Skip to main content

Gay Life

 In our house, we gathered to watch Jeff Hiller's Emmy acceptance speech. 


Predictably, my husband was moved by the emotional highs, while I looked for subtext. Why didn't the camera show Bridget Everett when she was mentioned? Since Hiller was clearly the co-lead in his series, and not a supporting player, was the "category fraud" a byproduct of homophobia?

But--okay--I was also just happy, too. As I think about Hiller's win, I remember a mysterious scene in the third season, in which the character Joel just bursts into tears. The tears may be a response to a difficult situation--Joel's spouse-to-be does not want to have kids--but this reading seems a bit too simple. I think the tears are about growing pains. Joel can be pleased by his various "life renovations"--but also overwhelmed. The sense of sadness can't be "mapped onto" just one part of Joel's experience. Sometimes, people just burst into tears. And life goes on.

Also, I was so moved by Joel's fraught connection to religion. In Season One, Joel establishes a raunchy carabert at his church. Being able to sing about dicks--in a "godly" space--is profoundly "healing" for Joel. When the run of his cabaret is abruptly terminated, he is devastated. "Trying on" a new religious experience is not a simple matter. Joining his spouse at a very buttoned-up church is clearly sort of deadening for Joel. When he finally speaks out, it's difficult not to pump a fist in (sympathetic) triumph.

The cliche says that a character--not a performance--tends to win an award. I think the look on Bowen Yang's face--at the Emmys--is important. Jeff Hiller's win is noteworthy because his character pushes the envelope. The story of Joel shows aspects of a gay life that are generally not explored on TV. Joel is not outrageous, not excessively bullied, not struggling with extravagant mental-health issues. He is just a person trying to steer himself through one year after the next after the next.

So Hiller's victory matters. Certainly it's a win for my family.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...

Raymond Carver: "What's in Alaska?"

Outside, Mary held Jack's arm and walked with her head down. They moved slowly on the sidewalk. He listened to the scuffing sounds her shoes made. He heard the sharp and separate sound of a dog barking and above that a murmuring of very distant traffic.  She raised her head. "When we get home, Jack, I want to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack. I need to be diverted tonight." She tightened her hold on his arm. He could feel the dampness in that shoe. He unlocked the door and flipped the light. "Come to bed," she said. "I'm coming," he said. He went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. He turned off the living-room light and felt his way along the wall into the bedroom. "Jack!" she yelled. "Jack!" "Jesus Christ, it's me!" he said. "I'm trying to get the light on." He found the lamp, and she sat up in bed. Her eyes were bright. He pulled the stem on the alarm and b...

My Favorite Pop Song

  One thing I admire about Prince is his weirdly pretentious verses: Dream, if you can, a courtyard-- An ocean of violets in bloom. Also: Touch, if you will, my stomach. Feel how it trembles inside. No one else writes like this. Did people try to shoot down these choices? Did a producer say, "We'd like to rethink this one... Touch, if you will, my stomach...."  I can't help but wonder. But it's the chorus that makes this a classic. It's direct and universal--and it ends with that bizarre flourish, the allusion to "the crying doves." (Prince's song was number one in America for quite a while; it defeated Bruce Springsteen's "Dancing in the Dark.") How can you just leave me standing-- Alone in a world that's so cold? Maybe I'm just too demanding. Maybe I'm just like my father--too bold. Maybe you're just like my mother; She's never satisfied. Why do we scream at each other? This is what it sounds like when doves cr...