TV Drama – Page 3 – Bitch Flicks

‘Grey’s Anatomy’ and Assertive Sisters

Meredith doesn’t feel obligated to form relationships with Maggie and Amelia due to her sibling connections with them. She doesn’t deem it necessary to acquaint herself with Maggie simply because they share a mother, nor does she try to force a friendly relationship between herself and Amelia simply because she’s the sister of the man she loves. This means then, that when these close relationships are formed, they are all the more powerful. They are formed through choice, not responsibility.

This guest post written by Siobhan Denton appears as part of our theme week on Sisterhood.

Sister relationships are, largely, ones that are developed early on in life. Relationships typically first generated in infancy, sisters’ interactions and feelings towards each other develop and change over time as events and transitions are experienced together. Through this, there is a huge wealth of nostalgia that can be drawn upon, further cultivating the closeness of the relationship.

For Grey’s Anatomy‘s Meredith Grey (Ellen Pompeo), growing up as an only child, despite the existence of two half-sisters, has meant that any childhood memories, any experiences relating to her upbringing, belong solely to her. How then do the dynamics of her sibling relationships change when there is no long shared history to draw upon? No moment of growing up together? Arguably, this lack of collective ruminations means that her relationships with Maggie (Kelly McCreary), her half-sister, and Amelia (Caterina Scorsone), her sister-in-law, are both simultaneously weakened and intensified.

Much discussion has focused on Meredith’s relationships with women, and while her relationship with Cristina Yang (Sandra Oh) has rightly been praised for its complexity and development, her relationship with other women has often been more questionable. Meredith readily admits that she is “dark and twisty” and as such, seemingly has issues in forming close relationships with others. She often feels forced to act defensively, and will distance herself from others when she feels it is necessary. Even Alex Karev (Justin Chambers) was not exempt from this forced separation when, after Derek Shepherd (Patrick Dempsey) dies, Meredith takes it upon herself to leave Seattle for a year with no warning or contact. Similarly, despite her ardent love for Derek, she readily admits to him that she can manage without him, and that she doesn’t need him. Meredith’s relationships with others are certainly complicated, and there is a clear sense that, regardless of any relationships formed, she ultimately feels that it is often essential to rely only upon herself.

Meredith is completely in control, even when it comes to her romantic feelings towards her husband, stating that she chooses to be with him and rather than not being able to exist without him, she simply doesn’t want to. It is this concept of choice that, for Meredith, is so important in forming relationships, particularly with Maggie and Amelia.

Take for example, the moment in which Meredith realizes that Maggie is her half-sister. Maggie is clearly hoping for a positive emotional reaction from Meredith; this is a moment that she has been building towards for a year, and she is hoping to reconnect with an element of her past that she has only recently discovered. Meredith, initially, reacts almost aggressively. Not knowing about Maggie’s existence she sees this admission as an attempt to intrude. For Meredith, her sense of self is absolute, and to question her memory of her mother and her own childhood is too much. Emotionally too, she is not initially ready for another sister after experiencing the loss of Lexie (Chyler Leigh), her other half-sister. Meredith is aware of the bond that can be created once she opens herself up to accepting a sibling and does not want to necessarily experience the pain that can incur again.

Contrast this initial reaction to her interactions with Maggie, once she has decided to accept her as a sister. Meredith readily opens up to Maggie, and despite trying to mask it with her macabre humor, she is talking about an issue that clearly resonates and has had a huge emotional impact upon her. Meredith, who left Seattle after her husband’s death and purposely siphoned herself away, allows Maggie to see her as vulnerable. While ostensibly Maggie’s character was arguably introduced to serve as an emotional foil for Meredith after Cristina’s departure, Maggie is not simply a replacement. Meredith’s relationships with both Cristina and Maggie are unique from one another, with each character serving a different purpose.

While Meredith’s relationship with Maggie has been largely positive, her relationship with Amelia has often been fraught. Meredith readily admits that she finds Amelia annoying, and struggles with her attitude. Through her connection with Meredith, Amelia expects to be treated as a sister in the more traditional sense, struggling with Meredith’s careful selection of those who she is close to. Amelia, at least initially, doesn’t understand that her relationship with Meredith does not come automatically. She feels that Meredith should be there for her and ensure that she informs her about important issues (such as Derek’s death) purely because of their status as sisters-in-law. Again, for any relationship to take place, Meredith has to make a conscious choice. She will not allow herself to feel forced or compelled, and she understands that the closest and most meaningful relationships develop organically.

Meredith’s struggle with Amelia largely stems from her devastation over Derek’s death. It is not until Dr. Webber (J. August Richards), a father figure for Meredith, reminds Meredith of the fact that she does not need to feel duty-bound to love, or even like Amelia, that she can finally allow herself to choose how she views Amelia. Importantly, Webber remains a father-like figure for Meredith, a role that Meredith has once again allowed, exhibiting her determination to select her family.

Notably, Meredith, Maggie, and Amelia are all strong, independent women. Each one a head of a medical department, they are intelligent and ambitious. Each woman has selected one another for their family. Take the scene in which the three help Meredith’s children prepare for the day ahead.

[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BAekRR89Q1Q”]

Each is in sync with one another, and clearly complement each other. They are all devoted to Meredith’s children, but are still characters in their own right. This scene is notable too for the inclusion of Meredith’s advice to her daughter, Zola, in which she tells her to never date a man “who can’t handle your power.” This moment, in which all three women are looking after a child, could have easily been seen as largely maternal and traditionally domestic. Meredith’s advice reinforces the power that these three women have, along with their right to control who they engage with.

Despite this, Meredith’s connection with Amelia takes long to come to fruition, and it is only once Meredith recognizes that Amelia’s attributes are similar to her own that she is able to reconcile her issues. She explicitly states to Amelia that she is her “family” and as such, will help her in any way that she needs. It is interesting that once again, Meredith reinforces this concept of choice. She does not tell Amelia what to do, instead declaring to her that she will fulfill any role required of her. Amelia needs this choice, and Meredith recognizes that, as an adult woman, Amelia should not be told what to do. She needs to own her own decision, exactly as Meredith has done for so long.

Arguably, this fractious relationship is more emotionally genuine than the typical representations of siblings on-screen. Sibling relationships are often tumultuous in reality, but are not always depicted like that in film or television. Too often, the sister or sisters become a quasi-mother figure, replacing an absent or non-existent mother. These three women have all grown up independent from one another and, as such, do not require one another to fulfill such a role. Instead, they are able to perceive one another as equals as they have to one another as adults. Unlike sibling relationships that have formed in childhood, in which one sibling may undertake a more dominant role, all three are entirely their own person.

See also at Bitch Flicks: Meredith Grey’s Woman Problem

Siobhan Denton is a teacher and writer living in Wales, UK. She holds a BA in English and an MA in Film and Television Studies. She is especially interested in depictions of female desire and transitions from youth to adulthood. She tweets at @siobhan_denton and writes at The Blue and the Dim.

Girly Girl Vindicated: The Rise of Sansa Stark on ‘Game of Thrones’

Strength is more than fighting with swords, and no one has proved that more often than Sansa Stark. She’s gone from being a (honestly, pretty annoying) starry-eyed teen to a brave and complex heroine, capable of making tough decisions in the face of tremendous personal pain. Perhaps most importantly, she’s done it without attempting to remake herself in the image of men or by diminishing the strongly feminine traits that set her apart from many of Game of Thrones’ other women.

This guest post is written by Lacy Baugher. | Spoilers ahead.

Sansa Stark has never gotten a lot of love in the world of Westeros. (Or in the world of Game of Thrones fandom, if we’re being honest.)

Not only has she suffered arguably the most of any character on television in recent memory, she’s been constantly underestimated, belittled, and/or generally disregarded by almost every other character on the show – and half of the series’ fans, to boot. It’s kind of disturbing, actually. No matter what Sansa does, she can’t seem to win; her every decision has been questioned or mocked. She’s been repeatedly dismissed as everything from a vapid teen, to a mindless sycophant, to a selfish “bitch,” to someone hated and despised.

Why does no other female character on Game of Thrones get subjected to this kind of treatment – either inside or outside the narrative? After all, Sansa’s biggest offense appears to be merely that she’s a teenage girl. A girly teenage girl.

From the beginning of the series, Sansa’s character has been positioned as super feminine – she likes pretty dresses and stresses over her hairstyle; she loves lemon cakes; and she has dutifully memorized every basic rule of etiquette. Once upon a time, her biggest dream involved marrying a prince, having his children, and becoming a queen someday.

Sansa isn’t a tomboy, or a warrior, or an epic schemer, like so many of the other women who are cited as examples of Game of Thrones’ slate of “powerful female characters.” She’s basically everything an ideal young Westerosi noblewoman is supposed to be, which immediately sets her apart from characters like Daenerys Targaryen, Cersei Lannister, Arya Stark, Yara Greyjoy, and Brienne of Tarth — women who actively reject traditional female roles and attempt to carve out different kinds of lives for themselves. And who, incidentally, are all the sort of gender-defying heroines who are seen as exceptional precisely because they emulate stereotypically perceived masculine traits or they compete with the example of men. Sansa doesn’t do that, but this doesn’t mean that she is weak, nor does it mean that she possesses no agency within her own story.

This is why her ultimate transformation into the resident Stark family badass is so satisfying. Strength is more than fighting with swords, and no one has proved that more often than Sansa Stark. She’s gone from being a (honestly, pretty annoying) starry-eyed teen to a brave and complex heroine, capable of making tough decisions in the face of tremendous personal pain. Perhaps most importantly, she’s done it without attempting to remake herself in the image of men or by diminishing the strongly feminine traits that set her apart from many of Game of Thrones’ other women. She still retains and embodies all the traits the series used to punish her for – and that fans made fun of, back during the show’s first couple of seasons – only now, she’s learned to use those traits and skills to her advantage.

Sansa’s indomitable strength has been built on the things that many mock her for – her embrace of femininity, etiquette, and kindness doesn’t get a lot of respect in the world of Westeros. But, in her case, these are the reasons, along with her adaptability, why she has survived as long as she has and why she’s able to find some measure of success. Her small acts of courtesy, her conversational skills, and her understanding of the relationships between people – these are the qualities that many of the other major players in “the game of thrones” either scorn, ignore, or ridicule.

But Sansa has fought for her life with words and smiles and patience. While her battles may look very different from Arya’s or Daenerys’, her victories, though perhaps smaller in scale, are no less legitimate.

Sansa learned from a very young age that her job was to be polite, kind, and obedient – to follow the rules of etiquette laid out for all “good” young women. “Courtesy is a lady’s armor,” Septa Mordane told her, and it’s advice that Sansa constantly returns to, whether she’s trying to survive the Lannisters, manipulate the Vale lords, or get through a wedding (or two) to a man she doesn’t love.

She adapted to the revelation that almost everything she ever believed in turned out to be a lie; she’s literally been hit in the face with the fact that the chivalrous world order she idealized for so long doesn’t actually exist. However, that doesn’t make her Septa’s advice wrong, and Sansa’s survival is due to the fact that she learns to repurpose – and even to weaponize – the same skills she was once told would make her the most proper of ladies.

In the end, Sansa draws her strength from traits and skills that almost everyone else dismisses and thinks are useless – the way that almost everyone thinks she is useless. No one taught her survival skills, or swordsmanship; she was taught how to be a good conversationalist, sew pretty embroidery, and to make people feel at ease. The amazing thing about Sansa is that she manages to turn domestic tasks into survival skills.

Because of these lessons, Sansa is able to sit down across the table from monsters, smile blankly into the middle distance, and ask about the weather over her food as they insulted her family and threatened her life. (Although the addition of rape in Sansa’s storyline is troubling.) She never forgot a thank you or a curtsy. Her unfailing courtesy allowed her to shield and protect herself, so that she could survive and fight another day. (In the Stark family, sometimes just not getting yourself killed in the name of honor is probably the best you can do.)

Sansa’s perfectly polished facade even allows her to rebel against her oppressors to some extent – grand dame Lady Olenna Tyrell is the only other character on Game of Thrones who can rival Sansa for throwing shade at other people, all while masking her active wish for their death in concern or a compliment. Her rebellion is an internal one, for the most part, but her ability to strategically play the role that’s expected of her has assured her survival more than once.

Part of Sansa knowing her courtesies also means that she’s well read in the subject of other people – or at least in a set of specific people. The idea of courtly behavior in Westeros, especially for a girl like Sansa, means that she would have learned about all the other noble greater and lesser Houses – who the families were, where they were from, how they were all related, and their histories.

Sansa knows what it is – perhaps more than the younger version of herself could have ever dreamed – to be a Stark. Her name still commands the most respect out of anyone in the North. Familiar with the Northern families, she knows the debts they owed to her father, her grandfather, heck all the way back through the generations to Brandon the Builder, the first King in the North. Sansa understands the importance of the Stark name, the Stark history, and the Stark symbols; she is willing to harness the power in that imagery.

As it turns out, one of Sansa’s other frequently remarked upon, extremely feminine talents is sewing. As the seasons progress, she’s used clothing to either reimagine, hide, or reinforce her identity several times. At Castle Black, she makes herself a new dress, one emblazoned with a very obvious direwolf — not just because it’s pretty or because she certainly deserves a wardrobe upgrade after an entire season stuck in her drab Bolton prisoner attire. It’s because she understands that she is the face of this new rebellion, that she is the face of the Starks, and as such she will play her role both physically and visually. She must look the part. “The North Remembers,” “there must always be a Stark in Winterfell,” and all that, but it doesn’t hurt to give them a reminder.

Sansa even makes her half-brother Jon Snow a new greatcloak, one that looks exactly like the one that used to belong to beloved, martyred Stark patriarch Ned, because she knows that some Northerners will need the visual aid to remind them that Jon is a Stark too, and that their duty is to support Ned’s children. The wolves have come again to claim their own, that’s the message these clothes are meant to convey. They themselves are the banner the North is meant to rally behind. While Jon may be positioned as Northern army’s great leader, it’s Sansa who shows them the symbol they need.

This isn’t the first time that Sansa has displayed a stereotypically feminine gift for reading people and understanding how to present herself to match or take advantage of their expectations. As part of her upbringing, she was taught that part of the job of a proper noble lady was pleasing those around her, and anticipating their needs before they could think to ask for whatever it was they wanted. This has made her very observant, thoughtful, and aware of the relationships between the people around her – and she’s (finally!) learning how to use this information to her advantage.

Perhaps as a byproduct of the destruction of her own idealistic view of the world, Sansa has developed an uncanny understanding of people’s images of themselves and how they want others to see them, which is how she manages to survive living with both Joffrey and Ramsay for so long.

Her understanding also gives her the insight that Jon lacks about facing the Boltons in battle. She is intimately familiar with Ramsay’s sadistic streak, and she’s watched him enough to know how he wishes to present himself to his men, the other Northern lords, and even to the remaining Starks. Because of this, Sansa accurately guesses the general shape his plan will take – Rickon will likely be sacrificed because he’s a threat to Ramsay’s claim to legitimacy, some action will be taken to try and force Jon to make an emotional and/or rash decision in the heat of battle, etc.

In the end, the fact that the good guys emerge victorious in the Battle of the Bastards is almost entirely due to Sansa — a victory achieved despite the fact that Jon openly and repeatedly ignores his sister’s advice and commentary about how the encounter with Ramsay should go. Sansa, admittedly, doesn’t know anything about the actual art of fighting, and therefore can’t articulate how to incorporate her insights into the attack on Winterfell. As a result, Jon seems to dismiss her opinion outright – and then proceeds to ignore all her warnings entirely once Rickon is threatened (just as Sansa feared). Is her advice discounted because she’s a feminine woman unfamiliar with warfare? Would the same concerns have been taken more seriously coming from a character like Daenerys Targaryen or Yara Greyjoy? And why is Sansa’s tactical realization that Rickon was likely lost no matter what they did disparaged as heartless while Jon basically got a pass for almost getting everyone killed because he reacted emotionally? These seem like questions worth asking.

Unfortunately, Sansa is also not given space to explain her decision to keep Petyr Baelish’s presence a secret from her half-brother. Does she hold back the information about the possible arrival of the Vale knights because she wasn’t sure they were actually coming? Because she knew Jon would do something rash and their army would need extra support later in the battle? Did she want the chance to be a hero herself? Frustratingly, the show offers no insights on her thoughts at this key moment, and in some ways seems to imply that her decision was possibly due to the fact that she’s a flighty emotional girl who didn’t know any better. That such a reading would be a step backward for her character is both obvious and kind of gross, but it also isn’t entirely out of the realm of possibility, as uncomfortable as that may be, particularly given her treatment at season’s end.

The Season 6 finale sees Sansa’s contributions yet again diminished. During the half dozen speeches urging Jon (her half-brother/cousin/whatever he is) to take up Robb’s King in the North title, not one person (including Jon) acknowledges her; in fact, I’m not even sure that anyone even speaks to her during that scene. This happens despite the fact that she has a stronger claim to Winterfell as a trueborn Stark daughter and that her efforts were what really saved the lot of them in the battle with the Boltons. If it hadn’t been for Sansa’s timely arrival with Baelish’s (“Littlefinger”) army – whatever her motivations for holding them in reserve during the initial phase of fighting – all these Northerners praising Jon’s leadership ability would probably be dead.

That Lyanna Mormont, a young girl who herself leads her own House, first dismisses Sansa in favor of her brother is especially difficult to stomach, particularly in a season that has been so focused on seeing the women of the show claim their power. It’s probably not a mistake that Lady Lyanna has very little in common – in attitude or leadership style – with Sansa, and further perpetuates Game of Thrones’ general ideas of what “empowered women” are “supposed” to look like.

Perhaps the question we’re meant to ask is: What does real power for a woman like Sansa look like? What does it mean to be a feminine woman with real agency? Does that power make people uncomfortable? If so, why? It’s a conversation worth having, particularly given how far Sansa, specifically, has come.

Jon and Arya are perhaps the Starks that have displayed more flashy heroic traits, what with his resurrection and her assassin training. But that doesn’t discount the fact that Sansa too, is a survivor, and has been through just as much – probably more, if we’re honest – than any of her siblings. Sansa may not be a warrior, but she is a fighter and a leader, and she’s learned how to be better at being both of those things because of who she is, not in spite of it – girly dresses, lemon cakes, and all.

See also at Bitch Flicks: I’m Sick to Death of Talking About Rape Tropes in Fiction and all our other articles on ‘Game of Thrones.’

Recommended Reading: Don’t Hate on Sansa Stark’s Powerful Femininity via Bitch Media

Lacy Baugher is a digital media strategist by day, and a lover of all things geeky all of the time. Her major interests include British period dramas, complex ladies in superhero stories and the righteousness of Sansa Stark’s destiny as Queen of the North. Stop by and say hello on Twitter at @LacyMB.

In Rewatching ‘The X-Files,’ One Thing Is Clear: Mulder Is a Real Jerk

I realized something even worse: Agent Mulder is not a dreamboat. In fact, he’s an asshole. An asshole who spends most of the series mansplaining to Agent Scully. … Twenty years after ‘The X-Files’ debuted, it’s still rare to see a female character who’s as complicated and resilient as Scully — especially who works in science.

This guest post written by Sarah Mirk originally appeared at Bitch Media and appears here as part of our theme week on Women Scientists. It is cross-posted with permission.

When I was in junior high, I had one major extracurricular activity: watching The X-Files. I loved the spookiness and the drama surrounding FBI agents Dana Scully (Gillian Anderson) and Fox Mulder (David Duchovny). During the long summer months, I got X-Files consumption down to an efficient science. This was long before Netflix, back when binge-watching required serious devotion. Each day, I would walk down to the video store and rent a $2 VHS of two X-Files episodes. Then, at 9 p.m., I could watch another X-Files rerun on FX. That means I could squeeze three X-Files episodes into each 24-hour period. In my downtime, I read the unofficial X-Files guidebooks. It was a great summer.

Though I stopped watching the show as I got older (even 14-year-old me could clearly see when the show jumped the shark in season six), I remembered The X-Files as an excellent show. Agent Scully was a confident scientist. Agent Mulder was a dreamboat. I loved them both and thought they were the kind of odd couple that’s clearly made for each other. Then, last year, Fox announced that the original stars would be coming back to TV for an all new X-Files miniseries this January. I giddily started rewatching episodes.The X-Files is certainly a lot cheesier and low-budget than I remembered through the haze of nostalgia. But that’s not the biggest difference. Before finishing even one episode, I realized something even worse: Agent Mulder is not a dreamboat. In fact, he’s an asshole. An asshole who spends most of the series mansplaining to Agent Scully.

A lot of the fun of The X-Files, of course, comes from the sparky dynamic between Mulder and Scully. He’s a conspiracy theorist who instantly points to aliens, ghosts, or an errant chupacabra as the culprit for many of the crimes the pair investigate. Scully, meanwhile, is a forensic doctor whose criminal hypotheses stem from her extensive understanding of anatomy, chemistry, and biology. I’d always loved seeing the partners bounce contrasting ideas off each other. But watching the show as an adult who’s had two decades or so to reflect on everyday sexism, it’s suddenly obvious just how much bullshit Scully has to put up with. Not only does Mulder routinely dismiss her extremely practical ideas, but her knowledge often gets the side-eye from other men in the male-dominated world of law enforcement. In episode after episode, she has to defend her ideas to Mulder, her boss Agent Skinner, small-town cops, and a rotating cast of folks like the Lone Gunmen.

As a teen, I loved how Scully presented herself confidently and competently in the face of truly otherworldly chaos. She’s still a great character for that reason, but watching the show now, instead of rooting for Mulder and Scully as a duo, I find myself rooting for Scully alone. Twenty years after The X-Files debuted, it’s still rare to see a female character who’s as complicated and resilient as Scully — especially who works in science. Meanwhile, many of Mulder’s character traits that I once thought were endearing — his puppy dog attitude, his propensity toward throwing himself into the path of danger, his skepticism toward Scully’s ideas — now feel to me like standard egotistical behavior. As a teenager, I’d never met anyone like Mulder. Now, I’ve met many guys who act a lot like him — although their obsessions are usually not aliens, but Apple products, or politics, or “ethics in video game journalism.”

What stands out about The X-Files while watching it now, though, is how consistently Scully stands up for herself. There are a bunch of episodes where Scully’s no-bullshit attitude toward mansplaining shines. In season-three episode “Jose Chung’s ‘From Outer Space,’” Mulder runs around trying to prove that two upset teens were abducted by aliens while they were on a date. Scully calmly explains that it’s far more plausible that the two teenagers simply had sex and are struggling to deal with the emotional aftermath. This exchange between the agents is classic Scully:

SCULLY: We know that it wasn’t an alien who probed her. Mulder, you’ve got two kids having sex before they’re mature enough to know how to handle it.

MULDER: So you’re saying that all this is just a case of sexual trauma?

SCULLY: It’s a lot more plausible than an alien abduction.

That episode, like most episodes of The X-Files, ends in a gray area. Neither Mulder nor Scully’s ideas are completely vindicated, and it’s not clear to viewers whether the strange encounter was caused by sexual trauma, extraterrestrials, or shadowy government agents. Neither agent is wrong, but the script writers are careful to show neither is objectively right, either. Another fan-favorite Scully episode is season four’s “Never Again.” Gillian Anderson reportedly asked the show writers to put together a script specifically exploring Scully’s “dark side.” The result is this episode that begins with Scully asking Mulder why he has a desk — with a nameplate and all — while she doesn’t. Mulder says he always thought of a corner of the room as “her area” — an explanation Scully doesn’t buy. Then, Mulder heads out on vacation, telling Scully to follow up on a UFO sighting. She argues that it seems like a real waste of time, especially since the witness’s account of the incident sounds suspiciously like the plot of a Rocky & Bullwinkle episode.

MULDER: So you’re refusing an assignment based on the adventures of Moose and Squirrel?

SCULLY: “Refusing an assignment?” It makes it sound like you’re my superior.

MULDER: Do what you want. Don’t go to Philadelphia, but let me remind you that I worked my ass off to get the files reopened. You were just assigned. This work is my life.

SCULLY: And it’s become mine.

MULDER: You don’t want it to be.

SCULLY: This isn’t about you. Or maybe it is, indirectly. I don’t know. I feel like I’ve lost sight of myself, Mulder. It’s hard to see, let alone find in the darkness of covert locations. I mean, I wish I could say that we were going in circles, but we’re not. We’re going in an endless line — two steps forwards and three steps back. While my own life is… standing still.

With Mulder on vacation, Scully winds up going on a date with a man, who (of course) turns out to be driven mad by a tattoo laced with poison ink. Deadly shenanigans ensue and Scully lands in the hospital. When she returns to work, rather bruised, Mulder asks, “All this, because I’ve … because I didn’t get you a desk?” Scully doesn’t give into his guilt trip. The episode ends with the line, “Not everything is about you, Mulder. This is my life.” Television doesn’t get more direct than that.

The “Mulder is an asshole” trend isn’t just something that bugs me — a lot of fans feel the same way. This fall, I was on an X-Files panel at GeekGirlCon in Seattle with five other female fans. In front of a conference room full of several dozen serious X-Files devotees, I was a little nervous to voice my negative feelings about Mulder. But panelist and X-Files burlesque producer (yes, that’s a thing) Jo Jo Stiletto beat me to it. “Mulder is a real dick,” she said, to applause. That quickly became the theme of the panel: recounting the many ways that Mulder shuts down Scully, dismisses her intelligence, and generally belittles her during the series. Every fan had their own story of coming to realize that Mulder is a dick. Instead of reveling in the will-they-or-won’t-they romance between Mulder and Scully, as adults, we all agreed that Mulder feels a lot like a manipulative ex-boyfriend all women are better off without.

When the new miniseries airs this month on Fox, I’ll be watching. But while the show will always hold a special place in my heart, what will keep me tuned into the reboot isn’t Mulder and Scully. It’s Scully, holding her own. Mulder and his eye-rolling can go get permanently abducted for all I care.

Sarah Mirk is Bitch Media‘s online editor. She’s interested in gender, history, comics, and talking to strangers. You can follow her on Twitter.

If She Can See It, She Can Be It: Women of STEM on Television

It is important to have women represented in fictional media as scientists from across the spectrum of sciences… By making women more visible in science settings on television – in both fictional and factual programming – the inspiring images of science that can and are being produced can be associated with women who are not only represented as smart individuals but as part of a network of diverse and complex professional women.

This guest post written by Amy C. Chambers originally appeared at The Science and Entertainment Laboratory and an edited version appears here as part of our theme week on Women Scientists. It is cross-posted with permission.

I am a self-proclaimed Orphan Black geek monkey and I am obsessed with Clone Club (and their marvelous dance parties). When I first started to explore the representation of women in science in entertainment media I wrote a blog post on the subject to help organize my thoughts on how and where women working in STEM (science, technology, engineering and mathematics) were represented. I got a great response from people who read the article and received lots of tweets about the mysterious Cosima Niehaus. After a quick google I binge-watched the first two seasons of Orphan Black (an almost entirely female-led science-based series) and excitedly watching seasons three on four on TV.

I have now discovered that Cosima is an evolutionary biologist (the geek-monkey) who is one of the show’s main characters; part of a cast of clones (#CloneClub) all played by the mesmerizing Tatiana Maslany. Cosima is named after Orphan Black’s own science advisor Cosima Herter (one of the few women acting as a science consultant in mainstream film/TV) who is a science writer interested “in the ethics, philosophy, and history of biology, especially cloning, evolutionary theory, and genetic engineering.” In Orphan Black, Cosima is both an active scientist who helps to drive the plot and explain much of the series’ scientific complexities, and a science experiment as part of a convoluted conspiracy plot surrounding the Dyad Institute, the Neolutionists, the Proletheans, and Topside, amongst many others. It is a narratively dense series, but at its core it is fixated upon science and women — something that I discovered was severely lacking in the mother / daughter / lover women I found on the silver screen.

I am restricting my examples to TV series released after 2000 and I chose to split discussions of film and television because there is a disparity between the number of women scientists in mainstream Hollywood movies, and the volume of women present in television shows. Some of this is due to the fact that there are far more TV programs made than films, and that the production process is very different with the option for pilot-episodes (to test out potentially unprofitable female characters…), early cancellations (in the U.S. context), and long-running shows such as FOX’s Bones that provide the opportunity for existing female characters to be developed and for new ones to be introduced.

Bones is led by Dr Temperance “Bones” Brennan with a comparatively substantial list of female co-stars in scientific professions (in the main cast the gender split is 50:50). The women are not outnumbered, the women have conversations about things other than men, and they are not ‘damsels in distress’ – they fight their own battles and wield their own firearms. The series passes both the Smurfette test and the Bechdel test. However, Bones does not comment on the very real issue of sexism in the hard sciences but it, in part, helps to address the problem by making women, from a variety of different backgrounds, scientific role models for its viewers.

Women make up between 60-65% of the US TV viewership but, as noted in a 2013 study by the Geena Davis Institute on Gender in Media, only 38.9% of characters in prime-time programs are women, and only 22% of prime-time programs feature women in half of all speaking parts. Science-based television series seem to fair better with women taking some significant roles within their respective shows. There are some brilliant examples of women in STEM on the small screen for example: Astrid Farnsworth (Jasica Nicole) and Nina Sharp (Blair Brown) from Fringe; Abby Sciuto (Pauley Perrette) from NCIS; Virginia Johnson (Lizzy Caplan) from Masters of Sex; Nikki Alexander (Emilia Fox), Clarissa Mullery (Liz Carr), and Sam Ryan (Amanda Burton) from the UK’s Silent Witness; Jemma Simmons (Elizabeth Henstridge), and Daisy ‘Skye’ Johnson (Chloe Bennet) from Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.; Alison Carter (Salli Richardson-Whitfield) from Eureka; Samantha Carter (Amanda Tapping) – from Stargate: SG1, Stargate Universe, and Stargate: Atlantis. Where I struggled to build a long post-2000 list of women of science in cinema in a couple of hours I managed to amass a list of more than fifty women of STEM on mainstream shows with a mix of science fiction and science-based/medical dramas. I also included mechanical engineers Kaylee Frye (Jewel Staite) from Firefly, The 100’s Raven Reyes (Lindsey Morgan), and Scorpion’s Happy Quinn (Jadyn Wong). Yet despite these good examples, women still pale in comparison to their male counterparts who are often the lead characters.

“Both young girls and boys should see female decision-makers, political leaders, managers, and scientists as the norm, not the exception. By increasing the number and diversity of female leaders and role models on screen, content creators may affect the ambitions and career aspirations of girls and young women domestically and internationally. As Geena Davis frequently states: ‘If she can see it, she can be it.’” —Gender Roles & Occupations: A Look at Character Attributes and Job-Related Aspirations in Film and Television

It is important to have women represented in fictional media as scientists from across the spectrum of sciences, not just biological and medical sciences. Although I did not struggle to create a post-2000 TV list of women with science-based professions, I did find that a higher percent of the women I found were working in the biosciences including all the female medics on House, Body of Proof, CSI, Rizzoli & Isles, The Strain. Finding women represented in the hard sciences was more of a challenge – in The Big Bang Theory for example, of the female scientists that are series regulars Amy Farrah Fowler (Mayim Bialik) and Bernadette Rostenkowski-Wolowitz (Melissa Rauch), one is a neurologist and the other is microbiologist. They are repeatedly shown to be academically brilliant and their scientific prowess adds to their characterization but they are both bioscientists – the hard physical sciences are almost entirely left to the men. Earlier in the series, there was the wonderful Leslie Winkle (Sara Gilbert) who was a physicist who was able to hold her own and often exceed the achievements of the boys – but she was not retained as a series regular.

I had to search through several of the The Big Bang Theory seasons to find a second example of a woman outside of the biosciences and medicine: Elizabeth Plimpton (Judy Greer), cosmological physicist, appears in one episode – “The Plimpton Stimulation” in season 3 – but her academic prowess is soon undermined by the character’s voracious sexual appetite. Other women include Leonard’s (Johnny Galecki) mother, psychologist Beverly Hofstadter (Christine Baranski); Leonard’s ex, Stephanie Barnett, MD (Sara Rue); and Raj’s (Kunal Nayyar) girlfriend, dermatologist Emily Sweeney (Laura Spencer, who also plays intern Jessica Warren on Bones). Rashel Li and Lindy A. Orthia conducted a study on viewer responses to scientific ability and gender balance/imbalance on The Big Bang Theory. Many participants were irritated by the gender-based stereotypes of men in physics and women in biology but conceded that all scientist characters were shown to be equally scientifically capable despite their restriction to particular fields.

This made me think about how the female characters are incorporated into The Big Bang Theory. When the sitcom began in 2007 there was only Penny (she had no last name until recently, when she married one of the male scientists and took his name, don’t even get me started on that) a supposedly ditzy actress/food server played by Kaley Cuoco to provide gender “balance.” But over its nine seasons, the show has evolved from being a tired trope of “nerdy male scientists can’t get a dates” to a show with developed female characters who are more than romantic accessories or weak comedic stereotypes. The show has been praised for its realistic representation of bench science, but up until its fourth season it failed to show professional women in STEM settings unless they were administrators, assistants, or students. Amy and Bernadette start off as the oddball lady-Sheldon and the squeaky-voiced vertically-challenged blonde – but these initially problematic characters develop to show the real-world issues faced by professional women who struggle with not being taken seriously because they are women who don’t reject their femininity. They are not the stereotypical representations of STEM women as described by Jocelyn Steinke in her study of female scientist representation in movies 1991-2001, and they are not simply sci-candy brought in to solve problems for the male leads. The women of The Big Bang Theory are now given screen-time without the male characters and Amy, Bernadette, and Penny (who left waiting tables to forge a career in pharmaceutical sales) have their own lives to discuss beyond their romantic entanglements. The show still needs to work on its representation of gender (and race) in STEM, but it remains one of the most realistic representations of real science on television, and may inspire some women to pursue a career in the sciences.

“In recent years the so called ‘fourth wave’ activists and organisations have been making great strides in bringing feminism back up the social and political agenda. Groups like the Everyday Sexism Project, No More Page Three, the Women of the World festival (WOW) and the Women on Bank Notes campaign have all contributed to widening understanding of our social inequalities. This is the wider context within which we can begin to address the inequalities in STEM.

We call on TV and other media to use the gender lens when casting new characters in widely viewed programmes, commissioning new series that challenge gender stereotypes, and to both train and use female experts.” – Science Grrl, THROUGH BOTH EYES: The case for a gender lens in STEM

Media producers need to think more actively about incorporating female characters into their science-based TV series; they should, as recommended by a report produced by Science Grrl (quoted above), use a gender lens when commissioning new shows. They need to work towards producing shows that “challenge gender stereotypes” – women should not be an afterthought or a late addition; they should be part of the initial design of the program. A huge majority of science-based television programs and films have science consultants who advise on science content and science-based storylines to make them more believable and entertaining. It is important to have scientists involved in a production at an early stage as collaborators to allow for a more organic incorporation of scientific principles and more accurate representations of the systems of science (laboratories, experiments, results). This should also be applied to the incorporation of women in STEM – as part of my developing research I want to analyze the incorporation of women into science-based shows and ask how improving the involvement of women (as science advisors, writers, directors, etc.) could genuinely improve and diversify the representation of scientists.

The film and television industry is still an extremely male dominated field. “In 2013-14, women comprised 27% of all individuals working as creators, directors, writers, producers, executive producers, editors, and directors of photography,” according to “Boxed In Report,” commissioned by Center for the Study of Women in Television and Film. For me, the most important media recommendation made by the Science Grrl report is the idea that women need to be incorporated into the process early and that media producers should even be involved in training women scientists to be active contributors. Science consultants are an increasingly important part of producing exciting and entertaining science-based TV and film. Dr. Kevin R. Grazier, the science advisor for Battlestar Galactica, Defiance, Falling Skies, and the movie Gravity spoke at an event I was involved with about his involvement in the these projects from the beginning – science was a core element of their creation. Science-based narratives are informed by the science-based worlds created by both the creative teams and their science advisors.

The experience of female scientists is an important thing to be presenting on-screen not only for young women but also for young men who can have the idea of seeing women of STEM on their screens normalized. By involving women in STEM as advisors and collaborators, the representation of women can move from being token figures and anomalies to being regular and entirely expected leading figures in science-based narratives on either the big or the small screen. By making women more visible in science settings on television – in both fictional and factual programming – the inspiring images of science that can and are being produced can be associated with women who are not only represented as smart individuals but as part of a network of diverse and complex professional women.

Women don’t need to be told that science can be girly, and they don’t need to be given pretty role models to show them the way into science; but they do need to be shown that science is for everyone.

Amy C. Chambers is a postdoctoral researcher at Newcastle University in the UK researching the intersection of science and entertainment media. Her newest project explores the representation and the projected futures of women within scientific cultures in science fiction. She blogs about her research and interests at the Science and Entertainment Laboratory and The Unsettling Scientific Stories Project, and you can follow her on Twitter at @AmyCChambers.

Dana Scully: Femininity, Otherness, and the Ultimate X-File

Instead of investigating the science, Scully actually becomes the science. …There seems to be a substantial link between Scully’s gender and the tests and science that is inflicted upon her. Is this her punishment for daring to be a woman in a male-dominated sphere? … There’s also something pretty grim in Scully’s abduction/missing ovum storyline that feels very reminiscent of higher powers meddling and making decisions about women’s reproductive rights.

This guest post written by Becky Kukla appears as part of our theme week on Women Scientists.

Dana Scully (Gillian Anderson) is my ultimate icon. She’s intelligent, cool-headed, and super sassy. She also has the best job in the world which usually involves traipsing miserably after her alien-obsessed FBI partner Fox Mulder (David Duchovny) in a bid to prove the existence of extraterrestrials to the United States government. Yeah… and I thought my job sounded stressful…

The X Files was, and to some extent still is, a cultural phenomenon. Countless articles and academic papers (including part of my dissertation) have been written about the cult aspect of the show, the allegories to our real world society, and the inversion of masculine/feminine stereotypes within the main characters (Mulder is an emotional believer, Scully is a rational skeptic). The X-Files often does hold a mirror up to the things we often glaze over within society, and its portrayal of The Syndicate (a group who effectively control everything in the world) as a bunch of old, white men is particularly relevant, even twenty years later. While The X-Files was busy being experimental in its monsters of the week and its representation of our society, the show tended to be incredibly formulaic in terms of the dynamic between the two main characters. No, I am not talking about that insatiable chemistry that still has us all guessing today, but the typical narrative structure of each episode. Mulder discovers a weird case with potential supernatural links, Scully tells him that he is mad and looks for scientific explanation, Mulder proves that his explanation is the correct one, all the evidence is destroyed (somehow) and Scully still finds that she can’t quite bring herself to ignore ‘the science.’

It makes for nostalgic viewing (we are never in any doubt about what will transpire throughout the episode), but it also feels like Scully gets the short straw a lot. Dana Scully is a qualified medical professional (“I’m a medical doctor!”), yet her years of training and experience fall flat against the little green men. She is exceptionally clever, but she is way out of her depth with these supernatural cases. Aside from doing autopsies, Mulder almost constantly has the upper hand throughout each case. That is until the events that transpire at the beginning of Season 2. Instead of investigating the science, Scully actually becomes the science.

At the beginning of Season 2, Scully is abducted — in both the physical and supernatural sense of the word — and it is later revealed that certain tests were performed on her. She returns safe and sound (okay, safe being a pretty optimistic word) and has no memory of these events, until about a season later. Scully realizes that a metal chip has been placed in the back of her neck (which she determines must have been placed there at the time of her abduction) and she ends up meeting with a group of women who have all had chips removed. Subsequently, all of the women she meets have succumbed to some sort of cancer. A skeptic at best, Scully brushes away these fears until it is revealed in “Memento Mori” that Scully has cancer, and it’s pretty bad.

I wish I could tell you that Scully’s life gets better from here on, but after her survival from cancer, she goes on to discover that during her abduction, her ova were harvested and have since been used to produce bizarre alien clone children — one of whom she has the pleasure of meeting in “A Christmas Carol” and “Emily.” But Scully’s road is never easy, and naturally, Emily dies.

To sum it up, Scully has a pretty terrible time and there seems to be a substantial link between Scully’s gender and the tests and science that is inflicted upon her. Is this her punishment for daring to be a woman in a male-dominated sphere? Scully is already “othered” by her presence in a patriarchal world as a woman — she frequently experiences sexist comments from other characters, exemplified by another female colleague in Soft Light. Scully becomes synonymous with the supernatural elements which Mulder is so fixated on, her female physicality means that she is the perfect candidate. Her ova were removed, cells which men do not possess, so it’s not a leap to say that Scully was abducted because she was a woman.

We are probably all aware of the existing link between ‘the mother,’ ‘the feminine’ and ‘the monstrous’ in science fiction (thanks Barbara Creed!). Motherhood and the reproductive process is fixated upon time and time again in the sci-fi world. Scully becomes removed from the supposed ‘natural’ process of motherhood, and her own body is used to breed alien hybrid children against her will or consent. She becomes a part of the ‘monstrous,’ something unnatural and seemingly abhorrent. In the episode, “Humbug” — as discussed by Lisa Parks in Deny All Knowledge: Reading The X-Files — Scully shares a moment with Lenny: a man with a detachable conjoined twin who turns out to be ever so slightly bloodthirsty. Both Lenny and Scully are caught off guard and share an embarrassing look at each other when both of their dressing gowns come slightly loose. As Scully stares awkwardly at Lenny’s belly, Lenny stares equally at Scully’s breast. The implication here is that both Scully and Lenny are alike in their otherness — both regarded by society as ‘other.’ This also comes at a point within the series after Scully has had the alien implant inserted in her neck, however she is not aware of it. The process of using her ovum to produce alien-hybrid clones has also begun, not that she knows it. As cyborg feminist specialist Donna Haraway — definitely check out her book, A Cyborg Manifesto — suggested; women, cyborgs, similans and the like are all “odd boundary creatures” which constantly threaten the traditional narratives and push the limits of science. Scully, and the other monsters we meet in The X Files are certainly guilty of that.

Aligning Scully with ‘othered’ alien life, cyborgs, and other women in the series posits her in this sort of feminized space, against the patriarchal FBI. However, Scully’s work (especially her initial task which was to debunk Mulder’s theories on behalf of her superiors at the academy) serves the masculine and patriarchal government. Indeed, even when Scully isn’t debunking Mulder’s odd (but accurate) theories, she is more often than not running around after Mulder, writing down his ideas, acting as his support staff, etc. In fact, it takes Scully until season 5 to express her annoyance at not even having her own desk in their shared office.

Scully continues to be skeptical of the existence of extraterrestrials, or of conspiracy theories — choosing instead to buy into the science. Despite everything that has been aggressively done to her, Scully can’t quite bring herself to believe that the existence of extraterrestrials can be real, even though her own body harbors the technology. As Lisa Parks points out, Scully’s position as a scientist is quite precarious. The science in the show is channeled through the feminized form (aka Scully) and therefore open to critical analysis, more so than if it was a male scientist. Scully, while a firm skeptic of aliens, is almost always intrinsically linked to this (as described earlier), so her skepticism of the supernatural and her insistence to hold onto this female fallible science seems to equate to her inability to accept herself.

There’s also something pretty grim in Scully’s abduction/missing ovum storyline that feels very reminiscent of higher powers meddling and making decisions about women’s reproductive rights. Instead of making laws, the Syndicate have a very real effect on the abductees’ abilities to have children therefore taking the decision away from the individual completely. It’s interesting to note that when men are victims of alien (or government) abduction in The X-Files, it is never intrinsically linked to the fact that they are male. On a very non-supernatural level, Scully constantly has to fight in the male-dominated space which is the FBI, and her shift from rational career woman to someone who has had the choice to bear children forcibly taken away from her serves to remind us that Scully is not male, however much she tries to assert herself.

Scully, while incredibly influential to generations of young women going into STEM subjects, is a rather questionable character. Traditionally, science has positioned female bodies as passive objects for male scientific dissection. Despite Scully being a scientist, as a woman, her body is still constantly placed under great scrutiny — from the clone offspring, to her cancer, even her tattooing exploits in “Never Again.” Dana Scully is an absolutely fascinating character, but it often feels as if she is being studied during The X-Files, when perhaps she should be the one doing the studying?

Recommended Reading: Scully, What Are You Wearing? The Problem of Feminism, Subversion, and Heteronormativity in The X-Files by Lacy Hodges (University of Florida, 2005).

Becky Kukla lives in London, works in documentary production/distribution to pay the bills and writes things about feminism, film and TV online in her spare time. You can find more of her work at her blog femphile or on Twitter @kuklamoo.

Beverly Crusher (‘Star Trek: TNG’) and Dana Scully (‘The X-Files’): The Medical and the Maternal

The impact of Dr. Beverly Crusher and Agent Dana Scully cannot be understated, not just on the landscape of female representation on television or the portrayal of women scientists but the way they also drove young women to pursue STEM fields in reality. …They transcend mere descriptors like woman, lover, mother, caregiver, skeptic, scientist — because they’re all that and more.

This guest post written by Carly Lane appears as part of our theme week on Women Scientists. | Spoilers ahead.

In the vast, diverse spectrum of science fiction worlds, it often seems as if no role, no profession, is off-limits to female characters. To that end, it has often been cited as a deeply progressive genre for fictional women, depicting the importance of their contributions as being equal to their male counterparts. When compared alongside the investigation of extraterrestrial life or the exploration of worlds other than our own, a strong and competent woman doesn’t seem that extraordinary by comparison.

Although science-fiction has been guilty of relying on outdated sexist tropes on occasion, it should be celebrated for the avenues where female characters are allowed to become more developed and three-dimensional. It’s these women that we often look up to as role models, even though they sometimes come from a future very far away from our own. Two of those characters appeared on television shows which spanned nearly fifteen years — Dr. Beverly Crusher, from Star Trek: The Next Generation, and Dana Scully, from The X-Files. Maybe not surprisingly, there’s more that links these two fictional ladies than the fact that they share the same hair color, or that they both have backgrounds in STEM fields. Over the course of their respective programs, they were allowed to become fully realized characters who had journeys independent of any influence from men — and though both women do have important relationships with several men in their lives, it isn’t what defines them.

When we’re introduced to Dr. Beverly Crusher (Gates McFadden) at the start of The Next Generation we learn two things up front: first, that she’s a single mother to young son Wesley (Wil Wheaton), and second, that she has a personal history with Jean-Luc Picard (Patrick Stewart), who captains the Starfleet vessel the USS Enterprise. In spite of the tie that binds them, which is revealed to be the death of Crusher’s husband Jack, the doctor assures Picard that it will in no way affect “the way [she] serves [him], the vessel or the mission” as Chief Medical Officer (“Encounter at Farpoint”).

And, for the most part, it doesn’t — at least not early on. In fact, it seems like she’s barely joined on with the Enterprise before she accepts a position as head of Starfleet Medical less than a year later. Granted, the decision of the character was heavily informed by the departure of actress Gates McFadden at the end of season one; both McFadden and Crusher returned to the show for season three after fans campaigned to bring the character back. While the reason for Crusher’s return is never provided in dialogue, we see the toll her absence has taken — especially in her relationship with her son Wesley, who had remained on the Enterprise as acting ensign. The interactions between them are initially strained and awkward, and eventually Crusher goes to Picard to ask him about how her son has been during her time away (“Evolution”).

Mother and son don’t resolve their tension right off the bat, either; when Crusher suggests to Wesley that he might have taken on too many responsibilities, he snaps at her, invoking her absence. “I’m here now, Wesley,” she says, and over the course of the remaining episode Wesley allows himself to rely a little more on his mother for a change. It’s one of the few instances in TNG where Wesley does lean on Crusher in some way; more often than not, when it comes to asking for advice or venting his problems, we usually see Wesley seek out a male member of Starfleet, or even Guinan (Whoopi Goldberg), the proprietor of Enterprise’s bar Ten-Forward. Whether that was unintentional or stemming from the belief that an adolescent man shouldn’t be running to his mother with his problems, it definitely contributed to a number of missed opportunities for more meaningful interaction between Crusher and her son.

On the other hand, TNG doesn’t define Crusher solely by her role as a mother — and it shouldn’t. As Chief Medical Officer on the Enterprise, she’s the head of the team responsible for administering care not just to the other vessel’s crew members but also to the alien races they encounter over the course of their mission. Her background in science and medicine requires her to be familiar with unique anatomy, to develop cures for foreign illnesses, or to handle emergency medical situations with a calm demeanor. As a certified bridge officer, she is afforded command of the bridge on several occasions in the absence of other crew members. She has her own friendships forged outside professional boundaries, namely with ship’s counselor Deanna Troi (Marina Sirtis); the two women frequently go to each other for advice and recommendations. She also finds herself pursuing potential romantic attachments, though they don’t tend to last beyond the confines of an episode. And she even dances around a potential relationship with Picard, even though neither of them truly act on what appear to be mutual romantic feelings. Over the course of TNG, we’re afforded the opportunity to glimpse Crusher as a mother, a doctor, and a woman with feelings and strong convictions.

While Crusher’s journey begins as that of a mother and branches outward, the story arc of Dana Scully (Gillian Anderson) is something of the opposite. In The X-Files, it’s the skeptical Scully who serves as an avatar for the audience, our way in; it’s through her science that the FBI intends for her to debunk the X-Files and thereby discredit former golden boy Fox Mulder (David Duchovny) as a result. She’s immediately defined by her science, by her medical background; the frequency of Scully introducing herself by her profession in early seasons is a long-running joke among die-hard X-Philes, but there’s some part of it that’s almost necessary due to the occasional sexism she faces from men working in her field. When a male detective questions “the wisdom of assigning female law enforcement officers to certain types of cases” during a murder investigation, Scully assures him that his “concern” is misplaced (“2Shy”). Fortunately, she doesn’t find herself on the receiving end of any gross comments from her partner Mulder; although the two of them usually disagree on the whodunit, their verbal sparring matches are often a means to allow both parties to bounce potential hypotheses off one another.

It takes some time, but inevitably we learn that Scully occasionally harbors thoughts of having a social life, building relationships, and perhaps even starting a family someday outside of her work on the X-Files. Her attempts at dating never quite end the way she expects (“The Jersey Devil,” “Never Again”). Her alien abduction comes with its own set of side ramifications after Mulder learns that some of her eggs had been harvested during the process, eventually leading to the creation of a child (“Emily”). Scully experiences an overwhelming sense of connection with the girl and is heartbroken when Emily dies from a genetic infection, especially since this comes in the aftermath of Scully learning of her own infertility as the result of her abduction — or so she thinks.

Scully’s desire to be a mother again never truly goes away, and when she eventually decides to have a child through in vitro fertilization she asks Mulder to be the donor (“Per Manum”); although the initial attempt at in vitro fails, Scully later learns she is pregnant shortly after the alien abduction of Mulder, suggesting that the two were intimate long enough to conceive naturally (“Requiem”). While she is overjoyed to finally have a child of her own, Scully soon realizes that she and her son William will never find peace given the threats to his life that exist in her world, and makes the devastating decision to give him up for adoption so that he can grow up safely. In the revival of The X-Files, we learn that Scully frequently reminisces about the life she could have had with William if he had stayed with her, but the question of whether she will ever be able to reunite with her child even after all this time is still open-ended.

After all, as often as we’ve seen Scully try to leave the X-Files (and Mulder, by extension) behind and start anew, something always seems to occur to bring her back in somehow. And there’s value in that, in depicting a female character who wrestles with her convictions both as a woman of science and a woman of faith, in allowing her to explore her own wants and needs while not necessarily prioritizing that of her male partner’s. On The X-FIles, it never felt as though Mulder and Scully were on anything but equal footing; in his absence, she’s given the opportunity to fully champion the truth she had originally been assigned to dismiss.

The impact of Crusher and Scully cannot be understated, not just on the landscape of female representation on television or the portrayal of women scientists but the way they also drove young women to pursue STEM fields in reality. (Scully even has this effect partly named after her.) Maybe it’s because they’re impossible to sum up in just one word; they transcend mere descriptors like woman, lover, mother, caregiver, skeptic, scientist — because they’re all that and more. It’s the full representation of the many facets of their character that’s given these fictional women their long-lasting appeal for so many years already, and hopefully for many more years to come.

Carly Lane is a writer based in New York City who specializes in obscure pop culture references and miscellaneous geekery. Her work has been featured on The Mary Sue, Teen Vogue, The Toast and more. You can find her on Twitter at @carlylane.

The Female Scientists of ‘The X-Files’

‘The X-Files’ consistently worked against the idea that women could not be capable scientists. In fact, there is evidence to suggest that the character of Dana Scully inspired many young women to pursue education and careers in science and technology – what is now known as “The Scully Effect.”

This guest post written by Angela Morrison appears as part of our theme week on Women Scientists.

In the world of The X-Files, female scientists are not treated as anomalies, or exceptions to the rule. Female scientists are prominent characters in many episodes and are (almost) always treated with great respect and regard. Not to mention, one of the two protagonists is the most kick-ass television scientist of all time – Dana Katherine Scully (Gillian Anderson).

Throughout the series, it’s revealed that Scully studied physics in university, and later attended medical school, before changing career paths to become an FBI agent – where she was eventually assigned to work with Special Agent Fox Mulder (David Duchovny) on The X-Files. Scully is both a brilliant scientist and an empathetic and intelligent FBI agent. She uses her skills as a medical doctor to assist with anything and everything: she performs autopsies, comes to the aid of those who are injured (Mulder, most of the time), and identifies anomalies in blood and cell samples – frequently identifying them as alien.

Writers such as Caitlin Flynn at Bustle have noted the reversal of gender stereotypes within the partnership of Mulder and Scully. Oftentimes in television and cinema, women represent the irrational, emotional, and uncontainable, while men offer the voice of reason and rationality. In the case of The X-Files, Mulder’s work is highly emotional for him as he passionately believes in all of the supernatural cases that he and Scully investigate. Scully is the skeptic, always questioning and challenging Mulder. She strongly believes in science, seeking to find a rational answer for every strange thing the duo encounter.

What makes Scully so great is that she is a complex, emotional person while simultaneously a rational scientist. She is always sympathetic to what Mulder says (even if she does roll her eyes at him constantly), and over the course of the series, her skepticism softens (it does take a very long time). Scully is also a devoted Catholic (which Flynn covers in her article) — her religious beliefs do not necessarily align with her scientific beliefs. But this does not make her a hypocrite. She believes in facts and nature, and at the same time she is spiritual and devoted to her faith. Jennifer Still at Bustle notes that Scully is complex and contradictory – a layered and brilliant character. Scully never takes off her golden cross necklace – except when she is abducted in the second season, and Mulder wears it as a symbol of his faith in Scully. Mulder is an atheist, but he believes in aliens. Scully is a scientist, but she believes in God – and they both respect each others’ beliefs.

Scully does not exist solely to be eye-candy for viewers, nor to only be Mulder’s love interest. From the very first episodes, the creators of the show make it clear that Mulder and Scully see each other as equals, and they immediately trust and respect each other. Yes, they are both beautiful, and yes, the chemistry between them is the best thing ever, but these facts never overshadow the incredible work they do together. The show does not opt for an explicit and predictable romance subplot. Instead, we see Mulder and Scully’s friendship and professional relationship blossom and take unexpected turns throughout the series. This is much more interesting, and it also indicates that Scully is an actual complex human woman, rather than a plot device to move along the male protagonist’s story.

Scully is also never treated as a “damsel in distress” – she and Mulder are kidnapped/abducted and put in dangerous situations in equal measures, and they both come to each others’ rescue whenever they can. Scully is never portrayed as “weak” just because she is a woman; she and Mulder are always portrayed as equally competent during action sequences. However, Scully does face everyday sexism on the job. There are male characters throughout the series who underestimate Scully because of her gender. But the show always proves them wrong and Scully is never afraid to call people out – in fact, she even calls Mulder out in the season 3 episode “Syzygy”: “I’m driving. Why do you always have to drive? Because you’re the big, macho man?” And of course, one of the best Scully lines ever, from season 6’s “Dreamland II”, in response to being called “baby”: “‘Baby’ me and you’ll be peeing through a catheter!” Scully always fights back against low-key sexism and proves that women should never be underestimated.

While the show acknowledges that women face stereotyping and sexism every day, it is also optimistic in its portrayal of women. Since the first season, female scientists have appeared in many episodes. Mulder and Scully work closely with these capable, at times complicated, yet fiercely intelligent women. Season 1 episode 8, “Ice,” features Felicity Huffman as Dr. DaSilva, a toxicologist and episode 9, “Space,” Michelle Generoo portrays Susanna Thompson, a NASA communications commander. These are professional women, highly skilled in their respective professions. Both Michelle and Dr. DaSilva use their extensive knowledge to provide Mulder and Scully with clues for solving the mysteries at hand. In season 1, episode 11, “Eve,” Dr. Sally Kendrick (Harriet Harris) is an evil genius, a former fertility doctor who figures out how to clone herself. Her characters could be seen as a problematic portrayal – a “crazy woman” trope – but the series features both male and female villains.

In “War of the Coprophages” from season 4, Dr. Bambi Berenbaum (Bobbie Phillips), an agricultural researcher and insect expert, helps Mulder understand the nature of cockroaches, to assist him with a case involving aggressive cockroaches. In season 5’s “Kill Switch,” Kristin Lehman plays Esther Nairn/”Invisigoth,” a computer expert. Both of these characters are objectified – Mulder flirts with Bambi, and the Lone Gunmen (Bruce Harwood, Tom Braidwood, and Dean Haglund) are immediately attracted to Esther. Scully expresses some jealousy, but it is very mild (played for laughs, not drama), and it does not stop her from working together with these women to solve cases.

The X-Files consistently worked against the idea that women could not be capable scientists. In fact, there is evidence to suggest that the character of Dana Scully inspired many young women to pursue education and careers in science and technology – what is now known as “The Scully Effect.” Representation in film and television is so important. Seeing characters such as Scully, Dr. Bambi Berenbaum, and even season 10’s Agent Einstein (Lauren Ambrose) — another medical doctor/skeptic — lead young women to believe that they are capable of following their dreams and being successful within the professional scientific community. Unfortunately, there’s a lack of diversity as the female scientists on The X-Files are all able-bodied, middle-class, white women. However, Scully and the other female scientists on the show have been kicking ass since the 1990s, proving that women — in both real life and on-screen — can be highly intelligent and complex human beings.

Angela Morrison is a Canadian cinephile who was raised by a female scientist (her mother, a medical laboratory technologist). She has written for Bitch Flicks before, for the Ladies of the 1980s theme week. She also writes about cinema on her blog.

‘The Golden Girls’: The Legacy of a Lifetime of Wisdom and Laughter

In 1985, television audiences were reminded that women of a certain age are just as vibrant, sexual, and as full of life as women half their age. They may also share a few life lessons along the way. The TV series ‘The Golden Girls’ — which aired for seven seasons — reminded audiences of all ages that life does not end at fifty for women.

This guest post written by Adina Bernstein appears as part of our theme week on Ladies of the 1980s.

Picture it: Brooklyn, 1991. My sister and I, aged 10 and 7 are spending a Saturday night at our widowed grandmother’s apartment. Her favorite show is The Golden Girls.

My grandmother was not a young woman at that point. The youngest daughter of Russian Jewish immigrants, my grandmother had been through quite a lot, starting with the death of her parents when she was a teenager. Marrying my late grandfather (who passed away the year before) in the late 1940s, she raised two sons (my father and uncle). My grandmother watched her sons grow up, get married, enter the working world, and become successful adults. She and my grandfather had a hand in raising her grandchildren (my sister and I). Through that lifetime of experience, my grandmother was and still is a beacon to our entire family.

Once upon a time, older women were revered for the experience, knowledge, and wisdom that take a lifetime to accumulate. Those days, unfortunately, belong in the distant past. Once she reaches a certain age, a woman is more likely to be discarded for a “newer model,” thought to be senile, or viewed only through the lens of her role as a wife, mother, and grandmother. Who she is as a woman, what she has accomplished in life, and the lessons she can teach to those younger than her is often deemed meaningless in society.

In 1985, television audiences were reminded that women of a certain age are just as vibrant, sexual, and as full of life as women half their age. They may also share a few life lessons along the way. The TV series The Golden Girls — which aired for seven seasons — reminded audiences of all ages that life does not end at fifty for women.

Blanche Devereaux (Rue McLanahan) was the Southern belle rarely without a date. Rose Nylund (Betty White) was the innocent Midwesterner who never quite got the joke. Dorothy Zbornak (Bea Arthur) was originally from New York who always quipped the smartass one-liners. Sophia Petrillo (Estelle Getty) was Dorothy’s mother originally from Sicily who escaped the nursing home and whose age allowed her to be as far from politically correct as she wanted to be.

With television (and the media in general), then and now, most older women are not seen as vivacious, independent, capable human beings who can still contribute to the world. They are expected to quietly retire (if they did work outside of the home), take care of their spouse, children, and grandchildren. Their work is done. It’s time to sit in the rocking chair, knit a blanket or sweater, and watch as the next generation steps up to the plate.

They say that sixty is the new forty, that means that forty is the new twenty. People also say that age is just a number. I prefer the latter. Blanche, Dorothy, Rose, and Sophia were just as dynamic, sexual, and spirited as women on-screen who are half their age. In fact, their age made them even more appealing.

The Golden Girls touched on many subjects over the course of seven years: friendship, dating, menopause, being a parent to grown children who may make decisions not approved of, LGBTQ rights, the relationships between family, etc.

Looking back I can see the crack that The Golden Girls put in the glass ceiling. It was a small crack, but an important one. The lesson was clear: just because a woman is over fifty does not mean she is unimportant. What she brings to the table is priceless; there is no dollar sign on life experiences or wisdom. There is nothing more attractive than a person who combines life experiences, intelligence, and confidence to be who they are. Perhaps that is what made The Golden Girls appealing to all audiences and perhaps why there was a string of boyfriends and potential boyfriends that passed through the house.

When I watch The Golden Girls in reruns, I notice several things. I see my childhood and my late grandmothers, who were of the same generation as the characters. I remember the wisdom and experience my grandmothers had, that only someone who lives for fifty plus years can possess. I see four women who not only get along, but are able to maintain a very strong friendship despite their differences. I see four independent and self-reliant women with full social lives and romantic lives. I see four women who are funny, real, and full of life. I see the reminder that when life hands you lemons, you make lemonade.

In Jane Austen’s classic novel, Sense and Sensibility, Marianne Dashwood, says, “A woman of seven and twenty… can never hope to feel or inspire affection again.” Granted, this statement is coming from a girl of sixteen, but the sentiment reflects an overall cultural value about women and aging. Women, especially women of a certain age, are supposed to eventually step aside. The Golden Girls did not step aside, nor did they quietly accept the limitations that women their age are supposed to accept. Their declaration was loud and clear: older women can do anything that a woman of thirty can do. In fact, they may be able to do more, not only because of a lifetime of experiences, but because they are free of the responsibilities that come along with a career (although 3 of the women still had careers) and raising a family.

After my grandfather died, my sister and I spend many Saturday evenings with my grandmother. Looking back on those memories, I wouldn’t change them for the world. I also would not change the lessons about age and taking life by the balls that The Golden Girls taught their millions of fans.

See also at Bitch Flicks: How ‘The Golden Girls’ Shaped My Feminism

Adina Bernstein is a Brooklyn born freelance writer and blogger at Writergurlny. You can find her on Twitter @Writergurlny and Instagram.

Stop the Fridging: The Invisible Feminism of ‘Arrow’

So while ‘Arrow’ seems pretty reluctant to move away from the traditional stance on women existing to be love interests and to be rescued, the individual female characters themselves sometimes show some hints of progressiveness… if only they’d be allowed to live long enough!

This guest post written by Becky Kukla appears as part of our theme week on Superheroines. | Spoilers ahead for seasons 1-3.

Is TV series Arrow feminist? Being brutally honest, it almost certainly is not. Does Arrow have characters with feminist undertones, or female characters with more depth than meets the eye? Well, that’s where it gets more interesting.

The premise of Arrow reads incredibly similarly to that of Batman; rich and spoiled son of millionaire family undergoes a grueling, life-changing event which forces him to become a ‘good guy’ (unlike the playboy he was once) to save his city. Pre-Arrow Oliver Queen (Stephen Amell) is a cheater, drug-taker, party-goer, and generally not a great guy. He is the epitome of the whole silver spoon thing, and not only this but he treats everyone in his life terribly. His parents (as he later learns) are both semi-responsible for a plot to destroy the poorest parts of Starling City, and this becomes his motivation to try and right the wrongs that his father (and his mother) did. It’s also clear that pre-Arrow Oliver didn’t have a lot of respect for women — cheating on his then girlfriend Laurel, with her sister Sara — and consequently almost getting himself and Sara killed in the boating accident that left him stranded on an island.

So where am I going with this? All things considered — Arrow is clearly not going to win any feminist awards any time soon. This is mostly because pretty much every single female character in the show is either related to Oliver (Moira, Thea) or has been romantically involved with him in some way (Helena, Laurel, Sara, Felicity, Shado, and Isabel have all had romantic relations with Oliver to some degree). The show also has a worrying trend of having its villains use the women characters as some sort of bait. I’m only on season three, but poor Laurel has been kidnapped 4 times since the show started! However, the representation of female heroism in Arrow starts to get a little more interesting from the end of season 1 with the introduction of at least 3 superheroine-type characters. Oliver also regularly comes into contact with supervillains, many of whom are women.

So while Arrow seems pretty reluctant to move away from the traditional stance on women existing to be love interests and to be rescued, the individual female characters themselves sometimes show some hints of progressiveness… if only they’d be allowed to live long enough!

Shado

Chronologically, the first superheroine to appear in Arrow is Shado (Celina Jade). Technically, she isn’t actually a superheroine, but she is certainly super and saves Oliver’s life several times on the island so I think it’s safe to put in the category of superheroine. Shado is the daughter of Yao Fai — the man who first rescues Oliver when he is dying on the island. Her main reason for existence seems to be to ensure that her father toes the line, otherwise she will be killed. However, Shado quickly reveals that she is every bit as tough as her father when it comes to fighting — and single handedly rescues Slade and Oliver from certain death. She then goes on to teach Ollie pretty much everything he knows, including the whole slapping the water thing, and generally being useful with a bow and arrow. Shado is tough and strong, she’s obviously had some intense training and she’s a pretty cool character in general. That is, until two things happen. First, Oliver falls in love with her. We can understand this from Oliver’s perspective — at this point, he still behaves somewhat like the playboy he once was and in general terms, Shado is the only woman he has been in contact with in a long while. The issue is that 1) Shado falls for him (he’s a spoiled brat, ammiright!?) and that Slade also falls for Shado. Instead of seeing Shado as the strong and tough woman that she is, she becomes steadily reduced to the crux of an odd love triangle with one immature playboy and a man old enough to be her father.

Shado is also brutally murdered when Ivan forces Oliver to choose between saving her or Sara. This is the first of many ‘choose between two women you love’ scenarios that are set up for Oliver throughout the series, and this one is quite possibly the worst. Oliver doesn’t so much as choose Shado, but the whole event sends Slade spiraling into revenge city where he blames Oliver for the murder of the ‘love of his life.’ Reality check here; Shado is only the love of his life because Slade literally knew no other women. And also, she didn’t even love him back. Either way, Shado’s death is the sole reason for pretty much all of the events in the second season — so I guess it might be the most successful fridging of all time?

Fridging itself is boring, old, and a great waste of time but it feels even worse when you have a really wonderful female character with huge potential, who is killed only to further the storyline of a male character. It also doesn’t help that Shado was also murdered so that Sara (another superheroine type) could live. Which brings me to…

Sara (The Canary)

Sara (Caity Lotz), sister of Laurel and part-time lover of Oliver, was presumed dead along with Oliver when their boat sank off the coast of the island. Imagine everyone’s surprise when it turns out (like Oliver) Sara actually survived and is back in Starling City, also fighting crime. Imagine our even greater surprise when Sara turns out to be a fighting machine, fresh from The League of Assasins. Surprise!

Our first actual introduction to the new and improved Sara 2.0, is as her alter ego (fondly named The Canary). She saves a woman from a group of menacing looking men in a dark alleyway. I don’t believe this is by accident. Sara also takes care of Sin, Roy’s friend from The Glades, and it’s this protection of the women around her that make Sara an almost-feminist superheroine. As soon as her and Oliver are reunited in Starling City, it becomes immediately clear that Sara has been through a bit of a wringer – possibly even more so than Oliver. Sara (at some point in the last five years) was taken in by The League of Assassins and is riddled with guilt and anger about some of the things she was made to do whilst under their command. Sara wants to let her parents and Laurel know she is alive, but she is consumed by the things she has done to survive and is convinced she isn’t worthy of love from anyone — even her own family.

As we see in flashbacks, Sara was incredibly savvy to survive her ordeal aboard what was essentially an illegal prison ship. She knew how to play the game, and waited patiently for an opportunity to escape. Though her and Oliver reunited on the island, Sara has clearly changed and is prepared to do whatever is necessary to survive. The Sara that returns to Starling City five years later is equally prepared to do what is necessary – and this causes friction with Oliver’s sudden ‘no killing’ rule. Similarly to how Oliver’s family are often used as bait to coax him into situations as the Arrow, Sara’s family are also kidnapped and used as bait when The League of Assassins try to force Sara to rejoin them. Of course, it is the women members of Sara’s family that are kidnapped (her mother and Laurel).

Sadly, Sara’s story comes to an incredibly abrupt and untimely end. She makes it a few minutes into season 3 before she is killed, as witnessed by Laurel. For a character who had so much potential, and a captivating backstory — her demise was a little more than cold on behalf of the writers.

Felicity Smoak

Ah, Felicity Smoak . Poor, lovely Felicity. Oddball, geeky Felicity (played by Emily Bett Rickards) who somehow went from obscure computer girl to the object of Oliver’s affections within about thirty seconds at the end of season 2. Felicity is employed at Queen Consolidated (Oliver’s family’s company), and consequently joins team Arrow when Oliver realizes a) how smart she is and b) that she knows too much to not be on the team. If Diggle, Roy, and Oliver are the brawn of the group then Felicity is certainly the brain. She is proficient at hacking, tracking, and generally getting into other people’s computers or CCTV cameras when she shouldn’t be.

Something really odd happens to Felicity between working in the IT department in the basement of QC, and becoming part of team Arrow. It has a lot to do with the way she dresses. When Felicity is at QC, she dresses… well for work. She looks comfortable, she is wearing flats and she looks smart but not overdressed. As soon as Felicity begins working with Team Arrow, she is suddenly turning up to their basement lair in five inch heels and a dress suitable for a nightclub scenario. You could argue she is trying to blend in (the lair is situated underneath Oliver’s nightclub) but I can’t help thinking it’s more to do with Felicity (as the only recurring woman in Team Arrow) needing to be eye candy. Eye candy, which coincidentally ends up on Oliver’s arm. Which in itself isn’t inherently an issue, but Felicity’s character then became far less about her abilities and talents in the IT department — and far more about her relationship with Oliver. Apparently, as a woman, you cannot have both a career and a boyfriend.

I am only on the third season of Arrow but I’ve heard rumors that not many good things happen beyond that. Moira’s death at the end of the second season seemed to serve only to motivate both Oliver and Thea onward, which is just truly original use of fridging by the show’s writers. I guess the saddest thing about it is that Arrow has (or had) some truly unique and interesting female characters, but refused to do anything worthwhile with them.

‘Supergirl’s Feminism and Why the TV Series Works

Even with her powers, Kara is the underdog who has to evolve to overcome insurmountable odds, thus making her relatable to viewers. With the series being entitled ‘Supergirl,’ it shouldn’t be a surprise that feminism is a prevalent theme. What is a pleasant surprise is how well the series tackles it.

This guest post written by Dennis R. Upkins appears as part of our theme week on Superheroines.

At 8 years old, I would wake up early every Saturday morning to tune in and watch Superboy. Over the years, I’ve been a faithful viewer of the original George Reeves Superman series, Lois & Clark, the Bruce Timm animated series, the live action films, and of course the comics. I’m a comic book guy through and through. For me, Superman isn’t just a superhero. He is THE superhero. I’m very protective of the Man of Steel’s mythos and legacy. Suffice it to say, I had my concerns when the CBS series Supergirl was announced.

Somehow when I wasn’t paying attention, my reaction evolved from, “The pilot was cute, I guess I’ll tune in,” to “Jesus Christ is it Monday night yet? I need my Maiden of Might!!!!”

There’s a number of reasons why the series works and works well. For starters, the cast. Actress Melissa Benoist embodies the essence of the eponymous heroine much like Christopher Reeves and Lynda Carter respectively encapsulated Superman and Wonder Woman. In addition, the series is a fresh take on Supergirl and her alter ego Kara Danvers. In previous incarnations, Kara was often depicted as headstrong, impulsive, reckless and angsty, often as a foil for her older and more mature cousin, Clark. For that matter, the same can be said for Conner Kent aka Superboy.

Whereas Clark’s meek and bumbling demeanor was often a facade to conceal his identity, for this Kara, it is who she is and her powers don’t change that fact. Case in point, the girl can’t keep her secret identity to save her life as the series illustrates numerous times. Kara is an ingenue with a huge heart. She often finds herself in over her head whether battling Fort Ross escapees or navigating through minefields often known as life.

Even with her powers, Kara is the underdog who has to evolve to overcome insurmountable odds, thus making her relatable to viewers.

With the series being entitled Supergirl, it shouldn’t be a surprise that feminism is a prevalent theme. What is a pleasant surprise is how well the series tackles it. Sadly in 2016, positive portrayals of powerful women outside of Shondaland continue to be rare. This is especially the case for speculative fiction. Too often, female characters are developed by undercutting other female characters. Not the case with this series. Whether it’s Kara, Lucy or Alex, all of the heroines and villainesses are different but formidable in their own right.

If there is a breakout MVP for the series, the title easily goes to Kara’s snarky boss and unlikely mentor, Cat Grant, played flawlessly by Ally McBeal herself. Calista Flockhart effortlessly steals virtually every scene she’s in with her performances. The sharp-tongued heart-of-gold mentor archetypes are typically reserved for male characters, thus making this iteration of Grant and her relationship with Kara rare for television and all the more amazing.

As the Flash crossover, “World’s Finest,” illustrates, this is a series that knows how to have fun and be creative. New fans and Kryptonian OGs like myself are on the edge of our seats wondering what surprises are in store: the introduction of Martian Manhunter, the Cadmus tease, or hints that Alex Danvers might one day evolve into this universes’s Alex Luthor. It is my hope that Vasquez’s role is beefed up next season and other marginalized DC alums are introduced be they Alysia Yeoh and/or Natasha Irons.

If I have one complaint to register about Supergirl it would be this is one of those times I wish I was a father. I wish I had a young daughter to watch the show with. Just as I tuned in religiously every Saturday as a kid to watch Superboy, it would be cool to pass along a family tradition to the next generation. Supergirl is a heroine that young girls can watch and look up to. Just as importantly, she is a heroine young boys can watch and learn from. One thing is for certain, season 2 can’t get here fast enough.

Is it Monday night yet?

See also at Bitch Flicks: ‘Supergirl’ and Room for the Non-Brooding Superhero

Dennis R. Upkins is a speculative fiction author, equal rights activist, and proud Atlanta, Georgia native. His writing credits include Stranger Than Fiction, Hollowstone, and West of Sunset. Upkins was a former staff writer for Comicbook.com. He regularly critiques and analyzes the representation and portrayal of minorities in media and has been a contributor to Prism Comics, Bitch Media, Black Girl Dangerous, Geeks OUT, and The Nerds of Color.

‘Buffy the Vampire Slayer’ and the Humanization of the Superheroine

Often carrying the burden of representation in a genre overrun with male characters, superheroines were strong or weak, clear-headed or in constant need of saving, but rarely complex or allowed complicated internal lives, and even more rarely truly relatable. Buffy changed all that.

This guest post written by Kaitlyn Soligan appears as part of our theme week on Superheroines.

Before there was a girl on fire, or a woman in an office with a drinking problem and a dark history, before there was, even, a cheerleader whose salvation could save the world, there was the chosen one. She alone would stand against the vampires, the demons, and the forces of darkness. She was the slayer.

Our generation’s slayer was Buffy Summers, and she was a mess. By turns bubbly and serious, flirtatious and driven, insecure and confident, Buffy Summers worried about boys and her birthright, rising demons and her parents’ divorce, algebra and the somehow ever-present threat of global apocalypse. While there were superheroines on page and screen long before Buffy – the iconic Wonder Woman, Batgirl, and X-Men like Storm were represented on both – none had ever been allowed to be so human, particularly on television and in movies, where they were mostly absent. Often carrying the burden of representation in a genre overrun with male characters, superheroines were strong or weak, clear-headed or in constant need of saving, but rarely complex or allowed complicated internal lives, and even more rarely truly relatable.

Buffy changed all that.

Buffy worried about make-up, her curfew, whether or not a boy liked her, and how she would ever get her homework done on time in the moments between plunging a stake into the heart of multiple attacking vampires. Over the objections of her guardian Giles, a stand-in for the stuffy and outdated rules about how superheroines should behave, she made friends and went on dates, and still managed to slay demons and kill monsters. She was funny and goofy and sweet and deadly serious when occasion called for it. Buffy broke hearts and had hers broken, said things she shouldn’t to lovers and friends and family, hurt people and stood beside them when they needed her most. She was phenomenally imperfect as a woman and as a heroine.

Buffy’s battles, real and metaphorical (and occasionally metaphorically revealing what was all too real), panned the camera to the battles of girls more generally and forced it to linger on what was uncomfortable and almost always previously unacknowledged. In “Out of Mind, Out of Sight,” Buffy fights an invisible foe who turns out to be a fellow classmate who disappeared for lack of attention. The episode examines the visibility of the female and the female body – and the ways these related to the feminine – in multiple ways, with Buffy and her classmate Cordelia battling for the title of May Queen before battling for their lives. Many episodes dealt with intimate partner violence; in “Ted” Buffy battles her mother’s violent boyfriend, while in “Beauty and the Beasts” she faces a classmate abusing his girlfriend. Throughout all of these episodes and arcs, Buffy is both average – experiencing jealousy, vulnerability, the need for company and compassion, pushing her friends and family away and then pulling them back in close – and superhuman, fighting against unnatural forces with equally unnatural strength.

Buffy’s humanity also marked one of the earliest moments of feminism brought to bear on the superhero genre – not a mere personal feminism limited to character portrayals, but a structural feminism, with an acknowledgement of structural systems of oppression, played out within and on characters and throughout story lines. In “Out of Mind, Out of Sight,” Buffy faces the structural systems that exploit women’s bodies and turn them against one another as competitors. In “Ted,” her mother’s boyfriend is controlling and manipulative, gaslighting her, an eons-long practice even before we had a succinctly encompassing term for it. In “Beauty and the Beasts,” Buffy faces her classmate’s reality as a victim of assault while simultaneously exploring her own past as a survivor of abuse. Buffy and the other female characters were constantly underestimated because they were women. No episode ended with a neat lesson in which every male character realized the error of their ways and repented, and this underestimation often had long-term, structural, and painfully realistic consequences for the characters.

While Buffy’s humanization broke new ground for superheroines, it also brought into relief against that image the limits of what was still possible on television. While the many white female characters on the show were deliberately complex, the first featured recurring Black character, Kendra, was largely two-dimensional. Bearing the burden of representation, Kendra’s efforts to find acceptance through perfection reflected the limits experienced by women of color, a choice between being “good” and acknowledged, or not good enough and ignored, pushed further back into the margins both visually and narratively. While Black male characters on the show – most notably the cool and organized Mr. Trick and the steady and almost unbearably sexy Principal Wood – were good and evil, kind and ruthlessly ambitious, flawed and righteous by turns, Black female characters came in by inches and retreated just as quickly back outside the frame.

In Season 7, at the end of the series’ television run, Buffy discovers that her powers come from a spell cast long ago by men in Africa who needed a protector. One girl was chosen – likely not voluntarily – to be that protector: the First Slayer. And her power passed from one generation to the next. Buffy’s power is literally drawn from a history of Black women around the world; their sacrifices over thousands of years have enabled her rebellion from girl soldier to human being over the objections of a system designed to imprison, use, and discard her. As a white woman in her own place and time, Buffy could do what they could not.

In the end, Buffy enlists another woman, Willow, a powerful witch and, not incidentally, one of the first recurring LGBTQ characters on television, to reclaim and redistribute that first power, allowing every girl in the world with the potential to become a Slayer to rise up simultaneously, together. The act was at its heart a symbolic gesture hearkening to the notion that white women whose privilege has been gained at the ongoing expense of many other women, particularly women of color, have a responsibility to both destroy the system and build a better one, one that has far more universal benefit. In her final moments, Buffy chose between being special – one girl in all the world – and building a platform on which she would be only one of many, only as special as she made herself, meaningful not at the expense of others’ lack, but of her own making – as her own woman.

She went to prom and saved her classmates from a giant dragon. She mourned the loss of her mother and fought a fallen God. She fell in love and died and got aggravated with her roommates and worked in fast food and slayed demons. 2017 will mark 20 years since Buffy first aired, and Buffy would be truly old for a slayer now – nearly 40. If she felt all her years and more at sixteen, with her outsized responsibilities, one can only imagine how she would feel today, and it’s understandable: Buffy is the grandmother of the modern superheroine. These dark, flawed, occasionally failed, damaged, traumatized, real girls and women onscreen and in comics – from Katniss Everdeen to Jessica Jones to Joss Whedon’s own later heroines like Firefly’s Zoe – owe a great deal to the strides Buffy made in her complexity, her humanity, her failings, and her growth alike, as do we. After all, she saved the world. A lot.

Kaitlyn Soligan is a writer and editor from Boston living in Louisville, Kentucky. She writes about that, and bourbon, at www.ivehadworseideas.com. You can follow her on twitter @ksoligan.

Daisy Johnson, Superheroine of ‘Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.’ — And Why She Matters

What makes Daisy special among superheroes is that she embodies all of these tropes as the centerpiece of a network television series — and is also a woman. Not only that, she is a mixed-race woman — and not a token one, but one surrounded by other women, of various ages, races and backgrounds.

This guest post written by Lee Jutton appears as part of our theme week on Superheroines. | Spoilers ahead.

Much more family-friendly and comic-book kooky than its dark, disturbing and acclaimed Netflix siblings, Marvel’s Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. is often treated like the black sheep of the Marvel Cinematic Universe by critics, audience members and even Marvel itself. Having just wrapped its third season, S.H.I.E.L.D. boasts one of the most underrated ensemble casts on television — not to mention one of the most diverse. Said cast features many amazingly complex, flawed, and fantastic women heroes who juggle trying to save the world with their own personal quests for family, love, acceptance, and peace of mind. In a television landscape where female characters frequently suffer and die just to further the storylines of their male co-stars, S.H.I.E.L.D. consistently gives these women their own stories and allows these stories to drive the show forward. Chief among them is Daisy Johnson, an ace computer hacker who joins S.H.I.E.L.D. to dig up information on her unknown parents and ends up discovering that she is a superpowered Inhuman.

When S.H.I.E.L.D. debuted in Fall 2013, the advertisements implied that it was a vehicle for Agent Phil Coulson, played by Clark Gregg, who was mysteriously raised from the dead after meeting a tragic end in The Avengers. I eyed these ads with trepidation, looking forward to an opportunity to enter the Marvel Cinematic Universe every week but worried that Coulson wouldn’t be able to carry a show. Turns out, the reason why S.H.I.E.L.D. excels is because he doesn’t. The true star of S.H.I.E.L.D. is Daisy, who over the course of three seasons goes from having no family to being torn between two — S.H.I.E.L.D. and the Inhumans — to finding herself alone again. This tumultuous inner conflict is what cements Daisy as S.H.I.E.L.D.’s emotional center and one of the more complicated characters in the male-dominated Marvel Cinematic Universe. She is not a perfect superheroine, but as one of only a few currently gracing our screens, she should not be taken for granted.

Daisy, played by Chloe Bennet, has evolved so much since the show’s pilot that she no longer goes by the same name. The series introduces her as Skye, a member of the hacktivist group Rising Tide who spent her childhood getting passed around a series of foster homes. Skye is trying to dig up information on her birth parents, who she believes were connected to S.H.I.E.L.D.; it is revealed partway through the first season that she was dropped off at an orphanage by an unknown S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. It says a lot about the lack of diversity in television that for awhile, everyone assumed that said S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, and Skye’s mother, was going to be Melinda May, played by Ming-Na Wen. (Bennet’s father is Chinese-American; her given name is Wang, but she now uses her father’s first name as her surname.) Two Asian-American actresses on the same program? There must be a connection, many fans mused, despite not wondering the same about all of the white actors on the show.

At first, Skye is little more than a vehicle for the audience’s entry into the covert world of S.H.I.E.L.D. Many of the early episodes spend too much time debating Skye’s loyalties, and the repetition grows exhausting. Audience members who survived this slow-moving, low-stakes freshman year were rewarded with a much more exciting sophomore season and a much more well-rounded Skye, now a full-fledged S.H.I.E.L.D. agent with the trust of her team and top-notch training from known badass Melinda, definitely the most competent agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. (Another shout out to Ming-Na Wen, who beats up men twice her size and half her age on a weekly basis.) Skye has not yet found her birth parents, but in S.H.I.E.L.D., she has finally found some form of family and identity.

That long-sought sense of stability doesn’t last for long. Soon, Skye is introduced to her birth parents, given her real name — Daisy Johnson — and transformed into an Inhuman. Her power is a literal embodiment of the upheaval and instability that plagues her life — the ability to create earthquakes. As the only Inhuman member of S.H.I.E.L.D., Daisy finds herself once again feeling alone; her powers are viewed as a potentially dangerous liability while she is still struggling to gain control over them. Daisy turns to the Inhumans to find a new sense of belonging as well as an understanding of her powers, only to find herself with divided loyalties when her vengeful Inhuman mother tries to sell her on a war against S.H.I.E.L.D. In the end, Daisy sides with S.H.I.E.L.D., but not without a great sense of loss and regret for what might have been in regards to her all-too-brief time with her mother. Daisy comes away with a desire to use the powers of S.H.I.E.L.D. to find, train and protect other Inhumans; the conflicts that desire causes within both groups becomes one of the driving forces of the series. Literally everything that follows ties into this uneasy alliance, brokered by a driven and determined Daisy, which devolves into conflict when the ancient Inhuman Hive shows up with the goal of coercing other Inhumans to help him conquer humanity.

The arrival of Hive subjects Daisy to a horrific brainwashing experience that turns her against S.H.I.E.L.D. and makes her content to follow Hive’s every order — even if it meant nearly killing her old partner, Mack. The storyline is eerily reminiscent of Jessica Jones’ experiences at the hands of Kilgrave, but without the overt references to rape — though, watching Daisy contently nestle her head on Hive’s shoulder while he plots the downfall of humanity is enough to send shivers down one’s spine. Even after being cured of Hive’s brainwashing, Daisy suffers from aftereffects similar to a drug withdrawal, while simultaneously berating herself viciously for having put her team in danger. Her sense of personal responsibility for actions she committed without having any control over them is heartbreaking, to the point that it would verge on melodramatic if Bennet was not such a capable actress; like the character she portrays, she has definitely developed better control over her abilities over time. By the end of the finale, Daisy abandons S.H.I.E.L.D.– but, it’s not all bad. She returns to a state of isolation and mistrust similar to the one we first found her in, but there’s one big difference: now she knows who she is. That identity as an Inhuman, and the desire to use her powers to help others and to atone for her misdeed while under Hive’s control, is what drives her forward. Daisy might be a fugitive from justice, but in the moment that the woman who newspaper clippings refer to as Quake uses her powers to escape S.H.I.E.L.D., hot on their former agent’s tail, she truly comes into her own as a superheroine.

The character of Daisy is not perfect; some think that others save her too frequently, though I think she returns the favor just as often. Nor is her storyline terribly revolutionary; struggles of identity and the need to reconcile both the heroic and non-heroic sides of one’s personality are not uncommon in superhero stories. What makes Daisy special among superheroes is that she embodies all of these tropes as the centerpiece of a network television series — and is also a woman. Not only that, she is a mixed-race woman — and not a token one, but one surrounded by other women, of various ages, races and backgrounds. In the Marvel movies, there are hardly ever enough women to have a conversation together, while on S.H.I.E.L.D. the women converse regularly, and about all sorts of topics unrelated to men. They mentor each other and challenge each other. They frequently are the ones giving the orders (and defying them) and are respected by their peers. None of these things should be extraordinary any more — and yet, they still are. Dee Hogan sums up S.H.I.E.L.D.’s sense of equality pretty well in this description of a scene in the season three finale for The Mary Sue:

“During this stretch, the ladies to do [sic] a whole lotta butt-saving without having to die in the process, which helps maintain gender parity in terms of who saves whom this week while thankfully not adding to the year’s Dead Female Character tally.”

What can Marvel’s movies learn from S.H.I.E.L.D.’s small-screen superheroines? Why do the films, as enjoyable as I find them to be, always tend to disappoint in their depiction of women, and how can they improve? Representation at the highest levels definitely helps — co-showrunner Maurissa Tancharoen is an Asian-American woman, and Marvel’s other women-centric series, Jessica Jones and the dearly departed Marvel’s Agent Carter, had women literally running the show. It might seem like a deceptively easy solution, but it’s one that DC, at least, has taken to heart in giving Monster’s Patty Jenkins the reins on the much-anticipated Wonder Woman. One hopes that the perpetually-delayed Captain Marvel, adapted from Kelly Sue DeConnick’s iteration of the comics by Guardians of the Galaxy’s Nicole Perlman and Inside Out’s Meg LeFauve, will fill some of the void (if it ever makes it to the multiplex). Until then, I’ll continue keeping company with Daisy Johnson, superheroine of S.H.I.E.L.D.

Lee Jutton has directed short films starring a killer toaster, a killer Christmas tree, and a not-killer leopard. She previously reviewed new DVD and theatrical releases as a staff writer for Just Press Play. You can follow her on Medium for more film reviews and on Twitter for an excessive amount of opinions on German soccer.