The Girlbossification of Horror

Midsommar (Aster, 2019)

Women and horror cinema have always had a symbiotic relationship, whether it’s Marion meeting a grizzly end at the hands of Norman Bates in Psycho (Hitchcock, 1960) or Sidney Prescott dicing with death in Scream (Craven, 1996), female characters have had their fair share of screen time in the horror genre. Facing and overcoming antagonistic male characters is seemingly a pillar of the genre, however, in recent years this convention has become a leading signifier of progressive feminism in film. That being said, the trauma and suffering a number of modern horror heroines face are a direct result of the patriarchy, and thus transform these women into damaged, even criminal characters. Does the glorification of these characters truly have a positive influence over the feminist movement, or is it taking two steps backwards away from liberation? Focussing on a handful of films that have been released within the last several years, this essay aims to conclude whether so-called ‘girlboss’ characters should continue to be the face of feminism. For all extensive purposes, a ‘girlboss’ is often interpreted as a woman “in charge of her own life. She gets what she wants because she works for it." (Amoruso, 2014), and has since become a term associated with iconic female characters in horror media in particular, thus ‘girlbossification’ is the process in which a character becomes a figure of modern feminism. Moreover, the girlboss phenomenon is widely popularised across social media, with many modern horror and thriller films such as The Invisible Man (Whannell, 2020) and Midsommar (Aster, 2019) being associated with a fictional “’good for her’ cinematic universe” (@cinematogrxphy, 2020). Not only does this highlight useful case studies of this notion, but also the scale in which this term is used and applied and how relevant to the modern feminist wave it has become. Firstly, one of the most recognised examples of a character receiving this treatment by an audience is ‘Dani Ardor’, portrayed by Florence Pugh, from Midsommar. In the film, Dani travels to a Swedish commune with her boyfriend ‘Christian’ whom she has a depleting relationship with. The moment they arrive at the commune, Dani is immediately being indoctrinated the same way a cult would entice followers. They allow her to openly share her emotions, which she previously has been unable to with her emotionally unavailable boyfriend, thus allowing for a cathartic release of her grief following the death of her sister and parents. If “horror lets us examine our fears in a safe space” (Flanagan, 2021), then it would appear Aster is exploring the issues around an insufficient relationship and the damage it can do to women in particular, which is certainly an issue modern feminism is concerned with. In the climactic moments of the film, we see Christian burn alive in a traditional midsummer sacrifice as Dani stands and watches with a haunting smile. The deep psychological trauma Dani goes through is reminiscent of many female characters in horror, but the idea that to “torture the woman” therefore means to “torture the audience” (Clover, 1992) is seemingly not applicable in this case. Given the ‘good for her’ response to the outcome of the film, a significant portion of the audience witnessed Dani’s suffering but decided mainly to focus on her escaping an unsatisfactory relationship. After becoming May Queen, Dani condemns Christian to die in the final ceremony, which is commonly interpreted as girlbossification via overcoming her toxic relationship and finally moving on from both it and her grief. On the contrary, this act is merely a reflection of how much power the commune now holds over her, as they have coerced her into choosing Christian to untether her entirely from her life before. Praising a cult for preying on the emotional vulnerability of a grieving woman is to praise “the male viewer’s use of her as a vehicle for his own sadomasochistic fantasies” (Clover, 1992). The misogynistic desires of having a submissive woman that they can easily have “authority” and “control” over (Chesterton, 2018) therefore come into play. Dani, who has become so mentally corrupted through drugs and brainwashing, has now been trapped in a cult where she will be forced to give children to the cult as “new blood” to avoid inbreeding. All her freedom has been lost. Her freedom of thought, choice, and movement is stripped away from her. This actively opposes the feminist ideology of “each woman’s right to self-determination… autonomy and their extraparliamentary activities” (Studer, 2017), highlighting how audiences have failed to consider the wider ramifications of events. Escaping a relationship with incessant gaslighting and manipulation, as seen through Christian downplaying Dani’s concern over her sister’s welfare by saying “you go straight to crisis mode”, encapsulates a focus on the individual man rather than the collective. “If a particular woman is being abused by a male partner” then the “societal oppression of women is an important factor in explaining” this abuse (Kelly, 2017). Rather than applauding Dani for getting out the relationship, the audience should instead reflect upon how the male-dominated system attacks and exploits the suffering of women, making small victories such as this eclipsed by higher powers. Not only does the response to Midsommar reflect Aster’s success in the extent of realism in the commune’s indoctrination, but it also shows how much influence the patriarchy withholds and how modern audiences are influenced by it. The system has conditioned us to believe that freedom from a bad relationship is equilibrium alone, and to ignore the wider world being even more of a threat. Aster’s intentions seemingly reflect this, with the drug-fuelled emotional manipulation Dani experiences paralleling societal brainwashing. Dani is therefore not a girlboss and is in reality a victim of the system, and celebrating her character is stepping away from the liberation of women. As illustrated by The Invisible Man, girlbossification can occur even when the female protagonist commits explicitly criminal acts. Elizabeth Moss’ character ‘Cecilia’ is initially established as a caring and harmless person, escaping an abusive relationship. She states her partner ‘Adrian’ hit her “among other things”, implying the extent to which he abused her. Over the course of the film, we rapidly see Cecilia descend into a violent and revenge-hungry woman that can arguably be interpreted as a direct effect of the patriarchal threat inflicted upon her. For example, in the opening scene of the film, we follow Cecilia escaping Adrian’s house, and on her way out removes an electric collar from their pet dog stating that “I’m not gonna leave you with that thing on”. This establishes her character as empathetic and contrasts against the violent nature of her partner. Towards the end of the film Cecilia and Adrian reunite over a dinner. Unbeknownst to Adrian, Cecilia is aware of the violence he inflicted upon both her and her loved ones despite his denial and thus plans to kill him. She excuses herself to go to the bathroom where she adorns the invisibility suit before slitting his throat with a steak knife. The difference between the manner in which men and women kill has documented thoroughly in recent years, suggesting that “male killers… are hunters” and that “female killers… are gatherers” (Kozlowska, 2019), highlighting how men “will often butcher their victims” as opposed to women who usually take a more subtle and sophisticated approach. The brutality of this death is reflective of how Cecilia’s trauma as a result of male aggression and dominance has transformed her into an agent of the patriarchy, being infected by the violence of her abuser and using it against him. If “women should not have to be perceived as the same as men to be deserving” (RadFemFatale, 2017), then glamourising her victory by vanquishing the beast in this manner suggests that as a society we are still entrapped by patriarchal narratives whilst attempting to empower women.

The Invisible Man (Whannell, 2020)

A further way in which Whannell constructs Cecilia to obtain the same level of power as Adrian is through a recognisable directorial style throughout the film. To reflect the constant possible presence of Adrian in his invisibility suit, many shots feature an abundance of seemingly empty space, implying that Adrian could very much be standing there. In the final moments of the film however, just before Cecilia commits the murder, we see an empty chair from Adrian’s perspective. This again reverses the power dynamic we have seen on screen; he is now intimidated by her presence or lack thereof. Her power by the end of the film is inherently masculine. Whether it is the method of murder or the use of mise-en-scène, it is the same patriarchal superiority that was inflicted upon her that she is now using against it. “When feminism is defined as becoming equal to men, it is a clear admission that men are the default” (RadFemFatale, 2017), thus suggesting that feminism should be defined as liberation from the patriarchy, not assimilating to it and perpetuating the same power structure. Although it can be argued that the narrative arc embodies the ‘revenge fantasy’ element of other female-led horror such as I Spit On Your Grave (Zarchi, 1978), and in effect is inherently empowering women to take a stand against sexual violence, appropriating the hegemony of males to do so could in turn make them one and the same. Therefore, this highlights how viewing Elizabeth Moss’ Cecilia as a positive feminist role model is not entirely beneficial to the movement. As opposed to sexual assault transforming female characters into apparent heroines, it can also allow them to travel down a path of pure villainy. As seen in Last Night in Soho (Wright, 2021), Anya Taylor-Joy’s ‘Sandie’ is forced into prostitution and begins murdering men she has lured back to her apartment. The sexual relationships she has with these men is therefore non-consensual, and rape “as a backstory is a common entertainment trope” (Gutowitz, 2018) that Last Night in Soho heavily utilises. Films such as the aforementioned The Invisible Man, along with Kill Bill (Tarantino, 2003) and Mad Max: Fury Road (Miller, 2015), follow a female protagonist who has suffered from sexual assault in the past, however, despite their violent actions they are stilled referred to as protagonists, whilst Sandie is antagonised for the most part. Contrasting the notion that girlbossification plays into the hands of the patriarchy, it could be argued that in certain cases the actions of characters are validated. Taking into consideration that “the horror film was recognised… as proffering a dangerous challenge to establishment” (Blake, 2008), Sandie’s actions offer an amplified reparation to years of oppression. Similar to Cecilia in The Invisible Man, she is actively killing men who wish to abuse and exploit vulnerable women, which, although in reality is deeply unlawful, within the context of the film is a poetic and suitable demise for these men which acts as a foundation for her girlbossification. “The dragon of western mythology is a bloodthirsty… violent beast” in which “patriarchal rule [is] depicted as the quintessential image of evil” (Blake, 2008), which could present the murder of misogynistic, violent men as righteous. In killing such an abundance of rapists, Sandie is preventing further abuse of women, differing from Adrian in The Invisible Man only wanting to possess Cecilia. Although Cecilia protecting herself can be regarded as powerful, the scale in which Sandie kills helps an indefinite number of would-be victims. This accentuates the idea of “sisterhood”, referring to the “bonds shared by women who had been excluded from equal opportunity” (Bower, 2006). This narrative choice demonstrates a unity between women, and how the supportive system women establish between each other is functional and important to survival, but with a horror twist.

Last Night in Soho (Whannell, 2021)

That being said, murder in this form is viewed as inherently sexualised, with the use of a knife having “phallic purpose” relating to how “male and female are at desperate odds” (Clover, 1992), in the slasher genre. Sandie slaughtering her abusers with a knife is her using the same phallic popular they used when raping her, penetrating their bodies. Clover also argues that “masculinity and femininity are more states of mind than body”, but this may not be the case. The physical sexual dynamics of the male and female anatomy are fundamental to her triumphing over the oppressor. To men, that is what power is; penetration of the body. This allows them to understand and experience what they themselves put women through. Even though Sandie has to appropriate a form of masculinity the same way Cecilia had to, the interpretation that giving men ‘a taste of their own medicine’ is more beneficial to the feminist movement than to have no representation of fighting the system. “Although the women of these films may start off vulnerable, they take charge of their situations” (McGillvray, 2019), which is a strong signifier of liberation. Instead of it being women reducing themselves to the standards of men, it can be seen as a warning, showing what women can become as a result subjugation. “Most men… project their inherent weakness onto women” (Solanas, 2013), whilst Sandie’s revenge is a sign of strength, and is a fictionalised, exaggerated rebuttal to exploitation and objectification. This attributes a more feminine approach to murderous acts women in horror commit, contextualising why some sectors of the current wave of feminism view such characters as role models, not because they are murderous villains but because they provide hope that combatting oppression is possible. Lastly, expanding further upon sexual assault turning female characters into villains, Ma (Taylor, 2019) can be viewed as another example as to how the girlboss movement is problematic upon further inspection. As a child, Octavia Spencer’s ‘Sue Ann Ellington’ was tricked into performing a sexual act on a stranger who she believed to be her crush ‘Ben’, whilst she was unknowingly being watched by her entire school in doing so. This trauma caused psychological damage that would last until later in life, and after meeting her bullies’ children, she begins a killing spree seeking revenge upon those who wronged her. It is often said that the horror genre can “reflect perfectly the anxieties of the time” (McGillvray, 2019), and building off of the idea that feminism could manifest itself as more violent in the future could be a significant anxiety male film producers in particular feel. For example, early on in the film, Sue Ann holds teenager Chaz at gunpoint and forces him to strip. The objectification of a male character in this way reverses the gender hierarchy in a less abstract way than Last Night in Soho. Sue Ann forcing him to take his clothes off parallels not just her childhood trauma but also a history of unwanted sexualisation inflicted upon women. This, along with the fact that Octavia Spencer portrays her character as a comedic, likeable character, leads audiences into thinking Ma is in the ‘good for her’ category of horror. Her path to revenge is what crowns her as a girlboss, but the pain and suffering she inflicts upon certain characters is debatably taking two steps back from liberation. Her killing spree affects those with no affiliation to the initial crime, such as her boss Dr. Brooks, along with the children of her bullies who she tortures and attempts to kill. Victims of abuse in childhood are known to “subordinate themselves like automata to the will of the aggressor” (Ferenczi, 1932), and begin to “identify themselves with the aggressor”. This could link to how Sue Ann “upholds the patriarch’s evil regime” (Greven, 2021) by letting her rage treat innocent people as collateral damage. In the final act of the film, she threatens to castrate the now adult bully Ben after she tied him to her bed. As comeuppance for exploiting her sexual naivety, Sue Ann will strip his sexuality from him, removing the source of his masculine power (which adds to the reasons why she is considered a girlboss). In a turn of events, however, she decides not to do this, and instead transfuses his blood for dog blood “because that’s what you are”. Albeit still gaining approval from those attempting to girlbossify her, it fails to send the same message of removing male power. Moreover, as her bullies’ children escape the captivity of the basement, a candle is knocked over causing it to spread across the entire house. Accepting defeat, she walks upstairs and cradles Ben’s dead body whilst fire consumes her home. This could be viewed as a regression for her character, suggesting that despite her actions she never escaped the claws of the patriarchy by still being in love with her abuser. Sue Ann is undoubtably similar to the manner in which Cecilia in The Invisible Man and Sandie in Last Night in Soho kill their victims, having to adopt a stereotypically masculine form to regain power over male-led abuse. The male directors behind these films can only represent women as powerful through giving them the only form of power they know, rather than utilising intrinsically feminine traits. This is both a reflection of our society’s hierarchies but also on how male producers cannot always fully comprehend the female experience. With this knowledge, idolising female characters who were written by men may not be a suitable base for modern feminism because it falls into the trap of praising men instead of prioritising women in the movement. The girlbossification of Sue Ann is reminiscent of the commune in Midsommar, proving that the director’s aim to get the audience to like her was successful. That being said, Taylor, along with Whannell and Wright, seemingly don’t grasp the complexities of womanhood in the modern era which is a further reason why girlbossification is not suitable. In conclusion, the current trend of the girlbossification of the horror genre can be viewed as beneficial through the film industry allowing female characters to fight back against the patriarchy. Although in the films The Invisible Man, Ma, and Last Night in Soho, male power is appropriated by women in the film in order to assert dominance over patriarchal figures. Idolising such narrative choices is arguably not beneficial to modern feminism, as the results of oppression are being praised. In Midsommar, one of the first films to undergo girlbossification, Dani’s trauma from grief and emotional manipulation transforms her into a shell of a woman revelling in the death of her boyfriend. Audiences tended to focus on her breaking free from a toxic relationship instead of the ramifications of her being indoctrinated into a cult, thus reflecting a lack of consideration in choosing feminist idols. Overall, girlbossification is seemingly good in moderation, but putting these female characters at the forefront of the movement is not the correct decision. Nevertheless, horror will always be inherently female.

Ma (Taylor, 2019)

Letterboxd: https://letterboxd.com/daniel_mcpeake/

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