It’s a curious thing. At a time when we are surrounded by stories that highlight strong, independent women, something seems to be missing. Films today frequently give us heroines who are bold, powerful, and self-assured from the start. They say the right things, win the right fights, and rarely stumble. But instead of admiration, many of these characters are met with indifference, or even resistance.
This isn’t because audiences have turned against strong women. Quite the opposite. We’ve always admired women of power. We’ve praised them, even revered them. The problem lies not in the presence of female strength, but in its portrayal.
There is a gap between what modern films aim to show and what our inner sense of truth recognizes as authentic. Somewhere along the way, many stories have lost the thread that ties us to a deeper image of the heroic woman; the one that has lived in our shared imagination across cultures and centuries.
The Archetype of the Great Woman
Long before the language of feminism, before marketing campaigns promoted girl power, and long before comic book heroines filled screens, there were already figures who carried immense authority, both spiritual and human. These women were warriors, mothers, seers, and protectors. They weren’t defined by their gender alone, but by their wholeness; their ability to carry contradictions and still remain grounded.
In ancient myths, this presence appears again and again. Athena, with wisdom and battle skill. Durga, fierce yet graceful, riding her lion into battle to protect the world. Guanyin, whose compassion extends to every suffering soul. Mary, who accepts her calling with both sorrow and strength. These are not inventions of modern culture; they are echoes from the deep well of the collective psyche.
Such figures hold sway not just because they are powerful, but because their power is rooted in meaning. They fight not for attention but for something larger than themselves; order, justice, life. When we meet them in story, we don’t just see characters. We recognize symbols, signs of something already known to the heart. Their greatness moves us not because they shout, but because they carry silence and sacrifice within them.
Ripley and Sarah Connor
Perhaps this is why audiences continue to hold Ellen Ripley and Sarah Connor in such high regard. These women did not start out perfect. They weren’t trying to prove anything. They were simply placed in extreme circumstances, and from there, something within them rose to meet the moment.
Ripley, in the Alien series, began as a rational, cautious officer. Her authority grew not from arrogance but from her clear thinking under pressure. She didn’t win battles through brute strength, but through intelligence, endurance, and a kind of spiritual toughness. In Aliens, her decision to risk her life for a child she had just met revealed her deeper strength. She was more than a survivor. She became a protector, even a mother figure. The audience saw her grow, not by being declared a hero, but by becoming one.
Sarah Connor followed a different path. In the first Terminator, she was unremarkable. But her encounter with the future forced her to change. By Terminator 2, she had transformed into a figure of almost mythic intensity; wounded, hardened, yet fiercely devoted to her son and to the fate of the world. Her strength came through trauma, training, and relentless purpose. She was admirable not because she was flawless, but because her struggle felt real. She didn’t ask for the role of savior. She carried it because no one else could.
Both women grew through story. They were not ideas in search of a plot. They were human beings who suffered, learned, adapted, and endured. This is why they endure in our memories. They were not only strong. They were whole.
The Disconnect in Recent Heroines
In contrast, many recent heroines feel as though they were written with a message in mind before a character existed. This is especially true for figures like Rey in Star Wars, Carol Danvers in Captain Marvel, and Riri Williams in Ironheart. These women are often introduced already brilliant, already exceptional, already heroic, without the narrative space to truly earn that image in the eyes of the audience.
Rey, for instance, is presented as a powerful force user with minimal training, able to master skills that took Luke Skywalker years to develop. While her character does face emotional trials, the pace and framing of her growth left many viewers unconvinced. Carol Danvers begins her film already at the peak of her powers, and while flashbacks reveal past hardship, there is little internal journey that unfolds on screen. Riri Williams, in her early appearances, is declared a genius before the audience sees her truly struggle with the weight of that identity.
These characters are not disliked because they are women. They are met with hesitation because their strength often appears unearned, their victories predetermined, and their flaws barely visible. Instead of being invited into a mythic journey, viewers are told to admire a character because she ticks the right boxes. The result is disconnection.
This does not mean that modern stories cannot portray powerful women well. It means that stories must return to the deeper tradition of showing a soul in motion, a life being formed in fire, not just a figure placed in front of us with a crown already on her head.
When Modern Stories Get It Right
It would be unfair to suggest that all recent portrayals have failed. Some have managed to tap into the deeper current of archetypal power.
Take Alita: Battle Angel. At first glance, Alita seems like a typical cyber-enhanced fighter. But the film gives her room to grow. Her innocence is not a weakness; it’s a starting point. As she remembers who she is and chooses her path, her strength unfolds through struggle, loss, and love. She is vulnerable, passionate, and fierce. Her journey is not handed to her. She walks it, step by step, wound by wound.
Another example is Furiosa in Mad Max: Fury Road. Though she is already strong when we meet her, her power is not presented as effortless or abstract. We see her pain, her regret, and her compassion. Her actions speak louder than her words, and the film never tries to market her strength; it simply shows it. She is not a placeholder for ideology. She is a character who breathes.
And then there is Wonder Woman, portrayed by Gal Gadot. Her first film captured something audiences had been waiting for: a modern heroine who felt both mythic and human. Diana was powerful, yes, but also curious, empathetic, and idealistic. Her strength was not just physical. It came from her convictions, her sorrow, and her refusal to give up on love. The story embraced her archetypal role as both warrior and peacemaker, allowing her to radiate timeless feminine energy without apology or cynicism.
These characters succeed not because they avoid feminism, but because they connect feminism with something older and more grounded: the spiritual and emotional weight of the feminine. Strength, when shown rather than announced, draws people in. It moves them.
Feminism and the Goddess Remembered
The great irony is that the modern push for strong women could find its greatest ally in the oldest stories. Feminism, at its heart, is not a break from the mythic past; it is a continuation of it. The Goddess, the wise mother, the fearless warrior, the healer, the seer; she is already with us. She doesn’t need to be invented. She needs to be remembered.
Wonder Woman was a rare film that seemed to understand this. It placed a divine figure into a flawed human world, and let her be both innocent and mighty. Her femininity was not a counterweight to her strength; it was its very root. This is what happens when a film trusts the ancient image of womanhood, instead of trying to explain or modernize it too much. It speaks directly to the soul.
The twist, of course, is that Gal Gadot, whose portrayal of Diana brought this archetype to life, was later cast as the villain in the live-action Snow White, a film that faced harsh criticism for how it framed modern womanhood. Perhaps the discomfort came not just from the story changes, but from the contrast. The same actress who once embodied mythic grace now stood as the foil to a heroine some viewers felt was being pushed into greatness. It’s a reminder that audiences are sensitive not only to plot, but to tone, to intention, and to whether a story truly honors the archetype it seeks to represent.
What matters most is not how loudly a film declares its values, but how deeply it honors its characters. Feminism is not weakened by mystery, emotion, or softness. These are part of the full range of being human. When stories respect this fullness, they honor women more than any speech can.
The Goddess Has Never Left
The stories that last are the ones that speak to what is already inside us. We respond to great women on screen not because they are perfect, but because they mirror truths we have always known. Strength is not the absence of vulnerability; it is born from it. Power is not given. It is forged.
Sarah Connor and Ellen Ripley live in our imagination because their journeys felt real. They remind us that greatness has weight, that courage has cost, and that love can be fierce. These are not new ideas. They are old, sacred, and always waiting to be told again.
We don’t need to declare the age of the strong woman. She has always been here. We only need to tell her story well.
Image by Pixabay
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