Rachael Eyre's Blog, page 3

Why the WLW Romance in Vigil Matters

Thanks to last night’s Vigil, I witnessed something extraordinary. Its lead, Amy Silva, danced with her subordinate, Kirsten Longacre, moving in for a kiss. Startled, the younger detective said, “I thought you weren’t interested in women.” The response? “I like you.” This misunderstanding cleared up, they shared one of the sweetest embraces I’ve seen on television.

Why is this so groundbreaking?

Speaking as a lesbian in my mid thirties, I’ve watched a lot of pink TV. To say most of it was lipservice was an understatement. Good grief, one show - about the gloomy mésalliances of Glaswegian sapphics - was even *called* Lip Service.

The medium doesn’t know what to do with us. Either we’re the subject of dramas specifically about (though not necessarily *for*) us, in which case it’s strap ons and scissoring ahoy, or we’re an absent minded subplot in a soap or indie show. We’re always the bridesmaid, never the bride: best friends, siblings or children, never the main protagonist. Since that would make it a Gay Show, and capsize the ratings forever.

More often than not we’re an object lesson, teaching Middle England that LGBT People Are Just Like You! Unless it’s cull season, of course. Then we’re sitting ducks, ready to get blown up, run over or buried alive on our wedding days. Since we can’t be shown living happily or even miserably ever after like our hetero counterparts.

Vigil is a milestone because it’s a mainstream programme in the coveted 9pm spot, made by the same folks who created Line of Duty. It isn’t ‘about’ lesbians, it’s a murder mystery. Yes, Suranne Jones has previous form playing Regency rake Anne Lister in Gentleman Jack, but which actress hasn’t a gay notch to her belt? It’s the one way to guarantee meaty roles once you enter your thirties.

It didn’t have to be gay. Amy could have just as easily fallen for a male colleague and have him working on the case back on land. But in their wisdom, the BBC has made a wlw love story the heart of their show. The use of flashbacks has given them a unique opportunity to explore Amy and Kirsten’s relationship. They clearly regret their breakup and want to get back together. I only hope one or both of them don’t fall victim to the Plot Reaper.

Of course there have been grumbles from the usual quarters, mithering it’s too “woke,” it’s “virtue signalling,” “has nothing to do with anything.” They were noticeably quiet during the earlier episodes, which dealt with the death of Amy’s (male) partner and the loss of her stepdaughter. Bizarrely, many viewers confused the kid with Kirsten, seemingly oblivious to lesbian subtext, or that there’s only a nine year age difference between our leads. There were even suggestions that it was the same person, but she’d hooked up with her stepmother when she was an adult. And they call *us* perverted.

I freely admit: I only tuned in because the publicity referred to a ‘past relationship’ between our leads. I thought it’d be mentioned in passing at best, because that’s what I’ve come to expect. It doesn’t matter we have the right to marry and adopt, and ostensibly equal rights; we’re still only extras or Very Special Episodes in the year 2021.

Until now.

They’ve given us an age gap wlw romance - a classic ice queen meets kooky girl. A woman who can be kissed by another woman and doesn’t react as though a slug has been slingshotted into her mouth - and indeed, likes it. No tedious angst about being gay, no soul searching. Just two people who obviously still love each other. Two flawed, relatable women, rather than the questioning teens or designer dolls we’re used to seeing. Queer characters who feel like actual people.

And it’s about time.

Why We Need More LGBT Film Critics

The year was 2008. My other half and I went to see Angus, Thongs and Perfect Snogging on a whim. We weren’t exactly the target demographic, but what’s not to like about a fun coming of age yarn?

But.

On various occasions throughout the movie, the girls’ PE teacher appears. She is plainly coded as a lesbian, the only things coming out of her mouth innuendos. She doesn’t contribute to the plot in any way, her mere existence as a gay woman apparently hilarious. Bear in mind this was five years after Section 28 was repealed and three years after civil partnerships were legalised, yet the writers thought using her as a running gag was acceptable. What the heck was this doing in a film for young people?

I read reviews for the following month, hoping at least one critic would take umbrage at the offensive caricature. Guess what? Not one person noticed. It demonstrates how commonplace casual homophobia was in the Noughties - but also highlighted something else.

The media is a primarily white, male, middle class, cishet field - and movie criticism is no different. Reviewers may have an extensive knowledge of film theory, but that doesn’t mean they understand LGBT themes or culture, or that they recognise bigotry when they see it. Indeed, sometimes they perpetuate such harmful cliches.

Take Ang Lee’s Brokeback Mountain, a beautifully shot and acted masterpiece. Due to its subject matter, it was dubbed ‘the gay cowboy movie,’ when the protagonists are bi, and Jack vilified as a ‘predator,’ because he’s the less repressed of the pair. Other well meaning reviewers were at pains to insist it could have been about any forbidden love during any time period, when it’s specifically about masculinity and homophobia. Whichever tack they took, their straight privilege was showing.

The Wachowskis’ debut Bound ran into similar issues. It’s a tense, stylish heist movie, but because the central romance is a lesbian one, with one of the best f/f sex scenes committed to celluloid, it’s dismissed as an erotic thriller. Never mind the heroine is able to escape an abusive relationship and go off into the sunset with the studly Corky, giving a queer couple a rare happy ending. Straight reviewers only see the scandal.

Of course, these are cases where the gay themes are explicit. Fried Green Tomatoes and The Color Purple are both adaptations of beloved novels with canonical lesbian relationships, but the filmmakers didn’t want to scare the horses, and watered the main couples down to gal pals. In Fried Green Tomatoes Idgie and Ruth raise a son and run a business together, but straight viewers are oblivious to the subtext. Some reviewers clocked that Idgie is a baby butch, and ‘has a crush on’ Ruth, but were bamboozled by Ruth’s femmeness. If there isn’t kissing, they can plausibly deny everything - though the women do have a suggestive food fight.

Awareness is growing with time, but there’s room for improvement. Reviewers still seem uncomfortable discussing non straight, non gender conforming characters. I’ve heard the queer couples in The Favourite and Disobedience called ‘close friendships;’ the eponymous Carol has been described as a ‘predator’ for daring to fall for a younger woman (yawn). Smutty snickering is largely a thing of the past, but reviewers remain tone deaf to contentious tropes like Bury Your Gays or evil lesbian or trans characters. They also don’t seem able to grasp bisexuality, thinking you either turn gay overnight or go off heterosexuality after a disastrous relationship.

Thanks to the popularity of vlogs and sites like Buzzfeed, the tide is beginning to change - but it needs to go further. LGBT reviewers shouldn’t be restricted to YouTube or queer publications. They should be reviewing for the broadsheets, the film programmes on TV and radio. Producers should scout to find talent from a multitude of backgrounds throughout the year, not designated ‘seasons’ that are dominated by white cis gay men. These initiatives should genuinely shape and promote gifted minority reviewers, rather than be tokenistic lip service. LGBT isn’t a niche category you can fob off twice a year with a doomed period romance or a formulaic coming out tale, but a vibrant community that wants - and deserves - better.

Grumpy Old Queercast

For the past five months I’ve been making a podcast with Ruth, my other half, and Paul, one of our oldest friends. The name of this cornucopia for the ears? Grumpy Old Queercast.

The three of us had long wanted to do a show together, but hadn’t known what form it would take, not least because we live in different parts of the country. (At one point we considered doing a sketch show; it was there the “Grumpy Old” name was coined). It was only when podcasts took off we realised it would be perfect for what we had in mind.

Aged between thirty five and forty one, we’re an age group seldom represented in LGBT media. The teenagers have their coming of age stories, the twenty somethings drama and oodles of sex - but what are we millennials doing? You’d think gay people transformed into witchy old hermits as soon as they hit their thirties. There’s also the assumption we must be raising families, which patently isn’t the case. No offence to gay parents reading this, but it’s never appealed to any of us.

The format is simple. It’s as though Paul, Ruth and I are having a natter in our lounge or a bar (an impossibility in the time of covid, alas). Having discussed what’s annoyed us that week - we *are* grumpy old queers after all - we move on to current affairs and culture, as seen through a pink lens. On previous occasions we’ve sung sea shanties and been dubious agony aunts; in future episodes there will be interviews and other goodies. There’s banter, non sequiturs and more innuendo than you can shake a stick at. We offer our own unfiltered opinions on the trends and topics of the day - oh, and there’s swearing. A lot of swearing.

At a time where nothing is certain, and LGBT rights are coming under fire, podcasts and other new media are an ideal way to reach out to likeminded folk. Even if it’s just three mates having a giggle, it’s getting authentic queer voices out there, making the world a teeny bit more fabulous.

Psycho Lesbians Galore: Why Won’t This Trope Die?

There are certain premises I’m complete trash for. Girls’ boarding schools. Lesbian vampires. Murder mysteries in remote locations. The instant such a novel pops up in my newsfeed, it goes straight to the top of my To Be Read list. Or if a story’s been adapted - I always try the book first, to see if it’s worth investing several hours of my time.

I’m on my thirtieth or so book this year and I’ve noticed a disquieting trend. The kind of negative lesbian characters you’d have thought were thrown out with the Hays Code, yet they’re appearing in books published in the last few years. What is going on?

Take You, an astronomically successful franchise that’s spawned a Netflix series. The narrator is Joe, a bookseller who becomes obsessed with Beck, a beautiful but damaged writer. Since the author is female, you’re never left in any doubt that Joe is a dangerous, narcissistic stalker. He’s reliably unreliable. The story should be as woke across the board, right?

Ha. If only.

Beck’s best friend Peach fulfils practically every psycho lesbian requirement you can imagine. She hates anyone Beck dates, takes explicit photos of her without her consent and coerces her into sex. She is so vile, even a creeper like Joe claims the moral high ground. She’s the only gay character in the story, meaning there’s no balance. I’m not saying that all LGBT characters have to be paragons of virtue, simply that (presumably) straight authors should be mindful of how they portray us. Is that really the first place their mind goes when they think ‘lesbian?’

Another book I read this year, which will remain nameless, played out an even more far fetched version of this trope. It transpires that the murderer first met the victim at university. She stalked her and stole her belongings, keeping a box of memorabilia. Having waited a decade, she’s started dating one of her crush’s (male) friends, all to get close to her. When the victim confronts her and taunts her, she murders her.

Say what?! Actual humans don’t behave this way. At least in this story there was a married gay couple, but they’re so bland and tokenistic, they were probably included after a sensitivity reading. If you’re the kind of person who doesn’t have any gay acquaintances (they exist), you might come away thinking lesbians are sinister, murderous psychopaths who pursue their unrequited ‘loves’ to the ends of the earth. Yay, progressive!

You might ask, where’s the harm? There are plenty of positive depictions of lesbians out there. Why should a dodgy one here and there matter? That sounds reasonable in theory, but the only stories with well rounded, happy LGBT protagonists tend to be written by LGBT authors, which receive far less exposure. They’re much less likely to become mainstream hits and be adapted into acclaimed series. You have to go scouting for lesbian themed books, while thrillers peddling bad old stereotypes are readily available in any supermarket.

Not only does it reinforce popular misconceptions lesbians are deviant predators, it frightens young women who might be questioning their sexuality back into the closet, thinking that what they feel is ugly and wrong. The ‘in love with your best friend’ cliché is particularly toxic, because that’s how many lesbians realise they’re attracted to women. Not only is it suggesting their feelings will never be returned, it literally turns them into the stuff of nightmares. More often than not the lesbian characters die, karmically punishing them for their transgression.

I’m not saying you can never create an villainous gay character again, if you have. Just ... be even handed. Provide context. Don’t make everyone in the story repelled by them - and imply the reader should share this opinion. Ask yourself, “Why am I making this character gay? What purpose does it serve?” If you honestly can’t come up with one, reconsider.

Writing During The Pandemic

When we first went into lockdown, the sudden stretches of spare time were viewed as a bonus. “I’ll catch up on my reading/try a new hobby/bake!” everyone declared. As for the artistically minded, we exclaimed, “Now I can create without the pesky distractions of normal life! This is great!”

I bought into this myth, treating it as the writing holiday I’d always wanted to go on. I acquired several new notebooks and indulged my stationery addiction. I’d started my new story the week before lockdown and confidently predicted it’d be finished within months. All I had to do was write it. Piece of cake.

Only ... not.

We’re nearly a year into the pandemic. I junked my comic novel four months down the line when I realised I didn’t know where these characters were going and didn’t particularly care. I shrugged and embarked upon a new project. This too fizzled out within a matter of months. Call me a glass half full person, but you can’t write a dystopia when a pandemic is raging and the American President is inciting a coup. It makes your imaginings seem decidedly tame.

I don’t know how anybody else works, but my writing comes from a happy place. My characters might endure trials and tribulations, but all the while I’m tucked up in a blanket with a cup of coffee, enjoying my favourite pastime. If you’re tired, fretful and constantly on the alert, you can’t produce your best work - or indeed any work. It’s like NaNoWriMo, only you’re dodging a deadly virus instead of beardy braggadocio.

It makes you feel like a fake, as well as a whinger. There’s this belief you’re not a writer unless you’re regularly committing words to paper - anyone who doesn’t is an idler, a dilettante. And who cares about your writer’s block when the world’s on fire? Get a sense of perspective!

Bearing this in mind, I’ve reached a decision. Yes, I’m finding it tough. Yes, there might be a delay publishing my next book. But I’m not going to beat myself up over it. It’s better to take my time and write a good novel than dash off a mediocre one. I’ll look after myself and see what happens.

Riots in DC

I would say “Good grief,” but that would be an understatement.

Yesterday’s events were a planned attack on democracy incited by the sitting President, and absolutely disgusting. Trump and his thugs have shown who they truly are.

Have We Grown Out of Dark Academia?

Stop me if you’ve heard this before: a group of friends meet at an academic institution. They form a tight-knit clique, closed to outsiders. One of their new comrades goes off the rails. Weirdness ensues, culminating in murder ...

This genre, which for want of a better term is known as Dark Academia, has been big business since Donna Tartt’s debut novel The Secret History was published in 1992. I was seduced by the book as a teenager; it seemed so twisted and adult. Oddly enough, it made me impatient to go to uni, even though chances were good I’d wind up in a body bag.

There have been numerous pretenders to the throne, transplanting Tartt’s beautiful elite to various settings. If We Were Villains moves the scene to a prestigious classical conservatory, with the leads as Shakespeare obsessed actors. Bunny’s batshittery occurs against the backdrop of a creative writing class. The protagonist of The Truants is taking a course about Agatha Christie.

The characters tend to be stock archetypes, immediately recognisable. There’s the narrator, the hapless Everyman (or woman) drawn into the insanity; the aforementioned fallen friend, who is deeply unpleasant under a veneer of charm; a female character who exists solely to be everyone’s love interest and fantasy object. And of course there’s the Charismatic But Flawed Mentor, who may or may not sleep with their students, and whose ‘inspirational lectures’ could be bought online for fifty bucks.

I’ve been an avid reader of the genre since the Noughties. Should a book feature the words “reminiscent of The Secret History” in its blurb somewhere, I’m there. But having read possibly too many of them, I’m starting to wonder: are we growing out of our infatuation with Dark Academia?

Sometimes the main beef is technical. Some follow The Secret History’s blueprint too closely, reading like bad fanfiction with superficial changes. Tartt was an adept stylist and plotter; unfortunately her successors aren’t. They go in for overkill, describing the characters’ incessant drinking and debauchery in florid detail. Twists are telegraphed miles away; plot balls are dropped either too soon or not at all. If We Were Villains has the occupational hazard that whenever it grows tense, the characters start spouting Shakespeare. Reams of it.

It doesn’t help that young adults simply aren’t very interesting. It’s difficult to see a character as unique when they’re having exactly the same thoughts and experiences as countless other protagonists from other novels. And why are the narrators such wishy washy milquetoasts? Why can’t there be one who gets off on the murder and secrecy, or one who shops their former friends to the cops - or even one who spills all to the tabloids? Inez in Catherine House might be a parasite who spends her time bonking the student body and stealing other people’s food, but at least she has a personality.

There’s a recurring issue with gay characters, which might not seem significant to straight readers but blares out loud and clear to me. The casts often feature a swishy, drunken gay man who’s riddled with self loathing and neuroses, and might’ve wandered in from a Hays Code era polemic. They’re never allowed to form meaningful relationships, hitting on their straight colleagues instead. I understand this happening in period pieces, but in books written in the past few years? Give me a break.

On the lesbian side of the fence, matters are even worse. There’s a running theme of female protagonists drawn to their best friend, it looks promisingly romantic - and boom! A random man turns up, frequently the bestie’s brother, and the heroine kids herself she was attracted to him all along (The Poison Tree, Upstairs at the Party, The Truants). Lesbianism is the love that dares not speak its name in these novels - the gay male characters might be predatory and unsavoury, but at least they exist. Are you seriously suggesting you wouldn’t find a lesbian studying drama or creative writing? A rare exception is Franny in The Lessons, who dates a woman after uni. “Apparently she’s gay now,” another character says - and it’s never mentioned again. Though at least it’s written by a bi woman.

Several of these appear to be first novels, which explains some of the writing and plot problems, as well as the plagiarism. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, y’all. But rather than Brideshead Revisited with added homocide, why don’t these authors attempt something new? As it seems to be an exclusively female genre, why not have a woman be the villainous mastermind or a lesbian romance front and centre? The possibilities are endless!

At Last.

This isn’t normally a political blog, but the Democratic victory at the end of an unimaginably hard year is like a beacon of hope in the darkness.

It’s time to mend. Time to heal.

Congratulations Joe and Kamala.

OTD 2012 ...

It’s eight years to the day since I published The Governess, my debut novel.

Being an indie author has been funny, strange, scary and wonderful. I wouldn’t change it for the world.

A Message From Uncle Malcolm: On Free Will

‪My dear Megan,‬

‪In between protestors insisting their haircuts outrank lives, the inane belief 5G causes coronavirus and their leader advising people to ingest bleach, I don’t think the humans need our help. Our work here is done.‬

‪Your affectionate uncle,‬

‪Malcolm #book666‬