Tag: Mags Bennett

Emmy Week 2011: The Roundup

The 2011 Emmy Awards aired Sunday, September 18th

Glee! by Cali Loria

Having a character on TV who does not fit into the mold of being a perfect Westernized ideal of beauty would, in someone else’s hands, be refreshing. Glee, however, focuses on the extremes of women, enjoying the overt and campy hyperbolization of its characters which, in essence, detracts from actual storylines and only serves to render the women flat and one-dimensional: Jewish starlet, slut, dumb blonde, conniving cheerleader, sassy black woman, an Asian, and, now, a full-fleshed female. Glee has a recipe with every ingredient, but stirred together it’s one big lump of heterogeneous stereotypes. I’m not saying this couple should not exist; I am simply implying that it may have been beneficial to give her a love interest that does not appear to be ten seconds from dumping pigs blood over her head at prom.

Leslie Knope by Diane Shipley

Thank goodness then, that in season two the Leslie we know and love emerged. Still an idealist, but with a strong practical streak and the ability to get things done. No longer mooning over a long-ago office-mate tryst, but having an actual love life. She’s not optimistic because she doesn’t know better, but because she chooses to be, as a survival mechanism. Instead of considering her an affable fool, her now-best friend Ann tells her she’s, “Cool, sexy, funny, and smart.” 
She’s also competent: she not only gets that park built, she re-instates Pawnee’s harvest festival, bringing in thousands of dollars in tourism and new business, and saving her department in the process. We start to see that maybe her earlier pronouncements were prescient: why *shouldn’t* Leslie Knope be the first female president?

Here There Be Sexism? Game of Thrones and Gender by Megan Kearns

When I watched the premiere of Game of Thrones, I almost choked on all the rampant misogyny. I kept watching, lured by the premise and intrigued by the complex plots, curious if things for women would improve. Throughout the first season women are raped, beaten, burned and trafficked. I suppose you could chalk it up to the barbarism of medieval times. And I’m sure many will claim that as the show’s defense…or that the men face just as brutal and severe a life. I also recognize that there’s a difference between displaying sexism because it’s the time period and condoning said sexism. But this IS a fantasy, not history, meaning the writers can imagine any world they wish to create. So why imagine a misogynistic one?

Mags Bennett: As Wholesome as Apple Pie by Molly Brayman

But in season two, the show gives us Mags Bennett, head of the Bennett clan, a matriarch wielding absolute power (and a ball-peen hammer) over her territory. She sets herself apart from both the women and the men in the show and their prescribed gender roles, inhabiting both enforcer and nurturer, often at the same time. Margo Martindale, a well-lauded stage actor, too often is relegated to the screen margin, playing the supporting roles of gruff nurse (Mercy), sassy neighbor (The Riches) or kindly old friend (Dexter). Martindale admits in a recent interview that a role like “Mags Bennett comes along maybe just once in a lifetime.” But roles like this—multi-faceted, problematic, and compelling—are what we need to see more of on television.

Jane Krakowski and the Dedicated Ignorance of Jenna Maroney by Kyle Sanders

That’s what I love about 30 Rock. Sure, it’s Tina Fey’s baby: she created the series and has written a majority of episodes while also starring as the show’s protagonist. But what makes her funny is the company she keeps. Tina’s straight-woman, self-conscious, prudish Liz Lemon is the complete opposite of the outrageous Tracy Jordan or confident Jack Donaghy. But it’s her interaction with Jane Krakowski’s Jenna Maroney that is most comedic. Of course, they’re both women, but what works is their chaos/order dynamic: While Liz maintains the order ofTGS (the fictional sketch-comedy show-within-the-show), Jenna brings the chaos and gets freaky with it in a public bathroom stall.

Friday Night Lights: Deep in the Heart of Texas by Lee Skallerup Bessette

Each woman in Friday Night Lights, like each man in the show, is defined by their relationship to football. Or rather, the town tries to define them by their relationship to the featured football team (either the Dillon Panthers during the first seasons or the East Dillon Lions during the last two). What is and remains fascinating to me is how in the face of this identity pressure, the women are often more successful in redefining themselves than the men. 
(I’d have included pictures, but I defy you to find a picture of any of these women on the Internet that doesn’t put them in some sort of come-hither pose that exposes a whole lot of skin. Sigh. These ladies deserve better.)

Liz Lemon: The ‘Every Woman’ of Prime Time by Lisa Mathews

Liz Lemon, the protagonist created and portrayed by Tina Fey on NBC’s 30 Rock, is one of television’s most recognizable and loved characters for her outlandish antics and so-real-it-hurts single-line commentaries on women and society.
On the surface, Liz charms the audience with her awkward girl-next-door looks, geeky-smart plastic-framed glasses that she apparently doesn’t need to improve her vision, inappropriate behavior in the workplace and her penchant for drawing the unlucky hand in love. Yet getting to know Liz on a deeper level inspires a sense that this is a woman who, while filled with self-loathing and assorted neuroses, has a heart for people and justice and a knack for making the ridiculous hilarious.
Tami Taylor, My Hero by Lee Skallerup Bessette
If there is one woman in Dillon who stands head and shoulders above them all, it’s Tami Taylor. Unfortunately, that doesn’t seem too hard to do. Mothers in Dillon have not been the most successful characters; they were either drunk/druggies (Mama Collette, Vince’s mother, Becky’s mother), absent (Jess’ mother, Mama Riggins, Matt Saracen’s mother), or one-dimensional (abuse victim, religious nut, etc). Is it any wonder, then, that Tami Taylor becomes the go-to woman for many of the “lost children” of Dillon?

Why Steely Homicide Detective Sarah Linden is So Refreshing by Megan Kearns

Based on the Danish TV series Forbrydelsen (The Crime), the gritty series premieres with Linden, played superbly by Emmy-nominated Mireille Enos, jogging in the woods. It’s her last day in the Seattle police department as she’s moving with her son, Jack, to marry her fiancé in California. But she gets pulled back in to her work in homicide by the murder of teenager Rosie Larsen.
Unlike many other crime shows, the plot continually shifts from the murder investigation to Detective Linden’s home life to how Rosie’s family handles their grief to a local mayoral campaign. Through the unfolding case, we see how grief affects each of the characters differently. Raising themes of misogyny, racism and xenophobia, the show uniquely focuses on how a tragedy affects a family and ultimately how those ripples affect a community.

And don’t forget our Mad Men Week Roundup, featuring numerous articles on Mad Men!

Emmy Week 2011: Mags Bennett: As Wholesome As Apple Pie

Mags Bennett, played by Margo Martindale

After watching the first couple episodes of Justified with me, my good friend asked the question that I ask myself, “Why do you like this show?” See, she knows me and my general dislike of the Western aesthetic: all wide shots and swagger. Add in that it is “inspired” by an Elmore Leonard story, inhabited by his brand of players—full of quirky and amusing dialogue, sure, but too often stuck in caricature—and I should hate this show. But I don’t. This show allows what so few shows do: a full sense of place and the people who inhabit that place. Justified gives us Harlan County, Kentucky in the way that The Wire gave us Baltimore: unflinching, unsentimental, and unapologetic.

That said, it is a male-centric show, depicting a male-centric world. In the first season, our main character, Deputy U.S. Marshal Raylan Givens (Timothy Olyphant, also nominated for an Emmy), spends his time fighting, shooting, justifying his fighting and shooting to his boss, and protecting and bedding pretty blonds. He also spends an entire episode getting back his cowboy hat. The criminal family he battles is Bo Crowder and his boys, and much is made of the complicated power dynamics between men, particularly fathers and sons. One might get weary from all the testosterone (as the one female marshal acknowledges in an early episode).

But in season two, the show gives us Mags Bennett, head of the Bennett clan, a matriarch wielding absolute power (and a ball-peen hammer) over her territory. She sets herself apart from both the women and the men in the show and their prescribed gender roles, inhabiting both enforcer and nurturer, often at the same time. Margo Martindale, a well-lauded stage actor, too often is relegated to the screen margin, playing the supporting roles of gruff nurse (Mercy), sassy neighbor (The Riches) or kindly old friend (Dexter). Martindale admits in a recent interview that a role like “Mags Bennett comes along maybe just once in a lifetime.” But roles like this—multi-faceted, problematic, and compelling—are what we need to see more of on television.

I don’t know what episode was submitted for the Emmy voters (there are plenty to choose from), but let me make my pitch for the first episode. It doesn’t have the flash of her stirring, but duplicitous, speech to the coal mining company trying to buy the town away from the people, or the shock value of her smashing one son’s hand to bits while blaming the other for her actions, or even the tragedy of the final episode. But it does provide the roundest view of the character, an incredible feat for an initial introduction.

In “The Moonshine War,” the audience is first introduced to Mags Bennett and her family’s marijuana empire. We learn of the family feud between the Bennetts and the Givenses, and we see her deal with the widower McCready, who has been stealing small amounts of their stash. We also see Mags’ gentle approach to McCready’s daughter Loretta, who is accosted and abducted by a man working for the Bennetts.

Apple Pie: the symbol of American domesticity, of homegrown goodness, warm and comforting. Mags makes “apple pie” that the entire county admires, but this apple pie is more than it appears to be. It is a symbol of Mags herself. It appears in three distinct scenes, each giving us a glimpse into the complexity of Mags.

Sharing a Slice of History

When she offers it to Raylan, the audience sees it as a peace offering, a moment of communion between two feuding families. As the two recount their shared history, Raylan’s deference to her in the scene is a stark contrast to his interactions with the Crowders. With the Crowders, when Raylan acted with restraint, it was clear that it was out of fear, out of the knowledge that he didn’t hold the power in a given situation. But that didn’t stop him from spouting snarky one-liners. With Mags, Raylan acts not just of out pragmatism, but out of respect. Even as he takes her measure, he addresses her, not as Mags, but as Mrs. Bennett, and is, frankly, polite; it smacks of the Southern gentility that surfaces whenever he interacts with a woman. His gracious acceptance of her apple pie signals to the audience that Mags is a crime-lord of a different sort. When she pulls out the jar, we see her apple pie for what it is: a home-brewed moonshine, and a tasty one at that. But like Mags’ weed, a moonshine named “apple pie” seems innocuous, not the meth or oxycotin that the Crowders dealt.

Pie as Retribution

The apple pie moonshine makes its second appearance in her sit down with McCready (Chris Mulkey), after he has been shot by her boys for stealing and Loretta has made it home safely from her abduction. Again, the moonshine appears to be a communion of sorts, a way for Mags and McCready to admit their sins, ask for each other’s forgiveness, and return to the status quo. And Mags’ speech follows that path, asking after Loretta. She forgives McCready for his stealing, and insists that her son apologize for shooting him and forcing his foot into a trap. Sure, she continues to draw information out of McCready about what he has told the police and what risk he might still pose, but she does so as a benevolent leader. As McCready says all the right things, we watch as both McCready and Mags try to assess the situation and determine what will happen next. Unlike the scene with Raylan, there is no subtle jockeying for power; it is clear that Mags is in control. And it is through her apple pie that she exerts her control. Having poisoned McCready’s glass, she calmly explains to him that his real crime was going outside the family by calling the cops about Loretta’s abductor. She is both terrifying and comforting as she grips his hand as he dies, talking him through the pain and pledging to raise Loretta as her own. She is not a benevolent leader, and her apple pie can longer be seen as innocuous. From this scene on, every time she reaches for a mason jar to pour someone a drink, we question her motives.

Too Young for Pie

Mags and Loretta McCready (the fabulous Kaitlyn Dever) also share a drink in opening scenes of the next episode, and coming on the heels of the apple pie murder, perhaps the audience is supposed to assume that Loretta is a goner too. But, ultimately we know Mags will not kill the girl. Not because she is too kindly or motherly to do so (the season gives us plenty of evidence that Mags can be just as ruthless to her kin as she is to outsiders), but because she longs for something she gave up when she took over the family business. Mags lives in the world of men, and to survive in that world she does what so many strong female characters do—she becomes masculine. Such figures maintain control through fear and violence, they wield weapons and talk of war, and they protect their own at the expense of others. Mags sees Loretta as a possibility for a different way. Having lost her feminine side so long ago, she mistakenly equates femininity with innocence, and struggles to keep Loretta away from the ugly truths.

The audience gets the first glimpse of Mags in this light in “The Moonshine War,” after Loretta comes to see her to atone for her father’s theft. Mags shows real concern for the girl and promises to protect her from the pervert who has accosted her. But she seems even more worried with how Loretta is managing at home, asking her about her father’s ability to take care of her. Mags is upset that Loretta felt that she needed to take control of the household, to grow up before she should have to. As she hands Loretta a handful of candy, she makes it clear that Loretta should relinquish that kind of responsibility to Mags.

In the next episode, the two share a similar, though more emotionally loaded, moment. She pours Loretta a glass of apple cider, explaining that she is a few years away from being able to have Mags’ apple pie. In part this reads as a warning; Loretta might one day need killing. But mostly, this sentiment is Mags shielding the girl from the poison of her world. As Mags fiddles with Loretta’s jewelry and strokes her hair, she lies to Loretta about her father and confesses her desire to have a daughter instead of being stuck with “just those damn boys.” This scene is replayed later in the season as Mags helps Loretta get dressed up for a picnic, explaining to her that there is nothing wrong in looking pretty and that her [Mags’] time for that is long past. It is in her scenes with Loretta that we most clearly see the regret Mags has for what she has had to become, and what she has had to give up to do so.

Molly Brayman studied poetry at the University of Alabama, and teaches composition at the University of Cincinnati. She watches more television than is good for most people, but rationalizes it by presenting regularly at the National Popular Culture Association Conference.