No Substance in `Sex'
Jordana Willner
Originally published San Francisco Chronicle
Sunday September 24, 2000
A POTENTIAL SUITOR recently told me that he is learning a lot about women from HBO's hit series ``Sex and the City.'' I figure he is the sort of person who studied long-term relationships on ``Seinfeld'' and took parenting tips from Al Bundy.
But he's not alone. Judging by the abundance of STC-inspired commentary, led last month by Time magazine's piece on the potential obsolescence of husbands, it does appear that Americans are incorrectly associating the phenomenon of fabulously independent single women with a weekly farce about a coven of post-adolescent New York frat girls.
So here's the reality check. STC, the serial adult sitcom about four single thirty-something women sexing their way through Manhattan, is not a documentary on women, nor has producer Darren Star tapped into a keg of wisdom previously inaccessible to the male viewing population. Most women do not recognize ourselves in these characters, and we hardly revere their trite talk and predictable behavior.
Conversations on penis sizes and shoe sales do not comprise the total topic quotient of the average single woman. Distress over irregularly flavored bodily fluids does not top the luncheon agenda. Career women actually discuss careers. Sexually active singles are not all promiscuous skanks.
Most viewers must know this. I hope. I hope it is glaringly obvious to the majority of HBO subscribers that despite provocative topics, earnest voiceover narratives, and a weekly foursome of prettily knit brows, STC presents one-dimensional women in yet another achingly shallow program about people you wouldn't want to know doing things most people wouldn't do. These are not, after all, likable characters. They sleep with married men. They lie to loyal boyfriends. They dispose of lovers with emphatic speed and cruelty. They laugh at each other and fail to provide support at key moments. Their conversations are a running kiss-and-tell violation of any respectful exchanges that occurred in the privacy of their well-traveled bedrooms.
Did I mention I haven't missed a new episode this year?
I could fabricate a lot of persuasive explanations for my loyal viewership. Political reasons, like my need to know what fallacies are being broadcast about single women so that I may take the offensive road to truth. Cultural reasons, like my need, as a writer, to monitor closely any pop phenomenon that is receiving as much attention as STC. Or I could call it escape, to a happy place where single female columnists make enough money to afford fur coats and diamond studded shoes.
But I'm big enough to speak truth. The same voyeurism that turns necks to rubber at accidents, that accelerates prime time game shows into record popularity, that transforms so-called reality shows into greedy ratings hogs, is the curiosity that compels me to set my VCR every Sunday night at nine. I know it is my love of an entertaining story, my smug belief that I would never stoop so low as STC's characters, and my utter lack of stake in their stories that allows me to be so utterly amused by their weekly self-indulgence and low brow antics.
I watch for the same reason as my pal who planned her last 13 Wednesday nights around ``Survivor'' and who has yet to miss a season of MTV's ``Real World'. ``I love seeing what they'll do,'' she admits. ``I love the conflicts. Anything happens, and none of it's real.''
Indeed, anything can happen, and it makes no difference to her, because she doesn't particularly like them, care about them, or invest emotionally in the outcome. The formats allow her to watch from a distance, without forming pesky attachments to the characters.
Likewise, STC is a lot of fluff, but, wrapped in a deceptively edgy package, I fear the culture at large might be mistaking the facade for substance.
When Time Magazine's James Poniewozik calls the show's conflicts ``real and honest,'' I hope he is not referring to that time when Carrie's married ex-lover assaulted her in an elevator, and she responded by pleading for him to make love to her while her unsuspecting boyfriend waited guilelessly at home. Or when Time writes that STC ``avoids pat sitcom solutions,'' I'm assuming he missed the episode where the only black character to ever penetrate the show -- a godlike hero resembling male perfection -- was disposed of within 15 minutes in a predictable and awkwardly manufactured racial conflict.
There's nothing wrong with watching the televised version of a Jackie Collins novel. We all deserve good escape and relaxation, and whether your preference is watching potential millionaires, survivors, or home-wreckers, I say pop the corn, pour the wine and have at it with as much voyeuristic abandon as you can muster. But please, try to remember that what you're watching is not groundbreaking social commentary.
And if you're particularly gullible, if you wished that sweet Jerry Seinfeld had reconciled with his true love Elaine, please enter the new fall television season at your own risk.
Because with more than a handful of STC imitations cluttering the networks, single-life cliches will abound, and it may be difficult to resist the lure of the absurd. But please try. Otherwise, when you go looking for your own clan of stylishly self-obsessed urban singles with time on their hands and satisfaction on their minds, you may be incredibly disappointed to find that most of us are simply wearing jeans, running errands and working overtime. And that might be too much reality to take.
--Jordana Willner wrote a monthly "Next Generation" column for the San Francisco Chronicle in 1999, 2000, and 2001
Originally published San Francisco Chronicle
Sunday September 24, 2000
A POTENTIAL SUITOR recently told me that he is learning a lot about women from HBO's hit series ``Sex and the City.'' I figure he is the sort of person who studied long-term relationships on ``Seinfeld'' and took parenting tips from Al Bundy.
But he's not alone. Judging by the abundance of STC-inspired commentary, led last month by Time magazine's piece on the potential obsolescence of husbands, it does appear that Americans are incorrectly associating the phenomenon of fabulously independent single women with a weekly farce about a coven of post-adolescent New York frat girls.
So here's the reality check. STC, the serial adult sitcom about four single thirty-something women sexing their way through Manhattan, is not a documentary on women, nor has producer Darren Star tapped into a keg of wisdom previously inaccessible to the male viewing population. Most women do not recognize ourselves in these characters, and we hardly revere their trite talk and predictable behavior.
Conversations on penis sizes and shoe sales do not comprise the total topic quotient of the average single woman. Distress over irregularly flavored bodily fluids does not top the luncheon agenda. Career women actually discuss careers. Sexually active singles are not all promiscuous skanks.
Most viewers must know this. I hope. I hope it is glaringly obvious to the majority of HBO subscribers that despite provocative topics, earnest voiceover narratives, and a weekly foursome of prettily knit brows, STC presents one-dimensional women in yet another achingly shallow program about people you wouldn't want to know doing things most people wouldn't do. These are not, after all, likable characters. They sleep with married men. They lie to loyal boyfriends. They dispose of lovers with emphatic speed and cruelty. They laugh at each other and fail to provide support at key moments. Their conversations are a running kiss-and-tell violation of any respectful exchanges that occurred in the privacy of their well-traveled bedrooms.
Did I mention I haven't missed a new episode this year?
I could fabricate a lot of persuasive explanations for my loyal viewership. Political reasons, like my need to know what fallacies are being broadcast about single women so that I may take the offensive road to truth. Cultural reasons, like my need, as a writer, to monitor closely any pop phenomenon that is receiving as much attention as STC. Or I could call it escape, to a happy place where single female columnists make enough money to afford fur coats and diamond studded shoes.
But I'm big enough to speak truth. The same voyeurism that turns necks to rubber at accidents, that accelerates prime time game shows into record popularity, that transforms so-called reality shows into greedy ratings hogs, is the curiosity that compels me to set my VCR every Sunday night at nine. I know it is my love of an entertaining story, my smug belief that I would never stoop so low as STC's characters, and my utter lack of stake in their stories that allows me to be so utterly amused by their weekly self-indulgence and low brow antics.
I watch for the same reason as my pal who planned her last 13 Wednesday nights around ``Survivor'' and who has yet to miss a season of MTV's ``Real World'. ``I love seeing what they'll do,'' she admits. ``I love the conflicts. Anything happens, and none of it's real.''
Indeed, anything can happen, and it makes no difference to her, because she doesn't particularly like them, care about them, or invest emotionally in the outcome. The formats allow her to watch from a distance, without forming pesky attachments to the characters.
Likewise, STC is a lot of fluff, but, wrapped in a deceptively edgy package, I fear the culture at large might be mistaking the facade for substance.
When Time Magazine's James Poniewozik calls the show's conflicts ``real and honest,'' I hope he is not referring to that time when Carrie's married ex-lover assaulted her in an elevator, and she responded by pleading for him to make love to her while her unsuspecting boyfriend waited guilelessly at home. Or when Time writes that STC ``avoids pat sitcom solutions,'' I'm assuming he missed the episode where the only black character to ever penetrate the show -- a godlike hero resembling male perfection -- was disposed of within 15 minutes in a predictable and awkwardly manufactured racial conflict.
There's nothing wrong with watching the televised version of a Jackie Collins novel. We all deserve good escape and relaxation, and whether your preference is watching potential millionaires, survivors, or home-wreckers, I say pop the corn, pour the wine and have at it with as much voyeuristic abandon as you can muster. But please, try to remember that what you're watching is not groundbreaking social commentary.
And if you're particularly gullible, if you wished that sweet Jerry Seinfeld had reconciled with his true love Elaine, please enter the new fall television season at your own risk.
Because with more than a handful of STC imitations cluttering the networks, single-life cliches will abound, and it may be difficult to resist the lure of the absurd. But please try. Otherwise, when you go looking for your own clan of stylishly self-obsessed urban singles with time on their hands and satisfaction on their minds, you may be incredibly disappointed to find that most of us are simply wearing jeans, running errands and working overtime. And that might be too much reality to take.
--Jordana Willner wrote a monthly "Next Generation" column for the San Francisco Chronicle in 1999, 2000, and 2001
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