The love story of Gus and Mickey has come to a pleasantly hopeful end.
Call it homeostasis, but we all have a way of ending relationships that have fulfilled their purpose.
Netflix's "Love" is probably the most unromantic show about love and relationships, which isn't necessarily a first for a rom-com with Judd Apatow's name attached. Apatow has a thing for realistic love, that is, I-guess-we're-really-stuck-with-each-other love, or good ol' companionship after the magic fades. Those that have followed "Love" since Season 1 have watched Mickey (Gillian Jacobs) and Gus (Paul Rust) stumble upon, run away from, and finally settle into healthy, adult love. Season 3 finds the couple adjusting to their newfound happiness and their shared fear of screwing things up. "Love" has always shown why relationships in one's early 30s aren't just relationships: One's lover, friends, apartment, shoes, and job are all a reflection of one's adequacy as an adult, and in harsher terms, one's value in the no-one-wants-to-die-alone market.
"Love," like most rom-coms about the awkward transitional period between ending your 20s and entering your 30s, is, at its core, about regular, everyday losers wanting to love like winners. Sit with the word losers. "Love" isn't glamorous, in fact, it's the type of show that elicits—at a minimum—one full-body cringe per episode. But how many people love like in the movies? Love—a subject so heavily explored in literature and film, it's innately comical—looks and feels different when losers are doing it.
As a recovering alcoholic and sex and love addict, Mickey's sobriety is also a condition of her staying in a relationship with Gus, a grown man who's slowly realizing his nice-guy complex doesn't excuse his own neurosis. Mickey's endearingly weird roommate, Bertie (Claudia O'Doherty), turns 31 and subsequently questions her relationship with Randy (Mike Mitchell), a cloying man-child who's terminally unemployed. If this doesn't sound like an A-list friend group to you, then the show's writers (Rust, Apatow, Lesley Arfin) have done their job. Relationships, whether platonic or romantic, have expiration dates; friends grow apart and lovers fall out of love. Call it homeostasis, but we all have a way of ending relationships that have fulfilled their purpose.
Because at 30, being a loser is no longer cool. Season 3 of "Love" is about improvement, walking away from relationships as an act love—self-love—which is the most adult thing a person can do. Mickey and Gus are too old to self-sabotage their relationship in the name of fun, and too young to understand the permanency of saying yes or no to each other for the final time. (An episode in which Gus runs into his ex-fiancé at a friend's wedding is one of the season's more emotionally resonant episodes and clarifies why we've rooted for Mickey and Gus, screaming at the screen when they get it wrong.)
For many 30-year-olds, the tradition (or institution?) of marriage symbolizes the last hurrah, the yes or no, the final declaration of choice in one's life before settling into one's very own expiration. "Love," of course, isn't that grave—its weightiest concern is how and with whom its characters will settle into complacency. The Los Angeles setting adds to the laid-back, easy-breezy vibes, the quotidian drama of Mickey and Gus, and commonplace banter, where characters talk about their new microwave replacements before having awkward sex.
So, if you want to see regular people, particularly men, have hilarious ego fits, look for stable employment, and climb, rung by rung, the social ladder of adulthood, "Love" is your show. In its final season, "Love" slows down and shows how people choose to grow with one another, the small baby steps we take in relationships that matter most to us. But Mickey and Gus are choosing on what terms they'll accept the conditions of adulthood and monogamy. In Season 3, they're not entirely vanilla…more like sherbet.
POP⚡ DUST Score: ⚡⚡⚡⚡
Shaun Harris is a poet, freelance writer, and editor published in avant-garde, feminist journals. Lover of warm-toned makeup palettes, psych-rock, and Hilton Als. Her work has allowed her to copyedit and curate content for various poetry organizations in the NYC area.
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Breaking down the bias of comfort films.
With the constant onslaught of complicated news that 2020 has brought, sometimes you just want to be able to shut off your brain, relax, and feel happy.
Enter comfort films. These are the feel-good movies that feel like a warm hug when you finish them, the ones that allow you to escape for a short while. We often turn to these types of films in times of trouble or extreme stress, and when we're not sure what films of this nature we should watch, we turn to the Internet for options.
Rivera's "Glee" character was not just important, she was groundbreaking.
As a young queer girl growing up in the south, I was lucky that my parents weren't homophobes.
My parents believed that people were sometimes born gay, and while they wouldn't "wish that harder life" on their children, they certainly made me and my sister believe that gay people were just as worthy of love as anyone else. I was lucky.
Still, in my relatively sheltered world of Northern Virginia (a rich suburb near Washington D.C.), homophobia wasn't as blatant as hate crimes or shouted slurs, but it was generally accepted that being straight was, simply, better.
In high school, it wasn't uncommon to use "gay" as an insult or for girls to tease each other about being "lez." While many of us, if asked, would have said we were in support of gay marriage and loved The Ellen Show, being gay remained an undesirable affliction.
Even more insidious, I was instilled with the belief—by my church and my peers—that if gay and lesbian people could be straight, they would. But since they were simply incapable of attraction to the opposite sex or fitting into traditional gender roles, we should accept them as they are as an act of mercy. At the time, this kind of pity seemed progressive and noble. Those in my close circle of family and friends weren't openly dismissive or condemning of gay people, but we saw homosexuality as a clear predisposition with no gray areas.
Specifically: Gay men talked with a lilt, giggled femininely, and were interested in things that weren't traditionally "masculine." Meanwhile, gay women dressed like men, had no interest in makeup or other traditionally female interests, and probably had masculine bodies and features. In my mind, before someone came out as gay, they did everything in their power to "try to be straight" but were eventually forced to confront the difficult reality that they felt no attraction at all to the opposite sex. I viewed homosexuality not as a spectrum, but as a black and white biological predisposition that meant you were thoroughly, completely, and pitiably gay.
As a child, when I began to experience stirrings of attraction for other girls, I would reassure myself that not only had I definitely felt attraction for men in the past, but I also liked being pretty. I was a tomboy as a child, sure, but as I got older I recognized that my value was increased in the eyes of society if I tried to be a pretty girl. As it turned out, I even liked putting on clothes that made me feel good, I liked applying makeup, and I liked some traditionally "feminine" things. In my mind, this meant that I couldn't be gay, because gay women didn't like "girl" stuff.
As a teenager, I began to learn more about the difference between gender and sexuality, and the fluidity of both. I began to let myself feel some of the long-suppressed feelings of queer desire I still harbored.
Still, in the back of my mind, the instilled certainty of sexuality as an extremely rigid thing sometimes kept me up at night. What if I was gay? Would I have to change the way I looked? Would I have to give up some of the things I liked? In my mind, being gay meant your sexuality was your whole identity, and everything else about you disappeared beneath the weight of it.
But then, Santana came out as gay on Glee.
GLEE - The Santana 'Coming Out Scene' www.youtube.com
If you didn't watch Glee, than you might not know the importance of Naya Rivera's character to so many queer young women like myself. Santana was beautiful, she was popular, she had dated boys, she was feminine, she was sexy, and she was gay. There's even evidence that Santana had previously enjoyed relationships with men.
But the character came out anyways, not because she had to or because it was obvious to everyone around her that she was gay, but because her attraction to women was an aspect of her identity she was proud of. It wasn't an unfortunate reality she simply had to make the best of; it was an exciting, beautiful, aspect of her identity worth celebrating.
Before Santana, it had never really come home for me that being gay wasn't an entire identity—that it wasn't an affliction or disorder, but just another part of a person. She also didn't suddenly start wearing flannels or cutting her hair after coming out. She was the same feminine person she had always been. I had never realized that being a gay woman didn't have to look a certain way. Santana and Brittany's gay storyline showed two femme-presenting women in love, and for me, that was a revolution.
If it wasn't for Naya Rivera, we may never have had that important story line.
"It's up to writers, but I would love to represent [the LGBTQ community] because we know that there are tons of people who experience something like that and it's not comical for them in their lives," Rivera told E! News in 2011. "So I hope that maybe we can shed some light on that."
While Rivera herself wasn't gay (the importance of casting gay actors in gay roles is a separate conversation), she understood how important her character was to the queer community. "There are very few ethnic LGBT characters on television, so I am honored to represent them," Rivera told Latina magazine in 2013. "I love supporting this cause, but it's a big responsibility, and sometimes it's a lot of pressure on me."
Rivera wasn't just a supporter of the LGBTQ+ community on screen. In 2017, she wrote a "Love Letter to the LGBTQ Community" for Billboard's Pride Month. In it, she wrote, "We are all put on this earth to be a service to others and I am grateful that for some, my Cheerios ponytail and sassy sashays may have given a little light to someone somewhere, who may have needed it. To everyone whose heartfelt stories I have heard, or read I thank you for truly enriching my life."
Now, as we mourn the loss of Naya Rivera, at least we can take comfort in knowing that her legacy will live on—that the light her Cheerios ponytail and sassy sashays gave us won't go out any time soon.
Excuse me, I have to go weep-sing-along to Rivera's cover of landslide now.
Glee - Landslide (Full Performance + Scene) 2x15 youtu.be
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