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“Let’s begin, shall we?” So goes the final line of the final episode (“Introduction to Chemistry”) of Lessons in Chemistry. A “catch phrase,” if you will, that proves the so-called end is usually only the beginning. As it is for Elizabeth Zott (Brie Larson), whose battle against the patriarchy is just another day for any woman in the 1950s. In fact, not since Mona Lisa Smile has a piece of pop culture reminded women how far they’ve come from the ills their forebears had to suffer during this decade. Despite that recent overturning of Roe v. Wade and the enduring reign of men in positions of power that dictate how women are treated and viewed in their day-to-day lives, there’s no denying that the mid-twentieth century was far more nightmarish for the “fairer” sex. That term itself being rooted in sexism, as it has nothing to do with how much more “just” women are, but how “hot” they are (never forget that “fair” meant “hot” back in the day—hence, Eris labeling the Apple of Discord, “For the fairest” or the Evil Queen staring into the mirror and demanding, “Who is the fairest of them all?”). And the 1950s in particular have a reputation for being women’s most “Stepford wife-y” time.
Amid this climate, Elizabeth, a brilliant chemist, feels more stifled and slighted than the average woman (though she might be the first to tell you that no woman is average). Relegated to working as a lab tech at Hastings, a well-respected university near Los Angeles’ Sugar Hill neighborhood (before Sugar Hill ceased to exist), Elizabeth is constantly reminded that she is not only “lesser” because she’s a woman, but because she doesn’t have her PhD in chemistry. In other words, she’s “not a chemist,” as the head of the department, Dr. Robert Donatti (Derek Cecil), likes to remind her at every opportunity. But before we get to that point, Lessons in Chemistry, with its fondness for showing ends as beginnings, commences in the late fifties, when Elizabeth has already become a minor celebrity thanks to a cooking show she hosts called Supper at Six. As we see her ordering the men around her who work behind the scenes, it’s clear that Elizabeth is a rare breed of woman for this decade: someone who has made herself indispensable enough so as to not be told what to do. Cut to seven years earlier, and, as mentioned, that’s certainly not the case. She’s as much of a pariah as one can be…except for another chemist on campus: Calvin Evans (Lewis Pullman, who, yes, looks very much like his father, Bill). The difference is, Calvin has the benefit of being 1) a man and 2) the key to the Remsen funding that Hastings has grown quite fond of for its chemistry department.
Painting viewers a picture of a day in the life of Evans, we see him rowing, running (with a foreshadowed moment of his fate arriving when a bus nearly hits him…call it some Final Destination shit) and showering in his lab, writer and show developer Lee Eisenberg (of The Office fame) reveals a parallel portrait of Elizabeth’s daily life at Hastings. One that consists of being called “sweetheart” and “honey” while cleaning and setting up the lab for a team of all-male chemists. And, of course, she’s asked to make coffee. In contrast, Evans has total autonomy, talking to his boss in a manner everyone only wishes they could because he knows that he’s still considered the university’s golden goose for funding. All throughout this episode, titled “Little Miss Hastings,” we see Calvin and Elizabeth living their parallel lives as they nearly cross paths but never quite “touch.” But after Elizabeth is brazen enough to kife a few bottles of Calvin’s ribose supply (in the book, it’s beakers), their paths cross quite easily, as Calvin berates her for her insolence and calls her a secretary. When the head of personnel, Fran Frask (Stephanie Koenig), tells him she has her master’s in chemistry (specifically, a master’s from UCLA, where she studied cellular metabolism of nucleic acids), he seems to immediately change his mind about her. Regards her with a new set of eyes, as it were.
It doesn’t take long for the two to suddenly form their own antisocial social club, with their mutual interest in abiogenesis allowing for no lulls in any conversation they might have. Conversations that start to take place over lunches in the cafeteria…lunches made by Elizabeth. Because, yes, cooking is chemistry. But their closeness brings up a sudden sense of panic and anxiety in Elizabeth. Not just because she keeps having flashbacks of being cornered in a room and attacked by her UCLA professor (thus, dropping out after being told to apologize to said assaulter). A man who thought he was “owed” something after her PhD qualifying exam in 1950 went so well. Trying to “collect” on that “debt,” he underestimates Elizabeth’s willful defiance of “playing the game.” In fact, much of the comedicness of Lessons in Chemistry (whether in its TV adaptation or book format) is a result of Elizabeth acting as though she does not exist in a system so patently rigged against women. Indeed, her refusal to “play the game” and, contrastingly, insist that the game ought to be fair (“just fair” not “hot fair”) in the first place is part of the reason many readers have speculated she’s on the autism spectrum. Her inability to learn or heed social cues, however, is part of what makes her so charming to a man like Calvin. He being the “uncontrolled variable” of her experiment called Living Life Dogmatically.
This is why, at the end of the first episode, when she pulls a burned lasagna out of the oven while live on the air, she admits to her audience, “In science you endeavor to control every variable of your experiment… Sometimes you can’t count on a formula. Sometimes you can’t control each variable. Sometimes…many times…things just turn out messy.” Obviously, she’s not talking about lasagna, but rather, Calvin. How it all went so wrong so quickly. That is, after it all went so right so quickly (but, mind you, their romance was not an “easy come, easy go” situation). That is, once Elizabeth stopped fighting the obvious chemistry (had to do it) between her and Calvin. The intensity of their reaction to one another stemming from the fact that neither had ever had much experience with the opposite sex (in fact, it feels like both of them were probably virgins, and that much is confirmed in the novel). What’s more, any “mild experience” usually resulted in never hearing from the erstwhile interested party again after a first date. But with each other, it’s as though they can just finally “be” without having to try. Without having to worry about being perceived as…autistic. Or something.
It is in the second episode, “Him and Her,” that not only do things escalate to the next level between Elizabeth and Calvin, but the true star of both Bonnie Garmus’ book and the show that adapts it arrives onto the scene. Six-Thirty. The dog named after the time of night Elizabeth finds him—though, in the series, named after the time of morning he consistently wakes up. But, as Garmus also noted of the name’s meaning, “In chemistry the number six stands for carbon—one of the foundations of life. Meaning Six-Thirty is elemental!” That he is, in both formats of the story. Particularly since he is the indirect cause of Calvin’s death. Played by a Goldendoodle named Gus, “Him and Her” is the lone chance Six-Thirty gets to express his remorse (through the voiceover narration of B. J. Novak) for what happens to Calvin, describing his own backstory and how he came to be a stray before encountering Elizabeth. Whereas in the book, the wielding of his thoughts is more consistent. Alas, translating that onto the screen would have, invariably, proven to be too difficult. Mirroring the sentiments of many fans of the novel, Garmus herself remarked, “He’s not quite the dog I’d envisioned in the book [characterized as “tall, gray, thin” with “barbed-wire-like fur”] but he’s definitely a presence. It’s a challenge to add a thinking dog to the cast and at this point, I have no idea how it will come off. But the Hollywood people working on the series are the greatest and I feel confident they’ll find a way.”
Ah, those “Hollywood people.” They find a way all right. Though it’s clear they found a way mainly for those who have not read the book before to glean especial enjoyment from the series. And one of the most obvious changes apart from Six-Thirty is Harriet Sloane (Aja Naomi King). Most markedly, in the show, she has a loving and supportive husband instead of a highly abusive one. In this regard, the series seems to allow Harriet a greater opportunity to shine (even if the portrayal of her home life is perhaps far less realistic). Save for her inevitable failure to spare her neighborhood from being effectively destroyed. For, in real life, by 1961, approval was secured to build a ten-lane highway as part of the I-10 expansion commenced right through the vibrant and thriving (and yes, predominantly Black) Sugar Hill neighborhood…a name that ceased to exist (like a woman’s singular identity upon getting married) as it became merely “West Adams.”
Unfortunately, what didn’t cease to exist as part of the “1950s runoff” that bled into the 60s was women being treated like second-class citizens. Nothing Elizabeth hadn’t been conditioned to anticipate since she began working in the chemistry field. Most glaringly when she was attacked by her advisor at UCLA. And yes, that attack is rendered much more brutally and grotesquely on the page than it is on the screen. What’s more, the show fails to include the post-attack appearance of the extremely misogynist police treating her like the criminal as they look her up and down and appraise her overtly violated state.
When she tries to tell Calvin about how her advancement in the career of her choice has been stymied at every turn by “sex discrimination,” he can’t seem to fathom it. Until she asks him to name one female scientist besides Madame Curie. In the novel, she goes on to say, “…women are at home making babies and cleaning rugs. It’s legalized slavery. Even the women who wish to be homemakers find their work completely misunderstood. Men seem to think the average mother of five’s biggest decision of the day is what color to paint her nails.” In other words, as Garmus phrases it, “When it came to equality, 1952 was a real disappointment.” Not to mention the entire decade.
No wonder Elizabeth comes up with the empathetic catch phrase for her cooking show, “Children, set the table. Your mother needs a moment for herself.” After all, what mother of the 50s was ever allowed moments to herself despite being made to feel as though her entire existence was as “cush” as a house cat’s? In the book, Calvin is the one to symbolically shake Elizabeth and remind her, “…you continue to operate as if [life is fair]—as if once you get a few wrongs straightened out, everything else will fall into place. They won’t. You want my advice? Don’t work the system. Outsmart it.” Vexed that he would presume to lecture her about fairness, Garmus writes, “She didn’t like the notion that systems had to be outsmarted. Why couldn’t they just be smart in the first place?” Perhaps because the people who created and continue to run them aren’t the brightest bulbs in the tanning bed. And tend to think primarily about how a “one size fits all” system only really fits their needs.
Even Calvin, for as “evolved” as he is, still can’t resist the urge to propose to Elizabeth, who has already made it clear that marriage is out of the question for her. That it would automatically cast every chemistry achievement she made in the shadow of Calvin. In the series, Calvin never actually does propose after buying a ring, deciding to respect Elizabeth’s wishes when she expresses them. The TV Calvin knows that to ask for Elizabeth’s “hand” is to ask her to erase herself and become Mrs. Calvin Evans. Like so many women before and after her had to erase themselves in order to fall in line with the societal conventions of marriage. In the fifth episode, “CH3COOH,” as Elizabeth appraises the set that is her TV kitchen while her new producer, Walter Pine (Kevin Sussman), looks on, there’s a moment where she opens the oven and we’re given the perspective of seeing her as though from the inside of it. So that it looks like she just might stick her head in, Sylvia Plath-style.
That’s what it was to be a woman in the mid-twentieth century. To be made to feel so crazy just for saying or doing anything a man might that it sometimes felt as though suicide really was the only recourse. To get through it—the constant belittling, gaslighting and overall steamrolling—a woman truly did need to have the strength of ten regular men (to loosely quote a song from Aladdin). And maybe, just maybe, the support of an extremely intelligent dog. Lessons in Chemistry reminds us that the women of today owe nothing but gratitude for the strides that managed to be made in such an oppressive era. One that we cannot allow to reanimate again.
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Genna Rivieccio
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