There is, nevertheless, something magical about Bessie’s life and career. How did an impoverished, orphaned Black girl who spent her childhood singing on the streets not only survive but succeed in a land that still lynched its Black citizens? There is something profoundly modern and heroic about the woman herself. An independent woman with attitude and talent, she has to be one of the most charismatic feminist icons of the 20th century.
HBO’s Bessie has to be one of the most exciting offerings on 2015’s cultural calendar. Helmed by Dee Rees and starring Queen Latifah in the title role, the telefilm will recall the extraordinary life of the “Empress of the Blues,” Bessie Smith. It has all the makings of a quality production. Dee Rees impressed us back in 2011 with her well-observed coming-of-age drama, Pariah. An attractive, charismatic presence, Queen Latifah is, equally, an excellent casting choice. But who was Bessie Smith? Although hugely respected by musicians throughout the generations, many of us remain unfamiliar with the entertainer. In anticipation of Bessie, let’s remind ourselves of the exceptional life and career of the “Empress of the Blues.”
Director Dee Rees
Born in Tennessee in 1894, Bessie Smith was one of the greatest Blues singers of the 20s and 30s. Her childhood was marked by poverty and she lost both of her parents by the age of 9. She sang on the streets before performing in touring groups. A dancer, at first, she was a member of the Rabbit Foot Minstrels, the same minstrel show as the great Ma Rainey, another Blues singer, by the way, who deserves her own biopic. Bessie signed a contract with Columbia Records in 1923 and was soon catapulted to fame–and riches. Earning an astonishing $2,000 a week, she became, in fact, the highest-paid Black entertainer of her era. She had her own show and her own railroad car.
Her private life was, by all accounts, pretty lively. Her marriage to husband Jack Gee was turbulent and she was particularly fond of gin. She broke many of the rules of her day. Reportedly bisexual, she had affairs with women during her marriage. Bessie Smith was sexual and successful as well as, of course, immensely gifted. The extraordinary depth and power of her voice is evident from this following clip from the short film, St Louis Blues (1929).
“Downhearted Blues,” “Nobody knows You When You’re Down and Out,” and “Baby, Won’t You Please Come Home” are among some of the songs Bessie recorded. Her popularity waned–music historians cite the Depression and changes in musical taste–but there were, it seems, indications that she was on the verge of a comeback. Tragically, Bessie Smith was killed in a car accident in 1937 at the age of 43.
Queen Latifah
There is, nevertheless, something magical about Bessie’s life and career. How did an impoverished, orphaned Black girl who spent her childhood singing on the streets not only survive but succeed in a land that still lynched its Black citizens? There is something profoundly modern and heroic about the woman herself. An independent woman with attitude and talent, she has to be one of the most charismatic feminist icons of the 20th century.
Another portrait of the “Empress of the Blues” by van Vechten
Bessie is a refreshing, tantalizing prospect. God knows, of course, that dramatizing the lives of female cultural heroines doesn’t seem to be much of a concern to the powers that be. This is particularly the case, let’s face it, with women of color. But that must change. Movie studios and television companies, moreover, need to pay tribute to people who create more instead of offering romanticized, revisionist accounts of snipers. The Empress of the Blues’s commanding voice and pioneering spirit resonate today. Hopefully, Bessie will help restore her to our collective memory. She occupies a unique, vital place in 20th century popular culture.
Tim and Julie didn’t know about the sexual abuse Beth had been subjected to as early as 19 months old by her father. They didn’t know she was suffering from Reactive Attachment Disorder, a condition that surfaces from past trauma and neglect into oceans of disturbing, detached, unresponsive, and apathetic behavior. They couldn’t possibly know that a young girl could be filled with so much—that much rage.
This guest post by Kim Hoffman appears as part of our theme week on The Terror of Little Girls.
CORRECTION UPDATED 2/10/16: An earlier version of this article incorrectly associated the Attachment Center with the Evergreen Psychotherapy Center. We have been informed that The Evergreen Psychotherapy Center has never been, is not currently and will never be associated with The Attachment Center of Evergreen.
When I was a kid, I was introduced to a movie called Child of Rage, a 1992 CBS TV movie that would be on Lifetime after school. It gave me equal parts dread and fascination—it was about a young girl who wanted to kill her adoptive family, severely traumatized by previous abuse as a baby. What I didn’t know at the time was that the film was based on the real life story of a little girl named Beth Thomas, and that two years earlier in 1990, HBO had released a documentary about the real-life Beth as part of their America Undercover series, called Child of Rage: A Story of Abuse. In the documentary, an oppressed Beth accounts for all the moments I’d seen repeatedly play out in the TV movie, including frank and expressionless accounts of her polluted understanding of right from wrong—like murdering the parents who adopted her and the only brother she’d ever known. I marveled, and still marvel, over the power of this six and a half-year-old child who was never shown displays of love and empathy, until she was prepared to take another person’s life.
Tim and Julie Tennant adopted little Beth and her younger brother Jonathan back in the ‘80s. The couple took the sibling pair into their home, not aware of their past abuse at the hands of their biological father. Her mother, who had abandoned her and Jonathan, died when Beth was one. When Child Services found the children, Beth was screaming in her own soil and Jonathan was found in his crib with a curdled bottle of milk, his head flattened from the way he’d been positioned. Tim and Julie didn’t know about the sexual abuse Beth had been subjected to as early as 19 months old by her father. They didn’t know she was suffering from Reactive Attachment Disorder (RAD), a condition that surfaces from past trauma and neglect into oceans of disturbing, detached, unresponsive, and apathetic behavior. They couldn’t possibly know that a young girl could be filled with so much—that much rage.
In the documentary, a psychiatrist interviews Beth, but he’s one out of a whole team of therapists who guided Beth in her recovery. In 1989, Beth and her adoptive parents went to live with a woman named Connell Watkins, a therapist who practiced a type of “holding” therapy for children who are severely affected by RAD. That same year, a girl by the name of Candace Newmaker was born—but no one would guess that a little over a decade later, the 10-year-old would die in an accidental killing at the hands of Connell and another therapist, Julie Ponder. In that incident, they were conducting a “rebirthing” session in which they wrapped Candace in sheets and pillows to simulate a “womb connection” between Candace and her adoptive mother. Candace had been previously diagnosed with RAD after almost setting her house on fire, and years spent on medicine to keep her rage at bay—often biting or spitting at her therapists. Regardless, this session went terribly wrong. After an hour and ten minutes, the girl’s mother asked if she wanted to be born, and Candace quietly murmured “no”—her last word before dying there in that session. But this event hadn’t taken place yet, not back in 1989 when Beth was dancing the dangerous edge of child murderer and child rehabilitated. Could it be possible?
In the CBS movie, Beth’s character is called “Cat.” The new mom begins to notice Cat’s strange behavior—controlling her brother’s every move, acting jealously about any attention he receives and finding ways to seduce or manipulate adults in order to have the spotlight on her—including a highly inappropriate fondling of her adoptive grandfather. Cat’s coping mechanism for when she’s caught doing something bad includes smashing things and screaming obscenities, eventually retreating into docile panic, holding out her stuffed teddy bear like a wall of armor between herself and the adult—becoming very small and childlike, after displaying such high-strung violence. The most shocking moment in the film is when her new parents catch her bashing her brother’s head into the cement floor in the basement. It’s an eerie scene that sticks with me still, the young boy clutching his dinosaur stuffed animal, and Cat in powder pink sweatpants and tiny little sneakers following him into a corner.
However dark and disturbing, Child of Rage depicts Beth Thomas as a manipulator and seducer to a tee—we begin to see more and more of Cat’s charms and her ability to influence anyone’s move, especially when she knows their move may squash her plan. When the parents find out the truth about Cat’s past abuse as an infant, their worries seem to magnify, especially after so many incidents: Cat kills a nest of baby birds, stabs the family dog with a pin, and slices a classmate across his face with a shard of glass. She lies about her involvement or reasoning and remains sweet—with a tinge of repulsion we can’t help but see slip out from her pursed lips when she draws out, “Yes—Mommy.”
Meanwhile in the Beth Thomas documentary, as she props her head up with her small hand, her eyes widen every once in a while as she explains in detail her desire to kill. Still, it’s obvious that by now in her real-life therapy, she has gone from deceptive to forthcoming, though her remorse is hard to locate from simply observing her. She only trips up once, about the baby birds she killed. The psychiatrist asks her if she thinks the birds could fly or run away from her—she seems confused and half states/half asks, “Yes?” He then asks if she remembers them dying, and she stumbles through an account of her mom telling her that one of them had died, yes. But the psychiatrist goes straight for it—telling Beth, “Your mom told me that you killed the baby birds, Beth.”
Suddenly Beth shows traces of sad emotion that the psychiatrist seems to draw out, coddling her: “That’s OK, that’s OK,” though I don’t know that this is a breakthrough, perhaps just a child whose red-handed admission is still proof she has a long road ahead. This single event was big for Beth; it was her one killing spree. She even admits to hocking a knife from the dishwasher and stashing it in her room. When asked what she wanted to do with the knife, she chirps back at the therapist, “Kill John. And Mommy and Daddy.” She then says, “They can’t see me, but they can feel me,” when she explains why she chooses to sneak about in the shadows while her parents sleep, unaware that their small child could be lurking their hallways yielding a knife.
It’s frightening to watch a child, a real life child, so small on the sofa that her legs barely skim over the side, speaking so candidly about life and death—not to mention her traumatic sexual abuse that no child (or adult, even) can make full sense of and process in a way that any of us should feel is simple. In the film, when the parents take Cat into intensive therapy, the therapist gives them a book called Kids Who Kill by Charles Patrick Ewing, written in 1992, the same year the TV movie aired. If you look up the book, you’ll find it’s connected back to Beth Thomas through the company it keeps in the category of “books on children who kill.”
There’s a lot of speculation over what happened to Beth Thomas after her intensive therapy with Connell Watkins. In the documentary, a woman in a bright track-suit with a cheery disposition talks with hope about Beth’s recovery, while we follow Beth on her chore run around the Attachment Center in Evergreen, Colorado, feeding goats and whatnot (no animals were harmed, seriously). Her name is Nancy Thomas, and she later adopted Beth. It’s rumored that the Tennants kept Jonathan. It’s a little disheartening to think that Beth has had not one, but three mothers. Nancy now owns and operates Families By Design, an organization that provides support for parents and children coping and suffering with RAD. Essentially, it’s become Nancy’s lifework.
Even Beth Thomas herself has participated in many of Nancy’s events, including writing a book that she and her mother wrote together, Dandelion on My Pillow, Butcher Knife Beneath. The book was released in 2010, following Nancy’s previous guide book five years earlier, When Love is Not Enough: A Guide to Parenting with RAD. What Cat displays in the film really illustrates best how easily young girls who are suffering with RAD can use their sexuality in ways that mirror what they’ve seen adults display, though the end result is obvious—that the behavior for how sexuality is displayed in adults is in sometimes lost in translation. How it’s modeled in children who are, as is, sexual beings, but confounded by past trauma in developmental years, can be disturbing and uninhibited. When Cat tells her grandpa that he can be her “sweet, sweet teddy bear,” we have to wonder if baby Cat was influenced by the language she heard from her biological father—the abused taking the abusive language and integrating that into their foundation for bonding, relating, receiving something she wants, gaining total affection and love.
Look anywhere: The reviews on Amazon, web forums, personal websites, reviewers—there is an obvious split among people in support of Nancy Thomas and the practice of Attachment Therapy, and people who, as a result of the Candace Newmark case, find AT and this version of therapy to be abusive and inconclusive—even some adults who underwent said therapy have stepped out over the years to express their concerns over the therapy they were subjected to as children, but, therein lies the toughness with accurately, tangibly calculating whether or not a type of therapy that is aimed at manipulative, violent, disturbed, abused children has: long-term positive effects, or deepens PTSD because of its method.
Something to keep in mind when you watch the film (and I recommend watching the Beth Thomas documentary first, and then delving into the CBS movie last)—the 1992 movie does not mention the word rape, or sex, or vagina, or anything else sex-specific, at all. They hint at the fact that Beth was raped by her biological father through grainy nightmarish flashbacks, and in one instance when Beth shows the sexual abuse through two teddy bears. In the Beth Thomas documentary, she admits to masturbating daily, even sometimes in public, to the point of infection and bleeding and having to be taken to the hospital as a result. She also expresses that she committed similar acts on her brother Jonathan, molesting him at any opportunity she got—which is why Tim and Julie Tennant eventually had to lock Beth in her bedroom for everyone’s safety. All of this, of course, lends itself to the reason why they sought outside help.
Today, Beth works as a nurse, and continues to support her mom Nancy’s organization in Colorado, speaking out about her recovery, and even coming to the defense of Connell Watkins on the witness stand back in 2000. (Watkins served seven years of her 16-year sentence.) Beth professed she wouldn’t be here without Connell. By all accounts, those closest to Beth will attest to her dramatic change and healing. But Attachment Therapy remains the seesaw on the playground when it comes to understanding how to properly heal traumatized children. The Beth Thomas story is a reality—it’s not an afterschool special. For all we know, Beth may very well still have issues—with men, with father figures, with forgiving herself for the acts she committed on her brother, and it may be confounded by the fact that she’s a woman who hadn’t yet grown up and very well had to all at the same time. There was adolescence, teen years, periods, relationships—all of which presents foreign emotion for any girl. Imagine being Beth Thomas, having her childhood, and then facing life head-on. I want to believe in Nancy Thomas, in AT, and in little girls like Beth who “beat the odds” and reclaim life. Again, I ask: Is it possible? Or will she always just be the little child of rage?
With her gray curls and thick, veined ankles, unadorned on screen as she is in the book, Olive, captured by McDormand, is a fascinating and complicated character. She is ferocious, intelligent, tactless, cruel, and achingly kind, sometimes all at once. The actress is not physically alike Olive, who Strout described as stout and big, but she inhabits the spirit of the character so completely – a fact sure to be recognized awards season – that you cannot take your eyes off her even as you wonder what cringe worthy thing she will say or do next.
Frances McDormand is magnificent as the title character of the four-part HBO miniseries Olive Kitteridge, based on the Pulitizer Prize-winning novel by Elizabeth Strout that chronicles the illicit affairs, crime, hilarity and tragedy that ensures in the seemingly placid and hardscrabble New England town of Crosby over a 25-year time span.
The story begins when Olive is in her early 40s and teaches seventh-grade math. She is married to the kindly pharmacist, whom she often badgers and insults. The miniseries is as much a story of Olive’s journey as a portrait of an ordinary marriage with its trials and tribulations, petty resentments, and minor victories. Richard Jenkins is terrific as Olive’s long-suffering husband, Henry, who is as easy-going and relatively sunny as Olive is curmudgeonly and negative.
The action continues until Olive is in her early 70s, retired, and reconciled to the rhythm of an uneventful but relatively happy marriage. During the years she tries to find balance in her relationship with her son (John Gallagher Jr.), whom she loves but who resents and fears her sharp tongue and mood swings. Life takes cruel and typical twists for Olive as it does for most people.
Director Lisa Cholodenko
Romance enters unexpectedly in late life in the form of wealthy widower Sam (Bill Murray), a bald-headed old man with a big belly she discovers one morning slumped over on her walking path, possibly from a heart attack. “Are you dead?” she asked him. “Apparently not,” he replied. Tragedy and comedy co-exist naturally in Olive’s world.
With her gray curls and thick, veined ankles, unadorned on screen as she is in the book, Olive, captured by McDormand, is a fascinating and complicated character. She is ferocious, intelligent, tactless, cruel, and achingly kind, sometimes all at once. The actress is not physically alike Olive, who Strout described as stout and big, but she inhabits the spirit of the character so completely – a fact sure to be recognized awards season – that you cannot take your eyes off her even as you wonder what cringe worthy thing she will say or do next. The miracle is that Olive, who is unbelievable rude and unlikeable, slowly grows on you and you come to love her honesty and heart. McDormand captures this without sentimentality.
McDormand and Tom Hanks executive produced the miniseries, which hews to the spirit of the book that has been gracefully adapted by Jane Anderson and expertly directed by The Kids Are All Right director Lisa Cholodenko. Except for Hanks, they all turned up last week at the show’s premiere at the SVA Theater in Manhattan, along with cast members Rosemarie DeWitt and Cory Michael Smith.
On the red carpet, I asked author Elizabeth Strout who inspired her for the character of Olive:
“People always wonder if it’s my mother. It’s not. I grew up in Maine. Even though I’ve lived here for over 30 years I grew up on a dirt road with many older relatives, old aunts, mostly aunts, often grumpy, and it was just the air I breathed as a child, so it was sort of natural for me to find that character as a compilation I think of many of these different people that I grew up with.”
Writer Jane Anderson
I asked Strout how she came up with Olive’s physicality, her large size and ungainliness:
“Olive just came to me as somebody who was large. She’d gotten larger and she knew that and was uncomfortable with that, but wasn’t going to stop her from eating. I could almost feel it and sometimes, even now, I guess because there’s been so much written about Olive, all of a sudden – this is already a few years ago in my writing career – I just looked at my ankles the other day and I thought, ‘Oh, they’ll get bigger, like Olive’s,’” she laughed. “There wasn’t any particular person that I based her on. I just saw her and felt her.”
At the end of the book Olive seems to be embarking on a romance. I asked Strout if she had any plans for a follow-up book on Olive:
“I’ve actually found some old Olive stories that I hadn’t used. I’m such a disorganized person but I don’t know. I think maybe I better just let her go and have people hope the best for her.”
Strout told me the project for the series became with a phone call three years ago from her agent who told her,
“You know, Frances McDormand is interested in this,’ and I was like, ‘Really? Wow! That’s great.’ I met with Frances a few times in New York and we talked about Olive. We talked about different things. She’s an amazing person and actor and she got it. She knew about it because Olive’s very interior. There’s a lot that goes inside without her speaking it. And Frances does that. She shows us in her minimalist motions and her facial expressions.”
Frances McDormand and Rosemarie DeWitt
I asked if McDormand asked for tips on portraying the character but her only questions were unsurprisingly about adapting the book:
“She asked me about the timing. Like how did I think they would get the 25 years in? I said I had no idea. I don’t know anything about film. I was no good,” Strout laughed.
The author told me she never envisioned her book as a movie:
“No. I did not. The Burgess Boys, which I just wrote, I actually can see that as a movie because the narratives much clearer and the characters are very distinct in certain ways. But with Olive I didn’t. I did not think of it, so it’s extra special for me.”
I asked screenwriter Jane Anderson about how she became involved and about the challenges of adapting the book:
“I read the book for pleasure and when Fran called me up and said, ‘Are you interested in adapting it?’ I said absolutely. But it took me a couple of years to get it right because it’s a great piece of literature and the better the piece of literature, the more profound and subtle the piece of literature, the harder it is to adapt for screen. And because my parents are in Olive and Henry I saw the theme of the book as the theme of making a marriage work and I think ultimately they do work as a couple. I think often the pessimistic, difficult people and tender, easy people often work together as a unit. They need each other.”
The main goal was to be true to the book’s lack of sentimentality. Olive is a character you can’t stand at first but she grows on you. Anderson agreed:
“That first chapter she’s terrible. You can’t bear the woman. She’s cranky. She’s cruel. She’s dismissive. But then there’s the brilliance of Fran. Because Fran didn’t just want to just make her sentimental. Fran didn’t care if you liked her not and that’s what made her so good. Fran has no vanity. It was lovely to have her voice, the voice of Olive.”
Poster for Olive Kitteridge
Jenkins, who is so terrific as Olive’s husband, told me he didn’t worry about his character coming across as one-dimensional or too much of a milquetoast:
“I think the time made it possible, the movie’s four-hour length. You get to see a complex life, not just certain characteristics of a person. You get to see the whole person. Nobody is just one thing, so I think that helped.”
Director Lisa Cholodenko told me how she became involved in the project when McDormand called her three years ago and told her about the book, which she then sent:
“She said read it. I’m going to play it. It hasn’t been published. I’m going to deal with HBO, see if you’re interested in adapting it.” The director told me she loved the book and heard McDormand’s voice but the timing wasn’t right for her. “I told Frances, I don’t know how to adapt this. Go with God. I hope you find somebody awesome to do it. I don’t think I’m the person to do it now, but I would love to talk to you if you get a script. And three years later I got a call form HBO saying hey we have this script. Are you still interested? I said yeah I’ll read it. I was hooked.”
I asked about the casting choice of Bill Murray as Olive’s possible love interest. He has a legendary reputation for being difficult to contact and refusing most movie parts, so his casting is particularly intriguing.
“What’s not to love about Bill Murray?” Cholodenko chortled. “What was more wonderful is you never know if he’s going to show up, so you’re like, Yeah, Yeah, no Bill’s going to do it! Yeah let me know when he lands. And he did!”
Paula Schwartz is a veteran journalist who worked at the New York Times for three decades. For five years she was the Baguette for the New York Times movie awards blog Carpetbaggers. Before that she worked on the New York Times night life column, Boldface, where she covered the celebrity beat. She endured a poke in the ribs by Elijah Wood’s publicist, was ejected from a party by Michael Douglas’s flak after he didn’t appreciate what she wrote, and endured numerous other indignities to get a story. More happily she interviewed major actors and directors–all of whom were good company and extremely kind–including Brad Pitt, Angelina Jolie, Morgan Freeman, Clint Eastwood, Christopher Plummer, Dustin Hoffman and the hammy pooch “Uggie” from “The Artist.” Her idea of heaven is watching at least three movies in a row with an appreciative audience that’s not texting. Her work has appeared in Moviemaker, more.com, showbiz411 and reelifewithjane.com.
It is absolutely clear that throughout ‘Private Violence,’ Hill allowed Gruelle to take her into a world that she felt compelled to share with the public. That trust, that “wide-eyed curiosity” (as Gruelle said of Hill’s directing technique), created a documentary that not only pays homage to the strength and tragedy of women whose lives are torn apart by male partner violence, but also serves as a wake-up call that the system–law enforcement, news media, medical professionals, local and federal court systems–are not serving victims the way they should. ‘Private Violence’ is a public testament to the horror of domestic assault.
“The most dangerous place for a woman statistically speaking is not in the street. It’s in her own home. She’s most likely to be attacked by a man with whom she lives. It’s the trauma of it we’re just beginning to realize.”
This “private,” not public, violence, is the subject of the documentary Private Violence, which premiers Oct. 21 on HBO. (Steinem is an executive producer of the film.) Cynthia Hill directs the documentary, which focuses in on Kit Gruelle, an advocate and survivor, and Deanna Walters, a survivor who is navigating the court system. Other women’s stories are woven throughout, but the individual stories of these women offer a stunning, jarring inside look on what goes on behind closed doors and how “Why didn’t she just leave?” is not a question we should ever ask.
Statistics surrounding domestic violence in the US are stunning, even to those who are immersed in following women’s issues in the news–perhaps because the news media too often keeps these stories of assault, stalking, and murder in the private sphere. During the University of Missouri – Columbia’s Journalism School and True/False Film Festival collaboration, Based on a True Story: The Intersection of Documentary Film and Journalism last February, Hill and Gruelle participated in a panel discussion entitled “Telling Stories About Trauma.” Gruelle pointed out that in one of the cases she was advocating for, the local news refused to air graphic photos of a victim, but later that night, “the channel ran TV dramas about violence against women for profit–we can deal with the fantasy.”
The reality is this:
• One in four women (22.3 percent) has been the victim of severe physical violence by an intimate partner
• One in six women (15.2 percent) has been stalked during her lifetime
• Thirty percent of female homicide victims are murdered by their intimate partners
Private Violence does not, as some social-issue documentaries do, continuously slam us in the face with these statistics. Instead, the film takes us inside, takes us behind closed doors, to come face-to-face with victims, families, and advocates. The news media may not show us photos of brutalized women, but Private Violence does. We hear–and see–Walters, as she tries to escape and get some kind of justice (and how difficult it is). In an incredible opening, Candy tries to escape from William (who didn’t even care if they used the scene). The intimate, heartbreaking look into these women’s lives turns a mirror onto a society that has historically been far too complacent about violence against women.
During the aforementioned panel discussion, Hill said that she was approached by Gruelle, who wanted to work on a project about the history of domestic violence advocacy work. “Her intention wasn’t to be the subject of the film,” Hill said. “I wanted to turn my camera in her direction… she already had access and intimacy. A historical film became a cinema verité film.” Hill’s decision to turn the camera on Gruelle was brilliant. Gruelle is a passionate advocate who works hard and speaks loudly about domestic violence in our culture. Hill invited her to speak up during the panel discussion, and Gruelle pointed out that “It’s never just about the abusers. It’s about patriarchal systems that are quick to blame her.”
Advocate Kit Gruelle.
The crux of Gruelle’s message to audiences, to not ask “Why doesn’t she just leave?” is amplified by focusing on these individuals’ stories. It was difficult to hear that when the film was shown at the True/False Film Festival, Candy had gone back to William. Seeing faces somehow makes that knee-jerk reaction of “Just leave!” creep up, even if we know better. “Leaving an abuser isn’t an event,” Gruelle said. “It’s a process.” The process isn’t incredibly fulfilling to watch in Private Violence, nor should it be. The system fails women far too often, and Private Violence shows that in painful detail.
“Why doesn’t she just leave?”
Before the film screened at True/False (to an overflowing, sold-out crowd), Hill told the audience that the ultimate goal is “to make women and children safe in their own homes.” Because we know that as it stands, they are not.
It is absolutely clear that throughout Private Violence, Hill allowed Gruelle to take her into a world that she felt compelled to share with the public. That trust, that “wide-eyed curiosity” (as Gruelle said of Hill’s directing technique), created a documentary that not only pays homage to the strength and tragedy of women whose lives are torn apart by male partner violence, but also serves as a wake-up call that the system–law enforcement, news media, medical professionals, local and federal court systems–are not serving victims the way they should. Private Violence is a public testament to the horror of domestic assault.
During the Q&A after the screening, Walters appeared on stage with Hill and Gruelle. She said that her participation in the film–and how she laid herself bare–is “my way of helping people.” Gruelle pleaded with the crowd to “go back to your communities and pop the hood,” ensuring that victims got the justice they deserved (but first we must keep their stories out of the shadows).
Kit Gruelle, left, and Deanna Walters.
Hill’s direction is remarkable in its effortlessness; she knows to follow, to absorb, to tell the story. When she was asked during the panel discussion about her decision to include upsetting audio in the film, she said, “Well, this is what happens. People need to know what happens.”
Private Violence shows what does–and doesn’t–happen behind closed doors and within a system we’re taught to trust. May audiences be moved to lift the veil in their own communities, to listen to women’s stories, and to effect change in a patriarchal system that is far too brutal to its female citizens.
Private Violenceairs on HBO at 9 p.m. Eastern on Oct. 20. In 2015, Private Violence will be available for educational distribution through Women Make Movies.
Even after the finale of its fourth season, the HBO series ‘Game of Thrones’ continues its reputation for unpredictability and for subverting our genre expectations. However, a glaring pattern of predictability is emerging: all sex workers with significant roles will die horribly. Think about it.
Even after the finale of its fourth season, the HBO series Game of Thrones continues its reputation for unpredictability and for subverting our genre expectations. However, a glaring pattern of predictability is emerging: all sex workers with significant roles will die horribly. Think about it.
Doreah (played by Roxanne McKee), Daenerys Targaryen’s handmaiden and a prostitute: DEAD.
Doreah is instructed to teach Dany the art of sex
Ros (played by Esmé Bianco), a Northerner who moves South to King’s Landing, working as a prostitute and trusted assistant to Littlefinger: DEAD.
Ros: tough, upwardly mobile, intelligent, and independent
Finally, we have Shae (played by Sibel Kekilli): a prostitute and the lover of Tyrion Lannister who poses as a handmaiden to Sansa Stark: DEAD.
Shae soothes Tyrion’s fears before the Battle of Blackwater Bay
What do all these women have in common? Their profession as sex workers, and they are all disloyal.
After being raped by Viserys and ordered to sexually train/service Daenerys, Doreah betrays her Khaleesi in Qarth, helping Xaro Xhoan Daxos (the man Dany instructed Doreah to sleep with) to steal Dany’s dragons. (A deleted scene even shows Doreah coldly murdering fellow handmaiden Irri.)
Doreah is caught in bed with Daxos
Ros rightfully fears her employer and seeks to help Sansa Stark by revealing to Varys Littlefinger’s plans to spirit the girl away.
Littlefinger punishes Ros by letting Joffrey put a series of crossbow bolts in her
In one of the most significant acts of betrayal the series has ever depicted, Shae testifies against Tyrion in court, condemning him for the crime of regicide. We also find that she was sleeping with his father, Tywin Lannister, which the show asserts is an even greater form of betrayal than her false testimony.
Shae gives her damning, full of lies testimony
Shae’s acts of betrayal are over-the-top and out of character (remember, we’re talking about the show here, not the books). Season 4 has her being sullen and adopting a completely unrealistic attitude about the danger she and Tyrion face. She is irrationally jealous of his forced marriage to Sansa while still maintaining her affection for the young Stark girl. Overall, though, we must remember that Shae truly does love Tyrion. She has refused gold, safety, and a fine home with servants all for love of Tyrion.
Shae and Tyrion lovingly kiss
We are to believe that because Tyrion white fanged Shae, she would condemn him to die by telling lies during his trial, condemn Sansa whom she loved and protected by telling lies about her, fuck Tywin, get so cozy with him that she’d call him “my Lion” and try to kill Tyrion the next time she saw him? I ain’t buying it.
Shae and Sansa watch ships arrive in King’s Landing
Is Shae really a woman so scorned that she’d destroy everyone she ever cared about to get revenge? Is she really so daft that she couldn’t see that Tyrion was trying to protect her all along? Is she really so malleable that Tywin could so easily manipulate her into such complete betrayal?
Her utter betrayal is character-defining for Tyrion. That he is “forced” to kill her changes him, so her unrealistic actions and extreme betrayal merely serve to further Tyrion’s character arc, while contradicting her own characterization over the last four years.
Tyrion finds a gussied up Shae in his father’s bed
More importantly, Shae’s betrayal when considered alongside the double-crosses of her fellow prostitutes and their collective fates reveal a disturbing attitude toward sex workers that Game of Thrones is advancing. It claims that sex workers are disposable and that they cannot be trusted.
“That’s in a way, the most horrible thing he could see because she wasn’t a whore…they had become committed to each other. She’s no longer a whore. When he calls her a whore, it’s not that he believes this is what she is; it’s what he desperately needs to tell her to save her life in his mind, and, ironically, he’s ended up turning her into that very thing that she was running from.”
Weiss’ repeated use of the offensive term “whore” here encapsulates so much more than Shae’s profession as a sex worker. Weiss’ and the show’s obsession and discomfort with these women’s occupation is very masculine and very patriarchal, asserting that if you must pay a woman for sex, her morals and motivations are never to be trusted about anything ever. This stems from an ego-driven masculine notion that if a woman retains enough agency to demand payment for sex, it is impossible to know if she really enjoyed said sex, and if she might be faking that, she could be faking any and all other emotions or professed loyalties.
Game of Thrones punishes another sex worker by having her die on her back in a bed
I’m pretty tired of seeing sex workers raped and murdered on TV. I’m sick of seeing sex workers depicted within a stereotypical trope as liars and betrayers who get what’s coming to them. It’s no secret that Game of Thrones doesn’t have a great track record when it comes to the exploitation of its female characters, liberally employing death, rapes, gratuitous nudity and crappy decision-making that runs counter to characterization in order to move the plot along, make a nonessential point or punish an “unlikeable” woman. This so disappoints me because, in other ways, Game of Thrones delights with its intricate plot, attention to detail, breathtaking visuals, character depth and endless surprises. Season 5 is being filmed right now. It’s time for the bar to be raised with this amazing series’ treatment of women and, in particular, its treatment of sex workers. I challenge the creators to stop exploiting their female and sex worker characters. I challenge them to start working as hard to give these marginalized women as much real depth and humanity as they do for their male counterparts.
Bitch Flicks writer and editor Amanda Rodriguez is an environmental activist living in Asheville, North Carolina. She holds a BA from Antioch College in Yellow Springs, Ohio and an MFA in fiction writing from Queens University in Charlotte, NC. She writes all about food and drinking games on her blog Booze and Baking. Fun fact: while living in Kyoto, Japan, her house was attacked by monkeys.
Through its one and only season, the fake reality show chronicled the life of Valerie Cherish, played by my favorite Friend, Lisa Kudrow, an 80’s has-been trying to make a comeback through her role on an insipid sitcom. Valerie was a perfect reality star, yelling at the cameras, fighting with her co-workers and suffering one dignity after another, to the point where watching the show can be painful at times.
Poster for The Comeback
The Comeback is a deeply thought-out, complicated show about shallow television.
Through its one and only season, the fake reality show chronicled the life of Valerie Cherish, played by my favorite Friend, Lisa Kudrow, an 80’s has-been trying to make a comeback through her role on an insipid sitcom. Valerie was a perfect reality star, yelling at the cameras, fighting with her co-workers and suffering one dignity after another, to the point where watching the show can be painful at times.
But as a scripted series, The Comeback never really caught on. Created by Sex and the City’sMichael Patrick King, the cringe comedy only ran for 13 episodes on HBO before cancellation. It has since enjoyed a second life through DVDs and streaming, acquiring a reputation as a cult program. In May, HBO announcedThe Comeback’s revival for a six-episode limited series set to air this fall.
It’s easy to figure out why the show was unpopular in its original run, as it’s unlike anything else on TV. Valerie is often unlikeable, out-of-touch and incredibly vain, traits not often found in female lead characters. Though there have been female characters like Valerie, they have generally been only supporting figures providing comic relief. Also unusual are the show’s dark tone and raw footage format, which allows Valerie to run through multiple takes of different actions which are supposed to be spontaneous reality, call for time-outs when something is said that she doesn’t want to air and repeatedly tell filmmakers to stop filming (though they never do). It’s important to note however, that similar shows with male leads like Curb Your Enthusiasm and The Office have been very popular.
The character of Valerie Cherish is well-observed and very specific. She is a Hollywood wife married to a successful executive, carting around her Birkin bag and her loyal closeted hairdresser, Mickey. She’s also incredibly fake, adopting an glamorous, affected attitude, a trendy passion for yoga and eastern spirituality, and a love of dogs and distancing herself from embarrassing friends, to put herself in the best possible light for the cameras.
Valerie’s character is referred to as “sad, pathetic Aunt Sassy”
Early on, Room and Bored, the sitcom Valerie is cast in, originally a show about four single women in their 30s and 40s, is retooled to be sexier and hipper. The leads are given to a former Disney star and a pop star taking on her first acting role, male “hunks” are added, and the sitcom instead focuses on sexy 20-somethings in bikinis sleeping with each other. There is barely space for Valerie, who is cast as Aunt Sassy, an uptight, frumpy woman who wears only pastel jogging suits and usually appears in only one scene of each episode. Still Valerie is unable to accept that she is not the star. While her former TV show, I’m It, is generally forgotten and she hasn’t worked it years, she refuses to admit that she even needs a comeback.
Throughout the series, Valerie often frustrates her co-workers by trying to control the production and writing of Room and Bored and get a larger role for herself. For example, in cast photo session, where she is asked to stand far in the background, she continuously moves forward to stand with the young cast. In another scene, she angers the writers by protesting a joke she feels would make viewers dislike her character and wins the studio audience’s approval by getting them to chant for her to get another take. She is reminded several times to view The Comeback as her show and her main shot and to allow the 20-somethings to have Room and Bored, but she never listens.
Valerie gives her opinions on what is happening in to-the-camera confessionals, a staple of reality TV
Though Valerie is generally well-meaning, she seems genuinely oblivious to the people she uses and takes for granted in her struggle back to the top. She uses a writer named Gigi to get better story lines, even when it complicates Gigi’s job, tries to convince a young gay fan to come out for the sole purpose of using his gushing praise of her on the show, and dismisses Mickey when it suits her. However, this behavior never comes from a place of outright meanness, but instead a lack of empathy.
But what The Comeback gets so right, is its display of Valerie’s humanity. While she’s not always likable, she is always understandable. In Valerie’s nervous, brittle laugh, her frequent clearing of her throat when uncomfortable and her obsession with appearing perfect, a deeply self conscious, even desperate woman emerges. Kudrow’s performance is as much in what she doesn’t say as what she does, and the pain behind her eyes when she experiences a setback and tries to brush it off makes her deeply sympathetic. Valerie absorbs a lot of ridicule and humiliation in 13 episodes, much more than most people could take. Yet she continues to grow and adjust rather than shut down. Rather than lash out at her cruel co-workers and risk her job she smiles and pretends to enjoy being the butt of jokes.
Valerie is also desperate to be liked and is constantly giving gifts and trying to take coworkers out to lunch. She plays out elaborate rituals, jokes and skits to get people to like her and yearns for the approval of her young costars. As her life continues to fall apart, Valerie keeps smiling. When Room and Bored gets bad ratings, she gives a speech to the cat about keeping up hope and trying harder. She’s the closest thing there is to a female Michael Scott: clueless and insensitive but ultimately redeemed through her genuine well-meaning.
Though viewers come to assume things are going to go wrong for her, nine times out of 10 she’s created the trouble for herself. It’s surprising when one of her seemingly delusional ideas works out, such as when she gets Tom Selleck to agree to play Aunt Sassy’s boyfriend. Often watching The Comeback is like watching a horror movie, which forces you to scream at the characters onscreen to stop and think about what they’re doing. While viewers are allied with Valerie and want her to succeed, we understand why she fails and agree with the realism of what happens. In reality, without an all access pass to Valerie’s insecurities and the moments where her persona falters, she would be very difficult to root for.
Reality TV is portrayed as intrusive and unglamorous, as cameras invade Valerie’s private moments
The Comeback has no great love for reality TV. Throughout the series, Valerie is followed around by her reality crew, who are always hoping something awful will happen in Valerie’s real life that will boost ratings. The crew creates chaos following her and require multiple conversations to plan logistics and their presence causes the cast and writers of Room and Bored to resent Valerie. In the final episode, when the reality show is pieced together, it is revealed that much of what Valerie and the people around her have said and done was manipulated in editing and used to created cheap laughs at her expense. Paulie G. (Lance Barber), a writer on Room and Bored who is relentlessly cruel to Valerie is portrayed as a consummate professional who Valerie abuses unprovoked.
Though Valerie tries to maintain control over the reality show and of how she is portrayed, she misunderstands what the show is and what viewers want. She decides the director, Jane (Laura Silverman) is her friend and tries to be close to her, getting her a gift bag at the awards show and inviting her to her premiere party. Valerie feels that a friendship with Jane will allow her to be portrayed in a positive way and feels betrayed as a friend and disrespected as the celebrity she feels she is, when she sees how Jane edited the footage. It takes her a long time to respect Jane’s judgement and understand what Jane always knew: that conflict is what makes a good reality show.
Another interesting facet of The Comeback is its portrayal of an adult workplace as full of immaturity and pettiness. In the same way Leslie Knope’s idealism is tested by the baffling ignorance of Pawnee’s city council, Valerie grapples with Paulie G., a fratboy misogynist who sees no value in women beyond sexual objectification. At every turn, Paulie G. tries to thwart Valerie and make rude comments about her, though its clear that if she was 20 years younger, he’d tolerate anything she did. In addition, Paulie G. torments Gigi, the sole female writer, for being overweight.
In one memorable scene, Valerie comes to the studio late at night to bring cookies to the writers and finds them mocking her and portraying her in crude sexual playacting. While she expected Paulie G., who wears his contempt for her on her sleeve, to mock her, she is shocked to see that behind closed doors, the other writers, including Tom Peterman who had appeared to like her, join in on the mockery and call her pathetic.
In an attempt to humiliate Valerie, the writers have Aunt Sassy dream of herself as a giant cupcake taunted for being fat
The show also explores Hollywood’s intolerance of aging women. Valerie is too young to play Aunt Sassy, an under developed character who appears to be written as a senior citizen. As an older woman, Valerie is shuffled off to the sidelines of the show and as Aunt Sassy, is exclusively given lines about how pathetic and sexually frustrated she is. When Aunt Sassy is given a spotlight episode about her romantic life, Valerie relishes the opportunity to flesh out the character and make her more than a punchline. But the episode is quickly cancelled and Valerie is told that writers and producers see giving Aunt Sassy a storyline as a step in the wrong direction.
Though Valerie still feels youthful and attractive, by Hollywood’s standards, she’s ancient. Valerie is married with a step-daughter and prefers staying home to going clubbing, she can’t keep up with the twenty-somethings on her show and along with her husband Mark, worries that she can’t do things like have adventurous sex or do coke anymore. Most of her young costars treat her with distanced politeness, like a visiting relative.
Still, the show allows Valerie to be attractive. In one episode, even Paulie G. drools over a sexy photo of her and briefly looks at her in a new light after seeing her. In another, Valerie wears a low-cut dress to an award show and is complimented for her body.
Valerie shows she is still attractive with her revealing awards show dress
It’s difficult for Valerie to watch everyone fawn over Juna (Malin Akerman), the star of Room and Bored. Juna is young, thin and her attractiveness is constantly discussed and stressed by the show’s direction. In one scene, Juna’s costume, a tiny bikini, is contrasted with Valerie’s dowdy jogging suit. When Juna changes in front of Valerie’s cameras and Valerie notices her young body, she enters a one sided competition with the young star. Valerie is determined to prove herself still relevant and attractive, as shown when, Juna lands the cover of Rolling Stone with a provocative pose and Valerie responds by bringing in topless poster from her own youth.
But Juna proves to be Valerie’s only consistent ally and she eventually decides to put aside her jealously and act as a mentor. Their relationship seems to grow into a genuine friendship, but continues to be frequently manipulative on Valerie’s part as she uses her allegiance with Juna to boost her own star and her place on the show. Her friendship with Juna also helps her to connect with her stepdaughter, Francesca a rebellious teenager who loves Juna and thinks Valerie is cool for knowing her.
Valerie is jealous of young star Juna Milken
The Comeback was a show ahead of its time, but maybe it’s time has finally come. Reality TV is more omnipresent than ever, and with no sign of slowing down.
There’s a retrospectively ironic moment in one of the early episodes, when Valerie sees a magazine cover that asks, “Is Reality TV Dying?” and becomes worried that her show will fail. But by the series’ final episode, it’s clear Valerie Cherish’s comeback will be a huge success, as it offers everything viewers expect from reality TV. I’m looking forward to the seeing how the series will tackle our current media and to catching up with a fascinating female character when it returns this fall.
The journey of Daenerys Targaryen is a prototype for female liberation, one that charts women’s emancipation over the centuries and encourages us to push harder and dream bigger for even more freedom now.
Written by Amanda Rodriguez Spoiler Alert Trigger warning: discussion of rape
The incredibly popular HBO TV series Game of Thrones is off and running as Season 4 gets under way, and as the devoted fan that I am, I’ve been thinking an inordinate amount about this show, in particular the character arc of one Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Chains, and Mother of Dragons (now that is a title). As I’m steadfastly staying behind the TV series in my reading of George R.R. Martin‘s ongoing book series, A Song of Ice and Fire, I don’t know what’s in store for Daenerys in the pages beyond the TV show. However, I see the journey of Daenerys Targaryen as a prototype for female liberation, one that charts women’s emancipation over the centuries and encourages us to push harder and dream bigger for even more freedom now.
Daenerys begins her life as property.
Cruel brother Viserys sells his sister for an army
Daenerys is a quiet, dreamy youth who has been physically, mentally, and sexually abused by her brother, Viserys, who sells her to Khal Drogo to buy an army of Dothraki. Her ownership then transfers to Drogo who repeatedly rapes her before Daenerys learns to assert herself and manipulate his desires.
Not really the wedding night every girl dreams of
It’s important to note that HBO chose to alter Daenerys’ wedding night by having Drogo rape her, using her as property. Martin’s book A Game of Thrones, depicts her wedding night as a sexual awakening and a revelation for Daenerys about the power of her desire and sexuality. This change from book to screen has several implications, and not all of them are good since it solidifies the racist depiction of the Dothraki as unfathomable savages and kicks off the show’s penchant for the sexual degradation of women. However, it’s hard to realistically imagine a child bride with Daenerys’ disposition enjoying her stranger-husband’s advances, and the TV version of Daenerys’ arc then shows us how she (like so very many women) must overcome the repeated violation of her body (in her case, by both brother and husband).
Like her sexual abuse, Daenerys must overcome many obstacles on her heroine’s journey for self-actualization.
“I do not have a gentle heart.” – Daenerys Targaryen
Our Khaleesi faces the death of her husband, brother, and child, the loss of most of her khalasar, starvation, and desperation along with many deaths in the Red Waste.
Our young Khaleesi faces starvation and loss in The Red Waste
Like the mythical heroine that she is, though, Daenerys’ struggles make her stronger. She ignores the protests of those who either don’t believe in her or who underestimate the magnitude of her power. She trusts her instincts and is reborn from her husband’s funeral pyre where she is thought to have burned. Instead she emerges The Mother of Dragons with her hatched dragons suckling at her breast. In her Bitch Flicks review, In Game of Thrones the Mother of Dragons is Taking Down the Patriarchy, Megan Kearns says, “Dany becomes the metaphorical phoenix rising from the ashes, purging the last vestiges of her former timidity to transition into her life as a powerful leader.” Yes. Symbolically, Daenerys has faced many trials by fire, and she is unbowed and unbroken by them. Not only that, but Daenerys and NOT her brother Viserys is the trueborn heir imbued with magical abilities and, perhaps, a destiny. Her story tells women that only each of us can know our own minds and our true worth, and it is much greater than our patriarchal society can imagine.
Daenerys proves that fire truly “cannot kill a dragon.”
The theme recurs of Daenerys having to constantly prove that she is a fit leader, that she knows what she’s doing, and that she can be ruthless when necessary. Her youth and femaleness make others underestimate her, including her own retinue (Jorah gets more than one tongue lashing for his continual doubts about her and her “gentle heart”). But Khaleesi proves herself again and again: in Qarth when she pits her magic against that of the warlocks, in Astapor when she outwits the chauvinistic slaver and acquires an army eight thousand strong of the renowned Unsullied warriors, and in Yunkai when she quietly liberates the slave city from its masters.
Daenerys becomes a queen with an army
The liberation of slaves is the next step in Daenerys evolution as a feminist leader. Once acquiring the Unsullied, she immediately frees them and asks them each to make the personal choice to follow her. When she drops the whip that signifies her ownership of the Unsullied, I said aloud, “Fuck yeah!” Not only that, but in Yunkai, the former slaves rally around Daenerys, their liberator, and call her Mysha, meaning “mother.”
The freed slaves name Daenerys Mysha meaning “mother”
Now, it is deeply problematic that Daenerys is a white savior figure to all these enslaved and impoverished brown people. It’s condescending and (ironically) paternalistic. However, the trajectory of Daenerys’ development as a feminist guide for the liberation and empowerment of women holds true because what is most important is that Daenerys cannot abide slavery and oppression. She embodies the civil rights quote, “No one is free when others are oppressed.” This means that Daenerys will not rest just because she has become a queen with an army. Though poorly (and racistly) executed, Daenerys embodies intersectionality because she believes that everyone deserves equality and freedom of choice regardless of life circumstances or the type of oppression that they face.
In fact, I like to think that Daenerys even inspired Emilia Clarke, the actress who portrays her to take a feminist stance when at the end of Season 3, Clarke stood up to HBO (one of the most powerful networks on the planet) and refused to do anymore nude scenes for Game of Thrones. Talk about a meta-feminist empowerment arc!
Daenerys and Drogon menace Yunkai slavelords
As someone who hasn’t finished the books, I ask myself, “What’s next for Daenerys?” I see Season 4 as her opportunity to grow as a leader, learning how to balance her personal quest for the Iron Throne with the will of the people she has liberated. She will, of course, falter along the way because, hey, this is Game of Thrones, and a series of wins can only result in some kind of tragedy or personal failings. Fact. Though she will undoubtedly make mistakes, I suspect Daenerys will overcome any newfound challenges, as she has done before. Just as all women must when we struggle to be so many things to so many people while holding true to our own goals and values.
Maybe hubris will get in Daenerys’ way?
The ultimate question now becomes, “Who in the game of thrones is fit to rule?” All of the others with claims to the throne have had at least one major flaw: Robb Stark was too much his father’s son, valuing honor above all else (and is now dead); Stannis Baratheon is a charisma-less, rigid man with a chip on his shoulder and a dubious moral compass in the form of Melisandre; Mance Rayder will be lucky if he can even wrangle his own army and get beyond The Wall, Balon Greyjoy is powerless inland, and Joffrey Baratheon/Lannister is an evil fuck who everyone despises (and is now dead). Though others will undoubtedly enter the high stakes fray, Daenerys is without compare. Not only does she have dragons, she has proven her abilities time and time again. Most importantly, her liberation of slaves is a testament to her righteousness, her cunning, and her ability to evolve beyond outdated modes of rulership (not to mention that she’d be the first woman to ever sit on the Iron Throne in the history of Westeros). Jorah Mormont said it best:
“You have a good claim: a title, a birthright. But you have something more than that: you may cover it up and deny it, but you have a gentle heart. You would not only be respected and feared; you would be loved. Someone who can rule and should rule. Centuries come and go without a person like that coming into the world.”
Bitch Flicks writer and editor Amanda Rodriguez is an environmental activist living in Asheville, North Carolina. She holds a BA from Antioch College in Yellow Springs, Ohio and an MFA in fiction writing from Queens University in Charlotte, NC. She writes all about food and drinking games on her blog Booze and Baking. Fun fact: while living in Kyoto, Japan, her house was attacked by monkeys.
The HBO series ‘Looking,’ which focuses on the lives of gay men (co-created by the gay writer-director Andrew Haigh who made the art-house film ‘Weekend’; two of the main cast members, including the lead, are also out gay men) occupies a ground somewhere in between, in which women do exist, though only in supporting roles–but those roles are cast and, written with an acuity that transcends their brief time onscreen.
Warning: This review contains spoilers for the first seven episodes of the first season of HBO’s Looking.
No matter how much is written about the series Girls, “wives and girlfriends” could be the de facto description of most speaking roles for women on television and in film. Because women are the plus-ones in the script we’re not surprised that their parts, when compared with the male characters have fewer lines, less complexity and less variability–in age, race, body type and conventional attractiveness. The uncomfortable truth is: the only reason women are in these many of these shows and films (besides for decoration, to act as a kind of talking furniture) is to communicate that even though the male characters seem to spend most of their time and emotional energy interacting with each other– and the audience can’t help noticing the homoerotic tension between them–they’re not queer.
So what happens to women’s roles when the main male characters are queer? In some cases, like the excellent recent release Stranger By The Lake, women aren’t in the picture at all–not surprising, since the film takes place in a cruising ground. But the absence of women also reflects the strata of gay men whose social circle is made up almost entirely of other gay men, even outside of sexual situations. In the case of the execrable American version of Queer As Folk the token woman couple were written alternately as villains or annoyances: their erratic behavior providing the flimsiest of excuses to propel the storylines of the male characters.
The HBO series Looking, which focuses on the lives of gay men (co-created by the gay writer-director Andrew Haigh who made the art-house film Weekend; two of the main cast members, including the lead, are also out gay men) occupies a ground somewhere in between, in which women do exist, though only in supporting roles–but those roles are cast and written with an acuity that transcends their brief time onscreen.
Dom and Doris
The most prominent example is Doris (Lauren Weedman) who is the best friend, roommate and long ago ex-lover of one of the series main characters, Dom (out gay actor Murray Bartlett). Unlike other fictional f*g hags, Doris isn’t secretly still in love with Dom (as the Meryl Streep character was with the Ed Harris character in The Hours) nor is she a woman so desperately unhappy with her own life that she can’t stop meddling in and monopolizing Dom’s. She has a challenging career as a pediatric nurse, and although she is much less glamorous than most of the other women on television, we see her making out with Dom’s male coworker during Dom’s birthday party (though just once on TV or in a movie I’d like to see the relatively common occurence of a f*g hag going with her friends to the gay bar, picking up a woman there and going on to forge a queer identity of her own). Instead Doris plays the role usually given to “The Gay Best Friend” in a romantic comedy. She has all the best lines and an acid delivery but is also a loyal friend and the voice of reason.
When Dom wants to contact an abusive ex-boyfriend (who was, at one time, also a meth addict but has since become a successful realtor) Doris warns him off doing so, but when Dom sees the guy anyway, tells him she understands why.
Doris asks, “Did you at least ask him for your money back?”
“No,” Dom answers.
Doris then asks “Why not,” and her tone has no anger in it, just a sad compassion that seems to illustrate a long history between the two friends.
In the most recent episode (Episode 7, the penultimate of this season, but the series has just been renewed for a second season, with Weedman becoming a cast regular) we finally got to meet the mother of the main character Patrick Murray (Jonathan Groff). His mother has been something of a bogeyman since the first episode when Dom advised Patrick to stop dating only the men he thought his mother would approve of. Patrick, who designs video games, then pursued and eventually became boyfriends with Richie (Raúl Castillo) a Mexican American barber. With Richie and Patrick’s relationship, Looking is able to touch on some class and race schisms that exist in the gay men’s community–but also beyond–that other series and movies rarely show.
Richie and Patrick spend an idyllic day together
Patrick isn’t a racist exactly (his best friend is Latino–and also a main character–wanna-be artist, Agustín, played by Frankie J. Alvarez), but, except for most of one idyllic all-day date that takes up the whole of Episode 5 (directed by Haigh, it echoes the structure, if not quite the emotional sweep of Weekend) he can’t seem to stop himself from saying racially and culturally insensitive things to Richie, which nearly prevented he and Richie from getting together in the first place. Patrick’s awkwardness with Richie is a result of his moving in mostly white, affluent (or at least artist-class) circles and shows a reality rarely seen on TV or in movies: that white people, even the ones who say they aren’t racist, often have no idea how to be in interracial relationships–and aren’t very good at learning from their mistakes. The show also captures tensions within the Latino community, when college educated, Miami-raised Cuban American Agustín accuses Patrick of “slumming” with working class, Mexican American Richie.
In Episode 7, Richie was supposed to finally meet Patrick’s mother (Julia Duffy from Newhart) at his sister’s wedding,but after a morning full of disasters: spilled coffee on a dress shirt, a parking ticket, Patrick’s mother’s misplaced phone (which the hotel won’t give to Richie because, he says, “I guess I don’t look like a ‘Murray'”) Richie and Patrick argue, and Richie says he thinks it’s too soon to meet Patrick’s family. So Patrick goes to the wedding alone.
Patrick and Richie
Making the excuses familiar to those of us who have fought with our partners right before or during major social events (“food poisoning” Patrick says), Patrick meets up with his mother, a persnickety and perpetually dissatisfied woman (she complains about the state of the grass on the grounds of the wedding site) who calls Richie “Richard” and “friend” instead of “boyfriend.”
At the end of the festivities (scenes of cake pops, bad dancing to the B-52s and the groom removing the bride’s garter will elicit groans of recognition among any queer who has felt alienated at a straight wedding) Patrick tells his mother, “You’re the real reason Richie isn’t here,” blaming the argument he had with Richie (ostensibly because Richie suggested Patrick smoke a joint in the car to relax before the wedding) on his mother’s lofty expectations.
But Patrick’s mother herself is munching on a pot-laced Rice Krispie treat (Patrick’s family is from Colorado, where marijuana is legal) and tells Patrick, “I don’t think you can blame me for Richie. If he’s not here, that’s on you, sweetie.” She also tells him that marijuana has helped her since she went off Lexapro, which Patrick had no idea she was taking.”If you asked me how I was doing every now and then,” she counters, “you’d know.” And with just a few lines (and an expert reading from Duffy) Looking turns an “evil” and “unreasonable” mother character into a sympathetic person with wants and needs of her own. And echoes the experience of so many of us as we strive to become people different from who our mothers see us as. Our mothers change too and become different people from the ones we wanted so badly to distance ourselves from.
With Blue Is The Warmest Color, Concussion, and Stranger By The Lake, this past year has been a great one for queer characters’ stories on the big screen–and Looking has now brought that same depth and quality to the small screen. I can’t wait for Season 2.
Ren Jender is a queer writer-performer/producer putting a film together. Her writing has appeared in The Toast,xoJane and the Feminist Wire. You can follow her on Twitter @renjender.
People who don’t work in the arts don’t realize how much work goes into it. Writers write hundreds of pages before any reader (who isn’t a blood relative) loves their work. Musicians practice for countless hours and write a lot of shitty songs before they compose a tune that makes someone want to sing along. Moms Mabley, the Black, queer woman comedian born in 1894 in the Jim Crow south, ran away at age 14 to become a performer and spent much of the next 66 years onstage, performing and polishing her own comedy routines. Her long experience may be why her work, nearly 40 years after her death, still elicits laughs.
People who don’t work in the arts don’t realize how much work goes into it. Writers write hundreds of pages before any reader (who isn’t a blood relative) loves their work. Musicians practice for countless hours and write a lot of shitty songs before they compose a tune that makes someone want to sing along. Moms Mabley, the Black, queer woman comedian born in 1894 in the Jim Crow south, ran away at age 14 to become a performer and spent much of the next 66 years onstage, performing and polishing her own comedy routines. Her long experience may be why her work, nearly 40 years after her death, still elicits laughs.
Whoopi Goldberg Presents Moms Mabley (original title, Moms Mabley: I Got Somethin’ to Tell You) shown on HBO and also as part of the Athena Film Festival, is a remembrance of Mabley, who died in 1975 (at the age of 81). Moms (“Jackie” was the original first name she chose to perform under) was popular, at one time making $10,000 a week (in mid-20th century dollars) on the chitlin’ circuit and for years putting on five shows a day(!) at The Apollo in Harlem (she and the other performers would have their barbecues in The Apollo’s courtyard between sets). During the 60s and early 70s she released 18 comedy albums (albums were the equivalent of cable television specials for comedians in those days). Unlike Redd Foxx, another African American comedian who experienced some of the same strictures of segregation-era America (and who also put out a lot of popular comedy albums), Mabley never got her own late-in-life television show, so her name if largely forgotten–undoubtedly the reason Whoopi Goldberg’s name became part of the film’s title.
The project seems to be a labor of love for Goldberg, who, before writing and performing in her own one-woman show (the vehicle which first brought her to prominence in the 80s) performed a one-woman show as Mabley, working from Mabley’s own material. Goldberg directed the documentary as well as narrating it. This film is only the second directing credit in Goldberg’s long career and her inexperience shows. Goldberg tells us early on that we don’t know much about Mabley’s early life, but Mabley’s Wikipedia entry contains more coherent information than is in this disjointed documentary.
The reason to see the film is not for the interviews with bleary-eyed Famous People Who Saw Mabley Perform Live or even the interviews with comedians (including Eddie Murphy, Arsenio Hall, Joan Rivers and Kathy Griffin) whose work she influenced, but to see Mabley’s work itself. She always played an old woman onstage, even when she was young, with the costume of a brightly patterned housedress, equally colorful, Gilligan-style bucket hat and kneesocks, ugly, big, flat shoes (almost like a clown’s) and for the crowning touch she removed her dentures, so as Eddie Murphy states she “was like someone in your family.” She (like other Black performers) wasn’t allowed to appear on television in variety, awards or talk shows until the 60s and 70s–when she had become old in real life, but was still a vital performer. The film also plays routines from her albums, delivered by a Flash-animated Moms.
Moms Mabley in offstage attire.
For those who think queer identity began at Stonewall, or was for white people only, we see old black and white photos of Mabley in the men’s clothing she wore offstage. A dancer who shared a dressing room with Mabley at the old Apollo confirms that Mabley surrounded herself with young women, unlike her onstage persona who often talked about her preference for “young men.” The dancer says that in those days she didn’t think of Mabley as “gay” or “lesbian” but as “Mr. Moms.”
We see clips of Mabley on the Smothers Brothers Comedy Hour and on Merv Griffin: she seems like she would be a better–and funnier–guest than most of the people we see on talk show couches today. As the documentary points out, performers who came from a vaudeville background (as Mabley did) had to know how to dance and sing as well as be funny. We see her in a ridiculously campy Playboy television special with centerfold models and their sideburned dates in formal wear, stiffly swaying to the music as she sings (in her usual onstage costume) a sincere version of “Abraham, Martin and John” (as is pointed out in the film, she actually knew two of the dead men she was singing about). That cover of the song originally sung by Dion became a top 40 hit making her the oldest person (she was then in her 70s) to be on the charts.
We also see clips from her last movie Amazing Grace (she had made her debut in 1933, in The Emperor Jones which starred Paul Robeson), but the film does not seem like the best use for her talents. This documentary made me wish she had done a concert film to preserve her work, the way Richard Pryor (who also counted her as one of his influences) was able to preserve his own routines.
Still we can laugh at the audio of her performances even as the animated Moms, like the white comics’ impressions of her in interviews, sometimes skates dangerously close to stereotype. What may be most remarkable about Mabley’s career is: even as she was playing a loudly dressed, toothless character, her work never descended into self-hatred, though for much of her career, women comedians, like Phyllis Diller, made themselves the butt of every joke, and racist images of Black people were what was “popular” in comedy. In the 50s before Mabley was allowed on television–even though she had an established career by then–Amos and Andywas a huge hit. Her influence also stretches beyond those who name her as one. As she said herself, “Every comedian has stolen from me except for Jack Benny. He was an original. The same for Redd Foxx. He’s a born comedian.”
We see a clip of her toward the end of her life at The Grammys co-presenting with a very young Kris Kristofferson and she seems just what that moribund show could use right now. Breaking up the inane cue-card patter, she takes out her teeth (on camera) and she and Kristofferson give each other a loud kiss on the lips.
Ren Jender is a queer writer-performer/producer putting a film together. Her writing has appeared in The Toast,xoJane and the Feminist Wire. You can follow her on Twitter @renjender.
HBO’s newest miniseries ‘True Detective,’ starring Matthew McConaughey (Rusty) and Woody Harrelson (Marty), has already spawned a substantial cult following, receiving universal acclaim, and it’s only just reached the halfway point at episode number four.
If you’re not watching it, you should be. ‘True Detective’ is being hailed as the “rise of the miniseries” (following on the heels of the mini-series sweep at the 2014 Golden Globes), a continuation of the TV excellence that has, and will continue to drastically reshape our visual storytelling experience (that’s a big claim, but one to bet on in the coming years).
HBO’s newest miniseries True Detective, starring Matthew McConaughey (Rusty) and Woody Harrelson (Marty), has already spawned a substantial cult following, receiving universal acclaim, and it’s only just reached the halfway point at episode number four.
If you’re not watching it, you should be. True Detective is being hailed as the “rise of the miniseries” (following on the heels of the mini-series sweep at the 2014 Golden Globes), a continuation of the TV excellence that has, and will continue to drastically reshape our visual storytelling experience (that’s a big claim, but one to bet on in the coming years).
At the forefront of the True Detective conversation is its subversion of the overdone police procedural (finally) and its meshing of gritty realism and drug-fueled surrealism, creating narrative that is both poignant and disturbing. Its scenes blend sharp, cynical dialogue with the ever-changing landscape of rural Louisiana.
Rusty (Matthew McCaunghey) and Marty (Woody Harrelson) spinning out of control.
The cinematography is fantastic; episode four, “Who Goes There” features a visceral, though down to earth, six-minute, one shot, gun fight (meaning one take through several houses, a few backyards, and one chain link fence). The scene overwhelms when contrasted with the highly edited, over-wrought action scenes we are spoon-fed at every Hollywood blockbuster and police drama. In fact, the scene orchestrated by Cary Fukunaga is so impressive, many are calling it the best scene of the TV season.
The soundtrack is throbbing, underplaying the simple actions of a police investigation and turning it into an event of greater significance: This is isn’t just a race to stop a serial killer, it’s a metaphor for the battle of good and evil, punctuated by Nic Pizzolatto’s intricate character studies of Rusty in his obsessive nihilism and Marty’s downward spiral.
Yet, for a show that is steeped within the masculinity of a 1996 rural Louisiana police station, and the personal crises of its two male leads, how are the women of True Detective faring? Its women are murdered and raped, wives and prostitutes, stenographers and secretaries. In short, the gritty brush with which Pizzolatto has painted Rusty and Marty has been used on the female cast as well.
However, some of True Detective’s women are all the more compelling because of their flawed station in life, and not just because it’s sadly accurate. In 1991, less than 9 percent of the US police force was female, so the fact that these women operate within in a different capacity doesn’t make the show any less forceful.
In fact, the ways that these women, varied, and often pitiful, demonstrate an adaptability and survival for their incredibly hostile environment, takes a prominent role in the mini series; since TrueDetective shows so much of Louisiana during their search, it similarly shows much of its women (especially within the confines of poverty).
One of True Detectives many prostitutes.
As the show progresses, one character in particular shines (if you want to call it that) in his interactions with women: Marty. The easy possession that “family man” Marty exerts over the women in his life, beginning to show a penchant for violence in his need to continue that dominion towards his wife Maggie (Michelle Monaghan) and girlfriend Lisa (Alexandra Daddario), is the key factor in showing Marty’s breakdown.
Yet, for all of the effort to steep his characters in realism, some would argue that True Detective still relies on sexist cliché to communicate it’s character failings; Sean Collins of Rolling Stone points out:
“But the idea of a mistress not understanding that’s all she’s supposed to be good for, besides being sexist points back to the show’s reliance on stock characters.”
And Collins might have a point there; so far, the show has featured a lot of women as victims. Though in episode two, “Seeing Things,” the dame of a whorehouse (a sort-of victim) offers an either brilliant, or crazy, provocative reason for prostitution.
Dame: “What do you know about where that girl’s been? Where she come from?…It’s a woman’s body ain’t it? A woman’s choice”
Marty: “She doesn’t look like a woman to me. At that age she’s not equipped to make those choices, but what do you care as long as you get your money?”
Dame: “Girls walk this earth all the time screwing for free, why is it you add business to the mix and boys like you can’t stand the thought. I’ll tell you why, its cause suddenly you don’t own it the way you thought you did.”
Which is an interesting foreshadowing to Marty’s violence when he later discovers that the woman he is having an affair with is also seeing someone else. The line itself, “you don’t own it the way you thought you did,” is particularly meaningful when aimed at the wandering possessiveness of Marty; however, outside of the episode, it enters the heated discussion on female sexuality, shame, and the commercialization of the female body.
Beth (Lily Simmons) as an underage prostitute.
This comes around to the tagline for the show, “Heart of Darkness,” an obvious play on words from Joseph Conrad’s classic novella about the African jungle, Heart of Darkness, (fitting since Pizzolatto spent several years teaching literature and writing in academia). For True Detective, the audience is left wondering, is the “Heart of Darkness” the Louisiana landscape? A metaphor for the state of humanity? Or a more literal casting of the two heros’ state of being?
Effective, especially considering that HBO’s website pops up as “Touch the Darkness” (and “Darkness Becomes You”), inviting the audience to experience the demons without, and the demons within.
There’s been some uproar, some talk, some criticism, and a lot of excitement about the return of ‘Girls.’ Lena Dunham’s insanely successful show (which for a show about a unsuccessful 20-something girl, strangely leaves me feeling even more unsuccessful as a 20-something girl who doesn’t have my own HBO show), while receiving fairly universal acclaim, has also been the recipient of some harsh criticism: where is the show’s diversity? And why is Dunham always naked?
There’s been some uproar, some talk, some criticism, and a lot of excitement about the return of Girls. Lena Dunham’s insanely successful show (which for a show about a unsuccessful 20-something girl, strangely leaves me feeling even more unsuccessful as a 20-something girl who doesn’t have my own HBO show), while receiving fairly universal acclaim, has also been the recipient of some harsh criticism: where is the show’s diversity? And why is Dunham always naked?
To be fair, both are valuable observations of the darkly comedic show; if you’re going to spend a lot of time naked on screen, what are the reasons? And, for a show about the millennial experience in New York City, why does the show only have white people?
First, for the commentators on the amount of nudity in Girls, I disagree; Dunham’s instances of sex (much like Masters of Sex) appear as way to further the character development, rather than give the audience “sexy times.” Jessa going down on another woman in the second episode, “Truth or Dare,” didn’t feel pandering or exploiting like most “girl on girl” sex scenes are; instead, if felt like an exposure of Jessa using sexuality, along with another person, in order to fulfill her own interest. Or as the Los Angeles Times said, “Dunham is forcing us to reconsider what bodies we value and why. It isn’t just nudity. It’s revolutionary.”
Second, there have been a lot of shows about white women in New York City, so yes, I think it’s time for change. Hopefully in the near future HBO and other prominent networks will expand into more varied character territory. Also, I think Dunham’s been fairly aware of the criticism leveled at the popular show and in her words, “We need to talk about diversifying the world of television. We are trying to continue to do it in ways that are genuine, natural, intelligent, but we heard all of that and really felt it deeply.” I feel it’s too Dunham’s credit as a writer that she “diversify” Girls in a way that flows naturally from the story.
More importantly though, Jessica Williams of The Daily Show glory will have a few spots in Girls season 3 (there’s no way this can turn out badly), and had some amazing thoughts on the situation: “It’s her art and it’s her voice. It’s not her responsibility to write from my experience.” I suggest you read it for yourself, since she says it so much better than I ever could.
“A little nepotiz” noticed by internet meme people.
There’s also been that nepotism controversy with Dunham, which could be true, but oh well. So Dunham made a TV show with her friends, does it make it any less well-done? Are the children of famous people destined to live a life away from ambition just because their parents were famous? No, (but to be fair, let’s be honest, the saying “it’s not what you know, it’s who you know” is a thing for a reason).
Now, on to the show.
Girls has a more sitcom feeling this year, moving past a lot of the darkness that characterized season two: Hannah’s OCD behavior, Marnie’s failure at everything, and Jessa’s inexplicable disappearance. Season three wraps all those issues up nicely and quickly picks the show up and runs along (though whether a good choice to keep the show moving, or losing key plot and character moments remains to be seen).
Surprisingly, Adam and Hannah’s relationship seems to have mellowed and Adam is by turns deeply disturbing and charming, though more charming than disturbing; which is good since I found his odd rape references in season one really problematic.
But the first few episodes raise some good questions for the audience: what seem to be the most prominent themes of season three? Jessa’s storyline seems to have been built up this year, which I hope for more of as Jessa’s bluntness is, hands down, one of the best things on the show.
As to Marnie, will she find her way out of the wilderness? I especially liked the quick scene of Marnie waiting for the bus in the ‘burbs, a quick moment to show us the alienation that she feels from the city and her former life.
Also, since when was Adam a love guru? Giving impossibly bad advice about making immediate connections with people and “Just knowing that they’re right for you” seems a little off, cause, you know, love at first sight and overwhelming feelings of immediate love were never a bad idea.
One thing to note this season though, is how Dunham has changed as a director. Three years of experience in directing with a first-rate network (HBO) have obviously enhanced the ways that she’s expressing scenes. Dunham and the Girls crew seem much more willing to invest in longer shots and monologue, interjected with quicker moments of character exposition, i.e.: Marnie waiting for the bus, Jessa on her older friend’s bed with a disarmingly sincere smile, Hannah curled up in the leaves listening to This American Life.
Everyone is either bored or geekin’ out. Sort of like real life.
This season seem to be picking up quickly in the arena of gender commentary, most notably in the way that women interact with each other, and the way that women are seen as interacting with each other. Early on Adam voices his opinion on how women behave, saying, “Women get stuck in this vortex of guilt and jealousy with each other that keep them from seeing situations clearly.”
Also, Amy Schumer was there with a weird bit about pregnancy that was terrifying, awkward, hilarious, and probably everything you’ve ever wanted to say to an ex.
Unexpectedly, people seem to be over the Marnie storyline and are instead focusing on Shoshanna, a character viewed as sort of trivial, but who is growing up and into herself by exploring her sexuality after losing her virginity (raise your hand if you’ve been there), while also juggling school and remaining inordinately optimistic about her post-graduation options (oh my god, it’s me).
I can’t wait to see Shoshanna next season when she’s looking for a job.
But, hands down, the best line of the two-episode premier, proving that the show has a few laughs ahead, comes from the indomitable Hannah Horvath: “This rocking chair is so pointed it’s just not giving me any room to express myself.”
