It has been a tough couple of weeks in my professional life– if you even want to call it that. Immediate stages of post-grad life have been frustrating and isolating with respect to employment. Applying to jobs feels like entering the tastiest buffet in town, ordering, and never receiving your meal; I’m hungry for an opportunity to flex my potential, but that opportunity has yet to come my way. Though I have wiped away countless angry tears in the past two months, an experience I had recently took the cake for crushing professional interactions.

In a long and deliberate email, an owner of a company superseded HR to tell me, verbatim, not to waste my time with the available position. I was mortified. I did everything I was supposed to: submitted a finely combed resume and followed up promptly and politely. Positions in production are sparing in my area, so I was thrilled to put my name in the ring.

I received a quick response that was an essential rejection. No biggie; I shot back a line thanking this hiring manager for their time and added optimistically, perhaps foolishly, to please keep me in mind should something else become available. Fully prepared to count my losses and move on, I later received an inbox notification from the founder and owner of the company.

This was a scroll-heavy email. Evidently my interest caught some attention. The owner took time out of their day to remind me of my inexperience, suggest my incompetence and let me know what the industry is really like. Details of this person’s identity or business is basically irrelevant; I know about as much about them as they know about me. But knowing this message came from a 50-some year old male was a stinging fact I couldn’t shake. I was anonymously mansplained to and it made me feel like human garbage.

Moving on from that message was sort of stunning. What do I make of these words? Why did he say all that? Should I even try elsewhere? He very proudly told me to move to a “movie town” if I’m looking for cool opportunities, otherwise I could try for work at a “sausage factories” like network channels or my local news station. His advice read like a mean inside joke; a poor amalgamation of his qualms about young women entering the field.

It took some time for me to unpack his words. Obviously I’ve encountered some real first class a-holes in my life, as we all have, but never have I been put down by a male so fervently without any prior conflict. I knew mansplaining involved condescension, but this was my first realization that men who mansplain are truly disillusioned.

With all this man’s success– which he asserted by name dropping and tacking on figures– he must have thought he was doing me a serious favor explaining “what colleges don’t tell you”. I’m sure from his perspective, he was letting me in on wisdom I had yet to discover by mapping out a production assistant’s role in elementary terms. From his perspective, I should be saying thank you.

That’s where the disillusion comes in; I should be grateful for advice I did not ask for, appreciative a male superior told me the truth. My knowledge, education, talent, work ethic and aspiration are all irrelevant– thank you, sir, for asserting what I should want for myself.

At this point, my self-confidence had to burn through his disillusion. If I have to pour coffee or tend bar (his words, not mine) before I get to the next stepping stone in my career, I’ll do it. My experience, personally and professionally, is not one to be oversimplified by persons padded by success and privilege.

This piece is not meant to air grievances about hurt feelings. In the working world, the film industry especially, thick skin is a necessity. That’s what I admire about women in any field: their resilience to overcome. I cannot, in any way, compare this flash of an experience to the systematic abuse and oppression of women in successful industries. I received a mean spirited email while countless other women trying to make it in entertainment endure the worst humanity has to offer. I had the luxury of getting over it while so many cannot.

Therefore, I see this interaction as a peek through the looking glass into this system. After all, if I accepted all unsolicited advice I’ve received from men in my life, I wouldn’t have legs to stand up against the greater ramifications mansplaining and male-dominated industries create.

Females in power positions have the potential to eradicate these shortcomings. In order to promote female production heads and executives, strength needs to come from the silenced. Don’t accept being spoken to like a child, don’t accept inequality in communication and certainly don’t accept doubt cast upon you.

The producer ended his email asserting that I finish my degree and pack my bags for Hollywood or the Marvel sets in Atlanta, adding, finally, that I would not be sorry. His final sentiments solidified to me that mansplaining was his knee-jerk reaction and nothing I should take to heart. Had he read the first line of my resume, he would know I graduated early with honors. Not that I want a gold star for that, but missing a fact I literally emboldened on my application leads me to believe this man knows nothing about who I am.

You’re right, sir, I am not sorry nor will I ever be. Gaining experience any way I can get it is valuable to me, no matter the status of the company or project. If being persistent and enthusiastic about building a career is wasting my time, I don’t care. Perhaps one day I will move to a movie town like countless other starry-eyed kids my age. If I do, I will make it count. That will be my decision. And the only person I have to thank for that is myself.

Some time last week I was chatting with a friend in my room, my Spotify at medium volume in the background. Little Mix’s “Black Magic” then began to play causing my friend to look up from her coffee.

“Who’s this?”

“Little Mix!” I replied with a slight hair flip, proud to introduce my friend to something new. “They’re a girl group out of the UK, so cute.”

My friend pursed her lips dismissively. “Oh, I don’t listen to girl groups that much. Not my thing.”

Girl. Not your thing?

This got me thinking. The public’s general aversion to girl groups in music is nothing new. But why? It’s like saying you’re not into bands with lead vocals, a bassist and a drummer because of the structure. Surely the state of “girl group” does not define sound, image or talent, right? Yet it seems girl groups throughout music industry history lack longevity because a dark cloud labeled GIRL GROUP looms over them. I cannot accept this. I won’t let girl groups suffer under some sort of unprecedented reputation. We should like girl groups for a plethora of reasons. In fact, music needs— we need— girl groups.

If one attractive woman can sing a beautiful song, shouldn’t three, four, even five women together sound like a choir of angels? An even more basic equation: if one woman can put out a record and it go platinum, shouldn’t a group of women be able to obliterate charts and sales? It doesn’t add up. The confines of girl group success is a cultural reflection, one that won’t fully recognize the girl group as a force to be reckoned with; a feminist force they can’t handle.

The music industry works feverishly to pump out new female artists for the public to enjoy. “Sex sells” is a mantra in every record label and management team for these female stars. But we know this; we enjoy it! Our expectation for female artists is their being fun, sexual and enticing. Basically a magnified expectation of what is demanded of the everyday woman: unattainable perfection. In the business of a girl group however, the expectation becomes hazy. It is almost as if the viewers’ inability to objectify and sexualize multiple spectacles at once leaves the girl group as a sexual threat and not a pleasure. The popular 2000’s girl groups The Pussycat Dolls and Danity Kane come to mind with this notion. Sure, every man’s fantasy is a room full of women just for him. But their banded sexuality was much more conscious than it would have been in a solo act. After all, a woman should not be too aware of how desirable she is.

In the same nod towards sexism, girl groups combat contrived female competition. Media too often pits women against one another, while girl groups stand firm in the values of empowerment and lifting one another up. Aforementioned girl group Little Mix is a perfect example. Their image since their formation on the UK’s X-Factor is one based in friendship. Everything from their music videos to the individual members’ social media accounts portray a mutual respect and adoration for one another. Do all girl groups feel this way 100% of the time? Probably not. But their presence relays that women can work and thrive together without competing. Your ladies can be #winning while you are too.
Content wise, girl groups have the ultimate feminist edge to making music. Girl groups possess a certain self-awareness of their girl power that translates in their records. Groups like the famed Destiny’s Child provided track after track of feminist anthems— proclaiming their strength, weakness, independence, passion and authenticity. Countless girl group songs have echoed this confidence whether the subject is intentional or not. Ultimately, the shared emotion and swagger of the girl group elevates a song’s feminist essence.

The feminist potential of girl groups even reaches an intersectional feminist level. Diversity is a staple of girl groups. This may perhaps be the most important piece to their puzzle. Racial diversity is gravely underrepresented in the media. The most popular girl groups of the last ten years have starred women of color. This translates to more black, hispanic and other racially diverse faces gracing television screens, album and magazine covers. Stemming from this, girl groups have encouraged other types of variety in their image. As of late, noticeably different body types between group members have been celebrated. Can you believe it? A group of women endorsing themselves— each other— in body positivity.

Generally speaking, girl groups provide an overall platform for members’ individuality. A member somebody can relate to is most marketable, pressing for girl groups to have all the right components. Reference the OG girl group Spice Girls, who were quite literally stage-named after their attributes. Though all girl groups don’t recognize themselves as Sporty and Scary, each girl has their moment to shine because of herself. From the perspective of girl groups’ audiences, finding a role model within the group becomes easier. The girl groups’ image as a whole becomes a little richer when their identities shining through.

Things are looking up for girl groups. X-Factor-born Fifth Harmony is grinding in 2016. Their song “Work From Home” is unofficially the song of the summer and they are gaining notoriety with the general public. The more late-night and award show appearances the group makes proves their gaining success with middle America. Fifth Harmony is becoming level in their fame with other hot young artists in music. This is not to say they are the most famous or talented girl group in history— we mustn’t discredit the legendary The Supremes or TLC—but, like never before, it seems as though their identity as a girl group is accepted in an era that is all about self. That speaks volumes. Maybe, just maybe, a cultural affinity can be formed for girl groups the same way it has been for, say… boy bands.

The controversial 2016 memoir Hillbilly Elegy: A Memoir of a Family and Culture in Crisis hit shelves with a polarizing splash upon its release. The best-seller penned by J.D. Vance tackles the turbulent life of Vance’s Appalachian family throughout his childhood in Middleton, Ohio. Vance addresses the many intersections of poverty, family trauma, and community distress, piecing together these fragments to offer a fuller picture of his take on rural sociology. The memoir is decidedly conservative in its conclusions, but nevertheless anchored by his experience.

It is Vance’s outspoken, perhaps unpopular analysis of his upbringing and culture that drew in readers for a candid, complex dialogue about life for many Americans. With the book having gained sales around the time of President Trump’s inauguration in 2017, some have seen Vance’s work as a window to the ideologies of Trump’s avid supporters in the Rust Belt and Appalachia during the 2016 election. Vance’s assertions about hillbilly culture are largely unforgiving, yet at the very least, readers will find that Vance put together a narrative he speaks boldly.

The recent Netflix adaptation of the book, directed by Ron Howard, which premiered ahead of the Thanksgiving holiday, unfortunately manages to say nothing at all. 

Hillbilly Elegy (2020) is an obvious bid by Netflix for recognition in the upcoming awards season, calling on world class talents Amy Adams and Glenn Close to depict the matriarchs in Vance’s life, his mother and grandmother, respectively. The big-screen story of Vance’s coming of age is packaged as an emotionally heavy, domestic drama, but struggles to find footing in its storytelling lens. It is not a journey through adolescence into manhood for J.D., nor dive into addiction for Adams’ Bev Vance, nor a reflection of generational trauma for Close’s Mamaw. Instead, Hillbilly Elegy tosses in undercooked elements of all three and hopes to make an impact.

The screenplay meanwhile wrings itself dry of social commentary that first drew in audiences to the source material. Viewers see flashbacks of the once-successful industry in Middleton, Ohio transition into widespread economic failure and recurring glimpses of domestic violence. But those conflicts are never uttered or challenged by characters. No true discussion takes place and audiences are left with a reduced depiction of hillbilly misery.

One area I found Hillbilly Elegy to fall short in particular was the topic of substance abuse. Bev Vance is a former nurse who turns to prescription opioids and becomes addicted, causing much chaos and instability in her children’s lives. Years later, when J.D. is feeling success guilt in his upward mobility at Yale Law School, he learns his mother has overdosed on heroin.

The implications of the real-life opioid epidemic in America are truly fascinating from a sociological standpoint. The ongoing issue is multifaceted and requires a good look at the healthcare industry and social class.

Again, Hillbilly Elegy recognizes these pieces. Adams’ Bev is shown to have random outbursts of anger or mania, which we are led to believe is tied to the abuse in her home as a kid through more random flashbacks, setting up the character as somewhat of a trauma survivor. Her introduction to prescription painkillers at the hospital is also a familiar tale of everyday people turning to seemingly harmless, life-ruining substances. In a few shots of the present-day Middleton, viewers see boards on downtown windows and sketchy types loitering in parking lots, presumably engaging in drug deals. The midway point of the film hinges on the Vance siblings’ inability to secure their mother a bed overnight after her overdose without health insurance coverage.

But these moments are never connected or expanded upon to produce any one meaningful take on Bev’s addiction or Middleton’s downward spiral as a whole, for that matter.

The ongoing opioid epidemic has damaged entire communities and plunged generations of families into recidivist cycles of crime and incarceration. It is never raised that Bev Vance’s life path may be familiar; that the hospitals or rehab centers the Vances visit are overflowing with other folks with life-shattering chemical dependencies. When we consider that the opioid epidemic affects the masses, the film does a poor job of putting addiction into perspective and instead places blame on Bev, the misunderstood deadbeat mom.

One criticism of Vance’s memoir which can be applied to the film is the author’s passing on the role of race and racism in his cultural analysis. Over time, parallels have been drawn between white communities’ turn to opioids in the last 30 years and the 1980’s crack epidemic and its impact on Black communities. Without so much as a glance toward racial issues, the film furthers itself from the realities of the opioid epidemic. Hillbilly Elegy removes culture from the one issue it should be examined broadly in.

Looking ahead to new entertainment that may better serve the complex issue, filming for Hulu’s miniseries Dopesick is set to begin in various Virginia locations soon. Executive producer Michael Keaton is taking on the project based on author Beth Macy’s bestseller Dopesick: Dealers, Doctors, and the Drug Company that Addicted America. The source material for the upcoming series is thorough in its history and full-bodied in its coverage of southwestern Virginia families whose lives are uprooted by opioids. Not only am I eager for my home state to receive widespread attention through streaming in this venture, but I look forward to seeing such a dire issue, which touches everyone’s hometown, addressed with more grace. 

Without the spine of a strong thesis, Hillbilly Elegy descends without raising hard questions, falling on the unexciting genre tropes of sappy, safe popcorn flicks, devoid of messaging that is nuanced or intelligent. Relying only then on pathos, Hillbilly Elegy even fails to make any true emotional gains when J.D. chooses to leave his family behind in the shrapnel of their lives. The Netflix original is an honest waste of good acting by Close and Adams on screenwriting that is gravely underdeveloped. There is suffering involved in true hillbilly culture, sure, but Hillbilly Elegy lacks the knowledge to assess why and the bravery to try to understand a hillbilly’s point of view.

I’m worried.

I’m worried that the integrity of the media content we enjoy is beginning to slip. That the art we so regularly subscribe to is lacking in meaning. But mostly I am worried that we are stuck with some pretty shitty music, film and television.

Presently, the political climate of America is both hostile and foggy. The right and the left share leagues in stretch between their viewpoints and personal partisanship is nearly expected. Policy reform has sent some into panic, but today I offer a crisis of a different breed. There is a possibility that artists and content creators are selling out by the masses in a big way.

In early 2017, Katy Perry dropped her long-awaited single “Chained to the Rhythm”– a dancehall pop track that seemed divergent from her previous bubblegum #1’s. This song was hyped up in a number of ways, namely being that this was a comeback of sorts for Katy Perry. But this comeback, as she described herself, would be an era of “Purposeful Pop”– music with meaning.

“Chained to the Rhythm” tells the story of a gullible generation. The song is a critique of culture and its addiction to media use, implying we are oblivious to a bigger picture. And for reasons other than its obnoxious lyrics, this did not sit well with me.

This is not to say that critical subject matter shouldn’t be welcomed in music. It 110% should be. However, Katy Perry has 90 million followers on Twitter and soaring popularity on Facebook, Instagram and Snapchat. Her new single was promoted relentlessly on these platforms. It can be assumed that her career depends on and thrives off of the general public’s social media use. Furthermore, this 9-time Billboard #1 singer knows a thing or two about profiting off of generic radio records. This considered, the music video she released that depicted bands of sheeple in Oblivia — a theme park for the ignorant– seems condescending.

Perry has not given up on the concept of this upcoming album era, performing the single at major award shows with visuals indicative of the music video. The themes of conformity, oblivion and oppression are pretty obvious. Which is why it is curious Katy seems so stuck on so-called subtext.

In two separate interviews, Katy Perry has labeled herself as the “Queen of Subtext”… out loud. It’s this type of boastful pseudo-intellect that makes me think we’re in trouble. “Chained to the Rhythm” is consumed the same way other Top 40 hits are, the only difference is it’s falsely branded as profound. Thinly veiling content with purpose will ultimately not bring about any change.

This issue is not specific to just Katy Perry. In 2013, Lady Gaga was promoting her album Artpop— a record that she claimed would conglomerate music, technology and art. Marketed as ultra-forward thinking, Gaga sold an app alongside her album to somehow enhance the music-listening experience and completely elevate fans’ minds artistically. I remember watching her SXSW festival press-tour interview clearly. Unprompted, she mentioned how “crazy” it was that people spent their lives on their phones; that people didn’t live in the moment anymore.

There she was, trying to sell us all a poorly-designed album app and simultaneously ridiculing smartphone users. Once I realized her contradiction, there was no other way to describe what I was feeling except for pissed. My favorite artist was making disingenuous music and I was eating it up unknowingly.

Since that time, I think Lady Gaga in particular has admitted the pretentious tendencies she exhibited early in her career. I don’t mean to attack Lady Gaga’s work, because her activism has spoken for itself in recent years. But this particular instance mirrors a greater trend with content creators. Merely plopping meaning onto a work is not the way to earn your artistry. Excellent entertainment begins with a creative vision that is genuine and genius.

Increasingly, I feel bombarded with entertainment that lacks integrity. Not all things we enjoy require political or social agenda, but the heart of artistic work should speak for itself and create its own meaning. We favor the entertainment we favor because it resonates with us, not because we were convinced of doing so.

Earlier in the week, it was announced that internet conservative supervillian Tomi Lahren would be permanently suspended from TheBlaze for admitting her pro-choice stance on the issue of abortion. This contradicted, of course, an explosive pro-life rant she spewed in an episode of On Point with Tomi Lahren. To think, the innumerable outrageous alt-right comments Lahren has been making are nothing more than fallacious clickbait. Even the antagonists of the media contrive their work for recognition and viewership. And that news is most alarming of all.

Thinking briefly back on society overtime, the most brilliant work has manifested from pain, strength, passion, growth and revolution. I fear that this rapid slowing of creative honesty can only be explained in one way: we have enlightened ourselves to the point of impediment. The world we live in is automatic and all-knowing. If we have all the answers, there is nothing to be inspired by. We are left with pseudo-intellectual content that distracts us into confirming its higher meaning.

This sort of content-crisis shows glimpses of hope with artists like Chance the Rapper. In a world of reductive artistry, thank God for Chance. The Grammy-winning independent artist provides his music to listeners completely free-of-charge on streaming services like Spotify and Soundcloud. The core of his music is soulful, energetic and most importantly honest. As he shares in his song “Blessings”, he doesn’t make songs for free, he makes them for freedom– the freedom of storytelling, proclamation and truth.

The artistic virtue does not end there with Chance the Rapper. Outraged by the current regard for public education in America, specifically Governor Bruce Rauner of Illinois, Chance donated $1 million to Chicago public school systems. His incredible act of generosity was covered by all mainstream media sources. Many were in disbelief that this industry underdog had enough compassion to help his community. But to those who listened, Chance’s heart for community, family and the city of Chicago was there all along. His records tell his story with the most seamless authenticity. Instead of slinging the raw themes of life around, he acts on them. The sooner artists put their content where their mouth is, the sooner they will make a difference.

Have you ever had that friend– the one who wants to relive that one night every single time you’re together? You had an awesome night out once, complete with happenstance hilarities and giggly coincidences. It was the perfect storm of a good night. So perfect that your friend relentlessly tries to duplicate it. You go to the same bar, order the same margarita, sing the same songs in the Uber but it can never quite hold a candle to that one night. Your friend is chasing after the magic of something special you shared, but it is to no avail. The magic is never to be replicated.

That’s how I feel about reboots.

The reboot crisis became clear to me one night while I was watching NBC after dinner. I knew it was in talks, but I saw a trailer confirming Will and Grace‘s return to primetime September 28th. The trailer marketed the returning season as an exciting comeback of the beloved TV characters. I was anything but excited.

There is a distinct epidemic plaguing Hollywood writers at the moment. That epidemic is laziness. I denied it as long as I could, but this particular series revival announcement took off my rose colored glasses for good. Though I reveled in the nostalgic spirit of reboots, they are nothing but money-making schemes that tarnish creative integrity.

Let’s take the revival of Will and Grace for example. When the series came out in 1998, Will and Grace introduced a relationship between an openly gay man and single heterosexual woman. This dynamic was a milestone in LGBT media, creating an important dialogue within the show. Will and Grace was able to open discussion in American homes about what it meant to be gay in the form of a popular sitcom. At the time, sitcom television was on-trend comedic entertainment. In many ways, the “Must See TV” NBC lineup shaped what it meant to be a young adult in American culture. Will and Grace was a part of this narrative and therefore solidified its role in pop culture history.

For a television series with such success and impact, there is virtually no reason to bring it back. Will and Grace was once the premiere opportunity for LGBT exposure on television, but with the barriers it broke for future series, gay and lesbian storylines are commonplace– and almost expected– on primetime series. The appeal of Eric McCormack’s character is not nearly as profound as it was fifteen years ago.

It should also go without saying that sitcom television is a dying breed. With mass audiences gathering around for thrilling shows like Game of Thrones or The Walking Dead, sitcoms have gracefully fallen from their dynastic reign of television in the 1990’s. While comedic shows will always have a home on certain networks, it’s safe to say that television has changed enough to reflect an evolution of content.

And yet- TV executives ignored these legitimate red flags and OK’d a revival season of Will and Grace. Look, I get it, I would give anything to have Jax rise from the dead on Sons of Anarchy or have Walter and Jesse make just one more batch on Breaking Bad. But I, along with plenty of other casual TV fans, know that endings are necessary to good storytelling.

One of my best friends’ favorite things (not just shows) in the world is Gilmore Girls. Every conversation contains some sort of reference to the series; so much so that Gilmore Girls made a special place in my heart because I knew how intrinsic it had become to my friend. I watched her excitedly prepare for the Gilmore Girls Netflix revival for months. When we left school for Thanksgiving break– the weekend the revival premiered– she made sure to let everyone know the exact second she began watching.

When I got the chance to ask her what she thought of the new season, there was a tinge of regret in her smile. While the reboot gave her another chance to see her favorite characters one more time, it wasn’t quite the same. And how could it be?

The issue of reboots has reared its head in the film industry, i.e. Disney’s elaborate 10-year plan to re-release live action versions of their most popular animated films. While the film industry is a separate beast from television, critically-panned reboot films like Ghostbusters (2016) and Vacation (2015) serve as perfect examples of why not to follow through with notions of rebooting popular franchises.

In my argument against reboots, I ask that audiences ask themselves these questions:

Is it relevant?

Is bringing back the same characters, storylines and story worlds pertinent? What will audiences gain from bringing these elements back? In what ways will it contend with other series?

Will it stand on its own?

Can the series carry itself beyond previous seasons? Is the series relying on audience affection and nostalgia rather than quality writing and development? Is the reboot adding to the story or compromising it?

I don’t mean to pick on Will and Grace with such intensity– there are certainly more reboots I am not looking forward to. The once hilarious Roseanne is scheduled to make a return this coming year. Though it rounded up a stable audience 20 years ago, the ABC revival will have no sort of demographics to reference. With the power of the internet, I wouldn’t be surprised if murmurs about a Friends reboot came to fruition. And if it did, I would have to at least give it a try; Friends was a fond viewing experience of my childhood. And that principle alone is what producers of reboot series depend on. I would watch because I felt obligated to, not because it was good. And a 2017 version of Friends would no doubt be disastrous. The Central Perk couches would be novelty rather than structural pieces of storytelling. The entire dynamic of the group would be completely askew. What is Friends when the friends are not young, single and living in the same building? Much in the way I have grown as a person since viewing Friends, or any other series for that matter, those memories and associations deserve to stay in the past. All good things– and TV– come to an end. Don’t believe me? Watch an episode of Fuller House. 

Hi, nice to meet you. I recently got engaged.

Oh, that’s nice. Did I mention I’m engaged?

Somehow that statement is equally exciting and nerve-wracking every time I say it. About two weeks ago, my boyfriend of over five years proposed at a downtown park in my city. I haven’t stopped smiling since.

Between looking down at the most beautiful ring I’ve ever seen about every 10 minutes and answering constant congratulatory texts and phone calls, romance has made an abrupt resurgence into my life. Quite honestly, it’s hard to concentrate on anything else when others are speaking. Feelings of love, luckiness and happiness are intoxicating as ever — albeit a little overwhelming.

I’ve always turned to music as an entity to direct my energy. Listening to music can often articulate feelings you can’t quite put a finger on and reiterate the ones you are sure of. Those first few days of my engagement, I was a squealy, weepy little mess. Where I would typically rely on music to fill the silent gaps in my day, I kept getting distracted. Bopping around to Britney Spears or Rihanna didn’t quite fit this monumental life event.

I have never been a hipster, or an indie girl for that matter. There has never been, at any point in my adolescence, a poster of a solo male artist on my bedroom wall. Fedoras have  never been a part of my wardrobe and I am more inspired by female pop stars in leotards than I am anyone else in the music industry. I didn’t even have a One Direction phase. But the genre of music that I have found myself listening to, double-tapping and hitting repeat, can only be described as White Guys with Guitars.

“Alternative” would be too forgiving of its pop-leaning success and “soft-rock” seems to strip this wildly successful meta-genre of its depth. White Guys with Guitars describes a tribe of male 20-somethings with a highly specific sound and an even more specific audience.

Amidst the club-hits and hip-hip crossovers on the Top 10 chart, there always seems to be a successful, simple acoustic-ish song dominating the radio. Music from the likes of Ed Sheeran and Shawn Mendes is about as infectious as chicken pox. Media can’t seem to get enough of these kind of stars– Grammy performances and appearances on top network programs. This star treatment seems like a far departure from the music itself; multi-platinum sales for simple, acoustic records.

The success of White Guys with Guitars may have little to do with the quality of their music at all. This sect of the music industry, more so than music moguls of any genre, has a highly specific and eager market: women.

Before my boyfriend proposed, my connection to White Guys with Guitars was skin-deep. Their love songs were easy on the ears, sure, but it wasn’t any of my concern. After the sudden explosion of romance and bliss in my life, however, I began to drink the Kool-Aid.

Here were these men– not even men, regular dudes, just like my guy!– pouring their hearts out, reading my mind– see, men can feel too! So raw! So real! So sweet!

Therein lies the mania. Women are collectively spoonfed the fantasy of a monogamous happily-ever-after from their earliest Disney movie. From that point forward, we are made to feel like we should pine for our Prince Charming every chance we get. Females’ experience with love is a more deeply rooted process than that of her male counterpart. The act of being in love is defining in the character of a female.

Because we are taught to yearn for the one, we buy into media that comforts this deep need. Quite literally, we buy it– women are the main demographic in White Guys with Guitars sales. Their records that speak of nothing but warm fuzzies or the ache of a broken heart resonate with women. In a media climate that encourages conflict, White Guys with Guitars supplies hope that the men we pray for actually exist.

And this is not to say Harry Styles or Niall Horan aren’t good natured individuals. But the lyricism and motivation of White Guys with Guitars is totally formulaic. With the promise of sales and streams in the multi-millions, as a young male artist, would you rather continue with optimistic, charming, lovey-dovey songwriting– or risk your career completely?

The brilliance of White Guys with Guitars is its appeal across genres. Country music sensations Thomas Rhett and Hunter Hayes have gained radio play on the Hot 100 by producing tracks that are essentially genre-less. White Guys with Guitars is acoustic enough to be folksy, but the men of the genre are cool enough to be pop-leaning. It may be safe to say the combination of an acoustic guitar, faded jeans and idyllic lyrics transcends genre and goes straight to the content market.

Considering the business of White Guys with Guitars, how, as a woman, am I supposed to consider its politics? On the one hand, feminist perspective could deny male singers the cash-cow of our fandom. We could instead begin to seek (and celebrate) female artists who hold the narrative about love and romance. White Guys with Guitars exploits the construction under which we are expected to operate.

On the other hand, White Guys with Guitars is a musical genre that is produced solely for women. Just like Nicholas Sparks novels and February-released RomComs, White Guys with Guitars have an exclusivity about them that may outweigh their exploitative values. The subject matter of “Perfect” by Ed Sheeran may be rigidly gendered and traditionalist, but the song is widely supported by females as a female anthem. Women ultimately control the success of White Guys with Guitars, therefore our enjoyment of their music is tinged with flowery, glittery empowerment.

I am willing to accept White Guys with Guitars’ inspiration as hokey– because above all else, that was the music I wept childishly to on my way to Dunkin Donuts in the days following the proposal. Love isn’t always as it is portrayed in movies, but it certainly is sometimes. Love is tragic, dramatic, exhilarating, cheesy, corny and blissful. You can always turn to White Guys with Guitars to remind you of that.

.   .   .

I made a White Guys with Guitars playlist on Spotify! Check it out here:

https://open.spotify.com/embed/user/hsmines/playlist/4TUJRFppASVwmTTGEOgNsW

A Netflix documentary on the life of Lady Gaga seems so right, don’t you think? Netflix has successfully branded their original projects with a no-holds-barred sort of flare, so the news Gaga: Five Foot Two would premiere September 22nd on the streaming service delighted fans. The documentary promised to show a side of the star we had never seen before. But I wondered, what is there left to see? Lady Gaga was, at one time, the biggest pop star in the world. Years beyond the bleeding on stage, the political statements, the meat dress, the dozens of magazine spreads and interviews showcasing “what Lady Gaga is REALLY like!”, what else can we learn about Gaga? What is the next story she has to tell?

The first half of the film feels like– and is, in some cases– an extended smoke break with Gaga. Directed by Chris Moukarbel, the beginning of the documentary resembles a dream-like time out. Lady Gaga’s career has been, in its entirety, a testament to her creative genius. Now that we, her audience, understand this, Gaga: Five Foot Two spends no time convincing us of her talent or capabilities. Instead, we are welcomed into Gaga’s California home, tucked away in the serenity of Malibu. We ride with her through Los Angeles and New York, shotgun in her gorgeous vintage convertible. We know Gaga the performer; Five Foot Two acquaints us with Gaga the woman.

The doc’s cinéma vérité style walks us through the wheelhouse of Gaga’s team and the structure of her latest project. The tone of the film is initially breezy, introducing us to Gaga cooking a meal or enjoying a joint outside of her home. These candid moments are, of course, sprinkled with Gaga’s intellect and eccentricity. She opens up about her supposed feud with Madonna stoned in a parking garage. In the middle of a poolside professional conversation, Gaga nonchalantly removes her bikini top and continues to talk about new music. Gaga’s raw energy is almost tangible throughout; the way she commands attention in the recording studio, on set of American Horror Story and during her performance rehearsals. Gaga the artist, the feminist, the perfectionist, the business woman– her voice leads the way for Five Foot Two. 

The film follows the development and release of Lady Gaga’s fifth studio album, Joanne. In this regard, Gaga: Five Foot Two borrows themes of growth, loss and isolation heard on the new record. In the film, Gaga explains that 2013 and beyond were taxing years on her mental and physical state. She describes recent years as a whirlwind of heartbreak, maturation, alcoholism, depression and body pain. Gaga’s struggle with chronic pain has been one of privacy and mystery; up until this documentary, her physical condition had only been brushed over by the media.

Described as the onset of fibromyalgia, Five Foot Two sees the common and excruciating illness in action on the star. One morning, a tearful Gaga awakes with searing spasms in her muscles. Moments later, she is captured in hair and makeup, on her way to perform. The documentary successfully represents Gaga’s illness as an integral part of her life. In between her interviews and meetings, she is captured receiving medical injections in corner rooms. After her electric performances on stage, we are met with the stark contrast of her pain-staking hospital visits. The dark reality of her wellness is shocking– but it is also important in the context of the film’s release.

Media almost exclusively celebrates those of able body. Disability and illness are, whether we admit it or not, internalized as signs of weakness. Five Foot Two follows Lady Gaga– a cultural figurehead for strength personified. She talks personal and artistic growth in the film, and briefly discusses the comfortability in her sexuality as a 30-year-old woman. For once in media, disability does not define Gaga’s personal successes. Gaga continues to be a creator, a boss, a sexual being, a performer. Rather than crumble under the pain of her illness, she carries it with her and churns it into her strength as a human being.

A success of Gaga: Five Foot Two is its breadth of subject matter. The film captures months of Gaga’s demanding work schedule, where major career events lend themselves to personal discussion by the star herself. It lacks, respectively, depth of any one issue she discusses. We meet Gaga’s grandmother, who lost her daughter Joanne to Lupus before Gaga was born. We are steered through Gaga’s emotional family dynamic with the missing family member who inspired the record Joanne. Though the family narrative hits hard in her Grandmother’s quiet living room, or when we see Gaga alone at a family christening, it loses its punch amidst the many other aspects captured in the film. Her very recent failed engagement is only touched on a handful of times in the wake of her Super Bowl performance.

The halftime show is set up as the conclusion of the film; what all the struggle of the first 90 minutes leads up to. Because I felt this film grappled to plant its feet, Five Foot Two could have surpassed the Super Bowl and continued into more events of her daily life, perhaps opening up more about her illness or future artistic plans. It could have very well been that the filmmakers had to simply choose a stopping point– because I’m certain following Lady Gaga with a camera creates a myriad of pop culture anthologies. In all, the observational style of the doc leaves us with at least a breath of what the artful, wise and impassioned life of Lady Gaga might be like.

Lady Gaga was the first ever pop singer that gave me insight into stardom. Her story was one of perseverance, grit and creative genius. She opened my eyes to the working life of musicians; proving that being a pop star is as much an occupation as it is a labor of love. Like most fans, I found that Joanne was a confusing departure from Gaga’s sequined, balls-to-the-wall pop style. It made me question if she still possessed the same passion that inspired me so long ago. But this documentary tied together the change in Gaga’s artistry and her personal experiences, proving a pop star is only as creative as she grows to be. Five Foot Two paints a striking portrait of the beloved singer we were introduced to in 2008– a portrait that upholds her legacy with an unpolished human perspective.

June 1, 2016, media outlets received word that the 15 month relationship between Taylor Swift and Calvin Harris had ended. June 14, 2016, Taylor Swift was photographed with Tom Hiddleston, her new boyfriend, nestled on a beach. The photos featured the two kissing with their limbs intertwined. Since then Tom and Taylor— or HiddleSwift, if you please— have been spotted smitten throughout Europe and Australia in extravagant locations. Yachts, intimate restaurants, and hand-in hand sight-seeing. Taylor has even met Tom’s mother in England. A whirlwind romance, they’ve been calling it. Media outlets are in a frenzy covering the superstar’s three few weeks. But the anchors who read the teleprompter, who are supposed to relay their own happiness for Swift, have a dullness in their eye. Even though this sold as positive news, we are not fully able to welcome her new relationship. It seems displaced for a reason we can’t identify.

I think we all have that one friend. The one who always has a boyfriend. She will name drop her love interest at your sleepover, assuming you will accept the new information. She will post photo after photo on Instagram convincing her followers he’s the best boyfriend ever. She will most likely turn to you for support when they break up, then the cycle will continue. Her new man is still the best boyfriend, like, ever. Try as you might to support your friend, you see her behavior as problematic. Although she is living her life the way she wants to— and you would never judge her for that— she might be hurting people. Your friend is a serial dater… or so society says.

Taylor Swift has been very candid about the double standards she faces expressing her love life through music. She is well aware of being labeled a serial dater and is not entertaining that idea in the slightest. As proud, self-proclaimed feminist, Taylor has kept her confidence in ignoring sexist criticism. Since Swift has always reached a normal-girl audience, young women everywhere have spoken up and agreed with their idol. Why should women regret falling in love while men can do whatever they want? And while Swift’s efforts to defend herself are recognized as powerful and necessary (rightfully so), there is still a hint of sarcasm in the reports about her new beau. Headlines like Follow HiddleSwifts’ Crazy 2-Week Relationship Timeline! seem to continue to jab at Taylor for moving on so fast— too fast for our liking.

The phrase “serial dater” is one rooted in misogyny. It is not proper for a woman to have too many men in her life. Why? In a word: sex. This frustrating sexist mindset is age-old with ancestral origins. However, in the new millennium tables have begun to turn (sort of). In the generation of social movements, sex positivity has made appearances in the mainstream. Millennials have realized that sexuality is a basic human experience and ultimately coined the term “slut shaming”. The new generation recognizes sex as normal and sexuality as empowering for women. For example, the 2015 Amber Rose SlutWalk raised over $55,000 in donations. The well-attended and publicized event protested for, among other things, females’ right to sexual freedom. This sentiment has worked its way into popular culture in the 2010’s as well. Nicki Minaj’s “Anaconda”, her sassy homage to her varied sexcapades, quickly sparked a conversation about slut shaming in 2014 that is still not over. The music industry in particular has created an avenue for females to be sexually expressive. More recently, female artists have been able to bare their sexuality in an honest way and receive less criticism. And that’s incredible and progressive. So why on earth is Taylor Swift, an artist who is overtly not sexual in image, so widely disapproved for serial dating?

The answer again lies in misogyny. Not towards female sexuality directly, rather female control. Taylor Swift, through her years of several high-profile break-ups, has always been painted on the offense. Media portrays her casually running through the lives of men which comes across as irresponsible, inconsiderate, messy— in summary, bitchy. Think of your friend— the serial dater I mentioned; are you not slightly disappointed each time she doesn’t slow down? You think she should know better.

But perhaps she does. Your perception of both your friend and Taylor Swift involve your distaste for their control. Love and monogamy have become almost synonymous in the Western world. The idea of two people together forever is wrapped in a big bow for us every day. Taylor Swift is searching for that just like us. But her personal decisions to scrap a relationship and immediately start anew goes against our pre-packaged idea. As a woman, shouldn’t she hold on longer? Be more dedicated?

The hypocrisy in our judgment begins to come out. Simultaneously, we expect Taylor to be weak enough to constantly search for love but strong enough to maintain it. The traditional role of the female is submissive to the male and without a voice. Taylor’s rolodex of famous exes may be varied, untimely and imperfect— but above all else, it is her’s. Her romantic life as a twenty-something may falter, it may succeed. Our criticism of her serial dating is our reaction to her being human. In our progressive society, we are beginning to accept the primal parts of ourselves; after all, sex is pleasurable. Human nature is also fickle, even wrong often. While we expect females to be sexual beings, their control over their instincts is something we have trouble with. Taylor Swift loves and feels— we can accept that. We even buy her records because of it. But it is her deliberate decision to leave and begin relationships that is uncharacteristic of the perfect female. The classic whore vs. stud argument now extends beyond sex— we disapprove of Taylor because of the ownership she has over her love life, and, consequently, the ownership she has over her male partners. Taylor has grown from a teen to a woman in front of our eyes. It would only make sense that her sensibility about love and relationships should grow too.

Taylor’s fans have taken to her new relationship on social media, backing their favorite star and joking about her dating Loki from the Avengers. Relationship experts claim Hiddleston is a gentleman and a good move for the singer. Perhaps HiddleSwift is, by the laws of destiny that we so desperately buy into, meant to be. Perhaps Taylor chose Tom as a rebound, hurting from her experience with Calvin Harris. Perhaps she dates (and dates and dates) seeking validation. Perhaps not. That’s her choice. It was never our business anyway.