THE WAY THINGS ARE

After getting into and out of Suits, I was happy to find on Netflix an actor I like, Nathan Fillion, and his female co-workers in The Rookie. I like stories about the law, crime and court cases argued with twists and turns. Suits eventually lost me. Fighting a month-long nasty flu, semi-comatose on the couch at night, I got fuddled by the confetti of complicated corporate law plots and its air of the unreal.

If a week is a long time in politics, the stretch from 2011 when Suits aired to 2024 is an eternity in furnishing styles, sartorial attire, and women wearing what they want to the office without the former de riguer ‘look’ of uncomfortable power clothes and shoes.

What we screen-watch is subjective but I hated the cold, functional furniture in most Suits homes and offices, and the women depicted made me grind my teeth. Supposedly working in horribly competitive, money is God contests with top notch, rival law firms, dawn to dusk, were they meant to portray highly paid women representing equality or emancipation? Their clothes said no, this is what is expected: show off the fat salaries you earn with a vulgar display of clothes no sensible woman would wear to work because it makes you and the firm look ultra successful, and you can spend thousands on a pair of shoes that will eventually cripple you.

The clothes might have been designed by some egotistic, wild-creations designer who cared less that extravagant dresses suitable for cocktails, and those with floppy sleeves are impractical at work. Age makes one aware of the damage we women do to our bodies when young and trying to follow fashion trends. I was distracted, looking at their skyscraper heels and thinking that’s a future spine injury if you wear those all day. Or, that skirt is so breath robbingly tight, her ovaries and pelvis are being mangled.

Some are shown in perfect, spotless homes – cooking in the same heels, no kicking them off and grabbing slippers or trainers as any normal person would. Then there was ‘the walk’ in said heels along the corridors aping exaggerated feminine movement on a fashion platform, lip gloss magically never in need of topping up and, after hours of slog reading papers or a screen, mascara or shadow never smudged on weary eyes, hair perfect.

Neither was there any changing into jammies to slouch on the couch with what seemed to be never-ending alcoholic comfort. Bad day at/in the office/courtroom, honey, grab a whiskey or a bottle of wine or several. A drink to relax is lovely but a glass of alcohol with every hiccup at work and a first run-to at home had me concerned for their livers.

My mind wandered to subliminal advertising. Before smoking was shown for the danger to health it is, actors smoked like volcanoes with irritable bowels for not so subliminal grab-a fag motivators. I wondered if that was happening to drinking now because the easy to watch The Rookie also appeared to encourage the think-drink to ease the hard day culture.

I admire smart, powerful women in good-looking (their choice) clothes in a male zone able to compete and hold their own but Suits’ ladies were surely caricatures. After Suits’ aggressive, corporate power tools, where even in bed having sex Harvey, the head hunk, seemed anxious not to disturb his sculptured hairdo, as stiff as the rest of the setup, Fillion and Co. were a sweet breath of relaxed watchability: nice cast, good script, humour, action, drama and – normal clothes.

THE ROOKIE’S law ladies compared to Suits’ lawyers’ ladies, were powerful, capable of taking down criminals of all descriptions, and their homes looked as though people actually lived in them. They are smart women trying to balance a very dangerous job with personal relationships, flaws evident as well as virtues. I was with them to the end.