The year was 1988. Margaret Thatcher became the longest-serving Prime Minister of the century, Canada struck down its anti-abortion laws and Joan Jett topped the Billboard charts. Women’s full-time employment had skyrocketed to 52%, university grads were increasingly female, and the wage gap was quickly closing. Meanwhile, I was an impressionable 5-year-old, at home renting and re-renting Working Girl.
If you haven’t watched Working Girl on repeat, a quick synopsis: Melanie Griffith plays Tess McGill, a strappy secretary who rides the Staten Island Ferry in running shoes to the sky-high Manhattan offices. Tess is smart and ambitious, but trapped in a man’s world that ignores her good ideas. When Tess’ new boss—an idea-stealing frenemy played by Sigourney Weaver—breaks her leg, the scheming secretary makes a plan for change: a professional makeover (into her boss’ wardrobe) and a new office boyfriend played by Harrison Ford (also the boss’ boyfriend; whoops), all to land a career-making deal to smash the glass ceiling and finally lift her up the male-dominated corporate ladder.
Oscar and Golden Globe judges loved it, as did viewers. “At 18, when I saw it in theatres, I was blown away. I’d never seen a film that so appealed to me about women and success,” says Brock professor Shauna Pomerantz. But a career in feminist media studies has Pomerantz re-thinking Working Girl’s so-called feminist lessons: Which of Tess McGill’s tricks have more staying power than shoulder pads? And which better belong in 1988? To find out, we ran Working Girl—on its 25th birthday, no less—through a gauntlet of feminist gurus. Now kick off your pumps already and press play.
Will you be my mentor?: “She wants to be my mentor, which is exactly what I need!”—Melanie Griffith as Tess
Let’s start at the very beginning: Having newly quit another demeaning job, Tess gets a new boss—the seemingly kind Katharine who Tess hopes will take her under her wing. Here, my ‘80s girl Tess is miles ahead of her time: The last decade of women’s career seminars have dwelled on mentorship as a number one discussion topic, says Sheryl Sandberg in Lean In: Women, Work, and the Will to Lead. “Young women are told that if they can just find the right mentor, they will be pushed up the ladder and whisked away to the corner office,” she writes. Not so. In fact, it works the other way around: work hard and a mentor will notice you.
But since workers with mentors get better assignments and more money, it’s still an enduring fantasy—“the professional equivalent of waiting for Prince Charming,” says Sandberg—which, as Tess will learn the hard way, is rife with disappointments. Firstly, for the most obvious of sexist reasons, powerful men are reluctant to mentor young women. Harvard Business Review reports 64% of high-level men are hesitant towards one-on-one with junior women; similarly, to avoid office gossip, half of those women avoided close contact with the men.
Worse, stereotypes that your equally powered female boss is inevitably of the backstabbing Devil-Wears-Prada variety perpetuate old fears that accomplished women hog and protect limited female spots at the top. Here, says Pomerantz, is where Working Girl went way wrong. “Katharine is cast as an unfortunate enemy. A lot of anger is misplaced by pitting these women against each other instead of working together against the corporate world.” In fact, female bosses (especially mothers) can better understand and accommodate flexible hours and locales, making them a working girl’s best friend.
What to wear: “Dress like a woman, not like a man would dress if he were a woman.”—Harrison Ford as Jack
When her boss breaks a leg skiing, Tess is granted access to her boss’ posh pad and promptly gets snooping. There it is: Tess’ idea, previously rejected, stolen and presented as Katharine’s own. Now it is on—and by it, I mean war and a $6,000 dress, which Tess can “borrow” to enjoy her bitchy boss’ networking ops. Once upon the 80s, work-appropriate attire meant concealing girly curves beneath formless and manly black and grey pantsuits. For Tess McGill, that means vetoing flashy jewels and trashy tresses. “If you want to be taken seriously, you need serious hair,” she says, reaching for the scissors.
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