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Journalism of Courage
The hotel suite is pristine — until the blood seeps into the plush carpet. The woman, dressed in silk, takes a sip of her drink, unbothered. The scene is eerily quiet except for the slow, methodical clicking of her manicured nails against the glass. She is neither frantic nor remorseful; she planned this. The man lying motionless at her feet underestimated her. They always do.
This could be a scene from Killing Eve (2018), where Villanelle (Jodie Comer) dispatches her victims with an almost flirtatious ease, or Aarya (2020), where Aarya Sareen (Sushmita Sen) transforms from a naive wife into a fearsome underworld queen. In the K-drama Hyper Knife (2025), Dr Jung Se-ok (Park Eun-bin) transitions from a disgraced neurosurgeon to a clandestine operator in the underworld of illegal surgeries. These women are calculating, powerful, and dangerous. They are the new wave of anti-heroines, replacing the Tony Sopranos (The Sopranos, 1999) and Walter Whites (Breaking Bad, 2018) of the world. And we are utterly obsessed.
The obsession with these women — ruthless yet compelling, vengeful yet oddly relatable — has also given rise to a flurry of bestsellers that blur the lines between justice and retribution, empowerment and destruction. Take Bella Mackie’s How to Kill Your Family (which is now being adapted into a Netflix series), where readers surprisingly find themselves rooting for the sharp-tongued and sardonic Grace Bernard who meticulously eliminates her estranged, obscenely wealthy relatives — only to find herself in prison for a crime she didn’t commit. Or Butter by Asako Yuzuki, a slow-burn psychological thriller inspired by a real-life case, where a woman accused of poisoning her lovers turns societal expectations of women’s roles — and appetites — on their head.
Then there’s Katy Brent’s How to Kill Men and Get Away With It and its sequel, I Bet You’d Look Good in a Coffin, both of which revel in the darkly comedic yet unsettlingly cathartic idea of a social media-savvy vigilante targeting predatory men. Similarly, Eve Kellman’s How to Kill a Guy in Ten Ways plays with the absurdity of modern dating, offering a satirical yet savage take on gender politics and revenge. Kristin Chen’s Counterfeit explores a different kind of power play — one that swaps blood for deception — as two women master the art of the con in a high-stakes counterfeit handbag scheme.
For decades, the ideal heroine in pop culture was a beacon of virtue — courageous, self-sacrificing, and morally upright. Think of Simran (Dilwale Dulhania Le Jayenge, 1995), the quintessential Bollywood heroine who follows familial expectations while winning her true love, or Elle Woods (Legally Blonde, 2001), who proves herself through perseverance and intellect while maintaining an unwavering moral compass.
Manju Jaidka, former Professor and Chair of the English Department at Panjab University, says: “There was a time when the women who populated our stories were the Goody Two-Shoes variety that satisfied the menfolk of all times – the well-behaved, virtuous kind, eager to please, dutiful, subdued, and almost servile in their obedience to social mores. She was the role model that ‘good’ girls were supposed to emulate. Although, occasionally, there was a Becky Sharp (Vanity Fair, 2018) to pull the rug under heavy patriarchal boots, such rebels were few and far between.”
The anti-heroine, however, exists in a moral grey zone. She does not play by the rules, nor does she seek validation for her actions. Unlike the noble heroine, she is often manipulative, flawed, and even dangerous — but undeniably compelling. Take Amy Dunne (Gone Girl, 2014), who orchestrates her own disappearance to frame her husband, or Tara (Made in Heaven, 2019-2023), played by Sobhita Dhulipala, a girl born into a poor household, who dupes a rich heir into marrying her, and eventually chooses to break free from the constraints of an unhappy marriage and reclaim her autonomy or even Rani (Rani Mukerji in Mardaani, 2014-2023), a relentless cop who bends the law to serve justice on her own terms. Harley Quinn (Birds of Prey, 2020) goes from being Joker’s sidekick to leading her own rebellion and Alia Bhatt’s Gangubai (Gangubai Kathiawadi, 2022) takes control of her destiny in the brutal world of Mumbai’s underbelly. In Haseen Dillruba (2021), Taapsee Pannu’s character plays the role of the ideal wife while hiding a far darker side.
“It may not be essential that the heroine turns out to be an anti-heroine. Anyone can become an anti-heroine because the concept essentially undercuts the idea that a heroine is very conventional and conservative, adhering to fixed rules under a male-dominated system,” says Krishnan Unni P, Professor of English at Deshbandhu College, Delhi University, adding, “An anti-heroine is always associated with anti-romance. Traditional cinema thrives on predictable love stories, but the anti-heroine disrupts this expectation. She challenges not only the hero but also the entire romantic structure imposed by popular culture.”
However, not all anti-heroines are cold, calculated masterminds. Some are simply messes — brilliant, tragic, and utterly compelling. Rue Bennett (Euphoria, 2019) spirals into addiction, pulling her family and friends down with her. Beth Harmon (The Queen’s Gambit, 2020) a chess prodigy battling her own demons with addiction or Shiv Roy (Succession, 2018) tries to wield power but is trapped in an endless cycle of self-sabotage.
These women challenge traditional notions of femininity and morality, making them the perfect protagonists for a modern audience that craves complexity over convention. Unlike the classic femme fatale, an anti-heroine does not necessarily rely on her sexuality to wield power. The anti-heroine is the protagonist of her own story. Her actions are driven by ambition, vengeance, or justice rather than merely being a foil to a man’s downfall.
For years, feminism in pop culture revolved around the ‘girlboss’ — a woman who played by the system’s rules but did it better than the men. Think Miranda Priestly (The Devil Wears Prada, 2006) or Olivia Pope (Scandal, 2012). But today’s anti-heroines are not interested in playing fair. Social media reflects this shift. The “villain era” trend on social media celebrates women embracing their selfishness. Female rappers like Megan Thee Stallion and Raja Kumari rap about dominance, revenge, and power. Even Taylor Swift has leaned into the persona of the calculated mastermind (Reputation, 2017) rather than the innocent victim. Her 2024 album, The Tortured Poets Department, leans even further into this persona. In ‘Who’s Afraid of Little Old Me?’, she snarls: “I was tame, I was gentle, ’til the circus life made me mean / Don’t you see? The dagger fits quite comfortably in me.”
Olivia Rodrigo’s Obsessed (2024) carries a similar theme of female intensity, with lyrics that flip the script on the “crazy ex-girlfriend” trope: “You say I’m obsessed / I say I’m just invested / You made your bed, don’t act surprised / When I get in your head.”
On why we are drawn to these characters, Jaidka says, “… Women readers love them for their guts, for the surrogate lives they live, for the many doors they open up, for the alternative choices they present which are far more attractive, far more fascinating than the dull, boring, goody-goody lives the men of the world would have them live.”
Saheb, Biwi aur Gangster (2011) producer Rahul Mittra, says, “Indian cinema has gone through a transformative shift with the audiences now demanding stories that authentically represent the character’s experiences and the narrative’s context. As a result, the audiences’ attention to the changing women characters in films — from that of a mother, maiden, mistress to strong, unconventional ones currently — is a welcome change.”
In the popular culture of the West, the anti-heroine started emerging as early as the 1920s and 1930s, particularly through the Harlem Renaissance, where black women dancers and singers came to the forefront, resisting white-imposed restrictions, says Professor Unni. Later, the 1970s and 1980s saw the rise of anti-heroines in Hollywood, particularly in road movies. “Take Mad Max, for example. In Mad Max Part 3, Tina Turner plays a character who is a saviour figure, challenging traditional gender norms,” says Professor Unni.
“In South Asia, the concept of the anti-heroine emerged much later, around the 1980s and 1990s. Indian cinema saw a shift where traditional beauties like Hema Malini made way for actresses like Smita Patil, who balanced mainstream and alternative cinema,” he says, adding, “Take Mirch Masala, for example. Smita Patil’s character is not a traditional heroine — she fights against a powerful zamindar. While some reviews called her a heroine, she actually fits the anti-heroine mold,” says Professor Unni.
By the late 20th century, Indian theatre and cinema started redefining female roles. “Playwrights like Ratan Thiyam in Manipur highlighted the struggles of women, especially in conflict-ridden areas, giving rise to anti-heroic female figures.”
“The rise of LGBTQ+ rights and the Queer movement has further expanded the concept of the anti-heroine. Gender fluidity and the rejection of fixed gender roles have shattered traditional ideas of heroines,” says Unni. Filmmakers such as Onir have contributed to this evolution. “In Onir’s films, while male characters are prominent, the women do not conform to traditional roles. They embody an anti-heroine ethos — rejecting fixed societal expectations,” says Professor Unni.
The future of storytelling belongs to women who don’t ask for permission to be complicated. They don’t need to be liked; they need to be real. “Whether you call them vixens or anti-heroines,” Mittra says, “the key is that women are no longer mere supporting characters but are forces to be reckoned with, challenging traditional gender norms like action and heroism. It’s the layering of the character and getting past the male gaze that we all love and get hooked onto.”
And most of all, we want them to win. There’s a reason we can’t look away from these women. In an era where sweet smiles hide sharp knives, the female anti-heroine is here to stay.
