Reading/Watching Log #50

I am now one month into my New Year’s Resolution and it’s amazing! Female characters improve exponentially when they’re in the hands of female writers and directors, and I’ve enjoyed an abundance of stories that showcase them in all sorts of lights: as heroines, as villains, as complex and flawed mothers and writers and princesses and thieves.

Following on from Greta Gerwig’s take on Little Women, I revisited the 1994 version (probably closest to my generation’s heart) and the one from 1949, which are fascinating in their contrast, particularly regarding what scenes each one choses to adapt, and what sister they decide to focus on.

I made sure to see Cathy Yan’s Birds of Prey in cinemas (I went in with no expectations, and it was fantastic!) and somehow ended up reading a lot of books based on Greek/Roman mythology: a witch, a princess and a goddess all made it onto this month’s list, along with a graphic novel about a young Wonder Woman.

It’s not perfect: in the three female-centric television shows I’ve watched there have still been fridged women, simply because certain toxic tropes run so deep into the patterns of storytelling that we’re not even close to rooting them all out. But even just the change to female-led (or at least female-friendly) stories has done wonders. I’m looking forward to the rest of the year…

(There are spoilers for pretty much everything I discuss under the cut, so tread carefully).

Great Goddesses by Nikita Gill

I picked up this book of poetry on a whim, but I liked the cover art and the promise it would showcase the queens, heroines and goddesses of Greek mythology. Divided into five parts, the poems in this collection cover eras from the primordial creation of the universe, the reign of the titans the emergence of the new gods (led by Zeus), the various monsters, and finally the mortal women whose lives were touched by fate and the gods.

But occasionally she devotes poems to the likes of Poseidon and Zeus, with a modern twist – like the one in which “can’t keep it in his pants” Zeus eventually ends up on the wrong side of the #metoo movement.

Yes, as you’d expect, there are plenty of feminist twists throughout, from Aphrodite actually falling in love with Hephaestus, to Athena being even wiser than she’s usually credited as, to Hera overcoming the “evil stepmother/embittered wife” stereotype she’s been saddled with for centuries.

If there’s one thing I took umbridge at, it was the predictable portrayal of Persephone not being a kidnap victim and unwilling wife to Hades, but someone who fully consented to her abduction out of love for Hades, ambition to become Queen of the Underworld, and desire to get away from her overbearing mother.

Now look: I love the myth of Hades and Persephone, and I can understand the wish to empower a kidnap/rape victim by changing the narrative into one of a girl who actually WANTS it. But this has consequences.

Here is a very interesting post by a person who clearly knows what she’s talking about, responding to someone who insists that Persephone’s abduction, as it happened in Greek mythology, was totally consensual. It wasn’t.

Insisting that it was is the same mentality that drove the Rey/Kylo shippers: not a wish to empower the female character, but to enjoy the fantasy of getting whisked away by a dark, powerful, besotted man without feeling guilty about it. Knowing that a love story involving kidnapping, rape and force-fed pomegranate seeds is the antithesis to modern sensibilities, they have to put a lot of time and effort into sanitizing the story, to the point where their “dark ship” is actually a sweet love story.

Which in Greek mythology and Star Wars, is clearly not the case. In the latter, four years worth of handwaving Kylo’s mass murder ended with their utter bewilderment as to why his character had to die (because if he hadn’t, he would have been facing life in prison or summary execution for committing horrific war crimes). In the former case, it results in the usual problem inherent in these types of reimagined stories, from Maleficent to Wicked: the villainization of another character.

Yup, it’s poor Demeter who takes the fall. To make Hades a hero, she has to become an overbearing mother that stands in the way of Persephone’s freedom and happiness. Gill was clearly trying to subvert aspects of Greek mythology throughout this anthology, but instead of choosing to make Hades the good guy she COULD have turned Persephone’s story on the figure of Demeter and how mothers grieve over having to give up their daughters to a patriarchy that just takes what it wants.

Except in Demeter’s case, she had power enough to negotiate getting her daughter back for six months of the year, eventually bringing the world to its knees for love of her daughter. If that ain’t hardcore, I don’t know what is.

TL;DR: The danger isn’t in enjoying dark ships; it’s in pretending they’re not only not dark ships, but never were. But perhaps that’s a post for another day, as I’ve already spent several paragraphs on discussing one single poem in this book.

Cheshire Crossing by Andy Weir

A male writer, but one that brings together the trio of Alice Liddell (Alice in Wonderland), Wendy Darling (Peter Pan) and Dorothy Gale (The Wizard of Oz), three characters I’ve always referred to as the Big Three of early children’s literature. The idea of these three hooking up and sharing wild stories about their adventures has always been a crossover fantasy of mine, and now I got the chance to read it!

Alice, Wendy and Dorothy meet at Cheshire Crossing, a sanatorium for girls with dissociative psychosis. At least, that’s what they’re led to believe – it soon becomes apparent that the doctors there actually believe the girls can transport themselves into different world (through flight, mirrors or magic slippers) and have brought them there for study.

Tomboy Wendy and easy-going Dorothy are intrigued enough to cooperate, but surly Alice decides she’s going to escape – by stealing Dorothy’s slippers and transporting herself to Oz. Wendy finds herself along for the ride, and it’s up to her to save Alice from flying monkeys while Dorothy tries to find a way to rescue both of them, with the help of a nanny that bears more than a passing resemblance to another famous nanny of children’s literature. (I think the copyright still holds though, as we only get a few visual clues).

Other characters from all three books have roles, with Captain Hook and the Wicked Witch of the West teaming up to defeat their young opponents once and for all. There are plenty of fun in-jokes regarding the content of the original stories, and the girls find ways to use their powers in plenty of interesting, creative ways.

I feel that the illustrations could have done more to bring Wonderland, Neverland and Oz to life (we seldom get any panoramic views of the most famous fantasy-lands in all of children’s literature) but it’s a great concept that uses the original material well, whether it’s for plot-points or easter eggs.

Athena: The Story of a Goddess by Isabel and Imogen Greenberg

This is best described as an introduction to Athena for young readers, detailing her birth, her rivalry with Poseidon, her competition with Arachne, and her patronage of several heroes. It’s a challenge to take the Greek myths and streamline them into a coherent story with a beginning, middle and end.

Surprisingly, they manage to achieve this by giving Athena herself a degree of character development, moving from a headstrong youth to more thoughtful adult, and injecting her disparate stories with an underlying theme of discovering the true nature of love and heroism. The answer to Athena and Aphrodite’s meddling in the Trojan War is Odysseus, whose only desire is to get home to his wife and son. As they both come to realize: “they had seen what true adventuring and true love looked like. It wasn’t for fame or fortune, it was for home.”

That’s a beautiful way to contextualize Athena’s desire to help heroes slay monsters and claim thrones, and Aphrodite’s patronage of Paris and Helen, whose “love” caused the Trojan War. Both are presented as immature mentalities that both goddesses grow out of.

Other notable features are Isabel Greenberg’s stylized characters (resembling the figures on Greek pottery), and the portrayal of Hera in a refreshingly sympathetic light. Naturally the darker aspects of the myths have been toned down a bit, but this brought some new perspectives to the old stories – especially for someone who was about to crack open Madeline Miller’s Circe (see below).

Diana: Princess of the Amazons by Shannon and Dean Hale

This was a new arrival at my library, and too cute to leave on the “New Books” shelf. A graphic novel about the childhood of Princess Diana is a great gift for kids who are still a bit too young for the film franchise or the comic books, and though it follows the usual fairy tale trajectory of “girl gets tempted to do something wrong, realizes she’s made a terrible mistake, uses the lesson learned to rectify the situation”, it’s a good fit for the material, and wrapped up in the culture of Themiscyra.

At eleven years old Diana is getting restless with her life – she’s never had any friends her own age, and her mother is growing increasingly distracted by her royal duties. Knowing her own origin story, Diana attempts a similar experiment to provide herself with a playmate, and is delighted when a girl her own age emerges from the clay she’s sculptured.

But if something is too good to be true, that’s because it usually is, and Diana grows hesitant about the increasingly dangerous pranks Mona goads her into playing. It’s an arc that suits a young interpretation of the future Wonder Woman, especially as she’s given understandable motivation (loneliness, wanting to prove herself) and a heroic response when she realizes things have gone too far.

Victoria Ying’s illustrations capture Diana’s rough physicality and vibrant personality, and the Amazons are depicted with all sorts of body types (even a few background hints as to what happens between women while living on an island full of them), and Shannon Hale’s background in writing books like The Princess in Black and The Princess Academy makes her the perfect fit for this particular princess.

Harley Quinn: Breaking Glass by Mariko Tamaki

There are currently four of these graphic novels, each one focusing on a different DC heroine (or anti-heroine) in a bid to attract a younger demographic of female readers. They’re not bad, though they often have very little in common with their source material beyond names, personalities and basic setup (Bruce Wayne is always going to be an orphaned rich boy, but in two of these books, he’s just a highschooler).

Still, I found that kinda refreshing, especially in this case. Fifteen year old Harleen Quinzel is sent by her mother to live in Gotham City with her grandmother, only for her to shack up with a drag queen called Mama when she discovers aforementioned grandmother has passed away. Soon she’s hanging out at the cabaret club by night and attending Gotham High School by day, where she meets Ivy Du-Barry.

In this take, Ivy is a black student who fights for all kinds of social justice causes, from diversifying the film club to saving the community from gentrification. The inevitable Joker analogue soon turns up, but there’s a clever take on who is truly behind the mask: we’ve already seen Joker-like smiles on the corporate Kane family as they raise the rent on financially vulnerable people, and their son is the kid who gets to chose the films screened at school because Daddy Dearest is paying the licensing fee.

That’s a surprisingly good depiction of the insidiousness of capitalism and how those that benefit under it operate on a number of different levels, and the ending is bittersweet in that both Harley and the Joker are apprehended for their crimes: but only one of them ends up in prison.

Steve Pugh’s artwork is incredible throughout, with Harley in particular managing to look both vulnerable and demonic at times, with scenes coloured in mint-green and soft blue – except when the Joker turns up, at which point the sky becomes bright red.

But the ending is a little unsatisfying, as eventually the problem of gentrification is solved by Bruce Wayne anonymously giving a donation to the community that might save it. Apparently the only way to beat big corporations is to have another, even richer corporation on your side.

Under the Moon: A Catwoman Tale by Lauren Myracle

This is the second “DC heroines as teenagers” graphic novel I read this month, this one focusing on Selina Kyle. She’s always been one of my favourite characters, but her story is a little uninvolving, especially in its tendency to introduce plot-points and do nothing with them.

After her mother’s abusive boyfriend makes life at home unbearable, she takes to the streets and learns what it’s like to be homeless. She learns parkour from another street-kid called Ojo, and eventually ends up joining him and his friends in a mission to steal a priceless book from a Gotham City mansion (no prizes for guessing who lives there).

But we never find out why the book was so important, and there’s no closure on Selina and the little girl she befriends who never speaks, is apparently looking for her brother, and ends up in a shelter for children that Selina finds suspicious (but never does anything about because the book ends at that point). Selina spends time hiding out in a stranger’s disused shed, but when he reaches out to her with a note and warm blankets, she disappears and we never hear from him again.

Strangest of all, the story introduces a dangerous killer roaming the streets of Gotham… who is still roaming the streets by the end of the book. Selina and her friends run into him at one point, but then he disappears and is never seen or mentioned again. Weird.

But I liked the depiction of Selina as a girl who’s rough around the edges while still maintaining a moral compass, and hangs onto her dignity even as she’s worn down by the hardships of homelessness. She just deserved a better story.

Ship of Dolls and Dolls of Hope by Shirley Parenteau

Here’s a cute premise: these two books are based on a little-known event in American-Japanese history, in which a teacher/missionary called Doctor Sidney Gulick, fearful of the growing tensions between the two countries, organized a doll exchange programme in which American children raised money to buy dolls for their Japanese counterparts.

In 1926, over a thousand dolls were sent to Japan, and the following year, Japanese schools returned the favour. Sadly, the gesture was not enough to prevent WWII, but many of the children who were involved in the exchange hid the dolls away, even as their governments ordered their destruction. It wasn’t until the seventies that people felt safe enough to bring them out of hiding, and now many of them are on display in museums in both America and Japan.

It’s a fascinating slice of history, and Shirley Parenteau shapes a two-part story based on the exchange: a doll sent by Lexie Lewis and received by Chiyo Tamura shapes both their early lives, even though the two girls never meet.

It’s a beautiful premise, and Parenteau does a good job not only in characterizing two girls of this particular era, but also demonstrating they have more in common than what first appears (each one has to deal with pressures at school, the changes going on in their respective societies, and an inevitable bully, but each one has to face obstacles with the same level of integrity).

Twilight Robbery by Frances Hardinge

This is the sequel to Fly by Night, which I read last month, and just to get things out of the way, neither are my favourite offerings from Frances Hardinge. But I say that as someone who has a gourmet buffet in front of her – even the least of Hardinge is still an extremely good meal.

Picking up not long after the previous book left off, orphaned Mosca, con-artist Clent, and temperament goose Saracen are trying to put distance between themselves and prior trouble by passing through the city of Toll. What they don’t realize till they step within its walls is that there are really two cities of Toll: Toll-by-Day and Toll-by-Night, with the citizens of each forbidden to interact with each other.

That setup is… a little awkward, as it’s a bit of a stretch to imagine entire populations confined to their own homes for twelve hours at a time, but if you go along with the metaphorical power of it (the undesirables are naturally restricted to the night-time hours), it holds together.

It’s into this world of rules and assumptions that Mosca and Clent step, and are promptly separated into Toll-by-Night and Toll-by-Day. To leave again they have to accumulate enough money to pay their way out, which is easier said than done when they’re surrounded by so much intrigue. Soon enough they’re embroiled in a kidnapping plot that involves harried midwives, would-be radicals, ruthless cutthroats and more. Everyone has their own agenda and (almost) everyone is out for themselves.

It’s a pretty thick book with dozens – dozens! – of twists and turns throughout its hefty page-count. No one is who they initially appear, and the variety of motivations ascribed to each character can be wrong and noble or selfish and necessary or any other combination you can think of. The personalities are broad and colourful enough to help you keep track of who everyone is, but it’s a book that requires your concentration from start to finish.

As ever, a highpoint is Hardinge’s prose. Here’s a description of the closest thing the story has to a villain:

To look into the pale eyes of Aramai Goshawk was to peer into a winter forest. Stark, wakeful, birdless, colourless, all its paths hidden beneath a smothering of white. You could stagger through it for leagues until you gave up hope, and your every footstep would be remembered, preserved and analysed by the unforgiving snow.

I just love that. And as in the previous book, Mosca is a great heroine. Though her unlucky name means she’s been cast with suspicion for most of her life, there is a kernel of righteousness deep inside her, which prevents her from ever turning her back on someone in need or a problem that needs fixing – even if she’ll tackle it with no small amount of self-recrimination. Watching her fight the world and all its nonsense, whether silly or deadly, will always be inspiring.

Lavinia by Ursula le Guin

I have been meaning to read this book for years, simply because I was intrigued by the idea of building a novel around one of literature’s least interesting characters. Lavinia never speaks a word in The Aeneid, and her role is simply to marry Aeneas and have his children. She has no agency, no choices, and no defining features whatsoever.

Stories that opt to try and shed light on minor characters in famous works of literature have been done before, and it’s not without its risks. I recall a Julia Roberts film from years ago, in which she played the housemaid to Doctor Jekyll/Mr Hyde. The story was told from her perspective and it was terrible because… well, who cares about the housemaid when Jekyll/Hyde are around?

This story faces a similar problem, and yet le Guin deals with the inherent uninterestingness of Lavinia’s story by leaning into it. She doesn’t graft any silly adventures onto her story, she doesn’t pretend that the minutia of Lavinia’s daily life is thrilling, and provides commentary on the fact Lavinia is both pivotal and inconsequential to this stale. If it wasn’t her who married Aeneas, it would have been some other Latin princess.

Instead the power is found in Lavinia’s relationships – with her parents, with her future husband, with her stepson and biological son, and with her understanding of fate, as embodies by Vergil himself, who comes to visit her in a sacred grove. Yes, due to some unexplained spiritual connection, Lavinia communicate with Vergil, speaking to her from his deathbed in the far distant future. It appears that Lavinia herself knows she’s a fictional construct.

Yet having introduced this intriguing element, le Guin doesn’t do anything with it. Apart from a few internal monologues from Lavinia, the fact she knows that she’ll one day feature in Vergil’s poem doesn’t affect the story in any meaningful way.

Still, I enjoyed it. As someone who wishes she liked Earthsea books more than she actually does, it was nice to read a le Guin novel and feel properly invested in its protagonist.

Circe by Madeline Miller

After reading Athena: The Story of a Goddess I found myself considering the fact that The Odyssey is one of the few Greek myths to get a happy ending. Given that it exists as a sort-of coda to the Trojan War, it also somehow feels like the last Greek myth. After Odysseus arrives home, there’s nothing left to tell.

But after reading this, I realize was dead wrong – not just in the sense that Miller takes her story far beyond the point Odysseus returns to Ithaca, but that the plot-points she draws upon are taken straight from the thousand-year-old mythos. Did you know that Circe gives birth to Odysseus’s second son after he leaves her? Or that said son eventually goes in search of his father and ends up accidentally killing him? Or that Circe marries Telemachus after her own son brings him AND Penelope to her island?

Cos I sure didn’t. It’s a shame in a way, as I liked the idea that Odysseus’s safe return to his home and family is the final word we have on these assorted heroes of Greek mythology.

But enough about him, let’s talk about the actual main character of this book. Along with almost-certainly providing inspiration for the name of George R.R. Martin’s most memorable villain, Circe is best known for being the witch who turns Odysseus’s men into pigs after they land on her island; only releasing them from her spell when Odysseus threatens her with her sword OR agrees to sleep with her (it depends on the version you’re being told).

She makes for an evocative figure: a woman in Ancient Greece who lives alone on her private island, with vast amounts of magic at her disposal, seemingly happy in both her solitude and her power. Hey, that sounds like a dream existence to me.

And though I can see why Miller would be intrigued by her motivation and lifestyle, some of the answers she provides to the questions of Circe’s life are wearyingly familiar. Why is Circe exiled to that island? She gets her heart broken of course! And why does she turn visiting sailors into pigs? Because one of them rapes her of course. OF COURSE. Bloody hell, does anyone out there realize that women can go evil for reasons OTHER than men inflicting pain on them??

But in saying that, Circe doesn’t “go evil”. Everything she does, from transforming Scylla to the aforementioned pig transformations, have sympathetic and understandable reasons behind it – and it’s not that I mind, but if you’re a regular reader of this blog you know full-well that I’ve been worn out by villain apologia in recent years. A story in which Circe turns men into pigs just because she fucking wants to would have been awesome.

In saying that, Miller is very good (as were the Greenburg sisters) at creating a chronology out of the messiness of Greek mythology. Even as she adheres close to Circe’s recorded deeds in the ancient stories, she manages to plot out a character arc and find thematic continuity in everything she does – which is no small feat considering what Circe did in fact get up to. I had no idea she was the sister of Pasiphaë (infamous mother of the Minotaur), or that she assisted Jason and Medea after their flight from Colchis, or that she – as mentioned – eventually gives birth to the son of Odysseus.

So it’s an engrossing read, in which the strangeness of the mythological tales are given context and Circe herself made into a three-dimensional woman with a life of her own, instead of just a pitstop on the voyage of Odysseus. I just wish authors weren't so afraid of writing these women as anything other than sad-sacks who just want to be loved. Not that it's a crime to write a female character that way... but Circe? Really?

Little Women (1949)

My foray into the world of past Little Women adaptations continue, and I think it’s fair to say this is the weakest offering. The strangest thing about this take on the material is that it leaves out most of the story’s memorable moments; the stuff that Little Women is made of.

There’s no Amy burning Jo’s book or subsequently falling into the ice, no scorching of Meg’s hair or getting criticized for enjoying the party, no real understanding of Jo’s dreams to be a writer, and the entirety of Laurie and Amy’s courtship occurs off-screen. I mean, I know a lot of readers find that development difficult to grasp, but these guys didn’t even try!

Beth’s piano and illness are present, as is Jo cutting her hair, Aunt March meddling in Meg’s proposal, and Laurie’s thwarted declaration of love, but Professor Bhaer arrives thirty minutes out from the finish line, and as with the 1933 version, they shy away from a Jo/Bhaer kiss. (It really is hilarious watching how each successive adaptation struggles to understand these love affairs).

With so much missing, how does it manage to bump up the screen-time? The scenes themselves are very slow, and the first half-hour only covers the sisters’ Christmas performance and their decision to spend their money on Marmee instead of themselves.

There’s nothing bad here, but it certainly has the least to offer. Perhaps its most interesting casting decision is Elizabeth Taylor as Amy, who is obviously, blatantly older than the actress who plays Beth, and doesn’t get any of the character development that takes her from bratty tween to cultured woman. If you’re short on time, this is the one to skip.

The Dark Crystal (1982)

I binged watched The Dark Crystal: Age of Resistance a couple of weeks ago (see below) and so naturally had to follow it up with the original film. Unpopular opinion: outside the visual beauty, technical artistry and imaginative force that goes into creating the planet of Thra, the film itself isn’t great, particularly in regards to story and characters.

Our main character is a Chosen One, whose quest is to find a MacGuffin and return it to its source because a Prophecy told him too. Even at the time, that trifecta of plot devices was beyond tired, and in this case barely necessary. There was nothing to prevent Jen from figuring out much of what he’s supposed to do on his own, which would have given him some much-needed proactivity.

As it is, he’s almost entirely passive throughout the entire film, pushed along from one place to the next, and totally outclassed by fellow Gelfling Kira, who has more useful skills, contributes more to the plot, and even has a much more relevant backstory.

I can see why it’s a cult classic, and yet it still misses any emotional punch. Even the key concept of the film, that the Skeksis and Mystics are in fact two halves of single beings, comes across more as hokey mumbo-jumbo than any sort of genuinely interesting spiritual commentary.

And yet for all of that, the film now has heightened urgency and added poignancy in the wake of the prequel. Age of Resistance isn’t perfect, but it captures the tragedy of the Skeksis/Mystic severance more acutely than the film (in their depiction of the Wanderer and the Heretic, who have figured out the secret) and their rich and beautiful portrayal of Gelfling culture and history makes it all the more horrifying to realize it’s been completely wiped out by the time the events of this film take place.

Little Women (1994)

This is the one, the Little Women adaptation that I – and probably you – grew up with. After watching and enjoying the 2017 miniseries and the most recent 2019 take, I was extremely interested to go back and see what this one had to offer.

The plot is faithful, the actors are great, the atmosphere is warm and homey, and there are plenty of original lines of dialogue that bring much of Alcott’s subtext to the fore (the one in which Marmee outlines the double-standards between themselves and Laurie – that he can do what he likes because he is a man – is especially good, and I remembered it well).

This is also the only adaptation I know of that has cast two actresses as Amy: Kirsten Dunst as a tween and Samantha Mathis as a young woman. This is a double-edged sword. On the one hand, Amy’s brattiness is far more palatable when you’re watching a literal child and not a twenty-something pretending to be twelve years old. On the other, Samantha Mathis may as well be playing a completely different character than Kirsten Dunst, as there’s very little to connect the two versions of the character (it’s a shame they couldn’t put the whole production on hold for five or so years and then return with an older Dunst).

Then there’s the whole Laurie/Jo/Bhaer/Amy drama. Each successive film does better with these entanglements than the one before, from the early versions dutifully translating the events of the novel without really understanding what Alcott was going for (as I said above, the 1949 film doesn’t even try to sell Amy/Laurie) to the more recent versions gamely making a go of it.

This 1994 one is smack-dab in the middle, and to its credit, it does walk away with the best rendition of Jo/Bhaer. It doesn’t cheat like Greta Gerwig does by making Bhaer a young man, though they do concede to casting handsome and clean-shaven Gabriel Byrne, who was forty-four to Winona Ryder’s twenty-three. 

More importantly, their love affair doesn’t start under the umbrella; instead the two share their first kiss at the theatre, and are in a chaste but serious relationship by the time Jo is called home to see Beth for the last time. BUT there is a big caveat to all of this, and you already know what it is…

The 2017 and 2019 takes on Little Women are clear about the fact that Jo just isn’t that into Laurie as anything but a friend, taking the time to demonstrate their incompatibility and Laurie’s immaturity. In the Laurie/Amy affair that follows, the 2017 has the two fondly but pragmatically realize they work well together and decide to make a go of it, while the 2019 is the only one that really depicts the two of them falling in love. Here, the chemistry between Laurie and Amy is tepid, and all they do is talk about Jo, either directly or in veiled terms. Why do they get married? How do they fall in love? I’ve no idea. Laurie seems hung up on Jo from start to finish, and the best case scenario is that their marriage is a bittersweet compromise. She needs a fortune, he wants a March girl, and neither hate the other.

And that’s because this Jo and Laurie are perfect for each other. They have an adorable meet-cute and scorching chemistry. Casting the super-attractive Christian Bale and Winona Ryder means that Bale is more dream-hunk than boy-next-door and when Ryder cuts her hair and is told: “Jo, your one beauty!” it’s fucking ridiculous. When the misbegotten proposal comes, Bale puts his whole heart and soul into it, and Jo’s claim that “we’ll kill each other!” make no sense as at no point in the scenes leading up to this moment do we see anything that might suggest such a thing. They get along like a house on fire.

As such, her rejection of him is as baffling as it is (seemingly) cruel, and I felt that just as keenly in this rewatch as I did when I was a teenager. Laurie isn’t angry or dramatic about her rejection, he’s gutted, and there’s been nothing in Jo’s behaviour up till that point that would have thrown up a red flag for him.

And yet I wouldn’t want to change a thing. My generation grew up with this Jo and Laurie, and they’re probably the most iconic portrayal of the duo in regards to how they make their love story a genuine tragedy. When Jo sits down to write her novel at the end of the film, she hears the echoes of voices in her mind: each one of her sisters, and then Laurie repeating what he told her earlier in the story: “nothing is going to change,” long after it already has. More than any other adaptation, you feel that Jo did lose something precious in rejecting Laurie – not just his romantic love, but a friendship that defined both their early adolescences.

I would love to the visit the parallel world in which Alcott got pressured into pairing Jo with Laurie, just to see if the novel is as much a classic there as it is here. Every young reader gnashes their teeth at having their hopes snuffed on the Jo/Laurie front, and yet because this is probably the first time a reader experiences a failed love story, it leaves a lasting impression. You don’t always get what you want. You can’t make people love you. Passion doesn’t guarantee lasting happiness. These hard truths are why Little Women is still being discussed today, and it’s what this version captures more acutely than any other. 

Tangled (2010)

Now that we’re in the tail-end of my Disney Princess watch, I find that I’ve already written about most of the later films in earlier posts. As with The Princess and the Frog, I have nothing much to add to my initial thoughts about Tangled, which you can find here.

To summarize, I felt that it initially does a fascinating job in portraying the psychological ramifications of the original fairy tale: clearly a girl that’s been raised in a tower by a controlling, passive-aggressive mother who constantly tells her that the world is a dangerous, frightening place, is going to have issues. 

But having established that, the film doesn’t really do anything interesting or impressive with Rapunzel’s journey from gas-lit victim to self-possessed young woman. Her decision to leave the tower and her final confrontation with Mother Gothel are fine, but the abuse she’s suffered is somewhat swept under the rug after this powerful scene.

It’s explored a little in the subsequent cartoon, but after committing to psychological realism early on, it’s a little difficult to feel enthusiastic about the sight of Rapunzel reuniting with her (nameless, voiceless) parents. She’s gonna need several years of therapy before she can live a normal life, and even that’s off the table considering she’s the heir to an entire kingdom. Did no one think this through?

Frozen II (2019)

So, what does Disney have to offer when it comes to the sequel of one of their biggest hits in recent years? I liked Frozen II without loving it – it had many of the same issues as the first film (such as an array of songs that all sound like they belong in completely different movies) and some all new problems (like a totally overstuffed plot).

There are three major working parts to this story, so let me see if I can get them straight. The first is that there’s a mysterious backstory to Elsa and Anna’s parents, in which their father was once present at an ambassadorial visit between his kingdom and the Northulda people that turned sour, leading to the death of his father and his rescue at the hands of a mysterious someone.

It will come as no surprise that this someone was his future wife, the girls’ mother, but why they chose to withhold this bit of information from their daughters is a complete mystery. There is absolutely no reason why they wouldn’t tell their children that their mother was from Northuldra or that she saved their father’s life. I guess the writers decided not to so that Elsa and Anna could find out for themselves once they reach the Enchanted Forest, but the realization has no relevance beyond its own existence, and only clogs up what is already a pretty convoluted plot.

The second is that the aforementioned Enchanted Forest is inaccessible to outsiders after angry spirits (based on the elemental powers) surrounded their territory in a thick mist. There’s a wind spirit, a fire salamander, a water horse, and terrible rock giants (you might be wondering why they don’t just use the preestablished rock trolls, but in this case it turns out that size matters), but also a mysterious “fifth element” that Elsa believes she can find in a place called Ahtohallan, the subject of her mother’s lullaby, which holds all the world’s memories and is calling to her in a voice only she can hear.

Thirdly, the tension between Arendelle and the Northuldra still exists, even within the Enchanted Forest thanks to several guards that have been trapped there for the last thirty or so years. This also has to do with the girls’ grandfather and the damn he built the Northulda as a peace offering (which also has another, more nefarious purpose – though much like the fifth spirit, the nature of Ahtohallan, and the concealment of their mother’s heritage, it’s a plot-point that remains unnecessarily murky).

Whew. That’s… a lot.

It’s on more stable ground when it focuses on the characters. Despite their hideous designs (massive eyes, tiny noses, alien profiles) Elsa and Anna are great fun to watch, and their sisterly bond is still the central relationship of the film. Kristoff and Olaf are much more superfluous, the former has a running arc about trying to propose to Anna and a rock-ballad that has nothing to do with the rest of the story, and Olaf is… there, I guess.

It’s interesting to note that the writers were clearly listening to some of the complaints that followed in the wake of the first movie, as the Northuldra people are a dark-skinned tribe based on the Sámi people, and the #GiveElsaAGirlfriend campaign results in the inclusion of a Northuldra girl called Honeymaren who has a certain vibe with Elsa – though she’s still a single lady by the time the credits roll.

Honestly, I torn. On the one hand, I’m happy that Elsa – like Rey – doesn’t need an overt relationship to have a fulfilling life and a meaningful arc, and those who want to imagine she has a romantic future with Honeymaren (or Finn) are free to do so. On the other hand, the film isn’t shy about depicting a heterosexual romance between two white people, so why does Elsa miss out on getting a same-sex connection with Honeymaren?

Let’s just say I’m happy with this ending, but if there’s a Frozen III, then I’ll be expecting Disney to put their big-boy pants on and commit to a queer heroine. (Who am I kidding, they’re not gonna do that).

Some of the vistas are so beautiful that I’m sorry I didn’t see this on the big screen, and there’s one sequence in particular that captures what can only be called Old School Disney Magic: when Elsa approaches and enters the place that’s been calling to her for the entire film, searching for who she truly is. In bare feet and loose hair she follows the call, using her powers not in fear or with restraint, but exulting in what she’s capable of. If Let It Go was about freeing herself, Show Yourself is about discovering her purpose; a love song to her own sense of being.

There are a lot of issues with the physicality of Elsa (essentially being an ideal of white beauty that no child could ever live up to) but for thousands of little girls she’s also going to be the first example of a non-attached female character wielding hard power. When she effortlessly unleashes the full extent of her abilities, there’s no dude standing by to validate the demonstration by looking impressed or going “ooh.” It’s done entirely for her own gratification, with the song itself stating: “You are the one you’ve been waiting for.” I can’t argue with that.  

Birds of Prey and the Fantabulous Emancipation of One Harley Quinn (2020)

It’s a shame that this (apparently) isn’t doing so well at the box office, as it’s a fun ride from start to finish. You can tell that Margot Robbie was gritting her teeth throughout all the camera-ogling going on in Suicide Squad in the hopes she would eventually get to a standalone film, as this certainly feels like a passion project for both her and director Cathy Yan.

Why did they go for Birds of Prey instead of Gotham City Sirens? I’m not sure, but this brings together five women of various ages, races, classes and personalities, and invites them to pass the Bechdel Test while beating the shit out of misogynistic men. A couple of overly violent scenes notwithstanding (a pointless face-cutting scene, and an even more uncomfortable sequence in which Black Mask humiliates/terrifies a woman at his club) this is exactly what I signed up for.

Harley Quinn has broken up with the Joker (mercifully not featured here) and is out on her own – but unfortunately the fact she no longer has Joker’s protection means that every criminal low-life she’s ever taken advantage of is out to get their pound of flesh. After a series of events is explained via flashback and voiceover narration (don’t listen to the complainers – this is about as difficult to understand as the non-chronological ordering of Gerwig’s Little Women, which is to say: not at all) we watch as an assortment of vigilantes, cops, criminals and civilians go after one teenage street girl with a diamond in her stomach.

There are a couple of questionable choices throughout. Helena/Huntress is completely wasted, and Cassandra Cain is so far removed from her comic book counterpart that I’ve no idea why they didn’t just make her an original character.

But the characterization is a lot of fun: Rosie Perez as Renee Montoya, a put-upon cop who never gets her due, Jurnee Smollett-Bell as Dinah Lance, a club singer who gets in way over her head, Ella Jay Basco as Cassie Cain, a pickpocketing foster kid (and requisite MacGuffin) and Mary Elizabeth Winstead as Helena Bertinelli, an assassin out for revenge against the gangsters who murdered her family. Apart from that last one, who doesn’t really have any vested interest in Cassie like the others do, they make for an eclectic group of women who are ultimately forced to work together in order to take down Ewan McGregor’s Roman Sionis, or Black Mask.

You’ve probably heard the controversy about this character; that he’s another Batman villain that’s been coded as gay. Except he isn’t. There’s nothing “coded” about his character – he is openly, obviously gay. I have to admit it’s an interesting choice to have an unabashed girl-power flick pit its heroines against a flamboyant gay man and his sadistic henchman/lover… is the point that gay men can be misogynists too? Cause these guys sure are. It is what it is: love it, hate it, or don’t care about it as you see fit.

I went in with no expectations and ended up enjoying it immensely. The fight scenes are great, Harley Quinn isn’t too over-the-top (let’s face it, she’s best in small doses) and you can tell everyone is having a good time.

To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before: P.S. I Still Love You (2020)

It’s a little-known fact that romances are actually power fantasies – if you are a quiet, overlooked girl at high school, then winning the attention of a cute, popular boy not only bestows “specialness” upon you, but elevates you to a higher social standing. This is the trajectory of Bella Swan’s arc in Twilight: through no effort and requiring no actions of her own, Edward’s fascination with her imbues her with power – over him, over her peers, and over the narrative (I mean, without Edward’s love, there’s no story).

This is the formula of many romantic-comedies, especially those aimed at teenage girls. It’s not just about getting a boyfriend; it’s getting the mystique and status and respect from your peers that comes from having a boyfriend. And if a prettier, more popular girl is furious at this development, then that’s a double win. He makes you more important than her.

This is pretty much the formula of To All The Boys I’ve Loved Before, in which introverted and unassuming Lara Jean finds herself thrown into a whirl-wind of attention, speculation and coolness when she agrees to be the fake girlfriend of the most popular boy in school.

Yet for all of my above cynicism, the movie was smarter than it first appeared. Peter was a popular jock, but also genuinely kind and sweet. Lara Jean isn’t required to “fix” or “teach” him to be a decent person, he already is one – and if anything, it’s up to her to realize that for herself. There was just as much emphasis on her family circle as her love life, and the ole’ cliché of drawing up a contract to stipulate the rules of fake dating ends up being a fairly intelligent commentary on Lara Jean’s feelings of vulnerability in her relationships.

The whole thing was unexpected lightning in a bottle.

It’s tough to know where to go with a sequel to a story that’s already had a happily ever after. Either you have the happy couple adjusting to the more mundane aspects of life after the euphoria of first love wears off, or you break them up so they can spend the rest of the story falling back in love with each other.

This opts for a little of both. Perhaps its best idea is in depicting Lara Jean’s insecurity about the fact that Peter has already experienced a lot of “firsts” with her former best friend Gen. Her first date, kiss, relationship and (eventually) sexual encounter will be with him – but he’s already spent his on someone else. That makes a lot of sense for a high school relationship, and it feeds into her attraction to another recipient of her love letters: John Ambrose.

Poor John Ambrose gets the short end of the stick: his role is essentially to be an even more non-threatening potential boyfriend than Peter, as someone who appears even more right for her in terms of temperament, common interests and experience, only to be (literally) left out in the snow when Lara Jean realizes her heart is elsewhere.

But this franchise managed to surprise me for the second time when the big emotional cathartic moment isn’t between Lara Jean or either of her love interests, but between her and Gen, the former friend that’s been making her life miserable for the last two years. Turns out she’s having trouble in her life as well, and though neither are quite ready to forgive the other, a white flag is at least raised between them.

There’s the inevitable “single dad finds love again” subplot between Lara Jean’s father and a neighbour, but the girls are refreshingly mature about it, and a quirky sense of style in both Lara Jean’s wardrobe and the depiction of her inner world (think Wes Anderson). There’s a rather ludicrously glossy sheen to everything – the treehouse the kids used to play in is the size of a penthouse, and the rest home Lara Jean volunteers at looks like a luxury hotel (and is seemingly staffed by only one woman).

But it’s about as good a follow-up to the first film as you could expect, and is at its best when it’s just letting Peter and Lara Jean enjoy each other’s company. There are few things cuter than young love.

Tin Man (2007)

I’m not sure what happened exactly, only that I woke up with an overwhelming urge to revisit this three-part miniseries, produced by the SyFy channel when it was still called Sci-Fi. I can’t explain the eternal mystery of that name change or the need to rewatch, but the whole thing had been given to me on DVD years ago, so there was no reason to deny myself.

Based (obviously) on The Wizard of Oz, this is a modern retelling of the famous story with a steampunk, even mildly dystopian, aesthetic. Oz is now referred to as The O.Z., short for the Outer Zone, ruled over by the Wicked Witch, here called Azkadellia (now in sexy dominatrix outfits, with no green skin and tattoos across her collarbone that turn into the winged monkeys. When she wants to summon them, she takes off her cloak, thrusts her cleavage towards the camera, and grimaces. It is simultaneously the worst and most amazing thing in this movie).

Our Dorothy Gale is here called D.G. (get it? Don’t worry if you don’t, because no one ever explains what those initials stand for) who works as a waitress in a small town, filling her room with pictures of another world and feeling – like so many fantasy heroines before her – like she doesn’t belong.

Honestly, Zoe Deschanel gets a lot of shit for her acting, here and elsewhere, but I think she’s actually pretty good here. Kinda? I mean, she’s given a lot of frankly ludicrous lines in an equally ludicrous plot, and not only does she ground them with her familiar droll persona, but tries to deliver some of them in a vaguely interesting way. It doesn’t always work, as you’ve probably seen the oft-mocked clips of her saying: “you’re out of your tiny miiiiiiinds” and “oh my God, my life is a LIE!” but I give her credit for taking such rote dialogue and actually trying to do something interesting with it.

One dark and stormy night she’s swept up into a tornado after her home is attacked by armed men, only to wake up in a new world altogether. She quickly joins forces with the Scarecrow, Tin Man and Cowardly Lion analogues, and sets about trying to find her parents, solve the mystery of why she finds this place so familiar, and defeat Azkadellia, who has a closer connection to her than she initially realizes.

The story probably has more in common with Star Wars than L. Frank Baum’s books, despite being populated by his characters, but truly – the plot-points are taken wholesale from a galaxy far, far away. Those opposed to Azkadellia’s tyranny call themselves the Resistance, and fight guerrilla warfare from the forests Ewok-style (in fact, the first O.Z. citizens we meet are little people who live in circular treehouses joined by suspension bridges).

There are at least half-a-dozen I Am Your Father revelations with various family members (sisters, fathers, mothers, sons) and the big bad’s plan is to use mystical moon power combined with a crystal (or emerald) to simply wipe out the entire world.

As to why it’s called Tin Man, it’s because that character was originally going to be the protagonist, in a story that was designed to be a fantastical murder mystery about who killed the Wicked Witch (in this world, tin men are another term for police officers). That sounds pretty cool actually, but at some point executive meddling took over and the story was beaten into a slightly off-brand retelling of the familiar story.

The takes on the Scarecrow (former royal advisor whose brain was stolen) and the Tin Man (aforementioned ex-cop whose wife is murdered, because OF COURSE SHE IS) are actually pretty good, and each one gets a satisfying arc. Less successful is the Cowardly Lion, whose thing is having empathic/psychic powers, which are largely used as a plot device.  

Worse is the Wizard (called Mystic Man, whose role is to provide exposition and then die, and Toto, a man that can turn into a dog (unclear how or why) who was a royal tutor, which got him the name “Toto” through a mispronunciation. Oof. And it just occurs to me that there are only four people of colour in this entire thing: one is an evil henchmen, one is a sleazy side-show con-artist, and the other two betray our heroes. Double oof.

The thing is, some of the ideas that were presumably left-over from the original script are actually pretty good, as are many of the set-pieces: the frozen palace, the steampunk city, the miniaturized prison in which the Glinda-analogue is held. It’s disappointing then when the show itself falls short of what it could have been, and instead must settle for silly, cheesy goodness. But hey, sometimes you’re in the mood for cheese.  

The Morning Show: Season 1 (2019)

If you watch this show for one reason, let it be Jennifer Aniston. Granted, I have not seen her entire body of work, but I think it’s safe to say this is her best role. The face of an early-morning news station, Alex Levy is an ambitious, hard-working, relatively honest, but also self-absorbed, insanely privileged, almost-certainly Republican woman who has just found out her co-anchor and friend of nearly two decades, Mitch Kessler, has been booted from the show on charges of sexual misconduct.

In the wake of rumours that suggested her own “retirement” was being floated as a possibility, Alex decides to take matters into her own hands, announcing her new co-anchor before anyone else has the chance to, and informing the network president in no uncertain terms that the show needs her to stay afloat, so she’ll be calling the shots for a while.

Her co-anchor of choice is Bradley Jackson (Reese Witherspoon) in a role that’s disappointing for reasons that are difficult to articulate. There’s just something artificial about this character, and so she works best when she’s poking into the nooks and crannies of her new work environment, realizing rather quickly that Mitch’s behaviour was enabled by pretty much everyone else in the building, whether they were turning a blind eye or hustling his victims into new positions to keep them quiet.

By the third or so episode you realize it’s an ensemble piece, with focus being given to an array of characters working on The Morning Show. It’s a deeply nuanced and interesting look at the role of #metoo in a workplace environment, exploring several conceivable problems and scenarios that may arise from the movement, and how different personalities and backgrounds chose to deal with it.

There’s a woman who doesn’t feel remotely victimized by her affair with Mitch and continues to defend him, and another who was taken advantage of while she was in a deeply vulnerable place and is now downward spiralling in her attempts to rationalize what happened. There’s a serious relationship going on between the handsome weatherman and a much younger underling, which is nevertheless loving and consensual, but forced to remain secret in the wake of Mitch’s wrongdoing.

Then there’s Mitch himself, and Steve Carroll deserves credit for not only playing against type, but actually using his type (jovial, fatherly, warm) to trick the audience into siding with him, only for his escalating behaviour to make us realize how truly vile he is really is.

There’s a fantastic early scene in which he’s excitedly talking about making a documentary about the “other side” of the #timesup movement with one of his friends, only to realize with sinking horror that he’s sitting opposite an honest-to-god rapist. But does this slow him down, make him reflect on what he’s done? No. In the expected fashion, he barges ahead with his insistence that he’s done nothing wrong, using all the familiar excuses and rationalizations to argue that the women who’ve accused him are playing the victim, utterly oblivious to the fact that this is precisely what he’s doing.

What starts out as a “get both sides” portrayal of a man who may have been too harshly treated ends up as a total indictment of his character. But he slyly, knowingly and predatorily took advantage of women with whom there was a severe power imbalance, and point-blank refused to believe he’d done anything wrong afterwards.

Gugu Mbatha-Raw is also extremely good, though her role is rather spoilery, and there are some good insights throughout the season, but as one character voicing how profoundly disappointing it is when “America’s Dads” turn out to be creeps, or one of Mitch’s victims pointing out how strange it is that men can “want you and not give a shit about you at the same time.” There are also a couple of moments in which a woman is challenged with the question (paraphrasing): “aren’t you a strong, empowered woman with free will and agency?”, the subtext being: “so how did you let this happen to you?” It’s a trick question, as either you’re NOT a strong empowered woman, or you ARE and you were powerless to stop something terrible happening to you anyway.

The Morning Show seems to have gotten rather middling reviews, but I’d definitely recommend. The last episode’s climactic scene in particular is one of the most cathartic moments in television since that moment in Big Little Lies.

The Dark Crystal: Age of Resistance (2019)

Yes, I watched it again. It was so beautiful, so creative, so bursting with life and invention and wonder despite being made up entirely of puppets on soundstages that I had to see it again.

The second time around it was more apparent that there are a few problems in its plotting: for instance, Rian’s father dies in order to save him from the Skeksis Hunter, only for the Hunter to nab Rian anyway, only for Rian to be offered the chance to go free by the Chamberlain, only for Rian to refuse to run away, only for his friends to catch up with him and rescue him a few minutes later. This stop-start plotting takes place over just two episodes, and it’s far from the only odd creative decision.

But having watched the original film directly afterwards, it’s clear that plenty of cues were taken by the story beats, or even just minor background details, established there. For instance, that pit of blue mushrooms that kills Rian’s father? It’s first seen in the forest landscapes of the original film, and so was expanded upon in the show.

And in true prequel tradition, we get backstory to things such as the Scientist’s missing eye, the hiding place of the crystal shard, the genesis of the Garthim, and the beginning of the end for the Gelfing race. (It’s devastating actually, knowing that all the intricacy of Gelfling history and culture is soon to be destroyed, for despite ending on a victory for the clans, the final word belongs to the Skeksis and the introduction of the Garthim).

That said, there are also some tiny cracks in the continuity. The film establishes that the Skeksis exterminated the Gelflings because of an ancient prophecy that declared it would be one of their number that ended the Skeksis reign. The television show has them hunting the Gelflings simply to extract their life essence, with no mention of any prophecy. Likewise, the characterization of Mother Aughra is incredibly different between show and film, going from wise and all-powerful goddess to quirky and bad-tempered hag.

The second time around I was able to notice plenty of little details I had missed the first time, such as the fact Deet had two fathers, or that the title “maudra” (to denote the matriarchal leader of each clan) was clearly derived from Aughra, or that there is a brief vision of Kira and Jen from the film. Also, did you realize that it was Sigourney Weaver who provides the opening narration to the show??

I watched the “making of” featurette on Netflix afterwards, which really brought into focus the amount of work that went into the project. Originally the idea was to have the Skeksis as puppets and the Gelflings as computer-rendered animation, only for everyone to realize that the two mediums just didn’t meld together and to commit to the entire enterprise being handmade and performed by puppeteers.

Characters like Lore were actually puppets that had the performers erased in post-production, and I discovered that the person behind the puppet-show-within-a-puppet-show is actually a young performer with his own YouTube channel that’s definitely worth checking out.

For some reason, they only interviewed Simon Pegg, Taron Egerton, Natalie Dormer and Jason Isaacs (perhaps they were the most passionate about the original film?) which is a shame as I would have liked to hear from Mark Hamill, Nathalie Emmanuel and Anya Taylor-Joy as well. But Taron Egerton in particular was obviously thrilled to be involved; he definitely watched the film as a kid!

I’m not sure if there’ll be a season two, and in many ways the showrunners are stymied by the canon of the film. Eventually the Gelflings have to lose. Their entire civilization is wiped out, barring only two survivors, and that story is definitely concluded with the conjoining of the Skeksis and Mystics and their return to wherever it was they came from. Perhaps something could be created from the aftermath of their leaving, in which Kira and Jen have to repopulate Thra? There’s already a graphic novel about it…

Dublin Murders (2019)

If it wasn’t for a chance mention of this show in a review for something else entirely, I wouldn’t have even known it existed. Such is the sheer amount of stuff out there. But I love a decent murder mystery, the location of Dublin sounded atmospheric, and Sarah Phelps was the screenwriter, basing things on two books by Tana French (I don’t love her take on Agatha Christie mysteries, but this still looked good).

You may have noticed me saying this is based on two books by Tana French. Apparently they’re in the same series, involving the same characters, but the fact that they’re both adapted in a single show has the expected side-effect: we’re deep into the murder of a teenage girl found on a strange alter in a soon-to-be felled forest when a second murder is plonked in front of the detectives, which has nothing to do with the other one, is far less interesting, and slows things down considerably.

But I’ll backtrack. Detectives Rob Reilly and Cassie Maddox arrive in Dublin to investigate the murder of a teenage girl (because OF COURSE it’s a teenage girl; everyone’s favourite type of victim). What makes everyone jumpy is that the forest in which she’s found is the same forest from which three children went missing back in the eighties; and though one was found some time later, clinging to a tree and screaming in fear, the others were never seen again.

The hook? That boy is Rob himself, who was taken to boarding school, grew up to be a cop, and now is desperate to solve the murder of Katie Devlin in the hopes it’ll lead him to the discovery of what happened to his childhood friends. Only his partner knows how compromised he is, and agrees to keep quiet (Sarah Green, who I loved in Penny Dreadful and who was the original Judith in Vikings, which is funny because her on-screen husband Moe Dunford is also in this).

Halfway through this investigation, another body is discovered – one that not only looks exactly like Cassie, but who was also using the alias Cassie used on a previous undercover case. Buh? Astonishingly chill about these two staggering coincidences, Cassie agrees to go undercover in the woman’s home, in the hopes of finding out which of the five students she lived with stabbed her.

Like I said, it’s not only a beyond-belief premise, but has absolutely nothing to do with the other case.

SPOILERS

There are plenty of hardboiled detectives out there who operate at varying degrees of emotional/mental capacity, but Rob and Cassie are without a doubt the most fucked up pair of detectives you’ll ever see. There’s not a single rule they won’t break or line they won’t cross, starting with Rob not disclosing the fact he’s connected to the first case, and Cassie tricking a dead woman’s friends into thinking she’s still alive.

What’s really galling is that by the end of it, only one-and-a-half mysteries actually get solved. Katie’s murderer is discovered and it’s fairly satisfying (albeit bittersweet) and Cassie finds out who stabbed her doppelganger, but we never find out why she was the splitting image of Cassie OR what happened to young Rob and the other kids when they disappeared in the forest. If anything, the story suggests a supernatural solution, which is certainly very evocative, but hardly gratifying.  

Harley Quinn: Season 1 (2019 – 2020)

Of the two Harley Quinn vehicles I watched this month, this was my favourite. And since I really enjoyed Birds of Prey, that should tell you something about this. As with the movie, this animated offering depicts the after-effects of Harley’s breakup with the Joker. Unlike the movie, it has more time to really delve into the difficulties and complexities of what it means to leave an abusive relationship.

At the start of the show, Harley is utterly committed to the Joker despite mounting evidence that he’s a dirtbag who doesn’t care about her. Despite attempts by both Poison Ivy and Batman to make Harley see the light, and even when his obvious indifference to her becomes undeniable, she’s still won over by a few lame excuses. Much later into the season run, an episode deals with Harley running into the Joker again, and once more being pulled into his toxic orbit, which once again ends in betrayal and disappointment.

It’s a frustrating but surprisingly realistic and nuanced depiction of how difficult it is to cut ties with an abuser, even as it’s wrapped in its black comedy package in which we’re meant to cheer on Harley as she follows her dream of… becoming a notorious criminal. I won’t even bother trying to unpack the ethical implications of this, as any show that has a sentient planet throw up the skeleton of a teenager (followed closely by his parents) that was meant to be watching Ivy’s house while she was away is clearly not meant to be taken seriously in that regard.

All that matters is Harley’s emotional journey, especially in regards to Ivy. Speaking of whom, she’s fantastic in this – perhaps my favourite take on the character ever. Isn’t it crazy to think that back in the nineties Ivy was an eco-terrorist for wanting to protect the environment at all costs, and twenty years later she’s been vindicated as the only person who was clearly right all along? This Ivy is given a droll, fairly chill personality through the voice acting of Lake Bell, though her seeming nonchalance is clearly a wall to protect her own vulnerabilities.

Sadly this leads to the show’s most baffling inclusion: a third-tier Batman villain called Kite Man, who Ivy inexplicably decides to date after he assumes she’s invited him back to her apartment for sex (going so far as to undress himself and get into her bed) when she’s made it explicitly clear she just needs a quick ride across town to get a life-saving antidote. He’s the type of guy that no woman is remotely attracted to except in the minds of men just like him, and I have no idea what the writers are trying to convey with their relationship. Ivy’s staggering lack of self-esteem leads her to make bad choices?

Except he does come through for her at a critical moment, so…? Honestly, I don’t hate the guy – my standards are so low these days that I’m just grateful he’s not a mass-murdering psychopath, but still, his continued presence is a little bewildering.

So the writers are obviously taking their time with any potential romance between Ivy and Harley, which is a good thing (Kite Man not withstanding). Harley’s arc must focus on her not only getting over the Joker, but defeating him in defence of her new friends, and Ivy herself needs to stop prioritizing Harley and look to her own needs first (even if those needs are currently being met by… sigh… Kite Man.

But their friendship is truly the best thing about this show, and their interactions are just delightful. In one episode Ivy makes herself a giant (long story, it involves serum) in order to save Harley from bloodthirsty trees, and then, while holding her in the palm of her hand, says: “wouldn’t it be messed up if I ate you right now?” There’s a beat, and then the two break out in hysterical laughter. It’s so weird and hilarious and delightful, and we don’t have to wait long until season two!

The Good Place: Season 1 – 4 (2016 – 2020)

In preparation for the final season, I went back and watched the whole thing from the start, which had the advantage of turning the entire show into one long, unbroken story. And I’m happy to announce that it sticks the landing: each character gets a satisfactory arc, most of the big questions are answered, we get updates on (nearly) all the minor characters, and there’s a suitably bittersweet quality to the final episode.

Some things surprised me though: the fourth season purported to be about the great experiment, in which our gang decide to prove that the points system is flawed by working with the Bad Place to bring more test subjects into Michael’s fake neighbourhood, and see if they can become better people without the pressures of capitalism influencing their every decision.

The Bad Place being what it is, they’re stuck with people designed to mess with them specifically, including Chidi’s ex-girlfriend Simone, a gossip columnist that made Tahani’s life miserable, a middle-aged man soaked in white male privilege, and (thanks to the Bad Place trying to cheat) Chidi himself. Hijinks ensue, but in all honesty the experiment isn’t given a huge amount of narrative weight, and the solution the show comes up with to solve the problem of everyone’s bad behaviour is hardly inspiring (essentially everyone will go through the experiment over and over after until they finally become better people).

Which means the experiment itself ends with something of a whimper, and the participants aren’t really revisited after its concluded. This is fine when it comes to John (who gets a nice albeit brief send-off with Tahani) and Brett (whose absence in the final stretch of episodes is actually a nice way of demonstrating that the others no longer have any moral obligations to him) but surely Simone deserved something a bit meatier? She gets a brief appearance in the finale, enjoying a meal with Eleanor and Chidi, but her last big moment on the show is choosing to drive away from Brett when his life is in danger because she doesn’t want to risk her own.

And honestly, I can’t say that I blame her. Brett has been an asshole to her throughout the entire experiment, and asking a black woman to coddle and protect a thinly veiled racist and misogynistic man because she’s not a “good person” if she doesn’t is… well, beyond the pale. Yes, the writers are clearly on Simone’s side throughout all of this, and yes, there is a scene in which she tells Chidi they should confront people like Brett otherwise he’ll continue to treat them like dirt, but nothing actually comes of this assertion.

It plays no part in the way the experiment is concluded, and there’s no further discussion about the fact that putting Simone into Brett’s orbit, and judging her treatment of him as much as his treatment of her is deeply, profoundly unfair.

Because despite creating an environment which removes all discrimination and puts everyone on an equal playing field (no jobs, no wealth, no capitalism), it’s obvious that men like Brett are DEPENDANT on inequality in order to maintain their sense of power and superiority. They’ve literally got nothing else going for them. So Brett’s personality is intrinsically incompatible with Simone’s – for him to feel good about himself, she (a brilliant neural-scientist) has to be belittled and dismissed.

Basically, I didn’t feel like Simone’s arc got a proper conclusion. At the very least, she should have been apologized to, because she knew better than anyone that kindness and patience doesn’t always work. Men like Brett will simply take advantage of every free pass you give them. Some people need as much as they deserve a punch in the face.

My other issue (though that’s a strong word) is that I think it’s strange that in a show that featured demons, the afterlife, and the subject of human morality, the subject of God never comes up. Seriously, never. What’s up with that? I’m assuming the writers wanted to focus on humanity’s relationship with itself instead of a higher power, but it’s still an odd omission when it comes to the universe-endangering threats they face (no one floats the idea that God could help them out?), and their interest in ethics and morality (Aquinas famously raised the question of whether virtue was good because God willed it so, or whether it was good in and of itself).

Perhaps it was too big a bite to chew on, which is fair enough. All things considered, The Good Place was an increasingly rare example of a show that knew where it was going, and stuck the landing beautifully. If only more stories could do likewise.

***

So that’s my first month of focusing on female-led shows, films and books. It certainly ended up being the month of Harley Quinn and Greek heroines, but the uptick in how female characters are treated in stories either written by women or focusing on women (preferably both) is pronounced.

It’s not perfect. The Morning Show killed off a beautiful, talented, ambitious woman of colour so that her white female co-workers could finally get their heads out their asses, Circe’s backstory involves heartbreak and rape, and The Dark Crystal kickstarts its story with a classic fridging of a likeable female character.

But I read/watched three different takes on Harley Quinn this month, and in all three she strikes out on a mission to assert her own power and independence – a far cry from her first introduction as the battered girlfriend of a sadistic clown. Eleanor Shellstrop and Tahani al Jamil completed their character arcs, taking them from selfish, narcissistic women to ones that helped save the universe by helping others.

Lara Jean surprised me by reaching out to the girl that had been making her life miserable, Elsa goes on a journey of self-discovery that’s all about her, and I can forgive The Dark Crystal show its fridging for choosing to make the Gelflings a matriarchal society, thereby filling the show with strong, complex, amazing female characters.

So far, so good.