How Many Villains Does It Take to Change a Light Bulb?

Villains in fiction have a lot in common: of course they are generally destructive, but on close examination we find a bewildering array of parallels: sporadic illnesses, resentment, revulsion for sex or towards children and much more. Part of what makes them antagonists in a story, though, is that they seek domination of others. Authoritarian, dishonest, they twist the truth to suit their own ends, appear continually threatening and are always negative, and often appear outwardly repulsive too - like the bullying Mrs. Joe Gargery in Great Expectations:

My sister, Mrs. Joe, with black hair and eyes, had such a prevailing redness of skin that I sometimes used to wonder whether it was possible she washed herself with a nutmeg- grater instead of soap. She was tall and bony, and almost always wore a coarse apron, fastened over her figure behind with two loops, and having a square impregnable bib in front, that was stuck full of pins and needles. She made it a powerful merit in herself, and a strong reproach against Joe, that she wore this apron so much.

Openly mocking anything positive, Mrs. Joe is a model for such characters as she deals in hostile or threatening criticism in defence of her own view of life. As a character type she constantly attempts to undermine Joe and Pip, chronically disagrees with everything they say, and uses the fact that she has ‘brought Pip up by hand’ to further her own ends. She nags and bluntly criticises to demand compliance with her wishes. Occasionally experiencing a shadow of pleasure in extraordinary moments, she is often misunderstood.

In fact, there seems to be an archetypal perfect model for a villains and anti-heroes in literature: Lady Catherine de Burgh in Pride and Prejudice, Voldemort in the Harry Potter books, Bob Ewell in To Kill a Mockingbird, the Witch in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, Heathcliff in Wuthering Heights, Miss Havisham in Great Expectations, Sauron and Saruman in The Lord of the Rings and so on. Every standard villain comes from the same stock: similar, but with his or her uniquely different details.

It’s probably true to say, though, that villains are more trapped than most character types, trapped by their own unyielding arrogance and determination to dominate. Whereas the protagonist must actually change or move, up or down an emotional scale, to bring about change in readers, antagonists must necessarily refuse to modify themselves. How many antagonists would it take to change a light bulb? It wouldn't matter, they would refuse to change.

Villains are therefore the counterpoint, the usually unmoving opposite, to the protagonist’s motion.

It’s all to do with rhythm.

In moments of extremity, such important characters can get even worse: they actively destroy, get very angry, can become guilty of rape or murder, brutally treat others, and smash or destroy those around them or their environment. Failing this, they may (and often do) destroy themselves. Fascistic, insincere, they become a heavy liability even when their intentions are avowedly good; basically criminal and immoral, they often begin strongly, but weaken quickly.

When an antagonist does change, as Mrs. Joe does by the end of Great Expectations, or like Prince Andrew’s belligerent father does partway through War and Peace, we find that we, as readers, are often profoundly moved: their archetypal portrayal has meant that any shift in key has a deeper effect on us than it otherwise might have done. We feel pity, sympathy and a sense of lost potential, and the characters become more meaningful and real.

There is the kind of villain who lives in fear. Promiscuity, perversion and the use of others for sadistic purposes are some of the associated traits; using various sly means of controlling others, including hypnotism, they operate on a kind of negative ethics, being deviously dishonest without reason, but screening this behaviour with a devious masks and ingenious and vicious perversions of truth, like the brilliantly described Steerpike in Melvyn Peake’s Gormenghast:

If ever he had harboured a conscience in his tough narrow breast he had by now dug out and flung away the awkward thing - flung it so far away that were he ever to need it again he could never find it. High-shouldered to a degree little short of malformation, slender and adroit of limb and frame, his eyes close-set and the colour of dried blood, he is climbing the spiral staircase of the soul of Gormenghast, bound for some pinnacle of the itching fancy - some wild, invulnerable eyrie best known to himself; where he can watch the world spread out below him, and shake exultantly his clotted wings.