Female rage in media has existed for millennia. The eponymous protagonist of Euripides’ play, “Medea,” for instance, murders her lothario husband and their children in an act of revenge. Other female characters, such as Catherine Earnshaw in Emily Brontë’s 1847 novel, “Wuthering Heights,” rage with much less justification — Catherine shrieks, pulls hair and makes wild accusations — even on her deathbed.
Such displays of anger are juxtaposed with societal standards of female “propriety” — in Charles Dickens’ “A Tale of Two Cities,” written 12 years after “Wuthering Heights,” Lucie Manette is the very picture of docility and the perfect woman. She represents the “Angel in the House,” a term that originates from a poem by the Victorian poet Coventry Patmore. Brooklyn College professor Lilia Melani defines the typical “Angel” as “passive and powerless, meek, charming, graceful, sympathetic, self-sacrificing, pious and, above all — pure.” Catherine Earnshaw would be considered anathema to this model — yet there is something irrepressibly fascinating about the way she throws fits and objects. “Angels in the House,” including Lucie Manette, who pales in comparison to her two suitors’ more commanding personalities, are dull. Virtuous they might be — good protagonists they are not.
Female rage has continued to be popular in the media. On TikTok, users will quickly discover thousands of videos sympathizing with Amy Dunne from “Gone Girl” and Love Quinn from “You,” often tagged #goodforher. Taylor Swift’s murder ballad “no body, no crime,” detailing the revenge killing of a cheating husband — not unlike Medea’s situation — has also become a popular audio. But even less criminal female characters have become popular — online users have raved over “unlikable” characters like Devi Vishwakumar from “Never Have I Ever,” claiming that her short temper is relatable.
But the most consequential characteristic of female rage in the media is its audience. Most online posts about connecting with flawed female characters are made by women, indicating not just the possibility of kinship with these rage-filled female characters, but also a kinship that is deeply gendered. The creators of media with “unlikable” female characters are also overwhelmingly female — Caroline Kepnes, the author of the book series, “You,” Mindy Kaling, the cocreator of “Never Have I Ever” and Phoebe Waller-Bridge, the creator of “Fleabag.” Examples of female rage are created by women, for women — suggesting a level of realism to female rage in media and suggesting that viewing and acknowledging female rage is cathartic.
There is something cartoonishly flawed about these characters, but it is our own desire to see ourselves mirrored in something terrible that propels the creation of these characters and stories. What adds to the catharsis of consuming female rage media is the lack of feasibility in exercising the actions depicted in it — the average person never seriously entertains murder, as Amy Dunne does in “Gone Girl.” Watching, reading and listening to female rage becomes a way to decompress — to experience the fulfillment of frustration without actually dedicating oneself to it. Certain examples of female rage also emphasize the quietness of the condition — in “Fleabag,” the protagonist breaks the fourth wall to insert witty, sometimes insulting comments about those around her — hinting at an underlying rage that is never revealed to anyone but her. Female rage can be silent as well as violent, simultaneously highlighting the feral quality of rage and dampening it through forced civility.
While female rage is nothing new, critics have theorized that the ongoing wave of female rage in media is a consequence of the #MeToo era and of a gradual accumulation of resentment toward the patriarchy. BBC writer Miriam Balanescu suggests that “female violence on screen is depicted as a means of dispelling still-entrenched notions around women’s fragility and weakness by portraying them as anything but.” Like the juxtaposition between Brontë’s wild heroines and Patmore’s “Angel of the House,” there is a juxtaposition between female rage in contemporary media and current social standards for women. Anger is a stereotypically unfeminine thing. Women are often expected to address difficult situations with neutrality and perhaps even coyness, recalling what has been called the “cool girl monologue” in “Gone Girl” — “Cool Girls are above all hot. Hot and understanding. Cool Girls never get angry — they only smile in a chagrined, loving manner and let their men do whatever they want. Go ahead, shit on me, I don’t mind, I’m the Cool Girl.” Author Soraya Chemaly claims that “when men display anger, it reaffirms gender norms, it reaffirms masculinity … They are not penalized in the same way as when women do it … we violate gender norms.” By being angry, the women of the screen, the song and the book push back against sexist standards — providing characters to root for, as immoral as their actions may be.
The consumption of media featuring female rage produces twofold consequences. For one, it produces a cathartic experience that allows women to address the unspoken struggles of being a woman — whether they are issues of sexual abuse, stereotypes or something else — and two, its usage as a method of catharsis suggests almost a re-conformity to societal standards. In lieu of acting out in reality, women choose to internalize their anger and live vicariously through fictional characters. In the end, all rage emptied, they return to the “real world” — ready to silently endure the female condition yet again.
Kathryn Lee is a sophomore double-majoring in English and economics.