Woman of the Month: Nala

Nala from Sinbad 

One of my favourite things to do on these monthly posts is to showcase extremely obscure female characters, and this may well be the most obscure one I’ve ever written about. Nala, played by Estella Daniels, appeared in only seven of the thirteen episodes of Sinbad, a 2012 show that was cancelled after only one season. So, why bring her up at all?

Despite this take on the legend being all but forgotten about, Nala left an impression on me. I’ve seen the actress since then (Death in Paradise, Da Vinci’s Demons) and despite her limited screentime in this show, she’s the focus of its best episode. “Old Man of the Sea” is a variation on all those stories about Death and the Maiden, generally revolving around a plot in which the latter is forced into matrimony with the embodiment of Death (or a fey, or even the devil himself) only to outwit him at the last moment.

But Nala is also granted a sense of history and backstory the other characters don’t, as it’s clear from the very first episode that she and her father are running from something. She becomes part of the Providence crew as the requisite highborn and educated one (like Djaq or Toph) and is guided by a sense of morality and idealism. As well as her sense of entitlement, there is also duty – the very thing which prevents her from reneging on the deal her father made with Death when he finally catches up to her.

For whatever reason, Nala was written out of the show at about the halfway mark and promptly replaced by a white woman (the optics – not great), but while she lasted she was the heart of the crew. Perhaps she would have returned in time – we’ll never know.

Reading/Watching Log #124

Autumn again. It feels we’ve had two weeks of summer and six months of winter, and now things are turning back towards the cold. Still, there’s a beauty to fall, especially in clear weather. I was walking through the park in the sunshine the other day and was struck by the ambiance: there’s a strange sort of darkness to the light, the shadows felt deeper, and the leaves are just beginning to turn even though the sky was solid blue.

I’m still seeking out variations on the stories of L.F. Baum, J.M. Barrie and Lewis Carroll, and in doing so it was interesting to note that Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland and The Wizard of Oz each have definitive versions (obviously, the Disney and MGM films). And yet that’s not quite the case for Peter Pan, even though there are more adaptations out there of his story than the other two – by quite a far margin. I suppose that makes sense; if you’ve got what’s considered the iconic version of something, nobody else wants to compete with it.

More to the point when it comes to the multitude of adaptations, Peter Pan has been staged and retold so many times that many of the latest versions are aware of the weight of their predecessors, and so end up musing on the nature of the story itself.

This is the thousandth time Hook and Peter have crossed swords, the millionth that Peter and Wendy have said goodbye to each other. She can’t go and he can’t stay, and the legacy of that is a bit like the underlying theme of Hadestown: the story taken on a life and tragedy of its own, and so every time we tell it again, we hope it might turn out differently. But no, Peter Pan is still out there somewhere, as young as he ever was.

There’s no understating how deeply these stories have soaked into our culture. Remember when Neo followed the White Rabbit at the beginning of The Matrix? Or when Ofelia wore an Alice dress and pinafore in Pan’s Labyrinth? Or that a vampire movie could be called The Lost Boys and everyone would know the reference? Likewise, we all know the connotations Kingo is making when he calls Sprite “Tinker Bell” in The Eternals – not just her eternal youth, but her unrequited love for Ikaris. The term “flying monkeys” is a recognizable term to describe people who submit to narcissists and do their bidding. Then there’s Michael Jackson’s Neverland Ranch, which exists in a much more tragic context. These stories are everywhere.

Finally, I told myself that I would try and cut down on the length of these blog posts, as they’re getting increasingly long despite my lack of free time to actually write them. Then of course, I end up writing what amounts to three giant essays on Peter Pan. But for April, I really am truly going to try and cut back…

Standing Tall #36

Back to it!

This giraffe sculpture was a rather poignant one, as it was inspired by children who wear the Beads of Courage – that is, the unique strings of beads that children undergoing cancer treatment receive, one bead representing each milestone test or procedure they go through.

The name of the sculpture is Hero, which was decided upon after the Child Cancer Foundation put out a call for suggestions. One contributor proposed Hero as: “this is what all our children are to their loved ones.” Once again painted by Ira Mitchell-Kirk (his name pops up a lot; I can only assume he was commissioned to paint several of these giraffes) and sponsored by the Child Cancer Foundation, it depicts the large glass beads that make up these mementoes against a bright blue background.

It was situated in Merivale Mall, which was a bit of an odd venue for it (surely the hospital would have been a better fit?) but as you can tell from all the Christmas decorations, I visited during the holidays!

Links and Updates

It’s been a while and the news has been stacking up. There’s a lot of exciting stuff on the horizon, so let’s get into it…

Woman of the Month: Ellen Ripley

Ellen Ripley from Alien and Aliens

When we discuss trailblazing and iconic female characters from the eighties (or in sci-fi generally) two names spring immediately to mind: Sarah Connor and Ellen Ripley. Way back in 2017, I watched the two Terminator films (there are only two) and always meant to follow up with the two Alien movies (also only two), as the comparison between these women is fascinating.

Everyone already knows this, but Ellen Ripley as written in Alien was originally a male character, and when the decision was made to cast Sigourney Weaver, absolutely nothing was changed. This makes sense, as gender is largely irrelevant in the first Alien film. Rape subtext aside, it’s essentially a crew of miners attempting to survive a life-or-death situation in closed quarters, and Ripley’s most defining scene is refusing to let her crewmates back on the ship when there’s the chance they could be contaminated, instead wanting to follow safety regulations.

It’s the exactly opposite of what we’d expect a Screw the Rules, I’m Doing What’s Right protagonist to do, but it’s also indisputably the right call.

It also has nothing to do with the fact Ripley is a woman, in stark contrast to Sarah Conner, who absolutely has to be a woman. The whole reason the plot takes place is because time travellers want to kill the mother of the Resistance leader fighting them in the future – before she’s given birth.

This is of particular interest since James Cameron directed The Terminator before taking on Aliens, which does have more of an interest in the fact Ripley is a woman, particularly as it pertains to motherhood. Waking up from cryogenic sleep to discover her daughter has died in the intervening years, the emotional core of the film is Ripley becoming a mother to Newt, the sole survivor of the latest Xenomorph attack.

It doesn’t feel like a coincidence that James Cameron was the man behind this change, bringing Ripley more in line with Sarah Connor, as a Mama Bear protecting her young at all costs. But that doesn’t change the fundamentals of her character: a determined, no-nonsense, tough-as-nails but fundamentally decent woman who represents the best of humanity – whether it’s comforting a little girl or going back for the cat. This is the reason for the character’s longevity: that she’s a normal woman in terrifying circumstances. No superpowers, no extraordinary talent, just grit and bravery.

(Just like Sarah Connor).

Reading/Watching Log #123

February has come and gone, and I’ve continued my foray into the worlds of Wonderland, Neverland and Oz, which I think of as the Big Three of children’s literature. Perhaps the most interesting thing about reading the original stories concerning these worlds is how much of what we assume about them is based on adaptative material with no basis in the actual books. For instance, Neverland is always referred to as the Neverland in J.M. Barrie’s text, and before his transformation, the Tin Man was initially called Nick Chopper – not Boq, though there is an unrelated Munchkin that goes by that name.

There’s also a lot of material that never made it into any adaptation: for example, I’m sorry that Baum’s delightful Queen of the Field Mice never made it onto the screen, though I can obviously understand the limitations there.

Likewise, there’s a lot more emphasis on the weird and wonderful events being framed as dreams in the adaptations, even though Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland is the only one that actually used this framing device in a book. MGM’s The Wizard of Oz famously made Dorothy’s adventures a prolonged dream, with actors playing characters both in the real world and fantasy counterparts in Oz, something that wasn’t part of Baum’s book at all. The concept became so pervasive that Return to Oz used it too.

They also hinted at it in Disney’s animated Peter Pan, which ends with the Darling parents returning home from their party to find Wendy asleep by the window, the implication being that she dreamt it all (unlike the book, where the three children are gone for a long time). Likewise, the 2003 film leans into the double casting of Jason Isaacs as Captain Hook and Mr Darling, providing a degree of commentary on Wendy’s relationship with each one.

More than that, the concept of madness barely figures into the books, but has since become an intrinsic part of these stories, with the mental facilities of the girls being called into question much more than in the books themselves. ABC’s Once Upon a Time spin-off starts with Alice in a sanatorium, with doctors trying to convince her that her adventures were a hallucination. Obviously Return to Oz starts with Dorothy (nearly) receiving electric-shock therapy, and the facility staff becoming the villains she faces in Oz.

And Andy Weir’s Cheshire Crossing is a crossover graphic novel in which Alice, Dorothy and Wendy all meet at a remote research facility and sanatorium. It’s interesting the way these components have soaked into our understanding of the stories, becoming an intrinsic part of retellings, even though that subtext isn’t present in the original texts. Sometimes they even borrow from each other: Dorothy in Return to Oz has a scene in which she appears to do some slow-motion rabbit-hole falling.

And for the record, Peter Pan is by far the best book of the three. You get the definite sense that Baum and Carroll were simply making things up as they went along, writing as the mood struck them, and though a lot of people have put a lot of effort into trying to understand or cross-examine Alice’s Adventures and Wizard of Oz, by each author’s own admission, they exist mainly to entertain and as such often come across as completely random.

Baum is probably the least sophisticated of the three authors, though I still think it’s fascinating that he almost didn’t seem to understand a lot of what he was writing. There are clear feminist undertones at work (his mother was a suffragette, so this was no doubt on purpose) but although he claims to have written: “a modernized fairy tale, in which the wonderment and joy are retained and the heartaches and nightmares are left out,” it certainly didn’t pan out that way.

There’s some genuinely scary stuff in these books, and despite the Americanization of certain archetypes (switching out the kings, carriages, knights and heraldry for tin men, scarecrows, hucksters and cornfields) he couldn’t help but retain some of the fey elements of our oldest stories (as in Coraline and Labyrinth, the conclusion of Ozma of Oz features a competition against an ancient being with impossibly high stakes).

He also manages a few nuggets of wisdom, like this from the Scarecrow: “I am convinced that the only people worthy of consideration in this world are the unusual ones. For the common folks are like the leaves of a tree, and live and die unnoticed,” or this from the Hungry Tiger: “It isn’t what we are, but what folks think we are, that counts in this world.”

For the most part though, his stories (like Carroll’s) come across as pretty random. In comparison, Barrie has something important to say about the nature of childhood, the passage of time, and the realities of growing up. Peter Pan is an inherently bittersweet story, one in which its grand adventure is framed by the anguish of parenthood and the cost of never achieving maturity.

Going forward into March, I’m leaving Wonderland and Neverland behind, but the Yellow Brick Road is stretching on for a while longer. Baum wrote a lot of these books.

Women of the Year: A Retrospective 2025

It’s time for my favourite annual post: a look back at all the female characters I discovered, revisited, and/or enjoyed watching or reading about across the course of the past year. As I’m sure you know, I start every month with a post that spotlights a female character of note, the only two rules being that she has to be a somewhat inspiring figure, and that I can feature only one woman per project (though I can always include more from the same narrative universe in these end-of-year retrospectives).

But last year I decided to do something a little different and make 2025 the Year of the Villainess.

What struck me whilst selecting and compiling these twelve women is that female villains are so often twisted reflections of abnormal femininity. They are women… but wrong.

There’s the overbearing mothers (Norma Bates, Agnes Skinner, the Queen of Shadows in Mirrormask), the abusive nurturers (the Other Mother, Mother Gothel, Nurse Ratchet), the abnormally masculine (Agatha Trunchbull, Lady Macbeth; who asks to be unsexed: “come to my woman’s breasts, and take my milk for gall”), and of course – the crazy bitches (the Queen of Hearts, Daenerys Targaryen, Hexadecimal, Drusilla, even Azula in her final stretch of episodes). In that last case, it’s often the woman’s loosening grip on reality that proves to be her downfall.

Then there are the monstrous mother-figures (pick a stepmother, any stepmother from a fairy tale), the jealous harpies (now pick a stepsister, or any character that’s ever been played by Lucy Punch), the embittered crones desperate to regain their youth (Lamia from Stardust, the Sanderson Sisters, Mother Gothel again), the Alpha Bitches (Regina George, Libby Chessler), the Ice Queens (the White Witch, Hans Christian Anderson’s Snow Queen), the Women Scorned (Hera, Alex Forrest, Isabella of Gisborne) and the Femme Fatales, who use their sexuality to get what they want (Melisandre, the Brides of Dracula – honestly, there are too many of these to name, though shoutout to Delilah, the Ur-Example).

It was at that moment Hylas knew... he'd fucked up.

Occasionally you get women that’ve been possessed by greater powers that transform them into dangerous threats (Jean Grey, Azkadellia from Tin Man), and sometimes they’re just unrelenting, unthinking forces of nature (Shelob, Eris, the dinosaurs of Jurassic Park, weather events that are usually given feminine names and pronouns). Oftentimes, many of these categories can overlap.

Just take a moment here to try and imagine any of these archetypes applied to a male villain. It’s not impossible, and yet it’s also much rarer. When men are villains, it’s usually to do with the corruptive influence of power, or misguided motivation born of desperation or deceit, or the complexities of the human psyche, or… ya know, a woman made him do it. For female villains it’s usually about being the wrong type of woman: a bad mother, or a manipulative seductress, or either so emotional that it disrupts her mental faculties, or not emotional enough for her to count as a proper woman.

Obviously not always, but I feel reasonably comfortable making that generalization. When one looks back at some of our earliest villainesses, the likes of Lilith and Circe and Morgan le Fay, it’s easy to see what they have in common: their own hard power (generally manifesting as magic) and a disregard for male authority. What need have they for men when they have their own inherent abilities to serve and protect them? Stories about such figures read more like cautionary tales to a male audience about the dangers that women pose than anything to do with the characters themselves; a warning not only about the sexuality they embody, which can easily lure a man to his doom, but the dangerous subversion of male power.

It’s rare that a female villain is allowed motivation that transcends gender-coded characterization (“who’s the fairest of them all?”) or which doesn’t embody the anxieties the patriarchy has about them (their sexuality, their mental state, their unchecked emotions), or refrains from commenting (even implicitly) on how she should be controlled, dismissed or ridiculed. When someone like Demona from Gargoyles comes along, who is driven by a multitude of inner demons (her self-loathing and guilt, her desire to protect her people from discrimination, her hatred of human beings), it’s worth sitting up and taking notice.

Again, I want to stress that this is a generalization. I’m well aware that the rogue’s gallery of fictional villains has its fair share of abusive fathers, power-crazy tyrants and tantrum-throwing manchildren (the concept of an incel has definitely been the inspiration for several male villains over the last few years). But are there a lot of old men who are vilified for being old and therefore undesirable? Men that are considered unnatural because they’re unfeeling or “icy”? Do we see a lot of men seducing women for nefarious ends (and don’t say James Bond – he’s not only a designated hero, but considered a stud for how many beautiful women he can bed). Are there as many evil stepfathers as there are stepmothers? And if there were, would they be regarded as being as monstrous as an unfit mother?

When there are more male villains anyway, it’s rather obvious to see how the female ones are broadly divided into several recurring categories and themes, and most of them have their roots in what it means to be an “incorrect” type of woman. Simply put, female villains are often the ones that don’t comply with the patriarchy’s expectations of them: to be nurturing, beautiful, virtuous, young, submissive, obliging and preferably sane.

I could write a thesis on all this, but there’s definitely no time for that! Just food for thought as I delve into some of the other compelling villainesses that didn’t make this year’s short list, but who are definitely worth mentioning in some capacity: