This act of mercy killing is the first of many moments when Clarke is forced to be violent for the good of others. It not only prompts an important change within herself – she loses her idealistic ways – but it prompts a change in the group dynamics. After this moment, Clarke begins to pull away from the co-leadership she and Bellamy had operated in and moves toward becoming the sole leader of the delinquents.
This guest post by Esther Nassaris appears as part of our theme week on Violent Women.
We see violence on screen a lot. In fact, some would argue we’ve become desensitised to it. And in a way I think that’s true. After all, a lot of the time it is used solely for shock value, something to make the audience gasp during sweeps week. Or in the case of women, a vile way to sexualise a character further and to feed into the male gaze. Yet violence on The 100 isn’t like that. It’s ingrained in the plot because of the world the show is set in, not thrown in to shock or titillate. It’s explored in an intelligent and thought provoking way. In short, it’s one of the many things that The 100 is doing right.
The premise of the show was brilliant from day one and from the moment one of the leads, Wells (Eli Goree), was killed off in episode 3 “Earth Kills” I knew that this show was different. The show picks up 97 years after a nuclear war is thought to have destroyed all life on earth. The rest of humanity survives on a massive space station, known as The Ark. Yet when resources run low and systems begin to fail they send a group of 100 expendable juvenile delinquents to Earth to see if the land is survivable. The delinquents quickly find out that they are not alone on Earth, and from day one have to fight to survive. In the futuristic world of The 100, discrimination has become a non-issue. The only way to differentiate between people is what clan you’re part of. Everything else just simply doesn’t matter. It’s the shows modern approach to gender, race, and sexuality that allows us a wealth of well-written women who encompass violence in different ways.
Like many sci-fi shows, The 100 is no stranger to violence; however, its relationship with it is complex and ever-changing. As Clarke (Eliza Taylor) is the protagonist of the show, we first consider violence from her perspective. Clarke is initially seen as a more idealistic character, hesitant to use violence and more likely to resist the use of force. This is shown through her immediate disagreements with Bellamy (Bob Morley) when he becomes a leader of the delinquents in a very Lord of the Flies-esque way. However, when one of the delinquents is critically injured in episode 3 “Earth Kills” and begs Bellamy to kill him, Clarke is the one to do it. This act of mercy killing is the first of many moments when Clarke is forced to be violent for the good of others. It not only prompts an important change within herself – she loses her idealistic ways – but it prompts a change in the group dynamics. After this moment, Clarke begins to pull away from the co-leadership she and Bellamy had operated in and moves toward becoming the sole leader of the delinquents.
As a leader Clarke swiftly becomes a much more pragmatic character, understanding that violence is a necessary part of life on the ground. In episode 7 “Contents Under Pressure” we can already see the change in her character as she authorises the use of violence against an enemy clan member. And while she is hesitant at first, she allows it to happen once she realises that it’s necessary to gain the information that she requires. Although she isn’t the one to directly inflict the violence, as a leader of her people it is her that is directly responsible for the actions of her people. While this is a more calculated version of the violence that Clarke has adopted, we see a more instinctual version in episode 11 “The Calm.” While captured by the Grounders, in a desperate attempt to escape Clarke brutally attacks and kills her guard. In this moment violence is clearly the resourceful thing to do. It is a sign of intelligence and strength of character that Clarke not only recognises that she must act quickly, but that she has the ability to do so.
As a sharp juxtaposition to Clarke, we have Octavia (Marie Avgeropoulos). An outsider from day one, Octavia is the first to adapt to the harsh way of life on the ground and is the first to transition into the Grounder clan. This is mainly because of her early acceptance of violence. While Clarke is a master of the calculated and strategic violence; Octavia is a front line kind of fighter. Yet even when Octavia finds her way into the Grounder clan we still see her as an outsider. The 100 plays with the idea that this type of violence isn’t appropriate for femaleness. It makes us challenge our own perceptions. If women are unable to be so powerfully violent, then why does Octavia thrive this way? It’s a very typical male role, and thus The 100 subverts expectations of traditional gender roles.
The Grounders offer the audience yet another viewpoint into violent women. As survivors of the nuclear war, The Grounders have adapted into a survival first way of living. In episode 11 “The Calm” we see that violence is taught from a young age when Anya’s (Dichen Lachman) second is a young girl. Violence is intrinsic for them. They know no other way. In the midst of their fight for survival, concepts of gender, sexuality, and race have largely fallen away. This allows many of the Grounder leaders to be women. Most notably Commander Lexa (Alycia Debnam-Carey), who leads the Grounder clans. However like the Sky People do, we initially distrust the Grounders. We see them as an enemy, and their way of living barbaric and ruthless. While Clarke has some clear reservations about making the harsh decisions to kill or torture, Lexa makes them without questioning it. She knows when these methods are necessary. It is interesting to consider if perhaps this is why some people dislike the character. It is harder to accept a violent woman who is completely committed to these acts. There’s no softening of the blow for the audience. This is who she is and these are the harsh actions that she will not hesitate to make.
As the stakes are raised in season 2, the level of violence also increases and thus morality becomes an even more prominent question on the show. It’s not just the characters that are left wondering whether their choices were right, the viewer is forced to ask the same question. Would we go to such a dark and brutal place? Could we? Often times when you watch a show or a film in which violence is a main theme, there’s a clear right and wrong, a good and evil. We don’t feel bad rooting for someone who’s inflicting so much damage because we know they’re on the good side. But violence on The 100 is presented in a morally grey area. Most importantly, there’s never a separate type of violence for men and women. When Clarke kills hundreds of people to save less than 50 of her own it doesn’t take away from her femininity. It doesn’t make her a masculine character. In fact gender is not taken into account. It makes her a good leader, and perhaps a flawed person, but never any less female.
Esther Nassaris is a Media and Communication student at Glasgow Caledonian University who is passionate about all things television, feminism, and pop culture. She spends most of her time either writing about, or watching television, and would like to become an entertainment journalist. Find her on twitter at @EstNas or blogging on https://tvforfeminists.wordpress.com/
So the only difference between Meg and Lois is that while Lois is forthcoming about her sexuality, she is attractive so it’s OK to see and hear about it because the audience (and creators) can shame her for it later, whereas Meg is presented as ugly/unattractive and therefore we don’t even want to hear or see her in any sexual way unless it’s making fun of her.
Seth MacFarlane’s Family Guy is a massive hit show that has gained popularity over the course of its ten odd seasons. Even with this immense following, the show portrays the idea of sex positivity in a solely masculine light. It passively portrays a kind of controversial sexism that appears as a joke, but still perpetuates existing problematic topics of concern for women and the Queer community. A Public Display of Misogyny is one that is sometimes done in a playful manner, but with full intention of insulting women, while at the same time making it look like said women can’t handle a simple joke. When in reality, women are quite simply fed up with the constant sexism that is rampant in today’s society but considered less than important. Other times it is done to look sexy: often seen in advertisements or music videos where women are seen in a suggestive pose surrounded by more than one half naked man. These are the kinds of misogyny that Family Guy hurls out in nearly every episode. The creators of the show attempt to normalize this behaviour and make it appear acceptable, because again, it is done in a comical, whimsical light, so… where’s the harm?
Quagmire, a character who’s only ever portrayed as a pervert, kidnapper, sexual abuser and quite frankly disgusting human being (to those of us sane enough not to laugh at the jokes associated with his behaviour) is presented in a humorous way, an outrageous and exaggerated way, but for comedic effect all the same. Even this kind of repulsive sexuality is considered acceptable to MacFarlane, because it’s funny. Female sex positivity and anything Seth MacFarlane creates do not mesh, they don’t belong, and that’s due to MacFarlane’s hyper masculine idea of sexuality being something only (straight) men can truly own and have agency in. Any depiction of male sex, no matter how perverse, is set in a positive way; this is why Quagmire is saved from serving actual jail time for his (hundreds of) sex crimes in the episode “Quagmire’s Mom.” The one episode where viewers thought that finally there was going to be some retribution for his despicable behaviour–but we couldn’t even have that, he gets away scot-free–and continues with his extremely violent sexual assaults even blaming his behaviour on his promiscuous mother (because its always the mother’s fault!) but it’s OK, because it’s all fun and cartoons. So Quagmire can really do no wrong, he won’t lose his friends when they see half naked Asian women run from the boot of his car, he won’t be reported to the police when he blatantly date rapes a woman, his sexuality is accepted in Quahog because he is a straight male.
We see women in Quagmire’s trunk numerous times throughout the show before they run for their lives.
With female sexuality and sex positivity though we have a total different story. Lois Griffin is portrayed as the extremely attractive married woman, but she is completely sexualized and fetishized throughout the show. It’s almost her only characterization, other than the nagging wife. We see her multiple times in the role of dominatrix, a few times with Peter, and once even with her own son Stewie. She is often very aggressively sexual, and some might argue that this is due to her owning her sexuality which is totally sex positive and body positive too, but I see it differently. When we see her in these roles it’s played for laughs, for shock value, that a mother and wife would have such a sexual history and violent fantasies. And this is all connected to the idea that she is presented as the Bad Mother archetype. We see her in this role quite a lot, but most often (in nearly every episode) when it comes to Meg, her daughter. She is only ever presented in this light, and it’s not hard to see why she fits this bad Mother role; she constantly laughs at meg and belittles her, she diminishes Megs sexual experiences and laughs them off, she literally steals one of Meg’s Boyfriends, insults Meg (and her appearance) and is constantly trying to control Meg’s love life, and those are just the examples that involve Meg. These are not the qualities of a mother who loves her children. So, I’m not saying that I disagree with Lois being so open about her previous and on-going sex life, or even that I have problem with her being into BDSM, I don’t think Lois is a “slut,” as she has affectionately been called on many Family Guy forums; however, I do have a very serious problem with the way in which her sexuality is directly presented to make her look bad, to make her look like a horrible woman/mother/wife.
This is not the only time her sexuality is presented in a negative light. “Mind Over Murder” is an episode that sees Peter opening up a bar in his basement. After Lois ends up singing one night, she finds that she really enjoys it so decides to make a regular appearance singing and dancing giving a jazzy feel to the bar, she feels confident and sexy but more importantly she is happy. Peter on the other hand finds the attention she gets from his male friends too much to handle and demands she stop, because it’s her fault the men don’t know how to control themselves around a woman showing a bit of skin. But also, how dare she be in control of her own sexuality. It’s fine for her husband, Quagmire, and even her son Stewie to place her in a sexual role, but for her to put herself there is outright unacceptable. She refuses to stop, giving a middle finger to slut shaming, and continues, enjoying the spotlight and attention (since she gets neither in her marriage). Her happiness does not last long, and again her sexuality, with which she is in control of, is depicted in a negative light. Soon the women of the town have a problem with her too, seeing her as a threat to their relationships with their husbands. This entire idea is meant to say that it’s a woman’s fault for men looking at her, Lois is put down, belittled and slut shamed, all because these women’s husbands don’t know how to respect women. Peter doesn’t want anybody seeing her as a sexual being because once you are married you should lose all sexual appeal to other people. That’s not sex positivity, that’s female sexual oppression and it’s extremely unfair.
Lois Griffin is extremely sexualized to the point of it being nearly her only consistent characteristic.
And that’s with a character that is considered conventionally attractive. Poor Meg is depicted as the eternal joke purely because of her appearance. Because she is frumpy, she should never have a boyfriend, she should never, ever marry an attractive boy (even though she had to lie about being pregnant in order to get down the aisle), and most of all she should never be in control of her sexual experiences. We see her in one episode making out with a guy who turns out to be Chris in a closet at Halloween, and she is depicted as so desperate for any sort of sexual attention that she will even wonder if he is going to text her the following day, she also ends up making out with Brian, a dog, but even he doesn’t want her, then another extreme, becoming obsessed with a married Joe. All these scenarios have one thing in common: they all make her out to be so starved of male attention that she will literally kiss a dog, try to take a married man or even want a sexual relationship with her own brother, so we have bestiality, incest and delusional husband stealing. These most certainly are not sex positive experiences. What’s even more infuriating is MacFarlane could have actually made a positive statement with Meg’s character; there are many teenagers who feel neglected, isolated, unattractive and ignored, who wholeheartedly understand what Meg goes through, and yet the fact that her feelings and experiences are invalidated with a simple “Shut up Meg” by the very people who are supposed to want her to be happy, turns her into another punching bag for the sake of it. It turns all of these teenagers isolation into nothing more than a joke. Meg has so much boy trouble and is even turned into a transgender man purely as a joke that she is not feminine, not attractive and not wanted. This transgender issue isn’t even explored in the show, it’s a one off joke…it the she’s not feminine, so she must want to be a man hetero-biased argument that is extremely offensive.
So the only difference between Meg and Lois is that while Lois is forthcoming about her sexuality, she is attractive so it’s OK to see and hear about it because the audience (and creators) can shame her for it later, whereas Meg is presented as ugly/unattractive and therefore we don’t even want to hear or see her in any sexual way unless it’s making fun of her.
This basically sums up Meg’s life. Always the physical and metaphorical punching bag for her family.
This is all based on heteronormative sexuality, and as anybody who watches Family Guy knows, there are a lot of representations of the LGBT community in the show. But does MacFarlane depict these in positive ways? Absolutely not. The presentations of queer sexuality are deeply stereotypical: gay men are extremely feminine and lesbian women are masculine. One episode that really stands out, but is not even nearly the only episode, concerning this issue is “Quagmire’s Dad” (I feel like Quagmire and his family are the centerpiece of sex misrepresentation in the show). Quagmire’s father, a war hero veteran, comes to town to visit his son, and very suddenly characters are remarking on how “gay” he appears, because he drinks cosmopolitans and his voice isn’t the low masculine they expected of a war hero. Stereotyping, it appears, is rampant when it comes to the discussion of gender identity. As it turns out, Quagmire’s father is not gay, but transgender–he wants to transition into a woman. He describes wanting to change his future his future not his past and how he has dealt with these feelings for a long time, this so far is not a negative portrayal of trans folk and their experiences, but the sympathetic portrayal ends there. In the hospital for his operation, Lois refers to the entire thing as a “circus,” the conversation revolves around the chopping off of his penis and there is basically no actual support for this man who is about to go through a life changing transition.
Stewie showing how transphobic the characters (and show) are.
After the transition, Quagmire’s father, now known as Ida, is treated with contempt by everyone, Lois throws out a pie Ida makes and Peter asks inappropriate questions about Ida’s breasts and lack of penis. Everyone is wholly unaccepting of Ida, until Brian meets her at a pub, and instantly falls for her. They end up spending the night together and Brian is absolutely smitten with this wonderful woman he met the night before. That is until he finds out who she is , then he vomits everywhere, forgets about the “wonderful” woman he met the night before and is totally focused on the fact that she was a man. It’s important to note that Brian is used on numerous occasions to highlight the “sexually unwanted” aspect of numerous characters. It’s the “not even a dog would have you” theme. Unfortunately for Ida, her sexuality is thus seen as something wrong, disgusting and unpleasant. Yet again Family Guy fails to interpret very real experiences in a way that is not exploitative. And that’s just one transphobic episode that seemed dedicated to being just that, unaccepting and a massive joke. There are plenty of transphobic references throughout the show, one recurring joke includes Stewie, who is presented as increasingly Bisexual (since he appears to have relationships with girls, loves dressing as a woman, hits on gay men, and has sexual fantasies of his teddy bear Rupert) as the show progresses. His sexual identity is as confusing as a cat that barks: we know that he has to be gay, in the very least, as he enjoys seeing the male body, relaxing in gay bars etc. However, on numerous occasions we see him either date or kiss girls (also babies just in case you were wondering) which could either be Stewie trying to fight his homosexual nature, which just doesn’t seem plausible because he appears to be quite open about it, or he is in fact bisexual. Whichever it is, this is played for laughs, and is not in any way an accurate representation of a child growing up under the spotlight that is patriarchy’s hatred of anything but hetersexuality. Instead we have cheap laughs at Stewie dressed as a woman, acting as a stereotypical gay or even spying on unsuspecting men in the shower (similar to Quagmire’s behaviour).
Stewie often dresses as a woman, and enjoys the occasional relaxing night at a gay bar.
So MacFarlane’s definitely not sex positive when it comes to women or anybody of the LGBT community, but is somehow accepting of a hyper-masculine rapist/pervert’s sexuality! Logical? No not at all. Offensive? Absolutely. And hey, that’s all Family Guy strives for–to be as offensive as possible regardless of how it portrays its sexual minorities.
Belle Artiquez graduated from film and Literature studies in Dublin and since has continued her analysis and critique of film, TV, and literature (mainly in the area of gender politics and representations) as well as cultural and societal critiques on such blog spots as Hubpages and WordPress.
Phryne acts just as independent and liberated outside of the bedroom. She knows how to fly a plane, she delights in driving her own car, a Hispano-Suiza, and totes around a golden revolver with a pearl-encrusted handle. Oh, she also has impeccable taste in clothes.
This is a guest post by Lauren Byrd.
The Australian TV show, Miss Fisher’s Murder Mysteries (the first two seasons are available on Netflix), is set in the roaring 20s, famous for its jazz, gin, shorter hemlines, bobbed hair, and Art Deco design. The protagonist, Phryne Fisher (pronounced Fry-nee), is an heiress to a small fortune, but she also possesses a sense of adventure and a knack for solving crimes, often outshining her male counterparts at the Melbourne Police Department. Sound like just another Miss Marple or Sherlock Holmes? Think again. Phryne is also a feminist.
Based on the series of novels by Kerry Greenwood, Phryne is an independent woman. Having inherited a small family fortune during World War I, Phryne doesn’t have to work. She could have her pick of a husband and spend the rest of her days reading, knitting, or traveling. Instead, she decides to start solving crimes to earn money. She builds her business from the ground up like any modern day entrepreneur.
However, the television series has made one significant change. In the books, Phryne is 28, which according to Downton Abbey, is past marriageable age. This seems modern enough (and probably quite scandalous for the time), but in casting Essie Davis–who is in her 40s–as Phryne, the series has created one of the few “older,” independent, sexually liberated female characters in television history. Davis herself cited Samantha Jones in Sex and the City as the only other television counterpart to Phryne.
So let’s talk about sex. Phryne has a string of lovers, both in the show and the book series. However, she perhaps possesses a unique set of feelings for her emotionally reserved male counterpart on the Melbourne police force, Detective Inspector Jack Robinson (Nathan Page). The show plays off their chemistry by trotting out the somewhat tired will-they-won’t-they dance, yet these two still make it a compelling tango to watch unfold. Their relationship is an example that speaks even further to Phryne’s independence. Like some female characters might, she doesn’t sit around and wait for Jack to figure things out. She continues to be herself, which means falling into bed with next man she takes a fancy to.
But it is precisely for her sexual liberation that Phryne has been criticized by American viewers. In 2013, the first season became available on Netflix. Shortly afterward, some viewers left comments saying the show would be more enjoyable if Phryne wasn’t such a “tramp” and “obnoxious airhead.”
Jezebel wrote a piece about the comments. Miss Fisher author Greenwood said she had been expecting outrage over her liberated, independent heroine for ages. But she didn’t receive a single complaint when the show aired on Australian television. “Not once. Not even from old ladies. Not even from nuns,” Greenwood said in an interview with The Sydney Morning Herald.
In fact, Greenwood finds Miss Fisher no different than similar male characters who solve crimes for a living. James Bond woos and beds a different woman in every film and is a hero to men and boys. “No one thinks their multiple lovers are indications of slutishness,” Greenwood pointed out.
Davis said in an interview with NPR that she was sent the Jezebel link and thought the reactions to it were fantastic. “The reactions towards the outrage were so powerful and outspoken. And that so many people who, on the Jezebel site, were like, ‘Right, well, if that’s what everyone’s saying about it, I’m watching it.’”
The series, when it comes to sex and violence, is actually quite tame. Even though the show features a different murder every week, the killings and violence are downplayed, and the sexual liberation of Phryne receives the same treatment. There’s the flirting, the first embrace, but then the show cuts to the next scene, leaving everything after implied. Or at the most, the pre-coital scene cuts to the post-coital, a pair of lovers ensconced in bed.
Phryne acts just as independent and liberated outside of the bedroom. She knows how to fly a plane, she delights in driving her own car, a Hispano-Suiza, and totes around a golden revolver with a pearl-encrusted handle. Oh, she also has impeccable taste in clothes. And it’s clear to everyone who knows Phryne who wears the pants in the Fisher household.
Her backstory, which comes out in bits and pieces in the series, is just as fascinating. She grew up poor in Melbourne and only after her English cousins died during World War I did her father inherit their peerage line, making him a count and her the Honorable Miss Fisher. During the Great War, Phryne ran off to France where she joined a French woman’s ambulance unit, where she received an award for bravery. After the war, she worked as an artist’s model in Montparnasse for a few years, before continuing to hop around Europe. In the book series, she’s returned from England back to her roots in Melbourne.
Phryne has an amazing cadre of characters she’s befriended and employed. Despite her statement that she’s “never understood the appeal of parenthood,” she’s certainly not selfish and takes in a young girl, Jane, as her ward in the second episode. Her relationship with her new maid/assistant, Dorothy “Dot” Williams, blossoms into a true friendship throughout the course of the series. At first, Dot is quite reserved, sheltered, and very Catholic, but under Miss Fisher’s influence and tutelage, she becomes much more than confident in herself and turns into a true asset to Phryne’s business.
Phryne met her best friend Mac while she was serving on the French ambulance unit. Mac is a physician and dresses androgynously, but her sexuality is never a point of contention or question in her friendship with Phryne. To round out her household, Phryne employs—funnily enough–a man named Mr. Butler as her butler and Bert and Cec, former dock workers, who drive a taxi and conduct odd jobs for Miss Fisher, both around the house and as part of her investigations. In the books, Bert and Cec are also “red raggers,” a term from that era for socialists.
The show is a delightful romp through the decadence of the late 1920s and while hemlines are higher, Phryne still butts heads with menfolk about her line of work. Frequently referred to as a “lady detective,” Phryne seems to have taken this sexist term and turned it into a calling card for herself, but she still gets talked down to by plenty of men. In fact, her relationship with Detective Inspector Jack Robinson is at first antagonistic. He wants her to butt out of his investigations and mind her own business, he threatens to arrest her for breaking and entering, and only allows her to stay in the room during an autopsy if she won’t say a word. Over time, however, they become partners. He wants her opinions on his investigations, and she wants him there for a second line of defense and in order to use his official title to secure records and information she otherwise wouldn’t be able to obtain.
Australia was one of the first countries that gave women the right to vote, passing the law in 1902. Once soldiers left for the war in Europe, women emerged from the home to fill the jobs left empty by men, which included factory and domestic work, nursing, teaching, and clerical and secretarial positions. Of course, women were paid less than men so even once men returned from the war, many employers wanted to keep women on the payroll because they cost less. Australian politician M. Preston Stanley openly confronted male arrogance and encouraged women toward independence. In 1921, Edith Cowan was the first woman to be elected to the Australian parliament. And of course, the 1920s were the age of the flappers, women who believed in social equity, rather than political. Social equity for the flappers meant women were allowed to drink in bars like men and enjoy all the recreational activities that men did. Not all women embraced this new movement, however. Some women of an older generation, called “wowsers,” objected to these new-fangled practices. (See Phryne’s Aunt Prudence.)
If you have a penchant for 1920s fashions, love detective shows, or just enjoy watching a sassy woman kick some ass, then Miss Fisher’s Murder Mysteries is a shiny gem of a show in a sea of superhero movies, True Detectives, and Game of Thrones.
Lauren Byrd has worked in the entertainment industry in Los Angeles and New York. She currently writes a weekly series on her blog, 52 Weeks of Directors, focusing on a female filmmaker each week.
I choose to only support women-centered film and TV efforts as a funder, promoter and, indeed, gazer, if the intent, casting, storyline, and other elements are female-positive. There’s really just too much misogynistic and women-negating/woman-hating media in the world for me to do otherwise.
This guest post by Stephanie Schroeder appears as part of our theme week on The Female Gaze.
This recent social media missive summed up a lot in terms of both my feelings and viewing habits:
…except I generally don’t and won’t view at all.
I haven’t owned at TV for over 25 years and in that time I have only watched television programs occasionally and mostly only looking on while someone else has their TV playing in the background. This is not snobbery, but rather a consciously made decision not to watch and support the assault on women to which television contributes on an ongoing basis.
Similarly, I rarely go to or stream films. The exceptions mostly come in the form of either accompanying my girlfriend in watching a movie of mutual interest or watching a film she stars in. I do watch friends’ films that present women as human beings with parts other than victims of violence and interests other than being a male appendage.
The article Loofbourow’s above Tweet links to is an August 5, 2015 piece by Manohla Dargis, “Report Finds Wide Diversity Gap Among 2014’s Top-Grossing Films” published in The New York Times. I don’t really need yet another report to tell me what I already know and have understood for decades: TV and films generally do not represent women in any capacity except as adjuncts to or prey for men. The relentless verbal, psychological, physical, and sexual violence against women on screen is untenable. Why are so many film and TV narratives dependent on the violation of women? And narratives not so dependent are still filled with misogynistic violence–“gratuitous” it’s often termed but it’s actually very pre-meditated and well-thought-out in scripts and directors’ minds.
The statistics in the New York Times article, based on the study “Inequality in 700 Popular Films” produced by the Media, Diversity & Social Change Initiative at the University of Southern California’s Annenberg School for Communication and Journalism, are staggering but not at all surprising.
Dargis writes, “…one of the report’s researchers, Stacy L. Smith, describes an ‘epidemic’ when it comes to lack of diversity.”
It’s 2015 and the number of female protagonists with personal agency (or even more than one line of female-positive dialogue) are almost zero. Female filmmakers find funding near impossible, and female actors who are not conventionally “attractive” are fewer than few. These stats also hold true for older women, women who are racial and ethnic minorities, and lesbian, trans, and queer women.
Definitely a groan, but no shocker.
I choose to only support women-centered film and TV efforts as a funder, promoter and, indeed, gazer, if the intent, casting, storyline, and other elements are female-positive. There’s really just too much misogynistic and women-negating/woman-hating media in the world for me to do otherwise.
I’m a lesbian who doesn’t watch OITNB. A mortal sin. “I know you hate Orange is the New Black, but….” friends say to me on the regular. No, actually I just don’t watch it. I also don’t criticize it or discuss it at all, a venial sin. I have never seen it, which, to my mind, renders me unqualified to give an opinion about it.
I’m friends with a female actor who is on mainstream television shows fairly regularly whose work I don’t watch. I support her and wish her well, but I have no desire to see the work she is doing in mainstream TV-land.
I am the girlfriend of an indie actor whose work I support, promote, watch and enjoy. Lots of folks inquire, “Why doesn’t she have an agent?” “Why isn’t she being cast in more films?” I don’t have the time or the inclination to get into the business of the film industry and report back on my partner’s lack of visibility or inability to get the attention of an agent, even with some amazing credits to her name. I do have my theories: she’s fat, a lesbian who “looks like a lesbian” and the other usual reasons so many unconventional-looking – by Hollywood standards – actors are overlooked. Women like her are basically invisible on-screen and go more-or-less unrecognized and under appreciated as actors, even though the world is actually populated with more people who look like her (and me) than conventional model/actress types.
I’m a writer with my own projects. A real woman of the type almost never depicted on the screen, large or small. I’m not rich, my apartment isn’t grande, I don’t make much money from my writing and must to hustle other gigs to pay my expenses. Unlike depictions on-screen, it’s not at all a glamorous hustle. It’s a struggle that is neither noble nor character building, just extremely tiring and very real.
What I desire is a world where women are reflected in popular media as the rich multitudes we are as human beings, where both mediums are not monopolized by well-funded (or not) men in every role (creator, talent, funder, distributor, etc.), whether overtly sexist or or not. Where women are people, not possessions.
There are a lot of films and TV shows that are just plain stupid and dumb, period. Others are subtly sexist, and still others are full on murderously misogynistic. I don’t want to in any way lend my support to these endeavors.
So, when friends mock me, implying I’m a TV snob, I let them know: I’m just not into it.
Stephanie Schroeder is a freelance writer and activist based in Brooklyn, NY. Her work has been widely published, including in the classic anthology, That’s Revolting: Queer Strategies for Resisting Assimilation. Her essay, “I Don’t Want to be Part of Your [De]Evolution,” is included in the Lammy-nominated anthology Here Come the Brides: Reflections on Lesbian Love and Marriage. She has performed at and curated installments of the LBGT storytelling series Queer Memoir, was a contributing editor at Curve Magazine for seven years, and the featured creative non-fiction editor for Iris Brown Lit Magazine’s debut issue. Schroeder is the author of the memoir Beautiful Wreck: Sex, Lies & Suicide.
In this moment, then, Elena is completely relieved of the conventional position of girl-as-object, and is therefore able to occupy a different position as a desiring subject. By purposefully making herself invisible, Elena momentarily evades and perhaps refuses to be defined by the adult male gaze that governs girlhood.
This guest post by Athena Bellas appears as part of our theme week on The Female Gaze.
Within contemporary visual culture, girls are frequently positioned as spectacular objects to be looked at. For example, girls are often either positioned as eroticised objects of desire for an adult male gaze, or as pathologized objects of adult concern in order to makes diagnoses about “the problem with girls today.” Both of these gazes police the borders of girlhood, placing girls under the surveillance of a watchful and scrutinising adult eye. In both instances, the girl is positioned as a to-be-looked-at object rather than an active and agentic subject, which means that it is sometimes difficult for our culture to create space to imagine the girl as the holder of the gaze. When we do get representations of girls erotically contemplating the male figure, these representations are often met with derision and dismissal by adult culture. For example, reviews of the Twilight films repeatedly ridiculed Bella Swan’s erotic contemplation of Edward Cullen’s glittering, perfectly coiffed figure as mere fodder for girls’ “wet dreams” (like this is a bad thing), and fangirls shrieking with delight at the sight of their favourite boy band are diagnosed as embarrassingly hysterical and hormonal. This contempt for the girl’s gaze in patriarchal visual culture leads to what Michele Fine calls the “missing discourse of desire” for girls, because there is a consistent shaming, silencing, and erasure of girls’ expressions of desire.
However, even within this complex web of regulatory adult gazes, there are intervals and gaps where challenges and disruptions can take place. There are important spaces within visual culture that provide representations of a girl’s gaze, and I am particularly interested in teen television as one of these spaces. This television genre often centres on representing a teen heroine’s perspective and addresses a teen girl spectator, and the privileging of this frequently dismissed point of view has the potential to disrupt the central position of the adult male gaze. While not all teen TV does this successfully, there are certainly moments within this genre that provide a significant space for the representation of girls actively gazing, exploring, and acting upon their desires. There are, of course, many great examples of girls’ gazes in teen shows like Buffy the Vampire Slayer, My So-Called Life, Veronica Mars, and The 100, among others. In this article, I want to explore the CW network’s paranormal teen series The Vampire Diaries, because it has depicted clear moments in which the gendered terms of the desiring gaze are reversed, turning conventional tropes and iconographies of desire on their head. In this reconfiguration, the girl looks and is (at least temporarily) able to refuse her position as object-to-be-looked-at.
In one of the most iconic scenes from The Vampire Diaries, we can see a powerful, desiring teen girl gaze being represented. Damon and Elena are on a road trip together, and they stop at a motel for the night. At this stage in the narrative, the sexual tension between the two of them is so ridiculously palpable, and everyone is screaming, “Just kiss already!” at their TV screens. Elena feigns sleep, secretly watching a half-dressed Damon sip whiskey as he languorously reclines in a chair.
His bare torso is bathed in the moonlight that streams through the window, creating a beautiful dappled pattern of light and shade across his figure. The camera is aligned with Elena’s gaze, recording the details of Damon’s body in lingering extreme close-ups.
Importantly, Elena is temporarily “invisible” in this scene – her gaze is unmonitored and unreturned as she secretly watches him. In this moment, then, Elena is completely relieved of the conventional position of girl-as-object, and is therefore able to occupy a different position as a desiring subject. By purposefully making herself invisible, Elena momentarily evades and perhaps refuses to be defined by the adult male gaze that governs girlhood. I think that this moment is resistant space where alternatives to the dominant system of desire can be explored. This sequence provides an alternative visual language in which the male figure is made to bear what Laura Mulvey calls “the burden of sexual objectification,” allowing for the representation of the heroine’s active and agentic desire.
In another scene in season four, Damon undresses in front of Elena. In the first shot, we see Elena’s eyes carefully scanning Damon’s figure from head to toe and in the reverse shot, the camera scans and records the contours of his body in intricate detail, encouraging spectators to look at him in the same manner.
Like the scene described above, his body is spot-lit, but this time by shafts of gold sunlight streaming in through the windows, emphasising the openness of his display, and the clarity of Elena’s view of him. Damon unbuttons his trousers and asks Elena, “Are you staying for the whole show or…?” The soundtrack punctuates his playful offer by emphasising the sound of each button popping as he strips off his clothing. Damon recognises his status as Elena’s object of desire, and that he is “on show” for her gaze. As a spectacular object on show, Damon occupies a conventionally feminine position – he is definitely an object of erotic contemplation and spectacle – rather than occupying the traditionally masculine position of action, moving the narrative forward, and control.
By spectacularizing Damon’s figure through the use of extreme close-ups, ultra slow motion, and dramatic lighting, the text invites spectators to look at the male figure through Elena’s desiring perspective. So, the female gaze exists within the narrative world of The Vampire Diaries, and through these representational strategies, spectators are also encouraged to align and identify with it – to occupy and explore this position of active looking alongside Elena. I think that these moments, which reverse the conventional politics of representing the gaze, reconfigure some of the traditional iconography associated with girlhood that ordinarily positions girls as desirable, rather than desiring, and as spectacles, rather than subjects. In this text, we are presented with girls who are able to find moments in which they can evade the adult male gaze, and also claim a desiring subjective position from which to look. This pushes the representational boundaries that often contain girlhood, and I am hopeful that this results in an expansion into new and even more disruptive territories of articulation for the teen girl gaze.
Dr. Athena Bellas has a PhD in Screen and Cultural Studies from the University of Melbourne. Her PhD and current research explore representations of adolescent girlhood in fairy tales and contemporary screen media. She blogs at teenscreenfeminism.wordpress.com and tweets at @AthenaBellas and @TeenScreenFem.
The realm of sci-fi and fantasy offers many possibilities to challenge the status quo. It’s the ultimate platform to show diversity and portray a more nuanced characterization of people. Let’s hope that ‘Sleepy Hollow’ can pull of what it has planned and there will be no need to dust off the #AbbieMillsDeservesBetter hashtag.
Television as an mirror that reflects the cultural dynamic that’s present in our society. Ha. There are a few shows that get it right–see the socio-economic depiction in The Wire or the gender politics in Mr. Robot–but more often than not, television formats succumb to trite stereotypes and travel the well-trodden path of TV tropes. The recent change in the TV landscape, “The Golden Age of diversity and representation,” made it seem that there were more roles for actors of color. Yet, the numbers from the 2015 diversity report on Hollywood, Flipping the Script – from UCLA’s Ralph Bunche Center for African American Studies – are only marginally better than previous years.
Veteran showrunners Alex Kurtzman and Roberto Orci are known for their teamwork in sci-fi – see Fringe, Cowboys & Aliens,Star Trek: Into Darkness. They took a chance on a script by Phillip Iscove, who was toiling away as an assistant at UTA, and Iscove sold his pitch based on the “man out of time” element. They teamed up with director/executive producer Len Wisemen, mostly known from his work on the Underworld franchise, to create one of the more kooky TV formats: Sleepy Hollow (2013).
The conversation has shifted in recent years when it comes to the portrayal of Black women who have graced our screens. From the groundbreaking start with the working single mother Julia Baker on Julia, to the mid-1970s with the working-class housekeeper Florida Evans in Good Times, followed by educated womanhood in the form of Clair Huxtable in the 1980s with The Cosby Show, to the Black professionals such as Maxine Shaw in Living Single, independent women Pam and Gina in Martin, to Whitley in A Different World. Funnily enough, in the 1990s most channels featured shows with a diverse cast. However, once the ratings were high enough they would replace them with mostly white-orientated shows after the network got traction – see UPN, CW, WB, FOX.
Most would say that the reign of Shonda Rimes and her Shondaland production company paved the way for Black characters such as Miranda Bailey in Grey’s Anatomy, Olivia Pope in Scandal, Annalise Keating in How to Get Away with Murder. Other networks followed suit and there’s Mary Jane Paul on Being Mary Jane, Rainbow Johnson on Black-ish, and we can’t forget about Ms. Cookie Lyon on Empire. It’s refreshing to see a variety of Black women represented on the screen. Characters who’re not molded in the archetypes that are damaging society’s perception of Black women – think Strong Black Woman, Mammy, Jezebel, Video Vixen, and so on.
Not every (main) Black character gets the treatment they deserve and debunk archetypes. Characters such as Tara Thornton in True Blood, Bonnie Bennett in The Vampire Diaries, Lacey Porter in Twisted, Iris West in The Flash, and Abbie Mills in Sleepy Hollow, are coming together as captivating women who are used to promote diversity in the show and are slowly pushed aside when the fan base is secured and TPTB still think they have to cater to a certain demographic. Well, it seems that the bait and switch tactic never went out of style.
Abbie, Ichabod, and Frank
The premise of Sleepy Hollow sounds farfetched, but somehow it work(s)(ed). The show is loosely based on The Legend of Sleepy Hollow by Washington Irving. Ichabod Crane (Tom Mison) wakes up in our century and has to stop the Headless Horseman from starting the Apocalypse. He meets Lieutenant Abbie Mills (Nicole Beharie) and together they are the “Witnesses” who will stop the Apocalypse as is written in the Book of Revelation. The duo gets help from Abbie’s sister, Jenny Mills (Lyndie Greenwood), who has in-depth knowledge on the evil forces and artifacts. The stern Captain Frank Irving (Orlando Jones), Abbie’s boss, who reluctantly starts to believe in their cause; and finally the whispery Katrina Crane (Katia Winter), Ichabod’s wife, who “tries” to help the team whilst being stuck in ‘a world between life and death’ a.k.a purgatory, which is ruled by the main antagonist Moloch.
In essence, it’s a tried formula. There’s the overarching mythos of Sleepy Hollow, sprinkled with an ‘army of evil, Lt. Abbie Mills as the reluctant character who works hard and suppresses her own demons and deals with family concerns. Of course her partner is a snarky, knowledgeable yet flawed British hero who fully believes in the mythology. Nevertheless, the chemistry between Mison and Beharie is electric and lured fans in to join the duo on their (un)believable journey. Credit also goes to the multi-racial supporting cast with John Cho as police officer John Brooks, Nicholas Gonzalez as Detective Luke Morales who’s also Abbie’s ex-boyfriend, Jill Marie Jones and Amandla Stenberg as respectively Frank Irving’s ex-wife Cynthia and daughter Macey.
Season 1 was fun, period. It was accepting of all the cheesiness and ran with it in order to create solid (cult) television. Sure, the dialogue was clunky, there were small loose ends, the pacing was off, but it didn’t matter. The diverse cast really made it work. In October 2013, executive producer Heather Kadin even joked: “[..]because we have so much diversity in our cast and we’ve had the freedom to cast our villains and victims however we want, so we can kill as many white people as we want.” It now turned out that it was too good to be true.
Sleepy Hollow became the surprise freshman hit of the season. Fox quickly renewed the show after only two episodes aired and didn’t order the back nine episodes – usual concept for network shows – and kept the show at 13 episodes. Fox later upgraded the show to a total of 18 episodes for season 2. So, the showrunners had the time – there are 10 months between the first and second season – to focus on season 2 in order to make it bigger and better. Right. From the mediocre promotion for the second season, to the casting announcement of Matt Barr as Indiana Jones’ reject Nick Hawley who essentially plays the same role as Jenny Mills, to Alessandra Stanley’s inaccurate NYT article that unjustly called Beharie a sidekick. It was merely the alarm that showed us how season 2 would play out. The bait and switch was almost a self-fulfilling prophecy.
Solving crime with the Mills Sisters
Season 2 has aptly been named by some as “the screenwriters guide of how not to write a show.” One of the catalysts of the demise of season 2 is the fact that Kurtzman and Orci left to do other projects and instilled their faith on showrunner Mark Goffman. Sure, Goffman earned his stripes with series such as White Collar, but he couldn’t handle Sleepy Hollow.
It’s mindboggling that the Juilliard-trained Beharie, who proudly advocated for her character in an interview with Essence – and didn’t expect to portray a tough, cop character with her 5′ 1″ stature and African American background – was pushed aside in favor of “The Crane family drama.” Katrina Crane’s story arc was deplorable. She was touted as a powerful witch from the start. Instead she was only used as a plot device in the first season. They tried to flesh her character out in season 2 and failed. Ichabod Crane became a moping know-it-all (more than usual) who ignored Abbie’s advice to keep focused on their common goal. Fringe’s John Noble was wasted as Ichabod and Katrina’s son who turned out to be The Horseman of War and got his mother pregnant with an evil, demon baby – don’t ask. Not to mention that the Headless Horseman became a woobified character, “grew” a head, and turned out to be Katrina’s ex instead of a menacing villain. The Powers That Be (TPTB) molded Katrina into a damsel in distress that ate up the screen time that should have further explored the relationship between Abbie and Jenny, Abbie and Ichabod, basically everything surrounding Abbie Mills.
The other members of “Team Witness” didn’t fare better. Lyndie Greenwood was promoted to series regular, but was most of the time nowhere to be found in favor of Nick Hawley. Captain Frank Irving and his family’s storyline was cast aside, only to be shortly revived in the most ridiculous way. The show was at its best when Team Witness came together to fight evil and showed the underlying dynamic between the different characters. Add that with the casting of House of Cards actress Sakina Jaffrey as Sheriff Leena Reyes, who has an connection with Abbie’s past, but was severely underused throughout the show.
The diversity of the cast gave the wobbly storyline that extra spunk. Characters of color who seamlessly worked together and aren’t focused on anyone’s race and color – though the show doesn’t hide from commenting on race. Abbie and Jenny are normal, intelligent, layered characters with flaws who’ve showed their vulnerable side, thus debunking the archetype of “The Strong Black woman.” Most fans – and critics- were frustrated after eight episodes had aired of the second season. The diversity and representation went right out of the window with the start of season 2.
Social media further added fuel to the fire within the fandom. At the start of the first season, Orlando Jones quickly broke the fourth wall. He created his own Tumblr page and participated in fandom discussions. Jones actively created more promotion for the show than whatever the Sleepy Hollow PR department was/is trying to do.
Nicole Beharie’s Instagram Post
The unrest in the fandom sparked the #AbbieMillsDeservesBetter hashtag, where fans could vent their frustrations and asks the writers and staff of Sleepy Hollow why Beharie has been pushed to the background in a show in which she’s a lead character. Sleepy Hollow writer Raven Metzner came under fire on social media when he lashed out to the “haters” of the show. The show slightly redeemed itself with the last four episodes – even with the plot where Abbie was transported back to Ichabod’s time and was seen as a slave, they tiptoed the line with the racial insensitivity, but handled it well. Now, not only was Abbie shelved in the show, apparently Beharie was initially left out on the DVD commentary for season 2.
Sci-fi and fantasy writer Genevieve Valentine at io9 made some valid points when it comes to the trajectory of the show. In a series of Tweets she explains, “The unexpected success of season 1 relied heavily on tweaking tropes – not least of which was the trope of the white mythical heroes. [..] This show cannot be trusted with its own story, and that’s a sad place of no-faith to be coming from with the cast and potential it has.” So, the bait and switch from season 2 didn’t work out as planned. Fans and critics alike have voiced their opinions, but will the necessary changes be made?
The criticism didn’t go unnoticed. During the TCA press tour in January, Fox TV chairman and CEO Dana Walden mentioned that the show will be less serialized and have a slightly lighter tone in the future. Well, one of the first changes is a cross-over with the crime procedural show Bones (!). Soon after came the news that Orlando Jones involuntarily left the show. This is a blow for the promotion of Sleepy Hollow. Neither Mison nor Beharie are very active on social media whether it’s promoting the show or engaging with fans; however, Greenwood picked up the baton from Jones.
Furthermore, on August 2, the new showrunner Clifton Campbell (The Glades), told TV Guide that the Headless Horsemen won’t return this season. He said, “But we have a new framework and a new set of rules for the mythology.” Yeah, look how that previously turned out.
The storyline will jump one year ahead. This will give Ichabod the time to grieve over his wife and son, and maybe get a job to start paying the bills. Abbie will be more focused on her job now as an FBI agent. Still, the casting for season 3 went off with a rough start with the announcement of Nikki Reed (Twilight) as series regular Betsy Ross (the legendary seamstress apparently had a thing with Ichabod back in the day), and she will bring a “smart and sexy edge” to the show. Wayward Pines’ Shannyn Sossamon will play the mysterious woman Pandora who asks Ichabod and Abbie for help. It almost seems that TPTB didn’t get the memo. Fans and critics alike asked for more focus on Ichabod and Abbie and Team Witness. Luckily some recent additions seem promising. Lance Gross (Crisis) makes his debut as Abbie’s boss and we’ll see the return of fan-favorite Zach Appelman as Joe Corbin.
So, why stick with Sleepy Hollow? First off, Nicole Beharie is captivating as Lt. Abbie Mills and we need to see more diverse Black leading women on tv. After all, that’s true representation. Secondly, the nuanced relationship and charm between Tom Mison and Nicole Beharie. It’s a natural chemistry that seems so effortless. It would be a waste not to enjoy it while you can. Thirdly, the bait and switch tactic was disastrous for the show; TPTB are still trying to recover from that, it’s only onwards and upwards from here.
The realm of sci-fi and fantasy offers many possibilities to challenge the status quo. It’s the ultimate platform to show diversity and portray a more nuanced characterization of people. Let’s hope that Sleepy Hollow can pull of what it has planned and there will be no need to dust off the #AbbieMillsDeservesBetter hashtag.
Giselle Defares comments on film, fashion (law) and American pop culture. See her blog here.
As she has an older brother, her birth was unauthorized and when she was discovered she was sent directly to the SkyBox. And so on. While some of the crimes are legitimate, many are the result of children growing up in a totalitarian state. So clearly it’s going to be better here on the ground, right?
Ha!
Clarke Griffin (Eliza Taylor) and Anya (Dichen Lachman) in one of The 100’s many dystopias
This guest post by Deborah Pless appears as part of our theme week on Dystopias.
The first scene of The 100 makes it pretty freaking clear that this is a show about dystopia. We are introduced to a pretty blonde girl drawing a landscape scene using only the dirt and grime of her prison cell. The voiceover narration informs us that this picture, and all of the other pictures that ornament her solitary confinement, is drawn from imagination. She has never set foot on Earth, and she will almost certainly die in space like all the rest of her people.
Cheerful stuff, huh?
The girl, Clarke Griffin (played by Eliza Taylor), is our main character and the voice of reason in The 100, a CW show that came on as a midseason replacement last year to middling reviews, but has continued to improve and now, after the completion of its second season, officially qualifies as a “cult hit.” Based on the novel series of the same name by Kass Morgan, you would be forgiven for assuming this is just another Hunger Games ripoff. It isn’t.
The 100 is a show ostensibly about teenagers falling in love and making poor choices against the backdrop of an ever-changing dystopian landscape, but in reality the show is far less concerned with emotions than with social commentary. The dramas and frivolities of the first few episodes fade away as the show goes on, being replaced instead by a compelling and gripping drama about political power, the ethics of war, medical experimentation, torture, the values of indigenous cultures, imperialism, and, occasionally, hope for the future.
It is also unquestionably a show about dystopia. Though evident in the first scene, it wasn’t until well into the second season that I realized that the show wasn’t just an exploration of one particular dystopian future, however, but instead an exploration of all of them. Really. All of them. Every organized culture or civilization that our heroes encounter in the course of the series is a different exploration of dystopia. And while this can make the show rather bleak and hard to watch, it’s fascinating.
The Ark
The basic premise of the show is inherently dystopian. Our heroes all live on the “Ark,” a cobbled together mush of space stations in orbit over the Earth. They’ve lived there for 97 years, since a nuclear war wiped out all life on Earth. The people of the Ark know that they are just a waiting generation who will live and die on the Ark with the understanding that in another hundred years their descendants will be able to go down and live on the planet once the radiation levels have decreased.
Because they have limited supplies, the Ark is run as a totalitarian dystopia. There is never enough food, water, air, or medicine. All food is rationed, all parents may have only one child, and medicine is reserved only for cases when the alternative is death. Even their shoes and underwear are handed down from one generation to the next. Break a law on the Ark – and there are many – and you die. No trial, no reprieve, just a sad farewell to your loved ones, the removal of all shoes and useful clothing, and then a swift death being shot out the airlock.
If a minor commits a crime, then they are sent to the “SkyBox,” a holding detention center where they await turning 18. Once 18, they face a panel, and that panel will decide if they should be “floated” or returned to the Ark’s main population.
Our story starts when Clarke and her fellow inmates in the SkyBox are hustled out of their cells and onto a dropship. Confused and terrified about what is happening, the teenagers (and children) soon realize that they are going down to Earth. Why? Well, as they and we learn, because the Ark can no longer support life and they must find out if the Earth has healed enough to sustain them. In other words, Clarke and all of her friends, 100 of the most vulnerable members of this society, are used as canaries in a coal mine.
The Ark kids reach the ground
So obviously the Ark is a dystopian place. As the show goes on – obviously the kids survive their trip to the Earth’s surface – it become increasingly clear that the governmental situation on the Ark is hellish at best. One child was incarcerated for hitting the guards who held her back as her parents were executed. Another character, Octavia (Marie Avgeropoulos), committed no crime but being born. As she has an older brother, her birth was unauthorized and when she was discovered she was sent directly to the SkyBox. And so on. While some of the crimes are legitimate, many are the result of children growing up in a totalitarian state. So clearly it’s going to be better here on the ground, right?
Ha!
As the kids quickly learn, the ground is no more hospitable than the Ark was. While there is no totalitarian rule, their society quickly devolves in a Lord of the Flies situation. A hundred teenagers and children who have been locked up in prison and forced to live in a police state their whole lives suddenly have complete freedom? Yeah, it goes pretty Lord of the Flies. Then, just when they’re starting to get their act together, it becomes clear that the Ark children are not the only ones alive on the ground. There are others.
That brings us to the Grounders, as the people of the Ark come to know them. The Grounders represent another form of dystopia, this one more similar to Mad Max. The Grounders are the humans who developed an immunity to the radiation poisoning the Earth and so rebuilt society.
Grounder leader Indra (Adina Porter) and her warriors
They hunt with bows and arrows and spears, wear an amalgamation of clothes they found and animal leathers, paint their faces to look scarier, and even speak a completely different language. Heck, they even have a village called “ton DC” built in the bombed out ruins of Washington DC. In other words, they appear at first to the Ark kids as “savages,” a dystopian view of who they could become if they lose all of their “civilization.”
Fortunately, the truth turns out to be much more complicated than that. While the Grounders are genuinely savage, they also have an artistic and healing tradition that is complex and beautiful, as well as a culture that is distinct and clearly quite functional. Though tribal and very divided by factions, the Grounders quickly become the least dystopian society on the show, and the Ark kids even cease their war and try to make a truce.
Unfortunately for our heroes, though, the Grounders are the least of their problems. As the story progresses, the kids run into another dystopian hellscape, this one called “Mount Weather.” Mount Weather is a bunker, or system of bunkers, hidden inside a mountain and home to a large population of seemingly nice, decent people. They’ve lived inside the mountain, sheltered by its radiation shields, for the past hundred years. They have abundant food, shelter and safety, and even flourishing art and culture. It’s the first place the kids go that is, well, beautiful.
But that beauty covers over the horrible truth that Mount Weather is just another dystopia. This time it’s a medical one, where the people of Mount Weather are basically vampires, kidnapping Grounders and draining them of their blood in the hopes of building up a radiation immunity. When the scientists at the mountain discover that the Ark kids have an even better immunity, they decide to harvest the kids’ bone marrow, whether they consent or not.
Inside Mount Weather’s medical research facility
Not to be outdone, by this time the bulk of the Ark’s population has reached the ground and formed a camp called “Camp Jaha,” which operates under the same dystopian rule as the Ark did. And across the mountains we discover a desert wasteland of outcasts and landmines and pilgrims searching for the “City of Light.” That City of Light? Turns out to be just another terrifying technological dystopia.
What’s the point of all of this? Well, aside from the writers of The 100 clearly enjoying the bleakness of their world, these competing dystopian futures actually manage to form a cohesive picture not of dystopia but of how we ought to respond to it.
Like I said above, our main character for the show is Clarke. Clarke is smart, caring, incredibly pragmatic and kind of scary. She quickly becomes the leader of the kids she came down with, but goes on to become the leader of all of the people of the Ark, a symbol of resistance for Mount Weather, and more. While there are other characters whose lives we follow, the story revolves around Clarke, particularly around how Clarke reacts to dystopian societies. Namely, how she never reacts well.
On the Ark, Clarke was locked up in solitary confinement for the crime of treason. She and her father discovered that the life support of the station was failing and tried to warn everyone. He was executed; she was locked up. At the dropship, when the kids go all Lord of the Flies, Clarke is the voice of reason, foraging for food and medicine while the others let the world burn.
Clarke and her mother, Abby (Paige Turco)
When captured by the Grounders, she resorts to diplomacy. When captured by Mount Weather, she speaks out against their propaganda and escapes, taking a former enemy with her. She quickly establishes herself as the real power of Camp Jaha and, with the help of her friends, brokers a deal with the Grounders to go to war against Mount Weather. Not bad for a 17-year-old girl. Not bad for anyone.
Clarke clearly believes in the values of a good society, but what makes her a fantastic character is how strongly she believes in speaking out against a bad one. She has no qualms about speaking truth to power. And she will not abide a dystopia. By showing Clarke butting heads with so many different kinds of failed societies, we’re given a look at what it means to stand up for our own rights and the rights of others in any situation. I’m not saying that the show is perfect or completely unproblematic, but I do think that it has something very interesting to say when it comes to how we ought to react to dystopian landscapes.
It says that we should react with understanding. We should figure out what’s wrong, what about the society is making it so unbearable, and then seek to fix that. Clarke doesn’t believe necessarily in blowing up bad societies, though she does sometimes do that. Literally. It’s more that her arc is about seeking the good and using these visions of failed places to figure out what will work and what should be.
This is especially meaningful considering that Clarke is, well, a teenage girl. She’s the demographic of our society that we pay the least attention to and give the least credence. And yet the whole show is centered around proving how much value Clarke and the other kids that society originally deemed expendable actually have.
Maya (Eve Harlow), Octavia (Marie Avgeropoulos), and Monty (Christopher Larkin) fight together in Mount Weather
It’s not just Clarke, either. The show centers on the kids the Ark sent down, the ones society had abandoned, as they explore different kinds of dystopias. They’re a pretty diverse bunch and their reactions to these different situations give us a wealth of commentary on those dystopias.
So while Clarke’s not perfect and neither is the show, they’re clearly trying. Clarke sometimes falls into white savior behavior, and the show occasionally tries to force storylines that feel disingenuous and frankly kind of weird. But whatever. I don’t need a perfect show or a perfect heroine. I’d rather have this, a meta-commentary on the different types of futures we envision for ourselves as a species. Even better, it’s a meta-commentary where each future is torn down and reassembled by the children who will actually inherit it.
As The 100 shows us, the point of dystopia isn’t to look at the future and weep. The point of dystopian landscapes is to give us a vision of what our future could be and then to explore how to make sure it never is.
Deborah Pless runs Kiss My Wonder Woman and works as a freelance writer and editor when she’s not busy camping out at the movies or watching too much TV. You can follow her on Twitter and Tumblr just as long as you like feminist rants, an obsession with superheroes, and the search for gluten-free baked goods.
This is another one of the problems that I have with White Knight syndrome. The types prone to exhibiting this behavior tend to have a lower opinion of women that than their outwardly sexist counterparts. White Knights take up the causes of the women in their lives and speak out for them, but it is usually done in a manner that seems to suggest they think that these women are incapable of speaking up for themselves.
This guest post by Shay Revolver appears as part of our theme week on Masculinity.
You’ve probably seen the poster art for Mr. Robot everywhere in the past few weeks. It’s pretty good show and it deserves the attention.
Poster for Mr. Robot, starring Rami Malek
From the very first scene of Mr. Robot you are hooked. You find yourself invested in Elliot’s life. You feel connected with him and you hope that he succeeds. It’s a strong opening for what I feel will be an amazing show. The wait between the sneak preview and the next episode has been torture so I’ve watched the pilot more than once with my partner and my son because I can’t get enough. But somewhere in between each of the viewings I’ve had some thoughts that in some way take a part of my love away. The problem with loving good storytelling and being aware of the varying forms of patriarchy or misogyny in some stories is that once you’ve had a chance to digest a piece of media, you find yourself questioning all the little things that you find problematic and sometimes you can’t tell if it’s just you over analyzing or if there really is a problem there.
Mr. Robot (Christian Slater) and Elliot
That space is where I find myself after seeing and loving Mr. Robot. Rami Malek plays the shy and socially awkward Elliot well. In the beginning of the show he takes down a pedophile and you root for him. Throughout the show he seems to inwardly clash with any of the Alpha males that surround him. Mr. Robot (played by Christian Slater) is as much of an embodiment of a man’s man as Brad Pitt/ Tyler Durden was in Fight Club. This statement is true, minus the Fight Club part, with most of the other men in his life, but they seem express all of the “masculine” traits you’d expect from a cis white male. Elliot, on the other hand, gives off a sense of humanity that makes you feel connected almost instantly as you join him on this adventure through his world. Elliot isn’t your typical male. He doesn’t exude all of the traits that you’d expect in a show’s lead. He’s not incredibly charismatic, he doesn’t put out an err of bravado, he doesn’t even have that uber masculine sense of entitlement. He’s not out swilling beer or doing any of the things you would expect. He is in no way a “man’s man.”
Elliot (played by Rami Malek)
The problem doesn’t come from the viewing of this show, it comes from the aftertaste. Elliot is a traditional lone wolf type of man. He has his own rules and own mind and lives his life according to his own ideals. This makes him a nice contrast Amanda’s boyfriend. He’s the uber masculine type of guy that uses niceness as a weapon. He’s smarmy and even before we got into his indiscretions you couldn’t help but not like this guy. He has all the trademarks of a cis white male frat boy. He oozes all the traditionally masculine character traits that are the hallmark of the patriarchy. He has a sense of entitlement and this cloud of arrogance so thick you could choke on it.
Watching Elliot interact and rebuff him makes you feel like you’re on his side. This is where things start to get a little tricky for me. The thing that feels homey about Elliot is that despite his social awkwardness he generally cares for other people like his best friend Amanda (played by Portia Doubleday) and his therapist Krista (played by Gloria Reuben). The problem isn’t with the caring, the problem is with the way he shows it when they’re not around. In this regard he exudes a hyper masculine sense of over-protectiveness. During one of his exchanges with Amanda’s jerk of a boyfriend, Ollie (played by Ben Rappaprt), you find out that Elliot has been cyber stalking him. He discovered fairly early on that he was cheating on her and had been since shortly after they exchanged “I love yous.” But Elliot hasn’t told her yet. His reasons are self-serving–he doesn’t want to deal with the mess she’ll become after another break-up and he feels like he can “manage” him better than whatever guy she’ll find next. So instead, he keeps this secret from his best friend. This behavior runs parallel with the fact that every time that Amanda seems to be faltering at work, he swoops in to save the day and defend her from anyone who tried to make her seem less that capable. He can’t help himself from trying to save the day, from being a “White Knight.”
Gloria Reuben as Elliot’s therapist, Krista
I have long had a problem with this archetype both in media and in real life. To me this whole phenomenon of men feeling the desire to swoop in and “Save the Princess” seems to be more of a hindrance to feminism than a companion. Women are not helpless creatures who need protecting, at least not in the White Knight type of way. There is always an undertone in their actions that seem to convey the message that they’re just letting us have our way and will wait in the wings until they have their moment and can save us from ourselves. One of the biggest shows of Elliot’s underlying muber masculine White Knighting actions was him deciding to frame the CTO of E-Corp because he was rude to Amanda. In that moment he had the choice of two envelopes, one leading to the real culprit in the hacks, the other leading to the CTO. He was set to turn in Mr. Robot and his crew until the moment that the CTO kicked Amanda out of the room. Elliot took issue with that and in an effort to “protect” her and “defend her honor” he sets the CTO up to take the fall. I will give the writers credit for what they choose to do with Amanda’s character. To her credit, she calls Elliot on his choice to jump in during a meeting with their bosses to cover for her, she didn’t know to what extent he tried to defend her. But, the scene seems in a way that the show is aware of this element of the dynamic and makes sure that we know it too.
Elliot (Rami Malek) Seemingly Confused That Angela (Portia Doubleday)
Unfortunately, the problem with the White Knighting doesn’t end there. Elliot is fond of his therapist, Krista, and feels sorry for her and her relationship issues, mainly her trouble finding a suitable man after her divorce. His solution to facilitate keeping her safe and teaching her “to read people” involves him digging up dirt on her current online dating love interest. This is a side note in the pilot episode. Toward the end of the episode, shortly after you realize how awesome this series is going to be, he finds the dirt that he as looking for. Once again, instead of telling her himself, he chooses to confront him and blackmail him into telling her the truth about himself and breaking up with her. In the next scene that his therapist appears in she’s obviously shaken and appears to have been crying. He knows that his plan has worked. She is now “safe” and he seems pleased with his work.
Elliot and Mr. Robot talk business
This is another one of the problems that I have with White Knight syndrome. The types prone to exhibiting this behavior tend to have a lower opinion of women that than their outwardly sexist counterparts. White Knights take up the causes of the women in their lives and speak out for them, but it is usually done in a manner that seems to suggest they think that these women are incapable of speaking up for themselves. Elliot unfortunately seems to be as textbook as it comes in this regard. In some ways he seems more sinister in his actions because he seems so nice and unassuming , these traits make it so you don’t realize he’s moving pieces around in the lives of the women in his life.
He is resolute in his thinking that he knows what is best for them and will “protect” them from themselves by any means necessary. He does all of these things from the shadows while outwardly expressing genuine concern.
Elliot headed home
I can’t tell if Elliot’s behaviors are a sign of the times or if they’re his true feelings left out exposed like a nerve , a gift from the writer expressing the realism of White Knights, and I’m not sure where the show will go from here. I love the premise; the show itself comes off as a cross between Fight Club and Hackers–two of my favorite films–and the writing, direction, and camera work are amazing. I hope that in future episodes the women speak out more and he proves himself as less of a panderer and more of a genuine person whose actions toward the women on the show relay the words that he speaks to them. It’s hard to tell where this characters interactions will take the story, but I hope Elliot evolves into something better than the anti-hero that he is now because, as I said before, the show I plan on watching is phenomenal.
Elliot does a victory stance after taking down the man (because the man was mean to Amanda)
Shay Revolveris an inked vegetarian, mom, feminist, cinephile, insomniac, recovering NYU student, and former roller derby player currently working as a Brooklyn-based microcinema filmmaker, web series creator, and writer. She’s obsessed with most books, especially the Pop Culture and Philosophy series and loves movies and TV shows from low brow to high class. As long as the image is moving she’s all in and believes that everything is worth a watch. She still believes that movies make the best bedtime stories because books are a daytime activity to rev up your engine and once you flip that first page, you have to keep going until you finish it and that is beautiful in its own right. She enjoys talking about the feminist perspective in comic book and gaming culture and the lack of gender equality in mainstream cinema and television productions both on screen and behind the camera. She prides herself on using all (or damn near close) to an all female crew because it’s harder for women to build up their reel. She also thinks that everyone should check out the weekly @bitchflicks twitter chat about feminism and media every Tuesday at 2 because it’s awesome and she loves engaging with other women.
Lindsay does not like to think of herself as a mother. Whether it has to do with her negative feelings about her own mother, or the fact that it might make her seem old (or, quite possibly, a combination of both), it becomes very obvious that she does not seem to feel comfortable in this role.
Now the story of a wealthy family who’s literally lost it and the two mothers who had no clue how to keep it all together. It’s Arrested Development.
When it comes to parenthood, there is little to be learned from the Bluth family other than how not to do it. There are bad parenting choices all over the place. Moreover, when it comes to parenthood, discussions usually focus on the mother as the central character involved in the matter, sidelining the dads, which has to do with the antiquated gender roles our society is still prone to perpetuate. It is due to this habit that when talking about bad parenting, it is the mothers who are judged a lot more harshly than the fathers. When a mother neglects what is still often believed to be her natural role of the nurturing individual in a child’s life, she often faces scrutiny and reproach. Acknowledging this inadequacy, this article will nonetheless concentrate on the mothers of Arrested Development. Let the record show, however, that the fathers of the Bluth family are just as bad, if not worse.
Lucille Bluth, the matriarch of the family, has managed to raise her kids to resent her. The four (later to be five) siblings don’t usually agree on much. All the more telling is the fact that they readily agree on one thing: that their mother is a horrible person.
She has, however, maintained the love and loyalty of her youngest son, Buster, by strictly repressing his independence. The two of them have an inappropriately codependent relationship which, at times, reaches disturbing levels.
Lindsay Bluth has handled her daughter in the exact opposite way. She rarely knows Maeby’s whereabouts, nor does she seem to care at all. She prides herself on her liberal parenting style and all the freedom she is giving her daughter, when in reality, she simply fails to take notice of her.
While Maeby does enjoy the pleasures of a laisser-faire upbringing and the ability to take control of her own life as she pleases, she is also deeply hurt by her parents’ neglect.
All of this, however, is, in all its awfulness, used – and works perfectly – as a comedic device.
Stay-in-bed Mom
Not only does Lindsay forget Maeby’s birthday every single year, but she oftentimes fails to acknowledge, or even forgets, that she actually has a child. Thus, over the course of the previous four seasons, Maeby goes through a whole series of attempts to shock or spite her parents, none of which are successful, as they go completely unnoticed. This is already established in the very first episode when she tries to teach her parents a lesson about how their family ties are so loose that she doesn’t even know her own cousin, by kissing George Michael on the mouth – consequently sending him into a spiral of awkwardly improper feelings for her.
Her parents’ disinterest in her life reflects in her performance at school. Lindsay doesn’t care what grades Maeby gets, nor does she even know what grade she is in. This does work to Maeby’s advantage when she decides to quit school and work as a fake but highly successful movie executive instead.
Interestingly enough, Maeby’s constant need to rebel against her parents takes after Lindsay to some extent. After all, the whole reason Lindsay married Tobias was to spite her parents who, as they make perfectly clear, will never like nor accept him.
Lindsay does not like to think of herself as a mother. Whether it has to do with her negative feelings about her own mother, or the fact that it might make her seem old (or, quite possibly, a combination of both), it becomes very obvious that she does not seem to feel comfortable in this role. When she refuses to take Maeby to the Bluth company’s Christmas party, she argues: “You see, if I show up with you, it’ll just make me seem like I’m a mother.” As Maeby replies, “I’ve never thought of you that way,” which speaks volumes in itself, Lindsay is flattered and responds, “That’s sweet.”
Season 4 illustrates quite clearly the relationship between Lindsay and her daughter. In the two episodes dealing with Lindsay’s experience, Maeby is not a part of the plot. This is foretold metaphorically as Lindsay deems her framed photos of Maeby unnecessary baggage and leaves them behind, because her suitcase is too full. As a matter of fact, Maeby only appears in these episodes disguised as a shaman, which isn’t revealed until later in the season. This can be seen as an apt metaphor for Maeby’s struggle of being around all the time but never being seen. The episode centers around Lindsay, who, when asked by said shaman whether she has kids, instinctively says no.
Maeby’s Season 4 episode, on the other hand, deals exclusively with her trying to get her parents to notice that she is flunking high school – unsurprisingly, to no avail. As it turns out, Lindsay and Tobias have sold their house and gone their separate ways, abandoning Maeby, who they both believe they had sent to boarding school. While she is visibly disappointed by all of this, she is clearly not at all surprised. This goes to show just how badly she already thinks of her parents and how well she blends in with the Bluth family, where oblivion is king and no one has any respect for anyone.
One thing Lindsay deserves some credit for, though, is that by not caring about Maeby, she is also very accepting of her. Lucille, on the other hand, is highly critical of her children, especially focusing her verbal disapproval on Lindsay. Her looks and weight in particular are what Lucille loves to dwell on. When Lindsay declares that she “doesn’t feel like being criticized around the clock,” Lucille’s harsh, yet hilariously nonsensical reply is: “I don’t criticize you. And if you’re worried about criticism, sometimes a diet is the best defense.”
In fact, Maeby does learn to appreciate her mother’s aloofness when she briefly befriends Lucille, who quickly starts subjecting her to the same rebuke about her physical appearance. She subsequently even tells Lindsay that she’s glad to have her as a mom.
Another thing that sets Lindsay apart from her mother Lucille is that she is not a control freak. Lucille who, incidentally, sometimes happens to be out of control due to her excessive drinking, keeps tabs on all the goings-on in the Bluth family. In a way, she is the evil puppeteer of the family, monitoring her children’s every move and manipulating them not only into doing things for her and getting her what she wants, but also into turning against each other for that very purpose.
Her fear of her children ganging up on her is another reason she pits them against each other. In Season 1, for instance, she tells Lindsay that Michael thinks of her as a stay-in-bed mom – when it was really her, who coined this ever so fitting description of her daughter.
Maeby pretending to move out of the model home, in an effort to outrage her parents. Lindsay, meanwhile, is sound asleep.
A run for their money
Despite their differences (of opinion and in general), Lucille and Lindsay share quite a few (appalling) characteristics.
While they both have a very hands-off parenting style, they certainly have a very hands-on attitude towards the family money. When it comes to finances, both are hugely irresponsible. They have grown accustomed to a certain lifestyle and are not willing to relinquish it in the face of their going broke. In a family where no one cares about anything but themselves, they take whatever they can get their hands on, mostly by lying to everyone about everything – that being another character trait the Bluth family has collectively perfected.
Not unlike the rest of the Bluths, they are both entirely out of touch with reality. Whether it’s Lindsay’s pretend interest in political causes and desultory fundraisers, or Lucille’s bizarre appraisal of the world (“I mean, it’s one banana, Michael. What could it cost? Ten dollars?”), it becomes very clear that money is a non-issue for them. This does not change in a time where it should be and is very much of great concern, seeing as the company is in jeopardy of going out of business.
With the goal of maintaining her luxurious lifestyle, she uses her children as pawns in order to maneuver her way around her son Michael’s policy of handling the company money responsibly. What matters to her is that she gets her way. Her disregard of other people’s feelings also shows in how overly vocal she is about disliking her children, especially GOB. Out of her four biological children she clearly harbors the most disdain for him. After her “baby,” Buster, Michael seems to be the one who she is the fondest of. The way she phrases this demonstrates not only her inability to say something nice to her children, but also how much of a burden she seems her children to view as: “You are my third least favorite child.”
However, this fondness might have to do with the fact that he handles the family money. A case in point is the following conversation in Season 1:
Michael: “I don’t have the money, alright, Mom?”
Lucille: “Then why are you here?”
Not only does she not make a secret out of not liking her children, at times she even goes out of her way to be mean to them. For example in Season 1, when she deliberately tries to hit GOB with her car, which she later blames on an unsuspecting Michael. In order to prevent him from remembering what really happened that night, she repeatedly hits him over the head with heavy objects, all the while pretending to be the caring mother figure who just wants the best for her son and is there to nurse him.
Speaking of nursing…
When George Sr. goes to prison, Lucille’s grip on Buster tightens. For fear of being all alone, she relies on her youngest son to be there for her. This works well for poor, brainwashed Buster, whose affection for Lucille knows no bounds.
As the overbearing mother that she is to him, she dresses him, gives him baths and decides what he can and can not do. In return, he does what he can to serve and please her, which grows more absurd as the series progresses: From the fairly harmless zipping up of her dresses to the unsettling practice of a mouth-to-mouth ritual when Lucille takes up smoking and Buster inhales the smoke from her mouth and blows it out the window, because she refuses to get up to do this herself.
Despite all this closeness and codependence, their relationship is subliminally based on a mutual hatred of some kind. His constant presence, as they can no longer afford to send him off to postgraduate studies, annoys Lucille and she starts to resent Buster.
Small, yet very real insults are exchanged behind each other’s backs. Lucille says about him, “His glasses make him look like a lizard,” whereas Buster speaks his mind to his siblings, who regularly badmouth their mother themselves: “She gets off on being withholding.”
Aside from being terrible at parenting, Lucille is an alcoholic. While she is usually heavily “under the influence,” the whole family is subject to and under the influence of her insane whims.
Her drinking might also help explain why Buster seems a little bit strange in general. When he unwittingly drinks alcohol for what we believe to be the first time, the narrator clarifies: “It was the first taste of alcohol Buster had since he was nursing.”
Clearly, theirs is a love of many a troubling detail. There are little clues dropped here and there that shape up to an image of an unhealthy, sheer unbreakable bond between mother and son. It is a slippery slope from Buster’s remarks such as “This is not how my mother is raising me” (note the present tense) to Lucille admitting in Season 3 that she has only just quit taking her post-partum medication, 32 years after having Buster. Michael gently suggests “cutting the cord,” but Lucille isn’t having any of it. “He needs me” and “he’s weak” are her excuses to keep him under her wing.
When ultimately he does break free from Lucille’s dominant parenting, he literally doesn’t get very far: He gets involved with Lucille’s best frenemy, Lucille 2, who lives across the hall, and quickly moves in with her. In a way, she takes on the role of a mother-substitute while also being Buster’s lover, the lines of which seem to be a big blur for Buster as it is, as is often insinuated throughout the seasons of the show, but especially in season 4.
For the first time, Buster is free from Lucille and greatly enjoys his newfound liberation (with the other Lucille). He wants to experience life and do all the things his mother never allowed him to do.
Meanwhile, a jealous Lucille, who has never lived alone, is initially terrified and tries to break up Buster and Lucille 2. However, it doesn’t take long for her to also explore her freedom, and soon she is found dancing drunk in her apartment, smoking a cigar and singing along to “Mama’s all alone, Mama doesn’t care, Mama’s lettin’ loose” blasting on the stereo.
As the two of them are living it up without each other, it becomes clear that this is not a long-term solution. Buster eventually breaks up with Lucille 2: “I’ve already got a Lucille in my life!”
However, Buster is not the only one to seek a replacement for the other. Lucille needs the security of taking care of “her baby” and takes whoever is convenient to her at the moment.
Lucille’s trust in Buster is shaken and she gets an adoptive child who she believes to be named Annyong (“Hello”). She uses him to make Buster jealous as a type of revenge for him leaving her for a different Lucille. Though she is deeply annoyed by the kid who hardly ever speaks a word other than “his name,” she still keeps him with her as a way of showing Buster how little he is needed.
When Buster goes off to the army, she admits that if anything were to happen to him, she would be lost.
She instantly pulls George Michael close to her and declares, “You’re going to have to be the baby of the family” and with a kiss on the cheek she commands, “You’re never going in the ocean. You’re my baby, I’m never letting you go!” as she holds him in a tight embrace.
Undoubtedly, she is not thinking clearly in this state of emergency, because usually, Lucille isn’t one for showing her affection. In fact, as she once hugs Michael, he seems startled and confused as to what is happening.
What is remarkable about the Bluth family is that, considering all their resentment toward and estrangement from each other, they are exceptionally close. They see each other every day or speak on the phone and while those are rarely friendly interactions, they are still very involved in each other’s lives.
All the overwhelming chaos and the myriad of issues create a wide array of feelings – and where there are feelings, there is certainly a bond. In the end, they can count on being there for each other, even when bribing is usually involved.
Lastly, it remains to say that Jessica Walter is brilliant in the role of the detached, alcoholic mother. For all those who can’t get enough of the wonderful and hilarious Lucille, there is always the adult animated TV series Archer, where Walter voices a character that bears an uncanny resemblance to Lucille Bluth.
Let me start by saying that the title of this post is a little disingenuous – I’d never tell you how upset to be about the rape plot lines on HBO. You feel how you feel, and you get to make your own decisions about what you do and don’t watch. I do, however, find it interesting that rape’s showing up so often on TV, and I wonder whether that’s a good thing (because we’re finally talking about it) or a bad thing (because we’re slowly getting desensitized to it). I think it’s a little of both.
Let me start by saying that the title of this post is a little disingenuous – I’d never tell you how upset to be about the rape plot lines on HBO. You feel how you feel, and you get to make your own decisions about what you do and don’t watch. I do, however, find it interesting that rape’s showing up so often on TV, and I wonder whether that’s a good thing (because we’re finally talking about it) or a bad thing (because we’re slowly getting desensitized to it). I think it’s a little of both.
I wish I could say something funny, but everything about this is terrible
I remember that, when Game of Thrones first aired, and I watched the first episodes, not really knowing what it was, I was very uncomfortable with the story line where Daenerys gets sold to a warlord who rapes her repeatedly before they suddenly fall in love. I remember thinking (and writing) at that time that I was afraid to live in a world where depictions of rape were so common that they no longer had the power to shock us. I think I likened it to the festering animal corpse we saw in episode one – something that would have really freaked me out when I was younger, but that I barely even noticed on Game of Thrones, since I’m so used to seeing gross stuff on TV.
In the intervening years, I was annoyed that Game of Thrones used rape so often as a way to raise the stakes in a tense situation – during the battle of Blackwater we learn that the noble women have soldiers standing guard to kill them if the city falls, so that they don’t get raped; a bunch of total randoms try to rape Sansa because that’s what they do during riots in Westeros; we know that all the guys stationed at Crastor’s Keep are total fucking dicks because they want to rape every girl they meet; we know that a bunch of other guys in the Night’s Watch are total fucking dicks for the same reason. One of the worst examples is when we spend what feels like hours and hours of season three watching Ramsay Snow torture a male character named Theon, often in sexual ways, apparently just to impress upon us that torture is really bad news.
On the flip side of that, season three also includes the only rape plot line I’d mark as kind of legitimately good. In that plot line, Jaime Lannister slowly becomes friends with the only female knight on the show, Breinne of Tarth. When they’re both captured by mercenaries who try to rape her, the show is very clear in presenting this as a situation in which sexual violence is being used as a way to dehumanize her, punish her for gender non-conformity, and treat her as less than a person. Because Jaime’s come to see Brienne as an equal and a full human being, we see that his perception of rape changes in that moment, and that he starts to appreciate that she’s had to fight a much harder battle than he has, just to receive basic rights. (The show later destroys that character arc by “accidentally” having him rape his sister, but that’s another story.)
For me, the stuff with Brienne worked well because that story didn’t treat rape as something that inevitably follows from being female – it contextualized rape within society, culture, and power relations, showing how rape is used as a tool used to oppress people with lower status. That’s important – and it’s something worth dramatizing in fiction.
The latest rape-related plot line – the one that, weirdly, is the flashpoint for anger over rape on Game of Thrones, after everything else that’s happened – falls somewhere between gratuitous let’s-raise-the-stakes stuff and thoughtful cultural commentary, but much closer to the former. It’s easy to see why people are upset. Sansa is a likable character, Ramsay is a bastard (in every single sense of the word), and watching him viciously attack her on their wedding night doesn’t tell us anything about the characters, the situation, or the dynamics of sexual violence that we didn’t already know. It wasn’t my favourite moment, either. But is this a sign that we’re not taking rape very seriously? I’m not sure.
HBO has a pretty uneven history of using rape story lines – sometimes for good, sometimes for something a bit less than good, and sometimes for something that’s hard to parcel out.
Like this. This is very hard to parcel out.
Back in 1997, HBO launched its first hour-long drama series, Oz – a theatrical, experimental and often scathing indictment of the US prison system. Oz arguably paved the way for the renaissance of HBO original programming that followed, and it introduced a lot of the things we’ve come to expect from premium cable – lots of f-bombs, frontal nudity, graphic sex and violence, people taking drugs, and (of course) people doing crimes. Its thesis, at least in the beginning, was that it’s inhumane to lock people up in a cage and watch them tear each other apart. Its attitude toward rape, at least in the beginning, was that rape is used by dumb people with poor social skills as a way to punish, humiliate and control those they see as their inferiors. The main story arc in the first season asks the audience to identify with a man who’s raped and tortured by a white supremacist, and to watch as he slowly loses his humanity. It’s very uncomfortable, but it’s also a powerful depiction of what’s wrong with something that a lot of people see as being a normal part of prison and have the bad taste to make flippant jokes about.
Oz ran for six seasons, though, and things got weird toward the end. The show seemed to learn the wrong lessons from itself (and from The Sopranos, which launched two years later) about what was successful with viewers and, rather than being a focused piece of cultural commentary, it turned into The Super Gross-Out Everyone Rapes and Stabs Everyone Hour with subplots ripped from the headlines, in which the prisoners became telemarketers and seeing eye dog trainers. Meaning, if we take Oz as a whole, it was both a valuable examination of a serious issue that wasn’t often talked about and a crass attempt at turning sexual violence into a shocking and sometimes titillating spectacle. It didn’t score 100 percent in either category, and many of the premium cable shows that followed have also been a mixture of the two things.
It bears mentioning that a few shows have actually just been a mixture of the worst kinds of things. At the shallow end of the entertainment pool, True Blood scored a hat trick by: a) including gratuitous, shock value rape that served no purpose in the story; b) acting like it’s impossible to rape a man because men are always up for sex; and c) acting like rape can be a funny joke under the right circumstances (for reasons that I don’t understand, those circumstances are: if the victim is promiscuous and if the rapist has a weird personality – WTF?). On Showtime, Shameless has also gone the route of it’s-impossible-to-rape-a-dude-and-it’s-kind-of-funny-if-you-try, and I’m told that the current Starz series, Outlander, is basically built from rape fail of the isn’t-this-sort-of-erotic variety.
At the other end of the spectrum, the Sopranos episode “Employee of the Month” is routinely cited as one of the best in the series, and that’s an hour all about the rage that Tony Soprano’s therapist, Dr. Melfi, feels after the man who rapes her is released on a technicality. She struggles with the ethical decision of whether to use her mafia connections to exact some vigilante justice, and the audience understands how she feels. We can debate whether or not the show “needed” the attack on Dr. Melfi to be rape, or what it means that that was what was chosen so that we could sympathize with her position, but it’s a good piece of television. And it’s a good piece of television from a show that also has no problem setting its scenes in a strip club and using women’s bodies as a backdrop to the action.
In that context, Game of Thrones reads more like Oz and The Sopranos than like True Blood, Shameless, or Outlander, to me. Sometimes it’s contributing something of value; sometimes it’s indulging an ugly desire to see people suffer for our entertainment; sometimes it’s uncritically replicating our conflicted cultural attitudes toward rape – it’s a mixture of all of those things – so, how should we feel about that?
Seriously – “Employee of the Month” it’s one of the best episodes
There was a time, not long ago, when rape was basically Voldemort – you couldn’t say its name without making everyone uncomfortable, or risking that they’d blame you for making them uncomfortable, by speaking the forbidden. When rape was a stigmatized topic and had the power to bring an uncomfortable hush, it arguably seemed like a more serious subject. But, because it brought that hush, and because we didn’t talk about it – because it was shrouded in so much shame and secrecy – we couldn’t have the conversations we’re having now about what consent looks like, and what it is and isn’t OK to expect from a partner. We couldn’t talk about rape culture – we couldn’t talk about the way that rape relates to other forms of violence against women; we couldn’t publicly discuss the systemic reasons why it happens. We couldn’t even say, “It’s a form of misogyny.” It was just shadows peeling out of the dark – a horrible, inexplicable thing that just happened without any explanation, or any way to make it stop.
Now, it’s at the top of our cultural radar. Now, it’s lost some of its power to hush, and we’ve gained more power to speak about it. We’re at a stage where we have to confront rape somehow, and we’re watching that confrontation play out on TV – it’s a confrontation that isn’t over yet. It’s a confrontation that’s really just starting.
The reason there’s so much rape on television now is that we’ve realized the issue is important. It occupies a place in our minds – it’s something that we’re actively struggling with, and that’s good. It’s better than accepting rape as normal; it’s better than treating it as some big mystery thing that nobody can ever talk about or change.
At the same time, when we didn’t talk about rape, we could all sort of silently believe that we agreed with each other about how it worked. Now that it’s holding more space in public discourse, we have more opportunity to encounter ideas about rape that offend us. If the presentation of rape on TV seems schizophrenic – if it seems like it’s this weird, random mixture of insightful observation, crass enjoyment, gross misunderstanding, sympathy, minimization, titillation, gender theory, cultural criticism, ignorance, spitefulness, and confusion – that’s because, culturally, we have a fractured, complicated, self-contradictory relationship with this topic. It’s actually possible for the same person to be kind of turned on and kind of grossed out by rape scenes – it’s possible for the same person to think it’s wrong for men to rape women and that’s there’s nothing you can really do about it because it’s just something that happens. It’s possible for somebody with really good, enlightened, thoughtful views of gender to just not notice sexualized violence against women, because we’re all so used to seeing it.
It’s also possible for someone to be a straight-up misogynist dick bag, and we get some of that, too, but the point is that we’re in the middle of a discussion that it’s worth our time – all our time – to have.
To say the least, it’s absolutely annoying – and, for some people, hurtful and traumatizing – to feel that you can’t watch TV anymore without risking that the story will suddenly turn against you by presenting sexual violence – violence that you may have experienced in real life – as something that’s either Not A Big Deal or is Kind Of Fun To Watch – but it’s also an opportunity for dialogue that we weren’t always able to have.
I would be more disturbed if every depiction of rape on TV were dismissive, normalizing, gratuitous, or uncritical, but we’re fortunate enough that that isn’t the case, and fortunate enough to live in a time when audiences have an unprecedented ability to publicly respond and speak back to what they’ve seen.
It sucks to be reminded that not everyone has a very sophisticated view of how gender and power dynamics influence rape – it sucks to be reminded that there are some people who’ve literally never had to think about this at all, and others who have to live in fear and think about it all the time. But it’s also amazing, because at least now we’re talking about it. Now, no matter how little you usually think about gender, you’ve heard the words “rape culture” before. Now, no matter how little you usually think about TV, you’ve had to ask yourself whether you think it’s right or wrong to have a plot line about rape – and why, and what makes it that way, and what having that plot line says about culture.
It’s up to you to decide how upset you are about any individual plot line on any individual show, but the pattern, I think, is not so discouraging. The pattern shows that this is a subject that’s become important to us – that it’s something we’re trying to understand. That we find it worthy of our attention. The discussion is still really messy, and it includes ideas that are pretty off-putting at times, but I think it’s a positive sign that we’re talking about this at all.
They’re complicated women who have both scarred each other over the years, and there’s no getting past that easily. But they both try. And in trying, we get a better picture of who they are as human beings. Like I said in the beginning, there’s something so valuable in seeing a character like Emily who is, unequivocally, a bad mother also be a good person. Because she is a good person. Sometimes. Mostly.
Three generations of Gilmores: Rory, Emily, and Lorelai.
This guest post by Deborah Pless previously appeared at her blog, Kiss My Wonder Woman, and appears now as part of our theme week on Bad Mothers. Cross-posted with permission.
It’s sad, but it’s true. When we talk about “bad mothers” we almost always limit our discussion, intentionally or not, to talking about mothers from lower income families, single mothers, mothers of color, and other women whose motherhood is deeply impacted by the difficulty of their ability to provide for their children.
Most of the “bad mommies” we’ve seen depicted on television fit this trend too, being disproportionately women of color with low incomes and frequently without a parenting partner. It would be really easy to look at the media, especially television, and come to the conclusion that the only real kind of bad mother is a poor one.
It’s arguably even more rare, though, to see a depiction or discussion of a woman who is a bad mother but not necessarily a bad person. A woman who, for all of her faults and genuine failures as a parent, is still a human being with wants and needs. In other words, sometimes women can be bad at being mothers but halfway decent at being people. We accept this readily when talking about fathers, but when it comes to mothers, it’s like we all freeze up. A bad mother must be a bad person. End of story.
Naturally, this isn’t true.
Lorelai and Emily at a mother-daughter fashion show.
The truth is that reality is much more complex and difficult to understand than we like to admit. It’s so much easier to frame little bubbles of belief around ourselves and only pay attention to the narratives that affirm our understanding of the world. Motherhood is disproportionately valued in our society, which leads to an understanding that women are evaluated on the basis of whether or not we are mothers. If we are mothers, then we seem to think that our value is determined by whether or not we’re good at it. We are the products of our uteruses, and apparently nothing else.
But this misses the vast complexity of human experience, and, clearly, devalues women into walking incubators. And when all we see are narratives that enforce this, narratives that equivalence good motherhood with valid personhood, it’s hard to shake the idea that women are only good if we are good mothers.
Emily Gilmore could have very easily been a caricature of a certain type of society matron, but she’s saved from that fate by the excellent writing of Amy Shermer-Palladino and the fantastic acting of Kelly Bishop. An upper class woman concerned primarily with image and status, Emily’s not a very nice person when we meet her in season one. She’s angry and bitter and cutting and devious, the sort of woman you would back away from slowly at a party. A running joke is made out of her inability to keep a maid employed (because she keeps firing them for tiny infractions), but the reality is that Emily Gilmore is a deeply unpleasant woman to be around.
The premise of the show actually makes it very clear that Lorelai has no real intention of pursuing a relationship with her mother. The first episode tells us that Lorelai hasn’t spoken to her parents in 15 years or so, having run away at 16, shortly after giving birth to her daughter. Lorelai has been living in isolation from her mother simply so that Emily could not control her life. The only reason she goes back to her parents is because her daughter, Rory, has been accepted to a prestigious private school, and Lorelai lacks the financial resources to pay the tuition.
This in and of itself is a pretty stark statement about the level of their relationship. Lorelai will only speak to her mother when the only other alternative is letting down her own child. That’s bad. It’s also understandable. The show never lets Emily off the hook or tells us she was secretly an amazing mother. While it does make clear that Emily has always cared about Lorelai more than Lorelai perhaps realized, it also gives us lots of evidence that Emily was an awful parent. She was manipulative, controlling, overly critical, and tried to micromanage her daughter’s every move.
Emily and her granddaughter, Rory.
What makes Gilmore Girls a great show, though, is that it gives us Emily Gilmore in all of her flawed parental glory, and doesn’t try to excuse or redeem it. Instead, it shows us a story where Lorelai and Emily come to appreciate each other for who they are. Emily doesn’t magically become a better parent, but she does become more and more aware of how terrible a parent she is, and she starts to want to change.
In other words, it’s not so much that Emily Gilmore is a terrible mother that I like, it’s that she’s a terrible mother who realizes she is. And, upon realizing that she has no relationship with her daughter at all, seeks to fix that.
It’s not an easy road, and the show, to its credit, does not give Emily much slack. She has to work for that relationship. Lorelai does too. They’re complicated women who have both scarred each other over the years, and there’s no getting past that easily. But they both try. And in trying, we get a better picture of who they are as human beings. Like I said in the beginning, there’s something so valuable in seeing a character like Emily who is, unequivocally, a bad mother also be a good person. Because she is a good person. Sometimes. Mostly.
At the very least, she’s a fully realized person. Emily Gilmore has all the faults and foibles that real people have. She has enemies and friends and flaws and spectacular good qualities. She yearns for a closer relationship with her husband but has no idea how to get it. She desperately wants to be a good mother, but utterly lacks the tools or understanding on how to relate to her child. She’s complicated, and I love that.
The Gilmores gather to celebrate Rory’s graduation.
It is also worth mentioning, however, that our understanding of Emily Gilmore really does come down along class lines. While it’s considerably less common to see a depiction of a white, upper class woman as a bad mother, it is more common to see women like Emily Gilmore given the benefit of the doubt, both by society and by the media. Still, that doesn’t make the show any less valuable as a depiction of the complexities of motherhood. Just, you know, take it with a grain of salt.
The main thing I want to get at here is simply this: women are not defined solely by our ability to parent. Some women are bad mothers. They just are. Whether because they are too proud to seek help or lack the emotional capacity or simply don’t see how their choices are affecting their children, some women are bad at being parents. And that’s important to admit. If we can’t see that, then we can’t understand women fully as people.
But more than that, if we can’t understand that a woman can be both a bad mother and still a valid, valuable human being, then we have no right to say that we understand the humanity of women. Characters like Emily Gilmore can help us see this, but ultimately it’s up to us. We have to admit the complexity of the world around us if we want it to get any better.
Deborah Pless runs Kiss My Wonder Woman and works as a freelance writer and editor in western Washington when she’s not busy camping out at the movies or watching too much TV. You can follow her on Twitter and Tumblr just as long as you like feminist rants, an obsession with superheroes, and the search for gluten-free baked goods.
