No longer were we privy to the “fighting, fucking, crying, drinking, riding, winning, losing, cheating” of the glamorous gals of West Hollywood, L.A. After five years, the show ended with the cast weirdly walking towards us in slow motion, like gleeful pixies who had just clubbed their friend to death for the fun of it—R.I.P. Jenny. Fans watching the original show in a pre-Santana and Brittany era of on-screen lesbian representation will remember their disappointment when it ended, even after a very off-brand (read: kinda shit) final season.
“After five years, the show ended with the cast weirdly walking towards us in slow motion, like gleeful pixies who had just clubbed their friend to death for the fun of it—R.I.P. Jenny.”
It shouldn’t be so in 2020, but the new The L Word: Generation Q was a huge deal for the show’s OG fans as nothing has filled the void left by the original. No show or film got us saying things like:
“Babe, you’re so the Shane of Toronto/London/Wodonga” or,
“I just had a full Alice-season-three-car-chase-moment with my ex” or,
“I wanna make a baby”—actually, that one was gross.
So, when The L Word: Generation Q was finally released, dykes across the globe were thirsty AF for it. We gathered excitedly in flocks, bearing our platters of homemade vegetarian snacks to enjoy while watching the reboot at queer viewing parties or cuddled up at home with our long-term partners and rescue pets. Alas, the new The L Word about our “girls in tight dresses who drag with moustaches” is a huge anticlimax (bye Betty—your horrendous theme song is gone and I was genuinely surprised to be sad about it).
While the show should be praised for diversifying the representation of queer life on-screen—with a more inclusive cast of trans, gender-diverse and POC characters—it fails to capture the comedy, drama, naff-ness and self-referential gayness of the original. Sure, Alice has figured out how to werk an Isabel Marant jumpsuit (Pieszecki really couldn’t dress before, but we let it go because she’s so damn lovable) but, by and large, the effort to try and slot the new GQ cast in with the old gang feels like we are watching two separate shows, neither of which are particularly compelling.
The new crew wasn’t treated to a lot of character development, and none exhibit even the faintest sense of humour, except for Finley whose ‘wacky’ personality comes across as forced and just plain annoying. Sure, Jenny’s season 2 circus act was painful but at least you could enjoy making so much fun of it and of her.
“Sure, Jenny’s season 2 circus act was painful but at least you could enjoy making fun of it.”
The new characters seem to be shoved together into miss-matched relationships without rhyme or reason, making it hard to care about the shenanigans they get up to (which are actually pretty tame). Finley ruins her relationship of about five minutes with a priest by scandalously calling her “not a real priest” when she’s drunk. Okay. Even if we did care about how much of a priest this woman is or isn’t, it’s boring because we didn’t get a sufficient build-up to them getting together to really care about what they may be losing here. In the same dull vein, trans character Micah starts dating a hot babe who turns out to be married. Drama! What are the chances when they have barely spoken? All of this just feels like filler content while we wait for Bette, Shane or Alice to appear on-screen with their established backstories, personalities and character dynamics. Or for Jenny to rise from the ashes bearing her glittery purple dildo and the master print of ‘Lez Girls’ (#justiceforjenny).
Most of the NKOTB just weren’t given the same shake as our beloved originals. I miss the days of Bette yelling “can I get a sippy cup over here? Jesus!” after kidnapping her own child from Tina (fuckin’ Tina). Or Dawn Denbo and ‘her lover Cindy’ for being those lesbians you always saw at the club. Or Jenny Schecter being a hilariously apt bitch to everyone and then getting single-white-femaled by her creepy assistant in season six. Now that was good TV. While our returning cast remain endearingly flawed, their shortcomings don’t lead to interesting storylines. Shane is still running away from hot women who she’s agreed to marry, then getting boringly depressed about it for longer than usual. Bette remains a lovable, alpha-femme power-top who can’t help but cheat on everyone, and Alice still does ‘kooky’ things like make herself a third wheel in her own relationship for no real reason (when the only threesome we want to see is one between Shane, her hot wife and one very lucky lady).
Most of the NKOTB just weren’t given the same shake as our beloved originals. I miss the days of Bette yelling “can I get a sippy cup over here? Jesus!” after kidnapping her own child from Tina (fuckin’ Tina).
While there are some surprise reveals throughout Generation Q, these fall flatter than Jenny and Dana’s ridiculous attempt at sex in season one. Surprise, Kit is DEAD from a drug overdose (what?) And Jenny actually killed herself (whodunnit? Shedunnit! Urgh!) And Tina—of all the original cast members to bring back, they chose Mama Fuckin’ T—appears for a bit to do nothing but provide exposition re: what happened between her and Bette several years ago. In short, Bette cheated (classic) then Tina piked on Kit’s funeral, despite all the free babysitting Kit did for her, not to mention the close personal friendship they had fostered over many years. These surprises do little for the story except reiterate that yes, Tina is still the worst, and no, none of the lesbians murdered Jenny, and yes, Bette is obsessed with being the Mayor so she can battle the opioid crisis.
In a time when series like Orange is the New Black, Pose, Killing Eve and Vida have come along and authentically represented a diverse range of queer characters while serving up good storytelling, the revival of The L Word just doesn’t quite pack the same punch.
On a more promising note, props must be dished to the new show for attempting to rectify a lot of the original’s issues, like the cringe-worthy and offensive storylines surrounding the one trans character, Max, and the predominantly wealthy-white-woman-washed cast of thin, L.A. lipstick lesbians. Despite these flaws—which may be partly attributed to the show being a product of its time—the original series was a truly iconic part of queer screen culture and Herstory, due to its mostly queer ensemble cast and its nuanced depiction of queer female subjectivity on a mainstream show. But in a time when series like Orange is the New Black, Pose, Killing Eve and Vida have come along and authentically represented a diverse range of queer characters while serving up good storytelling, the revival of the L Word just doesn’t quite pack the same punch. So far, we just see a whole bunch of loosely-connected and kinda-humourless queer people living out their pretty tame lives and skirt around some topical issues. Maybe season two will be more fun?
But look: it’s here, it’s queer and it’s the goddamn L Word. So yeah, we’ll endure more of Mama B bonding with her daughter Angelica—in scenes that feel lifted from a gay 7th Heaven—to get to the part where she (hopefully) hooks up with Dani. Come on ‘Danette!’ Before long we might even be saying stuff like “omg that was such a Gigi/Sophie/Micah thing to say” or, if you’re feeling really shady, “stop being so Finley”. In any case, we’ll stay tuned. Because no one in their right mind is going to pass up an opportunity to marvel at Bette Porter and her Big Dyke Energy. No one.
No longer were we privy to the “fighting, fucking, crying, drinking, riding, winning, losing, cheating” of the glamorous gals of West Hollywood, L.A. After five years, the show ended with the cast weirdly walking towards us in slow motion, like gleeful pixies who had just clubbed their friend to death for the fun of it—R.I.P. Jenny. Fans watching the original show in a pre-Santana and Brittany era of on-screen lesbian representation will remember their disappointment when it ended, even after a very off-brand (read: kinda shit) final season.
“After five years, the show ended with the cast weirdly walking towards us in slow motion, like gleeful pixies who had just clubbed their friend to death for the fun of it—R.I.P. Jenny.”
It shouldn’t be so in 2020, but the new The L Word: Generation Q was a huge deal for the show’s OG fans as nothing has filled the void left by the original. No show or film got us saying things like:
“Babe, you’re so the Shane of Toronto/London/Wodonga” or,
“I just had a full Alice-season-three-car-chase-moment with my ex” or,
“I wanna make a baby”—actually, that one was gross.
So, when The L Word: Generation Q was finally released, dykes across the globe were thirsty AF for it. We gathered excitedly in flocks, bearing our platters of homemade vegetarian snacks to enjoy while watching the reboot at queer viewing parties or cuddled up at home with our long-term partners and rescue pets. Alas, the new The L Word about our “girls in tight dresses who drag with moustaches” is a huge anticlimax (bye Betty—your horrendous theme song is gone and I was genuinely surprised to be sad about it).
While the show should be praised for diversifying the representation of queer life on-screen—with a more inclusive cast of trans, gender-diverse and POC characters—it fails to capture the comedy, drama, naff-ness and self-referential gayness of the original. Sure, Alice has figured out how to werk an Isabel Marant jumpsuit (Pieszecki really couldn’t dress before, but we let it go because she’s so damn lovable) but, by and large, the effort to try and slot the new GQ cast in with the old gang feels like we are watching two separate shows, neither of which are particularly compelling.
The new crew wasn’t treated to a lot of character development, and none exhibit even the faintest sense of humour, except for Finley whose ‘wacky’ personality comes across as forced and just plain annoying. Sure, Jenny’s season 2 circus act was painful but at least you could enjoy making so much fun of it and of her.
“Sure, Jenny’s season 2 circus act was painful but at least you could enjoy making fun of it.”
The new characters seem to be shoved together into miss-matched relationships without rhyme or reason, making it hard to care about the shenanigans they get up to (which are actually pretty tame). Finley ruins her relationship of about five minutes with a priest by scandalously calling her “not a real priest” when she’s drunk. Okay. Even if we did care about how much of a priest this woman is or isn’t, it’s boring because we didn’t get a sufficient build-up to them getting together to really care about what they may be losing here. In the same dull vein, trans character Micah starts dating a hot babe who turns out to be married. Drama! What are the chances when they have barely spoken? All of this just feels like filler content while we wait for Bette, Shane or Alice to appear on-screen with their established backstories, personalities and character dynamics. Or for Jenny to rise from the ashes bearing her glittery purple dildo and the master print of ‘Lez Girls’ (#justiceforjenny).
Most of the NKOTB just weren’t given the same shake as our beloved originals. I miss the days of Bette yelling “can I get a sippy cup over here? Jesus!” after kidnapping her own child from Tina (fuckin’ Tina). Or Dawn Denbo and ‘her lover Cindy’ for being those lesbians you always saw at the club. Or Jenny Schecter being a hilariously apt bitch to everyone and then getting single-white-femaled by her creepy assistant in season six. Now that was good TV. While our returning cast remain endearingly flawed, their shortcomings don’t lead to interesting storylines. Shane is still running away from hot women who she’s agreed to marry, then getting boringly depressed about it for longer than usual. Bette remains a lovable, alpha-femme power-top who can’t help but cheat on everyone, and Alice still does ‘kooky’ things like make herself a third wheel in her own relationship for no real reason (when the only threesome we want to see is one between Shane, her hot wife and one very lucky lady).
Most of the NKOTB just weren’t given the same shake as our beloved originals. I miss the days of Bette yelling “can I get a sippy cup over here? Jesus!” after kidnapping her own child from Tina (fuckin’ Tina).
While there are some surprise reveals throughout Generation Q, these fall flatter than Jenny and Dana’s ridiculous attempt at sex in season one. Surprise, Kit is DEAD from a drug overdose (what?) And Jenny actually killed herself (whodunnit? Shedunnit! Urgh!) And Tina—of all the original cast members to bring back, they chose Mama Fuckin’ T—appears for a bit to do nothing but provide exposition re: what happened between her and Bette several years ago. In short, Bette cheated (classic) then Tina piked on Kit’s funeral, despite all the free babysitting Kit did for her, not to mention the close personal friendship they had fostered over many years. These surprises do little for the story except reiterate that yes, Tina is still the worst, and no, none of the lesbians murdered Jenny, and yes, Bette is obsessed with being the Mayor so she can battle the opioid crisis.
In a time when series like Orange is the New Black, Pose, Killing Eve and Vida have come along and authentically represented a diverse range of queer characters while serving up good storytelling, the revival of The L Word just doesn’t quite pack the same punch.
On a more promising note, props must be dished to the new show for attempting to rectify a lot of the original’s issues, like the cringe-worthy and offensive storylines surrounding the one trans character, Max, and the predominantly wealthy-white-woman-washed cast of thin, L.A. lipstick lesbians. Despite these flaws—which may be partly attributed to the show being a product of its time—the original series was a truly iconic part of queer screen culture and Herstory, due to its mostly queer ensemble cast and its nuanced depiction of queer female subjectivity on a mainstream show. But in a time when series like Orange is the New Black, Pose, Killing Eve and Vida have come along and authentically represented a diverse range of queer characters while serving up good storytelling, the revival of the L Word just doesn’t quite pack the same punch. So far, we just see a whole bunch of loosely-connected and kinda-humourless queer people living out their pretty tame lives and skirt around some topical issues. Maybe season two will be more fun?
But look: it’s here, it’s queer and it’s the goddamn L Word. So yeah, we’ll endure more of Mama B bonding with her daughter Angelica—in scenes that feel lifted from a gay 7th Heaven—to get to the part where she (hopefully) hooks up with Dani. Come on ‘Danette!’ Before long we might even be saying stuff like “omg that was such a Gigi/Sophie/Micah thing to say” or, if you’re feeling really shady, “stop being so Finley”. In any case, we’ll stay tuned. Because no one in their right mind is going to pass up an opportunity to marvel at Bette Porter and her Big Dyke Energy. No one.
