Our Obsession with Women and Tragedy
Princess Diana died exactly forty days before I was born.
This trivial piece of information, alongside the natural blonde hair I sported as a child, resulted in my mother informing a seven or eight-year-old me that perhaps I was the reincarnation of the people’s princess. If I’m completely honest, I did consider it for a short while.
Now that I’m older and wiser, I struggle to believe that such a wonderful woman was given another chance on Earth in the body of a random, northern child with zero connection to the royal family (though it would certainly be cool if she was). However, it was probably this jokey suggestion that led me to become overly fascinated with the Princess’ story.
It’s a fascination that hasn’t been particularly difficult to feed, not least because it seems to be shared by almost every woman and queer man across the UK and beyond. Western television, film and literature alike have seen depictions of Diana and her marriage to the Prince of Wales more times than I can count. Like anyone with a Freeview box and a Netflix subscription, I’ve lapped up such depictions. Every. Single. Time.
It doesn’t make me a maths genius to figure out that if Diana died forty days before I was born, it’s been almost a quarter of a century since that cataclysmic car accident in Paris took place. Why then, when so many years have elapsed since her death, was it not surprising to hear that yet another film focusing on the plight of the princess would be hitting our screens in the form of Spencer earlier this year? What is it about Diana that continues to inspire directors time and time again? I’d love to believe it was her daring sense of humour, her relentless approach to helping others or her killer wardrobe.
However, it seems more likely that our society’s preoccupation with Princess Diana represents something much wider: a lingering obsession with women who have experienced tragedy.
Take Sylvia Plath, for example. Plath’s own depictions of her life can be found in her poetry, her semi-autobiographical novel, her letters, and her journals. Whilst much of her work, such as poems ‘Tulips’ and ‘Edge’ or novel The Bell Jar, might lean towards tragedy, a lot of it doesn’t. In fact, reading her work in full (and yes, I’ve done it) would tell you that Plath’s struggles with her mental health were only a small factor of her enigmatic life.
Despite this, Christine Jeff’s Sylvia (2003) starring Gwyneth Paltrow as Plath, focuses solely on her tumultuous relationship with fellow poet Ted Hughes and her eventual suicide. Looking at almost nothing but the couple’s fiery beginning and Plath’s descendance into a deep depression in the aftermath of Hughes’ rejection, the film seems to paint some of Plath’s most famous, carefully curated work as little more than fury-fuelled attacks on Hughes’.
Another example might be Jackie Kennedy, wife of the late US president, John F. Kennedy. The first lady can be seen depicted by Natalie Portman in Pablo Larraín’s biographical drama, Jackie (2016). In one of the opening scenes, the film promises to provide us with Kennedy’s ‘version’ of what happened before and after the death of JFK. Arguably, it does keep that promise, but one might question why Kennedy was given screen time in the first place. Could it be that audiences are ultimately intrigued by Kennedy’s misery?
On the one hand, Jackie is a beautiful and intimate film. Kennedy’s horror, shock and devastation can be felt through the screen as audiences watch her remove dirtied, blood-stained clothes from her body, or listen as she confesses quietly to considering suicide after her husband’s assassination. Unlike the aforementioned Sylvia, the film proved popular with critics. However, it is clear that the films do share common similarities.
Like countless other biopics focusing on women, the films contribute to a culture in which the tragic element of a woman’s story is awarded more attention than the facts of her life. Additionally, both Sylvia and Jackie centre their leading lady’s narrative around their respective relationships with men. In Sylvia, Plath’s best work doesn’t appear to be born from her years of study and creative labour, but from the trauma she experiences at the hands of Hughes. In Jackie, the ghost of JFK persists throughout the narrative; the existence of the film itself implies that Kennedy is only worth discussing precisely because she is a widow to a US president.
Regardless of the accuracy, quality or artistic merit of films such as these, they fail to tell us the full story of their protagonists. Instead, we are invited to marvel upon the most dreadful, miserable aspects of these women’s lives.
I’m yet to watch Spencer, so it would be wrong for me to pass any judgement on the content of the film. However, I won’t lie and say that seeing Kristen Stewart looking eerily like Princess Diana across an array of film posters, London buses and short clips didn’t stir some discomfort within me. Whether the film is kind to Diana’s memory or not, there is something slightly disconcerting about dramatising her life when her children are still around to see it.
Ultimately, biopics allow us to imagine the lives of real people more fully. When done well, they help draw attention to fascinating true stories. However, we must remember that their protagonists should never simply become characters to be played. Their lives should not be conveniently rewritten to help actors win Oscars or directors make millions. When we focus on nothing more than a woman’s hardship – on her worth as the tragic hero of a modern-day tragedy – we are doing exactly that. Real life women aren’t limited to their suffering, so neither should their depictions in film be.
Written by Erin Lister
Erin is a recent English graduate, currently living in Manchester and working as a teaching assistant. She's obsessed with all things music, theatre and television and hopes to one day write about them for a living.
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