By Carla Stockton
Sometimes the things that frighten us most when we are young turn out to be the very things that save us when we are old.
When I was newly married, I was terrified that I would wake up one morning and realize that oh shit my husband didn’t really love me. I used to have nightmares where he would come to where I was eating a salad or shaving my legs, and he would say, “You know I don’t love you. I never did.” And I would wake up screaming, “Please no. Don’t say that. Noooo.”
But by the time I had been married for twenty-five or so years, I began to see that I could do very well without him, that my fear had set me up to allow myself to be taken for granted, and worse, to be emotionally and verbally abused. In the end, I was the one who left.
Realizing that my fears were, in fact, grounded, that we didn’t love each other enough, that he failed to love me in the way I deserved to be loved, fueled my decision to move out. Ten years later, I daily fight the urge to email him and thank him for all the times he called me names or refused to buy something I needed or threw something at me in a rage. If he had been more loving, I might be with him still, and all my energy would be suffocated out of me instead of channeled into rebuilding my Self. I’m better off.
My experience was not unique. Many women, like me, accepted – settled for – less than we actually wanted because we believed we had no choice. This was especially true in the blooming days of boomer youth, when being married, being loved were a woman’s salvation, when a man was a woman’s only route to a credit card or a bank account unless she was fabulously well off. Then, having settled into the life to which we had become accustomed, most of us stayed put; of those who left, many were pushed out by that long-feared, oft-dreaded blow of “I just don’t love you anymore.”
Which is the premise on which Grace and Frankie, the Netflix original series, starring Jane Fonda as Grace and Lily Tomlin as Frankie, is based. They are jilted wives set adrift by their husbands Robert (Martin Sheen) and Sol (Sam Waterston), only to discover that being discarded is the greatest gift either husband ever gave them.
At the beginning of Season One, Robert and Sol disclose to Grace and Frankie, women who’ve entered their 70s believing they were in rock-solid marriages, that both marriages are over. For twenty of the forty years they have been together, both men, who shared a law practice and were apparently devoted to their wives and families, have been carrying on a secret love affair with one another. It’s time, they tell the women, that they come out once and for all; they are getting married, and nothing the women or their grown children can say or do will change their minds.
The women are devastated. How will they ever live without these men, who have been the center of their lives for most of their adulthood? Then, over the course of the initial thirteen episodes, they learn to adjust; both realize from individual epiphanies that they were never fully themselves as married women, that each has compromised herself and has lost sight of who she was to begin with.
In Season Two, Grace and Frankie have accepted the rearrangement of their lives. They have learned to like each other enough to actually enjoy sharing the beach house to which they have been summarily exiled by their ex-husbands; it is a house the men jointly bought for the two families, and in the past, the women had gone out of their way to avoid getting to know one another intimately. Grace is too body-obsessed, too protocol-conscious, too money-hungry for Frankie’s taste, and as far as Grace is concerned, Frankie is too weird, too hippiedippiedoo, too 60s-leaning addled.
But lo and behold, they find that the women buried in the personae they’ve become have more in common than they ever imagined, and together they set about ferreting out the camouflaged who they might actually be.
I do not mean to suggest that Grace and Frankie represent the majority of my sisters. Nor have I stopped believing in happy marriages; I know that those do exist, and Grace and Frankie are by no means the “normal,” which I believe there is such a thing as. But I identify with them. They resonate for me in ways female characters of my own generation rarely do. They are fleshy women, who transcend the caricatures of older women we are usually presented with: dotty bats or bitchy, lonely success icons. Except that they are too rich and live a life too rife with options and that neither of them is anything less than physically perfect, Grace and Frankie are real. . . and flawed.
Both women are damaged goods. Grace can’t get through a day without copious amounts of alcohol, and she rarely eats, slavishly catering to her nearly anorexic body, protecting the copious dollars she has expended in preserving her looks. Frankie needs mind alteration and seeks it out in peyote, in ganja, in muscle relaxers; she calls herself an artist but has been unfaithful to her art and has hidden herself in new age homilies and soporifics. Each of them experiences a crisis that leads to a shared epiphany: Frankie’s religious beliefs and spirituality are tested by the dying wish of an old friend, and Grace’s are challenged by the booze and a near affair with an old, still-married flame (Sam Eliot).
At the end of the second season, both women reconcile themselves to their need to seize control of their own lives. In a terrific moment of recognition and reversal, each of them realizes that she has never really been respected or appreciated. Both women have considerable attributes that neither of the husbands ever so much as recognized. The men have tolerated them, have patronized them, have condescended to them and have treated them with derision, denigration, dismissal.
Grace sums it up nicely.
“None of it was for me at all. It was for you, so you wouldn’t have to deal with me. So you didn’t even have to think about me. . . . you gave me gifts. . . to keep me quiet, hunh? To manage me. To handle me. Never, not once was it because you loved me. I never understood our marriage until right now.”
All at once, with just the subtlest shift of her body and a gentle sigh, Grace is grateful that her marriage is over, and Frankie soon follows suit. To acknowledge, a year after the divorce, that your husband never really loved you is the worst lie to own up to because it’s a lie you had to be telling yourself or it never would have flown.
Too pervasively, we are programmed to accept men’s superciliousness, to feel flattered when they humor us, when they give us disingenuous encouragement, when they throw us bones. We have learned to call ourselves happy when our men acquiesce to allowing us to live, even as we stifled our own breath.
Grace and Frankie cogently captures that dynamic, the underlying and agitating essence of what taints too many marriages, insights that make the show a continual revelation, a source of satisfying binge watching for this older woman, who hardly expected to see herself represented on the small screen.
Grace and Frankie is not perfect. Although I’m grateful that the show doesn’t pander to the view of older women as finished products, I wish there were less emphasis on the women’s quest to find the right man. They are so much more complete when they don’t kowtow to the opposite sex. But the men they are interested in are far more interesting than the men who have thrown them to the curb, so there is a relief in that.
I also wish that the women’s substance abuse were a subject for more serious investigation. Perhaps it will be in Season 3, when they embark on their next adventure together. I don’t want to see them continue to get in their own way, to stifle their own ability to make themselves happy.
But it is refreshing that neither woman is willing to put up with the stream of put-downs we usually hear in sitcoms; nor is either reduced to silly one-liners that put their men in their places. This is no Everybody Loves Raymond battle of the sexes. It’s rich, convoluted, frustrating, confusing, terrifying, exhilarating real life.
And the men are never demonized. They are easily loveable, even heroic in their own way – after all they have come out to family, friends, colleagues, the world, and have married after age 70. That’s courageous. Both former couples are well-developed characters, and the actors play them with remarkable aplomb. In a way, because they have clearly found a perfect niche, Sam Waterston steals the show from Sheen, as Jane Fonda does from Tomlin, which is not to belittle the joy of watching either Tomlin or Sheen, who are both wonderful; this is a full complement of entirely credible actors deftly playing deeply human roles.
I called this a sitcom. That’s not accurate. I guess one would call it a dramedy. I warn you, I cry at least twice in each episode. The stories cut close to the soul, and they can wring emotion I forgot I felt.
I do laugh. But mostly when it hurts.
Carla Stockton graduated in May 2016, at age 69, with an M.F.A. in Nonfiction Creative Writing and Literary Translation at Columbia University’s School of the Arts. She is also a mother of three, grandmother of two, writer, theatre director, filmmaker, teacher, and traveller. Too Much of Nothing, her first book recounting her experiences as an older woman re-entering the youth-dominated arena of higher education and publishing, is in process, as is her translation of King Gordogan, by Radovan Ivšič. Her work can be read at carlastockton.me or in GET REAL, the bi-weekly column she writes for the Columbia Journal.
Last Updated on February 2, 2023 by Editorial Staff