PLENTY OF HEART IN "HEARTSTOPPER"

I recently read a book called Let’s Get Back to the Party by Zak Salih. More than anything, I appreciated the setup: two gay childhood friends who’ve drifted apart, now at midlife, both single, one intrigued by the sexually freer (AIDS-unaware) generation that preceded him, the other marveling at the openness and freedoms taken for granted by the generation that follows. (In truth, the premise is better than the telling.) I suppose I’ve, on occasion, looked in either direction as well. What would life have been like if my coming out years weren’t mired by the omnipresent leeching of the AIDS specter? Conversely, what if there had been established rights and freedoms with marriage a viable option and coming out being a stage to navigate without so much drama? 

 

It’s the relative normalcy of coming out for a younger generation that unfolds endearingly in the eight-episode series “Heartstopper,” adapted from a graphic novel by Alice Oseman and currently streaming on Netflix. Coming out still has its share of angst, particularly since the series is set in a private English high school for boys. The fusion of angst and adolescence will always be. New zit? Drama. Crush in danger of being revealed? Drama. I think I’m gay? Okay, still exponentially more drama. The easiest way to survive high school may always be fitting in rather than being different.

 

The two main characters are Charlie Spring, an outed gay student in grade ten, who is considered a geeky outcast, and Nick Nelson, a popular, seemingly straight grade eleven student who is the star of the rugby team. It’s a familiar scenario; for me, it’s reminiscent of the 1986 movie “Pretty in Pink,” but many other shows and books may come to mind. The difference, of course, is this is a teen romance in which both leads are male. Imagine having this as something to watch (repeatedly) to find hope, connection and courage while coming to terms with one’s identity.

 

Nick & Charlie

If there’s a twist, it’s that Nick’s sexuality isn’t so clear. Liking boys isn’t something he sensed and repressed at six or ten or twelve. Charlie awakens altogether new thoughts in Nick. What is this attraction? Is Nick gay? Bisexual? The bisexuality bent is refreshing since, while it’s long been part of LGBTQ, it hasn’t been given its due. I still hear people derisively dismiss bisexuality as a temporary phase or stepping-stone for people regarded as still having a foot in the closet. 

 

Being a high school story, there has to be a bully and in this case it’s Harry Greene, one of Nick’s rugby mates, a rich kid who loves to ridicule Charlie and Charlie’s geeky friends. In Harry’s mind, it’s always done in jest. If the laugh should come at someone’s expense, it’s perfectly all right when the person is clearly beneath him. 

 

Nick and Charlie’s worlds would never intersect but for being seated side by side for one of their classes. A friendship forms but Charlie’s feelings seem to go beyond that. It’s the standard situation of This is crazy…What could a guy like him possibly see in me? Of course, there’s the addendum: What could possibly happen between a straight, popular jock and a gay geek? We’re told many times that Nick will only hurt Charlie, particularly since Nick is so entrenched in the macho-infused rugby scene. But Nick never seems to even feign to be a tough guy or a ladies’ man akin to, say Danny Zuko in “Grease.” As a viewer, I never doubted Nick’s sweetness, but then I’m not a high school kid, imagining a dozen doomsday scenarios and interpreting a blank face as conveying a four negative emotions. I can recall this kind of customary teen angst if I let my memory stretch back that far. Frankly, I’d never want to relieve adolescence, no matter how much progress may have been made in terms of LGBTQ acceptance. Gone are the days of phoning someone to be your date to the homecoming dance. (The drama was amped for me living in East Texas where football and dating culture were on steroids.) In “Heartstopper,” there is lots of texting and staring at phone screens, hoping for a response that doesn’t always come. It’s slightly less direct than hearing a voice convey rejection or indifference, but the waits and the worries are still as crushing.

 

  Tao and Elle

Beyond Nick and Charlie, “Heartstopper” has other characters exploring LGBTQ identities. There’s Elle, a Black trans friend who transferred from the boys’ school to a safer, if not more welcoming, private school for girls. She is eventually befriended by two classmates who are a budding lesbian couple, Tara and Darcy. Charlie’s best friend is Tao, a protective, loyal and lippy classmate whom Elle has a crush on. Elle’s identity is not a plotline; rather, it just is. She’s not a spectacle; she’s a person. I suspect her storyline will expand now that Netflix has renewed the series. 

 

Season 1 consists of eight episodes which I breezed through which is not typical of my viewing habits. It’s hard to turn away because it’s so refreshingly charming. You want to root for every character, even perhaps Harry Greene and Charlie’s past, still-closeted fling/boyfriend, Ben. As a bonus, Nick’s mother is played by much-lauded actress Olivia Colman. There’s not much for her to do—indeed, her scenes were filmed over the course of two days—but she manages to convey steadfast support and concern just like Harry Dean Stanton in “Pretty in Pink.” There’s also a Black gay art teacher whose classroom always seems to be empty and who offers Charlie lite advice while always seeming to be on the way out. The room is both a safe space and a spot for Charlie to hide from dealing with his life. A bonus in the series is its fun, hip soundtrack, something like the music was in—yes, again—“Pretty in Pink” back in the day. A song that stood out for me was “Why Am I Like This?” by Orla Gartland.

 

 

“Heartstopper” is the kind of show for which the term “feel-good” was coined as a descriptor. It goes down easy and left me with a smile after each episode. It’s worth a watch.   

 

 

MURPHY'S FLAW

I watched the pilot of “Glee” when it first aired. It blew me away. So fresh, so much feeling. I could root for the characters and I loved how the episode ended with a killer version of Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin.’” I was thrilled to learn it was directed, co-created and co-written by Ryan Murphy, a gay rising star in Hollywood. I watched the show for at least four of its six seasons, finally drifting away after too many casting changes and the inevitability of something fading out after too much hype.

 

Still, I couldn’t wait to see Ryan Murphy’s next acts of greatness. I’m still waiting. 

 

That’s an unpopular opinion, perhaps especially among gay people. I’m well aware how people have raved over various seasons of “American Crime Story” and series such as “Hollywood,” “Halston” and “Ratched.” For me, his post-Glee fare has been heavy on glitz and headline fodder while lite on heart. Sometimes, I’ve watched a pilot only to be turned off by something outlandish (“American Horror Story’s” Rubber Man or “Ratched’s” gory priest killings) that strikes me as too desperate and, frankly, distasteful. Not my thing.

 

Other times, I’ve watched an episode or two and simply been bored. Everything is pretty on screen, particularly the actors, but the performance feel intentionally detached, even wooden. The lead character of “Hollywood” had zero personality. I liked no one in “The Politician.” “Halston” was pure plastic. While I love actors like Ewan MacGregor and Jessica Lange, it’s maddening to see them cast in work for which I can’t summon an ounce of interest.

 

Ryan Murphy doesn’t need me. He continues to be praised. His work continues to be screened. Any mention of a new Murphy project does nothing more than generate a shrug from me. I get the sense he wanted to dissociate himself from being The Glee Guy and decided on darker fare like “The Assassination of Gianni Versace” (with “Glee’s” Darren Criss). It may have been compelling and well-acted. I just have zero interest in glorifying a murderer. No chance I’ll be watching Murphy’s upcoming miniseries about Jeffrey Dahmer either. Give me Blaine and Kurt, not gay serial killers.  

 

I still want to see “Pose” and I’m hopeful it will redeem Murphy. Please don’t let it be another misfire like “The New Normal.” Or schmaltzy like “The Prom.” Or grating like “The Boys in the Band.”

 

Mostly, I ignore Ryan Murphy. If a group of people starts to talk about one of his shows, I usually take that time to hit the restroom or check tennis scores on my phone. I can scroll through Twitter if the rhapsodizing runs long. If I’m lucky, Ryan Reynolds has done something funny and/or philanthropic or another bear has been filmed on someone’s backyard trampoline.

 

Over the past two weeks, I’ve had to watch a couple of episodes of “The Andy Warhol Diaries,” a Netflix docuseries for which Ryan Murphy has an executive producer credit. Okay, I wasn’t tied to a chair and force-fed bowls of Campbell’s tomato soup while the show streamed, but my new boyfriend was much enamored with the first few episodes and so I politely said, “Sure” when he suggested we watch an episode together. We are still working through all the firsts that occur in a budding relationship and this was our time watching TV together. I fell asleep.

 

It wasn’t entirely the show’s fault. My TV is in the bedroom since I refuse to have one as a centerpiece in the living room of my tiny home. I’ve had too many experiences visiting friends’ apartments and having the television automatically come on, becoming the fodder and filter for all conversation. I often get sleepy watching TV while propped up in bed. Usually, I turn it off after twenty minutes—which is probably my average Netflix viewing time—and decide to finish (or not finish) watching at some point over the next few months. I don’t binge and I have no urge to see something just because it’s trending.

 

With Evan by my side though as a fully engrossed viewer, the episode played on. I went through that eyes-open, eyes-closed battle, the closed position clearly having the edge. It’s possible I at least heard most of the episode, but I wouldn’t bet I could pass a pop quiz on what it was about.

 

To be clear, I love Pop Art. I have seen plenty of Warhol-specific and broader Pop Art exhibits at MOCA in Los Angeles, at the Vancouver Art Gallery, at The Walker in Minneapolis and elsewhere. When I taught seventh grade, I created a Pop Art unit that focused on Warhol and Roy Lichtenstein. My students loved it. I have Warhol books and I will always pause longer when I come across a Warhol work that’s part of a museum’s permanent collection. Sometimes I shrug but more often I walk away with a smile on my face. 

 

While I enjoy Warhol’s art, his life has always felt too manufactured, too shallow. It may mirror his work, but I prefer people to be more evolved than paintings. The hype for the docuseries suggested a fuller picture of the man. From the two episodes I watched—the second without even a moment of power napping—I was underwhelmed. Everything was remarkably flat, partly by intention. The AI-generated voice of Warhol sounded as interesting as when I used to call the library to get an auto-generated recording of when my books were due. A couple of reviews I read posited that Andy would have loved the voice since he was fascinated with machines and reproductions. Possibly. Still, not entertaining. It didn’t help that the episodes ran long.

 

What frustrated me most was that there wasn’t a clear thread to storylines that writer/director Andrew Rossi chose to highlight. There would be mention of Andy’s relationship with Jon Gould and then that would give way to a few minutes about Andy promoting a computer brand or attending a party, then drift to a longer linger on his relationship with Jean-Michel Basquiat. Much later—oh, yeah—there would be another mention of Gould. This may be accurate in terms of chronology, but it dilutes the focus on the connections with key people, the very storylines that are supposed to make Warhol more compelling as an actual person and not just a calculated icon. I felt zero emotional impact when the series finally discussed Gould’s death. That seemed like an almost impossible feat, given that Gould died at thirty-three in the earlier years of the AIDS crisis. I’m someone who religiously reads tributes every day on Instagram about people who’ve died of AIDS. Even some of those one-paragraph posts from, say, a coworker who didn’t really know the guy who worked in the neighboring cubicle have more emotional depth.

 

Ryan Murphy is one of the executive producers attached to “The Andy Warhol Diaries” and I have no doubt that his name helped get the series broadcast and further helped generate buzz and viewership. Indeed, Evan, who happens to love Ryan Murphy projects, seemed to think the docuseries was entirely his creation. Murphy was likely involved in meetings and in viewing some of the footage, offering input about tweaks, but this is primarily the work of Andrew Rossi who wrote and directed all of it. Maybe Rossi and Murphy connected because of the subject matter. Maybe it was because they have a similar view of visual media in terms of aesthetics and storytelling. Maybe it’s both.

 

I wonder if Murphy’s name on the project made me more prone to be critical. What I do know is the series feels like a missed opportunity to tell a compelling, human story about Warhol and the people in his social circle. I’ve already read and seen shallower portrayals. I’d hoped to learn more about the person instead of the character that was Andy Warhol. I didn’t get that. In fact, I’m less interested. I’m left thinking there really wasn’t any substance behind Warhol. Maybe that’s why Murphy aligned so well with the series as another glitzy, superficial and, ultimately, bland project. 

 

Watching a couple of episodes with Evan posed risks. He was clearly fascinated, enjoying cultural flashbacks to the ’80s and frequently exclaiming, “I never knew that!” After the second episode, I expressed at length my frustration with the documentary and my complete lack of emotional connection. As the first thing we’ve watched together, it might have been one of those shaky moments in the early going of a relationship. 

 

Good god, maybe we don’t have enough in common! How can he not LOVE this?   

 

Thankfully, that didn’t prove to be the case. Evan listened. He didn’t disagree. He didn’t sigh or question my taste or lack thereof. I could dislike the series and he could like it. Navigating a new relationship in our fifties is so much more enlightened than the early stages of twenty-something romances. We’re two fully evolved individuals. We can have distinct differences. They aren't a test to what we’ve got. That’s the one exciting thing I’ll take away from watching “The Andy Warhol Diaries.” Thanks, Ryan.

 

Evan will be watching the rest of the series on his own. I have some reading to do. Our relationship looks to endure longer than a docuseries’ fifteen minutes of fame.

"MAID" FOR ME (Netflix TV series review)

Why wasn’t I strong enough?

 

It’s a question I avoid. It can eat away at me. The shame returns. The fault-finding turns inward. I become the one who was flawed. It’s easy to beat myself up. I suppose he knew that.

 

Last year, I finally wrote about the domestic abuse I went through during a seven-year relationship from 1997 to 2004. (The posts are here and here.) I don’t expect to ever fully discuss or write about what I experienced. Most of it’s locked in a vault within me and I’ve chucked the key to prevent entry. When I’ve mentioned the abuse to psychiatrists, they’ve always asked if it was physical and, when I explain it was all emotional, they probe no further and move on. That’s always left me feeling like what I went through doesn’t count. Was I just a drama queen?  

 

Last night I finished the ten-episode series, “Maid,” on Netflix. It premiered in October and I avoided it after reading the premise. A young woman struggles to restart a life for herself and her young daughter after breaking free from domestic abuse. I was even in denial about why I didn’t want to watch. I told myself the title was lame. (It is. I suppose it’s slightly better than the name of another Netflix series from last fall, “Chair”. I’m anticipating some new show to premiere this spring called “Blank” or, to be artsy, “Untitled”. Netflix is basically saying, “You’ll watch. What else are you going to do?”)

 

Even when I began watching, I told myself it was because I was curious to see the locations. While set in Washington state, the series was mostly filmed in British Columbia, particularly on southern Vancouver Island. It was especially easy to spot B.C. Ferries terminals and vessels subbing in for Washington Ferries. 

 

But the abuse and Alex’s attempt to escape from it plays out in that first episode. We see one intense scene. I was uneasy throughout that first viewing, but telling myself, “Mine was not like that” gave me just enough emotional distance to continue with the series. It helped that I don’t binge-watch anything. Most nights, I don’t watch any TV and, when I would sit down and grab the remote, I often told myself, “Not tonight.” I’d choose twenty minutes of a movie instead. A movie can take me weeks to finish (if, in fact, I do finish) and “Maid” took about two months, with me powering through the final five (out of ten) episodes this past week. 

 

Beyond the subject matter and the familiar locations, the series is extremely well done, with realistic, compelling writing and excellent acting. I have never been an Andie MacDowell fan. I felt she was wooden in her 1980s film roles and it surprises me her career has had legs. As Alex’s bipolar mother, MacDowell has found a breakthrough role. Anika Noni Rose, in a recurring role as a wealthy career woman whose house Alex cleans, is eminently watchable and Raymond Ablack as Nate, an acquaintance who goes above and beyond to help Alex—not entirely for altruistic reasons—is eminently watchable because he’s, well, easy on the eyes. But it’s Margaret Qualley in the lead role who carries the entire series, appearing in every scene, her acting coming off as natural and captivating. (I only learned this morning, while Googling a few things for this post, that Margaret Qualley is Andie MacDowell’s actual daughter. Huh. So the resemblance wasn’t fortuitous casting.)

 

The beauty of “Maid” is that Alex is so strong. She is exemplary as a devoted mother to her young daughter, Maddy. Her own mother is exasperatingly unpredictable, but Alex remains loyal and protective in attempting to parent her too. Alex also has to maintain contact with her abusive ex since he is Maddy’s father. Throughout the ten episodes, she is challenged in understanding abuse, in negotiating relationships and in navigating the hoops and hurdles as a single mother living in poverty, trying to find safe shelter, longer term housing, work and basics like food and childcare. (The show is based on a book I haven’t read, a memoir by Stephanie Land called Maid: Hard Work, Low Pay, and a Mother’s Will to Survive.) Every glimmer of hope is dashed by soul-crushing setbacks and yet Alex continues to push forward with a simmering fierceness, brought on, in part, because she’s got Maddy depending on her.

 

“Maid” is also remarkable for its portrayal of Shawn, the abusive ex. We’ve seen movies in which the abuser is a horrid, despicable loser. When this is what a viewer sees, it’s easy for someone who hasn’t experienced domestic abuse firsthand to judge the character who is abused and assert their own superiority. 

 

I would have left after the first incident. 

I would never…

She’s so stupid. 

She should have…

 

I’ve heard these comments countless times as I’ve sat quietly in the lunchroom at work or during a coffee with friends. It always triggers that familiar refrain in my head: Why wasn’t I strong enough?

 

Yet Shawn is not a one-note villain. He’s even a sympathetic character. Over the course of the series, we can see why Alex would have fallen in love with him. There was something good between them before things went bad. It’s clear he still loves Alex and he’s a good dad to Maddy. He’s got his own demons and a difficult past, but he’s earnestly trying to be a better man. He’s even incredibly supportive of Alex as she tries to deal with her mother. For Alex, walking away and never looking back is an oversimplification of her options. As Maddy’s father, Shawn continues to have legal rights. Neither Alex nor Shawn grew up in stable homes with healthy adult relationships. They both want things to be different for their daughter.

 

I was mesmerized by the scenes involving Alex and Shawn. A few are inherently dramatic due to the plot but, more often, the exchanges are understated, strained by the normal emotions that come from a recent breakup. There’s more, of course. Alex must protect herself. Alex is cordial and even empathetic as she acknowledges his growth. But there’s a coolness and a firmness as well as she strives to maintain distance and boundaries. Shawn believes she’ll come around. They’ll make things work. Alex doesn’t play games. She’s direct and determined they will never be a couple again. 

 

Despite trying to be detached in watching the show, I came to let down my guard and allow myself to connect with Alex. Sometimes watching “Maid” triggered too much. Sometimes it made for a difficult evening, a restless sleep, and foggy morning after. Alex is a character I can identify with much more than depictions of cowering abused women with black eyes and pervasive meekness. (It’s always a woman, which brings up more issues of shame and worthlessness for me.) Yes, those portrayals are grounded in reality, too. If I felt trapped in a relationship in which my partner was a ticking time bomb, beating me with little lead-up, I’d look cowering and meek as well. If I couldn’t get away from that violent episode, I’d crouch and try to protect my body. 

 

Alex deals with emotional abuse as did I. Without smacks and slaps, it’s harder to tell when things have crossed the line. When does an intense argument become something graver? She doesn’t identify it as abuse in the beginning. Neither did I. (My psychiatrists’ unconcerned reactions only added after-the-fact confusion.) While Alex and Shawn share a child, I kept ties with my ex to allow him contact with our two dogs. People may judge me for that, but we were a childless gay couple and we both adored the dogs; they adored him, too. No one has ever been more important to me in my life than those schnauzers. Part of why I stayed so long was fear that he’d insist on having one of the dogs. I would never allow that, but I needed certainty they’d remain with me. 

 

Once I was free, I too had Alex’s strength. A friend who observed a couple of dog drop-offs between my ex and me remarked, “Man, you’re cold to him.” This friend didn’t know of the abuse. Yes, I was cold. Distance was essential. Like Shawn, my ex kept wanting us to get back together. I couldn’t allow a trace of warmth. I needed it to be clear: That will never happen.

 

“Maid” will help many persons who are or were in emotionally abusive relationships. It’s helped me see that the shame is his, not mine. The weakness was his, not mine. I know I will still teeter. I will slip back and blame myself. That nagging question, Why wasn’t I strong enough?, will creep back in at times. Now, at least, I have Alex and “Maid” as a reminder of how the best of people can fall into the worst of circumstances…and find a way out.

FINDING MY MATCH, NETFLIX STYLE

You know something has gone beyond a trend when it becomes a verb. Yeah, I’m just gonna Netflix it tonight. And the bigger head scratching aspect of this is that we say that like it’s actually an active verb. Hmm,...shall I hike or parasail or Netflix?

Back in the days of “Friends” and “Seinfeld” and just three major networks plus that upstart, Fox, I had my couch potato periods. But there was a tinge of shame in that. I might mention that I watched “The Golden Girls,” but I wouldn’t admit that I kept the TV on as “Empty Nest” followed. “Cheers,” yes. “Wings”? My little secret. (Hey, I had a serious Tim Daly crush. Still do, based on a current pic of the now sixty-four-year-old actor.)

Now people say, “I Netflixed all weekend” and they get a high-five instead of someone gesturing a capital “L” on their forehead. This isn’t some new coronavirus phenomenon. People have been Netflixing away weekends for years.

Am I the only one who finds Netflix can sometimes seem like a whole lot of nothing? It seems I’m between series. Done with “Please Like Me” and “Grace and Frankie” and “Dead to Me.” I’m left hanging with “Schitt’s Creek” since Netflix doesn’t carry the final season. (Wedding? Yes, I’ve heard. Don’t tell me anything more.) A few nights ago, I spent twenty-five minutes scrolling through options.

Meh.

No.

No way.

Nothing. Seems that, with my hiatus from dating sites, I’m channeling my rejection tendencies to “trending” TV fare. (Yes, I put trending in quotes. Who, pray tell, is suddenly swooning over dusty old shows like “The Gilmore Girls” and “How I Met Your Mother”? I clicked off and went back to my book.

Last night, I gave it another try. (Wow, it really is like dating sites. Always begins with optimism. Maybe something new, maybe something I missed...) The main title taking up most of the screen was for a Netflix original movie, “Love, Guaranteed,” about a guy who sues a dating site of the same name. After a thousand dates arising from the app, Romeo is still solo.

Dammit. I could’ve written the screenplay. But then, my version would have been more romantic tragedy than romantic comedy.

I Netflixed.

Nothing to recommend about the flick. Swipe left and finish “The Gilmore Girls,” for god’s sake. The movie is a cutesy piece of confection with a predictable ending carried out in a cringe-inducing courtroom scene. (Objection! The former lawyer in me can’t stomach when Hollywood turns legal proceedings into plot devices, rules of evidence be damned.)

Still, I was hooked right away because the setting is Seattle, a city I love and miss while the Canada-U.S. border remains closed. I was then distracted for the rest of the movie as I realized that my city, Vancouver, subbed in for The Emerald City, as I easily spotted footage of our Chinatown, Gastown and Stanley Park. (Side rant: Why is Vancouver always acting like some other place on film, particularly an American place? Why can’t Vancouver ever be the actual setting of a story? For Americans, must every North American setting be in the United States?)

Back to my rationalizing sitting through “Love, Guaranteed,” I was also content to spend ninety minutes ogling Damon Wayans, Jr., someone I’ve crushed on since “New Girl” and “Happy Endings.” He always comes off as geeky-charming-sexy. (Swipe right!)

I related to “Love, Guaranteed” in the same way I’ve related to “The Bachelor” and “The Bachelorette” (both of which I finally broke up with a few seasons ago). As they say, misery loves company, even if that company is fictional/scripted/fake. There’s comfort in seeing people way better looking than me, sobbing in the back of a limo, wondering if they’ll ever find love. At the start of “Love, Guaranteed,” we learn that Nick Evans (Wayans) has been on 986 first dates through the dating site which, in its fine print, guarantees love at least after 1,000 tries.

A thousand tries…

It did get me thinking. How many first dates have I had from Plenty of Fish, OkCupid, Match.com and, ahem,...Scruff? Nowhere near that many. What a consolation. A hundred? Um,...maybe. But surely not two hundred.

Sad enough.

The good news is that such a been-there-done-that movie did not lead me to my laptop, logging back in to update my profiles and activate them once again, replacing my new habit of Netflix scrolling with my old routine of sighing over the same old “eligible” men with profile pics that I can personally attest to being at least ten years old. Seriously, guys, in a selfie society, how hard is it to download a recent pic and let go of that favorite photo from when you were 28, back in the last century?

Yep, it’s probably a good thing that I stretch that hiatus out a little longer. Maybe I can find something trending on Neflix starring that perennially cranky actor, Dabney Coleman. A 98% match, no doubt.