Erin Tatum – Bitch Flicks

Why ‘The Bold Type’ Is Exactly the Feminist TV Show We Need Right Now

The magic that has propelled ‘The Bold Type’ to the forefront of the TV summer landscape is, without a doubt, the depth and strength of the bond between the trio. … I just can’t overstate how lovely it is to see young women caring about each other unconditionally, through thick and thin. Strong friendships and more importantly strong writing, especially for female characters, doesn’t always have to rely on drama and conflict and rivalry. Sometimes all we want to see is women giving their friends a shoulder to lean on.

Written by Erin Tatum.

At a time when it feels like an alarming number of people would happily turn back the social clock 50 years (or 200), it’s nice to have a lighthearted beacon of hope in our perpetually apocalyptic media shitstorm. The Bold Type has emerged as an unexpectedly poignant tonic to… well, almost everything else that’s made headlines this summer.

With my 26th birthday around the corner, I admittedly felt I was getting a little long in the teeth for Freeform (formerly ABC Family). I can no longer watch frothy high school soaps without feeling like a disapproving PTA mom, even if the vast majority of the characters are played by actors over 21. I’ve resisted adulthood as much as anyone, but for obvious reasons, I just can’t relate to teenage issues anymore. I could care less about Jimmy trying pot or Amy running for student council — although Manny wearing a thong to school was one of the most scandalously memorable TV moments for an aughts teen. Feels quaint in an era saturated with Snapchat nudes, doesn’t it?

It’s been frustrating to see actors in their 20s repeatedly siphoned away to play eternal 17-year-olds (no, really) instead of being allowed to explore characters who are also navigating early adulthood. Cue The Bold Type.

The TV series, created by showrunner Sarah Watson, follows the adventures of BFFs Jane, Kat, and Sutton (Katie Stevens, Aisha Dee, and Meghann Fahy) and their work at Scarlet, a women’s magazine based on Cosmopolitan as the show is “inspired by the life” of former editor-in-chief Joanna Coles. The first revelation? We get to see actresses in their 20s playing characters the same age instead of passing themselves off as high school sophomores! Praise Anna Wintour! I’m thoroughly enjoying watching my demographic actually being our demographic. It alleviates the weird peer/parent viewing experience and validates your more recent missteps rather than make you cringe at your old ones. In particular, the social issues that felt earth-shattering as a teen pale in comparison to the potential consequences of a professional pratfall. The show thus acquires a mature and reflective tone alongside sillier beats like fishing a yoni egg out of your friend’s vagina and pouring a bucket of cold water on the myth that shower sex is fantastic.

Special mention also goes to the girls’ boss Jacqueline (Melora Hardin) for being the most delightful subversion of every fashion alpha stereotype ever. I fully expected her to be a scathing Devil Wears Prada redux, but she’s most notable for what she isn’t — namely, a bitch. Female bosses both on TV and in real life are not only assumed but expected to treat their female subordinates with contempt and derision, to the point where getting your spirit broken by a “bitch boss” is perceived as a rite of passage for any young woman looking to make it in the corporate world. Jacqueline turns this trope on its head, gamely taking the trio under her wing as a no-nonsense mentor, her capacity for understanding and kindness as high as her intolerance for bullshit. Plus, she gives actual sound career advice without exploiting the girls or crushing their self-esteem! The bar may be low, but the results are heartwarming to watch. Hardin plays “ambiguously maternal authority figure who would still totally kick your ass” really well.

Gif credit: Kadena Daily

Another surprise crowning jewel of the show has been the relationship between Kat and Adena (Nikohl Boosheri), one of the first portrayals of an out Muslim lesbian on mainstream television, generating both praise and controversy. Kat initially tells a curious Adena that she’s straight and I was already bracing myself for a season of gay panic à la Skins‘ Naomi and Emily. In a hilarious about-face for the plot and the character, Kat decides she’s into women and cheerfully announces she wants to bang Adena like 12 hours after the orientation conversation. Super hetero there, Kat. Rather than squandering the emotional momentum of their relationship on the usual label dance, the couple faces much more pressing obstacles like immigration law and Islamophobia. The main romance on the show is between two sapphic women of color and I am HERE for it! And not just because of my massive crush on both Aisha and Nicole.

That’s not to say Jane and Sutton don’t deserve shoutouts, too. Jane is a newly promoted writer navigating the responsibilities of her new position and what it means to date as a Millennial woman. Katie Stevens has thrown herself at the zanier moments of the show with gusto and her apparent embrace of cringe comedy (she is the subject of both the yoni egg scene AND the awkward shower sex) has paid off well in terms of making the character more nuanced, in addition to the narrative tone overall. Stevens can also carry more emotionally hefty storylines, like Jane grappling with the decision to be tested for the BRCA gene after it is revealed that her mother died at a young age from breast cancer.

Assistant Sutton struggles with the potential professional ramifications of secretly dating hunky board member Richard (Sam Page) and plucking up the courage to pursue her ultimate dream of working in the fashion department. While I sadly can’t relate to having a sexy covert affair with a superior, her discussion with Richard about feeling pressure to achieve her goals ASAP because she’s turning 26 this year and she fears complacency REALLY hits close to home right now. Bonus points for the fact that neither of them bat an eye at Kat’s overnight sexuality revelation and are immediately as invested in her relationship with Adena as they are in their own love lives.

Above all, it’s refreshing to watch young women support each other and face challenges while still being realistically flawed in ways that aren’t always redeemable. Jane publicly snaps at Jacqueline when an assignment unearths painful memories of her mother’s illness. Sutton inadvertently threatens Richard’s career when Kat angrily barges into his office to confront him about sharing their private conversation with a fellow board member. Kat coddles an incompetent intern and creates a PR nightmare for the magazine. Frankly, she doesn’t seem that great at her job at times. For a supposedly seasoned social media manager, she frantically deletes quite a few tweets, although I’m willing to hand wave that for the laugh I got out of her accidentally tweeting, “This lesbian shit is intense!” from the corporate account. In the end, however, they all acknowledge their mistakes and use the consequences as an opportunity for growth. Jane apologizes to Jacqueline and realizes she has to face her fear, Sutton breaks up with Richard to protect their respective jobs, and Kat must fire her intern. Ultimately, none of these mistakes are really meant to morally categorize or negatively impact our perception of any of the trio, a welcome departure from the broad brush strokes that usually plague the characterization of women on television.

The magic that has propelled The Bold Type to the forefront of the TV summer landscape is, without a doubt, the depth and strength of the bond between the trio. Sure, they get pissed off with each other – what best friends don’t on occasion? – but it’s mercifully never left to fester as a long term conflict. They fuck up, they recognize it right away, they apologize, they move on. Their connection easily transcends the personal drama of the week. Although I’m well aware that the writers will probably break them up temporarily at some point, I have complete confidence that nothing can keep them apart for long. I just can’t overstate how lovely it is to see young women caring about each other unconditionally, through thick and thin. Strong friendships and more importantly strong writing, especially for female characters, doesn’t always have to rely on drama and conflict and rivalry. Sometimes all we want to see is women giving their friends a shoulder to lean on. Or more accurately, having those friends happily climb fully clothed into a bathtub to feed you wine. I can’t think of a purer expression of friendship than that.

Erin Tatum is a social media marketer and writer. She lives in Pennsylvania with her numerous dogs and birds. Her passions include animals, intersectional feminism, and baking. She is a diehard foodie with a weakness for bad reality TV.

‘Glitter Tribe’ Reminds Us That Burlesque Is Far More Than Just a Peep Show

‘Glitter Tribe’ (directed by Jon Manning) lays out the argument that neo-burlesque should be considered a bona fide art form within itself and the ensuing 75 minutes certainly make a compelling case. The beating heart of the documentary is evident in the profiles of several Portland-based dancers, who each derive a different meaning and perspective from their performances.

Written by Erin Tatum.

I’ve always been attracted to the alternative and wonderfully wacky ways of expressing identity, so naturally I jumped at the chance to review Burlesque: Heart of the Glitter Tribe. Despite going to college in the Bay Area, my concept of burlesque was still admittedly arcane – I think of borderline cartoonish scenes ripped from Mad Men where hordes of anonymous businessmen in gray flannel suits ogle topless Marilyn Monroe look-alikes in a smoke-filled room (somewhat like this). It goes without saying that burlesque has evolved far beyond merely capturing the attention and lust of emotionally constipated men. Glitter Tribe (directed by Jon Manning) lays out the argument that neo-burlesque should be considered a bona fide art form within itself and the ensuing 75 minutes certainly make a compelling case.

The beating heart of the documentary is evident in the profiles of several Portland-based dancers, who each derive a different meaning and perspective from their performances. Zora Von Pavonine describes sleepless nights of laboring over costumes, fueled by her passion for fashion and rhinestones; Angelique DeVil discusses how her persona is her “megaphone” and an amplified fusion of all her past selves; Babs Jamboree chuckles over the juxtaposition of her no-frills day job and ultra feminine nightlife; Isaiah Esquire recalls that performing helped him overcome severe body image issues. No matter their individual motivations for dancing, one fact quickly becomes clear – obvious connotations notwithstanding, burlesque emphasizes cleverness and humor above all else.

Of course, the standard erotic fare is omnipresent. (Most delightfully, this film has opened my eyes to the existence of “assels” or ass tassels, which are exactly what they sound like.) However, the dancers pride themselves on seeking intellectual engagement with the audience and care about making them laugh more than making them horny. They acknowledge that while sexuality is the cornerstone of their routines, comedy plays a much larger role in their performance. Particularly for the unusual all-male group, the Stage Door Johnnies, personality is key. They poke fun at the fact that they’re men doing something usually dominated by women, but they’re also careful to nuance their humor beyond gawking at the objectification of the masculine.

In some cases, the dancers aren’t afraid to move their art into the realm of the abstract or complete absurdity. Babs Jamboree constructs an entire routine around the concept of a seductive burrito, featuring, you guessed it, herself as a giant personified burrito. She grins alluringly as she slips out of her tortilla coat (amazing) to reveal herself as a sexy jalapeño. Her tongue-in-cheek innovation continues when she spoofs the ridiculous male conundrum of worrying about the mechanics of hypothetical mermaid sex by transforming herself into a reverse mermaid, a decidedly off-putting fish head who has a human woman’s legs for days. I’m pretty sure I have a crush on Babs Jamboree, you guys. Other dancers court overt controversy. I have to say that watching Ivizia Dakini mime fellatio and later direct cunnilingus with a Jesus puppet was… unexpected to say the least, although she rightfully points out that pearl clutching about religion during a burlesque show is kind of hypocritical. Regardless, the performers pour their heart and soul into their routines, from fleshing out their creative visions to spending hours bedazzling shoes and bustiers. Each performance is a manifestation of love, community, and commitment. Ironically, the show becomes less about titillating the audience with physical bodies and more about stimulating their minds with artistic expression.

The performers also address the common criticism that they can’t be feminist because they’re “objectifying themselves.” They assert that performing is their choice and that burlesque provides the opportunity for such complex characters that it’s impossible to objectify their bodies because you can’t take the characters out of their persona or routine. I am of the personal belief that accusing a woman of being anti-feminist because of her personal choices she makes about her own body is an inherently contradictory concept, but I enjoy that they came up with a rebuttal that further emphasizes their love of the art. Angelique DeVil looks crestfallen as she relates how her mother flat-out told her that she was a source of embarrassment for her family (it probably doesn’t help that she was apparently an alternative teen growing up in North Dakota). The editors then decide to pour salt in the wound by immediately following this heartbreaking account of rejection with a cheery montage of basically everyone else talking about how much their parents enjoy the show. These folks are much braver than I, because as much as I love my parents and as liberal as they are, I don’t know if I would want them staring directly at my bejeweled anus. There’s a first time for everything, I suppose!

Above all else, what the performers treasure most across-the-board is the strong sense of empowerment and community that they have found through burlesque. Dancing provides a safe haven and a coping mechanism, helping the dancers overcome everything from alcoholism and drug addiction to processing the scars of childhood sexual abuse. As Isaiah Esquire will tell you, taking ownership of your sexuality through dance is its own kind of agency and power. It’s not about being universally perceived as sexy; it’s about the confidence of knowing your affect on each audience member. With a single motion or glance, you can make someone feel something. That ability to impart an emotion on someone else appears to be far and away the most rewarding experience that the dancers can have. They also become a tight-knit family – just as Angelique DeVil views burlesque as her true home in the wake of familial ostracism, Isaiah Esquire witnesses the generosity of his co-performers firsthand after they band together to raise money for an expensive knee surgery that would have left him unemployed and broke. The love that the performers feel for one another is palpable, and not just because they often canoodle onstage. It’s evident that they genuinely care about and support each other, sharing a deep understanding and commitment that people outside the world of burlesque just don’t have.

Sure, burlesque isn’t always glamorous. The performers are the first to admit that it’s neither a cash cow nor a respected career. Sleepless nights are a regular occurrence; costumes are a labor of love but frequent money pits; romantic relationships often suffer because partners feel that burlesque takes center stage before they do. At the end of the day, however, burlesque transcends being a simple hobby or fodder for a naughty night out. It’s an electricity, a spontaneous bond, a bold personal statement of individuality. All the sacrifice becomes worth it the moment the music starts to play.

Erin Tatum is a Bitch Flicks staff writer. She is a social media marketer and writer. She lives in Pennsylvania with her numerous dogs and birds. Her passions include animals, intersectional feminism, and baking. She is a diehard foodie with a weakness for bad reality TV.

‘The Legend of Korra’ Caps Off Its Feminist Redemption in (Very Queer) Series Finale

Once everything winds down, Korra has her final meaningful conversations with those closest to her. I bit my lip nervously as expressed her gratitude towards Mako for assisting her in the fight. After a reunion so late in the game, I fully expected everything to wrap up with a humdrum obligatory affirmation of heterosexuality.

Korra’s making a comeback.

Written by Erin Tatum.

If there’s one thing I will never get tired of doing, it’s calling out lazy sexism in writing. Few shows have disappointed me more (at least initially) than The Legend of Korra (LOK), simply because of all the wasted potential. For a long time, I perceived LOK as a clumsy Y7 dilution of a horny teen melodrama that tainted the legacy of its golden predecessor, Avatar: The Last Airbender (A: TLA). There was far too much reliance on love triangles and romantic angst and on top of everything, the allegedly radical strong female protagonist was a hot mess. Korra (Janet Varney) was an impulsive hothead with an undying need to resist authority for the sake of it, caring more about the attention and approval of crush-turned-boyfriend Mako (David Faustino) than, well, just about anything else. She was whiny, entitled, and dabbled in internalized misogyny to boot, focusing most of her energy in the first season on undermining Asami (Seychelle Gabriel), Mako’s first girlfriend, in the rivalry for his heart. But it’s apparently justified at the time because Asami is girly and comes from money and therefore it’s automatically assumed she’s shallow or undeserving I guess?

Avatar Aang’s reincarnation may have been a lady, but she was a bit of a dick.

My reaction to Korra at the beginning.

(The kids were also saddled with a miserable cast of piss-baby adults who redefined emotional dysfunction and clogged up screen time with their Maury-style family drama shitshow. I’ll have to stop here or you’re going to get six paragraphs about how much the adults ruin everything.)

Anyway, I digress. From weak characterization to network issues, LOK had a bumpy ride until the end. During the third season, Nickelodeon decided to pull the series off the air due to overly dark themes (although A:TLA tiptoed around such subjects, LOK never shied away from showcasing progressively less ambiguous scenes of death/suicide/murder). Rather than outright cancellation, executives took the unusual step of relegating the rest of the episodes exclusively to online streaming. The show thereby cemented its subversive reputation, with creators Michael Dante DiMartino and Bryan Konietzko seemingly taking advantage of the medium to push the envelope as much as they could.

Asami offers her support to Korra after Korra is injured at the end of Book 3.

The second season was an echo of the first in terms of rehashing pointless romantic fodder, but things finally hit their stride in the third season, ironically right when it was pulled from television viewership. Thankfully, following a tumultuous relationship and a messy breakup in Book 2, Korra and Mako stayed apart with shockingly little ship tease the rest of the series. I’m still in disbelief about that one. I can’t believe the breakup actually stuck and that the writers were able to resist the temptation to constantly throw them back into will-they-won’t-they territory. That’s a good message though–not all relationships work out, and you don’t have to feel pressure to stay with someone forever just because you have history. People can learn things from each other and move on. More significantly, the breakup paves the way for Korra to develop a friendship with Asami, who fast becomes Korra’s primary ally and confidant the rest of the series. They’re able to work past their former rivalry to build a relationship independent of shared history with Mako. The connection is heartfelt and genuine and doesn’t just feel like a belated attempt to hastily past the Bechdel test like I originally feared.

There’s also a few phenomenal standalone episodes that shed light on general Avatar history. They brought tears to my eyes not only because they were so good, but because they reminded me that DiMartino and Konietzko do still have the ability to tell beautiful stories when they aren’t mired down in cheesy interpersonal dynamics.

Older Korra has seen better days.

The fourth and final season (Balance) finds Korra struggling to recover from her latest near death experience, suffering from implied PTSD as repeated, terrifying flashbacks prevent her from fully regaining use of her Avatar powers. Three years have passed since the previous season, putting Korra and her friends into their early 20s. This was one of the best creative decisions of the series in my opinion. It feels a little weird to arbitrarily set the final chapter three years in the future when the first three books have taken place in a relatively slow-moving linear timeline, but the last-minute time skip enables the kids to do something that shoddy writing has always held them back from: growing up. Team Avatar are all young adults now. They don’t have time to worry about who they’re dating because they’re all trying to hold down jobs and working for different corporations and navigating different politics and world views. Even the airbending kids (Aang’s grandchildren) take on much more significant roles as we return to find them entering their early teen years. The show finally takes a break from stirring the bubbling cauldron of pheromones to at last rediscover what should have been at the heart of any A:TLA franchise–teamwork and friendship.

Korra must face down Kuvira.

With her confidence and fragile psychological state badly shaken, Korra has been in isolation since her last enemy tried to poison her to death, choosing to remain in contact with only Asami (suck it Mako). This new older version of Korra is the polar opposite of the headstrong teenager we first met. She’s quiet with a sobering jaded outlook on life, with everything down to her weary body language indicating that her spirit remains just as broken as the physical injuries that brought her to such a darkened mental place. Alas, there is once again trouble brewing on the horizon and Korra must return to face her responsibilities in spite of all of her fears of inadequacy. Harsh dictator Kuvira (Zelda Williams) is conquering villages left and right, becoming increasingly drunk with power under the guise of creating an idealized utopia, a mission for domination that threatens to throw the world out of balance. See what I did there? I have to admit that I’ve never been a fan of the whole “new radical extremist appears to hand Korra’s ass to her every few months” formula of each season because I feel like it disconnects the books from one another as opposed to the steady buildup to the ultimate conflict in A:TLA, but I will say that the execution of this season plot wise is the most compelling. The threat of Kuvira is definitely more intense than the other villains, so the stakes are appropriately higher.

Jinora (in front) travels with her siblings to help Korra.

I’d also like to take a minute to discuss the importance of Jinora, Aang’s oldest granddaughter, because I don’t feel like she ever gets enough credit for being awesome. (Also, she’s voiced by Kiernan Shipka, aka sass queen Sally Draper, which blew my mind because I’ve watched her on Mad Men since she was like 6 and holy hell I’m getting old.) Jinora has been the feminist heartbeat of LOK long before Korra ever got her shit together. Whereas Korra had to be physically annihilated 932 times to actually learn any kind of lesson, Jinora always possessed calm, precocious wisdom and a deep sense of spirituality. She could connect to the spirit world without breaking a sweat. She’s probably around 14 or 15 in the last season. Getting to see her mature and grow into her talents was a real treat. Throughout Book 4, she protects the city, communicates with spirits, and teleports via spirit like a boss. Korra is very protective of her and they have a big sister/little sister type of bond, but Korra should also take notes. Forget Korra’s mopey ass, Jinora is everything that I want to be when I grow up. I don’t care that she’s eight or nine years younger than me. As a bonus, she also has one of the only healthy (not to mention adorable) romantic relationships on the show, even if that could be written off as a function of youth.

I couldn’t even find a picture of Korra and Mako together this season, so here’s older!Mako.

Korra’s gravitation away from brute strength fighting and toward peaceful negotiation tactics was a massive testament to her personal growth in itself, but the most significant crescendo of her character arc came in the form of the final scene of the series. I’ll try not to spoil most of the finale. A lot of people pass out midair and other people catch them. I think you can guess who won the battle of good versus evil. Once everything winds down, Korra has her final meaningful conversations with those closest to her. I bit my lip nervously as expressed her gratitude towards Mako for assisting her in the fight. After a reunion so late in the game, I fully expected everything to wrap up with a humdrum obligatory affirmation of heterosexuality. No matter how I feel about Korra and Mako together, we did have to suffer through two entire seasons of being beaten over the head with the idea that they were the ultimate fated alpha couple. It’s a kids show, so closure is expected and almost mandatory. But the writers miraculously stuck to their guns. A simple “I’ll always have your back” and meaningful glance and that was that. Not even a kiss! Keep that in mind, because we’re about to get analytical.

CAN YOU HEAR THE PEOPLE SINGGG?? (source).

Suddenly–could it be?–the heavens opened up and the powers that be smiled upon us all. Korra spends her last moments of screen time with…Asami? Is this real, or am I dreaming about fanfiction? Asami tells Korra she couldn’t bear to lose her and Korra suggests they take a vacation together. Asami says she’d love to visit the spirit world. She and Korra then walk alone, hand-in-hand, into the spirit portal. The final shot of the series is the two of them clasping hands and gazing into each other’s eyes while being enveloped in the golden light of the portal.

It’s time to girl the hell up (source).

To me, that’s about as queer of an ending as a kids show can get.

A few articles and legions of rejoicing Tumblr fans have chosen to interpret the ending as implying that Korra and Asami are together romantically. It makes sense. The two of them have been building a relationship for years. I also think it’s significant that the scene with Asami occurred after the scene with Mako. Korra had the opportunity to go off into the sunset with Mako, but she chose Asami instead. Asami is the most important person in Korra’s life. It’s no coincidence that that scene almost directly mirrored A:TLA‘s final shot of Aang and Katara kissing in the sunset. Minus the kissing. Sigh, minus the kissing. How awesome is it that two girls who started out resenting each other over a boy end up choosing each other over everyone else? Talk about every queer shipper’s wet dream.

Predictably, this interpretation has drawn an irritated outcry from fans who insist that the subtext simply isn’t there and Korrasami shippers are delusional. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve read something along the lines of “but no, they’re like sisters!” in response to even the most vague allusion to romantic ties between Korra and Asami following the finale. Women are already oversexualized or desexualized constantly in media. The second that anyone dare suggest romantic overtones in girl/girl friendships, in comes the sister argument. Sisters are wholesome and loving within appropriate boundaries! Oh my sweet summer children, have you ever read Frozen fanfiction? Many, many people want Anna/Elsa to get it on, and they’re actual sisters.

The Korra/Mako scene was equally open-ended, but no one’s going to complain about fans who want to interpret that moment as suggesting a romantic future between the two. No one’s going to say “but they’re like brother and sister now!” Granted, they already dated. You get my point. Compulsory assumed universal heterosexuality is the bane of my fandom existence.

I wanted to put something else witty here, but I can’t because this actually makes me really fucking angry and it’s important to talk about why. Most people love to talk about how they support gay people (and I say gay because the straight community has far less understanding and patience for bi/pansexuality), but as soon as the possibility of queerness encroaches into the children’s genre, it becomes dirty and perverse. You do realize that gay people were all once gay kids, right? Kids need to see that kind of representation, regardless of their orientation. For one thing, it’s important to show that a girl can love a girl, but another message of equal importance is that just because love looks different doesn’t make it less than any other kind of love. As a disabled kid, I never exactly saw anyone swooning over people in wheelchairs, but every time I saw anything that broke with your run of the mill romance, it gave me a spark of hope. The emphasis shouldn’t be on moaning about ruining childhoods or turning kids gay, but rather on illustrating that everyone deserves fulfilling relationships with people who love you, whomever they may be.

Ultimately, Korra evolved from an insecure teenager eager to define herself around a boy to a confident heroine who found strength in another woman who believed in her. She may have made me want to tear my hair out in the beginning, but with Asami’s help and the help of her entire support system, she proved herself deserving of the Avatar title as well as finally living up to all the strong female protagonist hype. Once rivals, Korra and Asami became lifelong allies who may or may not kiss occasionally in the future.

In Asami, Korra finally found her balance.

UPDATE: Bryan Konietzko has confirmed via his Tumblr that Korra and Asami ended the series as a couple.

Meg Griffin vs. Tina Belcher: A Feminist’s Take on Beanies and Butts

The primary difference between Meg and Tina is that Tina comes from a loving and supportive environment, whereas Meg does not. Tina’s parents accept her unconditionally, despite her displaying much of the same repressed eroticism as Meg. She writes “erotic friend fiction,” eagerly shares fantasies of dating an entire zombie football team at once, and does little to hide her attraction to the family dentist. Hell, her defining characteristic is an obsession with butts, an obvious manifestation of tween lust that has inspired a spectacular increase in pro-butt artwork across the internet.

Written by Erin Tatum.

One of my favorite things about fall is watching the majority of my favorite shows come back from hiatus. I’ve been a loyal viewer of Fox’s Animation Domination Sunday night lineup for years. Naturally, I was excited when I heard that Family Guy was doing a crossover with The Simpsons for their season premiere.

I watched it and I was underwhelmed for the same reasons that I was surprised that the crossover was happening in the first place – the tonal discord between the bumbling yet endearing Simpsons and the aggressive and insensitive Griffins was palpable. What followed was a particularly uncomfortable 45 minutes of television.

Lisa encourages Meg to find her hidden talent by offering to let her play her prized saxophone.

I was especially bothered by the decision to pair Meg with Lisa for a cringe-inducing B plot. Basically, Lisa takes pity on Meg after witnessing her rock-bottom self-esteem and spends the episode trying to convince her that she’s good at something. It turns out Meg is an even better saxophone player than Lisa, causing Lisa to feel threatened and dismiss Meg’s talent in a moment of uncharacteristic cruelty.

Lisa is a much more three-dimensional character than Meg will ever be. She has incredibly well formulated views on feminism and politics at the age of eight, whereas Meg is more or less a human punching bag for just about everyone in the Family Guy universe. There’s really no comparison, so the plot fell flat.

I’ve been debating breaking up with Family Guy for quite a long time. The jokes are offensive, the plots are merely filler in between cutaway gags, and every single character is terrible. I remember thinking it was cutting-edge satire as a young teen and being absolutely thrilled by it, mainly because it was by far the raunchiest show that my mother (begrudgingly) allowed me to watch. But times have changed. Above all, the one thing that has consistently repulsed me as an adult is the show’s treatment of Meg.

Lois, Meg's mother, shows little sympathy or patience when dealing with Meg, who often turns to drugs and self-harm to cope. — Lois, Meg’s mother, shows little sympathy or patience when dealing with Meg, who often turns to drugs and self-harm to cope.

Meg is a 17-year-old girl who’s not conventionally attractive. That’s the entire punchline, which creator Seth MacFarlane apparently thought was substantial enough to make Meg’s abuse the most prominent running “joke” season after season. Oddly, her character started out as a pretty generic teenage girl, but I guess it’s not funny without misogyny! Meg is belittled by not only her family, but the entire town. Her sense of self worth is frequently eroded by negative remarks about her appearance and weight. Most notably, her sexuality is treated with absolute disgust. You can count on anything related to Meg and sex or romance to be handled as gross-out comedy.

Meg kidnaps Brian after becoming infatuated with him following a drunken make out at prom. — Meg kidnaps Brian after becoming infatuated with him following their drunken make out session at her prom.

While we’re on the subject, let’s talk about more of Meg’s lowlights. It’s implied that she uses hot dogs to masturbate. She makes out with Brian (yes, the dog) and briefly becomes his deranged stalker after he refuses her further advances. She has a short-lived boyfriend that’s committed to abstinence, only to have him dump her at the end of the episode after seeing her naked body. Peter, her own father, attempts to molest her during a cutaway gag and it’s played for laughs. Meg even unknowingly makes out with Chris (her brother) during a costume party. Following the revelation, Meg plays up the previous night to her oblivious parents, saying that she hopes the boy will call. Standing next to her, Chris unenthusiastically replies “Don’t count on it.”

Meg is horrified to realize she's been making out with chris. — Meg is horrified to realize she’s been making out with Chris.

Haha! Because it’s an insult that even your brother wouldn’t want you sexually! Bizarrely, incest is routinely used to highlight just how undesirable Meg is. Why? Who knows. Meg is supposed to represent even lower standards than incest, I guess.

The Griffins' creepy pervert neighbor, Quagmire, repeatedly attempts to seduce an unwitting Meg with various acts of kindness. — The Griffins’ creepy pervert neighbor, Quagmire, repeatedly attempts to seduce an unwitting Meg with various acts of kindness.

The audience is encouraged to mock Meg for being an insecure teenage girl. She is the only female character who can’t be treated as a traditional sex object, which invalidates her right to be treated with respect. Plus, you know, that whole perception of teenage girls as emotional and frivolous and silly and therefore that makes it fair game to trivialize their thoughts and feelings for like seven years. Too bad Meg is permanently stuck in adolescence.

This already paperthin premise is further validated by the fact that everyone else is an awful human being with no motive for any of their actions beyond their own self absorption. It makes no sense to put so much effort into treating Meg like shit when all they care about is getting whatever they want. There’s nothing to gain in keeping her down. And, barring several neglect fueled outbursts of depravity, Meg arguably has the greatest sense of empathy and compassion out of the entire cast (albeit that the bar isn’t high) due to her low self-esteem. It’s misogyny for misogyny’s sake.

Tina takes a part in 'Working Girl' in the S5 premiere to try and get closer to her crush. — Tina takes a part in ‘Working Girl’ in the S5 premiere to try and get closer to her crush.

I watched Bob’s Burgers premiere the following Sunday and was, as usual, charmed and utterly delighted by the Belcher’s 13-year-old daughter, Tina. I realized that Tina finally offered me a framework to articulate all the things that were wrong with Meg and how she’s portrayed.

Unlike Lisa, Tina’s characterization is fairly similar to Meg, at least on the surface. Tina is socially awkward, frumpy, and uncomfortably sexual on occasion. She’s voiced by a man (Dan Mintz) who makes no attempt whatsoever to make his voice more feminine. If this were Family Guy, that alone would be the catalyst for an onslaught of sexist and probably transphobic jokes. However, about 97 percent of the women on Bob’s Burgers are voiced by men. Baritone is clearly en vogue for the ladies. It’s never used as a punchline and the show pretty much naturalizes it. By the end of an episode, I forget that almost all the women have male voice actors because no one is gunning to designate them as less feminine.

And there’s the kicker: everyone in Bob’s Burgers acknowledges that everyone is weird! Femininity or female sexuality is not a source of shame because gender isn’t a spectacle! They’re all quirky for their own reasons that have nothing to do with how well they conform to gender expectations or the way they express themselves sexually. Bob is friends with a number of transgender escorts and takes their flirting in good stride, even enjoying the attention. He’s propositioned by a male grocery store worker at Thanksgiving and bashfully declines, adding that he’s “mostly straight.” There’s not a superiority hierarchy among characters because they all know that they aren’t in a position to judge anyone else, nor do they have any desire to.

Linda cheers Tina's decision to write erotic friend fiction. — Linda, Tina’s mom, cheers Tina’s decision to write erotic friend fiction.

The Belchers never shame Tina for her desires or try to bully her into changing her behavior. She’s not grotesque, it’s just who she is and her family embraces her regardless. They respond to her momentary teenage dismay and heartbreak with gentle encouragement. If anything, her idiosyncrasies make them stronger as a family. They gather strength from the individual uniqueness of each family member, rather than seek out a black sheep to vilify and take focus off everyone else’s flaws. Tina feels comfortable in her own skin and has an incredible sense of confidence for a 13-year-old.

It is a little disheartening to compare her to Meg because that’s when you really see all of the latter’s wasted potential. Meg could have and arguably should have been Tina, but MacFarlane was too easily seduced by the promise of cheap laughs. Tina is certainly a source of comedy, but in a way that’s endearing. She reminds you of middle school awkwardness and the time you felt like your heart “pooped its pants” because your crush didn’t like you back. Whenever Meg comes on screen, I feel like I’m either about to witness harassment or a sex crime.

Forget mingling with the Simpsons. Once Meg turns 18, she should get the hell out of Quahog and move in with the Belchers.

...and they all live happily ever after. — …and they all lived happily ever after.

_________________________________________________________________________

Erin Tatum is a recent graduate of UC Berkeley, where she majored in film and minored in LGBT studies. She is incredibly interested in social justice, media representation, intersectional feminism, and queer theory. British television and Netflix consume way too much of her time. She is particularly fascinated by the portrayal of sexuality and ability in television.

‘My Mad Fat Diary’ and Finding Fat-Positive Feminism

The best shows are the ones that are silly enough to make us laugh, but deep enough to make us think. ‘My Mad Fat Diary’ strikes this balance perfectly in ways that are both clever and heartbreaking. The series chronicles the life of Rae Earl (Sharon Rooney), a snarky yet painfully insecure overweight teen, as relayed in her diary after a brief stay in a mental hospital following a suicide attempt. She begins the slow process of adjusting to life back in the outside world, forming new friendships and battling old demons. As an added bonus, the show could be classified as the fetal equivalent of a period piece, taking place in the mid-90s.

My Mad Fat Diary title card. — *My Mad Fat Diary* title card.

Written by Erin Tatum.

The best shows are the ones that are silly enough to make us laugh, but deep enough to make us think. My Mad Fat Diary strikes this balance perfectly in ways that are both clever and heartbreaking. The series chronicles the life of Rae Earl (Sharon Rooney), a snarky yet painfully insecure overweight teen, as relayed in her diary after a brief stay in a mental hospital following a suicide attempt. She begins the slow process of adjusting to life back in the outside world, forming new friendships and battling old demons. As an added bonus, the show could be classified as the fetal equivalent of a period piece, taking place in the mid-90s. Expect a kickass soundtrack and lots of denim-on-denim. I can’t believe the decade of my childhood is now far enough away to be considered fair game for a period piece. Anyway, no matter how old you were, My Mad Fat Diary will make you giddy with nostalgia.

It’s unfortunately rare to see a show with a fat female protagonist, let alone a teen show. I find Sharon Rooney fascinating because she encapsulates all the contradictions in the media’s perception of plus-sized women. Many interviewers express surprise at how strikingly she contrasts to Rae–whereas Rae is a quintessential wallflower, shy and sulking in oversized T-shirts and baggy jeans, Rooney often wears dresses and substantial amounts of makeup. She has all the self-assurance that Rae longs for. Now approaching her mid-20s, Rooney has spoken candidly about being passed over for roles when she was younger, including the glamour-obsessed Skins franchise (which, although incorporating a few characters who weren’t stick-thin, curiously failed to feature any plus-sized characters in the main cast, despite two full cast changes and seven seasons). It’s telling and ironic that an actress as confident as Rooney got her big break playing a character whose raison d’être is a self-loathing fixation on her weight.

Featuring an ensemble cast–bizarrely ranging in age from 17 to pushing 30, but all supposed to be portraying 16- to 17-year-olds–the crux of the show centers around Rae struggling to overcome self-consciousness to achieve an normal social life. Rae is also unabashedly sex-crazed and makes no secret of her about her lustful fantasies in the pages of her diary. You’re compelled to laugh at Rae’s antics not because the notion of fat women’s desire in itself is humorous, but because her libido is so expansive and imaginative. Rae is even shown exploring masturbation (and enjoying it!), marking all of three times that I’ve seen female masturbation portrayed onscreen. Predictably for the teen genre, she equates normalcy to hitting various romantic and sexual milestones. She winds up giving herself her first orgasm. For all of her self-deprecation, Rae views sexual expression as well within her grasp (no pun intended), at least in the abstract.

Chloe is basically "the hot chick." — Chloe is basically “the hot chick.”

Rae’s childhood best friend Chloe (Jodie Comer) simultaneously embodies everything that Rae wishes she was with everything she knows she shouldn’t want to be. The audience is repeatedly beaten over the head with how thin, pretty, and popular Chloe is. Chloe’s perfect physique is the inspiration for many a gloomy monologue from Rae, with the latter taking every opportunity to lament her inadequacy by comparison. Chloe reinforces Rae’s inferiority complex through subtle backhanded compliments and putdowns, firmly cementing her status as more of a frenemy than a friend. She’s actually quite a recognizable character in that I think we’ve all tried to maintain some childhood friendships that were drifting apart, only to realize that you’ve become two totally different people. Unfortunately, the show has a tendency to pigeonhole Chloe as the bitch and intertwine that with slutiness to indicate a lack of self-respect and moral depravity. She has a clandestine affair with the sleazy married gym coach (of course) and appears to be making her rounds among the boys of the gang. We’re supposed to pity her desperation, but also feel entirely unsympathetic towards her for bringing it on herself. Since Chloe serves to highlight Rae’s naivete and innocence, her characterization falls a bit flat. On one hand, Rae and Chloe illustrate that self-esteem and body image issues exist all across the size spectrum. Chloe may have the advantage of thin privilege, but her insecurities still lead her to squander the resulting opportunities.

However, it makes me uncomfortable that we are still encouraged to demonize Chloe. Why? Because she’s promiscuous? Rae is just as sexual as she is, “experience” be damned. Because she’s two-faced? Rae spends most of the first season lying to almost everyone about almost everything. Because she’s mean to Rae? Rae frequently insults and slut-shames Chloe in her diary, especially when Chloe unknowingly begins to pursue Rae’s crush. All I’m saying is that it smacks too much of the obnoxious “I’m not like other girls” Manic Pixie exceptionalism mentality. Rae and Chloe aren’t as different as Rae would like us to think. The narrative shouldn’t be using Rae as a vehicle to tell the audience what bad femininity supposedly looks like. Much like Chloe, she doesn’t need to put other people down to validate her own perspective. She’s a worthy protagonist in her own right. The whole idea of the plain Jane underdog is completely pointless if it merely flips the social hierarchy.

(Significant series 2 spoilers ahead)

Rae and Finn grow closer throughout the first season.

Despite some bumps in the road, Rae integrates with the gang and even starts a budding romance with softhearted bad boy Finn (Nico Mirallegro, my future husband, packing enough eyebrow game to kill a man). The opening scene of the second season cuts straight to the point and shows Finn fingering Rae. A sex scene between two teenagers focused exclusively on female pleasure, imagine that. Rae continues to grapple with poor self-image, exacerbated by the start of school. Her nagging anxieties force her to confront her biggest fear – how Finn, a traditionally attractive boy, could ever want to be with someone as allegedly undesirable as her. It’s definitely hard to watch her go through all the same triggering things over and over, but I guess that’s true to life when you’re dealing with lifelong psychological scars. She seems to be teetering on sabotaging her own happiness. After all the trials and tribulations of last year, it’s depressing to think of her stability as a flash in the pan. A mysterious new boy looks to be shaping up as a new love interest, because apparently a love triangle is mandatory to signify a female character’s ascension into Everygirl Protagonist territory. Barf. Romantic angst is the last thing Rae needs. Body insecurities and fear of vulnerability also prevent Rae from going all the way with Finn. On that note, I can’t think of a show that objectifies male characters as much as My Mad Fat Diary objectifies Finn. We don’t usually see the adolescent girl gaze and it’s really refreshingly weird.

Ultimately, fat-positive shows remain evasive. My Mad Fat Diary certainly has its pros and cons. Rae is indeed a smart, likeable plus-sized protagonist. Still, the message persists that self-acceptance for fat people (and fat women in particular) is only accessible by way of obligatory despair, self-hatred, and the need for constant outside validation. Hands down, Rae’s biggest obstacle is not the the prejudice of others, but her own internalized toxic mentality. It’s almost as if Rae has to admit society has broken her umpteen times before finally settling in to a niche of lukewarm tolerance. Give her some degree of agency, for fuck’s sake. The perpetual broken bird routine is wearing thin. Why can’t she just be allowed to like who she is? Rae appears to be challenging herself with that same question.

My Mad Fat Diary is a fun step in the right direction, but it still has a long way to go.

Why We Need to Stop Worshiping the Elusive Heteroflexible Femme

Queer inclusion has become downright trendy lately. Even Disney has jumped on the bandwagon. However, as we all know, just because a minority makes an appearance in the media doesn’t mean the mainstream won’t continue to compulsively shape their narratives. One thing show-runners can’t seem to get enough of is sad lesbians (and I say lesbians because according to most representation, bisexuality clearly doesn’t exist!).

Written by Erin Tatum.

In the event that these go-to methodologies of misery are rightfully perceived by the powers-that-be as cheap and melodramatic, they’ll opt for the next best thing–an unrequited crush on a straight girl!

Our beloved lesbian (usually endowed with enough snark, swagger, or sheer adorableness to easily claim her place as estrogen brigade bait among the queer fandom) will pine her little heart away, hoping that the object of her desire will see the rainbow-tinted light. She may also spend a lot of time wallowing in self-loathing for loving someone who could never love her back.

Crushes on straight girls are a pretty common occurrence among queer women, and I’m sure it’s comforting to be able to relate to what the characters are going through. However, sexually incompatible crushes between women are used to codify some pretty unfortunate biases around gender, orientation and sexual expression that are frankly hella problematic.

I couldn’t think of a better segue to discuss Betty and Kate from Bomb Girls.

Bomb Girls is set in early 1940s Canada, about a group of women who work in a munitions factory during the war. Its storylines are almost exclusively focused on feminist issues and female empowerment, so of course it had to be canceled. But I digress. One of the central B-plots of the series involves the relationship between Kate Andrews (Charlotte Hegele), a wide-eyed runaway who fled the clutches of her abusive pastor father, and Betty McRae (Ali Liebert), a deeply closeted lesbian who also works in the factory. The two quickly become close friends, and Betty even helps Kate protect her false identity. Naturally, Kate’s strict religious upbringing makes her very naïve, giving her a fixed worldview of how things are supposed to operate in society. Betty feels incredibly protective of her. Can you see where this is going? Unable to hold back her growing feelings any longer, Betty impulsively tries to kiss Kate, much to the latter’s shock and disgust. Kate is so rattled that she contacts her father to take her back home and tearfully leaves the factory in spite of Betty’s desperate last-minute declaration of love.

Betty and Kate share a seemingly platonic moment in bed together at the end of season 2.

The second season renders them even more ambiguous, if that’s possible. Betty rescues Kate and they become friends again, with Kate doing her best to pretend nothing ever happened. Betty briefly dates her other coworker, Ivan (Michael Seater), in an effort to deflect growing suspicions around her sexuality and as a means of denying it to herself. Although she quickly drops the ruse and actually manages to find a girlfriend, Theresa (on the DL), it’s clear that Betty still harbors unresolved feelings for Kate. Making matters more complicated, Kate begins dating Ivan soon after Betty dumps him. It also doesn’t take Kate long to connect the dots between Betty and Teresa, but it remains deliberately unclear whether or not her apparent discomfort with Teresa stems from homophobia, friendship possessiveness, romantic possessiveness, or some combination of the three. Needless to say, it’s all confusing and resolves nothing. When Betty’s crush does creep indirectly into the conversation, Kate either dodges the topic or something will conveniently interrupt them. The season two finale kept them firmly within the same innocent cat and mouse territory that they’d been in since the beginning.

Betty gets up close and personal with Kate.

While many viewers expressed frustration with Kate for leading Betty on, this follows the same whiny friend-zoning logic that we see all the time in any portrayal of heterosexual friendships. Kate doesn’t “owe” Betty anything for being treated kindly, and Betty’s actions post-kiss make it clear that she she loves Kate independently of romantic ulterior motives. On the flipside, I still find Kate to be a pretty shitty person, not because she might not reciprocate Betty’s feelings, but because she continues to knowingly deny Betty formal closure. Betty remains totally helpless, and the outcome of the whole scenario hinges on Kate’s every whim. I know you can try to pass it off on the fact that it’s a period piece and homosexuality was a criminal offense, but why is Betty’s lack of control so romanticized? Just kidding, we all know the answer to that. Kate’s a pretty femme straight girl, and Betty will always be socially perceived as a grotesque deviant, no matter how many friends she has! Hell, Betty herself validates the gay inferiority complex by repeatedly putting someone on a pedestal who she knows full well has zero implications of returning the same level of emotional investment, whether romantic or otherwise. But it’s okay, because we can always hope against hope that Kate will turn out to be queer, right?

And that’s the problem. We can’t keep worshiping straight femme agency as central to our validation. If they choose women, it’s some impossible Herculean feat that solves all of the lesbian’s problems forever. If they don’t, you’re still expected to trail after them like a lost puppy at their every beck and call because they’re clearly superior to you, and you’re just perennially unlovable. Why is that noble or sympathetic in any way? Neither outcome reflects a coherent grasp of self-worth or healthy relationships. Don’t let women who aren’t even in our community dictate the way you view yourself.

Another radically different example can be pulled from Orphan Black. The relationship between everyone’s favorite dreadlocked scientist Cosima (Tatiana Maslany) and sexy French biologist Delphine Cormier (Evelyne Brochu) quickly became a fan favorite. Orphan Black handles the subject of sexual fluidity very well, which is one of the many reasons that you should be watching it, if you aren’t already. Following an awkward failed first move, Cosima apologizes for assuming Delphine was gay. Delphine says that while she’s never considered bisexuality, she can’t deny her attraction to Cosima. Refreshingly, none of the angst in their relationship is caused by gay panic. However, all of that is tarnished when it’s revealed that Delphine has betrayed her by orchestrating their relationship as a pretext for spying on her (trying to avoid too many spoilers). This drags the authenticity of her queerness into question because it raises the real possibility that she was faking her feelings for Cosima. The storyline may not villainize straight/fluid/questioning women explicitly, but you can’t deny that Delphine’s moral duplicity serves as a fairly obvious metaphor for cautionary tales against the untrustworthy bisexual or the illusory, unattainable straight girl. Faced with the reality of Cosima’s discovery and understandable outrage, Delphine insists her feelings for her are genuine and begs forgiveness. Cosima is heartbroken, but unmoved.

By the end, after seeing Delphine’s remorse, the audience is arguably compelled to feel more sympathy towards her than Cosima herself. As usual, it’s supposed to be incredibly romantic, playing on common themes of finding love with the wrong person and love conquering all. I like them together and think there’s still potential, but I’m not digging the free pass and endless showers of adulation Delphine receives from the fandom. She fucked up massively and that shouldn’t be forgiven in the span of an episode because of some tears and melodrama. Who’s to say she isn’t still lying? What if she isn’t even queer? Who am I kidding? They’ll end up together next season with minimal reconciliation because they’re obviously ~meant to be~!

Delphine tries to explain herself to Cosima.

I don’t mean to pour on the cynicism, but we can’t let our cravings for sentimentality obscure our perspective. Love stories formed on the premise of sexual incompatibility should not be idealized. The only message that it sends to queer women is that it’s noble to martyr your own happiness by wishing for the improbable. Not only does it build up your unrealistic expectations, but it’s also kind of uncomfortable for your crush if you persistently carry a torch for them based on the off-chance that you could turn them one day. Sure, feelings oftentimes can’t be helped and it can be cathartic to see characters sharing your experiences onscreen, but treating potentially heteroflexible straight girls as the Holy Grail of love objects doesn’t exactly set yourself up for the most positive of queer futures. You don’t need their validation, and for the media to suggest otherwise is counterintuitive because straight girls have absolutely no bearing on our sexuality. If they want us, cool. If they don’t want us, that shouldn’t inherently make us pathetic.

You might not flip her, but that doesn’t mean you can’t be a confident, kickass queer woman.

_________________________________________________________________________

‘Scarlet Road’: Sex Work and Disability

Mark says he wants a girlfriend and that although he understands Rachel is a sex worker, he likes that Rachel makes him feel as though he has a girlfriend. That’s an important distinction that the trailer conveniently cut out. People with disabilities are not children who form childish emotional attachments from fantasies. We understand reality, but that doesn’t mean we don’t want to escape it from time to time like everyone else.

Scarlet Road promotional poster. — *Scarlet Road* promotional poster.

Written by Erin Tatum.

I was originally hesitant to give Scarlet Road a chance. As a general rule, I hate documentaries about sex and disability. Most of them are incredibly patronizing and spoonfeed the presumably able viewer flowery messages about compassion for the human experience that do little to actually help the audience understand disabled sexuality or the problematic consequences of assuming universal asexuality for people with disabilities. Plus, the trailer really overdoes it with the piano music, which is never a good sign.

[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mOpC0tYp_Qg”]

That said, this was the first documentary on the subject that I genuinely enjoyed. At first, I was a little put off that Scarlet Road was subtitled “A Sex Worker’s Journey” because I felt that it was trying to pull focus away from the disability aspect of the film and emphasize the importance of able subjecthood. I was soon able to work past that when I realized that the film was tackling much more than disability alone. Director Catherine Scott chronicles the daily life of Rachel Wotton, an Australian sex worker who frequently works for the disabled, as she attempts to break down stigmas around sex work and disability. Rachel’s situation is especially unique because she lives in New South Wales, where sex work is decriminalized, and so she is able to advertise herself and others as any other business would.

Rachel could not have been a better spokesperson. She is fun, relaxed, and articulate. Rather than seizing the podium to “educate” the audience about the mechanics of sex with the disabled, she simply advocates for everyone’s right to sexual expression in a manner that’s casual and friendly, rather than appealing to sympathy and shaming able people for their social superiority complex. Rachel is the sort of person that you could imagine yourself sitting down having coffee with and when you’re dealing with allegedly taboo subjects, that sort of familiarity is vital. It’s easy to see why she excels in her profession. I never doubted that any of her passion wasn’t 100 percent genuine.

All of Rachel’s clients who were interviewed were disabled men. Some of them presented relatively familiar disability narratives. The first client, John, a man with multiple sclerosis, talked about nearly being driven to suicide by the degeneration resulting from his disorder. He says that working with Rachel “makes him feel like a real man again.” It’s also implied that his sessions with Rachel have even restored some of his functions or created some sort of new pathway for sexual response. Basically, masculinity is once again inextricably tied to regular sexual expression, but I won’t gripe too much because it isn’t framed in a way that compels us to pity him.

Rachel and Mark walk hand-in-hand as they go to lunch.

There’s also another guy Mark who has cerebral palsy (like me, holla!). Mark looks to be in his 30s and just chills with his parents. His parents are awesome and the three of them seem to love hanging out together. After so many stories of disability being a draining burden on everyone you love, it’s really refreshing to see a family that doesn’t bat an eye at the logistical complications. Mark’s mom gives him an allowance to pay for his sessions with Rachel. Mark’s mom is a cool lady. Mark says he wants a girlfriend and that although he understands Rachel is a sex worker, he likes that Rachel makes him feel as though he has a girlfriend. That’s an important distinction that the trailer conveniently cut out. People with disabilities are not children who form childish emotional attachments from fantasies. We understand reality, but that doesn’t mean we don’t want to escape it from time to time like everyone else. Mark and Rachel have lunch while Mark’s parents set up his bed, complete with flower petals and chocolate. Not only do they seem completely at ease, but they chuckle and chatter excitedly the whole time about how pleased they are for Mark. Can they adopt me? Mainly, this documentary convinced me that I need to move to Australia.

Displays of vaginal swabs taken from sex workers and non-sex workers.

I was surprised with the amount insight we were given into the sex work industry and the prejudice it faces. I was pleased that the scrutiny was taken off of disability for a while. Rachel helps run and facilitate an organization called Touching Base, which aims to educate sex workers on a variety of topics, including how to best assist disabled clients. She goes to a conference on sexology in Belgium. Even there, many participants express uneasiness or confusion about sex work. Really? I know it’s unfair to expect everyone to be an expert, but you would think that sex work would be a pretty big field in sexology. Rachel remarks on a poster that displays images of a vaginal swab of a sex worker versus that of a “normal” woman. She points out that images like these perpetuate the myth of sex workers as “vectors of disease.” The film makes it clear that people with disabilities face a lot of unfair hurdles and social judgment, but moments like these remind us that sex workers encounter similar biases. Both groups are routinely dehumanized to create an imagined sexual hierarchy of authenticity.

Rachel relaxes in bed with her boyfriend.

Nonetheless, Rachel thrives in her personal life. She has a boyfriend, Matt, who doesn’t seem to mind her choice in career at all. He’s just as laid-back as she is. When asked the obvious question of whether or not he gets jealous, Matt flatly shrugs it off. Interestingly, when asked about Rachel’s disabled clients, he says that he understands why it needs to happen because they don’t have opportunities. I held my breath at this point because it looked like he was teetering on emasculating the disabled men by insinuating that it wasn’t “real sex” to shore up his own masculinity, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t appear to perceive any of her clients, able-bodied or otherwise, as a threat to him or his relationship. He knows Rachel’s work is her work and understands the sexual economy in relation to the disabled as evening out (one aspect of) social inequality. You go, Matt. I just want to give everyone in the film high-fives.

Adding yet another element, Rachael graduates from university with a bachelor’s, having done her research in sex work. She wishes to pursue her PhD. I think that the unexpected fusion of these two areas reveals something very important about our cultural biases against sex workers and why we view them as unworthy of social respect. On one hand, academia is revered as taking quite a lot of skill to master. Supposedly, you have to be smart to earn a bachelor’s or PhD, and if you’re intelligent you must be someone worth talking to! On the other hand, sex workers are harshly stereotyped as often lazy criminals. Even when they’re marketed to be palatable to mainstream, like in Secret Diary of a Call Girl, escorts are portrayed decadent and opportunistic. In truth, there can be much more overlap between sex work and almost any other walk of life than most would care to admit.

Ultimately, the audience can recognize that there’s a great deal of intersectionality in the way that both sex workers and disabled people are policed and shamed about their sexual expression. Rachel reminds us that the two groups can work together to lessen collective stigma. Some of the issues that sex workers face directly impact the disabled community as well, such as the tendency to demonize or prosecute the client in areas where sex work is illegal. Rachel holds a banquet for Touching Base to celebrate the organization’s progress. Fun fact: she tells us that her current boyfriend, her three ex-boyfriends, her mother, plus several of her disabled clients and their families are there. No one even flinches. I love Australia. She talks at length about how much her disabled clients mean to her. After the preceding documentary, we can truly believe in her commitment to the cause.

The future of sex work and disability looks bright with Rachel Wotton at the helm.

‘Switched at Birth’ and Ableist Romance

It’s safe to say that you’d be hard-pressed to find a more disability-friendly show on television. That level of representation for disabled actors continues to be virtually nonexistent, not to mention fleshing them out as actual characters instead of forcing them to be background token minorities.

Switched at Birth promotional poster. — *Switched at Birth* promotional poster.

Written by Erin Tatum.

In today’s unapologetically ableist media, Switched at Birth is a diamond in the rough in many respects. The narrative follows two teenage girls, Bay Kennish (Vanessa Marano) and Daphne Vasquez (Katie Leclerc) after they discover that a hospital mixup led to them being switched at birth and deal with the fusion of their two families. Daphne also happens to be deaf as a result of early childhood meningitis. Bay’s entire family learns sign language, meaning that coupled with Daphne’s other family and friends, pretty much everyone in the cast had to already be or become fluent in American sign language for the role. The show features Marlee Matlin prominently and casts actual deaf actors to authentically represent Daphne’s life in the deaf community. It’s safe to say that you’d be hard-pressed to find a more disability-friendly show on television. That level of representation for disabled actors continues to be virtually nonexistent, not to mention fleshing them out as actual characters instead of forcing them to be background token minorities.

Emmett finds himself falling for Bay pretty quickly.

In spite of all the progressivism, arguably the main appeal of the show for most viewers annoys the hell out of me: the relationship between Bay and Emmett. Emmett (Sean Berdy) is a motorcycle bad boy literally described by the writers as a “deaf James Dean.” A staunch advocate of Deaf culture, Emmett prefers his way of life and repeatedly insists that he only wants to date a deaf girl. Of course, this desire is portrayed as stubborn and naively foolish. Emmett initially sulks over a long time unrequited crush on Daphne, but it only takes a few episodes for Bay to start winning him over. This would all be well and good if Bay and Emmett’s blossoming romance weren’t used to paper over and invalidate his original desire to maintain his culture. A firm belief system is only relevant to illustrate how much you’ll change for love! Every character teases Emmett or acts surprised by his feelings for Bay, as if the fact that he fell for a hearing girl proves the inevitable dominance of the status quo. Again, portraying his commitment to deaf values as laughably myopic and unsustainable is unfortunate because it belittles the historic and everyday prejudices against the deaf community. Bay should not be Emmett’s ambassador to the hearing world. Minorities do not “reform themselves” by learning to accept total immersion in the majority. That’s not how that works. Bay’s just another generic Mary Sue whose informed exceptionalism is enough to convince those alleged radicals that integrating into the mainstream is better! Isn’t everything more romantic when you can make the challenges of your marginalized partner all about you?

Emmett practices his speech to make Bay happy.

Predictably, the relationship becomes… all about Bay, and not just because she’s the main character. Bay has to contemplate dating a deaf guy. Bay can’t learn sign language fast enough. Bay wants to know why Emmett insists on remaining nonverbal. To clarify, Emmett chooses not to speak and communicate solely in sign language. I think Daphne is actually the only hearing impaired character thus far who is also verbal. As I understand, it’s a matter of personal preference. Bay assures Emmett that he shouldn’t be self-conscious about his voice around her. She wants them to speak so badly that Emmett takes speech lessons and even considers getting a cochlear implant to please her. We’re supposed to see this as proof of his commitment to her, but this is fifty shades of fucked up. You should never be expected to change a fundamental aspect of your identity for your partner. Emmett already told her that speaking aloud makes him uncomfortable. End of discussion. Curiosity is understandable to an extent, but not if you’re going to pick apart their private lives to see if they live up to your standards. The ableist impulse to “help” disabled people by making them seem more “normal” is disgusting. Making matters worse, Bay is portrayed as the accepting supportive girlfriend when she eventually let go of the idea that Emmett had to become verbal.

Things get heated between Emmett and Daphne when Daphne confesses her feelings for him.

Bay finds time to play the victim even in the earliest days of her relationship. Daphne has particularly unfortunate timing and decides that she actually does have feelings for Emmett just when Bay and Emmett have made things official. Bay feels threatened due to Emmett and Daphne’s shared deaf experience, rather than worry about more obvious red flags like their deep friendship or Emmett’s massive crush that apparently evaporated. Infuriated by Daphne’s sudden realization, Emmett turns Daphne down and tells her that he is with Bay (but not before kissing Daphne, which is somehow never brought up again because I guess their entire friendship was an elaborate plotpoint to give Bay drama). Emmett rushes to tell Bay that he’s chosen her. God, I hate this trope. Nothing kills the romance in a new relationship more than anxiously waiting to see if you’re someone’s second choice in a love triangle.

Bay has already let her insecurities get the best of her and melodramatically announces to Emmett that he might as well be with Daphne since she (Bay) will never understand what it’s like to be deaf. She also makes it seem like Emmett was setting her up to be let down all along with his ~deaf elitism~, when it’s actually been her pushing Emmett to live up to her standards from the beginning. Fuck you, Bay. If you can’t tell, I hate Bay with a fiery passion and I think that she’s a whiny, entitled asshat. God forbid that the privileged able girl feels inferior to – gasp – someone who she knows is widely perceived as socially unworthy! (Her paranoia emcompasses more than just rejection, clearly.) As his final ace in the hole to prove that he really is committed to her, Emmett whirls Bay around and struggles to enunciate the words “I – just – want – you,” the first and only time he has spoken onscreen.

The fandom collectively swooned.

That single sentence was viewed as the ultimate romantic gesture. He overcame his biggest barrier to profess his love to her! So dreamy.

Let me pause for a second before I dissect the worlds of no that accompany that sentiment.

Here’s the thing: disabled people should never, ever have to transcend into “ableness” to make a case for themselves as viable romantic interests. Ever. A romantic relationship can never work if it’s built upon one person patting themselves on the back for being gracious or self-sacrificing enough to be with the other person. That’s not a relationship, that’s elaborate, sociopathic ego masturbation.

By forcing Emmett to speak to keep her from walking away, Bay is essentially admitting that she’ll only stay around if he lets her mold him into the person that she deems acceptable – that is, either a more able person or a person that perpetually highlights her greatness as able savior. Why is the burden on him to prove he’s not that committed to deaf exclusivity? See, it’s not Bay who has to understand a different perspective, Emmett is the one who needs to change and open up his mind! Again, Bay’s exceptionalism is reasserted when the audience is reminded that it’s allegedly Emmett’s agency at work here, because Bay is great enough to throw his lifelong belief in deaf solidarity out the window after a few short weeks of flirting. Yeah, okay.

Emmett teaches Bay the sign for "I love you." — Emmett teaches Bay the sign for “I love you.”

Ultimately, audience response naturalizes passive ableism far mare than the portrayal of Bay and Emmett’s romance in itself. Reaction to the couple often reveals cringe inducing depths of ignorance. The consensus generally seems to be adoration for Bay’s selflessness in wanting to be with a deaf person and learning sign language for Emmett (so she’s a saint for… wanting to talk to the boy she likes?). Most bizarrely, Bay and Emmett’s relationship has produced a desire in many fans to have a deaf boyfriend. Yes, you read that right.

You have to admit the idiocy here is blatant and undeniably impressive.

No other sentiment could better encapsulate the habitual dehumanization of people with disabilities as well as the pervasiveness of ableism.

Even as Switched at Birth‘s resident heartthrob, Emmett is never respected on his own merit. He is only valuable in the ways that he can benefit Bay’s character. If they’re together, the able community can find a palatable way to pretend to embrace trans-ability romance through compulsive and obligatory worship of the able savior.

Disabled people are never equal partners, they’re pets and ego boosts.

People want a deaf boyfriend so that they can relish the idea that they’ll be the only ones who can communicate with them and that closeness will create some sort of special bond.

Do I need to explain why that’s problematic?

You can’t specifically engineer a situation so that your partner is isolated to the point where they’re only physically able to talk to you. That’s unhealthy and abusive, to say the least. And just, the fetishism and infantilism and jesus, everything about the half-baked romanticization of deaf/hearing relationships because of this silly show is so fucking wrong.

Emmett paints a timeline of their relationship milestones to impress Bay.

Bay and Emmett get in a fight and Emmett sleeps with another hearing girl (conveniently casting Bay as the victim yet again, surprise). They break up. Despite several attempts to win her back, Emmett has thus far been unsuccessful. They’ve actually been apart as just friends with very little interaction for quite a long time, not that I’m complaining. They’re obviously endgame, but I’m hoping when they do get back together, they’ll be on more equal footing.

Romances shouldn’t be about falling in love with the idea of yourself being virtuous enough to tolerate someone else.

‘The Spoils of Babylon’: A Campy Parody of Every Miniseries Ever

Again, I can’t underscore enough how awesome Wiig is as Cynthia. She is a grotesque caricature of a debutante gone wrong and I love it. Her melodrama makes her quite the scene stealer. Her failing in the background makes slow scenes much more entertaining. Plus Devon is kind of dopey, so we need Cynthia’s emotional instability to spice things up a bit.

The Spoils of Babylon promotional poster. — *The Spoils of Babylon* promotional poster.

Written by Erin Tatum.

I’m not going to lie, The Spoils of Babylon is a really weird show. Admittedly, I only gave it a chance because I have a childhood crush on Tobey Maguire that never died and I’ll watch Kristen Wiig do just about anything. I had only seen promotion for the show on social media, and judging by the dramatic stills, believed it was a serious period piece. Casting Maguire and Wiig as romantic interests for each other also felt bizarre. My misguided assumptions became all the more hilariously ironic as I finally realized the writers’ intentions.

The Spoils of Babylon is meant to be a gigantic parody of itself, so outlandishly ridiculous that you can’t help but laugh even if the humor is bad. Will Ferrell sets the tone by framing all the episodes as tipsy and pretentious author Eric Jonrosh, who informs us that the original 22-hour epic has been whittled down into just six half-hour episodes. To be honest, I don’t particularly understand why Will Ferrell or his character is there in the first place, but given the star-studded cast, I think the writers are on a mission to prove how many famous people they can convince to do such a silly project.

The central narrative tells the story of Jonah Morehouse (Tim Robbins), a delusional aspiring oilman. The audience gets an account of the events through the eyes of Devon Morehouse (Maguire), who was spontaneously adopted by Jonah as a boy. Jonah also has a biological daughter, Cynthia (Wiig). Cynthia is portrayed as a shallow, smart-aleck know-it-all even as a child. She convinces a reluctant Devon to give her a kiss despite their newly minted family relationship, an awkward moment that kicks off a lifetime of clumsily avoided sexual tension between the honorary siblings. It seems like everything I’m reviewing lately has an incestuous dynamic in it somewhere. Occasionally I know that going in, but this one was a total accident, I swear!

Devon tries to comfort Cynthia during another halfhearted rejection.

Although they start off as fairly average children, Devon and Cynthia grew up to be complete bumbling idiot as adults. Devon is naïvely committed to his father’s business and Cynthia is a stereotypical ditz hellbent on becoming her brother’s trophy wife. I obviously expected sheer comedic gold from Wiig, especially since she excels at playing airheads. I had reservations about Tobey Maguire because I’ve never seen him in anything funny and he kind of has that long faced expression of perpetual wistfulness. Those big sad baby blue eyes! I’m delighted to report that I underestimated him. Devon’s happy-go-lucky optimism and eagerness to please perfectly contrast Jonah’s gruffness. People have made criticisms that he lacks comedic timing, but his flaws are mostly masked by the social ineptitude of his character.

Humor in The Spoils of Babylon is simplistic and cleverly unexpected. The material never hesitates to mock the stuffiness of historical authenticity. (Scene transitions are carried out using plastic cars and cardboard scenery.) Some of the gags drag on a little too long, but by the middle of them I was giggling too much to notice my eventual boredom. For example, Jonah asks Devon to read the sentimental inscription on a pocket watch he gave him. Devon dutifully recites about ten paragraphs, with each sentence having more ludicrously complex vocabulary than the last. Many of the jokes that run out of steam become funny again precisely because they go on forever.

Jonah implausibly finds one bountiful oil well, thrusting the Morehouses into the lap of luxury. It’s now 1941. Devon proves woefully unable to fend off the obsessive sexual aggressions of his sister. Their decision to kiss at last is cringe worthy to say the least. There’s a lot of…licking and sloppy Eskimo kissing. I suppose it’s just as repulsive as you would hope a passionate romantic encounter between two adoptive siblings would be. Adding to the discomfort, their dad has a habit of walking in on them, but he’s gullible and selectively oblivious. Facing pressure from both Jonah and Cynthia, Devon seizes onto the convenient announcement of Pearl Harbor over the radio and decides to go fight for his country. Is that a thing? What about the draft? I know if you were rich you might have been able to buy yourself out of it, but could you voluntarily opt into it as well? Look at me, trying to apply 70-year-old socio-political dynamics to a sketch comedy. This is what I do in my spare time.

In an effort to avoid acknowledging his torrid affair with Cynthia, Devon decides to stay in London after the war. He marries Lady Anne York, a mannequin voiced by Carey Mulligan, and brings her back to the States to introduce her to his family. A mannequin is an actual character. This is why this show is great. Anne notices Cynthia’s jealousy and confronts Devon in despair, but Devon seduces her back into bed. The “sex scene” that follows is a hilariously cheesy, uncomfortable montage of facial closeups and moaning. I like that Tobey Maguire isn’t afraid to make fun of himself. The next morning, Anne and Cynthia have a passive aggressive conversation over breakfast in which Anne basically tells Cynthia that she knows about her creepy incest crush and she needs to back the hell off. Cynthia copes with her anger by frantically cutting up almost all the food on the table into tiny pieces on her plate. I laughed out loud. You don’t need elaborate or super-smart jokes as long as you capture quirky mannerisms of everyday life.

Sure, The Spoils of Babylon might not have the most universal appeal. Things can get confusing. It’s one of those intentional train wrecks that hooks you in just because you’re in awe of its ridiculousness. Even if you’re a little lost, Maguire and Wiig’s performances alone make it worth the watch. Sit back and enjoy the wine with Eric Jonrosh.

Asexuality and Queerphobia in ‘Sherlock’

Sherlock is a fantastic show. As you can probably guess, it’s inspired by the works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, but imagined in modern-day London. Benedict Cumberbatch’s Sherlock is arrogantly cerebral and painfully introverted, finding a perfect foil in the loyal and more rational ex-military doctor John Watson (Martin Freeman). Together, they form your classic unlikely pair that brings out all the best in each other, intensified by the adrenaline rush of high-stakes crime solving. The jokes are witty, the pacing is breakneck, and the emotion is genuine.

Sherlock promotional still. — *Sherlock* promotional still.

Written by Erin Tatum.

Sherlock is a fantastic show. As you can probably guess, it’s inspired by the works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, but imagined in modern-day London. Benedict Cumberbatch’s Sherlock is arrogantly cerebral and painfully introverted, finding a perfect foil in the loyal and more rational ex-military doctor John Watson (Martin Freeman). Together, they form your classic unlikely pair that brings out all the best in each other, intensified by the adrenaline rush of high-stakes crime solving. The jokes are witty, the pacing is breakneck, and the emotion is genuine.

One of the main appeals of the show is the allegedly overt homoeroticism between Sherlock and John. It’s been television standard for a while now to feature bromances that play to the audience with tongue-in-cheek gay subtext. However, showrunners Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat delight in turning every episode into a perpetual game of gay chicken. The driving force behind the development of Sherlock and John’s relationship seems to be “let’s see how gay make them before we’re obligated to establish legitimate sexual tension.” They live together, work together, and regularly admit to their love and infatuation with each other. Almost every other character will either tease John about his implied crush or outright assume that they are a couple.

Sherlock and John hold hands while escaping.

That feels pretty progressive, right? There’s been a recent onslaught of praise for bromances as essentially the only vehicle for mainstream acceptance of queer subtext, as if male emotional expression in itself is queer. If the “Johnlock” dynamic were allowed to persist on its own, I might be willing to begrudgingly stomach yet another instance of subtextual breadcrumbs being hailed as a watershed moment for queer inclusion. The problem is that any potential for alternative readings of their relationship is deliberately and painstakingly squelched by John’s constant and resentful vocalization of his heterosexuality.

Sherlock’s sexuality appears to be a source of fascination for John from the get-go. He professes to being open-minded, curiously interpreting Sherlock’s lack of social awareness to a carefully constructed veil over his personal life and somehow extrapolating that back out to internalized homophobia. John insists that he’s perfectly fine with Sherlock having either a girlfriend or boyfriend. All self-loathing queers need to snap out of their funk is lukewarm tolerance from straight people! Undeterred by Sherlock’s indifferent denial of a relationship with anyone, John conducts similar interrogations of Sherlock’s other friends, but fails to draw any concrete conclusions on Sherlock’s romantic history or orientation.

For someone who considers themselves to be so liberal towards others, John certainly has a lot of anxiety about his own sexuality. He reacts to every playful insinuation or misguided perception of his relationship with Sherlock with weary and sometimes angry defiance. When (spoiler alert) John informs their elderly roommate Mrs. Hudson that he’s met someone, she excitedly asks if it’s a man or woman, acting surprised when he informs her that he’s engaged to a woman. Growing impatient with her goodnatured skepticism, John irritably shouts, “I am not gay!” Insert laugh track here. This is why I can’t get behind any endorsement of bromance as the best mainstream queer tofu. Fuck the people who worship countless heterosexual male friendships as groundbreaking because they include a few zany domestic scenarios and the occasional double entendre. John’s sexuality is used and abused as the butt of the joke and he’s not even gay, which is somehow almost more insulting than if he were actually gay. The implication is that each reference to homoeroticism chips away at his manhood and slowly unravels his self-assurance, suggesting that no matter how progressive you claim to be in the abstract, to be queer is to be always anticipating humiliation. Moffat and Gatiss, we are well aware John is straight. Making him squirm for shits and giggles is unnecessary and juvenile. If you coyly stigmatize and degrade an identity to obsessively remind the audience everything that your characters are not, you wind up being just as exclusionary and discriminatory as shows that steer clear of queer subtext altogether.

highfunctioningsociapath — Sherlock deftly deflects mental health stigma.

Of course, any discussion of queer baiting draws focus from the other elephant (not?) in the room: Sherlock’s probable asexuality. Sherlock himself proclaims that he is a “high functioning sociopath,” but his difficulty grasping social cues as well as his astronomical intelligence also parallel the traits of Asperger’s. John in particular links this supposed diagnosis to his peculiar absence of romantic interest. When John investigates the matter with Sherlock’s friends, he isn’t trying to determine if Sherlock has a preference for men or women, he’s trying to suss out whether or not Sherlock has the capacity to feel at all. I should acknowledge that the narrative has never concretely established Sherlock actually having a mental disability. Nonetheless, the message that disability and asexuality are linked is unfortunate in a number of ways.

This aspect of the show creates an ideological war within me. On one hand, the tired and apparently benign stereotype that disabled people fundamentally lack any sort of sexual impulses makes me want to rip my face off and feed it to hyenas. On the other hand, asexuality is a completely legitimate orientation that should be respected and the fact that Sherlock may or may not have Asperger’s is entirely coincidental. Don’t think too hard about it though! The fact that that Sherlock doesn’t want to get laid only comes into play to underscore his characterization as a freaky weirdo with adorably oblivious, borderline misanthropic tendencies. Sherlock’s asexuality ironically leaves open a wider array of pansexual opportunities in the minds of many viewers. By the laws of television, the absence of something (especially sex-related) must be alluding to the presence of something. His romantic apathy is so uniform and universal that you can make an argument to pair him with just about anyone. It’s nearly impossible in modern society to fathom anyone being completely devoid of sexual desire. Consequently, a lot of viewers choose to simply attribute this potential lack to Sherlock’s extreme social awkwardness. He may want someone, but his chronic inability to feel empathy could obscure what’s going on behind the mask.

Sherlock kisses his friend Molly after realizing she has feelings for him. — Sherlock kisses his friend Molly on the cheek after realizing she has feelings for him.

To be fair, Sherlock does not deny accusations of loneliness and has rare moments with women that could be interpreted as ambiguously romantic. I don’t care who Sherlock ends up with or if he ends up with anyone at all. The point is that I wish that it would be portrayed as acceptable for Sherlock to be asexual even if that’s not the case. He doesn’t want to pursue anyone, so why should we perceive his choice as repressive denial? This assumed cat and mouse mysteriousness conveniently also influences viewers to judge femininity and female characters on their ability to properly facilitate traditional masculinity within Sherlock, ergo sexual activity. Sherlock doesn’t need to wait around for whoever is judged as sufficiently Manic Pixie Dream Girl enough to awaken his libido. His friendship with John illustrates that Sherlock can still be a compelling character with emotions and compassion and meaningful relationships without having a love interest. He doesn’t need to have a partner to satisfy cliché character development and growth arcs. He is fine on his own, especially if he wants to be that way.

The writers have recently thrown the audience a few bones since we apparently can’t have a male lead without a few panty-dropping moments. (Spoiler alert) Much of the comedy during this series three premiere stems from the wild speculation as to how Sherlock faked his own suicide. One theory features Sherlock sharing a dramatic kiss with Molly, a lab assistant whose unrequited crush on Sherlock is regularly presented as pathetic and delusional. The other theory shows Sherlock sharing a giggle with his arch nemesis Jim Mortiary before suddenly leaning in for a kiss. It’s no accident that both accounts are initially established as actual events, revealed as fantasy sequences only when an outside character interjects and abruptly shatters the illusion.The person who proposes the homoerotic Sherlock/Mortiary hypothesis is a Gothic teenage girl addicted to social media, in a not-so-subtle lampoon of the yaoi fangirl stereotype. (A ballsy move in light of the predominantly female Johnlock fanbase.)

Sherlock and Moriarty have a moment...at least according to some. — Sherlock and Moriarty have a moment…at least according to some.

Needless to say, the episode was fantastic. I always enjoy when creators are able to poke fun at their own material. However, as far as the messages it sends, I’m reluctant to fully embrace it. I’m a sucker for shows that boldly go meta, but the undertones of those silly fantasies are hard to ignore. The fact that Sherlock kisses people in both sequences feels too deliberate. It’s as if Sherlock’s capacity for intimacy is meant to be the moment where the audience recognizes this chain of events as absurdly implausible. But why? If we’re all supposed to be secretly rooting for Sherlock to blossom into a Lothario, why does it feel so laughably ridiculous? Further, gleefully dangling wish fulfillment to tease the question of Sherlock’s orientation mocks the perceived inadequacy of and frustration with its absence. Fueling the widespread conviction that Sherlock has to be lusting after someone deep down contributes to continued asexual erasure.

There are many great things about Sherlock. It’s far and away one of the strongest television series in recent years. Ultimately, that doesn’t make the show immune to valid social critique. For a franchise that capitalizes on and even structures itself around queerness, Sherlock is pretty damn queerphobic. To laud subtext as representation is lazy, but more importantly, a show that regularly invokes queerness as mean-spirited comedy shouldn’t be considered a milestone because it perpetuates discrimination and pats itself on the back to boot. Giving a minority a thumbs-up while winking at the status quo is just two-faced demographic pandering. If there’s a case that Sherlock needs to solve, it’s why we continue to confuse vaguely defined tolerence with progressivism.

Friendship, Fandom, and Female Agency in ‘Lost Girl’

Lost Girl logo.

Written by Erin Tatum.

Supernatural shows and crime shows are a dime a dozen, but something amazing can happen through the fusion of the two. Putting a no-nonsense Action Girl at the center is just icing on the cake for Lost Girl, which has consistently managed to capture lightning in a bottle for four seasons. The show follows Bo (Anna Silk), a succubus, and her human companion, Kenzi (Ksenia Solo), as they unravel the mysteries of the Fae, a secret supernatural society hidden in plain sight. At the beginning, episodes tended to fit the mold of a campy CSI parody. Expect rapidfire snarky one-liners. One of Lost Girl‘s most endearing qualities is its embrace of all things cheesy. Plus, you’ll be treated to countless cameos of every Canadian actor that you’ve seen in anything ever.

Bo doesn't mess around. — Bo doesn’t mess around.

Over time, Bo’s overarching journey to find her identity takes increasing president in the narrative. Torn between the factions of dark and light Fae, she perpetually struggles to retain her independence in a world defined by labels. Drawing obvious parallels to society’s stringent policing of women’s roles, pretty much everyone Bo encounters tries to force her to pick a side or fill her with self-doubt by insisting they know her true nature – evil and manipulative. Her rebellious nature also applies to her sexuality. As a succubus, Bo feeds off sexual chi to survive, meaning that superficial constructions of orientation don’t hold much weight since intimacy is essential. While the idea that a woman literally needs sex to live could inspire a flurry of unfortunate stereotypes with respect to slut shaming and biphobia, no one bats an eye at Bo’s sexual appetites and she has serious romances with both men and women. If anything, her queerness seems to have set off a domino effect of subtle pansexuality in the rest of the cast. Trust me, you won’t find another show with more ambiguous same-sex sexual tension.

Now, it may make you groan to see yet another female protagonist saddled with a love triangle. Lauren (Zoie Palmer), a human doctor, and Dyson (Kris Holden-Reid), a werewolf, vie for Bo’s affections. Their rivalry did feel a little high school-esque for awhile, with many Lauren/Bo fans viewing Dyson as nothing more than a one-dimensional heterosexual love interest for the sake of it (which he kind of is, but to be fair, you can only do so much with the macho personality type). Far more intriguing than Dyson and Lauren’s initial sparring is the budding friendship between the two. Imagine, love interests that don’t have to be defined by antagonism or possessing someone! The fact that Dyson and Lauren discover that they can form a relationship outside of their respective entanglements with Bo is a testament to the writers’ commitment to the characters individually and willingness to explore all types of chemistry, not just romantic.

"Kenzi" flirts with "Bo" (as Dyson). — “Kenzi” flirts with “Bo” (as Dyson).

In keeping with that theme, Lost Girl always finds new terrain to explore, frequently through “alternate universe” episodes where anything goes. There doesn’t appear to be any fandom fantasy that the writers aren’t willing to at least momentarily indulge, particularly with romantic pairings. Sometimes the AUs reach Inception levels of intricacy as a way of nodding to multiple fan bases at once. A recent episode featured Bo traveling through Dyson’s memories via Dyson’s point of view with the caveat that her subconscious would insert people that she knew. As a result, Kenzi flirts with Bo (as Dyson) and Bo has sex with Lauren…as Dyson. Yes, four pairings in one fell swoop. That’s why it’s just plain fun to be a fan of Lost Girl. Fandoms are often maligned by showrunners as rabid, obsessive, and demanding, threatening to destroy coherent narratives by relentlessly pressuring the creative team to cater to their every whim. I’ve been a long-time fan of several shows that I wound up bitterly regretting because the writers develop so much resentment for fan feedback. Lost Girl managed to find a brilliant way to make fans feel heard without derailing story arcs.

The pièce de résistance of the series is Bo and Kenzi’s friendship, which provides a rare shining example of an unbreakable bond between women. Given that Bo’s love life is constantly in flux, she needs someone to be her rock. Kenzi vocally confirms her heterosexuality in the pilot. At first, I was annoyed that it was such an unnecessary #NOHOMO announcement. In hindsight, immediately designating their relationship as arguably the only dynamic without sexual undertones enables Bo and Kenzi to represent an entirely different sort of love. Each of them will drop everything for the other, including partners. Women are always encouraged to see other women as competition and liabilities, so it’s refreshing to see a friendship with such mutual respect. No matter who they end up paired off with respectively, you get the feeling that they’ll always be in each other’s lives. I think we all need a little reassurance that ultimately, true friends never really leave us.

With any TV show, you’re going to have people complain about declining quality. Lost Girl is no exception. However, I have to give the writers credit for not being afraid to try new things. Each season has fallen into the pattern of having a nebulous mega-villain. That admittedly gets a little stale, but I ultimately stay because the interpersonal relationships are so damn charming. My favorite recurring theme of Lost Girl lies in the simple reminder that relationships are complicated and there’s usually a lot more to them than meets the eye. By refusing to pigeonhole anyone’s characterization, the writers allow the cast to form a group connection that feels organic precisely because they’re so mismatched and fallible. If all else fails, it’s always delightful to watch a fiery succubus kick some ass with good old-fashioned girl power.

Maternal Grief in ‘The Truth About Emanuel’

I have a thing for creepy/taboo relationships in fiction. All I had to hear was “baby obsession” and I was sold on The Truth About Emanuel. I’m also familiar with Kaya Scodelario from her Skins years and I was curious to find out if she had range beyond troubled teen queen. On that front I was a bit underwhelmed. Thankfully, the true focus of the story extended far beyond her.

Written by Erin Tatum.

I have a thing for creepy/taboo relationships in fiction. All I had to hear was “baby obsession” and I was sold on The Truth About Emanuel. I’m also familiar with Kaya Scodelario from her Skins years and I was curious to find out if she had range beyond troubled teen queen. On that front I was a bit underwhelmed. Thankfully, the true focus of the story extended far beyond her.

emreflects — Emanuel reflects on her tragic origins.

Scodelario plays 17-year-old Emmanuel, a jaded teen disillusioned by the death of her mother during her birth, resulting in perennial survivor’s guilt that always seems to crop up around her birthday. Guess what time of year it is! In her opening internal monologue, she describes how the doctor brought her back to life with “the same rhythmic motions he had used to jerk himself off that morning.” This is a nit picky thing, but I’m so sick of sexual omniscience and perversity being a marker of worldliness or psychopathic tendencies in teens. Psychology and sexuality do tend to go hand in hand (no pun intended), but did we really need such an irrelevant detail? Also, since when can you evoke suspected obscure third-party masturbation as a metaphor for your own sadness? She literally says “he came and I came… back to life.” That just sounds unsanitary. Was he masturbating and performing CPR on an infant at the same time?

Anyway, Emmanuel’s life is turned upside down by the arrival of her new neighbor Linda (Jessica Biel) and her baby daughter Chloe. Before that, we get a nice preview of the forthcoming dysfunction as Emanuel bizarrely accuses her stepmother Janice (Frances O’Connor) of thinking she’s a lesbian and passively aggressively insinuates that she has had sexual dreams about Janice. As someone who relishes queer undertones, even I have to say I was baffled by the repeated references to Emanuel’s supposed sexual ambiguity. Same-sex desire seems to exist to fan the flames of anxiety around the unfulfilled Oedipal complex. More on that later.

Linda is simultaneously evasive about Chloe, trusting Emanuel to be in the house alone with her despite never introducing the two. Linda and Emanuel bond one-on-one and it’s intentionally left unclear whether Emanuel is substituting her as a mother figure or developing romantic interest. The plot synopsis also piles on by pointing out the physical similarities between Linda and Emanuel’s late mother. Yes, because if I were mourning my dead mother and feeling responsible for her death, obviously the only logical way to cope with things would be to lust after her doppleganger. I’m fascinated by the thematic exploration of incest as arguably one of the deepest social taboos, but I’m really not feeling this compulsive equation of parental grief in itself to depraved Freudian sexual confusion.

To take some of the heat off the lesbian pseudo-incest, Emanuel has a boyfriend Claude (Aneurin Barnard) that she meets commuting on the train. It’s kind of a random place to have a romance and it screams try hard indie. The love interest aspect of this film in terms of Claude feels disjointed and doesn’t really add anything to the narrative, except to shore up Emanuel’s otherwise shaky heterosexuality. Clyde and Linda both spend a lot of time babbling reverent nonsense at Emanuel about her introverted mysteriousness to insist that the audience should continue to find her intriguing with very little character development. 21-year-old Scodelario has been stirring the rapidly cooling embers of stock manic pixie dream girl tropes (with the particularly offputting caveat of emotional unavailability) since she was 14, so the aloof informed attractiveness shtick is boring on a film-specific level and in the scope of her entire opus.

Something isn’t right about the baby from day one. Linda is initially reluctant to allow Emanuel to see Chloe and Emanuel frequently hallucinates ocean sounds or even rising water when near the nursery. We later learn this is an allusion to the peaceful swimming dream her mother had before starting fatal labor. It’s like a psychosis roulette! Emanuel soon discovers that “Chloe” is actually a lifelike doll, strangely contradicting a photograph she found earlier of Linda and her estranged husband holding a real baby. This is where a lot of critics checked out. The doll revelation is made 30 minutes in and the pacing of the remaining hour is admittedly clunky. If you can’t get past the LOL reflex of “I can’t believe they’re treating the doll like a real person,” this probably isn’t the film for you because everything after that becomes unbearably campy. And frankly, I think the impulse to treat things deemed inauthentic as laughable or not human exemplifies the callous ideology that the film is warning against. When viewed as a commentary on loss and mental illness, the story becomes poignant and heartbreaking.

Emanuel becomes increasingly occupied with caring for Chloe. — Emanuel becomes increasingly preoccupied with tending to Chloe.

Emanuel reacts to the doll with horror and disgust. Curiously, she stops short of questioning Linda, although she is mortified by and actively tries to thwart Linda’s attempts to introduce Chloe to the neighbors. Emanuel shrouds herself in secrecy as she and Linda develop a routine, caring for Chloe as if she were a normal infant. Her willingness to indulge Linda’s fantasy, perhaps a signal of her own dwindling sanity, increases as her infatuation with Linda intensifies. The parallel grieving metaphor here isn’t subtle. Emanuel always wondered what life would be like if her mom lived instead of her and she finds an unsettling possibility in Linda, surprisingly augmenting her guilt. By the same token, Linda states several times that she wants Chloe to grow up to be like Emanuel and sees Emanuel and Chloe as sisters, indicating that she perceives Emanuel as her child in a roundabout way. Emanuel appears to start independently believing in the realness of Chloe as she becomes more determined for her and Linda to rebuild their fractured families together, a shift cemented by her choosing to feed Chloe an actual bottle of milk when they are home alone.

Still, the lesbian element always remains forced back onto the periphery, for reasons I don’t understand. Emanuel’s stepmom even privately warns Linda that Emanuel might make a move because she didn’t have a mom and is therefore confused. Way to play on every gay stereotype ever. She awkwardly tries to confirm that Linda is straight and Linda hesitates for a second before we cut to the next scene. We get all of these cat-and-mouse subtextual moments throughout, but the weirdest thing is that none of it goes anywhere. Emanuel and Linda never act on their sexual tension, but it’s never denied or put to rest either. I question why that dynamic was included in the first place. Queer desire is demonized as facilitating incest and nothing more, which is extremely and almost needlessly unfortunate given the lack of narrative relevance.

Oh, and Janice (the stepmom) confides to Linda that she’s infertile and that’s part of the reason for her uneasiness with Emanuel. No one in this movie can have a positive relationship to childbirth.

Linda becomes distraught upon realizing that the doll isn't the real Chloe. — Linda becomes distraught upon realizing that the doll isn’t actually Chloe.

Things take an abrupt nosedive when Linda agrees to go on a date with Emanuel’s coworker, Arthur. Afterwards, she ignores Emanuel’s protests and excitedly suggests Arthur take a peek at the sleeping baby. He quickly points out that it’s a doll, shattering Linda’s carefully constructed bubble. She recognizes the baby as fake for the first time and immediately flies into a panic, demanding that Emanuel tell her Chloe’s true location and accusing her of stealing Chloe. I find it hard to believe that someone as delusional as Linda would snap back to reality the second someone brought up the tiniest shred of rational doubt, but Biel’s acting is phenomenal in this scene. Most intriguingly of all, Emanuel protectively cradles Chloe as both Arthur and Linda berate the doll as a lie, suggesting that she’s just as far gone if not more so than Linda.

Arthur drags Linda away and Emanuel curls up on the floor with the doll, suddenly finding herself swimming underwater. Emanuel’s mom appears in the distance and Chloe comes to life. The two of them swim away together, leaving Emanuel alone. After Emmanuel passes out and wakes up in the hospital, Linda’s husband explains that the doll was the culmination of Linda’s mental breakdown following the death of their infant daughter. Motherhood is just so healthy. Linda is sent to a mental institution.

Linda and Emanuel lay together calmly in the graveyard.

Undeterred, Emanuel enlists the help of her boyfriend to break Linda out. She tells Linda that Chloe isn’t okay, but she shouldn’t worry because Chloe is with her mom now. Together, they bury the doll on top of Emanuel’s mom’s grave and gaze at the stars together, their broken pasts now finally at peace.