Pain and Glory: Do Our Heroines Suffer More?
Analysing the treatment of female action/adventure protagonists through the lens of torture as a crossroads.
Leslie Jamison discusses the intertwined nature of womanhood and pain in her 2014 essay Grand Unified Theory of Female Pain. She writes about “the possibility that being a woman requires being in pain, that pain is the unending glue and prerequisite of female consciousness.” We see examples of female suffering all across media and art. The type of pain that Jamison discusses comes from emotional turmoil. Suffering that evokes the powerful devastation of the poetry of Sylvia Plath or the stoic loneliness of a Sally Rooney protagonist, even the melancholic beauty of the girls from The Virgin Suicides. These tragic figures have become a staple of any ‘intellectual’ girls media diet, but women cannot escape suffering in other, more lowbrow stories.
We have the rise of rape and revenge films. We have entire tropes wrapped up in the abuse of women, such as fridging or the damsel in distress. The website in which the term ‘fridging’ was popularised even discusses the prevalence of these ideas in comic books. Gail Simone writes “this is a list I made when it occurred to me that it’s not that healthy to be a female character in comics... These are superheroines who have been either depowered, raped, or cut up and stuck in the refrigerator.” It seems that in any story where there’s women, their suffering is at the heart of it.
In his 2015 novel Beyond Bombshells: The New Action Heroine in Popular Culture Jeffery A. Brown discusses the various iterations of the modern action heroine. As part of this deep dive he writes about the role of torture and brutalisation in action movies starring women. In the chapter titled Torture, Rape, Action Heroines and The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo he explains “torture is also a key component for action heroines but the often brutal on-screen torture of female characters foregrounds issues of sexualised violence, rape, power and gender in a manner very different than with male characters.” The sexualisation of violence against woman is a prevalent and well documented phenomenon. We can turn to the treatment of Scarlett Johansson in her interrogation scenes in both The Avengers (2012) and Lucy (2014). We can look at Margot Robbie’s Harley Quinn being tied up and brutalised in every film appearance she makes. We can see fantasy television return to sexual violence as a plot device over and over again. There is an abundance of evidence that women’s suffering, both physical and emotional, is eroticised in media, but to put writers, artists and creators insistence on torturing women down to the psychosexual would be selling the story short.
The role of torture in male lead action movies is discussed by Brown as a yard stick to compare the treatment of women in similar movies. He covers the narrative, typical of macho 80s action stars that follows: sweaty, maybe even partly naked men are subdued and put under extreme amounts of pain to ultimately power through the agony to defeat their assailants and return to their goal. He brings forth examples in Rambo: First Blood (1985), Lethal Weapon (1987) and more recently Casino Royale (2006). Brown argues two justifications for this narrative device. The first being male torture scenes act as a way to allow the viewing and appreciation of the naked male form without it becoming a subject for arousal. The pain and the circumstances of these naked bodies causes a moral oscillation in the viewer that moves the subject out of the realm of the erotic and into the unpleasant. Brown writes:
“The torture of male action heroes... allows the camera to appreciate the shirtless and bound bodies of male ideals as they valiantly writhe in pain without any feminizing or homoerotic implications...The tortured male body is not a passive and inviting spectacle; it is a body that demonstrates strength and resilience even when it is at its most vulnerable point.”
This brings us to the second justification. If we look at what these scenes bring on a narrative level, we see they are about far more than the subversion of homoerotic objectification. In each of the films used as examples of male protagonists being brutalised, the hero endures this abuse in defence of a wider goal. This allows the torture to act as an affirmation of their strength. In each torture scene the body of the protagonist becomes an object that is acted upon. The role of the body in these scenes is not to act but to endure. In these scenes the hero overcomes this role and is set back into action. Thus we can view the torture as a threat of pacification. As Brown writes “to be penetrable and passive is to be coded as feminine.” In these male lead action movies, we see the protagonist overcoming this feminizing role and reasserting their masculinity. The torture acts as a turning point between the passive feminine and progressive masculine.
Looking at these torture scenes as a narrative obstacle for a protagonist to overcome to assert their character, we can look at some recent female action protagonists that follow a similar trajectory. Episodes VII-IX of the Star Wars franchise released between 2015 and 2019 find a young woman in the role of the powerful Jedi. There are two instances where our heroine Rey (played by Daisy Ridley) goes through a torture/interrogation scene. The first is in Star Wars: The Force Awakens (2015). After Rey is captured by The First Order, she is strapped to an interrogation chair and questioned by antagonist Kylo Ren. There is another interrogation scene at the beginning of the film. This scene involves Resistance fighter pilot Poe Dameron and Kylo Ren. It’s worth examining the differences between these scenes. Poe is already bruised and bloody as he comes to in this scene. Distance is kept between interrogator and interrogated, there is minimal talking, Kylo Ren almost immediately gets to subjecting Poe to his force powers. In the scene between Kylo Ren and Rey, he leans in much closer, his hand hovers just beside her face and she struggles away from his touch. All this after he tells her “you know, I can take whatever I want.” The scene acts less as a typical torture scene and more like a plausibly deniable threat of sexual violence.
But much like a male action hero, Rey endures and overcomes. Unlike Poe Dameron at the start, she does not give her torturers what they want. Her suffering proves her stronger, she unlocks powers she previously did not have. As Brown writes “the hero rises Phoenix-like from [her] moment of torture.”
In Star Wars: The Last Jedi (2017) Rey suffers through a similar ordeal. She is brought before Supreme Leader Snoke, where she is tortured once again for the location of Luke Skywalker. Although the scenes start off on similar footing (torturer leaning in close, faces inches apart, non-consensual gentle caressing) Snoke ends up torturing Rey from a distance. He does not physically overpower her but flaunts powers that far outweighs her own. This scene parallels the beginnings of a ‘torture as a cross roads’ scene that is seen in many macho men action films as well as The Force Awakens. Rather than Rey using her resolve and strength to overcome her torture and defeat her assailant, she is saved by antagonist Kylo Ren. This could be seen as an archaic depiction of a heroic rescue of a damsel in distress, but is better paralleled with the ending of Star Wars: Return of The Jedi (1983). Despite his growth as a Jedi and his own bravery, protagonist Luke Skywalker cannot defeat the evil emperor. He is only saved when Darth Vader steps in to defeat the emperor and save his son.
This is not the only similarity between Luke and Rey. When we first meet Rey, we find her at home on the desert planet of Jakku. She has been abandoned by her family and she shows a childlike wonder at the world outside her home planet that she has never known. She is not dissimilar to Luke when we first meet him in Star Wars: A New Hope (1977). They differ in noticeable ways. Luke is more naive, he needs guidance from other characters. Whereas Rey has been on her own for so long she can handle any situation that comes her way. Luke desires to leave Tattooine, he yearns for adventure he will not find on his home planet. Rey gets wrapped up in goal to return her new droid friend BB-8 to the Resistance, but she continuously longs to return to Jakku. Rey clings to the hope of returning to the past while Luke strides towards leaving his life behind and finding hope in the future.
Luke falls way outside the bounds of a macho action hero. He is soft, optimistic and generally light hearted. He is not known for being physically strong or tough. He shows respect and care for those around him. It is not suffering or turmoil that make him stronger, it’s love. This is not an uncommon archetype for the protagonist of an adventure story. We see kindness as a core trait in iconic heroes like Superman, Frodo Baggins, and the protagonist of generation defining cartoon Avatar: The Last Airbender.
Avatar Aang is defined by hope, kindness and compassion. He is the unchanging force that shapes the world around him for the better. Despite the horrors he has been through (losing his people, being asleep for 100 years, multiple betrayals and battles lost) his heart stays the same. He remains an all-loving hero. The trajectory for the protagonist of the sequel series, Avatar: The Legend of Korra, is quite the opposite. Not unlike Aang, when we first meet Korra (voiced by Janet Varney) she is bright eyed and naively optimistic. But unlike The Last Airbender, the next four seasons Korra stars in are specifically designed to prove Korra wrong about everything she thinks she knows in the most painful way possible.
Korra and Aang’s hardships are treated very differently throughout their respective series’. We can discuss the infamous ending of Legend of Korra season three. Korra is suspended in chains and poisoned. This leaves her in extreme pain to the point of hallucinations. The whole time we watch her twitch, groan and sweat in agony. Even after breaking free and going after her attackers in the Avatar state (the show’s most powerful form), she is still thrown around, beaten, even suffocated as she continues to suffer from the pain of the poison. She only achieves victory with the help of the other characters. It is probably the most brutal fight in either series.
The next season shows Korra recovering from this fight. She has spent the last few years in hiding after her humiliating almost-defeat. She is haunted by the memory of the fight. “[In] season four, that PTSD storyline is so good and so sad... Half of the season was [Korra] just totally broken.” Olivia Sava who reviewed the show for the AV Club told Vox. This draws interesting parallels to the first half of the final season of Avatar: The Last Airbender. Although Aang has also suffered through a uniquely brutal defeat, his arc for the next season is not defined by his trauma. Unlike Korra who spends most of season four traumatised and unable to bend.
Many interpret this as the content of the sequel series being far more mature. The Last Airbender was praised for not shying away from heavy subject matter and The Legend of Korra seemed to take that a step further. Each season tackles an explicitly political villain (the failings of which are broken down very digestibly in Kay and Skittles’ YouTube series) that Korra battles and learns from. The tragedies Korra faces can be compared to those of Aang, but the focus on her suffering cannot. While Aang goes through hardships and difficult moments, nothing compares to the focus that is put on Korra’s physical and emotional pain. It is the driving force of her character development. She is punished at every turn for being arrogant, impatient and impulsive and we are made witness the meticulous details of her struggle.
In season one Korra is plagued by nightmares of the season’s villain, Amon. Aang has similar dreams of his series’ big bad, Fire Lord Ozai. Aang’s fears are portrayed with a juvenile comedy, he imagines having to fight him in his underwear. The dreams Korra deals with are far more intense. They’re dark, they focus on her powerlessness and they are in no way comedic. In season two when the spirit that gives Korra her Avatar powers is taken out of her body and lashed until it is destroyed we intimately watch every detail of Korra’s pain. There is no moment that matches the physical pain that Korra goes through in this scene in The Last Airbender. Korra’s character development is pushed along by the extreme amounts of pain she has to endure. Her ability to withstand and overcome trauma is a character pillar. Her resilience is part of her strength and heroism.
The Legend of Korra set the scene for many female lead western animations to follow. It cannot be overstated the importance Korra held for protagonists of colour and queer representation in children’s media. We see clear inspiration from Korra in She-Ra and The Princesses of Power, RWBY and The Owl House. The tone has been set, so what is that tone? We see, like in Korra, Adora from She-Ra and The Princesses of Power’s arc heavily focuses on her emotional and physical turmoil. Luz from The Owl House also goes through a depression arc after becoming trapped in the human realm. Just like Korra, their strength is defined by their triumph over their suffering.
Both Korra and Rey are valorised for facing pain and overcoming it. Similarly, in Tomb Raider (2018) Lara Croft is defined by the pain she can endure. When we first meet Lara (Alicia Vikander) she is immediately punched in the face. We find her in the boxing ring, fighting an unnamed woman. Although she shows resilience during the fight, she is still defeated. On her adventure to find what happened to her father she is almost drowned (twice), impaled, beaten and smashed into the ground from a height time and time again. Every moment of Lara’s pain is meticulously documented in close up shots of her writhing around in pain or in her grunts and cries of agony. Yet each time Lara gets up and keeps going. Her pain is not there for the aesthetics of suffering, but to validate her strength.
But how are heroes in similar genre movies validated in their strength? Uncharted (2022) is an easy film to compare it to. They both follow similar storylines of adventurers traversing the unknown in search of something lost that their loved one was on the hunt for before they were never seen again, as well as both being based on beloved video game franchises. Nathan Drake (played by Tom Holland) is validated not by his heart of gold (like Aang or Luke) or by his unimaginable resilience (like Rey, Korra or Lara) but by his quick wit and his skill. He’s a younger, kinder Indiana Jones, another protagonist that shows their heroism without immense suffering.
Rey, Korra and Lara are often cited as great female representation in male dominated roles. They demonstrate power, intelligence and capability that women often don’t get to show on screen. We can look at a male protagonist that parallels each of these women’s heroic roles and see they do not demonstrate their heroism with the same resistance to pain and suffering that our heroines do. Both Luke and Aang show impressive natural ability as well as a staunch altruism that pushes them towards their goal. Nathan Drake and Indiana Jones are defined by their bravery and ability to think themselves in and out of situations. Their physical or emotional trauma is not a focal point of their characters. While many action heroes traverse the cross roads between the passive and the progressive that torture and turmoil offers our heroines, there are less heroines offered a route of heroism that does not involve suffering. How many iconic heroines can you think of that are defined by their pain, either physical or emotional? The Bride (Kill Bill Vol. 1 & 2) is introduced bloody and defenceless. Wanda Maximoff’s (Marvel Comics) most famous storyline is her going insane with grief. Arya Stark (A Song of Ice and Fire/Game of Thrones) is blinded and brutalised to achieve her full skill. We keep tying our heroines strength and power directly to their suffering while male heroes get to have powers and motivations that surround other aspects, like compassion or knowledge.
I must ask what keeps bringing us back to this? Is it so difficult to imagine a woman without pain at her core? When can a woman’s gentleness change the world like Aang’s did? Or like Luke’s compassion? When can a woman be defined by her swashbuckling bravado like Indy or Nathan Drake? Variety reported that 33% of the top grossing films of 2022 had female protagonists. Fewer female lead stories means a narrower variety of female protagonists. This is an obvious contributing factor, but I have a sense there is more to the issue.
Leslie Jamison writes in the essay mentioned at the top of this essay about the intrinsic nature of women and pain. She writes about it in poetry, in literature, in real life. The APA reports that woman are twice as likely to develop PTSD from trauma. Anushay Hossain coined the term The Pain Gap to describe the discrepancies in how men and women are treated for pain. Forbes described an exhaustion gap reported last year. There is something in lived experiences of real woman that I see translated in the treatment of our heroines. Although no one I know has been poisoned, brutalised, tortured for information or even impaled, I know women who define their strength in their ability to withstand suffering. Women who will work beyond exhaustion, who will carry any burden that someone needs from them, who will get pushed down and berated but will keep getting back up to finish the job. Brown frames the masculine route of torture as a single crossroads, a decision to be made and left behind. Whereas I feel the pain heroines experience is longer lasting. The pain of their abuse lingers, it not only solidifies their character but defines it. It is written into the code of their character. Our heroes are made to conquer their pain, and our heroines are written to endure. Whether that is an old tired trope, or a reflection of reality is not a simple this or that answer. The only truth is pain, in our heroines, in our sisters, in ourselves.