Letting Go: The L Word

Nearly six years have passed since The L Word first debuted on Showtime to much fanfare and derision, leaving in its wake a hot mess of panty splashes, dissertations in progress, and weed-whacked asymmetrical Shane hair-do's from L.A. to Lisbon. I wasn't even sure if I was going to watch last night's series finale, especially after having let most of this season's episodes accumulate unwatched in my Tivo folder. All it took was a quick peek at the season's first Sunset Boulevard-inspired episode, "Long Night's Journey into Day"--which begins with the poet laureate of manatees, Jenny Schecter's mysterious death--to put me into deep marathon mode. Bleary-eyed at 4am, with a geriatric cat draped over me like a poor-man's Snuggie, I came to discover what the rest of my more adventurous Sapphic sisters loaded on Vodka sodas and white wine spritzers at viewing parties across the land figured out earlier: there will never be an answer.


While most of the lesbionic media watchers of the world are still fretting this outcome (see the chatter on AfterEllen.com), I'm electing to skip the hateration, because I found myself strangely satisfied by what happened not just on the show, but because of it. Sure, like all the other "Hip Vacuous Queer Theorists" out there (a la the Facebook app, "Shite Gifts for Academics"), I've had my share of ugly feelings about The L Word and its relentlessly glossy femininity, its failures around race, its skewed sense of L.A., its fucked up class politics and transpolitics, its gratuitous indulgence of the male gaze and too much screen time for Tina. I've grown weary of defending L.A. when friends from out of town expect the scene to be "just like the L Word." Or apologizing to them because the city didn't quite meet their glamorous, small-screen expectations. And I certainly never really "saw myself"or all my other stocky, brown, butchy Angeleno brethren "represented" on the show, except perhaps to be giggled at as frumpy extras.

But to be fair, The L Word has done its share of course-correcting throughout these six seasons. The show even goofed on its rep for mistreating chubby butches with an incidental character in the final episodes: Bette and Tina's contractor is a rat-tailed, back-slapping butch who confuses the two toothy, sequined Sho-lesbians with her appetite for beefcake. Truthfully, I've always been more prone to the generous, reparative reading of the show, written early in its run by the queer studies legend, Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick. The ladies of TV and media studies have also provided (and continue to write) useful industry accounts of what the show means, and how it may be read in the context of quality television's production histories. But this post isn't about that either. Nor are my remarks meant to join the chorus of commemorative voices about the groundbreaking nature of The L Word, better suited to the bonus features on a DVD boxed set, or as the opening act to last night's finale "event."

I found myself strangely satisfied by last night's marathon viewing not only because Jennifer Beals is smoking hot and Leisha Hailey is neurotically adorable. Or because my critical eye appreciated how the actors grew into their roles, developing an ensemble's rhythm of familiarity and spontaneity hard-won on any TV series. Or because I found the chatty line-dance scene in "Last Couple Standing" brilliantly evocative of the quadrille conversations so often staged in cinematic adaptations of Jane Austen novels.

Above: bad screen captures of the aforementioned line-dance scene

I loved it (dare I use that L-word?) because I was reminded of all the quiet, everyday herstories that unfolded alongside my shared viewings of The L Word with the Schecterian-ly imbalanced queers that have, for better and worse, flowed in and out of my "tight knit circle of friends" through all these years--a configuration of intimacy discussed repeatedly in last night's interrogation scenes.

Two of my most vivid L.A. memories are attached to group L Word screenings. One revolves around the debut of season 4 and the introduction of Cybill Shepherd's busty university provost. Tina was at the height of her hasbian man-sex phase, and Shane had just dumped Carmen at the altar. What began that night for Kangagi and I as a double-dinner date with the Trolls, devolved into a chaotic night at the Falcon, a Hollywood restaurant/bar (since name-checked on the series itself) that holds Sunday screenings for L.A.'s lesberati. Read about our encounter with the "Valet of the Dolls" here. [Right: Paris Hilton cozies up to castmembers Kate Moening and Daniela Sea at The Falcon]

Another happened years ago during start of Season 2. A gaggle of us planned to follow up a marathon session of the Season 1 DVD at a friend's We-Ho condo with a group re-lo to the Falcon. After we each, separately, re-parked our cars a mere 10 blocks away, an El Niño storm swept in and flooded the gutters. Soaked to the bone, and facing a long line of leather jackets inching down Sunset Blvd, we bailed on the bar, piled into our cars, and headed back to the eastside as I called DirecTV to activate Showtime. By the time we threw our going out attire in the dryer and swaddled ourselves in my bountiful collection of "giving up on life" clothes (sweats, fleece, flannel), the ear torture of the show's Batman-esque theme song came to a close and we were treated to 54 glorious minutes of Schecter's struggle with writer's block. [Left: Jenny with her creative writing instructor, Sandra Bernhard]

Like the show's original coterie, the group with which I watched The L Word debut back in January 2004 has disbanded and dispersed. Some went missing like Marina. Others are dead, (or at least dead to me), like Dana. New friendships, couplings, affairs, break-ups and make-ups have happened in the interim, and have been the source of countless viewing parties both tame and tawdry. Straight girls have been turned and turned back again. Third wheel crushes have been both consummated and quashed. Jobs, controversies and provocations have been artfully negotiated. Bad hairstyles have been corrected. (Or have they?)

Even though we know it could've been better, we kept watching--left to realize when it was all over that it was better than we thought. - (KT)