New year has always been tough for a lot of us whose family is in denial of our situation (e.g. me being trans). This year, my way of coping was to binge the whole 6 seasons of The Nanny in mere three weeks. It’s a good show. Smart, light, campy, with lovely characters played by a lovely set of ensemble. Just what I needed to brighten up the cold weather of January.
The self-reflection hitting like a truck, now that’s just a bloody well bonus.
I usually have Things to Ponder About after my birthday has passed, but now I have already got something to reflect even if my birthday is still peeking around the corner. And it’s 3000 words long, no less.
… God help me.
Now, about the show —
The Nanny is a 90s sitcom that premiered in 1993 and ran for 6 long years, starring mainly Fran Drescher (who’s also the creator of the show along with her then husband), Charles Shaughnessy, Daniel Davis, and Lauren Lane.
In addition to unexpectedly non-stigmatised views towards mental health that this show has—something I thought was rare during that decade — its jokes are often meta, making the subtext obvious while the obvious subtle, in ways even my oblivious buttocks can’t help but enjoy.
Regarding the plot … well, in the earlier seasons, the plot focused more about family dynamic. It explored how Fran Fine (a cosmetic-saleswoman-turn-nanny) brought life upon the rich yet seemingly miserable family with problematic children: Maggie, Brighton, and Gracie.
For example, in season 1 episode 4 Gracie had an imaginary friend named Imogene. Turned out Imogene represents Gracie’s loss of her mother. After Gracie had Fran, she felt she no longer need Imogene. It was sweet.
Now being a show involving a family with 3 children, one should have guessed the producers and writers would have it treated the way Full House — another 90s sitcom involving a family of 3 children with a dead wife — was treated. Meaning, The Nanny could have been family-friendly; the story could have been driven by events circulating the children’s growing up.
However. The premise actually goes like this:
After being fired from her job and dumped by her boyfriend, a cosmetics saleswoman becomes the nanny to the three children of a rich English widower.
Having read that, my expectations were immediately set:
- The plot would have a will-they-won’t-they dynamic (it does)
- The nanny and the widower would end up together eventually (they do)
- There would be references to Sound of Music (there were, right off the pilot)
Not at all a Full House-y kind of expectations, aren’t they?
I’ll take the freedom to guess here: the show runners witnessed how the dynamics between the nanny and the father made their ratings went up beyond the roof, thus rather than portraying the children growing up, they had the plot in the following seasons more on the development of the nanny-daddy romantic relationship … or well, lack thereof.
I don’t think I overstate it to say, this show is the epitome of a will-they-won’t-they trope between its two leading characters.
Romance is, after all, the surefire formula that indeed works. Yet in this case, ironically it also became the show's demise: you could only explore a will-they-won't-they situation for so long, until the audience (and frankly, the characters themselves) had had it enough. This happened in season 4 that, prior to renewing The Nanny to season 5, the show got an ultimatum: have the two characters married or get cancelled. And once they married, well, the show eventually lost its chemistry, as was proven in season 6. Thus ended the six years of their up and down journey.
Regardless, I wasn’t disappointed. Even safe to say that it went beyond my expectations, given the fact that here I am, writing about the sitcom.
See, to make a will-they-won't-they plot running for quite some time, sooner or later you're forced to explore the characters' tendencies in stubbornly denying a perfectly romantic relationship that is a surefire way to their long-term happiness. Because for this to make sense, you really have to got a very, very, solid reason on why such a long-term denial existed. We are all suckers for love, so why aren’t they?
And this is what makes this show special for me: the surprising depth of one of its leading characters … along with the self-reference that followed.
In the art of storytelling, there’s this thing called ‘Identification’ and/or ‘Self-reference’
Identification is when you think of yourself as a certain character in the story, and you see things from their perspective. Stories that use first-person POV said to have more of this effect than those with third-person. Sometimes when you have an identification process so strong, you tend to behave like the character — the way you move, the way you speak, even the way you think. You “become” the character. It’s freaky.
Self-reference is a lot like identification. Though in self-reference, you’re not only seeing the story from the character’s perspective and feeling their feelings and relate to their emotions, but you’re also comparing your own experiences to theirs. You may even feel deeper connections to them because of this.
To keep it simple: identification is a one-sided empathy to the character, self-reference is some sort of a reflection using the character.
Now the character you identify with most usually become your favourite. Well, how can you not? You see yourself in them. You relate to them. You understand their pain, their happiness, their reasons behind their every decision. Well, unless you have a serious case of self-hatred, that is.
Unfortunately — I do. I have a serious case of self-hatred.
See, of all characters, I found myself instantly liking Niles, the family butler, for his witty remarks, comedic timing, and just how he was portrayed in general. Especially in the first few seasons, he seemed to be the most layered, well-rounded, most developed male character of the show. Niles became my favourite. I found myself often mumbling, ‘God, I love Niles!’ whenever he performed any one of his shenanigans or when he was just nonchalantly, unapologetically, being himself.
I couldn’t, however in the slightest, relate to him. At all. As it turned out, the character I ended up identifying with instead … was the guilt-ridden, stuck up, repressed, British millionaire.
Sigh.
That being said.
Meet Maxwell Sheffield.
Maxwell was British. He was old money. He went to Eton. When he told his father he wanted to be a Broadway producer, he was denied of his dreams, but he went for it anyway. He once missed the opportunity to produce Cats, thinking the show’s idea was silly, which eventually became one of his biggest regrets. His rival was Andrew Lloyd Webber. He was married to Sara and had three children with her. Sara passed away when their youngest was somewhere around 3–4 years old, leaving him a widow. For about 2 years he tried looking for a nanny who could survive taking care of his three rambunctious children. Then, as fate would have it, he met Fran.
Now I want to make certain of one thing: I am not Maxwell. I am not British. I am not a producer whatsoever — albeit I thought of being one, and often wonder if I could triumph being one, despite my lack of social skills. Furthermore, I have never been married (romance is rather a sore spot for me, you see) nor have I any children. Yet after binging its first two seasons, I found my English start to sound like Maxwell. I walked like Maxwell. Thought like Maxwell. I realised it was because of that ‘identification’ thing in storytelling — that I identify with Maxwell. But why the bloody hell is it Maxwell?? My favourite character is Niles!
Thus began my unnecessary dissection of a 90s sitcom character.
Yes, I am aware how ridiculous this sounds.
Well, anyway.
If there’s one thing very obvious about Maxwell is the fact that he is oblivious. Despite the chemistry between him and Fran began in season 1, it took him two full seasons before he even began suspecting that he actually had feelings for Fran.
Case in point:
The scene above is from season 2 episode 19. Yes, he was being jealous there. And no, he had no idea he was jealous.
Now if we traced it back to the moment when he seemed to start having feelings for Fran, I believe it was season 1 episode 4, which is the episode about Gracie’s imaginary friend mentioned earlier. Ever since that episode, it was a long journey of constant flirts, quarrels, and a mountain more of jealousy between Maxwell and Fran … with a sprinkle of obliviousness every now and then. And the audience loved it.
Though according to Niles, their obliviousness might be more than a sprinkle.
In season 3, Maxwell seemed to start acknowledging his feelings, but he kept denying it oh ever so stubborn. That was pretty much the whole theme for season 3, really — deny, deny, deny. Only in the beginning of season 4, we could finally see how they had explored Maxwell’s denial deeper through observation of other characters. Some of these observations were what became of my self-reference later on.
So first was from Sylvia, Fran’s mother.
Then, there was Niles, saying it to his face.
Then of course Fran got to say it.
These were pretty much how the show had developed Maxwell Sheffield as a character. Eventually in the middle of season 5, Maxwell himself explained his stubbornness of not dating Fran.
At this point, I have come to hate the show.
Well not really hate hate, but like … yeah. You understand. I hope.
Afterwards, the more I watch (and re-watch) the episodes, the deeper I dig my hole of self-referencing to Maxwell. I understand that some of these might be something the writers or the actor had never imagined it being conveyed into the character. Meaning, I may only see things I want to see. It is a self-referencing, after all.
Regardless —
Here it is. The self-reflection hitting like a truck.
Now, I am clueless all the time — to romance, to subtexts, to pop culture. Even to my own feelings. I don’t think I’m bad at my job, which somewhat proves that I can use some braincells rather effectively, but it’s safe to say I have had people frustrated — even in one case, one person threw a literal shoe at me — for my being clueless of things.
During the first two seasons when Maxwell was rather clueless of his own feelings for Fran, that is absolutely something I can relate to. And I did relate to that, up to a point. Though it didn’t bother me. Not until the identification process began, which happened around season 3 — I figured now it was his denials that had triggered it.
By the end of season 4, I had finally realised that when he fell in love with Fran, Maxwell went through the same thing I did: from the obliviousness to the denials to the reasons of those denials, and even in the way Maxwell showed his love to Fran despite his stubbornness to not get involved with her — the accuracy was what frustrated me most.
It seems I just got stereotyped by a 90s sitcom character.
Let’s start with guilt.
Well, safe to say I don’t have guilt over my children, given the fact that I have none. However, I still have my family. My guilt is over them. Over crushing my parents’ expectations of me living a “normal” non-controversial life. Guilt over my brothers may have to make a statement regarding me to their in-laws and spouse.
I also have guilt over my religion. This may not sound as sophisticated as guilt over class, but I believe it still counts just as complicated. See, my whole life I was taught that for people like me, having a romantic partner is a sin. That I shouldn’t have deserved it. I should opt for a lonely way of life instead. It’s what the society would have wanted, isn’t it? It’s what I have to respect. Our values.
As a matter of fact, solitude was indeed what I have been planning for my future — I have somewhat vowed to live a future life by myself in a cabin in the northern woods, befriending bears and foxes and fishing salmon every weekend and having picked berries for afternoon picnics. I shall forego any chance to have a partner, remain alone until Mother Death finally comes and calls me to her embrace. That way, no society can put their blame on me. I would be free of guilt. My family remains at peace.
(Side note: I mentioned this vow thing to a therapist once and she was really supportive of my plan … but for some reason I felt very … well … bad. Awful. It’s complicated. This is complicated. I’m complicated. I decided to never see that therapist again, while remain indecisive about my plan living in solitude. Again — complicated.)
So when Maxwell won a Tony for his play entitled The Widower, well … I almost lost my shit.
Now I understand Maxwell’s hesitation to ever love anyone again might have stemmed more from his guilt over the dead wife, instead of what God and society would have expected of him or his class. Allow me to just say: I may not have any dead wife, but if I do, I would most definitely have guilt over her too. No doubt about it.
Next, repressed.
There’s a stereotyped going on that the British are reserved and inhibited. Well I am no British, though I am depressed. Same difference.
Kidding.
Jokes aside, I have spent my whole life keeping a secret. I have been hiding my dysphoria to a point that I managed to numb myself from any kind of emotions, even another therapist was once got frustrated over how withdrawn I am.
Now the thing about being numb, not only you separate yourself from pain and sadness, you also spare yourself the happiness you actually deserve.
Eventually my therapist told me that I had to try telling people about myself (this writing platform is actually one of my tryings). The thing is, when you’re so used of bottling up your whole life, actually letting yourself out becomes a whole new challenge. My fear of intimacy may have been developed because of this.
To my friends reading this, I am sorry if I don’t talk to you enough, or that I rarely share things with you, or if you feel I don’t let you close enough. I am trying, I promise. I am.
Distant, and keeping people at arm’s length.
I have walls. Plenty of layers of them. I’ve got people telling me how I am distant and that’s why they think they wouldn’t get close to me. Not scary. Not intimidating. Distant.
I admit, I do keep people at arm’s length. My future plan of living alone in a forest, only with bears and foxes for companies, that probably should have been a clue.
Maxwell seemed to also have walls. He definitely had been keeping people at arm’s length, whether or not he realised that. I’d take a bet that deep down, he was lonely; for the price of being distant and keeping people out of your walls, well, you’re bound to be lonely.
However. Being lonely isn’t the same with being unable to love, or to care deeply. In the show, we can see plenty of times that Maxwell actually loved darling Fran a great deal, though often indirectly.
He might have been guilt-ridden, distant, and repressed, but when he loved, he loved a great deal. This is a lesson I have in fact learned from my mother; I am aware my being trans is hard for her, and even now she’s still in denial — but I know she has always loved me a great deal. She still does.
Suppose I am indeed just as guilt-ridden, distant, and repressed, I’ll try to love the way my mother does. Even if I’ve got to do it from arm’s length.
You don’t hold back when you love someone. Maxwell didn’t either.
Though yes — for five seasons, Maxwell was adamant to always constrain himself from having any kind of romantic relationship with Fran—but in those same five seasons, Maxwell never held back loving Fran. It’s frustrating, I agree, but suppose that’s just how show business runs I guess; by milking the frustration out of your audience for ratings.
So romance, specifically in the form of a will-they-won’t-they relationship, is the surefire formula that we know it works.
Well. That being said. I would like to remind you again, dear readers, if you somehow manage to read this far along, that there’s the possibility of me overanalysing with this self-reflection thing. The Nanny is, after all, only a sitcom of which people in the 90s would have watched every one week or so for six long years, most likely just for the laughs.
Maybe the problem to my love life aren’t really the things I have mentioned above. Maybe I’m simply a basket case.
Despite the ridiculousness of me wasting my time analysing a 90s sitcom character, I couldn’t help but wonder though — if a romantic plot (or lack thereof) is the formula that works for a high-rating TV show …
… how does the same formula work towards happiness in real life?
