Your Anti-Hero Complex Isn’t Original

Anti-heroes are more common than stone these days. They’re the shady, rule-breaking, socially deviant, misunderstood heartthrobs that have been all the rage the last however many decades. They do bad things sometimes, but you know, they mean well. They might be a smuggler, an outlaw, a vampire, or a straight-up narcissist, but there’s a bigger villain at large, a true villain, and who’s to save the day if not our not-hero?

Sound familiar?

Yes, it does.

Where does this fascination with anti-heroes come from? They’re not unique to our zeitgeist, but they’re a far cry from traditional heroes, which historically served as positive role models. Now the notion of a squeaky-clean hero bores or annoys or even angers some. Why? What happened?

Let’s dive in.

Just Like You and Me

People like themselves. A lot.

They like others who are like them. They like for characters to be like them—even if only in some small way. Characters don’t have to be likeable, but they need to be relatable. This isn’t a hard fast rule, but most audiences won’t tolerate an utterly unrelatable main character. They will tolerate an unlikeable one if—and only if—they find them at least minimally similar to themselves. It could be as simple as, “Oh, this guy might be a lying, stealing, conceited piece of work, but he has a great relationship with his daughter, or he loves his dog, or he’s funny, or he struggles with something I struggle with.”

You catch my drift.

Audiences will tolerate an unlikable character if—and only if—they find them at least minimally similar to themselves.

Most people don’t view themselves as a problem. They’re blinded by all the “good stuff” within them. If you see that same stuff in an otherwise unlikeable character, you’re drawn to give him/her a similar benefit of the doubt. You go partially blind to their anti-traits.

Herein lies the relatability principle.

Stories of Old used heroes prescriptively. Storytelling wasn’t as much about relatability as it was about showcasing proper behavior intended for audiences to emulate. Kinda like what we do with children’s stories, where we’re hyper-conscious of good role models for little minds.

Modern stories use heroes more descriptively. They aim to paint life and the human condition in more honest strokes. It’s not about setting forth idols (though that inevitably happens – more on that later). It’s about representing real people on the page or screen. It’s about giving people someone to look to, a fictional stand-in for their vantage point in life. The purpose of storytelling has changed, and therefore so has its players.

Perhaps we prefer anti-heroes because we have fallen so short of their nobler literary ancestors. We prefer the darker, edgier heroes because they’re a fictional description of ourselves.

Perhaps we prefer anti-heroes because we have fallen so short of their nobler literary ancestors. We prefer the darker, edgier heroes because they’re a fictional description of ourselves. In a very conceited fashion, we enjoy characters that mirror ourselves, our darkest fantasies or alter-egos, because they demand less of us. They demand less change. They project a social image that sings an “I’m okay, you’re okay, we’re all okay” message. It’s only good business for writers to do so. People would rather assemble to watch a funhouse mirror than hear a heavy-handed sermon.

In other words, we would rather relate than introspect.

We’re Boring

Easily the least profound (and perhaps most honest) reason for our affinity for anti-heroes is that they’re interesting. That’s all.

Story breathes conflict, and morally grey heroes offer more complex conflict. With such a long history of wholesome characters wrestling with depraved ones, it’s not surprising audiences have been craving a change.

Anti-heroes tap into our unlived fantasies about romanticized otherness.

Characters that toe the line of good and bad make things more risqué. They add a layer of intrigue. They’re like a puzzle or an open-ended question. They tap into our unlived fantasies about romanticized societal otherness. Many would love to see themselves as a deviant that stands above the fray. Within a culture that glorifies rugged individualism, our adoration for anti-hero archetypes like the Western gunslinger, the vigilante superhero, and the lawless apocalypse-survivor seems inevitable. They’re dark messiah types: individuals who arrive on scene and defy the status quo. I could argue this harkens back to Western culture’s Christian roots—invoking men like Jesus, Moses, and David who faced off against the powers that were—but that might be a stretch.

Again, the simplest reason for our fixation with anti-heroes is their shadows. Their complexity. Their inherent intrigue. Put frankly, they often make for sharper stories.

Normalized Deviance

Remember when I said modern heroes aren’t prescriptive?

I lied . . . sort of.

Today’s writers might be more descriptive than prescriptive in crafting their characters, but that doesn’t mean we as an audience don’t still try to emulate those characters, subconsciously or otherwise. We’re a monkey-see, monkey-do kind of creature. When something is portrayed as laudable or likeable, it takes conscious effort to disapprove of it. It’s much easier to go with the flow and feel the catharsis a storyteller is wanting us to feel. In other words, if we’re meant to feel for the anti-hero, it’s hard not to (if the story is well told).

Today’s writers might be more descriptive than prescriptive in crafting their characters, but that doesn’t mean we as an audience don’t still try to emulate those characters, subconsciously or otherwise.

Intentional or not, this is a social reprogramming trick. It may sound sinister, but it’s not always. By framing a societal outcast or deviant as the misunderstood hero—injecting some relatable and even likeable traits in the mix—a writer can sway people’s sympathies to soften toward such a person or group of people. This goes beyond anti-heroes. Any character that falls outside the bounds of proper society can have this effect.

Characters like Deadpool, John Wick, and Venom normalize violence so long as it serves a higher sense of vigilante justice. Characters like Carrie White or Katniss Everdeen normalize rebellion so long as it’s aimed at a tyrannical authority. Even the first Pirates of the Caribbean movie has a weird thematic undercurrent about how maybe pirates aren’t that bad after all . . . so long as they’re not actually killing people, I guess.

My point isn’t that anti-heroes are undeserving. My point is that, as social priorities shift, so do the ethics championed by our characters. Homebrewed justice has replaced black-and-white notions of law and order. Strategic fibbing has replaced a truth-no-matter-what principle. Free love has replaced chastity.  Secular ethos has replaced religiosity.

Regardless of how we or anyone feel about these changes, the fact remains that fiction plays a huge role in promoting and visualizing them. It’s a sort of weaponized empathy: convince an audience to feel for someone with an undesirable trait or lifestyle, and now many will soften to that trait or lifestyle.

Anti-heroes force us to reconsider what’s acceptable, what’s deviant, and what (or who) gets a bad rap, maybe deservedly, maybe not.

Backlash against this weaponized empathy is hit or miss. We as an audience often don’t complain so long as the story is tightly written—and therefore effective. One exception is the “loveable misogynist” trope, which has garnered warranted criticism. The loveable misogynist is the go-lucky male character who sees women as playthings. Star Lord from Guardians of the Galaxy is arguably one example. He’s an anti-hero primarily for other reasons (him being a criminal and all), but from the very beginning he’s introduced as a womanizer—but, you know, he’s funny and has a heart of gold in the end. Star Lord doesn’t necessarily deserve our affections, but the empathic framing of his story encourages it.

Hence, weaponized empathy.  

Our purpose here is not to pass judgment on Star Lord or any of these characters. I love many of them in spite of their flaws. The point is that anti-heroes, intentionally or unintentionally, for good or for ill, stir the pot of change in public opinion. They force us to reconsider what’s acceptable, what’s deviant, and what (or who) gets a bad rap, maybe deservedly, maybe not.

And in a time and culture that’s fixated upon reassessing everything, it’s no wonder anti-heroes are so prevalent.