CHENNAI: I was still thinking about Made In Heaven and why, for a show that so ham-fistedly tries to be recognised as progressive, its recurring female lead is so unlikeable. Tara Khanna, one of the two wedding planner protagonists of the series, is cold, and conniving and due to either the writing itself or to Sobhita Dhulipala’s lacklustre performance, comes off as more boring than bored in every episode. What kind of sermon-laden show centres such an uninspiring role model?
Then, I watched Little Fires Everywhere, the limited series adaptation of a novel by Celeste Ng (which I haven’t and won’t read). I didn’t like the first episode, but something about it got under my skin and I binged the rest. By the end, there was no redemptive twist to either of the two protagonists: a privileged white mother with liberal leanings, and a single black mother of considerably less privilege and a mysterious past. Spoiler alert: the latter eventually comes off infinitely worse, a textbook study in maternal narcissism. After finishing LFE, I found myself disturbed and looked up other people’s reactions to it to help me understand my own.
That was when I learned that Kerry Washington’s Mia Warren character had not been black in the book. She was rewritten as black for the series, and race became one of the show’s core subjects. I was angry then. The filmmakers had deliberately manipulated the audience by presenting a character whom we were sympathetic to by default because she was disadvantaged, whom we’d read a certain way through prior consumption, observation and experience. Then, we were creatively gaslit. They knew we would feel terrible about hating a marginalised character.
Perhaps if the target audience was a purely privileged one, this would have been a fair provocation. But the lip service around shows like these always claims otherwise. This revives the question of why film and TV creators — who work in mediums meant for mass consumption — make work that reveals itself to have been intended for one kind of audience even while it appears to be about, and sometimes even achieves diversity and inclusivity.
The premise that we are all inherently monstrous is anything but nuanced. It doesn’t deepen our engagement with other human beings and invalidates survivor experiences. It is, in every sense of the word, fictional. But this kind of storytelling is also increasingly deployed in stories that concern real, systemic wrongs.
Art does challenge meaningfully, through both discomfort and charm, but there is also the kind that smugly tosses out provocations without enabling further openings. Mostly, I’m tired of this trope where all the characters are unlikeable, but we’re supposed to admire the creators’ artistry because they pulled the wool over our eyes for the duration of our viewership. Give me someone to root for. Give me someone to care about. Move me. That’s real life, too.
It can be done. Queen Sugar, a stunningly beautiful series also based on a book, perfectly executed flawed characters whom we can believe in. It takes intelligent audiences, yes, but it also takes makers who are willing to open their hearts, not just trifle with audiences’ minds.