The Everlasting Trope: The Failed Hero

Closely related to the “Villain Arc” but not precisely the same. The villain arc simply tells you how a given character–regardless of their beginning state–becomes the villain. Often these are side characters or friends of the hero or a counterpoint to the hero.

But when it’s the actual hero who falls, or fails, or succumbs, it is a Failed Hero. In short it should evoke a furious “We were rooting for you! We were all rooting for you!”

The main examples I’m going to use to analyze this trope are: Dune, and The Godfather. Anakin Skywalker is an obvious third, but since his story is told when we ALREADY know he’s going to become a villain, it elides what I consider to be one of the most meaningful storybeats of a failed hero arc. You already know he is going to be seduced by the dark side, so there is definitely that sense of inevitable tragedy…but the story rarely allows you to be tempted alongside him. Even when the villains ‘have a point’ we KNOW they are villains and not to be trusted.

I’m told Breaking Bad also does failed hero/villain arc at expert level, but I haven’t watched it, so I’ll have to leave it to the side.

I will also bring in a surprise guest who happens to be both a failed villain AND a failed hero and may be the best character ever written, so there’s that.

To our questions 3.

1. When does this trope fail?
2. When does it work?
3. Why does it resonate?

Failure Comes From Cowardice

This is very similar to what I talked about in the “Redemption Arc” post. If you can’t commit to the story you’re trying to tell–if you shy away from the harsh realities of human nature–then this story cannot be successful.

-If the failed hero starts out with all-too-obvious signs of failure and villainy–neon arrows pointing to the fact that he’s not the hero you think he is, so don’t get all googly-eyed about him–then this won’t work as well. He or she may still start out as a hero and they may still end up fallen, but you never thought they were going to be Aragorn in the first place. You knew they weren’t your guy. So you didn’t invest in their success the way you might have if you DID think they were ARAGORN SON OF ARATHORN, the probably most well-agreed upon awesome-good-hero-king of all time.

If the author pulls their punches, you can dodge the blow. The grief won’t cut as deep.

-if their moral failure comes illogically, abruptly, or in a contrived way, this won’t work. The reaction the reader/viewer has to this scenario is “What? That came out of nowhere!” Rather than character development, it was character assassination. The author decided they simply WANTED the seeming-hero to turn bad, turn into a jerk, so they maneuvered it to be so, and the puppet strings are entirely too visible.

-the character never seemed like or tried to be a hero in the first place. If they were pretty morally gray to begin with and then descended into villainy, that is not a failed hero. There has to actually be an objective, a purpose, a standard. An ideal. Without one of those somewhere in the narrative or in the character’s beliefs, there is nothing to fail. You can’t fail if you have no goals to begin with.

-coddling the reader. Similar to the first point, if the author coddles the reader and protects them from ever identifying with (or feeling convicted by) the growing flaws and errors of our failed hero, this simply isn’t the most compelling version of this story. You should never coddle your readers. Never tell them “Oh dearie, he’s making this mistake, he’s falling down this slippery slope, but YOU would never do that, because YOU are good and kind and perfect and you know better. Let me assure you that this could never happen to you.”

Throw that right out.

Success Comes from both Courage and Humility

What do I mean by this?

Courage and humility, I say, because the author has to be willing to identify with the flaws accompanying heroism, the twisted glory, the broken crown we all wear. The author must peer ruthlessly inside their own ribcage and observe how easily their desires for accomplishing great things can be teased into compromises and selfishness and cynicism and lies and control. They must map out a devastating road that shows someone trying to do what is right, and acknowledge those infinitesimal turns of the soul, that faint shift in the point of the needle which can easily be dismissed in the moment but–a hundred miles on–put us wildly off course.

It has to be understandable. Relatable. The more painfully so, the better.

It takes courage to do this because it might make the reader uncomfortable or even angry. It takes humility because you have to stick your face in your own worst flaws and find, as CS Lewis said, that you are made of “a zoo of lusts, a bedlam of ambitions, a nursery of fears, a harem of fondled hatreds. My name [is] legion.”

(Have I quote this before? Yes. Will I do so again? Probably)

The Godfather

The first time I watched the Godfather (all 3 movies right in a row), I was a teenager. I remember, watching the first movie, how incredibly excited I was when Mikey finally took revenge and became part of “the family.” The film did such a good job of making me WANT him to take that path into the mob, making me feel like that was his true calling, like that was the better option.

Now, perhaps when you first watched the Godfather, you were wiser than I. But I, a teenaged girl, was practically jumping up and down in triumph when Mikey fully came into his role in the mob. By the time we got to the third movie, and Mikey’s blank, silent, lonely death after a life of betraying and being betrayed by those closest to him, I saw that I had wanted something I should not have wanted, cheered for something I should not have cheered for. Accepted as progress or “victory” something I never should have accepted.

The movie let us taste the triumph, the draw, the “don’t mess with my family” atmosphere, the feeling of purpose that led Mikey down that road. Then it let us taste the bitter results. Mikey was our hero. Then he was just a broken man and everything was shambles. The family–the whole stated goal–isn’t safe or happy or well. It’s disintegrated. All he worked for, or thought he was working for, dissipated.

Dune vs. Movie!Dune

This one is far more complicated, because Paul actually does triumph in all his goals, and only later do you see the fallout etcetera. He was a Messianic figure with a seemingly noble goal, loved by his followers, and he accomplishes what he set out to do (with that wee issue of millions killed in global jihad…)

But. BUT. The real reason I even wanted to write this trope is because the book doesn’t shy away from the complications of Paul’s Heroic Messiah Figure actions. It is strongly hinted at in the first book (which is the only one I’ve read, admittedly) and borne out in later books that his actions are going to bring about the death of millions, and cause still other unforeseen problems.

Movie!Dune, on the other hand, balks. Not Dune part 1, but Dune part 2. Movie!Dune decides that there needs to be a loud, designated “voice of reason” constantly reminding us that all this religious/Messiah stuff is BAD. It’s bad guys. Paul can’t be a Messianic figure, GUYS. It’s propaganda, GUYS. Those meanie Bene Gesserit, manipulating these poor innocent fundamentalists!!

The movie turns Chani into a little narrative sidebar heavy-handedly reminding you that this isn’t going to turn out well, and Paul might not be all you thought he would be.

It holds your hand where it should have let you stumble toward your own conclusions. It should have let you wonder. It should have let you wrestle. It should have let you wonder if you backed the wrong horse, or hoped for the wrong victory. And, maybe, it doesn’t even give you an easily digestible answer.

Till We Have Faces

I welcome Orual to the conversation. If you don’t know her, let me give an introduction. A failed hero, a redeemed villain, and everything in between.

She is one of the sisters in the Cupid and Psyche myth, who convinces Psyche to look upon the God who is her husband, when he has expressly forbidden her to do so. The mean sisters convince Psyche to do this by telling her that her husband is probably a monster or a beast or a criminal. When Psyche disobeys the God’s instruction, she is horribly punished, separated from her God-husband.

So Orual’s role, in the original story, is to be a villain.

But C.S. Lewis writes the whole story from her perspective. He makes her the hero. And, rumor has it, that he originally intended for her to remain the hero–to be right, and justified in all her claims. To shake her fist, and prove her point.

I will not spoil it. But Orual does great things, yet fails to be a hero. Even when she wins on the surface, she fails underneath. She is so sure she is right. And many readers tend to agree. Until they weren’t so sure. And neither is she.

And it’s beautiful. Because you’re with her through every single step. You are never allowed to excuse yourself. You must see your own bitter folly, or walk away, shaking your fists at the gods, refusing to see that yes, you too can fall.