It’s a woman’s world and you’re lucky to be living in it. At least, that’s what Katy Perry sings. In reality, mass media has long focused on the lives and perspectives of men (specifically, men in power), be it in film, TV, or celebrity coverage. Yet, there seems to have been rising interest in female-focused media within popular culture in recent years—and I don’t mean the sloppy Disney attempts to portray “girl power” in their Marvel franchise or animation reboots. Rather, queer female celebrities have taken the spotlight in the 2020s. Billie Eilish, Kristen Stewart, and Chappell Roan are just some names which have seized the (online) world by storm. So… how did that happen?

Through the Eyes of a Woman, Through the Eyes of a Man

In Transformers, the camera lingers on Megan Fox’s figure as she leans over a car, dressed in revealing attire. Through this lens, we, the audience, look from the eyes of Shia LaBeouf’s character, who gazes at her with undisguised desire. When she rattles off about car specifications in an “I’m not like other girls” way, he bites his arm and whispers, “Oh my God”. The function of this shot is clear: establish her as a desirable romantic interest.

This is a classic depiction of the “male gaze” described by John Berger and Laura Mulvey in the 70s. At its core, it suggests that “men act and women appear”. It presents men as active agents whose independence, conquest, and achievements drive the plot. Women, if present at all, are relegated to support roles or positioned as rewards to be claimed by men. Every act the audience sees is an act of male agency, and everything a woman does is for a man. She becomes a spectacle for voyeurs, the (male) audience.

In contrast, the “female gaze” reclaims female agency by depicting how women act upon their own desires. It was developed by filmmakers Zoe Dirst and Joey Soloway in the 2010s and departs from the plot-driven antics of “male gaze” narratives, focusing instead on emotional growth and character relationships. It’s this connection and vulnerability which better reflects the lived experiences of women, even in fantastical circumstances. Look at how Harley Quinn was transformed from Suicide Squad to Birds of Prey. In the male-directed Suicide Squad, she flaunts a skintight shirt reading “Daddy’s Lil Monster”, tiny shorts, and fishnets. She’s a manic pixie dream girl who moves through scenes aimlessly, serving little purpose but to titillate (male) film characters and audiences. She even wears a thick gold choker reminiscent of a dog collar—her identity is tethered to the Joker as his accessory.

In women-led Birds of Prey, though, her relationship with the Joker comes to an end. She sports eclectic outfits with bright colours, bold patterns, and playful twintails. She wears a shirt with her own name printed on it. Her appearance alone clearly depicts her as an independent character, and it shows in the screentime she’s given to explore her own emotional journey, relationships, and chaotic decision-making. She is no longer something to be experienced, but the one who experiences. Harley no longer serves someone else’s story; she determines her own.

Up on a Pedestal or Down on Your Knees

But even in stories which are centred around women’s experiences, the “male gaze” may linger. Take La vie d’Adèle and Portrait de la jeune fille en feu as examples. Both films explore how lesbian relationships develop, but in Adèle, intimacy is portrayed in the form of prolonged sex scenes where the characters don’t even look at, let alone talk to, each other. Yet, both their bodies can be seen in the shot as they get it on. It’s excessively physical, polished, and reminiscent of porn. They perform their pleasure for the voyeuristic camera and its audience, as if these scenes were filmed solely to excite viewers through the taboo of gay female sexuality. As it stands, it feels artificial, like a male fantasy of what lesbian sex should look like. It does little for the story besides objectifying lesbians (and the actresses) for male pleasure.

Conversely, Portrait captures intimacy with subtlety. The only sex scene in this film is gravely unsexy. There’s no loud moaning or rustling sheets. They’re already comfortably nude in bed when Héloïse smiles and applies a hallucinogenic drug to her unshaven armpit. As she gently applies it to Marianne’s, the camera zooms in on the motion her hand makes in the crook of Marianne’s arm. It’s a tasteful representation of lesbian sex, not a literal one. After they kiss, the scene fades to black. There’s nothing to be seen; their love does not require validation from spectacle. Like the shot of Mr Darcy’s hand flexing after he parts ways with Elizabeth in Pride and Prejudice, it encapsulates the intimacy and emotions felt by the characters in the moment. It’s this refusal to be observed which defines the “female gaze”.

This isn’t to say women-focused media must portray an ideal “female gaze” to be valuable. Rather, I’d argue the opposite. Sex and the City was criticised for portraying its four main characters as one-dimensional stereotypes. Regardless of whether they were a hopeless romantic, promiscuous femme fatale, career-minded girlboss, or a staunch traditionalist, these women’s conversations revolved around men. It turned viewers off to see them express their desires, and many accused them of being poor role models for young girls. But this discomfort suggests that for women to be palatable to mainstream audiences, they must be sanitised, virtuous feminists who do no wrong. They cannot be obsessed with men, because wouldn’t that mean their actions appeal to male voyeurism? Women, real or fictional, are multi-dimensional. They make mistakes, pursue love, and chase ambitions—sometimes messily. Expecting them to uphold a specific form of “female empowerment” undercuts their complexity in favour of patriarchal ideals of acceptable femininity. That’s the catch-22: regardless of what women do, they appeal to male fantasy.

A Woman (With Herself Inside) Watching a Woman

Perhaps it’s the “queer gaze” which might allow women to “escape” from male fantasy. These radical character portrayals and narratives distance women from male expectations, both in personality and appearance. Agatha All Along portrays women who are unapologetically narcissistic and morally grey. It’s refreshing when women see themselves depicted with such autonomy, rather than being expected to be polite and compliant with male needs. It almost “grants” them the “permission” to stand up for themselves regardless of male approval.

Likewise, Love Lies Bleeding challenges male perspectives by presenting queered femininity and focusing on queer relationships. Jackie’s hulking physique and Lou’s unconventional haircut bucks against conventional beauty standards, but it’s exactly these traits which make them desirable to each other, to other in-film characters, and to the audience. And while their relationship is integral to the plot, it’s not the plot. Just as in real life, things happen. A woman’s life goes beyond her relationship status, after all.

Media like these question what it’s really like to be a woman, but they exist only because of the work of real, living women. Even before coming out, Kristen Stewart rejected the “good girl” image in her infamous portrayal of Bella Swan in Twilight, instead inching closer to the genderqueer, androgynous, queer icon she is today. In her Rolling Stone interview, she mentions the relief she felt reclaiming her image after years of public scrutiny. Now, she rejects traditional femininity. On the magazine cover, she wears a jockstrap, her hand in her underwear and chest on display. It’s a play on a traditionally masculine pose and look. The rest of the article shows her in varying degrees of masculinity and femininity. It’s not her goal to appease men—she’s redefining herself. It makes women like her visible.

While Billie Eilish started out with hiding her figure under oversized shirts to avoid sexualisation, it’s no secret her recent music has been tinged with a raw lesbian desire which rebels against the “male gaze”. Similarly, Chappell Roan’s bold drag looks diverge from the “natural” makeup typically expected of women. On one end of the spectrum, there’s Eilish in baggy streetwear, chains, and hip-hop caps. On the other, there’s Roan’s hyperfeminine gowns and glittering ensembles. Neither fit into male ideals of female beauty (no, not even the “tomboy” look). Rather, they emphasise how womanhood can be empowering when tied to a woman’s personal agency in rejection of societal expectations.

These artists are just a few standouts among a wave of women-loving-women creatives whose work refuses to pander to male notions of feminine beauty or behaviour. It’s natural for their counterculture gender and sexual expressions to gain media attention—as some cynics have claimed, it’s “taboo” and “wrong”. But in defying the conventions of the “male gaze”, they champion an evolving narrative where femininity is complex, authentic, and free. They reclaim the right to tell their stories on their own terms, and they leave the patriarchy fumbling to comprehend their existence. It’s a liberating existence.