Coming Out of the Buffy Closet

I started watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer about a year ago now. I’ve been slowly making my way through the series, occasionally watching an episode while eating dinner and discussing it during runs with a friend (a devoted Buffy fan who gets credit for introducing me to the world of Joss Whedon and fandom more generally).

I can still see why I was turned off when catching a glimpse of some ridiculous-looking supernatural beings in an episode or two early in the show’s actual reign (1997-2003). This reaction was fuelled by high school guy friends who watched the show only because they thought Sarah Michelle Gellar was hot.

At the urging of my friend I eventually discovered, however, that when watched sequentially I actually enjoyed the show for the character development, the interpersonal drama, and the risks it takes with its plot. (Buffy was, for example, one of the first prime-time TV shows to openly show a lesbian relationship and not do so in an exploitative or careless way.) You get used to the silly-looking beasties after a while. Furthermore, the supernatural elements as metaphors for the perils of regular high school life provide fruitful conversation-starters for English grad geeks like my friend and I.

Last night the rain was pounding down on my windows and I couldn’t sleep, so I broke my the-bedroom-is-only-for-sleeping-and-yoga rule, dragged my laptop into my bed and fired up the first episode of Season Six. I didn’t make it through the whole episode (a double-header) before falling asleep, but I have to say that so far I agree with those who think that Buffy should have ended with the last episode of Season Five. On the (rather off) chance that there’s someone out there who, like me, is embarrassingly late to get on the Buffy train, I won’t spoil the ending, but suffice it to say that so far the sixth season is really creeping me out.