the reel world
Empowered female characters on TV and in film play a pivotal role in the developing minds of young women. Equal parts bold and bad-ass, their fictional spirits live on in the hearts of many (while new devotees discover them on Netflix). Here, we pay tribu
The screen queens who doubled as life muses.
DARIA by Shivaun Plozza, author of Frankie ($17.99, Penguin)
Iwas in the death throes of a why-won’t-this-torture-end adolescence when Daria first aired in ’97. A spin-off of Beavis And Butt-head, Daria was unlike any show – animated or otherwise – to grace my small-town TV screen. Unlike the straight-teeth and shiny-hair perfection of Beverly Hills, 90210, Daria was about an average-looking geek-girl with combat boots, glasses and an acerbic wit. This was a girl whose disdain for the sick, sad world around her – her brain-dead classmates, hypocritical adults and a society obsessed with appearance over substance – was a mind-blowing revelation to my lost and lonely teenage self. I’m yet to discover another show (except Freaks
And Geeks) where the socially inept outsider is actually the hero, where the ultimate goal is not to fit in but to rail against the crushing boredom of teenage life with sarcasm and pizza. Before
Daria, it felt as though the geek was always the victim, defined by her lack of street cred rather than her myriad positive qualities. But Daria was consistently smarter, funnier and better than those around her. Her don’t-give-a-damn attitude encouraged me to own my otherness and accept that I mattered because of it, not in spite of it. For the first time I saw myself reflected on TV and I wasn’t the dork getting spat on or laughed at, I was the geek goddess with the snarkiest comebacks and the most-likely-to-succeed smarts.
And my God was she smart – the kind of smart to make Mensa drool. You’ve got to love smart girls on TV (even if sometimes it feels you need some hefty Daria-style Coke-bottle lenses to find them). While Daria knew her intelligence didn’t score her points in the school corridors, she didn’t hide it. In fact, she flaunted it. And for me, a girl who had long learnt to hide my wits behind a guise of inoffensive adequacy, this was liberating.
But more than anything, I can’t express how lifesaving it was to find a girl who cared more about books than looks. Daria, like me, was invisible to the average teen male. But catching the eye of the dumb-but-sexy quarterback was vomit-worthy in Daria’s mind. She wasn’t impervious to love, it was just something she wanted on her own terms and without having to pile on the makeup to get. Daria taught me that once the suck-fest of adolescence had passed, girls like us could move on to a world where the ability to discuss Dostoyevsky counted for more than bouncy hair, the right clothes and a pert butt.
Slotting into a TV world saturated with dramas about insanely attractive middle-class teens being superficial, bland and tragic,
Daria was not so much a breath of fresh air as a refreshing monsoon of cynical realism. She was – still is – the ultimate hero for outsiders and geeks. Daria boldly set the scene for characters like Veronica Mars, Rory Gilmore and Lindsay Weir to follow, showing generations of teens, male and female, that there are other ways to be.
SALLY ALBRIGHT by Hannah Tunnicliffe, author of A French Wedding ($32.99, Macmillan)
Sally Albright from When Harry
Met Sally is a bit of a disagreeable character. She’s neat, neurotic, naive and, you could say, needling. She’s the sort of person who cannot simply
order a dish from the menu; she has to apply arithmetic to it – adding or subtracting this or that, having things “on the side”. Put plainly, she’s a bit prissy. Harry, played by Billy Crystal, is quick to call her high maintenance – a label that has since struck dread and loathing into many a woman’s heart (Harry is pretty high-maintenance himself, not that he ever gets referred to as such).
Sally, played by Meg Ryan, is a creation of the late, great Nora Ephron and her character is partially autobiographical. The finicky meal-ordering was a habit of Ephron’s observed by the director, Rob Reiner. This is what I love most about Sally – she’s as real as the friend who cannot stop obsessing about her ex or the colleague who won’t go to that cafe because they don’t make sandwiches exactly the way she likes them. She is as highly strung as she is optimistic about life and is not saved by the male lead, not changed, but loved, because of her neuroses, rather than in spite of them. I love Nora Ephron for that.
Plus, check out Sally Albright’s life! Her life is beautiful. Autumnal walks in Central Park, hanging out in bookstores and restaurants with Carrie Fisher, looking good in turtlenecks and brogues, with jazz constantly streaming in the background. I’ll have what she’s having, thanks. Feeling it was a more realistic outcome, in Ephron’s first draft Harry and Sally did not end up together. In that scenario I imagine Sally continuing to live her beautiful life – kicking through russet leaves, a brown felt hat on her head and a complicated coffee order in hand. I would have been very happy with that ending, too.
PRUE HALLIWELL by Jennifer Kang, ELLE’S acting deputy chief sub-editor
Convince me that Prue wasn’t a total bitch” was my brief from ELLE’S straight-talking features editor when asked to pen a tribute to my TV girl crush, Prue Halliwell. Savage. While most Charmed viewers fell for Alyssa Milano’s endearing Phoebe, I found myself on Team Prue from the moment the infamous witch appeared on our screens back in ’98. Fiercely independent, level-headed and wise, but also fiery and outspoken like her real-life counterpart Shannen Doherty, Prue was my first brush with feminism; a character who presented a thrilling departure from the usual assortment of recycled Cinderellas in childhood fiction.
I also consider her one of the earliest influencers in generation slashie, a go-getter in her illustrious career, an unwavering support to her siblings and, let’s not forget, a fearless crusader against evil who never left it to a man to save the day (or, you know, the world). Older sister and sometimes mother figure to Piper (Holly Marie Combs) and Phoebe, she possessed the kind of big-sister charisma that inspired both intimidation and a measure of awe. Just how she managed to pull it all off and nail ’90s fashion episode after episode? Truly magic.
For a young girl growing up in the ’90s, Prue redefined what it meant to be “good” in the slickest way – you could be bad-ass but inherently kind, sceptical but cool, tough but true, and it was okay to be flawed, too. Best of all, you could be sexy, serious
and smart... and not seem ridiculous wearing spaghetti straps while slapping around fireball-throwing demons. A huge part of her appeal was in those moves. Channelling telekinesis abilities through her hands, her range of motion (a flick here, a wave there) was Magneto-grade cool, sending demons hurling back into the underworld. It was the power upgrade from Sabrina The Teenage Witch my generation always wanted, while the combat tactics she deployed were more Matrix than Charlie’s Angels.
“Prue redefined what it meant to be ‘good’ in the slickest way – you could be bad-ass but inherently kind, sceptical but cool, tough but true, and it was okay to be flawed, too”
“The ’90s were a traumatic time for brows: the masses attacked them with tweezers and irreparable damage was done. My thick brows owe their lives to Sarah Williams”
Off-screen, there was also plenty of talk about Prue, but in a more controversial way. Fictional tension between the character and the one played by Milano transferred to real-life, leading to the eldest Halliwell facing her untimely death at the end of season three. Doherty quitting the show was both a loss for the series and The Power Of Three, but her character’s legacy has managed to stick around thanks to US Netflix reigniting online interest in the series (and vocal Team Prue activists like me).
Now in my late twenties, I continue to embrace the brand of superwoman she established. The kind of woman who throws on her New Balance sneakers – not heels – to kick demon ass; the kind who’s not afraid to call BS on questionable life choices her loved ones make (Cole was never a good idea, Phoebe!). But most enlightening for me was that she meant I could be self-assured rather than “bitchy”, assertive over “bossy” and more no-nonsense than “mean”. Prue’s persona is for when I need my tough edge – when I’m at work on deadline, during an impassioned dinner-table speech or when getting out of bed is a struggle. Despite emulating her in many ways, admittedly I’ve never got around to taking martial arts classes or dabbling in witchcraft. But there are plenty of other lessons I’ve taken from the Charmed One. The first being that you never call her a bitch.
SARAH WILLIAMS by Megan Jacobson, author of Yellow ($19.99, Penguin)
Let’s set aside all the obvious lessons an ’80s kid could learn from idolising
Labyrinth’s Sarah Williams (played by Jennifer Connelly) – the importance of self-belief, courage and friendship, etc, etc – and focus on the most important beauty-cum-life lesson that benefitted any girl who grew up in that era. Do. Not. Over-pluck.
The ’90s were a traumatic time for brows: the masses attacked them with tweezers and wax strips and irreparable damage was done to the facial follicles of a whole generation of girls. Girls who did not idolise Sarah Williams. Now that it’s 2016 and eyebrows are once again properly appreciated, I’m spared the ignominy of having to pencil them in, as is the sad fate of many of my contemporaries who were less Labyrinth-inspired. My thick brows owe their lives to Sarah Williams. But – and there is a but – I blame
Labyrinth for my taste in men. It’s no coincidence our generation spawned hipsters. We are the generation of girls whose first crush was Jareth, aka David Bowie in sexy pants. Those tight, tight leggings. Those flowing pirate blouses. That ridiculous hair. Man-liner. It’s a truth universally acknowledged that Jareth would not be out of place in any modern-day, small inner-city bar, drinking overpriced whisky from a jam jar and waxing lyrical about synth guitars. I’m not immune to the charms of those hipster men. We were basically groomed from childhood to find that attractive, and so the boys of our generation took that baton (the baton being a can of hairspray) and ran with it. The craft beer and vinyl record industries would have gone broke a long time ago had it not been for Labyrinth.
Sarah, however, had more sense than the rest of us. She was able to resist the charisma of Jareth (which is sensible, really, given she was a teenager and he a grown man). But through her experience in the labyrinth, Sarah did learn a lesson that has helped me throughout the years. At the beginning of the film she kept exclaiming that things weren’t fair. One of my favourite quotes is Jareth’s reply: “You say that so often! I wonder what your basis for comparison is?” It’s only when Sarah realises that sometimes life isn’t fair that she takes control of the situation and develops resourcefulness – so much so that when Hoggle repeats the mantra back to her, she replies, “No it isn’t, but that’s the way it is.”
I never had David Bowie shape-shifting from an owl and declaring his love for me, no matter how many times I said the words, “I wish the goblins would come and take you away right now!” There were never any adorable muppets jumping through my mirror to start a dance party in my bedroom. And that’s not fair. But because of Sarah Williams, I learnt to accept life’s unfairness, because that’s just the way it is sometimes. At least I still have my eyebrows.
KATARINA STRATFORD by Laura Collins, ELLE’S features and culture editor
No-one’s ever called me a mewling, rampallian wretch (at least not to my face) but Kat Stratford, the tempestuous teen feminist from 1999’s 10 Things I Hate About You, was apparently one, so I’ll gladly be called the same. The film had such
“I’d rather be a smart, successful, blisteringly sarcastic girl than one with a boyfriend and a new pair of Skechers” “Maria’s life was so headily exotic to a kid growing up in Melbourne’s suburbs”
an impact on my impressionable pre-teen self (even though half the jokes went over my head the first few times) that I can still recite it word for word, much to the chagrin of anyone watching it with me.
Not only did the high school-centric adaptation of Shakespeare’s The Taming Of
The Shrew ignite my appreciation for the Bard, and teach me that you don’t buy black lingerie unless you want someone to see it, it gave me a female character who would act as my mythical mentor through an uncomfortable adolescence.
As cliché as it may be (and probably a by-product of all the stereotypes I was fed on-screen and in books throughout childhood), my best friend was the pretty one who always had a boyfriend, and I was the not-as-pretty one who guys wanted to be friends with. Once, a guy I liked told me that he didn’t want to be in a long-distance relationship – he lived about four suburbs away, but these were the days of MSN Messenger when young romance was amplified by nudges and emotive Green Day lyrics as usernames. Soon after, he began dating said best friend, who lived next door to me.
Whenever I got hung up about stuff like that, I’d think of Kat Stratford kicking Bobby Ridgeway in the balls, or being the most opinionated person in Mr Morgan’s class, or backing her vintage fender into Joey Donner’s sports car, and remember that I’d rather be a smart, successful, blisteringly sarcastic girl than one with a boyfriend and a new pair of Skechers. I loved the way she was so comfortable with solitude, and learnt from her mistakes, and never compromised on her values. Those were traits I could really respect, and ones I’d later enforce upon myself when I had a habit of falling in pseudo-love with every guy I met in my early twenties. The Stratford spirit helped me bounce back from a broken heart every time, and reminded me that I shouldn’t be living up to other people’s expectations, but my own. And besides, none of those losers even came close to Patrick Verona.
FRÄULEIN MARIA by Caroline Brothers, author of The Memory Stones ($35, Bloomsbury Circus), out August 1
In primary school, I went through a phase of being enraptured by Maria, Julie Andrews’ character in The Sound Of Music. Her fallingsout with the Mother Superior as a trainee nun, all that WWII heroism, the romping around with pillows with all those kids she had to look after as a governess, their escape across the Alps to Switzerland, a country I knew only from snow globes – it was all so headily exotic to a kid growing up in Melbourne’s suburbs, where nothing ever seemed to happen.
Adventure, drama, love affairs: Maria was surrounded by it all. She was like the big sister I never had in her rapport with the seven von Trapp kids, wise with the eldest girl, Liesl, and kindly to the smallest, Gretl. Furthermore, she lived in Austria, which was full of mountains and castles – to me the epitome of Europe. How I felt for her in her dirndl frock when Baroness Schraeder, impossibly sophisticated in that gold dress, moved in on Captain von Trapp. The injustice! Maria must be the one to marry him – it was obvious because of the purity of her heart.
At the time, all that intensity seemed like truly living. Plus, you could sing along to the songs. Julie Andrews had an incredible fouroctave voice I could only aspire to in the bath. “Maria’s not an asset to the a-bbey, da da da dum,” I would bellow.
I think I admired Maria’s pluckiness, and how perfect she looked. My own hair would never do what hers did; my school uniform never sat like her frocks. Did she have a profound influence on my life? Perhaps in that childhood phase of beginning to define oneself I absorbed things – she was spirited and independent in her way; she was popular and successful in the narrow concept of success that prevailed for women then. She was probably partly responsible for my lifelong fascination with Europe, and perhaps for an early sense of history pressing in at the edges of things.
Later, when I was an exchange student in Germany, it was surely her influence that meant it was the Bavarian Alps I dreamed of – not the flatlands of the north to which I was assigned. But years afterwards, and much to my father’s amusement, I did have a stint as an English teacher at a finishing school in Switzerland. But Maria, I swear, had nothing to do with that.