Fashion and Feminism: Friends or Foes?: A Tangent

One of the chief “f”s of SATC (one being “friendship,” of course—I leave it to your fertile imaginations what the other primary “f” might be) is, of course, fashion. From the very beginning of the show onwards, fashion was one of its focal points. Throughout the series (and into the ghastly—but very nicely togged up, I will admit) movies, the writers, producers, and costume designers all worked together very closely when it came to deciding what the four women should wear for any given moment/discussion/event. Carrie, Miranda, Charlotte, and Samantha’s sartorial choices were never incidental to the primary action of the show/the films, but were, rather, often a vital part of it. Fashion really mattered in the SATC universe, both to the four characters, and to the women and men who created (and dressed) them.

Part of this focus on fashion, of course, had less to do with creativity and self-expression than it did with a significant, ever popular “m” word—that is to say, money. By the time we got to the movies (“SATC 2: brought to you by Skyy Vodka, Debenham’s, and, of course, the Prince of Darkness!” Have I mentioned I didn’t like the second movie at all?), the connections between the franchise and various products/designers were quite blatant and overt—were, indeed, positively shameless. I confess that I have not done any digging/research on the subject whatsoever (and me with a PhD in my back pocket, aren’t I supposed to like that kind of thing?), but I am nonetheless quite sure that some unsavory deals must have been done throughout the series between members of the SATC juggernaut and various designers and stores. If you were to play a drinking game in which you took a slug of vodka (Skyy Vodka, presumably, SATC’s vodka of choice, in case you hadn’t heard!) every time the characters mentioned/enthused over a particular brand (perhaps taking two slugs for repeat offenders like Bergdorf’s, Manolo Blahnik, and Jimmy Choo) in any given episode, let me assure you, by the end of said episode, you would be very drunk, indeed. (Like, we're talking Russian drunk.)

In short, all of this talk about fashion in the show most certainly has its dark side. A dark side in which particular brands are touted because there is money to be made, and profits to be enjoyed. A dark side in which the women of SATC are defined primarily through their roles as avid consumers within, and enthusiastic cheerleaders for, a capitalistic society which, as we know, is no respecter of either persons or nations. A dark side which suggests that, for women, real beauty, success, and glamour have a very high price tag attached, and that to be an accomplished, modern, sexy woman, you have to look the part—in a $4,000 dress and $400 shoes, of course.

Having noted that the show’s immersion in (and whole-hearted, uncomplicated embrace of) the world of high fashion most certainly has its problematic aspects… may I also note that said immersion is also one of my favorite parts of the show? Not because I see the show offering a sophisticated analysis of the ways in which women forge a sense of self through their clothing choices (because I don’t think that it is), and not because their take on fashion radically challenges normative ideas about what constitutes “beauty” (because I don’t think it does)—but rather because I really, really like pretty things, and deeply enjoy getting treated to a constant parade of outfits from women who are quite dashing and risk-take-y when it comes to the clothes which they wear and the ways in which they wear them (here’s looking at you, Carrie Bradshaw.)

All of which brings us to the inevitable Bigger Question—can a strong commitment to feminism (which—thank you, Women’s Studies classes which I took in college!—I most certainly have), and a deep love of fashion (which—thank you, American Girl books which consistently featured Loopy Fashions of the Past, especially cracked-out bows from the Victorian era which I read as a child!—I most certainly do) happily co-exist? In a not entirely un-self-serving way (because I defy you to successfully extract either love of pretty clothes or of feminist ideals from my person), I am going to say—yes.

But “happily,” I don’t think has to mean “uncomplicated-ly.” Because there’ll always going to be some fundamental contradictions involved, for those of us who hug both our copy of Our Bodies, Ourselves and the new shiny brown heels which we just got at a thrift store for $4.00 (I seriously did, and they are STUNNING) to our chests. Because is the fashion industry one which primarily has women’s interests/empowerment/fulfillment as individuals/as a class at its heart? Nope. Its primary concern is to make buckets and buckets of shining cash, and if it has to exploit Third World women and create a damaging and destructive ideal of female beauty which kicks all women who are not cisgendered, white, painfully thin, young, and able-bodied to the curb (among other sins) to do it, then by golly, do it it most certainly will.

Am I participating in an empowering, feminist act when I slap on said heels and go gadding about town? (Which… can’t wait to do, they are so pretttttty.) Not so much. I know that numerous Third Wave feminists have strenuously worked to make the case that playing with fashion and beauty can be a profoundly subversive act—and I do buy that… but only up to a certain point, in certain ways, and in certain contexts. There is nothing in the least subversive, for example, about me putting on heeled shoes (which are coded as “feminine” and “sexy” in our culture)—if anything, it’s quite the reverse. As a straight woman, that’s actually something I am “supposed” to do, if I want to in fact be considered “feminine” and “sexy.” Dominant beauty ideals, my lovely new heels—I fear that you play right into them.

This doesn’t mean, however, that I can’t take pleasure in said shoes, because you bet your sweet bippy that I do. Fashion in general is a source of active, continuous pleasure in my life, and (conscious as I am of all of fashion’s many pitfalls and uglinesses for women), I don’t feel an anguished sense of conflictedness that my favorite blogs almost invariably involve the two “f”s of fashion and feminism.

And though I won’t claim that getting dressed in the morning is a feminist act equivalent to writing a feminist treatise or protesting for equal pay, I will say that fashion is, indeed, something which consistently gladdens my heart and lightens my spirits—which even (yes, I’m giving some ground to the Third Wavers here) provides a (small) space for subversion.

I’m quite tall even sans tall shoes, you see, and putting on heels, as such, does feel like a miniature act of defiance to me. After all, I spent my entire adolescence trying to make myself smaller than I was (hitting the 5’10” mark at 13—thanks a lot, genes, that was very helpful)—to take up less space—to not be “too tall” (i.e., taller than whatever boy I happened to be standing next to.) And when I put on heels that push me over the six foot mark (which is to say… basically any heels), it feels like a gift to the frightened young lass I once was, who was terrified of standing out too much—of being too noticeable—of making herself too conspicuous. I’m not afraid of taking up space/being visible, anymore, and I bless heels, for enabling me to take pleasure in something which was once a source of considerable adolescent hand-wringing and angst.

I also quite literally buy all of my clothes at thrift stores (okay, undergarments excluded, I do like to find my undergarments unworn by others)—I think the last dress I bought new was for my sister’s wedding (my sister who has been married for five years, thankyouverymuch), and that was only because I couldn’t find something sufficiently festive at my usual stand-bys. So, yes, I am still buying clothes and shoes that were made in sweat-shops by unpaid, undernourished five year olds. But I’m not directly supporting the businesses which run said sweatshops—sometimes, I even get to support thrift stores with quite lovely missions and admirable goals, instead. So though I am not quite bringing capitalism down from within—it’s still something.

And as a historian of women, there’s also something in the world of fashion which speaks to my susceptible, past-loving heart—for a lot of American history, after all, fashion was one of the primary means through which women could express their creativity and demonstrate their artistry. (And not just economically privileged women, either.) Yes, ideals of female beauty are most often not generated by women, and are certainly not generated along pluralistic, “all women are beautiful, you look great the way you are, even if you are a woman who happens to be voluptuous in the 1920s/flat-chested in the 1950s” lines, either.

But still. Throughout American history, women have taken fashion and made it into a thing of joy, beauty, and meaning in their lives. Treasured items of clothing (wedding dresses, baby clothes) have been passed down as beloved family heirlooms—transforming otherwise simple, physical objects into memories of women past, and hopes for women future. I wear a necklace every day that once belonged to my great-grandmother—a complex and contradictory lady (from what I hear), possessed of a stubborn nature and a sharp tongue. I wear it in honor of her, and of all the women of my family who carved out lives for themselves in times far harsher than the times I live in, now—and who insisted on bringing beauty into their lives, even if that beauty took the so-called “frivolous” form of a pretty new necklace.

So is Carrie exhibiting grating tone-deafness about her own immense class privilege when she insists that buying $400 shoes for herself is the best means for her to declare her independence? Yes. Is she irritatingly buying into Hugh Hefner’s tired line that the best way for women to claim sexual autonomy is to conform to a rigid, narrow ideal of “sexiness” and the male gaze when she sports a Playboy necklace? Yup.

But still. Watching Carrie wear what she wants to wear, in the way that she wants to wear it, and take an active pleasure in her own creativity and body, actually feels pretty darned good to me.

It feels, in fact, pretty darned feminist.

Season Two, Episode Three: The Freak Show

So... are all men freaks? No, you say? You have perfectly normal, charming friends/relatives/significant others who are at one and the same time not freaks and yet definitely male? Huh. You seem very sure about that--that equating maleness with freakishness is laughable and overly simplistic. The women of SATC, however... they are not so sure. Why not, you ask? Let us see.

Carrie has gone on a series of increasingly bizarre and awful first dates (one of which takes place amid the bookstalls outside The Strand bookstore--which, let's face it, is worth enduring any number of bad dates for), and is beginning to lose faith in the non-freakishness of mankind. (Using that word in the only way which it ought to be used, of course--otherwise, in almost all other cases, get ready to hop abroad the Humankind Express!) Just when she has come to suspect that all men are, indeed, freaks, sitting alone in a park one day, Carrie meets Ben, who is witty, tweedy, bespectacled, frickin' adorable, and reading a big fat book when she meets him, oh my God, make it stop. Allow me to note before we proceed that the only encounters I have had while sitting alone in a park have been with 1) potentially rabid squirrels who a) kept following me from bench to bench because they hoped I was carrying peanuts in my purse, or b) kept following me from bench to bench because they wished to infect my vulnerable flesh with the terrible disease which they carried within their putrid fangs, 2) small children who have used my skirt as a napkin/trash receptacle, and, once, notably, 3) a man who called me the '"Devil's whore" when he saw I was reading a book about the pro-choice movement. (I'd rather be his whore than your anything, sir.) But to continue.

Carrie begins to date Ben, and he seems simply wonderful. (The man even has one of those jackets with suede patches over the elbows, for Pete’s sake--at this point, the writers are officially trying to kill me.) But... can he really be that wonderful? Surely, there must be something wrong with him...? (Miranda: "If a man is over 30 and still single, there's something wrong with him. It's Darwinian, they're being weeded out for propagating the species.") Seized with panic, Carrie ransacks his apartment looking for evidence of deviant behavior (which I thought we'd already covered was a bad. Idea.), eventually getting caught by him trying to break into a locked box with a nail file. Yikes. Ben promptly dumps her, and Carrie reflects that it's not just men who are freaks--everyone, regardless of gender, has unattractive insecurities and irrational fears and is quite capable of acting more than a little bit loopy in the pursuit of love. (And trying to break into a locked box with a nail file definitely equals more than a little bit loopy.)

What of the other ladies? Not much going on with Miranda, Carrie tries to set her up with one of Ben's friends, who Miranda dismisses as a freak because he hasn't left Manhattan in ten years. Also, he does not like cats. (Personally, I can see the Remaining-in-Manhattan-Perpetually-and-Eternally-Thing, but not the Not-Liking-Cats-Thing. Next!) Samantha decides to get some plastic surgery after being told by a date that she looks 40, and having a massive meltdown because of said comment. She loves the first procedure she has done, and is itching to have more--her plastic surgeon is, unsurprisingly, delighted by this desire and proposes all kinds of other surgeries, happily marking up Sam's entire body with a red marker to point out all the "flaws" he can "fix." Seeing her body carved up in said fashion freaks Samantha out, and promptly stops her from going down The Path to a Thousand Plastic Surgeries. Good choice.

Charlotte has the most lively plotline, in that she finds herself dating a gent who, though he had been baptized "Mitchell" by his mother, has since been dubbed "Mr. Pussy" by women not his mother. (One hopes.) He has earned this nickname... pretty much in the way you might expect, through significant dexterity and unparalleled eagerness to go down on women. (Perhaps Mitch was the inspiration for the bloke in "Because He Liked to Look at It"?) Charlotte is, predictably, enthralled by him, and hopes to turn her Quality Time with Mr. P into Everlasting Love. Since she's never even had a proper conversation with the guy, her friends have their doubts. (Samantha: "You don't fall in love with Mr. Pussy. You enjoy him, and then you set him free!") In the end, Charlotte does indeed set Mr. P free, in part because she concedes her friends' point that she would like a relationship with a bloke she can actually talk to, and in part because she is severely creeped out by the hyper-sexualized way that he eats figs in restaurants. Ah, such a common cause for break-ups, that one!

The Analysis:

The Good: I appreciate the fact that, for once, this episode begins with a gross oversimplification about the Great Differences Between Men and Women/The Massive Divide Between Men and Women, and complicates it more and more as the episode progresses. (Rather than the ever-popular "Over the course of the episode, let us move ever closer to suggesting that we just need to shrug at any relationship problems because that's just how men are--whatever "that" happens to be in this specific instance.) By the end of the episode, Carrie's had the epiphany that all people of all genders (okay, she's definitely limiting the genders to two here, but still!) are complicated individuals, blends of both the charming and the wacky, who make mistakes when it comes to the tricky business of interacting with other, complicated individuals possessed of their very own charms and wackinesses. So... yay! It's not that men are messed up, specifically, it's that we're all messed up, generally! Hooray!

The Good, Part Two: I also like the fact that this episode tackles questions of aging, our cultural obsession with youth, and plastic surgery in some interesting ways. Not in perfect ways, I'll grant you, but still--interesting ways, nonetheless. Sam (who, Carrie informs us, "had celebrated her 35th birthday for as long as anybody could remember") has clearly internalized the idea that age=bad. She can't look 40, because to be 40 is to be "old," and to be "old," for a woman, is to lose value—specifically, to lose one's status as a sexually desirable woman. (Let us not forget the recent survey which proclaimed 31 as the peak year of women's attractiveness and desirability. Darn it, only two years left before I crumble into dust, unheeded and unmourned!) By the end of the episode, Sam is standing in front of a mirror with a plastic surgeon's red lines all over her face and her body, crying, because all those red lines have turned her into a "freak." I rather like this moment (not because of the tears, poor Samantha!), because it suggests that it's not women's bodies themselves which are freakish and out-of-whack, but rather a culture which demands that women maintain a demented and damaging standard of "perfection," and a medical establishment which happily profits from said drive towards "perfection.” Excellent.

Of course, the fact that throughout the episode, Kim Cattrall's body is on display, in all of its able-bodied, impeccably-exercised, smooth-skinned, free-from-cellulite-or any discernible-marks-or-flaws-whatsoever-ness, rather undercuts this message "It's perfectly okay to be 40... provided that you look like Kim Cattrall." Yeah... maybe not so feasible for all of us who are not, in fact, Kim Cattrall?

The Bad/The Ugly: (I had to combine the bad with the ugly because I couldn't even come up with two things I thought were massively problematic about this episode, isn't that something?)

But what I do find bad/ugly, I do, indeed, not care for--when the ladies are interrogating Charlotte about her connection with Mr. Pussy, and trying to point out to her that she can't so much legitimately proclaim her love for a man whose tongue, in her presence, has been dedicated not to soul-baring speech but rather almost exclusively to... [insert discreet pause here.] "Do you even talk?" Miranda demands. "Do you even fuck?" Samantha snaps. Now, the talking thing, I will grant you. Charlotte is looking for a serious relationship--Charlotte should, therefore, be with someone she can actually talk to. Point to Miranda!

But Samantha... Samantha I will not give a point to. Because she's suggesting here that fucking is as serious a barometer for monitoring the reality and depth of a relationship as talking is... but I ask you, is this necessarily true? If Mr. Pussy turned out to be a man of wit, compassion, generosity, fascination (rather than just an odd little bloke with a salacious way of consuming a fig), would it matter what kind of sex he and Charlotte did (or didn't) have? Sam's comment seems to suggest that it would--that there is a kind of hierarchy in terms of what kind of sex does or does not "count" as meaningful--and surprise surprise, penetrative, penis-in-vagina sex is at the top of said hierarchy. (It wins so many medals, I swear it must bribe the judges.) As always, I am unfond of such "drawing lines in the sand" type messages--i.e., "Your relationship is not real because you 'only' have oral sex." Sweet cracker sandwich, woman, their relationship is not real because she knows nothing about the guy and cares less--what they do or don't do in the Boudoir of Mr. Pussy, I think, is quite beside that particular point.

Next Up...?: "They Shoot Single People, Don't They?", an episode which focuses on singlehood, the bashing of single folk, and nasty magazine covers which portray female singlehood as a fate worse than death. (Is it too late to hope that they get Susan Faludi to be a special guest star and talk about that Newsweek article from the '80s, which claimed that a single woman over 40 was more likely to be killed by a terrorist than get married? Because... love that sucker!)

Season One, Episode Six: Secret Sex

The Summary: Ah, sex which is secret, let us discuss it! All right, so, Carrie is off to her first official date with Big. For said date, she wears a sporty little number which Charlotte quickly dubs "the naked dress." Charlotte takes this racy-dress-donning as a sign that Carrie will sleep with Big on their first date, and, of course, disapproves. (Gentlemen never marry skanky ladies, after all.) Miranda advises against sleeping with a bloke on the first date, as well, and Samantha is, naturally, in favor. Carrie denies that she plans on sleeping with Big on their first date right up until, of course, she actually does so. She subsequently feels that this was a very bad call, and agonizes about it over the course of the entire episode, convinced that because of said sleeping-with, Big has transformed her into his "secret sex girl" whom he's ashamed to introduce to his friends and will never be seriously interested in. Turns out, that's not true, Big actually wants to date Carrie, even though she is so sluttttty.

And what of the other ladies, you ask? When Carrie asks them if they've ever slept with someone they were embarrassed about, Samantha, of course, says no. (And this includes a lad who was in high school at the time. How do you spell "statutory" again?) Charlotte, however, it transpires, did once have a secret fling with a Haisidic folk artist she met through her gallery. (Because I'm sure that devout Haisdic men sleep with shiksas all the time!) Miranda is too busy to talk about illicit shenanigans, because she is involved in a licit shenanigan with Ted, a nice gent she met at a kick-boxing class. Snooping through his apartment, she discovers some spanking-themed pornography. She is appalled. She brings it up with him (by... spanking him in public, how tactful!), and he promptly dumps her. Possible lesson here? Don't snoop! Or surprise-attack spank someone in public!

There is also a B plot featuring Carrie's friend Mike, who is dating a delightful woman named Libby. Mike thinks Libby is fantastic--but is also uncomfortable with the fact that she is not conventionally gorgeous or sufficiently sophisticated (his last girlfriend was a ballerina, you see--fannnnncy), and as such, refuses to introduce her to any of his friends or be seen with her in public. Said behavior eventually leads her to dump his creepy behind. Well done, Libby!

The Analysis:

Self-Slut-Shaming Watch: How very, very hard Carrie beats herself up in this episode for having slept with Big. Very hard beating-up-of-the-self takes place throughout. (As she notes at one point, "The truth is, I blamed myself. I wore the naked dress on our first date. I slept with him too fast." Does Big need to be blamed for the snazzy, lady-killing suit which he wore, or for sleeping with Carrie too fast? No, of course not! Don't be silly!) To the show's credit, I think it (for the most part) actually shows Carrie's self-flagellation as in and of itself a problem. Because it turns out, after all of Carrie's anguishing, that their first-date activities have not made Big think any less of her, or made him any less interested in dating her. (Plenty of problems with Big, for Pete's sake, but thankfully slut-shaming is not one of them.) In the end, the show seems to go with Miranda's "you were both excited, you went for it, stop blaming yourself" perspective, which... heck, could have been a lot worse! I think the episode shines a nice spotlight on the fact that even though our culture claims to be quite sexually free and unjudge-y, judgment of the womenfolk (but notably, not the gentlemen) for their sexual decisions is still very much with us. Carrie's self-blame is very much rooted in the "woman as sexual gatekeeper" model--the notion that the ladies need to keep the gents' ravening desires in check (not having desires of their own, one supposes), and if they don't, then they deserve to be berated and shamed for their whoredom. (I'll bring the rotten apples to pelt at them if you bring the scarlet letter!)

Not Being Rail Thin = Undesirability Watch: I am just full of praise for this episode, how can it be that I am so positive? What is happening to me??? But I can't help it, I think they did a lot of things right here, bless them. First, they decide not to shame and punish Carrie for her sex-having, and second, they argue that for a man to be ashamed of a woman he's dating just because she's not conventionally beautiful is deeply messed up. Perhaps that's setting the bar pretty low, but still... I approve! The writers make it clear that Mike is a screw-up for not valuing Libby simply because she is, as he keeps insisting, "not beautiful" or "that gorgeous." (And of course, "not beautiful" or "that gorgeous" in this context translates into a woman who is "fat" by Hollywood standards.) She finally dumps him, and he is sad about said dumping. Thank you, SATC writers, for doling out just punishments, like the vengeful god of the Old Testament. Much appreciated!

Vaguely Kinky Pornography Watch: I also think this episode does a decent job of handling Miranda's locating of her swain's spanking-themed-films stash. First, it suggests that snooping is a bad idea. (Bad, snoopers, bad!) Second, Carrie counters Miranda's creeped-out-ness with a pretty matter-of-fact "maybe that's just his fantasy life" acceptance, thus helping to diffuse any "how freakish of him, egad, he should be caged, if not jailed, for his bizarre predilections, the vile wretch!" sentiments. (Dan Savage would be so pleased!) Third, Miranda doesn't decide to instantly dump him because of her location of said videos--suggesting, perhaps, that Carrie has managed to cram a bit of open-mindedness in there. (Well done, Bradshaw.) The fact that he dumps her at the end of it all doesn't negate some of the lessons learned here, I think. (I hope?)

Notable Quotables: Carrie, in the immediate aftermath of what she fears was her one-night stand with Big: "I will not be the first to speak. And if he never calls, I'll always think of him fondly... as an asshole."

Next Up...?: An episode entitled "The Monogamists" about how darned hard it is to be monogamous, especially in a city with as many pretty people in it as New York. Alas, this episode does not include one of my favorite SATC lines about monogamy from Samantha ("I've got monogamy! I must have caught it from you people!")--that sucker will have to wait till Season Four...

Season One, Episode Two: Models and Mortals

... or Beauty and Intellect, Can They Co-Exist?

The Summary: The episode begins with Miranda learning that she has inadvertently gone out on a date with a "modelizer"--a bloke who refuses to date "ordinary" women (Miranda is his "intellectual beard for the evening"), choosing instead to bestow his romantic attentions exclusively on models. (Is this a real thing in fancy-pants cities like New York? Ask me not, I dwell in the suburbs!) Taking this incident as a jumping-off place, the episode proceeds to muse about beauty--what, exactly, is beauty? Why, precisely, is our culture's idea of what constitutes "beauty" so prodigiously messed-up? How, specifically, do ideals of beauty shape women's lives? How, I ask you, how??? Here's how the episode delves into the beauty morass:

1) Charlotte hates her thighs. Because goodness knows, Kristin Davis falls well short of our culture's expectations of beauty in that regard! Except... maybe not?
2) Samantha insists that she is uncomplicatedly happy and confident about the way that she looks. Except... she feels the need to sleep with Carrie's creepy, modelizer friend Barkley primarily in order to validate said looks. So perhaps.... not so happy and confident, after all?
3) Miranda chooses to resume dating Skipper (whom we learn she has steadfastly ignored since their first, ill-starred date in the pilot), after he tells her he thinks she's "luminous." Validate a lady's appearance, and suddenly, she's not ignoring your calls, but inviting you home! Who knew it was so easy?
4) Carrie continues her flirtation with Big, and is made a leetle nervous and insecure by the fact that he has often had a model on his arm in the past. (Oh, and in the present as well, actually.) In the end, though, he tells her that when it comes right down to brass tacks, men most enjoy the company of women who can make them laugh (because Carrie can make him laugh, get it?)

The Analysis:
Person of Color Who Actually Has a Speaking Role--The Tally Begins: And two episodes in, we're officially up to two! First, we have Deanne, an African-American woman who is a guest at a dinner party which Miranda attends with her modelizer date. It's not a big part, but it is an actual speaking role, so... duly noted! And second, we have Misha, an African-American model who appears at a party with Big. I don't know if we can properly call this a speaking role since all she says is "thank you," when Carrie compliments her on her modeling abilities. But words are words, I guess?

Thing Which Severely Creeps Me Out About This Episode: So, one of the chief plot points of this episode is that Carrie's friend Barkley (but... where is Gnarls?), an artist/modelizer, has made sleeping with women who are models not only into his hobby, but also into his "art." He shows Carrie an "art installation" he's made, which is essentially a collection of various different videos of him having sex with various different models. When Carrie asks him if they know about these videos, he says (with a little frat-boyish smirk), "Probably." But his tone of voice makes it clear that "Probably" means "Of course not! Aren't I a lovable scamp, with my rascally illicit taping escapades?" Um, nope, sorry, you're not, sir. Your loveability, I feel it not. Carrie shrugs off the possible non-consent of the women whom she sits down to (quite avidly) watch, implying that it's perfectly okay to adopt Barkley's attitude that these women are "beautiful things" to be watched and enjoyed as little more than lovely objects. But... repeat after me, SATC writers, women are not objects. And videotaping a woman without her knowledge of consent... not mildly naughty hijinx, but intensely creepy, quite illegal, and also a little thing I like to call "distinctly immoral." So--Barkley plotline--boo, hiss.

Thing Which I Find A Leetle Troubling About This Episode: In that same vein, this episode does seem to slip a bit into the trap of "beautiful people may be beautiful, but clearly beauty of face and loveliness of form is inevitably accompanied by blankness of brain." Derek, a model whom Carrie spends considerable time chatting with in this episode, is clearly very sweet, but equally clearly also quite dim. Ditto the female models whom Carrie talks to throughout the episode. One solemnly informs her, for example, that while most people think that models are dumb, she's actually "very literary" and will sit down sometimes and read "an entire magazine, cover to cover." Because, get it, magazines are silly and shallow, just like the pretty ladies who read them (and pose for them)! I'm not sure that it helps to complicate our ideas about beauty, so much, to suggest that beautiful people are not particularly intelligent or interesting. Isn't that already kind of a nasty, pernicious stereotype about beautiful women?

Thing Which I Quite Enjoy About This Episode: I'll stop being a sourpuss just long enough (feminists are so negative, jeez) to note that, overall, I actually quite like the way that this episode grapples with beauty culture and the ways in which said culture messes with the womenfolk's heads. Of course, there's a lot left unsaid here. (See, I swung right back to the negative, I cannot be stopped.) Such as, the fact that all four women are white, thin, able-bodied, and conventionally attractive and feminine, which puts them on a very different footing within American beauty culture than lots and lots of other women. But still, I think the episode nonetheless does a nice job of pointing out that ideals of feminine beauty in our culture are insane, unattainable, and ridiculous, and of thinking about the ways in which these ideas nonetheless manage to get under women's skin and into their heads in truly damaging, destructive, and pernicious ways. All four women are clearly struggling with insecurities about the way they look (which, yes, is a little problematic given the fact that these women are portrayed by actresses, part of whose job it is to be "beautiful" and to rigorously uphold "beauty" in terms of the thinness of their bodies, the meticulousness of their makeup and grooming, etc.), openly lamenting the "shortcomings" of their noses, chins, and thighs, and sleeping with men primarily because said men validate them as beautiful.

Beauty culture has clearly taken a toll on the ways in which these characters think about themselves and interact with others--but to its credit, the show actively presents this reality as unfortunate--questions these ideas about beauty, rather than just straightforwardly accepting them. It also draws a pretty clear line in the sand between Men Who Value Only Beauty in Women (who are represented as creeps and dimwits) and Men Who Actually Value Women for Other Things (who are represented as charming and desirable.) So, even though in many ways the show upholds normative standards of beauty, at least they also directly address the fact that said normative standards are messed. Up.

Immortal Lines, Memorable Words:
Carrie, on the wisdom of matchmaking: "I believe there is a curse put on the head of anybody who tries to set up their friends." (Are you listening to this, Emma Woodhouse?)

Carrie, on beauty: "The truth was, I thought I had come to terms with my looks the year I turned 30, when I realized I no longer had the energy to be totally superficial." (As a statement of "the wisdom that comes with age," I quite enjoy this.)

Next Up?: An episode entitled "Bay of Married Pigs," which, contrary to your expectations, is not about ill-advised Kennedy-era military actions, but rather about the "cold war" between married folks and single folks. Does it exist? If so, what is it? We shall find out...