Netflix can giveth and it can taketh away. That’s what we’ve all learned of late with its arbitrary axings in the face of budget demands and COVID restrictions (oh, the fucking COVID restrictions). It is this latter detail that played into the former one as Netflix was tasked with realizing that to enforce all the necessary precautions of filming a show about one of the most contact-heavy sports would be too herculean (or so that’s the excuse they’re sticking with). But how could anyone not see that GLOW was worth the extra work, the extra money?
While “period pieces” about the 1980s have become more common (soon, film and TV will be coming for the 90s as well), the obvious care and attention to detail with which GLOW creators Liz Flahive and Carly Mensch did their research on the time is apparent in the subtlest of minutiae–from the aerobics attire to “Melrose” (Jackie Tohn) referencing An Officer and a Gentleman to Ruth Wilder’s (Alison Brie) silent contempt for the fact that the only “meaty roles” she can audition for as a woman is something that features the vacuous one line, “Sorry to interrupt, your wife is on line two.” Oh, and the most obvious historical accuracy of all being that GLOW was a real show that aired for four seasons starting in ‘86. With its insensitive names (Palestina the “Terrorist from Damascus,” for example) and kitschy dialogue, it serves as the perfect time capsule fodder to reveal audience sensibilities during this era (and likely a rich source of material for Netflix’s GLOW creators to draw from).
One of the most recent examples of making the 1980s a focal point of the narrative, American Horror Story: 1984 (equally replete with aerobics), does not offer the same genuine feel for the decade. Indeed, its entire point seems to be to come across as ersatz and hooey. Though one might assume the same would be the case for a show about women’s wrestling (GLOW, after all, stands for Gorgeous Ladies of Wrestling) being filmed for a cable channel, it’s not. The real sense of struggle–of being a woman even during a decade that wasn’t all that long ago in history from the vantage point we hold now–is manifest in every interaction.
The fact that women are pitted against one another (in this case, very literally) by the patriarchal society that manipulates how they act–are often forced to act–was never clearer than Ruth’s dynamic with her ex-best friend, Debbie Eagan (Betty Gilpin). For it is after learning that Ruth slept with her husband, Mark (fellow Mad Men alum to Alison Brie, Rich Sommer), twice, that Debbie goes on the rampage against her. It’s clear, however, that her marriage to Mark wasn’t something she was exactly “into,” and that the baby she’s just had with him was one of those attempts at putting a “Band-Aid” on the problem of their lack of true love and affection for one another. What’s more, Debbie’s decision to abandon her career (even if her most major credit was on a soap opera) adds to the festering resentment she has against Mark for not only taking away her favorite thing–the spotlight–but also ruining her body with a baby in the process.
Ruth could not be more opposite to Debbie’s persona–struggling to get any parts at all and romanticizing the profession of acting as embodying someone noble in the spirit of Katharine Hepburn. That she can maintain such naivety in the face of her time in L.A. thus far–spent barely scraping by and asking her parents back in Omaha for a little “help” with the rent–is a testament to her blind faith in her future and love for acting (“It’s never too early to be in character,” she notes enthusiastically after finally getting her hands on a leading role, even if it’s in a wrestling ring). Being sent to the audition for GLOW with extremely vague information, she’s surprised to see the director, Sam Sylvia (Marc Maron), actually “excited” about the project (well, as excited as Sam will ever be known to get) he’s pitching: women’s wrestling, complete with “tit grabs.” The test of getting through the first element of the audition would be too stick around after hearing his pitch. So it is that Ruth is one of the handfuls left remaining on the bleachers. Thus, the germinal phase of her alter ego, a Bolshevik bitch named Zoya the Destroya, is born. And this is where another key historical aspect of the 80s comes in: playing into the intense final decade of the Cold War that still characterized every facet of culture–including the U.S. boycotting the Olympics in Moscow in 1980, followed by the USSR doing the same to the U.S. when it was held in Los Angeles in 1984.
With regard to sports, there can be no arguing that GLOW is very much a sport-centered vehicle. That it interweaves the emotionalism and depth that only the feminine divine can imbue a story with speaks to why it’s truly a rare breed. The specialness of the show–and the show being put on within it–results from the patent trust (in between some light backstabbing), artistic and female community, and freedom to “be” philosophies shared by these women. Where once they were freaks or misfits outside of the ring, now they’re completely embraced and encouraged within it. One such primary epitome of this is fan favorite Sheila the She Wolf (Gayle Rankin), who doesn’t seem to be able to explain to people that the whole she-wolf persona isn’t a persona, so much as how she actually dresses and acts all the time in order to feel “okay” about herself–or at least protected from the version of herself she’s hiding from.
With its rare blend of diversity, GLOW also takes the opportunity to explore the hurt and pain of stereotypes to its women of color, including Arthie “Beirut the Mad Bomber” Premkumar (Sunita Mani) and Jenny “Fortune Cookie” Chey (Ellen Wong). The multi-toned roster of characters additionally extends to Tammé (Kia Stevens), who reconciles with taking on the persona of Welfare Queen (again, this pertains to the historical accuracy of Ronald Reagan–and Republicans in general–using this trope as a justification to cut funding for welfare in the 80s). Knowing its offensive implications, she tries her best to trust Sam in assuring it’s all part of the campiness of wrestling storylines. Indeed, Sam is the King of Camp, as his horror movie resume will attest, with such titles as Oedipussy, Blood Disco, Venus in Chains and Gina the Machina surely being at least part of the reason producer Sebastian “Bash” Howard (Chris Lowell) chose him to direct.
Bash is a complex, self-loathing character as well (matched in that self-loathing by the likes of Sam and Ruth). And what would a show about the 80s be without a closeted gay yuppie trying his best to tell himself he’s straight? An affirmation spurred by the horrific sight of those gay men he does know dying of AIDS. Bash’s commitment to playing it hetero becomes so strong, in fact, that he offers to marry the resident Brit of the ensemble, Rhonda “Britannica” Richardson (Kate Nash, proving she’s more than just a singer with barbing lyrics), when the threat of being deported looms. After her affair with the cantankerous Sam, Bash feels like a breath of fresh air. Until she realizes he really doesn’t like fucking that much.
There, ever-present in the background, is also Justine Biagi (Britt Baron), the youngest of the group, with an air of mystery about her… save for her groupie-like devotion to Sam’s oeuvre. Except that her puppy dog zeal isn’t quite what Sam and Rhonda assume at the outset of beginning production with her in the part of “Scab.” Overseeing it all in her position as the put-upon trainer, Cherry “Junkchain”/”Black Magic” Bang (Sydelle Noel) is about this close to having no patience for these hoes. And yet, just as the rest of the women, she loves every grueling aspect about the show–its challenges are what results in its triumphs, after all. Even when, at the end of season two, the cancellation of the show–and the TV station’s ownership to the rights of the characters–leads to an entirely new possibility: performing live in Las Vegas. In this regard, GLOW takes the 80s cachet to the next level by casting Geena Davis as the Fan-Tan Casino’s head honcho, Sandy Devereaux St. Clair. Yet no matter how many additional characters get thrown into the mix as the seasons progress, the writers always succeed in “servicing” all of them for their optimal arc.
Except, of course, that no arc can be deemed complete when framing everything within the tragic circumstances of season three being the final cliffhanger we’re left with. Hence, we’ll always wonder what might have been with Debbie’s “Eden” of a TV network, where she would be the one running the show. Or Ruth’s relationship with Sam, both suffering from their own wounded pride when they finally got it together long enough to reciprocally express their feelings for one another. Or Sheila’s clearly burgeoning acting career. Or Bash’s continued suppression of his sexuality while using Britannica as a crutch and shield. So many question marks left up in the air, with the promise of a renewal for season four that was so cruelly ripped away in mid-production. And even if it does get a movie finale, it’s as Alison Brie said, “I’m a little pessimistic about it actually happening just in light of everything that’s gone on this year and how difficult it is to get anything back into production with COVID. I’m also part of the Community cast, who’s been trying to get a movie going for six years. So what I’m saying is don’t hold your breath, because if it does happen, it might take a minute.” Which just goes to show, no matter how adoring a public, if there’s no Bash Howard money to move mountains, then they’re going to have to stay put in the Sierra Nevadas.
