Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries: A Review of Season 2

Murder mystery series, whether in book or television form, have always been amusing to me as far as the overall conceit works. Not the Law & Order-style murder mysteries, where you have professional detectives getting called into investigations because that's their job. But more the Nancy Drew-style series, where an amateur, otherwise regular person goes about their daily life, which just happens to include a gruesome murder every week or so.

It's suspension of disbelief that allows these type of series to survive and flourish. (If you witnessed a murder every week, wouldn't you start to go a little crazy after a while?) And as far as flourishing goes, I am overjoyed that the Australian series Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries is going to come back for a third season sometime later this year, after some consternation and wringing of hands by its fans who were worried that it might be canceled.

I love this show. Once I'd learned that a third season was imminent, I spent the past weekend watching the entire second season (and rewatching part of the first). And let me tell you, suspension of disbelief is never more enjoyable than when you're immersed in Miss Fisher's world. It's Melbourne, Australia in the 1920s. Phryne Fisher has inherited a vast fortune, which allows her the freedom and the funds to dress in couture every day, gallivant around town in her top-of-the-line "motorcar," and support a complete household staff in her luxurious home. Phryne speaks her mind and does what she likes, and she's irresistible with her coiffed black bob and her purr of a voice.

All of this combined with Phryne's insistence on solving crimes and upholding justice would be enough, but there's more. She's talented and athletic, confident and witty, intelligent and intuitive. (As I write this, I wonder how it's possible to love and admire a character with almost no flaws.) Season 2 finds her performing a fan dance at a gentleman's club (all part of an undercover scheme, naturally), acting out a radio drama, directing a film, and showing off her singing abilities. She is sexually voracious and independent; nearly every episode includes a brief moment with a new lover, who is featured in that episode, appears in her bed for one glorious evening, and never turns up again. Sex is fun, guilt-free recreation for Phryne--an extraordinary accomplishment for a woman in that era, and often in this one.

This leaves us wondering what's going to happen with Phryne and Detective Inspector Jack Robinson, whose will-they-or-won't-they chemistry was evident nearly from the first episode and only grows stronger in the second season. The traditional television formula would have us believe that eventually, Jack and Phryne will put aside all their reservations about one another, fall into each other's arms, and live happily ever after. That still could happen here--the sexual tension between them is thick and permeable, and their friendship is solid--but what exactly would "happily ever after" look like for these two? It's practically unthinkable that Phryne would settle down into a quiet, romantic life with Jack, and as much as I want them to be together, I would also be disappointed by that kind of ending.

The good news is that we've got Season 3 to look forward to now. Spoiler alert--there are a few tantalizing "almost" moments in this most recent season, but Jack and Phryne never do share as much as a first kiss, making the advent of the third season that much more exciting.

In "Dead Air," the 11th of 13 episodes in Season 2, Jack Robinson counsels his constable, the boyish Hugh Collins, on how to respond to the fact that Hugh's fiancee Dot (Phryne's constant companion) doesn't want to quit working once they get married. Poor traditional Hugh isn't sure how to take it. "That's the paradox of pursuing a modern woman," Jack tells him. And he would know.

Look at these two! I mean, seriously. Can't wait for Season 3.

Re-finding Feminism

A while back--not far back enough that I'm able to stop cringing about it yet--I renounced feminism.

Well, kind of. I never stopped believing in equal rights for women; I never stopped being pro-choice and I never quit voting and I never decided that we women were all just a bunch of whiny harpies who needed to be put back in our place. I held onto my beliefs, but the word "feminism" became a dirty one in my vocabulary.

The unfortunate, hilarious, oooh-seriously? reason: I was influenced by a man I was dating at the time.

He was, generally, a good guy. Probably still is. And by "good guy," I mean he was respectful and wasn't the type of man you'd find creeping on women in bars or raping anyone. I mean the basic tenets of not being a monster.

But he felt threatened by feminism. As he explained it to me, feminism meant preferential treatment of women by a society trying too hard to right its past wrongs. As a man, he felt he was often overlooked for things like jobs or scholarships, in favor of someone who could fill a diversity quota. And as a white man especially, he felt that as an individual he might miss out on opportunities because he represented too much power and privilege. He was angry that traditional gender roles not only limited and hurt women, but men as well--it was just that no one seemed to care.

Back then, I understood very little about the concept of "privilege." It didn't occur to me to tell him: Yes, but as a white male in America, you have so many advantages you probably don't see most of them. Or: the very fact that you feel threatened by women standing up for their rights not to be second-class citizens is proof of why feminism is important.

I wanted this dude to love me. So he kept talking about how feminism had wronged him, and slowly, I came around to his point of view.

I was raised by feminists. My mother in particular was crucial to this part of my upbringing: giving me books by Gloria Steinem, teaching me about my period and the particulars of my lady-parts when I was very young (much to my chagrin), subscribing me to New Moon magazine. My father was never so overt, but he instilled a strong sense of responsibility and independence in me, and he always liked to toss a baseball or kick a soccer ball around with me when I was growing up. None of this "if only you were a boy" BS.

When I started dating this particular man, I felt only briefly that I was betraying myself (no kidding). I was giving up the ideals that I'd learned were so important, in favor of something that, I was convinced, was more evolved, more enlightened. Men experience sexism, too!!! I'd think, anytime someone mentioned something unfair to women. Harassment? Stereotyping? Discrimination? They happened to men, too, I reasoned, and therefore what women experienced wasn't so special. It was hardly worth discussion. And after all, if you were getting paid less than a man for the same work, it was probably your own fault. I wrote an editorial for my school paper about "reverse sexism" and began explaining that "I'm a humanist, not a feminist. I believe in equal rights for ALL PEOPLE."

I was probably insufferable.

I'm back on track now. That man has been out of my life for several years now. A while ago, I read Caitlin Moran's How to be a Woman and found myself falling back into the soft, pillowy safety net of my feminist allies thanks to her clarity, wit, and utter reasonableness. This quote of hers, in particular, helped lead me out of the tunnel:

“We need to reclaim the word 'feminism'. We need the word 'feminism' back real bad. When statistics come in saying that only 29% of American women would describe themselves as feminist - and only 42% of British women - I used to think, What do you think feminism IS, ladies? What part of 'liberation for women' is not for you? Is it freedom to vote? The right not to be owned by the man you marry? The campaign for equal pay? 'Vogue' by Madonna? Jeans? Did all that good shit GET ON YOUR NERVES? Or were you just DRUNK AT THE TIME OF THE SURVEY?” 

And with that I realized what an idiot I'd been.

Several things have happened in my life recently, however, that made me realize that my own return to sanity regarding feminism doesn't mean shit for the rest of the world. Caitlin Moran is right. A lot of us just plain suck when it comes to women's issues, and whether it's because we're too afraid of the "feminist" label or have some misguided idea of what feminism is, we're not doing a very good job at all.

Identifying as a feminist can be terrifying. It still is for me. I have a hard time talking about it with anyone whose viewpoints might be different than mine; it's only the known feminists I can be completely honest with. That's partly to do with my own dislike of any sort of conflict, but a lot of feminists struggle with being loud and proud about it, too. If I were to tell a complete stranger that I'm a feminist, that person might come to all sorts of unfair conclusions about me, from the superficial ones (I must hate the color pink and any woman who shaves her armpits) to the devastating ones (I must hate men and want to crush their dreams).

And as much as they'd be wrong, I still don't want them to think those things about me. I do have a mental weapon (built on Caitlin Moran's influence) against that doubt and fear, though, which I'll share here.

For any woman afraid of feminism: there's a good chance that unless you live in some sort of cult, you're operating on feminist values without even realizing it. Do you have a job? Are you educated? Do you wear pants and use birth control? Do you enjoy going out unchaperoned on a Friday night, spending your own money, and heading home without any expectation of a curfew? You can thank feminism for that. Women didn't come by these privileges easily.

It's easy not to realize or remember where we've come from. It's incredibly common for an otherwise "modern woman" to not recognize why she is able to live the way she lives. I lost my way for a while, and it feels good to get back to being totally myself, thinking my own thoughts and living as I choose. And after all, isn't that the whole point?

I'm baaaaaaaack!

Hello, lovelies.

Remember when I kept a blog? It was a while back. My most recent post went up more than a year ago.

Life got a little crazy. I moved in with my boyfriend, who then became my fiance. (We're getting married in October!)

Plus I was in grad school, and hurrying to finish up a little sooner than expected so that I could put all my energy into wedding planning and just generally moving forward with my life.

But now, my degree is done, it's summer, and I have lots of ideas and thoughts. A few of them are Chicago-specific. Most of them are not. So let's just pretend that this blog is called "the Ursula files" instead of "the Chicago files" because as much as I love this city, most things that are important to me don't have a lot to do with what happens here.

Also! I used my name just then. Don't know if you noticed. But that's a new thing. Let's drop the anonymity, okay? My name is Ursula and I live in Chicago. There's probably more than a handful of us here. When I started this blog I was all worried about "important people" finding out who I was and, based on my accounts of various landmarks and restaurants in this city, decide that I was unfit for...something. A career, a livelihood, a future. But now I've decided that that's stupid.

Okay, that's enough blathering. See you guys soon.