Rima Te Wiata as Susan Armstrong, gazing through the small window of a jail cell door.
Rima Te Wiata as Susan Armstrong in The Tender Trap (Photo: TVNZ)

Pop CultureMarch 15, 2021

Review: The Tender Trap is a warning against finding love in strange places

Rima Te Wiata as Susan Armstrong, gazing through the small window of a jail cell door.
Rima Te Wiata as Susan Armstrong in The Tender Trap (Photo: TVNZ)

Ten years on from the incident that landed Sharon Armstrong in an Argentinian prison, The Tender Trap tells the story of her romance scam.

In April of 2011, Sharon Armstrong’s story was under scrutiny from thousands of New Zealanders. With her mugshots plastered all over the news here and abroad, the 53-year-old found overnight infamy after being arrested in an Argentinian airport on charges of trying to smuggle 5kg of cocaine in her luggage to London.

In a time when online disinformation has never been more of an issue, The Tender Trap makes for somewhat uncomfortable viewing. Rima Te Wiata’s portrayal of Armstrong’s descent from a loving, present nana and whānau member into a distanced, lonely woman falling for an online scam feels disturbingly familiar. 

Whether it draws parallels with a relative’s descent into conspiracy theories or just brings up memories of small-scale scams on Fair Go, the theme of preying on vulnerability is one most viewers will have some relationship with. 

Comments on a news article from the time follow a harsh through-line – all the way from “do the crime, do the time” to “how could she be so stupid?” Armstrong admitted in a 2018 interview on The Hui that it took her months to come to terms with the fact that her online boyfriend “Frank” wasn’t who he said he was. In fact, she later found out he may have been a whole team of people. 

The Tender Trap uses a shift in colour grade to jump between Armstrong in prison in Argentina after she was found with the drugs, and the events four months earlier when she first signed up for the dating site where she would meet Frank. Green hue aside, Te Wiata’s portrayal makes it clear the Armstrong who started the dating profile as a bit of a laugh with her cousin was not the same as the one who got arrested just months later.  

Rima Te Wiata as Sharon Armstrong leaving prison. She's waving goodbye to the prisoners through a window.
Rima Te Wiata as Sharon Armstrong leaving prison (Photo: Supplied)

In the four months they chatted, Frank sent over 7,000 messages to Armstrong, who in the film becomes completely attached to her phone and email, waiting for the next reply to ping through.

She had never seen or met Frank, and only talked to him over the phone or through messages before he asked her to come and meet him in London. The journey there had one overnight stop (which quickly turned into days) in Buenos Aires, where Armstrong’s suitcase was changed and the drugs put into her possession.

In the film, Armstrong is conned into believing she’s transporting a file of confidential building blueprints to Frank; in reality the documents were contracts for a job in London. She never checked the bag, nervous that if she did, Frank would know she didn’t trust him.

As internet scams go, this particular story seems relatively far-fetched, and it’s easy to imagine becoming suspicious of it far earlier than Armstrong was. That’s part of the reason she was so vilified by the public at the time. 

An ex-public servant working as the deputy chief executive of the Māori Language Commission, Armstrong certainly didn’t fit with people’s perceptions of who was likely to fall for a scam like this. In her 2018 book Organised Deception: My Story, she described the whakamā she felt in the time following her arrest, but says she has now come to terms with that shame. 

Te Wiata gives a convincing performance of a woman who, through her loneliness, is conned into falling in love. It’s a heartbreaking story which, thankfully for Armstrong, had a far better outcome than it could have done. 

Now, Armstrong is a director at the Society of Citizens Against Relationship Scams (Scars), an organisation that helps victims and their families understand the signs of a relationship scam before it’s too late. 

According to Netsafe, New Zealanders lost over $4.1m to romance scammers alone in 2019, and this is only the loss that has been reported. In reality, the sum is probably far higher. Luckily, resources like Netsafe, Scars and CertNZ exist to help people understand the warning signs, and how to deal with them. 

Watch The Tender Trap on TVNZ 1 at 8.30pm tonight and TVNZ OnDemand.

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America Ferrara in her groundbreaking role as Betty Suarez on ABC's Ugly Betty.
America Ferrara in her groundbreaking role as Betty Suarez on ABC’s Ugly Betty.

Pop CultureMarch 15, 2021

Does it hold up? Looking back at the shaky progressiveness of Ugly Betty

America Ferrara in her groundbreaking role as Betty Suarez on ABC's Ugly Betty.
America Ferrara in her groundbreaking role as Betty Suarez on ABC’s Ugly Betty.

Fifteen years ago, a girl called Betty joined a magazine called Mode. How does the show named after her look now? Sam Brooks rewatches Ugly Betty in the first instalment of ‘Does it hold up?’, a series reexamining the shows we once loved.

The year is 2006. People have iPods, not iPhones. Say ‘streaming service’ and people think it has something to do with a body of water. And New Zealand tunes in at 8:30pm to watch an episode of a show that aired several months ago everywhere else in the world. That show was Ugly Betty.

The hour long comedy-drama, now streaming on Star (via Disney+), has a premise that, on first glance, is likely to make you wince. A Mexican-American woman, Betty (America Ferrara, who won an Emmy for this role), applies to be an assistant to Daniel Meade, the editor in chief of fashion magazine Mode (think Vogue). Since Betty is so homely that notorious womaniser Daniel could never consider sleeping with her, she gets the job. That premise hardly seems to set up the world’s most progressive or inclusive TV show. In fact, it sets up a road full of moral potholes, paved with dubious jokes.

So it’s surprising to watch it again in 2021 and find that, for the most part, Ugly Betty holds up. It’s a cruel irony that shows that were once ahead of their time often quickly fall behind the times, thanks to the steady march of social progress. Ugly Betty fares better than most because the communities from which most of its characters are drawn – namely the Latina and queer communities – remain underrepresented onscreen, especially on network TV. That doesn’t mean the situation hasn’t improved: unlike in 2006, TV these days features a number of shows that centre these communities, especially the former: think Superstore (also starring America Ferrara), Los Espookys, One Day at a Time and Jane the Virgin.

The cast of Ugly Betty.
The cast of Ugly Betty.

When its first season aired, Ugly Betty didn’t feel like any other show. Its Frankensteinian mix of genres – a style that was highly unusual in 2006, but which audiences have become used to in recent years – included broad comedy, emotionally wrenching drama and winking soapiness. The show lures you in with the comedy and the sheer heart, before gutpunching you with very real drama – whether it be Betty’s family and their precarious finances, or the slow, sad dissolution of the Meade family. Then it throws you off with parentage scandals, long lost husbands and glossy magazine scheming. It’s that sort of show: it insists that you get on the train at the first stop and follow it to its wild conclusion, whether that’s on the rails or not. 

Which is why I have to be honest: the show often slips on its own soap. The tightly plotted first season is one of the best debut seasons of a show ever, and the second season is just as good. The third and fourth seasons, however, disrupt the characters, their histories and motivations in ways that feel like they’re betraying not just the audience, but the good work that had gone before. While Ugly Betty never gets bad, it definitely doesn’t reach the heights of those first two seasons. Coming to this series looking for consistency is like going to the Warehouse looking for Louboutins: you’d be lucky, honey.

It’s a shame, because the surprisingly large cast remains at the top of their game throughout. Ferrara is excellent, obviously, deserving every ounce of awards gold that came her way, while Michael Urie and Becki Newton are a great comic duo as assertively gay assistant Marc and dim but sparkling receptionist Amanda, slinging punchlines at each other with the firing rate of a machine gun. Tony Plana, Ana Ortiz and Mark Indelicato as Betty’s family play both sides of the comic/drama line effectively, and often have the heaviest lifting to do. 

But most impressive is Vanessa Williams as Wilhemina Slater, the scheming creative director of Mode. Williams plays Slater like a Cruella de Vil whose victims are from her office, rather than the pound; she wrings the comedy out of every sentence, while also grounding Slater’s rare human moments with gravity and dignity. It’s a tremendous, professional performance, and I mean professional in every complimentary sense of the word.

Rebecca Romijin as Alexis Meade on Ugly Betty.
Rebecca Romijin as Alexis Meade on Ugly Betty.

Still, you can’t discuss Ugly Betty without considering the elephant in the room. Midway through its first season, the show introduces a trans character, Alexis, played by Rebecca Romijin-Stamos, a cis woman. That wouldn’t happen now, but it shouldn’t have even happened back then, and if you’re tempted to claim that no trans actors were available you should know that it was disproved by Ugly Betty’s own network. Just a year after its premiere, ABC hired Candis Cayne to play a not dissimilar role to Alexis Meade on Dirty Sexy Money. The talent was there, but on Ugly Betty at least, the desire wasn’t.

For all that though, Ugly Betty handles its trans character with more grace than I expected from a show in which every character is the butt of some identity-based humour (“Did you gesture at me when you said Kwanzaa?” is an all-timer). It’s still not great, though. The t slur is dropped multiple times, there’s an entire subplot where Alexis forgets her transition, and throughout the first season people are misgendering her constantly – although generally it’s the villains who do so. If that’s enough to turn you off the show entirely, nobody could blame you. It’s regressive, offensive and sad to see in a show that takes such pains to be progressive in other ways.

If you can get past that, and honestly I wouldn’t begrudge you if you couldn’t, then Ugly Betty remains a quietly subversive show played loudly. I first watched it when I was 16, and fully caught up in Devil Wears Prada fever (wow, did these two have a beautiful symbiotic relationship) and was surprised to find a show that wasn’t just about a homely girl in the world of fashion, but something that wanted to look a little bit deeper into the characters that populated that world. For example: I’d never seen a show where a gay relationship was treated not just like a weird straight relationship, but actually addressed the inequalities specific to two men being in a relationship. A scene where Marc, a conventionally attractive gay man, listens to his boyfriend Cliff’s complaints about not being as desirable to other men is something I never expected to see onscreen. Years later, I still haven’t seen many more conversations in the media like this and definitely not in such an accessible, frankly silly, show. 

In 2021, it’s unlikely you’ll come to Ugly Betty and see many “firsts”. But the ground that some of the best shows of the past decade is built on was first broken by a woman wearing a Guadalajara poncho and a beaming smile covered in braces. We owe her a lot.

You can watch Ugly Betty on Star (via Disney+) now.