Image Credit: Sex and the City, Warner Bros.

A realistic female protagonist on television makes mistakes. She chases after the wrong guy, speaks before she thinks, and can often be found tossing a grenade into the path she’s about to walk through. However hard it may be to watch without covering one’s eyes, a realistic female protagonist is a good one. In conversations across social media and even ones I’ve had in real life, though, it seems that ‘good’ female characters are not easily forgiven for their miscommunications and mishaps. Leading ladies such as Carrie Bradshaw of Sex and the City and Rory Gilmore of Gilmore Girls are often labelled as the villains of their own show, simply because they had a few conversations where they hurt someone’s feelings over the course of several lengthy seasons. In real life, however, I’d venture to say that everyone, critics of such characters included, will have made countless hurtful remarks over the course of their adult life – yet this is not a sin. Viewers often favour enigmatic side characters, such as Samantha Jones or Paris Geller, and tend to give more leeway to their few faults; but these characters are not realistic, and one would seldom find a friend in real life who is too clever to say the wrong thing or drunk-text an ex. As Carrie Bradshaw often remarked, I “couldn’t help but wonder”: Why can’t we stand people like us?

A recent trend online exposed this societal deference to side characters and love interests who are more likeable simply because they are less dimensional: a photograph of any oft-judged female character reading, “You guys say you want more complex female characters, but you can’t even stand her,” to imply that female audiences long to be released from our Manic Pixie Dream Girl shackles, yet shy away from better representation. Characters defended include a list extending from Carrie and Rory to Elena Gilbert of The Vampire Diaries, Belly Conklin of The Summer I Turned Pretty and Rachel Berry of Glee to name a few. Most of these characters began their headlined series as teenagers, and were bound to make a few mistakes in love and friendship; however, once they are deemed the dreaded ‘annoying,’ they are cast out as figures to root for. Elena Gilbert’s plot, for example, begins in the pilot as a high school junior still reeling from being orphaned; yet she is often placed on ‘Top 10 Most Hated Character’ rankings online because of being ‘whiny.’ 

It seems in this modern age that we would all prefer to be what we are not. Oftentimes our media consumption and buying habits convey a desire to become something better. Why do people obsess over microtrends like ‘balletcore,’ donning wrap skirts and ballet slippers or ‘clean girl,’ going to pilates and wearing Lululemon just to forget about it in a few weeks? Why immerse oneself in an ideal just for it to vanish and make room for the next marketing ploy? We are no longer the consumer, but the consumed. In a TikTok video by a creator whose goal is to influence viewers to stop overspending, she delivered a brilliantly blunt thesis: Nothing you buy can make you into something you’re not. We cannot be the fan-favourite side characters in our own lives; we must suffer being the protagonist.

Most do not look to television to be reminded of their flaws; instead, they view it as a means to escape them. When Emily Cooper of the hit Netflix series Emily in Paris leaves Chicago behind for the beautiful cityscape of Paris, the viewer too can escape the confines of their living room for something more. Emily herself is also a commonly hated main character, despite her optimistic point of view and compassionate nature. Again, a wonder I couldn’t help: Are Emily’s critics jealous of her? Like Emily, everyone messes up at work and has awkward failures with love – but not everyone gets to do it in Paris. Every so-called “annoying” female protagonist gets her happily ever after, and perhaps viewers do not think it’s always deserved. 

In order to escape the ordinaryisms of our everyday lives through media such as television or film, there is a part of us that must let go. But how can we do so when met with a reflection of ourselves through the protagonist, stumbling over their words and mirroring our own flaws? I remember watching Sex and the City for the first time as I was leaving teenagerhood, taking the classic “Which SATC character are you?” quizzes on various websites. I must’ve taken variations of it several times, getting a different woman from the main group each try, until I got who I knew – and feared – I was: Carrie. Carrie Bradshaw, one of the most judged characters in modern television, who can’t seem to be a ‘good enough’ friend, pick a ‘good enough’ man, or even do what’s ‘good enough’ for herself. It struck me then that we’re all Carrie. Nobody is the practical side character, and nobody is the slinky love interest. While we may make different choices in our own lives than characters such as Rory Gilmore or Belly Conklin, those characters are the most dimensional within their universes. In reality, no one would look at a 17-year-old girl and say that she is the villain of her own life. 

Many say we have more compassion for others than we do for ourselves; while we might look in the mirror and say something cruel about our own appearance, we would never look at someone else and tell them the same. Witty supporting roles like Sex and the City’s Samantha Jones are revered because we admire them, and because we view them as separate from ourselves. They get less screen time, are less thoroughly explored, and are given more grace by viewers because they are given more grace by writers. The story is meant primarily to showcase the development of the protagonist, not her friends. If there were not room for Carrie to grow, Samantha could never swoop in with any clever advice. Perhaps we can’t stand “complex female characters” because they reflect aspects of ourselves we don’t want to acknowledge. Stumbling through life for the very first time and praying things go to plan, we know that sometimes they don’t. Perhaps we cannot forgive the Carrie Bradshaws of television because we have not yet forgiven ourselves. As women and as people, we may think others are observing us, judging our mistakes the same way we do; however, is it not presumptuous to think that anyone is looking at us at all? And my final wonder – does it matter if they are? Perhaps once we begin to show even the most hated female protagonists a little kindness, we can extend it towards ourselves.