In 2020, the theme of strong women in cinema became all the more prevalent. Audiences want to see films that have a predominantly female cast portraying badass characters. This isn’t a brand new phenomenon. In fact, movie fans have always loved to see a strong woman save the day. We, as consumers of the media, have been interested in exploring the stories women can tell for a while now. It seems, though, that Hollywood has finally begun to hear our cries within the past 15 years. We’ve seen Kerry Washington as Kendra Ellis-Connor in American Son, Brie Larson as Carol Danvers in Captain Marvel, and Jennifer Aniston as Claire Simmons in Cake, just to name a few.
When pulling up a Google search of “strong female characters in film” you are met with around 167,000,000 results in 0.76 seconds. Most of these consist of articles listing off the most “inspiring,” “motivational,” or “tough” fictional women from the past decade. These ladies almost always possess the same qualities. They’re kind and selfless, but still know what they want for themselves. They’re powerful and don’t tolerate anyone’s bullshit, but are still delicate and fragile. They’re the “perfect” model for civilians of all kinds to look to and admire. And on paper, they do perform the type of behavior you’d want your children to emulate.
But here’s the thing: these women aren’t fucking realistic. And to be quite honest, some of them are pretty damn boring. As a child, when I watched a movie, I was always drawn to the lead female character. I’d look at the story’s heroine and see somebody who is able to simultaneously discover herself, help those close to her, and snag a cute guy, all in under three hours. I thought that was something to admire, something I should be trying to replicate myself. That way of thinking is a key to the success of these films. They want viewers, especially female viewers, to aspire to these unrealistic expectations.
Amy Dunne (Rosamund Pike), of Gone Girl, is everything that these traditional character tropes are not. She’s educated, beautiful, married, and, some would say, completely psychotic. Let’s be honest here — plotting to frame your husband for your murder isn’t exactly the sanest way to pass time. Amy’s husband, Nick (Ben Affleck), is cheating on her. That’s not shocking. Amy is pissed, and I mean pissed, about the infidelity. That’s not surprising either. So what does she do? She stages a crime scene, packs a bag, and gets the hell out of town. It doesn’t take long for Nick to catch on to her plan, just like Amy knew he would. When she finally returns to her family, the media has become absolutely infatuated with her case.
Now Nick is in a bind. How could he explain to the sea of reporters outside their home that Amy staged the whole thing? Spoiler alert, he doesn’t. He settles, deciding that living with Amy is something he’s already used to, so he might as well keep it up. That all sounds insane, right? If you’re like any of the anonymous anti-Amy critics online, you probably feel pretty bad for Nick. But if you’re anything like me, your sympathy falls more with her.
It wouldn’t be unfair to call Amy crazy. Her plan is inherently diabolical. But before all of this, she wasn’t that bad of a wife. Maybe her marriage to Nick wasn’t as warm and fuzzy as she may have hoped, but it also wasn’t completely terrible. She tried. She tweaked details about herself to fit Nick’s mold, she put up with his continuous string of takeout boxes and dirty clothes after he was laid off from his job. All she expected in return was that he put in the same amount of effort. And for a little bit, he does.
Nick is lazy and spineless at his core. He can pretend to be the loving husband all he wants, but it is painfully obvious that he will ultimately revert back to his old ways. And that’s exactly what happens. He stops getting dressed, stops paying attention to Amy, and starts spending all of his time with a student from the writing class he teaches. He’s broken the terms of their unspoken agreement, leaving Amy to conform herself to the “perfect wife” image all alone.
Amy’s response to this contract breach is a little out there, but when you think about it, it actually makes a lot of fucking sense. She carries herself with a sense of warmth that’s tantalizing. Everyone around her is desperate to get close, ready to expose their deepest secrets if Amy is willing to listen. (These relationships are strategic, of course. Her confidants are kept at arm’s length even when they’re being made to feel like the most important one in the room.) Hell, her parents have even been writing children’s books based off of her for most of her life. All of these variables are key ingredients in making the public fall in love with her. Nick is, well, not the media’s favorite person in the world. Amy uses this to her advantage, trapping him in the role of the “sleazy, cheating husband” for all the world to see.
When Amy comes home, the obvious power imbalance in their relationship has shifted in her direction. Both she and Nick know what truly happened to her, but they both also know that it’s highly unlikely that anyone would ever believe the story. Nick would look like a complete jackass (well, a bigger one than he already does) if he were to leave Amy after everything she went through. She holds him in the palm of her hand; she can determine nearly every decision he makes. It’s already been established that he’s a coward, so it isn’t shocking that Nick decides to stay with Amy at the end of the movie.
Now, don’t get me wrong; Amy is highly flawed. A majority of her character arc revolves around the criticism of other women, rather than men and their behavior contributing to a system of oppression. She’s not an icon of feminism, despite what Tumblr might say. But she’s not actually trying to be one, either. Those that have tried to fit her in such a box are missing the point of the story. Anger is messy, and that’s exactly what she is. She isn’t concerned with looks or the interpretation of others, she’s just pissed. “Nick Dunne took my pride, and my dignity, and my hope, and my money,” Amy says. “He took and took from me until I no longer existed. That’s murder. Let the punishment fit the crime.”
Far too often, women feel like they have to hide their anger away, as if it were a secret only to be whispered in the dead of night. We’re told that it isn’t polite to get mad. I think that’s where Amy really derives her appeal. She doesn’t care about being polite. Her hostility speaks to all of us. It reaches the part of our souls that wants to scream, cry, and cause a scene. The world relentlessly tries to tuck that natural urge away, and it’s thrilling to watch Amy commit the unthinkable because it resonates with the part of our subconscious that is desperate to do the same.
When I say this, I don’t mean that we’re all walking around itching to stage our own death. (Though, if you are, there’s no shame in that.) But I think, to a certain degree, we’re all waiting for the thing that will send us over the edge. And the edge is such a fascinating place, isn’t it? I know that, at least for me, hanging out there has become the new normal. What actually rests beyond it, though? Women are expected to maintain their composure through everything. Rarely is it encouraged to explore what it means to lose your shit. Thus, taking up permanent residence at the edge of going crazy.
Amy spends a fair amount of time on this precipice, too. Until, finally, she doesn’t. She dives into the deep end. It’s exhilarating, for her and the audience. When I watched Gone Girl for the first time, I found myself rooting for Amy almost immediately. I also found myself feeling like shit for it. She does all of the “wrong” things, yet I wanted her to win so badly. It’s exciting to be wrong. I spend so much time worrying about what other people might think of me being incorrect, that I haven’t even given myself the opportunity to remember how freeing it feels.
When we meet Amy, she is a mystery, a box of perfect chocolate waiting to be unwrapped and explored. Obviously, as the story progresses, we begin to learn just how imperfect she truly is. Not only is she willing to bare her imperfections for the world, she capitalizes on them. Getting the opportunity to showcase the parts of yourself that you generally work so tirelessly to hide is a notion that speaks to every woman. It’s a breath of fresh air after months underwater. So, the next time that you feel your inner Amy Dunne trying to escape, indulge her a bit. Your anger is not shameful.
