I was just as invested in hating Ellis, however, as in following the show’s treatment of his sexuality. In contrast with its matter-of-fact presentation of everyone else’s sexual identity, Smash began to draw curious attention to Ellis’s sexuality in the pilot when Bombshell songwriters Julia and Tom debated whether he was gay or straight. She thought Ellis was straight; he believed Ellis’s kitchen-organizing skills and interest in Monroe indicated otherwise. When viewers learned a few episodes later that Ellis was in a relationship with a woman, the information was presented like something of a “big reveal” intended to surprise viewers who assumed he was gay. (Unlike the show’s other couples, he and his girlfriend Cynthia hadn’t previously mentioned their relationship and were only shown hanging out like friends.)

The first season continued to toy with expectations about Ellis’ sexuality, most notably when he slept with a man to advance his career. Prior to that storyline, E! revealed Ellis would soon have a “same-sex hookup,” concluding: “So for all of you who were shocked Ellis had a girlfriend in the first place, this might end up to be the least shocking TV twist of all time. And solid proof your gaydar is not broken. Congrats!” While E! believed this sexual encounter proved Ellis was gay, many viewers contested this interpretation by arguing online that he seemed motivated by professional ambitions rather than hidden gay desire. It’s the type of fan response I’d hoped for given that Smash didn’t seem concerned with defining Ellis: he never bothered to clarify his sexual identity and didn’t express confusion, discomfort, shame, or defensiveness about it. Such a depiction seemed capable of prompting viewers to think beyond binaries and stereotypes to accept that Ellis wasn’t necessarily gay simply because he slept with a man, a point that actor Jaime Cepero similarly emphasized when talking about his character.

I was disappointed, then, that Smash went on to fix Ellis as gay after Cepero exited the cast following season one. Early in the second season Cynthia randomly reappeared to declare that she and Ellis parted ways: “Turns out he was kind of a psychopath. Also gay.” Because this information served no purpose for plot development, it seemed solely intended as a wink to viewers who felt they had the savvy to read Ellis’s “real” sexuality as gay. In turn it functioned to shut down the possibility that he wasn’t gay, closing off much of the first season’s interesting cultural work regarding sexuality.

The show’s decision to make Ellis gay fits Ron Becker’s characterization of “post-closet TV,” wherein the ubiquity of openly gay men on television has led to the notion that all gay men are out and, if they’re not, they must be outed in order to maintain clarity in the distinction between gay and straight. It’s particularly frustrating that Smash imposed a post-closet narrative on Ellis considering the different approach of season one. Taking advantage of gay men’s expected presence in musical theater, the show featured more gay characters — and featured them more effortlessly — than any network series I’ve seen. Ellis’s disruption to hegemonic thinking about sexuality was a welcome addition to a cast that was otherwise overwhelmingly normative with regards to both hetero- and homosexuality. The subsequent categorization of him as gay, then, was a disappointing reminder that even shows with significant gay inclusion rarely embrace queer sexualities and often demand just as much gay/straight clarity as shows that aren’t so gay-friendly.

I should note that my opening comments weren’t intended to dismiss concern over the dwindling numbers of gay and lesbian characters on television. But it’s worth remembering that these numbers tend to fluctuate between seasons and that, though less true for lesbian representations, departing gay characters are often quickly replaced with new ones. (For instance, NBC just canceled the affluent gay white dads comedy The New Normal but picked up the affluent gay white dad comedy Sean Saves the World.) As a result, I worry more when television loses — or otherwise works to contain, as with Ellis — the rare characters that call for viewers to think past conventional categorizations of sexuality altogether.

From the setup of the pilot episode, SMASH purports to be centered on a narrative trope I personally love – the rivalry between someone who has worked hard and followed all the rules, but never quite rises above mediocrity, and a newcomer who bursts out of nowhere, refuses to fit the mold, and sparkles with natural talent. I’ve written about this trope before, regarding comic book miniseries Mystic, noting its presence in celebrity media narratives (Britney Spears vs. Christina Aguilera, Evan Lysacek vs. Johnny Weir) and in fictional narratives like – appropriately enough – the musical Wicked.

The problem, however, is that Ms. Hard-Working But Mediocre is played by Broadway veteran Megan Hilty, and Ms. Natural Talent is played by American Idol alumnus Katharine McPhee. And while there’s no denying McPhee’s vocal talent, her voice simply can’t compare in power, vibrancy, and fullness with Hilty’s – a fact which becomes abundantly clear in the duet that closes out the pilot. McPhee is a pop singer, but Hilty is a Broadway star, and whatever the narrative setup, the competition (for the lead role of Marilyn Monroe in the new musical) in execution winds up being between someone who is hard-working and talented and someone with no experience and a weak voice. Given that reality, how is the viewer supposed to believe that McPhee (as a character who is definitively not a former American Idol contestant) would even be in consideration for the role?

This narrative problem could be chalked up to the perils (so familiar on the Broadway stage itself) of celebrity stunt casting. But I believe the issue goes deeper than that. This pilot implicitly urges us to believe that fresh-faced McPhee and her small, breathy voice are actually superior to Hilty’s singing-to-the-back-row style – not just for the sake of the narrative conflict, but for the sake of the show’s overall style. From High School Musical to Glee, musical theater in contemporary media has become a punchline, its songs and traditions reworked into airy pop confections that disdain their origins. The pop style itself is not inherently a problem, but the concomitant dismissal of classical musical theater styles creates a frustrating status quo for fans of the genre. And though the original musical numbers in the pilot (created by Hairspray composers Marc Shaiman and Scott Wittman) are by far the best parts of the episode, even the very idea of a “Marilyn Monroe musical” seems weak and uninspired – in an early scene, Messing’s character bemoans the popularity of revivals and movie-based musicals currently on the Broadway stage, but is a musical based on the life of a well-known public figure any more original than one based on a film?

Beyond this glaring problem inherent in the premise lies another, more insidious issue: despite the fact that most of the show’s main characters are women and gay men, the narrative relies on a number of tired sexist tropes for its forward momentum. When the egocentric director played by Jack Davenport calls McPhee’s character to his apartment late at night and demands she “do Marilyn” for him – implicitly by having sex with him – she’s horrified and runs to his bathroom in shock. But a moment later, she pulls herself together and decides to swap her clothing for a men’s dress shirt hanging in the bathroom and perform the infamous “Happy Birthday, Mr. President” for her potential director, complete with a seductive crawl into his lap. When Davenport leans in to kiss her, she turns away, telling him the dance is all he’s going to get, and we’re presumably supposed to applaud her show of backbone. But the real message comes through clearly: McPhee’s character is admirable because she gives into sexual harassment just enough, accepting this as “part of the process” but not slipping into promiscuity. This scene comes on top of Messing’s unfortunate storyline, which involves her husband (Brian D’Arcy James) repeatedly berating her for focusing on her musical-writing career instead of their attempts to adopt a baby. Casting couches and work-family balance are certainly topics that could be thoughtfully explored in feminist narratives, and I hope the series improves on both past the pilot, following in the vein of the much stronger subplot about the show’s producer (Anjelica Huston) and her contentious divorce. My expectations, however, are not very high.

Whatever the merits of the show, I’m happy to see Broadway stars (particularly Hilty and Christian Borle, who plays Messing’s writing partner) getting the chance to gain mainstream exposure. And as a scholar, I’ll certainly continue to watch Smash, if only to see where the series goes and what it does to influence the popular perception of musical theater (and musical theater television) in a post-Glee world. But after such a frustrating pilot episode, riddled as it was with narrative disconnects and troubling sexism, I find it doubtful that I’ll enjoy the experience.