New York, New York:
Rachel has landed the lead in a student film called Come Back To Me, Grandmother: A Journey Into Alzheimer’s. Nothing gets Rachel going like someone hand-jobbing her star-power and this student director’s got her sprung in a second talking about how she doesn’t even need a callback ’cause she’s just that good, so Lea Michele duets with Rachel Berry and they decide that even though they’re torn on the issue of full-frontal, they’ll do the movie because nothing says “art” like an allegory between dementia and Armageddon. Brody is on board with this plan because it means more tits and fanny, and so he lends his support by walking around his new apartment completely starkers. The result is the best two seconds of Glee ever. No, not Brody’s chest. I’m talking about Kurt’s face:
Kurt’s beef with Brody is threefold: 1) His bare ass is sitting on Kurt’s vintage flea market chair. 2) His trespassing ass moved into their loft without even a discussion between Kurt and Rachel. 3) His misogynistic ass is just a sexier version of Finn Hudson. Of course, Kurt doesn’t say any of this to Brody. He says it to Rachel right in front of Brody, while also explaining that YouTube is forever, so think about that before you let another dude take over your vagina and your brain.
Ryan Murphy always delivers scripts full of bizarro and often-misplayed meta self-deprecation, and I never really know what to make of it. The guy is notoriously thin-skinned, always shouting on Twitter about “BLOCKED!” and “RUDE!”, and absolutely refusing to apologize for legitimately offensive shit like playing into harmful minority stereotypes or, oh, I don’t know, stealing musical arrangements. So whenever he writes meta stuff like this, it doesn’t feel like the good kind of kind way Tina Fey does it. It feels like, “OK, fine! We said ‘misogyny’ on the show, now drop it!” But, I mean, having your characters comment on the offensiveness of your writing without changing the offensiveness of your writing is actually more insulting than not acknowledging it. Like, so you do know what sexism is, but you’re going to keep being sexist anyway? All right, then, buddy.
That’s the end of Kurt in this episode — BOOOOOOO! — but before he checks out for the day, he does call Santana and Quinn to ask them to come to New York to rescue Rachel from herself for the ten millionth time. They want to do some shopping and also they’re both still weirdly and secretly aroused by that slap fight they got into in Ohio a couple of weeks ago, so they take Kurt up on his offer. Also, let’s be honest, Santana would fly any number of miles to be able to say “feel some breeze on them ‘skeeter bites” to Rachel, even if she had to hop right back on a plane to get back to class.
Quinn explains that going topless in a student film is decidedly like sleeping with Finn Hudson: Two weeks after, you feel like a real woman. Two months later, you’re cloaked in shame. Two years later, you’ve spiraled into an unconquerable depression of eternal self-loathing. And Santana explains that when your breasts are on the internet, Google will dog your steps forever. (“Santana-Lopez-Nude-Lez-Boobies-Sex-Tape-Mexican-Or-Dominican-Question-Mark.”)
Rachel ignores their sound advice and decides to do the topless scene. Only, once she gets onto set, she realizes she’s not ready to bare her breasts to the whole entire world. Or, at least not in a smoke-filled black-and-white scene where Grandma gives in to her lust for the Roman Emperor Titus. Rather than getting naked, she gets with Quinn and Santana for a little musical action, after which Santana says she’s tired of not being on this show anymore and so she’s moving to Manhattan.
Next week: Cage matches! Rachel and Kurt face off in the annual NYADA Fugue Fisticuffs! Sam and Santana angry duet over their feelings for Brittany! Everyone else dresses in circus-colored fur! Madonna! Beyonce! Streisand! …Lambert? Sure, OK, why not!
Thank you, as always, to my screencapping partner Lindsay (@ScenicPenguin). And thank you guys also for understanding that recapping Glee is a bloodsport in its own way. Klaine, Kadam, Blam, Brittana, Quinntana, Faberry, Cherry Banana Boberry: shipping ain’t for the faint of heart.