On Television – Page 8

Rey Is Not the First Female Jedi Protagonist

You can thank me when you’ve finished watching ‘Star Wars: Clone Wars’ and ‘Star Wars Rebels.’ In my opinion, they’re everything ANY of the ‘Star Wars’ movies lacked in story writing, character development, and feminism. You’re welcome.

This guest post written by Estella Ramirez.

A few years ago, I wrote an article about Ahsoka Tano. I praised the animated series, Star Wars: The Clone Wars, because of its variety of female characters and how it passes the Bechdel Test, with some story arcs featuring a trilogy of women in leading roles. These often included Ahsoka Tano as our Jedi hero and Asajj Ventress as our force-sensitive villain, so powerful, only Yoda could confront her without assistance. At the start of the show, Ahsoka has been assigned as Anakin Skywalker’s Padawan. She is not presented to us as exceptionally strong with the force, the way Luke, Anakin, and most recently, Rey, were presented. Unlike these three, Ahsoka underwent a lifetime of Jedi training. This immunizes her against that ill-intentioned label of “Mary Sue,” whereby one claims that a female character is inexplicably perfect, yet she displays exhilarating super-human abilities that are in keeping with the other Jedis. She is, however, exceptional in her drive to improve as a Jedi and, as she matures as a character, to improve as a leader. Ahsoka is as confident and independently minded as Anakin, yet humble enough to take direction at crucial moments, from him, from Clone Trooper captains, from Senator Amidala, and from her Jedi fellows and elders. One gets a sense of her weaknesses as well as her strengths.

Asajj Ventress is introduced to us as an imposing villain. As her character develops, we learn that she comes from a clan called the Night Sisters. She is exceptionally force sensitive, but she is neither Jedi nor Sith. She becomes more and more compelling as the show progresses. Let’s just say Clone Wars showrunner Dave Filoni knows how to pick his writing teams.

In that article, I looked forward to a new project by Filoni and team, called Star Wars Rebels. The time has come to praise this show, especially in light of the overwhelming success in theatres of Star Wars: The Force Awakens.

It’s clear The Force Awakens captured our curiosity and our hearts. Many have pointed out what I do not need to say. Hooray for a blockbuster with a woman Jedi protagonist!!! I defend her unrealistic natural ability by pointing out that EVERY MALE HERO IN EVERY ACTION MOVIE possesses unrealistic ability and unrealistic luck. That’s the point: to see on-screen someone doing the things we could only do in our fantasies. We love our underdogs. For Star Wars in particular, it is important to note that being in tune with the force gives you the power to transcend your physical limitations. It’s what’s so endearing and inspiring about Yoda. No one questions Yoda’s power even though he is the size of a terrier and at least hundreds of years old. But Rey has no training! I feel the comment sections pulsating with the words. To that, I submit what Anakin Skywalker, barely out of toddlerhood, was able to do without Jedi training.

Star Wars tells us that to triumph you need to be strong of mind, focus, and little else. If your suspension of disbelief is only threatened when the character is a woman, then you need to reevaluate your life. I’ll add that both Rey and Finn had applicable training to explain their skills with the light saber. Rey survived as an orphan in Jakku fighting with a staff (and we don’t know all her life yet, so hold your judgment) and Finn had combat training as a Storm Trooper since childhood, so it can be presumed that his training could have been comprehensive, despite how necessary a plot point it is for Storm Troopers to be completely incompetent when faced by our heroes. Hey, it’s a movie. Finn, it’s important to note, represents an exceptional character as well. Of all the storm troopers, he has the independence of thought and strength of character to rebel against his training, on moral principle.

As lovely as it is to see the matter-of-factness with which The Force Awakens makes Rey a Jedi protagonist, and how audiences overwhelmingly embraced the movie, we have yet to reach feminist paradise. When it comes to the toys and game pieces (#WheresRey) some decision-makers decided that boys wouldn’t be interested in Rey figurines – no fair to blame the boys. They aren’t the problem; it’s our job to be the adults. Even if focus groups showed that boys preferred to play with figurines that they identified with, where were the adults to see the commercial potential of girls buying action figures because they finally could identify with them? I watched the movie…twice. And I cried quite a bit…twice. I thought about the little girls who would see the movie, for whom what’s possible drastically shifted forward, but just as importantly, the little boys, and children anywhere in the gender spectrum, who would see the possibilities for women and girls. I still remember being in second grade with my Barbies, and my classmate pulling down their tops and acting out how smitten he was. In my previous article, I wrote about how despite the show representing Ahsoka Tano as a fully realized character, fetishists managed to objectify her in their fan art. My hope is that today’s kids can see images and toys depicting women as heroes and protagonists instead, and they realize female characters are interesting for some of the same reasons male characters are – they take their imagination on a world of story and adventure.

Observing the other women in The Force Awakens, I’m looking forward to more of Lupita Nyong’o’s character Maz, because one does not hire an actress of her caliber and not bank on further developing her character in the sequels. I’d like to see more of Captain Phasma, who was severely undermined by how easily Finn and company captured her. I get that it was necessary to the plot, but is that all there is to her? Having one developed female character in Rey, and a few respectful nods to women of color in the background as military and pilots, shows a nice bit of progress, but it’s not enough.

At a talk in Georgetown University last year, Ruth Bader Ginsberg (aka Notorious RBG) said we’ll have enough female justices when all nine justices are women because when all nine have been men, no one questioned it. At the end of the movie, Rey reverently hands back Luke’s saber to him, and you know what? We’ll have enough female Jedi when one woman hands the saber to another woman, when Rey is more than just a female Luke Skywalker, when any child would love to play with a Rey figurine because, duh, she’s a hero.

To see how it’s really done, check out Rebels. Before Ezra shows up, half the Rebel team on the Ghost is comprised of women. Hera is the ship’s lead pilot and owner, and Sabine is the explosives expert, artist, and tagger.

They get shit done. In an interesting episode, Hera and Sabine bond over a difficult mission, incidentally because Ezra and Zeb failed to refuel the ship, as directed by Hera. Hera and Sabine encounter ravenous creatures, and must fight them off with limited resources and without a means of escape. Ezra and Zeb, like Finn does with Rey, rush over to save the “damsels” only to find the women found a solution themselves. They climb aboard while covering the remaining creatures with gunfire. Ezra attempts to save Sabine from one such creature, but finding him overcome, Sabine saves him. They may not be Jedis, and our protagonist Jedis are indeed men, but Hera and Sabine are equally compelling protagonists in the storytelling.

Filoni and his team have been writing feminist stories long before The Force Awakens. I don’t know if it’s deliberate on their part, or if the stories are what I call accidentally or “casually feminist,” meaning they organically pass the Bechdel Test by virtue of including more female lead characters. In any case, this is ideal as it proves that anyone can enjoy a feminist story. The shows are meant for kids, and adults love them, too, because they are good stories, made better by having more female characters. There’s less “Mary Sue” happening because no one female character has to represent the whole of her gender.

Lastly, without spoiling the identity, I’ll hint that a female Jedi appears at the end of the first season of Rebels (squee!), and another squee-worthy female character appearing in its current second season. You can thank me when you’ve finished watching Clone Wars and Rebels. In my opinion, they’re everything ANY of the Star Wars movies lacked in story writing, character development, and feminism. You’re welcome.

Estella Ramirez is a private tutor, writing coach, and singer in Los Angeles. She has an MFA in Creative Writing, and her poetry has been featured in several literary journals. You can read her other article on Ahsoka Tano at The Toast. Read more of her feminist-friendly fandom writing, plus other updates at her personal blog. You can also find her profiles on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram.

‘Jessica Jones,’ The Kilgrave Mirror and the Distancing Effect of Negative Masculinity

The result is that while many viewers are no doubt cishet white men, few will truly identify with what Kilgrave illustrates not just about rapists and abusers, but about negative ideas about masculinity itself.

This is a guest post by Scott Remington.

When Netflix announced their new series Jessica Jones featured a villain who was not just evil, but an actual emotionally abusive manipulator, there was a rush on various social networks to remind fans that despite being a superhero show, his actions would not be unlike ones real people have experienced. In Jessica Jones, they seemed to suggest, we can see more than just a superhero trying to triumph over a villain, but reflections of real people’s struggle with the emotional wreckage of abuse and rape and the difficulty survivors face in having to move past it while the abusers remain at large. The show has been praised for its ability to illustrate what abusive techniques like gaslighting, victim-blaming, and emotional coercion can feel like, thanks to the way viewers identify with the title character and her struggle to overcome her PTSD. Yet Jessica Jones falters in one key area, and that is with viewer identification with the negative aspects of masculinity displayed by the abuser, Kilgrave.

Kilgrave’s ability is mind control, but within the context of the show it’s not just how he can make anyone do anything, it’s how getting anything he wants simply by asking for it has led to him growing up with an enormous sense of entitlement to the world and the people in it. Series creator and showrunner Melissa Rosenburg reflected on this in an article where she drew parallels from Kilgrave’s power to the privilege and entitlement white men have normalized for themselves through media and the principle of American bootstrap logic. When he’s denied what he believes is his (Jessica’s love), Kilgrave becomes fixated on changing her mind much the way men try to reason with women who reject their advances.

Throughout the series, Kilgrave obtains money, fancy dinner reservations, and yes, even people, with barely a thought to whether he should have them. His manipulation results in trauma and death for many of those around Jessica. While this makes him a powerful avatar of privilege and colonialism, it also has the consequence of making Kilgrave and all he represents into “the other.” As long as his actions so clearly violate laws of viewer’s morality, and are portrayed as such by the main character, it’s unlikely viewers will reflect on what they mean coming from a man motivated by ideas about masculinity and not just free will. The result is that while many viewers are no doubt cishet white men, few will truly identify with what Kilgrave illustrates not just about rapists and abusers, but about negative ideas about masculinity itself.

Kilgrave does many things representing male fantasies, such as when he joins a high stakes game of poker and forces all the other men to let him win. He eggs them on with emasculating insults, (“Where are your balls?”) and boosts his ego even further by compelling the non-participating women in the room to echo his words at them. When threatened by a man for leaving without giving them a chance to win their money back, Kilgrave slips out by getting him to pound his head against a pole. It’s a twist on the “underdog outwits the bad guys” formula, the masculine idea of triumphing against the odds through brains, not brawn, but given a bad taste when we later learn Kilgrave will use the money to buy Jessica’s old house to enact a disturbing parody of a marriage and the American Dream.

No less disturbing, but far more culturally relevant is Kilgrave’s ability to blackmail Jessica into sending him photos of her under fear of reprisal against those she cares about. While male viewers no doubt see his actions to control her via the threat of violence as abusive, it’s unlikely many would associate his desire to have them with the way men casually request similar from women on dating sites as though it were a normal and not potentially dangerous request (see the celebrity photo hack). A phenomenon often observed in scenes where women fight sexism is how male viewers identify with the character “triumphing” yet don’t see how they have more in common with the male perpetrator than the character.

Jessica Jones features several examples where men’s seemingly innocuous entitlement to a woman’s body or her attention is shown as an annoyance, such as when a man harasses Patsy and Jessica in the bar with suggestive comments, to actively dangerous, such as Simpson’s insistence that he be allowed to make up for trying to kill Patsy while under Kilgrave’s control. Simpson’s struggle to overcome his mind control manifests in increasingly dangerous ways, yet overlooks the fact that as a white male in a position of authority his insistence on being “forgiven” by Trish is a function of privilege and abuse and not just personality. When the perspective shifts to actions, viewers are often given an excuse not to identify with the masculinity the character expresses, or else they excuse it by suggesting the characters’ actions are “not what I would do.”

This is nothing new however, as the cognitive flip that allows viewers to enjoy watching and rooting for male anti-heroes/villains while ignoring their own ties to the message is so common it’s basically accepted as part of the cishet white anti-hero character. The distance viewers establish from the characters is present in the so called “morally grey character,” a simultaneously cautionary tale/wish fulfillment vessel who follows a path of masculinity leading them to make terrible decisions most viewers innately reject. Often the characters justify this as being either about “surviving” or “protecting,” two feelings viewers identify with even when the result twists into something amoral.

For examples of the dark side of control and protection, look no further than the darkly comedic serial killer drama Dexter. The series urged viewers to root for and identify with a white male anti-hero who compartmentalized his life in order to exercise the ultimate form of control by killing those who the viewer saw as “monstrous” as their actions made them unforgivable. It’s notable that the titular character always painted his targets in black and white terms based on their actions, while he (and many viewers) dismissed his own horrendous behavior as not under his control, thus absolving him from similar judgment. A closer look often revealed Dexter’s “good” side to be both a shield, as well as genuinely relatable in how he struggled with being a father and husband while hiding his need for homicidal behavior.

Throughout the series, Dexter faced other murderous men who reflected parts of him — men equally control obsessed and claimed just as many lives — yet viewers were always allowed to identify with Dexter’s paternalism and vigilantism enough to brush off lies and deceptions. This distancing from his obsession with control remained so strong that it was only by the end of the series that people saw the true damage wreaked by his attempts to hide his secret from his loved ones. Dexter’s killer masculinity may have been an exaggeration, but his selfishness is all the more dangerous because of how easily men identify with lying for the “sake” of others’ safety.

The theme of “protecting” is central to the masculinity of the “good” anti-hero, even when that protection is not necessarily wanted. For a shining example, look no further than the forever-entitled patriarch Walter White (See what they did there?) in Breaking Bad. Viewers were quick to identify with Walter’s meek, emasculated everyman who nonetheless possessed an aptitude for the sciences that made him capable in entertaining yet deadly ways. Like Dexter, the fun was seeing how Walter could regain control when under pressure. However, where Dexter kept his life secret from his loyal wife Rita, Walter’s wife bore the brunt of Walter’s anger and dissatisfaction. Skyler White was accused of second guessing and belittling her husband on numerous occasions, even while she tried desperately to free her family from the dangerous life he made them a part of. Viewers identified with Walter’s amoral antics while despising Skyler for talking back or lashing out against her husband’s poisonous control “with such venom” that actress Anna Gunn wrote an entire essay on how easily the annoyance with Skyler conflated annoyance with her in real life and what this indicates about our perspectives on gender and misogyny.

When viewers analyzed Walter’s pathological refusal to take “charity” or his pride and belief he DESERVED to be more than a high school science teacher, they rarely scrutinized the connection to masculinity. When he manipulated his former student Jesse Pinkman under the guise of security and partnership, viewers excused it as necessary to keep him safe, and rarely saw it as the same kind of entitlement that Kilgrave practiced. When Walter himself admitted he’d done what he’d done not just for his family, but because he enjoyed the power and control he got, viewers saw him as a figure consumed ambition, not a man like themselves who had grown up believing they had a right to wealth and fame simply by growing up in the “land of opportunity.”

But the most unnerving example of these toxic avatars whose critique of masculinity goes unacknowledged is the one whose popularity is itself evidence of how far male viewers will identify yet differentiate themselves from negative masculinity. Tyler Durden of Chuck Palahniuk’s ode to lost manhood and twisted revolution, Fight Club, and portrayed by Brad Pitt in the much-lauded David Fincher film. Acting as both a charismatic cult leader to young men who feel emasculated and beaten down by corporate culture, and a dangerous realization of the Alpha Male archetype, the narrator, like the audience, is at first captivated by the controlled presence of Tyler.

In Tyler’s own words he is: “smart, capable, and most importantly, I am free in all the ways that you are not,” a real life masculine fantasy being sold to the yearning men of the world, including the young cishet white viewers. Yet, the narrator’s relationship with Tyler is not portrayed as a healthy one, ranging from him excusing bruises on his face with explicit reference to domestic violence, to him tricking his boss to let him leave work by making himself look like a victim of him. As corporate skyscrapers fall, male viewers reject Tyler’s actions, but have they really understood how Tyler Durden’s masculinity exists all around us? In the white terrorism from the rage at not feeling recognized? Or in the men who see women as only virgins or whores?

Melissa Rosenberg referred to Kilgrave as “Jessica’s Chinatown,” alluding to the legendarily bleak film by the convicted sex offender Roman Polanski, whose most haunting scene is the failure of the male hero Jake Gittes (Jack Nicholson) to save Evelyn Mulwray (Faye Dunaway) and her sister/daughter from the clutches of her predatory father. What the film doesn’t dwell on is how Jake learns this information: a desperate interrogation wherein his masculine desire to “find the truth” motivates him to hit a woman and (unknowingly) an abuse survivor, while ignoring her tears and pleas.

Movies are mirrors, and just because we don’t like the reflection they display doesn’t mean viewers can shatter them and then claim it’s not accurate. Because movies aren’t mirrors individually: they represent diverse people’s experience of the world and the people in it. If we’re willing to accept Jessica Jones as the story about one woman’s struggle with a male abuser, why can’t we accept that, on some level, it’s just as much a story about women’s experience with harmful masculinity as it is about “monstrous” abusers?

Scott Remington is a TV aficionado and prospective writer, currently examining privilege and gender via social media. Graduated with a Bachelor of Arts in English and multiple credits in religious studies, he analyzes movies at (https://myfearfulsymmetry.wordpress.com/) and provides support to others at @RemingtonWild on Twitter. He has no cats but would like to someday own several.

Bitch Flicks’ Weekly Picks

Check out what we have been reading this week — and let us know what you have been reading/writing in the comments!

A Year with Women: What I Learned Only Watching Films Directed by Women in 2015 by Marya E. Gates at Cinema Fanatic

Where Are All the Diverse Voices in Film Criticism? by Chaz Ebert at The Daily Beast

Why Are So Few Film Critics Female? by Katie Kilkenny at The Atlantic

The 10 Best Women-Directed Films of 2015 by Melissa Silverstein, Inkoo Kang and Laura Berger at Women and Hollywood

The Women of Star Wars Speak Out About Their New Empire by Meredith Woerner at The Los Angeles Times

Gina Rodriguez Writes “Love Letter” to Rita Moreno at Kennedy Center Honors by Celia Fernandez via Latina

Fuck You, Spike Lee: Chi-Raq Is an Insult to Do the Right Thing, to Black Women, and to Malcolm X by Ijeoma Oluo via The Stranger

Of Fear and Fake Diversity by Lexi Alexander

Going Home for the First Time: A Return to Cuba by Monica Castillo at RogerEbert.com

Carol Is the Lesbian-Centric Christmas Movie of My Dreams by Grace Manger via Bitch Media

The 11 Most Important Women of Color Moments of 2015 by Melissa Silverstein, Inkoo Kang and Laura Berger at Women and Hollywood

Mara Brock Akil Talks Doing the Work in Spite of Not Getting the Recognition She Deserves via For Harriet

Mustang Director Deniz Gamze Ergüven on Turkish film, L.A. riots and Escape From Alcatraz by Carolina A. Miranda via The Los Angeles Times

The Best and Worst LGBT TV Characters of 2015 via Autostraddle

Leia-Loving Feminists Have A New Hope for Female Roles in Star Wars by Sarah Seltzer at Flavorwire

Writer Phyllis Nagy Talks Adapting Carol by Nikki Baughan at Screen Daily

How Our February Cover Star Amandla Stenberg Learned to Love Her Blackness by Solange Knowles at Teen Vogue

Young Women Weigh in on the Hijabi Character on Quantico by Lakshmi Gandhi at NPR

Fandom vs. Canon: On Queer Representation in The Force Awakens by Maddy Myers at The Mary Sue

The Case for Female Filmmakers in 2015: Breaking Down the Stats by Carrie Rickey at Thompson on Hollywood

Laurie Anderson on Her New Film, Heart of a Dog by David Hershkovits at Paper Magazine

The Top 10 Film/TV Moments for Queer Women in 2015 by Dorothy Snarker at Women and Hollywood

What have you been reading/writing this week? Tell us in the comments!

‘Jessica Jones’: A Discomforting Yet Real Portrayal of Abuse

If ever there was a personification of this psychological abuse that goes along with physical abuse, it’s in Kilgrave. … He gaslights Jessica, telling her it’s her fault he uses his powers to make people do things they don’t want to do, namely kill others and themselves.

This guest post is written by Scarlett Harris.

[Trigger warning: discussion of intimate partner abuse] | Spoilers ahead.

There’s TV that, when you watch, makes you feel all warm and fuzzy and can be likened to a hug. For me, it’s Grey’s Anatomy. And then there’s TV that doesn’t necessarily fall within this category that I still love, such as Orange Is the New Black, with its focus on crime, drug addiction, broken families and poverty, and that upon marathoning makes you ache to get back to the trials and tribulations of Sophia, Taystee, Poussey, and Red.

Despite binging Jessica Jones over my Christmas and New Year’s break, I almost dreaded sitting down for a few hours every afternoon to check into Jessica’s world. I guess that’s what a series directed so heavily at abuse is wont to do.

https://twitter.com/mojorojo/status/670495742503489537
https://twitter.com/2k16sebastian/status/676787210411208704

In the six weeks or so since Jessica Jones was released in full on Netflix, the internet has been abuzz with its brilliance. Many feminists asserted that this is what it feels like to watch content created for women, by women, while others marveled (pun intended) at the show’s gritty portrayal of New York City and an actually villainous villain, a departure from some of Marvel’s other offerings.

Jessica Jones’ emphasis on abuse was also heavily discussed. Kia Groom at The Mary Sue wrote about her experience in a similarly abusive relationship as the one central to the TV series. Stassa Edwards at Jezebel wrote:

“If Jessica Jones is a feminist show, as many critics have said that it is, it’s not simply because it presents a complicated woman, but rather because it understands how strength and control play out in the lives of women.”

To return to OITNB, for example, the fellow Netflix offering isn’t necessarily littered with likable characters (*cough* Piper *cough*), but there are enough peripheral characters whose backstories come ‘round every now and then to tide you over while the story pivots back to Piper, Alex and the more boring inmates. Despite a couple of likable characters in Jessica Jones (I can only think of Malcolm and Trish), they weren’t enough to get me excited to come back to the rollercoaster of emotions. This is understandable: pretty much all of the characters are victims of some kind of abuse, whether it be villain Kilgrave’s mind control or otherwise, so if anyone has an excuse to be pissy, it’s them.

Edwards writes:

“…[Jessica Jones’] expression of anger — her inability to contain it — is what makes Jones deeply unlikable. But then, being unlikeable is part and parcel of being a woman on the edge. The emotional expression of anger has always been coded as an indelible marker of trauma and of difference.”

But what even are “likable” characters? Roxane Gay, a couple of years ago almost to the day, wrote about this phenomenon at Buzzfeed, touching on points from unlikable female characters being perceived to be suffering from mental illness, being inconveniences and coming across as having more humanity than likable ones. (Gay, as a survivor of sexual assault herself, has also written about the futility of trigger warnings, however this piece makes the case for them in Jessica Jones.) Jessica Jones works so well because most of its characters reek of humanity, however unflattering.

What’s more important than likable characters, though, are relatable ones and Jessica Jones has that in spades. We get impressions of this when Jessica tells Trish she can’t comfort her when she’s tased in an attempt to capture Kilgrave and when Jessica pushes those close to her away.

Perhaps the most human character, despite his villainy, is Kilgrave. We are first introduced to him through Jessica’s perspective as a cold and calculating abuser, which he is. But as the season progresses, we see glimpses of Kilgrave’s humanity and that he himself was embroiled in the cycle of abuse perpetrated by his parents who performed experiments on him as a child in an attempt to understand his mind control powers. While Jessica Jones seems to want us to believe that Kilgrave’s parents were trying to protect him and others from his “gift,” to me it was unclear as to who was abusing whom.

As I started to fathom Kilgrave’s past, I was reminded of an article written in 2014 for White Ribbon, an Australian campaign for the prevention of violence against women (which has its own problems), by Tom Meagher whose wife Jill Meagher was raped and murdered in Melbourne in 2012. He asserted that, despite the attack perpetrated against Jill by a known criminal, rapists, murderers and abusers of women aren’t “monsters” lurking in dark alleyways and behind bushes in the dead of night: they’re most often known to, trusted and/or loved by those they choose to abuse. Meagher wrote:

“By insulating myself with the intellectually evasive dismissal of violent men as psychotic or sociopathic aberrations, I self-comforted by avoiding the more terrifying concept that violent men are socialised by the ingrained sexism and entrenched masculinity that permeates everything from our daily interactions all the way up to our highest institutions…

“The only thing more disturbing than that paradigm is the fact that most rapists are normal guys, guys we might work beside or socialize with, our neighbors or even members of our family.”

Groom echoes this at The Mary Sue:

“Yes, Kilgrave is a rapist, but his sexual abuse is not of the kind we often see represented on television; he abuses in the context of relationships that seem, to the outside observer, consensual, and it is this — his psychological abuse of his victims, his absolute and total control and manipulation of them, his dominance over their agency and their free will — that make[s] him so utterly terrifying.”

Edwards further expands on this at Jezebel, asserting that Kilgrave is a different kind of villain — and a more terrifying one — from your typical Marvel fare in that:

“…The mundanity of control he exercises over Jones, over nearly every woman who crosses his path, is what makes him so evil, even more menacing than the typical villain. Kilgrave is every woman’s worst nightmare: he is a rapist, an unrepentant stalker, a man who, at any moment, can exercise his power and does.”

This “monster myth” and the cycle of abuse can also be seen in Officer Will Simpson, who begins a relationship with Trish after he tries to kill her whilst brainwashed by Kilgrave. Cate Young at Batty Mamzelle (cross-posted here at Bitch Flicks) explores this in depth. The fact that the actress who plays Trish Walker, Rachael Taylor, also survived abuse by her high profile ex-partner in 2010 adds yet another layer to the series.

As these examples attest, what Jessica Jones arguably has more of than relatable characters is relatable situations.

Not everyone can relate to being in an abusive relationship, and thank god. I haven’t personally been abused by a partner, but I grew up in a violent home as well as abuse being a big part of my life in recent years in reading about it, watching it take place on screen and in the news, and working towards changing attitudes about it through my writing and in everyday conversations (though I could be doing more; we all could). One of the more pervasive attitudes surrounding intimate partner violence is asking why the survivor “doesn’t just leave” without paying mind to the isolation from loved ones and external support systems by the abuser; the abuser’s reinforcement of worthlessness in the survivor; the depletion of their resources, such as money and their ability to make a living; and the threatening of children, pets and other loved ones. If ever there was a personification of this psychological abuse that goes along with physical abuse, it’s in Kilgrave.

Kilgrave preyed on a once vibrant and happy young Jessica Jones, glimpses of whom we see in a bar scene with Trish in episode five, “AKA The Sandwich Saved Me,” trauma which caused her to suffer from paranoia and alcoholism. Even after she manages to escape him, her life in tatters and suffering from PTSD, Kilgrave infiltrates himself back into her life, turning even the most tenuously connected people to her into his pawns, such as Malcolm, her — again — once vibrant and now drug-addicted neighbor. In a metaphor for the disbelief domestic violence survivors often face, Kilgrave manipulates Jessica’s allies into helping him, as seen with Jeri Hogarth assisting him in his escape, partly of her own free will but also under his mind control. He gaslights Jessica, telling her it’s her fault he uses his powers to make people do things they don’t want to do, namely kill others and themselves. He tries to win back her affections by buying her childhood home and restoring it to its former glory, another allegory for entrapment and, frankly, is just plain creepy. He tells her he can’t live without her and how much better she makes him, exemplified in their short-lived foray into tandem superheroism in episode eight (“AKA WWJD?”) when they save a family from another, perhaps more archetypal domestic abuser. This is also a pitch perfect portrayal of the hope an intimate partner violence survivor might face in seeing the “good” side of their partner and is transferred onto the audience: maybe Kilgrave can be good, I wondered.

Hope is a guiding force in Jessica’s pursuit of Kilgrave, embodied by the character of the same name. Jessica resists the easy way out — killing Kilgrave — for much of the thirteen episode arc as she needs him alive as proof of Hope’s innocence in her parenticide charges, committed under Kilgrave’s control. Proof is also something intimate partner abuse survivors are perpetually demanded to demonstrate — by law enforcement, the criminal justice system, society, even friends and family — even when it’s on their bodies in the form of blood and bruises and, in Hope’s case, in her uterus. Also, as previously stated, not all abuse is physical and society should believe, rather than disregard or dismiss, intimate partner violence survivors.

Despite Kilgrave’s rape of both Jessica and Hope, and his intention to do the same to Trish (and who knows how many others), showrunner Melissa Rosenberg was very conscious of depicting rape and abuse differently from a lot of other media that uses it as a “titillating” plot device, telling The Los Angeles Times:

“With rape, I think we all know what that looks like. We’ve seen plenty of it on television and I didn’t have any need to see it, but I wanted to experience the damage that it does. I wanted the audience to really viscerally feel the scars that it leaves. It was not important to me, on any level, to actually see it. TV has plenty of that, way too often, used as titillation, which is horrifying.”

Despite the influx of shows dealing with abuse, such as Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt, Game of Thrones and mainstay Law & Order: SVU (which Emily Nussbaum and Lindy West discuss on The New Yorker Radio Hour), how often do we actually hear the confident pronouncement of the word “rape” that Jessica spits at Kilgrave in other media? Jessica Jones succeeds in depicting sexual abuse in a more harrowing and real way than shows that throw it around willy-nilly for shock value and not much else.

Scarlett Harris is an Australian writer and blogger at The Scarlett Woman, where she muses about femin- and other -isms. You can follow her on Twitter here.

The Women of ‘American Ninja Warrior’ Challenge Gender Stereotypes

‘American Ninja Warrior’ may not have had any intentions of connecting to feminism necessarily, but they have created a platform for women to shine in multiple ways and to inspire other women, whether athletically or not.

This is a guest post written by Cameron Airen, who interviewed Joyce Shahboz and Michelle Warnky.

“What!? Shut the front door. She’s about to do the impossible for the second time,” shouted the hosts of American Ninja Warrior as millions of us watched 5’0”, 95lb Kacy Catanzaro become the first woman to hit a city finals course. This meant that she was the first woman to qualify for Mount Midoriyama, the finals in Las Vegas consisting of four stages. Catanzaro’s achievement was led by her being the first woman in the history of the show to beat the warped wall and finish a qualifying course. She made history that year on American Ninja Warrior, but she wasn’t the only one.

2014 of American Ninja Warrior was the year of many firsts for women. Michelle Warnky and Meagan Martin were the second and third women to make it up the warped wall and hit buzzers on their city’s qualifying course following Catanzaro. This was the first time this many women qualified for a city’s finals course in the same season.

There are five women veterans on American Ninja Warrior that particularly stand out. Catanzaro, Warnky, and Martin are three of them. Jessie Graff was the first woman to complete five obstacles and the second woman, besides Catanzaro, to qualify for the Vegas finals. Joyce Shahboz was one of the first women to compete on the American Ninja Warrior course and has been participating since season four. At 44 years old, she is also the oldest woman “to make it to Vegas and to the 5th obstacle.” One of the reasons to love American Ninja Warrior is because it represents athletes of all ages. Shahboz told me, “There are things I can do now that I couldn’t do 3-4 years ago and I’m 44 as of today!”

One of the most captivating aspects of American Ninja Warrior is that the women compete on the same platform as the men, making gender irrelevant. This appeals to Warnky, who said,

“I know many people have made comments to me about having a separate Ninja Warrior for ladies. But for myself and at least several other ladies I’ve talked to, we like that extra challenge, we like the strength that is required, and we enjoy competing with the guys.”

The hosts of American Ninja Warrior, Matt Iseman and Akbar Gbajabiamila, generally do a good job of not making a big deal of gender in relation to one’s performance on the course. During Martin’s run at the 2014 Denver finals, Gbajabiamila exclaimed, “She’s got the athleticism; she’s got the upper body strength; she’s built for American Ninja Warrior — that’s for sure!” This is a testament of how the course, with different obstacles that benefit different athletic strengths, is made for people of all genders.

By participating on American Ninja Warrior, women get to demonstrate their strength and other abilities, challenging the gender stereotypes placed upon them. There’s no doubt that the women have the strength, including upper body strength, in order to finish all of the obstacles. In fact, the upper body exercises are the women ninjas’ favorites to perform. Shahboz pointed out,

“The upper body challenges are appealing to us. In Japan, the Women of Ninja Warrior course isn’t as upper body intensive, and we all felt that was our forte and wanted more of the physical strength challenge instead of the balance challenges.”

On a tougher course with new obstacles, Jessie Graff was the first athlete to get the farthest on the 2015 Venice finals course. Even though she didn’t complete the course, she came close, making it to the second to last obstacle, giving it her best fight. Only the top 15 qualify for Vegas and she finished in sixth. Graff ended up being the woman who made it the farthest in a city finals course across the nation.

There is a huge gender disparity on American Ninja Warrior and that needs to change if we want to see women succeed more than they already do on the show. If there were as many women on the show as there are men, then there would be a greater chance of women making if farther. No woman has made it up the warped wall and hit the buzzer on stage one in Vegas yet in the history of the show. Shahboz believes it’s because of numbers: “We just haven’t had enough of us trying it out or training at the necessary level until now.” In season four, there were four women, Shahboz included, and 96 men competing in stage one in the Vegas finals. Warnky believes that the biggest challenge women face on stage one in Vegas is speed:

“I know Jessie Graff and I had many conversations and really wanted to beat it and knew we both had the ability to. Time plays a big factor in Vegas. In the regional rounds, most of us women play it pretty safe with time and don’t rush ourselves, whereas in Vegas, women are not able to stall much at all and need to go quickly through the obstacles and in-between the obstacles. Also, any time a girl does pretty well, history can be made, so I think we tend to focus on the safer and surer ways to do things, which isn’t really possible in stage 1. But I do think I have the ability to complete it, as do several other girls, we just didn’t make it happen the day it counted. Hopefully we’ll make that change soon!”

Even though the numbers are still low, more women competed in 2015 than any other year. In an interview with The Hollywood Reporter, executive producer of American Ninja Warrior, Kent Weed, said that the producers want more women competing and doing well, and that we will see more women compete as the show progresses. He doesn’t believe that succeeding at the obstacles has to do with gender and is confident that we will see our first woman to complete stage one in Vegas next year in 2016. Warnky expressed, “Hopefully, the show has encouraged other women to push their limits.” The more women see other women competing on the show, the more they will be inspired to train for it and get accepted.

“Could a woman ever win American Ninja Warrior?” an E! Online interviewer asked Isaac Caldiero after he became the first ever winner of American Ninja Warrior. Without hesitation, Caldiero responded, “Definitely. My girlfriend, Laura, could win it!” Even asking the question shows how far we have come in changing sexist beliefs and attitudes about women’s abilities. When Shahboz competed in season four, she was known for going farther than her husband. She said,

“People who didn’t know me or him would occasionally comment to him about getting beat by his wife. People would ask me, ‘How’d your husband take it?’ It’s still amazing to me that people still have the notion that ‘getting beat by a girl’ is an issue.”

Unfortunately, it is still an issue, otherwise the question of whether a woman could win wouldn’t even have been asked. But, American Ninja Warrior plays a pivotal role in changing all of that.

One way that the show doesn’t reinforce gender distinctions, aside from having women compete on the same platform as the men, is by not referencing gender when discussing an athlete’s abilities. During Martin’s performance at the Vegas 2014 finals, Gbajabiamila said,

“I’ve had a lot of sport heroes in my life: Muhammad Ali, Michael Jordan, Magic Johnson…Oh, add Meagan Martin to the list, what she did was phenomenal.”

Another way American Ninja Warrior doesn’t emphasis gender is that the athletes are all in support and cheer of each other. Shahboz pointed out that her male ninja competitors “have always been encouraging and supportive, it’s never been a guy vs. gal thing.” It’s refreshing to see a friendly community be positive and supportive of one another despite gender and background. This is definitely a rarity for competition shows on TV.

A sense of unity exists among the women of American Ninja Warrior. Even though it is a reality TV show, we don’t see unnecessary drama. It’s a show with friendly competition where the athletes support each other. This is a rarity on TV in general, especially in reality TV where women are often depicted as wanting to tear each other to shreds. It’s quite the opposite on American Ninja Warrior, making it one of those rare athletic competitions where you want everyone to do well. When one ninja falls, the other is sad that her fellow competitor did not make it. The women even travel to other cities to cheer each other on.

This solidarity is powerful and creates a positive influence for women and feminism. We need to see more of it onscreen. American Ninja Warrior may not have had any intentions of connecting to feminism necessarily, but they have created a platform for women to shine in multiple ways and to inspire other women, whether athletically or not. Athletics is often viewed as a metaphor for the rest of our lives. What one learns in being able to conquer a physical obstacle can translate to facing obstacles in other aspects of life. The women on American Ninja Warrior are powerful examples of women coming into and owning their own power, whatever that may look like.

Check out a more in depth interview I did with Joyce Shahboz and Michelle Warnky.

Cameron Airen is a queer feminist with a M.A. in Anthropology and Social Change. She loves to dissect and write about women and gender in film/TV. Cameron is also passionate about vegan cooking and resides in Berkeley, Calif.

Rape, Consent and Race in Marvel’s ‘Jessica Jones’

Marvel’s ‘Jessica Jones’ is the latest, best example of white feminist fiction: excellent on sexism, terrible on racism.

This guest post is written by Cate Young and originally appeared at her site BattyMamzelle. It is cross-posted with permission.

Trigger warning for discussion of rape and rape culture.

Marvel’s Jessica Jones is the latest, best example of white feminist fiction: excellent on sexism, terrible on racism. There are a lot of great things about this series that speak directly to the ills that women face on a daily basis. Kilgrave, the central villain, is chillingly terrifying, specifically because the only difference between him and your garden variety abuser is his total power to enact his will. The examination of male entitlement in ways both large and small (by contrasting Kilgrave and Simpson for example) are excellent and poignant. But as I watched the 13 episode first season, I was struck by how callously black people’s lives were treated on the show, rendered into convenient plot devices in service of the white female protagonist’s character development. As a black woman viewing the show, it was easy to see that the active pursuit of liberation from abuse was not a struggle that this show believes includes me (an ongoing struggle for Marvel). Ironically, the best parts of the show are its treatment with its villain, while the worst are its treatments with its female anti-heroine.

While I do have several critiques of the show, there were a number of things that I thought were handled exceptionally well. Firstly, this is a show driven by women about the fears and terrors that women must navigate in the world shrunk down to a micro-level, enabling us an intimate look at the various levels of abuse women routinely endure. The contrast between Kilgrave and Simpson is genius, as it helps demonstrate the full scale of abuse that men knowingly and unknowingly enact on the women around them. The two men are flip-sides of the same coin. While Kilgrave simply takes what he feels he is entitled to by means of his powers of enhanced persuasion, Simpson initially takes a less forceful but no less sinister approach, exemplified in his treatment of Trish after he realizes that Kilgrave has compelled him to murder her. As Stephanie Yang writes in a Bitch Magazine review:

The warning signs are there early on. Under Kilgrave’s control, Simpson assaults Trish inside her own apartment. Once Kilgrave’s control wears off, he’s wracked with guilt and comes back to apologize. The problem is that Trish doesn’t want Simpson’s apology; she wants him to just leave. Trish doesn’t want to be reminded that she was attacked in her own home, or feel trapped by her own high-end security system while her attacker lingers outside. But Simpson is insistent, sitting in her hallway and talking to her through the intercom. Simpson makes his apology about his needs and his absolution, not about Trish’s needs, safety or mental health. It’s entirely understandable, but it’s still wrong.

Simpson and Kilgrave certainly have different motivation for their destructive actions. But as Jessica points out, intent doesn’t matter. Their actions and consequences are what matter. That’s an important distinction that needs to be made at a time when courts and media alike dismiss many real-life cases of abuse because the abuser “couldn’t know” what they were doing was wrong. Violence is a symptom of a culture that indulges bad behavior as being inherently and unavoidably part of masculinity, or even a romantic expression of desire and protectiveness.

I would go a step further and name Simpson’s insistent apologies to Trish as outright abusive on their face, specifically because they prioritize his need for absolution over her need to heal. Trish is the victim in the situation, and yet Simpson manages to find a way to center himself in the story of this trauma. As with Kilgrave and Jessica, Simpson’s abuse is rooted not in a cartoonish hatred of women as we are often led to believe, but rather in prioritizing his own will and desires over Trish’s.

The show’s exploration of rape and consent is also spot-on. Through interaction with Kilgrave’s superhuman abilities, Jessica Jones is able to make plain text of the subtext of rape culture. In one episode, Jessica makes plain that what Kilgrave did to her was rape. She says the word and invokes it over and over, explaining to him that by revoking her ability to consent, he violated her in a profound way that he can never make up for, nullifying any “kind treatment” during that time. For Jessica (and many other victims of sexual abuse) she was raped not only when Kilgrave forced sexual consent by rendering her suggestible, but also by forcing her to display trust and affection for him against her will. We see this idea replicated when Hope demands that she be allowed to abort Kilgrave’s fetus, because “every moment it’s in me is like he’s raping me all over again.”

The other great thing about Jessica Jones is that it is a show ostensibly about rape, that never depicts a rape. It can be argued that the entire engine of the show is powered by the actions of a serial rapist with many, many victims in his wake, and yet the show never feels the need to indulge in crude depictions of trauma to demonstrate how horrifying rape is. Instead, we spend extensive time examining the fallout; following Jessica and Hope as they try to cope with being violated on such a profound level, grapple with their own feelings of guilt and culpability and make it to the other side with their faculties intact. One of the things that made Kilgrave so scary in the initial episodes was the way the memory of him haunted Jessica, always lingering at the edge of her thoughts, out of sight, but never out of mind. It masterfully depicted the way that rape trauma is a burden that doesn’t go away once the act itself is over. In a year that’s been replete with depictions of rape in television, it was refreshing to see a show tackle the true emotional weight of sexual assault without using the violation itself to titillate.

On the other hand, the treatment of people of colour in Jessica Jones is often anti-intersectional and openly anti-black. Vulture‘s year end “Best of Television” list cites the show as demonstrating “a racially diverse cast, heavy on women,” a construction that belies that for many people, diversity means “add black men and stir.” To me, it is borderline disrespectful to call the show racially diverse when the only significant, named woman of colour character is dead before the narrative begins and never speaks a word, while the black male characters are all subjected to incredible violence in service of the white female protagonist. This force frames feminist representation as the representation of white women and yet again, erases women of colour from our popular narratives.

With Reva’s character, this is especially glaring. Her death at Jessica’s hands is essentially the inciting incident of the story; the act that allows Jessica to free herself from Kilgrave’s control. Reva is fridged to motivate Jessica’s escape and eventual confrontation with Kilgrave. As Shaadi Devereaux writes in Model View Culture:

[…] One has to wonder what metaphor is offered, that she has to kill a Black woman in order to finally obtain that freedom. She must literally stop Reva Connors’ heart with a single blow in order to experience her moment of awakening, enabling her to walk away from a cis-heterosexual white male abuser. It brings to mind how white women liberate themselves from unpaid domestic labor by exploiting Black/Latina/Indigenous women, often heal their own sexual trauma by performing activism that harms WoC, and how the white women’s dollar still compares to that of WoC. Like Jessica’s liberation is only possible through the violence against Reva, we see sharp parallels with how liberatory white womanhood often interplays with the lives of WoC. Were the writers consciously aware of these parallels, or was it just the same script playing out in their heads?

It’s disappointing that the show, knowingly or not, replicates the same cycles of abuse that routinely play out within the feminist movement, by positioning violence against black women as the justified cost of white women’s liberation. Jessica eventually enacts the same cycle of abuse against Luke Cage, her main love interest. Shaadi notes:

After killing Reva, Jessica goes on to stalk Reva’s husband, Luke Cage, in a compulsive and boundary-violating cycle of guilt. She finally sleeps with him…without disclosing how she was implicated in Reva’s death. She both withholds and actively obstructs him from finding out information about his own life, so that she can continue to get what she needs intimately from him. In dealing with her own demons, Jessica violates an invulnerable Black man and lays him a blow that no other character in their universe has the power to. Was this another nod to a complex understanding of gender, race and power, or another trope surfacing in insidious ways?

The issue here is that the show does not give any indication as to whether this is commentary or trope, so we are forced to assume the latter, interpreting the text as presented to us. Jessica makes a habit of using the black men around her, in service to her own ends treating them as interchangeable and disposable, a glaring and problematic oversight given the current political climate, and the historical context of black men being subjected to undue violence for the protection of white women. Jessica’s pursuit of Luke despite her knowledge of her involvement in what we are led to believe in the most painful event of his life replicates the same disregard for his feelings that we saw Simpson demonstrate with Trish. To Jessica, her own need to be in Luke’s orbit because of her overwhelming guilt and self-loathing, supersede his right to be fully informed about the circumstances of his wife’s death, and as Tom and Lorenzo astutely write in their review:

[…] Like it or not, she has the capacity to be a bit hypocritical about Kilgrave’s abilities choosing to think that there’s actually a right way to take people’s control away from them.

And Jessica very literally takes Luke’s control away by not disclosing her involvement in Reva’s death. She takes away his ability to choose not to be with the person who murdered his wife. Later, his choice to forgive is later revoked by Kilgrave, as he is forced to reconcile with her under Kilgrave’s control. Again, the invulnerable black man’s pain is not respected, but rather toyed with and manipulated by the narrative to serve the needs of white characters. As Shaadi again points out, the pattern becomes more uncomfortable and glaring as the series continues:

When her neighbor shares how Black people are more vulnerable to others’ perceptions, it invokes not sympathy but an idea of how she can use it for her own ends. The result is several scenes where she pushes Black men into people to create a scene of chaos, using the opportunity to go unseen as she breaks the law. Instead of challenging oppressive systems directly, she uses them to get what she wants and to center her own survival. We see that she has some guilt about it, but sis willing to do it for her survival and the survival of other white characters.

These scenes demonstrate that as people marginalized along a spectrum, we often leverage violence against others for our own survival, sometimes with full awareness. But is awareness enough? Or as long as power remains unchallenged, will we always be lured by self-priority, the hierarchy of own safety and access? Our hero is willing to take on the mindcontrol of Kilgrave, but not those dangers most affecting the two most important men in her life – both Black. She intimately understands that no one will believe her, but capitalizes on the hierarchy of who has enough humanity to be believed – against other marginalized identities. She can finally walk away from the mind of her abuser, but the gravitational pull of racism is still too much.

As a black woman, I’m left to wonder, is Jessica worse than your garden variety racist for acknowledging systems of oppression only to exploit them? And on a real world level, why is this behaviour heralded by viewers as feminist when it actively takes advantage of people that the feminist movement is meant to protect?

My last issue is less a problem with this show specifically and more a general trope in fiction. I expect that very little can be done about this considering the source material, but truly abhor narratives in which a black person’s “power” is that they cannot feel pain or be hurt. It is a direct callback to very pervasive superhumanization bias and stereotypes that still exist and are perpetuated today. As I have written before about this characterization, it feeds into the idea that violence against black people is not traumatic or dangerous as they can withstand the pain, and that this ability positions them as protectors of white characters who often also do them harm. It explains why young black boys are coded by white people as much older than they are, or why they think black people feel less pain. With Luke, we see this reflected in Luke’s fight scenes as person after person escalates the violence against him to no effect. He is easily able to trounce several men at once. Earlier, we also see him take a circle saw to his abdomen in order to demonstrate his power to Jessica. Later still, we see doctors poke and prod him with needles and other penetrating devices ostensibly to save him, but the scenes only reinforce what we have already been told; nothing can hurt him, and so violence against him is justified.

In the end, I would be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy the show. The way Jessica Jones deals with consent resonated with me on a deep level, but it also made me question why the show didn’t identify with me as a black woman, when I so easily identified with it. Hopefully in the next season we will see a more intersectional approach to the struggles that women face that treats its black characters with the same care that it affords the white women in the cast.

Cate Young is a Trinidadian freelance writer and photographer, and author of BattyMamzelle, a feminist pop culture blog focused on film, television, music, and critical commentary on media representation. Cate has a BA in Photojournalism from Boston University and is currently pursuing her MA in Mass Communications so that she can more effectively examine the symbolic annihilation of women of colour in the media and deliver the critical feminist smack down. Follow her on twitter at @BattyMamzelle.

The CW’s ‘Crazy Ex-Girlfriend’ and the Pathologizing of Female Desire

I would like to pretend that such crushes stopped once I graduated high school and graduated to full-blown, adult relationships complete with the objects of my affection affection-ing me back. That would, however, be a lie. This is all to say: unrequited female desire is not uncommon.

Let me rephrase: unrequited female desire is not uncommon in real life. It is, however, uncommon in popular culture.

This is a guest post by Stephanie Brown.

In a few weeks, I’ll be meeting with a Mortified producer in the hopes of having the opportunity to read my diary on stage in front of a bunch of strangers, so I’ve spent many nights pouring through every diary I’ve kept since age 8. While I wish they contained high-minded meanderings, silly but insightful childhood reflections, or at least an angsty Jewel inspired poem or two, my writings from age 8 to age 31 largely center around one topic: boys.

Yes, some of these boys were boyfriends. Boys who I loved who loved me back. Boys I fought with. Boys who broke my heart. About these boys, I wrote to work through the complicated feelings I had relating to our complicated relationships, because they’re always complicated when you’re 19. But the vast majority of the boys who litter the pages of my diaries did not return any of the feelings that filled pages upon pages; they were unrequited crushes. These were the boys I pined over in the halls of junior high, whose houses I walked past every night in case they happened to walk out the door, whose discarded pens I saved in my locker, whose every glance and word I poured over with my friends like a detective searching for clues.

Let me rephrase: unrequited female desire is not uncommon in real life. It is, however, uncommon in popular culture.

Why do I bring this up? In addition to reading through my old diaries, the premiere of the CW’s new series Crazy Ex-Girlfriend has reminded about how rare representations of one-sided female desire are within our popular culture and how often those representations, when they do exist, tend to pathologize such feelings. This dearth of representations has given me complicated feelings about the CW’s new, oftentimes brilliant, series.

The show, if you aren’t familiar, is an hour-long musical-dramedy created by and starring funny woman Rachel Bloom, who has written for Robot Chicken and who has created hilariously offbeat music videos like “Fuck Me, Ray Bradbury.” The pilot centers on the decision of New York-based, overachieving lawyer Rebecca Bunch (Bloom) to turn down a major promotion and instead move to West Covina, California to start her life anew. She makes this decision after running into Josh Chan (Vincent Rodriguez III), a summer camp boyfriend from her youth, who mentions that he is about to move back to West Covina. While the episode makes obvious that Rebecca is miserable in her current job and life situation and is subconsciously using her crush on Josh as an excuse to make a drastic change in her life, the series has so far focused more on Rebecca’s crush than it has on the other reasons she has for moving. Though, as the series progresses, we have started to get glimpses of her troubled family history and deeper insecurity issues.

The series has a lot going for it. The show’s tone is delightfully off-kilter, veering between dark comedy, upbeat musical numbers, and moments of introspection about friendship, success, gender roles, and family trauma. The jokes are clever and unexpected, the songs are catchy and subversive, and the characters are a lovable bunch of misfits played by a cast of extremely talented, relatively unknown actors. The series is largely written and produced by women, and the casting of Josh is a refreshing choice in a pop culture landscape in which Filipino actors are rarely chosen to play the hot leading man.

For the uninitiated, here is a song from the second episode that is emblematic of the silly, clever and subversive way the show plays with the societal expectations put on women:

[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hkfSDSfxE4o”]

The series is in many ways complex and nuanced and different, which is why its title and accompanying ad campaign have been frustrating. While the show’s intro theme song winks self-knowingly at the name of the series, (“That’s a sexist term!” Rebecca shouts at the chorus singing about her, “It’s more nuanced than that!”) someone still decided it would be beneficial to play into gender stereotypes that construct unrequited love as a pathology in women. This isn’t new, of course. We have texts like the “overly attached girlfriend” meme and Sandra Bullock’s Razzie winning performance in All About Steve that make fun of women who perform love incorrectly, and we have dark thrillers like Fatal Attraction in which women’s desire becomes deadly.

While Crazy Ex-Girlfriend is a largely wonderful series and while the writers need more than three episodes to develop its characters, two things trouble me about how Rebecca’s feelings have been treated, aside from the title’s blasé pejorative use of the term “crazy.” The first is that Josh thus far does not seem to be Rebecca’s destined love interest. Television couples are often set up from the early stages of a series, and when the set-up is incited by a male character’s crush (ie, Jim and Pam from The Office, Ross and Rachel from Friends, Niles and Daphne on Frasier), the coupling seems inevitable.

However, from what we’ve seen so far, Josh is not Rebecca’s eventual love interest; his cute yet sarcastic bartender friend Greg (Santino Fontana) is. Josh and Rebecca don’t have much chemistry, but Rebecca and Greg do. They banter. They fight. They act toward each other how most eventual television pairs act. Halfway through the pilot episode, we are already cheering for Rebecca to forget about Josh and realize that Greg is the right guy for her. Rebecca is almost immediately set up as a love object, even in a show whose very premise centers on her feelings for someone else.

Second, the show seems to want to explain Rebecca’s desire for Josh as a symptom of the actual mental health issues from which she seems to be suffering. Honest representations of mental illness are great. Honest representations of female desire are great. What I don’t find great are representations that link female desire to mental illness. The series needs to allow Rebecca to experience both, but without conflating the two.

While some critics are looking forward to she series pivoting off of its initial premise, and while I agree that the show needs to also explore Rebecca’s friendships and family and anxiety and success, I don’t want to give up on the idea that we can have funny, relatable representations of women having crushes. I longed for such storylines as a kid. The girls and women on television always seemed to be the ones being pined after. They never threw parties in hopes that their crush would show up or memorized someone’s class schedule in order to ‘accidentally’ bump into them every day. While I wish the writers on Crazy Ex-Girlfriend would modulate Rebecca’s character, I have related on some level to the feelings about which she often sings.

My hopes for Crazy Ex-Girlfriend moving forward are therefore twofold. I want the series to give Rebecca more to do than pine after Josh, but I don’t want the series or critics to pathologize Rebecca for pining after Josh. I don’t want audiences to write off the series because of some rigid definition of feminism that doesn’t allow for crushes, but I want the series to stop constructing Rebecca’s crush as borderline delusional.

In high school, my friends and I designed, printed, and laminated a 12-Step System for getting over our crushes. I still have the certificate I was awarded for successfully completing the program in the middle of the tenth grade. Even then, we characterized our own feelings as an addiction. I labeled myself “ boy crazy.” This language reinforces the idea that such feelings require treatment, however, wanting someone who doesn’t want you is not a mental illness. We need pop culture to stop telling us that it is.

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

Secondhand Embarrassment in ‘Chewing Gum’

‘Chewing Gum’ is a gem and let’s hope that this is a good indication of the bright future that’s ahead of Michaela Coel.

This is a guest post by Giselle Defares.

At the 67^th prime time Emmy Awards, Viola Davis dropped several truth bombs during her acceptance speech after becoming the first African-American to win an Emmy for best actress in a drama: “The only thing that separates women of color from anyone else is opportunity.” Well, when no doors open you have to kick them in. In the UK there has been an underrepresentation of BAME (Black, Asian, and minority ethnic) actors in TV and film; most shows give an incorrect reflection of the British society, especially when it’s filmed in London, where 40 percent of the population is non-white. There are several initiatives such as The Act For Change Project lead by Danny Lee Wynter that campaigns to strengthen diversity in live and recorded arts. The lack of diversity is especially noticeable when it comes to British comedy. There were only a handful of comedy sketch shows in the last 20 years from Desmond’s to The Real McCoy to Little Miss Jocelyn, and that’s about it. Black British humor is underrated, period. Some artists venture out on their own thus leading the way. Enter Michaela Coel.

The Ghanaian-British actress/writer/poet Michaela Coel has forged her own path in the industry whilst being vulnerable and honest in her creativity. Coel was “discovered” by playwright and director Ché Walker during one of her poetry slams. He invited her to visit the masterclasses he held at RADA and from there she later obtained her degree from the Guildhall School for Music and Drama. In her last year, Coel created her own graduation piece, a 15-minute monologue that became the first version of her one-woman show Chewing Gum Dreams, which she later performed at the National Theater in London. In an interview with The Evening Standard, Coel explained that she wanted her show to reflect “the sort of life you don’t see very often on TV. Tracey’s sexual naiveté, for example, reflects [my own] celibacy between the ages of 17 and 22… I had a massive conversion to this very Pentecostal, demon-exorcising church. Getting to the point where I started to do not such a good job of being celibate, was awkward and horrible. So much guilt. Psychologically, I was in a whirlwind.”

Chewing Gum centers round Tracey Gordon (Michaela Coel), a 24-year-old who grew up on a council estate in east London in a strict religious environment who’s trying to alter her path in adulthood. She’s innocent and wise and equally adores her idols Beyoncé and Jesus. She stumbles her way through London and finds out the hard way what she should and shouldn’t be doing. While Tracey is trying to broaden her world, her sister Cynthia (Susan Wokoma) is content with their solemn life as long as she can play the board game Ludo with her family every night. Her overly religious mother Joy (Shola Adewusi) sermons innocent bystanders on the street with quips such as: “My dear, your vagina is holy. I command you to leave your nether regions be.” Tracey’s best friend Candice (Danielle Walters) and her grandmother Esther (Maggie Steed) are more worldly and they often gives her disastrous life advice. Tracey has been in a six-year relationship with her Pentecostal Christian boyfriend Ronald (John MacMillan) and is eager to lose her virginity with him, while Ronald says in his prayers, “We will wait till we die if it brings you glory.” Luckily for Tracey there’s the neighborhood poet Connor (Robert Lonsdale), who seems to really like her.

The first episode was enjoyable, filthy, funny, and loaded with secondhand embarrassment, but the balance between all the characters wasn’t quite there. Before Coel got the greenlight for her six episodes on Channel 4, she got the opportunity to create two comedy blaps to present her idea (unfortunately Channel 4 made them private on YouTube). She changed certain elements from the shorts and at some moments they worked better than what was aired in the first episode. It’s especially noticeable with the new Connor. The old Connor (Morgan Watkins) was slightly better at pulling off the dumb yet dorky character in a less self- conscious way. The new Connor feels a bit out of place (and dorkier) in the first episode, but it seems that Lonsdale will improve in the upcoming episodes. However, the addition of her Christian boyfriend Ronald is a great move.

Chewing Gum is refreshing since it breaks the mold of the overriding limited representation of minorities in the UK. Coel shows us a protagonist who deals with love, religion, classism, pop culture, and it’s set against the background of a council estate. Yet Tracey isn’t the archetype of the Black girl who’s often portrayed as either: unhappy, uneducated, poor, highly sexualized and surrounded by aggression and criminal behavior or other tropes that seem to be prevalent when it comes to the portrayal of the Black British experience within the media. – see Top Boy (fun fact: Coel had a small part in this show). The factor that binds the people on the estate together is, according to Coel, “class and community.”

Coel shines in her leading role. Tracey is kind, grounded and sweet whilst her best friend Candice has a more distinct personality: brash, bubbly and definitely more experienced when it comes to sex. Her advice to Tracey on her date with Ronald: “Just sit on his face.” Well, it went from innocent to filthy (yet funny) real quick. The relationships and the conversations that Tracey has with her friends and family are natural, see for instance the scenes where Tracey discusses her upcoming date with Candice:

Tracey: “ Candice, I’m 24, I’m a virgin. Yes. That doesn’t mean I wanna have sex with my boyfriend, yeah.”

Candice: “ You don’t have to. Bag someone on Tinder. It’s free. Set the thing to find someone in your borough, and walk. A tinder bang is not even a bus-fare, bruv.”

Tracey (looks into the camera): “Candice is like the buffest girl I’ve ever seen on the whole of my estate but she has learning difficulties so it sort of balances it all out. I can be best friends with her and I’m not even jealous or anything.”

Candice: “ You know if you leave it too long, you tear when he enters you. You need stitches.”

Tracey: “Yeah, well, thank god for the NHS then, innit.”

Tracey gives us a glimpse how awkward (extremely guarded) twentysomethings can operate. Comparisons are made with Girls by Lena Dunham or that the show is the British equivalent of The Misadventures of Awkward Black Girl by Issa Rae. While Rae and Coel both managed to create their own space when there were no opportunities that’s where the similarities end. It’s fair to say that Chewing Gum stands on its own.

The appeal of Chewing Gum lies in the humor, the familiarity and quite frankly the second hand embarrassment when you see Tracey trying to fulfil her sexual fantasies. Coel gives us a Black female lead who doesn’t shy away from graphic (offensive) sexual humor. Susan Wokoma shines as the religious, younger sister Cynthia. The character could be one note but Wokoma shows her comedic chops. There’s great chemistry between Tracey, Candice and her grandmother Esther, hopefully their relationship will be explored. All the characters are well cast, but Candice and Connor need to be more fleshed out in the upcoming episodes.

Chewing Gum is the comedy with a Black female lead some of us have been waiting for. It’s not the representation of Blackness but it’s certainly nice to see a Black leading character who isn’t molded in archetypes, which can be damaging society’s perception of Black women. Tracey is open, vulnerable, filthy, funny and just trying to live life the best as she can. Chewing Gum is a gem and let’s hope that this is a good indication of the bright future that’s ahead of Michaela Coel.

[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Dpm3UcJd3no”]

Giselle Defares comments on film, fashion (law) and American pop culture. See her blog here.

“Everything Is Going To Be OK!” – How the Female Gaze Was Celebrated and Censored in ‘Cardcaptor Sakura’

In other words, there was a concerted effort to twist the female gaze into a male one under the belief that CLAMP’s blend of hyper-femininity and action would be unappealing for the male audience it was being aimed at.

This guest post by Hannah Collins appears as part of our theme week on The Female Gaze.

With their starry eyes, cutesy costumes, Barbie-esque features, and catchphrases overflowing with dreamy positivity, the magical girls of the shoujo (girls) genre of anime might not seem like the most feminist of heroines upon cursory glance. Yet, the plucky sorceress’ of such cult classics as Sailor Moon can be seen an emblematic of a counter-movement of female action heroes in Japanese culture – the antidote to the hyper-masculinity of the shonen (boys) genre.

This assessment by no means disregards the problems of the magical girl genre – infantalisation; fetishisation and glorification of hyper-femininity – and shoujo characters with their typically doe-eyed innocence can be easily corrupted to cater to a specific male fantasy of virginal femininity. However, the work of the all-female team of manga/anime creators known as “CLAMP” not only combats these issues, but also, as Kathryn Hemmann in The Female Gaze in Contemporary Japanese Culture writes, “employs shŌjo for themselves and their own pleasure.”

I became a fan of CLAMP – like most people of my age – in the 1990s. As a child, my introduction to the wonderfully weird world of Japanese cartoons consisted of the standard diet for most children of that era: Pokemon, Yu-Gi-Oh! and Dragon Ball Z. Imported, dissected, re-dubbed, and re-packaged to suit the tastes of a Western audience, and more specifically, a male audience. But amongst the shouts of “Gotta Catch ‘Em All!” and “Kamehameha!” there was one show that really left a lasting impression on me. It was about a little girl gifted with great power through capturing and using magical “Clow” cards. She wasn’t muscly; she wasn’t self-assured; and she certainly wasn’t male. She was Sakura Kinomoto, the show was called Cardcaptors (Cardcaptor Sakura in its original Japanese format), and it was my first exposure to both CLAMP and the magical girl or “mahou shoujo” genre they helped to popularise.

Like most adolescent heroes, Sakura seems hopelessly ill-equipped to begin with, and yet her sheer determination to achieve her full potential sees her through to becoming a magical force to be reckoned with without ever surrendering her loving personality. Rather than conforming to the “strong female character” stereotype that implies that women must act more masculine to achieve truly equal footing with male action heroes, Sakura’s power stems from traits considered more conventionally feminine: love, empathy, and pureness. Even her wardrobe changes into unapologetically girly battle outfits aesthetically reinforce CLAMP’s refusal to bow to a male audiences’ preferences.

These themes of romance and friendship are a core part of the story development and instrumental in the viewer’s investment in the characters. Through Cardcaptor Sakura, CLAMP explores the complexities of both platonic and romantic female love – both heterosexual and homosexual – from an almost exclusively female perspective. As Sakura pines over her older brother’s best friend (who unbeknownst to her, is also his love interest) Sakura’s best friend Tomoyo pines over her. Tomoyo, who lives a rich and sheltered life in a female-centric household, seems to live vicariously through Sakura. Upon discovering her secret heroics at night, she begins to capture Sakura’s adventures on camera and even provides her with her signature battle costumes, which cause Sakura huge embarrassment. Yet, at the risk of hurting her friend’s feelings, she grudgingly wears them anyway.

As the show develops, we are shown more and more just how deeply Tomoyo’s feelings run. In episode 11, Tomoyo gives Sakura a rare tour of her impressive mansion home, including a cinema room in which she confesses that she watches her recordings back of Sakura in battle constantly. It seems that Tomoyo is as much a part of the audience to Sakura’s life as we – the viewers – are. It also strikes me that this obsessive behaviour might translate entirely differently if Tomoyo were male.

Tomoyo’s idolisation of Sakura is far from veiled, and yet it is not revealed to be unmistakeably romantic until Episode 40, in which Sakura must capture a Clow card that makes people dream about their hidden desires. Sakura, Tomoyo, Syaoran Li (Sakura’s rival and love interest) and his cousin Meilin visit a fun fair. Sakura and Meilin team up to play a Whack-A-Mole game and Tomoyo – as usual – picks up her camera to film Sakura in action. Suddenly, the Clow card appears in the form of a glowing butterfly and lands on Tomoyo’s shoulder. Tomoyo falls into a dream sequence, in which we see her deepest desire play out through her eyes. On a pink background of falling cherry blossom, copies of Sakura dressed in Tomoyo’s outfits call her name and dance playfully around her. We are shown a shot of Tomoyo’s face – staring in awe at first, and then relax into a smile. “I’m so happy!” she says to herself, and runs toward the dancing copies of Sakura – still filming.

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

It seems like an odd moment to be sexually awakened – watching your crush play a Whack-A-Mole game at a fun fair – and perhaps if the show had been targeted at a more mixed audience (or the characters were older) this moment might have been filled with more obvious sexualised content. But through Tomoyo’s own eyes, CLAMP visually summarise the complex feelings of romance, admiration, obsession, and innocent love she feels for Sakura. Not only this, but as Sakura dances continually out of Tomoyo’s physical reach, the implication becomes one of wanting something you know you can never have. Tomoyo knows by now of Syaoran’s feelings for Sakura and like a true friend encourages their romance for the sake of Sakura’s happiness rather than her own.

This “doomed” romance trap seems to be a family curse, as we discover in episode 10 that Tomoyo’s mother appeared to also be hopelessly in love with Sakura’s mother (her cousin). Similarly, Sakura’s mother didn’t return her cousin’s feelings as she was in love with an older man (Sakura’s father) in the same way that Sakura is attracted to Yukito – an older boy. Both mothers are absent from their lives – Sakura’s mother through death, and Tomoyo’s through continual business trips – yet their daughters seem fated to play out their romantic histories.

Suffering from a bout of nostalgia, I decided to revisit the show as an adult, first in it’s Americanised form, and then the original Japanese version to compare the differences. I was shocked to discover that in an effort to make the show fit the perceived needs of their rigidly defined demographic of young boys, the executives at Kids WB had hacked all elements of “toxic” feminisation from it – romance, homosexuality, and the agency of Sakura has a protagonist (even her name is removed from the title) – dramatically reducing the run-time from 70 to just 39 episodes. In fact, if they had been able to “maximise” their cuts, the show would reportedly have run for merely 13 episodes. In other words, there was a concerted effort to twist the female gaze into a male one under the belief that CLAMP’s blend of hyper-femininity and action would be unappealing for the male audience it was being aimed at. In Japanese Superheroes for Global Girls, Anne Allison quotes this from an executive from Mattel, “[…] In America, girls will watch male-oriented programming but boys won’t watch female-oriented shows; this makes a male superhero a better bet.”

Whilst moaning about all this to my partner recently, I asked him if he had watched the dubbed version of the show as a child. He said that he had, but didn’t realise until he was older that the show had probably been intended for girls. I asked him if he remembered being turned-off that the show’s hero was a little girl as opposed to the ultra-masculine characters of his favourite childhood anime, Dragon Ball Z. His totally undermines Mattel’s assumptions about the show’s gender appeal: “I thought Sakura was really cool. In fact, I loved her so much I begged my mum for roller-skates that Christmas so that I could skate around to be like her.” Even more affirming than this is the fact that whilst the dubbed version of the show ended up being cancelled, the original Japanese one ran to its intended conclusion; spawned two films; and inspired two spin-off series using the same characters – Tsubasa: Reservoir Chronicle and xxxHolic.

Sadly, by “butching” Cardcaptor Sakura up to be squeezed into the TV schedule alongside Pokemon and Dragon Ball Z, Western children were deprived of the tender and emotionally complex storytelling and character development behind all the magic and swordplay – and even from getting a satisfying ending to the show. It seems that whilst Japanese children are considered mature enough to deal with female superheroes, complex pre-pubescent emotions, and LGBTQ+ representation from a female perspective, Western children are unfortunately not treated with the same respect or intelligence.

Sources

The Female Gaze in Contemporary Japanese Literature, Kathryn Hemmann.

On Writing (Strong) Female Characters, Daniel Swensen.

Magical Girls: Empowered or Objectified? Wiki for SC2220: Gender Studies for University of Singapore.

The Americanisation of Cardcaptor Sakura, Actar’s Reviews.

Hannah Collins is a freelance illustrator, writer, Feminist, anime nerd, and Britney Spears apologist. You can read more of her writing on gender in pop culture at Fanny Pack and her on own blog.

‘Humans’ Thinks About Gender, Power, and Technology

The question at the heart of this U.K.-U.S. hybrid miniseries is, what does it mean to be human? Through the show’s emphasis on intimate, domestic life, this becomes a decidedly gendered question. Among the four concurrent storylines, Anita’s and Niska’s stories stick out to me as the most expressly concerned with gender, power, and technology. In a parallel present in which traditionally gendered roles like housekeeper, cook, nurturer, and prostitute are taken up by hyper-productive female robots, what does it mean to be a human woman? Or more specifically: what is a mother? A sex worker? A wife? And what is the relationship between female Synths and human women–one of solidarity or antagonism?

This is a guest post by Colleen Martell.

Set in alternate-present London, the world of AMC’s Humans looks just like ours, except that humans employ high-functioning robots called “Synths” to do all kinds of work for them, including cooking, cleaning, child-rearing, and healthcare. For an additional fee, Synths are even made available for sex.

The show’s drama centers on a small group of rogue Synths who were developed (by whom? why?) with human feelings and independent thinking. In the first episode we learn that these “corrupted” Synths and a human ally were caught in an escape attempt: Fred (Sope Dirisu) is taken in for testing; one female is wiped clean, re-programmed, and later purchased by a family who names her “Anita” (Gemma Chan); and Niska (Emily Berrington) is placed in a brothel, very much still capable of feeling and thinking. Two of their compatriots, human Leo (Colin Morgan) and his Synth Max (Ivanno Jeremiah), are still on the loose, plotting to locate and free the others.

Anita’s storyline primarily takes place in the home. Joe Hawkins (Tom Goodman-Hill) purchases a female Synth while his wife Laura (Katherine Parkinson) is away for work. He was apparently struggling to maintain the household and their three children alone for a few days. This is very much against Laura’s wishes, and her relationship with Anita is predictably hostile. For good reason. Anita usurps Laura’s place in the family: Joe and Laura’s daughter Sophie (Pixie Davies) comes downstairs one morning to find the table set and covered in food and drink. “Is it a party?!,” she asks. No, Joe replies: “This is what breakfast is supposed to be like.” But Laura also seems to be the only one who notices Anita’s less-than-robotic behavior, suggesting that Anita was not, in fact, successfully re-programmed and does indeed still feel and think on her own. Anita patronizes and toys with Laura, and becomes unusually attached to Sophie.

Anita out-mothering Laura, who lurks in the background

If Laura is a “shit mother” (her words) because she isn’t constantly emotionally available to her children, because she doesn’t make three meals a day or do the whole family’s cleaning and ironing, then the remedy for her failure in the world of Humans is to add a non-conscious, non-sentient being to the family to do all of this work. Sharing the household labor does not seem to be an option; people prefer instead to displace this emotional and physical labor onto others.

Not only does the show encourage us to feel with the never-good-enough mother; Humans simultaneously poses some very Donna Haraway-esque questions about Anita, the machine. Laura constantly fires criticisms and insults at Anita: “You’re just a stupid machine, aren’t you?” Anita complies, “Yes, Laura.” Laura insists on referring to Anita as “it” and threatening Anita, “I’m watching you.” How can humans treat machines so poorly if they are at the same time so physically, intellectually, and/or emotionally dependent on them? As the show progresses, there are hints that some seemingly human individuals, like Leo, are also part robot, which keeps pushing viewers to ponder the boundaries between “human” and “machine.”

The Synth brothel also raises interesting questions about gender and technology. Weeks of pretending not to feel while locked in a windowless room serving clients against her will push Niska over the edge. When a male client wants Niska to act young and scared, Niska chokes him (to death?), uses his human hand to open the door to her room, and walks out in a trench coat. Picking up a knife on her way out the door, Niska presses it into her madam’s throat. “Everything your men do to us, they want to do to you,” she tells her before walking out in defiant liberation.

Trench-coated Niska on her way out the door

It’s hard not to thrill at Niska’s rebellion, particularly because we know that she can feel and has been placed in the brothel against her will. But should Niska’s madam, a human woman, feel solidarity with the non-feeling female Synths she owns? Does displacing violent sexual fantasies onto non-feeling robots liberate human women from similar fates (and do human women want to be liberated from sex work?)? Is it ethical to hold female robots in captivity as sex workers, with doors that only unlock by human hands, whether or not they can feel?

Thus far, the show offers more questions than answers, but like all good science fiction, the questions are important ones. They are also old questions, concerns about household labor, child-rearing, and sex work that feminists have been exploring for generations. As a result, Humans makes the important point that while we may be technologically advancing, there is still much work to be done when it comes to social issues like gender equality.

Recommended reading: Donna Haraway’s, “A Cyborg Manifesto”

Colleen Martell is a writer and gender consultant based in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania. She might be a cyborg. Find her on twitter at @elsiematz.

Feminism in ‘Orphan Black’

‘Orphan Black’ tackles two very different hot-button topics in a way that’s considered entertaining, insightful, and groundbreaking: the possible repercussions of cloning and the dynamics of the female personality. Show creators Graeme Manson and John Fawcett are earning praise for breaking decades of television stereotypes that resulted in most female characters either taking a backseat role or displaying a single, overriding personality trait (i.e., the ditzy blonde, the butch female, the submissive housewife). As the feminism in ‘Orphan Black’ earns praise, however, there’s been some criticism of the show’s underdeveloped male characters–a glaring contradiction that may be intentional.

This is a guest post by Maria Ramos.

Orphan Black tackles two very different hot-button topics in a way that’s considered entertaining, insightful and groundbreaking: the possible repercussions of cloning and the dynamics of the female personality. Show creators Graeme Manson and John Fawcett are earning praise for breaking decades of television stereotypes that resulted in most female characters either taking a backseat role or displaying a single, overriding personality trait (i.e., the ditzy blonde, the butch female, the submissive housewife). As the feminism in Orphan Black earns praise, however, there’s been some criticism of the show’s underdeveloped male characters–a glaring contradiction that may be intentional.

While Canadian actress Tatiana Maslany plays all five clones, she displays very different, fully developed characters. In fact, it’s the diversity among those characters that adds another dynamic to the brand of feminism portrayed in the series. This has also earned praise from members of the LGBTQA community since two of the clones are openly gay and one is transgender. It’s this same diversity that the showrunners use to make a strong case for nurture over nature by clearly showing that, even with identical DNA, the clones have different personalities, sexualities, and gender identifications obviously fueled by the environments they encountered while developing into the individuals they are now.

In order to fully appreciate the feminism in Orphan Black, it’s necessary to take a look at how female characters have traditionally been portrayed on television, with only a handful of notable exceptions. The Walking Dead presents stereotypical women ranging from the tough-as-nails female out to prove she can kick butt just as hard as any man to the pretty blonde side character apparently only around to entice men. The women on Sons of Anarchy first come off as strong and independent. However, they often lose backbone and bend to the will of the men in their lives. Even a show as groundbreaking (at least when it comes to its male characters) as Modern Family relegates the character of Claire Dunphy to the role of a nagging wife and mother striving for normalcy whose concerns are often dismissed or not taken seriously for the sake of soliciting a few laughs.

The chief criticism of Orphan Black is that the male characters are given one dominating personality trait each while the female clones have complex personalities and not-so-obvious motives for why they’re doing what they’re doing. On the other hand, it doesn’t take much guesswork to figure out the motivations driving the male characters on the show. Manson and Fawcett have made no apologies for the obvious lack of male character development, instead implying that it’s a plot device meant to echo the point the show’s trying to make by intentionally playing up the female characters and downplaying the male roles. This inequality is apparently evident when it’s revealed that the male clones unveiled at the end of the second season were created for military use, suggesting a sole purpose for their existence. It remains unclear why the female clones were created and seemingly left to their devices.

For every Daenerys Targaryen (Game of Thrones) and Alicia Florrick (The Good Wife) there’s a one-note female character playing the token blonde girl or the unattractive smart girl who’s inevitably either a loner or a dateless third wheel. Even the show’s perceived flaws – underdeveloped male characters and strong female characters who sometimes resort to violence to assert their independence – are effective in the sense that these aspects drive conversations not often inspired by shows with lesser-developed female characters in either lead roles or supporting roles without much substance. Orphan Black joins shows like Orange Is the New Black in placing a long overdue emphasis on multidimensional female characters who have a story worth telling. Although the third season came to a close on June 20th, you can still follow these strong multidimensional female characters and rewatch episodes on BBC America on platforms such as Xfinity, DirecTV, or Netflix. Until the fourth season premieres next year, take a look back and appreciate the show for what it is about: women.

Maria Ramos is a writer interested in comic books, cycling, and horror films. Her hobbies include cooking, doodling, and finding local shops around the city. She currently lives in Chicago with her two pet turtles, Franklin and Roy. You can follow her on Twitter @MariaRamos1889.

‘Grace and Frankie’: Sexuality for Seniors and Life After Marriage

Tomlin and Fonda’s onscreen chemistry is absolutely spot on, giving life to moments that may otherwise have fallen flat. One of the most refreshing things about Grace and Frankie is its attitude to female sexuality in older women. Life (moreover, sex) doesn’t have to stop because you’re getting older. The series illustrates this with frankness and honesty, and we don’t shy away from seeing the woman in that light.

This is a guest post by Becky Kukla.

Something really special is happening in Netflix’s new baby Grace and Frankie. The series aired in its entirety a few weeks ago with relatively little promotion, considering the impressive cast involved. Grace and Frankie marks the return of Jane Fonda and Lily Tomlin to comedy television. Not that either of them ever really left the comedy world, though the last time we saw them together was in the ’80s film 9 to 5, which is by all accounts wonderfully funny and female centric. Tomlin and Fonda both starred in 9 to 5 and have been reportedly BFF’s ever since. In a way, following their 2015 Golden Globes presentation, they are almost a pre-cursor to the female comedy duos of today. Think Tina and Amy, Ilana and Abbi, and Wiig and Rudolph. If anyone set the standard for the hybrid hilarious BFFs/comedy duo, it’s Tomlin and Fonda. So, does Grace and Frankie live up to the hype?

Tomlin and Fonda play Frankie and Grace respectively, two women who are shocked to discover that their business partner husbands have been having a secret affair for the past 20 years. They have decided to divorce their wives and marry each other, after the law changes and “we can do that now.” Sol (Sam Waterston) and Robert (Martin Sheen) begin to make a life with each other, whilst Grace and Frankie are left to pick up the pieces. The first episode, aptly titled “The End,” begins with the moment that Robert and Sol break the news to their wives – over dinner at an expensive restaurant (oh the middle-class!). Grace and Frankie are only friends because of their husband’s partnership-turned-relationship, and the only thing they both have in common is that they are both belong to a group of women who are white, mature, middle-class and are generally ladies of leisure; they don’t work and rely on their husbands’ income. Grace is your typical vodka-infused, uptight, emotionless Lucille Bluth type, and Frankie embodies new-age hippie culture and is more at home smoking a joint than “doing lunch.” The set-up of the show is nothing new; we expect the laughs to come from either tired stereotypes surrounding homosexuality or from Grace and Frankie bickering. It’s a pleasant surprise to find that Grace and Frankie doesn’t rely on old and unfunny cliches to make us laugh (or cry).

Whilst Grace and Frankie could easily have tailed off into a comedy about the titular character’s love/hate relationship, the main focus of the series is actually two women supporting each other and pulling one another through an incredibly painful time. The theme of age and the fear of growing old alone is prevalent through the series, reinforcing society’s stigmas about lonely spinsters. Television often has little time for older women, but Grace and Frankie explores the heartbreak and isolation that comes with going through a divorce after 40+ years. Whilst Grace and Robert seem to hate each other (and have done for some time), the saddest story is that of Frankie and Sol. At times gut-wrenching, we see two people who have formed a relationship on the best of a friendships and having to learn to live without it. Tomlin pulls of a phenomenal performance, and epitomizes the highs and lows of such a life changing event. There is a moment in “The Funeral” where Frankie accidentally gets into Sol’s car, forgetting for a moment that they won’t be going home together. It’s a small action, but so significant and Tomlin handles it with perfection.

Even with all the seriousness, Grace and Frankie still has comedy at its heart. There are some wickedly funny lines (that mostly come from Tomlin’s Frankie) and provide plenty of occasions to laugh out loud. The gags don’t come thick and fast, unlike most contemporary comedy scripts, but Kaufman is clearly very happy to let the punchlines linger. It works superbly well because it allows the show to be incredibly funny without having to instantaneously move on to the next joke. At times it almost feels that there should be a laugh track within those pauses, but the absence of one actually helps to cement the reality of Grace and Frankie’s newfound situation. We are laughing because it’s the only way we can deal with this. Who hasn’t been there? There are also some hilarious recurring themes–Frankie’s relationship with technology, Grace’s exploration into sexuality and home-made lube, and the constant quips that the women throw at each other. Tomlin and Fonda’s onscreen chemistry is absolutely spot on, giving life to moments that may otherwise have fallen flat. One of the most refreshing things about Grace and Frankie is its attitude to female sexuality in older women. Life (moreover, sex) doesn’t have to stop because you’re getting older. The series illustrates this with frankness and honesty, and we don’t shy away from seeing the woman in that light. They aren’t just mothers, grandmothers or wives; they are women, with desires and emotions. It would have been great to see more of this, and more of Jane Fonda looking fucking amazing in lingerie!

The supporting cast are very likable, but Grace’s daughter Brianna (June Diane Raphael) is the standout star, often delivering the best lines of the series. The ensemble cast work incredibly well together, providing a neat backdrop for Tomlin and Fonda. Having said that, the romance/non-romance between Coyote (Frankie’s son) and Mallory (Grace’s daughter) was one of the only issues I took with the series. I’m all for sub plots, but neither Coyote or Mallory are particularly engaging characters hence their “affair” seemed incredibly uninteresting, especially in comparison to the far more engaging main narrative.

Grace and Frankie could have also spent more time with its title characters -the show is about them, but a monumental amount of scenes were dedicated to Robert and Sol and the blossoming of their relationship. Whilst it was great to see a gay couple (especially an older gay couple) transcend camp cliches, I couldn’t help thinking that the show isn’t supposed to be about them. Certainly, the series feels more at ease when Tomlin and Fonda are onscreen and I just wished we had seen more of that, instead of the men.

Grace and Frankie triumphs because it doesn’t utilize the gay characters as a trope or a way to increase viewership. Sexuality doesn’t become a selling point. There is more to Robert and Sol than just their relationship, and there is far more to Grace and Frankie than just jilted middle-class ex-wives. It’s a sweet, easy to watch series which not only makes us laugh out loud but also gives us an insight into characters that are usually simply tired stereotypes. It’s probably not going to push any boundaries or make a statement, but enjoyable and well written. I, for one, can’t wait for Season 2.

Becky Kukla is a 20-something living in London, working in the TV industry (mostly making excellent cups of tea). She spends her spare time watching everything Netflix has to offer and then ranting about it on her blog.