Las Chicas Del Cable: Mental Health in the Face of the Patriarchy

Tara M. Rai

The article is based on the first two seasons of the show.

Set in 1920s-30s Madrid, Cable Girls is an assertively feminist Spanish series with complex, female and non-binary (one) characters at the forefront. It follows the lives of four vastly different young women working as telephone operators in a pioneering telephone company. The political significance of solidarity is exemplified in the fierce friendship that develops among these women, as they navigate their personal and professional lives through structural oppression. The show’s feminism intersects poignantly with mental health issues – as products and tools of the patriarchy.

Elisa, the daughter of wealthy telephone company-owning parents, is first depicted as surreptitiously avoiding the medication her mother insists upon. One then sees her as a suspicious wife who has her husband’s secretary spy on him for potential adultery. There’s basis for her suspicion; however, when she finds potential evidence, and here a trigger warning should have been present, she slashes her arm with a knife, resulting in hospitalisation. She is consigned to the trope of the hysterical and fragile upper-class woman by her family and doctors. Her refusal to take her medication can be seen as an act of rebellion against the ulterior, subjugative motives of her parents. There’s potential for BPD in Elisa: with her purposeful act of self-harm and the fit she throws at the sight of Fransisco’s alleged mistress.

Her newfound confidence and ambition after being released from a sanitarium post the knife incident is pointedly depicted. She is immediately sharper, demands an active part in running the company, and craftily undermines her mother’s clout. This seems attributable to an awareness of her oppression at the hands her parents and the institution, rather than any positive effect of her ‘treatment’. She is adamant not to be sent back. Her mother desperately weaponises Elisa’s mental health to keep her from meddling in the company’s management with suggestions to rest her nerves and revisit the sanitarium.

The prevalence of sanitariums also has repercussions for Sara, regarding their gender dysphoria and realisation of their trans identity. The unproblematic portrayal (as far as I have watched) is welcome, in the face of under- and misrepresentation of trans narratives in mainstream media. In keeping with the style of the show, the issue being tackled is emphasised directly, and, at first glance, generically. Sara relates their childhood performance of masculinity and its parental suppression; their subsequent suppression of their identity, and its reawakening after an instance of cross-dressing. However, their decision to seek medical counsel despite warnings emphasises the pervasiveness of social conditioning, as fear triumphs over caution. Their institutionalised torture highlights the weaponising of psychiatry against queer identities.

Sara’s coming out is neither rosy nor terrible. Their bisexual female partner, Carlotta, takes time out to process the information but proceeds to support them wholeheartedly, while the male partner in their polyamorous relationship (further representation!) cannot handle the information, creating a rift. In an exciting final scene, Carlotta apprises the girls of the situation and they break Sara out of the institution. The emphasis on social support and acceptance with regards to psychological struggles is clear.

Such support has lasting, positive effects on Angeles, whose husband’s ill-treatment turns to violence. In Mario, one sees the insecurity of the traditional husband concerning his wife’s friendships, promotions, and increasing assertiveness. Her reasons to stay - her young daughter and financial security - are gradually overridden by her resolve to end her trauma. However, an attempt to escape with the help of her friends is foiled by Mario. The anxiety this vicarious experience evoked in me, arguably heighted due to my gender, is a pale recognition of a prevalent fear largely exclusive to women and trans people.

Mario is killed during an attack on Angeles in which the other girls physically intervene. Angeles displays a somewhat simplistic progression from shock to joyful liberation, but also what seem like PTSD symptoms. She is buoyant, wears brighter makeup, and looks more fashionable. One senses that she had been deprived of sex before the violence, since Mario also cheated on her. She quickly and manipulatively seduces the detective assigned to Mario’s ‘missing person’ case. Apart from ulterior motives, she relies on him for safety and support in dealing with her anxiety and fear of Mario’s return. This ties in with her PTSD symptoms, as her fear of Mario lingers after his death with little sign of extinction; to the extent that she hallucinates Mario’s face in the mirror and panics. There’s no exposition on Mario’s past here; he feels guilt when he causes Angeles to miscarry, but soon resumes his abusive behaviour.

Resilience manifests itself in all the primary characters. Apart from Angela, there’s the protagonist Alba’s way of marching on despite loss, betrayal, and wounded aspirations; Carlotta’s struggles to fight for her beliefs and freedom despite harsh consequences; and small-town Marga’s adjustment to city life. Although some plot lines are predictable, Cable Girls deftly tackles the intersections of gender, sexuality, and class oppression with mental health.