A few weeks ago, another tweet claiming that it was impossible for conservatives to make art made the rounds of Twitter. Like too many in the mainstream culture, its sender erroneously assumed that because art inherently involves edgy innovation, and since conservatives categorically hate and/or fear both extremes and change, art must be the obvious property of the left. The thread received enough attention that I don’t need to invite more here. The Mallard hosted a Space on the topic—not necessarily on whether its message had merit (quote threads were rife with examples contradicting it, from Dostoevsky to Dali to Stevie Ray Vaughan), but rather to discuss the question of how conservatives could most effectively make art.
Of course, among other topics we discussed the relationship between art and politics. A point made by many was the fact that, when discussing art and conservatism one should at least attempt to be clear about their terms. Furthermore, as mentioned in the conversation by Jake Scott, one must differentiate between political conservatism and metaphysical conservatism; the confusion of the two has, as the above stereotype shows, led to much confusion on the subject of conservatism and art that, so far as I can, I will attempt to nuance here.
A refrain one hears, usually from activists on the left, is that all art is political. Such assertions are often met with frustration, generally from convervatives but also from people not explicitly on the right but who just want to be left alone when it comes to politics (and who, for such a response, are subsequently branded as right-wing by those who interpret all of life through an unconditional, against-if-not-actively-for ideology). However, the former are not wrong; all art can be interpreted as political—because all art is metaphysical.
As I’ve mentioned in previous articles, art is, among other things, a concretization of abstract values. When one looks at a painting, listens to a song, takes in a sculpture, walks through a building, or reads through a novel, one is engaging with the values that the artist has given a local habitation and a name (as always, Shakespeare said it best—MND V.1); this necessarily involves, though it need not be fully bound to, the artist’s metaphysical worldview.
Consider the two literary schools that dominated the nineteenth century and that can generally be placed within Western culture’s pendulum-like sway between the Platonic and Aristotelian: Romanticism and Naturalism. A Romantic whose work assumes that there are things higher than the material world that give this life an infinite meaning will create very different art from a Naturalist who believes the material world is all that exists and that any attempt to say differently is an artifice that will unintentionally or cynically mislead people into accepting suffering as a value. Nothing in these examples is overtly political, but one can see (indeed, we’ve had over a century of seeing) the different politics that would come from each view. This is because politics, as an expansion upon the more fundamental realm of ethics, begins with metaphysical premises from which the rest flow. Different directional degrees will lead maritime navigators to very different locations; how much more will different primary assumptions about the nature of reality and humans’ place in it?
Let’s look at an example from an author who was cited in that thread as a conservative: Dostoevsky. Rather than counter the rising atheist-socialist egotism of mid-nineteenth-century Russia with a political textbook (which, granted, would have been banned under the Tsar’s censors, who eschewed all explicitly political works—hence why the Russian novel had to take on so many roles), Dostoevsky depicts and undermines the burgeoning philosophy in the character of Crime and Punishment’s Rodion Raskalnikov.
However, though the ideas in debate had (and are still having) political effects, Dostoevsky is not merely speaking politics in Crime and Punishment. He understood that politics was a function of one’s primary assumptions about reality—about one’s metaphysics—and their effects on one’s individual psychology. He also recognized, as Raskalnikov’s unconventional bildung shows, that one’s stated politics may actually conflict with the metaphysics underlying their beliefs. Hence, for all Rodion’s stated atheistic egotism, he finds himself preventing a woman from committing suicide, giving all his spare cash to those with less than he, and being fascinated with the downtrodden but resilient (because Christlike) Sonia.
In Crime and Punishment and his other masterpieces, Dostoevsky juxtaposes the new generation’s radical ideas not against other ideas (i.e. on the radicals’ terms) but against the background of the broader Orthodox-Christian Russian psyche. Raskalnikov’s working out of the contradiction between his would-be Napoleon complex and his subconscious worldview (if not the fabric of reality at large—Dostoevsky rarely simplifies the distinction between the two) mimics the author’s own similar progression not only from a socialistic politic to one more consistent with his deeper Orthodox convictions but, in his view, one from madness to sanity.
While to read Dostoevsky solely through a political lens is to not read him at all, his writing does point to the inherent relationship between an artist and the politics of his or her historical context. The norms, laws, and cultural debates of a given generation are interconnected with the art then produced, which can reinforce, undermine, or, in the case of most pre-2010s consumer art, quite simply inhabit them (which, true to form, the aforementioned leftist activist would accuse of being a complacent and complicit reinforcement).
However, as this political layer is often based in the times, it usually passes away with them. In the coming Christmas season, few people will read A Christmas Carol with Social Darwinism in mind, though Dickens was, in part, critiquing that contemporaneous viewpoint in Ebeneezer Scrooge. Perhaps works like Dickens’s Carol were necessary to ensure Social Darwinism did not succeed—that is, perhaps their politics served the purpose intended by their authors. Nonetheless, today A Christmas Carol is virtually useless, politically (at least, for Dickens’s immediate polemical purposes), which is the beginning of a work’s infinite usefulness as art. What is left is the more general story that, for all intents and purposes, made modern Christmas. Contrary to what politivangelicals and literature majors who read through a new historicist lens (*raises hand*) might try to maintain, this is not a lessening but an enriching; it is the separation of the transient from the enduring—of the metaphysical from the physical.
One implication of this view of art as concretized metaphysics, and one which was mentioned in our Space conversation, is that not all art that labels itself “art” qualifies as art. If the explanation of a piece contains more discernible meaning (i.e. is bigger) than the piece itself—that is, if no values have been concretized so as to be at least generally recognizable—then, sorry, it’s not art (or if it is, it’s not concretizing the values its creator thinks it is). Often the makers of such “art” believe the paramount aspect of a piece must be its radical message—the more disruptive and cryptic, the better; this conveniently offers the maker a pretext to skip out on, if not directly subvert, style and aesthetic skill, to say nothing of selectivity. It goes without saying that this is a major part of the oft-lamented degradation of aesthetics in Western culture, from “high art,” to architecture, to animation. Why devote rigor to style and skill when the point is to signal that one aligns with the correct message?
By the way, this merits a general exhortation: if you don’t like a piece of art (a building, a sculpture, a Netflix series, etc), it might not be because you, rube that you are, have no taste or understanding; it might be because it’s simply a pile of shit—which, it bears mentioning, has been tried to be passed off as art. You are under no obligation to concede the inferiority complex such pieces try to sell you in their gnostic snake oil. Because the point of art is to communicate abstract human values, one does not need a degree in art, nor in philosophy, to understand and enjoy good art. Indeed, contrary to the elitism assumed in modern art taste, it may be the mark of good art that the average person can understand and enjoy it without too much explanation; such a work will have fulfilled art’s purpose of bodying forth the forms of things unknown but which are nonetheless universal.
The unintentional defaulting or the intentional subverting of the role of aesthetics in art by the modern and postmodern culture unwittingly reveals a possible door for conservatives who wish to make art. Rather than playing into the stereotype by simply making reactionary art with explicitly opposite meanings, “conservative art” (or, more preferably, conservatives who simply want to make good art) must begin with a return to aesthetic rigor. Just as the early church’s response to heresies was not to accept the premises of the heresies’ mind-body split but, rather, to restore the body-mind-spirit unity depicted in the Gospel and the Trinity, so the current response to artistic heresies—which involve a similar, if not the very same, split—is to reunite the physical and metaphysical.
We must not ignore the messages of our art, but we should allow them to follow the literally more immediate role of the aesthetic experience. Indeed, we should seek to develop enough skill in conveying abstract themes and ideas through our medium such that little explanation is necessary. As conservatives, especially, we do not need to maneuver things so our audience takes away a certain message. Either the values we are trying to capture will speak for themselves, or we will learn that we need more practice. Above all, unless knowingly engaging in polemics, we should not (or at least try not to) approach art as a sermon. Doing so runs the risk of proving too much, besides turning off audiences who have probably had enough messaging and rhetoric. Instead, use your ethos, pathos, and logos to present their corresponding virtues of Goodness, Beauty, and Truth, and let the aesthetic experience stand as the message. As Jake Scott recently tweeted, underscoring his January article cited above, when making art, forget politics—seek to create heritage.
As always, it’s the conservative’s task to take his or her advice first. While I do currently have a polemical novel in pre-publication process with a clear message against the canceling in academia of Shakespeare and the tradition he represents, in A California Kid in King Henry’s Court, my serial novel for The Mallard’s print magazine, I have tried to focus solely on the aesthetic experience of the story.
The title is, of course, a throwback to A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court, Mark Twain’s comedy of an American who, having been knocked on his head in a factory, awakens in Arthurian England and subsequently seeks to industrialize the chivalric country, all the while becoming, himself, as much an object of Twain’s satire as medieval chivarly. My semi-autobiographical serial novel takes an opposite tack: a kid from California, having derived from Tolkien and Shakespeare a love for England’s literary past, attends modern Oxford and finds it far different from what he expects. The joke of each episode is usually on the fictional narrator, Tuck. However, though I’m a far less subtle satirist than Twain (really, my work is parody, not satire, since I am starting from a loving desire to enjoy the book’s subject, rather than a satirical desire to debase it), I’ve attempted to do something similar to Twain: unlock the dramatic and comic potential of Americans’ English past while still poking fun at elite pretensions, whether those of the narrator whose knowledge of literary references is irrelevant outside of academia, or of a modern England that keeps shattering the narrator’s romanticized ideas of Anglo tradition.
While, beneath the parody, one of A California Kid’s thematic goals is to explore the deeper relevance of the English literary tradition, my main objective has simply been to make readers laugh—which, taking a cue from Monty Python’s discussions of comedy, starts with making myself laugh. If readers walk away from the episodes appreciating Shakespeare or Tolkien, so much the better, but it is only a secondary end to the primary one of telling a hopefully worth-reading story.
Over the past half-century the postmodern anti-tradition has become the predominant tradition. The task of breaking open a way forward from the metaphysical assumptions of that structure—of liberating people from them—is now the job of conservatives, which, yes, does include everyone who does not want to wholly jettison, deconstruct, or “decolonize” the past, however politically or philosophically they self-identify. However, our goal should not be to merely preserve the past against the current attack and atrophy. The left’s view of art as a vehicle for political messaging can be traced back over 150 years to, among other sources, Nikolay Chernyshevsky, literary rival of Dostoevsky and writer of the utopian polemical novel What is to Be Done? As I tell my US History students, if you want to know why a generation pursues certain politics, look at what they were reading twenty or thirty years before; according to Dostoevsky biographer Joseph Frank, Chernyshevsky’s novel was the favorite book of a young Vladimir Lenin.
Conservatives must take a similarly long view of art. We must strive, as much as we are able, to make works that will last not just for a given generation, but for several. Yes, we must look to the works and artists whose work has aesthetically endured and whose metaphysics have transcended their own times—and then we must create our own. The messages, insofar as they are necessary, will follow, the greatest of which being that the aesthetic experience is the point of the art. This has always been the point, not because of any inherent politics or lack thereof in art, but because it is the nature of art to simultaneously look backward and forward in its concretization and preservation of values. The same can be said of conservatism, which I take as a sign that we, rather than the left, are best equipped to produce the future of art. Like our philosophy, ours is not simply an art of return, but of resurrection and legacy.
-
It’s time to consign plaques to history | Robert Poll
When the government launched its ‘Retain and Explain’ policy in January 2021, those of us who value our heritage and see through the attacks on it greeted it with cautious optimism. Sadly, the unveiling of a new plaque in Shrewsbury about Clive of India has proved that caution well placed.
For the policy helped close one battleground over removal, only to open up another much bigger one over history itself. History has always been open to interpretation and reinterpretation, but never, until now, has one single version been declared the ‘correct’ one. We have entered a dangerous new era for the study of history, where debate is increasingly controlled, its terms of reference defined by one group with one particular agenda.
Plaques were touted as a compromise, but handing editorial control of history to those who want to rewrite it is not so much a compromise as an act of unconditional surrender. Turning a monument into an anti-monument is a much more powerful victory than simply removing it. The Chairman of the Edinburgh’s ‘Slavery and Colonialism’ review is upfront about not wanting to remove statues, preferring instead to project his own version of history onto them. And it very much is his version of history. The review has descended into chaos and threats of legal action from academics who have been excluded and dismissed as a ‘racist gang’. These include Professor Sir Tom Devine, Professor Jonathan Hearn and Professor Angela McCarthy. The cry of ‘racist’ – long used to shut down criticism and debate – has now permeated academia as those with the ‘right’ views sense the opportunity to control public discourse (and then to reap the financial rewards through appointments, book and media deals).
So far, we have seen plaques unveiled for three prominent historical figures – Henry Dundas in Edinburgh, Cecil Rhodes in Oxford, and now Clive – each one proving an exercise in unadulterated propaganda. I don’t intend to conduct a point-by-point rebuttal here, as defending reputations is not my primary objective. But it’s clear that the vital distinction between fact and opinion has been blurred. It is not a ‘fact’ that Clive “inflicted famine, poverty and other atrocities” on India, any more than it’s a fact that Rhodes’ activities “led to great loss of life” or that Dundas was responsible for the enslavement of half a million Africans.
It’s all too easy to paint a lazy caricature of Clive as a colonial bogeyman. Much harder to understand him in context as a man who overcame his own mental health issues to achieve astounding feats against a decadent and corrupt regime abroad and a hostile establishment at home resentful of his class and success. Instead, today’s agenda-driven historians have sided with that very same spiteful establishment. Not exactly progressive.
The plaque has proved a blunt tool for a delicate job. Aside from the problem of who writes them, there is the insurmountable one of space. Biographies of these figures run to hundreds of pages each and there is simply no way to boil these down to a hundred words with any semblance of nuance or credibility. The obnoxious ‘QR code’ may side-step the space issue, but still concedes the need to provide an official interpretation where no such need exists. With their limited resources, councils need to reprioritise running local services instead of assuming responsibility for history lessons.
And this is not even to broach the aesthetic argument against these blights on our public realm that deface our statues as surely as any graffiti. If the Edinburgh review gets its way, Scotland’s historic capital will become a forest of plaques, with a lecture and guilt-trip on every corner.
Plaques have had their chance to prove they can deliver balanced history and have conspicuously failed. These three fiascos should be more than enough to spell the end of the plaque as a serious tool of historical debate and of the ‘Explain’ part of Retain and Explain. Just as the government and Historic England has adopted a default position of objecting to any application to remove a statue, now is the time for them to do likewise and consign the plaque to history.
-
Book Review: Ten Year Anniversary, The Demon in Democracy, by Ryszard Legutko | Ryan Anderson
A rarely remarked upon effect of Covid-19 has been the neglect of works that would have ordinarily garnered broader acclaim. Thus, as we’ve been distracted by the medical events, an assortment of commendable offerings have largely escaped public attention. One such work is ‘The Demon in Democracy: Totalitarian Temptations in Free Societies’ by Polish academic and European Parliament member, Ryszard Legutko. Originally published in 2012 as Triumf Człowieka Pospolitego (Triumph of the Common Man), then edited and first appearing in English in 2016, Legutko’s book is a rare recent work of real import. A decade on from its original publication, Legutko’s book is still one of the best indictments yet of our liberal age
In a similar vein to the works of Christopher Lasch and John Gray, Legutko’s is an account that is tepid towards the Thatcherite consensus that has come to define the right whilst resisting the easy overtures of our dominant left-liberalism. It’s a book that illuminates the errors of the age as it rejects the pieties that our epoch demands.
Like Ed West, Michael Anton and Christopher Caldwell, Legutko is one of few contemporary writers willing to provide an honest account of the liberal status quo. By not succumbing to our assorted unrealities, Legutko is able to articulate the inadequacies of liberal democracy without the pusillanimous equivocation that’s sadly all too prevalent. The book is thus a welcome addition to what is an otherwise bleak scene for the conservatively inclined, entrapped as we are in the all-pervasive mould of liberalism.
Such commendations aren’t restricted to this reviewer, however. Figures such as Harvard’s Adrian Vermeule and Notre Dame’s Patrick Deneen have been equally effusive. For as Vermeule wrote: “Legutko has written the indispensable book about the current crisis of liberalism and the relationship of liberalism to democracy”, while for Deneen the book is a “work of scintillating brilliance. [With] every page…brimming with insights.”
High praise, undoubtedly, yet it’s well vindicated upon reading. The central thesis is that despite an outward appearance of difference, communism and liberal democracy share a range of similarities. An observation that appears prima facie preposterous, yet after 180-odd pages of tightly-packed prose the reader is unable to avoid this unsettling insight.
The rationale for this claim is as such: both are inorganic systems that involve unnatural impositions and coercive zeal in their pursuit of illusory utopias. Utopias that are to be achieved practically through technology and ‘modernisation’ and buttressed theoretically by the purported fact of human equality. The two are thus historicist projects, seeking to ground human affairs in delusions of ‘progress’ in lieu of any underlying nature.
Both platforms are thus mere dogma. They are, as Legutko states:
“Nourished by the belief that the world cannot be tolerated as it is and that it should be changed: that the old should be replaced with the new. Both systems strongly and – so to speak – impatiently intrude into the social fabric and both justify their intrusion with the argument that it leads to the improvement of the state of affairs by ‘modernizing’ it.”
The two systems are hence unable to accept human beings and political affairs as they actually are: man and the polis must be remoulded along the lines of each respective ideology. For the communists, this involves the denial of man’s natural egotism and the subordination of his individual efforts towards an ostensible communal good. That this requires extreme coercion in implementation, unfathomable violence in practice, and has been deemed a delusion since at least Plato’s Republic, is a tragedy that’s all too commonly known.
So far, nothing new. Yet it’s the author’s elucidation of the unsavoury aspects of liberal democracy that is of particular note, especially for us here at the so-called ‘end of history’ and in light of the easy-going liberalism that permeates our societies, even as they slip further and further into evident decay. As Legutko suggests, liberal democracy shares a proselytising urge akin to that of Leninist communism, yet it’s as equally blind to its theoretical errors and its evangelical impulses as was its communist forebear.
As Legutko sees it, a liberal-democratic man can’t rest until the world has been vouched safe for liberal democracy. Never mind that this liberal-democratic delusion requires a tyranny over the individual soul – we’re neither wholly liberal nor democratic – and entire groups of people. An emblematic example is the recent US-led failure to impose either democracy or liberalism (terms that Legutko fuses and distinguishes, as appropriate) on the largely tribal peoples of Afghanistan.
The justification for this liberal-democratic ‘imperialism’ is, of course, its final and glorious end. Once there’s a left-liberal telos insight, then all means to its achievement are henceforth valid. For the communists, their failures are now common lore. Yet for our liberal-democrats, their – still largely unacknowledged – fantasies continue apace, aided as they are by their patina of ‘enlightened improvement’ and by the imperial patron that enables them.
That the effects of all this liberalising are unnatural, usually unwanted and often utterly repulsive to the recipients tends not to matter. Like all movements of ‘true believers’, there is no room for the heretic: forever onward one must plough.
The ideological spell cast by liberalism is thus as strong as any other. As Legutko observes:
“The liberal-democratic mind, just as the mind of a true communist, feels as inner compulsion to manifest its pious loyalty to the doctrine. Public life is [thus] full of mandatory rituals…[in which all] must prove that their liberal-democratic creed springs spontaneously from the depth of their hearts.”
With the afflicted “expected to give one’s approving opinion about the rights of homosexuals and women and to condemn the usual villains such as domestic violence, racism, xenophobia, or discrimination, or to find some other means of kowtowing to the ideological gods.”
A stance that is not only evident in our rhetoric, but by material phenomena as well. One need only think of the now-ubiquitous rainbow flags, the cosmopolitan billboards and adverts, the ‘opt-in’ birth certificates, the gender-neutral bathrooms, the Pride parades, the gender-transition surgeries, the biological males in female events and so on to confirm the legitimacy of Legutko’s claims and our outright denial of physiological reality.
Indeed, here’s Legutko again: [the above] “has practically monopolized the public space and invaded schools, popular culture, academic life and advertising. Today it is no longer enough simply to advertise a product; the companies feel an irresistible need to attach it to a message that is ideologically correct. Even if this message does not have any commercial function – and it hardly ever does – any occasion is good to prove oneself to be a proponent of the brotherhood of races, a critic of the Church, and a supporter of homosexual marriage.”
This sycophantic wheedling is practised by journalists, TV morons, pornographers, athletes, professors, artists, professional groups, and young people already infected with the ideological mass culture. Today’s ideology is so powerful that almost everyone desires to join the great camp of progress”.
Thus whilst the tenets of liberal democracy clearly differ from those of 20th Century communism, both systems are akin in their propagandistic essence, as he writes:
“To be sure, there are different actors in both cases, and yet they perform similar roles: a proletarian was replaced by a homosexual, a capitalist by a fundamentalist, exploitation by discrimination, a communist revolutionary by a feminist, and a red flag by a vagina”.
Variations on this theme inform the entirety of the book and are developed throughout its five chapters: History, Utopia, Politics, Ideology, and Religion. Whilst there is some overlap, the book is written with a philosophical depth reflective of Legutko’s status and which only a few contemporary writers can muster. As Deenen remarks:
“I underlined most of the book upon first reading, and have underlined nearly all the rest during several re-readings. It is the most insightful work of political philosophy during this still young, but troubled century”.Yet the book isn’t exclusively an arcane tome. Aside from Legutko’s evident learnings, what further enhances the work is the author’s ability to draw upon his own experience. Born in the wake of the Second World War, raised in the ambit of Soviet communism, and employed in the European Parliament in adulthood, Legutko’s is a life that has witnessed the workings of both regimes at first hand.
The author recalls that the transition from communism to liberal democracy was greeted with an early enthusiasm that soon devolved into disenchantment. As he states, any initial exuberance steadily subsided, with Legutko sensing early on that “liberal democracy significantly narrowed the area of what was permissible – [with the] sense of having many doors open and many possibilities to pursue [soon evaporating], subdued by the new rhetoric of necessity that the liberal democratic system brought with itself.”
An insight which deepened the longer he worked within that most emblematic of our institutions of modern-day liberalism: the European Parliament. He writes:
“Whilst there, I saw up close what…escapes the attention of many observers. If the European Parliament is supposed to be the emanation of the spirit of today’s liberal democracy, then this spirit is certainly neither good nor beautiful: it has many bad and ugly features, some of which, unfortunately, it shares with communism.”Even a preliminary contact…allows one to feel a stifling atmosphere typical of a political monopoly, to see the destruction of language turning into a new form of Newspeak, to observe the creation of a surreality, mostly ideological, that obfuscates the real world, to witness an uncompromising hostility against all dissidents, and to perceive many other things only too familiar to anyone who remembers the world governed by the Communist Party”.
And it is this tyrannical aspect of liberal democracy to which Legutko ultimately inveighs. After some brief remarks on the eclipse of the old religion (Christianity) at the hands of the new, Legutko’s parting words are an understandable lament that liberal-democratic man – “more stubborn, more narrow-minded, and…less willing to learn from others” – has vanquished all-comers. As he adds:
“With Christianity being driven out of the main tract, the liberal-democratic man – unchallenged and totally secure in his rule – will become a sole master of today’s imagination, apodictically determining the boundaries of human nature and, at the very outset, disavowing everything that dares to reach beyond his narrow perspective.” A sad state whereby “the liberal democrat will reign over human aspirations like a tyrant”.In this regard, Legutko’s remarks echo the German proto-fascist-democratic-dissident, Ernst Junger, who ‘hated democracy like the plague’ and saw the triumph of America-led liberalism as an utter catastrophe. A posture which is also evident in Junger’s compatriot and near contemporary, Martin Heidegger, and in his notion of the ‘darkening of the world.’
Yet it’s perhaps the most famous German theorist of all, Friedrich Nietzsche, to whom we should finally turn and in whose light Legutko ends the book. Largely accepting the popularised Hegelianism of Fukuyama – that there’s no alternative to liberal democracy – Legutko nevertheless muses over whether our current status as Zaruthustrian ‘Last Men’ is a concession we must make to live in this best of all possible worlds or an indictment of our political and spiritual poverty.
As he concludes, the perpetuation of liberal democracy “would be, for some, a comforting testimony that man finally learned to live in sustainable harmony with his nature. For others, it will be a final confirmation that his mediocrity is inveterate.”
A more accurate precis of our current situation I’ve yet to see, and one of many such reasons to read this most wonderful of books.
-
10 Well-Written Female Characters
A discussion on Twitter inspired me to write a companion piece to Dustin Lovell’s wonderful article on the modern portrayal of women in media.
In modern media, there tends to be an obsession with ‘strong female characters.’ That’s fair enough, but these characters tend not to be rather one-dimensional. They’re typically badass- they can wield weapons, wear combat boots, are master shots, can take down men thrice their size, prefer machine guns to manicures and are generally ‘cool.’ If they have to wear nice clothes and heels for an assignment, then they’ll complain about it. They’re not like other girls. They’re one of the guys. They’ll be a love interest, but only after a badass action scene.
Apparently, liking girly things makes a woman boring or uncool. In A Cinderella Story, football player Austin is fascinated that the girl he likes enjoys eating fast food. She’s not like those other girls who like going to the mall and waving poms-poms.
Historically, women were portrayed as weak-willed damsels in distress. That’s not the complete story, as we’ve seen great characters like Elizabeth Bennett written years ago, but it was a general consensus. Instead of making women more nuanced, writers have gone to the other extreme. They’re either whiny or super perfect. There’s no inbetween.
I’ve decided to share ten fictional women who are actually well-written. Not all of them are heroic, some are a bit awful, but they’re nuanced. They’re all strong women who aren’t stereotypical badasses.
*Minor spoilers ahead*
Scarlett O’Hara, Gone With the Wind (Portrayed by Vivien Leigh in the film)
The first line of the epic Margaret Mitchell novel tells us that Scarlett O’Hara isn’t particularly beautiful, but her charm makes men forget that. We first meet Scarlett at the tender age of 16 on the eve of the American Civil War. She’s spoiled, headstrong and popular with the boys. Over the course of the book- which spans over a decade- she grows from a silly teenager to a shrewd businesswoman. Scarlett suffers a lot of heartbreak and setbacks, both during and after the war, but grows from it.
That’s not to say Scarlett is an inherently heroic person. Despite her character growth, she remains somewhat cold, uncaring and selfish. Her vices are not totally numerous, but her virtues do not overcome them either. She is balanced. She does good and does bad. Scarlett’s loyalty to her family, in spite of issues, and home, is unmatched. She does what she has to do in order to survive a post-Civil War age. In some ways, she is a deconstruction of the Southern Belle stereotype. She embodies it before pushing it away when it becomes necessary to survive.
Vivien Leigh plays her wonderfully in the hit film. Despite the film clocking in at three and a half hours, it still does not give us the full picture that the 1000+ page book gives us. Scarlett O’Hara and her love story with Rhett Butler is famous in culture. Flawed but fierce, Scarlett O’Hara is a multidimensional character. Well done Margaret Mitchell, well done.
Elle Woods, Legally Blonde (portrayed by Reese Witherspoon)
Blondes are stereotyped as fun-loving but dim. Elle Woods may be fun-loving, but she’s far from dim. When her boyfriend dumps her (‘I need a Jackie, not a Marilyn’), sorority queen Elle Woods decides to get him back. She does this by applying to, and getting into, Harvard Law. Nobody expects anything from her.
Elle Woods is a great fictional woman simply because she’s essentially the opposite of the ‘strong female lead’ that we expect. Firstly, Elle is not a physical combatant. Her talents lay in her brain. Secondly, she’s super girly. Elle loves pink, shopping, her dog, parties and manicures. Usually, female characters who subscribe to that lifestyle are the mean cheerleaders or the like. Instead, we get a character who’s like a lot of women.
Her getting into Harvard isn’t all that unrealistic. She has a 4.0 GPA, near perfect LSAT, great recommendations and a host of extracurriculars. Elle doesn’t get in because she’s the protagonist, she gets in because she would in real life. On top of that, Elle is genuinely kind and nice. Whilst the other girls at Harvard treat her cruelly, Elle is nothing but nice. She also befriends the beautician Paulette and motivates her. Another great thing about this film is Elle’s sorority. They help her study for her LSAT and are there for her no matter what, despite not understanding her.
Elle shows that kindness and femininity are nothing to be ashamed of. Being a girl is great.
Clarice Starling, The Silence of the Lambs (portrayed by Jodie Foster in the original film)
Often, female characters are written as overly-perfect with a range of unbelievable skills. Clarice Starling is a perfect example of a competent character who is not overblown. We’re introduced to Clarice when she’s about to graduate from the FBI Academy. It’s immediately made clear to the viewer that she’s an excellent student, but not unrealistically so. She’s intelligent, athletic and clearly has the aptitude.
Clarice’s humanity is what makes her so compelling. She’s disgusted by the evil that is shown to her and shows great compassion. Like many protagonists, Clarice has undergone trauma. Writers have a tendency to make their characters victims of trauma pain in that their lives have been awful. Clarice is clearly still affected by said trauma, but realistically ignores it until it’s forced out into the open. She’s vulnerable. It’s normal.
Clarice is also fundamentally a good person. She wants to fight monsters and do so without compromising her morals. She’s also willing to seek help when it comes to the case because she knows it’s needed to save lives. Her relationship with Hannibal Lecter is one of revulsion and respect. Clarice knows he’s evil, but that he’s the lesser of two evils. Morality is hard, but she believes in it.
Anthony Hopkins’ portrayal of Hannibal Lecter is seen as one of the best pieces of acting in recent years, but Jodie Foster still holds her own. They both rightly received an Oscar for their performances. Clarice is played in other media by Julianne Moore and Rebecca Breeds.
Margaery Tyrell, Game of Thrones (portrayed by Natalie Dormer in the series)
Game of Thrones generally suffers from a ‘not like other girls’ affliction. Arya Stark calls other girls ‘stupid.’ Talisa Maegyr disparages the other noble girls who enjoy balls and pretty dresses. That being said, there are some great women in the series. Margaery Tyrell is one such woman. We first meet Margaery when she’s just married Renly, a gay man- something that she’s perfectly aware of. It doesn’t bother her, because she’s got greater ambitions.
Margaery’s greatest asset is her emotional and social intelligence. She’s quickly able to integrate herself in any situation and is one of the few who doesn’t find herself out of depth in King’s Landing. Margaery is aware that her beauty and femininity can open doors for and she uses that. Despite this, she’s not absolutely perfect and does find herself outfoxed more than once.
Whilst a lot of her kindness is essentially PR, Margaery is capable of being very genuine. She is devoted to her family, especially her grandmother Olenna and brother Loras. Margaery also does show compassion towards Sansa Stark, who at that point is living in utter hell.
Princess Leia, Star Wars (portrayed by Carrie Fisher)
It would be remiss of me not to mention Leia Organa when talking about well-written women. She’s been a popular character ever since she debuted in 1977 and remains beloved to this day. We meet the young princess when she’s been held captive but it’s not long before we realise she’d made of sterner stuff. From the moment she’s rescued by Luke, Leia takes charge.
Whilst Leia is a dab hand with a blaster, she’s more at home behind the scenes. She’s the strategist and the brains. She was the one who hid the plans in a robot so that the Empire couldn’t get them. Leia may not be the traditional fighter in the hand-to-hand combat and shooting type, but she’s not exactly passive.
Sometimes she’s flawed. Leia can be abrasive, overly passionate and sharp. She’s also lost loved ones and her home, so of course she’s going to do anything in order to defeat the Empire. Leia is also brave, loyal and ready to match wits with Han Solo. She survives torture and never gives anything away.
Vivien Lyra Blair portrays Leia in the Star Wars show ‘Obi-Wan Kenobi.’
Amy Dunne, Gone Girl (portrayed by Rosamund Pike in the film)
Not every good character is the hero of their story and if anyone deserves praise for being a bit of a villain, it’s Amy Dunne. On the outside, Amy Dunne has a perfect life. She’s beautiful, wealthy, Ivy-League educated and seemingly happily married. Then one day, she vanishes. It seems that her husband has killed her. It’s not quite that simple.
Amy is compelling because she is very, very ahead of the curve. She knows how to make things look a certain way and what people will think. Amy is cold and manipulative, yet hides behind that sunny All-American demeanor. She has some legitimate grievances, but she’s also done some terrible things. Amy also does stumble sometimes, but she’s a legitimately intelligent sociopath.
I don’t want to spoil the story beyond Amy’s character. That being said, Rosamund Pike not getting the Oscar was a sin. There’s something about that way she plays Amy that makes her very sinister and unnerving. As a villain, she’s not super unrealistic. There are no powers or anything. Amy uses her mind. You’re more likely to meet her than Bloefeld or the Joker.
Addison Montgomery Shepherd, Grey’s Anatomy (portrayed by Kate Walsh)
If there was a prize for entrances in a TV show, Addison Montgomery Shepherd would certainly be up for it. She turns up at the end of Series One and is revealed to be Derek Shepherd’s wife. Meredith Grey, the protagonist, had been seeing him but had no clue he was married. The season ends there and one imagines you’ll feel hatred for Addison, but you could not be more wrong.
Addison proves to be a classy woman who treats Meredith well. She also owns up to the fact that it was her that really broke the marriage, though it had probably been doomed for a while. Addison is extremely intelligent, being a world-class double board-certified surgeon in OB/GYN and maternal-fetal medicine. She shows huge amounts of compassion to the women and babies she helps. Addison also becomes close friends with many of the other characters. She becomes good friends with Callie despite the pair being rather opposite.
Of course, Addison is deeply screwed up in her own way. She’s from money (her family is LOADED) but her parents weren’t the best role models. She’s excellent at what she does but is arrogant and not the best communicator. Addison’s popularity allowed her to head the six-series spin-off ‘Private Practice.’ She’s also made several appearances back on GA after officially leaving in Series 3.
Æthelflæd, The Last Kingdom (portrayed by Milly Brady in the series)
We’re slightly cheating here because Æthelflæd is based on a real person, but we’re counting her because it’s not like it’s an exact match. Æthelflæd is only a child when we first meet her, but it’s not long before she’s a grown woman. She proves to be more than a match for her famous father, showing herself to be intelligent, spirited and wise.
When her husband died in real life, Æthelflæd was named Lady of the Mercians. Women in leadership roles were extremely rare at this time, so people must have thought very highly of Æthelflæd to allow her such an honour. In the show, it’s clear why. She’s devoted to her adopted land, protects the people and gives good counsel. Æthelflæd also isn’t afraid to get her hands dirty.
She scores great victories but also suffers defeat. Her love for her family, especially her daughter, and her people is unwavering. Æthelflæd is sometimes naive, but she knows how to learn a lesson and grow from it.
Jody Mills, Supernatural (Portrayed by Kim Rhodes)
Supernatural ran for a long fifteen series and it was often criticised for its treatment of female characters. One woman who received wide praise and frequent billing was Jody Mills. We first meet Sheriff Jody Mills in series five. She’s a policewoman in a small town and she immediately shows off her credentials when she assists the protagonists with their supernatural foes. Jody proves an important ally to the Winchesters as a recurring character.
Fundamentally, Jody is capable. She’s excellent with a firearm, has a cool head and thinks logically. Whilst she prefers human cases, she’s always a good person to call. Jody has seen a lot of tragedy in her personal life but breaks out of the cycle by helping those in need. Her home is open to orphans and runaways and strays in need of security. Jody is a great friend and pseudo-mom.
You’ll always see Jody in social situations and she’s got a knack for forming friendships that the leads don’t. There’s also a maternal aspect that isn’t mocked or laughed at. That capacity for kindness is what makes Jody who she is, whether she’s in uniform or at home.
Ellen Ripley, Alien (portrayed by Sigourney Weaver)
How could we leave out sci-fi’s greatest heroine? Ellen Ripley burst onto (if you’ll pardon the pun) our screens in 1979 in Alien. Since then, the character has remained a perennial favourite and is widely regarded as one of the coolest women on screen. In the first film of the series, Ripley is part of the crew of the Nostromo, a spaceship which answers a distress signal. If you haven’t already guessed, what’s calling is not human. Ripley is already level headed as a crewmate but really shows herself off when things go bump in the night.
There’s a reason why Ripley is so popular. Not only is she competent, but she keeps a cool head and works with the situation. She may seem cold, but her pragmatism really helps save her life. Ripley is what you expect of an action heroine- not particularly feminine, surrounded by guys, yet she’s written with more depth. Aliens expands her role- she’s more prepared to take on the enemies this time. Her relationship with young survivor Newt is heartwarming. She just fundamentally wants to help.
Ripley was written as a man, but was flipped to a woman in production. Is that why she’s well-written, because she was not imagined as a woman at first? I’d argue that the character would still be cool as a man, but Weaver’s portrayal gave Ripley that extra depth. She’s one of the guys, but not in that cringe, women-hating way. She’s Ellen Ripley.
