‘GLOW’ Is A Fiercely Funny Look At Women Breaking Free Of The Prison Of The Male Gaze

About halfway through GLOW, Netflix’s new original comedy about the mayhem behind the first ever women’s wrestling show, the fictional show’s director Sam Sylvia (a tremendously funny Marc Maron) tries to sell the project like this: “They’re going to be wrestling with their own female stereotypes, metaphorically. Do you understand? And I think that’s something that’s going to resonate with female audiences.”

After a beat, he adds, “And guys? Well, guys — let’s be honest — they’re going to want to watch because girls wrestling is fucking hot.”

Sam’s pitch isn’t just a cheeky summation of the show-within-a-show on GLOW. It’s also an ironically profound description of GLOW itself. GLOW is a fiercely funny look at women — and a few men – fighting their way through the prison of stereotypes. It’s also a glorious ode to ’80s excess, complete with a cocaine-serving robot butler and some cheeky Meatballs-style nude scenes. It is uplifting in its own goofy way and gives us a pantheon of oddballs trapped within society’s expectations of them.

GLOW‘s first season makes for an astonishingly entertaining yarn. It’s part behind-the-scenes theater story, part gripping female ensemble, part gleefully subversive comedy. But for the first few episodes, I found myself struggling to figure out what precisely GLOW was trying to say about female empowerment. The first episode gives us not one, but two, gratuitous topless shots of its leading lady that seemed unnecessary to the story, but in line with the ’80s comedy genre, which often catered to masturbatory fantasies. The early dream sequences also pit Alison Brie and Betty Gilpin‘s characters against each other in wrestling matches that are focused on shots of their taut bodies and toned curves. That is, they are shot for what is conventionally coined, “the male gaze.” Then, as the series progressed, the power dynamic with these types of exploitive shots began to seesaw. There’s an embarrassing butt shot of a naked man and a fawning introductory shot of a cute pizza delivery boy, the latter evoking director Sofia Coppola’s visual treatment of Josh Hartnett in The Virgin Suicides.

Throughout the series, GLOW toys with this dichotomy: the tug-of-war between female empowerment and male expectations. These women, a diverse pack of fascinating people — each depicted with their own goals, comedic rhythms, and unique voices — are trying to succeed in a system rigged for the enjoyment of straight men. Even though we’re watching these women battle through their insecurities are depicted as “warriors,” they are being cast as the worst stereotypes about them. It’s a nod to the world of professional wrestling, which has always played with stereotypes, and it’s a commentary on what society does to us all.

The show opens with Alison Brie’s character Ruth, a struggling actress groping for her last shreds of dignity, delivering a beautifully complex monologue straight to camera. Her performance is shattered not only by the revelation that she’s on an audition, but that she’s been reading the male character’s sides the entire time. The part she’s been brought in for? A meek secretary.

Ruth is introduced as our primary protagonist. She’s an underdog trying to find herself in a culture primed to undercut her. That’s the acting world, but also the world as a whole. Ruth’s last real shot at getting out of the hole is to win a part in a new ladies wrestling show. She has to figure out how to find a place in a world that doesn’t initially want her. Ruth’s position shifts over the season from lousy protagonist to glowing heel. She comes into her own by embracing her “bad” side and by creating a kooky Russian alter-ego.

Many of the more striking character arcs in the show also deal with the struggle to express one’s voice in a society trying to stifle it. In particular, one episode gives us a glimpse at the inner life of Sheila (Gayle Rankin), a young woman who dresses up and acts like a wolf. A modern viewer might be able to figure out that she is an otherkin or a furry in a time before the internet connected such people into vast, inclusive communities, but it’s a little harder for Ruth to understand that Sheila covers up her natural blonde hair and dresses in furs because she really does feels like a wolf inside. The wrestling world accepts this lifestyle choice insomuch that it exploits its trappings for entertainment, but it still accepts her. More importantly, the other wrestlers accept her.

GLOW doesn’t just deal in gender politics. It touches upon such issues racial politics, Islamophobia, abortion, and our constant rivalry with Russia. By doing so, GLOW shows us that many of our contemporary struggles have been “contemporary” for the last 30 plus years. These fights —  are as eternal as they are universal. The strange thing is that despite the fact that the show confronts these heavy issues, the tone of GLOW never gets too bogged down in misery. The characters are too stupidly idealistic, too stubborn in the face of adversity, and too kooky to bow down to ever submit totally to despair about their situation. When individual characters do start to wallow, the rest of the ensemble lifts them up. In the end, GLOW is a comedy about triumphing over the odds. It’s a deeply moving and hilariously funny comedy at that.

Stream GLOW on Netflix