Is there any name in contemporary fiction – or movies or even real life, for that matter – as evocative as Tracy Flick? It’s Dickens-calibre efficient at conjuring the zizz of a pest. Even if you’ve not read Tom Perrotta’s hilarious 1998 novel Election, or seen Alexander Payne’s rompy adaptation starring Reese Witherspoon, just the sound “Tracy Flick” probably annoys you. It hits the ear like an insult, which it absolutely is.
Because Tracy Flick is the apotheosis of an especially sneered at subcategory of uppity female striver. Her blatant ambition doesn’t just grate on people. She gets so deep under their skin that they struggle to explain their ridiculous revulsion. How dare she care so much and try so hard? And isn’t her toothy grin sofake?
