All Tough, All Business: Honey, Peel, 99, and that Darned
Catwoman
by Amy Linden
Happening role models, femme division, were not easy to come by on the tube until recently. In the Sixties, for instance, choices were limited. You could either aspire to be a mom or a Jeannie. Since most of us were fated to be some variation on the Carol Brady theme, why did we have to Stepford out so young? I mean, making healthy meals for your family may be satisfying, but is it cool? Did boys play dad, wherein they went to work, stressed out, and had heart attacks at age 45? No, they got to be James Bond or the Man From U.N.C.L.E., while we gals got stuck being Mrs. U.N.C.L.E. or secretary or made snacks for the villains. That's until the swingin' sisters of the serials burst out of the Zenith. Honey West, Emma Peel, Agent 99, Catwoman: all tough, all business, and all any aspiring sociopath could hope for in a goddess. Twenty odd years later, their roles still hold up, if for no other reason than that the fashions (primarily all-black, skintight unitards and cool dark shades) are what most of us tend to wear. But it's more than sartorial daring that makes these babes once and future queens of my day. It's attitude, and attitude, like black stretch pants, is something you can never have enough of.
Honey West (from the '65-'66 series of the same name), as played to icy perfection by the sultry Anne Francis, mole in place, takes her blond flip and pony-skin car coat into one risky situation after another. Like most hip hers of the Sixties, Honey is some sort of spy or cop; something where she is making the world safe for democracy and getting to shoot bad guys. Honey has a pet ocelot named Bruce, drives a cherry sports car (these are chicks who would rather blow up a station wagon than be caught dead behind the wheel of one), and has a male partner ("Sam Bolt") who may or may not be her beau. But she's so busy keeping her hair from mussing up, she probably doesn't have time for some dopey man! With Foster Grants on her face and bongos playing in the background, Honey lived dangerously and looked really boss doing it.
Emma Peel, from The Avengers, set standards for avant female attire and behavior. Diana Rigg, the ever-so-Brit actress who was the more widely viewed Emma (Honor Blackmon of Pussy Galore fame was the other Ms. Peel), had cheekbones to die for, a knowing smirk on her lips, that flip (note that on these girls it's a wild wig, while on That Girl or Marilyn Quayle it's L7), those clothes (including the racy leather ensembles, making her the first S & M mistress of the airwaves)... and she had a unique relationship with both her partner John Steed and that umbrella. Best of all, Emma kicked guys, a lot, down there. She was probably the only TV character that both dad and daughter could lust after. Sleek, well versed in karate, and clad head to toe in hides, Emma Peel was the antidote to suburban life.
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Batman's Catwoman, as portrayed by Julie Newmar (not Eartha Kitt! Too exotic to be truly cool), is the first great space cadet / evil temptress. The curvy Circe of Gotham City seemed somewhat out of it, as though she was dipping into the catnip. Newmar was a wonder. On a show filled with sexless nerdy superheroes, she slinked and lapped milk like a vamp, tossing her long fall back with authority. Naturally, she wore a catsuit like white on rice and got to boss around her posse of hapless henchmen, teaching all of us girls the valuable lesson: get some guy to do the shit work. Is it any wonder we rooted for her to triumph over Batman and Robin? Truly good bad, and she had cute little kitty kat ears.
Get Smart's Agent 99 was the only nonincompetent on the show. Barbara Feldon did not get as tough a wardrobe as the other gals. She doffed Carnaby Street duds, but was no bombshell. This was due, no doubt, to the fact that she was seeing Maxwell Smart, and couldn't look too sexy. (In fact, they finally did her in by giving her twins, for chrissakes.) But she had Cool Chick coursing through her veins -- since she was a secret agent, had a flip, saved the day a lot, and had the best way of rolling her eyes back whenever Max would screw up, which was all the time. The "Oh Max' riff would be yet another invaluable lesson for all future gal pals out there, since most of us would wind up spending our lives apologizing and standing by the unfortunate choices we made, mate-wise. Each roll of the corneas was an unspoken signal that said, "We all know I'm the only one with half a brain, it's a man's world, and at least the writers don't make me look like a jackass."
Women may have more options today, although, due to glasnost, spy ain't one of them. Yet, despite all the Armani-clad supergals cluttering up the screen with their six-figure CAREERS and their quality-time children, none will ever be as inspiring, memorable or important as the cool chicks of the boob tube who gave us little girls hope and lifetime fashion tips.
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