Gilmore Girls – A Nostalgic Liar or a Compelling Comeback?


Revivals are a funny thing. One on hand, if a show has been mothballed long enough – and, perhaps more importantly, enjoyed an alarmingly devoted fanbase both during and after its run – then it will automatically be greeted and received with feverish enthusiasm. We will gawk at how that character is now bald and slightly more rotund around the middle. We’ll gawp at how the lead character hasn’t changed one iota, sans for a more nimble nose. We will find the same feelings of sympathy and satisfaction we had when we watched it in our salad days.

That’s all a given. Even a franchise as fraternised as American Pie flushed us with feelings of love and awe when they released their reunion movie. One could even argue (though would probably be forced to leave the room or, fittingly, hide in a toilet cubicle sucking one’s thumb) that Dumb and Dumber To, for all its lack of progression and ‘90s anachronism of a script, gave the audience, for the first fifteen minutes at least, a sugar rush of delight that characters we align so close to halcyon happiness were back frolicking on screen.

But let’s nip this in bud – nostalgia is a pretty liar. You know it, I know it and the makers of these products bloody well know it. It’s the girl you used to have sex with back in sixth form, the one that gave you the thrill and thrust your ex-wife never could. You’re naturally going to be glad to see them when you bump into them at that local bar. It’s the boy who gave you your first dance before jetting off to spend his father’s trust fund, leaving you to ponder what might have been. Nostalgia injects us with a giddy sense of wistful wonder and joy, but when the drug wears off, all these things must be judged on the ‘now’ and not the ‘then’.

The latest fodder to be thrown into the comeback canon was Gilmore Girls. It may have added the extra A Year in the Life, to propose feelings of freshness as opposed to a mere ‘Kirk is back and being goofy’ session, but all in all it was hard to ignore that warm feeling of homeliness that spewed forth. When Rory and Lorelai, the quick-witted, coffee-quaffing duo that demonstrated a solid independence and intelligence that was so endearing, walked together in snowy Stars Hallow, it was like someone had lit a Yankee candle in a room silenced by darkness. All of a sudden, that homely, heartfelt pang rushed through your body and the world felt alright again.


And as the show has gone through the different seasons, it has certainly been a hoot to see what the characters have been up to. Lest we forget, Gilmore Girls was as much about the town as the Gilmores themselves, a goldfish bowl that always teetered on the right side of Blue Velvet-esque distortion. It was a thrill to find Kirk was still as loveably eccentric as ever (his Oober racket just about worked without being too annoying), it was great to see Digger Styles, seemingly unchanged, drag up his off-centre banter at a funeral, and Babette and Morey were still a queasily approachable couple who you never knew where the line was towed.

However, once dust of nostalgic delight had been swept away, judging A Year in the Life on its merits reveals some flaws that you just wish would go the way of Taylor’s septic tanks. The main issue is the characterisation of Rory. Of course, the whole idea of nostalgia is that we want our characters to have been frozen in amber – we wanted Paul Finch on American Pie to be the same snobby intellectual he was at school. We wanted Mulder and Scully to share the same detached, wry outlook on their work. And, with Gilmore Girls, we wanted Rory to be the same sprightly, sympathetic girl she was in the show’s salad days.

That’s where the danger of nostalgia comes in – Rory has changed and grown up, which is obviously good; too much of the mild, inquisitive teenager of old might have not worked on a 32-year-old woman. However, at the same time, the Rory many viewers envisioned as a grown-up probably didn’t coagulate correctly onscreen. In this revival, Rory seems deflated, downbeat and, in some cases, even arrogant – there was always a defiance and determination within the youngest Gilmore, which is what made her character so endearing and influential. Here, though, it seems wrapped up in self-satisfaction – she shrugs off a website chasing her signature and, when she finally realises she could do with a steady income, decides in an “it’s a living” lurch that it’s the job for her. But it gets worse – she botches the interview after doing zero research or planning, and seems aggrieved when the CEO, however annoying she may be, isn’t won over. For the first time watching Rory, I wasn’t rooting for her.


Maybe that’s the point? That we needed to see Rory experience a downfall or two (in the second episode, ‘Spring’, a lot of her walls come crashing down) in order to show the brutal realism of adult life. But it would be more compelling if it was Rory questioning the karmic alignments of life (why is the girl who did everything right being given such a raw deal?), but in actuality it’s of her own doing – her faith in a sketchy feminist drunkard is slightly blind, as is her seemingly unshakeable faith that her portfolio alone will secure her work on a whim.

This is before we’ve explored the deeper issues. A particularly frustrating scene, and one that is thrown away as a comedic sidebar, is when Rory tells Lorelai she had a one-night stand with someone dressed as a Wookie. It’s brushed under the carpet using the standard Gilmore banter boilerplate, but is this what Rory has become? There’s nothing wrong with the odd dalliance in the bedroom, of course, and this is the modern world. She’s a modern journalist. But this is the girl who, at the tender age of 16, couldn’t tell Dean she loved him because she wasn’t sure she meant it. While she admits it was out-of-character, it feels way too dissimilar to Rory to ring true – no matter how tanked Rory gets, the idea of a girl so aligned to responsibility knocking boots with a Trekkie just feels a mighty stretch.

Then you get to the other men in her life. The idea of one of her three suitors occupying a romantic position feels right – otherwise it would just be a trio of shoehorned cameos that linger on past love (i.e. Jess). And it makes begrudging sense that it would be Logan, the man who was born into money and thus can offer Rory a plush pad. But in Rory’s role as ‘the other woman’, a role she seems to happily accept, is that destroying her character further? The old Rory surely wouldn’t be satisfied in being a dirty secret, someone who can watch on happily as a man cheats on his fiancée? Her conscience wouldn’t allow it. And yet here she uses Logan as a pillow as well as a sex-chum, and doesn’t really seem to care that he’s hitched. Sure, she slept with Dean when he was married, but there was a beautiful naivety to her first time. Here it just feels like pointless fucking.

Rory’s story arc rings the least true, simply because it feels like it has too much of an agenda – Rory is built up and knocked down, her previous innocence tarnished in a sea of freelance jobs (surely no journalist these days can afford to fly from London to the USA so frequently?), pointless trysts and an unplanned pregnancy. Gilmore Girls was a delightful reunion that tugged at the heartstrings and gave us the same sense of comfort it did before, but like all things comforting, it can be bad for you in the long run.



How ‘Homer Badman’ Successfully Skewered the Hyperbolic Media


Years ago, I remember reading a story about Supergrass drummer Danny Goffey, in which he engaged in some sort of wife-swapping on the decadent Primrose Hill. All of a sudden, the revelation engorged the music publications, with a source bemoaning Goffey had become a “laughing stock at the school gate.” It then transposed into the tabloids, with piping hot redtops giving Supergrass the kind of fame they hadn’t experienced since ‘Richard III’.

It’s just one example, but it’s a relevant – or ‘cromulent’ – point about how such little discrepancies can become embellished to the point of absurdity. Just look at when Peter Buck allegedly attacked a stewardess with a pot of yogurt, or when Winona Ryder shoplifted (she was in a difficult place, guys…Macy’s).

By the time of Season Six, The Simpsons was no longer just an urbane observation of suburbia – it was a scalpel-sharp satire. No one, or nothing, was safe from the acerbic, referential wit of the show’s writers, and even though the hyperbolic nature of the media had been showcased before, it was never done as well or as extensively as on Homer Badman, in which Homer’s innocuous grasp of a gummi chew creates a media storm that, unlike Homer’s car, just won’t blow over.

What’s considerably compelling about this episode – in my view, it is definitely in top five all-time classics – is how it is still valid today. With the rise of social media, we are ingratiated into a cyberspace circle-jerk of homeless people playing clarinets, YouTube vloggers renouncing the Devil and tales of anti-feminist meetings and covens. The media is still a melting pot of magnification, it’s just not as streamlined as it once was, and shows like Judge Rinder and Jeremy Kyle are still scarily similar to the hilarious scene from Rock Bottom.


TV and the media – newspapers are rather conspicuous, surprisingly – are skewered throughout, but they’re also the thread that keeps the show tethered. After a wonderfully bombastic, explosion-filled candy convention, Homer is driving home babysitter Ashley Grant, who is written as a typical feminist-in-training – she’s conservatively dressed, refers to men as “males” and views Homer with seething displeasure (not least when he asks her to take the wheel so he can “scratch in two places at once”). When his hitherto missing gummi Venus has nestled onto Ashley’s rump, Homer grabs it and all poor Ashley sees is Homer’s lustful moan. After that, we are greeted to a cavalcade of protests, round-the-clock TV footage, sensationalist news and a threadbare made-for-TV movie, in which Dennis Franz is presented as a more homely Homer and Ashley is a pigtailed honour student.

What’s interesting is that show not only satirises the media, it also demonstrates the difference between what we want to hear and what we should be hearing – when Homer is at the centre of a smear campaign, the gogglebox is awash, and seemingly most people in town are enraged and aghast at such a slovenly act. However, when Homer uses TV as his ally, to record an innocence speech on public access TV, no one watches, nor do they really want to. It’s a small but compelling fact that reflects our occasionally deep-seated need for salacious slander, rather than cognitive truth. This is neatly reflected at the end when Willie, who had saved Homer’s skin, is portrayed as a depraved pervert, and, of course, Homer is instantly swayed by the report’s hard-hitting nature.

When media storms blow into town, it is a sad truth that a band of busybodies will ride on its coattails. It’s a fact that sometimes people will just complain for the sake of it, and on Homer Badman the victim is joined by a slew of slogan-holding man-haters, who not only sleep on the Simpsons’ yard, but also follow Homer to work and make his life a living Hell. On the television, a woman weeps as she says “I’ve never met Homer Simpson or had any contact with him, but…”, as a reassuring host says “that’s ok, your tears say more than real evidence ever could.” It’s a hilarious send-up of the nature of those ITV daytime shows you watch when you’re either ill or unemployed, when such a small act is ramped up beyond recognition and whips a crowd into an angry, feminist frenzy. Also, the sheer absurdity and hilarious pay-off of the chat show Gentle Ben is worth the admission price alone.


The infamous Rock Bottom scene is now one of the show’s most famous, and with good reason. Everything is exaggerated – the clock changes times with each sentence, Godfrey Jones is outside, Homer’s face freezes…it’s perfect. But how many of us can say it’s scarily not too far off an episode of Jeremy Kyle or (shudder) Kilroy? It’s also a nice subversion that Homer actually thinks they intend to help him, rather than make him into some sort of sexual predator.

As the show’s quality began to decline, the writers were a little more on-the-nose when it came to satirising the gutter media (one scene I remember is when they trash Ned’s house and one shouts “let’s concoct more lies!”), but here their pen is mightier than the sword – they demonstrate the truth-meddling, hyperbolic nature of the media, and all of its components, in a believable and relevant way.

See you in Hell, candy-boys!