Lesbians – Bitch Flicks

Nine Pretty Great Lesbian Vampire Movies

Almost unfailingly exploitative in its portrayal of queer women, this specific sub-genre of film stands alone in a few ways, not the least of which being that the vampires, while murderous and ultimately doomed, are powerful, lonely women, often living their lives outside of society’s rules.

This guest post by Sara Century appears as part of our theme week on Violent Women.

Vampires. Lesbians. These two things are as intertwined as the stars and the sky, at least in popular fiction. The vampire lesbian sub-genre finds its basis in an unfinished poem by Coleridge 1797-ish, and continuing onward and up to the modern era with entries such as 2010 German film We Are the Night, and beyond. There are hundreds of lesbian vampire stories in the world, and very few of them deviate from the basic plot of the 1872 novella Carmilla by Joseph Le Fanu. You can just read that story and you’ll have the basic gist: lesbian vampire seduces straight woman, is murdered by men. If that sounds like a flimsy plot excuse for violence against women, that’s because that is 1,000 percent what it is. On the other hand, if there’s hundreds of anything, at least a few of them are bound to be good. I personally have a pretty strong love for lesbian vampire films, which, for better or worse, helped me to define my own images of sexuality as a young gay. Almost unfailingly exploitative in its portrayal of queer women, this specific sub-genre of film stands alone in a few ways, not the least of which being that the vampires, while murderous and ultimately doomed, are powerful, lonely women, often living their lives outside of society’s rules. And I love everything about that… except the part where they’re all mass murderers. When there is so little representation of powerful queer women in film, it becomes difficult to fully dismiss the few that exist, even if they are ultimately negative or problematic.

For all these reasons, I felt a need to compile a list of lesbian vampire films that impacted me in some way, or that I found particularly enjoyable to watch. Without further ado, my nine favorite lesbian vampire films.

9. The Moth Diaries – 2011

I liked this one. It’s a little meta, in that the girl is reading and narrating the short story Carmilla while in a movie based on the short story, Carmilla. If you can handle that, you’ll be pretty down with most of this film. There’s no organ music, which is a solid fail on the part of many films, but it’s from a female writer/director team, and I don’t think it gets enough props for being as enjoyable as it is. Lily Cole is impressively creepy as Ernessa, the Carmilla analog of the film. The main character Rebecca is immediately distrustful of Ernessa, but her friend Lucy (yep) falls under Ernessa’s sway. And so on, and so forth. There’s some pretty disturbing stuff in here: suicide features prominently in the story, the general lack of consent during sex scenes that you often see in lesbian vampire movies is definitely in there, and Rebecca makes out with her teacher, which freaks me out more than most of the rest of the movie. My critique would be that, as meta as the story gets, it never really resolves any of the questions it asks itself. There’s little in the way of socially relevent commentary here, which seems odd for a film that immediately opens a gaping hole in the fourth wall and then leaves it there for the entire course of the narrative. That said, I like this film’s self-awareness, and there’s definitely a few creepy moments that are worth the price of admission.

8. Blood and Roses – 1960

This movie makes a lot of “best of” lists, mostly because it was the first lesbian vampire film that explicitly expressed the queerness of its main character in no uncertain terms. We see a lot of what would ultimately become alternately beloved and maligned tropes of the genre: the love triangle, the arty dream sequence in the middle of the narrative, the bizarre similarity of a character to a portrait of a long-dead ancestor, and the sexually confused girlfriend character.

Our vampire Carmilla’s sexual agency, as well as her frustration, are equally compelling. She flirts with her crushes, and is upset by their rejection of her. She feeds on village girls after playing with them like a cat with a mouse. She is clearly doomed from the very moment she first appears onscreen, and yet, for all these reasons, she’s by far the most interesting character in the film.

What Blood and Roses said to me when I watched it as a young queer woman could be a much longer piece of writing, but, briefly, these images were among the first moments of queer visibility in North American cinema. As problematic as they are, they deserve analysis, and they deserve to be considered for their impact on both queer and straight audiences of their time. Besides all that, though, Blood and Roses is a campy and fun horror film from the 1960s, so if that sounds up your alley, definitely check it out.

7. Daughters of Darkness – 1971

In the 1970s, there was a fad in horror films where privileged, angry men with Beatles hair and snappy wardrobes were the main characters of pretty much every single movie. That’s going strong here, where the main character looks exactly like this:

Wowza. Anyway, the real main character is obviously not that guy, but this extremely fictionalized version of Elizabeth Bathory, at this point hundreds of years old, played by the wonderfully over-the-top Delphine Seyrig. Delphine has a respectable history in art house films of the 1970s, and worked with several of the best directors of her day. She seems to have great fun with the hypersexualized Bathory, and the whole film gets much more interesting when she shows up. The beginning of the movie is just the straight couple getting married and talking a lot, so bring on the lesbian vampires, my friends. Can I just say, as messed up as she is, Bathory is just shockingly beautiful through this whole movie. All of her outfits are the best outfits I have ever seen, and she is my style icon from here to eternity. Also perfectly fashionable, her vampire sidekick, whose simple style and bobbed hair are based on the glorious silent film star, Louise Brooks. I’m just letting you know, this movie rules. Persistent themes of the sexually aggressive and sadistic vampire focusing on the confused, flippant blonde woman are in full force here, and I would say this portrayal of the ancient and wicked lesbian vampire character is one of the more fascinating.

6. The Countess – 2009

This film is about Countess Elizabeth Bathory, widely considered to be one of the most sadistic mass murderers of all time. I say “considered to be” because, to be honest, nobody has the slightest damn idea what actually happened there. Was she a mass murderer? Probably? People were not keeping extensive records of this sort of thing in 1610, and, in fact destroyed all evidence of wrongdoing to prevent a scandal. She was of royal blood, and therefore never went to trial. What I’m saying is that all the information currently available surrounding this case is strongly based in rumor. Still, she is the person on whom much of Western World vampire mythology is based on, so if anyone has the right to be on a list about lesbian vampires, it’s the countess. The story follows the legends of what we believe to be true about her life, and carries us all the way through to her bitter end, with the entirely fictional subplot of a doomed affair with a younger man. I wasn’t personally that into the added love story of the film, but it definitely sets up some of the creepiest scenes in the whole movie, so I’ll allow it. This movie was done by Julie Delpy, who both directs and stars as Bathory, like a boss. Honestly, this film is just flat out better made than anything else on the list in concern to production values, budget, and acting skill, so if you’re into watching something less campy and more real, this is the one for you.

5. The Blood Spattered Bride – 1972

This movie starts with one of my least favorite opening scenes of all time, but if you can get through the weird rape fantasy that kicks it off, the feminist commentary actually gets really interesting as the movie goes along. The tale follows two newlyweds, Susan and her nameless husband, who exists not so much as a character, but as a representation of director Vincente Aranda’s perception of the fascist patriarchy. He comes across about as likeable as a fascist patriarchy, too, more or less crying a river every time his wife doesn’t respond to his aggressive sexual advances. A great portion of this film is Susan progressing through the story arc tropes of most major feminist characters of the 1970s: bride, to unhappy bride, to lesbian, to misandrist, to murderer. That said, honestly, I don’t really blame her, because she is literally married to the human embodiment of misogyny. As an audience member, you’ll find yourself rooting for this guy’s death pretty hard I think, so I can’t imagine what it’d be like to be married to him. She literally locks herself in a cage to get away from him, uses quotes from a book to tell him she hates him, and finally flies into a full-out screaming fit that, let’s be real, is not entirely unprovoked. So, when the dreamy and beautiful Carmilla shows up in a totally bizarre scene that I’m not even going to describe right now because you should just watch it, it’s obvious that Susan is about to get straight up seduced. When your options are “man you hate who borderline rapes you a lot” or “ghostly vampire with really pretty eyes that tells you to kill your legitimately terrible husband,” I guess I’d probably go with the latter, too. I mean, let’s be real, the third option of “get the Hell out of there” is the only real option, but if she did that, there’d be no movie, so spree of murder and terror with dreamy girlfriend it is. To the credit of the film, Susan is a very interesting character. She ultimately goes the really wrong direction with it, but her feminist theory begins in a good place. Societal loathing of queer women ultimately causes her to snap when she realizes that, as a lesbian, the world will punish her sexuality and turn her into a pariah. That is a totally legit concerns for 1972. Susan is by far the best and most interesting part of this film, which is otherwise mostly a campy horror film with unsettling moments of sexual violence and the familiar art house dreaminess of most of the films on this list.

4. The Hunger – 1983

The Hunger is one of the more famous entries in the lesbian vampire canon, so, if you’ve seen one movie on this list, the law of averages would imply that it’d be this one. The beginning of this movie finds David Bowie as John Blaylock and Catherine Deneuve as Miriam Blaylock in a goth club watching Bauhaus. They are vampires, swinger vampires. They pick up another Goth couple and kill them with a tiny blade kept inside the ankh (yes, ankh) Miriam keeps around her neck.

It. Is. Nine. Teen. Eighty. Three. As. Fuck. Right. Now.

There’s a lot of cool stuff in this movie. It’s really well shot, Catherine Deneuve is pretty much the greatest actor on the planet, the soundtrack rules, and David Bowie… just, David Bowie. This film also has one of the most famously great lesbian sex scenes in cinema history. Miriam and Susan Sarandon’s character, Dr. Sarah Roberts, hook up for the first time (only time? I don’t know) to the most lesbian song EVER, aka “The Flower Duet” from Léo Delibes’ opera Lakmé. “Sounds like a love song,” says Sarah. “Then I suppose that’s what it is,” says Miriam. You bet it is, Miriam! Moments later, those two are making out. Another slight alteration on the standard lesbian vampire tropes is that Dr. Roberts, the supposed victim of the film, is the one that initiates sex, here, rather than, as we so often see in film, the vampire preying on a human’s naiveté and weakness.

Sticking well within queer tropes, however, Miriam is honestly a real U-Haul vampire, and waits all of 10 seconds after John’s death before she tries to marry Sarah pretty much out of nowhere. We are talking about someone that has an eternity ahead of her that can’t even wait like a month after her husband’s “death” before she starts moving her girlfriend in. Which is cold as Hell, because they were married for something like 300 years. Well, I don’t want to spoil the twists and turns this story takes for y’all, so I guess I’ll cut myself off there, but, more or less, this movie is famous for a reason, and if you’re in the mood to watch a scary film that is just the most ’80s thing you’ve seen in your life, this is likely going to be your best option.

3. Nadja – 1994

I feel like this film gets overlooked by both the vampire crowd as well as the indie crowd, and it’s kind of a shame, since it has all the requirements of being a cult classic. There’s nothing particularly new in this film, but there’s a lot to like about it. The creepy vampire as played by Elina Lowensohn really sells the film. She’s one of my all time faves. The cinematography is really great, and the film looks just stunning in black and white. Especially interesting is the use of a child’s toy camera for some scenes, lending a simple, stylized perspective at key moments. There’s a lot of pretty amusing mid-90s, Generation X style soul-searching from the white, heterosexual couple at the center of the film, as well as some genuinely on point observations on the human condition from the impressively coherent vampires. As many of these films are products of their time, I must say that Nadja is about the most 1994 film you’re liable to watch in your life. Instead of the standard skintight dress fluttering softly in the wind, the female love interest of the vampire is wearing a straight up flannel shirt and jeans, and if she had slight stubble I would definitely mistake her for Kurt Cobain. At certain moments, the film looks and sounds a bit like a music video for a Portishead song, but the aesthetic is pulled off to perfection, and it really works. The overall stylishness of Nadja has only aged for the better in the two decades since its release.

2. Vampyros Lesbos – 1971

This is where I start to get emotional. Vampyros Lesbos features my favorite opening to a film probably ever, with a bizarre shot of the vampire accompanied by noise music as the credits roll, followed immediately by our hero, the vampiric Nadine Carody, doing an erotic dance in a mirror with herself. She kisses herself in the mirror while holding a candlebra, while a blond-haired mannequin watches her. Ultimately, the countess turns, and begins kissing the mannequin, while her future lover Linda Westinghouse looks on, as intrigued as her mustached boyfriend is uncomfortable. The whole time, one of my all-time favorite songs is playing, a dark, dreamy song with an irrestistably basic Hammond organ pre-recorded drumbeat and chilling yet seductive organ sounds. And that is how you start a movie, everyone. You now have my full attention. Vampyros Lesbos is honestly just a flawless victory. It’s over-the-top, set very much with a psychedelic backdrop, and Soledad Miranda is absolutely enchanting as the countess. The comparatively less interesting “girlfriend” character Linda Westinghouse is really great in this movie. Her acting is stilted, but it works perfectly for this agonized and hestitant character, who is as attracted as she is repelled by the beautiful vampire. What I’m getting at here is that Vampyros Lesbos is a great movie (greatest movie?), and well worth your time if you’re a horror fan, a lesbian fan, an art house fan, or basically anyone (who is over the age of 18). Yes, this film is just as exploitative to queer women as any other lesbian vampire movie, but if you just focus on the intriguing, mysterious countess and her compelling monolgues, the brilliant soundtrack, and the beautifully shot and haunting love scenes between Linda and Nadine, you’ll do OK.

1. Fascination – 1979

The No. 1 spot is a tie between Vampyros Lesbos and Fascination, because I definitely love both equally, but loving things equally is not how internet listicles work, so Fascination it is. I’ve seen dozens of lesbian vampire films, but there’s something about this one. It doesn’t just slightly deviate from the tropes, it starts with a weird premise, introduces multiple tropes, and then just goes completely off the rails with them, until it concludes on a note that could only be described as utterly bizarre. To me, adding art house weirdness to horror films just makes a good thing even better, so I find Fascination to be delightful, haunting, and aesthetically beautiful. The movies of Jean Rolin are often about vampires, definitely well within the realm of art house cinema, and always highly eroticized. Fascination in specific has a just bananas plot trajectory: it pretty much starts with a whole lot of lesbian sex, which then becomes straight sex, which then goes back to being lesbian sex. They’re kind of vampires, or not? One of the main characters terrorizes the countryside with a scythe, there’s a coven of witches, someone gets devoured alive… it is goddamned epic. I especially love the characters, despite how weird and evil they all are. I particularly love the character of Eva, who is very much a problematic favorite, in that pretty much every action she takes in the film ends with her committing murder at some point. The scenery is gorgeous, the cinematography is simple and beautiful, the actors seem like they’re having fun… it’s all in all a perfect 1970s horror film.

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

‘The Fosters,’ Sexuality, and the Challenges of Parenting While Feminist

In Stef and Lena’s case, they face the much more complicated question of how to talk to their kids about sex in a way that balances their feminist ideals of sex positivity with their parental need protect and discipline their kids. Two scenes in particular stand out to me as exemplars of the ways in which Lena and Stef strive to make sure their kids are not ashamed of their sexuality while simultaneously conveying the importance of being safe, ready, and responsible.

This guest post by Stephanie Brown appears as part of our theme week on Sex Positivity.

In my frequent lectures to friends about why they should take time out of their busy television (and real life) schedules to watch ABC Family’s drama The Fosters (2013-present), I usually refer to an exchange from the season two episode “Mother Nature” in which Stef (Teri Polo) and Lena (Sherri Saum) have an argument born out of a season-long simmering tension over their respective parenting roles:

Stef: Please stop making me feel like I have to the disciplinarian dad in this family.

Lena: That’s awfully heteronormative thinking.

The first time I watched this episode, I actually paused the show to process my excitement over the fact that a TV show ostensibly for teenagers included a casual reference to the social construction gender roles. Can you name many other shows on basic cable in which you could hear the word “heteronormative” being thrown around? Though, I shouldn’t have been surprised. Over its first three seasons, I’ve been impressed many a time with the range of complex issues thoughtfully addressed by The Fosters, from societal issues of racism, the broken foster system, addiction, and religion to familiar teenage issues like friendship, school, and rival dance teams.

The Fosters, if you aren’t familiar, centers around Stef and Lena and their brood of biological, adopted, and foster children. I will admit that the title of the series is a little (OK, very) on the nose, but I’m willing to forgive it a series that, as you may have gathered, features characters and stories that we don’t usually get to see on TV. The inciting incident for the pilot is that Stef, a cop, and her wife Lena, a high school principal, decide to foster Callie (Maia Mitchell) and her younger brother Jude (Hayden Byerly) after they have been through a series of abusive foster homes. The Adams-Foster family also includes Brandon (David Lambert), Stef’s son from her previous marriage to her police partner Mike (Danny Nucci), and twins Mariana (Cierra Ramirez) and Jesus (Jake T. Austin and Noah Centineo due to a Roseanne-like recasting situation) who were adopted by the family when they were toddlers.

The Foster-Adams family is a big, loving, messy group, which fits well into the network’s “A New Kind of Family” brand. Since ABC Family rebranded in 2006 with this new slogan, they have produced several engaging, interesting, underappreciated dramas. From Greek (which Entertainment Weekly once referred to as “better than it has any right to be”) to Switched At Birth, a show in which scenes are frequently shot completely in sign language, the network frequently spotlights characters and storylines you won’t find anywhere else on television. Of course, as with most pop culture associated with teenage girls, the network’s innovative storytelling is often banished to the world of non-serious TV (a fate that befell the WB, UPN and now the CW as well).

Of course, as you might expect from a show that centers on a family with five teenagers, sexuality is a prevalent theme in The Fosters. Not only do the teenagers on the show deal with issues like having sex for the first time, sexual assault, the questioning of their sexuality, and love triangles, but refreshingly, Stef and Lena also deal with their own adult sex life. While same-sex couples are often desexualized (see Modern Family), Stef and Lena are given storylines that revolve around sex. In one such episode. Lena and Stef have frank discussions about the effect their busy lives and big family is having on their physical relationship and Lena’s fear of succumbing to “lesbian bed death” (2. 16). Stef and Lena not only talk about sex, they’re also shown cuddling post-sex, kissing, and generally showing physical affection for each other. Not only does the series treat sex as a multifaceted an integral aspect of adult relationships, it of course, also normalizes lesbian sex, which has historically either been ignored or relegated to the realm of the salacious male gaze.

The other notably refreshing aspect of Stef and Lena’s on-screen parenting is the way in which they often have to navigate their dual roles as feminists and parents of teenagers. As a woman who doesn’t have kids, I can’t identify with complexities of parenting while feminist, but as a feminist I can absolutely identify with the complexities of living in the world while feminist. To this point, the series raises important questions about the often challenging task of applying our deeply held feminist ideals our messy, everyday lives. I know, for instance, that the unholy alliance between advertisers, the beauty industry, and patriarchal constructions of gender and beauty have combined to make me think twice before leaving the house without putting on mascara. And yet.

In the season two finale, “The End of the Beginning” (2.21), 13- year-old Jude confides in Lena that he and his friend Connor had made out in their tent on a school camping trip. When he breaks down crying out of a mix what is likely fear, relief, and guilt at having lied to his parents about what happened, Lena makes sure he understands that he has nothing to be ashamed for acting on his attraction to Connor, while reminding him that school-sanctioned trips are not the place to fool around. Similarly, in the summer finale of season 3, “Lucky” (3.10), Lena and Jude have the sex talk after Connor’s dad finds him and Jude making out in Connor’s room:

Jude: So, I’m not in trouble?

Lena: No. No, but you’re probably going to wish you were. I think it’s time we had the talk. I’m really happy that you found someone as wonderful and as kind as Connor. I really am. And when sex is shared between two people…

Jude: OK, OK. Connor and I are not having sex.

Lena: Oh, OK, good. Good. Um, so. When any kind of physical intimacy is shared between two people who care about it each other. It’s a beautiful thing. I mean, OK look, if I’m being honest, I don’t really know a whole lot about the logistics of two men being together, but I definitely want you know how to take care of yourself, and to be safe when the time comes. Which hopefully won’t be for quite some time.

Again, Lena walks the line between reassuring Jude that sex is wonderful and normal, while at the same time making it clear that she hopes that he waits until he is mature enough emotionally, physically, and mentally.

In Mariana’s case, the conversation with her parents happens after she has already had sex for the first time, though under less-than-ideal circumstances. Mariana had planned to have sex with her boyfriend, but when he asks her to wait until he gets back from his band’s tour, she takes his delay as a rejection and ends up hastily having sex with Callie’s ex-boyfriend (“Wreckage,” 3.1).

After harboring a guilty conscience for several episodes, Mariana finally comes clean to her moms in “Going South” (3.5). Throughout the initial conversation, Mariana is defensive of her choice as her moms struggle not to shame her while simultaneously trying to understand her decision.

Stef: Losing your virginity at 15 is a big deal, Mariana.

Mariana: I thought you guys were feminists

Lena: Don’t play that card. We said the exact same thing to your brothers.

Stef: I don’t understand why you think that this is some kind of race.

Mariana: Well I did, OK? And I’m not a virgin anymore, so.

Lena: Honey, I think what your mother’s trying to say is that we love you and we just want to understand your choices.

There is tension not only between Mariana and her moms, but also between Stef and Lena as they negotiate how to handle the situation as parents and feminists. Mariana, knowing her moms well, goes so far as to play the “feminism” card, seemingly daring them to make her feel ashamed of her decision so she can claim the moral high ground by calling out their hypocrisy. In a follow-up conversation, the issue is resolved as Stef and Lena reassure Mariana that she should not be ashamed of having sex or of making a mistake.

Stef: I wasn’t trying to shame you, Mariana. I wasn’t.

Lena: But sex is a big deal. Every time you have sex it’s a big deal. You’re sharing a vulnerable and precious part of yourself. You should always make sure you feel good about it.

Similar to Lena’s conversation with Jude, the goal of the “sex talk” isn’t to scare or shame their kids away from sex, but rather to encourage them to take sex seriously and wait until they’re ready. Stef and Lena also want to assure Mariana that they love her unconditionally, and that our mistakes don’t make us bad people, they make us human:

Stef: My love you know what. We all do things we wish we hadn’t. But we learn from them. And if we manage not to repeat them, man, it feels really, really good.

The talks that Stef and Lena have with Mariana and Jude about sex are emblematic of the way the series treats a range of sensitive subjects with care, warmth, and complexity. As with every situation, Stef and Lena strive to ensure that their kids feel, above all else, unashamed, supported and loved. Of course, The Fosters is by no means a perfect show. It can veer into sentimentality and overwrought melodrama, but I will happily take being manipulated into tears (I was a fan of Parenthood, after all) when it comes with a side of progressive storylines about family, sexuality, and gender. As one of the few shows my mom, my sister and I all watch, The Fosters is a series I hope families across the country are also watching and enjoying together.

Stephanie Brown is a television, comedy, and podcast enthusiast working on her doctorate in media studies at the University of Illinois, Urbana-Champaign. You can follow her on Twitter or Medium @stephbrown.

Trill Gender and Sexuality Metaphors in ‘Star Trek’

Written by Amanda Rodriguez

In many ways, science fiction is the perfect medium for the exploration of social, cultural, political, gender, racial, class, etc. issues. Because it takes place in the distant future and/or because all the commentary is veiled in metaphor through the use of aliens or monsters, the often questioning and even progressive messages slip beneath the radar. I am sometimes critical of the use of aliens/monsters to represent racial Others, as it often magnifies racist stereotyping as demonstrated by the violent, war-like Black Klingons or the greedy, sniveling (read: Jewish) Ferengi. It’s an oft denied luxury, however, to say what we mean when we say it, and while metaphor and allegory may seem somewhat indirect and occasionally cowardly, it’s a much more artistically pleasing approach that allows a freedom of thematic inquiry often denied other genres.

In the case of the Trill race from the Star Trek universe, gender, gender identity, and sexuality are the primary tropes being examined. The Trill are a symbiotic alien race who bond with various host bodies, allowing the “symbiont” to live multiple lifetimes and accumulate a wealth of experiences. The first Trill appearance is in The Next Generation episode “The Host” wherein Dr. Beverly Crusher falls in love with Trill ambassador Odan.

Even Dr. Crushers honeymoon stage it up.

Odan’s host body dies as a result of an attack on his peace mission shuttle craft, and the symbiont is temporarily transferred to the ever ridiculous Lieutenant Commander William Riker. Dr. Crusher struggles with the transition for a time, feeling betrayed, deceived, and questioning what exactly she loved about Odan. Was it his physicality, which has changed so much, or something more? Eventually, she gets over it, embracing her transcendent love for Odan (she even does the nasty with Riker…gag). However, all bets are off when Odan’s permanent host body arrives.

Odan’s new host body is a woman.

Odan’s transition from male to female proves too much for Beverly. Despite Odan’s insistence that her love for the doctor hasn’t changed nor has her personality, Dr. Crusher rejects her, saying, “Perhaps it is a human failing; but we are not accustomed to these kinds of changes.” This is a very apparent exploration of transgender issues. Beverly accepts her lover’s physical changes until Odan’s gender transition. Though Dr. Crusher blames it on her humanity, it is her personal inability to see beyond the gender binary. Not only that, but Beverly’s discomfort with engaging in a bisexual or lesbian relationship robs her of a love that had made her so very happy before.

Does TNG itself agree with Dr. Crusher’s choice? I think it does. It presupposes that the demands of loving someone while they go through gender transition are unaskable, unthinkable. Not only that, but the show appears to support her ultimate incapacity to stomach lesbianism.

The Deep Space Nine take on Trill love, replete with its sexuality/gender fluidity, evolves beyond that of its predecessor. In the episode “Rejoined,” science officer Lieutenant Commander Jadzia Dax, a Trill, must work with Lenara Kahn, another Trill, on creating the first artificial wormhole. However, Dax and Kahn were a heterosexual married couple in previous host bodies. It is forbidden for Trill symbionts to reconnect with people from their former hosts’ lives. During the course of working closely on their project, Dax and Kahn rediscover their passionate love for one another.

“When you’re not around, it’s like a part of me is missing. I want to be with you more than anything.” – Lenara Kahn

They engage in a lesbian romance that remains unjudged by DS9 friends and crew members. We’ve evolved beyond the thinking of TNG in that the validity of the relationship is not in question. However, the episode focuses on the Trill “taboo” surrounding symbionts reforming bonds with people from past lives. Dr. Julian Bashir says, “The Trill feel very strongly that it’s unnatural.” Major Kira Nerys responds incredulously, “Unnatural? I don’t understand how two people who’ve fallen in love and made a life together can be forced to just walk away from each other because of a taboo.” This so-called taboo is a metaphor for the stigma surrounding homosexuality (and even gay marriage).

The punishment for transgression is banishment from the Trill homeworld. This is tantamount to a death sentence because the offending symbiont will not be given access to any other host bodies and will permanently die within its current host. Captain Benjamin Sisko is one of Dax’s oldest and best friends. He gives her the advice, “It didn’t matter whether [you] agreed with the taboo or not because the price for violating it was too high.” Though pretty much all the characters view this punishment as absurdly excessive, none of them attempt to appeal, ratify, or circumnavigate it.

One of the 1st ever on-screen lesbian kisses.

While DS9 goes a step or two further than TNG, it doesn’t go far enough. While Dax throws caution to the wind to be with the love of her lives (plural intended), Kahn is unwilling to sacrifice her career and her future lives. Their tragic parting is inevitable. On the one hand, this injustice highlights the cruelty of the stigma, laws, and mores surrounding homosexuality while showing no other, better model. On the other hand, this shit takes place in the future. The United Federation of Planets claims to be beyond consumerism, sexism, racism, and speciesism, where diplomatic missions of peace, science, and exploration have supplanted warlike agendas of aggression, fear, and resource appropriation. Then why the hell can’t two chicks get married?

Imagine instead an ending that featured the two women taking their case to the Trill ruling body. They would insist that it’s a crime to limit such long-lived symbiont beings to relationships and experiences that are as short as a human lifespan. The couple would demand that Trill culture re-evaluate the way in which it values multiple, short experiences over the unknown potential of a love that transcends many lifetimes. Being wise and humane, the Trill governing body would realize the error of its ways and undergo a paradigm shift. That’s the kind of enlightened future I’d like to watch on a show and dream might one day come to pass.

Horror Week 2012: The Failure of the Male Gaze in ‘The Vampire Lovers’

The Vampire Lovers | L-R: Carmilla (Ingrid Pitts) and Laura (Pippa Steel)

Guest post written by Lauren Chance.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that any fandom, genre or medium must be in want of some lesbians and lo, the so-called ‘lesbian vampire’ genre that exists as a subsidiary to the vampire mythology is here to theoretically do what all lesbian sub-genres inevitably exist for. Horror, to speak generally, is created by men for men and vampires, with their sexual connotations and otherness are arguably the finest example of the masculine expression of the dominant male — one that kills as it penetrates and, as Bram Stoker would have it, infects the mind of the innocent, virtuous and above all else, stupid female.

The lesbian vampire is something of an anomaly though. Rather than being an offshoot of an established genre, it was created alongside the mainstream vampire genre as we know it today. Carmilla, the story upon which The Vampire Lovers (1970) was based, was by no means the first example of vampire fiction, however, it was amongst the very early entries into what was to become an extremely saturated genre. It predates Dracula by twenty-five years and the lyrical ballad from which Le Fanu purportedly took influence was written by Coleridge in 1797… which does predate John Polidori’s The Vampyre — the first established vampire text — by over twenty years.

Which is a roundabout way of saying that the lesbian vampire genre arguably came first in terms of coherent narratives about vampires. But why so much context only to discuss a minor entry into the canon of vampire filmography? Purely because The Vampire Lovers, above all other films with a strong Sapphic vampire plot best embodies the unashamedly sexual aspects of the story and the spirit of intriguing intimacy that Le Fanu put into his text.

Carmilla (Ingrid Pitt) in The Vampire Lovers

In both the novella and The Vampire Lovers, Carmilla exclusively stalks female victims, showing little interest in the male characters as anything other than fodder or a means to an end; Ingrid Pitt’s Carmilla never looks quite as comfortable with the lone male in the film she interacts with in a sexual manner as she does with the various women she seduces and bites. As an acting choice it works wonders towards directing a great deal of the interest and sympathy in the film firmly towards Carmilla, rather than the largely inconsequential male lead who is filmed as a somewhat heroic lead but, as with all of the male characters, is filmed as if we should have no reason to be interested in them: there is no doubt that Ingrid Pitt and Carmilla are the stars of this film, regardless of Peter Cushing’s presence.

The Vampire Lovers was the first of the Karnstein Trilogy and as time went on the lesbian subtext dwindled significantly despite the second film also being based on Carmilla, however, there is a very telling difference between Yutte Stensgaard’s almost indifferent attitude to the other women in the cast and eventually her love for a human man in Lust for a Vampire (1971) and the loving, tender way Ingrid Pitt approaches her three primary victims. Pitt’s Carmilla caresses them in their beds, kisses them with obvious intention, undresses them and gazes adoringly at her chosen prey until it is hers. The girls are shown reclining, receptive, vulnerable, eternally dressed in white at night and pastel colours during the day. Laura is peaches and cream English, perfect and untouched and within the first twenty minutes of the film we see in a microcosm how Carmilla operates. She finds a way into Laura’s home, befriends her, touches her as a lover would and then begins to slowly drain the life out of her: mostly, it has to be noted, by biting her breasts. Their bond is such that the male characters don’t even register that it could be problematic. Laura’s father comments that “Laura seems devoted to her [Carmilla].” At the first grand ball where Carmilla first spots Laura, Karl dismisses his intended’s suggestion that the mysterious woman is interested in him and instead insists “Nonsense, she’s looking at you.” No one ever comments upon why Carmilla is looking at Laura. As Laura deteriorates though her reliance and devotion to Carmilla, or Mircarla as this household know her, begins to cause strife amongst the men, her father and the Doctor are helpless in the face of Laura’s bond with Carmilla.

L-R: Carmilla (Ingrid Pitt) and Laura (Pippa Steel) in The Vampire Lovers

It is interesting that there is no indication that Laura holds any lasting interest for Carmilla. The vampire moves on with her mysterious – and never explained – Aunt/Countess and is soon in place in the household of Laura’s long-distance friend, Emma. Carmilla’s cycle begins again.

L-R: Emma (Madeline Smith) and Marcilla (Ingrid Pitt) in The Vampire Lovers

The film can be neatly cut up into three sections. The first is Laura’s and the final section involves the male characters delving into the Karnstein history and trying to discover Carmilla’s tomb. However, the second section, by far the most engrossing, is very curious in that it could quite easily come from any romance. As with Le Fanu and Carmilla’s predecessor, Coleridge’s Christabel, there are fewer mentions of vampiric activity and Carmilla’s affection for Emma are much more dominant in the narrative than her true nature. What makes The Vampire Lovers such an intensely curious film is that one would imagine the lesbian scenes would be exploitative and, if not crude, then certainly unnecessarily over-the-top. However, this is not the case and I respectfully doff my cap at Hammer Horror and director Roy Baker.

The usual calling cards of Hammer Horror are straightforward: a fairly basic plotline, a “repertory”-esque cast of actors, interchangeably buxom women who meet theoretically grisly but aesthetically titillating ends and the sense that the whole thing is one big joke that everybody, from the actors to the audience are in on. Now, please don’t misunderstand me. This author loves a bit of nonsensical horror romping as much as the next discerning viewer. But there’s no getting around the fact that the Hammer productions were not great works of art; they could in fact be better described as a kind of soft-core horror pornography, filled with fire-engine red blood and more nudity that one would strictly need in a story that was ostensibly about a preying vampire. And yet the two most notably sexual scenarios in the film are directed with a great deal of grace and merit. In both situations Ingrid Pitt has long since lost any clothes she began with (at no point does she ever seemed perturbed about her general state of undress) and Carmilla is preparing to utterly seduce someone.

The Vampire Lovers

There is a softly lit air of concealment to the first scene and a rather more obvious silhouette to the second, however, it would be difficult to argue that though the scenes are sexual in nature, they aren’t presented through the “male gaze.” These women aren’t entering into carnal pleasures that they inexplicably have every knowledge of already and are therefore able to put on a show for the gratification of others; indeed the appreciation of Carmilla is seen in the faces of the female characters and it is with tentative exploration that they approach the mysterious woman.

Mme. Perrodot (Kate O’Mara) in The Vampire Lovers

Arguably, as with any interpretation of vampire texts, one could say that Carmilla is preying upon victims who simply don’t understand what is happening to them. The taking of blood by an unnatural source from a girl on the cusp of womanhood who, tellingly, has no mother to guide her through puberty is a parallel too obvious to explore at length. But one could argue that when Carmilla kisses Laura, her intended victim perhaps doesn’t notice that there is anything extraordinary in the embrace and thus succumbs to it. On the other hand Emma can have been left in very little doubt of Carmilla’s intentions when the vampire declares her love and insists, “I don’t want anyone to take you away from me.” There is emotion behind Carmilla’s desire for Emma that does not simply extend to the carnal and Pitt and Baker use every opportunity to fill the screen with longing looks and claustrophobic framing of the two women — Emma and Carmilla are never especially far from each other.

Inevitably though Carmilla must die. But, as befitting of The Vampire Lovers, in which a multitude of things regarding Emma and Carmilla’s intimate relationship are allowed to go unsaid and unmentioned by the other characters, there is the clear suggestion that Emma is not entirely rid of Carmilla’s influence. At the moment of the vampire’s final death, Emma is languishing in her bed, having been saved by Karl and despite her safety, she cries out in horror when the final blow is struck.

Emma (Madeline Smith) in The Vampire Lovers

It is very telling that the final moment in the film is a hint that the deep nature of their relationship is something the men cannot sever and neither can they entirely take Emma away from Carmilla now that she has had her. The lesbian vampire sub-genre as we know it today has suffered serious set-backs since The Vampire Lovers, which seems a thoroughly unlikely thing to say when one considers that it was made over forty years ago now. However, there is a single-mindedness to Pitt’s Carmilla that makes her enthralling for the audience and a certain tone of her performance that lifts the character out of being gratuitous with her lusts and desires. She wants Emma and she intends to have her, there is no debate over what the men think of the situation, no snide jokes that are there entirely to belittle the female relationship. In portraying the men as being entirely ignorant, Baker allows the audience to see the relationship from Carmilla and Emma’s perspective. Their touches are not always sexual, but sensual instead, the kisses not entirely chaste but always intimate and above all else the love Carmilla has for Emma is entirely between them with no one else ever being aware of it.

———-

Lauren Chance has a Masters in English Literature and lives in London, carefully avoiding that horrible and impossible moment when one grows tired of the City and existence at the same time. She had written on Daphne du Maurier most recently and a number of other things during her colourful experience at Queen Mary, University of London. She is particularly interested in biopics at the moment and hopes one will shortly be made about Ingrid Pitt. You can follow her tumblr at http://crackalley.tumblr.com/.

Buffy the Vampire Slayer Week: Willow Rosenberg: Geek, Interrupted

This piece by Lady T previously appeared at Bitch Flicks on July 24, 2012 as part of our Women in Science Fiction Theme Week.

Willow Rosenberg (Alyson Hannigan) on Buffy the Vampire Slayer

Joss Whedon is known for creating and writing about strong female characters in his science fiction shows. One of the most popular and complex of these characters is Willow Rosenberg from Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Willow speaks to many people and quite a few have named her their favorite character on the show, from Mark at Mark Watches to Joss Whedon himself, who put the most Willow-centric episode of the series (“Doppelgangland”) on his list of favorite episodes.

Another thing that makes Willow so appealing is the fact that her character arc over seven seasons can’t be described in only one way. Some see Willow’s story as a shy, brainy computer geek embracing her supernatural power in becoming a witch.Others relate to her arc as one of a repressed wallflower who explores her sexuality and finds more confidence in coming out as a lesbian. Still others are fascinated with the different ways she handles magic, and her recovery after drifting too far to the dark side.

What story is told when those three arcs are put together? For me, the story of Willow Rosenberg is the story of a woman who spends years defining and re-defining herself, rejecting roles that other people have chosen for her – for better and for worse.

From the very first episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Willow has been presented as a shy, sweet, helpful friend to the titular heroine– and from the very second episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Willow has shown herself not to be as sweet or innocent as everyone thinks she is. When she meets Buffy for the first time, she’s eager and friendly, bubbling over with information, in awe that this mysterious, cool new girl is talking to her, but also wanting to help in any way she can.

Willow (Alyson Hannigan) talks to Buffy (Sarah Michelle Gellar)

This eager beaver persona is the one that Willow adopts for most of seasons one and two.She becomes the Hermione to Buffy’s Harry, using her computer hacking skills to assist whenever Buffy needs more research for demon-fighting and she can’t find the answers in one of Giles’s books. And for these two years, Willow is notonly content in this role, but she thrives in it. Like her best friend Xander (my favorite character on Buffy), she’s found a place where she belongs. She’s found a purpose in fighting the good fight against the forces of evil, and she doesn’t seem to mind that she’s a second banana to Buffy. As long as she can put her skills to use and she’s fighting the bad guys, she’s happy.

This changes when Willow discovers magic.

Near the end of season two, Willow begins exploring supernatural arts. She doesn’t do much beyond research and reading, but despite her lack of practice, she thinks that she has what it takes to perform a spell that will restore Angel’s soul.

Watching the season two finale with the perspective of hindsight is more than a little uncomfortable, because we know how much Giles turns out to be right when he tells Willow, “Challenging such potent magics through yourself…it could open a door that you might not be able to close.” It’s also uncomfortable because we can see that Willow is more interested in proving her skills in magic than doing the right thing. She wants to help Buffy, obviously, but she also wants to prove to everyone – and to herself – that she can do the spell.

And she does.

Willow possessed as she performs the spell

Angel’s spell is restored several minutes too late, and Buffy has to kill him anyway. But Willow doesn’t think about this potential consequence. She excitedly tells her friends, “I think the spell worked. I felt something go through me.”

After that,Willow becomes less meek, less shy, and more risky with her use of magic. She tries to use magic to make her and Xander fall out of lust with each other (in a plotline that I hate and always will hate, by the way), and is angry with him when he confronts her for resorting to spells. She becomes even angrier in season four when she, Oz,Buffy, and Xander are trapped in a haunted house and Buffy criticizes her aptitude in magic, saying that Willow’s spells have a 50% success rate. Willow responds with a flustered, “Oh yeah? Well – so’s your face!” but then follows up with a bitter, “I’m not your sidekick!”

Shortly afterwards, Willow tries to perform a spell that winds up failing. This is in an episode entitled “Fear, Itself,” where each major character confronts his/her major fear. Oz is afraid of the werewolf inside him, Xander is afraid of being invisible to his friends, Buffy is afraid of abandonment, and Willow…seems to be afraid of her spell going wrong?

Willow’s spell goes wrong

Compared to her friends’ worries, Willow’s fear seems a little superficial. At the end of the season, though, we learn that Willow’s fears are about much more than simple experiments going wrong.

By the end of season four, Willow has gone through a few pretty significant changes. She’s become more focused on magic and less focused on her scientific, “nerdy”pursuits. She’s farther apart from Buffy and Xander than ever, despite loving both of them. She’s entered a romantic relationship with a woman. Most significantly of all, Willow is confident. She has a life that is fully her own, where she has two things (Tara and magic) that are hers. She’s entered a new phase in her life.

Or has she? After watching Willow’s dream in “Restless,” we can’t say that this new Willow is any more confident or self-assured than the old one who couldn’t stand up for herself when Cordelia Chase insulted her by the water fountain.

Joss Whedon’s writing for Willow’s dream is clever and filled with misdirection. Characters talk about Willow and her “secret,” a secret that she only seems comfortable discussing with Tara. Dream-Buffy constantly comments on Willow’s “costume,”telling her to change out of it because “everyone already knows.” We’re led to believe that Willow is afraid that her friends will judge her for being gay and being a relationship with another woman…but this isn’t the case at all.

Instead, when Dream-Buffy rips off Willow’s costume, we see a version of Willow that is eerily reminiscent of season one Willow: a geek with pretensions of being cool.

Dream-Willow delivering a book report

In her dream,Willow is dressed in schoolgirl clothes, delivering a book report on The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe.Anya and Harmony are snarking at her from the audience, Buffy is bored, Xander is shouting, “Who cares?!” and Tara and Oz are mocking her and flirting wit heach other.

This sequence is haunting, heartbreaking, and foreboding. Those of us who watched Buffy for the first four years know that Willow’s perceptions are far from accurate. Buffy was supportive of Willow far more often than not and Xander defended Willow against anyone who threatened her. As for her love interests, well, Tara practically worshiped the ground Willow walked on, and Oz admitted that Willow was the only thing in his life that he ever loved.

But none of that changes the way Willow feels. Despite the friends she’s made, despite thechanges she’s had, she still thinks that everyone will eventually discover her secret: that she’s an uncool, childish, awkward geek.

I think that this fear, more than anything else, is what motivates Willow’s actions over the second half of the series. The show talks about magic addiction and getting high off of power, but ultimately, Willow wants to change who she is. She doesn’t want to be the nerdy, lonely bookworm that defined so much of her childhood and adolescence. She jokes to Tara, “Hard to believe such a hot mama-yama came from humble, geek-infested roots?” and she might as well be pleading, “I’m not that geek anymore, am I? Tell me I’m not.” She says to Buffy, “If you could be, you know, plain old Willow or super Willow, who would you be?…Buffy, who was I? Just some girl. Tara didn’t even know that girl.”

Willow talks to Buffy after coming down from a high

Eventually, Willow confronts her addiction and power issues with magic. Her arc in the last season of the show is largely about the way she learns to be more careful with magic, her steps forward and her steps back, until she handles her power more responsibly. But one thing she never does is confront her deepest issue: her fear of being an unlovable geek.

I could write for another two thousand words about how Willow’s insecurities made her dangerous to people around her, and how her arc paralleled the arc of the three misogynistic sci-fi geeks who provoked terror all throughout season six, and how her fear of abandonment turned her into the abuser in a controlling relationship, but that’s an essay for another day. I will probably write that essay in the future, but for now, I want to talk about how Willow’s insecurities affected Willow.

A part of me feels truly sad that Willow could never find it in her to reclaim the geek label. I look back at the cute, eager computer nerd from the first two seasons and feel nostalgic for her Hermione Granger-like enthusiasm. I wish she had felt comfortable enough in her own skin to realize that being smart and knowing a lot about computers is a good thing, dammit!

At the same time, I wonder if there’s another lesson in Willow’s story. Audience members like me might yearn for the days when Willow was more interested in computers than she was in magic, but who’s to say that hacking and breaking into government files was the best way for Willow to spend her life? Sure, she was good with computers, but did she had to let that skill define the rest of her life? Isn’t it positive for her to branch out and explore that she has talent in other things in more than one area? After all, even if we’re nostalgic for Willow’s nerdier days, doesn’t she have the right to explore other sides of herself, even if she makes mistakes along the way?

To this day, I still don’t know how I feel about Willow’s arc. I’m glad she discovered another side to her personality, but I’m disappointed that she couldn’t reclaim her geeky days and make it a source of power instead of embarrassment and loneliness. Ultimately, I would have liked to see the show address Willow’s “geek-infested roots” in the last season of Buffy,so we could have seen her make a choice about that part of her life and her identity, instead of seeing that part of her character fall to the wayside.

Lady T is an aspiring writer and comedian with two novels, a play, and a collection of comedy sketches in progress. She hopes to one day be published and finish one of her projects (not in that order). You can find more of her writing at The Funny Feminist, where she picks apart entertainment and reviews movies she hasn’t seen.

Buffy the Vampire Slayer Week: The View from the Grave: Buffy as Gothic Feminist

Buffy Summers (Sarah Michelle Gellar) in Buffy the Vampire Slayer

Guest post written by Jennifer M. Santos.

“It’s a relief to hear papers that don’t go on about feminism.” Such was Patricia Pender’s report on the mood of attendees at the second Slayage Conference in 2006, just three years after Buffy ended (5). Pender punctuated her discussions of an atmosphere rife with concerns of contextual redundancy with the exclamatory parenthetical, “not more feminism!” (5). Nonetheless, the prevailing mood of 2006 did little to halt the “Is Buffy feminist debates?” during the following year: in 2007, C. Albert Bardi and Sherry Hamby claim that Buffy “revel[s] in her phallic power (yes, phallic –don’t forget the omnipresent stake)” while Misty Hook returns to Joss Whedon’s self-proclaimed “radical feminist” roots (107, 119).

Which perspective reigns in 2012? Which should? Neither. Or both. More precisely, Pender’s 2002 piece – now a decade old – got it right when suggesting that Buffy’s “ambivalent gender dynamics”makes it a “site of intense cultural negotiation” (35, 43). When considered from the perspective of the Gothic tradition from which the earliest English-language vampire first sprang, ready for mischief, in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, Buffy defies easy categorization. Instead, the show invites viewers, along with its characters, to negotiate – rather than “simply” navigate – cultural gender norms.

The Gothic has long been known for its tendency to transgress boundaries, especially those boundaries associated with gender. So much so, in fact, that an industry of gendered Gothic scholarship has grown from Ellen Moers’ first invocation of the term “female Gothic,” used initially to refer to Gothic novels authored by women (and which typically function as “birth myths”) to Anne Williams’ more inclusive, dynamic formulation wherein female Gothic “does not simply break the rules, it creates a new game with different rules altogether” (172). Buffy not only creates a new game; it suggests a new field of play for the game by transgressing – and then effacing – traditional gender boundaries.

In 2012 – an era of the female as victim (as seen in the Twilight series and even to some extent in the Sookie Stackhouse novels) or “more masculine than the men” (perhaps a holdover from the Lara Croft or Xena) in Gothic and in larger popular culture – the available spaces for female representation are typically depicted as domestic entrapment or usurper of patriarchy (a role distinct, it should be noted, from that of matriarch). From the pilot episode to the conclusion, Buffy enters and redefines each space. She may be, as Hannah Tucker describes, a “Wonderbra’d blond chick fighting vampires” meant to invert the convention of “the blonde girl who goes into a dark alley and gets killed” as Joss Whedon has described his vision of the show, who elides the domestic sphere (quoted in Byers185, Belle). She may also be the means of celebrating what Whedon has called “the joy of female power: having it, using it, sharing it” in the final episode of Buffy – where any female who could receive slayer powers does receive slayer powers (quoted in Gottlieb). She may elide the domestics pace in each of these examples.

But for all her “on field” triumphs in revising the game, her exodus from domesticity is not “complete.” Nor need it be. In fact, Buffy continually cycles in and out of domesticity, as her mother pressures her to lead a normal life even as her Watcher prods her towards her destiny, and as she sets out for college on her own only to return to the home a year later to care for her ailing mother and, later, her sister. [1] And, notwithstanding the celebratory conclusion of the series, Angel episode “The Girl in Question” situates Buffy in a new domestic space in Rome with the Immortal. These series-wide arcs indicate that the either/or dichotomy no longer reigns as such; Whedon neither wishes to simply “expos[e] perils” (although Frances Early convincingly argues that Buffy does just that) nor create “a dark mirror reflecting patriarchy’s nightmare” (Williams 107).[2] Instead,the series as a whole unpacks, overturns, and undercuts – in other words, it transgresses – traditional understandings of not only female/male, but also of feminism itself.

Buffy in the series finale

The key to understanding Buffy’s contribution to feminism in 2012is remembering that Buffy is more than a simple representation. It is meant, Sherryl Vint explains, to “reshap[e] the subjectivities…of adolescent boys as well as women” (13). [3]

The final episode – “Chosen” – is case-in-point.When Buffy shares her power with all women, vanquishes the First Evil, destroys the Hellmouth, and leaves a literally decimated Sunnydale behind to start a new life, the oppressive, exclusionary, and controlling “signs of the father” are defeated.[4] Buffy,with Willow’s assistance, imbues all would-be-slayers with mystical strength,actualizing power in all women with the potential to receive it. We may further rejoice in the revelation that a mysterious emissary of female Guardians not only predates man but also contributes to Buffy’s quest in providing a pivotal tool that enables empowerment. But its representational power is complex, and has led a number of viewers – academic and nonacademic alike, in my experience – to probe their own subjectivities.

One argument goes something like this: given these overtly feminist messages, the troubling intrusion of masculine power structures complicates a “happy ending.” Recall the scythe that enables sharing of female power. The visual representation of this tool might well be considered symbolic of the phallus. To be effective in empowering women, Willow must join with the scythe in a scene rife with sexual imagery, from Willow’s initial resistance and nervousness to her gasp of awe (“oh my goddess”) to her physical collapse that implies post-coital bliss. Of course, female pleasure here is not sublimated to the male, unless one considers that act as coerced for the greater good, much as Victorian mothers told their daughters to”Lie still and think of England” on their wedding nights.[5] Her virgin-like nervousness before the act –and her statement that such an act will take her beyond anywhere she’s been before – also speaks to a sublimated sense of self for duty in encountering the phallus (“Chosen”). Here, an engaged viewer might ask (and have asked), “can this support a feminist message?”

Indeed, the implications of this act are all the more poignant when one considers that Willow is a lesbian in a committed relationship. That the phallus was thrust upon this woman by other, albeit well-meaning, women speaks to the deep-rooted patriarchal use of women by culture, similarly attested to by the Watchers’ Trials where Buffy is placed in a dilapidated house, stripped of powers that were initially forced upon her predecessors, and exposed to mortal danger – all “in the name of the father.” Yet it is Giles, the father-figure, who breaks from tradition and assists Buffy in this trial, thus indicating a deeply complex and ambivalent perspective on the cultural positioning of women.

Around dinner tables and over cups of coffee, nearly a decade after the series concluded, I’ve witnessed this discussion unfold time and again. And, I think this is the key interpretative moment: are women, the series asks, dependent on men to create a new field of play? Or might the show call into question the norms and expectations of both genders? The answer to these queries may well be found in Spike’s role in the series’ finale. Certainly a number of conversations turn to Spike’s role. In its layers of ambivalence that call upon men to not only transgress but efface normative boundaries, it points to the latter.

As Wilcox notes, Spike only glows with his own power after power has been distributed to women; it is, ultimately, the eternal man, in the form of the undead Spike, whose heroics save the day (104). Indeed, while Spike assumes his heroic pose, Buffy and her cohort of potentials-turned-slayers operate as helpmeets, distracting the minions of evil until the male sacrifice – reminiscent of the Christ promoted by patriarchal religious structures – can deliver the women from a dark destruction. This comparison gains credence from the fact that this unlikely hero, after the destruction of his vampire form, is again resurrected in Angel,revealing a reification of a patriarchal structure: the female can only be empowered – can only share her power – at the behest of a man. This ambivalent twist on a seemingly-feminist agenda asserts itself further in “Chosen” when the phallically-named Spike shoots beams of light across the female expanse, with one slicing upwards and directly into the room of the lesbian witch who embraced the phallus to empower others.[6] This final act seems to reclaim phallic power through intrusion.

Buffy and Spike

Seemingly,then, the series remains locked in the outmoded feminist argument, regardless of the subjectivities it invites viewers to explore, that describes a binary power struggle that becomes even more insidious when we consider that Spike refers to Buffy in his final words as “lamb,” implying that Buffy herself must sacrifice power to empower others. Further consideration of this thought is disturbing, as it implicates Buffy herself in the totalizing power of a patriarchal system (as the “one girl in all the world” who is chosen), as does the elitist selectivity of the chosen few who receive the newly redistributed power. These plotpoints beg the question of whether collective female empowerment can exist within current structures.

The answer to this query, it seems, lays in the very ambivalence that the show’s conventions hint at across the seven-seasons. These various genderings indicate that it is only in comfortable ambivalence that true empowerment can be achieved for all members of society. Perhaps it is our own discomfort with this ambiguity that compels us to return to the either/or feminist debate surrounding Buffy again and again, in print and in casual conversation. Yet, in fact, it is the liminal– the space in-between – that is brought to the foreground, through the characters of Spike and Buffy. As a vampire, Spike exists on the borders, oscillating between life and death,between human and demon and between good and evil (even without a soul, Spike often acts for the greater good).[7] It is his liminality that makes his identification with the phallus so intriguing: his story is that of a sensitive, somewhat effeminate, human male lacking self-confidence in life thatis gained in unlife. This newly-found confidence sends him on a quest for power as conceived of by cultural norms:his self-assertion takes a violent turn during which he quite literally eliminates the “other,” and, during this time, trades his given name, the ubiquitous William, for his phallically-charged nickname. That he follows the traditional conquest path to “glory” makes his shift to champion of the people all the more interesting: he moves from the effeminate male (the “momma’s boy”) to the”masculine” male, experiencing both worlds before consciously choosing to “be a better man,” as Buffy puts it, a task that for Spike involves embracing both the male and female cultural norms (“Never Leave Me”).[8] It is not insignificant that it is Spike who sacrifices himself – often the female role (excepting, for a moment, the Christ comparison) – to save the world. By adapting cultural gender norms for new purposes, Spike offers a form of feminism that might be characterized, stripped of jargon, as “human” feminism.

Similarly, Buffy herself operates as a liminal figure, oscillating between her home life and her sworn duties, the human part of her and the demon part of her. She relies on what may be seen as a patriarchal form of power: violence and control. She further maintains the traditionally-male isolationist stoicism while attempting to reconcile her place in the world with cultural norms, yet only when she becomes comfortable having – and not having – power is she able to empower others. This is the crux of the issue: only by blurring binary distinctions that constrain men and women can the rules change within the system. The staples of oppressive conventions have not been overturned: the system remains in place:globalization of female power, then, does not simply cross boundaries or”turn around” as revolution may imply in this context.[9] It instead offers the hope that if one cannot rend asunder what William Blake would call “mind forged manacles” of cultural norms, then it can infuse them with elasticity. And in 2012, when male and female icons alike so often return to the repressed as with Gothic of yore, the role Buffy can play in renegotiating a space for feminism from beyond the grave is worthy of continued attention.

Jennifer M. Santos has taken a break from professoring to do more writing about fun, feisty females. When she’s not writing about Buffy or Lady Gaga, she’s using her Ph.D. in English to unearth nineteenth century vampires. And when when’s not doing that, she continues the never-ending battle to convince her cats that she’s the alpha.

Works Cited

Angel: Season Five on DVD. Twentieth Century Fox Home Entertainment,2005.

Bardi, C. Albert and Sherry Hamby. “Existentialism Meets Feminism in Buffy the Vampire Slayer.” The Psychology of Joss Whedon: An Unauthorized Exploration of Buffy, Angel, and Firefly. Ed. Joy Davidson. Psychology of Popular Culture Ser. Dallas: BenBella, 2007. 105-117.

Belle, [E] Slay. “Lady Ghosts of TV Past: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Thinking about Season 1.” Persephone Magazine. 25 Mar. 2011. Blog. 3 Aug. 2012 <http://persephonemagazine.com/2011/03/25/ladyghosts-of-tv-past-buffy-the-vampire-slayer-thinking-about-season-1/>.

Buffy the Vampire Slayer: The Chosen Collection. 144 episodes. DVD. Twentieth Century Fox Home Entertainment, 2006.

Byers, Michele. “Buffy the Vampire Slayer: The Next Generation of Television.” Catching a Wave: Reclaiming Feminism for the 21st Century. Eds. Rory Cooke Dicker and Alison Piepmeier. Hanover, MA: Northeastern UP, 2003. 171-187.

Chandler, Holly. “Slaying the Patriarchy:Transfusions of the Vampire Metaphor in Buffy the Vampire Slayer.” Slayage: The Online International Journal of Buffy Studies. 3.1 (Aug. 2003): 62pars. 17 Jan. 2006 <http://slayageonline.com/PDF/chandler.pdf>.

DeLamotte, Eugenia C. Perils of the Night: A Feminist Study of Nineteenth-Century Gothic. Oxford: Oxford UP, 1990.

Early, Frances. “Staking Her Claim: Buffy the Vampire Slayer as Transgressive Woman Warrior.” Slayage: The Online International Journal of Buffy Studies. 2.2 (Sept.2002): 30 pars. 17 Jan. 2006 <http://slayageonline.com/PDF/early.pdf>.

Gottlieb, Allie. “Buffy’s Angels: The Blond Girl with Cleavage Really Isn’t So Feminist – but the Men in Her Life Are.” Metroactive. 26 Sept.2002. 17 Jan. 2006 <http://www.metroactive.com/papers/metro/09.26.02/buffy1-0239.html>.

Hook, Misty K. “Dealing with the F-Word: Joss Whedon and Radical Feminism.” The Psychology of Joss Whedon: An Unauthorized Exploration of Buffy, Angel, and Firefly. Eds. Joy Davidson and Leah Wilson. Psychology of Popular Culture Ser. Dallas: BenBella, 2007. 119-129.

Jowett, Lorna. “The Summers House as Domestic space in Buffy the Vampire Slayer.” Slayage: The Online International Journal of Buffy Studies. 5.2 (Sept.2005): 40 pars. 17 Jan. 2006 <http://slayageonline.com/PDF/jowett2.pdf>.

Pender,Patricia. “‘I’m Buffy and You’re…History:’ The Postmodern Politics of Buffy.” Fighting the Forces: What’s at Stake in Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Eds. Rhonda V. Wilcox and David Lavery. Lanham, MD:Rowman, 2002. 35-44.

—. “‘Where Do We Go From Here?’: Buffy Studies and Slayage 2006.” Slayage: The Online International Journal of Buffy Studies. 6.1 (Fall2006): 24 pars. 9 Aug. 2012 <http://slayageonline.com/PDF/Pender.pdf>.

Wilcox, Rhonda V. Why Buffy Matters: The Art of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. London and New York: I.B. Tauris, 2005.

Williams, Anne. Art of Darkness: A Poetics of Gothic. Chicago and London: U of Chicago P, 1995.

Williamson,Milly. “The Predicament of the Vampire and the Slayer: Gothic Melodrama in Modern America.” The Lure of the Vampire: Gender, Fiction and Fandom from Bram Stoker to Buffy. London:Wallflower, 2005.

Vint, Sherryl, “‘Killing Us Softly’? A Feminist Search for the ‘Real’ Buffy.” Slayage: The Online International Journal of Buffy Studies. 2.1 (May 2002): 26 pars. 17 Jan. 2006 <http://slayageonline.com/PDF/vint.pdf>.

Notes

[1] Jowett’s “The Summers House as Domestic Space in Buffy the Vampire Slayer” provides an excellent account of the Summers’ house as a site of domesticity both with and without the presence of Buffy’s mother. Her analysis, coupled with Eugenia C. DeLamotte’s observation that Gothic heroines perpetuate a cyclical enclosure by venturing out of the home simply to return to it again, reinforces the problematic nature of Buffy’s own empowerment. That is not to say that a woman cannot be a stay-at-home feminist if she chooses the home for herself, but rather to develop the sense of cyclical entrapment that Buffy experiences for seven years.

[2] In her discussion of Buffy as a “narrative of disorderly rebellious female as well as an effective experiment in…’open images,'”Early asserts that Buffy “expose[s]stereotypes and coded symbols that shore up a rigid war-influenced gender system” (3, 29). Further, Holly Chandler asserts that “Buffy confidently yanks the ugly face of the patriarchy out into the light of day, where, she hopes, it will be burnt to a crisp”(62). Both Early and Chandler author valuable arguments portray Buffy as subversive from a woman’s studies standpoint, and I build on their observations in probing the nature of subversion as applicable to both men and women.

[3] Whedon has articulated his desire to “make teenage boys comfortable with a girl who takes charge of the situation” (quoted in Vint 13).

[4] For additional “signs of the father” in Season 7, witness Giles’ attempted murder of Spike, the villain’s adoption of the patriarchal garb of religion, and even the villain’s assumption of a female form named Eve.

[5] A corollary problem to note is that the female creators of the scythe choose to bury it deep within mother Earth, violating,on a broad level, the natural world. Although one may explain this violation as a justified critique of a world that denigrates women and enslaves them to fight monsters or even as what Williams calls a “metaphor for accomplishment, a mode of self-creation,”the ultimate use of the scythe further complicates the issue (158).

[6] Rhonda Wilcox makes a similar observation, discussing Spike and Willow in relation to subconscious and conscious in Why Buffy Matters (104). Wilcox also provides further evidence for those who may question Spike’s phallic associations: in “Tabula Rasa,” wherein the characters experience an amnesia spell, Spike discovers the name “Randy” sewn into his jacket and assumes it for his name,complaining, “‘Why didn’t you just call me Horny Giles or Desperate For A Shag Giles?’ Given the fact that the episode after ‘Tabula Rasa’ is ‘Smashed’ (6.9), in which Buffy and Spike first have sex, the names seems more than appropriate. One might argue that the name Randy reiterates the sexual implications of the name Spike” (60).

[7] In fact, it is worth mentioning that the soulless Spike undertakes his own journey and trials to retrieve his soul, while the only other ensouled vampire in the Buffyverse, Angel, is cursed with a soul as a punishment.

[8] Milly Williamson notes that, “[l]ike the pre-twentieth-century Gothic, the appeal of today’s ‘new’ vampire tale is to do with its ability to represent what is disavowed, to speak to anxieties and desires that are difficult to name” (69). That the anxieties of gender remain ambiguous further connects Buffy to the Gothic tradition.

[9] Williams returns to the etymology of”revolution” and reminds us that “the word means to ‘turnaround'” as well as to “cross forbidden boundaries” (172).

Women in Science Fiction Week: ‘Buffy the Vampire Slayer’s Willow Rosenberg: Geek, Interrupted

Willow Rosenberg (Alyson Hanigan) on Buffy the Vampire Slayer

Written by Lady T.

Willow (Alyson Hannigan) talks to Buffy (Sarah Michelle Gellar)

This changes when Willow discovers magic.

And she does.

Willow possessed as she performs the spell

Willow’s spell goes wrong

Instead, when Dream-Buffy rips off Willow’s costume, we see a version of Willow that is eerily reminiscent of season one Willow: a geek with pretensions of being cool.

Dream-Willow delivering a book report

Willow talks to Buffy after coming down from a high

LGBTQI Week: "I’m Not Running, I’m Choosing": ‘Pariah’ and Gender Performance

Warning: spoilers ahead!!

“Who do you become if you can’t be yourself?” Pariah, my absolute favorite film of 2011, tackles that question.

Written and directed by Dee Rees and produced by Nekisa Cooper, the powerful Pariah tells the story of Alike (Adepero Oduye in an astounding performance), a 17-year-old black lesbian in Brooklyn. Studious, artistic and sensitive, Alike is a writer who knows who she is but hides her sexuality from her family. We so rarely see positive portrayals of black women and queer women on-screen. Here, we have the privilege to see both. With subtlety and grace, it’s an exquisite and achingly beautiful female-centric coming-of-age film about a young woman discovering her sexuality and asserting her identity.

Carrie Nelson already wrote an articulate and intelligent review of the award-winning film. You should seriously go read it! But I want to touch on a few points that particularly struck me while watching, particularly about gender performance and identity.

Most films don’t address teenage sexuality. Sure they may objectify women or poke fun at raging hormones. But they don’t often explore how teens’ discover their sexuality, especially women’s sexuality, people of color’s sexuality, or queer sexuality.

Throughout the film, we receive visual cues to Alike’s gender performance. When we first see Alike in a club, she’s wearing a loose men’s jersey, baggy jeans and a baseball cap. She’s emulating her butch best friend Laura (Pernell Walker). On the bus home, Alike removes her hat and shirt, revealing a form-fitting top. She puts on earrings. All for her overprotective, lonely and overbearing mother Audrey (Kim Wayans). When she’s around her mom, Alike wears stereotypically feminine clothing. Flouncy skirts, dresses, snug blouses – all clothing that “shows off her figure” like her mother wants. Her mother buys her these clothes, knowing full well that Alike abhors wearing them. Yet refusing to accept her daughter, she tries to orchestrate her daughter’s identity.

Alike’s mother can’t handle the fact that her daughter is a lesbian. Audrey shows a colleague at lunch a fuchsia sweater she bought for Alike. She tells Arthur (Charles Parnell), Alike’s father, that she’s “tired of this tomboy thing she’s doing.” Yet Alike tries to express herself, telling her parents that the sweater “isn’t me.” Alike’s identity contradicts her vision of her daughter that she imposed on Alike. Alike’s father is more protective of her as she’s a “daddy’s girl.” Yet he refuses to admit or see the signs that Alike might be a lesbian. Between the two is Alike’s sister Sharonda (Sahra Mellesse) who knows about her sexuality and loves her regardless.

Whenever Alike leaves home, she transforms herself into the identity she chooses. At school, we see her rush to the girls’ bathroom to change. She adopts a more masculine appearance to coincide with her gender non-conformity. Laura buys Alike a strap-on to have sex with a woman. But Alike’s uncomfortable wearing it (it’s white, it pinches her) and ends up throwing it away.

For Alike, both sets of clothing – the hyper-masculine and hyper-feminine – are a costume. She rebels from the princess wardrobe her mother wants for her by going to the other extreme, exploring if it’s who she is. But neither appearance encapsulates Alike. Both the butch and the femme identities are disconnected from her personality.

In an interview, Rees, an out lesbian herself, said Pariah is about identity and finding your place in the world:

“Alike’s a woman who knows she loves women, and is sure in that, but her struggle is how to be. Her struggle is a more nuanced struggle of gender identity within the queer community. She’s not the same person that (her friend) Laura is, neither is she this pink princess that her mother wants her to be. She falls somewhere in between. Finding the courage to carve out that space is her journey.”

Audrey suspects her daughter is a lesbian or at the very least is attracted to women. But she tries to derail Alike’s sexuality. Audrey forces Alike and the charismatic Bina (Aasha Davis), the daughter of a work colleague and one of Alike’s classmates, to spend time together in a vain attempt to separate Alike from hanging out with Laura, who’s own mother has disowned her for being a lesbian. Alike tells her mother that nothing is going to change, Audrey replies, “God doesn’t make mistakes,” as if homosexuality is a mistake. But Audrey’s plan backfires as Alike and Bina bond over music and share a growing attraction to one another.

Drawn to one another, Alike and Bina have sex. Despite their shared intimacy, Bina rejects Alike. Breaking Alike’s heart and devastating her, Bina tells her she’s not “gay-gay” and asks her to keep their encounter secret. We see that Bina possesses sexual fluidity yet is afraid to commit to a woman, perhaps due to society’s heteronormative standards. Or maybe she doesn’t want to commit to anyone, male or female. Or maybe she’s an insensitive asshole.

Whatever Bina’s motivations, Alike’s heartbreak ushers in her refusal to bury her identity any longer. Amidst a huge fight between her parents, Audrey angrily tells Arthur, “Your daughter is turning into a damn man right before your eyes.” Alike tells her parents she’s a lesbian, which enrages her mother. Audrey hits her repeatedly, her father trying to restrain her, after Alike finally confirms what her mother already knew.

Alike turns to Laura (who tries again to reach out to her mother after she earns her GED) for solace and support. Both women are able to commiserate as friends and as lesbians rejected by their mothers’ gendered expectations.

By the end of the film, we see Alike’s clothing change again. Adopting some of Bina’s style fused with her own – perhaps to convey that she’s learned from her heartache or it may be her acknowledgement of her sexual transformation – she wears scarves and earrings with jeans. No longer shadowing Laura and no longer conforming to her mother’s gendered expectations, Alike rejects the gender binary of butch and femme, a symbolic balance of her identity, a unison of femininity and masculinity.

Alike divulges her feelings through spoken word. Her poem at the end of Pariah is hauntingly stunning (making me weep uncontrollably), echoing her painful yet ultimately freeing journey towards self-acceptance:

“Heartbreak opens onto the sunrise for even breaking is opening and I am broken, I am open. Broken into the new life without pushing in, open to the possibilities within, pushing out. See the love shine in through my cracks? See the light shine out through me? I am broken, I am open, I am broken open. See the love light shining through me, shining through my cracks, through the gaps. My spirit takes journey, my spirit takes flight, could not have risen otherwise and I am not running, I am choosing. Running is not a choice from the breaking. Breaking is freeing, broken is freedom. I am not broken, I am free.”

Pariah shattered my heart with its aching beauty, uplifting my soul. We are allowed a window to witness her journey and self-discovery. Through her wardrobe and poetry, Alike eventually expresses herself as a lesbian in the way that she wishes. Alike insists she’s not running, she’s choosing. While she means this literally, there’s meaning beneath the surface. No longer running from who she is, Alike chooses to embrace her identity. Watching Alike discover and assert herself is beauty, poetry in motion.

LGBTQI Week: “All the Pieces Matter:” Queer Characters of Color on ‘The Wire’

(L-R): Detective Kima Greggs (Sonja Sohn) and Omar Little (Michael K. Williams) on The Wire

The Wire is the greatest TV series of all time. Period.

Now, I know I’m not really making some bold claim as many, many, many, many criticshave professed their unabashed love for the crime drama. No other show has painstakingly depicted the complexities of racism, the inner city and the lives of the underclass. It’s a grandiose statement “about the American city, and about how we live together” and how institutional inequities fail social justice.

When people talk about The Wire, usually with awe and reverie, they discuss the sharp dialogue or the nuanced characters or the statement on race and the criminal justice system. And all of that is amazing. But I think what gets lost is that people forget The Wire’s depiction of queer characters and ultimately its statement on LGBTQ rights.

The Wire portrayed complex, fully developed queer characters, something you don’t typically see in pop culture. With my absolute two favorite characters, Detective Kima Greggs and Omar Little – a black lesbian woman and a black gay man – The Wire confronted assumptions and stereotypes of heteronormativity.

Played by Sonja Sohn, an African-American and Asian-American black woman, kick-ass Detective Kima Greggs was a hard-working, smart, compassionate and loyal. Possessing integrity and earning the respect of her colleagues, she’s a fiercely shrewd and efficient police detective working in narcotics and later homicide. And she’s openly lesbian. From her very first scenes, we witness Kima better at her job than many of the men around her. She’s an indispensable member of the Major Crimes Unit. Outside of work, we see Kima with her partner Cheryl, a journalist. Later in the series, we see how work stress (especially after Kima is shot), conflicting goals, infidelity, parenthood and alcohol strain their relationship. After they break up, we see Kima and Cheryl come together to raise their son, as well as Kima’s fantastic “hustler” version of Goodnight, Moon.

The Wire‘s Detective Kima Greggs (Sonja Sohn)

With his signature trench coat, shotgun and trademark whistle, Omar (portrayed by the effortlessly charismatic Michael K. Williams) was a badass stick-up man who everyone in the hood respected, even those who wanted him dead. And he was a proud gay black man. Intelligent, brave, sensitive and funny, he abided by a strict moral code. He loved Honey Nut Cheerios and Greek mythology, loathed profanity and dropped nuggets of wisdom on the similarities between lawyers and thieves and says things like, “Ares, same dude different name” and “You come at the king, you best not miss.” The media is littered with tropes about gay men. Yet here was Omar – a tough, fearless, modern-day Robin Hood robbing drug dealers – who just happened to be gay and broke every stereotype.

The Wire showed both Kima and Omar’s romantic relationships. We witness them laugh, kiss, have sex, and fight. In short, complete relationships. It was great to see to see a gay and a lesbian relationship amidst all the heterosexual relationships. When queer relationships are depicted on TV, they’re often sanitized and peppered with chaste kisses, when the straight relationships are not. Queer characters may be clothed or the relationships are put on the back burner, not in integral part of the characters’ lives. With The Wire, we see queer characters having sex. We see Omar naked. Passion, raw sexuality, and tenderness abound in the queer relationships. We shouldn’t be plagued by heteronormativity and just see straight relationships as the default and queer relationships as peripheral. Queer relationships were entrenched in the series.

It’s also interesting to see how other Wire characters treat homosexuality. When asked by Carver, “If you don’t mind can I ask you when was it that you first figured you liked women better than men?” To which she replies, “I mind.” Detective McNulty praises Kima, telling her the only other competent female detective he ever worked with was a lesbian (ahhh a back-handed, sexist compliment…thanks, Jimmy!) Omar is often referred to with gay slurs like the F-word and C-sucker. When drug kingpin Avon Barksdale finds out from his crew that Omar is gay, he quadruples the bounty on him.Many of the characters seem to view lesbians as masculine, the desired gender, and gay men as effeminate, denigrating the feminine. The portrayal of Kima and Omar question, challenge and subvert these stereotypes.

The Wire‘s Omar Little (Michael K. Williams)

Now, it’s great we’re starting to see more and more queer characters on-screen (Modern Family, True Blood, Grey’s Anatomy, Will & Grace, Glee, The L Word, Queer as Folk, Buffy, Roseanne). Although I desperately wish we were seeing more bisexual (although thank you for Callie Torres, Grey’s Anatomy!) and transgender characters. But usually when we see queer characters, we see white, upper class/upper middle class characters. As if no queer people of color or queer people who are impoverished or even working class exist.

Class and race are so often erased in our media (one of the many reasons Roseanne was so groundbreaking and amazing). Not every queer person lives in Park Slope or West Hollywood attending art gallery openings and having nannies. The Wire depicts financially struggling and impoverished queer women and men of color.

Stereotypes plague queer characters on sitcoms. And yes, sitcoms differ from dramas. Kima and Omar (while Omar does seem too badass to be an actual person) both seem very real. They exhibited foibles and weaknesses along with their strengths. But their relationships didn’t define them. Rather, they were an integral component of their lives. Kima and Omar weren’t beholden to these stereotypes that alert us to “Oh, this is a gay character!” Fully developed and fleshed out, they didn’t fall prey to common tropes.

But Kima and Omar weren’t the only queer characters. Major Rawls, a gay-slur-spewing jerk, is a closeted gay man as we see him briefly at a gay bar. Snoop (Felicia Pearson), the frighteningly ruthless, gender non-conforming soldier in Marlo’s crew (sidebar, my fave scene with her is when she goes to Home Depot), is a lesbian as we learn after Detective Bunk tells her he’s thinking about some pussy and she replies, “Me too.” Both Rawls and Snoop, along with Greggs and Omar, challenge gender and heteronormative assumptions.

The Wire‘s Snoop (Felicia “Snoop” Pearson)

Despite my adulation, The Wire is far from perfect. (Say what??) The Wire boasts strong, complex female characters (Kima Greggs, Ronnie, Beadie, Brianna Barksdale, Snoop) Yet it sadly suffers from a woman problem. As progressive as it is, sexism taints it. Just because a film or TV series contains a “portfolio of ‘strong women’” doesn’t automatically deem it feminist.The Wire often focus on the male characters. While we see myriad perspectives from the male characters, the women aren’t typically offered the same screen-time or scope, often existing peripherally. David Simon himself admitted that his female characters could be called “men with tits.” Ugh. While based on a couple lesbian officers he knew, Simon wrote Kima Greggs “like a man.” We often witness how institutional racism and classism oppress the male characters and how gendered notions of masculinity harm men. Yet we rarely see how sexism impacts the women from their perspective. But the flaws in its depiction of women doesn’t unravel the tremendous good The Wire has done.

As DarkMatter’s Hillary Robbie asserts:

“The characters on The Wiredemonstrate a departure from heteronormative assumptions in television complicated by race. The prospect of seeing homosexual minority couples has remained largely untouched by major media outlets and it is therefore worth applauding. While the series may lack a strong female presence to challenge traditional heterosexual gender roles, the work that it has done involving homosexual partnerships serves as one of the sole examples of normalized homosexuality.”

When asked why he created an out lesbian and a gay stick-up man, creator David Simon responded, “Because gay people exist.” Is there any more perfect reason than that? He went on to say that he knew lesbian detectives and openly gay stick-up men in Baltimore. Whatever failings Simon suffered from not knowing how to write about women, he knew to include gay characters. It shouldn’t be so surprising or groundbreaking. And yet it is for the media too often erases queer (and queer people of color’s) perspectives. And that’s just one of the many reasons why The Wire should be celebrated.The Wire‘s routine depiction of gay and lesbian characters conveyed queer individuals and queer relationships as normal, loving and valid. The Wire refused to make heterosexuality the default sexual orientation.

Weaving diverse voices and social justice issues together in a compelling, thought-provoking, passionate way — that’s what The Wire did best. Too often the media silences and erases queer people of color. The Wire brought those perspectives to the forefront. Quoting Detective Lester Freamon, evolving into the show’s unofficial mantra, “And all the pieces matter.” And so do all the various genders, sexualities, races and identities of the characters involved. Just like real life…or at least how real life should be.

P.S. Michael K. Williams (Omar), who’s incredibly gracious and charming – yes, I’m going to brag for a moment…I was lucky enough to meet him (!!!), as well as Andre Royo (Bubs) and Jamie Hector (Marlo) who were also super nice – filmed a PSA for marriage equality in Maryland. If you’re an Omar fan, you should totes watch it. Oh, indeed.

LGBTQI Week: The Kids Are All Right

Movie poster for The Kids Are All Right

This review by Staff Writer Megan Kearns previously appeared at Bitch Flicks on February 21, 2011.

I was so excited to see The Kids Are All Right. I mean a film with not one, but two amazing female leads as well as a family headed by lesbian parents?? The feminist in me says sign me up! While it exuded potential, I wasn’t so excited after watching the film.

The Kids Are All Right, directed and co-written by Lisa Cholodenko (Laurel Canyon, High Art) centers on Annette Bening (Nic) and Julianne Moore (Jules), a loving married lesbian couple in California who are parents to daughter Joni and son Laser. Joni is a brilliant student about to embark on college; Laser is a confused teen experimenting with drugs and yearning for a male role model. Laser begs Joni, as she’s 18, to contact their “father,” as both their mothers underwent artificial insemination, Mark Ruffalo (Paul) who happens to be the sperm donor for both kids. When Joni and Laser meet Paul, they’re reticent to tell their mothers. Yet they eventually do all meet. While Jules and Joni are pleased to connect with him, Laser feels ambivalence towards him and Nic worries Paul’s arrival will drive a wedge between her and her family. Complications ensue as Paul becomes ever more entwined in each of their lives.

This slow-paced, meandering film possesses some positive traits. The performances, particularly by Bening and Ruffalo, are where the film shines. Bening radiates as the rigid and controlling career woman who feels her world spinning out of control. There’s a beautiful scene, one of my faves in the film, in which the background sounds of a dinner party fade to a muffled din as she sits, alone in her pain. Bening perfectly conveys Nic’s frustrations and emotions. Moore, whom I adore for her chameleon ability to seamlessly meld into a character (except her horrendous Boston accent on 30 Rock), while far from her best performance, does a great job as the flighty free spirit who’s never truly found her calling in life. Josh Hutcherson who plays Laser is annoying; although teens often are so perhaps he does succeed! Mia Wasikowska as Joni gives a solid performance as the teen yearning for freedom. Ruffalo is fantastic as Paul, the well-intentioned yet fuck-up hipster. He’s a pathetic character yet oozes charm in every scene, as he strives to find a meaningful connection. But it’s Nic and Jules’ tender yet struggling relationship, that elicits the most fascination. With its mix of bickering and affection, it feels so real. Just as any couple has problems, so do they. Jules feels she’s not desired anymore and Nic feels her family slipping through her grasp.

The dialogue is sharp and witty yet problematic. For what I had hoped would be a feminist film, the script was littered with assloads of slut-shaming, whore-calling and homophobic F-word dropping. And while these terms do get tossed around in our society, no repercussions or backlash existed in the film; as if no social commentary was being made. Granted, not every film has to make some grandiose statement. Yet I expected better here, particularly as it was directed and co-written by a woman. Luckily, it does pass the Bechdel Test as Nic and Jules often talk to each other about their marriage or about their children.

Despite the great performances and (mostly) great dialogue, the film was mired with too many problems…particularly its plot. If you’ve seen The Kids Are All Right or read about it, you probably know what I’m talking about: the affair. One of the women enters into an affair…with Paul. Yep, a lesbian has an affair with a man. But not just any man…her sperm donor!

As someone who doesn’t consider themselves straight (but not a lesbian either), I truly believe in the fluidity of gender and sexuality. I don’t believe in gender binaries, so I don’t feel that a self-professed lesbian sleeping with a man means she’s either/or: either a lesbian or straight. Nor do I think it necessarily makes her bisexual. But why oh christ why did a man have to be involved?? As it is, according to the Women’s Media Center, men comprise more than 70% of the speaking roles in films. And while we’re starting to see gay men and couples in films and on TV shows, it’s even rarer to see lesbians (as well as bisexual and transgender).

So it pissed me off that a lesbian couple, shown with so much tenderness and depth, had to have their lives invaded by a man. Even the porn film Nic and Jules watch during a sex scene is of two gay men. It’s almost as if Cholodenko is saying all women crave a penis! Perhaps I wouldn’t be so hard on the film if there were more movies made about lesbians. But as this is one of the few films to show a lesbian marriage, I worry that people will judge lesbian relationships based on how they’re depicted here.

Inspiration for the film came loosely from Cholodenko’s life, who came out as a lesbian when she was 16 years old. As an adult, many of her lesbian friends were having babies via sperm donors. When Cholodenko and her wife decided to have a baby, they too sought a sperm donor. Interestingly, co-writer Stuart Blumberg happened to donate sperm in college. These two circumstances coalesced, forming the foundation for the film. Cholodenko also infused the script with anecdotes from her own life, such as the “numb tongue” story of how Jules and Nic meet in the film.

Cholodenko told the LA Times,

“‘That Nic and Jules are a lesbian couple is important to the movie thematically because they are raising a family in an unconventional setting and are more anxious than some parents about how having two moms will affect the mental health of their children. But it could have been the same thing with a divorced couple,’ she says. ‘I always thought we were making a movie about a family, and the threat to the wholeness of the family. It was not about politics. If there was anything calculated, it was how do we make this movie universal — how do we make this a story about a family?'”

Critics have lauded the film for its transcendence from an LGBTQ family into a universal tale about modern families. And that’s one of the components I applaud; that Cholodenko’s message is not about a lesbian family, but of a family, period. Yet I can’t escape the feeling of unease, that critics glossing over the unique experiences and challenges that LGBTQ parents face feels like a slap in the face at worst and negligent at best.

While critics and many movie-goers loved The Kids Are All Right, the film infuriated many lesbians due to the affair. And I can’t blame them, it pissed me off too. Sheila Lambert at the Examiner writes,

“‘Lesbians love it when a married woman has an affair with another woman on film, which is perceived as moving toward authenticity, but we’re not happy seeing a woman in a same-sex marriage have an affair with a man, which to them represents a regression. And raises concerns about whether it adds fuel to the notion that sexual orientation can be changed from gay to straight. Sitting in the audience, I found myself feeling concerned about that as well…'”

Professor Joan Garry at Huffington Post was one of the lesbians angered by the film’s plot. She astutely argues,

“‘It boils down to this: I’m upset because I believe the takeaway from this film will be that lesbians and the families they create need men to be complete.'”

Our patriarchal society continually tells women that they need a man; that their lives aren’t whole or fulfilled without one. But they don’t. Despite the film’s misguided plot, the crux of the film resides in the strength of Nic and Jules’ relationship and their love for their kids. My fave scene and quote in the film is when Nic and Jules attempt to explain to their kids why families fight. Jules says,

“‘Your mom and I are in hell right now and the bottom line is marriage is hard. It’s really fucking hard. Just two people slogging through the shit, year after year, getting older, changing. It’s a fucking marathon, okay? So, sometimes, you know, you’re together for so long, that you just… You stop seeing the other person. You just see weird projections of your own junk. Instead of talking to each other, you go off the rails and act grubby and make stupid choices, which is what I did. And I feel sick about it because I love you guys, and your mom, and that’s the truth. And sometimes you hurt the ones you love the most, and I don’t know why. You know if I read more Russian novels, then…Anyway…I just wanted to say how sorry I am for what I did. I hope you’ll forgive me eventually…'”

Raw and real; it felt as if Annette Bening and Julianne Moore were a real couple fighting to hold onto their family. Usually, you see a film with two lesbians in an affair for men’s titillation, rarely to convey a loving, monogamous relationship. Nic and Jules share a flawed yet devoted marriage, evocative of relationships in real-life. There was simply no need to bring a man into the picture. I wish the film had retained its focus on the couple and their family. It’s such a rarity that we see films featuring lesbian couples let alone two female leads that I had high hopes for, expecting it to be empowering. Sadly, the undercurrent of misogynistic language and male-centrism taints Cholodenko’s potentially beautiful story.

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Megan Kearns is a Bitch Flicks Staff Writer. She’s a feminist vegan blogger and freelance writer living in Boston. Megan blogs at The Opinioness of the World, a feminist vegan site she founded in 2010 which focuses on gender equality and living cruelty-free. She writes about gender and media as a Regular Blogger at Fem2pt0, a site uniting social issues with women’s voices. Her work has also appeared at Arts & Opinion, Feministing’s Community Blog, Italianieuropei, Open Letters Monthly, A Safe World for Women and Women and Hollywood. She earned her B.A. in Anthropology and Sociology from UMass Amherst and a Graduate Certificate in Women and Politics and Public Policy from UMass Boston. You can follow all of Megan’s opinionated musings on Twitter at @OpinionessWorld.

LGBTQI Week: Why You Should Love ‘FlashForward’s’ Janis Hawk

This is a guest review by TJ Murphy.

When considering the finest LGBTQ representation in television, the short-lived science fiction television series FlashForward may not be at the top of your mental list.

The 2009 ABC show—about a mysterious event that causes the entire planet to black out for two minutes and seventeen seconds (exactly), during which each person on Earth experiences a “flash-forward” into his or her life six months into the future—lasted for only one season. The cancellation was perhaps warranted due to the extreme overacting of lead Joseph Fiennes (no doubt better suited for roles like Shakespeare in the lauded Shakespeare in Love) and the contrary “blahness” of his co-lead John Cho.

However, the show’s premise of getting a glimpse into one’s future provided a gamut of philosophical conundrums concerning free will—whether or not we have any—that charmed the pants of this philosophy major’s heart. If those quandaries would not suffice to make you all hot and heavy though, I have five magic words for why you should find and watch this one-season show: FBI Special Agent Janis Hawk.

Janis is introduced to the show as a member of the L.A.-based FBI team (led by lead character Mark Benford, played by the histrionic Fiennes) that will strive to solve the mystery of the flash-forward. She wears navy power suits, speaks in a gravely, sarcastic tone, and is, in her own words, “super gay.” Thank you baby Jesus!

Now let’s get this straight. She is (*sob* was) an out lesbian character on a major television network whose sexuality has nothing to do with the show’s premise and little to do with the character’s personality and interaction with her coworkers. She is a strong, female character who happens to like the ladies, much to the dismay of some poor shmuck who asks her out at karate practice. Instead, she leaves with this woman, the alluring Maya:

You know what? Let’s take a little YouTube break. (This clip will kick your ass, wine-and-dine you and then make you breakfast). Oh, I forgot the last minute of it! It will also make your heart sad.

The fabulous Christine Woods as Janis Hawk is only an auxiliary character; a B story to the show, and her love life is only a B story to her B story, if you will. The fact that Janis’ romance has the emotional turmoil to guide us from first-date jitters to steamy sexual tension and then on to disappointment and abandonment in such a short span of screen time is a testament to the character’s strength.

Indeed, Janis Hawk is not a fabulous character because she is a lesbian and that lends her some sort of diversity credential. She is a fabulous character because she is a layered one. In her fast-forward, she sees herself as pregnant, getting a sonogram, enamored with love for her unborn child. This startles her because 1) she has never wanted a child and 2) in order to have a child, it would seem that there would need to be a penis involved and she remarks dryly, “I don’t like them.”

(Her “I don’t like them”—best delivery of a line… ever).

The fact that Janet broke up with Maya when Maya suggested that Janet’s future baby is theirs is a wonderful example of character complexity. Maya is overeager to make a family with Janet and Janet is understandably protective of her possible future pregnancy. She tells Maya, “This isn’t a me-you thing, Maya, this is a me thing.” She makes clear that her pregnancy would be just that, hers, and that Maya has no right to put claims over it. Feeling pressured and exposed, Janet ends it. What’s left from the brief relationship? Two characters—neither the villain nor the hero, no savior nor saved. These are the pieces left in a broken relationship, whether it be a straight or LGBTQ one, and when film or television manages to mirror reality like this, it is doing something very, very right.

When a run-in with some bad guys leaves Janet with a bullet wound in her stomach and a very rare chance of being able to conceive, Janet faces true heartbreak for the first time. She copes with feelings of failure, inadequacy and hopelessness stemming from the sickening feeling of recognizing her own desire to be a mother too late.

She also probably ruined her olive suit. (It matched my eyes and everything).

On a more frivolous note, the character of Janis wears this silver ring on her thumb—the very same thumb that she uses to draw Maya closer and sink them both into the ephemeral bliss of a kitchen kiss.

That flash of silver just gets me every time.

However, if getting to pretend that you’re dating this bundle of FBI-agent strength, sarcasm and flashing smile–

–is not enough motivation for you to watch the show, let’s remind ourselves of our little secret. Remember that Janis’ romance is a B story to her own B story within the show. There are many other complex and fascinating characters, including the male doctor she spoke with who is diagnosed with cancer yet sees a future with a beautiful Japanese woman and a haggard father who sees, in his vision, the daughter killed in action in Afghanistan alive and well six months later.

Moreover, as stated, Janis’ own story is far more complex than her romantic life and sexuality—as any well-rounded character should be, especially any LGBTQ character whose broadcast might stretch the minds of bigoted people.

At this point, I would like to warn you that there are a lot more surprises to the show that will keep you coming back for more, but if you hate any kind of spoilers, put your hands over your ears and sing “I Was Born This Way” right now. … Did I trick you? Instead, just don’t scroll down past this picture of a bunny in a knitted hat:

If Janis Hawk wasn’t already badass enough, she turns out to be…

A DOUBLE AGENT!!!!!!!!!

My case is closed. Love her, cherish her, cheer her on, and cry that this show only lasted a season so that we do not have more time with Janis Hawk.

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TJ Murphy is a rising senior at Dartmouth College studying philosophy and art history. She is now accepting any advice from anywhere as to what she should do for a living. She enjoys writing, bookstores, cappuccinos, and climbing trees and she is not usually bitter about cancelled television shows.

LGBTQI Week: The Problem with GLBT Representation in True Blood and Lost Girl

This is a guest post by Paul and Renee.

When it comes to GLBT representation in the media, unless a television show is targeted specifically at the community, erasure continues to be the norm. Urban fantasy has moved from a small die hard audience to the mainstream and though we can regularly see shows about vampires, werewolves, fae, and ghosts, there are few GLBT characters and a dearth of decent representation.

HBO’s True Blood and Showcase’s Lost Girl have the most visible GLBT characters on television in North America, in terms of the urban fantasy genre. Though both shows have GLBT characters who have extremely high profiles and a reputation of being extremely GLBT friendly, there are certainly many problematic elements.

True Blood is based on The Southern Vampire Series written by Charlaine Harris. In the novels, Lafayette is killed off quite early and is shamed for participating in a sex party. Thankfully, the character of Lafayette in True Blood has become a staple of the show. Despite being a fan favourite, Lafayette is a character that inarguably fulfills a lot of stereotypes that are aimed at same gender loving men of colour. Lafayette is a cook but he moonlights as a sex worker and a drug dealer. Though he is routinely given some of the best lines to say, he too often falls into the sassy best friend role.

Nelsan Ellis as Lafayette and Kevin Alejandro as Jesus in True Blood

In season three, we learned that Lafayette only started dealing V and doing sex work to pay for the hospitalisation of his mentally ill mother and though the reason is understandable, no other character on True Blood has been forced into this position though they are all working class.

If Lafayette is dogged by several stereotypes, Talbot revels in them. The lover of Russell Edgington (who is an awesome villain but also personifies the depraved, psychopathic homosexual trope), Talbot is a 700-year-old vampire who squeals at the sight of violence. He throws epic temper tantrums over the interior decorating. Someone stamp a rainbow on him and call his unicorn, he’s done. But to quickly fill his shoes we have Steve Newlin – get yourself another trope bingo card because he’s a) a gay man trying to force his attentions on a straight man b) a closeted homophobe, c) a closeted, bigoted preacher and d) getting campier by the episode – have you hit bingo yet? Bet you will by the end of the season, this was just 2 episodes!

The women aren’t free from stereotyping either; Tara finds her love for women and with it an interest in kick boxing – did she get some free dungerees and power tools with that?

I do have to say that not all the portrayals are stereotyped – Eddie subverts many (albeit he exists to serve and help Jason grow) and Jesus more – we don’t see enough about Pam and Nan to see what they fit. But except for Pam, they all fit one trope – GAY DEATH. Yes, there’s a drastic amount of “gay death” on this show. It’s a sad trope that GBLT people rarely live long on the television screen and their sexualty is often the cause of their deaths – and with Talbot (who actually died during gay sex! And to hurt his gay lover), Jesus (at the hands of his gay lover!), Eddie (found by his killers because he hired a gay prostitute), Sophie Ann and Nan were racking up the body count.

But, perhaps the most glaring flaw in True Blood is how the GBLT romances compare with the straight counterparts. True Blood is not a show that is shy about nudity or sex scenes – it is pretty unusual for episodes to go by without at least someone humping someone wearing very little. Eric, Sookie, Jason, Bill, Sam – we have seen them naked and going at it hammer and tongs. But Lafayette and Jesus? The contrast is blatant – even most of their kisses are in low light conditions. They go to bed wearing multiple layers of clothing (in Louisiana, no less) and their scenes together commonly have them sitting pretty far apart and lacking any real physical (or even emotional) intimacy. The emotional distance is very telling in what should be some of the most poignant scenes between them – when Jesus is grieving over his dead friend, when he is risking his life going into Marne’s shop, when Jesus emerges from that shop injured (Lafayette actually ran to hug Tara while Jesus bleeds); you’d expect some emotional angst here. But throughout season 4, you could have mistaken them for roommates, not lovers. This sanitisation is sadly prevalent with gay and bi male couples in television in general – their sex lives are considered more obscene than their straight counterparts, in need of censorship and “toning down.” True Blood’s straight explicitness makes this extremely blatant – with Lafayette and Jesus and even with Sam and Bill’s “Water in Arkansas” dream sequence (that cuts out just before a kiss). The closest we get to any explicit scenes is with Eric and Talbot – again with low light kissing, no nudity and, of course, saved for straight audiences by including the dreaded gay death.

We contrast that with the lesbian relationships and, if anything, we see a different story. But is this putting them on the same explicit level as the straight relationships or is it an attempt to pander to the straight male gaze? If anything, the scenes between women are more sexualised than between straight couples – not because they’re more explicit, but because they are less personal. Nan Flannigan and Pam both have sex (oral sex that doesn’t smudge their perfect make up, no less) with nameless, characterless women. The only actual relationship we have seen between two women is Tara and Naomi – and again, we saw them make out and have sex almost before we knew Naomi’s name. She appeared in exactly five episodes – and not for much of them at that – and in that time they were either having sex or fighting over Tara’s deception. She has now disappeared. Tara and Naomi’s relationship seemed to exist more to show sex and provide Tara with conflict than to be an actual relationship. All of these sex scenes feel even more gratuitous than the majority of the straight sex scenes because they add precious little to plot, story, development or any relationship – they’re there for the sake of the sex.

Rutina Wesley as Tara Thornton in True Blood

I love that True Blood goes out of its way to include so many GBLT characters – yet at the same time they make me cringe. Inclusion of many characters is great – but we shouldn’t be able to go through TV Tropes, ticking off the stereotypes, the tropes and the unfortunate prejudiced portrayals.

In Lost Girl, we move from having a GLBT character as a sidekick to the protagonist. Bo is a succubus – a being which takes life force from others through sexual contact. At first she is only interested in taking energy from evil doers because she has absolutely no control over her abilities. When she discovers that she is actually a member of the fae, and not some sinful freak, Bo begins a relationship with Dyson – a male werewolf. Vying for her attention is also the beautiful human doctor Lauren.

Essentially what develops is a love triangle and, as to be expected, it is far from simple. Bo has good chemistry with both Dyson and Lauren and in the end engages in sex with them separately. The problem then becomes a question of who does Bo really belong with. It is clear from the outset that though she cares very deeply for Lauren, her real love is Dyson. Dyson even goes as far as sacrificing the most important thing in his life – his love for her at the end of season one, in order to save Bo’s life. When they do have a break in their relationship, it is because he is temporarily unable to feel passion for her. It is during this period that Bo explores further possibilities with Lauren, which rather makes Lauren look like second choice.

Lauren is heavily attracted to Bo, but she is searching for a cure for her comatose girlfriend Nadia, who has been in stasis for five years. The first time that Lauren and Bo have sex, it is because Lauren has been ordered to do so by The Ash – the leader of the light fae. This amounts to sex through deception. Unfortunately, this isn’t the last time that sex between women happens at the behest of a man, which reads like cheap titillation. In a break from both Lauren and Dyson, Bo briefly dates the dark fae Ryan and he initiates a threesome, but what the camera focuses on is Bo’s interaction with the woman he procured. Clearly this was a sexual performance meant to please the straight male gaze.

The cast of Lost Girl

One of the most frustrating aspects of same sex love on Lost Girl is its treatment of the relationship between Nadia and Bo. After spending five years looking for cure for Nadia, Lauren is finally successful. However, after Nadia is infected by The Garuda, a few short episodes later, Lauren quickly assents to her desire to die. How are we to believe that Lauren held this faithful love for all of these years and then so quickly agreed that her partner should die? Nadia and Lauren’s feelings for her were determined disposable for the sake of furthering a love story which has clearly already been decided.

Even when Bo learns to control her desire to drain life energy during sex, there are still only two instances of sex between her and Lauren, which pales to the numerous times that Bo engaged in sex with Dyson. Lauren is the fragile human that Bo can potentially hurt, whereas Dyson literally represents everything that is good in terms of protection, strength and healing.

This of course places a premium on the heterosexual relationship over and above the gay one.

And this is perhaps the cornerstone of GBLT depictions in media in general – and certainly in these shows specifically – GBLT relationships are nearly always depicted as secondary to relationships of straight people. They can be there, but they have to take a back seat to the “real” relationships and depictions. Too often this backseat results in characters that are fraught with tropes and are frequently laden with stereotype after stereotype.

We’re happy, after so much erasure, that we’re actually seeing GBLT inclusion – and these programmes certainly do a lot right – but there’s still a lot dogging these characters.

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Paul and Renee blog and review at Fangs for the Fantasy. We’re great lovers of the genre and consume it in all its forms – but as marginalised people we also analyse critically through a social justice lens.