Thoughts on Mad Men

Until several weeks ago, I had not seen a single episode of Mad Men. This fact does not stem from my inherent snobishness over popularly consumed media, but rather because when the show began I did not have cable television, and by the time friends invited me over to see the series, I felt I was already too far behind to catch up.

When season three premiered, my boyfriend and I both expressed interest in watching the show from the beginning and we were delighted to discover that Netflix offered Seasons 1 and 2. And so we began to watch.

Right off the bat, I found myself depressed and disturbed at the end of each episode. Mostly because of blatant and unrelenting misogyny, that, while I've no doubt is entirely accurate of the time period, left me feeling so upset that several nights after viewing I could not sleep.

And the female characters aren't the only ones who are trapped - most of the men at Sterling Cooper waffle back and forth between rapists and o.k. guys - their complete and total lack of respect for the women in the office and in their personal lives stemming from some cycle of masculine insecurity and violence that none are willing to step outside of. I find the show, in general, tragic and extremely difficult to watch.

I have to wonder if the popularity of the series stems not from its incredible art direction: including an obscene attention to detail in costumes, setting and the characters behaviors that borders on insanity, but rather from its' audience's deep-seeded enjoyment on entering a world that is perhaps not-so-long-gone, in which women are the victims of sexual abuse practically by the minute, and men ticking alcoholic time bombs.

Being only ten episodes into Season 1 [so no spoilers, please!] I have to hope that the women (and by proxy, the men) come to have some positive agency on the show - that they can at least attempt to overcome the crimes perpetrated against them, even if they don't succeed. In the meantime, I would love to hear your thoughts on the show: why you love it, why you don't, if you're a feminist how you deal with the disgusting culture that permeates every single moment, and why you think it's the best thing on television (or not).

Tori & Dean

My apologies for not updating sooner. Being unemployed is a double-edged sword: on the one hand, it gives me more time to write and pitch work, which is fabulous, but on the other hand, some days it gives me the time to watch Tori and Dean: Home Sweet Hollywood on Oxygen.

I was ashamed, at first, to even admit that I watched the show. For those of you who might not know: Tori Spelling is the daughter of Aaron Spelling, creator of 90210 (in which Tori starred as the virginal Donna Martin) and several other successful television shows. Since her father's death, Tori's relationship with her mother has deteriorated, and she has largely retreated into her marriage with Dean McDermont, and into motherhood: they have two kids, Liam (22 months) and Stella (7 months). This is their reality show.

Tori, who is a mediocre actress and a likely anorexic, has never been much of an interest to my passion for all pop culture. The fact that she and Dean were both married to other people when they met, fell in love, and decided to divorce their partners (even though Dean's wife was pregnant at the time) is also not exactly model behavior. But, they have been married for four years, and have two beautiful children.



On the first episode I saw, Tori's best friend, and his boyfriend, the "guncles" annouced their decision to marry sooner rather than later, because they want to adopt a child. They ask Tori and Dean for help with the wedding and to be their recommenders to the adoption agency. Tori is clearly overwhelmed by emotion and tells them that she doesn't know any other couple more suited to be parents, and that she always feels totally confident when she leaves her children with them, and that she couldn't be happier for them.

Dean's also a kind of a babe, and maybe the best husband ever. After the motorbike crash, he feels so guilty for worrying Tori that he sells his bikes, renounces the hobby, and buys her a huge ring. When she gets home, he has a bubblebath, roses and champagne waiting. It's an old school romantic gesture, but the real sacrifice is giving up the hobby because he knows it drives her crazy, and it puts his life in danger. He also flies to New York from Calgary so he can be with Tori on Valentine's Day. And he's constantly telling her what a hot ass she has and how beautiful she is. Did I mention he has her painted on the side of his motorbike and a Tori tattoo? (Yes, I find these sort of things romantic).

With her father dead and her mother estranged, Tori has no other family outside the one she's created with Dean. Her desperation when he leaves to go on vacation, or when he crashes his motorbike, it completely heart-breaking for several reasons. Aside from the clear indicators of co-dependence, it's obvious that Tori and Dean really do love each other, and that their number one priority is their children. That's a beautiful thing.

Being Lost On Lost

I was probably born jaded, because, for as long as I can remember, I've resented any artistic endeavor that becomes wildly popular. My assumption is anything that could be consumed by the masses is most likely mediocre. I've never seen a single episode of Survivor, only one of American Idol, and until recently, I had never seen LOST. Granted, Lost did occur while I was in college, without a television, and when I did have access to one I was usually watching Special Victims Unit. But there's always TV on DVD. By the time I got around to feigning any interest in the show, four seasons in, it seemed like a lost cause. Pun intended.

But when I saw the pleading look in my boyfriend's eyes on the night of the season premiere about two months ago, I knew I'd have to bite the bullet and watch the show. And, miraculously, even though I had missed out on nearly four seasons of material, I found myself enjoying it! Mostly because it's totally ridiculous.

So, there were people.
Their plane crashed.
They got stuck on this island.
The island was bad, and lots of shit went down.
They (some of them) escaped.
People remaining on the island are like, time-traveling, constantly.
For some unknown reason, the escapees have to return.

Let's face it, the main reason I like the show is because of stuff like this:


Oh my God! It's a giant statue foot! But wait?! It only has four toes? What the heck? How creepy! What could it all mean?! This theory really got me going, honestly. Whoa! So it has to do with the fact that babies once thrived here and then their statue got destroyed and now no babies survive? Or . . . or is it Anubis, the gate-keeper of the underworld?

There's also a smoke monster. It reminds me of the oil monster in FernGully, which is really disturbing. I've only seen this guy once, but suffice it to say it was pretty scary.


Watching Lost without having any genuine idea of its narrative arc, makes for lots of listening to the show's fans try to explain something, like a character's back story. People really can't, or won't explain anything fully. In this way, the show functions as a cult, a club, that unless you've spent the time and energy watching all four seasons, you will never be fully inducted. I felt the same way with Harry Potter. Having scoffed at the books, I was surprised when I felt a bit sad when the seventh and final book came out. So I read all of them. It took about two weeks, and you know what? I loved the things. Reading Harry Potter, as it came to a close, felt like being a part of something huge. While reading the sixth book on a plane from Atlanta, the forty-ish man sitting next to me said, "Six, huh? Yeah, that one's a doozy!" It was incredible. And yes, I do get chills when I hear the theme song . . . Harry Potter 6, this summer!

Potter aside, I'm already falling down on the job with Lost. Hell, I haven't seen any of the episodes and I'm forgetting to watch the new ones, too. So who knows if I'll follow-through. Mega-season shows take a lot of stamina and dedication. But Lost has become another reproach against my snobbish ways. Maybe it's a popular show because it's good. If the writers can really tie everything up in a way that makes sense (Egypt! Hades! Mythology!) then hell, I guess I'll start from the beginning.

Buffy Lives

"No weapons, no friends, no hope. Take all that away and what's left?"

"Me."



I have, thanks to my friend C., recently rediscovered the joy that is Buffy the Vampire Slayer thanks to TV on DVD, and come to the conclusion that Buffy may be one of the most successful examples of third-wave feminism.

There's plenty of "Buffy as Feminist Icon" scholarship out there. Check this out, or this. Of course, there are those who disagree.

Ultimately, though, it comes down to what Buffy means to you . . . or more specifically, in this post, to me. The wit and genius of the writing on this show cannot and has not been ignored by critics and fans alike who hailed it as one of the most successful television series of all time during its seven season run from 1997 to 2003. Buffy takes a universal experience (high school) and blows it up dramatically to really nail down those typical teenage years. For Buffy, high school literally is hell. Sunnydale High sits right on top of the Hellmouth, the opening to hell, and therefore her town is filled with vampires, demons, and other sundry ghouls.

Buffy is a warrior, make no bones about it, but she is also a girl who cares about her clothes, her friends and family, and her boyfriend. In no way does Buffy compromise (what she considers) the essential traits of her femininity (i.e. her high heels, her emotions) to slay vampires. Instead, the incorporation of these elements are exactly what make her the ultimate fighter. As she says to Kendra, another slayer, the emotions are what give her the fire and strength to kill.

What I find most incredible about Buffy is Angel's side-story, and especially the curse which results in his demise. Angel is a notorious vampire, who, because of the intensity of his killing-sprees, is cursed by one of his victim's families to regain his soul and live forever with the knowledge of all the lives he has destroyed. In the early 90s, Angel learns that Buffy is the slayer and decides that he will aid her in ridding the world of all evil. In the process, of course, they fall in love. But here's the catch (and here be spoilers): If Angel, for one moment, experiences pure happiness, he will return to his demon form, utterly evil.



Let's just say when Angel and Buffy end up seeking shelter at Angel's place after barely escaping from a demon called The Judge (and a very convenient rainstorm), they finally have sex. Yeah, that thing about pure happiness? Oops. So just like many a gal's experience, when they finally sleep with their beau, they wake up to find that maybe he's not exactly the guy they thought he was . . . in fact, he's kind of a jerk. In Buffy's case, Angel is a homicidal maniac who quickly focuses his bloodlust on her and her friends.

Writer and creator Joss Whedon's genius here makes me just about speechless. How many of us crushed on someone all throughout high school, only to have them change overnight into some stranger, who slighted us, or insulted us, or, in perhaps the worst case possible, broke our hearts and left us for dead? We've all been there. (I have, once on the street in Bloomington, Indiana, and again on the street in Park Slope, Brooklyn). Buffy's struggle to destroy Angel is almost purely analogous to the intense inner struggle to "get over" a bad relationship and move on. Buffy must force all the happy memories of what she and Angel had together to the back of her mind, and recognize him now as a demon she can no longer trust. Sound familiar?

*

No matter what, Buffy is always a working girl. Her destiny as the slayer keeps her emotions in check. And while she waffles occasionally, complaining to Giles about wanting to have a normal life, or hesitating in particularly gruesome slayer tasks, in the end, she enjoys what she does, punning and sarcastically quipping the whole way home. Buffy seems to be an argument for living a purposeful life, outside oneself: i.e. having a CAREER. For this, Joss Whedon, I raise my glass to you.

Of course, battling evil and being sixteen is dangerous, both to one's health and sense of self, and Buffy doesn't always escape unscathed. Her unnatural attachment to Spike (another vampire) and rather violent sex (later in the series, with Spike) seems to be a way she can work through some of her frustration and feeling of isolation. In other words, Buffy isn't perfect. She's still human.



But those vamps have another thing coming when they go after the pretty blond girl walking home from school. They have a slayer on their hands. And while Buffy is a superhero (and therefore has superhuman strength, so she really is stronger than the boys), the fantasy-fulfillment for the ladies watching at home is a positive thing, I think, whether it's completely plausible or not. What I mean here is that Buffy attempts to have it all: friends, a demanding job, a relationship, and most importantly, she's a girl who knows how to take care of herself.

And that's a really wonderful thing. No exceptions.

Has Sex and the City Ruined Us as Feminists?

With the movie in production in New York in full swing, I thought, what better time for a post on my beloved show, Sex and the City.

Full disclosure: I have to admit, out of everything I write about on this blog, I think I may be (guilty look of shame) the most qualified to write about Sex and the City. My ex-boyfriend gave me the entire series for our two-year anniversary, and, fittingly, it has served as my back-up friend during very difficult break-ups. Very full disclosure: I have probably seen every single episode at least six times.

I probably just lost half of my readership, which leaves me down to two people. Hi guys!

So, then, what is it about Sex and the City that pisses-off feminists, annoys men, and seduces (less politically aware) women all at the same time?

First of all, the show is funny. Whether you like it or not, admit it. The show is funny. Especially the third, fourth, and fifth seasons. Miranda has some one-liners that could give any professional sketch comedy group a run for their money.

Secondly, I think the show does make a good point—that occasionally, women (feminists or not) spend too much time worrying about men, and should instead treasure their friendships. (On the other hand: how many women are even lucky enough to have three best female friends that are over the age of twenty-one?)

Thirdly, on a more superficial note, the series has given women tidy little labels to describe their relationships. “He’s a Big,” or “He’s such an Aidan,” is commonly heard amongst those in the Sex and the City tribe. I found myself describing my recent break-up to a stranger by saying, “Have you seen Sex and the City? He was basically a Berger. I think. Without the post-it.”

But let’s get down to the nitty gritty. SATC is one of the most unrealistic, full of shit television shows ever created. It is supposedly a show about four women but it was written by a room full of gay men. (Don't misunderstand me here. You know I love my gay men. I just wouldn't peg them to know what it is to be a single woman in New York). The magical realism really gets out of control when Carrie somehow lives in a rent-controlled apartment on 77th street for $750 a month (not possible), writes a column for “The New York Star” (insert “Post” here), probably makes $2 a word, and yet somehow still affords hundreds of pairs of Manolo Blahnik shoes which go for somewhere around $468 a pop. Obviously we’re not talking about real New York here, people. You want reality? Watch The Wire .

SATC, though, I fear, plays on my worst fears. Yes, there is an episode about becoming an Old-Maid, and when people (usually women) say “you’re such a Miranda!” I think, yes, I am a Miranda. I am the smart, funny, unattractive one. People usually respond to this line of thinking with “Oh, you just have to find your Steve!” I am not reassured by such overtures.

I think, perhaps, the love/hate relationship I have with SATC is what keeps me coming back for more. The series is like a boyfriend. When you’re down, it can help you feel better. When you’re not down, you find yourself wondering, WHY DO I PUT UP WITH THIS?

What annoys me most about SATC is that all four women recover all too quickly from their respective break-ups, and also manage to rebound with far better partners, usually have great sex (or weirdly horrible sex) and all at the same time look and live fabulous in one of the toughest cities in the world. Does Carrie ever have anxiety attacks about the fact that she’ll trip on her Manolo and there won’t be anyone there to help her up? The closest we ever came to that was when Miranda had a panic attack on the street and almost got run over by a taxi because her next door neighbor died alone in her apartment and her cat ate half of her face.

Okay, Okay. So why do I watch SATC?

Sometimes it's nice to come home to a television show that is pure fantasy. Especially when you've been busting your ass at work all day, falling in subway grates because you're wearing really impractical (but fabulous shoes), meeting a beautiful boy who tells you he thinks you're the best only to break up with you a month later, and starving because you literally have two dollars in your bank account. So sue me. I like a little bit of lightness in my life every now and then. It reminds me of being home with my friends in Georgia, when I didn't have to stress-out constantly about what people thought of me. I could just simply be me--I didn't have to explain myself. Ultimately the best thing thematically about SATC is its representation of friendships between women. It isn't necessarily realisitc, but it's an ideal that when you come close to achieving it, you know you've found something real. To be able to call someone to come over and make you soup when you can't get out of bed, knowing that person will do it, without judging you . . . there are moments on SATC that really represent that kind of support.

And ultimately, when you're having a rough time, like I am, it's nice to be reminded that kind of support exists. And though you want to focus on the negative in your life, you have to admit you have your real-life Charlotte, Samantha, Miranda, or Carrie around, too, if you know how to look.

THE GENIUS THAT IS TWIN PEAKS

As a consummate David Lynch fan, watching Twin Peaks for the first time is like watching the birth of genius. I’m about half way through the 2nd season, so if you’ve seen it all, don’t spoil it for me. That said, if you’ve never seen it, leave the computer immediately, subscribe to a Netflix account, and order it. Now. Do it. Why are you still reading this? I’m serious. Ok, read this. But then watch it! (No spoilers, I promise).

The mystery of who killed Laura Palmer is a cliff notes explanation of the basic narrative. Of course, it isn’t that simple. Immediately we’re aligned with Special Agent Detective Dale Cooper (played by a devastatingly young and attractive Kyle MacLachlan), who comes to Twin Peaks from the FBI to investigate Laura’s murder. Like Coop, we’re drawn into the maze of people and secrets that make Twin Peaks unique—at times, Laura’s murder seems inconsequential in comparison to the plethora of subplots on the series.

Laura arrives on the scene “dead, wrapped in plastic,” and soon we discover that the town’s little princess kept her dark side under wraps as well—a predilection for drugs and sex with dangerous men is revealed by the discovery of her diary (and a cache of cocaine). The bipolarity of Laura’s face haunts us constantly through the first season: her blue, frosty death mask is juxtaposed with her parents’ homecoming queen portrait. In Twin Peaks, the cheeriness of the superficial world is highlighted by its deathly, demented undercurrents.



If you’ve seen any of David Lynch’s other work, you know one of the many things that makes him so indescribably smart (and also so frustratingly indecipherable) is his dialogue. While Twin Peaks is certainly less abstract than say, Mulholland Drive, its writing is no less engaging. These characters get under our skin immediately through their language—especially Detective Cooper, who has his own little vernacular of sayings and quips that make us scrunch up our brow, crack a smile, and ask, “what?” His excitement over life’s little pleasures and attention to detail—“This is, excuse me, a DAMN fine cup of coffee”—endear him to us instantly.



The murder of a young girl in a very small town certainly calls for drama, and Twin Peaks , in deep contrast to other shows who have followed in its wake, is not afraid to key into the melodrama of Laura’s demise. The characters’ revelations are soliloquized with practical sincerity—almost as if we were watching a Greek or Shakespearean tragedy unfold. The character of Donna, played by a very young, swan-like Lara Flynn Boyle, is Lynch’s mouthpiece on the tragedy. Early in the series, she explains to her mother her conflicting feelings over her grief at the loss of Laura, her best friend, and the burgeoning romance with James, who was Laura’s boyfriend: “Mom, it's so strange. I know I should be sad, and I am, part of me is. But it's like . . . it's like I'm having the most beautiful dream . . . and the most terrible nightmare, all at once.” All of this melodramatic pining is of course fortified by Angelo Badalamenti, Lynch’s composer, and his synthesized music which is the perfect combination of both fear and sadness. Laura’s theme, which also happens to be the opening theme, has almost a Pavlovian effect on us, as if to cue the show’s most complex and intimate moments.

Lynch’s relationship in his work to women is, for me, one of the most interesting aspects of his auteur. Many feminist critics jump to the conclusion that Lynch is a misogynist—many of the female characters in his oeuvre are perhaps too decorative, and ultimately we’re surprised when they reveal themselves to be highly capable, intelligent beings. Of course the message here could be “appearances are deceiving.” However, many critics distrust Lynch’s emphasis on sex, and sexuality—Laura’s innocence is purely a façade, but also inextricable from her downfall. The lovely Audrey Horne (another of Laura’s high school classmates), played by the gorgeous Sherilyn Fenn, oozes sexuality from every pore, tempting even Agent Cooper from his focus on the case. Ultimately, Lynch’s women hark back to a very old-world idea of feminine sexuality: these women are still heavily reliant on their feminine wiles to get what they want. However, they remain just as complex and intelligent as their male counterparts (if not more so). The argument can also be made that Lynch gives power to women by mainly concerning himself with their struggles in his work. He has always been interested in the idea of “a woman in trouble,” as made evident by his films Mulholland Drive, and more recently, Inland Empire, and it is Laura (although we are compelled by Coop) who remains the tragic hero of the series.



But of course what Lynch is mainly concerned with in Twin Peaks is the battle of good and evil, the struggle between impulse and reason. BOB is the manifestation of the evil impulse. Lynch adds the element of magic and fantasy when he gives BOB an actual body and simultaneously paves the way for further series (i.e. The X-Files ) when our greatest fears, which usually swim somewhere beneath the surface of our subconscious, are fully realized, in the flesh, in our homes. BOB is frightening not only because of his evil, but because of his ordinary, simplistic demeanor. He’s the man in the gas station you don’t make eye contact with. He’s the man at the end of lane in the trailer home. He could just be strange—but you don’t stick around to find out. BOB is a different sort of criminal. He isn’t a sociopath. He’s a pure-blooded psychopath and there’s no explanation for his evil, other than its existence.



Twin Peaks is, I believe, the most elegant and complex television series in television history, even at its brief two seasons. Lynch went on to pursue the story in Fire Walk With Me , a prequel film which chronicles Laura’s bad behavior and last days on earth. I have yet to see it, but I hear conflicting reports on its merit. While it’s easy (and practical) to conclude that Twin Peaks’ success is largely based on its quirkiness and cult status, I hesitate fall back on such an oversimplification of the series. The denizens of Twin Peaks have much to say on who we really are, and how people function in a community—ultimately Twin Peaks is really about history, and the inherent hypocrisy of fate. While Laura’s murder and the subsequent murders thereafter, strike a dark chord, the buoyant optimism and goodness of Detective Cooper and his ilk, notably Sheriff Truman, Andy, Hawk, and Lucy, reminds us that while the existence of God may be questionable, the determination of humanity is undeniable.