The Magic of Elizabeth Montgomery (or, A Quick Queer Perspective on Bewitched)

I have a thing about the 1960s.

It's a funny thing, really, since I was born at the tail end of the 70s and really consider myself a child of the 90s. But the 1960s, oh, oh, oh : the fashion, the jargon, and the television; oh yes, the television. I grew up on a farm in northeastern Montana, and after we installed our first satellite dish (enormous; my good gay god, gimongous!) I had access to more television and movies than I ever dreamed of. But it was those series from the past that truly captivated me.

Now that DVD, BluRay, Netflix and Hulu allow us to binge on television at our leisure, it has proven profitable to release an entire series in some venue or another; since last year, I have acquired the complete Bewitched, Dark Shadows, and (finally!) the 1966-68 Batman series, allowing me to relive my childhood. I have devoted an entire blog to my love of the perils and pitfalls (and witches and vampires) facing the Collins family of Dark Shadows; future entries of My Shade of Darkness will explore the campy environs of Gotham City, circa 1966; yesterday's entry, however, was devoted to the opening narration of the first episode of Bewitched because my heart belongs firmly to Elizabeth Montgomery and her portrayal of Samantha Stephens, suburban sorceress extraordinaire.

As a little queer kid growing up in Montana I would watch Bewitched reruns on my grandparents’ ancient television set on muggy summer afternoons, and then again on Nick at Nite in high school; while I was figuring out my sexuality, Samantha was learning the ins and outs of mortal life; we learned, seemingly, and two decades apart, but thanks to the miracle of syndication, together.

The appeal of Bewitched's central conflict to queer audiences is obvious: Samantha, a centuries old witchwith the power to conjure -- from thin air, literally -- anything she desires, must suppress her true identity in order to blend in with her suburban contemporaries and satisfy the dictates of her mortal "mad man" husband in order to please a number of other mortals, including but not limited to a never ending parade of clients, his boss, nosy neighbors, and his unknowing family. Despite criticism that Samantha was limiting herself and her potential by holding back her powers, audiences have always responded to the character as a fully realized, three-dimensional person who uses her powers to make the world a better, safer place. Queer audiences in particular are able to identify with Samantha’s position as outsider, constantly in danger of exposure, but empowered to the extent that, at least once an episode, she would be called upon to use her magic to solve some pressing problem in order to maintain the status quo.

There was also the parade of magical relatives, all larger than life: lavender-clad and make-up laden mother Endora, the show’s primary antagonist; sneerish queerish Uncle Arthur; theatrical, Shakespeare-spouting “Daddy” Maurice; turned-on go-go girl cousin Serena, also played by Elizabeth Montgomery, the chameleon id to Samantha’s polite magical matron. If the humdrum mortal (read: straight) lifestyle ever threatened to prevail one of Samantha’s naughty queer relatives would drop in to shake things up.

Observing the way that Samantha solved her problems – lovingly and always with great care – provided me a role model as I navigated the tricky waters of coming out in high school, when I often wished I had an incantation of my own to recite to make things a little easier. Elizabeth Montgomery’s dignity and grace translated into the character of Samantha Stephens, and into my own approach to life as well, when I would often ask myself (and I still do!), “What would Samantha do?”