Girls has, at its core, always been about Hannah. It's been her journey, with dramas and scenarios unfolding around her. Other characters exist as highly stylized props that can morph through twentysomething stereotypes in whatever manner Lena Dunham sees fit to advance her story. Minutiae to be obsessed over, sure, but little more than minutiae. Twists and turns happened in their lives so we could see Hannah react, could see how tightly all these ties, however peripheral, bound her. It was a brilliant depiction of both an age and a generation, at least at first. But Dunham was so intent on all the little secondary details, she forgot about the main one. She forgot about Hannah.

Season three is when the invention overtook the inventor.

The last twelve episodes have seen most of the cast advance their lives. Ray got an apartment, a "real" job, and a credit card. Shoshanna wound up not graduating and having a meltdown. Marnie rebuilt her life from her mom's couch, becoming an assistant at an art gallery and rebounding from her breakup with Charlie. Jessa had a bout with coke and ended up as an archivist for a famous and disabled photographer, before agreeing to assist her with suicide in the final episode. And Adam. Adam, as Hannah's boyfriend, struggled for sanity and space after landing the chance of a lifetime on Broadway. All of these characters change, whether growing or unraveling, in the face of success or adversity. But not Hannah.

Sure, she had her job at GQ, but she got fired for holding on to her ideals and flaunting her disgust with writing advertorial copy. Her relationship with Adam frayed, her grandmother died, she fought with her friends, and none of it meant anything, really. Through it all she was static, unbending, one-dimensional. It's getting tired, but we keep watching, seeing occasionally those sparks of inspiration that hooked us in the first place. Little things like the verbal interplay between Hannah and her neighbor's "enlightened" pregnant girlfriend, who confides she knows she's having a girl because "I can feel the labia growing," and bigger developments, such as the depth Dunham gives Jessa's junkie friend as she reunites him with his estranged daughter, or the suicidal artist. Yet everybody gets to have depth, it seems, except Dunham's own character. We'll let the psychologists speak to the why of that, but the brilliance of Girls in the beginning was that it seamlessly blended trenchant dialogue with the intense mix of optimism and narcissism that comes from being a young adult making his or her way in the world. Sadly, 32 or so episodes later, focusing on Hannah and her dramas has become just another tired formula. And, like Adam in the season finale, we're sick of trying to work it out.

But there's hope.

If the secondary characters have become the primary reason to tune in this season, it's in them that Girls can find a savior. We wrapped with Hannah discovering she was accepted to a vaunted master's program in Iowa. Everyone, from her friends to her parents, told her she has to go, and she knows it. She does need to go. And she needs to let Girls go on without her, or at least denigrate herself officially to the secondary-character category. Let the show's burgeoning stars shine, and grow, and become dynamic characters we can care about and invest in. Plot a stunning return in season five. Sure, a whole season without Dunham's trademark need to awkwardly showcase her naked self — an emotionally fraught scene-stealer at first, but a trope that has with overuse become dull — doesn't sound like a real season of Girls, but I'm sure we'll all find a way to deal with it.

No one can deny Dunham is an incredible talent. But, like her character in the show, she needs to get out of her own way and get over herself. As Hannah sits there just before the credits on the season-three finale, hugging her acceptance letter and smiling wryly, she seems to know it. Let's just hope she has the courage to do it.

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