The villainous dominatrix is ubiquitous in contemporary fiction. She is strong, assertive and outright dangerous. We love her for being aggressively sexy and darkly admirable. She is a sleek, comely predator and we are thrilled watching her hunt and kill.
The useless henchwoman is virtually unheard of. Even when glimpsed she is barely remembered. Do you even know who I am talking about? Probably not.
I am a writer and an artist. My useless henchwomen are girls of the common folk. They may be clones, robots or whatever but they are the proletariat of their faction: the cheap labor of villainy. Plentiful and individually insignificant they are pitifully expendable. As foot soldiers they are the sacrificial pawns of their elitist masters.
The villainous dominatrix is popular for obvious reasons. The useless henchwoman is not so obvious thus not so easily appreciated. She is the cannon-fodder of villainy as a damsel in distress. We resent her for being villainous yet pity her for being a helpless victim. Our mixed feelings conflict, making us uncomfortable. Many of us would rather not bother with her at all.
Most of the useless henchwoman's few admirers prefer that she is never slain. They are more comfortable limiting her to slapstick action. As for myself, I have no use for such nonsense. Our beloved character cannot equal her brother lest she prove herself in his stead. The useless henchwoman must be allowed her place in gritty action or she has no place in high adventure.
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