Browsing Tag

Big Little Lies

Big Little Lies: An Unexpected Meditation on Violence

April 13, 2017

Dear Reader,

Jessa Crispin’s Why I Am Not a Feminist: A Feminist Manifesto asserts “If by declaring myself a feminist I must reassure you I am not angry, I pose no threat, than feminism is definitely not for me. I am angry. And I do pose a threat.”

The heavily hyped and yet somehow undersold HBO miniseries Big Little Lies begins with a murder. From there we go back to the beginning, when young and relatively poor mother Jane (Shailene Woodley) is introduced as the newcomer to an affluent California beach community and its reigning women: Madeline (Reese Witherspoon), Celeste (Nicole Kidman), Bonnie (Zoe Kravitz), and Renata (Laura Dern). Each woman is the mother of at least one first grader all attending the local (and undoubtedly excellent) school. Madeline is trying to get a production of Avenue Q past the small town censors, Celeste and her husband are just having so much sex, Bonnie is the new sexy yoga instructor in town (and married to Madeline’s ex), and Renata is a very entitled helicopter mom who is convinced that Jane’s son bit her daughter. But there it is again- that splash of violence. It’s at this moment we have to ask ourselves a question: what is the murder doing in here? The presence of the murder is where the genius of Big Little Lies hides. For the first few episodes it can seem jarring to be ostensibly watching a cozy beach read that is interspersed with little pockets of violence reminding you that someone is going to get murdered. Jane’s son Ziggy denies that he bit Renata’s daughter Amabella, leading to a good old fashioned class showdown. You think you are watching an episode about Madeline stirring up trouble to punish her old rival Renata, luring the kids away from Amabella’s birthday party by promising them tickets to Frozen on Ice instead. But someone is actually abusing this six year old and she has the bruises to prove it. We quickly learn that Jane was violently raped and Ziggy is her son from that encounter. Jane has a gun under her pillow and every time Ziggy startles her awake because of a bad dream there’s a moment where she conflates the child and his father.

And so it goes with each woman. There’s an atmosphere laid atop the soapy catfighting and female bonding. It’s like a storm is gathering and heat lightning keeps flashing in the corner of our eye. Celeste’s husband Perry (Alexander Skarsgård) is indeed a dish and they are indeed having a lot of sex. Every encounter hovers in the liminal space between consensual and rape, catching the audience right as they’re enjoying the scene and dealing them a swift punch in the gut. Perry beats the shit out of Celeste on a regular basis. She goes through the whole gamut of grief trying to find a way to make that situation acceptable.

As a viewer you come to see how constant the threat of violence is in these women’s lives, even as you see how unspoken that threat is. Jean-Marc Vallée, the director, highlights the undercurrent of male on female violence incredibly well. Jane’s rape is presented to us over and over. She imagines herself running after her rapist on the beach, cocktail dress torn, often with a gun in her hand but unable to catch him and unable to remember his face. This first violent act is mirrored in the accusations her son faces and then magnified in the increasingly unbearable scenes between Celeste and Perry. Throughout the series even smaller acts of violence are held accountable for their ubiquity. When one character’s ex lover pulls away from her violently during an argument I visibly flinched. Vallée does not let his characters get away with calling violence “passion,” instead indicting them for behavior that is unacceptable.

By the last episode, the audience must have been begging for the storm to fully break and provide them with relief. A murder seemed inevitable. But just like in S-Town, the murder was the tease but not the point. In fact, I imagine you can guess at each mystery before you start that last episode and if you’ve been paying attention you probably won’t be wrong. The point, it turns out, is that these women are not going to reassure you that they pose no threat. These women live with an undercurrent of male violence running through their lives and we are here to watch them deem that unacceptable. Six year-old Amabella experiences it. Bonnie’s young daughter screams in anguish when she sees it. It’s there when Madeline’s husband Ed complains they don’t have good sex like Celeste and Perry. It’s there when Renata and her husband have loud sex in his office and from the outside, you can’t really tell if they’re screwing or fighting. In the end, Big Little Lies is a meditation on female friendship as a bulwark against unacknowledged violence. And it’s a damn good one.


April 3, 2017

Dear Reader,

The Atlantic has called S-Town “A well-crafted monument to empathy” and I suspect no other review will express that sentiment quite so well. The new podcast series is startling lovely, an Alabama fairy tale crossed with a sad country song crossed with a season of Rectify. Like with that show, the promise of a murder mystery is what will draw the audience in, then will quickly becomes the least important thing about it. This podcast is the story of a man named John B. McLemore and a reporter named Brian Reed’s attempt to understand John’s strange and extraordinary life. John is an antique clock restorer, climate change-obsessed fanatic, doomsday soothsayer, and genius horticulturalist. He is a lonely and singular human who contacted a reporter at This American Life because he believed that a murder was going unpunished in his small Alabama town. That is where the story begins, but there are no straight lines here, and few answers.

The first season of Serial really is an excellent murder mystery and anything with the Serial name attached to it (including the second season of Serial) is going to stir up some expectations. S-Town is protean, though, and what starts as a true-crime teaser quickly morphs into a story with as many possible courses as John’s maze, some of which lead nowhere at all.

John gives Brian three short stories to read the first time they meet in person: William Faulkner’s “A Rose for Emily,” Guy de Maupassant’s “The Necklace,” and something by Shirley Jackson. Later, we learn that John was also obsessed with Annie Proulx’s “Brokeback Mountain.” There’s a quality these stories share, a healthy does of small-town claustrophobia and homespun folktale that further uncouples the two layers of John’s story. First there are the fairytale elements to John’s life and to this story. John restores antique clocks and potters around like an alchemist, even turning a dime into gold at one point. He has built an intricate hedge maze on his 100+ acre property and his antique farmhouse is filled with odd treasures. There is, I kid you not, an element to this story that will even involve a literal hunt for buried gold treasure. With John B. McLemore, the realm of possibility stretches as far as the eye can see.

Then there is the earth-bound John B. McLemore. He is a small-town Alabaman with an accent to match, occasionally racist and sexist, and at one point he pees in a sink during a phone call. He also self-describes as “queer,” dedicates a significant portion of his time to educating himself about climate change, and is as liberal as any coastal elite you’ll encounter in a given day. Many have noted, and rightly so, that the seeming contradictions in John’s character have been brought sharply into focus by the election of Donald Trump and said coastal elite’s desire to understand the white male small town voter. Right there is where Brian Reed and his team could have made some serious errors. It would be easy to give us John the showman, the strange Alabaman horologist and horticulturalist, half magician half man. Or it would have been easy to give us John the outlier- perhaps predisposed by birth and company to vote Trump and deny climate change to the ending of the earth, yet somehow “enlightened.” Look at the strange thing we found in Alabama! Instead, we get the human man John B. McLemore. 

It helps that Brian Reed loves this man, loves his strangeness and his wit and his genius as well as his failings and his fears. He does not give us a caricature of John, or of any of the other characters that weave in and out of this story. He lets them tell their stories and he listens to them, so we listen to them too. Of course there is a discussion happening right now that should be happening right now concerning whether or not a podcast like this should have ever been made. It is unlikely we would kick up much of a fuss if Brian Reed had fictionalized John B. (although how one further fictionalizes a man like John is beyond me) and written a novel instead of creating a podcast. But this is the medium he chose to create his art in and that choice is a part of why it is so good. Our voyeurism is inescapable, as is the dissonance that results from talking about real people with the same avidity as we talk about the characters on Big Little Lies. John’s life is literature now, and I don’t know if he intended that, or if maybe this is why we often reach for the mediating shade of fictionalization.

At one point John says life is “tedious and brief,” but his story is neither. The episodes were released all at once- seven hours of audio that we are implicitly encouraged to binge. You should listen to them close together in order to fully immerse yourself in the gothic strangeness that is another person’s life. Doing it that way hurtles you forward through the maze-like story (this man’s life is metaphor) and drops you neatly in the same place we all ended at the end of Seasons one and two of Serial– at the uneasy understanding that human beings are the mysteries and answers are incomplete, if they come at all. But the journey through their stories is, unsurprisingly, the worthier part.