Critical Dan

Masters of Sex (first episode is available on Youtube) is a new hour-long drama about William Masters and Virginia Johnson, sexual researchers in the nineteen-fifties. Starring Michael Sheen and the fabulous Lizzy Caplan, and airing on Showtime, this show has the potential to broach the subject of sex with the style of Mad Men and the explicitness of Talk Sex with Sue Johanson.

The pilot opens at a dinner honoring Masters for his work as a fertility doctor, everyone in fancy attire. But not to worry, within three minutes we’re in a seedy motel room where a prostitute is servicing a john, while Masters observes from the closet, using his clipboard to take notes, and a stopwatch. During his debrief with the prostitute, he learns the baffling fact that she fakes her orgasms, often. She thinks he’ll need to recruit a female research partner if he hopes to gain any insight into the truths of sex. And thus the premise of the show is born.

Masters is a cold scientist with an undeniable God complex, and more arrogance than any other TV doctor, or at least on par. His clinical approach to the subject of sex is so anesthetized he cannot seem to understand the emotional or psychological implications of sex, only interested in the physical changes the human body undergoes while experiencing sexual stimulation. His viewpoint as a scientist leaves him woefully ignorant of the true nature of his study, asking the bland questions while being supplied with fascinating answers. Virginia, a lounge singer turned secretary, and a single mother, serves as an essential counterpoint to his detached attitude. Not possessing the scientific background of Masters, but studying at the college attached to the hospital, she brings a more grounded, humane touch to his work, treating his patients as people, while also developing a wonderful rapport with his wife.

After a quick introduction to Dr. Haas, a co-worker, we follow Masters home to meet Libby, his wife, and catch a glimpse of this bizarre relationship, with his nickname of ‘daddy’ and the most depressing act of sexual congress in the entire episode. With the clinical coldness of a laboratory experiment, Masters joins his wife on her single bed, situated next to his single bed separated by a night table, and, laying back to front, proceeds to have sex at her, which is the only way I can think of describing it. One of those moments where a single tear rolls down an actress’s face.

In contrast, Virginia, more open than her associate and coming from two failed marriages, arrives home from her date with Dr. Haas explaining that she looks forward to their friendship. Although friendship doesn’t exclude kissing, oral sex, or actual intercourse, just love. And while this stance may be progressive, her friend certainly has difficulty understanding the concept. Over the course of the episode, Haas’ increasing attachment leads to physical violence when Virginia refuses his emotional advances. And while he slaps her across the face for her perceived insolence, when she socks him back in the nose, a righteous wave of vindication washes over the viewer.

The rest of the episode develops the premise, a pilot requirement, but never feels overly explanatory. Masters and Johnson recruit men and women to participate anonymously in a study of sex, while also working to have the project approved by the hospital. Here we find the best one-liner of the episode when Virginia reassures a female test subject undergoing stimulation while the University Provost observes. “He’s not watching you, he’s watching science.”

The frank treatment of the subject is refreshing. Of course, I don’t know the specifics of sexual politics in the nineteen-fifties, having missed the gender studies courses in college, but I think the complexity with which these characters approach sex offers a depth of exploration. The strict social constructs surrounding sex in this period beg for a lengthy examination, and have the potential to highlight the liberation women of this time can grasp, a platform for past and current feminism. Virginia’s progressive stance on sexuality is a fascinating inversion of the usual male female sexual dichotomy, placing her in this feminist camp, no matter how fervently women avoid that word today. While she attempts to separate sex and love, the man she’s enjoying sees them as inseparable, much the opposite of today’s thinking. Women aren’t perceived as the ones seeking friends with benefits, while young men view the concept as the holy grail or a unicorn. We have women unfulfilled, delusional men, and a subject no one feels comfortable discussing. Perfect television fodder.  Since the story is based on historical events, I’m curious how accurate a telling we’ll receive, but with such great acting, I think I’ll give this show a handful of episodes before running to the possible spoilers of actual history.

The likeness of this pilot to previous American period dramas is immediately apparent. I suppose to TV producers, the fifties and sixties in America are as rich with content as the Victorian era across the pond. After the success of Mad Men, networks tried to capitalize on the same style of show, i.e. The Playboy Club and Pan Am, with terrible results. Granted, those shows failed more because their attempt was to embrace the style of the period, rather than character driven stories surrounded by a beautifully detailed world. Luckily, the creators of Masters of Sex don’t seem as interested in relishing the period as these other shows, simply embracing the environment in which the story is set. The focus revolves more around concepts of sex and the emotional mindset of America at that time, rather than well-tailored suits and furniture your grandparents owned.

My sister and I just returned from a trip to Montreal. It is a wonderful city, and we had a great time. Like I said on twitter, “The People, the Places, the Things… I love all of the nouns in Montreal. Even the ones I can’t read.” The official language of Montreal is French, but most of the people we encountered were bilingual, making for much easier communication. I greeted in French whenever possible because it felt proper, but always tried to throw in a warning “Hi” if I knew there would be a more extended exchange. And overall, the people were lovely. In Montreal, French speakers looked on us with pity, unlike my visit to Paris, where the feeling much more closely resembled disdain.

Thanks to the language gap though, we were in for a treat on Thursday evening. Having arrived earlier that afternoon, my sister and I decided to wander down to the Gay Village,  the area of town where Montreal Pride was taking place. You see, when we chose the dates of our trip, we had no clue that Montreal Pride was happening, but since we were there, no question we were checking it out. As luck would have it, that night’s presentation was a drag show featuring twenty Montreal Queens. Done. Nowhere else I’d rather be. We arrived at the park a little early to ensure a good view, and as the DJ, a queen decked out in varying shades of neon, prepped the crowd with fun gay tunes from ABBA, the Spice Girls and so forth, we waited for eight o’clock, when the show began.

It was entirely in French. The majority of the songs were in English, with many familiar campy and sexy tunes, but Dream, the evening’s emcee, just spoke French. This may seem impenetrable to non-French speakers, myself included, but it really only added to the whimsy and gaiety of the entertainment. If anyone needs advice on how to Camp up a drag show, put French in their mouths. Automatic perfection.  Dream was a hilarious, campy queen ready with any sharp quip needed. Or at least that’s what it sounded like. I had to take many of my laughing cues from the crowd at first, but the emcee was such a great performer that before long I found myself guffawing at her physical comedy and top-notch timing, even without understanding a word.

Now, a drag show generally consists of two types of queen: the campy, and the sexy. Since the show had no shortage of either, it provided tons of entertainment and plenty of memories. I’ll just run through a few of the best and worst to give you a taste.

The first camp bit was a little disappointing, a medley of Hairspray songs. The queen attempting to play the musical’s lead, Tracy, didn’t fit the bill at all. A major part of the musical is that Tracy is a big girl, and this queen was nowhere near the right size. But I guess someone told her that loose-fitting clothing would disguise that fact, although it didn’t disguise her lack of skill. Once I realized her medley consisted of songs from the movie starring John Travolta, rather than the musical recording, I rolled my eyes, wrote her off and waited for the next girl.

The two camp performances that really shined were “Thelma & Louise,” and “The Little Mermaid.” Thelma & Louise had the front of a car (made of cardboard) brought on stage and got ready for the end-all of road trips, with Louise dressed perfectly in her mom jeans and a scarf. Their medley of three empowering female songs fit perfectly into the narrative they acted out on stage, killing Thelma’s man and fleeing the law, all the way though driving off the cliff together. It was probably my favorite one of the night.

My sisters favorite turned out to be the Little Mermaid, probably since she adored that character during childhood. While the queen sang about wanting “to be where the people are,” she had a slight costume issue and struggled to hold up her fins, but that was overshadowed by the glitter shot into the air from behind her, emulating the famous movie scene of her singing perched on a rock as waves crash behind her. And of course, no tribute to the Disney movie is complete without the appearance of the drag queen of villains, Ursula. The medley ended in a weird place, with Ursula stealing Ariel’s voice, but after some thought I realized there isn’t a particular song that resolves the story in the movie. Plus, the final moment felt like vindication for the drag queen, re-appropriating the power of the young female voice for herself to mock and deride the world she challenges with her defiance of normalcy. Or I’m just reading too much into it.

The sexy queens were a mixed bag, with Beyonce and Nicki Minaj songs lip-synced by white girls, and one or two that would have fit better in an Adam Lambert look-alike competition. Many times, the girls seemed more interested in being pretty than selling the song; shaking their hips and tearing off clothing were their main skills. This is one of my issues with the sexy type of drag queen, but I won’t delve too deeply into my personal feelings on drag. At the end, Dream even threw on a skin-tight outfit and had a sexy song. She was the best of the queens, hosting the entire event, performing a racy pop hit, and tackling the finale as a solo. The finale was wonderful, a beautiful French ballad that Dream sold completely with her superbly expressive acting and sultry movement. As the other drag queens filled the stage armed with spray bottles, they slowly began to soak her until she was dripping wet and the stage resembled a giant puddle. This marathon performance was impressive inside and out, and I didn’t even mention the handful of backup dancers that populated many song backgrounds and must have been more exhausted than anyone else involved.

An epic success, and the perfect beginning to a weekend in Montreal, we certainly knew how to take the first step into a new city. In heels.