Are heroes finally allowed to be vulnerable?
I’m hardly the first person to notice, but it’s been a longterm bugbear that “vulnerable” has too often been seen as a synonym for “weak”. That only heroes are strong, only baddies are bad, and only victims are vulnerable.
That’s inaccurate. That’s not life and when characters in stories (in whichever medium) slot neatly into those categories, readers and watchers are being short-changed.
While there are some good examples of apparent baddies grasped by emotion (see The Sopranos) or apparent goodies doing bad things for good reason (see Breaking Bad or, you know, Robin Hood), until recently it seemed vulnerability was purely the preserve of the weak and wibbly.
But it’s bull. Vulnerability isn’t about a lack of strength, it’s about an abundance of risk. An exposure to the possibility of harm, either emotional or physical. It’s basically the main prerequisite for any leap of faith, for any romance, any sharing of secrets, any new path. It’s essential to a full life, not a hole to be filled in.
You can be strong, resilient and open to emotional (or physical) risk through the situations in which you place yourself. That’s the case for real flesh and blood folk, and it’s starting to be the case more on the box and in the books too.
Gradually, we’re seeing more characters in mainstream entertainment who are vulnerable and many other things too.
It’s not a sea-change, but it’s a subtle step. A character, despite being and remaining vulnerable, can also be strong.
I want my characters, both the ones I write and the ones I read, to have open pores, to risk being hurt in the pursuit of something. Not to be so tough that they’re unmalleable and remain unchanged.
Nor do I want vulnerabilities to be character flaws, to be overcome and neatly stitched by the end of the character’s arc. A tidy, tough, untarnished person is not a pot of gold to a reader, it’s boring.
In life, those things that are “sent to try us” certainly shape us. Perhaps they dent our trust in the world, or make us fearful. Perhaps we step up and look them in the eye and then we feel brave, walking a little taller afterwards. But I don’t think they change us wholesale.
I enjoy this current crop of stories (be they in books, films, TV shows or games) where a character, despite being vulnerable or flawed, kicks the ass out of the “significant event” while remaining their knotty, complicated, screw-up selves. Because that is life.
It’s ultimately more realistically rewarding to feel that even though you’re scared of the dark (shall we say), and will always be scared of the dark, you can still defeat the ghosts hiding in it.
Look at Stieg Larsson’s Lisbeth Salander. Brutalised and brutal, with holes torn in her heart, she doesn’t emerge restored and whole. She retains her vulnerability and it is not the only thing about her, it is not her only label.
The eponymous Jessica Jones, with her baby bird frailty and kick ass abilities, doesn’t have to choose between the sides of her, she remains both. Delicate, deadly and compelling.
Princess Bubblegum – bear with me – from the brilliantly fun, feeling and fanciful cartoon, Adventure Time, is a smart ruler of the Candy Kingdom. Her standard outfit of bright pink, floor-length gown hardly the best attire for fighting and derring do. She is also emotionally vulnerable, her deep feelings for Marceline a thorn in her heart.
As ruler of the kingdom, she is vulnerable to multiple attacks from candy foes. But she retains her cool, rules fairly and robustly and occasionally kicks butt. She’s also a gifted scientist and military strategist (to an army of banana guards).
At the outset – ostensibly a kids’ programme but so much more – Bubblegum needs regular rescuing. By the later series, she has a firm grasp on her own destiny and the destiny of her loyal subjects. If this complex, multi-message kids’ show is a hint of what’s to come for the next generation, they will be truly spoiled. A landscape of complex characters who retain their personalities as they grow is a gift.
Isn’t it refreshing too, to be able to identify with a character in many multilayered ways? To look and see human complexity, damage and daring written through them like rock?
And it’s not just about fictional characters, representations of real people are just as powerful. Like Cheryl Strayed, author of Wild: From Lost to Found on the Pacific Crest Trail, who effed up in many measurable ways following the death of her mother, falling into an addiction to heroin and sex with strangers, before taking that same vulnerable body out into the wild?
Strayed doesn’t turn into a survival expert overnight, skinning bears with her teeth and running ultra marathons along the trails. She continues to struggle, physically and emotionally. She remains vulnerable in her isolation and while getting stronger, she doesn’t turn into a totally different person.
People don’t turn into totally different people, no matter what life throws at us. Neither should the characters we read and watch. Vulnerability is essential to a life lived to the fullest and is something we should all celebrate.
Try Not to Breathe is published by Corvus, at £12.99
