Female Villain – Bitch Flicks

The Villainization of Claire Underwood on ‘House of Cards’

Much of what makes besmirching Claire Underwood villainous is also what I can’t help but find admirable about her — and at first, this made me question myself. … But then I thought, perhaps, it could be possible that we’ve vilified every aspect of Claire Underwood because our culture is inherently threatened by her. She’s the personification of what a patriarchal society is most fearful of… Claire Underwood has to be a villain because we aren’t ready for a world where she’s a heroine.

This guest post written by Abby Norman originally appeared at her blog on Medium and an edited version appears here as part of our theme week on Unpopular Opinions. It is cross-posted with permission.

From the beginning of House of Cards, Claire was the most compelling character for me — and I say this as a lifelong Kevin Spacey fan. But as much as Frank Underwood is an engaging protagonist, it’s never quite as interesting for me to see the inner workings of a bloodthirsty, power-hungry male character. As the seasons progressed, I found myself wishing that we were watching all of these events unfold not through Frank’s perspective, but Claire’s.

It may well be that she thinks much along the same lines as he does, so maybe the plot wouldn’t have been at all different — but if we want to watch upper-class, white, male politicians who lack empathy and engage in acts of greed and deceit, we just have to turn on CNN.

To me, Claire’s dichotomy, her struggle — her essence — is what has kept me watching the show season after season, even when certain elements of the plot grew stale. Within our culture, fictional and real, Claire Underwood should not be a heroine, she shouldn’t be likable or a character that we sympathize with. We shouldn’t logically be rooting for either of the Underwoods to succeed. They are at their cores very bad people. They are violent, ruthless, callous.

And yet…

I can’t help but be captivated by Claire Underwood, and it has troubled me to the point where I’m writing a think piece about it. I should not want to emulate any aspect of her personality, no matter how successful she is. I should not covet her wardrobe, her marriage of power, her profession, her curiously unfeeling attitude toward other women.

I should not want to be anything like Claire Underwood.

The internet has been quick to call Claire a feminist, but I think she’s kind of the anti-feminist. Claire isn’t interested in women succeeding, she’s only interested in her own success. She’s not trailblazing for other women necessarily; if she’s shattered any glass it’s not been thoughtfully. Claire isn’t in the game for anyone but herself — and maybe Frank? But that’s unclear.

One thing I’m rather ashamed to admit I like about Claire is that while she’s selfish, she’s very clear and intentional about it. It’s not that she’s against what good may come out of her success for other people, she’s just not motivated by it. If, through her quest for power, the groundwork is laid for other women, so be it.

There’s something about Claire’s selfishness that I yearn for; it seems odd to say, I suppose, but I have this strange admiration for her because she’s just so unapologetically concerned with herself. I think, deep down, I’ve been guilty of that intense self-focus when it comes to my career, and some might argue that very quality is what brought me a modicum of success.

Still — I feel ulcerously guilty about it.

There’s always the caveat that by being a successful woman, you’re inevitably making some kind of personal sacrifice. Whether it be your marriage, or raising a family, or other relationships — invariably, you are pitied because you don’t have it all if you have a career of that magnitude. That formula presiding, it’s quite jarring when you realize that Claire Underwood has never given us any indication that she doesn’t think she’s got it all with what she has. That certitude is bewitching to me.

This is one of my favorite exchanges in House of Cards, like, ever.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve flinched at this type of question. How I’ve never known how to retort, because I’ve always been made to feel as though I’m wrong. That I’m being pitied — or in some scenarios — being looked down upon because of my lack of maternal goals. Claire doesn’t even flinch when it comes to volleying this question back to the asker, and to me, this is really the only response necessary. First of all, it’s a very personal question to ask a woman — not in the least because many women are infertile, and are not choosing childlessness. Second, because it levels the playing field — if Claire can (if I can) be assumed to regret not having children, shouldn’t it be equally as possible for a woman to regret having them?

For those who choose to be child-free, there’s a constant barrage of, “Oh, you’ll change your mind!” — as if to say that we will, eventually, succumb to our biology, even if it doesn’t fit into our lifestyle — that somehow, motherhood is an inescapable reality for a woman and to actively side-step it makes you an unsympathetic, unfeeling, callous woman. If you choose to elevate anything above parenthood, you’re despicably selfish. Sometimes I’ve had these conversations with women and I’ve gotten the distinct feeling that the reason they continuously inquire about my decision about children is because they want me to be just as miserable as they are. They resent my freedom, my sense of self, and the success that I’ve achieved. They are, perhaps, second-guessing their choice but feel they cannot admit it without being perceived as a bad mother, a bad person.

I, however, could change my mind only to be lauded for it. It’s then I realize that the conversation isn’t about me or my choices. It’s about theirs.

Obviously, this isn’t always the case; I have plenty of friends who are very happy and fulfilled being mothers, and in fact, these women rarely, if ever, ask me about children. If it comes up casually in a conversation, these women are satisfied with my answer, because they recognize that it has absolutely no bearing whatsoever on them. What I do — or do not do — with my uterus doesn’t define them at all.

When it comes to men, to marriage, Claire goes beyond demanding equality; she wants more power than Frank. She has never been content to be the woman behind the man, because his success is not particularly valuable to her unless it benefits her agenda. Or, occasionally, their shared agenda. The self-possessed mercenary Frank Underwood and his clan of political marauders have figured out, after four seasons, that they must keep Claire close not because she is an asset but rather, because she’s an adversary. Claire Underwood could don those savage black leather gloves and destroy this entire game in one fell swoop. If House of Cards was about Claire, and her power, this show could have started and ended in a single episode.

The magnetic sexual energy that is the undercurrent between not just Claire and Frank — but Claire, Frank, and any number of other characters — is the singular, inescapable human foible that humanizes them. Her marriage to Frank is, in many ways, an abusive, detestable, festering hazard. The volatile core of their union is exemplified when they’re separated, but blisteringly magnified when they are reunited. They could, and do, succeed separately but together they are dynamic, unstoppable — and what they love about the other partner is what they can aggrandize in each other.

The Underwoods are not so much married to one another as they are married to themselves, and it’s a terrifyingly brilliant match. Still, we are given subtle signs over the seasons, that culminate with Frank’s physical weakness in season four, that Claire has a certain power over him. With a spine-tingling sensuality, she is the only person who calls him Francis rather than Frank, and while you could construe this as intimacy, it feels more possessive than affectionate. And something tells me that Frank actually finds this enduringly arousing.

Much of what makes besmirching Claire Underwood villainous is also what I can’t help but find admirable about her — and at first, this made me question myself. Do I have sociopathic tendencies? Am I, at my core, a heartless, ruthless shrew? But then I thought, perhaps, it could be possible that we’ve vilified every aspect of Claire Underwood because our culture is inherently threatened by her.

She’s the personification of what a patriarchal society is most fearful of, so, in characterizing her firstly as this strong, successful, indurated woman she must also, therefore, be a remorseless murderer too. Because God forbid she’s a career-climbing, child-free, influential, and tenacious woman without also being an unambiguously horrible person, devoid of a conscience; a heart. If women find themselves gravitating toward Claire Underwood, coveting everything from her wardrobe to her regency, it’s not because we’re all veiled villains or people who lack a conscience — it’s because we’re fascinated by the mating of power and evil, especially in a woman who should inherently and historically be neither powerful or corrupt.

The female archetype is perceived as naive, gentle, and kind. It’s classically warm and maternal, soft and practically soundless. So when a woman is smart and savvy, when she’s firm, tough, edgy, and cold, when she thwarts her feminine nature by being child-free, when she makes her voice heard, she becomes BAD because she is the antithesis of this widely held exemplar. She is no longer the opposite of man. She no longer complements him.

Claire Underwood has to be a villain because we aren’t ready for a world where she’s a heroine.

See also at Bitch Flicks:

Ruthless, Pragmatic Feminism in House of Cards

Claire Underwood: The Queen Bee in House of Cards

The Complex, Unlikable Women of House of Cards

The Conflicting Masculinities of Frank and Claire in House of Cards

House of Cards Season 3: There’s Only One Seat in the Oval Office

Abby Norman is a journalist and writer. She’s currently working on a memoir for Nation Books. Her work has been featured in The Rumpus, The Establishment, Medium, Cosmopolitan, Seventeen Magazine, The Independent, Quartz, Bustle, and others. She lives in New England with her dog, Whimsy, and wishes Gilda Radner would haunt her apartment. She’s represented by Tisse Takagi in New York City. You can follow her on Twitter @abbymnorman.

Show Me a (Woman) Villain

Women are generally presented as easily manipulated and too emotional to be true villains. It is yet another characterization of the “soft” woman, dictated by her emotions, propelled by a propensity to nurture rather than destroy. But we need stories of women who hunger for power, who are willingly selfish, and who stick to their principles, no matter the cost. … No more scenes of men talking women into saving the world. Let them try their best to destroy it.

This guest post written by Mary Iannone appears as part of our theme week on Superheroines.

“The Marvel Cinematic Universe is kind of a sausage fest,” Stephen Colbert said last week. This was in response to the admission by director Shane Black that Iron Man 3’s villain was originally written as a woman, a choice that was definitively blocked by the studio. If this refusal wasn’t foolish enough to begin with, the reasoning behind it gets even more bizarre – they were afraid the toy version of a woman villain would not sell. “It makes sense,” Colbert sneered. “Girls don’t play with dolls.”

We all recognize the gross disparity of women superheroes, in the Marvel canon and beyond. But I would argue that the cinematic landscape is even less primed to allow women supervillains. After all, if some of us can barely accept the thought of a woman running our country, how can we tolerate even a representation of a woman hungry for world domination?

Villains like Loki, Ultron, Red Skull, and Killian are power-driven, tyrannical, reckless, murderous, and mostly devoid of sentiment. And it’s that last characteristic that seems to be so hard to reconcile with women characters. Time and time again, we see women introduced as villains only to be recruited to the side of the heroes. This usually comes after an “aha” moment when she realizes she is “in too deep.”

Take Scarlet Witch in Avengers: Age of Ultron. She has, as I argued in my last article, quite possibly the most powerful out of any character in the film. But suddenly, after witnessing Ultron’s full plan, her desire for revenge is neutralized. She is horrified by Ultron’s monstrousness: “You said we were going to destroy the Avengers – make a better world!” Just like that, Scarlet Witch becomes an Avenger. She only wanted to destroy a couple of people, not the world.

In Captain America: Civil War, Black Widow starts off on the side of Tony Stark (which is somewhat presented as the villainous side), but swaps midway to assist Steve Rogers. Lest we forget, this isn’t the first time Natasha has swapped sides – off-screen, she started off as a KGB officer who was turned into a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. This pattern can also be seen with Elektra in Daredevil, Mystique in X-Men, Gamora in Guardians of the Galaxy, and even another character in Iron Man 3, Maya. Go outside of the Marvel Universe, and you will see Catwoman following the same pattern in The Dark Knight Rises; she even ends up in idyllic Paris, having gotten the guy.

Of course, we must note that backlash over woman villains is not confined to the comic book world. Consider the frenzy when Star Wars: The Force Awakens cast Gwendoline Christie as Captain Phasma, commander of the stormtroopers (whose toy is currently out of stock at Toys R’ Us, by the way). The film industry too often listens to the loud corner of the internet that refuses to believe that a woman could be bad (though that same corner doesn’t seem too fond of women as heroes, either).

Women are generally presented as easily manipulated and too emotional to be true villains. It is yet another characterization of the “soft” woman, dictated by her emotions, propelled by a propensity to nurture rather than destroy. But we need stories of women who hunger for power, who are willingly selfish, and who stick to their principles, no matter the cost. People need to know that sometimes, women are just that (minus the desire to destroy the world — most of the time, at least). If audiences can be charmed by Loki, why can’t we react the same way to a woman villain? Why can’t they be just as nuanced?

The stereotype is, again, that women are ruled by their emotions. But why do those emotions have to be good? We’ve called for women superheroes who are not ruled by their ties to men. The same goes for our women villains. No more characters who are only motivated by personal revenge. No more balking when it “gets out of hand.” No more scenes of men talking women into saving the world. Let them try their best to destroy it.

Let’s imagine, for a minute, that the Aldrich Killian character in Iron Man 3 had in fact been a woman. In the finished film, Killian is left on a rooftop on New Year’s Eve, rejected and forgotten by Tony Stark. He then spends over a decade crafting a revenge plan that ends with him attacking the President of the United States (and Tony and Pepper along the way). Had Killian been a woman, this would have been yet another story about a woman scorned and driven mad by rejection. Killian, in his reappearance years after New Year’s Eve, has even gotten a makeover. The characterization is already flawed; crafted into a woman, this would have been a hackneyed, sexist plot that would have done nothing to support the need for deeper women in the comic book universe.

It is ironic, then, that one of the worst-reviewed superhero films of the 21^st century actually contains the best depiction of a woman supervillain. X-Men: The Last Stand is, of course, a dreadful conclusion to the series’ original trilogy. But surprisingly, it serves well its most powerful villain, Phoenix.

Jean Grey dies at the end of X2 (aka X-Men 2), only to be saved by her alter ego, Phoenix, whose powers explode outward with lethal force. When Professor Xavier reveals he had been mind-controlling Jean for years to keep Phoenix at bay, Phoenix kills him. “I don’t want to fix it!” she snarls at Logan. While Jean Grey begs to be killed, Phoenix is unrepentant; enraged at those who tamed her for so long, she is determined to destroy those who mean to destroy mutants. In the end, the only way to stop her is by killing her. There is no way to appeal to her emotions; she cannot be coerced into being a hero.

So what’s next? It’s been 10 years since Phoenix – the latest X-Men series has thus far allowed Mystique to only toy with villainy. Cate Blanchett has been cast as Hela in Thor: Ragnarok. Karen Gillan will return as Nebula in Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 2 (and director James Gunn alluded to an expanded role). But given the positioning of these films in Marvel’s vast Cinematic Universe (MCU), it is likely these women will not factor into the ultimate climax, Infinity War. The presence of Thanos has loomed large in the MCU for years, and he is widely considered to be the mega-villain at the end of Marvel’s Phase Three. Is there anyone who can compete? When will we see her on screen?

Mary Iannone holds a Master’s Degree in Media, Culture, and Communication from NYU, where she studied genre film, Hollywood archetypes, and pop culture’s representations of mental illness. Follow her on Twitter at @mianno.

‘Gone Girl’: How to Create the Perfect Female Villain

This is a guest post by Alize Emme.

SPOILER ALERT.

Kudos to the 20th Century Fox exec who decided to market Gone Girl (2014) as a great date movie. This is not a date movie. This is a horror story about the sensationalized pitfalls of a doomed marriage.

As good horror stories go, this one has the perfect villain: Amy Elliott Dunne.

Calculating. Manipulative. Patient. Sinister. Genius. Female.

Dunne (Rosamund Pike) is perhaps one of the greatest female fictional villains portrayed on screen, with bonus points for doing something her male counterparts rarely ever achieve: getting away with it. Dunne, with the help of a highly colored narrative penned by Gillian Flynn, manipulates a vibrant cast of stereotypes as she weaves the perfect crime web and literally gets away with murder.

After feeling like her husband, Nick Dunne (Ben Affleck), has taken her “pride, dignity, hope, and money,” Dunne sets out with fierce discipline and a detective’s eye for detail to frame her unsuspecting husband for her own murder. She befriends “a local idiot,” tells tall tales about fear and the threat of violence, authors a journal’s worth of history–some true, some false, simulates a pregnancy, lights “a fire in July,” and sets the perfect crime scene. She transforms herself into someone “people will truly mourn.”

The premise of Gone Girl works because it plays off our preconceived notions about loss and tragedy. The Pretty Murdered Wife. We as an audience know this story: she’s missing, feared dead, might be pregnant. The narrative needs no back-story, but we do get a glimpse.

Nick Dunne. He is done. Gone. Finished. We know this about Nick the moment we meet him just by his name as he’s standing in the middle of the street next to garbage bins. He is something to be taken out and disposed of with the trash; he is never getting his life back, and Flynn wants us to be aware. The Nick Dunne we are introduced to is a schlubby, beer drinking, ice cream eating, 5 o’clock shadow kind of guy with a dissatisfied marriage and a concubine on the side.

When Dunne goes missing and morphs into the Pretty Murdered Wife stereotype, Nick Dunne’s general disposition puts him right into the Smug Accused Husband category. He’s too charming; he’s too arrogant; he’s too suspicious. He’s a man with secrets. “He’s being a good guy, so everyone can see him being a good guy,” Officer Gilpin (Patrick Fugit) observes. He’s a man whose marriage has taught him how to fake it, who happens to be surrounded by women. There’s lead detective Rhonda Boney (Kim Dickens) who gives him a fair run. A fictionalized Nancy Grace clone, Ellen Abbott, (Missi Pyle) who pulls him apart every night on her nationally syndicated television show, and his twin sister Margo (Carrie Coon) who’s been with him since before they “were even born” and offers a stable voice of reason.

“I am so sick of being picked apart by women,” Nick Dunne says. And he’s right, that’s exactly what’s happening now that he’s been labeled the Smug Accused Husband. This stereotype exists because there are men who do kill their pregnant wives and then go on TV and lie about it, and society remembers them. The case of Laci Peterson was one of the first things that came to my mind. And Affleck is clear to note that Scott Peterson was one of the models for his character. Even the “Missing” photo of Dunne is reminiscent of Laci’s with the bright smile, dangling earrings, and glossy lipstick. Gone Girl is a story that already lives on the edge of our thoughts.

As a couple, Nick and Amy have been pretending from the start. They have a perfect meet-cute, perfect dates, perfect celebratory rituals; they even buy the same sheets. He plays “hot, doting husband,” to her “sweet, loving spouse.” None of it is real; “I forged the man of my dreams,” Dunne says. And in doing so, she herself became the Cool Girl. Another stereotype of how women manipulate themselves to land a man.

Eating cold pizza, drinking beer, remaining “a size 2.” Dunne tailored herself to fit Nick’s taste. But “Nick got lazy.” Not holding up his end of the bargain was never the deal. When she sees that Nick’s sweet romantic gestures were not improvisations made up for her, but rather a well-rehearsed ruse easily tailored to the girl in front of him, Dunne makes a decision. She realizes her husband is no longer the man she married and decides to teach him a lesson he will never forget. “No fucking way,” she says, “He doesn’t get to win. Grown-ups suffer consequences.” She takes charge. She doesn’t let herself be walked on by this man. “Why should I die?” She asks, “I’m not the asshole.”

It’s an easy, cop-out that barely scratches the surface of accurate to diagnose Dunne as a psychopath. To say she’s an overly emotional, crazy woman who can’t handle daily life and descends into a PMS-filled rage, is falling pry to gender stereotypes. Dunne exhibits a perfectly cool demeanor, her emotions are consistently even, she is meticulous and complex. The layers of this character are masterful; she is the opposite of what every gender stereotype says women should be like. She is simply a great villain. “Show me that Darling Nicky smile,” Dunne coos like the Wicked Witch of the West as she stares at a video of her husband on a computer. She’s fascinated by her own work.

Pike’s performance is mesmerizing; she delivers Dunne’s words in this breathless manner like she’s seductively blowing out a candle. Pike makes us believe from the very beginning that Dunne is both sane and capable of deception. But seeing a female character portrayed so strongly on screen earns Dunne the unfortunate label of “controlling bitch.”

If Dunne were a man, none of these character and sanity accusations would hold true. Male characters that go on rampant murder sprees in movies are never labeled as psychopaths, when clearly they display the same behavior. Dunne is not a psychopath. Crazy people cannot mastermind murders and crimes and not get caught. Even her past acts of “insanity” should be taken with a grain of salt. The ex-boyfriend who calls Dunne a “mind fucker of the first degree,” still keeps a picture of her in his wallet. This woman has allegedly ruined his life, yet he’s still holding her image so close? This calls his authenticity into question while giving Dunne credibility.

Dunne is fiercely intelligent. She has plotted the perfect crime. And while she doesn’t succeed with her original plan, she still sets her husband up for decades of suffering with her pregnancy. For all the betrayed wives out there, Dunne is a hero with the perfect revenge. Her crime is personal, not random, which gets her sanity questioned. Flynn doesn’t touch the subject of Dunne’s mental state. She leaves that up to the audience. David Fincher also helms this story in a nonjudgmental way. He is respectful of Dunne and all the female characters. Dunne is never put on display as a woman, though several male characters make mention of her impressive physical attributes. The supporting female characters, which are all various stereotypes, are never blasted for it; they’re handled with care.

Detective Boney, for example, is the coffee drinking, slick talking lead on Dunne’s missing persons case. She’s an interesting foil to the other female characters that assume Nick Dunne is guilty from the start. Boney gives him the benefit of the doubt, refusing to arrest him because some “blonde dunce” on TV says so. Instead it’s her male partner, Officer Gilpin, who immediately makes up his mind when finding blood splatter in The Dunne’s kitchen that he is guilty.

Through Boney, we are offered the idea that not all women jump to conclusions and hate men. But as the story progresses, we discover that Boney didn’t properly handle her case. “We stained the rug,” she says “with a national spotlight” on her. Had Nick Dunne been left in Boney’s “deeply incompetent hands,” he would be on death row, Dunne conveniently points out. Therefore, Boney’s word is useless in bringing Dunne to justice. Men botch investigations all the time, but for Boney to do so, it’s suggesting a woman can’t properly handle the responsibly of performing a traditionally male job.

Noelle Hawthorne (Casey Wilson) is the wonderfully entertaining suburban mom down the street with triplets and another baby on the way. We know this woman. Everyone has that one inquisitive neighbor that if something were to happen, she would be the first one knocking on the squad car window trying to help the cops. There’s a sense of comedy to this hyperbolic character and her triple-decker stroller, but she is never mocked. We take her seriously. It’s a real feat.

Nick Dunne’s twin, Margo, is a cool girl who’s not the Cool Girl. She drinks bourbon with her brother at ten in the morning, she covers his back with Dunne’s mother, she knows the truth but that doesn’t change her opinion of him. She always speaks the truth with her perfectly snarky comments. “You look like hammered shit,” she tells Nick. He likes her. We like her. She is perhaps the one female character that deviates from a hardened stereotype and could exist in the real world.

Somewhat of a mysterious supporting character, Greta (Lola Kirke) acts as a catalyst for Dunne. She’s complex and calculating just like Dunne; she sees an opportunity, and she seizes it. “Did he put you up to this?” Dunne asks as Greta and her male accomplice rob her blind, “I put him up to it,” she replies. She’s a survivalist and essentially forces Dunne to abort her plan and switch to survival mode herself. Yes, Dunne then murders a man and fakes a sexual assault, but in the world of a villain, she’s just adapting to survive. And as someone who is “skilled in the art of vengeance,” Dunne doesn’t just survive; she thrives.

Dunne, as Nick asks: What are you thinking?

Seeing a female character like Dunne on screen is fantastic–a word she would deem “a little flippant,” but there has yet to be a female villain quite like her. Fincher draws us into this world, Dunne’s world, where everything is this perfect shade of monochrome with tungsten lighting, where the camera moves in slow and methodical push-ins and pull-outs just as calculating as Dunne is, where things change with such swiftness–a kiss to a tongue swab, just like real life. And as we return to real life, we have to wonder: What will Amy Elliott Dunne do next? We’re left with the image of her head, just where we started, much like a few scenes earlier; we are left with Nick Dunne standing before trash cans, just like we started. So much has happened, but what do we really know? And more important, what will we learn next?

Alize Emme is a writer and filmmaker living in Los Angeles. She holds a B.A. in Film & Television from NYU and tweets at @alizeemme.