The Dubious Legacy of Carrie Bradshaw

It’s been ten years since the final episode of “Sex and the City” aired. The dramatic finale left audiences swooning and hungry for more. Hungry people make bad decisions, and their cries were answered by the bad Sex and the City movie, the worse Sex and the City 2, and the pointless Carrie Diaries. But even without these gaudy misfires, the show has retained a place in the public imagination. In female ensembles real and fictional, fans continue to designate the Carries, the Samanthas, the Mirandas, and the Charlottes.

                The show has also been praised as a feminist triumph. And at the risk of sounding like a total Miranda, I feel a little cynical about that. I do think that SATC gives us three credible examples of modern womanhood. Lady lothario Samantha who owns her own PR firm, sardonic lawyer Miranda, and even the Pollyanna gallerist Charlotte, who racks up an impressive number of conquests on her quest for traditional marital bliss.

But SATC does not belong to any of those three. It belongs to Carrie Bradshaw. And Carrie is a whole other story. Samantha, Miranda, and Charlotte exist in a gilded sliver of Manhattan accessible only to the super-privileged, but at least they live in Manhattan. Carrie exists in a rent controlled fantasy land. That’s fortunate, because in the real world she’d have a lot to answer for. 

                Carrie Bradshaw is a bad person. She just is. It’s not a criticism of the show’s entertainment value. Nor is it a criticism of the actress Sarah Jessica Parker, who portrays her. If anything, Parker should be commended for somehow making a manipulative, irresponsible narcissist one of the most beloved TV characters of all time.

                Carrie, like the cast of Friends, is a beneficiary of television’s wild misconceptions about who can and cannot afford a spacious apartment in Manhattan. But even with the plot point that her building is rent controlled, there is no accounting for her insanely expensive tastes. She is a writer of a weekly sex column that runs in the back pages of a second rate local newspaper. This column funds a dazzling whirlwind of shopping sprees at Prada and Chanel, trendy restaurants, club nights, and spa days. But Carrie has plenty of time to indulge in all these opulent activities, because the column is her only project. (That is, until she takes a gig at Vogue, in an episode where an editor played by Candice Bergen is vilified for daring to give Carrie - gasp! - edits.) Every purchase of a new pair of Manolo Blahniks comes with an offhanded chirp about how she can’t really afford them. In the real world, such outrageous spending habits are a sign of mental illness. In Carrie’s world, they’re a quirk.

                I know, I know. It’s escapist. It’s fun. It’s not supposed to be realistic. But the problem is that Carrie’s material entitlement spills over into her personal life. She is that friend who always finds a way to steer the conversation back to her own issues. She demands that her friends be available to her at all times, but does not necessarily return the favor. She cheats on the most saintly man of all time (I mean, he’s a carpenter for Christ’s sake) with a married ex. When men eventually balk at her needy, manipulative ways, she concludes that it’s because she is too “wild” or too “complicated” or some other romantic excuse for bad behavior.

Take, for example, the episode in Season 4, “Ring a Ding Ding”.  St. Aidan finally reads the writing on the wall and leaves her. Trouble is, he recently bought her apartment for the two of them to live in together. Now she either has to cough up the cash to buy it back, or she’s out on her ass (which, like the rest of her, is miniscule even though she never works out and spends half her life at brunch). Her prince (Mr. Big) and her ladies in waiting (Samantha and Miranda) offer to give her the money outright. Charlotte wisely resists. Carrie later confronts Charlotte for not offering, and essentially bullies her into handing over her old engagement ring for Carrie to hawk for the down payment.

Both the problem and the solution may seem reprehensible, but if no one had bailed her out, it would violate the fundamental rule of SATC: don’t let anything seriously bad happen to Carrie. The other characters deal with divorce, single motherhood, STD scares, and a miscarriage. They also seem legitimately stressed out by their jobs from time to time. Carrie chain smokes her way through the first four seasons, but in the end it is Samantha who is diagnosed with cancer.

Fast forward to the final episode, in which Carrie drops her entire life to live with her new boyfriend in Paris. The Paris thing doesn’t work out, because it’s raining and the boyfriend isn’t paying enough attention to her. Fortunately, Mr. Big steps in and rescues her. The story of Carrie’s fairy tale life ends in classic fairy tale fashion. I feel about as empowered by the end of SATC as I do by the end of Sleeping Beauty (or perhaps Cinderella, given the shoe fixation).

                The negative influence of Carrie Bradshaw is bolstered by her likeability, as well as the lack of comeuppance. SATC gave us a heroine who treats people poorly, who makes consistently bad choices and relies on men to solve her problems. That would be fine, except that it doesn’t give us any reason to not want to emulate her. Why not be just like Carrie? Carrie is darling, and it all works out in the end.

                So here we are, ten years later. SATC’s teen fans are now young professional women (and young professional gay men). What has become of the adolescent idolaters who entered adulthood convinced they could learn something from this woman? Something like, it is OK to max out your credit cards because looking fabulous is more important than the independence that comes with long-term financial stability. It is OK to sleep with a married man because the love between you and him is more sacred than the love between him and his wife. And countless other misguided tidbits that all add up to the conclusion: if you live like Carrie Bradshaw, you’re doing modern woman wrong.

Modern womanhood is about choice, and that comes at a price. Having the freedom to control your own life means grappling with a whole new set of burdens, dilemmas, and possible regrets. Is it worth it? Absolutely. But what is gained when we pretend that the price doesn’t exist? Carrie doesn’t have to answer to the burden of choice any more than she has to answer to all those calories, cigarettes, Manolos, and lies. A woman who works hard, who makes mistakes, who fights back  and takes responsibility for her actions, and is stronger for it – that is a real modern woman well worth looking up to.

In Praise of Pink

I was never a huge fan of Pink.

I had nothing against the public persona of Alecia Moore, or the music she produced. But she was never my favorite. Her first single “There You Go” came out in 2000. It was sassy and catchy, but its popularity caused it to fade into background noise. It became a song that I only half-heard playing on the radio, or faintly emanating from speakers at the mall. Meanwhile, I was eleven years old. Anyone who has ever been or parented an adolescent girl understands the precipice I was on better than I did at the time.

                The following year brought the album Missundaztood. The lead single “Get this party started” was such a staple of middle school dances that to this day it inspires a self-conscious Pavlovian sweat. Songs like “Don’t Let me Get Me” spoke to the oddballs and misfits, and while I considered myself one of their number, I didn’t pay much attention. By high school my friends were getting into more obscure “indie” music, and I struggled to keep up. Oddball allegiance aside, Pink was decidedly mainstream. I filed her away with all of the other top-40 sellouts.

                As my adolescent angst darkened into depression, Pink was not among the female singer-songwriters I turned to for guidance. I felt that my experience was better vocalized by the likes of Cat Power, Joanna Newsom, and Amanda Palmer. The appeal of these gifted, quirky songstresses was enhanced by their lack of mainstream success. How could someone whose face was everywhere, who dominated the airwaves and made millions, understand the alienation of an anonymous high school girl? And even if I did find myself liking her music, I could hardly respond to a friend’s monologue about her vinyl collection with “hey, what do you think of that new Pink song?”

                By my twenties I was enjoying pop music again, or had become comfortable enough with myself to admit that I’d enjoyed it all along. In the meantime, a whole generation of luminaries had cycled through. Wide eyed hopefuls had been afforded their moment in the sun, a half dozen American Idol winners had fizzled out, and a few former goddesses had fallen from grace. Pink, however, was still going strong. She’d been steadily producing the entire time. She was still making it fun to say “no” (“U + Ur Hand is the kind of brazen candor we still need more of in pop music), and encouraging the weirdos of the world to unite and party. But she’d also dealt with a lot of heavier material like family dysfunction, substance abuse, sexuality, and body image.

                Then, somewhere along the line, Pink started incorporating aerial acrobatics into her performances. Most marathon pop stars rely on other people’s talent to keep their live shows feeling fresh. They wear increasingly elaborate costumes, and perform the same basic dance routines against a rotating backdrop of sets. All around them, a younger and more talented cohort of backup dancers deliver the really demanding moves. But Pink went another route, committing to a whole new art form that requires intense training and athleticism. I first saw her skill at the 2010 Grammy Asards. But I didn’t really take notice until the 2014 Grammy when she delivered her single “Try” in similar death-defying form.

                I liked the song “Try” so I looked up the video. It features a seriously ripped Pink sparring with a seriously ripped male counterpart. The two engage in gorgeously aggressive dance-fighting – as sexy as it is stylized. Pink is a perfect match for her partner. When he throws her down, we know that she will bounce back up and retaliate. The choreography represents a turbulent romance – but not an abusive or domineering one. Whatever they do to each other, they do as equals.  

                             To me, this video acknowledges the complexity of hetero-love without edging the woman into the role of powerless victim or cold-blooded she-devil. Pink herself was in peak physical condition. But she didn’t look like she was keeping it tight to retain a man’s attention, or fit into her size-2 skinny jeans. She looked like she was pushing herself to be strong, so that she could endure and thrive. I asked myself when Pink became so cool. Which led me to look back over last fourteen years of her career and realize (like the dumbfounded detective at the end of the crime-thriller) that the answer had been right under my nose the whole time: Pink has always been so cool.

                             Let’s revisit the year 2000 for a moment. Her first album was defiantly called “Can’t Take me Home.” This was a year when the Britneys and Christinas of the world were exploiting their barely-legal allure with coy references to their own burgeoning, untapped sexuality. Female pop songs were invitations. Then Pink hit the Billboard charts with an unequivocal “NO.” As her contemporaries perfected the seduction of girlish indecision, Pink dealt in absolutes. In doing so, she told young women: It’s OK to want what you want. And it’s OK to not want what you don’t want.

                             Over the next fourteen years, she’s come out with a total of 6 albums. The most recent, “The Truth About Love” is aptly titled. Throughout my recent personal Pink retrospective, I’ve been struck by how honest this woman is. She’s truthful about love. And she’s truthful about herself, remaining confident even when facing her demons head on. She speaks her mind. She respects, but is still able to laugh at herself. She is proudly flawed and fearless. I’m glad she has a daughter.

                             Meanwhile, I have faced down my own demons. I have learned that becoming a woman is hard, but that being a woman is worth it. And for the most part, I think that eleven year old girls today have a better selection of mainstream female singers to look up to. The teasing, the pouting, the breathy ballads of devotion have been widely replaced by full-bodied declarations of powerful, libidinous womanhood. I believe that Pink is partly responsible for this positive shift. I also suspect that my own formative years benefitted subliminally from her songs playing in the background. I don’t know how much she’s helped. But it’s gotten better, and she’s been there the whole time. So I want to say: thank you, Pink. Rock on.

I don't care what anybody says, Obama's "Between Two Ferns" appearance was great.

 

This week, President Barack Obama sat down with Zach Galifianakis on the comedian’s offbeat faux-talk show “Between Two Ferns”. His purpose was to plug the Affordable Care Act. Specifically to debunk the notion that healthcare.gov is still malfunctioning, and to encourage jaded young Americans (aka Galifianakis’s fan base) to sign up for coverage before the March 31^st deadline. As an Obama supporter who is not blind to his shortcomings, I thought it was excellent. I thought that agreeing to appear on the show was a savvy choice, and that the idea was well executed and entertaining.

                Still, it was a bold move. And all bold moves have a backlash. The bobbleheads at Fox News were predictably apoplectic, and many others criticized the president for either diminishing the dignity of the office, or simply falling flat. I will now summarize every dissenting argument that I have come across and dispute them one by one: 

1)      With all the shit going on overseas right now, why does Obama have time to appear on a fake talk show?

Shit is never not going on overseas. There is always going to be a crisis abroad. And while the current crisis in Ukraine is severe, it is not Obama’s fight. As much as the right frets about other countries thinking our president is a pansy, it doesn’t make sense for him to neglect his domestic responsibilities in order to go head to head with Putin full-time. Getting people to use healthcare.gov is one of his most important domestic responsibilities.

2)      It is trivializing to discuss health care on a comedy show.

It lightens, but does not trivialize. There is nothing wrong with lightening the issue of insurance, so long as it gets people to sign up. Insurance (like taxes) is important, but boring. A little humor helps to draw people in. And levity gets results, just ask the marketing department at any major home or auto insurance company, who are all in competition for who can have the wackiest ad campaign.

3)      Obama is embarrassing himself by trying to appeal to hipster Millennials.

I prefer to think of it as not giving up on them. Hipster Millennials are a strange bunch. They obsess over of-the-moment memes, while neglecting the news. They spend hundreds of dollars a week on liquor and lattes, but dismiss basic health coverage as a needless expense. By infiltrating their snarky websites and mimicking their sardonic humor, Obama is saying “Hey, weirdos. I understand you better than you think I do. Believe me when I say you need health insurance.”

Conservative pundits (most of whom misinterpret the tenor of Galifianakis’s humor) are trying to paint this as a desperate bid for the approval of an age bracket that he will never understand. If they’re so skeptical of Obama’s ability to appeal to youths, perhaps they should consult Mitt Romney. Too soon? OK fine - perhaps they should consult John McCain.

4)      It would have been more appropriate for another member of Obama’s team to do this.

Sure, Joe Biden could have done it. Or Jay Carney. Or Kathleen Sebelius. But the result would have flatlined, and likely been the end of “Between Two Ferns.” Without the novelty of the Commander in Chief himself riffing with Zach Galifianakis, then the whole segment really does become a lame, out-of-touch plug for healthcare.gov.

5)      This offends the dignity of the office.

Oh please. It’s not like he made a sex tape. He appeared on a comedy show, threw some mild shade at the Hangover franchise, and then delivered a straightforward pitch for healthcare.gov. Comedy and politics have been awkwardly linked for a very long time. Just look at Nixon’s Laugh-In appearance (the liberal counterexample of choice this week) or the cheery rapport between politicians and the people who impersonate them on SNL. And if it was undignified for Obama to school Galifianakis in a scripted skit, I suppose that Rick Santorum was just doing God’s work when he allowed himself to be openly mocked by Stephen Colbert on his comedy show. Politics is about winning people over, and a great way to do that is by making them laugh, and demonstrating your ability to laugh at yourself.

But if you really want to argue that there is a rigid, eternal standard for what POTUS can and cannot do, keep in mind that some of the earliest presidents owned slaves. Acceptable presidential behavior changes with the times. And it’s changing in the right direction.

6)      There’s nothing wrong with what Obama did, he just did it badly.

I guess this is a matter of opinion, but I definitely disagree. The tone of “Between Two Ferns” is tricky. It is reminiscent of Sacha Baron Cohen’s former project “Da Ali G Show.” But while Cohen made unsuspecting fools of his interviewees, Galifianakis invites them in on the joke. Guests are meant to mimic his awkward, prickly defensiveness. Some can pull it off better than others. I think the president – with the additional challenge of balancing satire and sincerity - was pitch perfect.

7)      Lincoln would not have done it.

-          Oh, Bill O’Reilly. An absurd, unprovable speculation is probably the closest we’ll ever get to a “no comment” from you. So…we’ll take it.