British – Bitch Flicks

‘Drop Dead Fred’ and the Gendering of Comic Anarchy

There is a deeper truth here: by setting high expectations of men and offering models of liberated behavior that can be imitated, a strong male role model can be a young girl’s best mental defense against patriarchal conditioning. In the absence of one, Elizabeth has created an imaginary friend who models her mental resistance, gendering her own inner anarchic impulses as male.

For the uninitiated, Rik Mayall is what happens when you take a classic English punk from the Sex Pistols era, and tool him up with the comic attitude of Bill Hicks and the comic style of Jim Carrey. Though part of a wave of “alternative comedy,” it was always Mayall who had the Hicksian snarl and the burning, Goatboy-style obsession with his own abjection. A major reason why Hicks found overnight comic stardom in the UK, after years struggling to gain acceptance in the USA, is because Rik Mayall had cultivated the British public’s taste for ferocious comedy anarchism. Mayall and Hicks are products of convergent evolution: unrelated creatures evolving resemblance from environmental similarities. Specifically: Rik Mayall and Bill Hicks were politely raised, intelligent, articulate, straight, white boys of above average height and looks, who spontaneously combusted into epic, punk rock guiltsplosions of belligerent basic decency and self-satirizing privilege, while feeling kinda bad that their raging libidos tempted them to objectify women. Add a feverish energy homaging his beloved Wile E. Coyote, that can only be compared to a punk Jim Carrey, and you’ve got the slapHicks, Rik Mayall. In 1991’s Drop Dead Fred, Mayall starred in a sharp deconstruction of the early-onset socialization of girls to reject their own anarchic impulses – one that films like Seth MacFarlane’s Ted have recycled into a far duller exploration of a man’s choice between his loudly celebrated childish impulses and his Mommy-lover-lady. In Drop Dead Fred the heroine’s own anarchic impulses, comic sense and anger at her mother have been more acceptably regendered as Mayall’s “Fred,” while she herself can be squeezed into an icon of servile ladylike behaviour.

Drop Dead Fred opens with Marsha Mason’s patriarchal mother reading a fairy-tale to the young Elizabeth, telling her that the princess received her happy ending “because she was a good little girl. If she had been naughty, the prince would have run away.” Young Elizabeth considers for a moment, then fires back “what a pile of shit,” healthily immune to social pressures to value herself by a man. Flash forward to adulthood, and Phoebe Cates’ Elizabeth has become pressured into the ideal Mommy-lover-lady of patriarchy, wearing demure floral gowns and fussing over her paternalist, condescending husband’s clothing and shaving. Gradually, we learn that Elizabeth’s mother had blamed her anarchic, destructive behavior in childhood for making her distant father run away, like the prince of the fairy tale who abandons naughty princesses. With her imaginary friend, Drop Dead Fred, being sealed away in a jack-in-the-box on the very day that her father departs, and with her father sharing Fred’s English accent in an otherwise American cast, the film wears its Daddy issues on its sleeve.

Drop Dead Fred is a Dream Father who is a radically present, anti-materialist, anti-provider, implying criticism of the traditional role of fathers, in the same way that the film challenges the traditional conditioning of girls to passive and submissive “goodness.” By standing up to Elizabeth’s mother in all the ways her own father fails to, Fred models self-assertion to her, rather than grooming her to self-sacrificing compliance. There is a deeper truth here: by setting high expectations of men and offering models of liberated behavior that can be imitated, a strong male role model can be a young girl’s best mental defense against patriarchal conditioning. In the absence of one, Elizabeth has created an imaginary friend who models her mental resistance, gendering her own inner anarchic impulses as male.

The adult Elizabeth must finally learn that the sealing away of Drop Dead Fred represented the sealing up of the part of herself that society had coded as masculine: namely, her assertiveness, her anti-conformity and her anarchic disdain for social norms. When her unfaithful husband boasts that he has Elizabeth under control, he feeds her green pills to kill her “imaginary friend” and force her back into tranquilized Mommy-lover-lady perfection, pills that represent rewarded conformity as much as the blue pills of The Matrix. While its patriarchal mother is a figure to be resisted, Drop Dead Fred also showcases positive female friendship and solidarity between Phoebe Cates’ Elizabeth and Carrie Fisher’s Janie. Janie unquestioningly accepts Elizabeth’s accounts of Fred and seeks to fight him on her behalf, curtly telling her older lover that this is “girl stuff.” Yes, apart from the imaginary Fred, all the men of this film are the stuffy, unimaginative equivalent to mainstream cinema’s Mommy-lover-ladies, while battling your anarchic imaginary friend is “girl stuff.” I would say that Drop Dead Fred is “Ted for girls” or “Fight Club for kids,” but it predates both.

Rarely has a showbiz marriage been more divinely inspired than Drop Dead Fred‘s between Elizabeth Livingston’s story of imaginary, anarchic male role models, and Rik Mayall’s self-deprecating punk. A man whose entire career was founded on savage interrogations of toxic masculinity, Mayall was offered a chance to reimagine himself through Elizabeth’s perspective, as a being whose natural anarchism was a liberating force for women. It is impossible to overemphasize how intensely Rik Mayall’s self-authored (or any male-authored) image of Rik Mayall lacked all sense that Mayall’s characters could be good for women. He blossoms visibly in Drop Dead Fred. Watch his interactions with the young Elizabeth. Yes, it’s manic Mayall, but see how wholly his energy is focussed on responding enthusiastically to whatever the little girl gives him? See how visibly thrilled and emboldened that little girl is by his attentive encouragement? See how Phoebe Cates reveals entirely unexpected comic talent as a mime, when wrestling an invisible Fred, and even the brilliantly brassy Carrie Fisher gives her wildest comic performance in a knock-down, drag-out imaginary fight with exactly the physical humor that women are routinely, subtly discouraged from? Rik Mayall was finally cast as a catalyst for female self-expression, so he catalyzed every actress in the film to gleeful unruliness.

Anarchy is a state of mind, not a material state, as many Marxists learn when attempting to enforce their materialist philosophies of antimaterialism (so much devastating humanitarian tragedy that could have been avoided if communist regimes carefully studied “Rik the accidentally authoritarian anarchist snot” from Mayall’s sitcom The Young Ones and cultivated a sense of thunderingly obvious irony). The point is not to sink a houseboat, but to value the adventure over the boat. Not to chop a little girl’s hair, but to teach her that it is irrelevant to her worth. Note also that, while playfully childish sexuality is part of his persona, Fred never sexualizes Phoebe Cates’ Elizabeth. Not ironically. Not jokingly-not-jokingly, to subtly put her in her place. He is her anarchist Dream Father, and he Dream Fathers her with wholehearted focus on her personhood and self-assertion. Rarely, if ever, has a larger-than-life comedian given a performance more generously dedicated to the actual purpose of his role. If you can see Rik freaking Mayall, decked out in hideous fashion and wildly clashing hair that is as classically punk as it is childish, earnestly mentoring a little girl in the joys of antimaterialist, anarcho-punk self-actualization without being moved, then surely you have a heart of stone. Far from selling out, Rik Mayall’s Hollywood family film was the most truly punk statement he ever made.

[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kgh27gCgiQw”]

Drop Dead Fred finally justifies the endlessly abused loyalty of women like me to male comedians like Rik Mayall, Richard Pryor, Bill Hicks, Monty Python, Trey Parker or the Farrelly Brothers. Like the character of Drop Dead Fred himself, each combines an off-putting, abrasive surface sexism with more profound lapses in empathy for female perspectives, but their comic purpose remains egalitarian mental liberation. As women, we are conditioned to express admiration for such men by rewarding them sexually, rather than by identifying, imitating and integrating the qualities we are actually drawn to. As little Elizabeth might say, what a pile of shit.

Brigit McCone loves her some comic anarchy. She writes and directs short films and radio dramas. Her hobbies include doodling and clicking this link

Secondhand Embarrassment in ‘Chewing Gum’

‘Chewing Gum’ is a gem and let’s hope that this is a good indication of the bright future that’s ahead of Michaela Coel.

This is a guest post by Giselle Defares.

At the 67^th prime time Emmy Awards, Viola Davis dropped several truth bombs during her acceptance speech after becoming the first African-American to win an Emmy for best actress in a drama: “The only thing that separates women of color from anyone else is opportunity.” Well, when no doors open you have to kick them in. In the UK there has been an underrepresentation of BAME (Black, Asian, and minority ethnic) actors in TV and film; most shows give an incorrect reflection of the British society, especially when it’s filmed in London, where 40 percent of the population is non-white. There are several initiatives such as The Act For Change Project lead by Danny Lee Wynter that campaigns to strengthen diversity in live and recorded arts. The lack of diversity is especially noticeable when it comes to British comedy. There were only a handful of comedy sketch shows in the last 20 years from Desmond’s to The Real McCoy to Little Miss Jocelyn, and that’s about it. Black British humor is underrated, period. Some artists venture out on their own thus leading the way. Enter Michaela Coel.

The Ghanaian-British actress/writer/poet Michaela Coel has forged her own path in the industry whilst being vulnerable and honest in her creativity. Coel was “discovered” by playwright and director Ché Walker during one of her poetry slams. He invited her to visit the masterclasses he held at RADA and from there she later obtained her degree from the Guildhall School for Music and Drama. In her last year, Coel created her own graduation piece, a 15-minute monologue that became the first version of her one-woman show Chewing Gum Dreams, which she later performed at the National Theater in London. In an interview with The Evening Standard, Coel explained that she wanted her show to reflect “the sort of life you don’t see very often on TV. Tracey’s sexual naiveté, for example, reflects [my own] celibacy between the ages of 17 and 22… I had a massive conversion to this very Pentecostal, demon-exorcising church. Getting to the point where I started to do not such a good job of being celibate, was awkward and horrible. So much guilt. Psychologically, I was in a whirlwind.”

Chewing Gum centers round Tracey Gordon (Michaela Coel), a 24-year-old who grew up on a council estate in east London in a strict religious environment who’s trying to alter her path in adulthood. She’s innocent and wise and equally adores her idols Beyoncé and Jesus. She stumbles her way through London and finds out the hard way what she should and shouldn’t be doing. While Tracey is trying to broaden her world, her sister Cynthia (Susan Wokoma) is content with their solemn life as long as she can play the board game Ludo with her family every night. Her overly religious mother Joy (Shola Adewusi) sermons innocent bystanders on the street with quips such as: “My dear, your vagina is holy. I command you to leave your nether regions be.” Tracey’s best friend Candice (Danielle Walters) and her grandmother Esther (Maggie Steed) are more worldly and they often gives her disastrous life advice. Tracey has been in a six-year relationship with her Pentecostal Christian boyfriend Ronald (John MacMillan) and is eager to lose her virginity with him, while Ronald says in his prayers, “We will wait till we die if it brings you glory.” Luckily for Tracey there’s the neighborhood poet Connor (Robert Lonsdale), who seems to really like her.

The first episode was enjoyable, filthy, funny, and loaded with secondhand embarrassment, but the balance between all the characters wasn’t quite there. Before Coel got the greenlight for her six episodes on Channel 4, she got the opportunity to create two comedy blaps to present her idea (unfortunately Channel 4 made them private on YouTube). She changed certain elements from the shorts and at some moments they worked better than what was aired in the first episode. It’s especially noticeable with the new Connor. The old Connor (Morgan Watkins) was slightly better at pulling off the dumb yet dorky character in a less self- conscious way. The new Connor feels a bit out of place (and dorkier) in the first episode, but it seems that Lonsdale will improve in the upcoming episodes. However, the addition of her Christian boyfriend Ronald is a great move.

Chewing Gum is refreshing since it breaks the mold of the overriding limited representation of minorities in the UK. Coel shows us a protagonist who deals with love, religion, classism, pop culture, and it’s set against the background of a council estate. Yet Tracey isn’t the archetype of the Black girl who’s often portrayed as either: unhappy, uneducated, poor, highly sexualized and surrounded by aggression and criminal behavior or other tropes that seem to be prevalent when it comes to the portrayal of the Black British experience within the media. – see Top Boy (fun fact: Coel had a small part in this show). The factor that binds the people on the estate together is, according to Coel, “class and community.”

Coel shines in her leading role. Tracey is kind, grounded and sweet whilst her best friend Candice has a more distinct personality: brash, bubbly and definitely more experienced when it comes to sex. Her advice to Tracey on her date with Ronald: “Just sit on his face.” Well, it went from innocent to filthy (yet funny) real quick. The relationships and the conversations that Tracey has with her friends and family are natural, see for instance the scenes where Tracey discusses her upcoming date with Candice:

Tracey: “ Candice, I’m 24, I’m a virgin. Yes. That doesn’t mean I wanna have sex with my boyfriend, yeah.”

Candice: “ You don’t have to. Bag someone on Tinder. It’s free. Set the thing to find someone in your borough, and walk. A tinder bang is not even a bus-fare, bruv.”

Tracey (looks into the camera): “Candice is like the buffest girl I’ve ever seen on the whole of my estate but she has learning difficulties so it sort of balances it all out. I can be best friends with her and I’m not even jealous or anything.”

Candice: “ You know if you leave it too long, you tear when he enters you. You need stitches.”

Tracey: “Yeah, well, thank god for the NHS then, innit.”

Tracey gives us a glimpse how awkward (extremely guarded) twentysomethings can operate. Comparisons are made with Girls by Lena Dunham or that the show is the British equivalent of The Misadventures of Awkward Black Girl by Issa Rae. While Rae and Coel both managed to create their own space when there were no opportunities that’s where the similarities end. It’s fair to say that Chewing Gum stands on its own.

The appeal of Chewing Gum lies in the humor, the familiarity and quite frankly the second hand embarrassment when you see Tracey trying to fulfil her sexual fantasies. Coel gives us a Black female lead who doesn’t shy away from graphic (offensive) sexual humor. Susan Wokoma shines as the religious, younger sister Cynthia. The character could be one note but Wokoma shows her comedic chops. There’s great chemistry between Tracey, Candice and her grandmother Esther, hopefully their relationship will be explored. All the characters are well cast, but Candice and Connor need to be more fleshed out in the upcoming episodes.

Chewing Gum is the comedy with a Black female lead some of us have been waiting for. It’s not the representation of Blackness but it’s certainly nice to see a Black leading character who isn’t molded in archetypes, which can be damaging society’s perception of Black women. Tracey is open, vulnerable, filthy, funny and just trying to live life the best as she can. Chewing Gum is a gem and let’s hope that this is a good indication of the bright future that’s ahead of Michaela Coel.

[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Dpm3UcJd3no”]

Giselle Defares comments on film, fashion (law) and American pop culture. See her blog here.

Polly Gray: The Matriarch of ‘Peaky Blinders’

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

Written by Jackson Adler | Spoilers ahead.

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

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

Meet Polly Gray from the BBC series Peaky Blinders.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Michael walking away from Polly after victim-blaming her.

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

The Fresh Slice of Life of ‘Ackee & Saltfish’

Friendship between women has been depicted in an array of illustrious shapes in our pop culture. Who hasn’t seen the indelible images of Thelma and Louise, Cher and Dionne, Romy and Michelle, Leslie and Anne? The new kids on the block that will nestle themselves into our cultural lexicon are: Olivia and Rachel. British humor is revered and known for blending dark humor with peculiar physical comedy, but try listing at least three films off the top of your head that are focused on the Black British experience and black British humor; you’ll likely come up short. However, there’s now ‘Ackee & Saltfish,’ a witty step forward in closing the gap.

This is a guest post by Giselle Defares.

Friendship between women has been depicted in an array of illustrious shapes in our pop culture. Who hasn’t seen the indelible images of Thelma and Louise, Cher and Dionne, Romy and Michelle, Leslie and Anne? The new kids on the block that will nestle themselves into our cultural lexicon are: Olivia and Rachel. British humor is revered and known for blending dark humor with peculiar physical comedy, but try listing at least three films off the top of your head that are focused on the Black British experience and black British humor; you’ll likely come up short. However, there’s now Ackee & Saltfish, a witty step forward in closing the gap.

The Jamaican-British director Cecile Emeke forged her own path of limitless creativity – outside the mainstream media – with her honest, humoristic storytelling. Another filmmaker who created her own niche is Issa Rae, who established an successful career out of her YouTube series The Misadventures of Awkward Black Girl, that resulted in a deal with HBO for her TV pilot and a bestselling novel of the same name. While both managed to create space where the doors were closed that’s where the similarities end.

Emeke garnered the public’s attention via her “Fake Deep” poem, and through her phenomenal work on the Strolling docu-series. She has carved a safe space for young Black women and men to vent and offer their unique perspectives navigating the Western world whilst being Black. In an interview with The Washington Post, Emeke explained how she created her docu-series, saying, “Strolling was born out of a desire to capture and share intra-communal discussions within the black community in hopes of affirming others and relieving alienation. I started off capturing conversations with friends, but since Strolling has grown, the conversations have grown to include people all over the world. I’m aiming to touch every corner of the diaspora.” Those are lofty goals and it seems she’s about to fulfill them. Her work was selected by Tribeca N.O.W., which celebrates new online work of independent filmmakers, BBC Trending recently called her YouTube channel “young, British, witty and black.” The New York Times said her work was “rendered with a complexity and depth that is exhilarating to watch.” Not bad for someone who only picked up a camera at the start of 2014.

Ackee & Saltfish is set on a warm Sunday afternoon in East London where we follow Olivia (Michelle Tiwo) and Rachel (Vanessa Babirye) on their quest to find food – or to be precise – the traditional Caribbean dish Ackee and saltfish. The duo planned a lavish brunch but Rachel forgot to soak the saltfish overnight so now they’re on a serious mission to find an authentic plate of Ackee and saltfish. On their stroll through the city hilarity ensues and tensions rise when we follow the best friends on their holy quest to find their Caribbean takeaway. The short film is written and directed by Emeke.

Emeke allows the viewer to closely follow two best friends who talk about pop culture, love, classism, racism, and the world at large, but there’s no drama when it comes to boyfriends, drugs, or other redundant tropes that seem to be prevalent when it comes to modern films about the Black British experience – i.e. Adulthood, Kidulthood, Top Boy (TV).

It’s a double-edged sword when it comes to Black women and media–they are underrepresented but at the same time molded in archetypes that are damaging society’s perception of Black women. Think of the Strong Black Woman, Mammy, Jezebel, Video Vixen, and so on. What’s so refreshing about Ackee & Saltfish is that Emeke simply presents an alternative. Olivia and Rachel are two Black women who are just livin’ life.

There’s an excellent balance between the two characters. Olivia has a distinct personality: bubbly, brash, outspoken and quick with her sometimes insensitive quips while Rachel is more grounded, contemplative and not necessarily as interested in talking about socio-political issues. When Olivia is firing up about gentrification and cultural appropriation, Rachel sarcastically claps back with “Aww, did you learn some new words off Black Twitter today?” Her reaction reflects their different stances on the issues at hand. Whilst Olivia is ready to fight the status quo, Rachel succumbs to the fact that they can’t change the situation right away. For many, Olivia’s anger will seem justified but Emeke never portrays the characters being right or wrong. It’s up to the audience to form their own opinion.

Can we see Olivia and Rachel as carefree Black girls? Jamala Johns wrote in her article for Refinery29 on carefree Black girls: “By putting the word ‘carefree’ front and center, it’s making a statement that we don’t want to be solely defined by hardships and stereotypes so we can enjoy our lives as we please. Carefree should not be mistaken with careless.” So with that in mind, it’s refreshing to see Olivia and Rachel quibbling whether or not Olivia will find her own Common but they’re simultaneously aware of the issues surrounding religion, race, the social implications of gentrification in their neighborhood, and so much more. There are a couple of funny scenes where Olivia and Rachel riff off each other:

Olivia: “I want Solange to adopt me.”

Rachel: “Why?”

Olivia: “Well, think about it, Solange as a mother would be the most amazing thing in the world.”

Rachel: “Why?! How do you know that?”

Olivia: “Like, Julez is livin’. I’m trying to live with Julez.”

This and several other short scenes underline the depth of their friendship and the ease with which they talk to each other on the most mundane topics. Emeke gives us a glimpse into the private world that exists between two best friends. Often comparisons are made with the Comedy Central hit Broad City, or Pursuit of Sexiness by SNL’s Sasheer Zamata and Girl Code’s Nicole Bryer, where you also follow the lives of two 20-somethings in the big city, but you’ll find out that Ackee & Saltfish stands on its own.

The crux of the appeal of Ackee & Saltfish lies in the humor and the familiarity. The underlying layer of authenticity simmers throughout the film when you hear Olivia and Rachel throw quips back and forth. It’s like you can see them walking past you on the street, and you catch funny snippets of an intimate conversation where you want to chime in – but instead you’ll hold your tongue. The cinematography of the film is straightforward, sometimes Emeke uses soft focus, or slow, inquisitive zooms. Emeke narrows the story down to the classic unity of time, place, and action. The core of the film is a long walk, recorded in real time and the takes create the appearance that the scenes are off-the-cuff improvised, but in fact they’re carefully scripted and extensively rehearsed. It’s cinematic strolling at its best.

Ackee & Saltfish is a short film that consists of small events, many conversations, and a lot of friendship. It is a tribute to healthy female friendship between Black women, but also a film about pop culture, gentrification, classism, race and just two girls enjoying life. The narrative is not groundbreaking. Nevertheless, the natural chemistry between the leads, the sometimes uncontrollably witty scenes, dialogues and observations and richness of details carry the film with ease.

Just like the Caribbean dish, this short film will make you thirsty and crave for more. Luckily, you can now quench your thirst since Emeke followed the short format with a five-part series on YouTube where you can follow the everyday adventures of best friends Olivia and Rachel.

[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rPu-DN58KuM”]

See also at Bitch Flicks: Ackee & Saltfish: There Are Other Narratives to Explore

Giselle Defares comments on film, fashion (law), and American pop culture. See her blog here.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

16 and Healthy: ‘My Mad Fat Diary’ Is Teen Girl Fat Positivity Gold

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

Considering the number of things media aimed at teenage girls typically gets wrong, it’s refreshing to see a mainstream TV program getting it very, very right. My Mad Fat Diary is a British series about Rae Earl (played by Sharon Rooney), a 16-year old girl who is big in size and bigger in personality. Having just been released from a stay in a psychiatric hospital after a suicide attempt, the show follows Rae struggling with mental health and body image issues alongside the slew of other issues that come with being a teenage girl: friends, school, sex, and family.

From the outset, the show’s approach to Rae’s weight is spot-on. She’s not particularly confident in her appearance (what 16-year-old is?), but she is trying her damnedest. Unlike the pitfalls many “lovable fat person” stories fall into, happiness and overall self-acceptance for Rae aren’t attached to her losing weight—not even under the common guise of “loving oneself enough to take care of your body.” Weight loss is rarely the question for Rae. Working toward her own mental health, with the help of her straight-talking therapist Dr. Kester (Ian Hart), constantly is.

What makes My Mad Fat Diary stand out is how it brings all of these topics to life in a way that is undeniably entertaining. For one thing, it’s set in 1996, with throwback outfits and a soundtrack to match. When it wants to be, the show is dead funny, and not in a slapstick or grotesque way centered around Rae’s size. When she makes genuine jokes at her own expense—on her own terms, it’s funny; when neighborhood hooligans do, it’s righteously nauseating. Rae herself is a clever, sharp-witted and outspoken character who pokes fun at everything and anything, making her friends laugh as often as viewers. Surrounded by a quirky band of friends and an unconventional home life (her flighty mother is harboring her younger, non-English-speaking, undocumented immigrant boyfriend Karim from Tunisia in the house), Rae may describe herself as “mad,” but she is often the sanest character of the cast.

Some of the show’s best jokes (as well as troves of heart-wrenching moments) stem from Rae’s fully budded sexuality. Here still, there’s much less temptation to laugh at Rae than with her. While Melissa McCarthy’s overt sexuality in Bridesmaids, for example, derives its humour at least as much from the idea of a horny but sexually undesirable woman as from McCarthy’s truly hilarious farcicality, Rae’s sexuality doesn’t position her size as the butt of its joke. Rather, her private thoughts read like a Cosmo column that’s more colorful than internet literotica and yet more relatable than either of the two. Anyone who’s been a sexually frustrated adolescent can appreciate phrases like “sculpted piece of testosterone wonder” and her general outlook on butts. If only we had all had Rae’s wicked sense of humour at 16, not to mention her complete comfort with her own desires.

Rae’s maturity is about on par for her age, and as such, we cringe as she blunders through conflicts with boys, friends, and worst of all, her mother, with youthful brashness. Her adolescent perspective is written to a T, best exemplified in the sixth episode of Series 2, “Not I,” in which Rae is forced to confront the events of the past several months through the eyes of her pretty, popular, but equally insecure best friend, Chloe. Rae may be naïve at times, but the show itself is far from myopic. Even older viewers will be along for the ride as Rae deals with anxieties—such as her aversion to eating in front of people—that are perfectly expressed and at times, truly heartbreaking in their honesty.

And therein lies what makes the show such a wonderful example of fat positivity and feminism—Rae is, per her own description, mad and fat, but it takes less than a single episode to make it abundantly clear that she is so much more than that. Rae’s character and her problems are just so real. It’s rare enough for teenage girls to see positive representations of themselves onscreen, and even less so for those outside the typical beauty norms. Rae Earl is an extremely well-developed, well-written character—one we could all afford to take a cue from now and then when it comes to speaking up for others and advocating for our own well-being. My Mad Fat Diary and shows like it deserve to flood the airwaves from here to Lincolnshire.

Ariana DiValentino is a lover and budding creator of all things film and feminism, based in New York. Catch her in action on Twitter @ArianaLee721.

‘St. Trinian’s’: Girlish Wiles and Cunning Friendships

This guest post by Bethany Ainsworth-Coles appears as part of our theme week on Female Friendship.

SPOILERS AHEAD

St. Trinian’s is a British comedy legend. In the series of films, a rabble of girls are taught by a selection of oddities and petty criminals, brewing vodka, and doing what they do best. Of course what they do best is illegal, but that’s what these girls are meant to do. In 2007, the films were resurrected with St. Trinian’s, which like so much media directed toward girls, was panned by critics. However, what it is at its heart is girls banding together to save their school with their teachers and winning. It doesn’t matter how they dress, what group they belong to, or their age.

Now the school itself run by the fantastic Miss Camilla Fritton (played by Rupert Everett) and its group of misfit teaching staff includes the big drinker Matron (Celia Imrie) as Camilla’s best friend and confidante. Their friendship is lovely as it is framed not just as two old women best friends. They aren’t the standard old ladies of film past; they are hard drinking, pill-poppers who look after each other, such as turning up to support Camilla when her dog is killed.

Matron and Miss Fritton judging people

The friendships throughout the film defy the general limits that films put on girls’ cinema. The groups (e.g. the emos, posh tottiess, chavs, geeks, etc.) frequently band together. When word gets round that the school needs money, all the girls band together to save it by robbing the national gallery of “Girl with a Pearl Earring.” Isn’t that great? Girls banding together to perform a successful heist with cover, dynamite, and some seriously fantastic dancing is just one of the reasons this film deserves more love. The girls work together–every group from the feral first years to the hippie girl (Juno Temple), and even the school secretary joins in.

The girls working together

Whilst most of the groups already know and tolerate each other, Taylor (a chav as played by Kathryn Drysdale) and Andrea (an emo as played by Paloma Faith–yes that Paloma Faith) become friends through circumstance. Whilst they despise each other since they are from different social circles, when the geeks choose them as the two other girls to actually steal the picture, they slowly become friends. Yes, it’s that trope again, but this time it really works. Their relationship is integral–even though Andrea inadvertently strands the head girl on the other side with the picture–she and Taylor both celebrate when they win. Realistically, they don’t become best friends either but they grow a new tolerance for each other that is certainly an admirable thing to show in a film for girls.

Whilst they work outside their groups, the groups are shown as equally important. Unlike films that actively scathe group systems (e.g. Mean Girls), St. Trinian’s endorses it. This is especially seen with the posh totties’ Chelsea, Chloe, and Peaches (Tamsin Egerton, Antonia Bernath, and Amara Karan). At face value, they seem like spoiled rich girls; however, they are actually bright charming women who simply enjoy their lifestyles and how they look. They win the quiz through Chloe’s intelligence, not through looks. Also they are pretty strong women who take no prisoners, especially dealing with creepy men taking their trousers down in their dorm room. Of course, everyone knows the only way to deal with that is to chuck that nasty piece of work out of the window and into the fountain below.

Now another interesting friendship is between Camilla and the head girl, Kelly (Gemma Arterton). Camilla doesn’t treat her as someone lesser but treats her as an equal and gives her tasks that she knows will be good for Kelly. However when Kelly can’t finish the heist, instead of letting the girl take the fall, she gets out a grappling hook, zips over, and saves her. It’s not seen as a weakness of Kelly’s either; her needing help is a positive. She can rely on Camilla to save her just like she can rely on her school.

Now whilst this seems like an odd collection of friendships, it is an important selection of lessons. It fosters the idea that girls working together will always be better than scheming men, and will always sort things out even if they do need help. Girls are fearless: willing to steal, blow up iron bars, fight back against creeps, and speak out. And most importantly, it’s OK to make mistakes. The girls also enjoy themselves doing it. What’s better than spending an evening repainting their spiv’s car whilst nattering on to their mates? Nothing apart from convincing the general public your school is exceptional. Which it is in a way. The girls enjoy being themselves, modifying their uniforms to match their personalities, and embracing being girls. There are no uniform codes, no rules against makeup, they brew vodka in science, and aren’t frowned upon for that. They may not be the demure schoolgirls people expect, but they sure are the best.

Like all good films for girls, it suffered like all good films for women, and was panned by male critics who didn’t understand why girls could be so fantastic.

A tense moment for everyone

The soundtrack for St. Trinian’s even consists of mainly girls. It features everyone from the Noisettes, Lady Sovereign, and Girls Aloud does the theme song. This entire film celebrates female friendships and girls in general. Isn’t that fabulous? It is a film with genuine adventure, laughs that don’t depend on mocking the girls but laughing with them. In fact, all the men are pointless and ripe for being used for their cause. This cast of male characters includes Stephen Fry, the Bursar (Toby Jones), the spiv Flash Harry (Russell Brand), Fritton’s own brother (Everett Still), and Geoffrey Thwaites (Colin Firth), who is Camilla’s vague love interest–and antagonist–who is exposed at the end in more ways than one.

In St. Trinian’s, girls are the most important. Their friendships are valued above anything else because without them their scheming wouldn’t work and then they would be in normal schools… and who wants that?

Bethany Ainsworth-Coles is a young writer from England who enjoys over analyzing things and watching films. She tweets over at https://twitter.com/wierdbuthatsok

First Jane Tennison DCI: Revisiting ‘Prime Suspect’s Complex Lead

In the final episode of ‘Prime Suspect,’ the long-running British series, Jane Tennison (Helen Mirren), a hardworking, hard drinking detective who has sacrificed so much of her life for her job and made more than a few enemies, skips her own retirement party and walks out and into the rest of her life. In the other room, her colleagues are jovial, waiting for the stripper they hired, preparing balloons, and liberally dipping into the refreshments.
But Jane is uncertain.

In the final episode of Prime Suspect, the long-running British series, Jane Tennison (Helen Mirren), a hardworking, hard drinking detective who has sacrificed so much of her life for her job and made more than a few enemies, skips her own retirement party, and walks out and into the rest of her life. In the other room, her colleagues are jovial, waiting for the stripper they hired, preparing balloons, and liberally dipping into the refreshments.
But Jane is uncertain.

Jane in the final episode, the weight of everything she’s seen finally catching up with her.

She’s triumphant as she’s solved her last case, but it’s taken a clear toll on her. She’s tired, she’s unsure what else she can be other than a cop, is struggling with her alcoholism and the reality of how few people she has in her life to lean on, and yet, she’s free of the relentless politics and bureaucracy she’s faced throughout her career and has finished it she way she intended. For all she’s sacrificed, she’s lived the life she wanted and refused to compromise either personally or professionally. And after seven series of watching and cheering her on, we’re sure she’ll be okay. If she’d gone to the party, there’d be cause to worry about her.

Prime Suspect ran for seven series airing between 1991 and 2006, earning Emmys, Golden Globes, and BAFTAs as well as serving as an inspiration of several character-driven and female-led police dramas. The series was created by mystery writer Lynda La Plante after discovering there were only four female Detective Chief Inspectors (DCIs) in Scotland Yard at the time and Tennison was based on Jackie Malton, a celebrated officer with success in homicide, fraud, and robbery divisions.

Prime Suspect Title Card — *Prime Suspect* title card

The first series followed Jane’s journey to gain the respect of her male colleagues as she leads her first investigation, fighting to be taken seriously at every turn. The idea of the police force as a boys’ club colors much of the first series and continues to a gradually lessening degree throughout the rest of show’s run as Jane earns respect (and contempt) for her own merit. Subsequent series feature groundbreaking investigations for a show of the time period, probing into institutional racism, pedophilia, agism, genocide, police brutality and misconduct and well as a rather shakily handled portrayal of gay prostitution, a mistreated Transwoman character, and a sensitive depiction of abortion.

Prime Suspect relentlessly delves into dark territory; the cases are horrific and the victims ghettoized by police bureaucracy, and without Jane at its centre, never losing focus of the goal of obtaining justice for the victims and securing convictions and Mirren’s fierce portrayal of her, it could easily become depressing and marred by its focus on interviews and interrogations over of gun fights and chases. Jane is the rare female character who is allowed to be flawed, yet continues to be likable both in the perspective of the narrative and in the viewer’s eyes. Even if you dislike her as a person, it’s impossible not to respect her and to be a bit awed by what she does. And she is not always easy to like.

The show doesn’t shy away from graphic forensic evidence and interesting police science, such as reconstructing a face from this skull — The show doesn’t shy away from graphic forensic evidence

From the start, Jane is abrasive and difficult, as in the first episode, she begins angling for a promotion right after her colleague dies. Frequently, she is too harsh on suspects after deciding their guilt and asked variations of, “What kind of person are you?” She also feigns empathy to get information, a tactic that works even accidentally as it becomes her default mode (notably in series 4). Most interestingly, Jane is often wrong and insensitive: she commits the cardinal sin of a woman in power by not supporting other women, goes after the wrong man and causes a hostage situation, appears racist for not wanting to work with a her former lover, a Black detective, as well as several other incidences.

In series 4, Jane’s breakthrough case is reopened and with her entire career called into question, she goes off investigate on her own. This involves visiting her suspect’s elderly mother, pretending to be a family friend and bringing her out to an isolated pier when Jane harshly interrogates her, in a manner bordering on abusive as the old woman grows increasingly frightened. In the end, she proves her suspect’s guilt but in a manner that sets her in the worst possible light for the audience.

Before she is given an investigation to lead, Jane is invisible to her male coworkers, who talk about cases around her, but never asking for her opinion — Before she is given an investigation to lead, Jane is invisible to her male coworkers, who talk about cases around her

As a leader, her refusal to compromise means she is determined to catch the guilty party, while her co-workers urge her just to get someone to confess, guilty or not. She’s tough, telling her squad in her first briefing, “All I ask is your undivided loyalty and attention. … You don’t like it, put in for a transfer.” She is also very clever, shown in series 2, when she eliminates a possible identity for a murder victim by putting her own watch with the victim’s effects and allowing her mother to falsely claim it.

Mirren’s acting skills are highlighted in tense interrogation scenes

But for all her prickly meanness and seeming detachment, Jane really cares about getting justice for victims and becomes deeply emotionally involved. After long periods of procedural drama, the show imbues a great deal of cathartic release in the moments when she celebrates a victory by pumping her fists and cheering and in the private moments where Jane, overwhelmed and exhausted, breaks down and cries.

It’s her frustrations dealing with bureaucracy or snags in her investigations that frequently lead her to do things like snap at her subordinates, splash wine on her supervisors, and find solace in smoking, drinking, and sex.

Prime Suspect is also noted for its straightforward depiction of workplace sexism. Rather than catcalls, pranks, or groping, sexism manifests itself in subtle gestures meant to undermine her authority, such as suggestions that she is irrational or hormonal and her male coworkers being promoted over her.

Jane’s biggest detractor is Detective Sergeant Bill Otley, while DI Frank Burkin and DS Richard Hawley become two of her supporters

Moreover, as the first series goes on, Jane slowly gains the respect and support of her colleagues, they take orders willingly and the entire squad sign their names on a petition to keep her on the case when their superiors threaten to remove her. Throughout the program, Jane’s constant refrain (made humourous thanks to Mirren’s role in The Queen) is: “Don’t call me Ma’am I’m not the bloody queen.” She tells people she wants to be called “boss or guv,” but never ma’am. At the end of the first series she knows she has gained their respect once the squad calls her guv.

Jane is an interesting character to examine in a feminist critique as it doesn’t seem that she would consider herself a feminist. Even as Jane advances through the force, within the show’s narrative, the pinnacle of her success is not when she reaches the highest rank but when she gets to a point where her colleagues complain about her and her supervisors sabotage her not because she’s a woman but because of her personality and her leadership. In the last episode, as she prepares to retire, she is celebrated as the first female DCI, to which she responds, a detective first, woman second: “First Jane Tennison DCI.”

Still, there are several incidences when Jane uses her gender to her advantage. Notably, in the first series, she hides in the women’s locker room when she knows her supervisor is looking for her to pull her off the case, knowing it’s the only place he can’t go. Later, when interrogating her suspect’s girlfriend, she fusses over her appearance to uncharacteristic degree as she knows the girlfriend will be less contrary if she believes Jane is concerned with her appearance. In another series, she gets information unavailable to a male officer when she has a drink with two prostitutes and talks to them about their friend’s murder, establishing a friendly bond when a man propositions her that makes them comfortable with her.

Hyperaware of how she is perceived, Jane knows that if she shows any weakness, she will lose all the respect she’s gained. In series 4, she has difficulty dealing with DS Christine Cromwell (Sophie Stanton), a woman who does things a lot like she did in earlier series: going off on her own to investigate, losing her temper in front of the press, and sharing a close relationship with a male colleague. These things make Jane fearful both of associating herself with a woman who could be perceived to be sleeping her way to the top, and of the perception that she could be giving Cromwell special treatment or unearned sorority. As a result, Jane in harsher to female subordinated than males and sets them to a higher standard as she believes they need to be tougher to make it in the department.

After Cromwell proves herself, Jane takes her under her wing and acts as her mentor

Eventually Cromwell proves herself clever and determined, leading Jane to develop a productive partnership with her, as the two investigated in a pair for much of the rest of the investigation.

Another recurring theme in the series is Jane’s struggle maintaining stable relationships. Her relationship in the first series is introduced as loving and supportive, with Jane excited to meet his son, but quickly crumbles with the stress of her new job. Jane, as anyone who knew her would expect, puts the investigation first, complains when he laughs about what the tabloids are saying about her, and is unable to make dinner for his business partners. The boyfriend yells at her that she cares more about “your rapists and your tarts” than him, and leaves her without discussion after a fight. In the next series, she has moved on and taken the break-up in stride, but in the rest of the program Jane seems lonely when she is given silent moments, begins to a routine of eating frozen dinners and drinking alone and puts up with less before ending her relationships. In series 4, she has new boyfriend, who makes question her priorities: “This is the first time in my life I’ve had the feeling that I don’t want to get up, go to work, don’t want to screw up another relationship.” Still though, he refuses to support her when things get difficult and is gone by the next series. Without fail, Jane refuses to stay in a relationship with any man who can’t acknowledge the importance for her career.

The pressure begins to get to Jane as she talks a moment to collect herself.

At the end of series 3, Jane finds herself pregnant and despite realizing this is her last chance to have a child, decides to have an abortion. It’s a difficult decision for her and not one she takes lightly, but it’s presented as the right thing for her to do based on where she is in her life and what she wants for her future. True to the character, Jane’s decision-making process is not fraught with meaningful glances at mothers with babies or discussion with her friends or family; instead, she when she calls the doctor to arrange it, she is calm and businesslike. Only after it’s arranged does she take a minute to mourn, turning away from the camera and the audience to cry, showing only her shoulder moving up and down for an extended shot.

Jane Tennison is a fascinating character whose DNA is found in several of its predecessors. Notably, the failed American remake, a serviceable cop show with Maria Bello as its strong lead and The Closer, whose creators have acknowledged the debt they owe to Prime Suspect. Gillian Anderson has also compared her role in The Fall to Jane Tennison

But there is only one Jane, the kind of woman who leads with a quiet integrity who manages to be both poised and ruthless, who tries to wear different lives that don’t fit her and has the courage to cast them off, always knows what she wants and what she values: giving justice to her victims, and solving crimes instead of succeeding in departmental politics and earning promotions. It’s a series that deserves revisiting.

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Elizabeth Kiy is a Canadian writer and freelance journalist living in Toronto, Ontario. She recently graduated from Carleton University where she majored in journalism and minored in film.