Over the summer, I wrote about the new Superman movie and wondered whether we were shifting into a cultural phase wherein audiences would crave the concept of heroism – actual heart-on-the-sleeve, morally upright, sacrificing for the greater good heroism – rather than the cynical, manipulative, trust no one, ends-justify-the-means type of protagonist that has been much more prevalent these past years.

Interestingly, I’ve noticed an uptick in craft bloggers addressing anti-heroism. Topics tend to cycle – and occasionally bunch up together so tightly one might assume the writers are following each other and swiping ideas – so we were probably due for another round of articles on the antihero.

If only so many bloggers didn’t get it completely wrong.

Over and over, I see craft writers conflate anti-heroism with character flaws and likeability, which are irrelevant to the question. Yes, an antihero may, in fact, be quite unlikeable, but he may also be charming, and neither is germane to the role. Rather, other elements govern the antihero. Let’s explore.

What is likeable anyway?

The first problem with using likeability as your threshold for anti-heroism is that everyone has their own definition. The traits you admire may grate on someone else’s nerves, and vice versa. I love Gwenyth Paltrow and Hilary Clinton. I think Prince Harry and Meghan are the only two sane, relatable members of the Royal Family. I am probably very lonely in these assessments. The list of people I find insufferable is lengthy, but I won’t name names. Two in particular would get me run out of Substack on a rail.

Likeability also changes with the times. Katherine Hepburn was box office poison for years, and Bette Davis a demanding bitch. Now you will more commonly hear them described as self-assured, iconoclastic, and feminist icons. Was Jay Gatsby a romantic dreamer or a deluded social climber with a toxic obsession for Daisy? Was Don Draper stylishly cool or an emotionally repressed misogynist? Is Scarlett O’Hara a strong-willed survivor or a spoiled shrew complicit with slave culture? It depends on who you ask, but also when.

Flawed protagonists are not antiheroes

I have also read articles aligning the flawed protagonist into the antihero camp. If having flaws is the sign of an antihero, then no one is heroic. In more censorious times, a flawed character would be considered less than ideal, because heroes were not allowed to have weaknesses, other than the “cares too much, works too hard” variety of non-flaws. However, these days we are more enlightened and understand the value of well-rounded characters. Nobody likes a Pollyanna.

A character can be cowardly and still make sacrifices for others. Another might be crude but always willing to stand up for what’s right. A character can be pompous or self-centered, but have a strict code of honesty. We might not like these characters, but we cannot call them antiheroes.

Confusing this characterization can also lead to some amusing declarations, such as one by a recent blogger who described Holden Caulfield as both unlikeable and an antihero, because…he smokes cigarettes. And uses bad language.

No, seriously. That actually happened, in a magazine I assume pays good money for articles. In fact, that writer used “flawed protagonists” and “antihero” nearly synonymously, which should have warned me off, but it gave me a great example of “what not to do” so no harm done. Unless swearing does make a person unlikeable, in which case I’m in serious danger.

Likeability is not a sign of heroism or anti-heroism, and even if it were, your audience’s opinion of your protagonist is out of your control (see above re: Hilary Clinton). You can make an educated guess, but in the end, you have no idea what anyone considers positive.

A hero may be someone you’d want to know or not. A character may be well-liked but not a hero. Personality has little to do with behavior. Remember, people described Ted Bundy as charming and former co-worker Ann Rule found him “kind, solicitous, and empathetic.” Yet, his victims would not consider him the hero of the story.

Protagonists aren’t necessarily heroes

This is a good point to note the difference between protagonist and hero. While we can generally use these terms interchangeably, there are important distinctions. Your protagonist is simply the character who drives your story. Most often, we consider the protagonist a hero, but you may write from the POV of a villain, or your character might not be any kind of hero or villain at all.

As with Holden Caulfield or Leopold Bloom in James Joyce’s Ulysses, your protagonist – literally “the one who plays the first part” – may simply embark on a journey with no special moral conflict. Like Gregor Samsa, your central character may be a passive victim of misfortune, embodying no virtue or moral ideal. With such characters, there is no context against which to frame them as heroes or antiheroes, even if one is a filthy smoker.

Morality has entered the chat.

In order for there to be an antihero, we must first define the hero. As noted, a hero is more than simply the protagonist. The hero as archetype embodies an ideal, and so, rather than personality, the heart of any heroic character or journey is a deep moral belief, question, or dilemma. Naturally then, the role of the antihero also centers on morality, but in a different orbit.

As always, your mileage may vary, but my definition of an antihero is someone who:

  • Does good things for a morally bad reason
  • Does morally repellant things for a good reason

Good acts, bad reasons

In the first category, we might start with Han Solo, who begins Star Wars as simply a hired pilot but later agrees to continue the journey to the rebel base – something good – but only because there may be a reward attached. He becomes a hero only later, when he risks personal sacrifice to join the attack on the Deathstar. In later seasons of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Spike fights vampires and demons not because he’s made a moral choice, but because a science experiment has rendered him unable to harm humans, and he likes fighting too much to quit. Later, his motivation evolves – he wants to help Buffy because he’s fallen in love with her – but his cause remains selfish. If the Slayer quit her mission, so would he.

In the real world, Jordan Belfort (the title character in The Wolf of Wall Street) began giving motivational speeches on corporate ethics after a stint in jail for financial fraud schemes. Similarly, Frank Abagnale (the central figure of Catch Me If You Can) became a security consultant, also after doing time for forgery and theft. Were their post-pokey efforts meant to compensate society for years of wrong-doing, or were they motivated by financial and reputational gain? I know what I’d guess.

Bad acts, good reasons

An easy example is Dexter Morgan, the killer of serial killers, meting out justice via morally repugnant deeds. Like Dexter, the protagonists of the Dirty Harry and Death Wish film series pursue a harsh form of justice, but use vigilante tactics and brutality.

In How to Get Away With Murder, Viola Davis’ Annalise Keating lies, covers up murder, frames innocent people, and twists the justice system, mostly in service of the moral goal of protecting her students and loved ones from harm (Let’s set aside the fact that the potential harm is due to their own actions and that the truth would have served them far better). Though Annalise is one of the few cast members who doesn’t kill anyone, she remains the most morally conflicted character, engaging in antiheroic behavior to serve her personal moral code.

Ambiguous choices

Sometimes, a clever writer can play the greyest of morality cards and leave the audience guessing as to motivation. In Game of Thrones, Jamie Lannister breaks his vow (a bad thing) and slays King Aeris II (also bad) but does so in order to prevent the Mad King from burning King’s Landing to the ground at the end of Robert’s Rebellion (positive motivation). Or…maybe he slayed the Mad King (a positive act long overdue) in order to save his own skin (enlightened self-interest) and further his family’s trek to the throne (cold ambition). Margaery Tyrell manipulates Joffrey’s emotions, taming his violent and capricious moods (a good thing) but does she act on behalf of the people, who need a kind, attentive king after Robert and Aerys II (positive motivation) or to seal their marriage and bring her family into the royal line (selfish motivation). Possibly both were in play, along with some please-don’t-shoot-me-with-the-crossbow self-preservation.

The show allows the audience to speculate, and perhaps even the characters themselves aren’t sure of what drives them from one moment to the next.

Likeability is irrelevant

Whether you strive to portray a character as likeable or not is a matter of personal preference, dependent on the story at hand and the mood you wish to evoke. However, personal charm is irrelevant to the creation of an antihero, who operates under his own code of moral conduct, outside the bounds of conventional behavior. Mix a few immoral acts, dedicated self-interest, and a hefty dose of one or several of the Seven Deadly Sins, and you’ll be well on your way to creating one of your own.

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