Ömer’s women and the “waning” currency of melodrama — “New Turkey”s shifting genres

Ömer’s “nostalgic” investments are not limited to Yeşilçam.[20] [open notes in new window] Its use of the mahalle (neighborhood) setting is another formal element that distinguishes Ömer from the dominant trends in Turkish dizis. A historically rooted diegetic device of Turkish television drama, this mahalle setting has been considered as an attempt to consolidate a fantasy of social cohesion in an era of disruptive urban transformation projects.[21] Such nostalgic framing of the mahalle (pioneered by the TRT production Perihan Abla [1986-1988]), Tanrıöver suggests, creates an “imaginary dimension (düşsel boyut)”—as the evil always comes from the outside of family and mahalle relationships, which is certainly the case in Ömer.[22] However, Tanrıöver also underlines that mahalle and family elements are not innocent, as they reinforce the traditional family structure defined by patriarchy and its gendered division of labor. In these narratives, women characters are given the traditional role of the housewife or work in jobs conventionally assigned to women. The character development point to an expectation that men are to be disciplined or taken care of by the women of the family. Likewise, even in mafia-themed series (e.g. Kurtlar Vadisi/Valley of the Wolves (Sinegraf, Panafilm and ShowTV/KanalD 2003-2005)), Tanrıöver argues, the family is the safe space the characters resort to, to remain “good” and “pure”. Tanrıöver concludes with the caveat that this does not mean the depictions of mahalle or family are monolithic in Turkish dizis: these include dissident voices within, such as the rebellious teenagers, or may generate varying interpretations amongst the audiences.[23]

While the absence of mahalle in Kızılcık Şerbeti and Kızıl Goncalar make their spectacularisation of the neoliberal crisis of the family gain an accent of class privilege,[24] Ömer authenticates crisis ordinariness through its stylistic engagements with mahalle as setting, and melodrama as genre.[25] The show accommodates the constant torrent of crisis through its melodramatic pathos and affective—mahalle-driven—investment in familial bonds.[26] Each episode follows up on previous crises (either financial or familial), while unfolding multiple new ones.

Likewise, there are almost no scenes without musical accompaniment and the narrative heavily relies on the emotional driving power of the dramatic musical score. These features are at their most intense in Episode 41, when Yaman is stabbed and killed in an altercation after Eda’s compromising photos circulated among her peers. Meanwhile, right after witnessing the stabbing, Gamze finds out she must get an abortion as her pregnancy is risking her life. The episode is dominated by intense scenes of crying and wailing, with some of these scenes lasting up to 13 minutes. The scenes repeat like verses in a song, with only brief intervals of mere seconds.

However, the show also borrows elements from other genres like action and horror, especially in the episodes when Emine and Eda are kidnapped by a sex trafficking gang, and when Gamze is kidnapped by her stalker. In these episodes, the stylistic affordances of fast-paced fighting scenes and suspense expand the show’s genre ties to action. Similarly, during the episodes when Eda and Nilüfer are placed in the hands of Uncle İzzet’s ultraorthodox cult, the show uses stylistic conventions and tropes from gothic and occult horror, with chilling spectacles of violence and abuse that override the melodramatic pathos.

In the beginning of the show, the children of the Ademoğlu family are introduced to us as individuals stuck between their desires to conform within their familial duties and their desires for self-actualization. They all seem to be inflicted with what Berlant conceptualizes “cruel optimism”. Berlant describes cruel optimism as a type of attachment to an object, where the object undermines the very potentiality of its promise. This promise could be change, social change or change to a better version of self. It could be the promise of stability. Berlant’s work focuses on fantasies of “good life” in neoliberal times and how these generate optimistic attachments to norms, cultural institutions or ideas. What is overwhelmingly present in Ömer is the characters’ investments in hetero-familialist norms which seem to promise safety and affection within the family space. Yet they are also the very source of toxicity in familial bonds, violence and discrimination, which decimates the promise itself. However, many families and family members, especially those in Ömer, invest in conforming to these norms and remaining within their family as the idea of severing ties is more intolerable than maintaining them.

Tahir seeks acceptance and reverence from his father and larger community by strictly and violently adhering to traditional gender norms and controlling his family (i.e. his wife Şükran and his daughter Eda). As viewers are introduced to more of his story, we find out that he gave up his love for music and for his girlfriend Vicdan to obey his father’s wishes. Despite his great loss of a sense of self, Tahir continues to invest in upholding patrimonial authority and following his father’s example while enacting a much more authoritarian and violent version.  Nisa, as opposed to Tahir, married Hakan despite her father’s disapproval. When Hakan leaves her stranded with no money or help with her five kids, she keeps her abandonment a secret and tries to maintain her image as a content mother and wife to save grace with her father. Vicdan, a later entry to the narrative, was left alone as a pregnant teenager when Reşat refused to believe her pleas, which led to her becoming dependent on sex work to sustain herself. Although a disobedient and independent character, Vicdan still invests in the ideal of a family, led by a man. As the family accepts her as the mother of Tahir’s child, she starts calling Reşat “father” and repeatedly demonstrates her eagerness to be included as a member of the family.

Ömer also borrows from other genre conventions like those from action and horror, especially in the episodes when Gamze is kidnapped by her stalker. Similarly, during the episodes when Eda and Nilüfer are entrusted in the hands of Uncle İzzet’s ultraorthodox cult, the show uses stylistic conventions and tropes from gothic and occult horror, with spectacles of violence and abuse that override the melodramatic pathos.

Gamze, too, is portrayed as a strong woman who would not give up her financial independence, yet she too continues to sacrifice her own desires for the sake of her husband and his family. When faced with possible death, Gamze chooses to continue her pregnancy, despite her eagerness to abort the baby in the first place. The doctor tells her that due to her age, her pregnancy might lead to miscarriage and could prove fatal. After a miscarriage, she files for a divorce, as she rather chooses that Ömer “taste fatherhood”.  During their tribulations, these characters constantly remain devoted to the idea of “good life” as something that can be maintained by familial bonds, despite repeated failures, disappointments, and endless sacrifices. It is particularly women whose autonomy is compromised within Ömer’s cruel optimism. The show empowers women insofar as their autonomy does not threaten its adherence to restorative familialism.[27] Inverting Yeşilçam’s fantasy of woman-as-Pygmalion whom the rich male protagonist transforms and then falls in love with ,[28] Ömer’s women do the work of restoring family and transforming masculinity. Through their persistent and selfless commitment to family, and by keeping their households together financially, these women (Fatma, Gamze, Nisa ve Şükran) provoke men to re-situate, in softening, their masculinity.

Nevertheless, while the show begins with exposing the impossibility of achieving a “good life” defined by familial harmony, it proceeds to build a new optimistic attachment to familialism through restoring patriarchy as a tolerant and inclusive structure of authority. Through its critical instrumentalisation of women (and their conditional empowerment), Ömer restores hetero-familialism as an ideal without necessarily questioning its political currency and discursive violence.

Vicdan, a later entry to the narrative, was left alone as a pregnant teenager when Reşat refuses to believe her pleas, which led to her becoming dependent on sex work to sustain herself. Although a disobedient and independent character, Vicdan still invests in the ideal of a family, led by a man. As the family accepts her as the mother of Tahir’s child, she starts calling Reşat “father” and repeatedly demonstrates her eagerness to be included as a member of the family

Toxic masculinity and pious pastoral fatherhood

The narrative’s restorative logic is also at work in consolidating the pastoral role of religious authority. In the later episodes of the show, Tahir gets embroiled in the ultraorthodox religious cult led by his uncle İzzet, who seeks revenge on his brother Reşat. Fed up with waiting for his father’s approval and wanting to prove himself, Tahir follows İzzet without questioning his intentions. The cult engages in all sorts of illegal affairs, including sex trafficking and forging documents. The cult follows an authoritarian religious doctrine, especially regarding women’s place in social life and unconditional obedience for the cult leader. It serves as a cautionary tale about the threat of legitimacy granted to the religious orders by the AKP government in “New Türkiye.”  In this regard, Reşat’s sermons emerge as a new narrative device. We watch Reşat as he addresses his congregation including his sons, and ultimately, the dizi spectators. These sermons often thematize the ongoing conflicts in the family and operate as a discursive (and narrative) tool for Reşat to communicate his feelings and advice to his sons.

Against the backdrop of AKP’s reliance on Diyanet to consolidate its hegemonic hold over the family and the instrumentalization of various religious orders by the government, Reşat embodies a fantasy of a tolerant, unifying, and compassionate figure of pastoral fatherhood. In these scenes, Reşat often negates Diyanet’s own sermons, especially as he suggests that daughters are not their fathers’ possessions and that there should be equality between spouses. The sermons also warn against blindly following sheiks, endorsing the practice of reading the Qur’an for oneself and following the path of reason and science. These scenes serve as an alternative religious guidance and counselling message for the audiences to achieve a “good life” (perhaps a “good afterlife” too).  At the same time, he is educating his congregation and audiences through a tame, softer masculinity, pointing to a more lenient and tolerant patriarchal authority as the solution to the crisis of family.

Reşat often negates Diyanet’s own sermons, especially as he suggests that daughters are not their father’s possessions and that there should be equality between spouses. The sermons also warn against blindly following sheiks, endorsing the practice of reading the Qur’an for oneself and following the path of reason and science. These scenes serve as an alternative religious guidance and counselling for the audiences to achieve a “good life”.  At the same time, he is educating his congregation and audiences through a tame, softer masculinity, pointing to a more lenient and tolerant patriarchal authority as the solution to the crisis of family.

What we consider particularly meaningful are the show’s choices to intensify the visibility of religious sermons as a core diegetic component in addressing competing masculinities. In Episode 38, Reşat comes across the sermon of Nurettin Hoca, one of the leading members of the tariqah run by Reşat’s vengeful brother İzzet, which Tahir ends up being embroiled in. Nurettin’s sermon asserts that women belong in their homes, and they should not be allowed to work or to go to school. Frustrated by Nurettin’s statements and motivated to show Tahir the corruptness of İzzet’s cult, Reşat says:

“Stop these superstitions! Your words are against the Qur’an! Our religion [Islam] has become unrecognizable, unlivable, because of you and those like you! You have estranged the youth the most! If you preach about religion, talk about Allah’s words, not these superstitions! Wake up, my Muslim friends!” [29]

In Episode 39, Reşat’s own sermon is inspired by his personal concerns about his son Tahir’s indoctrination and İzzet’s corrupt cult. The sermon cites verses from Surah Al-Hujurat:

“Say, ‘Do you presume to teach God about your religion, when God knows everything in the heavens and earth, He has full knowledge of all things?’” (Al-Hujurat 49:16)

The visibility of religious sermons as a core diegetic component intensifies in Episode 38 of Ömer, in an attempt to address competing masculinities. Reşat comes across the sermon of Nurettin Hoca, one of the leading members of the cult/tariqah run by Reşat’s vengeful brother İzzet, which Tahir ends up being embroiled in. Nurettin’s sermon asserts that women belong to their homes, and they should not be allowed to work or to go to school. Frustrated by Nurettin’s statements and motivated to show Tahir the corruptness of İzzet’s cult, Reşat says: “Stop these superstitions! Your words are against the Qur’an! Our religion [Islam] has become unrecognizable, unliveable, because of you and those like you! You have estranged the youth the most! If you preach about religion, talk about Allah’s words, not these superstitions! Wake up, my Muslim friends!”

Following Tahir’s imprisonment as he was held responsible for İzzet’s fraudulent affairs in the cult, Reşat’s congregation (i.e. jamaat/cemaat in Islam) turns against him and holds Reşat accountable for the crimes his son is convicted of. Reşat responds to his followers by, again, using a public sermon and reminding them of the Quranic verses about the wrongs of gossip, sedition and wrongful convictions:  

 “Believers, if a troublemaker brings you news, check [verify] it first, in case you wrong others unwittingly and later regret what you have done.” (Al-Hujurat 49:6)

“Believers, avoid making too many assumptions- some assumptions are sinful- and do not spy on one another or speak ill of people behind their backs: would any of you like to eat the flesh of your dead brother? No, you would hate it. So be mindful of God: God is ever relenting, most merciful.” (Al-Hujurat 49:12)

“Do not follow blindly what you do not know to be true: ears, eyes, and heart, you will be questioned about all these.” (Al-Isra 17:36)

In Episode 45, Tahir’s reconciliation with his father Reşat, following Reşat accepting his son’s apology and forgiving him, also inspires and informs the sermon Reşat delivers about the redemptive powers of forgiveness in Islam with references to verses from Surah An-Nur and Surah Al-Fussilat: 

“Those who have been graced with bounty and plenty should not swear that they will [no longer] give to kinsmen, the poor, those who emigrated in God’s way: let them pardon and forgive. Do you not wish that God should forgive you? God is most forgiving and merciful” (An-Nur 24:22)

“Good and evil cannot be equal. [Prophet], repel evil with what is better, and your enemy will become as close as an old and valued friend” (Al-Fussilat 41:34)

When Reşat recites verses from the Qur’an, or the hadith, or call to prayer in Arabic, the Turkish subtitles appear on the screen. Despite their constant references to Qur’anic verses and phrases in Arabic, neither Kızıl Goncalar nor Kızılcık Şerbeti presents a simultaneous translation to the audience, unless a character asks its meaning. Such “pedagogic”, or instructional, moves that Ömer takes can be considered as reappropriating the educational religious shows broadcast on public and/or “Islamic” channels (e.g. Samanyolu TV).[30] It is as if the show itself assumes the pastoral and patrimonial role of Reşat towards its audience, ensuring the transparency of what could otherwise remain unfamiliar. By lifting the language barrier between the audiences who may not be well versed in the Qur’an and the Islamic scripture, the show highlights the need for the believers to interpret the Qur’an themselves, without blindly adhering to false authorities.

In place of conclusion: Ömer’s restorative closures and the subversion-banalization cycles in TV genres

Towards the end of the show, the script’s cruel optimism, which provides a narrative arc and allows it to expose the conflicts of hetero-familialism, is replaced by “mere” optimism, that is, that patriarchy is salvageable. Gamze decides to get divorced as she wants to be independent, yet later, the audience is told that she is indeed sacrificing her love as she does not want to stand in the way of Ömer becoming a father. Tahir ultimately embraces his vulnerability and manages to regain Şükran’s trust through his newfound “soft” masculinity. Both despotic parental figures, Fatma and Reşat are transformed during the course of the show, partially with the help of romantic love. We even find out that Reşat wanted to marry out of love, but was not allowed to. Just like his sons, he too, had desires, but his dreams were crushed by familial responsibilities. To the audience’s surprise, he suddenly decides that he does not regard his new wife Çiçek as a housekeeper, but as a romantic partner. Gamze’s mother Fatma, increasingly supportive of her children towards the end of the show, ends up falling in love with Rahmi and marries him. Hakan, who has abandoned and gaslit his wife in so many ways, “smartens up” and convinces Nisa to remain married to him.

The story ends with a sickly sweet, communal wedding ceremony of all these characters, in a cultish reunion. Out of a very violent chain of events, laced with domestic abuse and toxic behavior, emerges a supposedly new family union. Familial oppression, we are led to believe, is gotten rid of through romantic love and mutual understanding. The fantasy here is that hetero-familialism is not inherently faulty; that romantic love can discipline familial violence into tolerance.  The power of love, it turns out, is so sublime and miraculous that Gamze ends up giving birth to a baby girl. Ömer is finally an artist as he always dreamt of and has an exhibition coming up. Thus, the story’s happy ending suggests that individual desires and societal expectations can meet in the middle ground. Such is the fantasy of Ömer’s story: violence can be endured, toxicity can be fixed, neither are structural, but are curable by romantic love.

As a concluding remark, perhaps it is pertinent to finish with the question of whether the audiences of Turkish shows are inflicted with cruel optimism as well as the dizi characters. Thinking about the debates surrounding not just Ömer but the other shows that have emerged of late, can we use the concept of cruel optimism to define the expectations and disappointment of audiences with the development of the storylines? As the public space for open discussion shrinks, popular culture and media become the arena for public debate on political issues. There is a commonly felt expectation that these shows will delve into these issues in a critical manner. The fictional TV narratives start off with a transformative potential, or so they seem, as they thematize issues of current public debate such as divorce, toxic masculinity, violence against women and familial pressure on women. Yet quickly they turn back on themselves, with the plots defaulting into typical, melodramatic tropes, and female characters leaving their quest for independence behind for the sake of love and family.

Nevertheless, this new trend in commercial dramas of the primetime Turkish dizi scene demonstrates a significant shift in the critical literacies of popular culture and its audiences. Rather than dismissing the symptomatic significance of these new shifts in the televisual economy, it is useful for us as critics to pay attention to cycles of subversion/innovation and banalization, and cycles of progressive critique and normative closure. This is, we contend, one of the most effective ways to grasp and examine the ideological workings of national TV genres. However, considering the shifting economies of content creation, changing habits of TV consumption, and rise of transnational markets in television production, we should note that a critical attention to the industrial context of dizi is also needed when fully conceptualizing TV content and its political economies.

While we are writing this article, we observe changes in the cycles of subversion/innovation and banalization. Such changes have already been at work as the dominant/popular paradigms in the dizi sector have begun swerving to shows like Leyla: Hayat… Aşk… Adalet… (Star TV and Ay Yapım 2024-), a remake of the Brazilian telenovela Avenida Brasil (Globo and SIC 2012), and Bahar (ShowTV and MF Yapım 2024-), a remake of the South Korean show Doctor Cha (JTBC 2023).[31] While the centrality of women as protagonists (and their critical function in contesting hegemonic masculinities and the wider gender/sexuality politics in Türkiye) remain, these new dizis demonstrate a detachment from other emergent, pious-versus-secular paradigms of the contemporary TV ecosystem. While Bahar clearly attempts to carve out a proto-feminist space of “joy” in its story (leading to a genre hybrid that engages playfully with conventions of comedy (especially romcoms and sitcoms), medical drama and musical), Leyla’s hyper-melodramatic modality uses generic excess as a performative strategy to queer the Manichean formulations such as those of “good”/moral/innocent/docile woman/mother vs. “bad”/ill-willed/ promiscuous/ fallen/transgressive woman/mother. While these new “interventions” to the dizi scene diversify the representations of femininity, the “success” of such diversification occurs at the cost of political detachment. What seems to remain as a constant, though, is the ways in which these productions navigate gendered operations of neoliberalism and their evasion of class in favor of individual entrepreneurialism and self-governmentalization, in contemporary Türkiye.