Late last year, the streaming platform formerly known as HBO Max made headlines when it abruptly canceled the show Minx just a week before Season 2 finished filming. The irony was not lost on me. Minx, created by Ellen Rapoport, is a delightful 70s-set comedy about the first feminist porn magazine, loosely inspired by real-life publications Playgirl and Viva. Unlike other provocative shows, Minx doesn’t rely on raunchiness or smuttiness to grab attention. Instead, it cleverly uses male nudity in a way that challenges our preconceived notions about eroticism.
The show’s main character, Joyce, is a Vassar graduate working at a teen magazine while dreaming of launching her own feminist publication, The Matriarchy Awakens. Her idea of feminism isn’t traditionally sexy, but then she meets Doug, a publisher of pornographic magazines. Doug sees an opportunity to merge radical feminist ideas with sexual imagery to create a magazine that sells. Minx is the result, and the show explores whether sex can be used to sell anything other than itself.
Minx not only examines the tension between creative vision and commercial compromise but also serves as a commentary on the history of sexual representation for women. It draws parallels to the real-life magazine Viva, which aimed to bridge feminism, activism, sexuality, and journalism. However, Viva ultimately failed because its founder, Bob Guccione, assumed he knew what women wanted without truly understanding their desires. Minx and Viva both shed light on the fact that men have always dominated the pornographic industry.
Set in the early 1970s, a time of “porno chic,” Minx delves into the impact of Deep Throat, a feature-length porn film that found mainstream success. The new season of Minx explores the West Coast premiere of the movie and the conflict it generates between feminists and supporters of sexual liberation. The episode raises questions about how society grapples with sexuality and the need for more open discussions.
However, while Season 1 of Minx embraced thought-provoking themes and a irreverent humor, Season 2 falls short. It lacks the depth and engagement with the core mission of the magazine, focusing more on superficial elements of the ’70s aesthetic. This missed opportunity to critically examine the exploitative aspects of the industry is disappointing.
Deep Throat, as a cultural phenomenon, presented a confidence trick by disguising male fantasies as female empowerment. It perpetuated the notion that women could find ultimate satisfaction through an extreme form of oral sex. Sadly, Linda Lovelace, the film’s star, later revealed that she had been coerced into her role. Deep Throat’s success illustrated the contradictory messages of the time, with women being told they could be sexually liberated while men grappled with the consequences of objectification.
In a parallel moment, Burt Reynolds posed nude for Cosmopolitan, challenging traditional notions of male objectification. This groundbreaking image acknowledged women’s sexual appetites and signaled a shift in societal perceptions. Viva sought to capitalize on this evolving landscape, recognizing the need for a magazine that explored female desires and offered a feminist perspective on sexuality.
Overall, Minx and Viva operate as cultural touchstones, shedding light on the complexities of sexual representation and the exploitation that often underlies it. They prompt us to question what power lies in looking and how our perceptions of sex and gender influence our understanding of empowerment.
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