Sympathy for the Devil: The Anatomy of the Likeable Villain

Sympathy for the DevIL: The Anatomy of the Likable Villain

words by: MIKE O’BRIEN illustration & design by: ORLAGH TURNER

Villains have a habit of stealing the show. The Joker is in eight scenes of The Dark Knight, whose runtime is a whopping 152 minutes, and none of those take his point of view. Yet, in any discussion concerning this film, the Joker dominates. He is unquestionably the villain, committing a litany of crimes that range from theft to mass murder, and he threatens the viewpoint characters we’re invested in. Why, then, do we like him so much?

A short answer would be that Ledger’s performance is captivating, unpredictable, and charismatic. This is a pattern that defines many, many villains; The Walking Dead’s Negan, American Psycho’s Patrick Bateman, Full Metal Jacket’s Sergeant Hartman, the list goes on. Even Inglorious Basterds’ Hans Landa, an SS officer who acknowledges his instinctive disgust of Jews, is somehow perversely lovable. Charisma and great acting, however, are only a smattering of the ingredients in the recipe for compelling villainy. Understanding the anatomy of a well-written villain requires a craftsman’s approach to storytelling.

A story is a logistical machine. It’s a series of elements and agents whose collective aim is to convey a moral to the audience. The crucial distinction between ‘good’ and ‘bad’ stories lies in the subtext. In other words, the best stories serve a greater purpose, and each element of the narrative builds towards it. You may have encountered film criticism such as “this film’s commentary was too on-the-nose”, or, “the characters were two-dimensional”; this is an example of when a film’s moral is too transparent. The audience is here for theatre, for drama, not to be preached unto. In truth, most stories are sermons in disguise. Good writers manoeuvre this by framing a convincing conflict between characters whose clash of principle becomes the basis of the story’s moral argument.

‘Hero’ and ‘villain’ are common parlance when it comes to discussing stories, but they’re dangerous terms. To write an engaging villain, discard the word ‘villain’ and adopt ‘antagonist’ instead. Villainy implies evil and approaching morality in a binary fashion is a quick way to render a story’s moral preachy and obvious. The protagonist is the viewpoint character we follow on their quest to pursue an objective. The difference between a villain and an antagonist is that an antagonist is not intrinsically evil; they’re just in the way. Whence our sympathy for the devil emerges, a story is simply a moral disagreement between the protagonist and the antagonist. The more balanced this disagreement, the more likely we are to sympathise with the ‘villain’. Let’s examine Rocky IV (1985). Rocky Balboa, the protagonist, is a Philadelphian boxer who rises from rags to riches by training hard and refusing defeat. He represents meritocracy and the American way. Ivan Drago, the antagonist, remorselessly manslaughters Rocky’s beloved rival Apollo in the ring. Drago’s dialogue is sparse, and he gains his strength partly from illegal steroids. He represents… Russia. When Rocky predictably triumphs over Drago in the climax, he gives a painful speech about how ‘everybody can change’, to which the politburo stand up one by one and slowly applaud. Drago is nothing more than a Red Scare fever dream with the depth of a paddling pool. If a villain is to be compelling, they must be believable, vulnerable, resonant.

Let’s dial back to 1997, when The Simpsons still had something to say. In the episode “Homer’s Enemy”, Mr Burns hires a new employee, Frank Grimes, to work alongside protagonist Homer Simpson. Grimes, who was abandoned by his parents as a child, studied independently to earn a diploma in nuclear physics. When he discovers that Homer, his slothful colleague, lives in a spacious suburban home with an unconditionally loving family, Grimes, who lives alone above a bowling alley, grows hostile towards Simpson. Homer’s incompetence escalates to comical levels, and despite Grimes’ frenetic insistence that others recognise this, Homer is celebrated and rewarded for his behaviour because he is amusing. Frank Grimes is an exemplar of how to explore meritocracy through compelling antagonism. Grimes is unlikable, bitter, unpopular, envious, a pariah, and he craves the downfall of the protagonist fans have watched for eight seasons. Nevertheless, Grimes is sympathetic because he makes a strong argument. Homer has coasted through life, a happily oblivious leech on society whose ineptitude is enabled by privilege. Grimes may be odious, but he illuminates the myth of meritocracy in Springfield by exposing Homer.

Homer may be an amusing oaf, but Grimes brings the darker implications of his success into the forefront, highlighting the injustices that propel men like Homer into real positions of power. Such is the hallmark of a great antagonist: he not only challenges the personal failures of our protagonist but sparks a broader ideological dialogue. Oftentimes, the only divider between a well-written antagonist and their counterpart is the perspective through which the conflict is experienced.