You can sign up for my Baseball Feelings Tiny Letter and get Baseball, Books, Feminism and Feelings delivered right to your inbox about once a week (no spamming, promise.) It also includes what I’m writing and reading, and an obligatory picture of a baseball player with an adorable animal.
For The Walrus: Is the new series of The X-Files good enough for Gillian Anderson?
For Hazlitt: The month that Blue Jays pitchers and catchers reported to spring training marked the first anniversary of my husband and I trying to have a baby.
Via Variety, Sundance winner Geneviève Dulude-Decelles will direct an independent movie based on Stacey May Fowles’ Infidelity. Dulude-Decelles, who won the Sundance Short Film jury award for “The Cut” last year, is also writing the script. Allison Black of Euclid 431 Pictures and Karen Shaw of Quarterlife Crisis Prods. are producing with Canada’s Bell Media Harold Greenberg Fund.
Inevitably showered with praise and awards, the show had many things going for it, but also an undeniable liability – it had a woman problem. In the first True Detective universe, women were mostly showcased via the male gaze, used for run-of-the-mill titillation, or as obvious architectural fodder for “more important” male narratives. Some viewers and critics grew tired of the boring sexposition onslaught that has become status quo on cable television, staying with True Detective solely for Rust’s whacked-out musings on life. Frankly, it was a show worth making excuses for.
What if bros were safe? What if they weren’t dangerous, sexist homophobes, but instead tender and kind – both to each other and to the women in their midst? What if packs of jovial, tank-topped “manly men” weren’t something to steer clear of after dark? What if they were polite, considerate and believed God to be a woman? Would they be bros at all?
It’s absurd that it took a show about prison to get us this much closer to an accurate mainstream depiction of women’s inner lives, but OITNB is cultishly popular precisely because of how relatable its smallest moments are to viewers. Although the major dramas are compelling – clandestine contraband runs and brawls, badass betrayals and alliances – they’re all secondary to those quieter conversations in prison corners, where characters articulate feelings so rarely showcased on the small screen.
“Created by showrunner Bryan Fuller and shot in Toronto, is arguably the most violent show ever broadcast on prime time. Where it departs from run-of-the-mill gratuitous slaughter is in its artifice, tolerable to the squeamish because its lusciousness is so far removed from our collective experience of violence. The grotesque becomes dreamlike and treads into the sublime, with imagery so far beyond the pale that it’s no longer possible to disturb. A dead woman is stitched inside a horse carcass with a bird fluttering in her chest. A man’s lobotomized skull becomes an active beehive. Corpses are piled into totems and spirals. It’s hard not to wonder why the main characters don’t just go on psychiatric leave after all the bizarre tableaus they’ve seen.”
You can sign up for my brand new Baseball Feelings Tiny Letter and get Baseball, Books, Feminism and Feelings delivered right to your inbox about once a week (no spamming, promise.)
When you’re a woman who loves a sport, and make the decision not to accept the status quo, you set yourself for attack—all for what is literally “just a game.” I’ll admit that lately I’ve grown weary of the fight, fielding the stream of “well what do you expect us to do about it, huh?” and “it’s not our fault that there are no qualified women in sports.” My anger about the lack of diverse media representation, the endless stream of white male faces on panels and mastheads, the undercurrent of misogyny in so many conversations—all of it has evolved into a dull, crippling sadness that has tainted this game I so desperately adore. It has made me think a great deal about that fourteen year old girl who craved baseball, only to be met with the aggressive, demoralizing sexism of a fellow fan.