Jessica Jones Broke Up With Me

I make no secret of the fact that I loathe superhero movies. Christopher Reeve’s Superman was fun. Tim Burton’s two Batmans were typically and deliciously offbeat. Christopher Nolan’s Batmans were well done too. The occasional superhero movie was fun escapist cinema that I could enjoy along with everyone else.

But somewhere along the way, I got burned out by the endless stream of superhero movies. I haven’t even seen Nolan’s third Batman. It matters not to me how great the movie might be, I’m sick of the endless barrage!

But there’s no question Marvel has hit upon one of the most wildly successful formulas in cinematic history, and the fans slaver like starving wolves over each new release. Over comic book heroes, for heaven’s sake! Grown adults!

I just can’t see the attraction. I have this odd preference for stories with some level of sophistication. Go figure. But here’s where I must confess, I have a guilty obsession over one Marvel superhero.

Jessica Jones.

Not the Jessica Jones of comic book fame. Not the Jessica Jones that might appear in any movie or ensemble cast of Marvel heroes. Jessica Jones as Netflix incarnated her in its original series, and as Krysten Ritter breathed life into her.

I was hooked in the first season. It helped that she wasn’t the usual Marvel superhero with a stupid name and clad in a ridiculous colorful costume with mask and cape that might appear on the underwear and bedsheets of little kids. Jessica Jones is only marginally part of the superhero genre. It’s really film noir complete with the grizzly detective occasionally throwing in narration, that just happens to have a few superheroic characters that blend seamlessly in with real life, dressed in normal clothing. It was nothing like the flashy superhero movies.

I eagerly awaited the second season, which hooked me just as much. After what seemed like an eternal wait, the third season dropped, and I lapped it up like, well, a slavering, starving wolf.

Since it had been so long and I didn’t remember the first two season story arcs well, I embarked on a massive binge-watching and viewed all three seasons within a handful of days. Season three did not disappoint, and when I finished the season finale, I did what I always do with a series I enjoy. I Googled what was what with the fourth season.

And to my horror, found out there would be no fourth season. Thanks to Disney’s rights ownership and launching of its own streaming service, Netflix is dropping Disney properties like hot potatoes. One more reason to despise mercenarial Disney.

There would be no more Jessica Jones.

I cried myself to sleep that night (metaphorically) and went on with my life the next day. And the next. And the next. By the time the third day came along, I realized I had been in a deep depression for all three days, and I gradually came to realize why.

This wasn’t a typical depression. It was a very specific kind of depression, a specific kind of feeling that I eventually recognized. It was the exact same feeling I get when the woman I love breaks up with me.

I realized to my shock that I had fallen in love with Jessica Jones.

Not just as a great television series and character, but literally fallen in love with the woman Jessica Jones. A freaking fictional character. At my age!

Quite apart from the embarrassment of having succumbed to such a juvenile thing, I had to figure out how to deal with these feelings, because I was feeling genuine grieving from the loss. I continued to feel it for several more days. The feeling is coming back to me now even as I write this. How in the world did Jessica Jones have such an impact on me?

I immediately started analyzing. The first obvious reason was that Krysten Ritter as Jessica Jones has a powerful, earthy attraction and sexual appeal. And an ass that won’t quit. But that was shallow stuff, things I experience practically every day when I go out in the world and encounter attractive women. This went way deeper than that.

I loved her tough approach to life, her strength as a woman hero, her no-nonsense pattern of dealing with people, her honesty and authenticity in confronting the world, never trying to appease anyone. I loved her intelligence, her streetsmarts, her willingness to take challenges head-on. That kind of woman excites the hell out of me.

But I also loved her fragile soul hidden under that tough exterior, her deep craving for intimacy that’s continually blocked by her dread of rejection. I wanted to bundle her up and help her feel like she was worthy of love.

I realized that not only was Jessica Jones a very enjoyable series, it was a great series, a masterpiece. The writers had created a world and a character and stories that were rich, emotional, impactful, that caused me to care about them deeply. The filmmakers produced it with great skill, maintaining an engrossing, consistent tone that brought an authenticity to the world. The actors were superlative in their performances, breathing life into their characters and making them real to us, not least of which was Carrie-Anne Moss of Matrix fame, who delivered a mature performance comparable to Robin Wright in House of Cards.

Most of all, Krysten Ritter embodied Jessica with a performance that caused me to fall in love with her as if she were a real person. I lived in that world like fans of Lord of the Rings live in Middle-earth, like fans of Avatar wish they could live in the world of Pandora. I feel like I should be in love with Krysten Ritter herself, she made Jessica so real, and have to remind myself she is an actor delivering a performance. She is not Jessica Jones.

Or is she? Her performance was so genuine, I can’t help but think that Krysten brought much of herself to the role and came away from the experience with a piece of Jessica in her.

Don’t worry, Krysten, if by some miracle you happen to read this. I won’t stalk you. But I make no promises what might happen in my dreams.

I realized that by mega-binging Jessica Jones for three whole seasons in a short few days, I had immersed myself wholeheartedly in her and her world to a depth that worked on my psyche as if I had experienced those things in real life. The writing, the production, the performances accomplished the pinnacle of what excellent storytelling can accomplish in the hands of masters.

I don’t regret letting Jessica Jones into my life and will no doubt binge-watch the whole series again one day, then cry myself to sleep again. I’ll always look back fondly on the experience like a young love that left me bitterweet memories, and I’ll strive to master my own storytelling skills to the level where they can impact my readers with as much power as Jessica Jones impacted my life.

That’s what storytelling is all about.