A delicate balance

A few weeks back, the author and critic Philip Hensher wrote a very readable article on villains, regretting the fact that the age of the charismatic villain in the mould of Shakespeare’s Richard III (have I mentioned that he has nothing to do with the historical Richard? I have? Let’s move on then) seems to be past. They just don’t make’em like that any more. Hensher, who has read a great deal more modern fiction than I am ever likely to, has a theory about why authors of today seldom deliver on the villain front. They are simply too fond of seeing everything from everybody’s point of view: instead of condemning a potetial villain’s behaviour, they want to understand him. “What is needed in imaginative writing, perhaps, is a little less sympathy and a little more judgement” is Hensher’s conclusion.

It is always cheering to read the reflections of another villain lover – and a Dickens fan, too – and in my view, Hensher’s on to something. The “bad guy” in a novel often thrives on the appalled reactions of other characters, and occasionally of the narrator (though I find wry distance more fitting in the latter case). Needless to say, for a baddie, being called “villain” or ”scoundrel” is only gratifying, as are comparisons with predatory or otherwise sinister animals such as wolves, tigers, vultures and sharks. Accusations of coldness, heartlessness and ruthlessness also look good on a dastardly CV. Talleyrand is supposed to have said about his political rival Fouché that he had “a heart of diamond, a stomach of iron and an eye without tears”. This is the kind of glowing review that a villain – and his groupies – would appreciate. Conversely, it is possible to hug a villain to death by showing too much sympathy for him (or her – I’m not denying the existence of wonderful villainesses, though I confess I’m more interested in the male of the species). If a baddie is too obviously endorsed by the author, you get at best a high-prestige villain, like Count Fosco and Long John Silver , whom many people will like but who do not create the same illicit thrill as Shakespeare’s Richard III. At worst, you end up with a failure, albeit often an interesting one: either the author can’t bear to let his/her darling go through with the wicked deeds required for the plot, so the potential baddie turns out to be a bit of a wet, or he goes through with his plans, in which case the author’s soppiness unsettles us – is he/she saying that murder, theft, horrible vengeance etc. are OK now?

On the other hand, you can overdo the ostracising of a baddie. I do think a good villain deserves his/her day in court. That’s why Dickensian villains are of such superior quality (mostly): you see where they come from, while realising that through their own bitterness and wrong-headedness they have ended up in the wrong place. And there is one drawback of heaping abuse on your villain: if he turns out to be a cracker, those doing the heaping will look a bit stupid. How popular will a hero or heroine be who is continually sniffy about a character that many readers see as the most interesting in the whole book?

A balance is needed, I think, between sympathy and judgement. A villain should ideally have a case (though admittedly there are those charistmatic enough to do without one) but not one good enough to excuse his actions. As for the scarcity of great modern villains, could the decline of epic narratives such as the Victorian novel have something to do with it? A villain thrives on drama: slightly dreary descriptions of the small disappointments of everyday life, which seem to be popular among modern authors, aren’t really a good setting for colourful characters, wicked or not.