TV Drama – Page 9 – Bitch Flicks

‘The 100’: Not as Bad as You Would Think

The acting is poor, the dialogue is terrible, and the production values are low, but the first season of ‘The 100’ has its moments, and most of them are pretty effing dark.

Written by Katherine Murray.

The acting is poor, the dialogue is terrible, and the production values are low, but the first season of The 100 has its moments, and most of them are pretty effing dark.

With the finale airing tonight, the CW is set to wrap up the first season of its post-apocalyptic YA series, The 100 . Based on a novel of the same name, the show takes place in the future, where humanity has been forced to live on space stations after destroying the Earth. Almost a century after the exodus, the crew of the last remaining station, The Ark, discovers that life support is failing and decides to send a team of one hundred twenty-something models teenage prisoners back to the planet, to determine whether it’s fit for colonization. Unfortunately, the prisoners immediately lose contact with the space station, leading each group to believe that it is alone, facing difficult choices about its survival.

The main character on the ground is Clarke, a political prisoner who’s basically the same serious, hyper-competent seventeen-year-old girl who stars in all post-apocalyptic YA fiction. Clarke knows a little bit about medicine, which makes her valuable to the group, but her main job is being right all the time and lecturing the others about why they are wrong. The group’s de-facto leader is an older boy named Bellamy, who snuck onto the transport ship because his sister was on board, and a lot of the tension early on comes from Clarke thinking the group should do one thing, and Bellamy thinking they should do something else.

The story on the space station is anchored by Clarke’s mother, Abby, who’s a doctor and sits on the governing council (mirroring Clarke almost exactly, but in a world of adults, rather than teenagers). Abby believes that Earth is habitable and keeps pushing for a wait-and-see approach, while other councillors want to start culling the population in order to extend life support. Her main adversary is the Vice Chancellor, Marcus, who argues (pretty persuasively) that, if Abby is wrong, then, the longer they wait, the more people will have to die.

There are thirteen episodes in the season, including tonight’s finale, and the premiere episode is rough. Rough, like it’s kind of painful to watch, and you think, “This is the worst show that I’ve ever seen.” The tone is all over the place, the actors look and sound like they feel really awkward, everything looks cheap, and the story is silly. The second episode, in all honesty, isn’t much better.

But, then the third episode happens and, it’s not that the show becomes good, but it becomes about a million percent better than it was, and it keeps it keeps improving from there.

The third episode of The 100, “Earth Kills,” does two important things. The first is that it displays honest emotion. Clarke’s backstory is that her father was the engineer who discovered the life support system was failing, and he was executed for trying to warn the population (Clarke was in solitary because she knew the secret). Her best friend, and the Chancellor’s son, Wells, is also on Earth with her, but they’re not really friends anymore because he’s the one who ratted her father out after she told him the plan. We know this already, but most of “Earth Kills” is taken up with flashbacks that dramatize these events in a much more visceral way. We see Clarke watching as her father gets sucked into space (the preferred method of execution on The Ark), and it’s horrible. It completely explains why she’s so mad at Wells and why everyone else who’s had a loved-one sucked out the airlock hates Wells’ father for pushing the button.

The second important thing “Earth Kills” does is end with a shocking, gruesome, grimdark twist that makes sense, given the emotional journey we’ve been on, but also establishes the tone of the show much more clearly. Because, despite the wacky hijinks in the first couple of episodes, The 100, once it gets going, is surprisingly dark for a network TV show.

I mean, William Golding understood in 1954 that, if a bunch of kids built a society, it wouldn’t be all bonfires and sparkly butterflies — I have no grounds to be surprised. Still, after the ridiculousness that was a Jaws-attack by a giant, invisible water snake in episode one (a scene that ends with everyone having a chuckle about it), I was not prepared for episode three, or episode five, or any episode where the series actually followed through on a threat and had something terrible happen.

It’s not that I think being shocking, and making your show a big downer automatically means that it’s good – in fact, I would still hesitate to say that The 100 ever actually gets good – but, The Hunger Games, and second-wave sci-fi, and the generally dark as hell turn that TV has taken in the last few years, have taught us that moral complexity requires a certain engagement with unpleasant content. I think we also may have reached the tipping point where it’s now a “safe” decision to include that in your show – where even a drama for the CW, staring insanely good-looking people who want to hook up, needs some violence, death, and torture, just to stay relevant.

I’m not being judgemental – I enjoyed this show a lot more, once it turned serious and dark. I’m just saying, I notice that a lot of pop culture is tilting that way, and I wonder what it means.

Setting aside the tone for a second, some other good things happen once the series gets going. To start with, the actors relax more into their roles. They forget to be embarrassed and, as they take themselves more seriously as penal colonists on a strange planet, it’s easier to suspend your disbelief. It’s also easier because the costuming and makeup departments are so good at making everyone look dirty.

You can tell that the series is based on a book, because there seems to be a plan as the action moves forward. The 100 throws a lot of twists and cliff-hangers our way – just as one problem is solved, it turns out there’s another – but, unlike other shows, where it feels like the writers are just trying things out, the plot in The 100 progresses more organically. One thing leads to another, and the stakes raise each time, building to the climax.

The characters are also allowed to disagree and still be likable. At the outset, it looks like Marcus is evil, but, once we get to know him, we see that, like everyone else, he’s trying to make good decisions in a bad situation. Similarly, we’re invited to like both Bellamy and Clarke, even though they often disagree with each other, and sometimes make the wrong move.

And, while this isn’t the first show I would point to for awesome portrayals of women, it does better than you’d expect.

Even though Clarke is ripped straight from the pages of every YA novel ever, she’s a pretty decent heroine, and it’s nice that she and Abby serve as our entry points into this world. Whether or not we identify with Clarke, most of the major events on the ground are filtered through her point of view – she’s involved in all the major missions, she has a really loud opinion about everything, and we learn about this world and its characters at roughly the same pace she does. While she’s initially presented to us as an idealist (and a kind of a self-righteous one, at that), it’s interesting to see how she reacts as she’s forced to solve problems with no good solution.

There’s also a secondary character named Raven who’s introduced to us first as a mechanic, and only secondly as somebody’s girlfriend. Even though there’s some triangle drama happening with the character, the most important thing about Raven is that she’s smart and she knows how to build stuff. There’s even a nice scene where one of the boys tells her that they need her around for that reason. One of the most interesting relationships on the show is also between Raven and Abby, as they scheme together aboard The Ark.

On the flipside, there’s another character who’s more problematic.

Bellamy’s sister, Octavia, is initially presented as The Sexy One – an angry, outspoken, promiscuous girl who’s competing with Clarke for the affections of a boring boy named Finn. The first episode has this eye-rollingly bad scene where she gets undressed in front of everyone while they stare at her; in the second episode, she’s macking on three different dudes, partly just to rebel against Bellamy.

After the first couple of episodes, though, her personality does a 180, and she becomes Saint Octavia, a gentle and innocent soul, who’s annoying in a wholly different way. Saint Octavia literally trips over her own feet, at one point, and knocks herself out, necessitating a daring rescue. She also falls in love with a man who kidnaps her and chains her up in a cave. (Then she apologizes to him for freaking out when he chained her up in a cave – I’m not making this up).

Whereas the other characters are more active, the main point of Octavia is how other people feel about her – whether or not they’re attracted to her, how Bellamy structures his life to protect her, etc. In fact, the whole reason she’s named Octavia in the first place is because of how Bellamy relates to her – when she was born, he named her Octavia because Octavia was the Emperor’s sister, just as she is his.

Either version of Octavia is hard to take, but she’s an anomaly on a show that’s otherwise pretty balanced when it comes to gender. The characters who drive the action are just as likely to be male or female, and the show passes the Bechdel test pretty often, considering that it’s pre-occupied with heterosexual dating relationships.

If I had an award for “most improved show,” I think The 100 would win it. Most sci-fi series take a while to figure out what they’re trying to be, but the contrast between the first two episodes of The 100 and the rest of the season is pretty extreme. I’m actually excited to see the finale, and, since it’s already been picked up for a second season, I’m planning to tune in again.

Programming note to my fellow Canadians: Netflix Canada streams The 100 the day after it airs in the States.

Katherine Murray is a Toronto-based writer who yells about movies and TV on her blog.

Aria and Ezra’s Problematic Relationship on ‘Pretty Little Liars’

Spoiler Warning

The relationsip between Aria and Ezra is established in the pilot episode of Pretty Little Liars. At the beginning, I think the relationship very much represents the ultimate realization of the school girl fantasy that the older guy/teacher/pop-star that you are hopelessly crushing on will see you. Not just notice that you exist but see you for who you really are. Someone who is “different” from all those other girls, someone who is not just a child but a whole person.

While Spencer considers herself to be the most mature of the Liars, it is Aria’s relationship that is the least like most high school relationships. She and Ezra at times behave like a young married couple. She makes him tea before he goes to work, and they stay in and watch classic movies. Their problems tend to be driven by external factors, Ezra’s mother wanting him to make an appropriate match, Ezra finding out he has a child. these are challenges that we expect to see in a relationship between people in their 20s and of course Ezra IS in his 20s.

Initially their story follows a fairly well-trodden arc when it comes to older-guy younger-girl relationships. They run into each other at a cafe and get to talking. Ezra assumes she is in college and she does nothing to dissuade those assumptions. They end up kissing in a toilet. Later on in that same episode Ezra finds out pretty abruptly that Aria is only 16 when he turns out to be teaching her English class. He makes out that he wants to do the right thing and says they can’t see each other anymore. She claims that they have a special connection and is deeply disappointing with his decisions. However he reneges when Aria is sad and kisses her deeply, re-establishing their relationship.

Generally Ezra’s interest in Aria is presented as fairly unproblematic. Aria’s parents react really badly initially, and they are both conscious that if the truth comes out the consequences could be dire. A fact that doesn’t come up till season four when Ezra returns to teach at Rosewood, is that in Pennsylvania where the show is set, while the age of consent is technically 16 if the minor is under the age of 18, the adult can be charged with “Corruption of a Minor,” a misdemeanor offence, and if the adult is in a position of power (teacher, clergy, or police for example) it is a felony.

In one scene Aria imagines what would happen if A leaked evidence of the relationship to the school administration and the end result is that Ezra is arrested and ends up in jail. However these appear to be minor intrusions into their happy life of domestic bliss. Under pressure from their daughter, Aria’s parents become tacitly permissive of the relationship and they manage to avoid any problems with the school administration despite sometimes not being very circumspect on the school grounds. Ezra considers it prudent to leave his position at Rosewood High and moves on to teaching at the local college. He ends up getting fired from there in a last ditch endeavor by Aria’s father to get him to stop seeing his daughter.

The relationship lives in this sort of netherworld where it is both seen as illicit but also fundamentally acceptable because they are in love with each other and that has to mean something. While Aria’s parents react badly the question of why Ezra, a college-educated man in his 20s is attracted to and in love with Aria, a 16-year-old high school girl, the power differential between them is never ever addressed. The subtext that we are meant to swallow is that it is because Aria is exceptional, she is mature and amazing. One of the problems with this though, is that this perception of Aria doesn’t really jive with the many poor decisions she makes on the show that are pretty understandable in a teenage girl.

One big problem with how this relationship is portrayed, especially its beginnings, is that it feeds into the mythology that teenage girls are temptresses who seek out older men and seduce them, applying pressure until these helpless men give in against their better judgement. This mythology has real world implications. A tragic example of this is the case of Stacey Dean Rambold, who was convicted with raping one of his 14-year-old students repeatedly but only given a 30-day sentence because he believed that she was “older than her chronological age” and was “as much in control of the situation” as the man who raped her. The judge has since been censured but, this should never have happened in the first place. Rambold’s victim has since committed suicide in the aftermath of the case.

One could argue that for much of their relationship Ezra is not actually Aria’s teacher; they didn’t meet in that context and so the power differential is not really an issue. I do not believe that large gaps in relationships are intrinsically negative, so if you take the teacher part out of the equation does that make it less problematic? I’m not sure. I don’t want to deny Aria’s agency as a young woman but I still think we would have to question why Ezra would want to have a relationship with someone so young, It would be a little different if he was a 35-year-old interested in a 23-year-old because adolescence is a very difficult time.

The whole thing is made very (even more?) creepy in season four when it is revealed to us that Ezra knew who Aria was from the very beginning. He was aware of her age, he was aware that she was a student at the high school he was going to teach at, and he was aware of her relationship with Alison. So Ezra knowingly committed a felony in order to gain insight into Alison and her friends for his book – at least this is what he claims. He is effectively a stalker who manages to convince Aria that they have a very special relationship. He uses his prior knowledge of her to manipulate her. This pretty much sinks the final nail into the coffin on this relationship with me. I think overall I come down on the side that the Aria/Ezra relationship is highly problematic and I am interested to see how the show goes on to handle these new revelations about him.

Gaayathri Nair is currently living and writing in Auckland, New Zealand. You can find more of her work at her blog A Human Story and tweet her @A_Gaayathri.

‘Shameless’: The Most Dramatic Comedy This Season

‘Shameless,’ Showtime’s irreverent story of working-class hardship, has re-categorized itself as a comedy for awards season. That’s a strange choice when you consider that series star, Emmy Rossum, has spent the whole season knocking it out of the park in what is clearly a dramatic role, and clearly the show’s most serious attempt to engage with its subject matter.

Written by Katherine Murray.

Shameless, Showtime’s irreverent story of working-class hardship, has re-categorized itself as a comedy for awards season. That’s a strange choice when you consider that series star, Emmy Rossum, has spent the whole season knocking it out of the park in what is clearly a dramatic role, and clearly the show’s most serious attempt to engage with its subject matter.

Shameless, a remake of the UK series of the same name, has never been the kind of show that could go toe to toe with the Breaking Bads of the world. It has an uneven tone that often seems to make light of the class-based difficulties its characters face, and a sense of humour that slips over the line from “borderline offensive” to “actually, for real, offensive” at times. It’s never been entirely clear whether the series is supposed to be grounded in the real world, or take place in a hyper-reality where actions have no consequences and the characters are supposed to be satirical. The show’s dramatic plot lines lean toward the former and its comedic plot lines lean toward the latter (maybe because there’s nothing particularly funny about being poor in the real world).

The series follows the adventures of the Gallagher family–six children, and their drunken, absentee father, Frank. The eldest Gallagher child (and the only one over the age of majority at the series’ inception) is Emmy Rossum’s character, Fiona, who more or less serves as the moral center of the show.

Over the first three seasons, we watch Fiona struggle to care for her siblings while working odd jobs and dating men who turn out to be bad for her. Every time Fiona tries to better her life, the family drags her back down either through sabotage or (more usually) through requiring things from her that aren’t compatible with what she wants. Through all of these setbacks–and despite the occasional outburst–Fiona, like all of the Gallagher children, displays an almost super-human resilience. Despite being abandoned by her parents and dropping out of high school to raise five children on her own, despite shuffling from low-wage job to low-wage job and scrounging for money for food, despite being repeatedly cheated out of even the smallest opportunities for happiness, Fiona stays positive, optimistic, determined, and focused on doing for everyone else, when no one is doing for her.

It’s the kind of chipper, poor-but-happy attitude the show sometimes displays, which undercuts the seriousness of the situation the characters find themselves in. Events that would scar you for life, in the real world, become funny anecdotes and colourful stories about triumphing over adversity. You might get the impression, watching this show, that being poor is a great adventure that doesn’t hurt anyone’s chances to lead a fulfilling life.

And then season four happens. Wonderful, dramatic, thoughtful season four, which we are now calling a “comedy.”

In this “comedy,” Fiona finally has a stable middle-class office job. She’s a rising star in the sales department, and she has a comprehensive benefits plan that covers all of her dependents. She’s dating her boss, which isn’t great, but he’s a stable, emotionally healthy man who treats her with respect and encourages her instead of dragging her down. With no one trying to sabotage her, Fiona decides to sabotage herself.

Over the course of this season (the last episode airs this week), Fiona torches her relationship, torches her career, and–because that’s not enough–ends up with a felony drug conviction that sends her to prison, passing all of her responsibility onto her next oldest sibling, Lip.

What makes this different from previous seasons is that the story line is played completely straight. Although there’s an element of humour in the earlier episodes, Fiona’s arrest turns this into a Big Deal, and the scenes of her arrest, trial, parole, and incarceration are treated very seriously. They’re much darker than similar scenes on, for example, Orange is the New Black (which is more legitimately classified as a comedy due to its tone), and the show engages in a fairly downbeat explanation of how things ended up this way.

Fiona is a product of the environment she grew up in, and her attempts at mobility are almost pre-destined to fail. At one point, she explains that she never felt like she deserved to have a good job or a stable relationship, and she wanted to prove she was right by destroying it. The values she holds as a working class woman also play a role–she might have been able to get a better deal with the prosecutor if she had sold out the middle-class man who gave her the drugs; she didn’t, because it was unthinkable to her to be a rat.

The penultimate episode invites us, as well, to see the connection between Frank’s poor parenting and the fate of his eldest child, essentially forced into the role of parent during her own childhood. She’s self-destructing the same way her parents did and, in a world of such limited options, when so much pressure has been applied to her, it’s hard to imagine that this wouldn’t have happened someday.

The show also takes a very serious attitude to the way these events affect Lip. The first in his family to go to college, he–like Fiona–struggles with fitting into middle-class culture, and initially tries to sabotage himself by withdrawing. Just as he seems like he’s making progress, he’s forced into Fiona’s role as head (and moral center) of the family, and he looks at her with the same hatred and sense of betrayal that they’ve both directed at Frank.

This is just one of several serious, dramatic story lines this season, but it lends the show a sense of gravity and relevance that it hasn’t always had. It’s also given Emmy Rossum a chance to demonstrate what an outstanding performer she actually is–she’s come a long way from staring into the middle distance while a guy in a mask swarms around her. In fact, I might have liked to see her compete as an actress in a drama series during awards season–I think she might have wormed her way into a nomination, this time.

Alas, this is not the world we live in. In probably the least funny season of Shameless ever, and the season that treated the characters’ situation with the greatest respect, and the season that finally gave the leading actress a meaty, dramatic role to sink her teeth into–one in which, dare I say it, she takes off her clothes to a little more purpose–it’s a comedy. OK, then.

Katherine Murray is a Toronto-based writer who yells about movies and TV on her blog.

In Honor of ‘Veronica Mars’: A Spotlight on Father-Daughter Relationships

Mainly though, the movie’s release has reminded us of all the supposedly simple and universal the show portrayed so well, the things that shouldn’t be notable in today’s movies and TV, but somehow are: a platonic male-female relationship, a strong friendship between teen girls who never came to blows over looks or boys, a willingness to hold its heroine accountable for her flaws, and above all, an amazing father-daughter relationship.

Frequently repeated lines:
Keith Mars: Hey…who’s your daddy?
Veronica Mars: I hate it when you say that

There was a lot of talk about Veronica Mars this week.

If you’re anything like me, you’ve read countless tributes. 1000 words here, 500 there on the class wars , miscarriages of justice and police corruption on the show that got us talking, agonizing and gleefully applying story lines to our own political climate. Tumblr raves praising the series for taking its audience seriously: delivering compelling season-long mysteries as well as episodic ones, developing character far beyond labels of good and bad, rich and poor, and committing to a dark, noir tone not often seen on a teen drama. As explored elsewhere on Bitch Flicks, Veronica Mars was also unprecedented for putting a rape survivor at the centre of a high school-set series.

Mainly though, the movie’s release has reminded us of all the supposedly simple and universal things the show portrayed so well, the things that shouldn’t be notable in today’s movies and TV, but somehow are: a platonic male-female relationship, a strong friendship between teen girls who never came to blows over looks or boys, a willingness to hold its heroine accountable for her flaws, and above all, an amazing father-daughter relationship.

No matter what, Keith will always support Veronica

Sadly neglected in the movie, where Keith Mars (Enrico Colantoni) stepped in periodically to guide Veronica (Kristen Bell) between set pieces, their relationship was notable for the great deal of understanding within it. Throughout the series, Keith was a great friend to trade sarcasm and snark with, a colleague to discuss investigations with, a partner to help make major life decisions, but never forgot his role as a parent. Even when it led to fights and weeks of radio-silence, Keith was capable of stepping out of his friend role to dish out groundings, forbid self-destructive and often criminal antics, and (attempt to) quash romantic and platonic relationships he believed capable of robbing his bright, shining daughter of her light. He always respected Veronica and her interests, independence and what’s more, genuinely liked and appreciated her as a person. Back in season one, the depth of Keith’s unconditional love was clear when we learned he had been unsure whether Veronica was biological daughter for quite some time though never let the uncertainty color his feelings for her.

It bears repeating that nuanced, complicated and respectful relationships between fathers and daughters are disturbingly rare on our screens these days. As most of us know from our everyday lives, there’s no shortage of great stories within the father-daughter (or father figure-daughter) dynamic.

Sure mother-daughter stories are important too and there are so many movies, so many TV shows that have given us mother-daughter relationships to cherish. And in every variation: jealously of the daughter’s youth coming from the mother, jealously of her mother’s independence from the daughter, disturbing romantic rivalry, close friendship that borders on symbiosis, a mother’s disappointment that her daughter is not a mini-version of herself and the mother who worried that her daughter will make the same mistakes she did (Lauren Graham seems to have made a cottage industry out of these roles in Gilmore Girls and Parenthood), and many more. You name a variation and someone’s made something about it.

All the talk about the Veronica Mars Movie got me thinking about the kind of story lines we generally see between fathers and daughters. The general population of TV dads are bumbling idiots, who don’t know their kid’s bedtimes or whether or not to give them sugary snacks. As a group, they lag behind TV mothers, who are most often called upon to play bad-cop against the over-grown man-children they married.

Fatherhood in movies brings to mind disapproving curmudgeons, gruff off-duty cops wielding a shot gun on their daughter’s dates or an absence commonly used as a ham-fisted explanation of why the female character likes older men or works as a stripper. In a growing sub-genre of action movies, it falls to a father to get revenge for his daughter’s rape or murder or try to save her (Taken, The Limey, Traffic ). 2010’s Winter’s Bone was notable for reversing this common narrative.

A young woman’s relationship with her father is rarely the focus of a narrative unless the mother is out of the picture. Usually she’s been killed off, sometimes she left the family or is somehow ill, often she chose to focus on work over family (a plot line used to make a negative point about women in the workforce).

It seems like his role is only allowed to be prominent in his daughter’s life if he is the sole parent, he can shape her only if there are no other options. Most often the single father as a character is used to explain why the female lead is a tomboy or to delve into his discomfort addressing the sex talk and menstruation. As a character, it’s unusual for the married father to do the heavy lifting or even do his share in an equal partnership. Sadly these story lines may mirror mainstream ideals of real life, where a man taking care of his children or showing an interest in his daughters is seen as effeminate or labelled as “Mr. Mom”.

Thinking about this, I made a list of notable and interesting father-daughter relationships, presented here in no particular order. Got any additions to the list? Let me know in the comments.

Scout and Atticus Finch, To Kill a Mockingbird: Atticus Finch (Gregory Peck) is really a prince among fathers. Determined to teach his children to be good citizens who believe in fair treatment for all and are willing to take a stand for it, Atticus provides a great example. As a father to Scout (Mary Badham), he respects her tomboy identity and tries hard to allow her to have a childhood fun of innocent games, in the midst of important lessons. But he knows the way to raise her right is not shield her from tragedy and allow her to be naive about the injustice in the world. Notably for the time period, he doesn’t hold Scout and his son Jem to separate standards or unduly protect Scout as a member of the ‘weaker sex’. He holds both his children to a high standard and expects them use what they have learned in the adult world.

Howard and Samantha Newly, Samantha Who: In a twist on a common rift between fathers and daughters, Howard (Kevin Dunn) explains to an adult amnesiac Samantha (Christina Applegate), that they stopped being close when she hit puberty and stopped being the bright eyed little girl who followed him around and wanted to inherit his chicken farm one day. Unfortunately for Howard, the changes in Samantha went further than a concern for boys and fashion and she became a truly vile person, attempting to humiliate her parents at every opportunity. Rebuilding her life and trying to becoming a better person, Samantha must make amends with her father and gradually teach him to trust her again.

Richard and Olive Hoover, Little Miss Sunshine: Though he’s striving to be a motivational speaker, Richard (Greg Kinnear)’s greatest challenge may be supporting his seven-year old daughter, Olive (Abigail Breslin), who wants nothing more than to be a beauty queen. Like every father, he wants to believe his daughter is the most beautiful little girl out there, but the very fact of a beauty pageant makes it clear to him that she can’t compete and he’s certain she will be humiliated. But Olive has a trick up her sleeve, a risqué dance performance and the uproar caused by it, leads Richard to abandon his worries and join her on stage, preventing official from stopping her. Richard truly becomes a supportive father, after, when instead of lecturing Olive, he tells her how proud her late grandfather would be of her.

Tony and Meadow Soprano, The Sopranos: Tony (James Gandolfini)’s relationship with his daughter is complex: on one hand, she’s his smartest, most hard-working child, the one who reminds him of all the things he likes about himself, but on the other, she’s the girl. In the world of old-fashioned, frequently misogynistic values Tony inhabits, this means she’s always going to be second best and must be kept virginal. Like other fathers with Tony’s value system, protecting his daughter drives him to do despicable things, like threatening her half jewish, half black boyfriend. But the degree to which Tony values Meadow (Jamie-Lynn Sigler) and sees her as his great hope for a legacy (he dreams of her becoming a pediatrician), is one of the areas where he chafes against his mob lifestyle throughout the course of the series.

Mel and Cher Horowitz, Clueless: As a modern day update of Jane Austen’s Emma, Beverly Hills schoolgirl Cher (Alicia Silverstone) plays nursemaid to her father (Dan Hedaya), reminding him of his high cholesterol, planning his wardrobe and his birthday parties. A successful litigator, he scares and intimidates nearly everyone he comes into contact with, except Cher, who has learned to use negotiation tactics against him and usually gets her way. As no mention is made of Cher’s college prospects or the value she personally sees in good marks, her efforts to raise her grades seem intended to make him proud of her, something she values above all else.

Matt and Alex and Scottie King, The Descendants: It takes an accident that leaves Elizabeth, his wife, comatose to bring Matt (George Clooney) together with his daughters. Alex (Shailene Woodley), his elder daughter is a rebellious teenager that he was previously unable to understand, while Scottie (Amara Miller) behaves inappropriately with other children. The real story of the movie, is Matt’s connection to Alex which strengths through the tragedy as he comes to respect his daughter and she her as a person independent from him. In the search for Elizabeth’s lover, Alex reveals her ingenuity and her continuing loyalty to him even when their bond was troubled. Ultimately restructuring their family as a three-person unit, the King’s learn to rely on each other and find solace even in the hardest times.

Mac and Juno MacGuff, Juno: Mac (J.K. Simmons) supports Juno (Ellen Page) through two adult situations she is in no way prepared for: having a baby and falling in love. He’s always there for her and his wise, though ornery talks help her to work towards mature decisions and provide turning points for her character. He has a sense of humor about everything that’s happening, something he’s clearly passed down to his daughter and provides just the right balm to soothe, (though realistically not eliminate) her pain.

Homer and Lisa Simpson, The Simpsons: Homer (Dan Castellaneta)’s struggles to connect with Lisa (Yeardley Smith), lead to some of the most heart-warming episodes of the series. Homer is cartoonishly dumb even for a cartoon and Lisa’s genius IQ and sophisticated interests make her completely alien to him. On several occasions he breaks his back to make her dreams come true, notably taking a demeaning second job to get her the pony of a little girl’s dream. When he becomes temporarily intelligent after removing a crayon from his brain, Homer is able to see what Lisa’s life is like and comes to respect her strength in a way that was impossible before. Likewise, in each Homer-Lisa episode, Lisa gains a new appreciation of the sacrifices Homer makes for her happiness. However, because of the show’s format, any progress Homer and Lisa make understanding each other, resets by the end of the episode.

Clancy and George Lass, Dead Like Me: It is only after her death that grim reaper George (Ellen Muth) comes to understand her father, a man she hasn’t given a lot of thought to since she was a child. Sitting in on the poetry class he teaches, she comes to understand him as a person and to identify with him. Clancy (Greg Kean) is never shown as a great dad, already introverted to a fault, his grief over George’s death leads him to shut everyone out and ultimately, he has an affair and leaves his wife and surviving daughter. But George’s glimpse of him as an imperfect person, who loved her very much but had no idea how to show it, mirrors the realizations many of us have about our parents at some point as we grow up.

Jack and Andie Walsh, Pretty in Pink: To a teenager’s mind, anything wrong in her life her parents’ fault. As the chief conflict in Pretty In Pink is Andie (Molly Ringwald)’s status as a girl from “the wrong side of the tracks”, it’d be easy for her to see her underemployed father as a one-dimensional villain, keeping her from a better life. But through a painful confrontation scene, it becomes clear that Jack (Harry Dean Stanton) is still depressed about Andie’s mother leaving them and is so broken he is unable to move on and give his daughter what she needs. So far in her life, Andie has been the more mature of the pair, the one who’s forced to take care of him. It’s a difficult situation, but it’s an honest one and Jack and Andie’s conversation gives hope that things might get a least a bit better in the end. As Andie prepares her new look for prom, attempting to change her life, it’s clear Jack has also changed, symbolically moving on from his wife by putting her picture in a drawer.

More fathers and daughters:
Harold and Lindsay Weir, Freaks and Geeks
Sam Sotto and Carol Solomon, In A World…
Jake and Daria Morgendorffer, Daria
Damon and Mindy Macready, Kick-Ass
George and Tessa Altman, Suburgatory
Murray and Vivian Abromowitz, Slums of Beverly Hills
Disney Movies: Fa Zhou and Fa Mulan in Mulan, Maurice and Belle in Beauty and the Beast, King Triton and Ariel in The Little Mermaid

Also on Bitch Flicks: A Long Time Ago, We Used to be Friends: The Veronica Mars Movie, The Relationships of Veronica Mars

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Elizabeth Kiy is a Canadian writer and freelance journalist living in Toronto, Ontario. She recently graduated from Carleton University where she majored in journalism and minored in film.

Marshmallows and Promises: ‘Veronica Mars’ and the Hard-Boiled Heroes of Neptune

The ‘Veronica Mars’ movie delivers on many of the promises made to fans of the TV series, but less so on the promises of the hard-boiled detective story at its core.

Written by Katherine Murray

The Veronica Mars movie delivers on many of the promises made to fans of the TV series, but less so on the promises of the hard-boiled detective story at its core.

Warning: This review contains partial spoilers for both the movie and the TV show.

When Veronica Mars premiered in 2004, the conceit of the series was simple – it was a classic, hard-boiled detective story, moved to a high school setting, where the role of the cynical, world-weary gumshoe was played by a cute teenage girl. What made the series stand out is that, rather than treating the premise as a joke, the writers took it completely seriously and used the conventions of the genre to build a topical, neo-noir world in which the corruption of the justice system comes through in its treatment of women and people of colour, and class struggle comes through in bullying that begins in the schoolyard.

Veronica is introduced to us as a rape survivor whose claims were never investigated by the police, which goes a long way toward explaining her prickly demeanour and suspicion toward the authorities. Her father, Keith Mars, is a P.I. who lost his position as Sheriff after accusing the town’s most powerful man of a crime. Together, they spend most of the first season investigating the murder of Veronica’s best friend, Lily Kane – a case that reveals the ways that the wealthy have tried to conceal the truth. When Lily’s killer is eventually caught and sent to trial, he’s found Not Guilty, in part because the jury is convinced not to believe Veronica’s testimony for reasons of suspected promiscuity. It’s clear that the only kind of justice in Chinatown Neptune is the justice you make for yourself, and the show successfully mixes the tropes of the hard-boiled detective with depictions of very real social and political injustice to create a story that resonates.

In the second season, Veronica investigates a bus crash and uncovers an even deeper spread of corruption, culminating in the discovery that the mayor is a pedophile, and Veronica’s rapist is one of the boys he molested. Families that appear to be normal and wholesome are revealed as harbouring child abuse, and Veronica loses the person she loves and the scholarship that would have let her go to Stanford as the price for trying to do the right thing.

The third season drops the plot a little, but ends on a suitably downtrodden, hard-boiled note – Keith, who regained his position as Sheriff, is about to be kicked out of office again, and Veronica returns to her status as a social pariah after some rich boys make and distribute a sex tape of her. Despite trying, for three years, to help Neptune’s underclass find justice, the Mars family is back where it started, and the powerful forces against them are still gaining strength.

The movie checks in with Veronica nine years later and, while it does fans (who funded it through Kickstarter) a solid by giving them a chance to reconnect with the characters and tying up loose ends, Veronica Mars the movie is considerably less interested in all of this grimdark sociology stuff.

It turns out that Veronica walked away from the detective business after the series ended and started a new, normal life, attending law school, and moving in with her bland third season boyfriend, Piz. When she gets a call from her more exciting ex, Logan Echolls, she does what we want her to do – she throws Piz and her burgeoning career as a lawyer away and returns to the seedy underworld of Neptune to continue the doomed fight for justice as a P.I. The voiceover frames this as an addiction – to Logan (who has lost all of the personality traits that made him addictive and dangerous in the TV show) and to the adrenaline rush of living in the gray zone between light and dark. There’s a subtext, though, in which this is also a moral decision – Veronica was about to “escape” from Neptune at the price of working for the very, very rich, who’re holding everyone down; when she sees the corruption in Neptune’s police force, she realizes that this is where the battle’s being fought and, therefore, where she needs to stay.

The A-plot of the story concerns Veronica trying to solve a murder for Logan, which reconnects her both with her passion for him and her passion for solving crimes. The B-plot, though, is where the hard-boiled detective story lives, and it’s living on life support – barely hanging in there from beginning to end.

In the B-plot, the police force of Neptune has become even more blatantly (and ham-fistedly) corrupt than before. They’re conducting stop and frisk searches, planting evidence, and making wrongful arrests. One of the best and most topical scenes in the film occurs when Keith and Veronica see the police Taser a teenage boy and Keith gets out of his car to make sure they know that he’s filming it all on his phone. This is how the little people fight back in 2014, and it’s a moment that resonates both with contemporary culture and with the hard-boiled aesthetic of the series.

Veronica’s sometime-friend, Weevil, is later shot and booked for a crime on false evidence, after he stops to help someone in trouble. In the TV series, Weevil was Veronica’s primary criminal contact – a gang leader with a conscience who carried out a violent form of justice for the underclass. He left the gang when they lost the mission, but ended up in jail. When the movie checks in with him, we learn that, like Veronica, he’s been a law-abiding citizen for years, with a job, and a family – carefully building a life for himself that distances him from his origins. After the events of the film, the last we see of Weevil is that he’s gone back to the gang. Like Veronica, he puts on his old costume and gives up the idea of walking away.

That story about how Neptune is losing the war against corruption, and how its heroes are drawn back to the darkness to fight it? That story that engages with the genre concerns of the series and invigorates them by making them relevant and part of a morally complex world? That should have been the A-story.

What we get instead, for most of the film, is a throwback to Veronica’s high school days (framed by her ten-year reunion). The mystery concerns her wealthier classmates (some of whom we know and some of whom we don’t) and the discovery of a crime that may have been committed in their youth. It’s totally disconnected from the police corruption story and mostly serves as an excuse to get the band back together, leading to scenes like Veronica punching out one of the high school mean girls, and plot points concerning invitations to parties and after-parties, or who’s dating whom. In terms of fan service, this makes sense – in superficial ways, it gives us more of the show we loved: more high school; more of our favourite characters; more cute, funny moments between them. In terms of letting us visit with old friends, Veronica Mars delivers in spades.

In terms of giving our old friends something of interest to say, the movie delivers less. While the bar was admittedly set pretty high by the series, the movie doesn’t reach the same heights in terms of using the genre to say something meaningful about the world we live in. Veronica is still a great character, but the movie loses touch with her hard-boiled roots and gets lost in nostalgia rather than digging for the gritty, hard-to-stomach truth.

In the end, there’s plenty of laughter, and tense final scenes with the killer – and the movie is crammed full of in-jokes, and nods to the fans – but something’s still missing. The spark that made it relevant is gone, and now it’s just a trip down memory lane with someone who happens to be a detective.

Read Also at Bitch Flicks: A Long Time Ago, We Used to Be Friends: The Veronica Mars Movie

Katherine Murray is a Toronto-based writer who yells about movies and TV on her blog.

‘Rescue Me’ and Being Treated Like Everyone Else

Consider this a late addition to the Women and Work Week, if you like. This plot line aired on ‘Rescue Me’ almost ten years ago, but it was so interesting and so frustrating that I haven’t forgotten it since.

Written by Katherine Murray.

Consider this a late addition to the Women and Work Week, if you like. This plot line aired on Rescue Me almost ten years ago, but it was so interesting and so frustrating that I haven’t forgotten it since.

Rescue Me is an hour-long drama/comedy about a group of New York City firefighters that aired on FX from 2004 to 2011. I stopped watching after the third season (for scheduling reasons, rather than the content of the show) but, up until that point, it was a weird Libertarian blend of conservative and progressive ideas wrapped in a blanket of swearing.

The show stars and was created by Denis Leary, and you can hear his voice very clearly in the writing – which is to say that it’s sometimes very funny, but it’s also hostile toward anything it perceives as “political correctness.” Leary and Rescue Me are both invested in honouring the work that firefighters do (Leary has raised a great deal of money to support fire departments in real life), and the show is also invested in portraying a particular image of (predominantly white) working class masculinity. The straight men on this show call each other “fag,” use violence to solve their problems, and transmute any vulnerable emotion into an outward display of anger. The show is sympathetic to them without (usually) idealizing their behaviour.

The portrayal of women on Rescue Me is a lot less thoughtful, and usually falls under the heading of “bitches be crazy,” but there’s an absolutely fascinating story during the first two seasons where a female firefighter named Laura joins the team and the guys are really mean to her. It’s fascinating (and frustrating) in part because the show takes such an agnostic approach to the conflict – it doesn’t firmly side with either Laura or the guys who hate her guts. Instead, it acknowledges that she has good reasons for being upset, but takes the position that there’s nothing anyone can really do about it. It’s unfortunate, but she’s entered the masculine space of the firehouse, and she doesn’t fit in. Period.

The most important moment in this conflict comes early in season two, when Laura finally files a complaint because one of the senior firefighters, Lou, calls her a stupid twat while they’re responding to a call. I’m going to go into a painful level of detail describing that exchange to you now, because there are so many layers to what’s going on that it makes for one of the best and most nuanced portrayals of gender discrimination I’ve ever seen on television, and it gives us a good jumping off point to talk about what we mean when we say we want to be treated “like everyone else.”

That Time Lou Called Laura a Twat
The conflict between Lou and Laura begins in the episode “Balls” (for real; that’s what it’s called), when the crew responds to a call at a burning building. Lou goes into the basement of the building with Laura and a male firefighter named Garrity. They find someone passed out on the floor, and Lou tells Garrity to carry that person outside. Laura misunderstands that thinks that she’s supposed to help Garrity, so she stays behind while Lou goes into the basement alone, thinking that Laura’s behind him. He doesn’t realize what’s happened until he asks Laura for help and finds out that she’s not there. He’s understandably freaked out by this – being in the middle of a fire by himself – and, when he gets back outside, he finds Laura and reams her out for abandoning him. In the process of doing that, he yells that she obviously never learned to do her job, and calls her a stupid twat.

Laura approaches Lou later and tells him in a reasonable tone of voice that, while she understands that she made a mistake, the way he spoke to her wasn’t acceptable. Lou initially pretends that he doesn’t remember what he said, but then he calls her a stupid twat again, and condescendingly refuses to apologize, saying, “I don’t think so, honey.” Laura tells him not to call her “honey,” either, and says that she doesn’t want to make a big deal out of it, and will consider the issue closed if he just says he’s sorry. Lou refuses to say he’s sorry.

Laura makes a formal complaint against Lou, and what follows is two episodes in which the other guys try to convince her that she has no right to feel upset, before they all get sent to mandatory sensitivity training (which is a joke). The guys take the position that Laura’s choosing to work in a male-dominated field, and that this is how men talk to each other – like it or lump it. They don’t see any difference between what Lou said to her and the kind of trash talk they exchange on a daily basis, and they clearly think that she’s being too sensitive and asking for special treatment by making a big issue out of it.

The male characters remain completely oblivious to the context in which the comment was made. It’s different to tease someone or to use rough language in the spirit of camaraderie when your relationship is fundamentally based on respect. In Laura’s case, she’s well aware that the guys don’t want her there – the very first thing they do (at Lou’s suggestion, it bears mentioning) is freeze her out by refusing to speak to her when she arrives. She has to fight to get a private bathroom (so that she can shower separately) and, once she does, they take turns leaving the foulest things they can in her toilet. Laura tries various strategies to break the ice and make herself part of the group – ranging from an ill-advised decision to bring in baked goods to taking on assignments that no one else wants to do – but she’s frustrated to discover that they treat her with contempt no matter what. Within that context – the context of having been specifically rejected, excluded, and bullied because of her gender – having someone scream a gendered insult at her lands a little differently. It lands differently than the insult would land in the context of an otherwise respectful relationship, and it lands differently than a non-gendered insult, like “asshole,” would land.

The men also ignore the attitude with which the comment was made. In the episode “&#!&,” Franco, who’s Puerto Rican, tells Laura that it’s totally fine for the other guys to call him a “spic,” and therefore she shouldn’t be mad about specifically gendered insults. What we see in practice, though (in season two and, later, in season three), is that, while Franco seems okay with people saying “spic” in casual conversation, he’s definitely not okay with it when Lou (again) uses that word in anger. In fact, Lou ends up apologizing when he does that, because he understands it wasn’t cool. If Lou were using derogatory terms to refer to women in casual conversation, it still wouldn’t be a great thing to do, but it would come across differently than when he uses those words deliberately as a weapon to hurt Laura.

The men on this show don’t display any awareness of those contextual differences, though, and they instead do an awful thing that men sometimes do in real life where they make themselves the arbiters of what’s offensive to women. These characters, with their limited imaginative powers, don’t feel like they would be offended if they were Laura, so she can’t be offended, either.

To the show’s credit, Laura’s reaction to these well-meaning lectures on How Guys Talk to Each Other and Why It’s Totally Not a Big Deal is to look angry, hurt, and frustrated at being ganged-up on again. She points out, at various moments, that she would be doing a disservice to the women who come after her if she just ignored this kind of thing, and that she didn’t create the problem by reporting it – Lou created the problem by saying something inappropriate in the first place. She never changes her mind about whether she’s right to be offended, but she comes to see that she’s not going to get the result she wants. It’s a lose-lose situation where nothing she says or does is going to make any difference.

Lou, in the meantime, never apologizes. After Laura files her complaint, he’s called into a meeting with his superiors where they tell him that, because it’s his word against Laura’s, he should just deny that he said anything and get the other guys to make her miserable enough to transfer out. That suggestion seems to sober him a little bit, and he chooses to go on record saying that he did call her a name, which leads to the sensitivity training. He talks to Laura again after and tells her that the (chauvinist) world inside the firehouse is the only thing in his life that’s stayed constant and that, if she forces that to change, he won’t even know who he is anymore. Laura says that she’ll accept that as an apology, even though Lou doesn’t want her to.

I’m not going to say that the show succeeds in dramatizing both sides of this particular argument because, while I feel sorry for Lou, I also think his “side” – the side where he wants his workplace to be a safe space for him to say whatever awful thing he wants without having to hear a complaint about it – is just wrong. That’s not how we share society with other people. What the show does do successfully, though, is portray the clash of worldviews taking place in the struggle for gender equality.

On the one hand, there’s the worldview that says, “All people have equal worth as human beings and are entitled to the same base level of respect,” and, on the other hand, there’s a worldview that says, “All people are arranged into a single hierarchy, and your position on the hierarchy is determined by how well you measure up to the standards of the dominant group.” That means that, depending on your worldview, “I want to be treated like everyone else” can either mean, “I want to be treated respectfully, as all people deserve to be treated,” or “I want to be measured against the same standard as everyone else, never mind if the standard is biased.”

The way that the men on this show reject Laura is more complicated than saying, “No girls allowed,” because the second worldview – the one they appear to subscribe to – allows that women can enter the dick-measuring contest; it just guarantees that they’ll lose.

The male characters in Rescue Me completely believe that they’re treating Laura “like everyone else” by being meaner to her than they are to men in the same position (we see this, for example, when male firefighters transfer into the house and are welcomed with open arms, or when a male firefighter makes a mistake on the job and is instantly forgiven). They’re treating her according to where they think she falls on the hierarchy and they’re annoyed by what they perceive as her demanding respect that’s unearned.

These are men who’ve worked hard to measure up to the masculine ideal – to earn respect that they don’t feel was afforded to them just for being people. They’re not suddenly going to change their minds and decide that that was all for nothing. Instead, they defend what they perceive as their territory, by telling Laura that she’s wrong for upsetting the balance.

It’s awful, and it’s frustrating both for Laura and for the audience, but it plays out in a very realistic way. It’s scene after scene of Laura by herself against everyone else in a battle that’s years away from being won. It’s painful, but it’s really good television.

Katherine Murray is a Toronto-based writer who yells about TV and movies on her blog.

Jeannie Van Der Hooven: Unlikable Woman Done Right

So far, this is Kristen Bell’s season to shine as the hard-hearted Jeannie Van Der Hooven on Showtime’s ‘House of Lies.’

So far, this is Kristen Bell’s season to shine as the hard-hearted Jeannie Van Der Hooven on Showtime’s House of Lies.

Whether we’re talking about the characters on Girls or (confusingly) the adorable lead on The Mindy Project, it seems like being “unlikable,” at least when we’re talking about women, has come to mean “having a personality that not everyone likes.” Far from being the sociopaths that carried Breaking Bad and Dexter, “unlikable” female characters are often women who basically mean well, but come off as being disagreeable, self-centered, or rude.

That’s unfortunate, and it raises a whole slew of questions about the way we watch television – like, “Why are we, as viewers, less prepared to love a woman who says ugly things than a man who cuts people up with a chainsaw?” – but it also distracts from the really unlikable women on TV – the ones who don’t really mean well, who hurt other people on purpose – and the challenges of telling a story about them.

House of Lies, which is now midway through a surprisingly strong third season, has lately devoted a lot of time to the really unlikable woman in the form of Jeannie Van Der Hooven (Kristen Bell), a calculating, manipulative business management consultant who’s not only willing, but happy to destroy whoever she has to as part of her climb to the top.

House of Lies has always traded in unlikable characters – in fact, one of the problems with the first season was that there was no one to cheer for. The heroes are a team of management consultants who bullshit their clients (equally unlikable representatives of corporate America) into paying them outrageous sums of money for absolutely nothing. They sometimes crush the companies they work with, order massive layoffs, and knowingly promote products and services that are dangerous, fraudulent, or exploitative. Advertising for the third season has tried harder to frame the show as a contest between evil and evil, where we cheer for Jeannie and her one-time boss, Marty (Don Cheadle), because they’re smart and the people they’re screwing over are often equally bad. Since the start of season two, the show has worked to clarify that it isn’t a big ode to capitalism and that it’s aware of its characters’ failings.

That’s been a successful strategy overall, but things really clicked this season when Jeannie, who was never that soft to begin with, hardened up into a white-collar sociopath. It’s a move that takes all of Kristen Bell’s unflappable, charismatic charm, and transforms it into the calculated veneer of a cold-hearted snake, and it’s the most thrilling thing I’ve ever witnessed on this show.

Having split off from Marty at the end of season two, Jeannie begins season three on a high. She’s been given a big promotion at the management firm and heads her own team of consultants. She’s got the boss in her pocket, and one of the first things we see her do is steal a major account from one of her peers.

In what’s probably a nice bit of foreshadowing, Marty has a trippy dream right around the same time in which Jeannie, who’s come to kill him, is so consumed with getting revenge, and so certain of her impending triumph, that she doesn’t see danger sneak up from behind.

The next thing we know, Jeannie walks into work to discover that the firm has re-hired an old enemy of hers, a misogynist jerk called The Rainmaker. Jeannie got him fired in the first season by confessing that she slept with him to further her career (the confession itself was a calculated attempt to save her own job), and now he’s replacing pocket boss, and starting a boys club for boys with the guy she stole an account from.

The writers help us to cheer for Jeannie by reframing The Rainmaker’s actions as sexual harassment (something that wasn’t made clear in the first season) and by showing us that, regardless of what might do, she’s always going to be on the outs as a woman. They used a similar strategy with Marty in season two, highlighting the racism he faced as a Black man, and, in both cases, it’s an effective way of bringing us around to the characters’ sides. Although they’re both very greedy, conniving people, they’re also at an unfair disadvantage. It doesn’t erase our disapproval of their methods, but it helps us to celebrate their wins.

With only a few hours to process The Rainmaker’s threatening return, Jeannie completely changes her strategy, screws over Marty, steals a major client from the firm, and uses it as leverage to get equity in Marty’s private consulting company. As a parting “fuck you” to the firm, she convinces one of her subordinates – the naïve, gentle-hearted Benita, who sees Jeannie as a mentor – to torch her own career by reporting details the firm’s shady dealings to the press. To underscore what a cynical, self-serving move this is, Jeannie gives what initially appears to be a sincere speech about how she admires Benita’s principles – how they remind her of the girl she used to be – that gradually starts to turn sour as we realize she’s setting Benita up.

We can practically hear the music from Game of Thrones start to play as Jeannie climbs into the elevator, so ruthless is her victory. The following episode finds her reunited with Marty, at Kaan and Associates, where she wastes no time in alienating one of her new subordinates, Caitlin. When a client makes inappropriate sexual comments to Caitlin during a meeting, Jeannie appears to stand up for her, only to reveal, later, when Caitlin tries to thank her, that her only motive was to align herself with the client’s more decorous business partner. This is followed by an impatient, condescending lecture about how much Caitlin sucks at her job, to which she can only say “wow.”

What’s interesting about the scene – other than the fact that it passes the Bechdel Test with flying colours – is that the show allows Jeannie to be correct in the substance of what she’s saying at the same time as being bankrupt of any human warmth or compassion. It’s not an “awkward moment” kind of unlikeableness, where maybe she meant to say something nice but was hampered by some minor personality flaws – she’s being harsh on purpose. And, in back to back episodes, we see this come out specifically in situations where we might normally expect her to nurture, encourage, or support other women who look up to her. It’s a dynamic we don’t often see on TV (especially not from this side), and it’s fascinating to watch.

Jeannie finishes the episode off by going home early, and making sure that Marty sees that she’s going home early, in order to remind him that he’s not in charge. Marty, who’s been trying to make peace with Jeannie, and sees her as being somewhat of a friend, explains in a fairly heartfelt way (while still trying to re-establish control) that he worked very hard all his life to have something that was his, and that she should appreciate what it means that he gave her half of it. Jeannie rejects him and says, “You didn’t give me anything. I took it.”

The moment she says it, we know that it’s true. Everything she’s done makes sense from a practical point of view, but there’s a meanness, and an anger underneath. This is a woman who knew she was taking half of his dream and did it, in part, just to hurt him.

Jeannie’s story line this season isn’t just interesting because of the way it characterizes women, but because it represents House of Lies becoming what I think it wants to be — evil versus evil; the smart and the mean outfoxing each other; what Marty and Jeannie have made themselves into, to take things from people they hate.

I’m loving this season more than I thought I could love House of Lies, and it’s all down to one of the worst people I’ve ever seen. A woman I would never want to be in the same room with, who’s vindictive, and greedy, and mean, at the heart of a story about power and people who scrape themselves raw just to get it.

I’m excited to see how this ends.

Katherine Murray is a Toronto-based writer who yells about TV and movies on her blog.

Inara Serra and the Future of Sex Work

Inara shows all the benefits to the cultural changes of the last 500 years. She’s a Companion, a highly trained and respected sex worker who ministers mostly to dignitaries, businessmen, and other elites. She’s taken a ride on Serenity, the ship around which most of the show’s action centers, because she wants to see the universe. Because she is a Companion, she can write her own ticket – there will always be clients, so long as they stick to planets with some level of economic stability, and she can just rent a shuttle for as long as she wants. Plus, Inara herself is fun, witty, and classy as all get out. She’s the woman we all want to be, and she’s a sex worker. That’s progressive, right?
The problem here comes not from what the show is saying about sex work. It’s saying very complimentary things. The issue is that this show, this wonderful lovely show, is showing us something entirely different. Namely, that sex work is bad and nasty and wrong.

This guest post by Deborah Pless appears as part of our theme week on Representations of Sex Workers.

The first time you watch Firefly, Joss Whedon’s sprawling but criminally short-lived space western, it’s easy to think that it gives you a rather progressive view of our future. While some things haven’t changed, like the need of governments to meddle in the affairs of their people, and the way that humans will always find a way to piss each other off, the universe it portrays is one pretty far advanced from our own. Most cultural conflicts have been whittled down by years of inter-marriage, the universe even speaks a pidgin of American English and Mandarin Chinese, and prostitution is not only legal, but respected.

All in all, a pretty good outlook, right? Especially for sex workers. Because in this world, they have rights, they have solid healthcare, they have independence, and they even have a pretty high level of social recognition. We know all of this because one of the main characters on the show, Inara (Morena Baccarin) is a Companion, the best of the best.

The problem here comes not from what the show is saying about sex work. It’s saying very complimentary things. The issue is that this show, this wonderful lovely show, is showing us something entirely different. Namely, that sex work is bad and nasty and wrong.

How? Well, let me tell you a thing.

The first thing you might pick up on in the show is that while Inara is not ashamed of her career, and she meets with no real prejudice about it from most of the characters, she does get a lot of blowback from one place in particular: Captain Mal Reynolds (Nathan Fillion). Mal hates that Inara is, as he puts it so gently, a “whore,” and he makes his feelings known on the matter a lot. And then some. And then a little more.

In and of itself, this would be a perfectly reasonably addition to the story. Granted, it would give lie to the idea that sex work is now perfectly respected in this universe, but one out of countless characters to decry what she does isn’t so terrible. There’s always someone who disagrees, right?

Well, Mal isn’t just the captain of the ship or the plucky hero, he’s also the audience avatar. His is the emotional arc in which we invest. And Mal is the one who has the biggest objection to Inara’s work. This implies that we too should have an objection to what Inara does.

It goes even further. In episode six, “Shindig,” Mal and Kaylee (Jewel Staite) must attend a party where Inara will also be with a client. Kaylee is happy to just go and admire the finery, have some strawberries, and maybe dance a little, but Mal takes it upon himself to find Inara while she is working and get into a fight with her. A fight that then escalates because Inara’s client, Atherton Wing (Edward Atterton), turns out to be kind of a jerk and calls her a whore on the dance floor. After he offers to buy her. Yeech.

Mal is enraged that someone else dared to call Inara what he calls her on a daily basis, and steps in, punching Atherton and accidentally challenging him to a duel for Inara’s honor. And then we spend the rest of the episode with Inara trying to save Mal from inevitably getting murdered, and Mal refusing to be rescued because a lady’s honor is at stake.

The problem, again, comes from the context. It wouldn’t be so bad if Mal were genuinely defending Inara, though it would undermine the idea that as a Companion Inara is a strong independent woman who can handle herself. That she needs to be rescued at all and can’t handle it or won’t handle it until Mal steps in is problematic in and of itself. No, the real issue here is how Mal steps in. He steps in by using violence to assert that while he can denigrate Inara’s work, no one else can. And that’s just kind of creepy.

Again, though, because this narrative is really Mal’s story, it supports his actions. He is shown as totally good and right and understandable to act like this, and Inara forgives him for being an ass. They share a nice drink and laugh over it all. Also, Inara reveals that she had the power to get back at Atherton the whole time, but didn’t want to use it, I guess.

And it doesn’t stop there. While Inara continues to be our “good” whore, the one who can get the crew out of any tight spot with her power of sex and sexiness (this happens at least two different episodes, and since there are only 13 total, that’s a lot), all other sex workers are considered inferior and, well, whores.

You have Saffron/Yolanda/Bridget (Christina Hendricks), a con artist with Companion training who marries men when they’re drunk and then robs them blind, or just pulls long cons on them in order to get their money. You have the whores that Jayne (Adam Baldwin) beds, who are denigrated by their proximity to Jayne – he’s a man-beast after all, so any woman who would sleep with him, especially for money, must be doubly unclean, right? And we have the Heart of Gold, from the episode of the same name, a little whorehouse in the middle of a desert planet run by a former Companion named Nandi (Melinda Clarke).

In the episode, “Heart of Gold,” the crew heads out to this brothel in the middle of nowhere at Inara’s behest. It seems that Nandi has been having some trouble with one of the local men, who is insistent that not only is one of the girls pregnant with his baby, that he is within his rights to take it from her. The crew comes in to save the day, keep the baby with its mother, and make sure that this man doesn’t get to ruin the Heart of Gold.

Chari from “Heart of Gold,” played by Kimberly McCullough

In the process, though, we learn a lot more about sex work in this universe, and it’s not pretty. While the show makes it very clear that these sex workers are the good guys, and the mean man trying to steal a baby is a bad guy (very subtle), it doesn’t do much to support this thesis. For starters, Nandi is shown to be “slumming it.” She stopped being a Companion in order to become an unlicensed whore because she wanted her freedom, but look where it’s gotten her. Stuck in the middle of nowhere with no resources, a hostile environment, and the law breathing down her neck.

Her girls (and boys), while nice, are completely undeveloped as characters. We know nothing about the plight of the everyday sex worker in this universe. But we do know that we as an audience are supposed to be mildly disapproving. What Inara does is safe and respected, you see, whereas these people are doing it wrong. We know this because of the implicit messages the show sends: only Jayne takes Nandi up on the offer to use the brothel’s services, and while several other characters could, were they so inclined, they don’t. This is most notable with Kaylee, who is shown to be a character comfortable with her sexuality, happy to indulge, and at this point, deeply sexually frustrated. But she wouldn’t stoop to paying for it, I guess.

The only other character who does have sex in this episode is Mal himself, who beds Nandi, but only after they make it clear that this is about feelings and fun and definitely not about money. Because, again, only a monster like Jayne would stoop to paying for it.

The double standard here is both annoying and also indicative of the show’s real attitude. Because if the show really does want to claim to be permissive toward sex work, then it has to be permissive on both sides. Not only is it okay to be a sex worker, it’s okay to be a client of a sex worker.

Or neither. I’m not saying which way the show should go here, I’m saying that by stigmatizing the clients of sex workers, the show is stigmatizing the workers themselves.

Oh, and there’s the thing where all the “good” prostitutes have to die. As penance.

Now, off the top of my head, the only actual sex worker who dies during the show is Nandi, who is very tragically killed during the siege on her brothel. Of course she is revenged and it has a happy-ish ending where the girl gets to keep her baby and everything is right in the world. Only Nandi is still dead. And one can only surmise what the reason for that is. On the one hand, this is Joss Whedon and he does bathe in the tears of his viewers. But on the other, Nandi’s death is largely unnecessary as far as the plot goes, and it only serves to put a wedge between Mal and Inara, as well as to figuratively punish her for the choices she made in life.

As usual, this wouldn’t be noteworthy or even that offensive if it were a singular event. It isn’t. We (the fans) recently learned a little bit of trivia about the show that would have come out had the show gone on longer than half of a season. Namely, that Inara was terminally ill.

[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YTxGOi9coWQ”]

So, now this means that of the sympathetic sex worker characters on the show, both of them were killed off or going to be killed off in suitably tragic and noble ways, but also in ways the figuratively punish them for their sins.

Like I said, the show has very mixed feelings about sex work.

Inara Serra, played by Morena Baccarin, and Captain Mal Reynolds, played by Nathan Fillion

I think what happened is this: while Firefly really does want to show us a world where sex work is accepted, or more accepted, and a lot of cultural barriers have broken down, the show is much more concerned with portraying a world of incredibly harsh class divisions. For example, our heroes are all working class or fallen upper class, and the main struggle in the series is that of our plucky underdogs fighting against the rich and powerful who seek to dominate them.

This isn’t a bad thing. It’s a huge part of what makes the show watchable. But it comes at a cost. You see, by making the narrative more about class, it creates a need to work a class narrative into all of its stories. A story about a brothel in the wilderness can’t just be a story about sex work, it has to be a story about class and sex work. By doing this, by setting up Inara as the high class sex worker and everyone else as lower class and therefore bad, the show stigmatizes sex work as a whole. After all, if the only difference between the good whore and the bad one is her paycheck, then there’s no difference at all.

Look. Whether you’re okay with it or not, Firefly is kind of lying here. It says it’s progressive and open-minded, but it really isn’t. Shows, and people, are defined by what they do much more than what they say. So while Firefly and Inara say they’re liberated, independent, and free-thinking, their actions say differently.

And I do not hold to that.

Deborah Pless runs Kiss My Wonder Woman and works as a youth advocate in Western Washington. You can follow her on twitter and tumblr just as long as you like feminist rants and an obsession with superheroes.

Sex Workers Are Disposable on ‘Game of Thrones’

When we are introduced to Ros, she is working in Winterfell but as war approaches she decides to try her luck in King’s Landing expressing the view that if all the men leave for war there is not going to be much for her in Winterfell. Once there she goes from being “just a sex worker” to getting involved in the politics of the realm by becoming the right hand woman of Little Finger and subsequently double crossing him by becoming an agent for Varys. However despite her many interesting qualities and potential for interesting storylines, Ros basically exists for one reason to provide exposition regarding male characters on the show while naked. She is sexposition personified.

While Game of Thrones is frequently problematic, one of the things it does well is having a wide range of interesting female characters. Despite this, there are some women on the show who fall into the roles that are normally reserved for women on film and television; that is, to tell us things about dudes. This is particularly true of the female sex workers on the show. A perfect example of this is Ros. Interestingly, Ros is a character that does not exist in the books. She is an invention of the television show’s writers and producers. It is likely that she takes the place of two other sex worker characters who are women of colour.

Ros is the first sex worker we see on Game of Thrones. She is masterfully acted by Esme Bianco who does wonderful things with the limited material she is given. Her portrayal of Ros allows us to view her as intelligent, witty, ambitious, and pragmatic. At first Ros manages to avoid most of the traditional sex worker tropes that exist such as the disposable sex worker and the hooker with the heart of gold. She makes no apologies for being a sex worker and does not consider herself to be a tragic victim of her circumstances. She is simply making money in the most efficient way she knows how.

The very first time we see her she is entertaining Tyrion Lannister at the Winterfell brothel. Their interaction serves to inform us that Tyrion is both famous for being a philanderer and generally a good hearted person who is nice to people who exist on the margins despite his great wealth and power. Next up there is Theon Greyjoy Ros helps reveal to us as the audience a number of things about him. Firstly, that he has a chip on his shoulder about his status in Winterfell. Secondly he is basically a hostage living with the Starks because of his father’s traitorous actions. She helps to reveal his particular insecurities as well as expose some of his backstory, all without any clothes on – handy. In fact Ros basically spends the entirety of season one with her clothes off allowing men to tell her things about themselves. Littlefinger gets to fill in some back story while she is naked on screen. Joffrey reminds us of just how evil he is (again) by forcing Ros to brutally beat her friend and fellow sex worker when Tyrion buys a night with them for Joffrey as a present. On and on it goes.

The saddest part about Ros is that while she mostly exists as a plot device, there was always potential there for her to develop as a character. She had many traits that would have made her very interesting to watch as the story unfolded. However that is not to be, because those who make the decisions decided that Ros had outlived her usefulness. She had proven just how terrible Little Finger and Joffery were and the final flourish was her death. Ros turned out to be a disposable sex worker after all and the way that she is killed off proves it.

It was her compassion for Sansa Stark that is Ros’ downfall. She tells Varys details that only she could know about Littlefinger’s plans for her and despite Varys promising to protect her he finds out and she ends up dead. Her death is graphic and horrifying. We do not see her die, we are just treated to a vision of her corpse as Littlefinger tells Varys that one of his investments had betrayed him and therefore had to be disposed of. We are treated to a vision of Ros tied to Joffery’s bed, semi clothed with arrows piercing her body including her genitals. The camera lingers over the gory details. The idea is clear, as we look at Ros’ ravaged body we are meant to think about Littlefinger and what a horrible person he is. Ros’ death is a simply a footnote in the stories of the great men who she fucks.

Interestingly, Esme Bianco mentioned in an interview that she argued for having less nude scenes so that she could have cool costumes like the other characters on the show. Perhaps due to her self-advocacy, her character ended up with no nude scenes in season three, and it seemed as though she was very much on the verge of becoming a proper character, one that is fully realized and has their own plot. Before that could actually happen, she was killed off as if she didn’t matter at all.

There are many things I enjoy about Game of Thrones, but there are perhaps just as many things that I find problematic within it; their treatment of Ros is definitely one of them. The excuses that Game of Thrones is set in both an extremely patriarchal and extremely violent culture do not fly. I think they are cop-outs. The show has beaten us over the head with the evilness of Joffrey and Littlefinger. I personally feel that the scene where he takes Ros aside when she starts crying in front of one of her clients after the baby of her friend is killed in front of her, is much more chilling than the gruesome horror of her death. Subtlety is obviously not something the show is interested in. At the end of the day, the Game of Thrones treatment of Ros simply reinforces dominant societal narratives about sex workers, i.e. that their humanity is unimportant and that it is a dangerous occupation that women should know better than to take up. This is disappointing from a show that is often progressive in the way that it handles female characters.

Gaayathri Nair is a writer currently located in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, although this is set to change soon. She is the child of diaspora two times over and is passionate about all forms of social justice. She likes to travel and prefers television to movies; however, she feels a strange compulsion to watch all movies that have fish-eating people in them, no matter how terrible they are. She has a Bachelor’s degree in Political Studies from the University of Auckland and she has spent her formative years working at various types of feminist organizations from the community to the regional in both New Zealand and around Asia. Her work has been featured around the feminist blogosphere including Flyover Feminism, Feministe, and Leftstream as well as in United Nations and NGO publications. You can find more of her work at her blog A Human Story and tweet her @A_Gaayathri.

“I Misbehave”: Lesbian Dominatrix Irene Adler, Sex Work and ‘Sherlock’

Season Two Episode One of ‘Sherlock,’ “A Scandal in Belgravia,” is adapted from the Sir Arthur Conan Doyle Holmes story “A Scandal in Bohemia.” The storyline focuses on Irene Adler, portrayed brilliantly by the arresting Lara Pulver, who has incriminating photographs of a member of nobility that Sherlock must retrieve.

Written by Amanda Rodriguez

Re-posted from 2013 Golden Globes Week: “I Misbehave”: A Character Analysis of Irene Adler from BBC’s Sherlock

Season Two Episode One of Sherlock, “A Scandal in Belgravia,” is adapted from the Sir Arthur Conan Doyle Holmes story “A Scandal in Bohemia.” The storyline focuses on Irene Adler, portrayed brilliantly by the arresting Lara Pulver, who has incriminating photographs of a member of nobility that Sherlock must retrieve.

In the original version, Adler is an opera singer who had an ill-advised affair with the prince of Bohemia, and he discontinued the affair because he was to become king and thought she was beneath his station. Adler threatens to expose the photos if the now king announces his engagement to another woman. In the updated TV episode, Adler is a high-priced lesbian dominatrix who operates under the pseudonym “The Woman” and holds photos of a high-ranking female member of the British nobility.

Irene Adler: lesbian dominatrix and general BAMF

Confession: I love Irene Adler. She’s infamous for her sensuality, independence, intelligence, and her ability to manipulate. Throughout the episode, Adler and Sherlock match-up wits, and Adler proves to be the cleverer one right until the very end. Adler establishes herself as the quintessential femme fatale. When contrasted with the other female characters throughout the series, she is the only one who is given a strong representation. The coroner, Molly Hooper, is a doormat, waiting for Sherlock to notice her and her inexplicable affection for him. Mrs. Hudson is a doddering old lady whom Sherlock abuses but takes umbrage if others treat her in a similar fashion, in a way claiming her as his property to abuse or reward at his own whim. Finally, there’s the recurring character of Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan, a tough, but mistrustful police officer who always thinks the worst of Sherlock and is too simple-minded to follow his deductions.

Though Sherlock doesn’t know it, Adler is well-prepared for their first encounter when Sherlock shows up on her doorstep impersonating a mugged clergyman. In parody of his earlier nude appearance at Buckingham Palace, Adler presents herself to Sherlock in her “battle dress,” i.e. completely naked. This proves to be a cunning ploy because Sherlock can deduce little about her character without the aid of clues from her clothing. Not only that, but Adler maneuvers Sherlock to help her ward off some C.I.A agents by using her measurements as the code to open her booby trapped (har, har) safe. Adler then drugs and beats Sherlock until he relinquishes her camera phone, which contains a host of incriminating evidence that she claims she needs for protection. She ends their memorable first encounter by saying, “It’s been a pleasure. Don’t spoil it. This is how I want you to remember me. The woman who beat you.”

Illustration by Hilbrand Bos

Minus all the sexy dominatrix stuff, this is where the original Holmes story ends. Irene Adler disappears, retaining her protective evidence, and Sherlock must forevermore admire and be galled by The Woman who beat him. The BBC episode, however, takes creative license to continue the story, having Adler fake her own death only to show up six months later demanding Sherlock give back the camera phone that she’d sent to him presumably on the eve of her death. For six months, Sherlock has done his version of mourning, as only an admittedly high-functioning sociopath can (becoming withdrawn, composing mournful violin music, smoking, etc.). Does he mourn, we wonder, the death of a woman for whom he’d grown to care, or does he regret the loose end, the loss of a chance to ever reclaim his victory and trounced ego from such a superior opponent?

Before her faked death, Adler sent frequent flirtatious texts to Sherlock, with the refrain, “Let’s have dinner.” Sherlock responded to none of her messages, lending increased weight to the significance of their relationship. Upon her resurrection, Adler confesses that despite the fact that she’s a lesbian, she has feelings for Sherlock. Her feelings, in a way, mirror those of Watson, a self-proclaimed straight man who clearly has a deep emotional attachment to Sherlock. Sherlock then forms the apex of a peculiar love triangle at once sexual and cerebral.

“Brainy is the new sexy.” – Irene Adler

Adler tricks Sherlock into decoding sensitive information on her camera phone. After breaking the code in four seconds that a cryptographer struggled with and eventually gave up on, Adler feeds Sherlock’s ego.

Irene Adler: “I would have you, right here on this desk, until you begged for mercy twice.”

Sherlock Holmes: “I’ve never begged for mercy in my life.”

Irene Adler: “Twice.”

She then follows up on all her sexual attentions toward Sherlock by sending the decrypted code to a terrorist cell. She reveals to Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes that she’d played them both and consulted with Sherlock’s arch enemy Jim Moriarty to do so. It turns out, she was playing a deep game, exerting endless patience in her long con with blackmail as her goal all along. She demands such a sizeable sum for the code to her valuable camera phone that it would “blow a hole in the wealth of the nation.”

At this point, Irene Adler has won. She’s literally and figuratively beaten Sherlock Holmes repeatedly at his games of deduction and intrigue. She’s planned for and obviated every contingency. Adler is the only woman to arouse Sherlock’s sexual and intellectual interest all because she proved to be better than him. Adler masterfully manipulates the emotions of a man who cannot understand how and why people feel, a man who seems incapable of anything but his own selfish pursuits. Her problematic confessions of interest in Sherlock despite her sexual orientation are negated in light of her schemes.

Unfortunately, this is where it all goes to shit.

Just as Mycroft is giving his begrudging praise of Adler’s plot (“the dominatrix who brought a nation to its knees”), Sherlock reveals that he took Adler’s pulse and observed her dilated pupils when interacting with him. He deduces her base sentiment has influenced her into making the passcode more than random, into making it, instead, “the key to her heart.”

Sherlocked…get it? Get it? Snore.

With that simple, inane phrase, Adler is undone. Sherlock has broken into her hard drive and her heart. Depicting a lesbian character truly falling in love with a man is a complete invalidation of her sexual identity. Not only that, but it has larger implications that are damaging and regressive. It advances the notion that lesbians are a myth, that all women can fall in love with men if given the right circumstances.

Having a female opponent who is more cunning than Sherlock ultimately lose due to her emotions also implies that women are incapable of keeping their emotions in check. Sherlock insists that her “sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side.” While he can detach from his emotions, she cannot, and thus he will always be better than her at the so-called game. Not only that, but this emotion versus reason dichotomy further reinforces the destructive gender binary that assigns certain traits to men and others to women, giving privilege to those assigned to men. Even Adler’s seductiveness, her cunning, her manipulation of the Holmes brothers, these characteristics are coded as female. Adler even enlists the aid of the male Jim Moriarty with the implicit reasoning that he is smarter, slicker, and more capable of handling the Holmes brothers.

Irene Adler must make her way in the world as a sex worker who deals in secrets. (Remind you of Miss Scarlet from Clue at all?) Capitalizing on sex and thriving on the power dynamics inherent in sex (especially heterosexual sex, in which we know Adler engages) are attributes generally assigned to women even though they are fabrications. Having to engage in sexual activity for money does not give women power. It, instead, forces women to exploit themselves and conform to a regulated form of femininity as well as other people’s sexual desires and fantasies (regardless of what the woman herself wants, likes, or doesn’t like). Considering the appalling number of rapes each year, each day, each hour, we also know that power dynamics (from a hetero standpoint) don’t truly favor women. Though the episode doesn’t get into it, presumably Adler is finally cashing in on all her secrets in order to make a better life for herself, a life in which she does not have to sell her body to survive.

When Sherlock outwits Adler, he forces the dominatrix to beg for her life, which is worth little without her secrets. Though he feigns indifference, he ends up finding her after she’s gone into hiding and been captured by terrorists in Karachi. He then saves her from a beheading and falsifies her death in a completely untraceable way.

It’s poignant that Sherlock holds the sword over Adler’s neck, choosing whether she lives or dies.

At the end of the episode, Sherlock stands before a window chuckling to himself about how handily he settled the whole scandal with The Woman. He doesn’t only best her at their game of wit, but he debases and de-claws her. Divesting her of all her power, all her secrets, Irene Adler is completely at his mercy and must be rescued like a damsel in distress or, worse, like a naughty little girl who’s gotten in over her head and must be dug out by her patriarch.

Despite the frequent declaration that “things are better for women now,” it’s hard to ignore that a story written in 1891 created a larger space for a woman to be strong, smart, and to escape. It’s also hard to ignore that Sherlock doesn’t just outwit Adler, he systematically dismantles all her power and only then does he graciously allow her to live. We can wish the last ten minutes of the episode had been cut, allowing for an ending in keeping with the original story, an ending that empowered a woman as one of Sherlock’s most formidable foes. A potentially more fruitful wish would be that Irene Adler returns in future seasons, stronger and more prepared to play the game against Sherlock Holmes, a game we can only hope she will win the next time around.

———-

Amanda Rodriguez is an environmental activist living in Asheville, North Carolina. She holds a BA from Antioch College in Yellow Springs, Ohio and an MFA in fiction writing from Queens University in Charlotte, NC. She writes all about food and drinking games on her blog Booze and Baking. Fun fact: while living in Kyoto, Japan, her house was attacked by monkeys.

First Jane Tennison DCI: Revisiting ‘Prime Suspect’s Complex Lead

In the final episode of ‘Prime Suspect,’ the long-running British series, Jane Tennison (Helen Mirren), a hardworking, hard drinking detective who has sacrificed so much of her life for her job and made more than a few enemies, skips her own retirement party and walks out and into the rest of her life. In the other room, her colleagues are jovial, waiting for the stripper they hired, preparing balloons, and liberally dipping into the refreshments.
But Jane is uncertain.

In the final episode of Prime Suspect, the long-running British series, Jane Tennison (Helen Mirren), a hardworking, hard drinking detective who has sacrificed so much of her life for her job and made more than a few enemies, skips her own retirement party, and walks out and into the rest of her life. In the other room, her colleagues are jovial, waiting for the stripper they hired, preparing balloons, and liberally dipping into the refreshments.
But Jane is uncertain.

Jane in the final episode, the weight of everything she’s seen finally catching up with her.

She’s triumphant as she’s solved her last case, but it’s taken a clear toll on her. She’s tired, she’s unsure what else she can be other than a cop, is struggling with her alcoholism and the reality of how few people she has in her life to lean on, and yet, she’s free of the relentless politics and bureaucracy she’s faced throughout her career and has finished it she way she intended. For all she’s sacrificed, she’s lived the life she wanted and refused to compromise either personally or professionally. And after seven series of watching and cheering her on, we’re sure she’ll be okay. If she’d gone to the party, there’d be cause to worry about her.

Prime Suspect ran for seven series airing between 1991 and 2006, earning Emmys, Golden Globes, and BAFTAs as well as serving as an inspiration of several character-driven and female-led police dramas. The series was created by mystery writer Lynda La Plante after discovering there were only four female Detective Chief Inspectors (DCIs) in Scotland Yard at the time and Tennison was based on Jackie Malton, a celebrated officer with success in homicide, fraud, and robbery divisions.

Prime Suspect Title Card — *Prime Suspect* title card

The first series followed Jane’s journey to gain the respect of her male colleagues as she leads her first investigation, fighting to be taken seriously at every turn. The idea of the police force as a boys’ club colors much of the first series and continues to a gradually lessening degree throughout the rest of show’s run as Jane earns respect (and contempt) for her own merit. Subsequent series feature groundbreaking investigations for a show of the time period, probing into institutional racism, pedophilia, agism, genocide, police brutality and misconduct and well as a rather shakily handled portrayal of gay prostitution, a mistreated Transwoman character, and a sensitive depiction of abortion.

Prime Suspect relentlessly delves into dark territory; the cases are horrific and the victims ghettoized by police bureaucracy, and without Jane at its centre, never losing focus of the goal of obtaining justice for the victims and securing convictions and Mirren’s fierce portrayal of her, it could easily become depressing and marred by its focus on interviews and interrogations over of gun fights and chases. Jane is the rare female character who is allowed to be flawed, yet continues to be likable both in the perspective of the narrative and in the viewer’s eyes. Even if you dislike her as a person, it’s impossible not to respect her and to be a bit awed by what she does. And she is not always easy to like.

The show doesn’t shy away from graphic forensic evidence and interesting police science, such as reconstructing a face from this skull — The show doesn’t shy away from graphic forensic evidence

From the start, Jane is abrasive and difficult, as in the first episode, she begins angling for a promotion right after her colleague dies. Frequently, she is too harsh on suspects after deciding their guilt and asked variations of, “What kind of person are you?” She also feigns empathy to get information, a tactic that works even accidentally as it becomes her default mode (notably in series 4). Most interestingly, Jane is often wrong and insensitive: she commits the cardinal sin of a woman in power by not supporting other women, goes after the wrong man and causes a hostage situation, appears racist for not wanting to work with a her former lover, a Black detective, as well as several other incidences.

In series 4, Jane’s breakthrough case is reopened and with her entire career called into question, she goes off investigate on her own. This involves visiting her suspect’s elderly mother, pretending to be a family friend and bringing her out to an isolated pier when Jane harshly interrogates her, in a manner bordering on abusive as the old woman grows increasingly frightened. In the end, she proves her suspect’s guilt but in a manner that sets her in the worst possible light for the audience.

Before she is given an investigation to lead, Jane is invisible to her male coworkers, who talk about cases around her, but never asking for her opinion — Before she is given an investigation to lead, Jane is invisible to her male coworkers, who talk about cases around her

As a leader, her refusal to compromise means she is determined to catch the guilty party, while her co-workers urge her just to get someone to confess, guilty or not. She’s tough, telling her squad in her first briefing, “All I ask is your undivided loyalty and attention. … You don’t like it, put in for a transfer.” She is also very clever, shown in series 2, when she eliminates a possible identity for a murder victim by putting her own watch with the victim’s effects and allowing her mother to falsely claim it.

Mirren’s acting skills are highlighted in tense interrogation scenes

But for all her prickly meanness and seeming detachment, Jane really cares about getting justice for victims and becomes deeply emotionally involved. After long periods of procedural drama, the show imbues a great deal of cathartic release in the moments when she celebrates a victory by pumping her fists and cheering and in the private moments where Jane, overwhelmed and exhausted, breaks down and cries.

It’s her frustrations dealing with bureaucracy or snags in her investigations that frequently lead her to do things like snap at her subordinates, splash wine on her supervisors, and find solace in smoking, drinking, and sex.

Prime Suspect is also noted for its straightforward depiction of workplace sexism. Rather than catcalls, pranks, or groping, sexism manifests itself in subtle gestures meant to undermine her authority, such as suggestions that she is irrational or hormonal and her male coworkers being promoted over her.

Jane’s biggest detractor is Detective Sergeant Bill Otley, while DI Frank Burkin and DS Richard Hawley become two of her supporters

Moreover, as the first series goes on, Jane slowly gains the respect and support of her colleagues, they take orders willingly and the entire squad sign their names on a petition to keep her on the case when their superiors threaten to remove her. Throughout the program, Jane’s constant refrain (made humourous thanks to Mirren’s role in The Queen) is: “Don’t call me Ma’am I’m not the bloody queen.” She tells people she wants to be called “boss or guv,” but never ma’am. At the end of the first series she knows she has gained their respect once the squad calls her guv.

Jane is an interesting character to examine in a feminist critique as it doesn’t seem that she would consider herself a feminist. Even as Jane advances through the force, within the show’s narrative, the pinnacle of her success is not when she reaches the highest rank but when she gets to a point where her colleagues complain about her and her supervisors sabotage her not because she’s a woman but because of her personality and her leadership. In the last episode, as she prepares to retire, she is celebrated as the first female DCI, to which she responds, a detective first, woman second: “First Jane Tennison DCI.”

Still, there are several incidences when Jane uses her gender to her advantage. Notably, in the first series, she hides in the women’s locker room when she knows her supervisor is looking for her to pull her off the case, knowing it’s the only place he can’t go. Later, when interrogating her suspect’s girlfriend, she fusses over her appearance to uncharacteristic degree as she knows the girlfriend will be less contrary if she believes Jane is concerned with her appearance. In another series, she gets information unavailable to a male officer when she has a drink with two prostitutes and talks to them about their friend’s murder, establishing a friendly bond when a man propositions her that makes them comfortable with her.

Hyperaware of how she is perceived, Jane knows that if she shows any weakness, she will lose all the respect she’s gained. In series 4, she has difficulty dealing with DS Christine Cromwell (Sophie Stanton), a woman who does things a lot like she did in earlier series: going off on her own to investigate, losing her temper in front of the press, and sharing a close relationship with a male colleague. These things make Jane fearful both of associating herself with a woman who could be perceived to be sleeping her way to the top, and of the perception that she could be giving Cromwell special treatment or unearned sorority. As a result, Jane in harsher to female subordinated than males and sets them to a higher standard as she believes they need to be tougher to make it in the department.

After Cromwell proves herself, Jane takes her under her wing and acts as her mentor

Eventually Cromwell proves herself clever and determined, leading Jane to develop a productive partnership with her, as the two investigated in a pair for much of the rest of the investigation.

Another recurring theme in the series is Jane’s struggle maintaining stable relationships. Her relationship in the first series is introduced as loving and supportive, with Jane excited to meet his son, but quickly crumbles with the stress of her new job. Jane, as anyone who knew her would expect, puts the investigation first, complains when he laughs about what the tabloids are saying about her, and is unable to make dinner for his business partners. The boyfriend yells at her that she cares more about “your rapists and your tarts” than him, and leaves her without discussion after a fight. In the next series, she has moved on and taken the break-up in stride, but in the rest of the program Jane seems lonely when she is given silent moments, begins to a routine of eating frozen dinners and drinking alone and puts up with less before ending her relationships. In series 4, she has new boyfriend, who makes question her priorities: “This is the first time in my life I’ve had the feeling that I don’t want to get up, go to work, don’t want to screw up another relationship.” Still though, he refuses to support her when things get difficult and is gone by the next series. Without fail, Jane refuses to stay in a relationship with any man who can’t acknowledge the importance for her career.

The pressure begins to get to Jane as she talks a moment to collect herself.

At the end of series 3, Jane finds herself pregnant and despite realizing this is her last chance to have a child, decides to have an abortion. It’s a difficult decision for her and not one she takes lightly, but it’s presented as the right thing for her to do based on where she is in her life and what she wants for her future. True to the character, Jane’s decision-making process is not fraught with meaningful glances at mothers with babies or discussion with her friends or family; instead, she when she calls the doctor to arrange it, she is calm and businesslike. Only after it’s arranged does she take a minute to mourn, turning away from the camera and the audience to cry, showing only her shoulder moving up and down for an extended shot.

Jane Tennison is a fascinating character whose DNA is found in several of its predecessors. Notably, the failed American remake, a serviceable cop show with Maria Bello as its strong lead and The Closer, whose creators have acknowledged the debt they owe to Prime Suspect. Gillian Anderson has also compared her role in The Fall to Jane Tennison

But there is only one Jane, the kind of woman who leads with a quiet integrity who manages to be both poised and ruthless, who tries to wear different lives that don’t fit her and has the courage to cast them off, always knows what she wants and what she values: giving justice to her victims, and solving crimes instead of succeeding in departmental politics and earning promotions. It’s a series that deserves revisiting.

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Elizabeth Kiy is a Canadian writer and freelance journalist living in Toronto, Ontario. She recently graduated from Carleton University where she majored in journalism and minored in film.

Defending Dawn Summers: From One Kid Sister to Another

OK, sure, my big sister didn’t have superpowers, and as far as I know she did not save the world even one time, much less “a lot.” But from my perspective as her bratty little sister, I felt like I could never escape her long and intimidating shadow. I could never be as smart as her, as special as her; I couldn’t hope to collect even a fraction the awards and accolades she racked up through high school. And she didn’t even properly counteract her super smarts with social awkwardness: she always had a tight group of friends and the romantic affections of cute boys. She was the pride and joy of my family, and I always felt like an also-ran. Trust me: this makes it very hard to not be at least a little bratty and whiny.

Michelle Trachtenberg as Dawn Summers

This repost by Robin Hitchcock appears as part of our theme week on Child and Teenage Girl Protagonists.

In the final scene of the first episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer‘s Season 5, Dawn Summers, Buffy’s never before seen or heard-of little sister, appears seemingly out of nowhere. While she’s completely new to the audience, oddly, it is clear that from the characters’ perspectives that Dawn has been there all along.

Dawn and Tara, fellow outsiders from the Scooby gang, pass time with a thumb war.

To quote my husband’s reaction as we reached season 5 during his (in-progress) Buffy indoctrination: “Why on earth are they doing this?”

Most of the Buffy fandom reacted with the same puzzlement. As Dawn’s character was fleshed out over the first few episodes of the season as the archetypical annoying little sister, the audience was still denied all but the vaguest of clues as to Dawn’s true nature and reason for being retconned into the Buffyverse.

Dawn as annoying little sister.

It was not until the fifth episode of the season, “No Place Like Home,” that the Dawn’s existence is explained: she is a mystical key that opens gateways between dimensions, magically given human form with blood relation to the slayer, woven into her memories and all of those around her so that Buffy would protect her with her life, to keep the evil god Glory from using the Key to destroy the universe.

Unfortunately, the only place the monks’ spell couldn’t reach was the minds of the audience, and Dawn Summers had to win us over without the benefit of false memories. This may have been an impossible feat, given her character is pretty much laid out as an immature, whiny, brat with a tendency to get into trouble.

Dawn in damsel-in-distress mode.

Also, she occasionally does this thing where she piercingly shrieks “Get out, get out, GET OUT!” which ranks up there with nails on a chalkboard, dental drills, and Katy Perry songs when it comes to horrible sounds to endure.

And so it is that Dawn is one of the least-liked characters in the Buffyverse. But not by me. I love Dawn Summers.

I suspect my unusually high tolerance for Dawn comes from my OWN memories. In “Real Me,” the episode which properly introduces Dawn’s character, she writes in her diary/narrates: “No one understands. No one has an older sister who is the slayer.”

Dawn writes in her diary.

But I understand. OK, sure, my big sister didn’t have superpowers, and as far as I know she did not save the world even one time, much less “a lot.” But from my perspective as her bratty little sister, I felt like I could never escape her long and intimidating shadow. I could never be as smart as her, as special as her; I couldn’t hope to collect even a fraction the awards and accolades she racked up through high school. And she didn’t even properly counteract her super smarts with social awkwardness: she always had a tight group of friends and the romantic affections of cute boys. She was the pride and joy of my family, and I always felt like an also-ran. Trust me: this makes it very hard to not be at least a little bratty and whiny.

And my big sister was a lot nicer to me than Buffy usually was to Dawn. If the audience found out before Buffy did that Dawn was created to induce the slayer to protect the key, it might have been a little hard to swallow. Buffy shows only hostile resentment toward Dawn for the first half of Season 5. It is only after Dawn learns herself that she is new to the world that Buffy shows her true sisterly love, when she lovingly insists to Dawn that she is Buffy’s “real sister” despite her mystical origins.

“It doesn’t matter where you came from, or how you got here, you are my sister.”

Because I relate to Dawn as a fellow annoying little brat following around her remarkable older sister, I am more forgiving of her character flaws. But I do think viewers without my background ought to take it easier on Dawn as well.

A common criticism of Dawn is that she’s much more immature than the main characters were at the start of the series, when they were close to her in age (Dawn is introduced as a 14-year-old in the eighth grade; Buffy, Xander, and Willow were high school sophomores around age 15 or 16 in Season 1). Writer David Fury responds to this in his DVD commentary on the episode “Real Me,” saying that Dawn was originally conceived as around age 12 and aged up a few years after Michelle Trachtenberg was cast, but it took a while for him and the other writers to get the originally conceived younger version of the character out of their brains. But I don’t need this excuse; I think it makes perfect narrative sense that Dawn comes across as more immature than our point-of-view characters were when they were younger. Who among us didn’t think of themselves as being just as smart and capable as grown-ups when we were teens? Who among us, when confronted with the next generation of teenagers ten years down the line, were not horrified by their blatant immaturity?

Additionally, Dawn starting her character arc as whiny brat lets us watch her grow and mature into a pretty awesome young woman. It is a long road, beset by personal tragedy and a theme of abandonment: Dawn loses her mother and her sister within a matter of months in Season 5, and in Season 6 sees her surrogate parent figures, Willow and Tara, split up just as a returned-from-the-grave Buffy is too detached from humanity to be there emotionally for Dawn. Throughout Season 6, Dawn acts out: lying to Buffy to stay out all night with friends, habitually and perhaps compulsively stealing, and ultimately sublimating her abandonment issues into a curse (with the help of Vengeance “Justice” Demon Halfrek), temporarily trapping the Scooby gang and some innocent bystanders in the Summers’ home.

Dawn’s tantrum in Season 6’s “Older and Faraway”

But Season 6 represents an era of bad choices for almost the entire cast of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, so Dawn should be given as much slack for her missteps as we give the other wayward characters, including Buffy herself. And it is Dawn who finally pulls Buffy out of the emotional purgatory she is suffering in this season. In the Season 6 finale “Grave,” Buffy finally truly regains her will to live and recaptures her complete humanity, and this epiphany comes in large part because she finally sees Dawn as a gift in her life rather than a burden:

Buffy and Dawn hug in “Grave”

“Things have really sucked lately, but that’s all gonna change—and I want to be there when it does. I want to see my friends happy again. I want to see you grow up. The woman you’re gonna become… Because she’s gonna be beautiful. And she’s gonna be powerful. I got it so wrong. I don’t want to protect you from the world—I want to show it to you. There’s so much that I wanna to show you.” – Buffy to Dawn in “Grave.”

Dawn with Buffy during her metaphorical rebirth in “Grave.”

Dawn finds her own self-actualization in the Season 7 episode “Potential,” having once again been shoved to the sidelines of Buffy’s attention by the arrival of a collection of young “potential slayers” who need protection from the Bringers, who have been systematically wiping out the future slayer lineage. While Buffy focuses on protecting and training the potentials, Dawn clearly feels left out, trapped by her own ordinariness and unimportance (a significant change for a girl who was once the key to the fabric between dimensions).

Dawn lurks in the background as Buffy gives a speech to potential slayers.

That all changes when a spell cast by Willow appears to identify Dawn as a potential slayer herself. Dawn is emotionally overwhelmed by the news, mainly because she thinks it means that Buffy must die before Dawn could ever realize this potential (I’m pretty sure the next potential would be called only by the death of Faith, but that’s neither here nor there). A part of Dawn is clearly excited by the news, and given a huge jolt of self-confidence that lets her bravely defend herself against a vampire and then fight off the group of Bringers who come for her classmate Amanda, the true potential slayer identified by Willow’s spell. Dawn handles the news of her lack of slayer potential with perfect grace, saving Amanda’s life and transferring to her the confidence that comes with knowing you are “special.”

At the episode’s end, Xander, the only other remaining character without any superpowers, has a heart-to-heart with Dawn. He shares with her the wisdom he’s gained in seven years in these circumstances:

Xander has a heart-to-heart with Dawn

“They’ll never know how tough it is, Dawnie, to be the one who isn’t chosen. To live so near to the spotlight and never step in it. But I know. I see more than anybody realizes because nobody’s watching me. I saw you last night. I see you working here today. You’re not special. You’re extraordinary.” – Xander to Dawn in “Potential.”

Dawn accepts her humanity and finds her maturity.

After “Potential,” Dawn, who began life at age 14, crafted from a ball of mystical energy and a spell creating powerful false memories, is finally defined by her humanity, her normalcy. She accepts this position with dignity, grace, and bravery. And in so doing, Dawn also steps up to her place as a mature young adult. And at least for this one-time bratty kid sister, that makes Dawn Summers is just as heroic and inspiring a character as Buffy herself.

Robin Hitchcock is an American writer living in Cape Town, South Africa. She is a regular contributor to Bitch Flicks. She is still upset that the Season 5 Buffy DVDs don’t include the awesome “previously on” montage from “The Gift.”