“Investment of Character,” pt.2: the Villain
Creating a convincing villain is, in my opinion, the hardest part of writing. There are so many factors to consider: believability, motivation, and history to name a few. Lee Masterson‘s excellent article at Writing-World.com explains the importance of three-dimensional villains. “Unfortunately,” she writes, “most ‘bad guys’ are shown as being shallow, narrow-minded creatures whose only ambition is to be as evil as possible.” So how do we avoid creating flat, boring villains? Development!
A villain must display dubiety and suspence for readers to continue with the a story, wonder who will be the ultimate victor. The common factor in characterisation, then, is believability. Villains share every right for existence as their adversaries and should therefore receive the same punctilious considerations in development as any other characters. What motivates the villain toward his evil/greedy goals? Masterson points out that no one chooses to label himself as “evil.” Brainstorm the villain’s history for potential answers. Past experiences reveal much about a person’s demeanour. They may or may not end up in the actual story, but solid references aid the writing process.
The way I see it, there are essentially four types of villain:
1. Good guys turned bad.
The obvious example in this category is Darth Vader (STAR WARS). (SHHH, SPOILERS!) Once upon a time, Vader was the sweet, innocent farm boy Anakin Skywalker. He cared about the well-being of the universe and carried ambitions of becoming a Jedi Master. Long story short: he didn’t listen to his teachers, made all the wrong mistakes. Chaos ensued, people died. Ultimately, Vader’s downfall emanates from his desire to protect the people he loves. Good intentions, sour turn.
2. Bad guys turned good. Stranger things have happened. Mostly what I find from this category is that the villains “switch sides” 
for the benefit of survival. The characters reach a point where cooperation is vital to their ultimate goals. Sometimes the villain evolves into a better person. Other times, once a task is accomplished, he returns to his old ways. Yet other times (the best, in my opinion), the villain’s intentions are dubious until the very end. What’s his game? Can we trust him? An infinite, cerebral dilemma on which I thrive. Focusing on the first option, I look to Bialar Crais (FARSCAPE). His first appearance implies a cold, apathetic captain who seeks revenge for his brother’s death. Simple, yes, but it drives the character to abandon all sense of regulation and leads him to redefine himself along the way. Character evolution is amazing.
3. Difference of opinion (neither good nor bad). My favourite explanation for this type is Magneto (X-MEN). Let me note now that I’m not an expert on comics and this particular analysis strictly refers to observations based on the films. From my understanding, Magneto and Professor X have a common goal: harmony for mutants. The thing that separates Magneto’s approach from Professor X’s is simply a difference of opinion. 
While the Professor believes that convincing humans to accept mutant evolution will (eventually) create harmony, Magneto’s understanding is that humans never will. His conclusion is annihilation; speed the process of evolution by exterminating the unevolved. Neither solution is necessarily right (and nowhere near easy), but both characters respect their different views as they continue to pursue their own versions of what is “right.”
4. Intrinsic psychosis. There’s no hope for the poor soul who inhabits this type of villainy. Evil from conception, but unique in backstory and personal decisions. Enter Arvin Sloane (ALIAS): 
terrorist, dilittante, widower, and grieving father. I’ve long admired Sloane for his ability to manipulate everyone and everything for his own sadistic self. He’s a complex man, not without a heart. His motivations, however, derive from the pure selfish quest to follow his obsession (which, technically, is power over the whole world–it’s very complicated). Sloane cares about one thing and will do whatever it takes to find it, even if he has to kill the people he claims to care about most. Psychology is key for this type. For once, motivation is unimportant; the character delivers through self-delusion. He tells himself it’s for reason A or reason B, but in the end, he’s simply psychotic.
————-
Allowing a villain to develop his own backstory adds spice, complexity, and intrigue. To earn the formidable badge as a hero’s antagonist, then, a villain must have an equal level of intelligence. Personally, I prefer villains who prove themselves smarter than the protagonist, though I like overabundant suspence and the possibility that the hero won’t win.
Going to back Abrams’ point: what are the molecules for villain, the “stuff that matters” ? Corruption, revenge, diversity, psychosis. Add a pinch of imagination, pop it in the oven and watch it explode! 
Final thought: why can’t more villains be perfect/gorgeous on the outside?
Next week’s conclusion: Relationships (platonic and otherwise).
ain't he a cutie?
“Investment of Character,” pt.1: the Hero
February shall be a month of investigation. Analysis. Understanding the creation and depth of phenomenally well-developed characters. A lot of this is drawn by my obsession with several great stories, but I’m taking it the extra mile because it caters a writer’s ability to breath life into her own characters. That’s why writers are encouraged to study the work of others, right? Learn from those admired to see what makes them successful.
My earlier post on J.J. Abrams’ mystery box again comes back to haunt me (in a good way). Combined with my recent fixation discovery of FARSCAPE, it’s the foundation for this three-part analysis.
Around 12:20 in the TED video, Abrams discusses Investment of Character and how it’s not the big, well-known elements of stories that we should rip off. “Rip off the characters,” he preaches. “Rip off the stuff that matters! Look inside yourself and figure out what is inside you because ultimately, the mystery box is all of us.” That’s where I turn to my interests to analyse what it is about them that hooks me in, makes me invest my time in that character’s life for three- to four- hundred pages, or countless hours of television.
The logical place to begin this investigation is with the hero. Everyone loves a hero. S/he’s the centre of the story, the one who saves the world/day, rescues those in danger. Basically, the stereotype we all know and love.
But what makes each one unique?
Believability. A character must be real to be worth my time. Even in the realms of science fiction or fantasy, where creatures of all shapes/sizes exist. What makes them real? Depth. Everyone sees the hero as the main character, the good guy. I like my heroes to have flaws. Lots of flaws. I want them to struggle, make mistakes, refuse to learn from those mistakes and fail. (honestly, I don’t think I care so much if they succeed in their designated quests as long as I can look into their souls along the way…)
Conflict. Not just the typical story-needs-conflict moment of DUH. Specifically with characters, inner conflict. I love sharing adventures with characters who struggle with themselves. Best example on my mind again relates to Abrams’ idea of ripping off what matters. Sydney Bristow and Aeryn Sun both grew up without their mothers. As a result, each envisioned her own ideas on who her mother was, deciding at some point that she wanted to grow up just like the imagined being. During her adult life, she confronts her mother only to realise the internal creation was a childish fantasy masking the truth; the mother was nothing more than a selfish, cruel woman who claims her progeny’s existence was a foolish mistake.
Sydney and Aeryn both have their inspiration (and their faith) shattered almost in a single moment. I’m not saying this mother-daughter conflict is a direct rip from either programme, nor do I have any sources indicating any such theft. I just think it’s a supreme example of Abrams’ point. Two completely different stories utilising the idea of a childhood delusion that comes back to torment the character at a crucial point in her development.
Morality. The universal controvery in story-telling. The expression of morality (or lack thereof) in literature will never please everyone. Essentially, however, the hero is the good guy and theoretically must always make good choices.
I reinterate: Flaws are the key ingredient to character believability. While I may limitations as to what I will or won’t tolerate from literature, I’m a staunch believer in literary realism. It’s important that, rather than shy away from sensitive subjects, we embrace them. Discuss, debate, etc. but do something. The nature of humans, the nature of life encompasses the grisly elements as much as any amenities. As long as a subject can be used to further a story, further the development of a character, by all means use it.
Don’t, however, include something just to have it in there. Be true to the characters, be true to the plot, and leave the question of morality in the hands of potential readers. Free will can govern them.
Hmmm. I expected to integrate more specific examples this week, but as I said, my mind’s fixated on FARSCAPE these days and I don’t want to bore anyone with verbose, fan-based commentary. So I pour the spotlight on readers: How do you define a good hero? What are the moral boundaries that govern your choice of literature? Why?
I think my fascination with psychology is the reason I’m so accepting of the gray, sensitive areas. I adore exploring the inner-workings of character development. To repeat myself again in reference to ABC’s LOST, the mechanisms of the island promote certain intrigue, but at the end of the day, my investment is more concerned with how the crash has affected the characters’ evolutionary circles.
I hold no qualms toward John Locke starting out the man of faith, with Jack Shephard the man of science, only to have them switch roles over the course of six seasons. People do change like that in real life, so writing stories that way captures the essence of humanity. The stuff that matters.
Next week: villains who are good at being bad and loathed.
It’s About Mystery Boxes
J.J. Abrams (creator of ALIAS & LOST, two of my favourite television programmes) will long be a positive inspiration to my writing career. About a year ago, I came across this TED video through an online community and have since returned to it several times when I need to refresh my muse:
Abrams’s talk epitomises the enjoyment his creations bring to me. Many of the world’s greatest films are more than the larger aspects we assume them to be about. The secret lies within the small, subtle concepts that–more often than not–go unnoticed.
The best example I think he gives is from E.T. When people think of it, they remember the boy who befriends the alien. But Abrams points out that their friendship isn’t the film’s theme at all. “It’s about divorce,” he states simply. “It’s about a crippled family and a kid who can’t find his way.”
(powerful!)
When I first heard Abrams say this about films I’ve seen many times before, I approached those films from a new light. His statement is true, and it makes me admire those stories with more depth and desire to include such profundity in my own writing.
Abrams also shared his opinion of his creations. They reflect what I have reiterated as the substantial reason for my addictions: the stuff that matters is the character and his relationship with the world and others in it.
I love ALIAS because of Sydney’s interactions with her friends, her co-workers, her father; her ability to balance work with school and fun. I love LOST, not from a desire to learn what the island is or why anything on the island happens (lying through my teeth, here–of course I want to know all that!); I want to understand who the characters are and see how they have changed because of the crash that brought them together.
(<–psychology geek)
“What are stories but mystery boxes?” Abrams asks the audience after explaining his own childhood mystery box. The idea that stories draw question after question, driving us to continue watching, continue reading–to find out the answers to those questions, yet also spawn more questions in return.
He emphasises how one trick of good story-telling is the information not shared in a particular moment. His example refers to a date scene: Two characters in a car. The top is closed, their conversation unheard. But that’s what creates the romantic atmosphere–the mystery of the unknown.
