Leigh talked a bit about writing good villains earlier this month. I’m going to touch on a related topic – how do you make your antagonist likable? You might not always want a likable antagonist. But when you do, how do you pull it off?

I’m going to borrow a definition from Writing Excuse’s podcast on the Hollywood Formula. An antagonist is not always the villain. Heck, in the really good stories the antagonist is often a friend or confident of the hero. So, using the Hollywood Formula an antagonist is “person who places obstacles to that goal in the path of the protagonist. . . . The antagonist is the one whose goals are diametrically opposed to the protagonist, and they’re the one who is blocking the protagonist’s journey.”

As an example from Writing Excuses, in the Dark Knight movie, Batman is the protagonist. His goal is to quit the dark knight gig and return to a “normal” life with the woman he loves. The person who stands in his way of that goal is the antagonist. Who is it?

One hint: it’s not the Joker.

It’s Harvey Dent, the prosecutor who loves the same woman. When it looks like Dent and the love interest can’t both be saved, Dent begs Batman to save the girl. In the end, because Harvey won’t be the man he could be, Bruce has to don the cowl and become the dark knight. Harvey’s your antagonist. but he’s not very likable. Is he?

Why not? Well, read on.

Let me take another example: Victor Laslo in Casablanca. Casablanca has the same love triangle that Dark Knight does. Follow the movie beats, they’re a lot of similar notes. Rick wants the girl, but Laslo already has her. Like Dent, Laslo represents more than just himself. When it looks like Elsa and he can’t escape, Laslo begs Rick to save Elsa. In the end, because Laslo is honorable and stays true to his goal, he makes Rick want to be a better person and rekindles his faded patriotism.

Plot-wise. Casablanca and the Dark Knight are more similar than dissimilar.

So, why do I like Laslo but not Dent? To me the difference between Harvey Dent and Victor Laslo, is that Laslo is willing to give up everything for the greater good. Dent isn’t. Fundamentally, Dent is selfish. He’s more interested in catching the headlines than catching the crooks. He’s not the best boyfriend. When he falls, he falls hard.

So, how do you make the antagonist likable?

1. Just like your protagonist and villain, your antagonist needs a goal (other than messing with the protagonist for the heck of it). I tend to like characters whose motivations I can understand and ring true.

2. The antagonist has his own morals and strengths. I dislike Harvey because once you take the shine off, he’s selfish and immature. He refuses to accept the truth Batman sees – that he (Dent) is a symbol of more than self. Dent is a weak character. First he’s seduced by power and fame. Then, the Joker seduces him with the idea of revenge. I don’t tend to like people I can’t respect. Dent loses my respect over the course of the movie.

3. The conflict with the antagonist makes the protagonist “better” in the long run. Rick’s hope rises from Pandora’s box, but Batman is condemned to a life he tried to escape. Batman is worse off in the end.

4. Even though the antagonist stands opposed to my protagonist, I almost want the antagonist to win. This goes back to the first few points. I want to be able to identify with this character and feel good about it. I’d like to be Laslo. Not so much Harvey Dent.

Have you come across a likable antagonist? If so, what made you like him or her?

Conflict: when characters interact

February 25, 2013

mary

Character Craft & Skills Mary Pletsch Writing Tools 5 Comments

Character versus character is, of course, not the only way to bring conflict into your story. Other avenues include character versus nature (dangerous terrain, wildlife, storms, floods…) or character versus self, where the character must overcome an aspect of themselves, such as their fears or the beliefs instilled by their upbringing, in order to be successful. Still, in stories with multiple characters, watching their personalities strike sparks off one another is a realistic and intriguing way of developing conflict. And conflict is the fuel that drives a plot – without an adversary to overcome, heroes sit around doing nothing.

The most obvious form of character versus character is hero versus villain. Other blogs this month talk about what makes a good villain, so I will add only this: a good villain sparks an interesting conflict with the hero. This statement encompasses both evil masterminds whose machinations drive the plots of whole series, all the way down to the minion who perhaps doesn’t survive his first and only interaction with the hero. Even that one-encounter minion can be memorable. Perhaps the hero realizes she can’t defeat this minion with strength, and has to use cunning, or endurance, or ask for help, instead. Perhaps it’s the first time the hero has ever had to kill in battle, or the first time she’s ever lost someone under her command. This conflict can involve both the fight itself (physical action, mental strategy, or both) and the aftereffects (emotional fallout; fatigue or lost gear heightening the hero’s conflict with her environment; the time delay heightening tension; etc).

Some of the most interesting conflicts are conflicts between protagonists. Just because a group of people are on the same quest, or in the same military unit, or working toward the same goal, doesn’t mean they’re going to all like each other. They may not even get along with one another. Aspects of their personalities are going to grate on one another. First impressions may create misunderstandings; past beliefs may shape prejudices or preconceptions. Different desires may set members of the same group working at odds to one another, or tempt one to betray the group; or threaten to splinter the group. These dynamics can lead groups to a vast array of outcomes, depending on the pressures placed on the group by the plot, and the choices made by the characters within the group. All that, and a villain besides!

Previous posts this month have dealt with romance, and one of the most elegant conflict generators – the love triangle – hinges on romantic attraction. If two characters (I’ll say a girl and a guy) like each other, there’s only so many ways to defer that mutual attraction before it’s acted upon. But if a girl likes two different guys, the writer has now set up two additional conflicts: the girl is forced to make a choice between the guys; and the guys are set in an adversarial relationship, competing against one another for the girl’s attention. Like any formula, this one can be tinkered with: for example, the girl who likes a guy who’s oblivious to her and doesn’t notice the second guy who dotes on her; or the “triangle” that becomes a square with the addition of a fourth character.

Love triangles don’t suit every story-category romance, for example, favours one hero and one heroine, and a story that illustrates how they overcome the obstacles in their path to a life together. Perhaps their conflict is generated by secondary characters: the disapproving family members; the crazy ex or jealous outsider, sowing misunderstandings to sabotage the relationship; the character who represents duty, such as a child, military unit or business obligation. A writer doesn’t even need romance to torment his hero with secondary characters such as these.

Without conflict, characters have nothing to do. Without disagreement, readers become bored watching the Happy Hero, and his Happy Friends who always act and think and feel exactly like their leader, wander on their Happy Way. But once the Happy Hero faces off against the Cunning Villain, with nobody at his side except: the alien with questionable loyalties; the attractive gunner who can’t get along with the equally attractive navigator; and the cranky sergeant who hates the villain only slightly more than she hates the hero; well, then the hero’s not always so Happy, and then you’ve got a story. A story that keeps readers hooked, wondering how those conflicts will play out.

Platonic Male-Female Relationships in Fiction (a.k.a. “The Glue”)

February 22, 2013

Evan Braun

Character Craft & Skills Evan Braun First Drafts Reviews The Writing Life 7 Comments

In my first published novel (I’ve only had the one, but hey, I’m nothing if not an optimist), I originally set out to write a book that would subvert expectations in that it had no romantic subplot whatsoever. It was about three men setting out on a globe-trotting adventure. No icky girl cooties here! There was lots of questing, but alas, no love story. Well, after a few beta readers got through with it, I caved and added one-and you know what? In that case, the book was better for it.

Then, last summer, I sat down to begin work on a new novel. In the first chapter, I introduce two characters-one of them a man, the other a woman. They’re co-workers, archaeologists working together on a dig in South America. The two characters aren’t romantically involved. They’re just friends.

Well, by Chapter Five I found myself inadvertently writing a paragraph about the man admiring the woman from behind and acknowledging that he’d always been attracted to her.

Whoa! I thought to myself. Where did that come from?

Maybe Harry Burns was right. In When Harry Met Sally, one of the most iconic romantic comedies of all time, Billy Crystal’s character starts off spouting his theory (though he calls it fact) that a man and a woman can’t just be friends. Ignoring the hetero-normative caveat here, his ideas are met with stiff resistance. Every time I watch this movie, I cheer when Sally sets him straight. I mean, what a load of crap! Of course men and women can be friends. My own life is exploding with opposite-sex platonic friendships.

So, it is with great dismay that I watch as the movie progresses to Harry ultimately being proven correct. Perhaps it’s true that men and women can’t “just be friends,” but Harry and Sally eventually fall in love in dramatic Hollywood fashion. (Sorry, folks; no spoiler warnings for twenty-five-year-old movies. Them’s the breaks.) I’m quite the sentimentalist at heart, so this is most likely the only time I’ve actively rooted against a romantic-comedy couple overcoming the odds and making it work. I just don’t like the underlying message.

Indeed, I am a big proponent of platonic relationships in fiction. And yet, I am forced to look at my track record. As in the two examples cited above, I started off writing romance-free relationships and ended up reversing course. I guess that makes me a hypocrite.

The thing is, romance is easy. Now, when I say that, I don’t mean to imply that writing romance doesn’t come with its share of challenges. On the contrary, as the people charged with the uncomfortable task of reading my first drafts know all too well. I’m not the world’s best romance writer. I have to put in two or three times the usual effort for my romantic liaisons to really jump off the page-in a good way, that is.

So why do I say it’s easy? Well, romantic feelings are a wonderful and effective way of motivating your characters to take action. Love causes people to climb mountains, swim oceans, and reach for the stars. The death of a loved one, in particular, can set your story on fire-and this was my motivation, however misguided, for linking my star-crossed archaeologists. You see, in the absence of love, an author has to dig a lot deeper to figure out why characters behave as they do. Adding romantic subplots to spur along a waning story or character is a default move, and it can be used as a crutch when handled inelegantly.

If you are to get your reader deeply invested in a platonic relationship, you’re going to need to get creative. Could When Harry Met Sally have been a satisfying movie if the two characters had merely turned out to be best friends who never developed feelings for each other at all? I’d like to say yes, but I don’t think I’m alone in having a hard time imagining it.

My experiences and observations show me that if it’s true that love makes the world go round, then friendship is the glue that keeps it from coming apart as it hurdles through space at thirty kilometers per second. In other words, friendship is, at its core, stronger. Which is a bit ironic. Friendships, historically, last longer than marriages.

By tapping into the reasons why this is true, we can find a number of ways to guide the creation of compelling opposite-sex platonic relationships. So, let’s get to those reasons!

For one thing, best friends are less likely to keep secrets from each other than romantic partners. As any dramatist knows, secret-keeping is fuel to the plot engine. But guy-and-gal friendship combos are most likely going to be co-protagonists (or co-antagonists, which can be extra spicy), meaning the question of whether or not their friendship will survive calamity doesn’t need to be at the core of your story. It can be, but it doesn’t need to, whereas lovers can hardly ever get through a story without getting muddied at some juncture. The vulnerability and honesty of friends-only pairings actually allows us to cheer for them and relate more readily. A best friend can be the haven in the midst of heavy drama.

In a friendship situation, we are more likely to drop our masks and just be ourselves. If sex and/or a relationship isn’t on the table, what do we have to lose? A man who isn’t trying to woo a woman needn’t work so hard for her to like him, meaning we’ll get a better chance of seeing who he really is. What you see is what you get. The same is true for women, who also are likely to keep their cards close to their chest when there’s a risk of suffering a broken heart. When the chance of rejection is low, the real character comes out-and in fiction, that’s exactly the kind of scenario into which we want to coax our characters. Transparency is a virtue!

The mistake you might make is creating friendships without love. But strong friendships are built on intense love… just not the romantic/erotic love we are more likely to recognize. And if you think I’m making a case for writing friendships without dramatic undertones, think again. The threat of losing a best friend will drive a character to extreme lengths just as strongly-perhaps even more so-than the threat of losing a lover, especially if that friend has been around for a long time. The risk of losing that kind of honesty, vulnerability, and transparency can be devastating.

Returning to the real world, my best friend happens to be a woman, and it sometimes feels as though we have been friends since the dawn of time. We don’t see each other nearly as often as we like, since we now live very far apart, but our bond is tight. The last time we saw each other, just after Christmas, our conversation took an interesting turn.

After dinner one evening, she put down her fork and asked, “What’s the dealbreaker?”

“What do you mean?” I replied.

“Well, what would I have to do for you to end our friendship? You know, the dealbreaker.“

Silence set in. I honestly couldn’t think of anything. After all, we had been through a lot, surviving hundreds of fights and come out stronger every time. Nothing was ever bad enough to drive a wedge between us.

“What if I murdered someone?” she prompted.

I thought about that. Honestly, my bond with her was so strong that even murder wouldn’t change the way I felt about her. The only real dealbreaker I could imagine is if she insisted that I help cover it up or dispose of the body, and even that would depend on the motive for the crime.

And that’s what I mean. Platonic relationships are true partnerships. In fiction, romantic couples are constantly cheating on each other, breaking up, and getting back together. They’re famously inconstant. But when men and women leave romance out of the picture? Well, that’s kismet.

Complex Characters

February 20, 2013

Frank Morin

Character Craft & Skills Frank Morin Writing Tools 4 Comments

We’ve all heard the criticism: “Your characters are flat” or “One-dimensional” “Make them deeper, more rounded.”

The problem is, most of the time the people offering that vague advice have no concrete suggestions for fixing the problem. Many newer authors often fall into the trap of trying to add quirks or other surface affectations to try to make the characters appear ‘interesting’. Quirks can be cool, but only if they tie into the character’s real psyche. If not, they’re just weird and don’t help.

In my last post, I explored what it means to have deeper, more complex characters by utilizing Larry Brooks’ three dimensions approach to character development. Today I want to explore additional examples from books and television to highlight what we mean when we say a character has ‘depth’ or is ‘complex’.

First, we need to know our characters, know them better than we know just about anyone else in our life. Think about it – most of the people we interact with are enigmas. We know their surface personalities, and we may know a little about their history, but how many people do we know well enough to imagine them in an extremely difficult situation like the ones we’re going to place our protagonists in, and then feel confident we can predict how they’ll react? The number is probably smaller than we usually assume. We can’t have that ambiguity with our main characters. When we place them in extreme situations, we need to know how they’re going to respond.

Many of the ‘flat’ characters we see are ones where they don’t seem to have a history. They step onto the page with no back-story, no childhood, no past mistakes or triumphs to be reminded about. As a result, we only see the surface of a character but get no insights into why or how they reached that stage in life. These are characters with only that first dimension defined. Fine for secondary characters, but not for central characters.

For example, in The Dark Knight, the joker is such a fantastic character not only for how crazy he is on the surface, but also for the hints he gives us of his tortured past. We never actually learn the truth, but just hinting at it is enough to make him far more deeply fascinating and freaky. Who’s ever going to forget the line, “Want to know how I got these scars?”

As a reader, knowing a character’s back-story helps us develop empathy with them. This is the why of a character’s actions that gives them meaning. Without it, we cannot connect with them.

Another fascinating example is the character Cobb, the main protagonist in the movie Inception. On the surface, Cobb is an efficient dream spy, capable of infiltrating the best-kept mental secrets. Then we’re faced with his ex-wife who continually threatens to undermine all his work. That twist becomes infinitely more interesting when we learn she’s actually dead, a projection created by Cobb’s own sub-conscious that refuses to be ruled by him. Throughout the movie, the layers are peeled back as the stakes rise, until we realize this projection is his inner demon, the part of his psyche he has to face. We’re left wondering right up to the end: how did she die? Was he really responsible? Why can’t he let go?

Brilliant use of back-story and inner demons.

Another wonderful example, and an excellent venue for studying complex characters is the tv show Once Upon A Time. Not only is the concept fantastic and the writing brilliant, but the show offers many examples of great character development.

Virtually every character in the show has a complex back-story that interweaves with other characters and generally experiences at least one major flip that catches the audience completely by surprise and challenges expectations. This is especially true for the evil characters (the wicked queen and Rumplestilskin – the dark one). We see them struggling against evil impulses and trying to live the best lives they can. It’s absolutely brilliant because we end up developing empathy with characters we should simply loathe.

There is nothing simple about any of these characters. Their second dimension is fully fleshed out and complex. Even better, in critical moments, we see even some of the evil characters try to break out of the mold they’ve placed themselves in, and we root for them. At other times, we see the heroes struggle with powerful temptations to do terrible things, usually with plenty of justification. These are the deep moments when characters’ true selves are revealed, the third dimension moments of truth, and it’s wonderful to see a character we think is evil show us a hint of good, even if they back-slide later. I’ve learned a great deal from this show, and hope to apply it to some of my own writing and character development.

Of course, most of us won’t get to use our back-story as heavily as Once Upon A Time. They set up the show format around this complex back-story, and the very structure of the show allows them to maximize the power of it. Still, the point is valid – it’s absolutely vital for the writer to know what happened in their characters’ lives before page 1, and find ways to share that information with their readers.

Another fun example is Shrek. The funny, irreverent ogre who refuses to live within the narrow boundaries expected of him. As he explains to his companion, donkey, he has layers, like an onion. All good characters should have those same layers.

Of course, once we’ve created our onion characters, we then face the daunting challenge of when and how to weave that back-story into the narrative without falling into that dreaded ‘info-dump’. It’s hard to not share the cool stuff we know about characters, but that information is best served in small portions, sprinkled throughout the story. It’s the seasoning that separates the simple stories from the great. But like any seasoning, apply too much, and you wreck the effect.

What other characters stand out as exceptional examples to you? Why do you find them so powerful?