A few weeks ago, armed with curiosity and a good dose of ennui,
I picked up all of the episodes from the first season of Sex and the City at the video store. I don't own a broadcast television or cable,
but I had heard endless snippets of conversation about the series
and I was more than a little bit curious.
So, I watched them. I watched all of them over a two-day period,
and thought I should probably hate them or think they were vapid,
but I instead thought they were fabulous. I laughed a good deal.
I recognized articles and ideas I'd written about myself. I
spotted Dolce and Gabbana dresses form last year that I really
liked, and Prada pieces I loathed. I recognized shades of lipstick
I own. I got a bit catty about these things, and it's always
nice to have an excuse to be catty about other people, especially
when they're fictional and no one's feelings can get hurt. I
got to watch a few hours of little spatterings of my life, take
in some excellent screenwriting, acting and directing, and overall,
it was a very girly good time.
However, the lingering feeling I was left with -- which disturbed
me to no small end -- was this: is it now chic to be a sex writer?
Is it really insanely cool to be... well, me? How could that
have happened? And if that has happened, why aren't I on the side of a bus, and why the hell can't I walk in those cute little shoes?
Of course, it really isn't cool to be me, or most of the other
sexuality writers and artists I know. Well, maybe it's cool,
but very few people are going to let us into their homes without
a metal detector. The main character in Sex and the City (based on Candace Bushnell's collection of her New York Observer columns which is FAR less nicey-nice and pretty), Carrie Bradshaw,
does indeed write a column that is *basically* about sex. She
likes mixed drinks and she smokes. She dresses in funky clothes,
she likes designer shoes and she dons glittery makeup (though
the artist on the set is a tad heavy-handed with the goo, if you ask me). Her bank balance
is apparently not very pretty. She's my age, and she isn't hard
on the eyes. She's a romantic. But the similarities end there.
Though Carrie does indeed write about sex, she has never seen
nor used a vibrator until a few episodes in, and even then, she
looks at it as if it had landed from another planet. I'm guessing
that terms like "watersports," "fisting," and "paraphilias" would
have her asking what other classes the gym was offering that week.
She is glaringly heterosexual. Her bank balance may not be pretty,
yet she appears to live on the Upper East Side of Manhattan and
buy $500 shoes on a whim (then again, that may be why). The paper
she writes for puts her picture on buses for what is only a weekly
column. She has not done sex work. I don't know if she'd know
what sex work is, as she has probably never met a hooker or a
stripper. She is romantically and sexually naive to the point
it is hard to fathom that she is as old as she is. She's almost
TOO nice too look at is missing the inevitable extra five or ten
pounds any professional writer ends up with from sitting down
all day, no matter how much yoga we do. Plus, she's always nice.
Always. The mainstream could not just like her, but they could
actually love her like a sister. And they do.
And it is at that point it becomes clear, as it always does, that
television is not real life. There are few general statements
one can make about the whole of the world, but one I know to be
true is that the world, my friends, does not embrace a tart, unless
she isn't REALLY a tart, deep down inside.
Think about Shirley MacLaine. Shirley MacLaine (who, whatever
you think of her spiritual beliefs aside, is one of the most talented
performers of all time) launched her career by playing hookers.
And the world ate it up with a super-sized spoon. Why, you ask?
Because she always -- always -- played a freckle-faced hooker
with a heart of gold. Because on one level or another, her being
a hooker or a tart was accidental, or something from which she
would undoubtedly escape when the right guy showed up, and he
usually did (and the fact that he ran scared, and she was still
smiling and salty in Sweet Charity, is what makes that the best of that genre). To carry that further,
here's a thought (and a terrifying one at that): Pretty Woman made Julia Roberts a star. It surely was because the world LOVED
the redeemed hooker ideal, because let me tell you, honey, it
was not about writing, acting or how cute Richard Gere looks in a suit.
The same goes with our heroine in Sex and the City. She knows enough to write what she's writing, but more times
than not, she's living her subject matter vicariously rather than
actually, and she doesn't know more about sex than anyone else,
nor does she think it is any more okay than the next chick. She
asks far more questions than she gives answers. In other words,
she could still be rescued before it is too late. She's all heart
and no hooker, and she couldn't scare the last living cockroach
in a roach motel.
Here's the funny thing. There is a secondary character in the
series, Samantha; a publicity agent who knows more about sex than
all four of the main characters put together, including the sex
writer. She is adventurous. She is lusty. She often flirts
with the boundaries of good taste and tact, and more often leaps
over them entirely with wild gusto. She is what my grandmother
would call a "salty" woman, and I know because she has called
me salty more than once, and she didn't mean it as a compliment,
either. She's a sweetheart, but nobody's family is going to be
happy to meet her, which is fine by her because she isn't interested
in meeting anyone's family anyway. She can't be rescued, she's
too far gone. She can't have a great awakening and discover her
whole life has been about meaningless, shallow sexcapades because
she likes who she is and has a great time. She's got a heart
of gold, but it is most assuredly inside a lifelong mistress.
A woman who says things like, "We're all alone, even when we're
with men. My advice to you is to embrace that fact, slap on some
armor, and go through life like I do, enjoying men!" is not up
for the ingenue role in this lifetime or any other.
Samantha would look you dead in the eye no matter what freak of
nature you were talking about. Carrie would blush, look lost
and scrunch up her face a lot. Simply, Carrie, in a restaurant,
would ask someone else what was good on the menu before ordering.
Samantha would no doubt already be eating something before the
waiter even got his sorry ass to the table, with no care whether
what she was eating was dead yet or not.
Samantha should really be the sex writer. Better stated, Samantha,
as prototype, IS the sex writer. Just not on television. I imagine
a lot of people don't like her, or think she's tacky. I imagine
that she scares the holy hell out of people with some regularity.
I imagine that when your partner asks for anal sex and you're
aghast, when you don't know if your vibrator is really waterproof
or not, or when you find yourself having decidedly unheterosexual feelings out of the blue, you'd call this woman,
not the other. There is no doubt in my mind whatsoever that she
would agonize and angst over anything for no more than the millisecond
it took her to pack a bag and move on. Samantha wouldn't be the
sort of writer who makes editors insane by calling in every day
to pitch yet another brilliant and half-formed idea, asking for
input, but I've no doubt that Carrie would be, and as any of us
in this line of work know that sort of writer has something in
common with most writers: they're out of work.
But of course, Samantha couldn't be the sex writer or the main
character. She knows what she is talking about. She isn't afraid
of sex and all the trappings that come with it. She doesn't look
like someone whose cheeks little old ladies would pinch and when
it comes to sex, smart and saucy isn't sellable to the mainstream
and the whole world can't love her. Watch her like a hawk and
be fascinated, they will. Envy her, they might, but they'd never
admit it. Embrace her and aspire to be her, they will not.
So, really, it isn't chic to be me. And that's not a bad thing.
I don't like being the ingenue, and I look like a rabid Shar-Pei
when I scrunch my face up. If Carrie wants to take my extra ten
pounds, however, to lend some authenticity to the role, I'll gladly
donate them. Sometimes -- and I often ignore this notion -- people
really do need to have a spoonful of sugar to make the medicine
go down. How can I complain about a lack of realism if the whole
world is tuning in weekly to watch something that is about sex
and women without being glib or destructive, and if that program
can actually make people laugh about sex without feeling horrible
about it? How could I complain about a show that is about women
over 30, some of whom actually LOOK over 30, that doesn't insist
they should all be married to some nice boy somewhere and live
happily ever-after in Long Island? How could I rant about something
being a little vapid and most assuredly light fare when I had
such a great time watching it? And why on earth would I -- or
anyone else for that matter -- want to watch me rattling a keyboard
with my dog, ingesting coffee like the world was about to end
while I tried to explain how to use a condom correctly for the
five hundred and twenty-first time, even if I AM dressed well?
How could anyone complain about that?
I know I can't. I think it is just divine (especially since I've
just discovered last seasons shows were often directed by Allison
Anders, who is easily my favorite female director around). I
think for a change I owe television a great big thank you even
though I don't like it enough to own one, and I'm allowed to say
"Well, God fuckin' bless America," for just once and mean it a
little. If I'm lucky, my grandmother will hear me and stop calling
me communist when she calls me "salty." But of course, I'd hate
that, and I'd feel I'd lost something vital if she, or any other
little old lady, suddenly felt more comfortable pinching my cheeks
than she does with a few feet of distance between herself and
my feather boa.
And I'm glad as hell that I don't own a television, because the
truth of the matter is that I'd watch it religiously, and I'd
enjoy myself while relishing the fact that it in fact ISN'T very
chic to be me. If I had to choose a Sex and the City archetype to inhabit, I'd take Samantha any day, with one reservation.
I want to walk -- nay, sit -- in Carrie's cute little shoes.
Copyright 2000, Heather Corinna. All rights reserved. |
