Recently, I've noticed a cultural shift emphasizing relatable characters. This has become most apparent in popular media with our current obsession with villain characters; we're watching movies about morally gray "heroes," we're putting stickers that say I support women's wrongs on our laptops alongside pictures of our favorite Disney villainesses, we're falling for the brooding characters who make questionable decisions but "they're just misunderstood." This trend is totally understandable and natural—we want characters who look and sound and act like us, I think because it makes us feel less alone in this growing global world.
But while this trend is understandable and even fun (who doesn't love an anti-hero like Loki?), I've become increasingly aware that relatability sometimes comes at a cost. Aspirational heroes, those that encourage us to be something more than we are. We're losing the attributes in characters that don't just provide a mirror of our own flaws and failings, but a window to something greater.
Relatability and exemplary are both essential attributes in main characters, but how do we find that balance? I thought I'd do a brief dive into both, their roles in stories, some examples from my favorite fiction, and posit a solution for how we can balance these two modes of characterization.
Relatable
Who doesn't want a character they can relate to?
I think this desire is particularly noticeable in current internet culture. Think of all the words that we use to point out similarities or identify with something: mood, me, my vibes, same, etc. We're always looking not just to identify ourselves with certain experiences, people, or things outside of ourselves, but also to let people know that we relate to that thing. In an age of hyper-social media, people want to be seen.
Honestly, same.
One way we've accomplished this in current media is by emphasizing characters that look like us—we've made huge strides in diversity over the past several years, not just who we cast to play roles in visual media but also in the diversity of creators. But this isn't the only way we make ourselves feel seen. When I talk about relatability, I'm thinking of relatable behavior.
Not just characters who look like us, but characters who act like us.
Which brings us around to the picture of Deadpool. A classic anti-hero, Deadpool represents extreme relatability to modern audiences. He's a quippy superhero with a foul mouth whose constant R-rated humor and language has earned him the title "Merc with a Mouth." He does some of the classic hero things like saving the world, but it's usually done with more than a little self-interest or reluctance at having to "do the right thing."
Taking a note from Freud, we might say that Deadpool represents the ID, or the basest level of subconscious human instinct that contains all urges and impulses. Deadpool says what he thinks as soon as he thinks it. He does what he wants to do when he wants to do it (at least, most of the time). He shows little regard for the intrinsic value of human life, except when he decides that a certain life matters enough to try and protect it. His constant jokes at others' expense demonstrate his unawareness or uncaring about the feelings of those around him. In short, Deadpool represents a person we've all wished we could be at one point or another, letting go of strict social or moral norms and just doing whatever we want.
Deadpool is relatable. "Literally me," as some people might say.
Like I mentioned in the intro, relatability isn't necessarily a bad thing. We need relatable characters in order to empathize and attach to them. We empathize with Harry Potter because his reluctance to do homework feels familiar to us. We understand Luke Skywalker because he complains about not getting permission to go down to Tosche Station and pick up his power converters. This empathy is crucial to helping readers/audiences take something away from the story—we need to be able to map ourselves onto these characters so that we can learn as they learn, to think about what we might change.
Where relatability becomes dangerous is when it excuses readers from higher living. Complacency.
Because whether we like it or not, the characters we put front and center in books and movies are going to be our role models. They'll teach us how we live, and depending on how the story frames those life choices we'll get the message that the character's life is either worthy of admiration or something to avoid. Coming back to Deadpool, it isn't necessarily that he's a bad example. He doesn't encourage us to speak like him, to act like him. He might be horrified if we did. But he is a complacent example. He gives us a sense of comfort that it's okay to live by our basest impulses. I don't think any of us really needs encouragement to do that; the impulses are always there, the ID pushing us to do whatever comes to mind.
Instead, we need characters who have those impulses but overcome them.
But I'm getting ahead of myself. First, characters who are aspirational.
Aspirational
An aspirational character is someone that we aspire to be like—unlike relatable characters, we perhaps perceive a gap between us and them. The gap (the realization that we aren't all we could or should be) can be a source of discomfort for audiences. No one wants to look into the mirror in the morning and discover that they haven't reached their potential, or that there are still a myriad of things they need to change. So it's understandable why we've begun to shy away from aspirational characters. Why have Captain America reminding me of all that I am not yet when I could watch Deadpool be all that I already am?
And yet, I think characters we aspire to be like are a necessary and core aspect of storytelling.
One of the most aspirational characters to me personally is Egwene al'Vere from Robert Jordan's The Wheel of Time series (**minor spoilers ahead**). At the beginning of The Wheel of Time, I wasn't really a fan of Egwene—she was a bossy know-it-all who liked calling all the male main characters "wool-headed" and had an insufferably superior attitude towards most things. Behind all the bullying, you can see a young girl who has been thrown into a larger world and is unsure of who she is or what her place is. Throughout the series, however, Egwene faces a series of obstacles that transform her into a kind yet self-assured woman who knows her identity and won't let anyone take it away from her.
By the end of The Wheel of Time, Egwene is loyal and protective of those around her; she comes to appreciate her male peers in a way she previously hadn't; her intelligence and power are used for the good of the world; she is as tough as nails and yet still eager to help others. She is willing to do whatever is necessary for what is good and right, and in the end she's willing to give her up her own life.
I want to be like Egwene al'Vere. Except...that I'm not.
And that's okay. Because aspirational characters are an example of Freud's SUPEREGO—they are examples of denying one's own basest desires in order to promote moral and societal standards. Even in her final scene, Egwene is an example of this as she rejects the base human desire for life or fear of death and does what is best for her society, a society which will literally disintegrate if she doesn't give up her own life.
Looking at Egwene's moral strength can be painful. Instead of a mirror, I see all that I am not. I don't think I'm strong enough to stand up to those who have complete power over me. I don't know if I'd do well in torture scenarios, or if I'd have the strength to give up my own life in the service of others. The important thing about aspirational characters is that I recognize those are positive qualities, both for myself and for our society as a whole, and so I aspire towards them. I recognize that if the whole world practiced the sort of values that Egwene embodies, the world would probably be a much better, saner, loving place. Aspirational characters are trailmarkers for the path that we want to forge as a society. Just because it can be difficult to look at them and see our own failings doesn't mean they're bad for us; in fact, I think most of us could use a little more discomfort in our lives. It pushes us onward.
Of course, moderation is important in all things.
Where aspirationalism becomes dangerous is when it forces something on the reader. Aspirational characters should be examples, people readers can look to if they so desire. As writers, I think we have a responsibility to provide them. But they don't work if we say "this is how to live" or "this is what you and everyone else should look like," and we certainly shouldn't demand that the reader change. The art of rhetoric is the art of subtlety. Supply the example, demonstrate the aspiration, but don't ask the reader to do more with it than they're comfortable with. I also feel it's important to note that aspirational characters are not perfect. They make mistakes, but I think it's more about their general moral orientation. Are they trying to do what is right? Do they recognize when they've made mistakes and try to fix them? Are they open to learning and acknowledging their failings? If so, a character is still aspirational.
A Third Option
Can a main character truly be a mix of these two attributes?
I think so. Freud seems to think so as well, as he speaks not just of the ID and the SUPEREGO but also of the EGO, that part of the personality that moderates between baser instinct and moral aspirations. And I think I have the perfect example: Samwise Gamgee, from Tolkien's The Lord of the Rings.
If you haven't read the books or seen the films, Sam is the gardener and loyal sidekick to the main character, Frodo, during a perilous journey. In this short description we already see a hint of Sam's ability to be both aspirational and relatable—he is relatable because he is an everyman type of character, a simple gardener who doesn't dream of adventure. He loves food, is somewhat clumsy, and terrified of the dangers they face along the way. He is mistrusting of Gollum, excited when they see cool new sites, and scared of asking out the girl-next-door Rosie. When watching any of the movies with friends, Sam is the character that someone is most likely to point to and say "haha, me."
Except that beyond these character traits, Sam is very unlike us. As I mentioned above, he's intensely loyal to Frodo, even when Frodo doesn't listen to him or sends him away in the film adaptations. He does what he's told, but also has a mind of his own and listens to his heart. He is dedicated to both cause and master, even to the point of being willing to give up his own life for both. And Sam recognizes that while he isn't the main character, he can sacrifice himself. My favorite line of the whole film series is "I can't carry it for you, but I can carry you." There's an abundance of humility and strength in that attitude.
Sam is someone we can relate to, but also someone we aspire to be like. How does that work?
I think it comes down to a rule I've recently been theorizing for myself as a writer: characterization can be relatable, but character should be aspirational. "Character" in this instance referring to the aggregation of moral qualities or traits that a person possesses. In other words, the inessential quirks of personality can and should be relatable to an audience to help them want to follow the character, but their deeper attributes and virtues should be revealed through action as worthy of emulation.