Where Were You When You Found Out Your Fave Was Problematic?
I don’t care what he’s done or who he’s killed: I love Kylo Ren. I won’t pretend that doesn’t have a little to do with the actor portraying him—the broad-shouldered Adam Driver, a man who stands seven feet tall (that’s canon), can hoist goats over his head with ease, and has now rebranded divorces as “marriage stories.” But it’s not just about Driver.
Ren, the character, is a flawed villain with good, if warped intentions. He has revived long-dormant J.D.-from-Heathers sexual fantasies. He smolders like a burnt ember. Turn to the dark side, Kylo! Then sweep me up into your cape and whisk me off into Craitian sunset.
Kylo Ren is, in short, a problematic fave—a pop-culture figure that I stan, but whose behavior I wouldn’t necessarily want to defend. (Ugh, yes, he did sort of mind-violate Rey…)
There’s an endless list of such lovable villains—for the most part, white, male, and with greasy hair for some reason? —that the internet has decided we’re allowed to like: Kylo Ren, Loki, Snape, Spike from Buffy, Tate from American Horror Story, Edward Cullen, the entire cast of Succession. If you’re a pallid white man (or vampire), it doesn’t matter whether you’re also a murderer or thief or unrepentant rich kid. If you have prominent cheekbones and can blame it all on childhood trauma, you can be deemed a cinnamon roll.
The term “problematic fave” can be traced back to a 2013 Tumblr blog called “Your Favorite is Problematic,” wherein a user archived instances of racism and/or homophobia from otherwise beloved celebrities. The list of celebs who earned earned blog posts is extensive and varied—from Barbara Walters to Zayn Malik to Dita von Teese—each apparent sin neatly catalogued for your perusal like a gift-wrapped little bonbon of surprise disillusionment.
Notably, the site stopped updating before the #MeToo era, and so the Louis C.K. post, for example, cites his use of the c-word, n-word, and homophobic slurs, but doesn’t mention the fact that multiple women have accused him of sexual misconduct—stories that he himself has admitted to be true.
The realization of this moment—that once-beloved entertainers might be monstrous predators—makes the idea of “problematic faves” somewhat less delightful.
At a certain level of terribleness, some people should not be anyone’s fave—problematic or otherwise. That awareness might explain how the common usage of “problematic fave” in culture has evolved from the blog’s original application—real, live people—towards fictional characters, or entire fictional universes.
With that more expanded definition, the concept has dominated the 2010s, a decade that witnessed both the rise of streaming, making older content more accessible, and a new framework through which to re-evaluate those once-beloved shows and movies. Out with the gendered, self-deprecating “guilty pleasure.” In with the problematic fave.
Take the television series Friends. If you were one of the millions of people who adored Friends at its peak, rewatching it in 2019 can be cringe-inducing. You (yes, you!) laughed at those fatphobic jokes and homophobic plot lines designed for an audience that once found them not just acceptable but hilarious. (Who can forget the entire subplot that rested on Chandler not wanting to invite his transgender father to his wedding because it would be a “distraction”!?) The show premiered in 1994, a different era perhaps. But even now, it remains one of the most popular shows offered on Netflix, with millions of new viewers who never saw it air live tuning in to binge it.
Another example? Sex and the City. Carrie Bradshaw’s outfits remain as over-the-top as ever and the sex puns still have their charm, but the unbearable whiteness that permeates this brunch foursome might make some wonder whether Carrie met Charlotte at a Reagan fundraiser.
So how to explain these shows’ unwavering appeal? The fact that millions of people still watch them, that some of us can still lose hours on a well-edited slideshow of Carrie’s best looks? Nostalgia is of course a factor—these series are visual comfort food, time machines to bring us back to high school afternoons and TBS marathons. So too is the nature of a problematic fave itself—a shorthand that lets us both recognize something’s low-stakes flaws and savor its better qualities. Rachel Green’s crop tops! Monica and Chandler’s romance! Mr. Big—a man-child with commitment problems whom we somehow rooted for!
To sum up the decade in problematic faves—or rather, to sum up the decade in figuring out your fave is problematic—look no further than #WokeCharlotte, a viral meme from the Instagram account @EveryOutfitonSATC that imagines snippets of dialogue from Sex and the City’s resident Park Avenue Princess as she puts people in their place. It’s the ultimate 2010s fan-fic: What would Charlotte have been like if she’d read a book?
The memes don’t chastise the show—or not a lot. Each post is an obvious labor of love, a celebration of how far we’ve come and how much work Charlotte had to do. (Even Kristen Davis, who played Charlotte on SATC, has given the account her stamp of approval.) The images poke fun at the show’s more troublesome moments, while at the same time reinforcing the power and appeal of the show’s cultural brand. The memes make clear: You can love this show. As long as you also know what sucked about it.
In the 2010s, we showed our willingness to recognize certain pervasive problems, even if we, uh, haven’t quite managed to fix them. (Clever memes aren’t a solution.) In the 2020s, here’s hoping we can focus on that second part.
In the meantime, revel in Jamie Lannister, Kendall Roy, Kylo Ren and, hell, even Unwoke Charlotte. But keep that adoration in the fictional world.
Dana Schwartz is a television writer based in Los Angeles. She is the author of The White Man's Guide to White Male Writers of the Western Canon. Follow her on Twitter @DanaSchwartzzz.
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