issue eleven

the 100 (problems i’ll never get brain space back from, minus bob morley’s hair): tv review

Things are rough out here, y’all. Television is on a decline, teen television even more so than its counterparts. Even more so than teen realistic fiction’s slow, white and painful death (on screen or on the page, as we discussed previously), young adult dystopias have absolutely seen better days. This decade’s heavy hitters seem to have sucked the genre dry of any real marrow, originality and compelling characters, leaving audiences with carbon copies of soulless money grabs. Where the show I’m about to discuss falls on that scale, I’m not exactly sure, but trust when I say that it’s on there. 

I’m presuming if you’re reading this, you’ve heard the turn of phrase about a trainwreck being so horrifyingly interesting that you can’t look away from it. I want you to cast away any and all ideas of media you may have consumed and described as such, and reacquaint yourself with CW’s The 100. 

Free them…

This show should be laid to rest. Expeditiously and indubitably. It’s been dead for a year, and yet it haunts me still. I know no rest or peace, because the residue of the experience of watching that show is permanent. I’m being overdramatic of course, and I digress. 

I could recite the stats and accomplishments this show reached, but they would be greatly outnumbered by its sins and shortfalls. I’ll approach all of the above in this review, but first the latter. If you take only one sentiment from reading this, let it be this: racism made this show rotten. Retroactively, every negative cast experience, poorly chosen plot point and PR disaster tracks back to racism. This is the fault of many people over the course of the show’s creation, but I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s start with the premise. Please keep in mind that this will be chock full of spoilers, seeing as I need to lay a lot out in the open for this discussion.

A century after nuclear waste and solar flares decimated the surface and population of the earth, 100 incarcerated teenagers from a space colony of post-apocalyptic survivors on a literal ark are sent back to the ground as guinea pigs. As expendable test subjects, they would pave the way for rehabilitation of their home planet, seeing as space living is not sustainable living. Not for much longer, anyway. These eponymous delinquents survive, but only while discovering that they’re not the sole residents on the healing planet. Various stages of infighting and battles between the 100 and the “Grounders” ensue, before things get even more complicated. 

Before one can even unpack the themes of this show (war, self-preservation, colonization and corruption to name a few), we must confront how reprehensible the idea itself is. The violently (literally and descriptively) exaggerated depictions of indigenous tribes, when paired with illogical historical particularism, make for a gross depiction of colonization with no self awareness. The (primarily white) tech savvy futurists arrive to claim the land of the (primarily of color) savages who run amok with backwards clans and traditions. The analysis writes itself. 

It’s also important to note that the books this series was based upon were never as severe as the picture the show paints. In those (not entirely flawless either) books, characters of color were allowed to live sometimes, and Grounders could be allies or even love interests! That’s more than the show can say, given its bloody track record when it comes to people of color both onscreen and off. 

A fan favorite and lead Grounder character named Lincoln was played by Ricky Whittle, a man of color who has long since spoken about his treatment on the show. From biased remarks from producers and showrunners to lack of respect on set, Whittle chose to leave the show by his own volition and told the truth about his experience. 

On the screen, characters of color regularly died more frequently than their white counterparts, or existed in antagonizing roles only. Lincoln was killed in Season 3 by another black character named Pike, a militant and delusional professor of genocide. Anya, a Grounder who served as a commander to her people for two seasons, was shot upon arrival at a Skaikru (Ark inhabitants now on the ground) camp while Clarke is welcomed with open arms. Wells Jaha, one of four protagonists in the books and key leader of the 100 delinquents, was stabbed and killed by a 13 year old white girl in a side plot that is cast away almost immediately after. In the fourth episode of the entire show. 

This kind of disposable approach to characters of color is telling of who suffers in war and in peace. Those most affected by the decisions of those in power are often the Grounders, and in a perverse oxymoron of power, the Skaikru leaders who most often act in violence against them are also people of color. This hard evidence when paired with the knowledge of behind the scenes disputes based upon racial discrimination make Rothenberg’s intentions and preferred set environment glaringly evident.  

Off the bat, the show employs many devices that remind me of its periodical relevance. The upstairs-downstairs editing style, split narratives in dystopian realities and a vague attempt at identifying an ensemble of protagonists are all memorable signatures, some of which are borrowed from the book series. The equivalents of the four main characters in the books (Bellamy, Clarke, Wells and Glass) are virtually the same on screen, but the elevation of many side characters to mains in the first two seasons inherently sets up many of the plots that would define the rest of the show. These choices to diverge from the inspiration text were risky, and ultimately led to a butterfly effect of plot holes and nonsensical twists.

Speaking of twists! A conversation has risen over the last few years regarding the questionable integrity of showrunners or filmmakers who create plot problems just to solve them and confuse fans or disprove their theories, proving they care more about audience response than the creative marrow of the stories they tell. This is especially evident in the latter half of the show, namely Season 4 and forward. 

Mainly, this show’s confusion lies in its inability to recognize its own strengths. The do-or-die tension of the first season meets the stakes the precedent requires, which is a survivalist drama that explores preservation and privacy in novel ways. Untimely diversions into sci-fi and historical dystopia are short lived, and when they are run into the ground they fail to fall in line with the timeline or values of previous narratives. The most compelling characters are smashed to bits to create shock within the fandom, then forgotten for the sake of moving on.

To delve into the designs of some of the primary characters, it’s quite necessary to separate them from their forefathers in the book series. They have devolved and evolved into something near unrecognizable, and thus should be judged as their own entity!

For longtime fans who saw the show through to the end, you will understand the rotting ache I feel for Bellamy Blake. The show’s saving grace and male lead for the majority of its run, Bellamy provided a perfect mix of pathos and charisma to the dynamic of the delinquents. The significance of a man of color leading the show and being treated as such was rare for The 100, and his evolution from a hotheaded rebel with no regard for anyone other than his sister and himself, to a dedicated leader and friend, and back, is one progression that will haunt me until my dying day. Bellamy balanced Clarke in that his ability to let his emotions and moral sensibilities rule him foiled Clarke’s emotional repression she received in lieu of emotional responsibility. This juxtaposition of the heart and the head is the main line of reasoning that Bellarke shippers lay claim to, and I am inclined to agree that the way the two characters were written was more than once meant to lead to romance. The slowburn denial that Bellarke received until Bellamy’s moot point death (by Clarke’s hand, mind you) is an especially sore spot within most of the fandom. The wound still smarts.  

Clarke Griffin is a colonizer. This is plain and simple, and seems to be the crux of most of her design overall. Her actions are led by a dedication to her people, and later, a concept of preservation greater than herself. Clarke is always saving people, and always hurting people, and always crushed by the weight of those two things. The cycle repeats. Her privileged standing on the Ark did little to prepare her for leading a tribe, a nation, or a squadron of less than 6 teenagers, but by the gracious guidance of her parents she is the anointed savior of the entire Earth. Multiple times. That is all I have to say about her. 

Raven Reyes was also slighted in that she was crushed. Flattened and squashed, and awkwardly so, as the writing quality of the latter seasons of the show fizzled out. What once was an emboldened, sympathetic character suddenly became a brassy and argumentative stereotype, who once again yielded to the poor narrative choices of the creators of the show who pulled her strings. Her aversion to sublimation and refusal to collaborate led her to isolation, and even half-hearted side plots and a last grasp romance couldn’t revive her. Her intellect wasted, backstory squandered; As a somewhat predestined lone wolf, Raven Reyes was left in the dust. 

In the same way, Octavia Blake was let down miserably in this show. She represented the ephemeral coming of age in a monstrous climate that viewers wanted to see, and offered an examination of responsibility and supervision as she descended into cannibalism and defensiveness at a young age. All of the rage and growth funneled into five seasons worth of screen time was demolished as she deferred to the matronly expectations of women in television. This quiet burial ultimately led to her final moments on the show as a sacrificial lamb in the final battle for humanity, an appropriate fate considering the magnitude of her position as a warrior and peacemaker. 

Regarding the fanbase of the show and its response to the shortfalls of the series, there is much to be said. A toxic combo of white illiteracy and “fandom brain” lenses impaired the collective ability to comprehend how miserably the show failed to execute its ambitions, and audiences complained more about lack of resolution for their white ships instead of inequitable treatment towards cast members of color. Example A of this is Lexa’s death, which made national waves from fandom communities to internet inhibitors alike, both of which devoted more attention to this event than the departure and unjust treatment of nonwhite counterparts. When there are quite simply bigger fish to fry, ship wars and an admittedly sloppy and plot-holey death are the least of my concerns. When all is said and done, a scatterbrained, racist showrunner and flammatory fandom freaks does not quality television make. My apologies for the delay this week; I love you, and be well!