Women of the Year: A Retrospective 2020

If you’re reading this, then you survived 2020. Congratulations. It was a year that’ll be defined by the Coronavirus pandemic and the lengths we all went to in trying to contain its spread, the consequences of which will be felt for years to come. Several weeks were spent in lockdown, which afforded us all one sliver of a silver lining: time to catch up on our backlog of reading and viewing material.

Wherever you are in the world, I hope you had a satisfying Christmas and New Year, even if it was considerably more low-key than usual.

As you may remember (as I’ve brought it up enough times) my profound weariness with the way female characters were treated throughout 2019 inspired my New Year’s Resolution: that I would try to focus on women-created and women-led media for the duration of 2020. For the most part I stuck to this promise, seeking out material that I might not have even heard of without this prerequisite, and it was rewarding to not only discover so many new stories and great female characters, but also revisit plenty of my own favourites.

The twelve most significant heroines of the year were featured in my Woman of the Month series, but there are always plenty more that are notable for their charm, complexity, uniqueness, and tenacity. They all got me through this year...

Anya from Anastasia

You guys have no idea how much this character lived rent-free in my head when I was twelve. This movie was my obsession: I knew every line of dialogue, every song lyric, every story beat and frame of animation.

And for any little girl, it was the character of Anya who was at the heart of the viewing experience. As you may have noticed, I have a deep interest in the depiction of Disney’s Princesses, and Anya was fascinating precisely because she wasn’t one. Though there have been Rags to Riches storylines in Disney before, the likes of Cinderella and Rapunzel weren’t permitted to be acerbic and prickly – but Anya is.

It also makes perfect sense that she would be this way, given her background and the trauma she underwent, making it a welcome case of a children’s story that allows its protagonist to be shaped by the events she’s experienced. A child who comes from a life of privilege, who loses her entire family to political violence, who gets knocks out and suffers memory loss, and spends the rest of her young life in an orphanage, would indeed be as defensive and suspicious and oddly bratty as Anya is when we first see her.

And from that beginning, she grows into a young woman who reclaims her identity, finds her remaining family, falls in love, and makes a decision about what kind of life she wants. Watching it again all these years later, it fascinated me to discover how wholly I’ve come around to Anya’s choice to leave behind the vestiges of the monarchy. As a kid I was determined to believe that she would eventually be publicly recognized as a princess, but with an adult’s perspective of the Russian Revolution and the gilded cage of royalty, I’ve no doubt now that she made the right call.

I know that many chose to interpret her choice as “picking a man over your identity and family”, but her final scene speaks of freedom and modernity, something that was very clearly signposted in the film’s transition from the dreary grey of Soviet Russia to the warmth and light of Paris.

I love that Anya manages to subvert aspects of the Disney princess archetype whilst still being very much inspired by them, and every time I return to Anastasia I’m surprised by just how good it is (okay, not the Rasputin stuff). Anya, with her topknot and her worn boots and her sharp tongue will always be one of my favourite heroines.

Mary Lennox from The Secret Garden

Another of my absolute favourites that I took the chance to revisit during lockdown. The 1993 version of The Secret Garden is commendable for a variety of reasons, but the greatest accolade I can give it is that it wasn’t afraid to make Mary and Colin loathsome little shits... at least to start with.

Mary is another example of a child who is clearly the product of her upbringing (see also: Morrigan Crow below) which has made her spoiled, bad-tempered and emotionally dead, who can’t even summon up tears after her parents are killed in an earthquake. Relocated to her uncle’s manor house in Yorkshire, she has the proverbial cold bucket of water thrown over her on realizing that no one there is particularly interested in taking care of her (though she’s used to the emotional neglect).

But being left to her own devices is perhaps the best thing that’s ever happened to her – she wanders the house and grounds, making friends with gardeners and animals and country boys who have no reason to indulge her foibles, and so force her to change her behaviour for the better. With the discovery of a secret garden on the grounds and a hidden room in the house that contains her sickly cousin, Mary undergoes more necessary change – learning empathy, patience, humility... but never fully letting go of her stubbornness or temper, which proves useful in dealing with a child who is somehow even more self-centred than she is.

And of course, the garden itself is a perfect metaphor for her own growth and blossoming maturity – by the end of the story it, like Mary herself, is no longer secret, but: “open and awake and alive”.

Frances Hodgson Burnett’s original novel veers away from Mary as its protagonist at about the halfway mark in order to focus more on Colin (you can’t help but suspect that the author was projecting her own feelings about the death of her son onto the character) but the film wisely keeps Mary as its emotional centre. It also has Kate Maberly who (like Ivana Baquero) is another child actress who more or less disappeared after this role. I can’t think why, as she puts in a magnificent performance, capturing all of Mary’s initial sullenness and scorn, which slowly melts away into curiosity and warmth.

God I love this movie.

Marta Cabrera from Knives Out

I really enjoyed Knives Out, to the point that it’s become my background noise movie while I’m doing chores around the house. And who doesn’t love a murder-mystery? Despite the array of colourful individuals under suspicion for killing aged crime writer and family patriarch Harlan Thromby, it’s hired nurse Marta Cabrera that becomes the audience’s point-of-view character as she grapples with the aftermath of her employer/friend’s death.

It soon becomes clear that Marta knows far more than she’s letting on about Harlan’s death, but what’s so important and compelling about her character is simply: her goodness. Now, we’ve all seen goodness (or even just decency) depicted in thousands of characters over the years, from princesses to superheroes. But Marta’s kindness doesn’t just exist to endear her to the audience, or make her the deserved recipient of Harlan’s fortune after his death.

Neither is it just a defensive shield that protects her from harm, but an active weapon in how she ends up clearing her name, winning her rightful inheritance, and coming out on top. She consistently makes choices that are based on doing the right thing regardless of the consequences, which leads directly to crucial evidence and criminal motivations coming to light.

There are all sorts of stories out there that posit goodness and innocence as a magical type of protection (“nothing bad will happen to you if you’re good”) and many attempts to turn kindness into a superpower often backfire spectacularly (remember how Ma-Ti had the power of “heart” in Captain Planet, and it was completely useless?) But Marta’s goodness has a strength and power all its own; her commitment to which is what gets her through the ordeal safely and victoriously. As Benoit tells her: “You won, not by playing the game Harlan’s way, but yours.”

Sidney Prescott from the Scream trilogy

I watched the first three Scream movies in the proper order for the first time this year, and it occurred to me that Sidney is something of an unsung heroine. As a feminist icon she’s not really on par with the likes of Xena, Buffy or Scully (who I think of as the Big Three of the nineties) but there’s certainly something to be said for her sheer force of will and determination to survive. She’s probably the first character people would think of (along with Laurie Strode) when they hear the term Final Girl.

Horror and slasher movies can be surprisingly kind to female characters, especially in regards to the final girl trope (though the flip side of that is they’re also deeply misogynistic when it comes to any woman who isn’t in this role) but Sidney is fascinating in how she subverts certain standards of what the final girl should be and how she behaves. Specifically, she breaks the cardinal rule of slasher films and has sex – with the killer no less!

But the film doesn’t punish her for this mistake, in fact she’s the one who gets to pull the trigger on her psychotic boyfriend and end him once and for all. In the films that follow, she grapples with PTSD and trust issues, though never loses her instincts for survival or her soft-spoken kindness (one detail I loved from Scream 3 was the fact she worked for a woman’s help hotline). She’s witty and self-deprecating and her story ends on a perfect note: she sees the door to her house swing open, and walks away with a smile on her face.

Poison Ivy from Harley Quinn

This show could have easily been called Harley Quinn and Poison Ivy given the prominence of Ivy as the show’s deuteragonist, though admittedly it’s more interested in Harley’s journey from co-dependency to self-sufficiency than Ivy’s similar growth from a disaffected misanthrope to a more open and emotionally communicative woman. But she’s still one of the stand-out characters of the show, and as voiced by Lake Bell, she’s given a droll and sarcastic persona that’s clearly a defensive wall to protect her own vulnerabilities.

It’s a far cry from how I was first introduced to this character, as a standard villain in Batman: The Animated Series, who was very much a Femme Fatale on top of being an eco-terrorist. That said, isn’t it crazy in hindsight to realize that she was considered a villain for wanting to protect the environment at all costs? Twenty years later, and it’s obvious that we all should have listened to her.

But I loved this take on Poison Ivy, whose nonchalance belies a hilariously twisted sense of humour (on being transformed into a giant, she picks up Harley in the palm of her hand and says: “wouldn’t it be messed up if I ate you right now?”) and who gradually becomes more invested in Harley’s crazy schemes to maintain control over Gotham City, even as she’s clearly reluctant to pursue her romantic interest in her (and don’t ask me to explain her attraction to Kite Man).

One of the few good things about this year was the announcement that season three has been greenlit, which means getting a chance to see Ivy and Harley as an actual couple. As for the plot? I really hope they lean into Ivy’s brand of supervillainy and pull off an attack on climate-change deniers. I would cheer them on.

Catherine II from The Great

The genius of this character is that Catherine very much embodies the Disney princess archetype: she’s sweet and lovely, kind and considerate, well-mannered and eager to please. Casting Elle Fanning was a master stroke considering she’s actually played a live-action Disney princess, and leans heavily into the whole “sweetness and light” persona when we first see her as a young maiden, looking forward to her marriage with Peter III of Russia.

This being a Tony McNamara show, we know that things aren’t going to remain rosy for long. On reaching the Russian court, Catherine has the proverbial bucket of cold water thrown over her when she realizes that her husband-to-be is a narcissistic manchild, who immediately dashes all her dreams of a happy marriage and a forward-thinking reign.

As such, she’s going to have to take matters into her own hands: but how much power can a woman wield in 18th century Russia? How much of her integrity must she sacrifice for the greater good? What chance does a woman have in ruling a country with no experience whatsoever? And how can she possibly assassinate Peter when Voltaire is in the room?

It’s a madcap story, but Elle Fanning sells the opposing forces of her character’s inherent decency and ambition, intelligence and naiveite, ruthlessness and gentle nature. That promotional shot of her in royal finery, casually flipping the bird at the viewer says it all.

Emily Dickinson from Dickinson

This show was certainly a lot of fun. Like The Great, it’s a deliberately anachronistic look into the past and the people who inhabited it: specifically Emily Dickinson, the mid-nineteenth century American poet who only achieved fame after her death. During her lifetime only ten poems and a letter were ever published, and it was her sister Lavinia who eventually complied her work together and released her work to great acclaim. As one reviewer wrote: "The world will not rest satisfied till every scrap of her writings, letters as well as literature, has been published."

As played by Hailee Steinfeld (I’ve been spelling her first name wrong for years) Emily is both a revolutionary young firebrand and something of a spoiled brat. She wants to read and write and create, and we certainly can’t fault her for this – especially in the face of her authoritarian father – but she’s constantly hurting others in pursuit of her craft, largely through running slipshod over her family’s feelings.

It’s not an internal conflict we often (or ever) see in female characters, in which a woman’s desire to create great art is at odds with her obligations to her family – usually we just get surly male artists with nagging wives who just don’t understand. And let’s be clear here, Emily is creating truly incredible art. Her poetry is like nothing else that was written before or since, and knowing this, the audience winces every time she faces a setback. That’s time that could be spent writing more poems, dammit!

But does her family deserve to be treated with such casual indifference by Emily? Honestly, I come down on the side of: “yes, absolutely they do”, but I'm obliged to raise the question anyway. Emily is a funny, selfish, infuriating, ingenious character and that’s just how I like her.

Enola Holmes from The Case of the Missing Marquess 

I can’t believe I almost left out Enola Holmes! I’m editing this list because I always planned to include her, but when the time came to write everything up, she completely slipped my mind.

Based on the six-book series by Nancy Springer, I don’t think anyone was prepared for how charming Enola would prove to be. Perhaps the timing was right – we were all in need of a light and frivolous distraction set in the bucolic English countryside and surprisingly clean Victorian-era London.

Unsurprisingly, Millie Bobby Brown is delightful, delivering a character that is chatty and curious and brave, but (and this is a recurring theme of this list) a product of her unconventional upbringing. Obviously the younger sister of Sherlock Holmes isn’t going to have a typical childhood, and Enola’s is filled with codebreaking, jujitsu and other strange activities.

It’s on her fourteenth birthday that her mother disappears without warning, leaving behind only a series of ciphers that point to one conclusion: Enola is to make her own way in the world. Her childhood has been preparation, and now comes her first real test. But how is a young woman raised in near-isolation going to cope in the real world?

Her adventure unfolds beautifully, with a level of fourth-wall-breaking that made me laugh on realizing that the director, Harry Bradbeer, also worked on Fleabag.

Out of interest I ended up reading the six books in the series to see how they compared to the film, and discovered that there’s a lot of good material still waiting to be adapted, especially in regards to the specific way Enola solves crimes: with her inside knowledge of womankind (usually to do with clothing, etiquette, or the language of flowers). If the franchise continues, there’ll be a lot to look forward to, including an interesting friendship with a young lady called Cecily Alistair, and an extended role for Florence Nightingale.

The movie has already given us gems such as Edith Garrud (based on a real woman who trained suffragettes in jujitsu) and Helena Bonham Carter as Eudoria Holmes (who has a much better reason for abandoning her daughter than in the books) so let’s hope the project continues.

Unnamed protagonist from Fleabag

It’s hard to know what to say about a show that’s already had so many accolades heaped upon it, but I’ll start with Jezebel’s assertion that this is about an unlikeable woman. However that phrase is meant to be interpreted, it comes with a lot of baggage, from the possible belief that most female characters aren’t (or shouldn’t be) unlikeable, to the implication that being an unlikeable woman is somehow a genre or archetype in and of itself (to be fair to the article writer, she did put the term in parentheses, so we were clearly meant to question its insinuations).

The truth is that Phoebe Waller-Bridge’s protagonist in Fleabag is far from unlikeable – she’s funny and clever and reasonably friendly; a woman who puts drunk girls in cabs, makes sure her sister goes to the hospital after a miscarriage, and takes her godmother’s insults in her stride. But she’s someone who also has a low self-image and (in her own words) has: “a horrible feeling that I’m a greedy, perverted, selfish, apathetic, cynical, depraved, morally bankrupt woman who can’t even call herself a feminist.” Flashbacks throughout the first season reveal the source of these hang-ups: she slept with her best friend Boo’s boyfriend, who then went on to accidentally kill herself in the attempt to stage an accident and make him feel guilty.

I wasn’t too thrilled with this revelation, partly because I had seen the “sleeping with a loved one’s man” so recently in Palm Springs, and partly because women are capable of so many more foibles than just sex, even though that’s the well writers keep going back to.

But like most self-loathing people, she’s not anywhere near as bad as she thinks she is, and it turns out she’s no more or less a basket case than everyone else around her: a bizarrely hostile godmother, a weak-willed father who can’t even stand up for his daughter, and a neurotic sister who is frustratingly unable to cut ties with a loathsome husband and creepy stepson (I loved Claire, but be honest: would you rather hang out with her or the protagonist?)

Her story, if anything, is about the slow and steady climb back to self-respect, to learn that she’s more than “the currency of youth” and her ability to attract men. Nothing will bring Boo back, but she heals the rift with her sister, finds common ground with her father, gets her café on its feet, and embarks on a healthier (albeit just as doomed) relationship with Hot Priest. Finally she’s confident enough to leave us, the audience, behind – though she’s taking that sculpture of her mother’s naked body with her.

Mary Malone from His Dark Materials

I started this year by making Lyra Belacqua Woman of the Month, so it feels right that I’m signing off with another female character from Philip Pullman’s epic trilogy.

Mary Malone is quite an unassuming character: she’s described in the book as being in her late thirties, with short black hair and red cheeks. That doesn’t remotely describe actress Simone Kirby, but that hardly matters. She effortlessly captures the intelligence, kindness, curiosity and inner calm of Mary, and made me realize for the first time that the character was obviously Irish!

As an astrophysicist and neuropsychologist, she supplies valuable information as to the metaphysical reality of the world she inhabits (and the ones she visits) and as a former nun she has an understanding of the religious dogma that drives so many other characters. Having been given the mysterious missive to “play the serpent”, she (stop now for spoilers) journeys into a world that’s inhabited by a species of sentient creatures that teach her more about the nature of Dust, and prepare her for the role she must play in Lyra’s story.

Mary was one of the undisputed highpoints of the second season, and I especially enjoyed getting a little more context to her life with the addition of scenes involving a sister and nephew/niece. I loved her softness of voice and strength of will, and her complete lack of drama makes her a refreshing comparison to the flashier characters. I can’t wait to see Kirby’s take on the character in the third season.

Agatha Raisin from Agatha Raisin

What if a Karen used her powers for good? That’s probably not the premise M.C. Beaton was going for when she came up with Agatha Raisin, a recently retired publicity agent who moves to a small English village and starts solving mysteries, but that’s how it ended up.

Agatha (played by the wonderful Ashley Jenson) is brash, pushy, nosy, opinionated and more than a little obnoxious. Still, many of those qualities come in handy when it comes to sleuthing, and soon Agatha is helping the inept police department do their job. Naturally, the murder rate goes up when there’s an amateur detective in need of mysteries to solve, so the show eventually branches out to other locations before the entire population of Carsley is killed off.

Forming a team of eager assistants, including her cleaning lady and the vicar’s wife, Agatha uses her insight into human nature and PR skills (it actually works in context) to solve crimes. I can’t say I’d like to hang out with Agatha in real life – she would get rather exhausting after a while – but a certain degree of tenacity is required in every amateur sleuth, and I always appreciate a woman over forty being allowed to have her share of adventures.

Doctor Aphra from Doctor Aphra

Controversial opinion: Chelli Lona Aphra is the best thing to come out of Disney-owned Star Wars, not to mention the best female character to never appear in an actual movie since Ahsoka Tano. The star of a comic book series that began in 2016, Doctor Aphra is best described as a cross between Han Solo and Indiana Jones: a rogue archaeologist who makes her living running cons, planning heists, raiding temples and selling things on the black market.

Incidentally, she’s also a bisexual Asian woman that incorporates both those qualities with an effortlessness that renders Rian Johnson and JJ Abrams’s attempts at similar representation truly laughable.

Unsurprisingly, she inhabits that subgenre of the franchise which lies buried beneath the Skywalker family space operas and Light versus Dark Side binaries: the galaxy’s criminal underbelly of thieves, pirates and other opportunists, all desperately trying to scrabble out a living in the Imperial-controlled universe.

But unlike Han and Lando, who have good hearts beating under those scruffy exteriors, Aphra really couldn’t care less about the plight of the galaxy and the rebels. Mercifully writers Kieron Gillen and Simon Spurrier never commit to a redemption arc for her; instead she pinballs from one side of the Empire/Rebels conflict to the other, taking what she can and remaining true to her messy, complicated self from start to finish. Yes, she can occasionally do the right thing for the wrong reasons (or the wrong thing for the right reasons) but her moral compass is firmly pointed towards herself – so much so that I wondered whether to include her on this list (I steer clear of villains in these entries).

But Aphra just manages to toe the line between out-for-herself opportunism and downright villainy. If there’s any justice in the world, she’ll be making the leap to live-action soon.

Emily Bryd Starr from the Emily of New Moon trilogy

What spurred me to reread this trilogy was an experience I had with a young patron at the library earlier in the year: she was there with her grandmother, who was looking for Anne of Green Gables for her to read. I told them that it wasn’t available at our library, but that we had a copy of Emily of New Moon by the same author. On giving them a brief synopsis, I mentioned that her father passes away at the start of the book, at which point the grandmother gave a little gasp, looked at her granddaughter and said: “just like yours”.

I mean, yikes. They took the book with them, so I hope it helped the girl in some way, and I was definitely thinking about her while reading the first book’s opening chapters...

I reread with the awareness that even though Anne Shirley was L.M. Montgomery’s most popular creation, Emily Bryd Starr was the heroine closest to her heart. Like the author, Emily struggles with becoming a writer, and though it’s impossible to know just how autobiographical these books are, some of Emily’s experiences are so specific (like a family member accusing Emily of basing a fictional character on her) that you can’t help but wonder if Montgomery is lifting them all from her own life.

Like I said in my review at the time, Emily is moonlight to Anne’s sunbeam. She’s introverted and proud and solemn where Anne was open and humble and cheerful, and her story is shot through with a deep sense of melancholy, from the death of her father in the opening chapters to her ongoing difficulties in love. But the trilogy is strongest when it’s dealing with Emily’s desire to become a writer, and the steps of her journey are beautifully paced throughout the three books: from her early scribblings, to the acceptance of short stories and poems in various magazines, to her published book.

It is certainly more rewarding than the terminal love triangles, or Montgomery’s adorably clumsy attempts to avoid Mary Sue pitfalls – not that this specific term was around back then, but... well, how else do we explain her repeated assertions that Emily is “not pretty”, despite having purple eyes and entrancing nearly every man who meets her?

And let’s not forget her psychic powers: in the first book she has a fever-dream about the whereabouts of her friend’s long-missing mother, in the second she sleepwalks and draws the location of a missing child, and in the third she apparently has an outer body experience, in which she appears to her love interest as a spirit and warns him not to get on a doomed vessel. It’s deeply strange to see the supernatural make an appearance in a period drama, but I absolutely wish it showed up more often.

As it happens, my copy of the book is the same one featured in the top left-hand corner, and it’s my favourite depiction of Emily. She’s so beguiling: the way she’s looking up from her book as if she’s just been interrupted, her big curious eyes and dark braids, the cat prowling beside her – I feel as if I know this girl.

Morrigan Crow from the Nevermoor series

Source

I read all three of the currently published books in Jessica Townsend’s series this year, and titular character Morrigan was a gift. As her name suggests, she’s lived quite a dark early life, growing up in a household that considers her a burden, and in a community that blames her for all the random bits of bad luck visited upon them. Obviously this is not a healthy environment for a child, and what makes it worse is that she’s (apparently) cursed to die on her fast-approaching twelfth birthday.

But her scheduled death does not occur as planned: instead she’s whisked away from her old life and into the city of Nevermoor, where she’s soon surrounded by guardians, friends, classmates and mentor-figures. But the genius of Townsend’s work is that (unlike Harry Potter) Morrigan doesn’t immediately take to her new environment. The psychological toll of her childhood is still a factor in how she thinks and behaves, and even a bedroom that changes itself to suit her personality isn’t going to wipe away eleven years of neglect and emotional abuse.

What makes matters worse is that she’s identified as a Wundersmith; a magical user with a specific type of magic that’s widely considered dangerous. To her despair, she realizes that she’s only a spilled secret away from being ostracized by the inhabitants of her new home, and is being targeted by the prior Wundersmith, a man whose actions have stained the reputations of all such magic-users.

Morrigan’s story is one of discovery: not just of new and magical worlds, but of seeing things from a different perspective, whether it be past events, works of art, areas of the city, or herself. There are few things in these books that are as first appears, and Morrigan must navigate the murky waters of what’s right and wrong; sometimes deluding herself as to what her true motivations are, other times recognizing what’s good and true when no one else can. She’s a surprisingly rich and deep character, and I’m looking forward to what she’ll do next.

Honorary Mentions:

The Disney Princesses in Ralph Breaks the Internet

Like I’ve mentioned before, I spent the beginning of this year finishing off my Disney Princess rewatch with a friend who had never seen them before in his life. We capped it all off with the reason for watching them all in the first place: their cameo appearance in the sequel to Wreck-It Ralph, in which the titular character enters the internet and interacts with its denizens, resulting in all sorts of in-jokes regarding Disney properties.

Now I’ll confess: nine times out of ten I hate it when things go meta. Fanservice and winks to the audience and “subverting audience expectations” is a tedious waste of time in my opinion, and never results in particularly good movies... and yet...

I grew up with most of these characters, and seeing them all interact with one another was rather dizzying. As it happens, Roy Disney was staunchly against “crossover” stories between the princesses (even Amy Mebberson’s authorized comic book series featuring all the princesses has them firmly in separate panels) to the point where they weren’t even able to make eye contact with each other on various princess merchandise. I’m not entirely sure what changed, but to see all these characters – most of them with their original voice actresses – was incredible. I even had a screenshot of them as my wallpaper for a while.

And yes, their meta commentary on what it means to be a Disney princess is as exasperating as it is funny: talking animals, missing mothers, traumatic experiences, distressed damselling – Disney can poke all the fun it likes at these attributes, it doesn’t change the fact that they keep making these creative decisions.

But then, in their second scene together at the climax of the film, something magical happens:

They work together to save the unconscious Ralph, using their individual abilities to transport him to safety to the sound of their own musical themes, even making a call-back to how he’s a “big strong man in need of rescue”. Okay, there are a couple of stretches in there. Since when has Pocahontas been able to control the wind? But when Ariel leaped into that torrent of water to the sound of Part of Your World, playing over content for the first time since the eighties... yeah, I got a little teary-eyed. It was like watching some of your earliest childhood memories being given new shape and context.

***

2019 was a horrific year for female characters, and the fact that this was true in three of the biggest franchises of all time over underlined just how insidious certain trends can get. Black Widow fridged herself to save Jeremy Renner, Daenerys went crazy and had to be killed for her own good (and that of the world) by Jon Snow, and Rey not only has her innate abilities explained away by her relationship to a man, but learns the valuable lesson that teenage girls are morally obliged to keep giving second chances to the violent men that repeatedly attack them.

(Turns out that when you capitulate to the demands of the fandom Twitter hordes, you end up with a shitty movie. Who knew?)

Sansa gratefully credited her rapists with making her a stronger person (the writers of the show helpfully explain that Daenerys’ path to crazy town began when she didn’t respond appropriately to the death of her abuser), Missandei is executed in chains, Rose Tico is reduced to forty seconds of screen-time, and Gamora (yes, this happened in 2018, but it was part of the same story that concluded last year) is thrown off the same cliff as Black Widow, by a father whose “love” for her is apparently genuine enough for the metaphysical rules of the place to reward him with what we wanted from the situation.

What do most of these examples have in common? A pathological inability for male writers to remove female characters from a very specific sphere of violence: the violence of a man’s “love”. That examples of this occurred in the three biggest franchises of all time, together in the same year, to some of the most iconic female characters of the last decade, is just chilling.

Unsurprisingly, the influx of Star Wars, MCU and Game of Thrones projects that were announced last month did absolutely nothing for me. Their aesthetics can be enjoyed just as well on Tumblr GIF-sets, so I’m going to continue watching dependable favourites and seeking out fresh innovations. The material is out there if you search for it, and there’s only so much moaning you can do on the internet before it’s your responsibility to just stop pursuing things that you know will disappoint.

In the year to come I’m going to keep prioritizing women-led films, shows and books, though not as staunchly as I did in 2020. But my conscious decision to seek out less mainstream fare throughout the year paid off, so I may as well keep doing what works. Here are some more recommendations:

This year, Lyra Belacqua (or Silvertongue) got a series that if not exactly worthy of her, was at least better than the film, and brought her story to new viewers. In fact, this was the year of His Dark Materials given that the first season concluded at the start of the year, and the second commenced at its end, with Pullman’s follow-up trilogy (at the moment comprised of only La Belle Sauvage and The Secret Commonwealth) read in the months between.

It was a year of girl detectives, with book series introducing me to the likes of Enola Holmes, Rose Raventhorpe and Aggie Morton, with further adventures from the likes of Sophie Taylor and Lilian Rose (now fully immersed in international espionage), and Daisy Wells and Hazel Wong (who wrapped up their adventures with a trip down the Nile).

It was also a time for the revisiting of old classics, in which I watched four of the most famous Little Women adaptations, including Greta Gerwig’s most recent take on the material (which finally brings justice to Amy March) as well all of Jane Austen’s Emma adaptations, from the slightly crusty BBC miniseries to the sumptuous doll-house quality of Autumn de Wilde’s film.

And I discovered one of my favourite novels: Daphne du Maurier’s glorious Rebecca, with its Gothic mystery and fascinating unnamed narrator, and it’s two profoundly different adaptations: the gorgeously moody Hitchcock film, and the misbegotten Netflix attempt. Oh, and I finally got around to watching 2011’s Jane Eyre thanks to a miscommunication with my mother (she thought she was going to a play based on it, when in actuality it was about Jane Austen).

2020 very much showcased Harley Quinn, who starred in Mariko Tamaki’s beautiful graphic novel Breaking Glass, headlined Cathy Yan’s Birds of Prey film (as played by Margot Robbie) and starred in the truly awesome Harley Quinn animated series, which explores her difficulties in leaving a toxic relationship, organizing her own team of supervillains, and sorting out her feelings for best friend/love interest Poison Ivy – all with irreverent humour and great animation to boot.

To think, we were introduced to Harley way back in the nineties, as part of Batman: The Animated Series, where they could only hint at her attraction to Poison Ivy. Now, two decades later the two of them can openly kiss while racing into the sunset in a stolen convertible, chased by squads of police cars while buildings burn behind them. It’s beautiful you guys, and we’ll see Harley next in James Gunn’s Suicide Squad, where I’m sure she’ll be better treated than she was in that franchise’s first attempt… hopefully.

It was also meant to be something of a Mulan year, what with the release of Disney’s live-action remake of its 1998 animated classic. In preparation I watched the 2009 Chinese version starring Zhao Wei and read Cameron Dokey’s Wild Orchid... then decided to pass on Disney’s offering. It was not good, for a number of reasons. But here’s a great rundown of its textual problems, in a video that’s since gone viral:

Bookwise, I really enjoyed Madeline Miller’s Circe, which explores the famous witch in a way I certainly hadn’t seen before, as well as Ursula le Guin’s take on Lavinia, the Latin princess who doesn’t speak a word in the The Aeneid, but here is given voice and purpose and an interior life.

As mentioned, Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca was incredible, and I also really enjoyed meeting Morrigan Crow in Jessica Townsend’s Nevermoor books, what with her heartrending desire to create a family for herself (and her deep-down subconscious certainty that she deserves one), all while being plagued with doubt and fear over her magical abilities.

Libba Bray’s The Diviners quartet wrapped up on a strong note, as did the aforementioned Wells and Wong series with Death Sets Sail (I’m gonna miss them). I also revisited the work of Lois Duncan and Diana Wynne Jones: two profoundly different authors, but both staples of my adolescence and damn good at what they do (I really wish I’d had the time to start the second sequel to Howl’s Moving Castle, but hey – I’ve still got a week off).

After a very long hiatus I returned to the world of Buffy the Vampire Slayer with Kiersten White’s duology: Slayer and Chosen, and enjoyed further exploration of Avatar: The Last Airbender’s world with the second Kyoshi-centric novel The Shadow of Kyoshi and the ongoing The Legend of Korra graphic novel series.

I found a lot to enjoy in graphic novels this year, which often do really well with female characters: I liked Andy Weir’s Cheshire Crossing, where Dorothy Gale, Wendy Darling and Alice Liddell meet in a sanatorium, and loved Matthew Cody and Yoshi Yoshitani’s Zatanna and the House of Secrets, a twisty, turny Labyrinth-like adventure that shines a spotlight on one of DC’s second-tier superheroes. Mike Maihack’s Cleopatra in Space series is delightful (so is the cartoon) and I even loosened up a little on my Star Wars embargo to read the Doctor Aphra series, about an amoral space archaeologist who keeps annoying members of the Skywalker clan. Where’s her Disney+ series?

Oh, and please check out Emily Carroll’s When I Arrived at the Castle – at least, if you can handle dark and disturbing stories.

There were fresh new takes on iconic female characters in the CW’s Nancy Drew and Netflix’s Anne With an E, and even though some of their “updates” on the original material were clumsy, I can never fault people for trying something new with an old IP, and it was interesting to see two such beloved heroines in a new light.

I finished my Disney Princess watch this year, the objective being to introduce my friend to the franchise (he having never seen any of these movies during his youth) and thereby understand the princess-centric scenes in Wreck It Ralph: Ralph Breaks the Internet.

That aside, it was fascinating to see the way the portrayal of this specific brand of women has changed over the decades, from Snow White in 1937 to Moana in 2016. The early Disney princesses are passive and feminine – the first scenes of each respective one (Snow White, Cinderella and Aurora) depicts them doing housework and singing cheerfully.

By the time the Renaissance rolls around we have princesses – Ariel, Belle and Jasmine – with more spirit and the ability to stand up for themselves and pursue life-goals... even if those goals are eventually realized by love and marriage. By the time we reach Tiana, Rapunzel, Merida, Elsa and Moana we’re seeing something even more revolutionary: character flaws. And in the lattermost cases: no love interests.

I’ll admit, I do have a fascination with the Disney princesses and their impact on culture, society and beauty standards – not all of it good. That said, my affection does outweigh my frustrations, so with that in mind, we can start looking forward to Raya and the Last Dragon...

I watched some fantastic female-centric films this year, many of which had overt anti-capitalist and/or pro-feminist themes, such as Portrait of a Lady on Fire, Ready or Not, Us, Knives Out, Hustlers, The Invisible Man, The Favourite, The Farewell, Miss Fisher and the Crypt of Tears, The Old Guard and Parasite (okay, that last one isn’t exactly female-centric, but it’s still absolutely incredible). I also tried some older cult classics: Clueless, Byzantium, Jennifer’s Body, Ginger Snaps and The Craft, and somehow ended up watching a ton of biopics, for women as varied as Emily Dickinson, Marie Curie, Mary Shelley, Catherine the Great, Ruth Bader Ginsberg and Tonya Harding.

Ophelia from Hamlet and Nimue from the Arthurian legends aren’t real people, but they also got a chance to shine in entertaining trash such as Daisy Ridley’s Ophelia and Netflix’s Cursed. On that note, there were also plenty of duds this year as well: a bland Charlie’s Angels, the uninspiring Terminator: Dark Fate, and a disappointing third season of Killing Eve.

On the fairy tale front I ended up seeing both a Sleeping Beauty ballet and a Cinderella pantomime in the last two months of 2020, and there were plenty of other offerings from Jane Yolen, Cassie Anderson, Emily Carroll, Kate Forsyth, Susannah McFarlane, Daniel Mallory Ortberg and Shannon Hale; using familiar tales as baselines for their own retellings, which will always skew a little in favour of women-centric tales.

During lockdown I returned to some of my favourite female characters of all time (ALL TIME): Mary Lennox from The Secret Garden, Evelyn Carnahan from The Mummy, Anya from Anastasia, Ofelia from Pan’s Labyrinth, and Sophie, the Duchess von Teschen from The Illusionist. Spirit, kindness, beauty, wit, intelligence, stubbornness – they all embody everything I love to see in inspirational female characters.

But they don’t all have to be role models. On the other side of the equation, I discovered (or returned to) some great villainesses: Red from Us, Nancy from The Craft (I will do a longer review in the coming year!), Katherine Lester from Lady Macbeth, the resurgence of Princess Azula with the release of Avatar: The Last Airbender on Netflix (stop trying to redeem her, fandom! She’s allowed to be a tragic villain!) and of course, Olivia Colman as the cheerful queen of passive-aggressiveness in Fleabag.

Let’s see, what else? I really enjoyed the first season of The Morning Show (especially Jennifer Aniston’s role), loved seeing my childhood/early adolescent heroines come to life in The Babysitter’s Club, thought Disney’s The Owl House was a lot of fun, and revisited Legend of the Seeker, which was a balm to the soul. And I’m still chugging along with Xena Warrior Princess and Jodie Whittaker’s Doctor Who.

The Good Place pulled off what is becoming an increasingly rare occurrence: an ending that stuck the landing, wrapping up its arcs and giving its characters a fitting send-off. Thunderbirds Are Go ended strongly as well (though I’m pretty sure I was the only one watching it) as did Disney’s Tangled: The Series and Netflix’s She Ra.

SPEAKING OF WHICH, I remain mostly positive but just a tad ambiguous about the endings metered out to Tangled’s Cassandra and She Ra’s Catra; two great female characters who make dubious choices only to bounce back and redeem themselves. Despite my exhaustion with redemption arcs in general (only because most of them are badly written) I was in no doubt that these two characters would eventually re-join the good guys, but the full extent of the harm they inflicted on others is ignored or minimized in order to make room for their rehabilitation.

Wouldn’t it be nice if there was more time and space to explore the difficulties of admitting your mistakes, dealing with the understandable anger of those you’ve hurt, and embarking on the long and arduous journey to becoming a better person? In their hurry to reach the happy ending, too often these types of stories end up being about how decent people are morally obligated to keep giving dangerous people second chances, rather than compromised people putting in the hard yards to change their behaviour and make amends.

In the grand scheme of things, Catra and Cassandra are on the better end of the spectrum when it comes to redemption arcs, and there’s certainly something to be said for this level of complexity and messiness being afforded to female characters... I just wish both could have been delivered with a touch more finesse.  

But on that note, 2020 was also a year for Sapphic romance in unexpected places. There was a subtle subtext between Elsa and Honeymaren in Frozen II and Robyn Goodfellowe and Mebh Óg MacTíre in Wolfwalkers, a vibe that was much more explicit in The Owl House between Luz and Amity, and of course, full-blown text in She Ra, in which Adora and Catra’s onscreen kiss powers a failsafe that saves the world.

And there were even some pleasant surprises in televised theatre (largely released to help tide people through the lockdown): National Theatre’s rendition of Treasure Island, which featured a gender-flipped Jim Hawkins, and Bridge Theatre’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream, in which the roles of Oberon and Titania were switched to great effect. I also found a bootleg copy (shh!) of Hadestown, which was truly incredible (let it be the next musical to make it to Disney+) and of course, Hamilton.

I'd recommend everything here, and if you have any recs for me, let me know!