The Good Wife – Bitch Flicks

Virtue, Vulgarity, and the Vulva

The equality of men and women on the basis of healthy and consensual sex is sex positivity according to the Women and Gender Advocacy Center. Thus, to desire sex positivity is to be inherently feminist.

This guest post by Erin Relford appears as part of our theme week on Sex Positivity.

If TV shows were lovers, I’d argue women haven’t had great sex since Sex and the City. Much like your first time and the strategically latent mile markers you’ve placed on partners since then, you know good sex when you encounter it. From a woman’s point of view, good sex is control without judgment, a convergence of discovery, submission beyond fear, and a jungle gym full of toys where choice puts you in the driver’s seat (debauchery being an optional passenger of course).

Considering Sex and the City TV’s certifiable rubber stamp of good female sex, Carrie, Samantha, Charlotte, and Miranda echoed the tales of countless women, giving ode to the free missives of womanhood and female prowess. The lessons in relationships, the selfish romps of good delight, all were reasons to shout “yes, yes, yes” by virtue of sex positivity.

So why then has good female sex gone missing from television? Arguably, cable and broadcast networks have shared in their ill-fated attempts at sexploitation, mostly at the expense of women. The proof is in the pudding or pootnanny in this case. Showtime’s Californication led seven seasons of “accidental cunnilingus” and sapless sucking, while Ray Donovan’s no frills 1-2-3 pump action has left Showtime’s female audience high and dry. HBO’s Ballers is a good time in the sack, if you’re a woman willing to suffice with balls of dry humping and no “Mr. Big” (par for the course Dwayne Johnson).

Lest one forget HBO’s seduction of rape and torture porn, Game of Thrones’ female characters experience it all in guile of good TV. These depictions aren’t to suggest the storytelling behind such shows are short of genius, but remiss of variety. The female sex narrative has been relegated to an industry turned tits for trade commonwealth, a vulva and violence republic.

Sex is an inalienable right, sacred and undeniable, an equal opportunity employer that does not discriminate in its pursuance of life, liberty, and rapture. The privilege is everyone’s to be expressed as a declaration of independence and therefore should be engaged from the perspectives of both men and women. On the contrary, the Declaration of Independence was written “that all men are created equal,” yet our stories involving sex are still being viewed from the perspectives of men.

However, let’s not be haste and expel the idea sex positivity has gone hiding into the forests of Westeros. Evidence exists that sex positivity is flourishing in light of TV’s new golden era and new wave of feminism. It’s come in the embodiment of female sex appeal, the brand of woman that is fabulously fierce, yet deliciously palpable. The fire of Daenerys Targaryen, the tenacity of Brienne of Tarth, or the inexplicable “Stark” of Arya and Sansa are all due a conceded applause thanks to Game of Thrones portrayal of strong, bountiful female characters. Scandal’s Olivia Pope earns top brass for her bastion of prose and breastwork, delivering willful rhubarbs to Washington’s elite though judged often and tenaciously for her challenge to disbelief that women can command power and pleasure in it from the highest tent pole in the land.

Alicia Florrick’s beau Will Gardner may be gone, but her sense of smart and sexy is almost too naughty for CBS’ The Good Wife.

And dare not forget the women of USA Network’s Suits, led by the strut, poise, and pivot of the inimitable Jessica Pearson.

Suffice to say there are many Masters of Sex on television, but does women’s exploration of sex on television have to be justified in pioneering scientists? Can the enjoyment of love and lust be equal parts man, equal parts woman? Not so, according to the 2015 Writers Guild of America TV staffing brief, where women remain underrepresented among staff writers by nearly two to one.

All things being equal, one could satiate in the fact women being 50.8 percent of the US population, would also mean a majority of female driven TV programming, written by women. But the reality is, most female characters are written by men. Some exceptionally well, as in FX’s You’re The Worst where creator Stephen Falk gives equal Judas Priest to the sexes or Darren Star’s Sex and the City. But there are more than 31 flavors to cherry popping ecstasy as proven early on by Ilene Chaiken’s The L Word. Perhaps one of the more prevailing scapes into female intimacy and feminism, The L Word managed to be intriguing and vanguard, paving the way for shows like Orange is the New Black where women could be domineering and emphatic, let alone in control of their very naturism as on Girls.

In an age of digital storytelling, where men still dominate culture and the writer’s room, we can continue to look forward to Pussy Galores.

Meanwhile, feminists and female viewers alike will revel in the Lisbeth Salanders, Olivia Popes, and Mary Janes, persevering far and wide in search of the next big “O,” that is open, outstanding, and out of the ordinary television that engages women from the female point of view. Will there ever be great sex on TV for women?

The answer may befall in there’s simply more to come…

Erin Relford is an author and screenwriter currently working in Los Angeles. Her writings involve female empowerment and engaging girls in science, technology, engineering, and math (STEM). You can follow her on Twitter @AdrienneFord or her website pinkyandkinky.com

Kalinda Sharma Is My Favorite Queer Uncanny Star

Though based in downtown Chicago, there is a paucity of people of color in the show, and those who do make appearances seem to be present for only short amounts of time, save for one: Kalinda Sharma. She is an independent private investigator for the firm Lockhart and Gardner, and is a supporting character in the series’ narrative. Played by actress Archie Panjabi, the role of Kalinda Sharma is one that is groundbreaking in terms of thinking about queer South Asian bodies onscreen in the American imaginary.

This guest post by Rosie Kar appears as part of our theme week on Asian Womanhood in Pop Culture.

In fall 2009, CBS premiered its Sunday evening courtroom drama, The Good Wife. Currently on its fourth season, the show and its cast has garnered numerous awards, including Golden Globes, Emmys, Peabody Awards, Screen Actors Guild awards, and Television Critics Association awards, among others. The premise of the show came about after producer Michelle King took note of the number of American politicians embroiled in very public sex scandals, and their wives standing beside them. Bill Clinton, Eliot Spitzer, John Edwards, and Rod Blagojevich, among countless others, were engaged in fraudulent activity while in office, often having extramarital affairs with stoic wives beside them in public appearances.

In The Good Wife, Alicia Florrick, played by Julianna Margulies, is an associate attorney at Lockhart and Gardner, returning to a corporate environment after fifteen years of staying at home and raising two children. Her husband is Peter Florrick, disgraced State’s Attorney, who was put in prison on charges of political corruption, as well as engaging in extramarital sexual affairs with sex workers. The narrative of the series is centered on Alicia, and the ways in which she navigates being in the storm’s eye of scandal, working as the sole breadwinner for a time to support herself and her two children with Peter, and rising up the career ranks at the firm.

Driven by compelling story arcs and strong performances by ensemble cast members, The Good Wife has been hailed as one of the best dramas on television. Though based in downtown Chicago, there is a paucity of people of color in the show, and those who do make appearances seem to be present for only short amounts of time, save for one: Kalinda Sharma. She is an independent private investigator for the firm Lockhart and Gardner, and is a supporting character in the series’ narrative. Played by actress Archie Panjabi, the role of Kalinda Sharma is one that is groundbreaking in terms of thinking about queer South Asian bodies onscreen in the American imaginary. Television shows us what is happening and recodes what is in the popular, transmitting it into the home for consumption. Kalinda Sharma performs the behavior of civilized productivity, but her styling as a queer figure seeks to trouble heteronormative, heteropatriarchal notions of stability. Kalinda does not conform to what Jasbir Puar terms the assemblage of the “monster-terrorist-fag”[1]; but rather, she is a different kind of triangulation: A South Asian American, queer, female. Kalinda is what Eve Oishi determines as a “Bad Asian. Bad as in “badass.” Bad as in anyone…who talks candidly about sex and desire. Bad Asians are inherently threatening to hegemonic systems.”[2]

She is a secondary character, and her narratives take a backseat to larger arcs, but I am proposing that Kalinda embodies a queer uncanniness. This raises uncomfortable and necessary questions and discussions around gender and sexuality within the South Asian American community. Kalinda Sharma is the first and only representation of an openly queer South Asian woman on television in the American public at this time. What are the costs of her representation? What does she do to trouble the American psyche? How does she puncture notions of civilized productivity while simultaneously reinforcing them? How is her power as an American citizen questioned and informed? Kalinda might be an example of what Gayatri Gopinath deems “queer articulations of diaspora as they emerge in the home.” [3] Her darkness signifies Otherness, uncertainty, immigration, and uncertainty, but with it, carries a powerful depth. A standout figure in the series, she is likeable, sarcastic, and beautiful, but she troubles the American Dream, as a powerful, combative, intelligent queer woman of color. Perhaps, most curious of all, she is useful as a commodity to the institutional corporate structure by which she is employed. In spite of her use value, she commands respect, but questions around her sexuality and secretive past are central forces of her narrative arc. She is a dark threat to the safety and security of those around her; as a private investigator, her job is uncovering secrets. Her body, labor, and performances become ways to critique and undercut the various discourses of modesty, sexual morality, and purity that are culturally fixed onto her by hegemonic South Asian diasporic and nationalist ideologies. Kalinda, as an uncanny figure, is inextricably bound up with creative, and generative uncertainties about her sexual identity. She inhabits the role of the detective for hire, a liminal figure that can cross boundaries without question, and the audience is afforded the pleasures of South Asian femininity and beauty being questioned onscreen, with her queerness as fodder for titillation.

Nicholas Royle points to the significance of the relationship between that which is queer and the uncanny, arguing that “the emergence of ‘queer’ as a cultural, philosophical and political phenomenon, at the end of the twentieth century, figures as a formidable example of the contemporary ‘place’ and significance of the uncanny. The uncanny is queer. And the queer is uncanny.”[4]

Kalinda might inhabit the old specter of the tired dragon lady trope, deemed an uncanny sidekick to protagonist and scorned wife, Alicia Florrick. She is known for her knee high vinyl stiletto boots, sharp wit, quick tongue, questionable ethics, and sexual ambiguity. While the audience is not given any specific information about Kalinda’s past, it is treated to snippets of information, and queries about her past have elicited enough interest via social media and blogospheres to warrant her own hashtag on twitter: #KalindasPast. Panjabi’s performances have earned her rave reviews, a prominent place in the series opening credits as part of the main cast, countless nominations and an Emmy Award in 2010, for her role as an “Outstanding Supporting Actress in a Drama Series.”

But however productive it may seem to have Kalinda Sharma as a major player in a primetime network drama, there are drawbacks. She is evacuated from her culture, with little to no mention of her identity in any way, and she appears to exist in a racial vacuum In the first season, her ethnic identity is confirmed by a brothel owning madam as “East Indian,” who haughtily inquires about Sharma’s “availability” to work as a sex worker, as the exotic Other was in high demand by the madam’s clientele. In the episode “Mock,” Alicia Florrick must represent one Simran Verma (played by seasoned actress Sarita Chaudhury), a South Asian woman living in the U.S. for 27 years, who may be deported after paying a corrupt lawyer $8,000 to secure a green card that never came through. Requesting Kalinda’s help on the case, Alicia says to Kalinda that she thought she would be more sympathetic to Verma’s situation. Kalinda asks “why? My parents came here legally.” It is revealed that she does not speak Hindi. She states at the end of season two: “I have no friends… and I never have to confide in anybody.” (Season 2, Episode 22: “Getting Off.”)

Friendless Kalinda may serve as a dark double, an uncanny foil to Alicia Florrick, as the troubling queer brown woman. Alicia Florrick is the Georgetown educated, beautiful good white wife, the televisual embodiment of Freud’s “heimlich.” Freud argues that when concerned with works of art, “aesthetics…in general, prefer to concern themselves with what is beautiful, attractive, and sublime, that is with feelings of a positive nature, with the circumstances and the objects that call them forth, rather than with the opposite feelings of unpleasantness and repulsion.”[5] In Freud’s interrogation of the word, the “heimlich” is etymologically rooted in “heim,” or home, but heimlich has a double meaning. The first meaning is related to that which is intimate, familiar, domestic, and comfortable. The second meaning is related to that which is private, secluded, hidden, and elusive. The perspectives are such that while “heimlich” is evocative of a certain privileged perspective, from inside the space of comfort, it is also alluding to the impenetrability of that which is hidden, those places of privacy, security, and secrecy. That which is unheimlich collides with the second meaning of heimlich. Unheimlich then, is descriptive of that which sinister, eerie, strange, and oddly familiar, shoring up images of discomfort. Freud states that the discomfort in the sensing of uncanniness is because what was once familiar has somehow become strange, not because it is new or unfamiliar. He cites Schelling, arguing “unheimlich is that what ought to have remained hidden, but has nonetheless come to light.”[6]

Seemingly “light,” Alicia is inherently likable, a protagonist that is endearing to the audience, who sympathizes with her plight. A scorned, but privileged woman, she struggles to maintain strong and meaningful connections with her children, raising them in the best manner she knows how. She is also forced to play the role of the good wife, performing forgiveness of her husband’s faults, so that he may be re-elected to public office. Forty-something years old, dark haired, pale skinned, classically beautiful, and slender, she is always donned in professional office attire, in shades of black, blue, red, and purple. Her sleeves are long, her collars are tightly buttoned, her skirts are knee length and longer, hiding her body. Alicia’s aesthetics are such that she fits in with hegemonic images of heteronormative, corporate America. With few friends, she is the breadwinner of the Florrick household, slowly inching up her firm’s echelon. Publicly, she has not had any romantic liaisons with anyone than her husband, is mindful of her conduct when appearing in court, as well as beside her husband. We see glimpses of the darknesses that plague Alicia, who always seems to carefully negotiate and navigate her way through life. Alicia is friendly, hospitable, well-liked at work, often seen in domestic arenas, and serves as a peacekeeper, and is a source of comfort. She is also plagued by silent suffering.

We might say that Alicia Florrick, to the American public, embodies both definitions of Freud’s conceptualization of the heimlich. On the one hand, she is “homey,” comforting, likeable, and familiar. On the other hand, she is very much a private person, withholding information. In the dialectical sense of that which is heimlich, Alicia, a middle class, bourgeois subject, can also be understood to be holding information back from herself, her husband, her children, and her public. The only ones privy to her private discomforts are the audience members.

Kalinda Sharma, however, is evocative of the uncanny, she is that “class of the terrifying which leads back to something long known to us, once very familiar.”[7] She may be painted as a djinn, native informant, sexual and racial Other, dark double, collapsed into the body of a queer South Asian American woman. Like Alicia, Kalinda is always dressed in muted but expensive clothing in jewel tones, dark shades of red, blue, purple, green, and black. She wears micromini skirts, leather jackets in every color, and her signature accessories are thigh high black patent leather stiletto boots, and either a bat or a gun, evoking fantasies of a phallus wielding dominatrix.

The camera loves her, drinking in her golden brown skin, black hair, big dark eyes, rimmed in kohl, pouty mouth lipsticked in a vampy shade of maroon. She is a beautiful woman, and the audience is treated to low lit beauty shots when she is onscreen, with her face taking up the entire frame. We often see her in dark places, like underground parking garages, closed offices, and at twilight. Kalinda takes no nonsense from anyone, utilizing her sharp tongue, and will do whatever it takes to get the information she needs for her bosses, no matter the means. Unlike the dark female figures present in narratives by South Asian American authors,[8] Kalinda is already assimilated, as a second generation American. But her aesthetics and behavior are different from the majority.

There is a clear emphasis on how color provokes a sense of her foreignness. She is the opposite of Alicia Florrick, and as such, becomes her best friend, her confidant, and perhaps eventual lover. Kalinda is prone to sarcasm, never fearful of expressing her disdain and reticence for situations, deflecting inquiries about her personal life back onto the offending party. Unlike Alicia Florrick, an outwardly likable character, Kalinda harbors secrets, and is deeply “heartless, insensitive, with self-preservation as [her] number one concern.”[9] as described by a former scorned female lover. While Alicia Florrick is either in her home, at her office, with her children, or alone in her bedroom, Kalinda is, terrifyingly, everywhere as well as nowhere. Her behavior thwarts belonging; she is the “unknown, unfamiliar,… the “unheimlich is the name for everything that ought to have remained secret and hidden but has come to light.” As the highly paid private investigator for Lockhart Gardner, Kalinda’s labor as the unheimlich foil to the protagonist is made manifest in her work. She gets ahold of information that is supposed to be kept secret. Her private life, too, is kept closely guarded, but is inadvertently revealed, week by week, and the secrets that are exposed are unsavory.

Kalinda conjures up the ultimate fantasy of civilized productivity. She is everywhere, has access to information through unknown means, gets coded and classified documents for cases through medical examiners, and has connections to Chicago’s police department. She is often put on surveillance detail, able to observe and record the activities of nefarious characters. Like every good, model South Asian American, she is technologically savvy, performing the role of the Asian geek, hacker, encrypter, decrypter, photographer, and computer programmer. She is something of a superhero, climbing walls, breaking into apartments, obtaining information legally and illegally. She defies proprietary codes of proper female behavior, openly using her sexuality to achieve her goals. She embodies the seductive dragon lady, capable of emasculation, with her gun or baseball bat as a phallus. She may be a secondary character, but Kalinda Sharma has the uncanny ability to tantalize almost everyone in her midst.

Her bosses, colleagues, and informants want to sleep with her, both men and women. Kalinda becomes good friends with Alicia, but the fact that she slept with Alicia’s husband is the penultimate secret that would destroy their relationship, and Kalinda, unsuccessfully, does everything in her power to keep that information private. It is ultimately revealed that she does not differentiate between men and women, choosing instead to be “flexible.” In coded terms, then, Kalinda as the uncanny marks the return of the repressed, that information and behavior that Alicia Florrick cannot engage in.

Kalinda’s “darkness” also functions in terms of specific cultural labor, alluding to discourses around ethnicity and race, which are inextricably intertwined with discussions around citizenship and Americanness. Literary and visual metaphors around darkness are laced with feelings of discomfort around the unknown, impure, threatening, mysterious, and dangerous. Manicheanism deploys binaries sutured with darkness and light, and this tradition of dichotomous thinking still continues. Under the British Raj, a specific kind of temporal aesthetic racialization occurred, and darkness was something to be avoided. Historical prejudices and violences against those having dark skin in South Asia were not sanitized; British and South Asians alike linked darkness with desirability, class, caste, religious ideology, and intersectional privileges. The saying goes, “White is right”; those wanting to capitalize on a supposedly superior class status, as part of the elite, disavowed interactions with subaltern indigenous people.

The discourses around skin color has had lasting legacies, still experienced today, in conversations around beauty, behavior, arranged matrimonial arrangements (where young women are implored to stay out of the sun). There is capital generated by lightening creams like “Fair and Lovely,” or “Fair and Handsome” for the face and most recently, the vaginas, of brown women.[10] Advertisements for marriage in the back pages of South Asian newspapers, as well as websites like Shaadi.com and BharatMatrimony.com have sections where skin shade preferences can be selected. There is a greater desirability linked to light brown skin, versus darker brown skin. While Kalinda’s skin color is never mentioned outright, her body is marked in the ways that she is framed in the camera, and juxtaposed against Alicia’s whiteness is a stark contrast.

Kalinda might be the queer stain of darkness on sanctified white womanhood. When seen together, they are often seated at a bar, drinking shots of tequila, and having quiet, deeply moving discussions. In “Nine Hours” (Season 2, Episode 9), the firm must work quickly to get a last minute appeal for a death row inmate, and Kalinda works from Alicia’s home. The two are seated on Alicia’s bed, drinking beers. In every scene with Kalinda socializing, alcohol is in her hands. Kalinda has a secretive past, known as Leela Tahiri to some, and does not speak of her childhood. Her upbringing in a middle class neighborhood with doctor émigré parents is a fabrication. We do not know who she is, but what we do know is that she is secretive, with dark skin, dark clothes, a dark personality, and points toward a darkening of the American Dream.

While her labor is useful to her place of employment, secrecy shrouds the specifics of Kalinda’s quotidian life. We are given glimpses into this, but only under certain conditions. Conversations around Kalinda’s sexuality and lifestyle are the hooks that drive her narrative arc. The most onscreen time given to Kalinda is when these discussions are taking place. In season two, episode six, entitled “Poisoned Pill,” Blake Calamar, a fellow investigator, Kalinda’s rival, and potential male love interest, is blatant about looking into Kalinda’s past, and asks about her sexual orientation:

Blake: They just rated Chicago law firms on their diversity and hiring gays and lesbians and transgenders, whatever. Anyway, Lockhart, Gardner & Bond did not do well. Even though I know, for a fact, that we have gay associates who just aren’t acknowledging that they’re gay. Now, in this day and age, why would someone not be upfront about their sexual orientation?

Kalinda: Are you coming out?

Blake: It’s better not to keep secrets…’cause then, people don’t go looking.

In season two, episode 14, “Net Worth,” we see Kalinda with federal investigator, Lana Delaney, who has tried to seduce her sexually, as well as professionally, wanting her to come work for the FBI. In a low lit scene, with both women taking up equal parts of the camera frame, and a discussion about Kalinda’s sexual proclivities:

Lana: Why do you like men?

Kalinda: Why do I like men?

Lana: Yes, sex with men. Why do you like it?

Kalinda: I don’t distinguish.

Lana: You don’t have a preference?

Kalinda: Uh…

Lana: You were saying?

Kalinda: I was saying Italian, Mexican, Thai — why does one choose one food over the other?

Lana: Because sex is not food.

Kalinda: Because of love.

Lana: Or intimacy. Don’t you want intimacy?

Kalinda: No. [glares angrily at Lana.]

Lana: [Phone rings] I have to get that.

Kalinda: Then you’re going to need your foot back.

In an interview with The Daily Beast, Archie Panjabi argues that Kalinda is “never looked at as somebody who’s bisexual or ethnic,”[11] but this does not resonate with the popularity the character has garnered on the show. Kalinda’s skin color and sexual orientation are precisely two markers of her appeal; she is indeed multifaceted, but her lack of transparency and guarded secrecy about her life and sexual preferences are the draw of her narrative arcs. She is troubling to the norm, both men and women desire to get to know her, and bed her.

At the end of season three, Kalinda’s queerness is confirmed. She sits with Alicia at a bar, and Alicia asks her if she is gay. Kalinda replies, “I’m not gay. I’m…flexible.” She has been indicted by a grand jury for illegal activities, and is under heavy surveillance by the FBI, CIA, and IRS, for tax evasion. Though she is an independent, brave woman, she is under the thumb of many regulatory agencies. Her employers, both past and current, think that too many sources leak classified information to her, and freely comment upon her ethics, and question the ways in which she gets her jobs done. She may testify against her employers, turn evidence in, or get indicted and become part of the prison industrial complex. If she testifies, and does rat out sources, she may be killed by the city’s top meth dealer. The feeling conveyed by Kalinda is one of uncertainty, discomfort, and unchecked desire. Actively resisting old narratives of “good South Asianness,” Kalinda’s story continues beyond conventional conclusions, and this is productive, because it suggests a different outcome for her life, outside the realm of the “good Asian woman.” She must face dangers that other citizens may not need to process; those who do not look like the official face of a queer national corpus are subjected to harsher modes of policing. She is not an entirely negative portrayal of Indian women, but some might argue that parts of her construction might shore up colonial ideologies. She may, in fact, be the product of a fantasy-riddled colonial hangover.

[1] Puar, Jasbir and Rai, Amit. “Monster-Terrorist-Fag: The War on Terrorism and the Production of Docile Patriots.” Social Text, 72 (Volume 20, Number 3), pp. 117-148. Duke University Press, Fall 2002

[2] Oishi, Eve. “Bad Asians: New Film and Video by Queer Asian American Artists,” p. 221

[3] Gopinath, Impossible Desires, 23.

[4] Royle, Nicholas. “Supplement: The Sandman.” The Uncanny. New York: Routledge, 2003. p. 42

[5] Freud, “The Uncanny,” Studies in Parapsychology, p. 20

[6] Ibid, 28.

[7] Freud, Sigmund. “The Uncanny” in Studies in Parapsychology, ed. Philip Rieff. New York: Collier Books, 1963. p. 20

[8] Present most notably in works by Bharati Mukherjee, Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni, Meena Alexander, Ginu Kamani.

[9] As described by Kalinda’s former girlfriend, Donna, in Season Two, Episode 6, “Poisoned Pill.”

[10] http://jezebel.com/5900928/your-vagina-isnt-just-too-big-too-floppy-and-too-hairyits-also-too-brown

[11] Lacob, Jace. “The Good Wife: Archie Panjabi Talks About Playing Kalinda.” The Daily Beast. 14 Feb. 2011. Web. 16 Feb. 2011

Dr. Rosie Kar is a writer, poet, teacher, photographer, and social justice advocate. She teaches courses on popular culture and gender and sexuality, in the Department of Women’s, Gender, and Sexuality Studies and the Department of Asian and Asian American Studies at California State University, Long Beach, and in the Department of Critical Race and Ethnic Studies at UC Santa Cruz.

‘The Good Wife’: Being Bad

The premise of ‘The Good Wife’ brilliantly sets up and challenges particular gender roles and expectations. Julianna Margulies plays the lead character, Alicia Florrick. Given Margulies’ age – she was 43 when the show began – and popular culture’s continual privileging of youth, particularly with reference to women, this is an achievement in itself. Alicia’s married to Peter Florrick (Chris Noth, who’s no stranger to playing “bad boy” partners after his role of Mr Big on ‘Sex and the City’), who has just been jailed following a string of political and sexual scandals. The pilot sees Alicia dutifully standing by her husband, remaining silent as he apologises for his indiscretions, before the show cuts to several months later as Alicia returns to work as a defence attorney following 13 years as a stay-at-home mom.

Written by Sarah Smyth.

The Good Wife centralizes the conventionally marginalized wife figure — *The Good Wife* centralizes the conventionally marginalized wife figure

Warning: Contains MAJOR spoilers!

Like many other fans of the hugely popular political and legal drama, The Good Wife, a few months ago, I sat down to watch the latest episode, “Dramatics, Your Honor,” only to be rudely awakened from the state of pure escapism which the show pleasantly induces. Although often clever, complex, and compelling, the show is also a somewhat ridiculous yet highly entertaining romp, with a taste for outlandish storylines and theatrical, scheming characters. In other words, I do not watch the show to get a reflection of or even a reflection on Real Life. Real Life sucks, and The Good Wife allows me, and others I assume, to escape life’s often mundane, tedious, and sometimes downright brutal existence. However, in this episode, Will Gardener (Josh Charles), one of the main characters who also serves as the love interest to the leading character, Alicia Florrick, dies. Taking this extremely personally – how could the writers do this to me? – I took to Twitter to find answers. Here, I came across this letter written by the creators and executive producers of the show. In it, they wrote a rather jarring sentence: “The Good Wife, at its heart, is the ‘Education of Alicia Florrick.’” As I reflected on this statement, I began to wonder to what extent Alicia Florrick needed to learn something and, more worryingly, to what extent this need to learn is highly gendered.

The premise of The Good Wife brilliantly sets up and challenges particular gender roles and expectations. Julianna Margulies plays the lead character, Alicia Florrick. Given Margulies’ age – she was 43 when the show began – and popular culture’s continual privileging of youth, particularly with reference to women, this is an achievement in itself. Alicia’s married to Peter Florrick (Chris Noth, who’s no stranger to playing “bad boy” partners after his role of Mr Big on Sex and the City), who has just been jailed following a string of political and sexual scandals. The pilot sees Alicia dutifully standing by her husband, remaining silent as he apologises for his indiscretions, before the show cuts to several months later as Alicia returns to work as a defence attorney following 13 years as a stay-at-home mom. Through this premise, The Good Wife centralises the conventionally side-lined figure of the wife by giving her a voice and an identity beyond this primary label of “the good wife.” Alicia not only embodies a complex and multifaceted identity as a lawyer, but also as a mother, sister, daughter, friend, and lover. The show also complicates the label of “the good wife” itself. For every character who praises Alicia for standing by her husband, another lambasts her for sticking with him, claiming she fails both herself and women everywhere. The show makes apparent that a woman’s “choice” – for how much autonomy did Alicia really have in this situation? – is intensely scrutinised and criticised. The show then follows Alicia’s struggle with the complexities and obstacles of her identity as she attempts to navigate marriage, motherhood, and the workplace, as well as her increasing sexual attraction for Will, her boss and one of the named partners at the firm where she works.

Alicia navigates the many aspects of her identity including mother, wife and lawyer — Alicia navigates the many aspects of her identity including mother, wife, and lawyer

With a set-up that continually explores and challenges the traditional idea of what is meant for a woman to be “good,” I was puzzled by the idea that Alicia needs an education. As television enters a golden age with shows particularly examining the moral complexities of their lead characters, I wondered whether the need to educate rather than explore Alicia’s character is specifically gendered. As Bitch Flicks examined last year, women are critically neglected from this exploration in two ways. Firstly, women’s contribution is neglected from the critical consensus and canonisation of the television revolution. The title alone from Brett Martin’s book, Difficult Men: Behind the Scenes of a Creative Revolution: From The Sopranos and The Wire to Mad Men and Breaking Bad, makes clear the absence of female-driven television shows within the consideration of this revolution. In The New Yorker, Emily Nassbaum criticises the degradation of “female” and “feminine” culture within the canonisation of television, and proclaims Carrie Bradshaw from Sex and the City as “the unacknowledged first female anti-hero on television.”

This, then, leads me onto my second point. The privilege of exploring a morally ambiguous character is primarily afforded to white, cis-gender, heterosexual, able-bodied men. Female characters, as well as other oppressed groups, in contrast, are refused this privilege. Not only are there fewer critically acclaimed female-driven shows than male-driven shows, and even fewer with Black or queer-identifying leading women. But when there are shows which attempt to explore complex female characters, they face a much harsher moral and critical assessment. For example, whereas the greed, selfishness and pure pigheadedness of Tony Soprano from The Soprano’s and Walter White in Breaking Bad are continually held up as an exploration of character, earning them a cult status within popular culture, Hannah Horvath from Girls is positively reviled (see here, here and here). Although Hannah’s characteristics are less extreme that Tony and Walter’s, she also shares a tendency to be narcissistic, self-absorbed and, at times, unlikeable. Whereas male characters are entitled to be bad, female characters, it seem, must always be good.

Male television characters can be bad... — Male television characters can be bad…

...whereas a female character must always be good — …whereas a female character must always be good

Ensuring women remain “good” ensures they also remain passive, docile, and unthreatening. As Carol Dyhouse demonstrates in her book, Girl Trouble: Panic and Progress in the History of Young Women, the lives of young women in comparison to the lives of young men has been plagued with social anxiety and moral panic from the nineteenth century. However, the more I thought about Alicia’s education in The Good Wife, the more I realised that her education is not about being good; it’s about being bad.

Near the end of season one, Alicia makes her first difficult and morally ambiguous decision. As the recession hits, the partners at her law firm, Lockhart & Gardener, must decide which first year associate to lay off, Alicia or Cary Agos (Matt Czuchry). In order to save her job, Alicia pulls in a favour with her husband’s campaign manager, Eli Gold (Alan Cumming), asking him to switch legal representation to her firm, enabling her to bring in top lucrative clients. Not only does Alicia unfairly exploit her advantages, advantages to which Cary simply cannot live up, in order to ensure she secures her positions at the firm. She also uses Peter for her own career prospects, much in the same way that he uses her – Eli continually makes it apparent that Peter’s resurrected career as the States Attorney and, later, as the Governor of Illinois depends on Alicia’s support. Her education in complicating, if not rejecting, her “good” label comes to a head at the end of season four when she accepts Cary’s invitation to start their own firm, pinching Lockhart & Gardner’s top clients along the way.

After Will discovers Alicia’s plans at the beginning of season five, he tells her, “You’re awful, and you don’t even know how awful you are.” As Alicia’s complicated love interest in the show – although at times they engage in brief sexual encounters, Alicia is not “bad” enough to involve herself in a full-blown illicit affair, even if her relationship with Peter is strained at best – Will’s words are highly charged. Nevertheless, there’s some truth to them. Alicia’s come a long way from the relatively meek and unsure character of the pilot. As Joshua Rothman claims, “Everyone, including Alicia, thinks that she’s a victim—but, in fact, she’s a predator, all the more dangerous for being stealthy.” With season six currently airing, the show remains committed to this education. As Alicia considers running for States Attorney, the definition of “good” and “bad” become redefined. The latest episode, “Oppo Research” demonstrates the way in which, within the landscape of politics, what’s defined as “good” and “bad” becomes, simultaneously, much more black and white, and much more tenuous – it all depends on outward appearance and surface. As (politically defined) unpleasant aspects of Alicia’s life are made apparent – although, interestingly, they relate to Alicia’s family members rather than Alicia herself – the show reveals that even good girls have skeletons in their closets.

Cary Agos begins as From colleague to rival to partner, Cary Agos motivates Alicia to be bad — Cary Agos goes from colleague to rival to partner, Cary Agos motivates Alicia to be bad

Without wanting to be prescriptive or wishing the integrity of Alicia’s character away, a significant part of me wants Alicia to fuck up. And I mean, really fuck up. I think this is why I became so invested in the relationship between Will and Alicia, and why I was so saddened by the death of Will. I wanted Alicia to ditch her “Saint Alicia” label and embrace being bad. But the success of female-led shows is not in swapping one side of a dichotomy for another. It’s about embracing a nuanced portrayal of women in television and wider popular culture. The Good Wife succeeds in presenting a character who, despite her best efforts, remains flawed. In this way, Alicia Florrick can finally shed “the good” label for good.

Sarah Smyth is a staff writer at Bitch Flicks who recently finished a Master’s Degree in Critical Theory with an emphasis on gender and film at the University of Sussex, UK. Her dissertation examined the abject male body in cinema, particularly focusing on the spatiality of the anus (yes, really). She’s based now in London, UK and you can follow her on Twitter at @sarahsmyth91.

Great Kate: A Woman for All Ages

This guest post by Natalia Lauren Fiore appears as part of our theme week on The Great Actresses.

When my twin sister, Jenna, and I entered Bryn Mawr College, we–like most of the 1,300 undergraduate women–were immediately drawn into the bold legacy of its most famous graduate: Katharine Hepburn, ’28. While adjusting to campus life, my sister and I would often picture the well-documented scene of Ms. Hepburn’s–Kate’s–mortifying encounter with an older girl who pointed her out as a “self-conscious beauty” the first time she walked into the college dining hall, an incident that prevented her from eating in public ever again. The isolation she experienced in her early days as a collegian wasn’t entirely self-imposed, but largely stemmed from the singular trauma of discovering her older brother, Tom, hanging from the rafters in the attic of their godmother’s house where they had been vacationing, his neck broken by a noose made of sheets which he had apparently been using as props during a play rehearsal. The event changed Kate irrevocably and, as she later recounted, split her into “two people instead of one, a boy and a girl” (Life: Remembering Katharine Hepburn 10 Years Later, p. 32, 37).

During history classes in Thomas Great Hall, Jenna and I would imagine Kate, on cold winter nights when she was tired of studying, in the outdoor Cloisters of the then-library, stripped of her clothing, skinny-dipping in the fountain–an adventurous tradition which, by her own account, seemed to take root in her father’s odd insistence that each of his children take baths in ice-filled tubs every morning before school (Jane Fonda: My Life So Far, p. 418). Kate fully embraced her father’s practice as a “character and constitution-building ritual” she continued beyond the confines of the college cloisters. It was in those cloisters that Kate’s emerging confidence as a collegian would be propelled by an insatiable determination to inhabit the stage, which she did to sensational effect on May Day 1927 when she appeared as a strange, fierce girl/boy in The Truth about Bladys, a play by A.A. Milne.

Kate’s stage debut in Bladys the year before she graduated inspired the college to select May Day for the annual ceremonial screening of The Philadelphia Story (1940), a box office hit written for Kate which would, by her own orchestration, transform her image from “box office poison” to bankable screen star. When Jenna and I gathered with the other girls in Thomas Great Hall, or outdoors on Merion Green to enjoy the ritual screenings, we would marvel at the impossibly elegant and graceful image of Kate as Tracy Lord, “the goddess lit from within,” who could only be described using John Wayne’s exclamation on the 1975 set of Rooster Coburn, “DAMN! THERE’S A WOMAN!”

While this ritual screening was initially intended to instruct the Bryn Mawr women on the virtues of marriage–something Kate herself fleetingly tried with Main Line heir Ogden Ludlow on the heels of her graduation from the college–the real lesson lies in the demonstration of Kate’s fearless initiative behind the camera. She secured the film rights and nurtured the project herself, rewriting the script with playwright Philip Barry, committing to performing it onstage, and firmly negotiating her own terms which stipulated that she play the lead onscreen as well–a miraculous feat for a woman navigating the strictly patriarchal movie-making industry at the dawn of its Golden era (Life: Remembering Katharine Hepburn 10 Years Later, p. 42, 64).

But the prevailing image of Kate that engaged us while at the college and has remained with us since is a far less overtly glamorous or legendary one that came not from her own life story, nor her onscreen presence, but through someone else’s. On freezing winter nights when we exited the dining halls with our teeth chattering from irresistible yogurt topped with Oreos, too cold to even entertain the notion of plunging nude into the cloister fountain, Jenna and I would instead snuggle against the heated bay windows of our dorm, reading memoirs and biographies together. Of course, there was Kate’s memoir, Me, and A. Scott Berg’s commemorative biography, Kate Remembered, released 12 days after her death. Yet, this prevailing image appeared in Jane Fonda’s intimate, inspirational, and moving memoir, My Life So Far, which proved revelatory for us as “self-conscious” young girls on the cusp of womanhood. In chapter 8, Fonda recalls the filming of On Golden Pond (1981) with the then 73-year-old Kate, and her father, Henry Fonda, whose health was rapidly declining during the shoot.

Filming On Golden Pond — Filming *On Golden Pond*

Fonda documents how initially Kate “disliked” her, but after filming a scene which demanded that she, in Kate’s words, “face her fears” and resist the danger of “becoming soggy,” the elder actress took on the role of Fonda’s surrogate mother despite the fact that she had never had any children of her own . During the “mothering” she received from Kate, Fonda explains how her elder co-star firmly encouraged her to be more self-conscious–not in the negative sense, but in the sense that she should develop “a consciousness of self,” an awareness of “the impact our presence has on other people”–an awareness Kate herself possessed since those early days at Bryn Mawr, and had already mastered in her portrayal of Tracy Lord opposite Cary Grant, who affirmed her power to stir people:

“…She had this thing – this air you might call it – the most totally magnetic woman I’d ever seen and have ever seen since. You HAD to look at her. You HAD to listen to her. There was no escaping her.” (Life: Remembering Katharine Hepburn 10 Years Later, p. 42)

Kate was also aware of the power Henry Fonda’s presence had on his daughter during the filming of On Golden Pond–a strained dynamic that often left Fonda feeling dismissed, discouraged, and–at its climax–depleted of the emotion she needed to perform the major scene of the film. Mortified that she had become “dry” and panicked that her father would find out, Fonda confided in Kate, who came to set even though she wasn’t expected to be there that day. As the director gave the cues to begin filming, Fonda tried to buy time, telling him that her back would be to the camera until she was ready for him to roll. Then, at “the time of reckoning,” she describes the image before her and its impact:

“I turned away to prepare, though I had no idea what to do, and as I was staring at the shore, trying to relax and bring myself into the scene, there was [Kate] Hepburn, crouching in the bushes just within my line of vision. Nobody could see her but me. She fixed me intensely with her eyes, and slowly she raised her clenched fists and shook them as if to say, “Do it! Go ahead. You can do this!” She was willing me into the scene: Katharine Hepburn to Jane Fonda; mother to daughter; older actress, who’d been there and knew about drying up, to younger actress. It was all those layers of things and more. Do it! Do it! You can! I know it. With her energy, she literally gave me the scene, gave it to me with her fists, her eyes, and her generosity, and I will never, ever forget it.” (Jane Fonda: My Life So Far, p. 436-437)

In essence, Kate took the role of Fonda’s off-camera scene partner, aware of how her presence and maternal connection to the younger actress could draw out a great performance. With her fists, she motivated Fonda to face her fears and to confront the difficult, painful emotions that had both plagued and eluded her on and off the screen.

As Fonda points out, Kate had been there, often forced to elicit emotion with no one present to draw her into the scene. For Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner (1967) 14 years earlier, she played many of her scenes to an empty wall since Spencer Tracy, only weeks from death, no longer had the stamina to sustain a full-day’s shoot (Life: Remembering Katharine Hepburn 10 Years Later, p. 35). She had famously met “Spence” on the set of Woman of the Year (1942), their first exchange characterized by Kate’s observation, “You’re not as tall as I expected,” which revealed the self-conscious awareness of height as integral to her image and presence. Despite the producer’s prediction that Spence would “cut her down to size,” Kate is a force to be reckoned with as Tess Harding, the smart, successful foreign correspondent whose talent and ambition are tested once she marries. In the film’s penultimate scene, which my sister and I would watch on repeat at Bryn Mawr, Tess breaks into her estranged husband’s apartment with the intent to win back his affections by cooking him breakfast. Kate carries much of the scene herself without dialogue at her disposal until Spence’s character, Sam, enters the kitchen where Tess is making a mess of the meal. With impeccable comedic timing, Kate captures Tess’s misguided determination to demonstrate her domesticity.

Especially in the silent moments, she commands the viewer’s attention–as she did Fonda’s, who “never tired of looking at her”–with her massively expressive eyes that, according to Cary Grant, “could see right through the nonsense in life” (Life: Remembering Katharine Hepburn 10 Years Later, p. 62), and her perfectly sculpted cheek-bones that held the intensity of her expression and that grew even more defined and magnificent with age (Jane Fonda: My Life So Far, p. 427). Defying the producer’s prediction, she instead extenuates her height through the agility of her movements and through the pant suits she insisted on wearing before they had become the acceptable fashion for well-bred women.

The legacy of Kate’s “pant suit look” for modern professional women was recently depicted in an episode of CBS’s critically-acclaimed drama series, The Good Wife when a judge asks Alicia Florrick (Juliana Margulies) what she is wearing. Alicia replies, “A pant suit, your Honor.” The judge admonishes her, “In my courtroom, Mrs. Florrick, men wear suits and women wear skirts.” One can imagine what Kate’s reaction would have been had the judge said that to her character, Amanda Bonner, in the romantic-comedy Adam’s Rib (1949)–perhaps a forerunner of The Good Wife–that again pits her against Spence, this time as married lawyers arguing opposing sides of an attempted murder case.

Most of the nine films Kate and Spence did together feature battle-of-the-sex plots which, at certain points, blurred or even reversed the roles women and men typically played in marital or committed relationships. These plots suited Kate’s life-long image of herself as inhabiting both female and male traits, particularly in the wake of her older brother’s tragic death. Six years before her pairing with Spence, she unabashedly emphasized her androgynous traits, shaving her head to play a boy for Sylvia Scarlett, just as 19-year-old actress Bex Taylor-Klaus recently did for her role as the lesbian tomboy, Bullet, in the third season of AMC’s crime drama, The Killing. The legacy of Kate’s powerful presence is recognized in Bex’s “self-conscious” performance, which takes root in her eyes and manifests itself in the nuances of her expression, movement, and stature. It is also recognized in the onscreen power of other contemporary actresses, notably Cate Blanchett, who won a Best Supporting Actress Academy Award for her portrayal of Kate in Martin Scorsese’s film The Aviator (2004), chronicling the life of Howard Hughes.

And there’s Jane Fonda herself, who seems to have permanently absorbed the physical and emotional energy Kate gave her that day when she was “dry.” This past year, Fonda appeared as ruthless reporter Leona Lansing in HBO’s The Newsroom. Her performance is magnificent, particularly in the final scene of Season 2, Episode 7 when Leona refuses to accept her staff’s resignation after a scandal. Like Kate, she commands our attention, utilizing every ounce of her presence and engaging our emotions with her vivacity and humor. Fittingly, her role is that of motivator–the encourager behind the scenes willing her dishonored staff to “Get it back!”

[youtube_sc url=”http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7i4zNm4KqYg”]

When she was working with Kate for On Golden Pond, Fonda details her elder co-star’s stubborn conviction–despite her liberalism and feminist persona as the daughter of a suffragette who was also a Bryn Mawr alum (Class of 1899)–that a woman could not balance an acting career with motherhood if she wanted to be “great.” As director Frank Capra attested:

“There are women – and then there is Kate. There are actresses – then there is Hepburn. She is wedded to her vocation as a nun is to hers and as competitive in acting as Sonja Henie was in skating.” (Life: Remembering Katharine Hepburn 10 Years Later, p. 69)

Kate’s unwavering dedication to this “vocation” produced an unprecedented career that lasted decades and won her a record four Academy Awards, the last one for On Golden Pond. Fonda recalls that the morning after her win, Kate telephoned to gloat, “You’ll never catch me now!” (Jane Fonda: My Life So Far, p. 439). Indeed, Kate’s record remains intact, although the indefatigable Meryl Streep is close, having won three and mostly likely poised to win another in the near future. But perhaps one could interpret Kate’s boastful exclamation as more of a motivating challenge–a “raising of the fists,” across the ages–willing younger generations of actresses to face their fears and to be conscious of their presence.

In 2006, three years after Kate’s death at age 96, Bryn Mawr established the Katharine Houghton Hepburn Center, which hosts the Hepburn Medal ceremony, a lifetime achievement award given to women artists and activists who have transformed their worlds. Recalling Jane Fonda’s memoir, my sister and I imagine that if Kate were alive, she’d pointedly challenge the younger actress in her maternal “God-is-a-New-Englander” voice, “Well, if you can’t catch me in the Oscar count, you can win a Hepburn Medal instead!”

Natalia Lauren Fiore received a B.A. in Honors English and Creative Writing from Bryn Mawr College and an M.F.A in Creative and Professional Writing from Western Connecticut State University, where she wrote a feature-length screenplay entitled Sonata under the direction of novelist and screenwriter, Don J. Snyder, and playwright, Jack Dennis. Currently, she holds a full-time tenure track teaching post at Hillsborough Community College in Tampa, Florida, where she teaches English and Writing. Her writing interests include film criticism, screenwriting, literary journalism, fiction, the novel, and memoir. Her literature interests include the English novel, American Literature, and Drama – particularly Shakespeare. She blogs at Outside Windows and tweets @NataliaLaurenFi.

The Ten Most-Read Posts from March 2013

Did you miss these popular posts on Bitch Flicks? If so, here’s your chance to catch up.

“Stoker: The Creepiest Coming-of-Age Tale I’ve Ever Seen” by Stephanie Rogers

“Shut Up and Sing: The Dixie Chicks Controversy Ten Years Later” by Kerri French

“Clueless: Way Existential” by Robin Hitchcock

“Female Empowerment, a Critique of Patriarchy … Is Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon the Most Feminist Action Film Ever?” by Megan Kearns

“Gigli and the Male Fantasy of the Lesbian Turned Straight” by Amanda Rodriguez

“So, Is There Racial Bias on The Good Wife?” by Melanie Wanga

“Oz the Great and Powerful Rekindles the Notion That Women Are Wicked” by Natalie Wilson

“Red, Blue, and Giallo: Dario Argento’s Suspiria“ by Max Thornton

“Feminist Blogger Twisty Faster and Advanced Patriarchy Blaming” by Amanda Rodriguez

“Sexism in Three of Bollywood’s Most Popular Films” by Katherine Filaseta

Bitch Flicks’ Weekly Picks

Rosario Dawson Gives Some Real Talk on the Reality for Actresses by Kerensa Cadenas via Women and Hollywood

Why I Wrote a ‘Mad Men’ Episode with Negroes by Erika Alexander via Racialicious

Spotlight on Women Directors at Tribeca Film Festival by Paula Schwartz via Reel Life with Jane

Women in Film Talk Why There Are So Few Women in Film by Jill Pantozzi via The Mary Sue

Tribeca Film Festival Will Honor Nora Ephron with an Annual Award to a Woman Filmmaker by Alyssa Rosenberg via Double X

The 6 Best Women Filmmaker Quotes from Chapman University: ‘There’s No Guy’s Name Up There” by Tim Appelo via The Hollywood Reporter

Some Depressing Stats about Female Comedy Directors by Diana Wright via Women and Hollywood

The Heteronormativity of How the Media Talks about Sexual Identity by Jessica Luther via Power Forward

An Amusing ‘Game of Thrones’ Derails with Visceral Sexual Assaults by Alex Cranz via FemPop

‘Game of Thrones’ is an Excellent Lesson in Patriarchy, Sex, and Power by Erica Aisha Charves via Bitch Media

From ‘Nashville’ to ‘Call the Midwife,’ What Can We Tell TV Stories About Other Than Rape and Murder by Alyssa Rosenberg via ThinkProgress

Top of the Lake: A Non-Watered Down Depiction of Rape Culture by Natalie Wilson via Ms. Magazine’s Blog

‘The Good Wife’ Gives a Crash Course on Radical Justice in “Rape: A Modern Perspective” by Alex Cranz via FemPop

On Self-Esteem and the Struggle, Or Why I’m Not Into that Dove Ad by Kaye Toal via Big Fat Feminist

‘Bridesmaids’ Director Paul Feig on Feminism, Rebel Wilson & More by Anna Klassen via The Daily Beast

And the Final Tally for the ‘Veronica Mars’ Movie Kickstarter Is… by Jill Pantozzi via The Mary Sue

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

Women of Color in Film and TV: So, is there a racial bias on ‘The Good Wife’?

The Good Wife

Guest post written by Melanie Wanga.

In the crowded market of American television, one would suggests that The Good Wife is one of the most feminist shows out there.

First, the main character is a woman. But not any woman: complex, strong-willed and hard-working Alicia Florrick (Julianna Margulies), whose husband Peter, state’s attorney, cheated very publicly with a prostitute. Despite its title, The Good Wife is not a soap about how love conquers all: rather, it’s the story of Alicia’s emancipation.

The qualities of TGW are plenty: it’s intelligent, complex, thoughtful but packed with explosive twists and turns. The legal stories are well written and more importantly, the casting is premium.

Actually, the acting ensemble is one of the strong suits of the show: actors like Alan Cumming (Eli Gold) or Christine Baranski (Diane Lockhart) are impressive and play wonderful their parts, when equally gifted actors regularly guest star in complex roles (Michael J. Fox, Matthew Perry…)

If we agree on the notion that “feminism is the radical notion that women are people,” then The Good Wife is definitely feminist. Women of the show are deeply human, flawed, and developed.

Which is a quite explosive fact in a legal drama, a genre usually crippled by stereotyped non-emotional lawyer-type characters.

The Good Wife doesn’t hide behind tricks or facilities: the same complexity applies to all the characters. We are even treated with character development of women and men of color, and the show doesn’t shy away from race issues.

If the women are strongly written, women of color sadly don’t escape stereotypical representations: Latinas are ‘fiery,’ and most often than not Black women are depicted as ‘angry.’

In honor of Black History month, I’d like to focus on the portrayals and specifics of the four most important women of color on the show: Kalinda Sharma (Archie Panjabi), Dana Lodge (Monica Raymund), Geneva Pine (Renee Goldsberry) and Wendy Scott-Carr (Anika Noni Rose).

————————–

Archie Panjabi as Kalinda Sharma

KALINDA SHARMA (Archie Panjabi)

When you think ‘women of color in The Good Wife‘, the obvious answer is Kalinda Sharma. Interpreted by actress Archie Panjabi, who received an Emmy Award for her performance, she’s one of the most important characters on the show, and a viewers’ favorite.

As an Investigator for Lockhart & Gardner, Kalinda exhudes confidence, intelligence … and sex. She often uses her physical traits and sexuality to obtain crucial information. Every character seems to succumb to her charms.

Panjabi said in an interview that the character was not very defined at first, and simply based on an “Erin Brockovich investigator” type. That’s why I would argue Kalinda wasn’t specifically written as a woman of color. No reference is made to her social and ethnic backgrounds. Even after four seasons of the show, we still don’t know much more about her ethnicity. We are left with an “ambiguously brown” character.

A huge part of Kalinda’s characterization lies in her sexuality. Extremely secretive and mysterious, she’s defined as bisexual (“I’m not gay. I’m… flexible,” she says), but she falls in the “not too bi” trope as she’s in fact slept with more men than women. She was even married to one [spoiler] (who comes back in her life in the most disastrous storyline of the series). A good portion of the characters have been seduced by the investigator: Peter, Dana Lodge, FBI agent Lana Delaney… She also has an ongoing “will they/won’t they” affair with young lawyer Cary Agos (Matt Chruzcy). And, her boss Will Gardner aside, it’s made very clear that every man on the show is attracted to her.

When Kalinda is seen in the company of other women, like Lana or Dana, the show quickly remembers us with frequent close-ups of her usual attire (namely, low-cut tops and knee-high boots) that “even the guys want her.” Kalinda’s sexuality pleases the male gaze.

One of her main psychological traits is her duality: behind her apparent calm, cold and detached aspects (‘the submissive exotic girl’), she can become violent and extreme if the situation calls for it, which is another sexual cliché. She’s not apologetic about her sexual behavior, unless it concerns Alicia (another one of her limits).

The fact is, as viewers, we know a lot about Kalinda’s sexuality. But we know oddly less about her motivations or internal dilemmas. Which sometimes gives the impression that her complexity is only apparent. That her “mystery” is factice, a ploy to serve the story. It’s clear the writers didn’t want to define Kalinda by her race or ethnicity, so they defined her by her sexuality and non-conventional work ethic.

But is writing women of color as if they weren’t minorities at all is making them more real? I’m pretty sure not.

———

Monica Raymund as Dana Lodge

DANA LODGE (Monica Raymund)

Dana is an assistant at Peter’s office. She enters the show on season 2 and starts to work alongside Cary Ago. In many aspects, she fits very well the Latina’s trope: she’s fiery and out-spoken, throws tantrums, and is guided by her emotions — particularly her jealousy.

This psychological trait is even more prominent when she interacts with Kalinda, and viewers learn the two are ex casual-sex friends.

Working with Cary (who, as it’s been said on the show, has “a thing for ethnic women”), Dana is entangled in a love triangle with him and … Kalinda.

Her sexuality is a heavily shown trait. But when Kalinda uses sex to her advantage, Dana is used at her own expense. She has a relationship with Cary, but he stills pines for Kalinda. And when Kalinda flirts with her, it’s for inside information.

Dana Lodge is blindsided by her own emotions: she can’t see that Kalinda’s using her, nor that Cary’s not really attached to her. The character shows strong feelings and speaks them loudly, but can’t see through them.

In her final scene on the show, Dana slaps Kalinda on the face, demonstrating once more her ‘fiery’ temper. At the end, Dana loses her job AND Cary.

———

Renee Goldsberry as Geneva Pine

GENEVA PINE (Renee Goldsberry)

In season 4, Peter Florrick, Chicago’s state’s attorney, runs for governor. There’s plenty of discussion on how he leads his office. Rumors of racial bias are floating around and are used by his political enemies. In one telling scene, Florrick asks his black assistant Geneva Pine if she thinks he has such bias. When she answers yes, a typical response is offered to her: rather than trying to understand her position, Florrick declares she’s wrong and misunderstood his intentions. But then, she shuts up and judgmentally looks at him. Interestingly enough, he finally listens to her main argument on why he is racially biased: he systematically promotes white males first.

This is an accurate depiction of most racial conversations in real life: I can’t count the times I’ve heard white people, when confronted with examples of racist or problematic behavior, respond: “But no, let me explain, it’s not racist. I’M not racist.” Resenting the idea of racism itself is more important than listening to the minority’s experience of it.

However, Geneva is by no means a positive character. She’s talented and driven, but she’s ‘that’ minority character written as resentful over other people victories and accomplishments.

When Cary worked at the state’s attorney’s office, she never took him seriously, even when she was teaming up with him.

Geneva acts as an obstacle to other people ambitions, but she can’t stop them. While she’s not sexualized as a Black woman, she’s showed as perpetually angry, bitter and judgmental.

The fact that Geneva often plays the ‘race card’ and is conscious of her status of woman of color is not welcomed positively on the show. Geneva is misguided, she accuses everyone of being biased. As such, she’s the stereotype of the ‘angry minority’ and ‘angry black woman’ who nobody listens to, because she’s ‘crazy, hateful and not neutral.’

Not a good look, huh?

———

Anika Noni Rose as Wendy Scott-Carr

WENDY SCOTT-CARR (Anika Noni Rose)

The fourth notable woman of color of the show is an interesting one as she holds much more power than the others.

Wendy Scott Carr is introduced during the second season, when Peter decides to run for a new mandate state’s attorney. She positions herself as his political opponent. The fact that she’s a woman of color is precisely what gives her an edge: Peter’s sex scandal is still out there, and Wendy appears as a voice of the women. She’s everything he’s not: she’s Black and has strong family values. Even the viewers are rooting for her. She should crush Peter on the finish line.

But then, the show develops the character. Wendy reveals herself to be ‘a bitch in sheep’s clothing:’ she’s cold, calculating and deeply hypocritical. Behind her nice facade, she’s smug, has unapologetic ambitions, and despises the Florricks. And she won’t hesitate to get dirty to win the election.

When she loses the campaign to Peter, she takes her failure very personally. She then becomes a full-fledged resident villain of the show: on numerous occasions, she’ll be back to legally torment our protagonists.

Wendy is not affable, that’s a fact. What’s bugging me is the show depicts Wendy’s coldness as more reprehensible than Peter’s amorality, and as a valid reason for her to lose.

Developing a seemingly good character into a complex and ‘not so nice’ one is something The Good Wife does very well. In Wendy Scott-Carr’s case, the evolution seemed forced, and to make her come back for Will’s blood on season 3 was downright caricature. She’s not nuanced anymore: she hates Alicia, the Florricks, the Lockhart-Gardner law firm and all of their allies. She will go after our heroes for no other reason than … well, she REALLY hates them.

As much as it’s rare (and nice) to see an ambitious Black woman with actual power on TV, the traits that seem to prevail are always anger, grudge, man-hating. As if they somehow should make people pay.

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Women of color in The Good Wife seem to follow a strange pattern. The good side: they’re all ambitious and talented. The bad side: they’re either sexualized, thus deemed attractive and complex, or they become jealous, angry and over-the-top villains.

Representing complex women of color in millennial television shouldn’t be a challenge. But, by all accounts it still is. While I applaud The Good Wife for depicting ambitious and complex characters, I can’t hide my disappointment over stereotypical traits in their women of color.

Seriously, I love my TV shows and all. But, really writers, I can assure you we, and by we I mean humanity, don’t need MORE representations of fiery Latinas and angry Black women.

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Melanie Wanga is a French journalist based in Paris. She’s a pop culture lover, passionate reader and a feminist. Like everybody on the Internet, she also loves cats. You can follow her on Twitter: @MelanieWanga.

Women of Color in Film and TV: So, is there a racial bias on ‘The Good Wife?’

The Good Wife

Guest post written by Melanie Wanga.

In the crowded market of American television, one would suggests that The Good Wife is one of the most feminist shows out there.

The qualities of TGW are plenty: it’s intelligent, complex, thoughtful but packed with explosive twists and turns. The legal stories are well written and more importantly, the casting is premium.

If we agree on the notion that “feminism is the radical notion that women are people,” then The Good Wife is definitely feminist. Women of the show are deeply human, flawed, and developed.

Which is a quite explosive fact in a legal drama, a genre usually crippled by stereotyped non-emotional lawyer-type characters.

If the women are strongly written, women of color sadly don’t escape stereotypical representations: Latinas are ‘fiery,’ and most often than not Black women are depicted as ‘angry.’

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Archie Panjabi as Kalinda Sharma

KALINDA SHARMA (Archie Panjabi)

But is writing women of color as if they weren’t minorities at all is making them more real? I’m pretty sure not.

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Monica Raymund as Dana Lodge

DANA LODGE (Monica Raymund)

This psychological trait is even more prominent when she interacts with Kalinda, and viewers learn the two are ex casual-sex friends.

Working with Cary (who, as it’s been said on the show, has “a thing for ethnic women”), Dana is entangled in a love triangle with him and … Kalinda.

In her final scene on the show, Dana slaps Kalinda on the face, demonstrating once more her ‘fiery’ temper. At the end, Dana loses her job AND Cary.

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Renee Goldsberry as Geneva Pine

GENEVA PINE (Renee Goldsberry)

However, Geneva is by no means a positive character. She’s talented and driven, but she’s ‘that’ minority character written as resentful over other people victories and accomplishments.

When Cary worked at the state’s attorney’s office, she never took him seriously, even when she was teaming up with him.

Geneva acts as an obstacle to other people ambitions, but she can’t stop them. While she’s not sexualized as a Black woman, she’s showed as perpetually angry, bitter and judgmental.

Not a good look, huh?

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Anika Noni Rose as Wendy Scott-Carr

WENDY SCOTT-CARR (Anika Noni Rose)

The fourth notable woman of color of the show is an interesting one as she holds much more power than the others.

Wendy is not affable, that’s a fact. What’s bugging me is the show depicts Wendy’s coldness as more reprehensible than Peter’s amorality, and as a valid reason for her to lose.

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Seriously, I love my TV shows and all. But, really writers, I can assure you we, and by we I mean humanity, don’t need MORE representations of fiery Latinas and angry Black women.

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Max’s Field Guide to Returning Fall TV Shows

The rosterof newtelevision shows premiering each year in the fall ought to be an exciting time for any TV fan. Unfortunately, I am a jaded, cynical curmudgeon, burned by my previous experiences in the field of new fall shows, and I read the previews with dread roiling in the pit of my stomach. In our age of podcasts, webseries, and countless other competing forms of entertainment, the networks seem to be getting more and more desperate, scraping the barnacles off the bottom of the barrel.

Broad stereotypes? Check.

Dominated by straight white men? Check.

God help us all, a new Ryan Murphy show? Check.

It’s predictably depressing and depressingly predictable. Once upon a time, as a starry-eyed viewer full of hope and gillyflowers, I had a “three-episode rule” for judging any show whose premise piqued my interest even a tiny bit. This year, I don’t expect to watch any of the new shows unless critical opinion snowballs in the course of the season.

However, fall still brings its sweet gifts even unto the cantankerous television fan, in the form of returning shows. Someof these shows have spiraled so far down the U-bend that I can’t even hate-watch them anymore, but there are still enough watchable returning shows to compensate for all the awful new ones (and to wreak havoc on my degree). In the absence of new shows that don’t make me want to claw my eyes out, here is a list of returning shows worth watching.

The Thick Of It (9/9)

I already covered this. It’s on Hulu. Watch it. (N.B. Because it is full of swears, Hulu will make you log in to watch it, and for some reason this entails declaring yourself male or female. If this disgusts you as much as it does me, and you wish to, ahem, seek out alternate methods of watching, I will turn a blind eye.)

Boardwalk Empire (9/16)

A questionable creative decision last season nearly made me rage-quit this show, but it drew me back in with a jaw-dropping finale. Slow, dense, and luscious, this isn’t a show to everyone’s taste, but I remain compelled by the epic-scale world-building of 1920s New Jersey, and especially by the way the show explores the lives of not only the rich white men who run things but also marginalized minorities: people of color, women, queer people. This is not a perfect show by any means, but it fascinates me.

Parks and Recreation (9/20)

Yaaaaay!

This, on the other hand, might well be a perfect show. Leslie Knope, April Ludgate, Ron F—ing Swanson… Just typing the names gives me a big goofy grin. Every episode is a half-hour ray of blissful sunshine, brightening my spirits with a healthy dose of feminism, Amy Poehler, and laughter. Roll on Thursday (by then I might even have stopped crying about the breakup of the century).

How I Met Your Mother (9/24)

I still watch this show, I guess. I can’t really remember why.

Bob’s Burgers (9/30)

The charming adventures of the most delightful animated family since The Simpsons deserve a full-length treatment on this site at some point. For now I simply say: Watch it. If the hijinks of close-knit siblings Tina, Gene, and Louise don’t fill you with joy, you have a shriveled husk in place of a soul. Also, Kristen Schaal! Eugene Mirman! H. Jon Benjamin, for crying out loud! (HEY, FX, WHEN IS ARCHER COMING BACK ALREADY?)

Tina’s my favorite. No, Gene is. No, it’s Louise. Oh, don’t make me choose!

The Good Wife (9/30)

For a sitcom-loving sci-fi nerd like myself, a legal drama is well outside the comfort zone, but this is about as good as they come. The juxtaposition of title and premise alone should grab any feminist’s attention: When her husband is embroiled in an Eliot Spitzer-style scandal, Alicia Florrick returns to the bar in order to make ends meet. The rich ironies and tensions suggested by the show’s title play out on Julianna Margulies’ understated yet beautifully expressive face as she navigates personal and professional life when she has so long been defined as Peter Florrick’s wife. And sometimes Michael J. Fox guest stars, and it’s awesome.

30 Rock (10/4)

For several seasons now, 30 Rock has been but a pale shadow of its best self, but laughs are still guaranteed, and my love for Liz Lemon is fierce and undying. I will almost certainly complain vociferously about every episode, but I wouldn’t dream of missing out on bidding farewell to the TGS crew.

It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia (10/11)

In some ways, this is the anti-Parks and Rec: A crass and often vicious show about crass, wholly unlikeable people. You won’t see anyone hailing the Sunnygang as feminist icons anytime soon (though, for what it’s worth, the jokes are usually on the holders of prejudice rather than the victims thereof). I’d like to revisit the episodes featuring Carmen, a trans woman, to see how they stack up against the generally appalling mainstream pop-culture depiction of trans women, but I’m honestly a little afraid to do so. When Sunny misses, it misses hard, but it’s also capable of making me laugh until I cry; and, unlike a certain other 2005-premiering show mentioned above, I’m actually optimistic about the chance for creativity and entertainment in Sunny‘s eighth season.

Community (10/19)

The date is on my calendar and on my heart. Friday, October 19^th, 8:30pm: The stars will align. The cosmos will come into harmony. Wars will end. Justice will prevail. God will be in his heaven and all will be right with the world.