Bisexual Representation Theme Week – Page 2

Bisexuality in ‘Kissing Jessica Stein’ and ‘I Love You Phillip Morris’

Both films, then, arguably fit a wider cultural pattern of bi erasure, suggesting that bisexual characters must “resolve” themselves as either gay or straight. I would argue, however, that what marks ‘I Love You Phillip Morris’ and ‘Kissing Jessica Stein’ as something more nuanced and interesting than another tale of “inauthentic” bisexuality, is the subtlety with which they examine all sexual orientations as limited by our internalized need to socially perform.

This post written by staff writer Brigit McCone appears as part of our theme week on Bisexual Representation. | Spoilers ahead.

How is bisexuality defined? If it is defined by sexual performance, then all the protagonists of the romantic comedies I Love You Phillip Morris and Kissing Jessica Stein must qualify: Steven Russell fathers a child with his wife while taking male lovers, while Jessica Stein and Helen Cooper are heterosexually active women who embark on a sexual relationship with each other. Yet, if bisexuality is defined by self-identification or by profound desire for both genders, then arguably none of these characters qualify: Steven Russell identifies exclusively as gay and appears passionless in his marriage; Jessica Stein is identified as straight even by her female lover, and cannot sustain sexual desire in her lesbian relationship; Helen Cooper, while attracted to men and women, appears emotionally detached and utilitarian towards all her male lovers, finding desire for romantic commitment only with women.

Both films, then, arguably fit a wider cultural pattern of bi erasure, suggesting that bisexual characters must “resolve” themselves as either gay or straight. I would argue, however, that what marks I Love You Phillip Morris and Kissing Jessica Stein as something more nuanced and interesting than another tale of “inauthentic” bisexuality, is the subtlety with which they examine all sexual orientations as limited by our internalized need to socially perform.

In I Love You Phillip Morris, Steven Russell (Jim Carrey) is introduced as a pillar of the community, a proud family man, an active member of his church and a policeman. The film suggests that Steven’s discovery that he was adopted, and the trauma of rejection by his birth mother, are the psychological triggers driving his powerful need for social approval, which includes suppressing the fact that he is gay. When driving back from a rendezvous with a male lover, a collision destroys his sports car and puts him in a neck-brace. Shorn of his status symbol and physically restrained, Stephen is mentally released and resolves to come out of the closet — the first of many moments when the physical restraint of jail or hospitalization triggers emotional liberation.

It may be controversial even to consider Steven as a potentially bisexual character, when his marriage is dictated by the demands of a closeted life, in a conservative culture of compulsory heterosexuality. Yet his coming out of the closet does not instantly transform him from “living a lie” to authenticity. Rather, he plays another social role, sporting extravagant status symbols and elaborate grooming to win the approval of the gay community, discovering that “being gay is really expensive.” As Steven turns to fraud to finance his extravagances, the film has fun with the idea that he has been psychologically prepared for the socially unacceptable role of con man by the socially demanded con of compulsory heterosexuality. As both wife Debbie (Leslie Mann) and boyfriend Jimmy (Rodrigo Santoro) unite to chase Steven and hold him accountable, we see that Steven’s compulsion to perform socially has been the driving force shaping both relationships, gay and straight.

Once in jail, I Love You Phillip Morris plays out like a rom-com spin on The Shawshank Redemption. Like The Shawshank Redemption‘s Andy Dufresne, Steven finds purification and transcendence by the power of his human will to cling to hope of escape, resisting the mental pressures of institutionalization. But where Andy’s sexual aspirations were represented only by a Rita Hayworth poster on his wall, Steven finds true love behind bars in Ewan McGregor’s winsome Phillip Morris. The famous Shawshank Redemption scene where Andy snatches an illicit moment to play Mozart over the PA system, is paralleled by a slow dance between Steven and Phillip to the strains of “Chances Are,” against a background of escalating prison brutality. Yet after emerging from prison, Steven’s lying and con-artistry rapidly resume, eventually alienating Phillip. Steven has been more deeply institutionalized by the society around him than he ever was by jail. As the film ends, he runs for freedom yet again, the dream of a perfectly realized love hanging over him as clear and yet elusive as a penis-shaped cloud.

As a representation of a bisexual woman, Kissing Jessica Stein‘s Jessica Stein (Jennifer Westfeldt) is a disappointment. Even after enjoyably consummating her relationship with Helen (Heather Juergensen), Jessica confesses to finding sex with a woman “all wrong.” However, if we accept Jessica as straight, made no more bisexual by her ability to perform sexually with a woman than Steven Russell is by his, then Kissing Jessica Stein (written by Westfeldt and Juergensen) changes from a bisexual rom-com into something else: a portrait of the price that the social institution of compulsory heterosexuality takes on a straight woman. Jessica is drawn to Helen by a Rilke quotation in her personal ad: “Only someone who is ready for everything, who excludes nothing, not even the most enigmatical, will live their relation to another as something alive.” It is Jessica’s heterosexuality that is characterized by the film as a space of deadness, inertia, and monotonous repetition, urgently in need of radical renewal and dismantled preconceptions.

The film opens with Jessica’s mother busily matchmaking her daughter in a synagogue. The men around her are reduced to a list of “suitable” qualities, from physical appearance to wealth and availability; Jessica is urged to force her feelings into finding their suitability attractive. Later, we see her endure a round of dates, each following the same formula of dinner and interrogation, and even taking place in the same restaurant. Jessica’s love life has become institutionalized. We also learn that she has already had a serious relationship with Josh (Scott Cohen), who will emerge as her final love interest. This earlier relationship failed because of Jessica’s intolerance over Josh’s perceived lack of ambition. Everything that we learn about Jessica’s loyalty in friendship indicates that she would be unfailingly supportive to a friend who was struggling in their career. But Jessica’s fixed, socialized preconceptions about the role of boyfriends or “husband material” mean that her lover must perform success, to become the expression of her own ambitions and perfectionism. It is heterosexual connection, not bisexuality, that Josh sees Jessica as “clearly not open to.” In a brilliantly acted and moving scene, Jessica’s mother (Tovah Feldshuh) reveals that it is this perfectionism that made her fear for her daughter’s happiness, while surprising her by accepting her lesbian lover.

This, then, is the role that bisexuality plays in Kissing Jessica Stein: the renewal of Jessica’s heterosexuality through the radical elimination of her romantic preconceptions, and through the thought experiment of reimagining female friendship as romance. Only in the ethics of female friendship, with its emphasis on unconditional loyalty, openness, and mutual support, does Jessica find the proper mental attitude from which to approach relationships, to live them in Rilke’s words as “something alive.” In a comic scene, Jessica pushes Helen towards a male lover because “he’s a sure thing” and Jessica would feel guilty if she was unable to perform. While this may be taken as yet additional proof that Jessica does not take Helen seriously as a romantic partner, it equally shows a classic female friendship’s ideals of unselfish support, that could even encompass a polyamorous relationship. Where are Jessica’s limits, once she releases herself from the narrow, social roles of compulsory heterosexuality? Is it ethical to reduce bisexuality to a plot device for exploring heterosexual frustrations? But, how else could those frustrations have been tackled?

Helen Cooper is introduced to us juggling male lovers: a married man whom she can call if she’s “hungry,” an intellectual she can call if she’s “bored,” and a younger, sexually enthusiastic messenger boy to call if she’s “horny.” This utilitarian attitude to her lovers is matched by a consistent emotional detachment in her dealings with them. Yet her gay friend Martin (Michael Mastro) uses the fact of her promiscuity alone to define her as straight, denying that she could feel lesbian attraction “because you have had more cock than I have, and I was a big whore in the 80s.” His denial of the possibility of bisexuality seems to stem from his need to assert his gay identity; bi erasure and biphobia are damaging and negatively impact and ignore bisexual people’s realities.

As Helen advertises for a lesbian lover, the women whose phone messages she receives seem trapped in fixed preconceptions of their own, as narrow as the expectations of the men that Jessica dates. They seek Helen as an emotional savior or to mother a child with them, rather than expressing openness to Rilke’s exploration of “something alive.” It is, perhaps, precisely Jessica Stein’s straightness that forces Helen to seduce her gradually and through the medium of friendship. In this combination of friendship with sexual allure, Helen seems to find committed romance for the first time. After she and Jessica break up, Helen moves into an apparently committed relationship with another woman, bickering good-naturedly over their sleeping arrangements before going for a friendly brunch with Jessica. Does this indicate that Helen has discovered her orientation as a lesbian? Is she a bisexual woman (since the gender of a person’s current romantic partner doesn’t determine their sexual orientation)? Or is she a bisexual woman who, like Jessica, was limited in her romantic satisfaction with men by her inability to see them as friends? Does it matter?

Surely, if there is a message to Kissing Jessica Stein and I Love You Phillip Morris, it is that social pressures and imposed roles must be unlearned before romantic fulfillment can be achieved. So then, at what point does a label become a limitation?

See also at Bitch Flicks:

LGBTQI Week: Kissing Jessica Stein

Brigit McCone is worried that her dating life may be becoming indescribably monotonous and unrenewed. She writes short films and radio dramas. Her hobbies include doodling and staring at nature documentaries.

Bisexuality and Masculinity in ‘Y Tu Mamá También’

‘Y Tu Mamá También’ points out the elastic, freeing nature of femininity compared to the toxic, fragile nature of masculinity. Over the course of the film, Luisa only becomes a month or so older and finds truth, or at the very least solace for herself, while Julio and Tenoch go from brash young adults to estranged, closed-off adult men, refusing to come to terms with their bisexuality.

This guest post written by Andy Herrera appears as part of our theme week on Bisexual Representation. | Spoilers ahead.

At first glance, Y Tu Mamá También looks and feels like a classic American sex comedy. You have two ostensibly straight young men desperate for sex who, when suddenly faced with the horrible predicament of not being able to have sex with their girlfriends while they are out of the country, befriend an attractive older women, lie to her about a beautiful beach destination, and both have sex with her. Even from this facile reading of the film, Y Tu Mamá También still invigorates that sometimes tired genre. Unlike American sex comedies, the sexual antics that our main characters, Tenoch (Diego Luna) and Julio (Gael García Bernal), get into are funny by virtue of how oversexed they themselves are and not the sex acts themselves, and the sexual humor is often at the expense of the men, not the women they have sex with.

The camerawork during the sex scenes often feels as lively as the people having sex on-screen as it moves in and out, creating a kinetic feel to each scene. When the movie is not explicitly about sex and sexuality, it’s a lovely travelogue of Mexico, shot beautifully by cinematographer Emmanuel Lubezki and interspersed with small visual reminders of political unrest juxtaposed with the natural beauty of the country. Director Alfonso Cuarón not only created a visually stunning sex comedy, however, he also created a complex character study that often points towards a bisexual subtext between our two leads.

Cuarón specifically cast Diego Luna and Gael Garcia Bernal as the leads, as they have been friends since childhood, and this shows in their natural chemistry on-screen. It’s clear why these two characters are friends and how they compliment each other. Going along with the film’s visual political commentary, there is also classism prevalent in the relationship between Tenoch and Julio. Tenoch’s father works for the Mexican government and Julio’s family is leftist and middle class, already setting up clear political and class conflict between the two boys that they nonetheless have managed to ignore in their friendship. As with other issues laid dormant in their relationship, Tenoch’s classism only comes out during a shouting match late in the film, as he calls Julio “a hillbilly.” The woman they go on a road trip with, Luisa (Maribel Verdú), proves to be the catalyst in unearthing the many repressed issues within their relationship, whether political or sexual.

The trope of an older woman teaching young men about life and love became ridiculous pretty much after Weird Science and it’s strange here too, yet is justified in retrospect at the end of the film, when Tenoch informs Julio that Luisa died a month after the trip and that she knew she had cancer the entire time. While Julio and Tenoch go on that journey with her, just for the virtue of being around an attractive woman that may have sex with them, Luisa went on that journey to find peace and truth within her life and impart wisdom on to someone, anyone, as her entire family is deceased and her husband repeatedly cheated on her. Luisa ultimately succeeds in finding truth for herself and for Julio and Tenoch, but for them the truth permanently fractures their relationship.

At the beginning of their journey, as Julio and Tenoch get to know Luisa, Julio states that “truth is cool but unattainable… the truth is totally amazing but you can never reach it.” Their trip to the beach allows Julio and Tenoch to come close to unearthing deep sexual truths about themselves, but his words become a self-fulfilling prophecy as they never reach the truth. At the beginning of the film, Julio and Tenoch start out as brash and sexually pompous (despite both of them admitting they’ve only had sex with their current girlfriends) young men. Out of a need for sexual intimacy with men she trusts more than her cheating husband, Luisa has sex with both of them and sexual dysfunctions are revealed: Julio reaches climax too quickly; Tenoch has a habit of saying “Mama” when he reaches his own climax. These idiosyncrasies are pointed out to them by Luisa, exemplifying their sexual immaturity and inexperience. It’s soon revealed that both Julio and Tenoch have slept with each other’s girlfriends in a scenario that’s first presented as dramatic and potentially friendship ending, but then is reframed as comedic as more of their sexual dalliances are revealed in farcical fashion. Their friendship remains intact.

As Julio and Tenoch come to a head in their argument over who had sex with whose girlfriend, Luisa becomes angry and leaves, exclaiming, “What [they] really want to do is fuck each other!” This statement, while humorous within the scene, gains weight when read in context with scenes before and after this one. Earlier in the film, Julio and Tenoch play around naked while showering, masturbate together, and even note a picture of a penis together. They remark that they never see a friend anymore since he came out of the closet, but are nonetheless accepting of him, despite their heavy usage of homophobic slurs throughout the film.

After they reconcile, Julio, Tenoch, and Luisa all have sex while intoxicated, which leads to Julio and Tenoch passionately kissing. The revelatory aspect of this threesome scene is that Tenoch and Julio’s kiss isn’t played for gay panic humor as it typically would be in other sex comedies, but rather as tender, loving, and a natural growth of their sexualities. There’s never a doubt that they’re attracted to women, but this scene confirms they are also definitely attracted to each other as more than friends (even Diego Luna can’t stop thinking about it). Luisa, once again, is the catalyst that leads them to this truth, it’s up to them whether or not they accept it.

Due to society’s (and their own ingrained) heteronormativity, Julio and Tenoch do not accept this truth, however. The morning after their tryst, they choose to go home immediately, with Luisa staying behind voluntarily. The narrator states that their girlfriends later broke up with them, they found new women to date, and they eventually stopped seeing each other. Julio and Tenoch only meet once again a year later, to discuss Luisa’s fate, before never meeting again. Luisa finds peace in nature and with her true self, and while she pushed Julio and Tenoch towards some harsh truths, they ultimately rejected them.

Y Tu Mamá También points out the elastic, freeing nature of femininity compared to the toxic, fragile nature of masculinity. Over the course of the film, Luisa only becomes a month or so older and finds truth, or at the very least solace for herself, while Julio and Tenoch go from brash young adults to estranged, closed-off adult men, refusing to come to terms with their bisexuality. The children are Mexico’s (and every country’s) future but even they cannot survive in an oppressive society without obscuring some fundamental truth about who they are.

Andy Herrera was born in New York, raised in Florida, and is now back in New York again. He was raised on TV shows and movies and now all he does is write about them.

‘Lost Girl’: Breaking the Mold For Bisexual Representation on TV

Series creator and season one’s co-showrunner, Michelle Lovretta structured the idea of a bisexual female superhero around being a succubus: “a mythological being who uses sex to feed, heal, and kill” — a traditionally vilified female role that used sex as a weapon. … Awareness of the unique challenges of bisexual representation allowed Bo to be a genuinely complex heroine, instead of just a problematic stereotype. She was carefully crafted to be sex positive, while being defined by her relationships, instead of her sexuality.

This guest post written by Laura LaVertu appears as part of our theme week on Bisexual Representation.

The Canadian fantasy television series, Lost Girl, had a complex and intimate relationship with bisexual representation. Like most shows, years of development had to occur before it appeared on television. During this time, there was a deliberate attempt to counter negative perceptions of bisexual characters in its writing. It also had a rather fraught path to the small screen, one that producer Jay Firestone laid squarely at the feet of its “bisexual element.” He described how he first thought of the idea, in a 2012 Comic-Con interview:

“A couple of my friends and I were talking about what sort of Buffy would be like today versus when Buffy was out. And I made a joke at one point and said Buffy would be bisexual, and everyone said what a cool idea! So we started developing it from there.”

But the production team had a hard time finding a workable script. Series creator and season one’s co-showrunner, Michelle Lovretta, eventually landed it for them, structuring the idea of a bisexual female superhero around being a succubus: “a mythological being who uses sex to feed, heal, and kill” — a traditionally vilified female role that used sex as a weapon. Both Lovretta and Firestone expressed the difficulties they had in managing a television series around Bo (Anna Silk), such a sexually powerful, bisexual lead character:

“I went and sold it, tried to sell it, to everybody… and they were all scared of it a bit… They were nervous about the bisexual element,” Firestone said. “That’s what scared everybody.”

Lovretta relates her own anxiety about the show in this Watercooler Journal interview:

“But after that initial excitement came trepidation – it is so, so incredibly easy with a template like that to create something mind-numbingly insulting, anti-female, and exploitative. I wouldn’t want my name on that. And, as someone who respects both the straight and queer communities, I was afraid of alienating either of them in the process… or, of just making neutered, boring TV by overthinking it and being too PC. Gah!! The challenge was to create a fun, sex-positive world that celebrates provocative cheesecake for everyone, without falling into base stereotypes or misogynistic (or misandristic) exploitation along the way.”

She set up a series of rules in her writers’ room to address the problems:

“Sexual orientation is not discussed, and never an issue;
“No slut shaming – Bo is allowed to have sex outside of relationships
“Bo’s male and female partners are equally viable;
“Bo is capable of monogamy, when desired;
“Both genders are to be (adoringly!) objectified — equal opportunity eye candy FTW.”

Lovretta admitted they could not always adhere to all of the rules in the “thick of production,” but they always “tried.” She was not fond of anything “too prurient;” and although she said she wrote with no specific themes in mind, she had a desire to “defend the bisexual community” against what she perceived as negative stereotypes. For this reason, the character of Kenzi (Ksenia Solo) was allowed to state she was straight in the first episode. This was to “represent female friendships that [were] not sexualized,” as well as to counter the “gay panic cliché that bisexual people sexualize everyone.”

This was rare and sympathetic handling for such a character. Awareness of the unique challenges of bisexual representation allowed Bo to be a genuinely complex heroine, instead of just a problematic stereotype. She was carefully crafted to be sex positive, while being defined by her relationships, instead of her sexuality. She was specifically designed to be a good person; such positive representation for bisexual people is important. Research has shown that biphobia, monosexism, and erasure and marginalization are major stressors for bisexual people. They “have higher rates of anxiety, depression, and other mood disorders, compared to heterosexuals, lesbians and gays.”

But while the lead character was undoubtedly important, Lost Girl did not rely on Bo alone for its bisexual representation. By its final season, the show had a majority queer cast, many of whom were bisexual. Possibly the best example was the flip of an iconic season one villain, Vex, into a bisexual male ally. It not only snagged actor Paul Amos a Canadian Screen Award nomination for his portrayal, but it also gave the show its first main bisexual male character. Female characters tend to have much greater bisexual representation than male characters. Lost Girl was no exception to this stereotype, so the bisexual reveal of Vex was a great improvement. Even better was that the show allowed Vex a happy ending with his love interest during the series finale.

But the show possessed other weaknesses in bisexual representation. There was a failure to cast many actors of color, as well as to avoid the death trope. Lead actor Anna Silk has Turkish-Cyprian-British heritage. But the show had a poor record maintaining its characters of color. While the series killed its straight characters at about twice the rate of its queer characters (which is especially interesting given the preponderance of LGBTQ characters killed on television), it did not spare one of its main bisexual characters from a particularly egregious ending.

With all its strengths and weaknesses, Lost Girl was a defining property for bisexual representation on television. It provided a huge boost in both the quantity and quality of bisexual characters on-screen. It expanded significantly on the ground broken by its two predecessors, Sanctuary and Torchwood, and helped pave the way for the now many more leading bisexual characters found on television series such as Black Sails, Orange Is the New Black, The 100, and more. It remains on the short list of shows that provide happy endings to its queer couples; a short list of shows that even have queer couples in its main cast. It was the first television show I knew of with a heroic lead character in a same-sex relationship, and the first show with a majority queer and majority female main cast on mainstream television. May there be many more to follow.

See also at Bitch Flicks:

Friendship, Fandom, and Female Agency in Lost Girl
How Love Triangles Perpetuate Misogyny
The Problem with LGBT Representation in True Blood and Lost Girl

Laura LaVertu is a writer, caretaker, and TV trope analyzer in the southeastern United States, advocating for diversity in film and on television.

‘Game of Thrones’: Oberyn Martell, a Positive Portrayal of a Bisexual Man of Color

But even if Oberyn Martell isn’t your favorite, he is decidedly unique in one regard: a positively portrayed bisexual man of color on television. As if this weren’t enough, his character arc doesn’t center around his race or his sexual orientation. Like any other character on the show, he has his own convoluted political revenge plot.

This guest post written by Lochlan Sudarshan appears as part of our theme week on Bisexual Representation. | Spoilers ahead.

Everyone thinks their favorite character on Game of Thrones is the most underrated. As a result, I won’t try to convince you to shift your allegiance. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from the TV series, it’s that it seldom turns out well. But even if Oberyn Martell (Pedro Pascal) isn’t your favorite, he is decidedly unique in one regard: a positively portrayed bisexual man of color on television. As if this weren’t enough, his character arc doesn’t center around his race or his sexual orientation. Like any other character on the show, he has his own convoluted political revenge plot.

Part of what makes Game of Thrones notable, namely the character deaths and the copious sex scenes, are precisely what help Oberyn blend in. By this, I mean the narrative is surprisingly egalitarian with its treatment of him. Sure, he faces a lot of horrific situations, but he’s not singled out because of his sexual identity. In Westeros, no matter who you like screwing, the universe always likes screwing you.

When we are introduced to Oberyn in the television series, it’s in Littlefinger’s brothel. On any other show, I’d see this as a harbinger of more harmful stereotypes about bisexual men to come. The thing about first impressions is, you can only make them once. On Game of Thrones specifically, however, this scene isn’t coded the same way, because the straight and queer characters are also shown having a lot of sex. This means the scene lacks the baggage it would in a series where Oberyn was the only one shown having sex with men. If he were the only character shown to indulge in explicit casual sex and having sex with sex workers, it would be difficult to separate out from his characterization as a bisexual man of color. However, since Game of Thrones shows people of multiple sexual orientations engaging in sex with sex workers, it’s robbed of its connotation as perpetuating harmful stereotypes about bisexual men.

A fan favorite, Oberyn is confident, bold, passionate, and fearless. He’s a prince, a warrior (nicknamed “The Red Viper”), a poet, and a father who loves his daughters. And he is candid about his bisexuality:

“Then everyone is missing half the world’s pleasure. The gods made that… and it delights me. The gods made this… and it delights me. When it comes to war, I fight for Dorne. When it comes to love — I don’t choose sides.”

Another unique aspect of Oberyn’s portrayal on the television series is the open nature of his relationship with his paramour, Ellaria Sand (Indira Varma). Like Oberyn, Ellaria is also bisexual. While Game of Thrones is often problematic in its depiction of race, gender, and people of color, it is great to see not one but two bi characters of color.

Unlike the plotline of Loras (Finn Jones) and Renly (Gethin Anthony), who are both gay characters, no drama ensues from Oberyn being queer. While Margaery (Natalie Dormer) was supportive of her brother Renly and Loras’ relationship, she had a vested interest in keeping quiet about their relationship: her silence enabled her to be the queen. There isn’t any hint of Ellaria being in a similar position with Oberyn. In fact, she says that people of both genders will “line up” to have sex with him. As Oberyn says later, this is the way things are done in Dorne.

Oberyn is very close with his large family. Unlike other characters, his sexuality isn’t something that comes between him and his family, causing rifts due to their disapproval. More importantly, his bisexuality also isn’t treated as a vice where he’s prevented from spending time with his children because he’s too busy being promiscuous. While he has lots of sex with both men and women, he’s not vilified for it either in or out of universe.

Oberyn’s treatment isn’t restricted to metatextual concerns from the narrative, it’s also shown in the in-universe attitudes of the characters themselves. Again, in contrast to Loras and Renly, no one ever makes homophobic jokes about Oberyn having sex with men behind his back or to his face. Even when Oberyn himself comments on it at the small council meeting, saying the Unsullied were “very impressive on the battlefield. Less so in the bedroom,” this is left untouched by the other sitting members. People don’t treat him with extra respect because they need him as a political ally. Game of Thrones is all about letting personal slights overcome what you and your country need, and the small council is the staging ground for all manner of petty fights, but not this time.

In the episode “The Lion and the Rose,” King Joffrey commissions a minstrel show of the various warring kings depicting the events of the last few seasons; Renly and Loras make an appearance. Renly was (nominally) Joffrey’s uncle, and a sizable contingent of Westeros regarded him as the rightful king. Loras, in addition to still being alive, is one of the scions to the powerful House Tyrell. At this stage in the television series, a lot of time has been spent talking about how important it is for House Lannister to secure House Tyrell as political allies. In spite of both of these factors in play, the open secret of the relationship between Renly and Loras means this kind of mockery can go on without any immediate complaint. But no one makes any jokes about who Oberyn’s been sleeping with, or for how many years.

Ultimately, Oberyn’s arc itself shows his egalitarian treatment as a bisexual man on the show. He transcends many tropes. He wants to get his Inigo Montoya on and avenge the rape and murder of his sister and the murder of her children. While he is grotesquely unsuccessful, and his death is extremely brutal — even by Game of Thrones standards — we should reconsider the knee jerk reaction to dismiss all his favorable (and even friendly) treatment by the narrative up until now since he’s killed off — sadly, a common fate for far too many LGBTQ characters on television, both queer men and queer women (especially queer women).

While this ending for his character is unfortunate and would definitely come with some reservations in a different show — much like his introduction in a brothel — its context is different on Game of Thrones. Despite his brief time on the show, he’s a character with surprising depth. What happens to secondary characters here, whether they’re straight, gay, or bi? In the end, they die horribly.

Overall, Game of Thrones treats Oberyn with equality, nuance, and complexity. And that’s pretty great.

Lochlan Sudarshan is a writer, teacher, and tabletop roleplaying enthusiast who excels at knowing the name of that one actor and talks about books, movies, and TV on Twitter. You can follow him on Twitter @Lochlan_S and on his blog.

Is ‘Buffy the Vampire Slayer’s Willow Rosenberg a Lesbian or Bisexual?

So is Willow bi, or is she a lesbian? Well, I guess it’s your choice. I personally believe she’s bisexual; it makes more sense to me, a bisexual woman, that Willow is also a bisexual woman, just with a preference for women. But I have read that many lesbians connected with Willow’s story on such a fundamental way, and I can’t wholeheartedly take it away from them; they have just as much of a right to her as I do.

This guest post written by Gail Wald appears as part of our theme week on Bisexual Representation.

For many people, labels matter. Humans put labels on everything, from gender to interest groups to clothing styles to sexuality. These labels define not just each individual person, but also our culture as a whole. We are the culmination of all of these groups: the groups we accept, the groups we detest.

Buffy the Vampire Slayer was, at its center, supposed to be about the groups we don’t accept. It centered on three unpopular geeks who hung out with a librarian. And sure, they were all very pretty – but everybody’s pretty on TV; at the end of the day, Buffy (Sarah Michelle Gellar) wasn’t winning any popularity contests, Willow (Alyson Hannigan) was a computer nerd, and Xander (Nicholas Brendon) seemed to spend all of his days watching every single movie in the history of Hollywood. This group – the Scoobies – were mocked by Cordelia (Charisma Carpenter) and the rest of the popular crowd; they were losers.

And so they were outsiders. Willow, especially, seemed to never really get over that outsider feeling, always eager to prove herself, to be better – her greatest fear: failure; her deepest secret: self-loathing. In this light, it makes so much sense that Willow was Gay All Along. After all – it fits with her character so well. Trying to hide herself away only to realize she never could.

Of course, the fact that Willow is attracted to women is hardly debatable – in fact, it’s hard canon. The relationship between Tara (Amber Benson) and Willow is nothing if not as genuine – definitely sweeter – than every other romantic relationship on Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Even though it took the series more than a season to have them share a kiss (one of the first lesbian kisses in prime-time television), the show was hardly ever hiding the relationship. While Kennedy (Iyari Limon) is controversial at best and openly despised at worst, Willow is definitely attracted to her – in a major way. Willow likes girls. End of story.

The problem with this, of course, is that Willow spent more than three seasons forming romantic and sexual attachments to, well, men. First, Xander; then, Oz (Seth Green). And then she cheats on Oz with Xander, seemingly motivated for no reason other than lust. And she has sex with Oz, not divulging to us, the viewers, that she felt any discomfort with the act. These are definite signs of attraction to the male gender, after all.

So wait, what is going on here?

Well, as I said, labels are important. Willow calls herself a lesbian. And if a woman who had been with men stood in front of me in real life and called herself a lesbian, I would believe her. After all, there are several reasons why this could happen. She could be, in fact, a lesbian who experienced compulsory heterosexuality; she could have decided to try sex with guys but realized she didn’t want to do it again; she could be a woman who decided that she was only interested in relationships with women, and therefore identified with the label more than with any other label. And since she is a real human being with her own unique experiences, it isn’t my place to tell her she isn’t a lesbian because she had sex with a man, or a relationship with a man, or any other experiences with a man. She is a lesbian. End of story.

But Willow Rosenberg isn’t a real person. She’s a character, open for interpretation. And them’s the facts: Willow Rosenberg liked having sex with men and women.

But! Somebody screams. Willow seems to never experience attraction towards men after she starts dating Tara!

Not true. Even if we ignored the whole episode in which she shows she’s still attracted to Oz after his return, despite being with Tara at the time, there is still this scene in season 4, in which Giles sings “Behind Blue Eyes” and the gang are left in shock, each with their own unique reaction. “Now I remember why I used to have such a crush on him” seems to me at least to not be the most homosexual line ever.

So is Willow bisexual then?

Well, the truth is, Willow does call herself a lesbian, and like I said twice already, labels matter, especially self-identified labels. But the thing is, she never dismisses the label of bisexual, either; she simply assumes she is a lesbian since she is interested in relationships with women. And as I said, Willow isn’t a real person – she was written by other people, imperfect people, people like Joss Whedon who might do good, positive work, and still be biphobic, whether intentionally or not.

Willow never brings up the possibility of being bi. Had she brought it up and dismissed it – well, firstly, the word “bisexual” would have been uttered on television, which seems to be a difficult feat to accomplish, and secondly, it would be a lot easier to accept that she was a lesbian for us bi folk. Because there are real bisexual people out there who experience bi erasure, who are told they’re gay or lesbian when they’re with a person of the same gender and heterosexual when they’re with a person of the opposite gender, who are told they’re confused, who are told they must choose. And it would be so easy to bring it up on the show, as well. It could go something like this:

Buffy: So, you’re gay now?
Willow: Yeah. I thought I might be bisexual, but I’m a lesbian.

See? So easy. These two lines turn Willow from bi erasure to pure lesbian representation.

So is Willow bi, or is she a lesbian?

Well, I guess it’s your choice. I personally believe she’s bisexual; it makes more sense to me, a bisexual woman, that Willow is also a bisexual woman, just with a preference for women. But I have read that many lesbians connected with Willow’s story on such a fundamental way, and I can’t wholeheartedly take it away from them; they have just as much of a right to her as I do.

She’s anything you want her to be, at least until we invent a machine that allows us to travel into fictional universes.

See also at Bitch Flicks:

Exploring Bisexual Tension in Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Buffy the Vampire Slayer: Joss Whedon’s Binary Excludes Bisexuality
Buffy the Vampire Slayer: Willow Rosenberg: Geek, Interrupted

Gail Wald is a recent high school graduate who has wished to become an author since the age of seven. In her spare time she writes books and essays about Buffy the Vampire Slayer (which she has been a fan of since seventh grade), complains about the patriarchy (in the newly opened Facebook page Gail Complains About the Patriarchy), and plays with her cat.

The Trope of the Murderous Bisexual Woman

There are a number of films — frequently defined as “erotic thrillers” — which feature bisexual women who are violent, manipulative, and even murderous. … The trope of the promiscuous, aggressive, violent, and unstable bisexual woman is one that truly needs to disappear. Even if directors do not intend any harm to queer people or communities, these inaccurate portrayals lead movie-goers to believe that bisexuality is something dangerous, to be feared.

This guest post written by Angela Morrison appears as part of our theme week on Bisexual Representation. | Spoilers ahead.

Bisexual characters are rarely represented in cinema, but among the scarce examples, one trope stands out as particularly insidious. There are a number of films — frequently defined as “erotic thrillers” — which feature bisexual women who are violent, manipulative, and even murderous. Femme fatales such as Catherine Tramell (Sharon Stone) in Basic Instinct are aggressive and sexually confident, and thus are considered to be dangerous. This trope assumes that if a woman’s sexuality is fluid, then she must be unstable; there must be something wrong with a woman whose sexuality does not fit into a neat little box.

Two of the most prominent examples of this trope come from the aforementioned Basic Instinct, as well as Brian De Palma’s 2012 film, Passion. Both films are directed by straight white men who filter the female experience through their own male perspective, and then through their camera lenses. Their female characters are shown to have some charming qualities, but in the end they are promiscuous and manipulative, never to be trusted.

In Passion, Rachel McAdams plays Christine, an extremely successful advertising executive, who works closely with Noomi Rapace’s character, Isabelle. The women at first appear to have a close friendship and solid work relationship, but this is not a movie about working women supporting one another. It soon becomes evident that Christine does not see Isabelle as her equal, but rather, as someone she has complete control over – in work and in personal life. Christine takes credit for Isabelle’s work to ensure she can move up within the advertising company. Shortly after, she tells Isabelle a sad tale of her twin sister being killed by a car, ending the speech by saying, “I love you,” to Isabelle. This is clearly manipulative behavior.

At various points in the film, Christine kisses and makes mild sexual advances towards Isabelle. Christine is also involved with a man named Dirk (Paul Anderson), whom she has theatrical sexual encounters with, frequently involving power play. The film casually enforces the idea that bisexual women do not abide by the codes of monogamy, but rather, have sexual/romantic relations with anyone they want at any time. Of course, Dirk also sleeps with Isabelle, so I guess straight men are not presented as being much more faithful. This is not to say that monogamy is “normal” or “right” — not at all. But De Palma has not made a film about the joy and beauty of polyamory. Christine goes behind Dirk’s back and makes sexual advances towards Isabelle, because according to De Palma, that is how bisexual women operate.

Isabelle returns Christine’s attraction, and also has sex with Dirk. She is another bisexual character portrayed as promiscuous. At various points in the film, Christine and Isabelle also exhibit dangerous, and even violent, tendencies. [SPOILER] Christine is murdered, and it is revealed that Isabelle killed her, and manipulated everyone around her in order to cover it up. In the world of Passion, bisexual women are criminal masterminds with lots of secrets. Even Isabelle’s assistant Dani (Karoline Herfurth) joins in the fun, professing her love for Isabelle and then blackmailing her into having a sexual relationship with her. All three of these queer women fit into the trope of the femme fatale), which is not necessarily a bad thing. Christine, Isabelle, and Dani are all successful career women who are confident and highly intelligent. However, their fluid sexualities pose a threat in the mind of De Palma, so they are also portrayed as unstable and prone to violence.

Passion is not meant to be taken as a realistic film – De Palma clearly indicates that this slightly humorous and highly stylized film is meant to be over-the-top. The set and costume design are sleek and shiny. Christine wears big, ornate earrings and perfectly-fitting business suits. Everyone’s office is made completely of glass and polished metal. The score uses “stingers” to heighten moments of shock and fear. Characters often bolt upright in the middle of the night, revealing that the previous scenes were just a dream. The film is clearly flamboyant, which is one of its charms. The same can be said about Basic Instinct – the film is full of neon lights, noir-ish twists and turns in the narrative, and equally athletic dance and sex scenes. And of course, Paul Verhoeven is a master of satire – he is rarely serious. Verhoeven is always smirking at the audience through his movies. However, representation is important. These two films are fun and exciting (as B. Ruby Rich notes of Basic Instinct in her essay, “New Queer Cinema“), but for all their satirizing and stylizing, the insidious ideas about queer women are hurtful. Biphobia literally means “fear of bisexuality,” and that fear is amplified by movies such as these.

Neither Passion nor Basic Instinct ever utters the word “bisexual.” However, in Basic Instinct, Catherine clearly has an intimate romantic and sexual relationship with Roxy (Laelani Sarelle). Catherine is presented as a threat because she is a confident queer woman, who knows what she wants in all aspects of her life: professionally, personally, sexually. Detective Nick Curran (Michael Douglas) remains suspicious of her for the entire film. A confident, sexual woman must secretly be a murderer. Yes, there are many other clues that point to Catherine being the murderer, but the one thing that is constantly foregrounded is her sexuality – especially in that famous scene. She uses her out-of-control sexuality to manipulate the men around her, because according to Verhoeven, that is what queer women do.

Carrie Nelson at Bitch Media outlines the many biphobic elements of Basic Instinct in her article, “A Look at Basic Instinct.” She notes that Catherine and Roxy’s relationship is framed so that it’s titillating for male viewers. When Catherine and Roxy kiss each other, Catherine has one eye on Nick, gauging his reaction, hoping he’s aroused. Bisexual encounters in cinema are often filtered through the “male gaze”: rather than representing two women enjoying each other for their own pleasure, sexual relations between women are objectified, with the purpose of arousing male viewers. With the release of films such as Basic Instinct and Darren Aronofsky’s 2010 film Black Swan, comes the question from young male viewers — “Did you see that lesbian scene?” Whether or not the male directors of these films intend to objectify queer women, it inevitably ends up happening. The queer women in these films are often not given a voice to express their emotional and romantic attachment to their partners. Their experiences are seen as purely sexual, and more often than not, calculating and cold. Catherine, Christine, and Isabelle have sexual encounters in order to manipulate others.

The trope of the promiscuous, aggressive, violent, and unstable bisexual woman is one that truly needs to disappear. Even if directors do not intend any harm to queer people or communities, these inaccurate portrayals lead movie-goers to believe that bisexuality is something dangerous, to be feared. As is widely known, LGBTQ+ activists protested Basic Instinct during filming and then once it had been released. This trope has been criticized since at least the 1990s (and even before, with women’s groups protesting Brian De Palma’s earlier film, Dressed to Kill, for equating female sexuality with violence). But films such as Passion demonstrate that the trope is alive and well. Much work needs to be done to give bisexual characters a voice – bisexual characters should be portrayed as the complex, beautiful, and complicated human beings that they are. Not all of us are secretly hiding ice picks under our beds.

See also at Bitch Flicks:

Passion and Crime d’Amour: Women and Corporate Power Plays

Angela Morrison is a feminist cinephile, and she has written for Bitch Flicks before. She lives in Canada and is a recent Cinema Studies graduate. She writes about cinema for fun on her blog.

A Place to Call Home: The Search for Love and Identity in ‘My Own Private Idaho’

In many ways, Gus Van Sant’s ‘My Own Private Idaho’ is a film about duality, weaving together conflicting stories about love, family and the inescapable lure of home, even when it is a place you can never go back to again. And that duality also lends itself heavily to the sexual identities of the film’s main characters, Mike and Scott, two street hustlers with opposite views of their own bisexuality…

This guest post written by Jamie Righetti appears as part of our theme week on Bisexual Representation.

In many ways, Gus Van Sant’s My Own Private Idaho (1991) is a film about duality, weaving together conflicting stories about love, family and the inescapable lure of home, even when it is a place you can never go back to again. And that duality also lends itself heavily to the sexual identities of the film’s main characters, Mike (River Phoenix) and Scott (Keanu Reeves), two street hustlers with opposite views of their own bisexuality, as well as the fulfillment they receive from their life on the street and where it will ultimately take them.

The film’s primary story follows Mike, a scrappy street hustler prone to frequent fits of narcolepsy during which he recalls memories of his mother and his childhood home. Mike bounces around between Seattle and Portland, living rough on the streets and hanging out with other street kids in the same restaurant to keep out of the cold. Mike hustles out of necessity, making just enough to eat and sometimes weaseling extra money out of clients to get by. On the flip side, there is Scott, the handsome son of Portland’s mayor and the heir apparent. As the rich kid slumming it for fun and (according to him) playing gay for pay, Scott serve as a direct foil to Mike as both a character and a subplot in the film.

It is worth nothing that despite the fluidity present in both characters’ sexuality, the film still tends to use very binary language and coding with its depiction of sex work. Mike and Scott are referred to as “street hustlers” rather than prostitutes, which serves to reinforce Scott’s claim that he “only has sex with men for money.” Having sex for pay helps root their identity within the boundaries of masculinity and serves as a direct contrast to selling one’s body for sex, something presumably only women can do. This is further highlighted in our first glimpse of Mike with a client, during which he is being serviced by a client, rather than the opposite. Furthermore, there is often an erasure of Mike’s bisexuality based on his attraction to Scott. Although Mike is seen with more male clients than female ones, he does go home with an older female client and, prior to his narcoleptic episode, seems both willing and interested in sleeping with her. The duality present in both Mike and Scott’s sexuality is not only central to a film about identity but also in understanding the complexities of both characters, who are not as simple as the gay and straight labels often stuck on them.

The duality of My Own Private Idaho also plays out in strange ways at times. Midway through the film, as the story begins to center on Scott, the dialogue and characters take on a Shakespearean tinge. Van Sant has spoken about the influence of Henry IV and Henry V on the film, which is further explored with the introduction of Bob (William Richert), a Falstaff parallel and father-figure to Mike, Scott, and the ragtag crew of street kids they spend time with. While these scenes might feel slightly out of place, especially alongside the gravity of Mike’s story and the search for his mother, they give important insight into Scott. In a conversation with Bob, Scott reveals that he’s just shy of his twenty-first birthday, which is when he will inherit his father’s money. When this happens, Scott will leave the streets and go back to his old life. Within this context, the antiquated Shakespearean dialogue, which feels forced and hollow, serves as a metaphor for Scott, who is well-liked but truly out of place in a world of misfits who don’t have a comfortable identity to fall back on when they get bored.

But while Scott has willingly turned his back on his family, Mike is desperate to reconnect with his. He brings Scott along to Idaho to see his estranged brother to seek out information about where his mother is staying. Mike finds an odd comfort in his narcoleptic flashbacks and his quest in some way is a search for his first love, the one that nostalgia has deemed pure and simple. By reinforcing the purity of true love, it will allow him to validate not just his feelings for Scott but also his bisexuality as a whole, which is often at odds with his lifestyle, where love is commoditized and quantified, and where his sexual preferences must be fluid for profit but never real.

There is perhaps no greater example of this than in the film’s famous campfire confession, a scene which Phoenix himself rewrote. During their road trip from Portland to Idaho, Mike and Scott are forced to camp out in the desert overnight. As they huddle around a meager fire, Mike struggles to open up to Scott and confess his deep feelings. There is a stabbing ache of recognition that comes when Mike timidly asks Scott what he means to him, as both men are suddenly very aware of the weight behind those whispered words. Scott in turn, declares that Mike is his best friend but nothing more.

Recalling an earlier scene in which Mike and Scott are cover boys on gay magazines, Scott tells Mike that he only has sex for money, despite him not being in need of the cash. Before Mike can object, Scott adds as a hasty afterthought: “And two guys can’t love each other.” For Scott, his sexuality is rooted in flawed logic that as long as he’s providing a service and not ascribing any true emotion to sex, he can have his fun and still identify as straight. But his actions seem to contradict this, as he has chosen to hustle not out of necessity but because he enjoys it. For Scott, his chosen lifestyle allows him the freedom to fully explore and express his bisexuality in a way in which his upbringing could never allow. But the roots of his childhood are too deep for him to fully shake and instead, he must mask his sexuality as a commodity, in order to allow him to eventually return to his former life.

Perhaps seeing through this, Mike counters by trying to poke logic into this theory. “Well, I don’t know,” he says. “I could love someone even if I, you know, wasn’t paid for it. I love you, and you don’t pay me.” There is a purity in Mike that is quite absent in Scott, as he is more than certain that his feelings for Scott are real. But despite this, he is still seeking validation – not only love that is returned but that it can be acceptable as love. Scott, however, is unable to return this affection because it will break his own construction of his sexuality, which can only be cast in black and white.

It’s a brilliant and raw scene in which Phoenix oozes vulnerability and insecurity, even physically turning in on himself to shield himself from Scott’s rejection. In the end, Scott feels bad for his friend and calls him over to go to sleep. The two embrace, with Mike folding into Scott’s arms, dutifully accepting the scraps of affection he’s allowed, while swallowing down his unrequited attraction. The two continue their journey as if nothing has happened, but as an audience we’re now attuned to an extra layer of melancholy that surrounds Mike and his interactions with Scott.

In Italy, Scott and Mike’s stories diverge once again, as Scott falls in love with Carmella (Chiara Caselli), an Italian woman living at the farmhouse where Mike’s mother was last seen. It is Carmella who tells the two that Mike’s mother returned home, making his trip (and the things he did to finance it) pointless. Mike sticks around, waiting for Scott so they can return home but Scott is distracted by Carmella. A brokenhearted Mike is subjected to several nights of overheard pleasure between thin bedroom walls before Scott finally hands him a ticket home and abandons him in Italy. But as with many of Scott’s actions, it feels slightly disingenuous. While he certainly is attracted to Carmella, it also feels convenient that he can use her as a means of escape, thereby blocking any reciprocal feelings for Mike that he might be repressing.

Likewise, the telegram Scott receives regarding his father’s death serves as a final nail in the coffin for his old life. Upon his return to Portland, Scott has stepped into his old shoes, riding around in limousines, wearing expensive suits and shunning anyone from his former life, including his one-time mentor and father figure, Bob. In a beautiful juxtaposition, Scott is attending his father’s funeral service, a demure and somber affair, at the same time that Mike and his former friends are celebrating the life of Bob, who died of a broken heart after Scott’s rejection. Scott eyes his former friends with an almost unreadable look on his face; neither envious nor angry, but perhaps (picking up where Mike left off) simply seeking comfort in nostalgia, while simultaneously knowing it is a place where he can never return.

The film then ends on an appropriately ambiguous note. Mike is once again in Idaho on “his” road, the one that reminds him of a “fucked up face.” He collapses after another narcoleptic fit and is robbed of his things by a passing pick-up truck. Finally, a car pulls up and an unseen person picks up Mike and drives away with him. It is unclear if he has been rescued or if he is in danger but it is clear that either way, he (and Scott) won’t find a happy ending. While Mike has the freedom to revel in the lifestyle and bisexuality that Scott can no longer can afford, he also is lacking the comfort of reciprocal love that Scott now has in Carmella. Likewise, neither can ever go back home, quite literally for Mike and metaphorically for Scott, again. It is a bittersweet conclusion that renders Mike’s fate irrelevant and makes us in turn seek to return “home” to the earlier scenes where both men were free to love without fear.

Jamie Righetti is an author and freelance film critic from New York City. Her work has been featured on Film School Rejects and Daily Grindhouse, as well as in Belladonna magazine. Jamie is the host of the horror podcast, ScreamBros, and she has just released her debut novel, Beechwood Park, which is currently available on Amazon. You can follow her on Twitter @JamieRighetti.

A Love Letter to Dr. Callie Torres on ‘Grey’s Anatomy’

Against a backdrop of a television landscape lacking in queer representation (especially queer women of color) emerged Callie Torres’ anxious and exciting adventure of self-discovery. … Callie Torres is a fully fleshed out resilient, sensitive, complex, and unapologetic bisexual Latina woman. … Callie’s journey was an iconic one that helped to not only change television, but to cement the oft forgotten notion that bisexuality is very real.

This guest post written by Cheyenne Matthews-Hoffman appears as part of our theme week on Bisexual Representation.

It’s no secret that bisexual characters are lacking on television. Even as queerness becomes more prevalent on-screen, the roles are sparse and often times showcase harmful generalizations and stereotypes. Shonda Rhimes’ television empire Shondaland is a powerful part of the changing landscape of entertainment. Her portrayal of people of color, women, and queer characters is nuanced and intricate. She doesn’t discriminate when it comes to drama and thrills; everyone is subject to the emotional roller coaster that is TGIT, no matter who they are.

Her portrayal of LGBTQ characters has been heralded by GLAAD, the most recent accolades coming from the inclusion of How to Get Away with Murder’s protagonist Annalise Keating’s bisexuality. And while the revelation resonated on social media in the weeks afterward, becoming yet another notch in the lineup’s belt of diversity, the best bisexual character lives in another corner of Shondaland.

The groundbreaking story of Dr. Calliope “Callie” Torres on Grey’s Anatomy has been one of the greatest journeys on television. Callie (Sara Ramirez) made her way into the OR in late season 2 in 2006 as a love interest for George O’Malley (T. R. Knight). One tumultuous relationship rocked by typical Grey’s Anatomy drama and an elopement later, the couple broke up. Later in season 4, Callie began realizing she was attracted to cardio surgeon Erica Hahn (Brooke Smith).

In 2008, Don’t Ask Don’t Tell was still in effect. Washington expanded its domestic partnership legislation and the California Supreme Court struck down the same-sex marriage ban, but states like Arizona and Florida passed amendments prohibiting it. On television, depictions of LGBTQ characters were incredibly sparse. Will & Grace was over, with The L Word soon to follow, and shows like Glee and Modern Family were more than a year away from premiering. GLAAD reported LGBT representation on scripted broadcast television that year at a measly 1.1%. Against a backdrop of a television landscape lacking in queer representation (especially queer women of color) emerged Callie Torres’ anxious and exciting adventure of self-discovery.

The trepidation Callie had about her budding feelings for her friend were clear, and oh so relatable to anyone discovering their own sexuality. She skirted around asking for advice on dating women from her friends and peers. She reverted to sleeping with her friend-with-benefits Mark Sloan (Eric Dane), in an effort to convince herself she was straight. And after having sex with Erica, she became even more confused because she couldn’t decide if she preferred sex with men or women better, ultimately coming to the conclusion that she likes both. Being dumped by her first girlfriend hurt her just as much as divorcing her first husband. The added sting of Erica telling her she “can’t kind of be a lesbian” tapped into the very real biphobia that bisexual people face from inside the LGBTQ community. Between the drama of stealing organs and patients dying of the hiccups, moments crafted around Callie’s sexuality often encapsulated incredibly genuine experiences.

Callie’s subsequent relationship with Arizona Robbins (Jessica Capshaw) quickly made them one of the most popular power couples in the show. Their drama ranged from silly to heartbreaking, just like the straight couples. They were given growth and hardship equitable to everyone else. The only way the relationship differed from the rest on the show were the storylines dealing explicitly with their sexuality. Arizona was sometimes insecure of Callie’s bisexuality, even going so far as to use it against her in the more heated moments of fights. Callie coming out to her father and being exiled by her family was an all too real display of the experiences many queer people have and fear. Her refusal to back down against her father, her iconic “you can’t pray away the gay” speech strengthened the resolve Callie had inside of her sexuality and affirmed to the audience that it was very real. Her emotional breakdown after the falling out with her family painted her as such a tangible, authentic character. Not only did the TV series depict the tough ortho surgeon as resolute and confident in her bisexuality, it showed her devastation when the people she loved didn’t approve of her.

The season 7 storyline regarding Callie getting pregnant by Mark after she and Arizona break up only to reconcile, and the ensuing decision to co-parent the child was criticized when it aired. Some felt the storyline stereotyped bisexuality and watered down the importance of Callie and Arizona’s relationship. Arizona even somewhat lampshaded the situation in an argument, saying it’s “some kind of bi dream come true… you get the woman that you love and the guy best friend who’s also a great lay,” in season 7, episode 16. It was hardly writer negligence, however. Mark had already been established as a thorn in Arizona’s side and an unwanted addition in her relationship; an annoying best friend to those he befriended. Callie sleeping with Mark after the break-up was a common situation we see in TV: characters hooking up with someone else to escape the pain of being dumped. It further served to show that Callie’s relationship with a woman didn’t negate her bisexuality or attraction to men. While convoluted and ridiculous, the The Kids Are Alright-esque plotline didn’t stray from the generally ridiculous Shondaland stories we’ve come to know and love (or hate).

Callie’s bisexuality is important because it never became stigmatized. She isn’t painted as a cheater or overtly sexual or greedy — common harmful tropes about bisexual people. She had the acceptance of her peers and the support of her friends and coworkers. While it took some time for her father to come around to acceptance, and the series made it clear that her mother never would, there existed a dichotomy of how sexuality is perceived, even within the same immediate family. Callie faced “normal” problems in her personal and professional life. Her relationships contained exciting highs and depressing lows. She was allowed to be vulnerable, even though she broke bones for a living. Callie Torres is a fully fleshed out resilient, sensitive, complex, and unapologetic bisexual Latina woman.

Callie’s story and the showcasing of her ability to enter into emotionally deep and complex relationships with both men and women is commendable. Her discovery that she’s attracted to women as an adult gives representation to people who also had latent realizations about their sexuality. Her relationship drama was just as heartbreaking and intense as the other couples on the show. Grey’s Anatomy and actor Sara Ramirez did an outstanding job at telling this story over the course of a decade.

In real life, Sara Ramirez is a prominent advocate for the LGBTQ community; she’s on the board of True Colors Fund, a nonprofit that aims to eradicate LGBTQ youth homelessness. In 2015, the Human Rights Campaign honored her with the Ally for Equity award. Just check out her Twitter feed and you’ll see how serious Ramirez is about supporting queer communities. Witnessing this real-life advocacy juxtaposed with how fantastic her Grey’s Anatomy character is written and portrayed is just the cherry on top.

Although Dr. Callie Torres may not be scrubbing into Grey Sloan Memorial anymore, the legacy she left at the hospital, and on television as a whole, is insurmountable. Her story was groundbreaking at its inception and continued breaking barriers as the years went on. She wasn’t afraid to own her bisexuality, reminding us that the B in LGBTQ didn’t just stand for “badass.” She managed to incite real change both on and off-screen. After Callie came out, more than 200 other lesbian and bisexual characters were introduced on TV. Callie’s journey was an iconic one that helped to not only change television, but to cement the oft forgotten notion that bisexuality is very real.

Update on 10/20/16: Ramirez’s connection to the orthopedic surgeon she played is bone deep; the actress publicly came out as bisexual on October 8th at the True Colors Fund’s 40 to None Summit. In a speech on ending LGBT youth homelessness, she stressed the importance of recognizing intersectionality and mentioned her own intersections, including bisexual and queer, as reasons why she is invested in the cause.

See also at Bitch Flicks:

Interracial Relationships on Grey’s Anatomy
Being in the Sun — Women and Power in Grey’s Anatomy Season 11

Cheyenne Matthews-Hoffman is a freelance entertainment writer and digital content manager who is obsessed with an absurd amount of television shows. She is an advocate for accessible entertainment and sometimes develops websites. You can find her at @heycheyennehey on Twitter or cheyennecheyenne.com.

The Conditional Autonomy of Bisexual Characters in Film

The overall implication here is that the bisexuality of a female character is inspired by the male character. Where is the bisexual character’s free will? In fact, where is her bisexuality? All of these films have one thing in common, which is that the sexuality of the character exists to cause strife between the straight man and the lesbian woman that pursues them, and always ends up siding one way or the other.

This guest post written by Sara Century appears as part of our theme week on Bisexual Representation.

Okay, stop me if you’ve heard this one before. A “brassy, brave” lesbian character starts hanging around with a classically femme woman, usually for work related reasons. We assume the femme woman is straight or bisexual, as she is in a relationship with a man, be it husband or boyfriend, or, most commonly, fiancé. The woman who is engaged or married or otherwise in a long-term relationship is dissatisfied with her life, and she starts flirting with the lesbian character pretty hard, usually by praising her “bravery.” This is fair. We lesbians are a brave people. She at some point discloses that she isn’t happy in her heterosexual relationship, and that is all the lesbian character needs to go full tilt into trying to break that relationship right the hell up. Okay, once again; we’ve all been there. I’m not here to judge.

The lesbian character used to be super good at focusing on only work all of the time, but as the plot carries on, she becomes less good at focusing on work because she has a huge crush. The boyfriend is always the worst character, and their personality settings are either “well-meaning but useless” or “abusive.” Either way, they either don’t like women, view women as possessions, fail to understand women, and/or are suffering from a debilitating inferiority complex centered around their inability to understand women — often all of the above. The wife or girlfriend is almost always equally free of complexity, but is usually a lot more likable than their partner. Because it would be impossible not to be. The most likable character is usually the lesbian, but, as said, it’s not too difficult to be the most likable character in these films. The woman breaks off her engagement or what have you, performs some fairly minimal romantic gesture towards the lesbian, and then they end up together. Queue up some outro music that sounds like the Indigo Girls in 2016 and roll the credits; we’ve got a movie.

This is the basic love story or entire plot of I Can’t Think Straight, The World Unseen, Elena Undone, My Little Friend, The Four-Faced Liar, Imagine Me & You, The Gymnast, When Night is Falling, Kiss Me, and It’s in the Water, to name but a few.

For a great many years in film, the trope was two women living secluded, often quite literally on the fringes of society, with their “perverse” love affair broken up by some strapping young man and/or Richard Burton, in movies like Night of the Iguana, The Fox, Les Biches, and so on, and so forth. The woman’s bisexuality is absolved by her romance with a male character, while typically the lesbian character dies to make room for her girlfriend’s life as a straight woman. Or, in the case of The Fox, the lesbian is – wait for it – CRUSHED. By a TREE. An actual TREE.

Queer filmmakers and filmgoers alike were incredibly tired of that story by the late 1980s, so around that time, queer women started making their own movies about queer women, which is good, but then we started to see the inverse of said bisexual erasure trope, which is bad. The problem with inverting a trope is that it’s still a trope, and it’s still problematic. As the bisexuality of a character is erased in the male equivalent of this plot, so is the bisexuality of many characters erased, often by lesbian filmmakers, utilizing the same basic plot to do so. Either way, men are given way too much power in these stories, and the bisexual character is given far too little. By being abusive or at best useless lovers, the overall implication here is that the bisexuality of a female character is inspired by the male character. Where is the bisexual character’s free will? In fact, where is her bisexuality?

All of these films have one thing in common, which is that the sexuality of the character exists to cause strife between the straight man and the lesbian woman that pursues them, and always ends up siding one way or the other. The choice of whether or not to pursue a relationship with a woman is hampered either by consideration of the man’s feelings or consideration of social mores, but seldom if ever is it because the woman is genuinely attracted to the man. Similarly to the classic films where the bisexual character’s queerness is submerged beneath the revelation that she was simply manipulated by the older, more confident lesbian, so then is the desire to be in a hetero relationship blamed on social anxiety rather than the character herself having a genuine attraction to both women and men.

The woman in the hetero relationship tries to stay in her relationship despite a complete lack of interest in her lover. In films like Elena Undone (written and directed by Nicole Conn), we have extended scenes of a married woman swearing to her lesbian lover that she refuses to let her husband touch her despite living in the same house as him. I’m not saying that’s a bad thing because that guy is definitely a jerk, but why is the fact that she doesn’t have sex with him so relevant to the lesbian character? She’s still married to him, still lives with him, and is still dedicated to staying with him, so, honestly, they might as well. But the bisexual characters in these movies are always 100% attracted to the lesbian and 0% attracted to the man they’re in a relationship with. I’m not saying this has never happened, I’m just wondering why it’s such a common and prevailing plot point in so many films. The woman is definitely not a bisexual, it turns out according to these films, because she’s only attracted to just this one woman. Forever. For all eternity. For way after the credits roll. It’s so heteronormative and so immediately claustrophobic that it’s hard to see the difference between the queer relationship and the straight one. How much of a love story is it, really? These films have a tendency to end right around the time when the two women actually hook up, so we tend not to find out if we ever actually liked them as a couple.

To my mind, these stories imply, “Well, it makes sense that the main character is interested in women now, her boyfriend was a dolt, and her girlfriend is amazing.” I want to talk about what that says to audiences. You don’t have to have an oafish boyfriend first in order to be lesbian or bisexual. That’s not how the world works. I need to be clear that women don’t date each other because men suck. Women date each other because they’re attracted to each other. For the life of me, I can never understand why these stories about two women in love are centralized around men, or how or why men appear as the focal point in this way in so many films about bisexual women, nor that the woman’s ability to enter a loving relationship with a woman must exist alongside her discovery of herself as 100% lesbian. I’m not saying that it’s never happened in real life, I’m saying that this specific triangle exists in a sweeping percentage of queer-made films. These films have had the lasting effect of robbing queer women, particularly bisexual women, of their autonomy by suggesting that a bisexual “becomes gay” when the men in her life are THE WORST. There is no equivalent for this story for gay or bisexual male characters in film. For the most part, gay male characters aren’t gay because they were previously in violent or disappointing relationships with women.

The point is, you don’t have to be 100% straight or gay to enter into a stable and loving relationship. A character’s ability to love should not be gauged by their level of attraction to either gender. Neither straight men nor lesbians should expect a bisexual partner to conform in a way that erases their own sexual identity, be it in film or in real life. If they do, then they are not seeing their partner for who they are, and the story will not have a happy ending.

I’m not dismissing the quality of the films I’m mentioning here. Kiss Me (written and directed by Alexandra-Therese Keining) is one of my favorite queer movies ever; this story can be told well. Also, some of the films are based on real-life stories, and real life doesn’t care if it’s a trope or not, it’s just going to keep on keeping on. However, if I’m going to discuss bisexual erasure as a lesbian and as a film critic, I would say that the bisexual representation by many straight male and lesbian filmmakers unfortunately tends to say approximately the same thing about bisexuality, which is that it doesn’t exist.

See also at Bitch Flicks:

10 Reasons to Watch (and Love!) Imagine Me & You

Sara Century is a multimedia performance artist, and you can follow her work at saracentury.wordpress.com.

What ‘Steven Universe’ Creator Rebecca Sugar Means to Me as a Writer and a Bisexual Woman

The creator and showrunner of this popular, groundbreaking, and beautiful show is an openly bisexual woman. That is historic and thrilling, and it means that could be me (alas, if only I could write something half as brilliant as ‘Steven Universe’!). … Yes, we need bisexual characters. But even more importantly, we need bisexual creators telling stories…

This guest post written by Heidi Teague appears as part of our theme week on Bisexual Representation.

Identity is fundamental to writing. The stories we tell, the stories we absorb, are vital to our sense of self.

I am a writer. I have been an avid reader and consumer of stories of all kinds, as well as writing in one form or another, for my entire life.

I am also a bisexual woman. I didn’t know or understand this about myself until a couple of years ago, because I never really felt this was an option. It was something some other people were, and not many of them at that. It wasn’t something a slightly dull academic girl who liked poetry and Shakespeare and Doctor Who would be. Bisexual didn’t look like me, so how could it be me?

Character and identity is key to my writing; I love creating nuanced, interesting, and deeply flawed characters and watching them overcome the obstacles I throw in their way. Any truly intersectional feminist writer knows that the best stories are full of beautifully diverse people of different identities and walks of life. What the best TV dramas do, what the best stories do, is find a way to create empathy with people whose lives, identities, and experiences are vastly different to the viewers’ own. To see yourself and your own experiences reflected in a story is a deeply reassuring, transcendent human experience; being erased, seemingly invisible, or mythical is isolating and creates a disconnect where people are able to disassociate people who are different as ‘other.’ Erasure not only breeds hatred and intolerance, but it also means that the people who don’t fit the dominant narrative are unable to understand and express their difference and feel a sense of belonging. That can have a profound effect on a life; mental health issues among those that identify as LGBTQ are troublingly high.

Writing is exposing yourself, opening yourself up to criticism and ridicule, and that is even more pertinent if yours is a marginalized voice and if your stories challenge the dominant discourses, tropes, and cultural hegemony of traditional narratives. Few (out) queer writers have success or freedom within mainstream television networks, with many creatives curbed by executives who fear that anything too radically different might lose money. But every so often, a beacon of brave storytelling on a mainstream network shines the path for others.

Steven Universe is an animated television series on Cartoon Network of 10-minute episodes charting the coming-of-age of half-human, half magical gem Steven, and his unorthodox family of alien Crystal Gems: Pearl, Amethyst, and Garnet. Steven and his best friend Connie learn how to fight together and use Steven’s protective and healing powers to help the Crystal Gems protect Earth. It is a highly creative and finely detailed world, with complex character development and story arcs to rival hour-long dramas. It has already explored depression, anxiety, abusive relationships, grief, and PTSD, as well as teaching its demographic-spanning audience to meet hatred, fear, and ignorance with love, compassion, and forgiveness. This is a show that cares, and wants to make the world a better place, and encourages love of all kinds as being central to this vision.

Steven Universe is progressive in many ways. The Gems, despite being sexless space rocks, use she/her pronouns and have femme presentations. They are all voiced by women of color and have shown what could be potentially read as romantic interest in other Gems and also sometimes in humans. The show uses a narrative conceit known as fusion to indicate a relationship of trust and understanding between two or more Gems as they become one being; this has been shown to be anything from platonic to explicitly romantic, with two Gems being outcast from their society for their taboo love which they express through being permanently fused; they literally are a relationship. Outlawed on their Homeworld, and seen by some as a dangerous threat to the hierarchy of Gem society, the parallels with queer marriage are unabashedly apparent.

The Disney-esque episode charting the origins of this love story, The Answer, was nominated for an Emmy this year, and has just been adapted into a children’s book of the same name.

This cartoon queers more than just one relationship however; there is no tokenism here, as a queer perspective permeates the whole show. Female characters are drawn with visible leg hair and shown to be desirable within the same episode; the main character is a 14-year-old boy who has been shown wearing a skirt, crop top, heels, and make-up and it wasn’t played even slightly for laughs.

A boy and girl fuse together to become a beautiful genderqueer character that is flirted with and admired by both men and women that are otherwise coded as straight, and this is never questioned, lampshaded, or ridiculed.

It has some of the most inclusive and progressive characters on TV as a whole, let alone children’s TV; beautiful characters of different sizes, shapes, genders, presentations, races, and sexualities; characters that are fully rounded, flawed, and story-worthy, not just curiosities or a lazy stab at inclusivity.

Steven’s mother, Rose Quartz, is a large, curvy Gem that was seen as unquestionably beautiful by everyone who encountered her. There is also a lot of subtext to suggest she was not monosexual; in so far as we can label the sexuality of a sentient rock from a matriarchal alien race, it is not binary. She had a highly charged relationship with Pearl, who has openly admitted she loved her, and Rose also loved Steven’s human father, Greg Universe, amongst other humans.

Although there are no characters on the show that are explicitly labelled as bisexual, this is undoubtedly a show with a beating, queer heart.

I already adored Steven Universe, and found joy and solace in it. When I heard Rebecca Sugar publicly identify as bisexual (at Comic Con, filmed here by Felipe Flores, relevant part at approximately 46:30), I simultaneously went, “Of course!” and whooped and punched the air. The creator and showrunner of this popular, groundbreaking, and beautiful show is an openly bisexual woman. That is historic and thrilling, and it means that could be me (alas, if only I could write something half as brilliant as Steven Universe!).

Characters can be inspiring and life-affirming, but giving and seeing real life bisexual folks out in prominent and powerful positions, especially in the entertainment industry is part of creating an environment where queer characters can have full and rich stories that aren’t only centered on coming out or perpetuating harmful tropes. Instead of straight writers profiting off the relative zeitgeist of queer characters, with bisexual characters often falling foul of this as they are seen as the “easy option” — ‘Janet can leave her husband, have an affair with a woman, have a breakdown as she is outed to her children and work colleagues, then go back to her husband… that’s the LGBTQ quota met!’ — having actual bisexual writers allows truth in television, and gives us the honest and complex characterizations we deserve.

Yes, we need bisexual characters. But even more importantly, we need bisexual creators telling stories and letting those nerds in the middle of suburbia know that there are people out there like them that they can aspire to emulate.

Rebecca Sugar, if you’re reading this, know you are loved and admired by so many. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.

See also at Bitch Flicks:

Strong in the Real Way: Steven Universe and the Shape of Masculinity to Come
The Revolutionary Fatness of Steven Universe
Steven Universe: Many Dimensions of Fat Positivity
Steven Universe: A Superhero Team We Can Believe In

Heidi Teague is an aspiring British screenwriter and an accomplished nerd. She sporadically updates her feminism and pop culture blog Shrewish Thoughts and writes for Debut online.

‘Orphan Black’ and the Breakdown of Tokenization

This scene, a scene in which an assumed-to-be heterosexual protagonist casually courts another woman, is significant because Sarah is one of three queer women – two of whom are bi – on a single television show, each of whom experiences their queerness differently. … Sarah, Cosima, and Delphine are three very different women with different narratives, inhabiting their queerness in three disparate ways.

This guest post written by Alenka Figa appears as part of our theme week on Bisexual Representation.

[Trigger warning: Discussion of suicide and suicidal ideation]

When it comes to exciting portrayals of complex, realistic women on television, Orphan Black is a stand out. The entire premise focuses on how women are often portrayed as one-note and interchangeable, and flips that concept on its head. Similarly, the show places several exceptional queer characters front and center. Whether it’s Felix (Jordan Gavaris) painting phallus-filled murals while doing mountains of emotional labor to hold Clone Club together, Cosima (Tatiana Maslany) doing science to solve complex genetic mysteries, Tony (Tatiana Maslany) committing crimes hardcore enough to involve bullets, or Delphine (Évelyne Brochu) attempting corporate takeovers and doing even more science on the side, each queer person has a story arc and personality outside of their sexualities. In its most recent season, Orphan Black again upped the ante: they revealed that Sarah Manning (Tatiana Maslany), the clone who first introduced us to this whole, glorious mess, is also bisexual.

Orphan Black is not a perfect example of bisexual representation done right; as Erin Tatum noted in her article, season one delivered a Delphine with all the markings of the Duplicitous Bisexual trope. However, outside of her romance with Cosima, Delphine is a layered and interesting character. Her storylines are exciting; as a scientist who has been connected to Neolution from the get-go, she had the leverage to become a political player, and while she values power, she also strives to maintain her moral code. Personally, I have more of a soft spot for Cosima – dear Orphan Black writers, please know that whenever Cosima cries, I lose it – but I found the non-romantic aspects of her and Delphine’s intertwined storylines more compelling.

“The Antisocialism of Sex,” an episode from season 4 in which everyone fell apart, did away with all those “Romance? Meh,” feelings. At the beginning of the episode, it’s clear that Sarah has hit rock bottom. Her plan to barter with Evie Cho (Jessalyn Wanlim) and secure a cure backfired, resulting in Kendall (Alison Steadman)’s death and the loss of Cosima’s research data – which could mean losing Cosima and all her sisters to the illness built into their DNA. Haunted by visions of Beth (Tatiana Maslany), Sarah embarks on a reckless bender that seems to be leading her to suicide. However, as she drowns her emotions in whiskey shots, she searches for another way to drown, or perhaps to cling onto life: sex, specifically a hook-up that involves another woman.

There are several possible, trope-ridden errors that the writers could have made in this scene. At this point in the series, it would be easy to write this encounter off as a straight woman engaging in a threesome, or as writers pandering to an audience who have come to expect Sarah to have some sexy scenes. However, the entire hook-up is crafted to emphasize that Sarah’s primary interest is in Elle (Brooke Palsson), the woman. When Sarah first scans the crowd she briefly spies Tito (James Cade) – who Elle refers to as “my man” – but the camera quickly pans over to Elle, who bites her lower lip at Sarah. The camera then pulls back to give us a full body shot of Elle before cutting to Sarah, whose gaze has ceased to wander and is clearly focused on this new woman. Sarah puts her arm around Elle first, takes her hand to pull her to the dance floor, touches Elle’s hips, and even gives Tito a dark look when he breaks up their initial smooch fest. While she’s clearly invested in a threesome, her distinct attraction to Elle is distinctly present.

This scene, a scene in which an assumed-to-be heterosexual protagonist casually courts another woman, is significant because Sarah is one of three queer women – two of whom are bi – on a single television show, each of whom experiences their queerness differently.

Anyone fortunate enough to have many queer-identified friends will confirm that queer – and bi, pan, fluid, and gay – women are real, complex human beings with diverse personalities. As real human beings do, queer women carry their experiences differently. Some have been so comfortable with their identities for so long that it doesn’t occur to them to disclose, while others purposefully avoid labels because no label feels quite right, or because they hope to challenge assumed heterosexuality, and for myriad other reasons. Others bear the burden of internalized biphobia, anxiety, and other mental health issues tied to having a stigmatized identity. Some want to share their pride in their sexuality by discussing it loudly. However, if you look to television or film, what you generally get are bisexual characters whose main personality trait is being a Bisexual Trope. Tokenization narrows the world’s view of bisexual people, and it is so commonplace that each one-dimensional, denigrating portrayal is another kick against a bi fighter already down.

A pleasant side effect of placing multiple and unique queer women on the same screen is that tropes and stereotypes have less weight. When it clicked in my mind that Sarah is also bisexual, I immediately felt more invested in Cosima and Delphine. These are three very different women with different narratives, inhabiting their queerness in three disparate ways. Rather than seeing myself represented in a single character, I felt seen because I knew that my unique experience of my own identity was just as valid as those on the screen. I am queer and I am bi, but my queerness is not your queerness, and that is beautiful.

The only way we will reach a tipping point for bisexual representation is to put multidimensional bi characters on-screen at the same time — Orphan Black has given us a taste of the excitement and joy such representation offers. It’s time for everyone else to try harder, and do better.

See also at Bitch Flicks:

Feminism in Orphan Black
Why We Need to Stop Worshipping the Elusive Heteroflexible Femme
Trans Men on TV: Orphan Black and Tony the Trans Bandit
Orphan Black: It’s All About the Ladies

Alenka Figa is a queer, feminist, wannabe librarian. She spends her days teaching people how to attach things to their email, watching Steven Universe, and twittering nonstop about comics and her cat at @alenkafiga.

Exploring Bisexual Tension in ‘Buffy the Vampire Slayer’

The possibility existed to use season 3 to explore the sexual identity of three very central female characters in this show. Buffy could have been questioning; Faith could have been explicitly bisexual rather than simply implying as much through very sexually-charged dialogue with Buffy; Willow could have started exploring her sexuality earlier to arrive at a more self-aware place, whether that was as a bisexual woman or a lesbian.

This guest post written by Audrey T. Carroll appears as part of our theme week on Bisexual Representation.

Nearly twenty years have passed since the beginning of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and we’re still having conversations about this TV show. The conversations range from the creepiest monsters to the most empowering moments of feminism the series has to offer. One of the staying discussions regarding Buffy the Vampire Slayer has been the queer identities of its characters. Certainly, the series invites this as it centralizes a same-sex romance in season 4 with Willow (Alyson Hannigan) and Tara (Amber Benson). The couple wasn’t even allowed to kiss until the season 5 episode “The Body.” There’s no doubt that having a same-sex couple was trail-blazing for a television series to tackle.

That said, we now have the benefit of a retrospective view of both the series and the fifteen intervening years of LGBTQ rights progress since “The Body” first aired. Viewers can now easily recognize that bisexuality is never overtly represented in the series, and is in fact never even brought up as a possibility. But the groundwork for bisexual/queer interpretation is present. This especially comes into play when people bring up the idea of bi erasure and Willow. The possibility of bisexuality in season 3 in particular could have enhanced an already tense triangle of Buffy (Sarah Michelle Gellar), Faith (Eliza Dushku), and Willow. In addition to the scrutiny of Willow’s sexuality in recent years, the obvious sexual tension between Buffy and Faith, especially originating from Faith, is never outright articulated in a consequential way. There’s, of course, the platonic friendship aspect to the tension of this triangle where Willow feels like she’s losing her best friend to Faith.

But these women present three angles on potential queerness that many viewers would have connected with:

1) Buffy must be “good” at all times, which includes being virginal (see: Angelus becoming a monster after they have sex). Potentially, this expectation of being the “good” slayer could include heteronormativity. But, in the comics, the slayer is willing to explore her sexuality.

2) Faith, in part, defines herself by using and ditching men as nothing more important than the sex they give her and the sense of power she feels with them.

3) At this stage in her life, Willow is in a committed relationship with Oz (Seth Green), but she clearly possessed an attraction to women that she had yet to discover.

While she’s otherwise dated, Buffy only had sexual experience with one person by season 3: Angel (David Boreanaz). In season 2, they had sex once, Angel turned into a soulless monster, and she eventually had to kill him. He’s resurrected, but they know they can’t fully be together. This sexual tension with Angel runs parallel to Buffy’s sexual tension with Faith. Buffy acknowledges, in season 3 and beyond, that her relationship with Faith can be perceived as more than simple friendship or fellow slayer-hood. In the season 3 episode “Revelations,” Buffy even draws attention to the fact that she “wouldn’t use the word ‘dating,’” for who she has plans with that night and, when Faith shows up as her partner for the evening, goes on to say, “Really, we’re just good friends.” In that same vein, Buffy claims in the season 7 episode “End of Days,” that “I am tired of defensiveness and — and weird mixed signals… I have Faith for that.”

In the comics, Buffy is, to quote creator Joss Whedon, “young and experimenting and… open-minded.” Even if this is a questioning moment of her sexuality, rather than an actual declaration of bisexuality, the possibility of this exploration earlier in the series could have ramped up the tension even further between Buffy and Faith and Willow, making the stakes all the more intense. It could also show that being the “good” slayer didn’t come with the implication of celibacy or heteronormativity as a requirement. If Buffy, the hero, the one who many girls aspired to be, could question her sexuality and explore her sexuality, that could create a connection to her, and a comfort for viewers who are inclined to do the same. It would, of course, have to be handled delicately, but if executed well it could have been a really revolutionary examination of identity and a fascinating aspect for the hero.

On Faith’s end, she infuses a lot of her words and actions with sexual innuendo. Often, her sexuality is tied to extracting from men what she wants — power, physical satisfaction, etc. The season 3 episode “Bad Girls” opens with Faith insisting that Buffy must have had sex with her friend Xander (Nicholas Brendon): “What are friends for? … It’s just, all this sweating nightly, side-by-side action, and you never put in for a little after-hours…” Faith insinuates that slaying together leads to sex, in the midst of her and Buffy slaying vampires together. One look at any number of Faith’s lines of dialogue with Buffy shows possibility for sexual interpretation (“Give us a kiss.”) if not outright mentions of sexual acts (“Bondage looks good on you, B.” or “So let’s have another go at it. See who lands on top.”). And this isn’t even to mention the very provocative dance scene the pair of slayers share at The Bronze during “Bad Girls.”

If Faith’s bisexuality were actively articulated, it could underscore an interesting layer to the eventual deterioration of their relationship. It seems that the path Buffy toys with in “Bad Girls” is not only one of (mostly harmless) rule-breaking. Buffy appears to be entertaining a very flirtatious and charged relationship with Faith. Faith is very lonely and wants acceptance and friendship. If you add to the pot that both of them were pursuing each other in a romantic or sexual sense, then Faith’s feeling of rejection (from the Scoobies in general, but Buffy in particular) feels like a more pointed one. In this framing, there’s even greater motivation for Faith to later hurt Buffy romantically by going after Angel and engaging in a twisted relationship with him merely to taunt the “good” slayer.

As mentioned already, Willow is often brought up in terms of bi erasure. If the possibility of her queerness is brought up in season 3, it lengthens the exploration of her sexuality and allows for her to deepen her understanding of it. By season 3, she’s only been sexually interested in Xander and her boyfriend Oz. If it were introduced that she may be sexually attracted to women, it would allow for a more fully fleshed-out representation of her sexuality over the course of the series. In fact, in the season 3 episode “Doppelgangland,” Willow thinks that the vampire alternate-dimension version of herself is “kinda gay.” Buffy assures her the vampire version of a person is nothing like the real person. Angel starts to correct her, but stops. All of this implies that, from at least season 3, Willow has her “kinda gay” self bubbling under the surface.

One of two things could’ve happened here: 1) Willow could have discovered she was bisexual, and maybe even been afraid this would cause Oz to reject her. That’s a fear that bisexual people in hetero relationships might be able to relate to. 2) Alternatively, Willow could have discovered that she was, in fact, a lesbian. This explicit exploration would have made how she self-identifies feel more genuine. Otherwise, her season five “Triangle” declaration of “gay now” feels like a tight clinging to a label rather than a genuine expression of her sexuality. If that exploration and determination happens earlier and more clearly, then the viewer can feel that conclusion is natural. It gives opportunity to address her sexuality in a more fully realized way.

One potential discrimination against bisexual people is the idea that they can’t be in a long-term committed relationship, rooted in the idea that they’ll pursue the opposite type of relationship than the one that they’re currently in (either same-sex or opposite-sex). If Willow is bisexual, and clearly so in the show, then the fight that she and Tara have in the season 5 episode “Tough Love” has more context. It’s possible, with a lesbian-identifying Willow, that Tara fears Willow may “turn straight” again. But a review of their history makes this implication during their fight feel strange. (Willow, after all, turned down Oz when he returned to town toward the end of season 4, actively choosing Tara over her first boyfriend.) But, with the idea that Willow is bisexual in mind, this fight with Tara could have tapped into an anxiety in the queer community — that bi people are more sexually deviant or less romantically loyal because they’re not monosexual.

This sexual identity questioning would also lend more tension to the whole Buffy/Faith/Willow triangle. In addition to the platonic threads there, Buffy and Faith already have an established, if not candidly articulated, sexual tension. Adding Willow’s sexual identity to the mix, she could have questioned whether her jealousy of the Buffy/Faith dynamic was platonic or romantic on her part. Buffy is her closest friend, except for maybe Xander, the latter of which she had a crush on for years and cheated on Oz with. Willow could reasonably fear that an attraction or possibility of attraction toward Buffy (akin to what she once felt for Xander) could jeopardize their friendship. On the other side, Willow might have been confused or unnerved if she thought she might be attracted to Faith, who was her opposite in many ways and with whom she had a very contentious relationship. She might not have thought about Buffy or Faith that way, but the questioning and anxieties there might have resonated with certain queer viewers and enhanced Willow’s aversion to Faith even further.

Using the context of future seasons, the possibility existed to use season 3 to explore the sexual identity of three very central female characters in this show. Buffy could have been questioning; Faith could have been explicitly bisexual rather than simply implying as much through very sexually-charged dialogue with Buffy; Willow could have started exploring her sexuality earlier to arrive at a more self-aware place, whether that was as a bisexual woman or a lesbian.

This all at least highlights an opportunity for future fiction. Allowing characters to be bisexual or to entertain the idea of not being heterosexual can add innovative layers to otherwise developed and intriguing characters. In the end, whether these characters are bisexual or simply open to questioning their heterosexuality, representation helps people feel less alone in their experiences, and ultimately guides people toward empathy.

See also at Bitch Flicks:

Buffy the Vampire Slayer: Joss Whedon’s Binary Excludes Bisexuality
Buffy the Vampire Slayer: Willow Rosenberg: Geek, Interrupted
Buffy the Vampire Slayer and the Humanization of the Superheroine
Are You Ready to Be Strong? Power and Sisterhood in Buffy the Vampire Slayer

Audrey T. Carroll is a Queens, NYC native whose obsessions include kittens, coffee, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and the Rooster Teeth community. Her poetry collection, Queen of Pentacles, is available from Choose the Sword Press. She can be found on her site as well as Twitter and Facebook.