April 28, 1999
Watching Ally McBeal, TV's most neurotic lawyer, my daughter
and I find plenty to talk about. And through these conversations,
we've learned to listen to each other with interest and respect.
By Sarah Ban Breathnach
This past year I discovered a back alley a spirited
shortcut to adolescent attention and affection. Ally McBeal.
That's right, Ally McBeal, television's neurotic, miniskirted,
wafer-thin, man-crazy, 20-something lawyer tends to make mothers
scream with derision and their Gen X and Y daughters howl with
delight. As such, she has become my secret ally, helping me to
communicate with my daughter and transform teen angst into engagement.
This is no small blessing, because my 16-year-old and I are on
opposite ends of the female hormone cycle. It's a time when mother-daughter
relationships are fragile, fraught with tension, misery, and
misunderstanding.
For better or worse, television is our society's communal
campfire: Each night families gather round, seeking stories to
nourish their souls. So it is with us. Now, I'm not about to
argue that Ally's hilarious romantic mishaps, emotionally dysfunctional
dribble, and eccentric R-rated daydreams are uplifting in the
way that episodes of, say, Touched by an Angel are. But as quirky
and provocative as Ally's perspective may be, the show does explore
complex human dilemmas and difficult life choices while
at the same time giving me the opportunity to laugh with my teenager.
On the surface it might appear that Ally McBeal and Touched
by an Angel are the yin and yang of television programming. But
both reflect on how the mystical is hidden in the mundane of
our daily rounds. Touched by an Angel, a show I watch with a
box of tissues by my side, feels like a revival meeting; you
know you're going to be "moved by the Spirit," as the
old hymns promised, by the end of each episode. That's why you
watch. Ally McBeal challenges us to remember that the sacred
can be discovered in the outlandish and profane if we're willing
to be open to it.
For instance, in one episode Ally's former law professor dies
suddenly. His widow, who knew Ally was her husband's favorite
student, asks her to give the eulogy. But, once upon a time,
Ally wasn't just the teacher's pet; she was also his lover. How
she deals with her unresolved feelings of loss, guilt, regret,
remorse, and respect for his wife and family is as funny as it
is illuminating.
Thomas Moore, the best-selling author of, Care of the Soul,
believes TV's most transcendent moments are to be found in comedy.
"Comedians are like priests," he has said. "They
break apart all the pieties, all those things that we hold to
be more sacred than we should. They turn things upside down,
and that's a terribly important spiritual activity." But
the real reason I treasure watching Ally McBeal is that Katie
and I are bound to find plenty in it to talk about. And because
the conversation isn't personal, we each feel free to voice our
strong opinions; we can agree to disagree. This breakthrough
has enabled both of us to learn how to talk to each other, rather
than talk at each other. And to listen, with interest and respect.
Granted, the topics of our lively discussions sexual
harassment, adultery, older women/younger men, unisex bathrooms,
polygamy, promiscuity, artificial insemination, and office romances
are not the ones I would have naturally chosen. "So
what happened in school today?" is more my mother tongue.
But after exploring gay marriages and foot fetishes with your
teenager, the crucial heart-to-heart chats you must have
about love's responsibilities, the sanctity of sex, teenage pregnancy,
sexually transmitted diseases, eating disorders, drugs, drinking,
and safe driving hold no fear.
Well, almost no fear. I've just read that two characters in
my daughter's new favorite shows, Felicity and Dawson's Creek,
are contemplating the loss of their virginity.
Oh, baby
Stay tuned.
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