It was with some trepidation that I began watching the first series of Supergirl on iTunes. I’m a big fan of comic book superheroes, have been all my life, but Supergirl was never the most inventive character and its screen treatment to that point – a widely maligned 1984 film – left much to be desired. But a couple of things convinced me to purchase that first episode: a trailer that suggested substance, and the presence of actress Calista Flockhart, who has an impressive track record of only getting involved in quality television series. Technically I was the wrong demographic – male approaching middle age – but I’ve long held the opinion that good writing is good writing, and over the years I’ve enjoyed ‘girl shows’ as diverse as Sex and the City and Gilmore Girls. So Supergirl was not exotic territory.
I was not disappointed. With powerful scripts behind her, Melissa Benoist delivered a fine 21st-century interpretation of the character and contrasted well with Flockhart’s imperious but exceptional Cat Grant. Running behind the 20 episodes of the first series was an over-arching theme about searching for one’s place in the world and the role of feminism in a modern girl’s life. The whole thing fit together like puzzle to create a rich viewing experience.
I bought all of season two the day it became available on iTunes, for a cool $45. I endured four or five episodes and never went back to it again.
What had been a smart drama about girl power and discovering one’s true identity morphed into a ham-fisted, didactic lecture masquerading as entertainment. Maybe it got better as the series went along; I don’t know and I never will. I’m a tolerant viewer, for the most part, but the moment a writer gets in my face with his subtext, I walk away.
I had a similar experience a couple of nights ago with The Mist (which thank God is available on Netflix – so it cost nothing beyond my monthly subscription). It’s based on the brilliant Stephen King novella, which had already been the subject of a disturbing film adaption by Frank Darabont back in 2007. I was curious to see how subject matter so grim could be fleshed out into a series, but I didn’t get beyond the fifth minute of the first episode.
The script began with a totally pointless in media res vignette – because viewers are so fickle they’ll tune out in the first minute if there’s no horror, dontcha know – and then served up two political viewpoints in such a gratuitous fashion it was almost comical, like watching a drunk wielding a sledgehammer. Having just come off the brilliant second series of Daredevil, the contrast was obscene. (I just looked up the screenwriter responsible, and lo and behold, it’s King himself, the man who once chastised Harlan Ellison for including “billboards” in his fiction. I used to enjoy King’s political commentary, but endless validation on social media has turned him into tiresome left-wing crank.)
I know I bang on about this a lot, but story is the dog and subtext is the tail. The dog must always wag the tail; when the opposite happens, the result is always bad writing. The Marvel/Netflix collaboration has so far had a remarkable hit rate in this regard: Luke Cage and Daredevil have managed to touch meaningfully on a range of social issues without triggering the viewer’s gag reflex, and following my horrifying experience with The Mist, I fled into the arms of Jessica Jones – whose pilot episode left me shellshocked and gasping for more.
And guess what? Running beneath the sassy dialogue and black comedy was a theme about violence against women and how it destroys lives. Yes, beneath – not waved in the viewer’s face like a placard at a student rally. It’s called subtext for a reason, folks.