Graphic by Olivia Stern
Few female protagonists successfully manage to evolve past the dichotomy between the damsel and the girlboss. In a manner not too distant from reality, these women are often forced to choose the “type” of girl that they want to be, maintaining that the identities and interests of women can never be nuanced. For a certain type of female protagonist, nuance is best found in the revenge or retaliation characteristic of the “good for her” subgenre in film.
The “good for her” cinematic universe has boomed in recent years, with films such as “Gone Girl,” “Jennifer’s Body” and “Midsommar” as forerunners. The term was popularized on Twitter after a collage of female protagonists from this subgenre went viral. These movies often take a violent twist, specifically one in which the female protagonist comes to hold the power that was once stripped from her by male characters — yet this subgenre is distinctly different from the more traditional “girlboss” narratives that dominate similar action or horror movies. One could not say “good for her” with the same reverence when watching “Wonder Woman 1984,” as the superhero’s defining trait is not upending misogyny, nor existing as a powerful woman, but chasing after a nostalgic lover.
“Gone Girl” was revered as a monumental step in portraying a female narrative that detached itself from subservience and irrelevancy in comparison with a male counterpart. Amy Dunne frames her husband for her murder after discovering his affair with a college student and skips town, only to return home with newfound power as a woman in complete control of her marriage. The majority of the film is spent witnessing Dunne’s transformation from desolate housewife to ice-cold killer. Protagonist Amy Dunne’s ‘cool girl’ monologue from the 2014 film gave a voice to the experiences of subtle misogyny that perpetuate the aforementioned Girlboss narrative. Played by Rosamund Pike, Dunne rejects the identity that she felt forced to uphold in her marriage, ultimately changing her appearance and defiantly consuming a cheeseburger as if to officially end her “cool girl” persona.
While the “good for her” subgenre touts a reclamation of self from the confines of the male gaze, it also draws criticism for its rampant dismissal of violence committed by women. Amy Dunne is not a role model, nor is she meant to be. Though it feels empowering to watch a woman reclaim power she feels she’s lost, Dunne is still a murderer who hides behind white femininity to protect herself from the consequences of her actions — and white femininity tends to be the rule in this genre, rather than the exception. A quick scroll through a list of films within the “good for her” universe quickly reveals a profound lack of representation of women of color. While all women are limited to the one-dimensional realm ascribed by patriarchal institutions, this is particularly true for non-white women. Where Amy Dunne or other white protagonists can commit a brutal crime and still appear endearing, no such mercy would be afforded to a Black femme protagonist by white audiences, who (even if subconsciously) would see their violence — no matter how justified — as implicit rather than reactionary. It seems that the nuance afforded by the “good for her” genre extends only so far — or at least, has only been allowed to extend proportionally to the number of white femme stories still deemed acceptable to the male gaze.
Cinema has long catered to the power-hungry eye of masculinity, a trope that is mutually harmful to both men and women. This power is often portrayed as attainable through the physical or emotional ownership of a woman and violence stemming from repressed anger and pain. Yet in the end, these violent actions are often still excused as “men being men.” For women, such acts would automatically deem them an irredeemable villain. Any trauma that they may endure is often used as character development that does little else but further vilify or weaken them — rarely is there a middle ground. What the “good for her” universe lacks is exactly that. How can the traumatic experiences that women face be rectified with any subsequent action taken to reclaim power, especially within a violent context?
Leigh Whannell’s “The Invisible Man” may provide some answers. Where films like “Gone Girl” represent more abstract elements of patriarchy, “The Invisible Man” portrays the concrete and realistic outcome of misogyny, a threat far more insidious and tangible than others within the subgenre. Cecilia, played by Elisabeth Moss, escapes an abusive relationship only to be followed and attacked by her ex-husband, who has engineered an invisibility suit in order to continue his abuse and discredit her further. After a harrowing turn of events, Cecilia is finally able to take revenge and kill her ex, wearing the exact suit he had used to torment her.
Cecilia does not fit the traditional depiction of a strong female lead. She is a survivor of abuse, relatively soft spoken and not in active pursuit of a romantic relationship with a man. However, she fights back at every turn, and her traumatic experiences are not just flat events that constrain her to a specific identity. Because of this, her final act of violence has a different implication than any of those committed by Dunne.
“The Invisible Man” is visceral in its departure from superficial forms of justice. There is no performance of loading the killer into the back of a police car, no court scene that tears our protagonist apart. Cecilia reclaims the power that was taken from her — not out of spite or jealousy like Dunne, but out of necessity.
Since “The Invisible Man” hit theaters, the subgenre has only grown in popularity, with subsequent releases of films belonging to it — like Hulu’s newest iteration, “Fresh” — affirming its place in our cultural zeitgeist. Yet it’s imperative to push these narratives even further towards inclusive representation and away from the trappings of girlbossery. In attempting to subvert traditional tropes about womanhood, “good for her” films offer a unique opportunity to feature protagonists who challenge the very rigid definition of what it means to be feminine. There is ample space here to tell the stories of those who are otherwise stripped of their nuance — particularly queer women, women of color and disabled women. Moving forward, I hope to see this subgenre expand into a space that opposes outdated tropes and mainstream narratives that cater to the male gaze, so that anyone can find a protagonist they truly resonate with and feel fully seen when they say “good for her.”