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by Sailee Dadarkar
‘Men always say that as the defining compliment, don’t they? She’s a cool girl.’
—Gone Girl, 2012.
My first encounter with Amy Dunne was at age sixteen.
Gone Girl had been recommended to me by a friend, and the only thing I’d heard about it? It’s a cool thriller. And so, when I watched, more focused on the thrill of the plot twists than the layers of rage bubbling underneath, I was mesmerized. A flurry of questions raced through my mind. Could a woman really do this? Could she really go to those lengths? Could we really go to those lengths? Revisiting it now, in a world where female anger is not dismissed but weaponized and celebrated on screen, the film feels less like a mystery and more like a manifesto. Amy Dunne, with her chillingly calculated vendetta and refusal to apologize for her fury, is not just a character. She is a cinematic slap in the face—a reminder that women’s anger, when allowed to simmer for too long, can boil over into something far scarier than we’re used to.
Amy’s rage feels both personal and universal. It’s not just about Nick’s betrayal (although that’s a good enough reason to snap); it’s about the bigger betrayal by society—one that forces women to contort themselves into shapes they don’t fit. The ‘Cool Girl’ monologue is probably one of the most scathing takedowns of modern femininity I’ve ever seen. Amy lays it bare: the exhausting performance women are conditioned to put on, all smiles and effortless beauty, while suppressing every ounce of dissatisfaction, anger, or ambition that might make them less palatable. Her anger isn’t unhinged—it’s pointed, purposeful, and makes you sit with the discomfort of how often we expect women to make themselves smaller.
But Amy isn’t the first angry woman to shake up the screen. Female rage has always existed in cinema; it just didn’t have the space to be loud or validated. Look back to Gaslight (1944), where Ingrid Bergman’s character is made to feel like her sanity is slipping because her husband manipulates her reality. Female anger was portrayed as irrational or even dangerous—something to be fixed by the men around them. Compare that to Carrie (1976), where Sissy Spacek takes the humiliation and rage from years of abuse and turns it into fiery, telekinetic revenge. Carrie doesn’t just lash out—she scorches everything in her path, and the film leans into the chaos of her fury without asking for sympathy. It’s messy, it’s bloody, and it is cathartic in ways that feel timeless.
But what is female rage? And where did it come from?
Rage Through the Ages: A Brief History
The term female rage isn’t exactly new, but the way it’s understood today is vastly different from its origins. Historically, women’s anger was dismissed, mislabeled, or outright pathologized.
Terms like ‘hysteria’ (from the Greek hystera, meaning uterus) tied women’s anger to their biology, as though frustration or dissatisfaction were just symptoms of hormonal imbalance rather than valid emotional responses. For centuries, the dominant narrative reduced women’s rage to a problem needing a solution—whether through medicine, marriage, or silence. Female anger wasn’t something to be validated; it was something to be managed. But even within this dismissive framework, women’s anger never disappeared. It simmered beneath the surface, often finding expression in literature, art, and eventually, cinema.
The feminist movements of the 1960’s and 1970’s marked a pivotal shift in how female rage was articulated. As women rallied for equal rights and challenged societal norms, their anger became visible and primarily, central to their activism. Think of the image of women burning bras or marching for reproductive rights—these were moments of collective rage that redefined what it meant to be angry as a woman. Writers like Audre Lorde and Gloria Steinem gave intellectual weight to female anger, framing it not as something destructive but as a transformative force for social change.
In the realm of cinema, the late 20th century began exploring female rage more explicitly, though it often came with strings attached. Films like Thelma & Louise (1991) showed women breaking free from societal constraints, but their anger was still portrayed as ultimately self-destructive—justified but doomed. The movie’s iconic ending, where the titular characters drive off a cliff rather than surrender to the patriarchy, is equal parts empowering and tragic. Female rage was allowed on screen, but only within limits, as though it were too dangerous to exist without consequences.
Meanwhile, writers like Sylvia Plath (The Bell Jar) continued to explore the inner lives of angry women, bringing nuance and depth to emotions that had long been dismissed as hysterical. The term itself gained traction as feminism became increasingly mainstream in the early 21st century, amplified by social media and movements like #MeToo. Female rage became a collective voice, particularly in the aftermath of high-profile cases of abuse and systemic gender inequality.
The Rise of the Angry Young Woman.
In pop culture, the phenomenon of ‘female rage’ began to appear not just as a response to personal betrayals but as a reaction to larger injustices. Movies like Promising Young Woman (2020) brought a new energy to the concept, framing women’s anger as not just valid but necessary. Female rage was no longer something to fear—it became a form of power, a way of taking control in a world that often denies women agency.
And it’s not just thrillers and horror that tap into this rage. The comedy genre, surprisingly, has given female anger a spotlight in ways that are both hilarious and painfully honest. Take Bridesmaids (2011), where Kristen Wiig’s character Annie hits her breaking point after being repeatedly sidelined and undervalued. Her meltdown at the bridal shower—screaming, smashing a giant cookie, and toppling a chocolate fountain—isn’t just funny; it’s raw. It’s the kindof anger women aren’t supposed to express publicly, and seeing it unfold on screen feels oddly freeing.
One of the most interesting shifts in recent portrayals of female rage is the way these stories are being told visually. Gone Girl's cold, meticulous cinematography mirrors Amy’s calculated fury. The stark lighting, the isolated shots of her, the eerie calm of the soundtrack—all of it works to make her anger feel almost clinical, like a science experiment in vengeance. Compare that with films like Jennifer’s Body (2009), where using hyper-saturated colors and campy aesthetics turn Jennifer’s vengeful rampage into something almost mythic. It’s a far cry from the muted tones of older films, where women’s anger was drowned out by the world around them.
Even outside of traditional storytelling, female rage is popping up everywhere in pop culture. Look at Maxine from The X Trilogy (2022), whose rage is chaotic, glamorous, and unapologetic. Or Fleabag from Fleabag (2016), whose simmering frustration with life bubbles up through biting humor and self-sabotage. And let’s be honest, what woman who’s watched Fleabag hasn’t related to her at least once? These characters don’t just embody anger—they wear it, live it, and force you to see it as something normal, even relatable. They’ve paved the way for female characters who don’t apologize for their flaws or their fury, creating a space for stories that feel closer to real life.
But the question remains unsolved: how far is too far? And when does this rage meet its end?
Ultimately, what Gone Girl and its successors prove is that female rage isn’t just a narrative device. It’s a reflection of the world we live in, a call to pay attention to the frustrations that have long been ignored. These stories don’t just entertain—they unsettle, challenge, and, in some cases, even inspire. And maybe that’s the real power of female rage: it doesn’t just demand to be heard. It refuses to be silenced.
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