She’s so sad. A mess, pathetic, off the rails. A little bit bipolar, but not too much, you know?
Her mascara trickles perfectly down her contoured cheeks; her hair is bedraggled in such a way as to add a lovely amount of volume; maybe she’s mentally ill, maybe it’s Maybelline? She stumbles elegantly through the dark, rainy, twinkly city; pondering heartache, the inherent cruelty and meaninglessness of life, and sex. She’s the “Sad Hot Girl”, and as far as post-2010s commissioners believe, she makes excellent TV.
Ever since TV series-cum-foundational-text Fleabag debuted in 2016, this televisual gold rush has seen series after series of this messed-up (oft millennial) female protagonist being released to great commercial reception. The core tenants are: mental illness, horniness, and womanhood. Think Normal People, think Everything I Know About Love, think Big Mood.
These shows are largely book adaptations— Sad Hot Girl Literature becomes Sad Hot Girl Television. For example, Sally Rooney (Normal People, Conversations with Friends) has sold millions and millions of novels, two of which became beloved and integral parts of the “Sad Hot Girl” televisual canon. She has also become the frequent subject of online ridicule for her staple protagonist— thin, depressed, but also unfailingly an object of sexual and romantic desire. The physical appearance and eroticism of Rooney’s characters (and those of the broader SHG field) is not an irrelevance, but a staple of the genre for these women to be pretty in their disorder.
“A smorgasbord of unlikeability” is a term that has been used to describe this messy, millennial, female culture. It’s true, these characters are often complex and certainly not placid; however, it’s arguable that such unlikeability is only tolerated in TV’s women if offset by their essential physical palatability and vital sexual nature. Is it the sad truth that we have perhaps come so far in feminism that we can have unlikeable women, but only if they’re not ugly about it?
A heartening argument in opposition comes from the existence of pioneering Girls. Lena Dunham’s 2012 series is a lasting example of how to do “Sad Girl TV” in a way that doesn’t feel self-consciously sexy— it details a group of truly awful, unalluring mid-20s women being proudly unappealing in their neuroses. Dunham’s Hannah is genuinely weird and questionably behaved, and not in a way that feels practiced in the mirror, nor filmed in what seems like painstakingly erected (!) lighting. As Girls predates the recent glut of SHG content, we can hope for commissioners to find their fun(ds) for a return to glamorously unglamorous women. But for now, gorgeous, gorgeous girls are being sad on TV xx.
Photo by Diyar Shahbaz on Unsplash