Why Does Every TV Show Have an Anxious Horny Hot Girl?
According to TV, you can be mentally ill, as long as you make it hot.
She’s everywhere: achingly thin, anxious, nihilistic, lonely, witty yet insecure, possessing of nymphomaniacal and alcoholic tendencies: she is the anxious horny hot girl. The carnal, more morally compromised sister of the manic pixie dream girl, the anxious horny hot girl has become a stalwart in every ensemble cast (Cassie in Euphoria, Carla in Elite, Mickey in Love), and even stars as the main character of some (Beth in The Queen’s Gambit, Aine in This Way Up).
The most obvious indication this character has tipped into trope-territory is her appearance. All are conventionally attractive, young, thin, and well-dressed, even if it is in a shabby, I’m-such-a-mess kind of way. Her insouciance isn’t just conveyed through costume however, but also through dialogue. Indeed, the anxious horny hot girl approaches life with a detached nonchalance expressed through precocious wit and moments of profound wisdom. But her (heavily aestheticised) appearance and phantom self-assurance are only products of innate sadness and insecurity – feelings she copes with through excessive use of alcohol, drugs and sex.
The sexual keenness of the anxious horny hot girl is the most troublesome aspect of her character. First, let’s make it clear: sex is, for most, an essential factor of life and emancipation and thus important to represent on-screen. But so often, the carnal desires of the anxious horny hot girl are presented as their only ones: sex still makes up much of their story, not to mention their onscreen time (Florence Pugh’s role in Oppenheimer, for instance, attracted criticism). Their endless reliance on men for validation and the needless male-centric sexual content that follows lends her a mystique that feels fetishistic: the constant awe she seems to arouse in men glorify anxiety, depression, and all its accompanying problems to something sexy and alluring.
I’ll spare you an explanation of what anxiety or depression feels and looks like, but let’s just say it is far from sexy. That’s not to suggest anxious women are sexless tracksuit-clad waifs, but I doubt any truly ‘lost’, or ‘aimless’ woman would be able to see themselves in these depictions – the anxious horny hot girl is thus aspirational; an amalgamation of all the things men find attractive. This enforces an impossible standard: you can be mentally ill, but only if you make it hot.
In recognising that it’s her messiness that makes her so attractive, the anxious horny hot girl exists in stasis, condemned to a life of melancholy, self-hatred, and disappointment which no man wants to interfere with – she is a mess they will fuck, but won’t clean up. Besides, who really are they beyond the sex, drugs and booze? What are her genuine desires, ambitions, thoughts and feelings? In the absence of answers, the anxious horny hot girl proves misguided in its aim of serving as true representation of real, complex women.
One such woman who they all take after is Phoebe Waller-Bridge’s directionless yet charming Fleabag. In the show, Fleabag is consumed by grief over the loss of her best friend Boo – a death which she is part responsible for due to sleeping with Boo’s boyfriend. Having never owned up to her transgression and racked with guilt and shame, Fleabag self-medicates with alcohol, cigarettes, and most significantly, sex.
The acetic sitcom garnered immediate and widespread acclaim for its portrayal of a ‘real’ woman – one who was multi-faceted, messy and at times extremely unlikeable. Along with the discourse that surrounds the show (from critical here to celebratory here), its success is evident in the litany of Fleabag-esque characters that have stumbled across TV screens since its 2016 premiere. Indeed, in the absence of ‘complex female characters’ in television, the show’s success highlighted an audience in young women that had hitherto been neglected. But in attempting to appeal to it, such portrayals have tipped into parody, reinforcing tired stereotypes that often play into the male gaze.
When we praise such portrayals for their ‘realness’, it reinforces patronising and misogynistic stereotypes, equates promiscuity for liberation and sets the precedent that for women to be interesting, they must be miserable. The effect of this spans beyond television and into the lives of young, impressionable women: no wonder indie sleaze is in, evident through the emergence of the ‘tired girl’ makeup trend. Or that an emerging generation is discovering the psychotic depressive Effy Stonem of Skins; her smudged dark eyeliner and precocious bellicose wit holding her to be the pinnacle of sexual appeal.
Complexity in female characters should not have to exist in its own category; for male characters, it is a given; an unavoidable fact of their existence as human beings that is always worthy of representation. To present women holistically seems a chore, resulting in contrived and cringe-worthy characterisations (expertly parodied by comedian Delaney Rowe) that reveal the entertainment industry is yet to fully understand women and what they want to see. Just because the anxious horny hot girl can string an elegant sentence together, or down enough whisky to drink any man under the table does not mean she is complex, or representative of ‘real’ women. To paint her as such is fantasy – one informed by a man.