Have you watched Black Widow?

My sister and I rewatched it for the second time recently. I still had to look away during the opening credits sequence. We laughed over the jokes we’d forgotten and gasped over moments that caught us off guard.

What surprised me most was how this is a perfect “girl power” story done right.

In a twist that shocks no one, I very much support girl power stories. Some Christian artists tear down any example of “woke feminism,” the mystic and buzzy words that spell doom for most heroines.

Here’s the thing though. As I grew up, and especially during my teen years, I couldn’t relate to the heroines I saw and read. No matter how demure I was forced to look on the outside, inside I never felt like I fit common feminine stereotypes.

So as I made more viewing and reading choices for myself, I craved those heroines who were different. I sought out strong heroines, women who challenged injustice and abuse, women who did the things everyone said girls couldn’t do.

And I found Natasha and Yelena.

Marvel certainly hasn’t always hit the mark with their heroines. Heck, it took them over a decade to get Black Widow herself right. (I refuse to discuss the travesty that is her representation in Iron Man 2.) But they did finally get there. And we're going to explore how--as well as how it works for your own leading ladies. 

No One Gets Pushed Aside

If you’re like me, you might have come here to create a strong female character that isn’t “aggressive” or “abrasive” to your audience.

And we’ll get there. But I also want to challenge that idea. 

With women-led stories, when commentators call them aggressive and abrasive, it’s often code for something else. Aggressive means it steps a little too close to my own pet prejudices, challenging me in uncomfortable ways. Abrasive means that the heroine is too loud, too strong, too something or another, and she makes us feel threatened.

Stories like Black Widow should make me uncomfortable. It’s hard to not cover my eyes when girls are dragged screaming away from the only family they know, and said family watches them go. And I need that discomfort.

Aggressive and abrasive can also mean something else, though, and we’ve all read a girl power story like this. Where the heroine tears down everyone around her, regardless of gender, so she can lift herself to the heights she needs.

Black Widow deals very up close and personally with some very evil men. And yet, never once did they tear down a man to lift their woman up.

I hear you. “But Alexei—” you say.

And it’s true. The characters—and us, the audience—mercilessly mock Alexei. But we don’t mock him because “he’s a man and all men are dumb and stupid.”

No, we mock him because he’s Alexei. He could have been a woman and we would have laughed the same way. His character traits and the things we may or may not mock him for are not tied to his gender. And in the end, he has the chance to choose something more heroic, just like our heroines do, whether or not he ultimately takes it.

There aren’t very many men in Black Widow, but there’s at least one good dude, even if it’s just the guy who gives Natasha a safe house, or references to how Clint Barton has helped her. Which is so important especially when dealing with heavy subject matter like this film does, where the men would and could be villains.

But in making sure the heroines don’t put anyone down, the film also doesn’t allow anyone to put down the heroines. No other character, regardless of who they are, eclipses Natasha and Yelena. The women take center stage here. But they didn’t push anyone out of the way to get there.

Because they didn’t have to push anyone down to get where they are, Natasha and Yelena are actually stronger. They don’t steal their strength from someone else, male or female. And because of that, their inherent strength is more, because they have enough to stand on their own.  

The Female Gaze (alternatively titled The Importance of Pockets)

Just because they included good guys doesn’t mean they downplayed evil and injustice. Dreykov still exists. There’s a reason I cry during the opening sequence. It is brutal and it is heart-wrenching and it captures feelings that touch every woman on this planet in a way.

On the flipside, the film also includes the unique joys that women experience—whether that’s sisterhood or the value of an outfit with lots of pockets. (If you know you know, and you’re probably a woman.)

I should also note that none of their struggles centered around romance. That’s not to say that it wasn’t represented—Melina had whatever she had with Alexei.

But neither Yelena or Natasha can have children, but they don’t treat themselves like they’re broken. Neither Yelena or Natasha are at all interested in romance right now, and they don’t act like they’re incomplete. (Unlike some other Marvel projects I could name . . . cough, cough, Age of Ultron.)

In a culture that, for all the empowering messages it claims, also tells women that they only matter if they’re attached to someone, it’s refreshing to see a film that neither slanders marriage and family but also recognizes that marriage and family is not a woman’s purpose.

If you have a minute to kill (and I’m guessing you do if you’re reading this), here’s a interesting exercise I stumbled upon in the depths of Google one day. Someone placed the Black Widow Avengers poster beside the Black Widow poster for her titular movie. I won’t even say anything, just take a look at them and guess which film was directed by a woman.

Everything from her costume color to her hairstyle to the angle she faces the camera is affected by a women’s viewpoint.

And if you’re a dude and you’re despairing and thinking this counts you out, let me point out that a man wrote the Black Widow screenplay. Learning these angles and ideas is for everyone, not just women.

This Princess Saves Herself

Hear me on this: There’s nothing wrong with a man saving a woman.

But the vast majority of women have had to save themselves. They have had to fight and kick and claw and scream their way out. So stories where a man saves the woman from all her troubles can feel trite and insulting.

This movie allows for that. Natasha, Yelena, and Melina sever their own nerve so to speak to escape Dreykov and rescue the women around them. 

And yet not every woman is an untouchable savior. Melina allowed Yelena and Natasha to be trafficked and even assisted their trafficker. Natasha attempted to kill Dreykov’s daughter to complete a mission. Yelena . . . okay, Yelena is actually fine for now, although she gets into sketchy stuff later in the MCU.

The heroines are allowed to be messy and imperfect and sometimes deeply wrong.

This is why it was so important that Taskmaster was a woman. Her struggle, Natasha’s struggle, and the ways they mirror each other even as they’re hurting each other has a very raw power. We all support women helping women, but women also sometimes hurt women. Watching Natasha make that right, however imperfectly, means something, much more than if Taskmaster was just another male villain.

When all is said and all is done, the movie is allowed to be a story about women and the myriad of relationships between them. But notice that this movie never says “this is a story about women.” There’s no impassioned go-girls speech. Instead, the filmmakers simply let their heroines take the lead and followed them into all the messy, confusing places of being a girl in this world.

There’s not only something beautiful about that, there’s something powerful. 
​

The keynote session centered around the need for traditional heroes. The speaker made her point eloquently. But even when the talk finished and the audience wandered back out into the hallway, something didn’t sit right with me. I looked over my notes, but nothing stood out. I agreed with the points she made!

I shoved my notepad in my bag and left for my next session. But every so often over the month afterward, I’d puzzle over what had unsettled me. After a lot of thought, I finally realized—the speaker seemed to claim that a lack of traditional heroes was the downfall of our society.

And then she laid the blame for the lack of traditional heroes at the feet of antiheroes.

Merriam-Webster defines an antihero as “a protagonist or notable figure who is conspicuously lacking in heroic qualities.” This doesn’t have to mean that they’re morally gray, but it often does. Hence why this speaker blamed antiheroes for our modern problems.

That idea was what I resisted. But why?

I’m not always the person who takes the more “traditional” route. I’ve built my entire brand around unconventional heroines. So was I pushing back because of some natural rebellion, some fatal flaw in myself?

I’m inclined to believe no. Because traditional heroes have influenced me deeply, sure. I’m a Spider-Man fan like anybody else.

But the books and movies and shows that influenced me (and my writing!) most deeply were the ones that starred antiheroes. 

And so I was left balancing the need for traditional heroes with the undeniable good that antiheroes have worked in my life. My resistance didn’t stem from a belief that we didn’t need more good heroes. My resistance came from laying the blame at the feet of one specific character type.

She wasn’t the first Christian speaker I’ve heard take this position. Many Christian artists think God-glorifying authors are better off avoiding antiheroes altogether, or at the very least regarding them with suspicious scrutiny.

You might have guessed that I’m not one of them. In this blog post, I’ll explain why I think antiheroes matter for Christians, and why I believe (when used thoughtfully) they have just as great, if not greater an impact, than a traditional hero.

What Antiheroes Do That Good Guys Can’t

I’ve noticed two main ways that antiheroes succeed where the “good guys” can’t.

One: They can feel more human. And because they feel more human, they connect with readers differently. This is why stories like Six of Crows and Arcane: League of Legends stick with me. Each character made excellent choices and flawed choices, but I could see myself in both of the extremes.

Don’t get me wrong—I’m not saying good people don’t exist! This is why fictional traditional heroes matter—they remind us of the good that remains in the world. (Which is exactly that keynote speaker’s point!)

But even the best earthly person has a flaw.

Antiheroes connect with our flaws. That forges a different and unique bond that draws us deeper into their story, for better or for worse.

Two: They illustrate the consequences of evil without us going there ourselves.

I’ll discuss this more later with a personal example (or you can fast forward if you’re a rebel), but when I read a book with a flawed protagonist, it exposes those same thought patterns and ideas in me—BEFORE I meet the same destructive ends that these characters do. Stories matter, and because of these antiheroes, I changed so I wouldn’t become them. They used that unique bond to create change.

Maybe Labels are the Real Villains

I’ve talked a lot about antiheroes and heroes and all that. But I think labels like that hold us back.

When I say that my book has a traditional hero, now I HAVE to make sure their morals are pure so outraged readers don’t contact me.

When I announce I’m writing an antihero, now I HAVE to make sure they’re the right amount of skewed without making everyone clasp their pearls.

And if I’m worrying about those things, then I’m not worried about writing a good character.

What would happen if we swept all the labels aside and created human characters?

Sometimes they’ll have traditional heroic morals. Other times they’ll humor their dark side a bit. But they’ll be real. They’ll be authentic.

Sometimes they might be antiheroes.

The Ambiguity of “Moral Ambiguity”

So why can Christian authors be so afraid of antiheroes?

Because we don’t know what moral ambiguity is.

Many Christian artists who despise antiheroes often speak about the evils of morally ambiguous stories. The prevailing belief seems to be that if you work with antiheroes or even very flawed characters, you’ve chosen a story without morals.

I don’t think this is true. I’m not even quite sure it IS possible to write a story without morals.

Here’s why. Merriam-Webster defines moral as “relating to principles of right and wrong in behavior.”

Every person, whether they acknowledge it or not, has their own principles of right and wrong—even if they believe (or think they believe) that their actions don’t matter. They still have things that they will or will not do. They may not have a healthy sense of morals, but they have morals nonetheless.

So if we create characters that are complete persons like I talked about above, they naturally have morals. They have their own sense of what’s right or wrong.

But for the sake of this example, let’s say I did somehow create a character completely without morals. Guess what? I am still also a person, and I bring my own morals and worldview to the story.

But let’s say I wrote something completely without my own morals or my characters’ morals. The reader who picks up my book also brings their own morals and worldview to how they view this story.

Merriam-Webster defines moral ambiguity as “a lack of certainty about whether something is right or wrong.”

So in that sense, I’m not quite sure it’s possible to truly have a morally ambiguous story. My character might not be sure what’s right or wrong, but those stories will lead me or the reader to make our own decisions on whether they were right or wrong.

For instance, I love the Six of Crows duology. The Crows might think that committing fraud is a good way to solve their problems. Maybe the author does too (I doubt it). But I don’t, and I’m reading the story through that lens.

Somewhere in every story there are morals. Someone—the character, the writer, or the reader—has principles about whether something is right or wrong.

So Christian authors who worry about moral ambiguity are actually worried about books with bad morals. Which is a VERY valid concern.

Because a reader’s sense of morals can be strengthened, challenged, or even changed by my story. So if I write an antihero with questionable morals, it’s all the more important that I, the author, write from a place of healthy, secure morals. Because I can’t count on the reader bringing those morals to the story.

And hey, if I do that, I’ll avoid that moral ambiguity, if it does indeed exist.

Which brings us to The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes—aka one of the books that impacted me the most deeply.

The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes and . . . Myself

The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes did something that none of the other Hunger Games books could. I started Ballad certain that I wouldn’t like it nearly as much as the original books. After all, I knew what Snow would become. I would NOT feel any sympathy for him.

Spoiler alert: I did. The Snow we meet at the beginning of Ballad didn’t seem quite so bad. Was he a bit judgy? Sure. But he just wanted to provide for his cousin and grandmother. Maybe I could relate after all—just a tiny bit.

The story continued, and Snow made worse and worse choices. I’d cringe a little bit—oof, that particular choice was pretty bad—but I could see how he got here, why he made that decision. Who’s to say in his situation I wouldn’t do the same?

And then the epilogue punched me in the face.

It left no doubt—Snow was absolutely evil, completely wrong both in what he valued and in what he chose. He had been that way from the start.

And I had sympathized with him.

Ballad made me confront the darker and less honorable parts of myself in a way that Katniss and all her good morals could not. Does that mean Katniss is useless? Far from it! But Snow’s story captured unique advantages that hers could not.

Ballad shaped how I think about and value other people. Lucy Gray and Katniss Everdeen didn’t make that change in me. Coriolanus Snow did, of all people.

I can argue for antiheroes all day long, but when it comes down to it, this is why I can’t lay all the blame at their doorstep. Because flawed stories and flawed characters have personally impacted me for good.

All Things in Balance as They Should Be

We humans tend to overcorrect. We read about the need for traditional heroes and resolve to never write an antihero or anyone else whose good morals are not crystal clear ever again. Or we read about the good that antiheroes can do and we throw out traditional heroes. (I’m guilty of both.)

But we need both heroes and antiheroes in different ways and for different purposes.

Don’t worry about creating a good hero, or a good antihero, or a good anything else. Create good characters first. Discover what makes them human. Give them both good and bad parts of themselves and make them a whole person. Look past the labels.

And by all means, create your traditional hero. Create as many as you like! We need them. But don’t relegate antiheroes to the platform that lifts them up.

What if we all released our labels and created raw, human characters instead? What if we confronted the good and the bad of our own morals and our readers’ morals on the pages?

I think that might have more power than a thousand “traditional” heroes combined.  

Hi, I’m Rachel! I write young adult/new adult fantasy novels that walk the line between the darker elements of fantasy and the weirder elements of cartoons. But more importantly, I write the novels I needed growing up—the novels I still need. Novels for the weird little girls and the women they’re becoming.

Maybe you need those stories, too? You can get one for free by signing up for my email newsletter via the “HOME” page of my website. It might involve a girl and the magical violin she didn’t want, plus maybe a metaphor about grief? Plus, you’ll also get email-exclusive updates about what I’m reading, watching, and writing. Sound good? I hope I’ll see you there! ​