Whitney is for the parents, kids.

I also watched Whitney last night. It will tangle a viewer up! It is a show that is a mess, and a mess that you think you should watch so that you can talk about such messes, but then the mess is so sticky and bad that you think you should leave the room.  Like a lot of things lately, it got me conflicted.

The good news is we have a show about with a central female character.  I was interested in the sitcom to see if it hearkened back to that earlier era of “real lady” sitcoms from the early 1990s, when we had Roseanne and Grace Under Fire.  Sure, the advertising for Whitney was certainly selling a young-ish kind of misery (well parsed by Splitsider here)  instead of the middle-aged ladies above, but the show suggested it would have whiffs of the same autonomy of a complicated woman leading the show, using the gap between idealized femininity and real life as a motor for the show’s comedy and heart.

The bad news is Whitney spends 98% of the show in underwear. Like, for the entire week that they produced the pilot, she went to the costume trailer and maybe asked “still no pants? ” I think there is so much lingerie in the first episode to scream to the audience, “really, it’s okay, we are not that kind of show. Nothing you know will be threatened here. We aren’t a ‘smart’ show. Look at her ass! No challenges, promise!”  And then, the show goes on to suggest that having a girlfriend who eats or who uses mild sarcasm is coded as “loud” and overall an unattractive burden to the poor lout who happens to love her.  We see this as a classic hot chick tries to hit on Whitney’s boyfriend, wondering at his insane choice (in a very attractive successful woman, who seems to maybe slouch more than the hot girl?).

I don’t see this as an attempt to win over a female audience. This is not Girlfriends or any kind of network ready SATC rehashing.  This show is pretending it wants me to watch it, which is why it has such a strange boomerang of irony and generic form (the much commented on laugh track, three cameras, and constant wink). As Troy Patterson said at Slate:

Well isn’t she fresh. And isn’t that stale…There is a peculiar flavor to this cheese. If you caught a snippet of Whitney unawares, you would be forgiven for assuming that it’s one of those shows-within-a-show that exists to caricature bad television.

My guess is that this more akin to network TV branding lineups as “Laughapaloozas” in the early 90s, appropriating what they lately identified as youth culture and using its energy to promise a safe explanation to everybody else. What I’m saying is, I think Whitney’s  target audience are not 30 somethings who identify with the  weak gawk and struggle of commitment and having nice things (really, who has a couch in their bedroom, or a dresser in their walk in closet? And lingerie is expensive, folks). I think it’s for the parents of those 30 somethings (I’m including myself in this 30ish demographic).

This show does shit for women, women in comedy, and women in Hollywood.  But, it does promise our parents that we are loved even if we aren’t married. That our vague professional careers (she is a photographer) are legitimate. That partners with long hair are really nice young men. That our parents’ divorce did affect us, but it didn’t really harm us. Whitney lets parents watch their be-hoodied, belching, whimsical and sloppy ‘untraditional’ kids turn out as conventional and unworrisome as a parent could hope. If your parents watch Two and a Half Men, then I bet they will watch this. And when they do, they will probably talk about you.

This show is going to make it as a generational artifact of what we hope other people are up to.

Yours,

CF

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Don’t Fail Me Now

Dear Millicent,

It is a cruel thing when something you love lets you down. It is also one of the most powerful things that television can do besides inform you about disasters and keep you company when other people are sleeping. TV is not the most respected of mediums, and I hold the same expectations for most things that I watch on TV as the over-thick general fiction novels I used to hoard from the Tucson public library: pleasure first, with an outside chance of mastery.

And TV has a fair chance of being supergood. The 2000s have been full of breathless television. We are such a good generation at mixing quality with pleasure, just look at our trends of food and drink. In the 1990s, our swoons were limited to Twin Peaks, Northern Exposure and MSCL. I was a much younger viewer then, a different demographic entirely, but I just don’t remember anybody talking about how great TV was. I watched a thousand pounds more of it a day, but it rarely landed in my gut like art. It landed like salt.  It was delicious. It was the stuff that made a future dreamable, collaged, and fully outfitted.  It was what people were doing somewhere.

But that’s barely here or where. I want to get back to heartbreak. I want to talk about Bramwell. Netflix had recommended the show to me for months, and I kept pushing it aside because it looked a tad…bunned? The title card was of a Victorian woman by a fireplace looking all inquisitive and honest while sitting next to a microscope.  It looked like a grown up American Girl movie.  What finally pushed me into this 31 hour affair were the comments over at The Hairpin in response to a post I had written about the maxi-drama Poldark.  Somebody said that the main character got into “scrapes.” If you speak Anne Shirley, I listen.

And the first episode swallowed me whole. It was Victorian, but about syphilis! And it was feminist, well-written, and well-costumed.  Half procedural (think a kind of feminist Victorian version of House), half melodrama about what it’s like to be a working Lady (by the way, I want to start a new academic branch called Lady Studies), Bramwell is a dream come true.  You get mystery, you get silver chafing dishes, you get extreme power structures to dissect, and you get the fun of another time and place. Surgeries happened every episode, often on the kitchen table!  Genre at its best, teasing out all the big ideas, but foremost entertaining and soothing its audience while it pokes at the tender bits of what a society makes.

I was in love. I savored the show, knowing it only had 31 episodes the way I knew Anne of Green Gables series only had 8 books. It was a lovely length–long enough to know you couldn’t gobble it, but finite. It was constructed smartly enough that you fell into full trust with its creators. The characters are complicated. They say the perfect thing, but it isn’t the one you were expecting.  Elinor Bramwell is a trained doctor who starts a hospital in the East End. She lives with her father, also a doctor, and is constantly navigating her future and place. Can she be a wife and a doctor? Will she be an old maid? What were the expectations of class, virtue, and philanthropy in Victorian England?

As with our particular stories of headstrong, intelligent women who have just the right spark of pluck and grace, we all immediately identify with our lead. She is Elizabeth, Anne, Rilla, Wonapalei. I watched this show looking for answers (I watch a lot of television looking for revelations, personal or universal). How do we find work that uses our best skills? How do you navigate privilege and service? How do you utilize, dismantle or deflect patriarchy? I’m not kidding. There were breathless moments in this show, usually alone and late at night, where I thought we were getting somewhere, me and Elinor.  I thought by episode 31, some new answer was going to get cracked out of me.

I thought this all the way up to episode 29, where I so want to tell you what happens, but cannot, because I also really want you to watch this show.  But I want you stop watching at episode 29. Then turn it off like the book is over.  No more pages.

I also want to find Lucy Gannon, the show’s creator and main writer, and beg an interview with her. Something huge happened between the end of the second season (episode 29) and the strange 4 hours that make up  season 4 (episodes 30-31). My guess is that Gannon would defend her choice, but I want to know why. Did the producers go crazy? Did she want to sober up all of us slobbering romantics, pegging our lives on the constructed adventures of gamine do-gooders? Something happened! Professionally, personally, cosmically, Bramwell got fucked.

All I can say is that the feminism, heavily installed in the series, fully goes out the window. Beloved characters disappear with no explanation, characters become unrecognizable, and the theme music gets really bad.  Up until the very end, I was holding my breath, sure this was all a grand architecture to make the ending glow like the best of television endings. But it didn’t. It did the worst thing, and pretended that the crap was just what we wanted. It broke our hearts. There are lots of us, according to the old Masterpiece Theatre forums on the PBS website.  We are all astonishment.

So now I have to go back to answering my own questions about my life, without the crutch of what would Elinor do? And she was played by a Redgrave (Jemma), and you know you can always trust a Redgrave!

It was dreamy while it lasted. And then, the evidence changed, all collapsed.

Lesson: good endings must not be assumed, and in television, dreadfully, cannot be earned.

Yours,

CF

 

The Impossible Dream

Dear Millicent,

While you were curating this collection of Painful Groins in Art, to which I say “ouch!”, I found one more Maidenform ad to join your previous post on bra madness.  Because, really, what is more dreamy than dreaming yourself as one of the most boring, useless objects in a household besides napkin rings?

As you do,

CF

Maidenform Ads: Inside the Madness

Dear CF,

I’m speechless at your news of this Hail to the V handpuppet campaign. Handpuppets! It got me thinking about the marketing campaigns of yore; specifically, the Maidenform ads of the 50s and 60s, which are a strange, wonderful amalgam of glamorous surrealism and post-brainstorm despair.

Here are a few to start us off:

“I, suh. Gar?”

(was approximately my reaction).

Next:

Knockout! Ha!

Sp.

Yes.

So far, wild awesome dreams that double as euphemism. Knockers that box! Charioteers that arouse! Pink elephants that… well.

Then there’s this:

We can be Tarzan and swingers. Yes. Yes indeed.

Then there is this, which is what happens when a euphemism goes into overdrive and makes the leap from fantasy to vaguely suicidal.

Okay, but maybe it’s about risk-taking in general! Like this!

YES! goes this ad campaign. SEXY MATADOR BRIDAL BULL-WRANGLER! Hints of bestiality! Bra-armor! GO!

That might seem hard to top. Don’t worry:

But then the Don Drapers behind this whole thing start to slow down. The ads get a little more … prosaic:

And:

Hm.

If you’re getting depressed, don’t! You could, um, dream of being creative!

Or of playing Cleopatra! (We’ve downgraded from actually “being” her as we barge down the Nile.):

How about … no. We already used up our elephant. But maybe another circus reference. I know!

Height! Height is exciting. Where else can we use it? A bridge? No, that takes us back to suicide… How about … no. Or? Um … a construction site?

A lift! Get it? Travel. Travel is good. Let’s run with that. Instead of adventure, let’s go with scary but glamorous travel!

Or just, you know, travel!

Exhausted, bankrupt of ideas concerning what one might do with a bra that will thrill and inspire, the ad execs hit on an amazingly appealing concept:

Fondly,

M

(Images via the Smithsonian)

Hail to the V

Dear Millicent,

With Harry Potter and Friday Night Lights ending their stories this week, generations are weeping everywhere.  And last night, as the audience settled in the theater to see what happens to Potter and friends even though we all know what happens, a surprising commercial came on.  It was epic, starting with a woman holding her baby to the moon, and the words “It’s the cradle of life.”

“Uterus” I whispered to Mr. Carla Fran, thinking I was hilarious.

“It’s the source of nations.”

“Uterus!” I thought I was playing a reproductive parts/movie trailer game akin to the fortune cookie “in bed” thing.

“Men have fought for it”

Still works!

“Men have died for it.”

And then, you know what they were actually talking about? VAGINAS! It was really about ladyparts. It was a commercial for Summer’s Eve, convincing women to get spendy because their historical vaginas are so epic.  They are the stuff of movies. The tag line was the bold “Hail to the V.” I actually gasped.

I can’t find a clip of that actual commercial online, [update: it’s here] but I’m sure everybody will see it because everybody is Harry Pottering this weekend. It was surreal because it was so body positive,  and yet I don’t want to celebrate my epic lady part by dumping a bunch of chemicals on it.  That does not sound like hailing to me. Actually, it does, but the weather kind. The hailing that dents cars, and tender things.

The commercial is also a fascinating snapshot of power and gender. Yes, the knights are fighting for the princess’ vagina, but that’s kind of the problem, not the cool thing, right? I cannot wait to hear what Sociological Images has to say about all of this. [Update, Gwen Sharp covered it here).

This all did lead me to Summer’s Eve Youtube channel, where they have a bold campaign to work their way back into the sex ed health class. Because we know every health teacher warns against douching, and brings up Summer’s Eve or Massengill as the example baddies.  We all know that we are not supposed to buy those things.  But, Summer’s Eve’s new approach is get direct, get educational, and make hand puppets that are your vagina.

Here is white lady comedian gal friend vagina:

Here is tired and sassy latina lady vagina on the go:

And here is club-going black lady vagina, complete with wrist snap:

Summer’s Eve wants women to be “BFF”s with their vaginas. Cool. The problem? A.) Nothing is still the best everything for upkeep down there. No soap, no wipes, no special body lotion, nothing.  and B.) I like the idea that I can be besties with my anatomy without corporate direction.  Gimme Hot Pantz, the free and awesome pamphlet on lady parts, any day.

But, is this the kind of ad campaign that gets conversations started earlier, especially for adolescents, and at the very least, gets the V out of the closet?  Another tag line from the videos is “Welcome to Vaginaland.”

Harry Potter was fine. I just can’t stop thinking about feminine wipes.

Yours,

CF

New Crush: Karen Kilgariff

Oh, yeah. And she’s the older sister on The Book Group. 

 

 

Revisionist Graffiti

Dear CF,

I caught a graffiti artist on video the other day. She was working on the only woman on the whole building–a buxom blue-skinned lady with no face and a theoretical bikini. I’d seen the blue gal many times and scowled a little at her faceless boobage.

Here’s the artist at work. She let me film her after she put on huge sunglasses:

I came back later to see what she did:

Fondly,

M

The Answerers

Dear Millicent,

To be added to the list of fascinating things: response songs. These are songs written as an answer to a previous song, often making a song fight, or, at least, a melodic last word. It makes sense that musicians sing back to other songs before them, and it’s especially lovely when they point out the sticky bits in the previous song, correcting and challenging.

Here are two super famous response songs from the fifties:

The Original:

Hank Thompson’s “Wild Side of Life”

The Throwdown: “I might have known you’d never make a wife.”  Also, you’re a slut, and you won’t talk to to me anymore.

The Response:

Kitty Wells’ “It Wasn’t God Who Made Honky Tonk Angels”

The Big Suck It: You were married the whole time, you bastard. [Also, note that Wells is performing in front of 10 men, there is only one other woman on stage].

The Original:

Hank Ballard and the Midnighters’ “Work With Me Annie”

The Throwdown: Annie, we have to sex. Like, right now.

The Response:

Etta James (ETTA JAMES!), in her first single “Roll With Me Henry” which was too dirty sounding, so it got renamed, “The Wall Flower” and “Dance With Me Henry.”

Here is another great version by the Platters, wherein there is slapping and dancing.

The Big Suck It: I’m game, but you’re doing it wrong. “You’re not moving me.”

“Work With Me Annie” had a bunch of response songs. The Midnighter’s did their own called “Annie Had a Baby,” all about how Annie can’t work anymore, because she had a baby. The song was banned from the radio.  She must have gotten pregnant while dancing.

Yours,

CF

Costume Drama

Dear Millicent,

Our old town got smashed yesterday. Tuscaloosa is a real disaster. Final exams have been canceled, water is being conserved, and people are doing things like picking shards of glass out of their living room walls.  The place, and the reality of what it faces now are too surreal for more words from me. I never loved the city. It deserves homages, and kindness, and repair.

What I want to write to you about today, aside from the terrifying weather of Tuscaloosa (weather that convinced me that all Nature wanted was IN. By way of roof, window, or wind, the outside wanted its shelter back), is, of course, movies.  A certain kind of movie.  A lady’s movie.

This movie is historical, and it tells of how hard it is to have a vagina in history.  These movies are about constraint, voice, and 37 different kinds of fabric.  They are also about teacups, sunlight, moments of natural happiness, and moments of rigid repression. The eye drowns in fabric and rolling land. These movies are sumptuous, sensuous, and all about a woman’s world.   The world in which she is real.  Thus, they are laden with women’s work (more fabric), women’s conversations, and women looking out of windows. There are also seasons.

I’m not bagging on these movies. I happen to love them. I’m not just a sucker for them, I am The Sucker for them.  Sofia Coppola’s Marie Antoinette, Jane Campion’s Bright Star, Agniezka Holland’s Washington Square,  Patricia Rozema’s Mansfield Park, all grand costume dramas, mostly directed by a woman, with the original story often by a woman.  We have a new spate of these kinds of stories to goggle: Cary Fukunaga’s Jane Eyre, Bertrand Tavernier’s Princess of Montpensier (from a novel by Madame de LaFayette), and Kelly Reichardt’s Meek’s Cutoff. 

This incarnation of  Jane Eyre captures the nut of this genre, the austerity and sweep of it.  We have an uncompromising  heroine, uncommonly attractive, with a wit that dooms and elevates her.  We have a social structure that is thoroughly fucking her over, and we have a passion that demands a greater world.  Just like the Princess of Montpensier,  Elizabeth Bennett, Fanny Price et al, we have a heroine who simple needs to be seen.  We know from the beginning that if only she was seen, the world would realize the diamond she was.  This is also the plot of Some Kind of Wonderful, which might now count as costume drama out of sheer age (I believe there are jean shorts with a leather heart on the butt?).

The love story that is made in these stories is not about sex, but about voice. Our girl is always loved ultimately for her opinion and mind. Her atypical looks are beautiful, but they distinguish her from all the other dolts out there. When her love finds her beautiful, we know she has been truly seen, and in a way that the other women of the surrounding society are not. The beloved offers agency, a heat, a story, that the mostly female audience adores because it means that we too don’t have to be typical.  It’s proof (or a comfort) that the male gaze can be interrupted, that some other sense organs are used.

Especially because the men chasing our women usually like the sound of her voice.  Her words challenge him, and again separate her from everybody else. He can suffer her company, gladly.  She speaks, and he listens.

Both Jane and the Princess (who is more of a hot dish than an “austere oddity”) have to tackle the truth of love vs. men’s worship.  They have to maneuver in a society that completely controls them. The Princess is always an object foremost, as her father inspects her naked body before her wedding night (which makes for an incredible scene of the kind that only historical dramas can offer), as her husband is outraged that she has learned to write.  Jane has no control over her future (until she does), and often laments how she would like to be a man.  And even when their men are good, they are kind of shitty, because the system is so rotten.

With Meek’s Cutoff, we have a costume drama of different sorts–there is fabric and stitching, and plenty of full skirts blowing in the wind (more rolling hills, too), but the women are not as grand. Their hands are dirty, but the same system is fucking them over. The  men don’t tell them much, they are at complete mercy of their environment, and are often together as they stitch and wash and cook.  It’s a beautiful movie, and the word that mostly comes to mind is exposure.  It is not about love, but it is about the same thing that Jane is feeling as she runs on the moor, and what the Princess feels in the one brief horseride she gets to have by herself.  There are not many lines in Meek’s Cutoff, but in one of the longer strings of dialogue, a character says that women are made of chaos, and men of destruction.  The movie ends in a balance of both, with Michelle William’s character claiming a kind of voice (she is recognized as a leader of the group), and an unknown, wild outcome.

We often talk about messy women here–about narratives where women are allowed to be chaotic and not punished for it.  We have also talked about corsets here, and I wonder if these costume dramas often rely on all the bustles and whatnot because they shape the chaos–the cliche of a woman clawing at her corset and becoming “uncaged” is old.  And an unempowered soul is in an existential chaos.  As Jane tears at her wedding dress, I thought of all the other gowns in the wild, and why the image of a running bride is so pleasing.  Her particular dress means capture (her wedding bonnet is the most captury hat/cage ever), and by outrunning it, she escapes her first life with Rochester.  And when we see a bride running away, we see a woman taking on the system.

And this is why I think I love costume dramas of this particular variety. The world they create has such a clear definition of the suckball of patriarchy (women don’t get to choose their husbands! women don’t get to talk! they aren’t allowed to travel alone!), and they provide so many fascinating accessories to time and class that we get to enjoy the dissection of something that, closer, would be uncomfortable.  We can watch an Elizabeth Bennett or Jane Eyre rebel against their world, and we can watch them be heartily rewarded for their steadfastness (hello long lost rich uncles! hello Pemberley!).  We know they are held back (look at their skirts for goddsakes), but it’s kind of nice (peau de soie!), that we can languish in the frustration and its dismantling. As they are seen and heard, we get to play with the restraining structures that are still around today (which all of these directors have done, heavily, and often beautifully).  It is a fantasy, but not as much of love, as of agency.   Of borders. Of corsets, time, and swathes of meadows. I think we love watching people get forcibly married because the tension it brings up is scary, and fascinating, and usually, very well-dressed.

Which brings us to the Royal Wedding. I’m not saying this is a Queen Margot affair, as much as the fact that it is a real live costume drama. Why should we watch it? First off, the fabric. There will be mounds of it, and it will be a delight to the eye. It will provide us all the silhouettes and gatherings of tulle we have ever wanted. And then, we get to watch the system, a ritual of the same stuff that all those costume drama movies are talking about, in its real and most public form.  Royalty still exists, and we get to watch them in real life.  Monarchy isn’t delightful, but it is a system of built on the benefits of patriarchy and colonization and empire and overall oppression.  It’s weird, and full of the stuff of movies.  I think of the Princess of Montpensier (set in the 16th century) and then the history of Diana, less than a generation ago.  How the aim for these stories, the ones that we watch over and over again, is the same.  Our heroine is no longer an angel, an urchin, or a saving grace. She has no pedestal (but does have lots of cash), and is celebrated as a real, pulsing, speaking thing. “Altogether a human being.”

Here’s to the happy couple, and to all the happy heroines,

Yours,

CF


Pictures of Walk For Choice Los Angeles

Starting up at Pershing Square

LA Showing Off

Truer Words.

We got lots of honks, especially from Priuses!

Joining Up with the Labor Rally. Lots of people, lots of cheering, lots of chanting "Pro-Union, Pro-Choice"

This sign made me pause. It was the right idea, but still felt...grabby?

The All-American Jumpsuit, in case you haven't seen one before.