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Venice (1877) by William Merritt Chase

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I know I know said I was done but I'll just keep ranting, praised be.

Okay, another couple of things—and this one just gnaws at me.

Where was the queer representation? For a show that brands itself as feminist and “radical,” The Handmaid’s Tale seemed strangely allergic to queerness. Moira ends up alone. Emily ends up alone. And that’s it. That’s the representation. There are no gay men, trans folk, non-binary folk—not a single one with a name or arc. In a world that’s supposedly punishing everyone who doesn’t fit the mold, wouldn’t queer men, for example, have had entire underground survival strategies? Where are the hidden networks, the secret resistance, the hushed romances?

Jezebels, as a den of taboo could have had glimpses of all that is forbidden. Playing with gender-roles, for once. Like, the commanders can abuse women at home—when abuse is integrated in society doesn't taboo become something other than that? Jezebels didn't exactly need to be just a trauma dungeon, it could have been a focal point of chaos sprinkled with a bit of hope.

And don’t tell me “they’d all be killed as gender traitors”—yes, exactly, and yet queer people have always existed, even when criminalised. They hide, they adapt, they resist. Gilead isn’t a fantasy, it’s a horror extrapolated from real systems, and queer people have already survived versions of it. They deserved to be seen.

And no, queer representation doesn’t have to be sanitized, moralistic, or endlessly tragic either. It could’ve been messy as hell. I mean—take Fred. I loved Fred. He was the most pitiful and infuriating little worm of a villain, clinging to Serena’s fire enviously. And he died beautifully. But imagine if he’d been an evil gay, twistedly obsessed with Commander Winslow, channeling all that repressed lust into the ritualised rape of women. Their psychosexual affair could’ve embodied the raw, homoerotic undercurrent of patriarchal power structures. I would’ve shipped the absolute hell out of it. But, well, then again— I'm not saying queerness should have been Sadean either, there could have been many forms of representation and not just for the sake of representation. I did ache for Moira, she didn't need to be abruptly broken up with for being an empathetic and loyal person, and honestly she was so cool and resilient that it would have made sense to have someone be passionately in love with her.

And since we’re talking about erasure—race. The show clearly wants to focus on ciswomen’s oppression and avoid biting off more than it can chew. That was fine with me. But let’s not pretend the vacuum wasn’t felt. The Wives are all white. The cultural aesthetic of Gilead is pure Victorian-England-on-steroids. The show never seriously interrogates race, even subtly. It’s just implied, and then ignored. But race and gender are not cleanly separable in a system built on dominance. If you’re going to depict a dystopia like Gilead, you must either explore the intersection of race and gender or own up to your choice to exclude it.

And honestly? Maybe it was for the best. Given how the writers brutalized every woman in sight for the sake of “gritty realism,” I can only imagine what they’d have done to the queer and racialised characters if they had included them.

You know what I wanted? Just a few plot points to be resolved.

Let Janine have agency. Let Serena feel the weight of his ideological contradictions Keep Lawrence alive. That’s it. I would have looked past a lot of doubts because the actors are so awesome and their arcs were ripe for change and satisfaction.

I don't think I'll be watching Testaments to find out whether they'll address the environmental issues that Gilead's regime was supposedly tempering but it would be nice, wouldn't it?

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Okay, so let’s talk about the secondary characters, because honestly, the show was never about them. It was never about anyone except June. Everyone else? They were there to orbit around her, to provide emotional weight and plot devices.

Moira—man, Moira deserved so much more. She was a great friend to June. She was strong, she was defiant, and she had her own struggles, but the show never lets her shine beyond June’s sidekick. Moira didn’t get a partner to share her burdens. She didn’t get to confront her trauma. She just carried it and bore it alone. Not once did we see her heal or find a space to grow as a person outside of June’s narrative. She’s just a shadow, and that’s a damn shame, because Moira could’ve represented every woman who doesn’t fit neatly into a story but still deserves their own arc, their own power.

Rita—what the hell happened with her? She cared about her sister, and in the end, she ends up fighting in a war? Why couldn’t she just get a chance to escape? Rita deserved peace. After all she went through, why couldn’t she tenderly care for the people she loved and retire, like June’s mom? Instead, she’s dragged into the army, and we’re left wondering why.

Speaking of June’s mom, Holly—she was a symbol, not a person. A representation of Motherhood and intellect, but completely sidelined in the plot. She was there to shame June, sure, but that’s about it. She had no influence in the larger story, no agency. It was the men—Lawrence, Nick, Mark—who had all the power. Where’s the agency for June’s mom? Where’s the depth of her character?

Emily—oh, Emily. She could’ve been with her wife and son, but instead, she’s thrown back into the war, and what do we get? A few scattered, disconnected moments that barely show what she contributed. She could’ve been dead for all the impact it had. She was a great character, full of complexity, earnestness, and a coldness that made her feel like a spiritual grim reaper of sorts. Instead, she fades into the background like a forgotten soldier.

Janine—I’m exhausted. The only thing Janine does is suffer. That’s it. She’s defined by her trauma, and I get it, trauma is real. But Janine was so much more than just a victim. She had intelligence, empathy, love—she was capable of so much. But the show didn’t give her a way to channel that. She’s stuck in a trauma response forever. She could have been so much more, but instead, she’s reduced to nothing but her suffering.

Aunt Lydia—ugh. Aunt Lydia is the ultimate fascist aunt with dementia. She’s barely a human being at this point, and her “redemption arc”? Please. I wasn’t buying it. If anything, it felt like they were giving her a pass because she was a victim of the same system she helped create. She’s the kind of person who dies and you think, “Good riddance.” There’s no real closure there, no growth. Just the same old, tired narrative of a person who was horrible and is now getting to coast on some half-hearted repentance. She's just lonely, dependent and delusional.

Naomi—you know what I wanted for Naomi? I wanted her to be a glorious mess. I wanted her to be blissfully apathetic, vile, hypocritical, the kind of person who could laugh at the disaster she’d caused. Instead, she gets reduced to this miserable, nagging wife to Lawrence, and a wicked stepmother to Charlotte when she could have just enabled Janine to have someone to bully and escape the ills of motherhood. The whole vibe was wasted potential. She could’ve been a symbol of unrepentant nihilism, someone who was evil because that’s what life handed her. But no—she had to fall into the tragedy of a woman who is always second to her male counterpart. Ugh.

Lawrence—seriously, why did he have to suffer like this? He validated Nazis to achieve good political goals. Gilead didn’t need a genuine scientist to back up their unscientific nonsense; they had the ideological framework already. Lawrence just hopped on the train, didn’t anticipate the wreckage, and then gets punished for it. And what happens? His poor wife kills herself in a misguided attempt to redeem him. A woman's death was the price for his redemption and he doesn't even get to live after honouring her sacrifice.

Now I'm done. I got it out of my system— and can't help but recognise that even if this show has frustrated me to unprecedented depths, it really did give me something to think about. So, I genuinely appreciated it despite my criticisms.

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⚠️⚠️SPOILERS ABOUT THE HANDMAID'S TALE ENDING⚠️⚠️

⚠️⚠️TRIGGER WARNING FOR SENSITIVE TOPICS RELATED TO THE SHOW ITSELF⚠️⚠️

I spent seasons watching The Handmaid’s Tale believing it would follow through on its brutal, brilliant promise: a story about the cost of survival, the madness of power, the quiet resilience and raging fire of women caught inside a patriarchal theocracy. And for a while, it did.

But by the end, I feel cheated. Like I invested years only to realize the story had no real intention of evolving. It chose the safest possible conclusions for the most complicated characters—and in doing so, it left its protagonist to rot in emotional stasis, while offering its antagonist a redemption arc wrapped in soft lighting and male absolution.

Let’s talk about June. She’s brutal. She’s broken. She’s bloody, sexual, loud, grieving, angry, and deeply human. And yet, the show seems hellbent on punishing her for it. She doesn’t get love. She doesn’t get peace. She doesn’t even get the dignity of moral ambiguity unless it’s used against her.

Nick? The Nazi-adjacent war criminal with a heart of gold? Sure, kill him off for tragedy points. Fine. But he was never truly a satisfying love interest either. His entire character felt like the writers wanted to have their cake and eat it too: fascist but sexy, complicit but haunted.

Luke? Worse. June and Luke don’t love each other anymore—not like partners. Whatever they had is long gone, calcified into a trauma bond. He’s not a husband. He’s a symbol. A well-meaning liberal man who waits in the purgatory of June’s storyline, stagnant and inert, as if fidelity equals depth.

What would have been bold? Letting Luke grow. Letting him live. Letting him love someone else, or even just change. But no. He waits, and waits, and waits—forever stuck in a story that stopped making room for him long ago.

Meanwhile… Serena Joy gets the royal treatment.

She was an architect of Gilead. She co-wrote the playbook of suffering. She didn’t just live in the system—she thrived in it. She helped orchestrate it. And the show has the audacity to treat her as a tragic mother in the end? No. I want my right to hate Serena Joy.

And yes, I’m bringing up that scene—the one where she helps Fred assault June while she's pregnant. That is one of the most horrifying, viscerally repulsive scene I have ever seen in media. I’m not squeamish, but that wasn’t storytelling—it was sensationalist, morbid suffering. It was trauma porn. And the show just... kept going. Moved past it. Never held her accountable in a way that truly mattered.

Instead, Serena gets Tuello. Not necessarily as a romantic prize, but as a symbol: the gentle male authority who sees her humanity. Who tries to “understand” her. Who gives her space to grow. It’s not just lazy—it’s insulting. It’s narrative absolution dressed up as empathy.

Why does Serena get that kind of grace when June—whose ambiguity is earned through raw, agonizing survival—is constantly punished for being “too much”?

Because that’s the real problem: the show only celebrates female complexity when it’s elegant, soft-spoken, and photogenic (Serena). But when it’s embodied, loud, vengeful, sexual, or disruptive (June)? Suddenly it’s dangerous. Unstable. Unfeminine.

June is not allowed to be desired. Not allowed to desire. Not allowed to heal. She must crucify her needs to remain “worthy” of the story.

And that’s the most depressing part of all: it’s 2025, and the only role left for a “good woman” is still self-sacrifice. The only space where we’re allowed to be complex is in the tragedy corner, or as villains begging for forgiveness.

So yeah. Kill Nick, if that makes you feel like a feminist. Fine. But don’t you dare try to convince me that Serena earned forgiveness. That was cowardice, not catharsis.

Also, RIP Lawrence. One of the last weirdly interesting characters. Shame.

Let me be clear: I'm not angry because the show was too dark. I'm angry because it pretended to be fearless, and then lost its nerve. It framed pain as empowerment, then robbed its heroine of power. It gave its villain a halo. And it taught us—again—that women can be anything, as long as they aren’t too angry, too loud, or too real.

Well, screw that.