The Rise of Women with Mental Illness in TV Series

With the sleeper success of ‘Crazy Ex-Girlfriend,’ the increased focus on Kimmy Schmidt’s PTSD this season on ‘Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt,’ and Rachel Goldberg’s mental illness on ‘UnREAL,’ there seems to be a rise in depictions of mental health — in particular, women’s mental health — on television.

Crazy Ex-Girlfriend, UnReal, and Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt

This guest post is written by Scarlett Harris.


With the sleeper success of Crazy Ex-Girlfriend, the increased focus on Kimmy Schmidt’s PTSD this season on Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt, and Rachel Goldberg’s mental illness on UnREAL, there seems to be a rise in depictions of mental health — in particular, women’s mental health — on television.

Crazy Ex-Girlfriend deals perhaps most explicitly with mental health. Unfortunately, the series has an awful, ableist title. Unhappy in her high-powered career as a New York lawyer, Rebecca Bunch bumps into her summer camp boyfriend Josh Chan in the street and decides to follow him to West Covina, California, though she repeatedly claims that’s not the reason for her sea change. There we see her transition through depression, anxiety, and “smidges of [obsessive] compulsive disorder” in her quest to win back Josh, as Crazy Ex-Girlfriend’s co-creators Rachel Bloom (who plays Rebecca) and Aline Brosh McKenna told Vulture.

The hormones in play when you’re falling in love — increased dopamine levels and a decrease in serotonin — mirror those released when taking a hit of cocaine and having obsessive compulsive disorder. Not only is Crazy Ex-Girlfriend a commentary on Rebecca’s mental health struggles but it covertly examines the general absurdity of romance in our society. Romantic comedies, the glorification of violent couples such as Sid and Nancy and Harley Quinn and The Joker, and excusing playground bullying as affection all equate intense passion, and at times even abuse, with true love. Bloom and Brosh McKenna told Vulture that many characters in rom-coms exhibit extremely unhealthy or destructive behavior and they differentiate Rebecca’s behavior from this.

That brings us to UnReal, created by Marti Noxon and Sarah Gertrude Shapiro, which finished its second season on Lifetime. Despite its welldocumented problems this season regarding race and its depiction of people of color, the show is another that portrays a woman living and working with mental illness to varying degrees of success. As Alyssa Rosenberg writes at The Washington Post:

“The most interesting element of UnREAL, though… is the idea that mental illness is an appropriate response to certain social conditions and expectations for modern women. The Bachelor-style show Rachel works for pushes the women who appear on it to their absolute limits, forcing them to adopt artificial personas and suppress their feelings to compete for the affections of a man who’s appearing on the show only to boost his business. Being the person involved in manipulating other women is a highly unpleasant task. And an on-air meltdown Rachel suffered shortly before the events of the first season of UnREAL may actually be the sanest and most humane possible reaction to the job.”

Though UnReal hasn’t done Rachel — nor most of its other characters, for that matter — justice this season, she manipulates people to get what she wants and struggles with mental illness internally in equal measure, showing that a woman with mental illness doesn’t have to be a traditionally sympathetic character.

On the other hand, though, Kimmy Schmidt is a character we can more easily empathize with due to her jovial, almost childlike (which is another trope of women with mental illness in itself) demeanor. Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt took us by surprise this season as it dealt savilly with the fallout from Kimmy’s imprisonment by Reverend Richard Wayne Gary Wayne. Bread crumbs like Kimmy’s stress burping, her behavior around war veteran Keith, and her involuntary responses to getting intimate with Dong are scattered throughout the earlier parts of season two, which lead to Kimmy seeking therapy from Dr. Andrea (Tina Fey, who also co-created the series) in later episodes. Kimmy’s reluctance to see a psychiatrist is realistic, as is the turmoil she increasingly sees her life devolve into as she ignores her problems. For so long, Kimmy played the role of therapist in her friends’ and fellow captives’ lives that she can’t see how much she herself needs one.

By bringing mental health issues to the forefront — along with other complex portrayals, such as those in Being Mary JaneYou’re the Worst, Bojack Horseman, Girls, Lady Dynamite, and Homeland — television is changing the perception of women with mental illness from fetishized objects to more nuanced and realistic portrayals, at once granting greater representation to women with disabilities and hopefully reducing the stigma of mental illness.


Scarlett Harris is an Australian writer based in New York City. You can follow her on Twitter @ScarlettEHarris and read her previous published work at her website The Scarlett Woman.

‘Crazy Ex-Girlfriend’ Gets Bisexual Representation Right

The musical sitcom shows the gradual development of a male bisexual character, who willfully rejects bi stereotypes to the point of addressing them in song and dance. And for anyone who cares about bisexual representation on-screen, it is magnificent. … The image of a bi character both confident in his identity and committed to addressing biphobic stereotypes — not to mention the incredible catchiness of the tune — is deeply satisfying.

Crazy Ex-Girlfriend

This guest post written by Alex Kittle appears as part of our theme week on Bisexual Representation.


Rachel Bloom’s risky, groundbreaking, Emmy-winning musical sitcom Crazy Ex-Girlfriend is often (and rightfully) praised for its focus on a protagonist with mental illness, depicting the ins and outs of anxiety and depression with frankness, compassion, and humor (despite the series’ ableist title). What might be equally significant for some viewers is the gradual development of a male bisexual character, who willfully rejects bi stereotypes to the point of addressing them in song and dance. And for anyone who cares about bisexual representation on-screen, it is magnificent.

In the pilot, Darryl Whitefeather (played by Pete Gardner) is introduced as a fairly flat supporting character: our protagonist’s new boss and something of a walking punchline. Rebecca (Rachel Bloom), a well-educated but emotionally precarious lawyer, takes a job at Whitefeather & Associates as an excuse to move to West Covina, CA, where her first love Josh Chan (Vincent Rodriguez III) just happens to live. Though his name is on the letterhead, Darryl doesn’t seem to have much authority or confidence, and he is ecstatic that a well-respected New York lawyer like Rebecca would deign to join his firm. He immediately overshares about his pending divorce as well as his Native American heritage (1/8 Chippewa), while managing to embarrass himself in front of his new Jewish employee with an anti-Semitic remark. It feels like the show is setting him up as a kind of Michael Scott-esque character, a floundering, ineffectual, ignorant boss who talks too much and is overly self-involved.

As the season progresses he becomes more fleshed out, more sympathetic, and more likable. We see that the most important thing in his life is his young daughter, of whom he is considered the “primary parent,” as he argues for custody during his divorce. His first song is a country-western parody about his love for her, which jokingly reveals how easy it is for for declarations of fatherly affection to sound, well, icky. Darryl is shown as unabashedly emotional and loving, setting him apart early on from the other men in the show who exhibit more traditionally “masculine” traits.

Crazy Ex-Girlfriend

But Darryl’s sexuality is never a question until he meets Josh “White Josh” Wilson (David Hull), a handsome, good-natured trainer and one of Josh Chan’s best friends. They meet on a party bus rented by Rebecca for a Josh Chan-related scheme, and immediately separate themselves from the drama, bonding over fitness talk. Some time later, feeling lonely and out of sorts while his daughter is away, Darryl throws a party for Josh and some of his friends. After staying to help him clean up, Josh kisses Darryl goodbye, igniting a chain reaction of self-discovery. He finds out Josh is gay and that Josh had assumed he was gay (he picked up “the gay vibe”), but Darryl reacts defensively, asserting that he is attracted to women, was married to a woman, and had a child with a woman. Josh assumes he’s in denial but doesn’t push it.

Still clearly unsure about whatever feelings Josh seems to have stirred within him, Darryl has a sudden realization during dance class, as he appreciatively eyes the backsides of both a man and woman in front of him: he is attracted to both! Thrilled that it all makes sense, he rushes to come out to Josh, but is nervous about embarking publicly in a same-sex relationship. Josh — who has been out since he was a tween — has no desire to hide any of his relationships from others. After wrestling with it, Darryl realizes he was wrong in trying to keep it secret, and that he is ready to be an out bisexual as he re-enters the dating pool. Over the rest of the season, they gradually become the most stable, uncomplicated relationship on the show, spending the finale together at the climactic wedding, proudly wearing matching tuxedos and seeming comfortable both with each other and with anyone else who might see them.

In the episode “Josh is Going to Hawaii!,” Darryl comes out to his staff through a Huey Lewis-inspired musical number, in what is to me one of the most important and enjoyable segments of the entire first season of this series. With candy-colored lighting, multiple popped collars, and a heaping dose of saxophone, he sings his way through the simple facts of bisexuality, the unfair stereotyping associated with it, and the excitement of coming out. With the through-line “I’m g-g-g-g-gettin’ bi,” lyrics include: “Now some may say / Are you just gay? / Why don’t you just go gay all the way? / But that’s not it / ‘Cause bi’s legit!”; “I tell you what / Being bi does not imply / That you’re a ‘player’ or a ‘slut’”; “It’s not a phase / I’m not confused / Not indecisive / I don’t have the gotta-choose blues”; and of course, the soon-to-be-classic, “It doesn’t take an intellectual / To get that I’m bisexual.”

Crazy Ex-Girlfriend

Crazy Ex-Girlfriend

Darryl dances and bounds around the meeting room as well as an imaginary stage, relieved upon having this realization about himself and gleeful about sharing it with others. The image of a bi character both confident in his identity and committed to addressing biphobic stereotypes — not to mention the incredible catchiness of the tune — is deeply satisfying. And revealing the mixture of support and disinterest from his friends and coworkers imagines a possible future where people are accepting of different sexual orientations, while not being fixated on them. As one of his staff points out, the weirdest thing about their boss coming out is that he called a meeting just to tell everyone in the office that.

Bi characters are already less common in film and television, and when they do show up, they are often predatory, overly sexualized, or “going through a phase.” In many cases, the term “bisexual” (or pansexual or any of the concept’s variants) may never even be used, erasing the identity altogether by refusing to name it. One common experience I’ve observed among many bisexual people is that the lack of media representation led to some confusion while growing up, questioning the validity of the identity, and struggling to come to terms with what it means and how it fits into the larger queer community. Can I say I’m bisexual if I’m not fully sure of my preference? If I haven’t dated anyone? If I’ve only dated one gender? If I’m in a serious male/female relationship? Could this be a phase? Do I have to pick a side?

Today, more and more visible celebrities are coming out as bi, and that’s fantastic, but it is still crucial for popular media to positively depict bi characters and give them their own stories. Crazy Ex-Girlfriend not only names it, but celebrates and nurtures it, developing Darryl’s subplot across several episodes as he moves from being in a monogamous “straight” relationship in which he was unhappy for years, to recognizing his own preferences and finding acceptance from both self and others. By the season one finale, he is even given the possibility of a happy (and adorable) ending, and I can’t wait to see where things go from here.


Alex Kittle is an artist, writer, retail buyer, and curator who lives and works in the Boston area. She is passionate about many things, including horror movies, 80s new wave, feminist art history, crossword puzzles, and science-fiction. You can find her at almost any given time of day hanging out on Twitter @alexxkittle.

Gender, Bisexuality, and ‘Cabaret’: How the Film and Play Deal with LGBTQ Identities

So were bisexual people portrayed positively? Maybe. What we have to consider in the judgment of this question is the context of both the representation of bisexuality in the script, and the way bisexuality was treated at the time the script was adapted to the screen. … After it’s all said and done, Cabaret has aged fairly well in terms of the portrayal of its LGBTQ characters.

Cabaret

This guest post written by Emily Crose appears as part of our theme week on Bisexual Representation.


I first sat down to watch the movie Cabaret when I was 17 years old. It was possibly a strange choice of movie for a supposedly straight 17-year-old boy to decide to pick up and watch one day in October, but for me it was perfectly in line with the types of movies I have always loved. Based on a Broadway musical? Check. Involves history? Check. Esoteric subject matter?… Yeah, I’d say so. With Liza Minelli playing the female lead and Bob Fosse’s direction and choreography, you’d be hard pressed to find a film more iconic and representative of the LGBTQ community, especially during the 1970s.

Adapted from the 1966 musical written by Joe Masteroff, which was based on Christopher Isherwood’s 1939 novel, Goodbye to Berlin, as well as John Van Druten’s play, I Am a Camera (1951), Cabaret tells the story of a cabaret-show style play house in the Wiemar Republic set in 1931 called the “Kit Kat Club” (no affiliation to the popular candy). It takes place in a time in Germany just before the reign of the Third Reich where sexual freedom wasn’t exactly celebrated per se, but it was tolerated.

The movie opens to a song by one of the primary characters named “Master of Ceremonies” (Joel Grey) or “Emcee” who hosts the show every night. He sings a song titled “Willkommen” as the various members of the show dance around him, the piano and wind band playing raucously nearby. Emcee says to the crowd, “Leave your troubles outside! So life is disappointing? Forget it! In here, life is beautiful, the girls are beautiful, even the orchestra is beautiful!” Indeed, inside the cabaret, everyone is beautiful.

Cabaret

As soon as the opening credits are through, one of the first characters we see on-screen is someone with a non-binary gender presentation. This character, who we never see again in the film, is perfect foreshadowing for the journey that the audience will take as we make our way through the plot. Not 5 minutes into the movie, we get a hint of the sexual tension that is about to unfold as Emcee explains to his audience that every girl in his cabaret is a virgin (And if you don’t believe him, you can “ask [them]!”).

Despite the director’s attention paid to Emcee at the beginning of the movie, the body of the plot revolves around an American living in Germany who works at the cabaret — Sally Bowles (Liza Minelli) as she manages a romantic triangle opposite Brian Roberts (Michael York) and Maximilian von Heune (Helmut Griem).

In one scene, Sally puts on a record and throws herself onto the bed with Brian, asking him if her body “drives [him] wild with desire.” His tepid response leads her to ask him if he even sleeps with girls. Brian recounts his “disastrous” sex life with women claiming ambiguously that his success (or lack thereof) with women has led to his apparent celibacy. The scene ends with Sally and Brian agreeing to be friends, but an odd sexual tension remains.

Cabaret

As the film goes on, the relationship between Sally and Brian continues at a distance until Sally gets a rejection telegram wherein she questions her value. It is there, sobbing and at her lowest point that we’ve seen her so far in the movie, that Brian and Sally finally have sex.

There’s something hanging over the plot though. Sally’s promiscuity hasn’t conspicuously ended Brian’s self-imposed sexual “dry-spell.” There’s much more to the nature of their relationship together and to their sexual peers both male and female, but the full details of both of their sexual preferences is still ambiguous to us.

Enter Maximilian.

The first scene we see with Brian and Maximilian overflows with jealousy as Max boasts about his status as a Baron. It’s clear that Brian does not want Sally involved with Max, but in the very next scene when Max walks into the bedroom where Sally and Brian are sleeping holding three champagne glasses (after what looks like an absolutely exhausting night) we see the first hint of what just might become a polyamorous situation between the three of them.

Max, who clearly has money, continues to flaunt his wealth. He buys fancy presents for both Sally and Brian and takes both of them to expensive dinners. We as an audience are left wondering if Max is exercising some form of dominance over Brian by making him some sort of cuckolded third wheel, or if maybe Max’s intention isn’t to humiliate Brian, but to date both of them instead. It is amidst these questions that the film jumps into my favorite song from the show, “Two Ladies.”

“Two Ladies” is sung by Emcee, who explains how his polyamorous relationship with his two women works. As the song goes, there are two ladies, but Emcee is “the only man (ja!)” The song in the film touches on the nature of what we can easily assume is a bisexual relationship between both women as they all sleep together. There’s even a lyric about them switching partners “daily, to play as [we] please.”

Now at this point in the review, I have to point out an important distinction between the film version of Cabaret and some stage performances of the show.

Cabaret

Throughout the 1972 film version, the gender variant characters were dealt with in the same way that trans people have been for decades  —  as the butt of cheap jokes. The one named trans woman, “Elka” was used as the target of comic relief in the two scenes that she appears in. In one scene, Brian uses a men’s room urinal at the Kit Kat Club when Elka walks in and stands next to him to his great surprise, and I assume to the amusement of the audience. In a second scene, she acts as a stand-in for Sally as Sally tells an unwanted suitor that she “has the tiniest touch of syphilis.” Then when talking to Brian later adds, “…but wait ‘till he gets a load of what ole’ Elky’s got!” These elements don’t well respect the identities of the characters they are meant to represent, and ultimately stand as the one major criticism I have of the film overall.

While this bit of tired comic relief hasn’t aged well at all, the on-stage versions of Cabaret go a step further in dealing with trans identities. In some versions of the show, one of the aforementioned “two ladies” is through visual and auditory implication, a transgender woman.

In one revival showing in 1994 starring Alan Cumming as Emcee, one of the women adopts a deeper voice implying her background as a trans woman, while another performance starring Michael C. Hall as Emcee shows a man in drag as one of the two ladies. While it’s not a flattering representation of trans women, (read: flat-out awful) it does add an additional level of identity complexity to the relationship of Emcee and his ladies, even if the application of that concept is transphobic under scrutiny. But I digress… back to the film review.

Cabaret

As the film continues, we can see that Brian, Max, and Sally are the poster children for the Bohemian lifestyle. They drink, they smoke, they attend the cabaret, and the more we see Max and Brian together, the more we wonder what’s happening between the two of them. In the beginning, Brian is portrayed as a naive wallflower whose only interaction to the outrageous life in the cabaret is through Sally. Later on though, Sally and Max play the role of ‘the corrupters’ who expose Brian to their concept of free love and excitement. However, it’s not until a party at Max’s estate that we start to get much more direct information to help us understand what Max has in mind for Sally and Brian.

As the Nazis begin to be more visible in the movie, the tension between the three main characters starts to rise with them. Brian’s irritation with Sally’s free-spirited lifestyle piques when she proclaims, “You can’t stand Maximillian because he’s everything that you’re not! He’s rich, and he knows about life!”

“Oh, screw Maximillian!” Brian says angrily, to which Sally responds curtly, “I do.” In a moment of pure bisexual ecstasy Brian glibly retorts, “So do I.” BoomThe mystery is solved. The bisexual love triangle is finally complete, but alas, the revelation of this important detail is short lived. Max leaves Sally and Brian both. He leaves them with 300 Deutsche Marks, a pregnant Sally, and the broken remnants of the love they each had for each other for Brian and Sally to begin to rebuild. We wonder how Brian and Sally will fare with the burgeoning Third Reich approaching, but we can safely assume that the answer to that question is that they probably won’t do great.

So were bisexual people portrayed positively? Maybe.

What we have to consider in the judgment of this question is the context of both the representation of bisexuality in the script, and the way bisexuality was treated at the time the script was adapted to the screen.

Sure, the scene where Brian declares that he is also having sex with Max was handled with a certain amount of requisite gravitas; in retrospect, probably a bit too much gravitas. The face of stunned Sally Bowles after she hears him speak the words works as a gimmick; a cheapened shock value to the audience for dramatic effect that works in the same way that Elka and Brian’s bathroom scene was meant to evoke laughter. It was meant to give the movie an edge. On one hand, Brian’s official coming out to the audience can be construed as a moment without much depth. On the other hand, that edge that his coming out has still exists even in modern screenings of the movie.

We know Brian’s heterosexuality is in question, and we know through early dialogue that Brian is possibly (probably) attracted to men in some way, but the fact that he loved Max in the same way Sally did is a plot twist that would likely be surprising regardless of the gender of Brian’s character.

After it’s all said and done, Cabaret has aged fairly well in terms of the portrayal of its LGBTQ characters. The way the script handles bi/homo/hetero sexuality is respectful, especially for a movie where the concept is so central. Despite my concerns about the script’s treatment of trans identities, I do like Cabaret. I liked it the first time I saw it, and that attraction to the play and movie persists with me today. There’s a good reason why people love Cabaret, but for the faults we see with our modern eyes, an updated version of Cabaret is in order be it on-screen or on-stage.

Cabaret


Emily Crose is a 30-year-old trans woman with a wife and two kids. Her favorite movie is and always will be Ghostbusters (1984). By day she is a Baroness of binary black magic, by night a voracious writer of her own self-important opinions. She loves movies, musicals, baking, and mint tea.

“Don’t You Want Your Girl Hot?”: Bisexual Representation in ‘Rent’

Maureen is worth a second look, particularly at a time in which bisexual women and lesbians are routinely ignored, left out, and killed in television and film. … ‘Rent’ repeatedly comments on Maureen’s apparently untamed sexuality. In “Tango: Maureen,” Joanne wonders if Maureen became involved with other men while dating Mark. Mark confirms these suspicions and Joanne also admits that Maureen cheated on her, suggesting that one person cannot satisfy Maureen’s sexual appetite — a common myth about bisexual people is that they cannot be monogamous.

Rent

This guest post written by Olivia Edmunds-Diez appears as part of our theme week on Bisexual Representation.


As an avid musical theatre fan, Rent is certainly in my top ten favorite musicals. I was first exposed to the musical through the 2005 film of the same name. From there, I quickly fell in love with the film’s soundtrack and then progressed to the original Broadway cast recording. The show’s music is infectious through its use of rock and more traditional Broadway stylings. I also adored the show’s diversity and attempts to tackle such controversial topics as HIV/AIDS, sexuality, identity, and poverty. But out of all the characters, I never really cared for Maureen, the show’s singular bisexual. Looking back, I think this is largely because she is not written as sympathetic and, as a straight teenager, I found it hard to relate to her voracious sexual appetite as depicted in the show. But Maureen is worth a second look, particularly at a time in which bisexual women and lesbians are routinely ignored, left out, and killed in television and film.

It is important to acknowledge that Maureen’s race is never specified in the show. Idina Menzel, a white performer, originated the role on Broadway and also played Maureen in the film version. Productions of Rent often replicate the racial casting of the original Broadway production. Maureen’s race is worth acknowledging because, as is often the case, when race is not specified, the default is white. This could certainly be viewed as bisexual erasure, particularly when it comes to bisexual people of color. Additionally, as Maureen is the only named bisexual character in the story, the audience is left wanting for bisexuals of color. And so although Rent gets representation right in many ways, bisexuals of color attending Rent, be it the stage show or the film adaptation, will not see themselves reflected in the show or on-screen.

Rent

Rent repeatedly comments on Maureen’s apparently untamed sexuality. In “Tango: Maureen,” Joanne (Tracie Thoms) wonders if Maureen became involved with other men while dating Mark (Anthony Rapp). Mark confirms these suspicions and Joanne also admits that Maureen cheated on her, suggesting that one person cannot satisfy Maureen’s sexual appetite — a common myth about bisexual people is that they cannot be monogamous. Later at their engagement party, Maureen and Joanne begin fighting about Joanne’s insecurities about their relationship, namely that Maureen was “promiscuous.” Naturally, this fight breaks out into song, but not before Joanne protests, “You were flirting with a woman in rubber,” prompting Maureen to shout, “There will always be women in rubber flirting with me!” Maureen reassures Joanne, singing, “You are the one I choose / Folks would kill to fill your shoes.” None of the characters seem to accept Maureen’s testimony, possibly because they assume she is unable to commit to any one person given her penchant for any and all persons. At the conclusion of “Take Me or Leave Me,” both women storm off, suggesting that their relationship is over. It is worth noting that in the film, we never officially learn if Maureen and Joanne reconnect and become a couple again. In the stage show, we see the duo reconnect shortly after in the song “Without You.”

The song “Tango: Maureen” bears further discussion. Maureen has no lines in the song that bears her name, suggesting that she is not allowed or able to discuss her own feelings and/or actions. With lyrics such as, “Feel like going insane? / Got a fire in your brain? / And you’re thinking of drinking gasoline?” referring to being in a relationship with Maureen, it is clear that Maureen is less than wonderful in a relationship. In the film, an elaborate dance sequence is inserted, with dozens of couples performing the tango, dressed in all black. All of the couples are paired heterosexually, which is curious for a film about LGBTQ characters. Additionally, Maureen is the only character dressed in red, quite obviously cuing to the audience that she is sexual, dangerous, and on the prowl. One difference between the stage show and the film is Maureen’s visual sexual relationships with men. The stage show does not show the audience any instances of Maureen and a man being intimate. But during the song “Tango: Maureen” in the film, the audience briefly sees Maureen kiss both a man and a woman before the trio walks off arm-in-arm. Whether this is to more overtly inform the audience that Maureen is bisexual or to affirm her enthusiasm for any kind of sexual activity, the audience will never know.

Rent

There are multiple jokes about Maureen’s new partner, Joanne. In the first of the show’s many overheard voicemails, Mark’s mom calls to wish him a Merry Christmas. But she ends with: “Oh, and Mark! We’re sorry to hear that Maureen dumped you. I say, ‘C’est la vie.’ So let her be a lesbian! There are other fishies in the sea. Love, mom!” Later that same day, Mark and Roger catch up with their friend, Benny, whom they haven’t seen in awhile. Benny asks if Mark and Maureen are still dating, and the following exchange occurs: “She’s got a new man?” “Well, no.” “What’s his name?” “Joanne.” Whether onstage or screen, these moments are played for laughs. We’re left feeling sorry for Mark for one of two reasons: either he couldn’t satisfy his woman so she became a lesbian, or Mark was so unaware he didn’t know he was dating a lesbian. Either way, these jokes inform the audience that Maureen is a lesbian, not bisexual.

It is worth emphasizing that Maureen is never labelled as bisexual throughout the show or film. Not only do the characters never refer to Maureen as bisexual, but Maureen herself does not give her sexual orientation a name. And this fact is poignant. Considering that it is only audiences and fans of the show/film that give Maureen this label, what happens when labels are applied to other people? Do the show and film contribute to bi erasure? Would Maureen even choose the bisexual label? Or might she opt for queer, questioning, pansexual, or lesbian? Might she eschew labels altogether? Perhaps we should take Maureen’s own words, and simply “take me for what I am.”


Olivia Edmunds-Diez is a Northwestern graduate, where she studied theatre and gender and sexuality studies. Her current favorite finds are The Two Faces of January, the Little Women cast recording, and The Blind Assassin. You can follow her on Instagram, Twitter, and Tumblr.

Sisters in ‘Downton Abbey’ and ‘Fiddler on the Roof’ and the Slow March Toward Equality

The narratives surrounding the television series ‘Downton Abbey’ and the musical film ‘Fiddler on the Roof’ are about change and more specifically, how the daughters within both families represent the small, but important contributions that these characters make to modern feminist narratives. … In both ‘Downton Abbey’ and ‘Fiddler on the Roof,’ each trio of sisters takes a step in determining her own fate.

'Downton Abbey'Fiddler on the Roof

This guest post written by Adina Bernstein appears as part of our theme week on Sisterhood. | Spoilers ahead.


Progression, especially for women, is often a slow march toward equality. It’s easy for this generation of women to take for granted some of the rights we have: K-12 education, the opportunities for a fulfilling career, and — for cis straight people — the right to marry or not marry and choose a spouse. Although we still have a long way to go as we still contend with barriers to justice, such as abortion restrictions, wage inequality, police brutality, lack of healthcare for trans people, and only last year did the government pass nationwide marriage equality for same-sex couples.

While many modern women don’t think twice about some of these rights, there was a time in history, not too long ago, when these questions coming from women were unthinkable. Women were supposed to marry by a certain age, bring children (and by children, I mean boys) into the world, take care of the home, and ensure that their husband was happy; that was the extent of a woman’s life (except for poor women and women of color who worked outside the home).

Modern feminism often refers to the term “glass ceiling,” which represents the barriers and boundaries that have prohibited women (as well as people of color, LGBTQ people, and people with disabilities) from advancing in their careers the same as men have. It’s sometimes easier to see the larger cracks in the glass ceiling (represented by Hillary Clinton accepting the Democratic nomination for President, for example). But while we cheer on the larger victories, we must also pay attention to the smaller achievements as well.

In the early 20th century, some women may have been content to live out the lives pre-planned for them, fulfilling the traditional roles of marriage and motherhood. But some women did question if it was right or fair that a woman was forced to live a life with rigid parameters while her husband or brother was given freedoms that seemed out of reach.

'Downton Abbey''Fiddler on the Roof'

The storylines and themes in the television series Downton Abbey and the musical film Fiddler on the Roof are about change and more specifically, how the daughters within both families represent the small, but important contributions that these characters make to modern feminist narratives.

Downton Abbey starts in 1912 in an aristocratic estate in Yorkshire, England. Robert Crawley (Hugh Bonneville), the Earl of Grantham and his American-born wife, Cora (Elizabeth McGovern), the Countess of Grantham, have three daughters: Mary, Edith, and Sybil. As they have no son, this poses a problem as the title and Robert’s fortune will not pass to his daughters. An unbreakable entail was set up years ago. Without a son, the title of the Earl of Grantham and the money tied to the estate must go to the closest male relative. Robert’s cousin and heir is dead, he is among those who did not survive the sinking of the Titanic. The closest living male relative is a distant cousin, Matthew Crawley (Dan Stevens), a middle-class lawyer who is shocked to find out that he will one day be a member of the aristocracy.

Adapted from the Broadway musical, Fiddler on the Roof is set in 1905 during the Russian Empire. Tevye (Chaim Topol), a poor Jewish milkman and his wife, Golde (Norma Crane), have five daughters — three of whom push the narrative forward: Tzeitel, Hodel, and Chava — and no sons. In that community at that time, young people did not choose their spouse. A match was arranged by the town matchmaker and if the marriage was agreeable to the parents (and the father, specifically), then the couple would wed. Tevye agreed to betroth his eldest daughter, Tzeitel (Rosalind Harris) to the town butcher, Lazar Wolf (Paul Mann). But there is a major hitch to the plan: Tzeitel wants to marry her childhood sweetheart, Motel (Leonard Frey), the tailor.

In both Downton Abbey and Fiddler on the Roof, each trio of sisters takes a step in determining her own fate. While the decisions these girls make may seem innocuous, these steps represent the larger cultural and societal fate that will impact future generations of women.

'Downton Abbey' Mary'Fiddler on the Roof' Tzeitel

Mary/Tzeitel: At the outset of both stories, the eldest of the sisters know what their lives will look like: marry, have children, and generally live out the same lives that their mothers and grandmothers lived. Mary (Michelle Dockery) understands her status and value as an earl’s daughter, but as she’s stubborn and opinionated, she will not take the first man that comes her way. Mary initially rejects Matthew as an interloper when he is announced as her father’s new heir; it’s not the greatest start to what would become one of the great TV relationships of this era. But over time, Mary Crawley will prove herself to be much more capable than just being an earl’s daughter, as she eventually becomes a widow, a single mother, and a savvy agent of the estate.

Tzeitel is very much her mother’s daughter. Strong, outspoken, and very smart, she makes the world-shattering decision to ask her father for permission to marry Motel; not an easy feat in that community and time period. Her father balks, knowing that not only does her request break with tradition, but also fractures the verbal contract he already made with the much older butcher. Tevye finally agrees, putting his daughter’s happiness above the accepted practice of allowing the matchmaker to present a future spouse to the young person’s parents. Not only do Tzeitel’s actions pave the way for her sister’s choices, but they also encourage her future husband to achieve his goals.

'Downton Abbey' Edith'Fiddler on the Roof' Hodel

Edith/Hodel: Lady Edith (Laura Carmichael) is the classic middle child and creator Julian Fellowes’ answer to Jan Brady. Caught in between her beautiful elder sister and her independent younger sister, Edith starts out the series as a mean spirited, angry young woman, especially towards Mary as the two share a rivalry. She begins to find her purpose at the beginning of season two during the changes that World War I brings. After Edith is dumped at the alter by her fiancé, she finds her purpose in life in unconventional ways that would have been unthinkable for the daughter of the aristocracy a generation before. She becomes a journalist and a magazine editor. She starts a romantic relationship with her editor Michael Gregson (Charles Edwards), becoming pregnant. After finding out that Michael is dead and after many emotional hurdles, she eventually makes the decision to openly raise her child. Edith finally finds marital happiness with Bertie Pelham (Harry Hadden-Paton), the newly titled Marquess of Hexham. Surprising everyone, including herself, Edith now ranks above her father and her entire family in terms of aristocratic rank and social standing.

While Hodel (Michele Marsh) is not writer Sholem Aleichem’s answer to Jan Brady, Hodel experiences a similarly unconventional story arc to Edith. Like her older sister, Hodel knows that she must marry. Her choice of husband in the beginning of the film, if she had one, is the rabbi’s son. But like any society, there is a social hierarchy. The daughter of a poor milkman is unlikely to marry the rabbi’s son. Hodel will marry Perchik (Michael Glaser), a traveling teacher with radical ideas that do not sit well with the denizens of Anatevka. When Perchik is arrested in Kiev at a protest and sent to Siberia, Hodel makes the unconventional decision to follow her fiancé to Sibera. Traveling alone to meet up with her fiancé, Hodel makes the brave choice to leave her family and everything she knows behind, not knowing when she will see them again.

'Downton Abbey' Sybil'Fiddler on the Roof' Chava

Sybil/Chava: If one were to look the definition of rebellious in the dictionary, one might see a picture of Lady Sybil Crawley (Jessica Brown Findlay). The youngest of Robert and Cora’s three daughters, Sybil not only gets along with her two older sisters due to her kind spirit, but she’s also unafraid to step away from a traditional life. Whether she attends dinner wearing blue harem pants or her passionate political activism, she charts her own course. While attending a political rally, Sybil is knocked unconscious during a riot. Finally, she shocks her family with her marriage to Irish socialist chauffeur, Tom Branson (Allen Leech). Sybil dies in season three, leaving a grieving husband, a newborn daughter who would never know her mother, and a devastated family. In the end, Sybil’s legacy of love, independence, and acceptance that change was a good thing would forever leave a mark on her family.

If Tzeitel and Hodel made small steps outside of a traditional life, Chava (Neva Small) jumped across the boundary of tradition. Her marriage to Fyedka (Raymond Lovelock), a Christian boy, breaks all the rules. By marrying out of her faith and converting to her husband’s religion, she does not even think twice about asking for permission the way her elder sisters had; she just goes for it by eloping. Her parents and her father especially, are extremely upset and Tevye disowns her. In the end, Chava and Fyedka receive a reluctant blessing from Tevye as the Jewish denizens of Anatevka are forced out of their homes.

Looking back, the cracks in the glass ceiling that these women made may seem small and insignificant, but in the long run, the cracks are substantial. This generation, the great-granddaughters of the young women who lived in that era, owe a huge debt to our great-grandmothers who lived in the early 1900s. Without the bold and unconventional choices they made, we would not have the rights and opportunities that many of us take for granted today.


Adina Bernstein is a Brooklyn-born and raised writer who finds pleasure and release in writing. You can find her on Twitter @Writergurlny and on her blog at writergurlny.wordpress.com

“A Truth Universally Acknowledged”: The Importance of the Bennet Sisters Now

But more and more it seems you can judge the quality of modern adaptations on how the filmmakers view Lizzie in relation to her sisters. Even though the representation of women has greatly expanded since Austen’s time, a story that revolves mostly around sisterly relationships remains rare, which makes it even more vital. And while it is true that Austen’s romance has a timeless quality that makes it popular, the narrative of sisterly love remains transcendent.

Pride and Prejudice adaptations

This guest post written by Maddie Webb appears as part of our theme week on Sisterhood.


The Bennet sisters are some of the most enduring characters in fiction and Pride and Prejudice remains a beloved story. Can the modern incarnations of Lizzie, Jane, Lydia, Kitty, and Mary explain why people keep falling in love with their story?

Pride and Prejudice, for most people in popular culture, is seen as an early example of the “rom-com” genre. Boy meets girl, boy and girl hate each other, but despite their clashing personalities, they grow, develop and eventually, inevitably, fall in love. But Pride and Prejudice is more than just a first in its genre; it’s also one of the most adapted, readapted, spun off, and reworked pieces of fiction. I think the reason for that isn’t about how hunky Darcy and Wickham are or even the comic stylings of Mrs Bennet; I think it’s because of the Bennet sisters.

Like most of Jane Austen’s work, there is so much more going on under the surface and it’s easy to miss how her plots or characters often subvert societal norms, which is part of the reason her stories endure. In the case of Pride and Prejudice, this subversion comes in the form of the Bennet sisters, who are at once relatable and thoroughly atypical female characters in Regency fiction. Even within the confines of the 19th century, the Bennet sisters, for better and worse, have agency and personality coming out their ears. Though I didn’t watch every single adaptation of Austen’s classic (you’ll have to forgive me but my spare time is not that abundant), the most successful ones choose to make Lizzie’s happiness as dependent on her relationship with her sisters as her relationship with Darcy.

The Lizzie Bennet Diaries

Three modern versions of Pride and Prejudice I did watch recently are Bride and Prejudice, the web series The Lizzie Bennet Diaries and Pride and Prejudice and Zombies — all of which I can recommend for different reasons, but all ground the heart of the narrative in the Bennet sisters’ bond. My personal favorite retelling of the Elizabeth Bennet story is The Lizzie Bennet Diaries, an Emmy-winning web series that reimagines Lizzie as a grad student who starts a video series while studying mass communication. Although only two of the sisters, Jane and Lydia, make the cut for this adaptation (there is a cousin Mary and a cat replaces Kitty), they are unquestionably more important to Lizzie than her love life, a good thing considering Darcy doesn’t even appear in person until episode 50. The vlogging format of the show gives the story enough room to fully flesh out both Jane and Lydia and shifts large amounts of Lizzie’s character development onto her relationships with her sisters. Lydia even gets her own spin-off series, which in her own words is “totes adorbs.”

I also enjoy Bride and Prejudice, the 2004 Bollywood film, mostly because of some killer musical numbers, but also because of the Bakshi sisters’ camaraderie. Our Elizabeth character, here called Lalita Bakshi, has three sisters, only losing Kitty in the translation (poor Kitty). Having the concept of arranged marriages still in place within the culture makes it a modernization that maintains more of the plot than The Lizzie Bennet Diaries. But again the alterations made to the story are largely to do with the sisters. The frame of the plot is largely the same, but the chemistry, affection, and bickering between the women feels honest and refreshing; it’s given more screen-time than the period adaptations. Bollywood and Regency fiction may not seem like a natural pairing, but keeping the family dynamic central is key to why this version is so charming.

Pride and Prejudice and Zombies may be ridiculous but it’s both a period film and an action movie, making it my kind of ridiculous. Even though this is still technically a period piece it has much in common with the other modern spins on the story. The action in Pride and Prejudice and Zombies is focused on the power of the sisters as a team and helps develop their characters. The opening fight scene — when the girls slaughter the zombie hoards — is a moment where an otherwise muddled film comes alive, while the training scenes are used to smuggle in some sister bonding time, over their love lives. Considering how easily this could have ended up as the period version of Sucker Punch, the Bennet sisters ensure that the film, while occasionally brainless, is never heartless.

Pride and Prejudice and Zombies

Another key point of change in these versions is how the Wickham/Lydia plot is handled. I can only speak for myself, but in the book, Lydia’s behavior for me is just another annoying inconvenience in the path of Lizzie and Darcy’s happiness. In the original, the issue of Lydia running off isn’t about what will happen when Wickham abandons her, but more that it’ll ruin the family’s standing in society (read: Lizzie and Jane, the characters we actually care about). However, placed in a modern context, the Wickham/Lydia plot reads more like an abuse story. She is still young, naïve, and silly but crucially, not vilified because of it. As a result of this subtle but important distinction, Wickham is elevated from cad to full on monster. Hell, in Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, he literally locks Lydia up and is unmasked as the cause of the zombie apocalypse. It’s another element of this version that is a bit ridiculous, but again, no one can accuse Pride and Prejudice and Zombies of being subtle.

The Lizzie Bennet Diaries variation on Wickham, while more restrained, is equally as menacing and monstrous. Over the course of the series, a subplot of party girl Lydia becoming isolated from her family slowly unravels. Now career women, Jane and Lizzie are too busy for their little sister, with the latter dismissing her as a “stupid whorey slut” in the second episode. This leads her to be emotionally manipulated by Wickham, which we get to see painfully play out in her own spin-off series. The episode in which Lizzie confronts her and Lydia realizes Wickham’s true nature, is devastating. Not because it messes with Lizzie’s happiness, but because we truly care about Lydia. Creators Hank Green and Bernie Su have spoken at length about the importance of their alterations to Lydia’s story, resulting in a heartbreaking and insightful portrayal of abuse, within a light comedy series.

Bride and Prejudice

A similar situation unfolds in Bride and Prejudice, perhaps to a more satisfying conclusion since we get to see both Bakshi girls slap Wickham before walking out hand in hand. It’s only fitting that, in each of these adaptations Lydia is (sometimes literally) saved from Wickham and her crime of being an impressionable and impulsive teenage girl is no longer worth a life sentence. This area of the story has always left a bad taste in my mouth when it comes to the otherwise completely serviceable 2005 Joe Wright film adaptation. Despite bringing a modern filmmaking sensibility to the rest of the narrative, Lydia is still just another silly, inconvenient hurdle on Lizzie’s path to happiness, a real wasted opportunity to show how crap it was being a woman in Regency England.

People love Pride and Prejudice for all sorts of reasons: for example, my mother is rather attached to Colin Firth’s Darcy. But more and more it seems you can judge the quality of modern adaptations on how the filmmakers view Lizzie in relation to her sisters. Even though the representation of women has greatly expanded since Austen’s time, a story that revolves mostly around sisterly relationships remains rare, which makes it even more vital. And while it is true that Austen’s romance has a timeless quality that makes it popular, the narrative of sisterly love remains transcendent.


See also at Bitch Flicks: How BBC’s ‘Pride and Prejudice’ Illustrates Why The Regency Period Sucked For WomenComparing Two Versions of ‘Pride and Prejudice’“We’re Not So Different”: Tradition, Culture, and Falling in Love in ‘Bride & Prejudice’5 Reasons You Should Be Watching ‘The Lizzie Bennet Diaries’


Recommended Reading: Lizzie Bennett Diaries #2 by Hank Green (on the Lydia Bennet story) 


Maddie Webb is a student currently studying Biology in London. If she doesn’t end up becoming a mad scientist, her goal is to write about science and the ladies kicking ass in STEM fields. In the meantime, you can find her on Twitter at @maddiefallsover.

Domesticating the Old West: Feminism and ‘The Harvey Girls’

In a world commonly presented as male dominated, ‘The Harvey Girls’ gives us a portrait of the Old West corralled by women; where women aren’t roped into marriage, take on male-centric jobs, run restaurants, and become friendly with their enemies. Though the 1940s Hollywood veneer of breeziness remains, ‘The Harvey Girls’ uses its flippant presentation to give a deeply feminist examination of how women worked and struggled to carve out a piece of the West on their own terms.

The Harvey Girls

This is a guest post written by Kristen Lopez.


If history and Hollywood have taught us anything it is that the West was conquered by courageous cowboys on horseback who beat the “savages” out of the hills in a bid for MAN-ifest Destiny. This point has been reiterated endlessly by American cinema who put manly men like John Wayne, Randolph Scott, and Errol Flynn in the saddle and told audiences women-folk were there for local color or nursing but, no matter what, were always kept out of site. In this brave new world women are simply passengers… or are they?

Best known for directing bubblegum teen fare like Bye Bye Birdie (1963) and Viva Las Vegas (1964), director George Sidney and a crew of at least six credited writers crafted a feminist look at the old West in 1946 with The Harvey Girls, a tale of women, both good and bad, that extends beyond trite definitions and turns into a poignant musical of female friendship, uncompromising personalities, and a world where men get in the way of progress.

Set in the 1890s, the “Harvey Girls” of the title are waitresses at a burgeoning restaurant chain popping up along the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe train route. The selected girls are all meant to espouse “clean living,” displaying a patch of innocence in the rambunctious West. Heading to the small town of Sandrock are a new crop of waitresses, and Susan Bradley (Judy Garland), a young woman who’s answered a “lonely hearts” ad and hopes to marry her unseen lover in town.

The film immediately presents us with a group of women setting out to create their own futures. The Harvey Girls themselves seek nothing more than a job and a means of seeing the world, many leaving towns where they were told their looks are their only worth and marriage is their end goal.

The Harvey Girls 3

The town of Sandrock is presented as a stereotypical lawless society where the men control commerce, religion, and safety. Yet their control is little more than a façade for their licentiousness. The town hasn’t progressed short of creating a saloon, and the men in charge are seemingly content with a world of duels, gunfights, and general primitivism. It isn’t until the Harvey restaurant opens that a semblance of domesticity arrives.

However, the term domesticity isn’t derogatorily applied here. Because the women aren’t on the hunt for men, their presence brings with it progress; the local priest believes he can reopen the church, the saloon is shown for the money trap that it is, etc. Women are even presented in male centric jobs; Alma from Ohio (Virignia O’Brien) shows her flair at shoeing horses better than the man in the position, singing and dancing while doing it. Even the Harvey House, with its male identification in the title, is saved through Susan’s dominance — and six guns – as she gets back the restaurant’s stolen meat on opening day.

Ned Trent (John Hodiak), the local saloon owner, starts out as a mild-mannered villain, but becomes an ally to Susan and the women in the Harvey House. Even then, though, his role is limited to shooting snakes and flashing muscle. It is the women’s ingenuity and interest in his proffered help that brings him into the fold; Trent is a man controlled, not the ruler.

It is within the saloon that The Harvey Girls’ true feministic impulses present themselves. The clean-cut Harvey Girls, with Susan as their leader, are contrasted with the garish, sexualized saloon girls led by Em (Angela Lansbury). Though Em and Susan are both in love with Ned, it is only a surface issue since Em refuses to compromise her ideals to attract Ned. Instead, she simply reiterates to Susan that Ned doesn’t love her.

The Harvey Girls 2

The male-centric audience are presented with the Madonna and the whore through Susan and Em, but the focal point is firmly on both women’s presentation of their desires, personalities, and dreams in life. Em understands the simplistic men in Sandrock see the Harvey Girls as clean and pure, but Em and her girls are never presented as immoral as the men in the town. The audience, and the men, are tame in their lust for Em and her ladies – and there’s no implication of prostitution outside of imagination – but it is evident Susan and the other Harvey ladies represent clean living.  Short of their wardrobes – the loud, thigh revealing costumes of the saloon versus the floor-length, black and white dresses of the Harvey House – the audience is left to interpret and give Em and her ladies a darker past than they actually have.

This all comes to the fore in the film’s climax. Em and her ladies decide to blitz out for greener pastures, leaving Sandrock and its newly staid atmosphere to the Harvey House. The women aren’t run out on a rail, but it is obvious Em fancies herself bigger than the small confines of Sandrock and her financial livelihood is at stake with the conversion of the saloon. Em is still allowed to have her dreams and pursue them without a man by her side. In fact, it is Em who, despite the fights and pettiness between both women, tells Susan that Ned adores her (Susan).

This moment is a breakthrough, particularly for a film mired in post-WWII images of Rosie the Riveter. Em, a character who has done little good in the movie, is allowed to have a moment of support and friendship with a female rival, a rival for a man no less. Em doesn’t end the movie with a newfound change of heart or a renunciation of her wicked ways. In fact, we’re given a glimpse into Em’s personality that the town of Sandrock and its male dominated chauvinism, has forced Em to hide. Though Susan is the film’s heroine, it is Em who is the truly fascinating character within The Harvey Girls; a woman with aspirations and flaws who still succeeds on her own terms and isn’t condemned by others, but, in fact, helps those different from her (like Susan) find their way.

Em and all the women in The Harvey Girls are not dragged into marriage. Marriage is joked about — “I sent my picture into one of those Lonely Hearts Clubs and they sent it back, saying, ‘We’re not THAT lonely” — but never stated as awaiting them at the train station. If anything, the men of Sandrock anticipate the women’s arrival with their own matrimonial intentions.

The Harvey Girls 5

The Harvey Girls 4

Upon arrival, Susan meets her intended, H.H. Hartsey (Chill Wills), only to discover he’s an “old coot.” Where the marriage plot usually becomes the climax, here it is the catalyst for Susan’s self-discovery. H.H. is a decent man living in an immoral town and is unwilling to marry Susan despite her beauty because the two aren’t compatible. Hartsey is the stereotypical cowboy, grizzled with an “aw, shucks” attitude shown for what it is, sweet but unattractive. We’re presented with the non-John Wayne version of the cowboy. The cowboys that existed, but weren’t Hollywood leading men. Though both characters are polite, it’s evident Sandrock isn’t interested in being a fantasy town, and both characters realize they’re unsuited for each other.

Coupled with the women’s seeming disinterest in it, marriage in The Harvey Girls is never brought up again within this context. Characters fall in love, but it’s never stated they’ll put a ring on it or that they’ll stay together past the end credits, though it is heavily implied due to its Hollywood tone. Marriage is presented as an open door, allowing Susan to become a Harvey Girl and gain her independence.

In a world commonly presented as male dominated, The Harvey Girls gives us a portrait of the Old West corralled by women; where women aren’t roped into marriage, take on male-centric jobs, run restaurants, and become friendly with their enemies. Though the 1940s Hollywood veneer of breeziness remains, The Harvey Girls uses its flippant presentation to give a deeply feminist examination of how women worked and struggled to carve out a piece of the West on their own terms.


Kristen Lopez is a freelance writer whose work has appeared on Film School Rejects, The Playlist, Awards Circuit, and Cinema Sentries. She is currently the Associate Editor at ClassicFlix and the owner of the classic film site, Journeys in Classic Film.

Colonialism in ‘The King and I’ and Related Media

‘The King and I’ promotes colonialist and “white savior” attitudes. … Adding romantic interest to the story, showing King Mongkut as exceedingly admiring of Anna and portraying her influence in the court as more than it was, paints Western values and morals as superior to others, justifying colonialism by making it seem as though Eastern countries “need” the West.

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Written by Jackson Adler as part of our theme week on Interracial Relationships.


“Is the King and I racist, and is it time it was put to rest?” [sic] asks Dee Jefferson of The Sydney Morning Herald. While his article is inconclusive, I strongly believe that the Rodgers and Hammerstein musical as it exists now, and other Western media telling the same story, should be “put to rest.” The way that the story of Anna Leonowens teaching at the court of King Mongkut of Siam (now Thailand) in the mid 19th century is told in the West needs to be completely redone if it is to be told, because the way it is presented is both inaccurate and harmful. There is a reason The King and I (staged on Broadway in 1951 and adapted for film in 1956) and many other adaptations of the same story such as Anna and the King of Siam (1946) and Anna and the King (1999) either are or were banned in Thailand – because they are extremely insensitive to Thailand’s history and culture, and promote colonialist and “white savior” attitudes.

To say that The King and I and related media is racist is missing the point. This is because racism is a product of colonialism, often being an afterthought justification for stealing and controlling another peoples’ wealth, labor, and resources, or as a propagandist rallying cry to begin the colonization of another people and their land. Anna Leonowens is painted as the “white savior” in these adaptations, and shown inaccurately as the main influence behind the reforms implemented by Mongkut and his son Chulalongkorn.

Though Mongkut and Leonowens did respect one another and worked closely, a romance between them does not seem to have existed, and the invention of it in the media is a tool to better depict Leonowens “civilizing” Mongkut to the extent that he might be a “gentleman” and a romantic interest – albeit in a bittersweet “it would never work” way. Interracial relationships (however problematically written) are themes in Rodgers and Hammerstein’s work, such as in South Pacific, as interracial marriage was a hot button issue at their time, not nationally legalized until 1967. Under the guise of being “progressive,” these works actually do an incredible amount of harm.

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Mongkut hired Leonowens (who was ethnically English and East Indian, but claimed to be Welsh) to teach his children “English language, science, and literature, and not for the conversion to Christianity.” He himself already knew English (and Latin) and was well versed in Western culture. The image of Mongkut in the media is a stereotypical “barbarian” and “foolish” despot, despite the efforts of talented actors such as Chow Yun-Fat and Ken Watanabe to show a complex and thoughtful human being and leader. Women’s rights were improved under his reign. For example, unlike the story of Tuptim in the musical suggests, he outlawed forced marriages and released a large number of concubines to marry whom they chose. He respected the minds and wishes of his wives. When they met, Mongkut and his family treated Leonowens with kindness and respect, while she was often rude, condescending, or sarcastic to them. She strongly believed herself superior to the Thai people due to her being (part) English and a Christian, even telling members of the royal family to their faces, “I am not like you.”

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The myth of she and Mongkut emotionally having a romance is quickly debunked due to various instances and examples of her enacting and making plain her biases and self-righteousness. One such instance was when she was asked by some female members of the royal family which prince she would find more desirable to marry were she to choose. She replied, according to her first autobiography, that they “are pagans” (Buddhist) and as such, “An English, that is a Christian, woman” such as herself “would rather be put to the torture, chained and dungeoned for life, or suffer a death the slowest and most painful you Siamese know, than be the wife of either” [sic]. The words “you Siamese” naturally show her condescending tone and attitude towards Thai people, insulting their intelligence and knowledge of the world.

Aspects of Leonowens’ autobiographies have proved to be exaggerated or fabricated, and seem to have been made to make herself look better and Mongkut look cruel. Various members of the Thai royal family, from Chulalongkorn himself to more to the present, have spoken out against both the inaccuracies in Leonowens’ works as well all media representations. One example of this is the alleged execution of Tuptim, featured in many adaptations (though she is whipped in the musical). Much of Tuptim’s story was fabricated, and she in fact was not executed, but became one of the wives of Chulalongkorn. Indeed, according to Mongkut did not believe in executions, considering them not in line with Buddhism.

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However, Western adaptations have been more than ready to depict the Thai as “barbarians” or as “foolish” and Anna as the epitome of Western graciousness and, indeed, womanhood. Adding romantic interest to the story, showing Mongkut as exceedingly admiring of Anna and portraying her influence in the court as more than it was, paints Western values and morals as superior to others, justifying colonialism by making it seem as though Eastern countries “need” the West. Of course, Anna and Mongkut never kiss and hardly ever physically show their romantic interest, as to do so would “corrupt” Anna, the white woman, and put someone “lesser than” above her due to gender norms.

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The fictionalized versions of this story are not only problematic in how they are written, but also problematic in terms of casting. As of 2014, white men are still being cast as King Mongkut, showing little has changed since Rex Harrison played the role in 1946. When an Asian man is cast, even in film adaptations, it is an actor who is not Thai, playing into the Western myth that all Asians and Asian cultures are the same. Except for Korean-American actress Anna Sanders, who played Anna on Broadway for a total of three performances in two days, the role of Leonowens has exclusively been played by white women, and often portrayed as blonde or redhead, despite the historical figure being part East Indian and having dark hair. This whitewashing is ridiculous, and shows how little white Westerners have changed in their self-righteousness and feelings of entitlement toward other lands and cultures.

All in all, the story of Anna Leonowens teaching at the Siamese court, as it has been told by Western media, remain colonialist and otherwise harmful. Even if Leonowens and Mongkut had a particularly deep and romantic relationship, which they did not, Leonowens’ white savior attitudes and Mongkut’s (historically inaccurate) verbal and physical violence would make that relationship a terribly abusive and volatile one. This would not be the kind of relationship to be valued, making even the most redeeming qualities of these adaptions problematic at best. I am not advocating that Leonowens’ and Mongkut’s stories be silenced and untold, but instead that they be told with honesty. This was a king actively working to keep his country free from colonialism, and this was a woman whose colonialist attitudes — which kept her from interacting well with those who treated her with respect — were probably due to internalized racist biases and fears regarding her East Indian heritage (a heritage she worked hard to hide). This is in fact a story that needs to be told, and hopefully many more (and more accurate) adaptations will be made in the future.


Jackson Adler is a transguy with a BA in Theatre, a Bitch Flicks staff writer, and is a writer, activist, director, teacher, dramaturge, cartoon lover, vegan boba drinker, and proud Gryffindor. His day job is at a theatre (live, not movie), and he uses a pen name as a precaution, since he’d rather not risk getting fired. He is white and middle class, and has to remember his privileges. He is also aromantic bi/pansexual, and has an Auditory Processing Disorder and a Weak Working Memory (which does not excuse when he forgets that he has lots of privileges). You can follow him on twitter at @JacksonAdler, and see more of his writing on representation and discrimination in the media at the blog The Windowsill.

No Place For Us: Interracial Relationships in ‘West Side Story’

‘West Side Story’ could be read as a warning to Latinas: stay away from white men. If María listened to her older brother, obeying his wish to keep her obedient and virginal, María would be safe and free from grief. This notion is exceedingly disappointing, especially considering that there are not many Latina main characters in Hollywood movies.

West Side Story 3

This guest post written by Olivia Edmunds-Diez appears as part of our theme week on Interracial Relationships.


I grew up watching mainstream movie musicals. From The Sound of Music to Grease, my five-year-old self’s dramatic play ranged from pretending to be a Nazi to swiveling my hips singing along to “Look At Me, I’m Sandra Dee.” Oh, the joys of blissful ignorance. But the one movie musical I was not allowed to watch as a child was West Side Story. My mother always passed it off as “too sad and too violent.” As a stereotypical first born, I knew better than to question my mother’s infinite wisdom. It wasn’t until I turned fifteen that I finally sat down to watch West Side Story, and promptly cried through the entire second half, wailing about the deaths. My mother responded with a simple, “I told you so.”

Despite my strong emotional response, I would continue to watch West Side Story over the years. It quickly became one of my favorite musicals, and I would even see it on Broadway (with my mother!) when it was revived in 2009 with Lin Manuel-Miranda adding Spanish to both the book and lyrics. It is unsurprising that I would love this musical so much, for as a Latina theatre major, how could I resist the infectious score, vibrant costumes, and astounding choreography? But it wasn’t until college that I really started to look at the musical’s content, and quickly grew displeased with what I found. My favorite colorful musical about people who looked like me became a musical about racism, sexism, and colonialism.The love story between Tony and María, that I used to admire so, became depressing. After all, María’s life goes downhill once she meets Tony.

Colorism is very much alive in West Side Story, to the point that the film casts white actress Natalie Wood as the Puerto Rican María. Heaven forbid that an actual Puerto Rican be cast! Granted, this casting choice was partly related to Hollywood wanting a big name to draw bigger box office numbers. But because this Romeo and Juliet interpretation features a white boy and a Puerto Rican girl, there is the chance that their mixed-race union could result in mixed-race children. The horror! To ease the minds of Hollywood’s target white audience, Wood was considered a great substitute to allow white audiences to delve safely into the Puerto Rican barrios. After all, María isn’t really Puerto Rican, she’s just a white girl with an on-again off-again Puerto Rican accent!

West Side Story

Of the two featured Puerto Rican women, María is the virgin trope to Anita’s whore trope. María’s virginity is emphasized to make her a safe choice for Tony, lest our white knight be swept into a ‘dirty’ Puerto Rican’s bed. One obvious manifestation of this is her white dress for the dance. Despite María’s wishes for a shorter red dress, like her role-model Anita, Anita ensures María’s virginity by keeping the dance dress white and at a ‘respectable’ length. Anita’s hard work pays off as the white knight Tony only has eyes for María, who visually stands apart from the crowd.

One alarming component to West Side Story is that María does not feel pretty until noticed by a white boy. This is unsurprising, given María’s wish to fit in with mainstream American culture. Living under her older brother’s protective gaze, María longs for independence. Much like Cinderella, all she really wants is a night off and a fancy dress. María is largely uninterested in boys, shunning her brother’s chosen mate for her, until she stumbles upon Tony at the dance. Suddenly, María’s independence flies out the window. Over the span of 72 hours, María gets ‘married’ in an adorable play-wedding that quickly turns serious, has sex for the first time, and becomes a widow.

West Side Story 4

Within West Side Story, everyone stands against María and Tony’s interracial relationship. Anita makes it clear that she thinks María is out of her mind, and Tony’s boss, Doc, tries to persuade Tony that his interracial relationship will never work. It is interesting that this is one clear distancing move from Romeo and Juliet, in which the Nurse and Friar Lawrence quickly come around to support the couple. But when race enters the picture, Anita, Doc, and the other characters cannot support María and Tony. In the song “Somewhere,” our main love duo sings about a magical place far away where they can be together. They plan to run away to this “Somewhere.” But it is clear by the end of the film that “Somewhere” does not exist, as María and Tony will never be free from racism.

West Side Story could be read as a warning to Latinas: stay away from white men. If María listened to her older brother, obeying his wish to keep her obedient and virginal, María would be safe and free from grief. This notion is exceedingly disappointing, especially considering that there are not many Latina main characters in Hollywood movies. West Side Story came out in 1961, and remains celebrated and remembered to this day. The take-away, then, for Latinas, is to heed our families’ advice and stay within our culture. Maybe someday, interracial stigma will dissipate. But until then, “Somewhere” seems to be the only place interracial couples can live happily.


Olivia Edmunds-Diez is a senior at Northwestern University, double majoring in Theatre and Gender and Sexuality Studies, with a certificate in Theatre for Young Audiences. She loves cats, Beyoncé, and spends her free time listening to the Hamilton cast recording on repeat. You can find her on her blog, Tumblr, Twitter, and Instagram.

‘Pitch Perfect 2’: Tuning Up for an Aca-Trilogy?

Non-white characters get the short end of the stick in other ways, too: Cynthia Rose (Ester Dean) amps up the predatory lesbian angle (an outdated, unfortunate motif); Lilly (Hana Mae Lee) keeps whispering shockers as if that joke never gets old (it does); and the only lines Guatemalan Flo (Chrissie Fit), another new Bella, gets are about how she prefers the United States to her native country. Can you say aca-propaganda? Such political incorrectness is an unfortunate default to early second-wave feminism, which marginalized women who weren’t straight and Caucasian.

Film Title: Pitch Perfect 2

 


This guest post by Lisa Rosman previously appeared at Word and Film and on her website Signs and Sirens. Cross-posted with permission.


Here at Word and Film, we are not in the business of grading movies. But if I were to grade Pitch Perfect 2, the much-anticipated follow-up to the breakout 2012 musical comedy, I’d give it a solid B. As sequels go, that’s not bad, and the film deserves extra points for sidestepping the meta-movie trap into which so many comedic sequels fall. (Here’s looking at you, 22 Jump Street.) But, though I’m a huge fan of its pop-feminism and hip a cappella (no, that’s not an oxymoron), Pitch Perfect 2 doesn’t quite hit the high notes of its predecessor. Chalk that up to a too-many-cooks-in-the-kitchen plot and a disappointing profusion of micro-aggression.

The film begins as the Barden Bellas, the prize-winning all-female a cappella group from a fictional Georgia college, become a national joke when Fat Amy (Rebel Wilson) suffers a spectacular wardrobe malfunction during a concert for the Obamas and Shonda Rhimes. (Insert Scandal joke here.) In order to claw their way back to good standing, the girls have to win the a cappella world title. The problem? No one’s been able to beat Das Sound Machine, a German group led by Kommissar (Birgitte Hjort Sørensen), a sort of BDSM Barbie.

Cynthia_Rose1

Most of the gang from the first movie is still in place – Chloe (Brittany Snow) is now in her third senior year – and there’s a new Bella, legacy Emily (Hailee Steinfeld, sunnier than we’ve ever seen her), who is bummed the group is in such disrepute. Also still in attendance: commentators John (John Michael Higgins) and Gail (Elizabeth Banks, who now doubles as director). John’s bad-taste humor, a throwback to Fred Willard’s shtick in the dog mockumentary Best in Show, is more problematic in this film, especially at the international competition, where he throws out nearly every ugly stereotype about minorities under the sun. Because Banks has fewer good lines this time around (in the spirit of ill-advised modesty?), John’s racism goes unchecked. The effect, for example when an Indian group leaves the stage, is a tacit endorsement of such comments as “they’re running offstage to take more of our jobs.”

Non-white characters get the short end of the stick in other ways, too: Cynthia Rose (Ester Dean) amps up the predatory lesbian angle (an outdated, unfortunate motif); Lilly (Hana Mae Lee) keeps whispering shockers as if that joke never gets old (it does); and the only lines Guatemalan Flo (Chrissie Fit), another new Bella, gets are about how she prefers the United States to her native country. Can you say aca-propaganda? Such political incorrectness is an unfortunate default to early second-wave feminism, which marginalized women who weren’t straight and Caucasian.

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At times, Pitch Perfect 2 is so diffuse and so packed with random cameos that it seems like a mildly funny SNL 40. An underground aca-contest between Das Sound Machine, some (real-life) Green Bay Packers, the Bellas, and the “Tone Hangers” (featuring such comedians as Reggie Watts and John Hodgman) is admittedly hilarious, especially with a Southern-fried David Cross at the helm. But other sidebars fall flat, as they draw focus from the barely there main story: Beca (Anna Kendrick) tries to keep her recording internship secret; Fat Amy and Bumper (Adam DeVine) embark on a surprisingly dull courtship (who knew there could be too much Fat Amy?); and we’re subjected to a super-dull flirtation between Benji (Ben Platt) and Emily, which feels like a sidebar to a sidebar. One plot that gets no screen time this go-round: the romance between Jesse (Skylar Astin) and Beca, which is just as well as their chemistry always seems forced. (Sexually, Beca only perks up when Kommissar comes onscreen; now there’s a plotline that could’ve been interesting.) In general, Beca seems incapable of connecting with others although she’d supposedly cleared that hurdle in the first movie. Kendrick plays this suspiciously convincingly, as if a sequel wasn’t exactly her bright idea.

But sisterhood is still powerful, and it all gels whenever the girls sing and dance together. Despite my misgivings, I teared up when the Bellas performed an original song co-written by Beca and Emily – “Flashlight” is the new “Cups,” trust me – especially when other generations of the group joined the stage; the idea of celebrating an “old girls network” on the big screen is still revolutionary. So maybe it’s good news that, given this film’s blockbuster opening weekend (it edged out Mad Max domestically), we can expect a Pitch Perfect 3 – ideally with those sophomore-slump kinks worked out. Hollywood can always use more ladies-first ladies.

 


A former labor organizer, Lisa Rosman has reviewed film for such outlets as Time Out New York, Salon, Us Magazine, Flavorwire, LA Weekly, RogerEbert.com, and CBS News. She appears weekly on the NY1 film review show Talking Pictures and writes on film, feminism, and eavesdropping for SignsandSirens.com. Most notably, she once served as an assistant for Elmo on Sesame Street.

 

 

The Sleepover Paradigm: What to Do When the Party’s Over

Plus, things got in the way–like jobs, schedules, coworkers, relationships, disappointments and distance…basically just growing up. So when I sat down to create ‘Young Like Us,’ an original series that I wrote with Chloe Sarbib, my real college roommate, this is exactly what we (and the rest of our all-female production team and main cast) wanted to explore.


This is a guest post by Cleo Handler.


Remember how you felt at the end of a big sleepover, when you’d wake up with a Sour Patch Watermelon and Junior Mint hangover and the DVD menu for Mean Girls back up on the TV, still blaring the same few bars of “Overdrive” on repeat? You’d reach around groggily for your glasses, not wanting to leave, but feeling kind of sick and realizing you had a full day of homework ahead of you.  That’s just what graduating college is like.

Mean Girls – the sleepover classic
Mean Girls – the sleepover classic

 

Or at least, that’s how I felt. When I found myself alone in New York City, after four years of playing a Little League game of “Adult” and winning participation trophies, I was disoriented and overwhelmed.  But most of all, I was no longer at one giant, constant slumber party with my friends, where no one told us what to eat or when to go to bed.  Friendships suddenly required work (and hours on the train!) and I wasn’t sure how to adjust.  Plus, things got in the way–like jobs, schedules, coworkers, relationships, disappointments and distance…basically just growing up.  So when I sat down to create Young Like Us, an original series that I wrote with Chloe Sarbib, my real college roommate, this is exactly what we (and the rest of our all-female production team and main cast) wanted to explore.

Young Like Us characters on the stoop with their landlord Larry (Brad Dourif) in the pilot episode
Young Like Us characters on the stoop with their landlord Larry (Brad Dourif) in the pilot episode

 

When the main characters Mia, Ava, and Charlie realize that post-college life is pulling them in very different directions, they are forced to give up their shared Brooklyn apartment (with their creepy landlord Brad Dourif) and maybe more. In a last-ditch effort to stay in Neverland, Charlie convinces her reluctant friends that the best way for them to hang out more is to become a girl band – because bands never break up, right?  Through the songs the girls (try to) write each week, they are able to explore the confusion of being a semi-adult, the same confusion we often struggled to articulate in our own lives.

Many shows out there deal with similar issues of shifting female friendships and navigating the transition to the real world (like gems Broad City and of course Girls, but we still felt that something was missing – and that’s where the music came in. The Young Like Us characters, like most 20-somethings we know, are too self-aware, self-deprecating, and defensive to address many of the serious issues they’re wrestling with in conversation. But the songs could take the characters to places where dialogue could not. In their music, the girls can more honestly explore crises of sexuality, identity, and piercing loneliness, as well as a nostalgia for the past and an anxiety about the future.

The Young Like Us girls writing a song in their studio, in Episode 2  - “High-Waisted”
The Young Like Us girls writing a song in their studio, in Episode 2 – “High-Waisted”

 

Of course, there are many great musicals out there that do this, like the incredible Fun Home now on Broadway (speaking of Alison Bechdel and powerful feminist stories, check this) but there’s one key difference – for them, the songs are (largely) supposed to be unconsciously interwoven with reality, an external projection of their inner angst, expressed when their feelings are just too large to be contained by dialogue.  What we found with our series is that music is not only a powerful tool when it’s supposed to be invisibly intertwined or employed effortlessly. Our characters do not have the power to burst into fully formed, gorgeous songs through theater magic; they sit there working it out consciously, struggling and writing together, and the material they come up with is not always great.  They have some successful moments and some nice turns of phrase, but basically they don’t know what they’re doing and it doesn’t really matter. (Not only did this take some pressure off us as writers, but it also gave us the cool opportunity to actually finish the girls’ incomplete song fragments post-episodes, in collaborations with some generous and extremely talented friends of ours on a full album). But most importantly, this let our characters grapple with the idea that writing music takes work, as does friendship.  Neither is about the finished product because the thing that really counts is the struggle to put your feelings into words, the give and take along the way, the collaboration.

So I’m not necessarily saying that the cure-all for keeping your shifting friendships alive in the real world is to form a band.  BUT–if you’re thrust out into a new situation, finding yourself a bit lost, and feeling that familiar sugar high post sleepover crash coming on, you might as well break out the old Rock Band game and let yourself ease into real life with another round of “Island in the Sun.”

 


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Cleo Handler is an actress, writer, and lyricist in Brooklyn, NY. She has written several original plays and musicals, including Glass Act and From the Fire, and co-created and starred in the musical web series Young Like Us. She is a member of the Advanced BMI Musical Theater workshop, and has recently acted in projects such as the upcoming TNT drama Public Morals (Barbara) and the sitcom Honest Living.  Cleo can be found on her website and on Twitter.

The Male Gaze and ‘Gigi’

However, the film musical is very different, dividing the women and telling the story from a male gaze, making it a romance instead of a story of female survival.

First made as a film musical in 1958 and then flopping as a stage musical in the 1970s, the revival of the Lerner and Loewer’s Gigi just opened on Broadway on April 8 with Vanessa Hudgens in the title role. This revival has brought more attention to the original film musical, which starred Leslie Caron as Gigi. The story Gigi, originally written as a novella in 1944 by Colette, takes place in Paris in the year 1900 and follows a girl coming of age while being pressured into becoming a courtesan to upper class men. Though her age was raised for the current stage adaptation, in Colette’s novella, Gigi starts the story at 15. At 15-and-a-half, her “lessons” in womanhood are completed, and she is expected to be a mistress to an old family friend – the wealthy and mustached 33-year-old Gaston. Instead of taking her on as his mistress and being her introduction to life as a courtesan, he asks for her hand in marriage. The novella ends there, and it is left up to the audience as to whether Gaston’s request was granted.

Colette’s novella focuses almost entirely on the domestic and “female” space of Gigi’s apartment, which she shares with her mother and grandmother (whom Gigi calls Mamita), and where her great-aunt (Aunt Alicia) often comes to visit. Her mother became a courtesan and then an actress/singer, and while she is often home late, she nonetheless cares deeply about her daughter and her future. She contributes to the income of the family, and is largely supported in her career choice by them. Alicia and her sister were courtesans, have since retired, and they are the ones who look after Gigi while her mother is working. Gigi’s full name is revealed in the novella to be Gilberta, a family name and one passed down by the women in her life. These women are independent due to having been courtesans, one of the very few ways a woman could be independent in France at that time. Yet, their independence has not kept them from being crushed and controlled by patriarchy. Another layer is that Gigi’s great-aunt and grandmother are Spanish, having immigrated to France. It is implied that their “dark” features resulted in their being othered, exoticized, and fetishized by French patriarchy.

Gigi’s older female relatives collaborate in deciding what is best for Gigi, and sometimes have one-on-one talks with Gaston about the family and Gigi. When Gigi has her own one-on-one talk with Gaston, it is evident that she is afraid of growing up into a woman, afraid of being sexually objectified and, even in the more independent choice of being a courtesan, having to constantly keep up a sexually gratifying façade to please the male gaze. Gaston felt out of place with his family and at his home, where everything felt cold and often just for show. He developed real friendship with Gigi’s family, who were always kind to him, and it is perhaps not just out of fondness for Gigi but also out of loyalty to Gigi’s family that Gaston proposes marriage, because by marrying Gigi he can personally and permanently help support the women who have been so kind to him. This story about women by a woman about female autonomy and the often lack of it ends with a man stepping forward to help support women. It is left up to the audience to decide whether Gaston should be trusted, and whether marriage under a kind master is or isn’t preferable to heartbreaking independence. This story is female-centric, pro-women’s empowerment, shows women supporting women, a man wanting to help these women’s well-being in the only way he knows how. However, the film musical is very different, dividing the women and telling the story from a male gaze, making it a romance instead of a story of female survival.

Gigi getting fitted for a dress, while her Aunt Alicia and Mamita examine.
Gigi getting fitted for a dress, while her Aunt Alicia and Mamita examine.

While the novella shows women working together and supporting one another, the film divides them and shows them criticizing each other from afar and face-to-face, and competing and arguing with one another. The film musical removes Gigi’s mother almost entirely from the story (we hear her singing, but never see her), and it is implied that she is not a good mother because of her desire to pursue a career instead of staying home/marrying. The scenes often takes place in public and more “masculine” spaces, whether at nightclubs, barber shops, or in the streets of Paris. It also focuses more on Gaston (played by Louis Jourdan), as well as the new character from whose perspective the story is told – Gaston’s uncle, Honoré (played by Maurice Chevalier), who is around the same age as Gigi’s grandmother Madame Alvarez (played by Hermione Gingold). Through the male gaze, the complexity of Aunt Alicia (played by Isabel Jeans) and her warmth toward her family is largely taken away, making her into a cold stereotype, while her sister suffers a similar fate but in the opposite direction – becoming the stereotypical domestic mothering type always available to comfort and feed Gaston/men.

Gaston and Liane
Gaston and Liane

The film also adds the character Liane (played by Eva Gabor), a courtesan who starts the story as his mistress. When Gaston realizes that she is having an affair with her ice skating teacher, she slut-shames her, has his men forcefully escort her lover off of the premises of the hotel at which she is staying, and dramatically dumps her. This leads her to attempt suicide. This entire story line is played for laughs, with the moral that men can sleep around all they want but women have to be faithful to one man (even if they are a courtesan) and let their men control them. However, this was not a relationship or a marriage, but a business relationship. Though Liane violated her contract, she had few choices in life open to her. She became a courtesan, assumedly to be independent. Being a courtesan was her career, and then she fell in love (or lust) with a man who was not rich. She kept her career with Gaston and then had a fulfilling relationship with an ice skating teacher. She fulfilled Gaston’s sexual fantasies, as it was her job, but he did not fulfill hers, nor was he contractually supposed to, so she got her fulfillment elsewhere. Gaston then publicly shames her for it, she attempts suicide, and the entire catastrophe is in the papers the next day. Liane’s attempt at suicide is implied to be a mean of vying for attention, and once again she is shamed. Gaston is then comforted, even by Gigi and her grandmother, over the break up, even though Liane is the one who is most hurt. Liane was a victim of a patriarchal society and who could not find self-fulfillment in even the most independent life choices that patriarchy allowed her due to its narrow confines.

The film even undermines the experiences of its own heroine. Gigi (played by Leslie Caron) has some character-driven songs in the film (many of which were originally cut for the musical, and then put back in for the recent revival), but these are still largely from the male gaze in order to show Gigi as “amusing” or beautiful. Though Gigi’s lessons in female etiquette are mocked by the film, it is far from a commentary of how women and girls are oppressed by what patriarchy demands of them. The story establishes these “lessons” in how to dress, speak, and act as necessary by showing in a positive light how Gigi eventually succeeds in being seen as a desirable woman by the men in her life.

Gigi being instructed by Alicia as to how to sit like a lady.
Gigi being instructed by Alicia as to how to sit like a lady.

Gigi, though being trained to be a courtesan and a mistress, has been told very little about sex, fitting in with the standard of women remaining even mentally virginal and “pure.” However, in a scene that could have been feminist, Gigi finds this unfair. When Gigi and Gaston have their first talk about the possibility of Gigi becoming his mistress, and Gigi brings up sex; Gaston says, “You’re embarrassing me,” and tries to avoid the conversation. However, Gigi demands that she has a right to know what is expected of her. When Gaston tells her that he is in love with her, Gigi becomes horrified and calls Gaston cruel. She thought that the plan for her to become his mistress was made because it was just what was expected of them, just business. “You say you love me,” she says, but he would willingly have her sexually objectified and her every move criticized, and would dump her when he was done with her, leaving her like his last mistress to contemplate suicide. Gigi runs out of the room, crying. Instead of this being a commentary of how patriarchal expectations cause men to hurt the women they claim to love, the film ends up criticizing Gigi’s grandmother. Gaston turns to Madame Alvarez and yells at her for not making life as a courtesan seem more appealing to Gigi, then storms out.

Gigi as Gaston's wife and arm candy
Gigi as Gaston’s wife and arm candy

Gigi later decides she would rather be “miserable with [Gaston] than without [him].” She behaves elegantly on their first date, receiving many appraising stares. Gaston’s uncle proclaims that Gaston chose well, and that Gigi will keep Gaston “entertained for months.” It is this comment from his uncle that makes Gaston question the choice to have Gigi be his mistress. Gaston was raised to be a playboy, but he finds himself wanting more than just “months” with Gigi. He drags Gigi back to her home without explanation, putting her and her family into a panic, afraid of scandal and the ruin of Gigi’s reputation before it started. Gaston, after a long self-reflecting walk, proposes marriage and his request is granted. In the last scene, Gigi is shown in what must be a very uncomfortable outfit as Gaston’s permanent arm candy. While Colette leaves the ending up to us, asking us to reflect on patriarchal treatment of women and what the solution to it might be, the film gives the harmful message that marriage with the man in control and the woman looking pretty and being “entertaining” is the best life choice for all parties.

Heidi Thomas, who adapted the revival of the stage musical, has put more of the story’s focus back on the title character; the choreographer and the director of the revival are both men. As the character Gigi and the actress Vanessa Hudgens have been sexualized by men, and their careers often controlled by men, it seems an odd choice thematically to have men be the ones telling Vanessa Hudgens as her character Gigi how and where to move and working with the actress on how to express what Gigi is feeling. The release of semi-nude and nude photographs of Vanessaa Hudgens in 2007 and 2009 were sexual assaults, yet she was made to apologize for them and to feel ashamed and embarrassed by Disney, her publicists, and various journalists. Now here she is playing Gigi, whose sexuality and sexual expression are tightly controlled while she tries to fight for her own autonomy. Is this really something that the cismale director and choreographer can fully understand? As a transmale who grew up being told by society that I should try to fit myself into a narrow definition of femininity, empathizing with Gigi when she felt uncomfortable during her “lessons,” I still have trouble understanding female perspectives sometimes. Female perspectives are, of course, incredibly varied, which Colette attempts to explore in the novella. However, I am also not female or attempting to live as one anymore, and don’t as many shared lived experiences. Hopefully, an adaption of Gigi will eventually be made which is more fully from the perspective of women.