I have always been fascinated by the concept of heroism; how we, as an audience, feel irresistibly drawn to a certain character, willing to support them even in their most heinous actions. It’s a mark of a good storyteller, when a hero can be corrupted beyond recognition, and yet, never change who they are as a character. It is a mark of a great storyteller too, when the villain can be redeemed.

This piece of mine hopes to bring to the table a look at heroes, heroism, and what makes them enduring figures in both the stories, and our minds.

^Ludwig, the Holy Blade. One of the most outright heroic characters from a 2015 game. Bloodborne. He also happens to transform into one o the most hideous beasts of them all.

The Ideals of Heroism

Heroes, in my opinion, are strongly linked to the circumstances of their time. We like to project our ideals of society onto what we see as champions of it. In a sense, heroes are linked to our sense of morality, our sense of what is right in a way that few storytelling concepts really are. We like to create fictions of people that embody our ideals of the world, and so, the very ideas of heroics change over the years.

In ancient India (I once again, apologise for using India as an example for literally all my essays. I am most familiar with Indian mythology and stories, and thus, am able to talk a bit more about them), heroes were seen as folk who followed their Dharma, or code.

“Very Well” you say, “So be it. A person who follows their personal code of honour is a true hero after all”. And yet, does a code of honour transcend everything? Does one’s calling go beyond any other rules? Indian philosophy, at the time, recognised many different types of Dharma as well. A warrior, for example, had a different Dharma to a leatherworker. And yet, the two shared tenets of a common Dharma that sought to unify all human codes into one. Complicated moral questions rose from this, as a consequence. Many arguments have broken out over this issue in royal courts.

The Indian Epic, the Mahabharata, describes the Great War. A war essentially between family over a succession crisis. It does not shy away from the ‘War is Hell’ aspect of it, though it is interesting, that each scene of battle can be read as a heroic eulogy, praising the warriors. The reason I bring this up is because the War shows off an interesting aspect of Dharma.

Arjuna, one of the main heroes of the epic, is conflicted, at the beginning of the war about, essentially, waging war against his entire family. His loyal charioteer, and Avatar of Vishnu: Krishna intervenes, and reveals his true form, as the universe itself. He starts to teach Arjuna about his Dharma. He claims, it is Arjuna’s Duty as a warrior to fight, it is his duty to fight for his honour, even if it is against his own family.

Star Wars too, doesn’t shy away from this kind of moral jugglery. The Clone Wars, and Jedi involvement in it, can be read as their attempt to stick to their own visions of the world. And even though, on some level they recognise the Separatists to be right, they side with what they see as the lesser of the evils. I may be reading too much into it, but this seems like the Dharma versus Morality debate again. Mace Windu’s line stands out here:

‘We are keepers of peace, not warriors’

It stands out, because it so well demonstrates the crux of this issue, that is, the Jedi can’t see themselves from any other perspective but their own, they can’t see that following their code may actually harm people. It’s interesting, in my opinion, to see someone fall so far, and yet remain a beacon of hope. The Jedi, at this point, are composed almost entirely of people who believe in the vision of the Jedi, but not their reality.

In my reading of things, people like Windu care more about the end-goal of the Jedi, the platonic ideal they all want to achieve, without really noticing, or caring about the present. Windu, in his summation of the situation, cannot see that the Jedi can no longer be the peacekeepers of old, but must adapt to circumstances. They must pick a side in a war that would rip the galaxy in half.

It is truly fascinating to see how the Jedi are ignorant of the changing ideals of the society they live in. Their traditional method of heroism could not survive the ordeal. Something had to change eventually, and purge was just about the worst way to bring it in.

But what of someone like Qui-Gon?

See, Qui-Gon could see only a part of the full picture, he saw only what the Jedi have become, but not what they are. To elaborate, he can see that the Jedi, to some extent, have strayed from their ideals; and yet, he seems to forget what the Jedi are supposed to be, he fails to locate the ideal. In a sense, he takes after his former master, Count Dooku; while Dooku saw the corruption of the Jedi, and left the order, Qui-Gon retained hope in the Order’s future, going so far as to seek the chosen one himself. Dooku, on the other hand, fell for the seductions of the Dark Side, believing its sweet lies of transcending power struggles. In a sense, Dooku himself acts as a reminder to Obi-Wan, as a mirror to the path he, or Qui-Gon could have taken. He also serves, I think, as a subconscious pull for Anakin. A part of Anakin, I think, saw himself in Dooku; he saw a man who dallied with the Dark, and paid the price. He saw a man who stared into the abyss, and had the misfortune of falling into it. When Anakin kills Dooku, the mental barrier, the constant reminder of what he could become, dies with him; after all, He killed the corrupted.

Into the Abyss

A theory of mine, long held, is that the Dark Side appears as different visions to each force user. To someone like Palpatine, it is the promise of ultimate power. To Anakin, it is a way of protecting the woman he loves. To someone like Dooku, it is the solution to his moral quandary. To Darth Maul, it is revenge itself.

Notice, in my ramblings, that I read the Dark Side as always speaking with a promise. The Dark Side never speaks in uncertainties, it never speaks with an ideal. It prefers the cold, hard certainty, even if it is a lie. I think, when Obi-Wan uttered those memorable lines: “Only a Sith deals in Absolutes”, he is referring to this aspect of the Dark Side. He is talking about the ability of the Dark Side to seduce with promises. Obi-Wan, I think, had a brief flirtation with the abyss himself. When he saw Maul kill his master, he would have surrendered himself to the Dark Side. He would have let it promise vengeance to him, and go through with it. What sets apart someone like Obi-Wan from a Maul, for example, is the concept of enough. Obi-Wan, as he watches Maul fall in front of him, decides that he has had enough.

He recognises that his desire for vengeance was fulfilled, and nothing more could be gained pursuing it.

The Light Side, I think, manifests itself as an ideal, a path forward. It does not speak in certainties, it does not promise its user anything more than peace. It merely points out the path to its user, and what might happen if they act on it. In a sense, the light side does not act on certainties, it always seems to offer only guidance. Anakin’s nightmares about his loved ones dying seem to be manifestations of his inner darkness, more than his desire to protect.

In a way, a fallen hero represents something interesting for a story. As an audience, we want someone to latch onto as our POV character, someone who’s morality we can align ourselves with. There was this Tamil film released in the 1950s, the core idea was that there should be No hero or villain in the movie, but just characters. The movie was a huge failure, and nearly drove its director to bankruptcy. It now survives as a cult classic in Tamil movie circles.

What I’m driving at here, is that the audience needs someone to latch onto as the most “Moral” in the cast, someone to judge everyone else’s actions by. This is where a fallen hero comes into play, the very idea of a fallen hero casts doubt on this idea of a moral yardstick. It calls out the artificial nature of morality in stories.

It’s a tradition at this point for Star Wars to include at least one fallen hero in their stories. The first two trilogies had Anakin Skywalker, and the third had Ben Solo. Anakin Skywalker’s journey is a full essay in and of itself, but I would still like to talk about it here. See, Anakin does not change, at all, as a person between himself and Vader. That’s why, I think, that both his turns feel entirely in-character. Every interaction feels uniquely like something Anakin would do. It does not take away from his old mannerisms. The entire reason he fell, and the reason he rose again was because of his love for family. I also read Anakin in a lot of his interactions with his subordinates, they seem eerily similar to his interactions with his clones in the Clone Wars, even if a lot more menacing. Also, the hallway scene in Rogue One would definitely be some unneeded theatrics Anakin would have done. Anakin’s fall also solidified Palpatine’s character. In a way, his fall developed every character but him. We all knew that Anakin had to become Vader, we just did not know how. Anakin’s betrayal also recontectualises his role in the story; he is but a plaything of the force, he is just a pawn in its game. His entire journey as a Jedi began with the reveal of his “Chosen” nature, and, I think, he had to constantly fill that role. It was never his choice in the matter, he had to be trained to bring balance to the force. This might have been the Dark Side’s original promise; the promise of freedom, the promise to do something of his own volition. That aspect of his character, I think, is never quite touched upon enough; Anakin had grown up a slave, shackled to the will of his master. Once a free man, he becomes a Jedi, shackled to the will of the force. He was never truly free, even as a Sith Lord, enforcer of the Galactic Empire, he was still chained to his guilt, and his obedience to Palpatine. That is also maybe why he desires above all else, to protect Padme. In many ways, she was one of the few decisions he took entirely on his own, it was one of the few decisions he wasn’t forced to make by a higher power. Him saving Luke was not only an expression of his love, but also a final “Damn You” to his shackles. His affair with the Dark Side had begun with a promise of freedom, then protection, and then desperation. In the end, Anakin was a broken man, saddled with immeasurable guilt, and a desire to taste freedom, if but for a fleeting moment.

Going back to the idea of fallen heroes in general, it serves as a way to force the audience to recognise the fictitiousness of the world without outright acknowledging it. It forces the audience to engage with the story in a much deeper way than they normally would have, it forces the audience to see the charade, accept it, and move on like nothing happened. It breaks our suspension of disbelief in a way that we don’t often recognise, and yet, we allow it to be broken, and reconstruct with the same airy nonchalance.

Ben Solo’s fall is intriguing in many ways. I would argue that all his actions were him trying desperately to remain on the dark side. He feels that, as the grandson of Darth Vader, it is his duty to live up to his name, little seeing the good in the husk of Anakin. His every action seems to be his denial of the truth. Him killing his own father sped up his redemption further, he could not, in any way, understand the forces he was entangled with. In a way, I respect the man for finally standing up to Palpatine, and fully embracing the light within; he gave up what he had spent most of his life trying to attain. Too bad, both his parents died, not knowing their son was truly good.

The Dark Side, it seems, brings tragedy to those who dally with it.

Redemptions

Just as the abyss asserts its dominance, so too, does the light within.

A redeemed villain is arguably more entertaining than a fallen Hero. While the fallen Hero serves mainly to throw some light on the artificial nature of morality, the Redeemed villain outright rubbishes it. When we see a redeemed villain, we are forced to reckon with the moral dilemma of “What do we do?” The villain is clearly repentant and willing to reform, but so much evil has been committed, can even a lifetime of repentance absolve it? The idealist answer would be pure forgiveness, to forget the misdeeds of the past and instead look to the future. Good can only be achieved if we repair bridges, not burn them. However, it must be noted, that more often than not, the idealist answer falls flat in the face of emotion – can you really forgive someone responsible for the deaths of people you love? Many stories tend to conveniently sidestep the issue by killing the character right after their redemption; Star Wars itself does it twice, allowing their archvillains a death as heroes. Needless to say, this method allows the writer of the story a much wider room for expression, see, they don’t need to show the repercussions of their misdeeds, while allowing them all the room of an actual redemption – all the good without a hint of the bad. While this approach may seem to be nice and rather convenient, it does take away from the fallout of things, the legacy they leave behind is never discussed.

The redemption of Anakin Skywalker, just like his fall, was a fait accompli. It was executed masterfully, and yet is something you see coming from a mile away. It is only after rewatching the series multiple times over that it becomes apparent that the seeds of his eventual downfall also presaged his eventual redemption. The reason he stuck with Palpatine, even after knowing his role in things, was that he felt that Palpatine was all he had left; Palpatine was the only person willing to give him the time of day; for all he knew, all his former friends were either dead at his own hands, or deeply hated him. Said hatred and self-doubt drove him to greater acts of villainy. His lines – “I am what you made me.” and “You did not kill Anakin Skywalker, I did.” perfectly echo his sentiments about himself, and the role he plays in the history of the galaxy. He sees himself as the monster that cannot be redeemed, he feels that the only way to bring his life any meaning, from that point forth is to fully throw himself to the Dark Side.

The arrival, and revelation of his connection to Luke changed the game for him personally. He had another goal in life, maybe after years – Turn the Boy. Said ambition for a Dark Side apprentice gave way, replaced by a growing sense of what amounted to respect. His admittance that he has “Gone Too Far” in ROTJ is emblematic of his surrendering to the Dark Side. Remember, he has nothing but the Force at this point; Vader is most certainly powerful enough to sense Palpatine’s desire to replace him. Is it too much of a stretch to assume that he feels abandoned by his former master as well?

Anakin’s redemption works so well because every one of his scenes from the revelation onward builds to it. In my reading, the fact that Luke was about to die was the final nail in the coffin, he was finally able to break free of his shackles.

A Good redemption is something that the story builds up to. There is no point in redeeming a character the audience is supposed to hate from the very beginning. Even if a redemption of an otherwise hated character is logical, it will not sit well with the audience if they do not feel the character deserved it. The audience needs to be constantly reminded of the fact that their villain can be saved, while still retaining their villainy. It is – obviously – a difficult set of things to balance. You do not want too sympathetic a villain, or you end up losing said villain’s – well – villainy; but at the same time, the villain needs to be sympathetic enough for the audience to care about their redemption. I think, on the whole, Star Wars has been successful in their attempts to redeem fallen villains. Anakin, of course, being the stand-out example, but someone like Ventress, for example, would fit the bill as well.

A good yardstick for measuring a good redemption is the empathy shown by the redeemed party before, and after their shift. The villain part, however, needs just enough fragments of empathy to sell you on the idea. Empathy, after all, is the best measuring rod for a person’s innate goodness.

Fear and Comfort

The easiest part of any story is to differentiate between the heroes and villains, right? I mean, they are the foundation of every story, aren’t they?

Well, not quite. Sure, you can ham-fistedly tell the audience who the villains are, but more often than not, you can do simply better. See, a good way of telling the difference between heroes and villains is to see what emotions they convey, be it through actions, words, or even their general character design.

A good hero inspires the audience, a hero, after all, is supposed to be a beacon of hope. A good hero doesn’t simply do the right thing, but does it for the right reasons. I would argue that someone killing the villain for personal gain, cannot count as a hero, simply because their actions were motivated by external circumstances. They only went after the villain to satisfy their own needs, the implication being, that in the absence of the stimulus, they would be content leaving the villains be, even if they knew about it. That is the difference between, say, stopping a mugging because you want to stop a crime, versus stopping a mugging to get the loot afterward. What I mean to say, is that both the means and ends matter as much as each other in the equation. Mace Windu, for one, despite his ruthlessness and general disregard for feelings, counts as a hero, because both means and ends are justified by circumstance. Barriss Offee, though her motives may have been charitable, did not go about spreading her message about the rot of the Jedi in the right way. I mean, why would Bombing your own home and then frame your best friend for it even be a good idea, again?

From our, rather simple definition of a “Hero”, I think we can figure out what emotions they are supposed to fill us with, or at least get a good estimate of it. In a sense, we, as the audience, are supposed to project ourselves in the same shoes as the hero of the piece. We are supposed to feel what they feel. A hero isn’t supposed to make us feel emotions beyond what they themselves feel; and that nature of Heroes makes them easier to sympathise with.

Villains, on the other hand, are tailor-made to fill us with feelings of disgust, horror and general bad vibes. I posit the theory that villains also fill us with a sense of fear. Mind you, fear is a much more primal, more complex emotion than horror. Horror merely implies a sense of disgust; fear is something more. Fear is an undefined threat of something happening to you, it’s the threat of the dark things in the night that stalk you. It is, by definition, vague. Star Wars does an excellent job with its villains. They each, in their own way, represent a fear.

Vader, for example, represents a fear of men in masks, he represents the fear of your past mistakes, of becoming more machine than man (Of losing your humanity), and of failure. Darth Vader is a manifestation of the fear of, in short, loss. I think his character design shows this aspect of him very well: Vader’s mask has the right expression of foreboding doom while remaining perfectly soulless. We tend to trust people whose eyes we can see; that is why the “Sith Eyes” are so scary when we first see them, we tend to co-relate visible, normal eyes with a human soul. There is a reason why a mask is often used in theatres to show deceit, why “Masks” are used as the de-facto descriptor for disguises, and I believe it is this.

Palpatine’s is a much harder fear to pinpoint. While the obvious would be a fear of the Government, I don’t think it holds up precisely because the rest of the government is shown to be unequivocally evil. No, I think his fear is the fear of the ancients. The idea is less that we fear knowledge we do not know, but more knowledge we do not think we can know. Something that I think clicks here, is of an old grandfather, sprouting wisdom to his grandchildren using his own life experiences. Palpatine flips the trope on its head; he is — yes — old, and also knowledgeable in his field, but is also not a caring soul. In fact, a case could be made about him being the least caring of all souls.

Heroism is a complex, and inherently unsolvable part of storytelling, and as our sense of right and wrong evolves, so too must our sense of heroism. At the end of the day, a hero is whom you make of the situation, and hey, cometh the hour cometh the man, eh? Most heroes are products of their unique circumstances, and yet, many remain heroes due to an inherent desire to help others out, and I think we can take away some very important lessons from that.

Thank you very much, thank you for giving me this time of your life. Thank you for making this half-insane rambler very happy, indeed; as a true hero would.