Mitchum Was Right: A Reflection on Motherhood in the Gilmore Girls revival

I wrote this essay back in 2016, in a fit of zeal after the Gilmore Girls revival A Year in the Life aired. I revised it lightly in 2018 and just this week.


Enthralled as we currently are with nostalgia and the desire for more and more diverse representation of female characters, the strong (if not universal) negative reaction to the revival of the hit show Gilmore Girls deserves attention. The revival has - I think entirely inadvertently - provided us with a case study on the consequences of trivializing morality in art and culture.

The show is full to the brim of women with a variety of skills, passions, families, and vocations. It was well-loved, and had plenty of potential for a revival. However, something went dramatically wrong. Viewers of all kinds had stunned reactions to the plot and characterization.

Because the show is about mothers - specifically, mother/daughter relationships - that will be my primary focus as I give my answer to the question, “Why did the Gilmore Girls revival fall flat for so many people?” Emily/Lorelai and Lorelai/Rory are the main mother/daughter considerations, but I will also briefly include Paris, Sookie, Lane, and several male characters. They may not have significant screen time in the revival, but they all help us answer the central question.

After I compare the trajectories of both individual arcs and mother/daughter relationships, I offer what will likely be unpalatable observations on the intersection of Gilmore Girls and morality.

“Well, I am a Gilmore.”

One of the compelling tragedies of Gilmore Girls is that Emily and Lorelai have more in common than they realize. They have poor communication skills (especially with each other), can impress others easily, have great ambition, and are utterly convinced that they know what is best. Emily may be correct with her low estimation of Lorelai’s relationship decisions, but Emily also refuses to recognize Lorelai’s business acumen. Lorelai may be correct about Emily’s emotional manipulation, but she is also blind to her mother’s social talents and successes. In essence, Emily and Lorelai have mostly equivalent weaknesses and strengths. If one of them says or does something hurtful or thoughtless, it is likely that the other will rather quickly commit the same error.

There is a cycle of mother/daughter rebellion as well. Lorelai rebels from Emily, and Lane rebels from Mrs. Kim. We find out, in a clever twist, that both Emily and Mrs. Kim were rebels of their generation, in terms of marriage partners and religion, respectively.

Rory is the odd one out; she is a bridge between generations, not a rebel from a specific generation. She fits comfortably in a small town diner and a glittering D.A.R. gala. Rory does not have Lorelai’s emotional baggage about Emily, so Rory’s innocence (or naivete) enables her to build a more positive relationship with Emily. Some of this innocence is lost when, for example, Emily attempts to break up Rory and Dean, Rory’s then-boyfriend. Rory does not believe Lorelai’s warnings, and once she is proven wrong, minimizes the manipulation because she is willing to give Emily the benefit of the doubt.

All of the Gilmore women make good and bad decisions throughout the series, thus making it delightfully difficult to say that one character is definitively better - more stable, more successful, more correct - than the others. There is continual friction from the clash of worldviews of Emily and Lorelai (with Rory acting as the bridge). However, there is definite, if small, forward motion. Therein we find key strengths of Gilmore Girls: change, patterns, and complexity within the context of family relationships. Character development in the series is slow, frequently unrecognized by others, and not always permanent - and therefore realistic.

The original series starts with Lorelai as a single mother. She is about to break over a decade of radio silence with her parents after running away from home to escape them and raise Rory. The series ends with Lorelai in a relationship, regularly (albeit begrudgingly) communicating with her parents, able to support Rory’s academic dreams (solely thanks to Emily and Richard), and owner of a flourishing new inn.

The original series assumed that its audience supported or tolerated modern sexual values (specifically, consequence-free cohabitation, divorce, and casual sex). The few characters who opposed those values (Mrs. Kim, Emily, and Richard) are presented in such a way that they usually inspire ridicule or antipathy for their values.

Although the values displayed in the Gilmore Girls revival is consistent with the original series, that consistency works against itself, as the revival also shoehorns in some traditional values and expects the two sets of values to coexist. Relationships and decisions that are incomparable are given the same weight, weakening the emotional impact of many decisions.

The revival starts with an excellent premise. Richard’s death sparks a quest for each Gilmore girl. Like the hero’s quest, they must all lose something important, wander, and eventually find themselves. However, their wanderings and progress are not at all equal. Emily loses her husband, leaves the D.A.R., sells her house, acquires a whole family of help, buys new houses, insists on regular visits from Luke and Lorelai, and takes on (presumably volunteer) work that she loves. Lorelai loses her father, both of her business partners leave, gains a plan to expand her Dragonfly empire, marries Luke, and maintains a relationship with her mother. That last gain is one of the most important ones, because the relationship continues without the guarantee of Rory as bridge and buffer. Rory loses her grandfather, gives up her apartment, loses a book deal, loses her journalistic leads, loses a boyfriend and Logan, acquires a non-paying job, becomes pregnant, moves back home, and starts writing a book about her life.

One thing the revival did well is it shifted the usual Emily/Lorelai conflict of worldviews to Emily/Rory. Emily is baffled by this modern rootlessness of Rory’s life, and does not mince words about her opinion: “Rory is a 32 year old college educated woman with no permanent address. This isn’t normal!” (Winter). We find Lorelai and Emily collaborating (or at least communicating with the usual level of dysfunction) more than we find Emily and Rory seeing eye to eye. It is an interesting tension to see these two at odds, and the show gives valid points to both Emily’s expectations of an adult and Rory’s frustration at the modern economy.

Because of these strengths, the shortcomings of the revival stand in sharp relief. Many characters did not mature; they simply got older. Rather than provide growth - or even the opportunity for growth, in some cases - some characters have remained the same, or returned to old faults. While we do have the usual Stars Hollow/Gilmore hijinks, they are conflated with unusually grave actions. For example, Rory, Lorelai, Emily, and Luke’s treatment of Paul is given about the same tone as Taylor’s sewage quest - both are used as quirky punchlines to a scene. While opposition of modern values is usually controversial, I am confident that other viewers were shocked to see blatant infidelity treated so casually.

“It was the best birthday I ever had.”

In the original series, Lorelai is a single mother in her 30’s with unshakeable ambition. She overcomes tremendous adversity (personal weaknesses, financial difficulties, unreasonable small town officials) and achieves her dream of building and opening an inn with her business partner, Sookie. Lorelai is full of paradoxes: she is ambitious and indecisive, direct and non-confrontational, and practical in business yet in denial about her own weaknesses. She has a complicated relationship with her parents. Lorelai has some obvious commitment issues with romantic relationships, a fact that Sookie, Emily, Rory, and others comment on (and which Lorelai outright denies). Lorelai tends to be her daughter’s friend, rather than a mother and authoritative figure. There are exceptions, of course - her criticism of Rory and Dean’s tryst, her discipline of not only Rory but Rory’s friends after a concert.

Lorelai’s tendency to see her daughter as a friend first is most probably because of two reasons: the young age at which Lorelai became a mother, and Lorelai’s desire to be as unlike her own mother as possible. One of Lorelai’s most frustrating and prominent traits is that she does not think before she speaks. She blurts things out, and almost immediately regrets them and the consequences that follow.

In the revival, Lorelai is a 48 year old woman, whose faults are somewhat magnified but partially addressed. Her indecision is worse; she refuses to hire a full-time chef to replace Sookie, forcing her live-in boyfriend (with his own business) to assist her. While Rory is her own adult now, Lorelai is shockingly ambivalent about Rory’s one-night stand and ongoing affair with an engaged man.

Her poor communication is about the same, although perhaps more frustrating to viewers. While she does immediately apologize for her awful outburst at her father’s wake, it is reasonable to expect that an adult would be able to say one kind statement - or at least something not totally humiliating - at their own parent’s wake. In true Gilmore fashion, though, Emily loses her moral high ground when she accuses Lorelai of never caring about the family. In that same painful fight, a comment from Emily about having children sticks in Lorelai’s mind. With their usual emotional awkwardness, Lorelai and Luke briefly consider surrogacy. Despite Luke’s well-reasoned refusal, Lorelai continues to entertain the idea - a fairly serious thing to withhold from a partner. Lorelai does drop the issue, but there is never an acknowledgment that her behavior is worrisome.

However frustrating these episodes are, they seem largely consistent with the Lorelai from the original series. She makes considerable mistakes, especially with Emily, but she generally apologizes right away and tries to fix her mistakes. Emily usually evens the score with her insults and machinations. They affect each other in both positive and negative ways, even if they only acknowledge the negative. It can be an exhausting cycle, but it is consistent.

Lorelai’s arc ends on a mostly positive note. She makes concrete progress: she starts the series with the Dragonfly Inn, and in a committed but unmarried relationship to Luke. She ends the series with a plan to buy more real estate and expand the Dragonfly - financially backed by Richard’s will and her mother’s support, fittingly - and with a marriage to Luke. (Why Lorelai and Luke were not already married is a burning and unresolved question.) Lorelai rightly points out to Emily that she has always been the empire builder, not Luke. Luke is satisfied with his small, successful world: “This right here is all I will ever need” (“Fall”). It is a testament to the growth of both Emily and Lorelai in the revival that Lorelai can not only articulate this truth, but that Emily listens and agrees to support her latest business venture with absolutely no argument.

“I do. I do deserve that.”

In the original series, Rory is an academically brilliant young woman with a strong relationship with her mother. She forms a bond quickly with her grandparents (to Lorelai’s shock and discomfort), and thrives in traditional academic settings. She has clear dreams - an Ivy league school, then journalism - and takes concrete steps to achieve those. She has several unsuccessful romantic relationships, and is unfaithful several times. She rarely, if ever, admits that she was wrong. (It is quite telling that no one from the town criticizes Rory for her role in breaking up a marriage - a town that has no problem involving itself in every other aspect of Rory and Lorelai’s lives.) She reads constantly. She is innocent to the point of absurdity, surrounded as she is by her mother, her grandparents, and an entire town who almost never criticize her. She is quick to adapt yet stubborn, emotionally immature, inherits the Gilmore inability to communicate well, and is hampered by an inability to receive criticism well.

In the revival, Rory is a 32 year old woman, who is jobless for almost a year. She has two unsuccessful interviews, and tries to write one story, which she abandons. (The Atlantic1 and The Financial Diet2 have good articles on Rory’s professional weaknesses, so I don’t think I need to belabor the point.) She has a boyfriend of 2 years (3, by the end of the show), and forgets he exists for the whole year. Her continued forgetfulness - “Did you just write ‘break up with Pete’?” - is treated as a joke rather than practically sociopathic behavior (“Summer”). She carries on an affair with an engaged man. She ends the affair not because it’s wrong - Logan implies that their affair can continue indefinitely - but because she has to be independent. In her own words, “I’m broke. Busted. Beggared. I have no apartment, no car, hell, my license expired three months ago…I have no job. I have no credit. I have no underwear” (“Summer”). She also is never once shown reading.

Rory’s cracks in the original series, especially her inability to respond well to criticism, have come to light. When Mitchum Huntzberger tells her that she won’t be a good journalist in the original series, Rory says, “I’ve always done what’s asked of me” as though that is equivalent with journalistic success (5x21, “Blame Booze and Melville”). She is floored when she is told that her competence, intelligence, and ability to anticipate needs are what make a good assistant, not a good reporter. More troublingly, Rory responds in a completely self-destructive way: she steals a boat, is arrested, and has to drop out of Yale to fulfill court-ordered community hours. The Chilton Headmaster tells Rory in “Spring” that Rory was, “always internally stronger than everyone else”. Where exactly is the evidence for this? Mitchum’s assessment of Rory was correct - Rory is a sharp assistant, but she lacks thick skin and professional (and personal) ethics.

Her transition from journalist to author does make sense, and it parallels an important arc from the original series: her dream of Harvard changing to a dream of Yale. Dreams and goals change, and book writing is a better fit for Rory than journalism. We are informed of Rory’s intelligence on a near-daily basis; is it unreasonable to expect that she should have noticed her own strengths and weaknesses sooner? What exactly has she been doing for the past ten years, anyway? One also must wonder: Rory is not a good journalist, and she cannot work well with a difficult client (Naomi Shropshire) - how inspiring is a writer who is only good at working with herself?

One of the tragedies of the show, in my opinion, is that Rory does echo or parallel her mother’s life, but at a different time in life. Lorelai became pregnant at 16; Rory became pregnant in her mid-30’s - hardly comparable emotional weight. Rory is given objectively better circumstances and opportunities in life than her mother, and yet turns out worse. Lorelai says, “I stopped being a child the minute the strip turned blue.” Based on Rory’s decision making abilities, her terrible babysitting, lack of experience with children and consequences, can we imagine her saying the same?

“I’m the Pablo Escobar of the fertility world.”

In the original series, Paris is outrageously abrasive, antagonistic to everyone, yet fiercely protective of her friendship with Rory. She is a ruthless writer and journalist, but a terrible leader. She struggles with a bad relationship with her family, goes from riches to rags thanks to her father’s criminal behavior, and achieves her goals while managing to alienate almost everyone. She is usually unlikeable, but she is undeniably fascinating. In the revival, Paris has become a doctor and a lawyer - consistent with her achievements and goals in the original series - but her divorce from Doyle adds a dull patina of modern blandness to a previously exciting couple. Her one-liners are as sharp as ever: “Tell them you’ll pay them back for the two semesters you spent studying Buffy the Vampire Slayer’s effect on the feminist agenda” is a particularly delicious barb (“Winter”). She has, however, heartbreakingly turned into her mother, as Paris proves when she mentions that her children love the nanny more than her.

There is a missed opportunity in the revival to use Paris as Rory’s catalyst for change. Throughout their friendship/rivalry, the two women shape each other: Paris motivates Rory and reminds her of reality, and Rory helps Paris interact more smoothly with the world around her. If Paris knew the extent of Rory’s failures in the revival, it is easy to imagine that she would bully Rory back into sanity and success.

Her arc leaves us with lots of questions. Why did she choose to have children? Why does her marriage fall apart? Why does she suddenly regress into the nasty, high-school version of herself while visiting Chilton? All of these questions may not be contradictory or inconsistent; there could be interesting answers for all of them. Unfortunately, we do not get enough evidence to decide whether the revival’s version of Paris is partly out of character or simply not fully explored.

“Still best friends?”

In the original series, Sookie is a culinary force of nature, and Lorelai’s business partner and best friend. The two women are zany, but excusably so because of their tremendous talents. Sookie marries and starts a family with her vegetable supplier, Jackson, and the two continue to grow together throughout the show. They struggle with major miscommunications and opposing dreams about children, they adapt to life as parents, and Jackson successfully runs for public office. They are interesting and colorful both separately and together. In the revival, Sookie and Jackson are mostly static, and Sookie is nowhere to be found, except for a few minutes during the last episode.

There is a practical answer to some of this: Melissa McCarthy was not asked to participate in the revival. When she was finally asked, the showrunners were only able to fit her in the last episode. That justifies Sookie’s physical absence from the show, however, we are still left with a rather weak “cover story”. Her sabbatical is not given much explanation - the sabbatical itself and the reason for taking it. No mention is made of how Jackson feels, caring for their children while she is gone. We are not told why Sookie chooses to leave the Dragonfly, and what her future plans are. Given the constant change of chefs at the Dragonfly, there is a huge missed comedic opportunity to give Jackson screentime by, for example, picking fights with the chefs. Sookie also gives us an excellent example of the cracks in the foundation of the original series that lead to chasms in the revival. Incorrectly equivalent tone has been mentioned - using the same tone to portray two situations with different ethical and/or moral weight. We can see the roots of that incorrect balance in Sookie’s treatment of Jackson after she has her second child. While still in the hospital, she informs Jackson that he is going to have a vasectomy. In a show where one of the protagonist’s has a “STOP THE WAR ON CHOICE” poster in her room, forcing one’s spouse to undergo sterilization seems incongruous.

Again, what is important is not only Sookie’s decision, but its presentation and tone. Husband and wife are equal partners when deciding to have and raise children. Informing your husband that he will get a vasectomy brutally strips him of his own choice: imagine if, on a mainstream TV show, a husband casually informed his wife that she was having a tubal ligation, regardless of how she felt about it.

“This adult stuff is hard, isn’t it?”

In the original series, Lane is a colorful and passionate young woman, a blend of traditional and alternative. She has fascinating culture and family clashes, and in a wonderful plot twist, finds out that her mother was just as rebellious as a young woman. Lane lives a “starving artist” lifestyle, but cannot shake her traditional upbringing on relationships. While she cohabitates with her boyfriend, their living arrangements are done out of a perceived financial necessity and predate their relationship.

In the revival, Lane and Zack have been given no plot and almost no character development. One would think that musician parents with twins would be interesting to the story, but apparently not. Lane and Zack are the second example (Sookie and Jackson being the first) of traditional couples (married with children) who are given no development in the revival - a concerning coincidence.

The few changes we know about Zack and Lane are tantalizing. Zack has gotten a promotion in his office job, must wear a suit and tie, and looks like his father, which is very not punk. His singing voice has also gotten stronger, and the band as a whole is tighter. The band also performs at the secret bar, so we can hypothesize that perhaps they play there on a regular basis. But that is very little overall in terms of story, and it is nothing in terms of progress or growth. Lane is used to validate and enable Rory when Rory “breaks up” with Logan; Lane acts as though such an event is simply part of life. Her astoundingly blase reaction is, “This adult stuff is hard, isn’t it?” (Summer?).

“In Omnia Paratus!”

I am concentrating on the female characters, but I would at least like to mention some of the men. The Life and Death Brigade has not changed at all - an idea that is charming at first, but a little boring, and ultimatly sad. Logan in particular is a depressing case. In direct contradiction to his character development in the original series, Logan is not only regularly unfaithful, but he is comfortable with his decisions. For some reason, he now cares about his family’s desire that he marry an heiress, and has no inclination to prioritize Rory.

There are some brief cameos of past flames - Christopher, Jason, Dean, and Jess. Jason and Christopher seem about the same. In fact, Christopher seems eerily unchanged. (As an aside, I saw an Internet comment quip that Zack aged faster than Christopher because Zack actually raises his children.) Dean and Jess seem remarkably well-adjusted and content. Dean has his wife and an ever-growing family, and Jess has his successful publishing house. Jess is one of the few voices of reason throughout the show. Given Rory’s state at the end of the revival, one hopes that Jess realizes he deserves far better than her.

Michel’s abrasive personality now includes hating children, which we are apparently supposed to find funny rather than abhorrent. Despite those moments, Michel’s arc is one of the best. It is a good example of a way to build a story that includes the character’s absence. Michel’s absences are quite telling, and move the story forward: Lorelai can tell that he is planning. His arc is bittersweet and painful largely because it is realistic, and because he cannot help but show the pain he felt when Sookie left, and the pain he will feel when he leaves Lorelai. We also find out that Lorelai has been taking money from her own salary to pay Michel more - a very sweet, very Lorelai move.

“I can’t spend anymore time and energy on artifice and bullshit.”

In the original series, Emily and Richard are the most traditional of the three Gilmore generations. Emily is full of her own paradoxes. She is condescending, sarcastic, and manipulative to Lorelai and her business, but financially supportive and insists on seeing Lorelai regularly. Emily struggles to see Rory’s weaknesses, and enables Rory’s poor decision-making. Emily is one of the primary reasons that the original series is so compelling. As mentioned earlier, Emily and Lorelai are quite similar, but they refuse to see the success of the other: Emily’s accomplishments are too traditional for Lorelai, and Lorelai’s are too untraditional for Emily. Even when Emily is right, it is difficult to agree with her: her truths are usually quite bitter, and unpleasantly delivered. The stubborn and messy family dynamics, the class tensions, the manipulation - all of those elements provide realistic conflict and make the show relatable.

In the revival, Emily has recently lost her husband of 50 years. Of all the characters, she is the most deserving of a period of “rootlessness”. It is logical that she will wander as she struggles to find who she is now, without her husband by her side. In an interesting turn of events, Emily emerges as one of the most reasonable characters of the revival. She takes on some of her husband’s business and financial duties until she is sure that she, Lorelai, and Luke are properly cared for. She briefly spends time with Jack Smith, an old friend, but eventually greatly prefers being on her own. In her glorious outburst at the D.A.R. meeting and her subsequent dismissal from the group, Emily willingly sheds the last link of her old life - “This whole thing is dead to me anyway. It died with Richard” (“Fall”).

She observes that both Luke and Lorelai are withholding information from each other - Luke, about the franchise, and Lorelai, about the therapy. Interestingly, she does not say much more than that, which is indicative of her growth. Had this conversation happened earlier, Emily would have reveled in this realization. Now, searching for peace and some fulfillment, Emily does not dwell on Lorelai’s relationship problems. One of the last things that we learn about Emily is that she has become a docent at a whaling museum near her new house. She takes obvious relish in the job, which is unsurprising. She has a captive audience, and she can continue to practice her love for accurate history in an authentic way.

“Enough with the encomiums!”

As mentioned throughout, the revival suffers from its incompatible sets of values and expectations from the audience. Rory’s pregnancy is an excellent example of this. Where is the shock of this revelation? Rory herself had a pro-abortion poster in her college dorm room; surely if this pregnancy is a problem then she can “fix it” quickly. Further, Rory’s sexually active, and having a child at 33 is very common. We are supposed to be stunned by this plot twist, but it’s only stunning if we believe that her pregnancy is permanent. In a show that takes for granted the prevalence of modern values, why should we care about something that can be easily undone?

On the topic of permanency, there is a question that is asked - by viewers and by characters - throughout the revival: why aren’t Luke and Lorelai married? As viewers, we feel that something is missing or unfinished from the Luke and Lorelai story. This is fascinating because the show (the original series and the revival) simultaneously argues that marriage matters and doesn’t matter. Marriage is the natural culmination of a relationship, but if one believes that casual sex, cohabitation, and divorce are acceptable, then there is almost no activity exclusive to marriage. Still the question nags at us: why aren’t they married? Why, in this most secular of worlds, do we still want them to get married? When Lorelai says she and Luke are as good as married, and Emily says no, they are merely roommates, with whom are we supposed to sympathize? Either we trivialize Emily’s grief or we equate Lorelai’s and Emily’s relationships. Either marriage matters, or it’s simply another step in a relationship. And if marriage matters, then morality matters, and we have opened a Pandora’s box of uncomfortable truths about the intersection of art and morality.

Perhaps another reason for the weaknesses in storytelling and lack of character development is the tired trope that a character ceases to be interesting once he or she marries and/or becomes a parent. For example, the most interesting thing that could happen to Paris Gellar after becoming a wife, mother, lawyer, doctor, and dental technician…is a divorce - an undoing of past decisions.

I think the problem is a conflation of two beliefs. Belief 1 is that conflict drives the story. Belief 2 is that good is boring. Belief 1 is at the very heart of story, of drama, of art. There is no story unless something is happening. Belief 2 is the problem. In fact, I think people think Belief 2 necessarily follows from Belief 1; that is, conflict drives a story, therefore people and events who are good are boring, because there is no conflict.

In Milton’s Paradise Lost, it is generally agreed upon that Satan is the most interesting character. Adam and Eve are boring; they have no personalities, whereas Satan has conflict and personality coming out of his horns. Milton didn’t create this problem, but he gave us the best example of it. Goodness - that is, a character’s desire to choose the good - is far more interesting in a story, because it is harder, and because they are more likely to run into conflict because of that desire.

Gilmore Girls purports to be a show about families - especially about mothers. Their representation of motherhood therefore matters, and it is worth spending time analyzing what the show thinks about motherhood.

Motherhood is fundamentally a surrender. It is a free choice to serve another - one’s child and family. There are all sorts of interesting conversations we can have about motherhood: how do you keep your personality, with the overwhelming demands placed on you as a mother? How do you balance wife and mother? What is the best way to parent your child? When, if ever, should you be friends with your child? More specifically: Does Mrs. Kim babysit Lane’s children when Lane and Zack are playing a show? How did Paris adjust to being a mother, given what must have been an incredible work schedule? Does Lane give her children music lessons? Does Sookie miss her children’s birthdays? If she doesn’t have cell phone service, how regularly does she get to talk to her family? Does Lane find herself becoming more like her mother?

We cannot get to these fascinating conversations on Gilmore Girls. Lane, Sookie, and Paris, if they are given any development, are not considered as mothers. That is, the fact that they are mothers is not considered interesting or essential to the plot anymore. It is also quite obvious, based on the above observations and the presentation of children (notably Lane’s twins and Paris’ children) that the show has no idea who children are, how they act, and why they are important. The revival not only robs us of reasons to care about Rory becoming a mother, it also robs us of the emotional weight of the scene, and of reasons to care about Rory at all.

Unanswered Questions

For women who consider the Pippi Longstocking movie a religious experience, why do Rory and Lorelai find comic book geeks so horrifying? For that matter, why is Lorelai so disgusted by the Stars Hollow musical? Of course it isn’t a smash hit, but it’s actually extraordinary given Taylor’s personality and resources. Lorelai’s outrage is far too disproportionate for what is a slightly goofy musical. The whole scene feels like a very forced attempt to make Lorelai feel more isolated. Why does Lorelai assume that Jack Smith is her mother’s new boyfriend, referring to their 30-year friendship as “gold-digging”? Why was there a 3 second cameo of Mr. Kim that was never mentioned again? Why does Logan say that he wouldn’t leave his fiancee’s belongings around his apartment for Rory to find as though he’s being appropriately discreet? Why was Emily’s letter never mentioned again?


  1. Garber, Megan. “Turns Out, Rory Gilmore Is Not a Good Journalist.” The Atlantic, November 28, 2016. ↩︎

  2. Luders-Manuel, Shannon. “Rory Gilmore Will Not Get Rich From Her Memoir, And Neither Will You.” The Financial Diet, December 2, 2016. ↩︎

Sharon Kabel
Sharon Kabel
Librarian; Nuisance

I like Catholic newspapers, amateur data visualizations, and walls of text.