Villainous Motivations

In a presentation on Dark Lords at this year's ICFA, the author of the paper raised the question of whether villains need a complex backstory for their motivations to make them credible as characters. The author didn't think so. He pointed out that a villain can have a realistic but simple, straightforward motive. He mentioned Wile E. Coyote, who just wants to eat the roadrunner. Granted, that original goal has apparently been complicated by feelings of frustration, with a competitive drive to prove a silly bird can't get the better of him. Nevertheless, I admit appetite or greed can be a sufficient motive by itself. A bank robber or a pirate can serve as a believable antagonist if he simply wants the loot. But what about a Dark Lord (or Lady) or other supervillain?

Hannibal Lecter in SILENCE OF THE LAMBS offers an interesting example. He's a highly educated, brilliant, cultured, insightful psychiatrist who, as a villain, doesn't display particularly complicated motives. He's a sociopath who has fun manipulating people and, incidentally, likes to indulge his cannibalistic fetish. When HANNIBAL and HANNIBAL RISING gave him a backstory with what TV Tropes calls a "Freudian excuse," he underwent a fundamental change that subverted his portrayal in RED DRAGON and SILENCE OF THE LAMBS as an enigmatic, not-quite-human monster.

The Star Wars series, in my opinion, made Darth Vader more interesting by giving him a backstory to explain how the heroic Jedi warrior Anakin Skywalker became Vader, even though I think it falls short to some extent. Pre-Vader Anakin, to me, doesn't come across as a very engaging character. He grows from a rather nice kid into a whiny teenager, something of a disappointment as a future Dark Lord. And I never quite believed in his romance with the princess in the prequel trilogy. I found both characters more believable and engaging in the midquel animated series. Still, the prequel trilogy does give Anakin credible motives for turning to the Dark Side. The most prominent current example of a sympathetic villainous backstory is, of course, WICKED. It's been a long time since I've read the book, so I don't recall many details, but the movie (part one of Elphaba's story) does a wonderful job of showing the future Wicked Witch of the West as a misunderstood person who starts out good and is driven to the rebellion that gets her labeled as "wicked."

If a writer wants me to believe in a villain impelled by greed for limitless wealth or domination, I need to know more about him or her, because I can't identify with such motives. One can spend only so much money in a lifetime. As for ruling the world, why would anybody go to all that trouble? Such an antagonist, in my opinion, would be improved by a backstory to explain why he or she feels nothing will ever be enough. Otherwise, they remind me of a supervillain organization in an old cartoon series (I don't remember what) whose goal was "to destroy the universe for their own gain."

Lord Voldemort's drive to conquer wizard society in the Harry Potter series has credible roots in his bitterness about his Muggle father and his "weak" witch mother's death and, above all, his own terror of death. Fundamentally, all his actions spring from his obsession with attaining immortality.

Revenge is another motive for which I take some extra convincing. I've used it myself in my vampire novel CHILD OF TWILIGHT (direct sequel to DARK CHANGELING, although I think it could stand alone), but I consider it plausible only because the antagonist has been in suspended animation for the whole time since the event she's avenging -- the death of her brother. Therefore, her grief and rage are as fresh as if the death happened yesterday, not thirteen or so years in the past. I can imagine striking out in rage against an enemy at the moment I'm attacked or soon afterward. I can't empathize with the "revenge best served cold" philosophy. Spend years or decades brooding over an injury and plotting a complicated vengeance? What a waste of time and energy. So the avenger needs well-developed personality traits that make his readiness to act this way plausible.

One archetypal villain has generated much speculation over his motive in the past two millennia -- Judas Iscariot. "He did it for the money" is not convincing. As Dorothy Sayers explains in her commentary on THE MAN BORN TO BE KING, her twelve-part radio drama series about the life of Christ, Jesus as portrayed in the Gospels (who "knew what was in people") wouldn't have chosen an obvious crook as a member of His inner circle. Nor would He deliberately choose a villain for the explicit purpose of setting him up to damn himself by turning traitor. As Sayers points out, neither of those scenarios would make a convincing story. Judas must have begun as a loyal disciple and undergone a change that made him decide betraying Jesus was right. Two principal motivations have been proposed: (1) Judas wanted Jesus to lead a military revolt against the Roman occupation and thought being arrested would goad Him into taking that route. (2) Afraid Jesus' public actions were putting all of them in grave danger from the Jewish and/or Roman authorities, Judas hoped being arrested would frighten Jesus into behaving more cautiously. Dorothy Sayers's own explanation for the betrayal takes a third tack: Judas mistakenly thought Jesus was plotting violent revolution, became disillusioned, and betrayed Him to stop the nonexistent uprising.

The topic of supervillains always reminds me of the Evil Overlord list, which you may have read, an exhaustive catalog of things a sensible Dark Lord should or shouldn't do. It's a hilarious deconstruction of all the familiar villainous tropes and cliches:

Evil Overlord List

Margaret L. Carter

Please explore love among the monsters at Carter's Crypt.

Language in Historical Fiction

I've just finished watching Season Four of THE CHOSEN, the streaming series about Jesus and his followers. (It seems likely the title refers to the latter.) I find it captivating, although naturally it's not perfect. In the first season, the Roman soldiers sometimes act like the Gestapo in a Nazi-occupied country, whereas from what I've read, the Roman occupation was more like the British Raj in India. The Pharisees are portrayed as if they wielded official authority, when in fact they were a self-appointed religious-political pressure group promoting strict observance of the Law. What the series brings to mind for me at the moment, though, are linguistic issues. How should characters in a historical novel or film talk in order to seem approachable by modern audiences yet also quasi-authentic or at least not blatantly anachronistic?

If a historical person's speech includes jarringly contemporary slang -- unless it's humorously meant as parody, of course -- it throws the reader or viewer out of the story. On the other hand, characters who speak "forsoothly" can feel emotionally distant rather than engaging. Worse, some writers have a tenuous grasp of archaic language and season their texts with random peppering of "thee," "-est," "-eth," etc., with no regard for the actual grammar of premodern English. Obsolete words can lend the narrative an authentic flavor but, if the meanings aren't obvious from context, may confuse the reader. I admire the way Chelsea Quinn Yarbro's Count Saint-Germain novels refer to clothing and some other everyday items by the terms used in the respective historical periods rather than substituting modern approximations. But, then, Yarbro is an expert with many decades of experience, and even so, I'm not always certain what a particular article of clothing looks like; her skill, fortunately, always gives the reader enough to go on with.

Then there's the issue of narrative and dialogue meant to be understood as translating from a foreign language. Some old war movies show enemy soldiers speaking with German accents, as if they're foreigners to themselves. The new miniseries adaptation of SHOGUN makes the bold decision to have Japanese dialogue spoken in that language with English subtitles, immersively realistic but rather demanding on the audience. The filmmakers do give us a rest by letting the European characters talk to each other in English when they're presumably speaking Portuguese. In my opinion, THE HUNT FOR RED OCTOBER made an excellent choice with scenes on the Russian submarine. For the first few minutes, the actors speak Russian with subtitles. Then we have a conversation when the captain (Sean Connery) is reading aloud from a book written in English. His spoken dialogue segues from Russian into English, and thereafter Russians talking among themselves do so in English "translation." When foreign languages in historical fiction are "translated" into English, as in most novels and movies, it seems appropriate to render casual speech from the supposed original language into colloquial modern English rather than making the characters talk in an unrealistically stilted, formal style. With one precaution -- the writer should take scrupulous care to avoid anachronistic references, such as metaphors based on technology that didn't exist in the particular past era, e.g., "like a broken record" before the 20th century. But how far should the dialogue go in the direction of informality to be accessible without the intrusion of jarringly modern slang?

I'm ambivalent about the way THE CHOSEN handles that question. Mostly I like the casual, colloquial dialogue, but sometimes the characters use trendy phrases that I think make them sound too much like contemporaries of our Gen-X children. I don't object to words such as "okay," though. That's been around since before the mid-19th century. As for accents, it puzzles me that the locals speak with what I guess is meant to be a Middle Eastern accent, again as if they're foreigners to themselves. Logically, the Jewish characters should speak unaccented English and the Romans, as the outsiders, should have an accent -- maybe a hint of Italian? I winced, by the way, when a Roman soldier stumbles over the name "Peter." It's Greek, the common language of the eastern Roman empire; of course he would know it means "rock"! (Furthermore, for maximum realism the disciples should address Peter by the Aramaic word for rock, Cephas.)

The regional and class issue should also be taken into account, in my opinion. Dorothy Sayers, in the introduction to her radio play cycle THE MAN BORN TO BE KING, discusses accents in this context. Should Jesus and his disciples speak more correctly than the working-class people around them, as if the disciples weren't part of the same population? Jesus and his mother need to share the same accent, but would it make sense to have them talk differently from his followers? Sayers also brings up and dismisses the complication of regional dialects. THE CHOSEN doesn't allow for that, either. I wish they'd taken into account the fact that Jesus, his mother, and several of the disciples come from Galilee. Since inhabitants of that area were considered uncouth by people from around Jerusalem, the dialogue should reflect that difference. I'd like Jesus, Peter, et al to have a distinct regional accent, maybe a tinge of Scottish or Irish, something I've never seen in any film version of the Gospel story. I wonder how THE CHOSEN will handle the moment during Peter's denial scene when a bystander recognizes him as a disciple by his Galilean accent?

Writers of fiction set in past eras or foreign cultures need to strike a delicate balance between annoying purists and baffling casual readers.

Margaret L. Carter

Please explore love among the monsters at Carter's Crypt.

Xmas Musings

I've just read a recent book about Dorothy Sayers, SUBVERSIVE, by Crystal Downing. One theme to which the author frequently alludes is the concept of living by an exchange model, an expectation of behaving certain ways to get equivalent value in return. For instance, Downing emphasizes that Sayers cautioned against the mind-set that doing good deeds guarantees one will "go to Heaven" or even enjoy prosperity in life. At the current season, this idea reminded me of Christmas gifts, naturally. We often speak of "exchanging presents" or having a gift exchange at an office party. Ideally, we'd give presents that reflect our awareness of what the recipient really wants, without any consideration of what we might receive from that person. In practice, our gift-giving is often constrained not only by what we can afford but by the anticipated size and monetary value of the present we expect the recipient to give us. If we spend a lot more in giving than the other person spends on us, we might feel miffed at the discrepancy or embarrassed at having put the other person in an awkward spot. Conversely, not spending enough on a gift may distress us because we fear the recipient will think we're stingy, or we might even feel guilty about not giving what we "should."

This subject reminds me of two short essays C. S. Lewis wrote about Christmas as celebrated in Britain in his time. You can read them here:

What Christmas Means to Me

Xmas and Christmas

In "What Christmas Means to Me" (a sappy title I seriously doubt Lewis chose himself), he distinguishes three things called "Christmas": The first is the religious festival. The second, a secular holiday devoted to merrymaking, "has complex historical connections with the first" and, in mid-twentieth-century England as in our contemporary culture, is joyfully celebrated by millions of people who don't practice Christianity in any other way. The third phenomenon, which Lewis says "is unfortunately everyone's business," he calls "the commercial racket." Note that this article was first published in 1957! Here's where the topic of gift exchange comes in. He laments the modern pressure to give presents or at least send cards to everybody we know, a custom he maintains "has been forced upon us by the shopkeepers." Not only is this obligation exhausting and a hindrance to the "ordinary and necessary shopping" we still can't avoid, "Most of it is involuntary." While I think "most" is an exaggeration, Lewis amusingly summarizes the hapless shopper's plight thus: "The modern rule is that anyone can force you to give him a present by sending you a quite unprovoked present of his own."

"Xmas and Christmas," a witty piece of satire, bears the subtitle "A Lost Chapter from Herodotus." It purports to be the classical historian's report of strange winter customs in the fogbound island nation of Niatirb. The writer describes the sending of "Exmas-cards" bearing pictures that seem to have no discernible connection to the festival supposedly being celebrated, such as birds on prickly tree branches. There's a funny description of the citizens' reactions to receiving cards or gifts from anyone they haven't already gifted: "They beat their breasts and wail and utter curses against the sender; and, having sufficiently lamented their misfortune, they put on their boots again and go out into the fog and rain. . . ." Herodotus concludes that Exmas and "Crissmas" can't possibly be the same holiday, because surely millions of people wouldn't undergo those ordeals in honor of a God they don't believe in.

This essay's description of the illustrations on "Exmas-cards," including "men in such garments as the Niatirbians believe that their ancestors wore two hundred years ago riding in coaches such as their ancestors used, or houses with snow on their roofs," highlights the way our images of a "traditional Christmas" often owe more to art, literature, and the media than to firsthand experience. Those idyllic snow scenes, for instance, and the songs about sleigh rides. If anyone in the modern U.S. goes on a sleigh ride around the holidays, it's most likely a staged event, not a spontaneous family outing. As for songs such as "Winter Wonderland," "Let It Snow," and "White Christmas" (rescued from banality only by its seldom-sung prologue, which frames the singer as a Los Angeles resident nostalgic for the northeast winters of his childhood), a considerable percentage of the American population sees white Christmases only in the movies. In the popular imagination, though, December is supposed to conform to the standard described by TV Tropes in this entry:

Dreaming of a White Christmas

As the page explains, "Unless a work of fiction takes place in a tropical or arid setting, or in the Southern Hemisphere, it will always snow in winter. . . . The snow will be there to look 'pretty'. It does not melt or turn slushy, nor is it ever coated with dirt or litter. It is never accompanied by freezing winds or icy rains." While our family lived in San Diego at some points during my husband's Navy career, we could tell when it was winter (aside from chilly nights and increased rain) because the distant hills turned green rather than brown. Growing up in Norfolk, Virginia, I seldom experienced snow in December as a child. We got it mainly in January. My late stepmother, a native of the coastal region of North Carolina, loved snow and always hoped for a white Christmas. Considering her birthplace, I doubt she ever saw snow at Christmas during her entire early life. Yet the ideal derived from fiction, movies, and songs shaped her vision of how the winter holidays were "supposed" to look.

Merry Christmas, white or green, to all who celebrate it!

Margaret L. Carter

Carter's Crypt