Gender, Power, and Stella Gibson’s Captivating Sexuality in The Fall

(Note: this post assumes you’ve seen the end of season two.)

There’s so much to say about The Fall that I’ve put three blog posts in one. Happy reading!

Part I: Sexy Stella, stroppy Stella, railing against a world of men.

One thing is certain about Stella Gibson’s brand of femininity, power, and sexuality in The Fall: we haven’t seen it before on television (and very few other places, for that matter). She’s so matter-of-fact in the way she dresses down the men around her who seem not to recognize the subtle misogyny in their comments. She’s so nonchalant about proposing trysts with people she decides she wants. She’s so facile with manipulating power dynamics whenever the situation calls for it.

The show’s strongest moments highlight the parallels between Stella and serial killer Paul Spector, even while those moments also demonstrate the stark contrasts between them. They both know who they want, but Paul’s brand of domination and possession and his methods of transforming women into dolls for his pleasure are a far cry from Stella’s consensual one-night stands with colleagues. They are both mirrors, of a sort, but Paul seeks to reflect his own superiority and Stella reflects back to people their sexist assumptions. They are both single-minded, driven, and controlling, and they both lie when it suits them. The fundamental difference between them, really, is their gender, and the power that gender either gives or takes from them.

Stella’s a fascinating character in large part because everyone—men and women—around her is so fascinated by her. Farrington clearly looks up to her; Reed Smith is drawn to her (more on that later); Annie Brawley feels such a connection with her that she not only takes her advice about the hairband on her wrist, but she seems on instinct to protect Stella’s identity by calling her “a friend” to Paul. Olson and Anderson jump in her bed without hesitation; Detective Martin makes a crack about Stella wanting him all to himself; even Jim Burns, her boss, can’t stop going on about how much he wants her. He shows up drunk at her hotel room and refuses to take no for an answer until she bloodies his nose. One of my favorite lines in the entire series was when, the next day, she compares his behavior to Spector’s, admitting that it’s not the same but nevertheless firmly pointing out: “I was saying no, Jim.” It’s so simple. But it’s so rarely said, and with such clarity: “I was saying no.” The sad fact is, one of the reasons we’re willing to say that Jim’s behavior is different from Paul’s is that Stella had the training and opportunity to fight him off. In Jim’s case, Stella’s strength (physical as well as emotional) is part of the allure, which probably on some level made her safe for him to attack: he had to know he wouldn’t actually succeed in overpowering her. So, we can view his attack as a desperate attempt to feel physically the way he feels emotionally: weak, bereft, and impotent.

The only glimpses we get into Stella’s personal life are essentially bedroom views, considering she lives temporarily in a hotel room and often sleeps in her office. Even when she’s working alone in either location, the specter of her bed haunts the image. The show subtly (and not so subtly) sexualizes her without allowing anyone to judge her. And this is perhaps what makes this show stand out in the universe of cop procedurals (besides the way it humanizes all its female victims): the female lead gets to bang whomever she wants, and no one gets to judge her. When Eastwood tries, she gives one of the best speeches in the show: “Man fucks woman. Subject: man. Verb: fucks. Object: woman. That’s okay. Woman fucks man. Woman: subject. Man: object. That's not so comfortable for you is it?” Eastwood becomes one of my favorite characters in the show when he recognizes Stella’s interest in Anderson, and then just smiles when it’s clear in the final episode that she slept with Anderson the night before. There’s no judgment from Eastwood in that moment—just self-congratulation that he saw it coming.

It seems a lot of lesbians out there have crushes on Stella Gibson. I’ve got to say, though, I’d rather be her than do her. Paul antagonizes her by suggesting during their interview that she’s got as much childhood trauma as he does, but I don’t buy it. Nevertheless, she remains the more mysterious character, and I hope she stays that way if The Fall gets a season three.

Part II: Paul, Raskolnikov, and god

Cop procedurals can be awfully predictable (which is why I don’t watch the episodic ones—the only two I’ve ever invested in are The Killing and The Fall). So when Jim Burns suggests that maybe Paul had been sexually molested as a child, I couldn’t help but roll my eyes. But I ended up liking where they took that storyline about the pedophilic priest. I believe Paul when he says to Stella that the priest in question never touched him. Still, this little addition of the pedophilic priest provides a brilliant source for Pauls’ god complex; he spent formative years of his life watching an egomaniacal man of the cloth molest little boys. The scene between the priest and Burns mirrors in many ways the interview between Paul and Stella; neither perpetrator demonstrated an iota of guilt, but both waxed philosophical about living beyond a mortal life. The priest rambles about doing god’s work on earth, and Paul babbles some nonsense about his senses being heightened during his kills, and it’s all very reminiscent of Dostoevsky.

In Crime and Punishment, Rodion Raskolnikov essentially wants to assume a higher status than ordinary men—he wants to become Nietzsche’s Übermench, and he believes he can achieve this superman status by killing an old woman. Guilt eventually overcomes him, as does his disappointment at not feeling manifestly different—not feeling his greatness—and he confesses and is sentenced to Siberia for his crimes.

Paul (who, naturally, has read his Nietzsche) believes himself superior to ordinary men (and women—of course, and always, women), and therefore not responsible to the laws of man. The reverence with which he speaks of his crimes demonstrates this superiority. So does his bizarre behavior when his actual superiors (at least as far as his employment is concerned) question him about visiting Liz at home. His parroting, or mirroring, shows his continued contempt for the guidelines by which society has agreed to conduct itself.

Assuming Paul, and the series, survive for a third season, it seems unlikely that he will experience the guilt that undoes Raskolnikov. What’s more interesting to me is the degree to which he might have created another monster in his own image. Katie already shows signs of separating herself from society. The slick ease with which she tells her best friend that the man she’s obsessed with has murdered multiple women, the breaking and entering, and the refusal to abandon the fictitious alibies she’s trying to give Paul—these behaviors look like precursors to another ordinary person seeking to transcend ordinary life through violence. Raskolnikov was saved through faith and love. Paul has no faith, and his love for his daughter couldn’t save him. Where does this leave Katie?

Part III: Paradise Lost (or, why are we quoting Milton in our episode titles?)

That ending. Of course any post about The Fall through the end of Season Two would be remiss if it didn’t delve into that troubling yet oh-so-understandable moment where Stella watches two men handcuffed to each other get shot: her one-time lover and the man she has obsessively hunted for the past however long. She runs to Paul, not Anderson. She struggles to stop his bleeding and cries out desperately, “we’re losing him.”

The easy interpretation here is that Stella does feel, as Anderson suggested that very morning, some kind of attraction to Paul. This knee-jerk response is born, I imagine, from the tired yet seemingly inescapable trope of sexually or romantically uniting the female and male leads in every story, and this response oversimplifies the connection between detective and murderer. She clearly has much more invested in Paul than the recipient of her latest invitation for a “sweet night.” Viewing the connection between Gibson and Spector as sexual or romantic conveys a limited view of the ways in which people can connect. Stella's undeniable fascination with Paul has its foundation in horror; to the extent that we might consider Paul similarly obsessed, his preoccupation derives from self-preservation and his sadistic desires toward all women. Point being: they’ve both voyeuristically invaded each other's privacy, and expended massive amounts of mental and emotional energy imagining the other. The fundamental difference is: the origins and endgames of these fascinations are starkly different.

Watching Stella manage the many team meetings about the killer, I'm surprised no one (particularly Burns) mentions to her that she speaks of him with a kind of awe that might make listeners uncomfortable. The trope of the obsessed cop works here in part because, given the universe of possible suspects (any fit man in his 30s in Balfast), the only path to success must be navigated with a willingness to try to get into the head of the murderer, to understand what drives and sustains him. So of course Stella is drawn to Paul—she’s been steadily drawing closer and closer to him throughout the entire time we’ve known her, given that her objective has been his capture. So, Stella runs to Paul. And let’s also note that I am referring to him as Paul, and I can’t even remember Anderson’s first name.

Also, let’s not sugarcoat this particular parallel between Stella and Paul: this is her crime scene, and she wants it the way she wants it. Just as Paul worked to perfect his crime scene with Sarah Kay’s murder.

There are so many threads that a potential Season Three can pursue—do Rose, Paul, and Anderson survive? How freaky does Katie become? What happens with Jim’s career? How does Sally cope with the fallout of having a serial killer for a husband? Assuming Paul survives, what does his trial look like? But, I suspect the thread viewers are anticipating most involves this final moment of Season Two, and the interactions between Stella and Paul. This anticipation speaks to broader problems about internalized patriarchy. Why is the question whether Stella is fascinated with Paul, not whether Paul is fascinated with Stella? Why must we always link female characters with desire for men? I also think that there’s a specter of wanting to see a strong woman taken down a peg in everyone’s fascination with this moment. Steely Stella has emotions after all, see? But no—the only person in the show suffering from that kind of obsession with Paul is Katie, and Katie alone. 

There’s so much more I want to say about this show. I could devote an entire blog post about the name Spector—what haunts, here? What lurks behind Paul, Stella, Burns, Smith, etc.? What ghosts Paul’s horrific actions, and Stella’s single-minded focus on finding justice for these four women, and Katie’s schoolgirl crush, and Jim’s inability to let go of his desire for Stella? How do these characters shadow each other? How does the “world of men” Stella rails against menace all women and implicate all men?

I also think I’ll spend an entire blog post on Reed Smith. Look for that one next. J

Women and Words guest blog post: Barring Complications, Perry v. Schwarzenegger, and Gay Judges

Women and Words was kind enough to share a guest blog post I wrote about the process behind my novel Barring Complications. 

The Feminist Reimaginings of Once Upon a Time, Season One

I know I’m late to this party, but I just started watching Once Upon a Time and I’m pretty over the moon about it. I’ve been warned it takes a huge dive in quality around season 3, but season 1 blew me away for a number of reasons.

I’m a sucker for reimaged fairy tales – I still get a thrill every time I read/see/listen to Wicked. For starters, contemporary adaptations of classic tales are often infused with a healthy dose of feminism inevitably lacking in the original. And, given that audiences typically know the original inside and out, whatever alterations are made to it that allow female characters a wider range of personalities and powers, well, those alterations pop. The changes are so jarring that they make audiences consciously aware of the way women historically have been treated in literature, and how amazing and wonderful it is when they’re given more options.

OUaT grabbed me from the pilot and never let go, in large part because the women in it are such powerhouses. When the Queen disrupts her wedding, Snow White doesn’t cry or hide behind her prince – she grabs his sword. And while Charming might have awakened her with a kiss, she rescued him a dozen other ways before then. Mary Margaret can be a tad saccharine, but Snow rides, fights, schemes, and lives fully in a way that the original character was never allowed to do.

And dear lord, how clever and feminist to reinvent Red Riding Hood and Granny as werewolves. Neither woman is the victim of a male predator – they’re fierce and dangerous beasts who can annihilate Snow’s enemies, right along with all the fairies. Plus, how progressive for the show to avoid devoting scene upon scene – or even a single minute of screen time – to Red wallowing self-pity or self-flagellation after she learns what she is and who she’s killed.

And let’s talk about the queer family that Regina, Emma, and Henry form. I’m not a fan-girl who reads sexual tension between Regina and Emma (although it’s fine with me if you are and do), but it’s undeniable that the Henry has two moms. They might despise each other, but Regina and Emma unite in moments of desperation when Henry’s wellbeing is at stake. There is no traditional nuclear family in OUaT – the closest thing we have to one is these three, with Regina and Emma coming across like divorced parents negotiating custody.

Here we are, in a small town in Maine, with a female sheriff, and a female mayor who wears epic pantsuits. And let’s not for a moment forget one of the best, most feminist lines I’ve ever heard on cable television, said by Regina to Belle about the narrative arc of Beauty and the Beast: “Oh, child, no. I would never suggest a young woman kiss a man who held her captive. What kind of message is that?” It might be exactly what Belle does, but at least now we feel that she is aware of the troubling undertones of her choice and she has more agency when she makes it.

So carry on, Once Upon a Time. I can’t wait to see what these women do in Season Two.

Why I love Pretty Little Liars (even when it's terrible).

*spoiler alert – this post references events in Season Five!*

My wife keeps asking me why I watch PLL, and telling me I have no leg to stand on when I mock her TV preferences (which include a lot of reality television).

It's true that there’s a lot to critique in the writing and acting of PLL, but no where else on television is there a show dedicated to so many women (let’s face it, these aren’t exactly high school girls), in which their relationships to men are so secondary. The main obstacle in these ladies’ lives is not snagging a man, or keeping him, or reading his mind, or any of the other inane topics Sex in the City or even Scandal tackled week after week. Despite its predominately female cast, I’m pretty sure SITC doesn’t pass the Bechdel test. (And I've already blogged about the feminist problems with Scandal.)

The ladies of PLL are primarily concerned with blackmail, surveillance, and stalking. And when the conflict is girl-on-girl, it’s nothing like the cat-fights most female conflicts are reduced to. And it’s not over a man. It’s about agency and control.

In a culture that denies girls the opportunity for physical violence, female conflict plays out in social ways – some call it social aggression. But in PLL, the social aggressor – Alison – is the one everyone gangs up on, the one no one likes, the ostracized one. And what starts as social aggression is allowed to grow into full on physical aggression. Week after week the Liars confront (and enact) forms of aggression traditionally reserved for men. By the beginning of season five, two of them have killed someone. They are allowed a wide range of expression including not just feminized emotions but raw anger, calculated strategy, and defiance.

Their moms are professionals. There’s an inordinate number of lesbians in this small town in Pennsylvania. When the show is far-fetched, it’s not because a woman has thrown herself behind a potted plant to spy on the guy she likes; it’s because the writers seem not to understand how time works.

These ladies have each other’s backs. They don’t turn on each other or compete with one another in manufactured ways. It’s them against the police, school administrators, and other systems of authority that deny young women agency. And they’re going to come out on top.

The changing gender landscape of Orphan Black, season 2 and beyond

*Note* Spoilers ahead! This post assumes you’ve watched the end of season 2

I’m a huge fan of Orphan Black, and I want to state up front that this blog praises the show on many levels.

But first, I have to confess I was really sad at the second season ending. For a show that has been so refreshingly and unapologetically feminist to introduce a line of male clones felt to me like an abandonment of its core principles. I turned off the TV disappointed that next season will be filled with men going through many of the same issues our favorite clones have been facing. I felt like Helena’s raping Henrik was the perfect antidote to all the conversations exploding about the many rape scenes in Game of Thrones, and the way women are still objectified in si-fi/fantasy genres. So I wasn’t ready for my favorite female characters on TV to secede precious screen time to men.

As I’ve mulled over this new development, however, I grew increasingly excited to see what this progressive show does with masculinity. The writers have a strong track record of exploring masculinity just as thoroughly as they do femininity. From the emasculated Donny to the effeminate Felix to the hyper-masculine Paul, the show challenges conventional notions of what it means be a man.

One of the most underutilized aspects of feminism is the study of how our culture relegates men to boxes much like it does women, to the detriment of all. We allow men only a narrow emotional range and encourage them to channel anxiety, fear, and insecurity into aggression. The phrases “be a man” and “man up” represent an insidious rejection of multifaceted and complex masculinity. And this in turn violently summons men into a system that valorizes misogyny as a performative means to enact an ideal that damages both genders.

A line of male clones in Orphan Black promises to spark conversations about male physicality (which we almost never talk about); the interrelations among strength, sensitivity, and creativity; and the way men, too, are victimized by the patriarchy. Season two showed us with shockingly clarity that men can be raped too. I’m looking forward to what Season three shows us about who owns men’s bodies, military culture’s relationship to gender, and which bastards Helena can destroy with her bare hands.

I think the show will always be about seestras. It's okay if it's about brother-seestras too. 

My Writing Process – a blog tour

I was invited to participate in this blog tour by fellow writer Jae (http://jae-fiction.com/my-writing-process/). The idea is that every author answers the same four questions about her or his writing process and then tags someone else who continues the blog tour.

Here goes!

1. What am I working on?

At present I’m working on two projects. The first is editing my novel Barring Complications (http://www.ylva-publishing.com/books/barring-complications/) with the incomparable Fletcher DeLancey (tagged below!). We are going comma by comma to make sure you all have a pleasant reading experience uninterrupted by typos.

In between rounds of edits, I’m returning to the first novel I ever wrote, Stowe Away. I still very much believe in this storyline, but the writing needs a complete overhaul. I know a lot more about the fundamentals of writing fiction now, and I’m enjoying retooling scenes, restructuring events, and rethinking character development.

2. How does my work differ from others in the same genre?

This seems a very loaded question! I suppose my writing is “lesbian romance,” but I do set out to write pieces that don’t conform to the standard romance plot. Barring Complications is about a lot more than the relationship between two women – it’s about US politics and government, surveillance, family, and briefly, badminton.

Stowe Away specifically undoes the structure of a romance novel. This is not a girl-meets-girl, something keeps them apart, girl-gets-girl novel. But more than that, I can’t say just yet. ;)

#3 Why do I write what I do?

I love this question. When I first discovered the Bechdel test (if you don’t know about this, please look it up – it’s amazing), I expanded it in my head. It wasn’t enough for two named female characters to have a scene together where they talk about something other than a man – they had to talk about something other than romance. Clearly this caveat concerns lesbian characters. Alison Bechdel had seen enough of women fawning over men, but I had seen enough of women fawning, period. So, in my version of it, there couldn’t be romantic subtext either: the women in the scene had to think about something other than romance. So, it’s fair to say that many lesbian romance novels wouldn’t pass this more stringent test. And that’s totally fine – it’s not the real test and I’m not judging. But the women I know don’t spend all their time talking or even fantasizing about love and romance. They have careers and hobbies. And I want to read and write about them.

In Barring Complications, Victoria Willoughby’s family isn’t there for her to talk about her love life – they’re in the novel to help her navigate her career and the press, and also because she is a well-rounded character who loves her relationships with her brother and sister-in-law. In Stowe Away, the main character’s mother does more than help her daughter suss out romantic relationships. She has her own story line and character arc.

So, I write the way I write because I am interested in strong, multifaceted lesbian characters who are interested in romance, sure, but whose lives aren’t singularly focused on it.

#4 How does my writing process work?

Call me a traditionalist, but I read my Aristotle and I believe everything starts with plot. I know a lot of writers who start with characters and that works for them, but starting with plot is the only way I can make sense of my ideas. I begin with the conflict. Once I’ve figured out what drives the friction of the story, I come up with a few mile-markers to help me shape its trajectory. Barring Complications is in five parts, and I knew before I started writing how each part would start and end. Once I have the main events in place, I draw up character lists and start writing. Certainly within this basic plot outline my characters lead me to unexpected places. But I know if I don’t give them some rules, they’ll run away from me!

Well, there you go – a bit of insight into my writing process. Without further ado, I hereby tag Fletcher DeLancey and Ingrid Diaz!