SuperChicks: The Next Step, or Two Steps Back?

You can see them everywhere; adorning movie posters, flying across your television screen, gracing the covers of graphic and YA novels. Who are they? They’re SuperBabes. Good, evil, or mischievously undecided, they tend to share unparalleled athleticism, preternatural good looks, an aptitude for witty banter, and a penchant for high fashion. They’re more than super. They’re indefatigable, undefeatable.

Are they, in short, ideal? I’ve always been an unquestioning fan. We enthusiasts enjoy tracing this archetype- is Buffy really a descendant of Wonder Woman? Do we look further back, even? Does she descend from great literature, where Tess d’Urberville murders the man who done her wrong, sacrificing herself in a twisted quest for revenge and to save the undeserving man she loves (oh, Angel, what a hypocritical prick you really were), or from Heathcliff’s fiery, indomitable Cathy? Do we look to mythology, to Artemis and Athena, the steely eyed huntress and brainiac warrioress, or even- forgive the blaspheme- the Virgin Mary? Give the Holy Mother some credit, like Veronica Mars, she stood tall in the derision of her peers. She managed to hold onto her man without a shred of evidence that she wasn’t just a lying hussy and then gave a completely natural birth in a smelly manger to a divine being (I believe had this occurred today, divinity would have warranted a C-Section).

Here’s what, to my mind, being a SuperBabe is really about. It’s that moment when the camera, or narrative, focuses on our heroine’s eyes as she shuts out the world. It’s her ability to make the decision that has to be made, and to not whine, or cry, or dissect endlessly what brought her to this point. It’s Athena springing fully formed from Zeus’s skull, Artemis turning her stalker into a stag, Mary avoiding the camel droppings as she hunkers down on the stable floor, Esther confessing she is a Jew, Portia putting on her barrister’s robes. It’s the same clarity of heart (not mind, as these decisions are not always strictly moral) that Gabrielle shows when she throws her pacifism out the window to kill the Roman soldiers who will crucify her beloved Xena; when Alice from Resident Evil kills her handsome betrayer of a husband to save the world from Zombies; or how Buffy stabs Angel and sends him to Hell to seal the rift between dimensions, saving everyone but the love that consumes her life. Such excitement, such feminism! Surely Rosie the Riveter would applaud. Right?

Feministas may rejoice in these portrayals, but what worries me is- if the ability to be the ultimate badass in a world full of badasses is the cake, why ask us to believe the icing is what’s necessary to be a heroine? By “icing” I mean, must one be beautiful and possess supernatural slaying powers to love and be loved at the cataclysmic level of Buffy and Angel? Do we all need to redeem our wicked past and be able to consistently defy the laws of physics in order to deserve our friends’ unwavering protection, or is that kind of loyalty reserved for the Warrior Princess? Of course, this is television drama, so everything is heightened. We can translate for ourselves, turning Armageddon and mass murder into real, more personal tragedies. Personal, but not lesser. What wouldn’t a woman do to prevent the loss of a child, or to stop a loved one from walking down the road into destructive substance abuse?

Here’s the rub. We already know that these SuperBabes aren’t real, and that their powers don’t exist in our mundane reality. Without a genetic overhaul, women on the whole will never be physically stronger than men. This means, for every woman who fights of a would-be rapist, there are ten more who can’t, ten more who won’t turn in husbands or boyfriends for domestic abuse, ten more who will be harrassed or assaulted or (as is still the norm in countries as developed as Egypt) genitally mutilated. There are no magical gauntlets to ward off these attacks, and rescue never comes from a Lara Croft vigilante in between tomb raids; but in the form of law enforcement, or an observant neighbor, or the glacier-paced changing of backwards societal mentalities.

I believe one barometer for a society is its treatment of women, “the weaker sex.” Ours displays shining stars of women who can smash through a brick wall without breaking a nail. To me, this raises the question of whether this SuperBabe trend truly displays advancement in sexual politics, or if it’s merely placation. Should we really idolize these impossible women, or should we condemn these characters not only as exploitation, but the enforcers of unrealistic expectations?

For example, we love to see little blonde Buffy Summers pound large men into the ground. Other times, we like to be reminded that she is fragile, like when an ex-boyfriend attempts to rape her. Buffy’s vulnerability as a woman makes us appreciate all the more when she does what we ordinary women cannot- save the world, spit out the right pithy remark to cut her enemy down to size, and collect unbelievably hot immortal boyfriends like a lepidopterist. Buffy is stronger than any man alive- why is it acceptable for her to hurt them, but intolerable for them to hurt her? This is not equality, but the presupposition that women are superior to men.

The problem I see in this attitude is simple. I don’t want the world to expect superiority from us, and I don’t want us to expect it from ourselves. Don’t misunderstand me: I believe in fulfilling our greatest potential, whether we be women, men, or dancing bears. There is, however, a difference between raising the bar and requiring us to have superpowers to reach it.

I worry that I love these women not because I want to be like them, but because I know I can’t- no one can. I worry we will lose the value of true accomplishment, because the deeds of the real women of the real world just can’t dramatically measure up to Ripley’s defeat of a hostile alien predator. Authentic women’s endeavors are infinitely more important and should be measured as such. Certainly we should prize them more highly than those of women who tell us that we should be able to kick a man’s ass in high heels. We lose the high ground protesting violence against women when we take such delight in the fictional portrayal of violence against men. Men suffer from their portrayal in these modern narratives as much as we can suffer from the image that we should be perfect and undefeatable in any combat arena.

They’re not all James Bonds, after all.