The UnReal-ity of the 'Bachelor' Universe

It's been a hot minute, I know. Working in TV and social media makes it harder to dedicate your free time to TV and social media. Who knew?

Nevertheless, I am currently swept up in the faraway land known as the Bachelor/ette/inParadise franchise. There is something very interesting happening in this world, which I've written about before, but you might not know it unless you are an avid fan able to parse out which tropes and codes are being disrupted in the Bachelor-verse this summer. These disruptions fall under two categories; one within the series The Bachelorette, the other outside it, namely the seriously compelling Lifetime (what, did I say those words together?) show UnReal. 

Let's start with how Kaitlyn Bristowe, the most recent Bachelorette to be whisked away by the glamor of 'dating' 25 men on TV, purposely or purposelessly spun the show on its head. See, Kaitlyn seems to behave like a woman of 2015, meaning she has a sex drive that leads to certain events. A few weeks into the courtship, when there are still ~8 men left in the game, she sleeps with one of the contestants. Normally in this show, sex happens under verrrryyy controlled circumstances and locations that are actually called 'fantasy suites,' which serial viewers of the franchise will tell you only pop out when there are 3 guys left. Usually these 'overnight dates' happen on a tropical island, complete with pillows and candles and maybe some palm trees rustling in the wind. Everyone knows sex goes on, but it is never talked about, because the show seems to pander to what it believes to be Middle American values (for its Midwestern mom demographic, maybe). This season, Kaitlyn sleeps with Nick in Dublin, in a hotel room. It's so pedestrian in comparison, but so much more real, because the next morning the crew catches her on camera having a heart-to-heart with one of the producers on her balcony, reciting all those things we millenial women sometimes recite to ourselves and to friends after sleeping with someone too early. She doesn't regret it, but now she has to figure out how to break the news to the others. Furthermore, she had already told another contestant in private (Shawn, who would end up with her heart), that he was the one.

How did the production team approach this behavior? They sort of embraced it and altered the format of the show. Yes, they seem to have scrapped the other exotic locations in favor of staying in Dublin with a shorter schedule (could this have been a weird punishment? Nah, since producers will do whatever they can for ratings), but they actually gave Kaitlyn the go-ahead to have overnights with four men, not three. They also exposed all the slut-shaming tweets aimed at Kaitlyn in a reunion special (and my feminist heart whined as I heard this vitriol) in order to incite and maybe defend their now-controversial commentary on sex. Then Kaitlyn only met two families instead of 3, which was probably a good call on the producers' part when they must have known pretty concretely that Kaitlyn only really cared about those two guys. It may have been a misstep on the production's part to bring the 'loser' all the way to a proposal, but again, ratings rule.

 "raise your hand if you have ever felt personally victimized by Regina George Twitter trolls"

Why is this important? Finally, after a bajillion seasons of this show perpetuated archaic values, romantic inventions, and hegemonic gender roles, we're finally seeing the cracks in that rigidity. I wouldn't go so far as to say that we're getting a positive representation of healthy relationships, but Kaitlyn has ushered in a frankness about sexuality that is welcome on a show that has, for better or worse, dictated some standards around courtship and romance in pop culture. That this franchise is also responsible for Bachelor in Paradise is interesting because the otherwise proper values steeped in the Bachelor/ette are nowhere to be found in "Paradise," where sex, backstabbing, and manipulation are called "love" to hide the jealousy and competition that draws us in like any good trashy tv.

Then there's UnReal. A scripted series that draws quite tightly from the Bachelor universe (it's basically a fictional behind-the-scenes look at the Bachelor), it tells the story of the backstabbing, manipulative producers responsible for this good trashy tv. What's great about UnReal isn't so much the scandals and cat-fights the producers encourage, but that these producers are women living in the feminist/post-feminist media landscape, grappling with their conflicting desires: power and morality, danger and safety, love and lust. For example, the female showrunner Quinn is a ruthless yet intuitive boss gunning for her own franchise, and she wants to take her best associate producer, Rachel, with her, despite Rachel's paranoia that this world is drawing her irreversibly farther away from escaping the manipulations and destruction she happens to be good at.

 Quinn certainly isn't nice, but she knows people, and she knows what makes good TV.

Honestly, I sometimes feel like Rachel. It is difficult to work in media without internalizing a general feeling that the internet brings out the worst in people. Being addicted to social media, like many in my generation, has made me less patient, less able to be in the moment, less empathetic, and less able to think deeply about issues larger than 140 characters. Yet when I see complex stories on TV about complex women, I feel like at least I have a voice, because stories like mine are starting to be told in mass media. I'm trying to escape it all, but I end up sucking myself back in. Maybe it's a vicious cycle, condemning the hand that feeds me because media also tells the stories I care about, but the fact that dating shows actually resonate on my feminist scale gives me hope.

Jane the Virgin & risk-taking

Jane the Virgin mostly makes me giggle, but one episode struck more than my funny bone in the way it treats the theme of taking risks as a young, responsible woman.

This show, which is in its first season on the CW, tickles with its undercover feminism and genuine emotions amidst goofy, over-the-top characters and telenovela-inspired plot twists. Gina Rodriguez excels as Jane, a thoughtful young woman who gets accidentally artificially inseminated and (small spoiler) develops feelings for the father of the baby. Jaime Camil, as Rogelio, is actually hilarious as a superstar who discovers he is Jane's father. Add a thousand other events and people in Jane's life and you've got a hit that, surprisingly, doesn't get swept away by its own drama.

In a recent episode, Jane finds herself doing something she never thought she would; she breaks up with her stable, detective fiancé for the man whose baby she's already carrying. Michael, the fiancé, is her rock and his feelings for Jane never waver. Rafael, on the other hand, is passionate but harder to nail down. But they have undeniable chemistry, so she goes for it. This sounds like a completely typical trope in romantic comedies, which it kind of is, but for some reason it doesn't feel cliché. Here's why.

Yup, I can feel the chemistry from here. 

Up until this point, Jane has lived her life avoiding risk and instead banking on responsibility and stability. She harbors dreams of writing fiction but has gone to school for teaching. Her mom raised her as a single woman, so Jane has learned never to be dependent on men. She works two jobs to put herself through school. So when she finds herself actually a pregnant virgin at no fault of her own, she wants to throw her hands up, admit defeat to the gods of "good things come to those who wait,"  and pursue those potentially life-changing butterflies she feels with Rafael, especially after hours-long conversations with him are making her fall in love.

I sort of love this story line. First of all, Jane is a character who is strong-willed without being reckless, considerate without being demur, and a role model while still allowing room for error. We need more characters like her on television.  Second of all, the story subverts the traditional romantic comedy, which treats the woman as a shell of a person by which the obstacle of securing a man she becomes whole. Jane is already her own person with legitimate aspirations, and she is feeling things in her heart that make her want to take a risk which could enhance her life, or change it for the worse. For once, this "risking everything for love" story is one I can get behind, because Jane feels more three-dimensional than many romantic comedies--a character with real agency.

Which, of course, makes me reflect on all the times I have or haven't taken risks. Yes, I moved to two foreign countries to pursue passions, but I always knew I could come home (and alas, I have), so for some reason those adventures still feel like calculated risks. More often, though, I've had the nagging "should I text" thoughts after someone exited my life too soon (either by my design or theirs) and the hope that going all-in could change our fate. I've had the friendly brunches/drinks/dinners with exes, where I've kept my composure and shown them, mostly truthfully, that I am doing great and that my life has its direction (like Jane's, regardless of partner). Many times I've accepted these events as the right thing and eschewed regret. But I don't think I have ever irrevocably risked it all, even though when I was younger I thought I wore my heart on my sleeve; I've discovered I'm sometimes way too rational, and hence I shy away from true risk-taking behavior.  Even recently I realized, thanks to a discussion with a friend, that the way I drink (casually, never in excess) has never been to let loose to the point of forgetting or exceeding limits; it's to get a little closer to the authenticity of a moment in which the rational details of time, place and company merge with the monumental emotions of certain moments. I love feeling overwhelmed by the emotional gravity of stories I hear/read/watch, but in my own life I tend to let rationality dominate. When slightly buzzed, I feel that it's easier to merge the rational with the emotional sides of my brain and I want to get better at this sober.

But I also can't lie and say I don't dream about a moment in my life where I grab my bike, pedal through the snow, and show up unannounced at someone's door and say, let's do this. For real. You're worth the risk.

The Affair

I've never had an affair, but recently I was pulled towards one. I found myself not answering texts, canceling plans, and saying to myself just a bit more, then I'll stop. I was enamored, enraptured. I lost the whole weekend to it.

That thing, while not an affair with another human, does bear its name: The Affair on Showtime. I'll only say a bit about the show because you should really watch it yourself. It's essentially the same recollection of an affair from two perspectives, Noah's (Dominic West) and Alison's (Ruth Wilson), each taking up half of an episode. However, things get complicated with and beyond the affair as the deeper, sadder details of these two peoples' lives emerge. You'll notice right away that little, superficial details change according to whose narrative we're in: the color of a dress, who kissed whom, when in the day something happened. Beyond showing us the faults of memory, these little details also highlight each character's worldview and self-perception. This narrative style is why I felt an affair-like addiction to the show, because watching was like uncovering the layers (and the deeper, sometimes sadder details) of the characters like you would a lover. I wanted more, more, more.

So many secrets.

What is it about television dramas that make you feel like you're cheating on your life with your TV set? How can we go hours and hours holed up with only food, sleep and HBOGo like we would with a new flame?

Binge-watching is rampant now that we have Showtime Anytime, Netflix, Hulu, and all the other il/legal streaming sites, but I think the technology is just an enabler for a certain personality type. Not everyone has this desire to tv-marathon. I was talking to a friend recently who said something along the lines of, if he watches more than a few episodes of something in a row, he wants to throw up and then go for a run. Good for him for avoiding atrophied muscles from too much couch-potato time.

I'd posit, at least for myself, that the personality type that can watch tv for hours, even ashamedly, is the same kind that thinks a lot (or too much?) about stories, connection, and possibly also about love and relationships. I've written about media voyeurism before, where I let media teach me lessons instead of experiencing them first hand in the world, and I think we media types like neat, dramatic, and constructed narratives because they are easier to follow than the random events in our lives. For example, how do I even know what an affair looks like? Since I've never had one or known anyone to have one (I'm still in my twenties, and at my age people are young enough that cheating usually leads to a clean breakup before marriage or kids), it's the movies and books and television that show me what the guilt and the illicit pleasure and the heartbreak feel like. While I'm definitely NOT wishing an affair on myself to chalk up to experience, I still use the power of storytelling to show me the truths and authenticity of humanity in the places I haven't gone.

Here's an embarrassing example that might help clarify my point. About a year ago I dated someone briefly (keyword, briefly) who dumped me for another girl. The Facebook message signaling the breakup cited an exclusivity talk with the other girl and not wanting to blindside me when we were going to hang out that night, hence the Facebook message. I wasn't falling in love in the slightest but I still felt rejected and undignified enough by the cowardly message for a good cry. The thing was, this person had made me a really beautiful, wood-carved plaque with a quote from Before Sunrise on it (readers of this blog will know that film is my absolute favorite ever). In my indignation over the breakup I grabbed the plaque, swiped the hammer from my desk drawer, and tried to break the thing. When that didn't work, I took a sharpie and scrawled "Fuck you" on it and threw it away. 

But that didn't make me feel better, only worse. I missed the plaque immediately, not because it was a symbol of our time together, but just because I liked it. What's worse, while destroying it I felt like I was watching my body write the swear as my brain was thinking, this is something someone in the movies would do. Silly, yes. Pathetic, slightly. But the takeaway there was that I should listen to myself instead of deferring to a narrative cliché. I tend to like my rational ability to know what keepsakes and memories to hold onto, however hurtful they once were, and I ignored that disposition in my moment of weakness. Because I watch too much tv, maybe.

Oh well, at least I'll have the Instagram snapshot of the plaque to remind me to listen to the moment. Haha, the irony.

Blue Is the Warmest (Hair) Color

Instead of dwelling on the explicit 10-minute sex scene in Blue Is the Warmest Color, which I've finally motivated myself to watch and which divided critics and the queer community (so much scissoring!), I want to focus on a smaller question:

Why has this movie's title been translated as Blue Is the Warmest Color? 

The French title, La vie d'Adèle, meaning "The Life of Adèle" after the lead character (played by Adèle Exarchopoulos), works so much better as a title for a 3-hour exploration of female sexuality. Ok, so there is the irony that blue is considered a 'cold' color. Yes, director Abdellatif Kechiche, whose previous film L'esquive is a subtle and brilliant exposé on France's multicultural youth, dresses his protagonist in blue and makes her girlfriend's hair blue for edginess and lesbian appeal. But everything that's meant for warmth in the film has the opposite effect.

First of all, Kechiche's choice of constant, extreme close-ups on Adèle's face made her seem bland and vacant rather than emotive. I think this choice was intentional, and it works at the beginning, when Adèle is still discovering herself and her sexuality, but it turns quickly annoying as all I could focus on was Adèle's inability to keep her lips closed. Her mouth had this lazy pout on it that I can't make sense of. Is she a daydreamer? Is she not self-aware? I was relieved by the final scene in the art gallery where we finally see her in medium long shots - still so uneasy about her surroundings but at last not the center of our attention.

 Look at that pout.

Secondly, Kechiche takes the path of least resistance to portray the romantic connection between Adèle and Emma (Léa Seydoux), but it's a shallow one striving for depth. Adèle's into books, while Emma's studying painting. Adèle is a helper, while Emma's a talker. They supposedly have sexual chemistry (more on that in a minute). This is supposed to be a life-altering shift in Adèle's life, but Emma seems to figure only sexually into this shift. There are no coming out scenes, only a meager (yet affecting nonetheless) instance of homophobia, and just one Pride Parade, but no real scenes of romantic support, admiration, or devotion. Aren't they supposed to love each other? I want more of those scenes. Kechiche gives Adèle's personal development a shot in that we watch her graduate, march in an education protest, and become a teacher. But really she's just a muse (Emma's muse and Kechiche's) and we all know that a muse's pedestal matters more than her heart or mind.


Ok, I will talk about that sex scene. There are the obvious criticisms, a few of which I'll name. It turns pornographic and male gaze-y in Kechiche's hands because he's a straight man trying to represent female sexuality.  There is a lot of focus on bums and panting. It involves positions that seem potentially unreasonable for a first sexual encounter (and some, like scissoring, that are stereotypical of lesbians and that may or may not be performed outside of porn, depending on whom you ask). It's not even that sexy but rather borderline animalistic.

Yet my biggest problem with the scene--and really, the whole film--is that it is supposed to represent the apex of female sexuality - pure pleasure, desire, fulfillment, even ecstasy - but we are not really there with Adèle and Emma even though we're watching them. We're not sympathizing or even experiencing vicarious/movie-watching pleasure. Rather, the tone I get is of Kechiche feeling jealous. Later in the film there is a group discussion about how female pleasure is deeper and more complex than male, and I get the sense that this is personal for Kechiche. He's making a movie to try to get at an understanding, but he's actually pushing himself, and therefore us, farther away from that understanding by defaulting to voyeurism. If we understood Adèle better (meaning Kechiche had actually made her a complex character instead of a shell of a young woman), we could have gotten there, together. But as we watch her walk away from the camera down a street in the final shot, her blue dress diminishing against the sunset, we don't know her at all, or what this sexual "awakening" has done. This is a shame, because I could have seen a lot of myself in her.

Connections, and Her

So I cried at Her, again. Those lonely characters seeking companionship in technology made me sad about how we connect with others, and the second viewing wasn’t any less intense.

Both times I saw the film in the same theater—the first time alone, the second time not. The first time I was two weeks into my job, and taking myself to the movies was thought to be a detox from the overstimulation of adopting the new skills needed for a job in social media: the ever-presence of screens, instant communication, and connections through technology. What I got out of watching Her for the first time was not a detox but an accentuation of those things, albeit without the fast-paced excitement of my job. Her is pretty melancholy and takes a subtly cautionary stance on the future of technology as a crutch and sometimes impediment to true human connection. I sat through the credits, tears streaming down my face, thankful for being alone in a dark theater where no one had to share my discomfort.

The second time I was three months into the job, more confident in my work (and less exhausted by it) and also more optimistic about the power of social media to bring us together. Yet the tears came for the same reason, and I felt overwhelmed by the tendencies we have to use media for what we think is connection but really may be preventing it. My discomfort this time extended to my movie-going companion, who was less moved by it but who did articulate that it made her uncomfortable. So did my tears, it was clear, as she eyed me sideways while the credits rolled. It took us a while to dissect what had happened to me in the theater, and we slowly inched from a place of distance at our differing reactions back to a place of understanding.  The whole post-viewing discussion, and even tone, was surprisingly Her-like, as it highlighted how we, as people, can go from connection to disconnection and back again in the smallest moments, like flecks of dust being brushed off a table only to fall back upon it again. With or without technology, connection is hard, but I am thankful that Her made me aware of how humans need it, try to get it, block themselves from it, and finally find it, even if only for a moment.

The Complicated Feminism of "Frozen"

I watched Disney’s Frozen on a plane today – it was on one of those shared teleprompter-like screens that, nowadays, you’ll only find on domestic flights. This lack of individual screen permitted me to watch the gaggle of college girls sing along to the movie in front of me. They knew every word, which should have felt to me no different from the nights my own college roommates would put on the sing-along version of “Mamma Mia” and bop around the dorm room to find some cheer during finals week. But with Frozen, I kept in mind their enthusiasm for this movie as a backdrop to the fact that, while watching, I couldn’t make up my mind about whether or not this movie had a feminist stance. 

I’ll give you the rundown of the story, fittingly based on dour fairy-teller Hans Christian Andersen’s “The Snow Queen,” so that we can make sense of it together. Sisters Elsa and Anna are princesses, and when they are kids Elsa is cursed with a variation of the Midas touch – what she touches turns to ice. As a child Elsa has trouble controlling her power and accidentally strikes Anna with ice, injuring her. As a result, their parents decide it is best to keep Elsa’s power a secret, encasing her hands in gloves, shutting her away in the castle, and isolating her from her sister. Not surprisingly, this turns her into a closed-off, protective, literally frigid older sister.

As young adults on Elsa’s coronation day, Anna—the compulsive, spontaneous, evidently modern one—meets Prince Hans and gets engaged to him (on the same day, omg what?). Elsa finds out, and in her anger, accidentally freezes the ballroom and the rest of the town, which the townspeople interpret to mean that she’s dangerous. She runs away in exile to her own icy castle, where she sings a song about being free. Anna hunts after her with the help of loner mountain man Kristoff. A series of things happen as various parties try to lure Elsa back to the castle to end the eternal winter, during the last of which Elsa again strikes Anna with ice, freezing her heart. In keeping with fairy tale lore, only “an act of true love can thaw a frozen heart,” so Anna races to kiss Hans to break the spell, only to find that Hans is just using her to get to the throne. When he tries to kill Elsa, Anna jumps in front of the sword, though, which is the actual act of true love that revives her back to her full warmth. Yay, and they all live happily ever after.

So, what’s complicated about that? The thing is, many of the story elements could be subversively feminist, or not. So, let’s make a list:

Wait, I think this is feminist:

-       The Prince and Princess theme feels like a comment on exhausted tropes; for example, when Hans turns out to be a bad guy, we’re relieved and turn to root even more for the imperfect, clumsy, good-hearted Kristoff. We’re equally excited to see Anna, who’s not the helpless princess type, take matters into her own hands. She leads the effort to find Elsa, and Kristoff is an often self-interested, begrudged helper. Yay strong female characters!

-       Elsa’s self-imposed exile in her icy castle could be seen as a liberating break from patriarchal/feudal oppression

-       When Prince Hans reveals himself to be evil, the story is counteracting the countless romantic comedies and Disney movies that place a female character’s worth and self-worth entirely in the male lead’s heroism

-       There’s a song about both Anna and Kristoff being “fixer-uppers,” which proclaims that we all have flaws that can align in true love.  No more having to be perfect for a man!

-       “True love” turns out to be familial and not romantic, with romantic happiness a serendipitous side effect

Or is it?

-       Elsa can only feel free in isolation, because being at ease in society and/or having connections with people while also cherishing her gift is impossible, because that gift is damaging to the patriarchal status quo

-       For every time Anna saves Kristoff, there’s a time he saves her as well (or at least tries to). But this could also be advocating reciprocity, equal respect and contribution to a relationship, regardless of gender. Ahhh I don’t know! 

-       When Hans reveals himself to be evil, Anna is made to seem weak and a fool for falling so quickly, and can only redeem herself by kissing another dude. Oh no, bye strong female character!

-       Kristoff is the more obvious fixer-upper, according to his family’s song, but the part about Anna that needs fixing is that she compulsively decided to marry another man after one day. So she needs to change for a man anyway?

-       The fact that Hollywood still feels the need to write female protagonists into the world of princes and princesses frustrates me to no end! What is it about this ideal, this fascination with princesses?

-       There’s still a need to include Anna and Kristoff’s love at the end, as if we wouldn’t be satisfied with just the sisterly love story.

So I’m stuck; each point for feminism has a problematic (maybe postfeminist?) counterpoint. Maybe all this doesn’t matter and we should just be happy that Frozen passes the Bechdel test. But I’d like to think that a higher standard for our movies, especially our kids’ movies, is warranted. I also can’t help wondering if the girls in front of me loved the movie just for its music, or if they perhaps appreciated its complexity. Sound off in the comments if you think this film is progressive, transgressive, regressive, or if you don’t care!  

"Looking" just wants to exist

You may know that I'm a huge fan of Girls, so much so that I wrote 85 pages on it. So when HBO slotted Looking into the Sunday night spot after Girls, I enthusiastically started comparing the two: "Looking is the gay Girls!" "Replace New York with San Francisco and Lena Dunham with Jonathan Groff, and it's the same series!"

Patrick and Richie have a pretty awesome date. 

But despite similar premises (a group of friends trying to make it work in love, career, and play), Looking and Girls are actually quite different. If Girls wants to alienate, Looking just wants to exist. After five compelling episodes, Looking has constructed a narrative for its protagonists (Dom, Patrick and Augustin) that feels decidedly OK--not alienating, problematic, or harsh in the way that Girls treats its characters with (empathetic) disdain. The boys have jobs that are just fine, relationships that are maybe a little lackluster, and designs for their futures that they may or may not execute--and therein lies the dramatic tension. Queer as Folk, the most similar series about a group of gay men, featured a hostile, homophobic outside world that the characters were constantly struggling against. That series went off the air ten years ago--and now, in Looking, the fact that there's not much homophobia or discrimination in the characters' world signals just how much has changed. Now, Patrick, Dom, and Augustin are just free to exist and figure themselves out. This banalizing force is refreshing because it means not only that queer lives are no longer problematic on screen, but also that the true character work to be done in the narrative will be internally, and not societally, motivated. For example, last's night's message-in-a-bottle episode spent a day with Patrick and his new boyfriend Richie on their first real date. The tone is meandering and explorative as the connection builds and subtle character differences arise. Tough topics are broached, like dating someone who's positive or coming out to family, but the real tension is in how, and to what ends, Patrick and Richie reveal themselves to one another. In Girls, those revelations usually lead to emotional explosions, but in Looking, they just happen.

I think this ease of story feels so different now because we are still in the age of the televisual male antihero: Walter White, Hank Moody, Don Draper, and newcomer Rust Cohle from True Detective, to name a few. These characters rage against their lot, both stunted and propelled by their deep character flaws and philosophical positions. It's the me-against-everything-else-including-myself pattern, but in Looking, perhaps it's more the me-with-everything-else story. And frankly, I'd much rather watch Patrick try to understand why his longest relationship is five months than see Walter White stagger into the monstrosities of his own making; the former just feels more authentic, somehow. Maybe it's because we all just want to exist?