Female characters always walk a tightrope between saint and harlot.
Looking back through film and television history, the templates for perfect female leads could pile up into mountains: selfless saintly wives, decisive powerful women, or tragic beauties filled with brokenness… But when Fleabag appears like a real person among NPCs in a game – wearing a dirty black turtleneck, with messy hair, raising an eyebrow at the camera – we sigh with relief. Finally, a female protagonist with a chaotic life. It’s raw and authentic, and we love her for it.
You watch her flirt with handsome men at a family funeral, steal free drinks during business meetings, repeatedly sabotage all her intimate relationships, and even film herself masturbating to Obama speeches without holding anything back.
But you also see her falling asleep in her sister’s arms at night like when they were children, confessing to the priest “I fucking love you,” and sneaking out to the back street for a cigarette during the noise of a family dinner.
We love Fleabag – her lucidity and honesty, the beam of vitality that always shines through her cracked and messy life. We love how she chews pain into dark humor, how she talks to us while simultaneously stealing her mother’s statue from her stepmother.
This vitality is deeply moving, showcasing a kind of wisdom that’s both light and grounded. This is why, even after 12 years, Fleabag remains an undisputed masterpiece in my heart.
We want more women to become feminists, but when society is busy labeling women as “independent,” it can also become a shackle. Just as Fleabag sprawls on the sofa and self-deprecatingly says, “I’m probably a greedy, perverted, selfish, apocryphal feminist,” we need people who tear off labels to reveal the real flesh underneath, complete with body hair and cellulite – imperfect, but authentic and pressure-free.
We need more female-led narratives with this tension, showing us a more authentic attitude toward life: not heroes, not losers, not needing to be flawless to be worthy of love. Wounded souls can continue moving forward, and the courage to be imperfect is powerful in itself.
Like speaking up about discomfort on the gynecological examination table, like no longer obsessing over whether our lower abdomen is flat enough, like admitting it’s hard to get over an ex.
Believe me, It’s OK, when things are not OK.