Have you ever heard a recording of your voice and been surprised? It isn’t the same as the one in your head, and you realize the voice others hear isn’t necessarily yours. How you’re perceived can diverge drastically from who you are. That makes me wonder what the siren hears. Does she know she’s infamous? Did she earn the terror behind her legend? Or perhaps someone decided her voice is dangerous and they spun a tale to bury her truth beneath fear.
Not much is stronger or more lasting than stories. Cautionary or campfire tales, oral and written histories, myths, and legends passed down again and again take on a kind of mercurial immortality. We’ve heard history belongs to the victors, but lasting victory goes to the storytellers. They are the ones with the power to turn a win into a loss, failure into success, a shortcoming into a skill, or gifts into liabilities.
“All human societies have a conception of the monstrous-feminine, of what it is about woman that is shocking, terrifying, horrific, abject.”
—Barbara Creed, from “The Monstrous-Feminine: Film, Feminism, Psychoanalysis”
LABELED A MONSTER
Questions like those tend to rumble into rapids or tumble over like waterfalls. In that way, I’m wondering: How often does a lie need to be repeated before it becomes a belief (without ever being true)? In the old world, no one questioned the intent of the “monstrous-feminine,” a term coined by Barbara Creed in 1993. We simply blamed monstrous women for everything.
From “messy” bodies or minds as explored by Elizabeth Sankey in “Witches.” For the refusal to conform like Elphaba in “Wicked” or the in-theaters “The Bride!” from writer/director Maggie Gyllenhaal. Or for attacks against their bodies, as seen in the tales of Medusa and Circe, myths that are beautifully but devastatingly reclaimed in I, Medusa by Ayana Gray and Circe by Madeliene Miller. From the fall from grace to birthing legions of demons to the reasons the crops wouldn’t grow, women have forcibly shouldered the blame.
In defining monstrous women, Ayana Gray shared her keen insight with me, “In most cases, I think a ‘monstrous’ woman is simply a misunderstood woman, someone who hasn’t been given a voice or opportunity to tell her own story. In the world we live in, it’s much easier to vilify feminine rage than examine it or question the systemic power structures that intentionally disenfranchise certain groups of people and drive them to desperation. To be ‘monstrous’ is to be disruptive, someone who refuses to go along with the status quo.” That says it all.
THE PARADOX OF BEING “EDITED”
Here’s the paradox of a society that wants us to believe women should be silenced or feared: Every significant advancement in humankind had women at the forefront. But let’s stick to the arts. Viola Lawrence and others like her were the original film editors until the men in Old Hollywood and on Wall Street realized these women might influence the narrative. Women were just as plentiful as men at the dawning of hip-hop; they were producers, writers, and journalists. Even in the art of computer sciences, women like Ada Lovelace helped lead the way, as they did in science fiction. You’re probably thinking of Mary Shelley, but there’s also Margaret Cavendish, who wrote The Blazing World.
“When I made ‘The Lost Daughter’ I noticed that telling the truth about something—something a little bit taboo—hit a nerve. And I wondered after that experience, what would happen if I tried to tell the truth about something else and do it in a big, pop way? Would that hit a nerve? What kind of nerve? And so, in this case, it was on my mind, the monstrous aspects inside of every single one of us. I see it in myself. I see it in other people. And I thought, what if we really got down to it and told the truth … but did it in a way that’s hot? … to be able to hold the monstrous in a way that lets us look at it and go yeah, okay … there are parts of me [with] that kind of rage.”
—Maggie Gyllenhaal, via press conference, on the creation of “The Bride!”
Why aren’t those women as heavily credited as pioneers as men? It all comes back to controlling the narrative. Someone flipped the script, spreading gossip that they were too silly and emotional to edit films. Women became too objectified to lead in hip-hop and were relegated to visuals in verses and videos, or were thought of as not quite smart enough for sciences or science fiction. Despite women already being at the forefront of these fields and working successfully, the story became one of unworthiness and usurpation. Lies and propaganda, but it worked. Thus, the villainizing struck again—as it does in so many stories—flipping control of the narrative to one side again.
IS IT MY STORY OR NOT?
Storytelling is one of the most effective tools of power, but it is also a mirror for the storyteller, taking on their beats, rhythms, beliefs, and culture. The Romans reshaped the Greek and Egyptian gods. They made pagan festivals holy. If that isn’t force worthy of capricious pantheons, you’ll have to tell me what is. Believe me, I’m listening, because the spread of the monstrous-feminine tells you whose tongue has been whispering the narrative.
“Are people born wicked, or do they have wickedness thrust upon them?”
—Glinda, “Wicked”
When I asked the people around me about monstrous women, examples varied as much as the cultures: Medusa, Circe, Lilith, sirens, witches, Cleopatra, Kali, Kuchisakka-onna, Queen Gudit, ale wives, Brunhild, Joan of Arc, Medea, La Llorona, Lamia, the soucouyant (my mum’s favorite), Baba Yaga, and so many more. My eyes widened and watered while researching these stories, mythical, legendary, or real, but I began to see parallels in the women of myth and the feminine rage of current films. Shall we explore the pairings?
A couple of things to note. Myths are cumulative works, consistently reshaped by time and imagination. The following references are based on the most common versions of legends in our current collective consciousness. For example, sirens are akin to harpies. They traditionally have wings and/or various bird parts, but have been reimagined as carnivorous mermaids. Likewise, any mentioned followed by “-reclaimed” speaks to modern versions that have been largely reframed as monstrous-feminine icons.
THE BRIDE x THE LEGEND OF BILLIE JEAN: Unchained and Unstoppable
Maggie Gyllenhaal’s “The Bride!” will be compared to “Bonnie & Clyde”(1967), “Wild at Heart” (1990), and a 1930s punk rock “Chicago”—just as Gyllenhaal intended. But allow me to pull another blonde rebel-girl into the conversation: “The Legend of Billie Jean.”
Blazing through 1980s Texas like Joan of Arc, Billie Jean refuses to be blamed, shamed, or sidetracked from her pursuit of justice, becoming an outlaw and igniting a revolution with every act of defiance. In the original “Bride of Frankenstein,” the Bride was more plot bunny than character. Other than that infamous scream, she had nothing to say. The Bride-reclaimed doesn’t have that problem. As Jessie Buckley recently said, “She’s got a mind and body that is reinvigorated in a way that she doesn’t even expect herself. Like it’s so alive, it’s so monstrous in the most kind of wild, brilliant, like a laser beam kind of way.”
Both the Bride and Billie Jean are reconfigured by acts of violence that steal one’s life and the other’s peace. They each go to the police for help but are left disillusioned by detectives more concerned with the status quo. Instead of backing down, the girls go lawless, becoming icons of rebellion and giving voice to the rage inside other women. With battle cries of “fair is fair” and “brain attack!” Billie Jean and the Bride demand justice or else, and they’re monstrous enough to take it by force.
LINDA LIDDLE x MEDUSA: The Monster Mirrored
Hear me out with this pairing. It’s Linda Liddle from “Send Help” and Medusa. They begin as victims. Linda is dismissed and demeaned by a mediocre male boss at work. In some stories, Medusa is punished for breaking a vow of chastity, and in others for the violence inflicted on her. Both women are subsequently transformed by trauma into figures society deems monstrous. Their “monstrosity” is not their own, but forged by systemic abuse and their refusal to remain powerless. Linda weaponizes her rage and survival instincts against her oppressor. Medusa’s stone-cold gaze becomes a defense against further attacks. By turning the figurative gaze back on those who would obliterate them, Linda and Medusa challenge audiences to reconsider who is truly the monster, reframing monstrosity as determination rather than mislabeled evil or failing to fall in line. Their stories expose the hypocrisy of being made “monstrous” by daring to survive.
However, unlike the Medusa-reclaimed inspired by Ovid and expanded by Gray, Linda loses us by murdering innocents. Thus, she turns triumph into a downward spiral, continuing the transformation from monstrous feminine into monster. She crosses the line, and there’s no justifying that.
ELPHABA x ARACHNE: Fear of her Power
This is a juicy one, and I’m not just talking about whatever toxic cocktail the Wizard was sipping. Neither Elphaba’s nor Arachne’s “monstrosity” is inherent, although it might be perceived in their appearances. Their “monstrous-feminine” is born from social constructs bent on punishing their refusal to conform or misuse their extraordinary gifts: Elphaba’s potent magic and Arachne’s unrivaled artistry in weaving. Both are justice-driven, challenging corrupt authority figures.
While Elphaba takes on the Wizard’s regime, Arachne goes up against the goddess Athena. Their audacity costs them. Branded as destructive monsters for daring to wield power beyond the grasp of the powers that be, Arachne and Elphaba are demonized as a warning to other young women who might dare to be too great. Each is transformed—one into a spider and the other into the Wicked Witch of the West—yet, if we listen, their stories reclaim monstrosity as a badge of resistance. Cheers to the women who refuse to dim their light and instead set the world on fire.
RUMI x SIRENS: Voices that Cannot Be Silenced
“KPop Demon Hunters” and the trio known as HUNTR/X still have us in a chokehold. If storytelling is the power to write and edit history, then voice is its pen. Rumi and Sirens-reclaimed—like Bianca in “Wednesday”—embody the symbolism of using our voices to make change, to heal, and to protect. These are voices that both shield and seduce. The Sirens—whose hybrid forms and enchanting songs are feared for their ability to lure and destroy—are a parallel for Rumi’s half-demon, half-human identity and the supernatural talents that position her as both protector and potential threat.
Both Rumi and Sirens exist in the in-between. Rumi navigates the dual worlds of idol and demon hunter. Shame and empowerment. Meanwhile, the Sirens dwell at the threshold of who they were as protectors of Persephone and the aftermath of failing to keep her away from Hades. He’s the problem; they get the blame. The Sirens must deal with Demeter’s wrath, while Rumi deals with the shame her mentor, Celine, forced her to internalize.
There’s a long history of women being called monsters because their voices carry weight, but what makes Rumi “monstrous” is also what makes her heroic. She was tricked into believing something was wrong with part of her identity. Yet by hiding her demon half, she stifled herself, causing her to lose her voice. It isn’t until she embraces her “monstrous-feminine” that she breaks the silence and comes into the fullness of her power alongside her friends. Rumi and Sirens-reclaimed (“Sirens,” “Tidelands” or “Wednesday”) are hybrid heroines challenging prejudices and the old guard, turning the curse of otherness into a crown of agency. By going from silent shame to unapologetic loudness, Rumi and reclaimed Sirens redefine the monstrous as a symbol of autonomy.
TRUTH BY YOUR OWN DEFINITION
To close it out, here’s more from Ayana Gray: “What I hope is that I, Medusa starts conversations. I hope it encourages people not to accept presented truths without thinking critically about who holds power in this world and who benefits from certain truths.”
That, lovelies, is how the “monstrous-feminine” speaks truth to power. If storytelling is a mirror and a victory for the tellers, women cannot see ourselves in someone else’s reflection or hear ourselves in someone else’s theme song—not without becoming monstrous enough to claw our way to our truest selves.
