In the episode, “That Damn Donna Reed,” Rory Gilmore sets feminism back by decades by playing “Trad-wife” in a gingham apron dress and fulfilling her boyfriend, Dean’s dream fantasy. I can firmly say that this is the one episode that everyone, and I mean everyone (I have my sources), skips. Like seriously, what on earth were the writers thinking? And if that doesn’t deter you from liking Rory enough, I’ve got some other reasons. A) She exhibits blatant internal misogyny, fat-shaming other girls while writing for the paper (couldn’t be me). B) She runs off to her rich grandparents at any inconvenience or rejection, in turn betraying her lovely mother, Lorelai’s wishes (while hypocritically criticising her fellow Yale peers with an “Eat the Rich” mentality). C) She is an overall awful friend as she constantly rants about the men and problems in her life with little consideration for what anyone else is going through. Rory Gilmore is insufferable; there is no other way to say it. This is the examination of how the once adored Gilmore Girls wound up as a catastrophe…with the decline of Rory Gilmore.
In her defense, not that she needs one to be completely honest, Chilton Rory was my favourite. As a young, impressionable, teenage girl trying desperately to pass her A-Level exams at sixteen, I longed to have Rory’s work ethic. As absurd as this may sound, I made myself coffee after school, dressed myself up in cream coloured grandpa jumpers bought from my nearest charity shop, and wore low-rise flared jeans to achieve a “Downtown Girl” look, in hopes of imprinting her presence as an academic weapon into my life. I turned the little Welsh town I grew up in and loathed into a relatability factor. I watched “study with me” videos that would pair lo-fi music with Rory and Jess clips to make my academic obsessed life that much more bearable. I found comfort in the God-like role model that was Rory, her iconic blue plaid skirt, and unmissable “Miley Cyrus” eyes, a decor to the four walls of my room. So, in what I perceived to be the most emotionally and mentally draining chapter of my life, Rory Gilmore was my temporary saviour. And for that, I’d have to thank her.
Now, Lane had potential. In conversations with friends, Lane’s character development, or lack thereof, comes up often. We were all disappointed at the write-off of beloved golden retriever-coded Dave Rygalski, who could be best described as the perfect fictional boyfriend (he read the entire Bible for her in one night!). Despite the write-off being due to scheduling issues, the writers played a hand in facilitating the dejection of Lane’s storyline, which transformed the charm she exhibited in her rebellious “rock star” youth into an unwanted pregnancy, leaving her never able to escape the confining clutches of her overbearing mother. Paris too, like Lane, is cast aside and absolutely ridiculed by the show. We all related when she said to Rory, “That’s what you look like in the mornings? Nothing in my life is fair.” We were all shocked by the disgusting decision to have Paris date her sixty-year old professor, then host his funeral. It seemed that Paris’ lack of love manifested in some disappointing trauma projecting. So, of course you’d have to forgive yourself for picking Rory as your role model of choice back then.
However, upon further reflection, I find myself disgusted at how much I idolised this figure. This doll-like figure, who whined about everything that happened to her, who dismissed all of her privileged opportunities, who rebelled against a mother—a family—that gave her everything she ever wanted. A girl who was so easily loved by everyone, simply for existing. A girl who had everything handed to her on a silver platter, yet just as easily made a mess of everything she was given—especially when I myself had worked so hard to achieve so much, and was still so far from achieving it at the time. Me, the girl who wore nerd glasses, was into rock music, and came from a disciplined Asian family. Me, who lent an attentive ear to my other friends’ boy troubles, while I was rarely spared the same attention. Ultimately, in a world full of Rorys, I realised: I was more of a Lane or a Paris.
So, maybe it’s time to move on from autumn rewatches of Gilmore Girls. After all, there is an end to how many times I can rewatch Chilton Rory living out my teenage high school dream, especially when university life at best mirrors Rory’s good old Yale days; and we all know how that ends…
Illustration by Izzy Mcbroom