Rachael Eyre's Blog - Posts Tagged "wlw"
Why Cancelling Gentleman Jack Is One Disappointment Too Many
Earlier this week I woke to devastating news. Streaming giant HBO announced they were cancelling Gentleman Jack after two seasons.
Based on the diaries of lesbian trailblazer Anne Lister, it followed our unconventional heroine as she wooed Ann Walker, a haunted heiress who could be out of a Wilkie Collins novel; it also chronicled her business ventures and travels abroad. It was a period drama like no other, swapping the usual comedy of manners with sapphic love triangles.
The best part? Lister wasn’t the invention of a modern author reimagining history with a queer slant, but a real woman who lived in Halifax in the nineteenth century. Her meticulously kept diaries were discovered by one of her descendants, John Lister. Gay himself, he was scandalised by their content, and advised to destroy them. Luckily he was a historian and recognised their worth. They were ignored for years until twentieth century historians deciphered them and were shocked. They straightwashed Lister by claiming the coded entries were so dull, no one would wish to read them.
It wasn’t until an English writer called Helena Whitbread decrypted the diaries in the 80s that their true nature was discovered. It became her passion project; she was motivated partly because her own daughter had recently come out. Critics at the time insisted they must be a hoax by a lesbian feminist, but when the diaries were examined, they were forced to conclude they were genuine. Ann Walker’s own diary was discovered in 2020.
This is more engrossing than yet another Austen adaptation could be. There was an earlier show starring Maxine Peake, The Secret Diaries of Miss Anne Lister, but it disappeared without a trace. Fortunately Sally Wainwright - creator of Last Tango in Halifax and Happy Valley - had long been fascinated by Lister, and had wanted to dramatise her remarkable life for years. The time had never been quite right; executives were convinced no one would want to watch the adventures of a Regency butch lesbian.
With Wainwright they had the right writer; in Suranne Jones, one of the UK’s finest actresses, they had the ideal Lister. With a single tip of her top hat and wiggle of her eyebrows, she won the hearts of women loving women across the globe. Its impact was so significant, it’s been given its own name: the Gentleman Jack Effect. Women have formed fan clubs, climbed the same mountains as Anne (she was the first person in recorded history to ascend Mont Vingemale), created hilarious memes and written novels based on the characters. Shibden Hall, her ancestral home, has become a tourist hotspot; a statue of her in pensive mode has been installed in Halifax. She has gone from obscure historical figure to gay icon.
It’s difficult to articulate how meaningful this show has been. It puts paid to the myth that homosexuality in general and lesbianism in particular is a modern identity; Anne knew exactly what she was and found many other women like her. Butch women are almost never portrayed on television and wrongly regarded as an offensive stereotype. Anne proves that not only were butches alive and well in the 1800s, they could be sexy, charismatic and smooth with the ladies - almost like a Georgian lesbian James Bond. But the show doesn’t sanitise her; she could be snobby, controlling and selfish, and her true blue politics are distasteful to today’s audience.
Above all, her relationships with Ann and other women are achingly real and all too relevant to today. They are faced by obstacles from every side, whether it’s interfering relatives, society’s homophobia, or old flames. Mariana, Anne’s ex who married a considerably older man, is a nasty piece of work - a manipulative, negging, histrionic hot mess. Their relationship hit the rocks because of her embarrassment at Anne’s butchness - a situation relatable to anyone who has dated a closeted woman who suffers from internalised homophobia.
Ann herself struggles with mental health issues, which are sympathetically depicted. Again, many queer women suffer from depression and anxiety, frequently because of the conflict between their sexual orientation and society.
The show charts how these two very different women met, fell in love and forged a same sex marriage in a time where that was unthinkable (the recent Great Drumsheugh Case had ruled that lesbianism was an imaginary crime on par with witchcraft). It captivated audiences who would never have watched period dramas, or found themselves rooting for a lesbian relationship. Many women have been emboldened to come out due to Gentleman Jack; numerous fans have met and fallen in love.
Now HBO has decreed it must come to an end. It acknowledged the series during Pride Month, but otherwise it’s virtually ignored it - a tactic it employs with other queer themed shows, like the gay pirate comedy Our Flag Means Death. The message seems clear: queer viewers are a mere gimmick at best, a nuisance at worst. Wainwright and the BBC have expressed a desire to carry on, but realistically speaking, this has sounded a death knell for the show.
It’s not enough. Not any more. Women loving women are sick of being treated like a novelty act whose feelings don’t matter. We hate that sapphic characters are disproportionately killed off (the dreaded Bury Your Gays trope), often oversexualised and their relationships viewed as lesser. The disastrous Killing Eve finale highlighted how straight writers take us for granted and regurgitate these insulting cliches, not realising how hurtful they are. If there had been even one queer woman in that writing room, there’s no way that ending would have made the final cut - not least because they have a happy one in the novels.
In the old days we snatched at any form of representation, no matter how dubious. We grinned and bore it when lesbian shows were cancelled for “lack of interest” - believe me, we would watch golf if there was the promise of girl on girl action. We endured our secondary status as the heroine’s best friend or little sister because we thought that was as good as it was going to get.
Gentleman Jack has given us a glimpse of a brave new world where lesbian characters can be flawed heroes and their romances the primary focus of the show. Once you’ve had a banquet, why would you go back to a grubby little takeaway?
Cancelling the series when there’s still so much material left to adapt is a grave mistake. It will break the hearts of countless lesbians.
It’s one disappointment too many.
Based on the diaries of lesbian trailblazer Anne Lister, it followed our unconventional heroine as she wooed Ann Walker, a haunted heiress who could be out of a Wilkie Collins novel; it also chronicled her business ventures and travels abroad. It was a period drama like no other, swapping the usual comedy of manners with sapphic love triangles.
The best part? Lister wasn’t the invention of a modern author reimagining history with a queer slant, but a real woman who lived in Halifax in the nineteenth century. Her meticulously kept diaries were discovered by one of her descendants, John Lister. Gay himself, he was scandalised by their content, and advised to destroy them. Luckily he was a historian and recognised their worth. They were ignored for years until twentieth century historians deciphered them and were shocked. They straightwashed Lister by claiming the coded entries were so dull, no one would wish to read them.
It wasn’t until an English writer called Helena Whitbread decrypted the diaries in the 80s that their true nature was discovered. It became her passion project; she was motivated partly because her own daughter had recently come out. Critics at the time insisted they must be a hoax by a lesbian feminist, but when the diaries were examined, they were forced to conclude they were genuine. Ann Walker’s own diary was discovered in 2020.
This is more engrossing than yet another Austen adaptation could be. There was an earlier show starring Maxine Peake, The Secret Diaries of Miss Anne Lister, but it disappeared without a trace. Fortunately Sally Wainwright - creator of Last Tango in Halifax and Happy Valley - had long been fascinated by Lister, and had wanted to dramatise her remarkable life for years. The time had never been quite right; executives were convinced no one would want to watch the adventures of a Regency butch lesbian.
With Wainwright they had the right writer; in Suranne Jones, one of the UK’s finest actresses, they had the ideal Lister. With a single tip of her top hat and wiggle of her eyebrows, she won the hearts of women loving women across the globe. Its impact was so significant, it’s been given its own name: the Gentleman Jack Effect. Women have formed fan clubs, climbed the same mountains as Anne (she was the first person in recorded history to ascend Mont Vingemale), created hilarious memes and written novels based on the characters. Shibden Hall, her ancestral home, has become a tourist hotspot; a statue of her in pensive mode has been installed in Halifax. She has gone from obscure historical figure to gay icon.
It’s difficult to articulate how meaningful this show has been. It puts paid to the myth that homosexuality in general and lesbianism in particular is a modern identity; Anne knew exactly what she was and found many other women like her. Butch women are almost never portrayed on television and wrongly regarded as an offensive stereotype. Anne proves that not only were butches alive and well in the 1800s, they could be sexy, charismatic and smooth with the ladies - almost like a Georgian lesbian James Bond. But the show doesn’t sanitise her; she could be snobby, controlling and selfish, and her true blue politics are distasteful to today’s audience.
Above all, her relationships with Ann and other women are achingly real and all too relevant to today. They are faced by obstacles from every side, whether it’s interfering relatives, society’s homophobia, or old flames. Mariana, Anne’s ex who married a considerably older man, is a nasty piece of work - a manipulative, negging, histrionic hot mess. Their relationship hit the rocks because of her embarrassment at Anne’s butchness - a situation relatable to anyone who has dated a closeted woman who suffers from internalised homophobia.
Ann herself struggles with mental health issues, which are sympathetically depicted. Again, many queer women suffer from depression and anxiety, frequently because of the conflict between their sexual orientation and society.
The show charts how these two very different women met, fell in love and forged a same sex marriage in a time where that was unthinkable (the recent Great Drumsheugh Case had ruled that lesbianism was an imaginary crime on par with witchcraft). It captivated audiences who would never have watched period dramas, or found themselves rooting for a lesbian relationship. Many women have been emboldened to come out due to Gentleman Jack; numerous fans have met and fallen in love.
Now HBO has decreed it must come to an end. It acknowledged the series during Pride Month, but otherwise it’s virtually ignored it - a tactic it employs with other queer themed shows, like the gay pirate comedy Our Flag Means Death. The message seems clear: queer viewers are a mere gimmick at best, a nuisance at worst. Wainwright and the BBC have expressed a desire to carry on, but realistically speaking, this has sounded a death knell for the show.
It’s not enough. Not any more. Women loving women are sick of being treated like a novelty act whose feelings don’t matter. We hate that sapphic characters are disproportionately killed off (the dreaded Bury Your Gays trope), often oversexualised and their relationships viewed as lesser. The disastrous Killing Eve finale highlighted how straight writers take us for granted and regurgitate these insulting cliches, not realising how hurtful they are. If there had been even one queer woman in that writing room, there’s no way that ending would have made the final cut - not least because they have a happy one in the novels.
In the old days we snatched at any form of representation, no matter how dubious. We grinned and bore it when lesbian shows were cancelled for “lack of interest” - believe me, we would watch golf if there was the promise of girl on girl action. We endured our secondary status as the heroine’s best friend or little sister because we thought that was as good as it was going to get.
Gentleman Jack has given us a glimpse of a brave new world where lesbian characters can be flawed heroes and their romances the primary focus of the show. Once you’ve had a banquet, why would you go back to a grubby little takeaway?
Cancelling the series when there’s still so much material left to adapt is a grave mistake. It will break the hearts of countless lesbians.
It’s one disappointment too many.
Renew First Kill!
I’m a sucker for lesbian vampires. When they announced First Kill, I was thrilled; never mind I wasn’t the target demographic.
Touted as “Buffy meets Killing Eve,” the Netflix series is the story of Juliette Fairmont, an adorkable lesbian vampire. She falls hard and fast for Calliope Burns, the new girl in school. Alas, Cal belongs to a family of monster hunters, trained from birth to take creatures like Jules and her family down. A heated encounter in a pantry and attempted staking later, the attraction is mutual and undeniable. Will our heroines be able to defy centuries of enmity and be together?
Cal and Jules’ relationship isn’t an easily ignored subplot but the raison d’etre of the show. Both girls have always known they are queer, meaning the tedious teenage coming out plotline can be dispensed with. They are an interracial couple, with the Burns family receiving as much focus as the waspy Fairmonts. They do what young lesbians in love and lust actually do: kiss and have sex. Which hasn’t been missed by critics, who moan the show “oversexualises” the pair. Would they say this if they were a straight, white couple?
One of the most important relationships in the show is that of Jules and Ben, her best friend since childhood. Most media portrays lesbians and gay men as separate species who loathe one another; these two are a mutual adoration society, giving advice and support where their families can’t. He’s a sobering reminder homophobia still exists in this universe: his on-off boyfriend Noah is closeted and refuses to dump his girlfriend, leaving Ben heartbroken.
Other than the queerness, I love that the central relationship is age appropriate. One of the cornerstones of vampire romances seems to be a staggering age gap, which translates as a hundred years plus year old man grooming a teenage girl, however you look at it. In the case of American stories, it frequently entails characters having Confederacy pasts (True Blood, Twilight) - roughly equivalent to a European author romanticising Nazis. Best of all, Jules is alive, waving aside the spectre of necrophilia that haunts most vampire yarns. Win-win!
The innovation doesn’t end there. Vampires are reimagined as a matriarchal society, with ‘Legacy’ vampires - the rarest kind, practically impossible to kill - descended from Lilith. Jules’ parents Margot and Sebastian face discrimination from other vampires because he is a human she fell in love with and turned. Their glamorous grandma Davina embodies all the pride and prejudice of their heritage, but if the show has a villain, it’s Elinor, Jules’ Machiavellian bombshell of a big sister. A power hungry serial killer, she has managed to ostracise her twin Oliver from the family, making out he’s the evil one. Understandably, he wants payback.
Critics have been quick to pillory the show with the sneering they reserve for teenage girls and queer properties. A sniffy Variety review claimed it was a “tired take on teenage lesbian vampires” - trust me, it’s hardly a populous field, with only the Carmilla webseries and the dismal film of The Moth Diaries in the past few decades. The CGI has come in for some flak, which is forgivable - the last shot of the show is endearingly naff - but we endured fake fangs and moth eaten dog costumes in other series and nobody complained then.
It looks as though Netflix won’t renew First Kill, continuing their marked disdain towards wlw series. They didn’t promote it until the very last minute, raising questions. Previously they’ve argued cancellations were due to “the pandemic” or “low ratings,” but that excuse won’t wash here. The show was a word of mouth hit on Twitter, with sapphics the world over urging each other to watch. They’ve renewed Heartstopper when its ratings are considerably lower; you can’t help suspecting lesbophobia and other prejudices are at play.
The wider world betrays its complacency every time a queer franchise is cancelled or ends badly. “It’s only a TV show,” they shrug, “there are plenty of others.” Not for us. With its queer heroines, one of whom is Black, and message of love overcoming all, First Kill is unique and has the potential to be a life affirming, empowering show for millions of young women around the globe. It deserves another chance #RenewFirstKill
Touted as “Buffy meets Killing Eve,” the Netflix series is the story of Juliette Fairmont, an adorkable lesbian vampire. She falls hard and fast for Calliope Burns, the new girl in school. Alas, Cal belongs to a family of monster hunters, trained from birth to take creatures like Jules and her family down. A heated encounter in a pantry and attempted staking later, the attraction is mutual and undeniable. Will our heroines be able to defy centuries of enmity and be together?
Cal and Jules’ relationship isn’t an easily ignored subplot but the raison d’etre of the show. Both girls have always known they are queer, meaning the tedious teenage coming out plotline can be dispensed with. They are an interracial couple, with the Burns family receiving as much focus as the waspy Fairmonts. They do what young lesbians in love and lust actually do: kiss and have sex. Which hasn’t been missed by critics, who moan the show “oversexualises” the pair. Would they say this if they were a straight, white couple?
One of the most important relationships in the show is that of Jules and Ben, her best friend since childhood. Most media portrays lesbians and gay men as separate species who loathe one another; these two are a mutual adoration society, giving advice and support where their families can’t. He’s a sobering reminder homophobia still exists in this universe: his on-off boyfriend Noah is closeted and refuses to dump his girlfriend, leaving Ben heartbroken.
Other than the queerness, I love that the central relationship is age appropriate. One of the cornerstones of vampire romances seems to be a staggering age gap, which translates as a hundred years plus year old man grooming a teenage girl, however you look at it. In the case of American stories, it frequently entails characters having Confederacy pasts (True Blood, Twilight) - roughly equivalent to a European author romanticising Nazis. Best of all, Jules is alive, waving aside the spectre of necrophilia that haunts most vampire yarns. Win-win!
The innovation doesn’t end there. Vampires are reimagined as a matriarchal society, with ‘Legacy’ vampires - the rarest kind, practically impossible to kill - descended from Lilith. Jules’ parents Margot and Sebastian face discrimination from other vampires because he is a human she fell in love with and turned. Their glamorous grandma Davina embodies all the pride and prejudice of their heritage, but if the show has a villain, it’s Elinor, Jules’ Machiavellian bombshell of a big sister. A power hungry serial killer, she has managed to ostracise her twin Oliver from the family, making out he’s the evil one. Understandably, he wants payback.
Critics have been quick to pillory the show with the sneering they reserve for teenage girls and queer properties. A sniffy Variety review claimed it was a “tired take on teenage lesbian vampires” - trust me, it’s hardly a populous field, with only the Carmilla webseries and the dismal film of The Moth Diaries in the past few decades. The CGI has come in for some flak, which is forgivable - the last shot of the show is endearingly naff - but we endured fake fangs and moth eaten dog costumes in other series and nobody complained then.
It looks as though Netflix won’t renew First Kill, continuing their marked disdain towards wlw series. They didn’t promote it until the very last minute, raising questions. Previously they’ve argued cancellations were due to “the pandemic” or “low ratings,” but that excuse won’t wash here. The show was a word of mouth hit on Twitter, with sapphics the world over urging each other to watch. They’ve renewed Heartstopper when its ratings are considerably lower; you can’t help suspecting lesbophobia and other prejudices are at play.
The wider world betrays its complacency every time a queer franchise is cancelled or ends badly. “It’s only a TV show,” they shrug, “there are plenty of others.” Not for us. With its queer heroines, one of whom is Black, and message of love overcoming all, First Kill is unique and has the potential to be a life affirming, empowering show for millions of young women around the globe. It deserves another chance #RenewFirstKill
