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I came of age in the 1990s and lived through the heavily gendered pop culture of Spice Girls and All Saints, Oasis and Blur, of lads and ladettes outdoing each other in heavy drinking and sexual exploits.
Now in my 40s, I thought this brash and overtly sexist culture had faded out. It appeared to have been replaced by a socially progressive and inclusive generation focused on body and sex positivity, gender and sexual fluidity. And so I was surprised to see my generation Z research participants romanticise the 1990s as a belle epoque.
First it was Sex and the City, then lad’s mag Loaded and now Oasis. Popular culture from the 1990s is having a moment in the mid-2020s. The 90s have been a stylistic and cultural influence on youth culture for the best part of a decade, with large amounts of money invested in big-name reboots and reunions.
I began researching young adults’ sexual politics and their relationship to popular culture back in 2016. It was clear from my observations of the clothing, social media and references back then that the 90s were a major cultural influence. I remember being surprised by the popularity of the TV shows like Friends and musicians including Shaggy, Oasis and Suede from my own youth.
Every generation has a romanticised nostalgia for the fashion, music and attitudes of the previous. When I was a teenager, my friends and I held a romanticised nostalgia for the music, fashion and sense of freedom we believed characterised the 60s and 70s. This view, however, did not align with my parents’ and their peers’ recollections of that time.
What is most interesting here is the apparent contradiction in values. The objectification of women at the heart of 90s pop culture does not gel with what we think of as the sexually open, progressive politics of generation Z. But having studied the intersection of pop culture and gender, I see this current resurgence as part of a misogynistic backlash to feminist progress – something that feminist scholars have highlighted as a typical pattern for years.
Much of 90s popular culture is inherently misogynistic. Loaded and other now-defunct lads’ mags were infamous for their brutal objectification of women, including advice on how to get women into bed by almost any means. The celebrated lad culture epitomised by the likes of Oasis encouraged “men to be men”, with all the macho aggression and limited emotional range that implied.
A damning 2012 National Union of Students report on sexual harassment and assault on university campuses made explicit links to the prevalence of lad culture in UK higher education. It argued lad culture at best objectifies and is dismissive of women, and at worst glamorises sexual assault.
Gen Z is widely considered a generation of social activists, having grown up in the shadow of movements like #MeToo and the Women’s March that emerged in protest of the election of Donald Trump as US president. These cultural touchpoints in this generation’s upbringing highlight intersections of sex and power.
Some young consumers have acknowledged this mismatch, describing Sex and the City as “outdated” and “cringey”. And incoming Loaded editor Danni Levy seems aware of it too, saying the relaunch is necessary because of the “world gone PC mad”.
Why is 90s culture popular now?
I argue the resurgence of 90s popular culture is actually part of a backlash against the progressive understandings of gender and sexuality associated with generation Z.
Research indicates that gen Z men are less likely to support feminism than baby boomers. Young men and boys are increasingly being influenced by figures like self-proclaimed misogynist Andrew Tate, who faces charges of rape and human trafficking among other offences.
While enjoying 90s television of course doesn’t mean you hold the same misogynistic views as Tate, I believe some popular culture is central to a continuum of backlash against feminist progress.
To explain this, I suggest turning to feminist scholars – including one of my own 90s favourites, Susan Faludi’s excellent 1992 book Backlash: The undeclared war against women. In this work, Faludi details multiple periods of backlash against women’s liberation dating from 195BC. Each of these is linked to repeated “crises of masculinity”.
Much feminist writing details how the very notion of masculinity depends on a subordinate femininity. And so, Faludi argues, advances in feminism equal a crisis of masculinity. Progress begets backlash, and popular culture is a key site where this takes place.
Through my research I work to detail the subtle and nuanced ways this happens. I am currently researching how popular culture interprets and remixes progressive ideas like sex and gender positivity.
At first glance, songs, films and shows may seem to be supportive of women’s sexual liberation, but on closer inspection they can reinforce traditional ideas of what it is to be a woman, or what it is to be attractive. Katy Perry’s recent music video Woman’s World is a classic example of this. Its lyrical appropriation of feminist messages of empowerment is delivered in an outdated visual style that adheres to the male gaze.
Perry and her dancers strut around in swimwear costumes adapted to mimic various “masculine” professions. Critiqued for its lack of authenticity, Perry’s video represents a male sexual dreamworld that is inconsistent with the feminist politics it links itself to.
There is often, in examples like this, a blurring of feminist and anti-feminist ideas – where it seems as though feminism is so commonsense it is no longer necessary, and is therefore neutralised.
A multitude of literature on female sexual desire has emerged in the last few years. It is wide-ranging and imaginative. And yet, much of 90s popular culture flattens this complexity, painting female desire as only a desire to be desired by men.
It prioritises male pleasure and advocates for their sexual dominance over women, reverting to understandings of “acceptable” sex as heterosexual, monogamous and male-led. Despite years of feminist progress, popular culture continues to teach us that women are objects of male sexual fantasy.
Julie Whiteman does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.
