Bridgerton: Repression & Pleasure
Shonda Rhimes’ Regency-era romp,
Bridgerton, has well and truly superseded any label of being simply a ‘guilty pleasure’. Unlike some of its period drama predecessors,
Bridgerton has a hell of a lot of influence, with spades of think pieces being written (much like this one), rumours of eight seasons filling Facebook feeds and Netflix declaring that the show is its biggest series ever, with eighty-two million households globally watching it within the first month of its release after Christmas day.
Though
Bridgerton may not be a guilty pleasure, the show certainly generated a lot of pleasure, and perhaps guilt. Both viewers and characters were addicted to scintillating ‘romantic scenes’– think three-minute sex montage, lavish interiors and costuming, as well as just the right number of dramatic entrances and exits at each visually spectacular ball. However, whilst watching the show I couldn’t help questioning whether I should be ashamed of enjoying it so much. Can someone who calls themself a feminist wholeheartedly enjoy a period piece like