rest of his life (as Elizabeth was shown to be his one-true-love), as well as to heighten his nemesistic relationship with Moriarty (as he was responsible for Elizabeth’s death).

While usually the focus of heteronormatizing in these adaptations is Holmes, Watson can alternatively be the focus, usually by Watson’s marriage to Mary Morstan, such as in the BBC’s Sherlock (played by Amanda Abbington) and in Sherlock Holmes (2009) and Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows (played by Kelly Reilly). This often serves the dual purpose of heteronormatizing the Holmes/Watson relationship and showing Holmes as lonely and more sympathetic. This is particularly emphasized in the 2002 TV film Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Silk Stocking (starring Rupert Everett), though in this case Watson (Ian Hart) marries a sex-positive feminist American psychoanalyst named Mrs. Jenny Vandeluer (Helen McCrory).

As producer Elinor Day pointed out in the DVD commentary, a sequel in which the three of them were a team – Sherlock, Jenny, and John – would be amazing (though it sadly seems unlikely to happen now). Though the BBC’s Sherlock gets a similar trio-dynamic with the introduction of Mary, Mary is subjugated and ashamed, while Jenny openly defies Sherlock’s misogyny and heartlessness, and he would not have been able to solve his case at all without her. Sadly, though Jenny is an amazing character, Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Silk Stocking falls short of being a feminist film. Under the guise of critiquing rape culture, the film in many ways fetishizes the physical and sexual abuse of young women and girls, emphasized by the camera movements and the focus on the helpless sounds the girls make while they are being gagged and suffocated.

Though the upcoming sHERlock, starring Helen Davies in the title role, is certainly exciting, I personally think that instead of the message being “women can fill Sherlock’s shoes” (which they most certainly can), the message could be “women don’t need Sherlock, and are awesome on their own,” especially when it comes to Irene Adler. Irene Adler’s character has been tweaked and even completely reimagined numerous times to fit male-contrived adaptations of the (admittedly male-contrived) Sherlock Holmes canon, sadly often coming short of her original depiction – though also not free from its problems. Irene Adler deserves her own series, whatever the story may be, and whatever part of her life is the focus.

Polly Gray: The Matriarch of ‘Peaky Blinders’

Though at times problematic, Polly’s story and interactions with other characters is one of a powerful and complex woman who supports and encourages respect for other women.

Written by Jackson Adler | Spoilers ahead.

[Trigger warning: rape and sexual assault; contains harsh language]

Despite (small) recent improvements, there is still a lack of well-written female characters on our screens. Especially anti-heroines. And female characters who are middle-aged. And characters who are working class. And of a religious minority. And are of ethnically marginalized groups. And in positions of power. And whose stories of physical and sexual oppression are more than plot devices to further the motivations of male leads.

Meet Polly Gray from the BBC series Peaky Blinders.

Polly (Helen McCrory) is working class, Romanichal (a British subgroup of Romany) and Irish, devout Catholic, and a middle-aged female in 1919 through 1920s Birmingham, England. She is a loving mother and aunt, as well as the treasurer for and semi-retired leader of the Peaky Blinders, who are “illegal bookmakers, racketeers, and sometimes gangsters,” and who are led by her family, the Shelbys. In order to survive, Polly had to become “hard as nails,” as her actress Helen McCrory describes her. Together with her nephew Thomas Shelby (played by Cillian Murphy), Polly fights to bring safety, respectability, and power to her family through both legal and illegal activity. As anti-heroine and anti-hero, Polly and Thomas head a family of “good people who do bad things for a good reason.”

Polly is female character who is complex and multi-faceted in ways that are still extremely rare but much needed in our culture; however, her story is often undermined by those whose responsibility it is to help tell it, especially with regard to her being Romanichal. Roma leading characters are still rare in media, and when they are depicted, they are often heavily stereotyped. Though Peaky Blinders and Hemlock Grove feature Roma families made up of complex and well-developed characters, it must be pointed out that Peaky Blinders is about criminals and Hemlock Grove is about fantasy and mysticism – two of the most prevalent and harmful stereotypes of Roma. It is emphasized in Peaky Blinders, though, that the Shelbys resort to criminality only because they see it as the only way to bring themselves out of poverty and into “respectability,” with their goal to eventually do only legal work. There are also many criminal or villainous characters in the show who are not Roma. However, it is odd and problematic that the two current TV series that feature Roma characters also feature them as stereotypically criminal and mystic, stereotypes which contribute to the “othering,” and therefore oppression, of Roma.

Polly Gray realistically faces extreme discrimination directed at her Romanichal heritage from characters within the show, and yet the creative team behind Peaky Blinders is often also disrespectful of that identity. She and the other Romanichal characters (of which there are many) are whitewashed via the casting of non-Roma and white actors. Helen McCrory is Scottish and Welsh, and Cillian Murphy is Irish. Though there are certainly white-passing Roma, they are a people of color who originated in Northeastern India and Northwestern Pakistan. Not only is this compelling female character of color whitewashed, but Polly and her family are called the ethnic slur “Gypsy” frequently both within the series and without. It is troubling that the cast and creative team, especially creator and writer Steven Knight, would refer to this highly oppressed people (whom they are supposedly working to represent and empower) as an ethnic slur.

This is all the more troubling and downright disturbing as the systematic oppressions that Polly faces, especially with regard to the intersection of her gender and ethnicity, are still wielded today. Polly’s children were kidnapped from her by law enforcement, like many other Roma children were and are from their parents. This contributed to the early death of her daughter, Anna, who is never depicted in the series. Once Polly’s son, Michael (played by Finn Cole), grows up, he leaves the family to whom he was forcibly relocated and finds her. She struggles to reclaim her role as his mother and, as a single mother, to provide the sort of life she wishes to give him. Due to the prosperity of the family business, much of it now legal, Polly and Michael live in a spacious house with a live-in maid and in a “respectable” neighborhood. However, no amount of wealth or respectability politics prevents law enforcement from targeting the Grays and the Shelbys due to their ethnicity. Though there are other contributing factors, it is still a racialized scene when law enforcement arrests Michael on a trumped up charge and takes him from Polly again. Michael, who is only 17, is then tortured by law enforcement until he confesses to the crime he didn’t commit. While Michael was arrested in the early 1920s, there is still a severe over-representation of Roma in UK prisons due to discrimination. One out of every 20 prisoners identify as “Gyspy, Romani or [Irish] Traveler,” and over-representation is even higher in youth prison facilities. This is despite, as of 2013, Roma numbering only about 200,000 in the UK, out of a total population of about 64 million.

A leader of law enforcement, Major (formerly Inspector) Campbell (played by Sam Neill), tells Polly that he won’t allow Michael to be released from jail unless Polly lets Campbell rape her and show that she is “small and weak” compared to him. For the sake of her son, whom she knows is being tortured, Polly stops fighting Campbell and plays along with what he wants. Campbell enforces the system’s and his own biases against the intersectional identities of Polly, as he says to her while raping her “You think you’re so respectable with your son and your house. But I know what you are, you Gypsy Fenion slut.” (Note: “Fenion” is a derogatory word for Catholics, and Irish Catholics in particular, although it has other uses.) Rape is a very real weapon used against women, especially women of color, including women who are Roma.

Upon my first viewing of the series, I thought that, unlike how rape is often used in TV and film, Polly is not raped to further the leading male character’s (Thomas’) plotline and character development. After a few more viewings, I realized that’s (sadly) not entirely true, even though this rape storyline is still much more focused on the female survivor than those of other shows. Polly comforts herself after the rape by going out for six whiskeys, going home and taking a bath, and most importantly by talking with her niece Ada (played by Sophie Rundle), with whom she has a very close relationship. Ada is also a fellow survivor of sexual assault. Like Polly, her husband has died and she is now a single mother to a young son for whom she wants to provide and to protect. After Michael is released from jail, Polly makes certain that she, not Thomas, is the one to confront Campbell and avenge herself and her son. She then goes home and shares a warm embrace with Ada. Seen this way, the story is focused on women, especially women of color, and how they support each other and their families while asserting their own autonomy against severe oppression.

Polly with Campbell’s blood on her dress, walking away from shooting him.

However, the rape storyline also gives attention to the leading male characters, and the story is made to be largely about Thomas. Campbell raped Polly largely in an attempt to shame and emasculate Thomas. Thomas responds by sleeping with a former love interest of Campbell’s, and succeeds in angering Campbell by doing so. Also, Thomas does confront Campbell, he just isn’t the one to pull the trigger. As problematic as this part of the rape storyline is, however, it is also important to note that Campbell’s and Thomas’ sexism (by treating women as objects and possessions that can be stolen) backfires on both of them. Though Campbell’s main goal in raping Polly was to attack Thomas, it is Polly who is the one to ultimately “finish” him, saying, “This time ‘small and weak’ has a gun” and reminding him, “Don’t fuck with the Peaky Blinders.” Meanwhile, though one of the main reasons Thomas sleeps with the character Grace Burgess (played by Annabelle Wallis) is to use her to anger Campbell, after she and Thomas have sex, Grace reveals that she was, in part, just using Thomas in the hopes of becoming pregnant (as her husband is infertile), and (at least at first) Thomas is offended that she didn’t inform him of this plan. Both Campbell and Thomas are reminded that women are thinking and feeling human beings with their own motivations capable of self-assertion.

This is far from the only time that the male characters in Peaky Blinders are called out on their sexism, and it is usually Polly who does it. Polly not only fights sexism from her enemies, but also from the men she loves and trusts most. In the first episode of the series, when at a family meeting in regard to the business, Thomas condescendingly states that he has nothing more to say about the goings-on of the company that is “any of women’s business.” Polly then reminds him that she ran “the business” while he and two of his brothers were fighting in WWI, meaning that “this whole business was women’s business,” and demands that he inform her of what he is hiding. It should be noted that Polly only gave up direct leadership of the gang because she felt it was the birthright of her nephews. Though Thomas improves in how he sees and treats women, and even claims that he and the family’s “modern enterprise” believe in “equal rights for women,” Polly justifiably calls him out on his hypocrisy, pointing out that he neither “listens to” nor trusts women as much as men.

Of Polly’s adult nephews, Thomas still respects Polly the most and is closest to her despite his sexism. Thomas’ two oldest brothers Arthur (played by Paul Anderson) and John (played by Joe Cole) still respect Polly, but when they are being most respectful to her, they (especially Arthur, the oldest nephew) refer to her as the male-sounding name “Pol” (as in “Paul”) or “Aunt Pol.” This emphasizes that they see power and strength as inherently masculine, despite Polly constantly reminding them that she is a woman and that they should all respect her and other women better. Though John respects Polly more than Arthur does, and is on the whole kinder to women than even Thomas, he does not see women as equal. When Thomas encourages John’s wife Esmé (of the Romanichal Lee family and played by Aimee-Ffion Edwards) to speak at a family meeting, John initially protests, says that as “the head of” his family that he will “speak for” her. Though Thomas makes certain that Esmé speaks, he quickly dismisses what she has to say, for which Polly criticizes him. Polly even experiences sexism from her son, who victim-blames her to her face after Campbell rapes her, despite that he was only freed from being tortured in jail because of it. Thomas became more accepting and respectful toward women because of Polly’s influence, while Michael was kidnapped from his mother’s influence at the age of three. In this way, the systemic oppressions on the Shelby-Gray family not only directly hurt them, but indirectly hurt them by turning them on each other.

Michael walking away from Polly after victim-blaming her.

Though at times problematic, Polly’s story and interactions with other characters is one of a powerful and complex woman who supports and encourages respect for other women. While she herself is imperfect and not free from bias, and participates in the slutshaming of sex worker-turned-secretary Lizzie Stark (played by Natasha O’Keeffe), she overall supports women (especially fellow Romanichal women such as Esmé and Ada) in both the workplace, such as by demanding they have a say in how the business is run, and the home, such as by helping Ada with her new baby. The story does not mock her for her assertiveness and for her support of women’s equality, even though male characters often do. Though Polly is whitewashed, and is not the leading character (rarely being featured in the series’ posters and publicity photos, and is referred to often by an ethnic slur, Polly’s role in Peaky Blinders is still refreshing when compared to how other TV series depict women and their storylines. Hopefully in the coming third season of the show, Steven Knight will continue to and even improve in how he writes Polly and how she contributes to the overall narrative of the story. One can also only hope that Peaky Blinders will inspire other series to write multi-faceted women and Roma.

Geraldine Granger, the Vicar at Large: Fat Positivity in ‘The Vicar of Dibley’

Because of their position in the church as a figure that facilitates human connection to a higher power, people usually disconnect priest, vicars, etc. from human emotions. Being sexless or promiscuous is also attributed to female characters in media who are fat, or overweight…

One of the exciting things about ‘The Vicar of Dibley’ is that Geraldine is not a sexless and humorless character—as a vicar and a woman with a fat body.

This guest post by Rachel Wortherley appears as part of our theme week on Fatphobia and Fat Positivity.

Audiences were first introduced to English actress and comedian Dawn French in various comedy series: The Comic Strip (1982), Girls on Top (1985), and as half of the comedy duo, French and Saunders (1987) with Jennifer Saunders, star of the beloved series Absolutely Fabulous (1992). However, it was The Vicar of Dibley (1994), in which French made her mark.

When the elderly vicar of the fictional small village in Oxfordshire called Dibley dies, the townspeople are appointed a new vicar by the bishop. However, they are stunned that upon the new vicar’s arrival that he is a she. Viewers are first introduced to the vicar, Geraldine Granger (Dawn French) at the same time as the characters. She is already perceptive, funny, and charming. Upon her meeting with the conservative Parish Council leader, David Horton, she says, “You were expecting a bloke—beard, bible, bad breath. Instead you got a babe with a bob cut and magnificent bosom.” When introduced to the vicar another character, Owen Newitt, says, “She’s a woman,” to which Geraldine responds, “Oh! You noticed! These are such a giveaway, aren’t they?” while pointing to her breasts. During her first sermon, the congregation, which usually yields three to four parishioners—all from the church council, has all the pews filled. Parishioners are curious about the prospect of a female vicar, but the congregation, as well as, the audience is charmed by Geraldine’s charisma, wisdom, and warmth.

Authority figures in religious factions, specifically in the Church of England or in Roman Catholicism are largely viewed as being devoid of desire, humor, or sexuality. Because of their position in the church as a figure that facilitates human connection to a higher power, people usually disconnect priest, vicars, etc. from human emotions. Being sexless or promiscuous is also attributed to female characters in media who are fat, or overweight. Either they are sexless, yearning for someone who is deemed to be out of their league, or they overcompensate by being promiscuous. Examples of this can be found in any Hollywood high school comedy. One of the exciting things about The Vicar of Dibley is that Geraldine is not a sexless and humorless character—as a vicar and a woman with a fat body. Geraldine is the funniest vicar on television, especially if we point to her bawdy jokes at the end of each episode–jokes that are hilarious and almost of the quality of Geoffrey Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales.

Geraldine’s ideal man is actor Sean Bean, whose picture hangs on the wall next to Jesus Christ. She is able to maintain a sense of being sexy, yet spiritual. There are occasions where Geraldine also finds herself swept up in romance. In Season 3, Episode 1, “Autumn,” David’s brother, Simon, visits Geraldine for a romantic weekend. Upon their first meeting in Season 2, Episode 4, “Love and Marriage” Geraldine gushes with flirtatiousness and wit. She resembles a high school girl with a crush. Geraldine even dyes her hair blonde because Simon is looking for a “buxom blonde” and considers moving to Liverpool where he lives. When they reunite for a romantic weekend, Geraldine and Simon kiss passionately and retreat to her bedroom for sex. Prior to that, the “eccentric” friend of Geraldine, Alice Horton (Emma Chambers), comments:

“You know all about eternal damnation and pneumatic drills in your brain tissue if you so much as look upon a man with lust. Especially as a vicar. God will probably have to strangle you with his bare hands.”

Geraldine is progressive in her thoughts and action on pre-marital sex. But, what is significant about this scene is that Alice and the townspeople assume that she will not be having sex, not because she is fat, but because of Geraldine’s clerical position as vicar. What is even more rewarding is when Simon descends Geraldine’s stairs, dressed in a bathrobe, declaring to three of the council members—David being one of them: “I’ve been waiting for this gorgeous creature for hours.” Geraldine is mortified, but the men quietly leave them and do not chastise her for having a sexual appetite.

Writer and creator Richard Curtis, best known for Four Weddings and a Funeral (1994), Notting Hill (1999), and Love Actually (2003), writes Geraldine Granger, as well as the other characters, with good hearts. While audiences can look at Geraldine and see that she is not a size two, the writers choose not to highlight that fact, or make it a running joke. She indulges in her favorite chocolate bars, but no more or less than any other female character who is hungry or has their heartbroken. Her weight and self-esteem are not directly linked as Bridget Jones in Bridget Jones’ Diary (2001). In The Vicar of Dibley, her mind and body are embraced.

We can look to the Parish Council—consisting of all men with the exception of Geraldine and formerly Mrs. Letitia Cropley (Liz Smith)—as examples of men who embrace all aspects of Geraldine. While Owen sexualizes the vicar through his comments, Season 3, Episode 15, sees David Horton looking at the vicar in the new light. David begins to see that Geraldine and he are the only two in the extra-ordinary town of Dibley, who have brain cells. He declares his love for her and proposes. However, Geraldine accepts then rejects. While they are evenly matched, they are not in love. Geraldine gets her dream in the episodes, “The Handsome Stranger” and “The Vicar in White.”

“The Handsome Stranger” and “The Vicar in White” see Geraldine falling in love with an accountant and new resident of Dibley, Harry Kennedy (Richard Armitage). He is handsome and exceeds her expectations on a physical level—Harry is arguably more handsome than her ideal—actor, Sean Bean. Harry falls in love with her upon their first meeting and later proposes. Harry’s proposal funnily sparks the proposals of Owen, Jim, and classmate Jeremy (Hugh Bonneville). While Harry’s proposal to Geraldine may seem unbelievable to most because she is overweight, it is not for three reasons. The first reason being that Dibley is an eccentric village where the unbelievable occurs. The second reason being that so much of the show focuses on how someone unexpected, a female vicar, transforms the hearts and minds of the congregation. The last reason being, why not? Why can’t Geraldine be just as happy as Kevin James is with Amber Valletta in Hitch (2005)? As a viewer, the feeling of Geraldine obtaining her dream husband in looks and intellectuality is fulfilling. The vicar ends up getting married in her pajamas, and Harry still accepts her.

Dawn French as Geraldine Granger perpetuates a positive image of fat women/bodies in comedy. Her persona outshines her overweight visage and she is allowed to be herself. In Hollywood, the last time a woman in her late 30s-40s, who was overweight, and starred in her own television show was Roseanne Barr in Roseanne. The closest example in England is another British sitcom, Miranda (2009). While Miranda Hart in the television sitcom Miranda is not overweight, there are body image issues present. At 6 foot, Miranda Preston is 35 years old, single, socially awkward, taller than a majority of the men she meets, her clothes are unflattering, and she is dubbed “Queen Kong” by her friend Tilly. Miranda stumbles, bumbles, and is called “sir” by people. Yet, as the series continues through the end, Miranda builds her confidence up. The unconventional heroine trope is explored in The Vicar of Dibley and continues throughout to a show like Miranda. British television, especially sitcoms, demonstrates that there is so much more to comedy than the running gag of fat bodies as “messy, unattainable, or unlovable.” Boadicea (Geraldine’s first name in season one) is beautiful, bodacious, with a big personality.

Rachel Wortherley earned a Master of Arts degree at Iona College in New Rochelle, New York. Her downtime consists of devouring copious amounts of literature, films, and Netflix. She hopes earn an MFA and become a professional screenwriter.

The “Threatening” Aspects of ‘The Bletchley Circle’

This show doesn’t say that all women should not be kidnapped, murdered, and raped. It says White cisgender heterosexual women, particularly ones who are young, skinny, and meet current White cultural expectations of beauty, should not be kidnapped, murdered, and raped. While the show was not cancelled after its first season, the second season showed more “nice guy” characters, probably to placate White male viewers who had a problem with the basics of White feminism depicted in the first season.

Written by Jackson Adler.

Trigger Warning for Sexual Violence

During the Second World War, Bletchley Park was the UK’s central site of its Government Code and Cypher School. It was at Bletchley Park where Alan Turing and many others decoded Nazi and Axis intelligence, bringing the war to an end two to four years earlier than it could have stretched, saving thousands of lives. The BBC’s TV series The Bletchley Circle follows four (and later, five) fictional White female Bletchley Park code breakers in their lives after the war in the 1950s, during which they start solving crimes. The first season premiered in September of 2012, and the series did not return until April and May of 2014. During the second season there was a female director on the show, and, while there had always been White feminist aspects to the show, the writer Guy Burt’s theme of (White) women standing up for (White) women was taken to a whole new level under Sarah Harding’s direction. That this White (and somewhat) feminist show, which was written by and often directed by White men, was not renewed despite mainly addressing only the basics of White feminism – that (White) women shouldn’t be kidnapped, murdered, and raped (in the first season, the villain worked in that order) – is upsetting. This is the most palatable kind of feminism for rich White men, and yet even this story is silenced.

Not only is the story “palatable,” but the heroines themselves are written as overly “perfect” and not very “threatening.” They are kind, intelligent, empathetic, humble, and rarely confront the men in their lives for their condescension and sexist comments and actions. Meanwhile, shows about White men who solve crimes show the “heroes” as egotistic, unkind, confrontational, and violent. The shows about these male heroes and anti-heroes are everywhere on television, and they get renewed again and again. There is hardly a man or Woman of Color to be seen in The Bletchley Circle, and all of the romances of the characters, all of whom are cisgender, have been heterosexual. This show doesn’t say that all women should not be kidnapped, murdered, and raped. It says White cisgender heterosexual women, particularly ones who are young, skinny, and meet current White cultural expectations of beauty, should not be kidnapped, murdered, and raped. While the show was not cancelled after its first season, the second season showed more “nice guy” characters, probably to placate White male viewers who had a problem with the basics of White feminism depicted in the first season. Though the heroines were still standing up for each other and saving themselves from “bad” guys, the show started depicting more “nice guys” on which the heroines could not only occasionally rely, but also date. The most prominent of these “nice guys” was offended that the character Lucy did not trust him right away, and the show seemed to say that she should have trusted him. If this man is supposed to be an ally to women, a male feminist, then why was he so offended?

It would have been different if this were the start of a character arc, one that showed a man just starting his journey as an ally, showing him making mistakes and learning from them. However, that’s not what happened, and was essentially a “not all men” argument displayed in story form. This is especially problematic because the writer chose Lucy out of all the other female characters to be put in this position. Lucy, played by Sophie Rundle, is quieter and seemingly more “submissive” than the other White female characters, seeming to more easily fit into what is traditionally desired of White women by the White patriarchy. However, being quiet, submissive, “feminine,” and marrying young does not save her from violence at the hands of men.

Lucy’s husband is verbally and physically controlling and abusive. In one day, she is almost raped by a man on the train, only to return home where her husband nearly kills her. And yet, she is shamed for not having trusted this “nice” male coworker in the second season right away? Made to feel embarrassed for being wary of this man who has been overtly flirting with her? Wary of this man who is sometimes condescending to her and gives backhanded compliments? This was seemingly a story line to comfort White male viewers who were made uncomfortable by the basics of White feminism and by White women saving and supporting White women. Instead of Lucy being “the ball,” as Anita Sarkeesian states, in a “nice” men vs “bad” men competition, she is saved from “bad” men by fellow women and her own strength. Though there are times when men assist and support the women of the show, the women are the ones leading the fight against sexism and violence against women. Evidently, many White cismale and (mostly) heterosexual viewers and studio execs were made uncomfortable by the notion that these White women are, for the most part, not saved by White men, but by themselves.

The first season has The Bletchley Circle, led by protagonist Susan (played by Anna Maxwell Martin), solving a serial murder case in which a man is killing women and raping them post-mortem. While the villain could easily have been made into a straw-chauvinist by the male screenwriter to make the other male characters look good, this is not the case. In fact, it is often in regard to the serial murder case that the misogyny in the other male characters surfaces. This underlines the fact that the allowance of microaggressions sets the stage for more blatant sexism, which then makes violence against women and girls more permissible in Western society, and thus creating a culture where rape and violence against women and girls by men and boys is often excused, not taken seriously, and not thoroughly addressed. When Susan’s husband accuses her of neglecting her duties as a mother due to her not staying home as often as he would like, the truth is that she was being a good mother by trying to make the world safer for their daughter and not as damaging to the character of their son.

In the first story arc of the second season, Susan is naturally still traumatized by events of the first season, which include almost being murdered and raped by the villain. Though she leaves the crime solving life behind, she does not leave it until she makes certain that the circle is in good and capable hands. This adds realism to the story in that trauma is not something that can just go away or be ignored, especially not at a moment’s notice. However, it is sad that this rare and realistic portrayal of a hero and the trauma they face was done with one of the few positive and complex female leads of television, while male heroes of similar shows are not shown dealing with their trauma in any where near as realistic a way. They stay on their shows and keep “fighting the good fight” for years despite whatever trauma they face.

The Bletchley Circle, including Alice and Lizzie

Though the show’s cast were always a sort of ensemble, they become more so in the second season. The capable hands in which Susan leaves the circle belong to Alice (played by Hattie Morahan). Alice fits more easily into White cultural expectations of beauty than Susan does, being blonde, blue-eyed, taller and thinner. However, the character is complex, and instead of her “taking charge” of the team, she is welcomed into it, helps in the ways that she can, and the show becomes more of an ensemble than it was previously. This is not to say that Susan was always “taking charge,” just that she pulled the team together in the first place and the script followed her story more than the others. Susan had a child out of wedlock, and was forced to give up the child to adoption due to stigma and cultural standards. During the second season, she reconnects with her now adult daughter Lizzie (played by Faye Marsay), and the two form a sort of warm friendship rarely seen between women on TV and film. The other women of the circle never judge Alice for having sex and a child out of wedlock, nor do they judge each other for whatever choices they make. Shy and conservative Lucy never judges Millie (played by Rachael Stirling), the more outgoing one who likes tight fitting clothing, make-up, and the color red, and Millie never judges Lucy. Jean, the “mother hen” played by Julie Graham, is not judged for being a mature single woman, nor does she judge her younger female friends in their choices. Not only do these women save each others lives, but they also support each other as friends in their personal lives, outside life as code breakers and crime solvers.

In the second arc of the second season, which is the final arc of the show, the story follows Millie just as much if not more than Alice. This is possibly what lead more to the end of the show than other aspects of it. Millie has arguably more autonomy than any of the other characters. Though she is shamed for “getting in trouble” with the Greek mob, what lead her to it was not her fault. She was laid off from work with the government despite being one of the best workers there and having had a history with them, most certainly due to being a female employee. In order to stay financially dependent, she started selling unsanctioned perfume and stockings, not realizing that she was helping the Greek mob in the process. When she realizes that she is helping people who, among other things, traffic underage girls, she works with her female friends to bring the operation down, which they do with very minimal help from “nice” guys. That the female character who is seemingly most in control of her sexuality is the heroine of this arc was probably threatening to male viewers, and probably the reason why this story arc was the show’s last. In rape culture, women supposed to be sexualized but not be sexual. That Millie, a sexual woman, stopped the sexualization of women and girls was “threatening” to rape culture and patriarchy.

This show has strong feminist aspects and is arguably feminist. If it had been allowed to continue, its feminism would most likely have become stronger, and hopefully would have eventually shown Women of Color supporting each other. As it stands, this show that only really showed the basics of White feminism was cancelled, while shows that promote White male supremacy continue to air.

Reproductive Rights in ‘Orphan Black’ Season 2

What’s shaping up to be the forefront theme in ‘Orphan Black’ season two is reproductive rights. Of all the clones, Sarah is an anomaly because she was able to give birth to Kira when all her clone counterparts are infertile. The seemingly impossible birth of Kira has the forces of science and religion both vying for access and control over clone bodies.

Written by Amanda Rodriguez.

I’m sure it comes as no surprise that I continue to be a fan of Orphan Black into its second season. My review of season one—Orphan Black: It’s All About the Ladies–focuses on the strength and wide range of female characters that the show revolves around (not to mention Tatiana Maslany‘s formidable acting talents as she portrays all of the clones). In season two, the compelling female relationships continue to be integral to the heart of Orphan Black‘s plotlines. In particular, we see a deepening of Cosima’s connection to and lingering distrust of her monitor, Delphine.

Can Cosima trust her lover and monitor Delphine?

We also delve into the dark past of Sarah’s foster mother Mrs. S, full of secrets, violence, and questionable intentions.

Is Mrs. S helping or hurting Sarah and Kira?

We also meet a new and powerful clone, Rachel, who works for the dubious cloning research corporation, Dyad, and who doesn’t seem to feel a kinship with her fellow clones.

Sarah and Rachel get off on the wrong foot — Clone-Off: Sarah and Rachel

We also see more of Sarah coming into her own as a responsible, present parent for her medical miracle daughter, Kira. Though Felix is not a woman, his close relationship with foster sister Sarah and his queerness seem to get him into the inner circle of Clone Club, and it’s always a pleasure to watch scenes where he calls Sarah on her shit, is nurturing to Kira, is hilarious, and remains fabulous the whole time.

What’s shaping up to be the forefront theme in Orphan Black season two is reproductive rights. Of all the clones, Sarah is an anomaly because she was able to give birth to Kira when all her clone counterparts are infertile. The seemingly impossible birth of Kira has the forces of science and religion both vying for access and control over clone bodies. Yes, a pitched battle between science and religion is mounting over the reproductivity of female bodies. Sound familiar? Art imitating life perhaps…

The Prometheans, a religious cult, attempt to bind Helena to their cause

Both the Prometheans (religious nutjobs) and the Dyads (cold, calculating scientists) are deceptive, selfish, and don’t see the clones as autonomous human beings. Our heroines must navigate these treacherous forces that seek to exploit them. Even more remarkable is the way in which the clones fight back by using these forces for their own gains by gathering, stealing, and manipulating resources and information in order to better understand themselves: their origin, DNA, and purpose. From within a system that attempts to abuse and dehumanize them, these woman are making their own way, living by their own rules, and relying on their collective strength to survive. Now that, my friends, is a feminism.

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.

“I Misbehave”: Lesbian Dominatrix Irene Adler, Sex Work and ‘Sherlock’

Season Two Episode One of ‘Sherlock,’ “A Scandal in Belgravia,” is adapted from the Sir Arthur Conan Doyle Holmes story “A Scandal in Bohemia.” The storyline focuses on Irene Adler, portrayed brilliantly by the arresting Lara Pulver, who has incriminating photographs of a member of nobility that Sherlock must retrieve.

Written by Amanda Rodriguez

Re-posted from 2013 Golden Globes Week: “I Misbehave”: A Character Analysis of Irene Adler from BBC’s Sherlock

Season Two Episode One of Sherlock, “A Scandal in Belgravia,” is adapted from the Sir Arthur Conan Doyle Holmes story “A Scandal in Bohemia.” The storyline focuses on Irene Adler, portrayed brilliantly by the arresting Lara Pulver, who has incriminating photographs of a member of nobility that Sherlock must retrieve.

In the original version, Adler is an opera singer who had an ill-advised affair with the prince of Bohemia, and he discontinued the affair because he was to become king and thought she was beneath his station. Adler threatens to expose the photos if the now king announces his engagement to another woman. In the updated TV episode, Adler is a high-priced lesbian dominatrix who operates under the pseudonym “The Woman” and holds photos of a high-ranking female member of the British nobility.

Irene Adler: lesbian dominatrix and general BAMF

Confession: I love Irene Adler. She’s infamous for her sensuality, independence, intelligence, and her ability to manipulate. Throughout the episode, Adler and Sherlock match-up wits, and Adler proves to be the cleverer one right until the very end. Adler establishes herself as the quintessential femme fatale. When contrasted with the other female characters throughout the series, she is the only one who is given a strong representation. The coroner, Molly Hooper, is a doormat, waiting for Sherlock to notice her and her inexplicable affection for him. Mrs. Hudson is a doddering old lady whom Sherlock abuses but takes umbrage if others treat her in a similar fashion, in a way claiming her as his property to abuse or reward at his own whim. Finally, there’s the recurring character of Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan, a tough, but mistrustful police officer who always thinks the worst of Sherlock and is too simple-minded to follow his deductions.

Though Sherlock doesn’t know it, Adler is well-prepared for their first encounter when Sherlock shows up on her doorstep impersonating a mugged clergyman. In parody of his earlier nude appearance at Buckingham Palace, Adler presents herself to Sherlock in her “battle dress,” i.e. completely naked. This proves to be a cunning ploy because Sherlock can deduce little about her character without the aid of clues from her clothing. Not only that, but Adler maneuvers Sherlock to help her ward off some C.I.A agents by using her measurements as the code to open her booby trapped (har, har) safe. Adler then drugs and beats Sherlock until he relinquishes her camera phone, which contains a host of incriminating evidence that she claims she needs for protection. She ends their memorable first encounter by saying, “It’s been a pleasure. Don’t spoil it. This is how I want you to remember me. The woman who beat you.”

Illustration by Hilbrand Bos

Minus all the sexy dominatrix stuff, this is where the original Holmes story ends. Irene Adler disappears, retaining her protective evidence, and Sherlock must forevermore admire and be galled by The Woman who beat him. The BBC episode, however, takes creative license to continue the story, having Adler fake her own death only to show up six months later demanding Sherlock give back the camera phone that she’d sent to him presumably on the eve of her death. For six months, Sherlock has done his version of mourning, as only an admittedly high-functioning sociopath can (becoming withdrawn, composing mournful violin music, smoking, etc.). Does he mourn, we wonder, the death of a woman for whom he’d grown to care, or does he regret the loose end, the loss of a chance to ever reclaim his victory and trounced ego from such a superior opponent?

Before her faked death, Adler sent frequent flirtatious texts to Sherlock, with the refrain, “Let’s have dinner.” Sherlock responded to none of her messages, lending increased weight to the significance of their relationship. Upon her resurrection, Adler confesses that despite the fact that she’s a lesbian, she has feelings for Sherlock. Her feelings, in a way, mirror those of Watson, a self-proclaimed straight man who clearly has a deep emotional attachment to Sherlock. Sherlock then forms the apex of a peculiar love triangle at once sexual and cerebral.

“Brainy is the new sexy.” – Irene Adler

Adler tricks Sherlock into decoding sensitive information on her camera phone. After breaking the code in four seconds that a cryptographer struggled with and eventually gave up on, Adler feeds Sherlock’s ego.

Irene Adler: “I would have you, right here on this desk, until you begged for mercy twice.”

Sherlock Holmes: “I’ve never begged for mercy in my life.”

Irene Adler: “Twice.”

She then follows up on all her sexual attentions toward Sherlock by sending the decrypted code to a terrorist cell. She reveals to Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes that she’d played them both and consulted with Sherlock’s arch enemy Jim Moriarty to do so. It turns out, she was playing a deep game, exerting endless patience in her long con with blackmail as her goal all along. She demands such a sizeable sum for the code to her valuable camera phone that it would “blow a hole in the wealth of the nation.”

At this point, Irene Adler has won. She’s literally and figuratively beaten Sherlock Holmes repeatedly at his games of deduction and intrigue. She’s planned for and obviated every contingency. Adler is the only woman to arouse Sherlock’s sexual and intellectual interest all because she proved to be better than him. Adler masterfully manipulates the emotions of a man who cannot understand how and why people feel, a man who seems incapable of anything but his own selfish pursuits. Her problematic confessions of interest in Sherlock despite her sexual orientation are negated in light of her schemes.

Unfortunately, this is where it all goes to shit.

Just as Mycroft is giving his begrudging praise of Adler’s plot (“the dominatrix who brought a nation to its knees”), Sherlock reveals that he took Adler’s pulse and observed her dilated pupils when interacting with him. He deduces her base sentiment has influenced her into making the passcode more than random, into making it, instead, “the key to her heart.”

Sherlocked…get it? Get it? Snore.

With that simple, inane phrase, Adler is undone. Sherlock has broken into her hard drive and her heart. Depicting a lesbian character truly falling in love with a man is a complete invalidation of her sexual identity. Not only that, but it has larger implications that are damaging and regressive. It advances the notion that lesbians are a myth, that all women can fall in love with men if given the right circumstances.

Having a female opponent who is more cunning than Sherlock ultimately lose due to her emotions also implies that women are incapable of keeping their emotions in check. Sherlock insists that her “sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side.” While he can detach from his emotions, she cannot, and thus he will always be better than her at the so-called game. Not only that, but this emotion versus reason dichotomy further reinforces the destructive gender binary that assigns certain traits to men and others to women, giving privilege to those assigned to men. Even Adler’s seductiveness, her cunning, her manipulation of the Holmes brothers, these characteristics are coded as female. Adler even enlists the aid of the male Jim Moriarty with the implicit reasoning that he is smarter, slicker, and more capable of handling the Holmes brothers.

Irene Adler must make her way in the world as a sex worker who deals in secrets. (Remind you of Miss Scarlet from Clue at all?) Capitalizing on sex and thriving on the power dynamics inherent in sex (especially heterosexual sex, in which we know Adler engages) are attributes generally assigned to women even though they are fabrications. Having to engage in sexual activity for money does not give women power. It, instead, forces women to exploit themselves and conform to a regulated form of femininity as well as other people’s sexual desires and fantasies (regardless of what the woman herself wants, likes, or doesn’t like). Considering the appalling number of rapes each year, each day, each hour, we also know that power dynamics (from a hetero standpoint) don’t truly favor women. Though the episode doesn’t get into it, presumably Adler is finally cashing in on all her secrets in order to make a better life for herself, a life in which she does not have to sell her body to survive.

When Sherlock outwits Adler, he forces the dominatrix to beg for her life, which is worth little without her secrets. Though he feigns indifference, he ends up finding her after she’s gone into hiding and been captured by terrorists in Karachi. He then saves her from a beheading and falsifies her death in a completely untraceable way.

It’s poignant that Sherlock holds the sword over Adler’s neck, choosing whether she lives or dies.

At the end of the episode, Sherlock stands before a window chuckling to himself about how handily he settled the whole scandal with The Woman. He doesn’t only best her at their game of wit, but he debases and de-claws her. Divesting her of all her power, all her secrets, Irene Adler is completely at his mercy and must be rescued like a damsel in distress or, worse, like a naughty little girl who’s gotten in over her head and must be dug out by her patriarch.

Despite the frequent declaration that “things are better for women now,” it’s hard to ignore that a story written in 1891 created a larger space for a woman to be strong, smart, and to escape. It’s also hard to ignore that Sherlock doesn’t just outwit Adler, he systematically dismantles all her power and only then does he graciously allow her to live. We can wish the last ten minutes of the episode had been cut, allowing for an ending in keeping with the original story, an ending that empowered a woman as one of Sherlock’s most formidable foes. A potentially more fruitful wish would be that Irene Adler returns in future seasons, stronger and more prepared to play the game against Sherlock Holmes, a game we can only hope she will win the next time around.

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

‘Orphan Black’: It’s All About the Ladies

‘Orphan Black’ is gritty sci-fi with layered mysteries, mistaken (and impersonated) identity, and lots of complicated female characters. The most intriguing part of the show is that many of those multifaceted female characters are played by the same woman, Tatiana Maslany. She portrays all the clones involved in a seemingly nefarious scientific experiment.

Spoiler Alert

Canada’s compelling show Orphan Black will be airing its second season on BBC America this spring, and though Ms Misanthropia reviewed it on Bitch Flicks, I had to weigh in now that I’ve finally had a chance to finish watching the series! Orphan Black is gritty sci-fi with layered mysteries, mistaken (and impersonated) identity, and lots of complicated female characters. The most intriguing part of the show is that many of those multifaceted female characters are played by the same woman, Tatiana Maslany. She portrays all the clones involved in a seemingly nefarious scientific experiment.

At first, I was skeptical of Maslany’s acting abilities because there’s a lot of subtlety and nuance required to play at least nine characters with different upbringings, nationalities, socioeconomic backgrounds, and habits. Not only that, but the clones do a lot of impersonating each other. I was sold when I could tell one clone was impersonating another before the narrative announced it. Each clone’s mannerisms, body language, and even facial expressions are different. Damn. My hat’s off to Maslany who can make her smile different enough that I can tell which character she is without context.

Bravo, Tatyana Manslany. Bravo. — Bravo, Tatiana Maslany. Bravo.

In Orphan Black, the clones are often wildly different from one another, really hammering home the nature over nurture angle, which is an important representation of how women (and other marginalized groups) are affected by their environment. Orphan Black shows us women who thrive due to their environment (Cosima with her scientific brilliance), struggle because of it (grifter Sarah Manning), or become deviant and destructive as a result of it (religious serial killer Helena). There are tweaks made to each of their genetic code that explain away Katya’s respiratory disease, Cosima’s need for glasses as well as her gayness, and perhaps other anomalies among the clones yet to be introduced, but the message is clear that the DNA of these women is virtually identical making the entirety of their development environmentally-based.

The show even tries to give social reasons for the expression or dormancy of homosexuality. — The show gives social reasons for the expression or dormancy of homosexuality.

I also want to take a second to talk about big brained science nerd Cosima, my favorite clone.

Maybe it’s because I, too, am a queer nerd girl, but Cosima’s aptitude for science and her lesbian sexuality are awesome. Where Sarah must use her body to get what she needs (like seducing Paul to distract him from realizing she’s not Beth Childs), Cosima uses her intellect. Cosima is the glue. Without her, the clones wouldn’t be able to do DNA testing or crawl down the rabbit hole of the scientific experimentation that created them. Not only that, but she is the one who discerns that each known clone has a “monitor” to observe and report back on clone activities. This means that Cosima is also capable of understanding and anticipating the psychological factors involved in genetic testing and cloning. It’s great to get to see the nerd girl shine and not be deemed sexless because of her brain power, as her affair with her monitor Delphine is the most engaging of the romances played out in the show.

Delphine & Cosima bond over science geekoutery

Orphan Black showcases great female characters who are strong or interesting or smart or even infuriating, but they’re all unique and full of depth. The series also shows that the path of each clone’s development is dependent upon her environment, which is a huge statement about how oppression and opportunity are what shape us. In order for women to succeed, we must cultivate an environment that encourages achievement, and that means we’ve got to bust up gender norms.

Aggressive & unpredictable serial killer clone Helena — Aggressive and unpredictable serial killer clone Helena

Orphan Black exists on the strength of one actress’s ability to play multiple characters convincingly. Most importantly, it’s a show about a group of women: their lives, their families, their loves, their history, their interaction with each other, their deaths, and, most poignantly, their quest to solve the mystery of their existence. Good stuff, no? It’s getting harder and harder for the media to claim that people won’t watch stories about women, especially in the face of Orphan Black‘s gripping action, great story telling, and superb acting.

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

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

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

Spoiler Alert

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Strong female characters: Reed Smith & Stella Gibson.

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

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

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

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

In Praise of ‘The Fall’s Uber Cool Feminist Heroine: Gillian Anderson’s Stella Gibson

The Fall is one of 2013’s television success stories. The five-part BBC crime drama is a compelling, well-crafted production with a fine cast and a terrific lead performance by Gillian Anderson. Set in present-day Belfast–and also shot on location in the Northern Ireland capital–The Fall chronicles the police hunt for a serial killer of attractive, professional women in their thirties. It is created and written by Allan Cubitt–who scripted Prime Suspect 2 (1992, UK)–and directed by Jakob Verbruggen.

Detective Superintendent Stella Gibson (Gillian Anderson)

Written by Rachael Johnson

The Fall is one of 2013’s television success stories. The five-part BBC crime drama is a compelling, well-crafted production with a fine cast and a terrific lead performance by Gillian Anderson. Set in present-day Belfast–and also shot on location in the Northern Ireland capital–The Fall chronicles the police hunt for a serial killer of attractive, professional women in their thirties. It is created and written by Allan Cubitt–who scripted Prime Suspect 2 (1992, UK)–and directed by Jakob Verbruggen.

Anderson plays Detective Superintendent Stella Gibson, an Englishwoman called in from the London Metropolitan Police to review a high profile PSNI (Police Service of Northern Ireland) investigation into the murder of an architect. When another woman of similar looks and background is found murdered, Gibson takes charge of the investigation. The Fall is not a whodunit like Forbrydelsen (2007, DK) or The Killing. We know the identity of the murderer, a certain Paul Spector, from the very first episode. The viewer’s interest lies instead in studying the killer and watching Stella pursue the case.

The serial killer’s personal and professional lives are “normal”: Spector is a young man in a caring profession with a hard-working wife and two small children. He is a bereavement counselor. She is a neonatal nurse. Capably played by Jamie Dornan, Spector is slender, good-looking and athletic. A good family man, he seems to have a loving relationship with his children. His sweet, sensitive daughter adores him. Spector’s wife, Sally Anne (Bronagh Waugh) does not know that she is sleeping with a killer of women. He does not reveal violent, misogynist tendencies in his family life. Nor does he show evidence of any psycho-sexual hang-ups in his marital relations. Returning home from violating the domestic space of a potential victim, he falls into bed and makes love with his wife. Possessing, it seems, a split personality, Spector leads two very different lives. At times, these lives are sustained simultaneously. In one unnerving scene, he stalks a potential victim in a park with his young daughter in tow. At first, Dornan’s Spector struck me as a little too normal to be credible but there is an intensity and arrogance to his character that suggests a darker side. There have been serial killers from very average backgrounds and the makers of The Fall consistently underline Spector’s chilling ordinariness in their observational study of the killer. The writer Allan Cubitt has created a man–not a monster.

As a writer of a series that introduced the world to Helen Mirren’s Detective Chief Inspector Jane Tennison, Allan Cubitt is, of course, well-acquainted with strong female characters. His Stella is a particularly striking, commanding protagonist. Clad in pencil skirts, silk blouses and stilettos, she cuts an elegant, glamorous figure. Amusingly, Stella’s silk shirts have become a fashion column and pop culture talking point in the UK. The character’s ultra-feminine looks, it must be said, aim to signify authority rather than slavishness to an ideal of femininity. Stella is self-governing and goal-oriented. The English outsider has, in fact, an almost patrician manner at times. Her leadership style cannot be characterized as either buddy-buddy or maternal. Stella is a cool rather than cold woman, however. This is apparent when we see her calmly help a male co-worker recover from a traumatic incident. We admire her poise and intelligence. Stella also shows interest in the lives of her female co-workers. Most importantly, she possesses a feminist consciousness: she exposes misogyny while combating male violence against women.

Murderer and Family Man, Paul Spector (Jamie Dornan) — Murderer and family man, Paul Spector (Jamie Dornan)

Entirely at ease in her skin, Stella is, also, very much a sexual woman. One scene in particular stands out. Spotting a good-looking cop at a crime scene, Stella asks her female companion, police constable Danielle Ferrington (Niamh McGrady) to introduce her to him. When he asks her how long the review will take, Stella tells him point-blank: “I’m staying at the Hilton. Room 203.” It is an impressive, amusing display of female sexual sway. They enjoy their night together but when he makes the mistake of texting a sexy selfie the day after, Stella breaks off contact. She has no interest in pursuing a relationship. Stella is also unafraid of exposing sexual double standards. The one night stand becomes a potentially compromising issue for her male co-workers as the plot develops. Stella, however, detects the underlying reasons for their unease. She puts them in the picture: “That’s what really bothers you, isn’t it? The one night stand. Man fucks woman. Subject man, verb fucks, object woman. That’s ok. Woman fucks man, woman subject, man object. That’s not so comfortable for you, is it?”

Police Constable Danielle Ferrington (Niamh McGrady)

Stella is a rational, self-directed, sexual woman. What is unfortunate is that this particular combination of characteristics in a female protagonist is still rare in mainstream film and television. Unusually, the makers of The Fall have not given Stella a troubled back story or a comforting vulnerable side. She does not appear to be haunted by her past and there is no evidence of alcoholism or other psychological problems. Happily, the script does not seem to support the outdated, bogus belief that successful, professional women can only attain real happiness by marrying and having children. Stella does not seem to be mourning a lost love. Nor does she seem to ache for a child. These tendencies, it must be said, invariably surface in Hollywood and mainstream US television’s characterizations of strong women and it is commendable that The Fall does not take that route.

Stella Takes Charge — Stella takes charge

The Fall could be said to exhibit strong feminist principles. Of course, makers of serial killer dramas risk aestheticizing sexualised violence against women. Although they arguably represent an attempt to get into the mindset of the killer, some may find The Fall’s scenes of voyeurism and violence as suspect as those in more plainly exploitative productions. The Fall is, however, manifestly feminist in its refusal to portray Spector as a monstrous other and in its remarkable characterization of its heroine. It is also evident in the direct way it tackles the issue of victim-blaming. In a conversation with Jim Burns, the Assistant Chief Constable of the PSNI (John Lynch), Stella questions the use of the word ‘innocent’ in describing the killer’s victims:”‘Let’s not refer to them as innocent…What if he kills a prostitute next or a woman walking home drunk, late at night, in a short skirt? Will they be in some way less innocent, therefore less deserving? Culpable? The media loves to divide women into virgins and vamps, angels or whores. Let’s not encourage them.” There are other independent, resourceful women in The Fall and other instances of female solidarity. Stella has a good rapport with pathologist, Paula Reed Smith (played by Archie Panjabi) as well as PC Danielle. We see the latter stung with guilt that she was not able to save a potential victim. Danielle’s sisterly camaraderie even extends to removing the tell-tale signs of Stella’s one-night stand on an errand to her hotel room.

Stella with Pathologist Paula Reed Smith (Archie Panjabi) — Stella with pathologist Paula Reed Smith (Archie Panjabi)

The Fall is not without derivative elements and devices but it is a stylish and quite gritty series. A deeply engrossing thriller, it unsettles, frightens and moves its audience. The Fall’s setting is also interesting. Belfast provides a somewhat tense, moody backdrop. Sectarian conflict is not a distant memory and politics shapes everyday lives. While we may ask whether The Fall provides a particularly pioneering or remarkable study of male violence, it is admirable that its creators are not afraid to emphasize the killer’s normality and masculinity. Most importantly, The Fall has given us a new, über cool feminist heroine. The good news is that there will be another season.

Classic Literature Film Adaptations Week: How BBC’s ‘Pride & Prejudice’ Illustrates Why The Regency Period Sucked For Women

How BBC’s ‘Pride & Prejudice’ Illustrates Why The Regency Period Sucked For Women

By Myrna Waldron

Pride & Prejudice DVD Cover (Source: Wikipedia)

It is a truth universally acknowledged that those in pursuit of an English degree must be familiar with the works of Jane Austen. Fortunately for me, she is one of my favourite authors, and Pride & Prejudice is one of my favourite books. (And that’s saying something, as I read a lot.) It is one of the great novels of English Literature that can be utterly boring with the wrong teacher. Many times people fail to pick up on the social satire woven throughout the novel, especially since the language and culture is so different now that it’s 200 years later. Once you understand the social context in which the novel was written/published, and get used to Austen’s subtle brand of sarcasm, one can understand why Pride & Prejudice has endured so long. It doesn’t hurt that Mr. Darcy is one of the quintessential Byronic heroes too.

The 1995 BBC miniseries adaptation is by far the most popular, and the reason why can be summed up in two words: Colin. Firth. I first watched the miniseries when I was 10, and read the novel for the first time at 15. I can say quite confidently that the miniseries strongly helped me to understand the novel better, but…that’s not the only reason why it was memorable for me. Puberty already had its iron grip on me at that time, and when I saw Mr. Firth as Mr. Darcy for the first time…let’s just say I realized I liked boys. Colin Firth has had a wonderful sense of humour about his signature role, more-or-less reprising it in the Bridget Jones series (Side note: Colin Firth is an actual character in the 2nd novel.) and in an interview with a French magazine that asked him who the women in his life were, he answered, “My mother, my wife, and Jane Austen.” Unusually for a western media production, the makers knew their audience, and presented the miniseries for the female gaze. Firth is shown bathing, fencing, and, most famously, swimming in the pond near Pemberley and emerging from it with a wet white shirt.

Regretfully leaving Mr. Firth’s impact aside, he is not the only reason why the BBC adaptation is culturally important. The 6 episodes of the miniseries grant far more lenience in terms of time constraints, and thus one of the most important themes of Austen’s novel is retained: Her feminism. The protagonists in her novels were all women, and she wrote them for a mostly female audience. Her primary goal was to create sympathy for the status of women and the little rights they retained. Reminder: This is an era where women could not vote, had no bodily autonomy, could not freely marry whomever they chose, were restricted to domestic spheres, and, in some cases, could not even inherit their father’s estate. Pride & Prejudice, and the BBC adaptation, touch on several of these issues, subtly and sometimes directly condemning them from a feminist outlook. In addition to this feminist subtext, part of Austen’s social satire is pointing out the ridiculous class restraints in which the characters had to endure.

The Bennet Sisters, From Left To Right: Lydia, Jane, Mary, Kitty, Lizzy (Source: http://ladylavinia1932.wordpress.com/)

The protagonist of Pride & Prejudice, Elizabeth Bennet, usually called Lizzy, is the 2nd of 5 sisters and the favourite of her father because she is witty, intelligent, and well-read. Her older sister Jane is sweet natured and the most beautiful, middle sister Mary is plain, sanctimonious and withdrawn, and youngest sisters Kitty and Lydia are boy crazy and impulsive. Lydia most closely resembles her mother in personality and is thus her favourite. Mrs. Bennet is absolutely obsessed with the idea of marrying off her 5 daughters as soon as possible, and to rich men if they can manage it. The girls must endure their mother’s constant conspiring to marry them off – the elder sisters are resigned to their mother’s obsession, but the teenage youngest sisters are thoroughly swept up in their mother’s enthusiasm.

The major issue the Bennets face is that none of the daughters can inherit their father’s estate. They are confined to an entailment, which is a legal inheritance document stipulating that a hereditary estate can only be passed on to a certain person, usually the eldest living male relative. Unfortunately, the closest male relative to Mr. Bennet is Mr. Collins, a minister who is insufferably smug while pretending to be caring. When he suddenly descends on them for a visit, he is met with a certain degree of resentment, for when Mr. Bennet dies, Mr. Collins is fully within his rights to immediately throw out the grieving widow and daughters onto the streets. Thus, there is a practicality to Mrs. Bennet’s obsession – if her girls do not marry, they will be helpless and homeless.

Mr. Collins in this adaptation is utterly revolting. Greasy and simpering, he constantly brags about his rich patroness, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, (who is also Mr. Darcy’s maternal aunt) fawning about her even while miles away. He has visited with a mission – Lady Catherine thinks he should marry, so he figures he might as well choose from one of the Bennet sisters. Vainly, he sets his sights on Jane first as she is the most beautiful, but after being persuaded that Jane has another suitor (more on him later) he instead moves on to Lizzy, the next prettiest daughter. His attempts to woo Lizzy are incredibly repulsive and shortsighted, for he has chosen the worst possible match for him out of the 5 sisters. A bootlicking and hypocritical minister could not possibly be happy with a headstrong and brutally honest intellectual. It’s kind of sad he never noticed Mary and tried to court the sisters solely based on their looks, for although she’s plain she would have been a far better match for him.

Pemberley (Source: austenprose.wordpress.com)

Lizzy rejects his proposal with disgust, and he quickly moves on to proposing to the next closest target – her best friend Charlotte Lucas. She accepts, not out of even remote attraction, but because she felt she had no better option. At 27, she is already considered an old maid. She is not wealthy, she has no wealthy relatives, and she is not considered beautiful. So Charlotte explains to Lizzy, with a heartbreaking look of resignation, that she took all that she could get, and that she’d at least live in relative comfort. Later, when Lizzy visits her, she admits that she encourages her husband to spend as little time as possible with her. The social commentary exhibited here is staggering – I could not help but feel desperately hopeless and sympathetic for Charlotte’s situation. How awful to have to agree to marry such a repulsive man in order to prevent a future of poverty.

Jane and Lizzy fortunately have other potential suitors. Jane falls in love with Mr. Bingley, a relatively wealthy young man who has bought a manor nearby to their home. He is charming and amiable, contrasting sharply with his best friend, the brooding and proud (and even wealthier) Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy. They meet the Bennets at a ball, where Mr. Darcy offends the others by refusing to dance with anyone. He later reveals that he was feeling more socially awkward than disdainful, but he has already done the damage of appearing arrogant and snobbish, and Lizzy immediately develops a bad opinion of him (she is the “Prejudice” to his “Pride”). Jane and Bingley are very well matched, but their presumed engagement is for a time derailed due to societal restraints. At a ball held at Bingley’s manor, Mrs. Bennet brags loudly about Jane’s not yet confirmed engagement, Mary monopolizes the piano and performs poorly, Mr. Bennet publicly admonishes her for it, and Kitty and Lydia loudly and childishly flirt with the visiting soldiers. Jane is also shy and emotionally reserved, and so Mr. Darcy concludes that she is not especially interested in Bingley. He thus uses these excuses to convince Bingley not to propose to her, which is the first of many plot points where an individual is unfairly judged by the actions of her family.

Although at first Mr. Darcy is not particularly impressed with Lizzy, he quickly grows an attraction to her. At subsequent balls he asks to dance with her, compliments her to others, and will not hear any criticisms against her. Bingley’s younger sister Caroline hopes to gain Mr. Darcy’s affections by putting Lizzy down, and thus tries to find as many physical faults with her as possible. This is a commentary on how there is societal pressure for women to compete with each other, and to only value their physical attractiveness – not much has changed in 200 years. Nevertheless, Darcy proposes to Lizzy, and it is an infamous disaster. He begins by expressing his ardent love for her, but then starts ranting about how his love goes against his character, upbringing, and will. He also states that his social status is likely to take a hit since she is neither wealthy nor well-connected. Unsurprisingly, Lizzy rejects his proposal with anger and disgust. She criticizes his arrogance and pride, and condemns him for what she believes is a particularly heartless act – the cold treatment and cutting off of his childhood friend Mr. Wickham.

Mr. Darcy and Lizzy (Source: bbc.co.uk)

Mr. Wickham is one of the local soldiers, and catches Lizzy’s attention because he is of similar intellect to her and is charming. She already has a poor opinion of Mr. Darcy, so she readily believes Wickham’s sob story about how Mr. Darcy stopped his ambitions of becoming a minister, denied the small inheritance that Darcy Sr. had promised for him (Wickham’s father was Darcy’s father’s steward), and forced him to live in poverty, despite them having grown up together. Although Darcy cannot deny that he has acted arrogantly, he defends his actions regarding Wickham in a letter to her. In a flashback, we see Mr. Darcy at Cambridge walking in on Wickham fooling around with a young woman. Mr. Darcy explains that Wickham then left university, and requested a lump sum of 3000 pounds rather than an annual stipend. He thought they had then parted ways for good, but then found out the depths of which Wickham could descend.

Wickham likes to prey on teenage girls. He locates Darcy’s much younger sister Georgiana and seduces her, promising to elope with her. Darcy was never sure if Wickham’s aim was to get at Georgiana’s fortune, or to get revenge on Darcy. Fortunately, Darcy discovers the elopement in time to prevent it (and prevent Georgiana’s being sexually exploited) but both siblings would remain traumatized by the memory of how close she came to ruin. Lizzy is forced to believe Darcy’s story since it involves his younger sister, but she and Jane resolve to keep the truth of Wickham’s behaviour quiet since they have not been authorized to reveal the details, nor do they want to damage Georgiana’s reputation. Yes, Georgiana would be the one who would suffer from this, not the grown man who preyed on a teenage girl. This decision to keep quiet would come back to haunt the Bennets in the worst of ways, for it was not just Lizzy whose attention was caught by Wickham…but Lydia’s as well.

Lydia is given permission to follow the soldiers’ regiment to Brighton and stay with a friend of hers (much to Lizzy’s reluctance). She is not supervised at all, and Wickham convinces her to run away with him one night. She believes he is going to marry her, and is excited and anticipates how jealous her elder sisters will be that she has married first. (There’s that competing between women for male affections again.) We get short vignettes of her exile with Wickham – they are staying in a small room in a disreputable part of London. Lydia is shown wearing her dressing gown, but it is never directly implied nor stated whether she had premarital sex with him. Most likely she has, as since she is not wealthy there was only one thing about her Wickham would be interested in. Notably, none of the characters even dare to directly mention the worst-case scenario of Lydia’s behaviour, but Mary sanctimoniously summarizes the inequality of gender dynamics of the time: “The loss of virtue in a woman is irretrievable … A woman’s reputation is no less brittle than it is beautiful, and therefore we cannot be too guarded in our behaviour towards the undeserving of the other sex.”

We interrupt this essay to bring you some fanservice. (Source: telegraph.co.uk)

The other sisters believe their chances of making a good marriage are now nonexistent, as the news of Lydia’s “loss of virtue” have tainted her family by association. The best that they can hope for is that Lydia and Wickham have at least married, preferably before his bedding her. Mr. Collins even smugly states that it would have been preferable if Lydia had died. It is very damning that a family has to hope that a possibly sexually exploited teenager has married her seducer. Nowadays there would at least be an attempt to arrest Wickham for statutory rape, but society has not changed so much that there wouldn’t still be shaming of Lydia for being a sexually active teenage girl. We can look to the recent tragic case of Amanda Todd, a very young teen enticed by an adult into posing topless on a webcam, blackmailed, and driven to suicide by the public shaming of her actions.

Mr. Darcy, humbled by Lizzy’s dismissal of him as arrogant and feeling responsible for not exposing Wickham’s character, decides to intervene. He locates the pair (Lydia is foolishly amused by this, Wickham angered), and makes Wickham agree to marry Lydia by offering to pay off his many debts. They are married with only Mr. Darcy and Lydia’s maternal aunt and uncle, the Gardiners, in attendance. Mr. Darcy insists on letting the Gardiners take the credit, and swears them to secrecy. They return home and are enthusiastically welcomed by Mrs. Bennet (whose opinion of people tends to revert back and forth to opposite extremes depending on whether they are useful to her regarding marrying off her daughters). Lydia brags about her marriage to her sisters, and never learns just how close she came to permanently ruining her reputation and her family’s as well. But she lets it slip that Darcy was involved in arranging her marriage.

These altruistic actions, and a visit to Mr. Darcy’s manor Pemberley, where he is adored and praised by his servants, gradually change Lizzy’s opinion of him. Eventually, a rumour spreads to Lady Catherine de Bourgh that Lizzy and Mr. Darcy, her nephew, are engaged. In a fury she comes to the Bennets’ home and verbally abuses Lizzy, adamant in her belief in her social superiority. She vehemently objects to the engagement as Lizzy is far beneath her nephew in both social status, familial connections and wealth, not to mention that she believes that her daughter Anne and Mr. Darcy have been betrothed since childhood. Lizzy is headstrong and defiant, however, and counters all of Lady Catherine’s insults. In reference to their social status she she states, “He is a gentleman. I am a gentleman’s daughter. So far we are equal.” Not only has Lizzie skewered the ridiculous standards of class distinction in her era, she has made a subtle feminist statement as well. She also refuses to promise not to become engaged to Mr. Darcy, which is a solid social commentary on not letting the upper classes use their status to bully others.

The Double Wedding (Source: blogspot.com)

In the meantime, Mr. Darcy has told Mr. Bingley that he was mistaken in thinking that Jane Bennet did not return Bingley’s affections, and gives his blessing to their engagement. Bingley then takes the earliest opportunity he can to propose to Jane, which makes the normally reserved girl deliriously happy. When Mr. Darcy and Lizzy next meet, she reveals she knows who saved Lydia’s and her family’s reputations, and thanks him profusely. He tells her that he was only thinking of her happiness, and restates his love for her, promising never to bring it up again if she still feels the same way she did before. She has since realized that she has gradually fallen in love with him ever since visiting Pemberley, and accepts his proposal this time. There are many interpretations of the implications of this famous ending, but this time I’m going to do a feminist one: We know that Lizzy is progressive and headstrong, and likely as feminist as her creator. She could then possibly see Mr. Darcy’s actions as feminist ones, as he has directly prevented the fallout of a misogynistic society’s double standards. He has also demonstrated generosity and a willingness to help the most vulnerable. So she and Jane have a double wedding with Bingley and Darcy – all pairs as inseparable as they have always been.

As a whole, Pride & Prejudice and its miniseries adaptation strongly posit some feminist criticisms and subtly satirize the social standards of the time. Most notably, the story condemns entailments/inheritances that favour only male relatives instead of more direct (and equally rightful) female relatives, viewing relatively young women as old maids, forcing women into unwanted marriages to avoid homelessness and poverty, judging entire families on the basis of an individual’s actions (or judging an individual on the basis of their family’s actions), encouraging women to compete with each other for the affection of men, putting a woman’s entire worth on her virginity, allowing grown men to prey on teenage girls, and condemning a young woman for having premarital sex instead of her exploiter. Whew. It really sucked to be a woman during the Regency Period. For a 200-year-old book…that’s a whole lot of feminism. Bless you, Jane Austen. (And bless you, Colin Firth.)

Full disclosure: I recognize that this is more of a literature essay than a television review. My only excuse is that throughout high school and university I have written more essays about Pride & Prejudice than I can remember. Good habits are hard to break.

Myrna Waldron is a feminist writer/blogger with a particular emphasis on all things nerdy. She lives in Toronto and has studied English and Film at York University. Myrna has a particular interest in the animation medium, having written extensively on American, Canadian and Japanese animation. She also has a passion for Sci-Fi & Fantasy literature, pop culture literature such as cartoons/comics, and the gaming subculture. She maintains a personal collection of blog posts, rants, essays and musings at The Soapboxing Geek, and tweets with reckless pottymouthed abandon at @SoapboxingGeek.

Bitch Flicks’ Weekly Picks

Megan‘s Picks:

Why ‘Zero Dark Thirty’ Is the Best Film of the Year by Christopher Orr via The Atlantic

Daniel Tosh ‘Two Broke Girls,’ and The Oatmeal: The Year of the Rape Joke by Tricia Romano via The Daily Beast

Memo to Media: Manhood, Not Guns or Mental Illness, Should Be Central in Newtown Shooting by Jackson Katz via The Huffington Post

We Should Be Talking About Masculinity and Violence After the Sandy Hook Shooting and Every Day by Maya Dusenbery via Feministing

Lorraine Toussaint on ‘Middle of Nowhere,’ ‘Scandal’ and the Oscars by Allison Samuels via The Daily Beast

How Walt Disney’s Women Have Grown Up by Judith Welikala and Emily Dugan via The Independent

She Who Will Not Be Ignored by Melissa Silverstein via Women and Hollywood

Queer Lead Sophia Swanson Makes MTV’s ‘Underemployed’ Worth Watching by Riese via Autostraddle

Bollywood Joins Public Outrage Against Brutal Gang-Rape in India by Nyay Bhushan via The Hollywood Reporter

BBC Outs Itself for Gay and Lesbian Stereotypes by Stuart Kemp via The Hollywood Reporter

5 Lessons for My Tween from Anne Hathaway by Joanne Bamberger via Babble

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

Ripley’s Pick: Season One of Pulling

Pulling is a British comedy series written by Sharon Horgan (who co-stars) and Dennis Kelly. It aired on BBC3 for two seasons (of six episodes), starting in 2006, and an hour-long farewell special aired this May.

After breaking off her engagement, Donna (Horgan) moves in with two of her best friends, Louise (Rebekah Staton) and Karen (Tanya Franks). What follows is a hilarious, raunchy, irreverent take on life as a thirty-something woman.

Things I Love About Pulling

Women behave badly, too. While something like 99% of television and movies allow men to behave badly and enjoy themselves, when women behave similarly they’re slut-shamed and made to feel guilty for thinking about anyone but everyone else. A woman has a one-night stand in most movies, and she’s punished with a pregnancy (and, yes, in comedies pregnancy typically is a punishment, meant to teach a woman she needs to change her selfish, uppity ways and start living for someone else). See Knocked Up, Juno, and just about every other American comedy.

Successful dark comedy. While American dark comedy typically consists of some pretty awful misogyny, or at least humor at the expense of others, Pulling manages to be funny and edgy without displaying hatred for any group of marginalized people. Even a tirade against a man who gave a less-than-stellar performance in the bedroom has a tone of lightness and regard for the man, who looks adorably helpless standing by the kitchen table as Karen goes off. The viewer isn’t supposed to hate that man; the viewer feels sympathy for him.

No interest in babies, marriage, children, or shopping. Donna decides she doesn’t want to marry Karl, despite caring for–even loving–him. Although Karen is a teacher, the one moment when she gets all sappy about children–with their tiny fingernails–being the future is played for laughs. And the only moment in the first season that approaches interest in clothes involves Karen verbally assaulting her dry cleaner for not being able to deliver same-day repair service for a torn dress, despite the fact that she had a completely bullshit suck-up conversation with him.

The show is smarter than its characters. So many so-called smart shows have characters who are successful professionals–doctors, lawyers, businesspeople–and who do sophisticated things. Not this one. These women go to the pub–a lot. They have working-class jobs (waitress, teacher, personal assistant). They don’t feel guilty about being working-class women. They work. Lousy jobs. They lose lousy jobs. They don’t enjoy gallery openings.

Despite the drinking, sleeping around, and general screwing up, the show still has a moral center. When the characters do something reprehensible, they know it. When Louise’s mother comes to visit, it’s clear that her behavior (which I won’t give away here) crosses a line that her daughter’s (and the roommates) don’t cross.

From a subjective viewpoint, these three women are my age and their lives are disasters. Their lives are, in fact, closer to most people I know than anything else represented in film and television. If I’m to believe media, the things I really concern myself with are marrying, having babies, buying a house, driving a newer car than I do, using the best hair/skin/cellulite-diminishing products, and obsessing over my investments. If I’m to believe my regular life, no one knows what the fuck they’re doing.

Pulling is a show starring women, but it’s not all about female empowerment and becoming a better person and sisterhood and all that. I’m all for female empowerment, but sometimes I just want to laugh. Pulling delivers, and it’s a shame the show lasted only two seasons. Those two seasons are, however, available on Netflix. If you haven’t seen Pulling, I suggest you immediately add it to your queue.