Normalizing Non-Normativity and the Masculinization of Unlikeable Women in HBO’s Girls

By Sophia Fijman, Edited by Ben Glickman

“I think I might be the voice of my generation.” (Dunham, “Pilot”)

In the pilot episode of HBO’s Girls (2012-2017), 24 year old Hannah Horvath (Lena Dunham), in the midst of her pursuit of being a professional writer in New York City, is financially cut off by her parents. She brazenly defends herself, declaring, “I don’t want to freak you out but I think I might be the voice of my generation. Or, at least, a voice of a generation” (Dunham). Hannah’s immaturity and self-absorption––here manifested in her unrealistic goals and initial lack of independence––has made her into one of television’s most contentious characters of the 21st century. Framed by her heavily gendered role within the series, her blatantly disagreeable personality and unlikeable traits exemplify a significant contempt for women acting outside what is televisually ‘normative.’ In fact, all four protagonists of Girls—and the men who move on the outskirts of their lives––are deeply flawed and often disagreeable. Yet, the show remains in critical discussion and has been routinely praised over the decade since its initial success. Its characters’ discordant audience reception is due to discomfort associated with their challenging of gendered expectations. Girls is not a masterpiece. It is, undeniably, a landmark in the modern media landscape in its normalization of that which was previously swept under the rug by television’s idea of a woman: the uncomfortable reality of a 20-something-year-old middle-class white girl’s life. In televising authenticity, Girls standardizes ‘unlikeable’ behavior and life experiences which previously appeared outlandish or even crude as a direct result of the history of straight white women in television, framed by the gender performance of its girls. 

In 1999, Judith Butler published an updated edition of their groundbreaking book, Gender Trouble. The new edition featured a preface detailing the evolution of their theory of gender performativity in the time since its initial publication in 1990 (Butler). The widely-acclaimed book posits gender as perceived via the actions of an individual. In revisiting this assertion, Butler cannot ascertain what exactly performativity is or is not, but that it changes over time, as gender itself often does. Yet they question whether it is a kind of self-fulfilling “interior essence”–– “an expectation that ends up producing the very phenomenon that it anticipates” (Butler xiv). They then discuss gender performance as revolving around this concept, suggesting that performance is the yield of gendered essence as anticipated outside the individual. In other words, ‘gendered’ daily practices are informed by assumptions associated with one’s outwardly perceived gender identity. Actions determined ‘male’ or ‘female’ by a society are self-actualizing: they set a precedent for themselves via a social association formed through repetition. Those actions, over time, create a fuller picture of an independent identity, as “performativity is not a singular act, but a repetition and a ritual, which achieves its effects through its naturalization in the context of a body, understood, in part, as a culturally sustained temporal duration” (Butler xv). To then perform differently from one’s perceived gender (and the implications of that distinction as set over time) unsettles the circular nature of gender anticipation and action. Disturbances in fictional characters create further expectations for their audiences—expectations subverted by the characters of Girls. 

“You don’t own a TV? What’s all your furniture pointed at?” (Crane, “The One in Barbados”)

Gender’s presence in the televisual sphere is layered, to say the least. The very nature of television as a medium––in comparison to film or literature––ensures its role in presenting its audience with ideological questions. The television set, inherent to its design, is an invasive species. It sits looming in the center of a living room, commanding the attention of the house’s inhabitants. Since the 1950s, the American living room has been designed with the television as its center, furniture placed accordingly. The experience of watching television is domestic, and therefore much more intimate. To watch a new series is to welcome it into the home––be it via a handheld device, computer, television itself. The television is empowered by its status in the household, and consequently plays a crucial role in conversation with its viewers’ lives: disseminating information, and often determining that which is ‘normal,’ albeit partially defined by villainized deviance. To ‘normalize’ behavior or action does not inherently imply that they are good––simply that they are real. Television is a signal of normativity, establishing and reinforcing it for mass broadcast audiences in the intimate setting of their home. This extends to the viewer’s expectations of greater society––encroaching on their ideology. 

Concepts of gender and the performance of it, in particular, fall into this category––on both sides of the screen. Preconceived notions of binary gender were established and largely reinforced by the nature of television and its reach––especially in American history. A small box suggested the role of the then-modern woman, playing for hours daily inside the homes of otherwise minimally stimulated female viewers. As a result, female characters of the 1960s and 70s might be considered foundationally feminist simply for existing. Perhaps the personification of the generation in question, actress Mary Tyler Moore’s stardom shaped American womanhood and second-wave feminism. She wore pants frequently enough on television that she is often claimed to be the first woman to do so (though she was not) and “broke new ground” in the sitcom world (Desta).

Multi-dimensional female characters were rare before Moore’s rise to fame. Her role on The Dick Van Dyke Show led to an even more influential position––a show named after her as a character with the same first name. The Mary Tyler Moore Show was trailblazing, normalizing the life of ultra-modern Mary Richards. Yet, it was limited in its progressive attitude––CBS wouldn’t allow her character to be a divorcee (Burns). Moore’s previous character on The Dick Van Dyke Show, Laura Petrie, had been married to Dick Van Dyke’s character, Rob Petrie. The network feared the controversy of the same actress playing a divorcee would make viewers associate her divorce with her previous role across Van Dyke, reflecting poorly on CBS and its content. Though she was considered progressive for repeatedly violating the dress code for women on television, Mary Tyler Moore was a figurehead––and therefore must comply with the expectations of her perceived gender. Her womanhood was a performance––“an expectation that ends up producing the very phenomenon that it anticipates” and did so via the domestic reach of the television (Butler xiv).

“Am I undersexed?” 

The Mary Tyler Moore Show may very well be proto-Girls-esque feminist media. Mary and her friends, namely Rhoda (Valerie Harper), celebrated female friendship and lived ‘realistic’ lives. Mary was single, working, and ‘on the pill’––allowed to finally imply that she was sexually active without the intention of monogamy or having children. Though the show never explicitly depicted intimate scenes, the sex lives of its characters were alluded to and even discussed––during Season Three, the show itself responded to criticism that Mary was ‘undersexed’ by having her ask Rhoda that very question (Butler, Bethonie). Yet, she was still more-or-less perfect, as declared throughout the show by her closest friend. The beloved supporting character was eventually given a spin-off largely due to her popularity among fans (Davies). Rhoda’s misanthropic, self-deprecating humor and tumultuous relationship with her body image stood in contrast to Mary’s flawlessness. Intentionally, the series’ writers were told to write from their own experience for both characters, with their opposing characteristics forming a complete multi-dimensional 1970s woman. Audiences who viewed Mary as a kind of unachievable ideal identified instead with Rhoda––so much that her popularity inspired a five-season spin-off series titled “Rhoda.” 

Non-normativity in the early 1970s can be framed by gender just as well as it can now. Mary Richards was a caricature of a woman (in every sense of the word) at the time––and was stepping lightly over the boundaries of her perceived role as America’s television sweetheart. Simply being more than supplementary to a man was revolutionary in and of itself. In the aftermath of the women’s movement and in conjunction with the surge of rights for women in the 1970s, Richards navigated gender in the workplace as an unmarried, independent woman. Judith Butler’s theory of gender anticipation frames the series as feminist text. In further performing her gender as a woman outside its associated expectations, Mary Richards appeared non-normative; her inherent visibility in turn normalized her behavior. Women watching her were faced with the question of whether there is anything actually non-normative about wearing pants. What at first may have seemed bold was quickly the model for the modern young woman as a direct result of the accessibility and intimacy of the television’s place in the home. 

“I don't like women telling other women what to do or how to do it or when to do it.” (Dunham, “Vagina Panic”)

The unlikeable woman on television is one who often appears non-normative because she is, in fact, very similar to a normal woman. She is unliked because she makes viewers uncomfortable in her challenge of gendered boundaries. Truly, HBO’s Girls was not the first series to embolden young women––Hannah Horvath and her friends are but a recent addition to a line of Rachel Greens (Friends) and Carrie Bradshaw (Sex and the City)––but it is deeply ingrained in a dramatic cultural shift. It embodies the peak of 2014 pop culture and the backend of ‘girlboss’ third wave feminism. Hannah, Jessa (Jemima Kirke), Marnie (Allison Williams), and Shoshanna (Zosia Mamet), the four protagonists of Girls, are constantly making poor relationship decisions and irrationally dealing with friendship and femininity––but they are also having full-blown mental breakdowns on screen, losing their virginity, and cutting their own bangs. They seem off-putting, but are indeed realistic for a specific demographic defined by upper middle-class audacity. 

No one in Girls is America’s newest televisual sweetheart, yet the series’ non-normative depictions of its characters are framed by how heavily gendered they are. Like Mary Tyler Moore, the characters’ relationships with things like marriage, careers, sex, and appearance are highlighted, and therefore interpreted in the context of their expected gender performance. It’s here that Butler’s aforementioned self-actualizing theory of gender performance should be considered. The women of Girls are performing gender on screen, as informed by associated assumptions. Negative reactions to their allegedly self-important behavior seem in turn to be the result of their transgressions. What’s more, these characters center themselves––women––while the men in their lives get traded around within their social circle. Multiple characters date others’ exes and it's barely acknowledged, nor is it a prominent issue, because these men are not the centers of their lives. The show repeatedly reminds viewers of this strange transgression of their socially anticipated behavior as women acting outside of the ‘norm.’ 

“I [...] feel how everyone feels: which is I have three or four really great folk albums in me.” (Dunham, “It’s a shame about Ray”)

Ahead of the premiere of the sixth season of Girls, Vulture released an article detailing a comprehensive timeline of every controversy the show started––from shocked reviews of the first season, to concerns regarding Dunham’s capability to write male characters, to the University of Iowa refusing to allow the show to film on campus (Moylan). Gaging critical reception to Girls is not difficult––in the twelve years since its release, writers have pulled apart every point of contention and found reason to disagree with or celebrate each factor of the show. The few who have chosen to examine the series academically have pointed out that critics tend to ‘miss the point’––that the show is about “boring people with a limited outlook on life” and is not meant to be universally appealing or even a picture of what womanhood should be (Rogers). It examines what womanhood is for this specific type of entitled, middle-class, average white girl. In doing so, Girls garnered popularity. Even if viewers don’t like the characters themselves, there is a certain type of perspective that finds them relatable: a student writer at Yale published a slew of first reactions to an advance screening of the show in 2012. That same year, roughly 47% of undergraduate students at Yale were white (Yale). Their friends (and fellow Yale students) found that it was ‘smart,’ and “hit so close to home that it hurts.” One viewer claimed that they didn’t hate it, despite being “generally disdainful about most things, especially most things that target [their] demographic” (Serna). Girls is undeniably popular––despite excessive discourse in online forums (Reddit). Viewers, critics, and scholars are still attacking or defending it today. Yet the fuel to Girls’ pop culture fire seems under-examined. Hannah Horvath evokes realism for so many viewers, so why is she so divisive among audiences? The gendering of these four starring women and the men in their lives underscores their actions and, more importantly, their flaws. It brings up an interesting comparison to a show often hailed as its predecessor, one which Lena Dunham has acknowledged and was not attempting to replicate. Sex and the City is also about four women with modern lives, revolving around their sex lives in New York City. However, these women have seemingly unlimited money despite their middle-class status, unlike the characters in Girls––their seemingly normal lives are glamorized. Further, they are hyper-feminine, constantly wearing heels and fashion-forward outfits, and perform within the confines of their gendered roles. When people watch Sex and the City they’ll excitedly claim to be one of the characters, when people watch Girls they’ll grimace and admit they may relate to one of them. Lena Dunham herself views the series as filling a space left under-represented by the women of Sex and the City. The women of Girls were those who may not have had their work and personal lives figured out (Goldberg). What’s more, their cringe-inducing traits and the reason they are so disliked are often those typically more associated with men––Marnie’s priorities lie in career rather than love, Jessa’s neglect for empathy or long-term friendships––as if the girls of Girls are not performing femininity in a way which television has previously led audiences to expect. Hannah and her friends exhibit qualities distasteful in women that are often overlooked or even celebrated in men; their brutal honesty with one another confidence in self-serving behavior. What’s perceived as self-obsessed behavior for women might be acting in one’s best interest for men. The protagonists of Girls are thus masculinized by their flaws. These characters make viewers uncomfortable because they behave in ways which are considered abnormal on television, performing their gender identities outside of expectations and instead aligning with concepts of masculinity perpetuated by previous television. They are, in actuality, aggressively real for the specific type of viewer for whom it's intended. Not every negative review of Girls was a man’s (The Glass Eye Project) (Henderson) (Fessler). In fact, plenty of reviews by female writers targeted Girls’ misrepresentation of millennial women’s lives, failing to realize that the series was never intended as an all-encompassing portrait of young women. 

“A nod to my cultural heritage, which is white Christian woman.” (Tolentino)

This idea of ‘masculinized women’ is not unique to these characters, but rather often reflected in marginalized groups. Queer women and Women of Color are often treated as non-normative and masculinized––a crucial piece of context in labeling the white, straight and cisgender women of Girls as such in any way. It harkens back to the American ideal embodied by Mary Tyler Moore in her earlier days of television, when she and Dick Van Dyke slept in separate beds as a fictional married couple. There is a solidified vision of straight white American womanhood perpetuated by television, one that has existed since housewives starred on screen. Resentment toward women often centers on their masculinization; a kind of evolution of the subversion of gender identity posited in Butler’s Gender Trouble. There is a removal of femininity in lesbian spaces, and queer identity inherently subverts normative gender performance (Mishali). The correlated non-normative characterization of queer women is masculinized because they do not align with the conventional American ideal of a woman. Likewise, women of color––specifically Black women––are similarly masculinized in comparison to white women (Blake). Race and sexuality play significant roles in the ‘normative’ statuses of women. Dunham has taken a shot at that image by promoting non-normative behavior in straight white women, and supplements it by having those characters acknowledging their own race and sexuality a number of times. It begs the question of whether Girls would be so praised for ‘realism’ if its characters were queer and/or women of color. Perhaps a version of the cast featuring underrepresented communities would not have made it past the first script or even been greenlit. Dunham’s characters are masculinized, despite their white privilege and heterosexuality. In a subversive way, these outwardly unlikeable traits have disarmed television’s idea of a normative young white woman, her actions, and her behavior. 

“I have work, then a dinner thing, and then I am busy trying to become who I am.” (Dunham, “Pilot”)

Each of the characters of girls are archetypal enough that the HBO network itself has boiled them down to their most defining traits: the aspiring writer, the voice of reason, free spirit, and naive idealist with a heart of gold (HBO, “Growing Up with Girls”). They are, furthermore, heavily gendered simply by Dunham’s aforementioned intentions with the series and their own conversations about their womanhood. The ‘unlikeable’ parts of them should be viewed through the lenses of normativity and gender performance in order to inspect why they and the show are so universally contentious. 

What’s so groundbreaking about Hannah Horvath is that she is incredibly average. So much so that she seems to chase her more adventurous friend Jessa and keep her in her life because she wants to be her. Hannah often brings up her own insecurities, complaining about and making fun of her weight in exchange for the approval of more experienced writers. In the second season of the show, Hannah has a drastic OCD-related breakdown in a state of executive dysfunction until she horribly cuts her own hair and then cannot move. At one point, she shoves a q-tip so far into her own ear that she damages her hearing, and is so obsessed with counting that she purposefully does the same to the other ear. Her breakdown is uncomfortable and in-your-face; raw and compulsive and abnormal for the average viewer to see. It ends only when she accepts help and has become an acclaimed depiction of mental illness as agreed on by viewers and the International OCD Foundation alike (International OCD Foundation).

Hannah’s non-normativity is further amplified by her personality. She is (perhaps masculinely) very straightforward with her emotions, throwing blame and stating plainly how she feels. At one point, she infamously and abruptly says “You’re a bad friend” to Marnie’s face, and they proceed to argue about which of them is “the wound” (Dunham, “Leave Me Alone”). While the fight is not about their flaws, Hannah’s narcissism and Marnie’s validation-seeking tendencies are on full display. Hannah is also the most recent and extreme evolution of Mary Tyler Moore’s reference to birth control: she is repeatedly depicted nude and/or having unglamorized, non-productive and awkward sex. For the entire series, she isn’t seeking children or a family life, but rather her own pleasure and interests. Even when she does eventually become pregnant, it isn’t on purpose. Hannah’s long-term relationship with Adam is also particularly interesting. He is boyish and whiny, but in touch with his own emotions, while Hannah frequently provides for and takes care of him. At one point, Adam briefly dates Natalia––but returns to Hannah seemingly because sex with Natalia is too tame and she is too demure. 

Gender is pervasive for Hannah––she is surrounded by women and self-identifies as feminist––and it frames the raw pieces of her life. By the end of the show, Hannah is unmarried and pregnant––a decision which is incredibly divisive for fans and almost confusing in the context of her previously discussed gender performance. In becoming a mother, Hannah seems to step backward, meeting expectations by settling down. Yet she does so without a partner, something almost more scandalous in the realm of television. Lena Dunham shed light on what is actually deemed ‘normal’ in her decision to center that which was unconventional on television but true to life. The characters of Girls are deemed unlikeable because viewers are uncomfortable with their non-normativity, manifested in their transgressing of anticipated gender performance. 

“I'm a difficult person. Everyone's a difficult person.” (Dunham, “Boys”) 

Critics and viewers commonly attempt to label one of the girls the ‘worst character’ in the show––and each is a strong contender. Hannah’s friends can be positioned similarly as unlikeable, but they too should be examined with their individually gendered roles in mind. Marnie Michaels believes she is better than everyone around her and spirals when her life isn’t happening as she’s planned. She is arguably the most traditionally feminine-presenting character, and early in the series is having trouble with her ‘too soft’ (not masculine enough) boyfriend. Throughout the series, she pursues multiple men, but never for authentic romance. She craves the structure of marriage and eventually does marry, seemingly only because of that. Her manipulative tendencies and lack of growth, however, lead her to be touted as the ‘worst character.’ One article gives ten reasons why she progressively gets worse — although the first three are about how she treats men (Torn). It’s possible that she and Jessa––perhaps subconsciously––do the least to center men in their lives, once more uncomfortably regarding something completely normal for a real person, but strange for women on television (re: Carrie Bradshaw’s priority is her romantic interests in Sex and the City). Marnie’s hyper-femininity arguably makes her more ‘masculine’-perceived traits even more infringing on televisual womanhood. Jessa Johansson, the group’s British ‘it girl’ is the only other character to get married during the show. She does not pursue marriage and structure as Marnie does, but does marry for inauthentic reasons and does not care for the structure of family life. Jessa is impulsive, makes brash decisions, and has the most ‘life experience.’ She gets married to a man who sees her as wild for his money and quickly divorces him. She is anything but traditionally motherly, but works as a nanny at one point and ends up having sex with her employer, the child’s father. Jessa is also an addict, and her time in rehab is cut short because she cannot get along with other patients. Often presented as an antagonist in the lives of other characters, Jessa’s recklessness is seen as cool but damaging. And, though she is never confirmed to be queer, she is often speculated to be by critics and fans alike, perhaps as a result of harmful stereotypes. Her relationship with womanhood is not strained, but it is a bit cumbersome. Her cocky attitude towards life generally does not align with traditional femininity, and she is often labeled as problematic for her decision-making. 

Shoshanna Shapiro is, at the start of the series, Jessa’s college aged virginal younger cousin. If Marnie is the series’ most ‘woman’ character, Shoshanna is the most ‘girl.’ She is naive, as described by HBO, and innocent––and she loves Sex and the City (HBO). Most interesting about Shoshanna, though, is her refusal to participate in the toxicity of the other characters. She shares their sense of entitlement and selfishness at times, but will recognize and call out problematic behavior in her friends and, at the end of the series, finally cuts ties with them. She is frequently called the best character, and even declared the series’ ‘unsung hero’ (antiheroines) (Jacobs) (Rosenfield). Shoshanna has the most agreeable personality of the four women among audiences, likely because she performs womanhood in accordance with societal expectations and is seen as least assertive; Shoshanna is nervous and speaks quickly in a high-pitch ramble, and is repeatedly the most caring character. She leans almost fully in the opposite direction of Hannah and is celebrated for it. 

“I just wish someone would tell me, like, this is how the rest of your life should look.” (Greenberg)

In discussing the sheer influence of these characters, it is worth considering once again the format in which they were presented to their target audience. Hannah, Marnie, Jessa, Shoshanna, and those that moved in and out of their lives are television characters specifically. They exist in the intimate space of the home, broadcast onto a small screen and returning weekly to viewers during their on-season for upwards of five years. HBO is a particularly interesting vehicle for Girls because, as pointed out by Lara Bradshaw during her studies as a doctoral student, HBO is a premium channel that has made itself allegedly home to ‘quality television.’ There is an expectation associated with the content broadcast by HBO. In merely airing Girls, the network is declaring its prestige. And, as one of few female showrunners, Dunham was “key in developing the network’s more recent branding and focus on a younger and hipper [...] demographic” via her “young, female-centered narrative” among HBO’s slate at the time of Girls’ release (Bradshaw). What Bradshaw does not mention, however, is that access to the channel is behind a further paywall from basic cable and public television. The kind of person paying for HBO is already someone more privileged and therefore falls at least partially into Girls’ middle-class demographic. What’s more, Girls occupies space among dramatic, almost voyeuristic depictions of private, shameful moments on television. HBO’s series have notoriously catered to straight male gazes, the network employing the intimacy of television in its business practices. By adding Girls to a repertoire which featured The Sopranos and Game of Thrones, HBO spotlit the unromanticized lives of these women––in their mental breakdowns and complicated, for-pleasure sex lives––and deemed them of the same scopophilic quality. In doing so HBO welcomed its uncomfortably realistic moments into its brand. Not only were these unlikeable and non-normative women normalized, but worthy of the title of sophisticated entertainment. 

Further relevant in the context of HBO’s reputation: there doesn’t seem to be a thematic equivalent to Girls made for men. While some of the network’s series featured young, all male casts living in the city, shows like Entourage have never been as focused on authenticity as Girls––arguably because Girls tackles such non performatively masculine topics as emotional vulnerability. For Girls, gender is controversy: in its simple status as a series for women, the masculinized perception of its non-normative female characters, and even its thematic concerns with coming-of-age and personal growth. 

Hannah Horvath is in fact the voice of a generation, that being privileged straight white women acting on personalities deemed more acceptable in men––a generation previously starved of the grimy reality of being this way in your 20s. Girls cannot tell its target viewer what the rest of their life will look like, but it can frame what a certain demographic’s life looks like right now and, in doing so, re-shape their idea of what’s ‘normal.’ In finding the characters of Girls annoying or even ‘the worst,’ the common viewer is likely not considering Butler’s philosophical concepts of gender. Yet, the brash, awkward, and self-obsessed traits pointed to as evidence of these characters’ unlikeability are underscored by the audience’s ideas of binary, gendered performance. In performing outside of gender expectations established by their predecessors, the women of Girls are unwillingly masculinized. Their televisual non-normativity and subversion of gender makes viewers uncomfortable, and they are hated for it. It’s crucial to see that Girls is a cultural landmark in its intense framing of its characters as girls. Hannah, her friends, and their actions were not intended to be revolutionary, only to be normal. Though they have their differences, Hannah Horvath is the most recent iteration of Mary Tyler Moore. She would agree.

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