Sympathetic Doesn’t Have to Mean Likable: The Key to Engaging Characters
As a screenwriter, your first job is to bring the viewer into your story. One way to achieve this is by creating a sympathetic main character. Conventional wisdom says this means the character must be likable. But that’s not necessarily true.
This notion of likability has been around for a long time. William Goldman, in his book Adventures in the Screen Trade, talks about writing the character Lou Harper for the film Harper. The character is a private investigator who, in the opening scene, wakes up, dunks his head in cold water, and, finding there’s no fresh coffee, fishes yesterday’s used grounds out of the garbage to make a new pot. Goldman recalls how audiences laughed at this moment, interpreting it as a sign that they liked Harper. But was it really likability that drew them in?
Not quite. What truly resonated with the audience wasn’t Harper’s charm, but his vulnerability. Here is a man who is usually cool and in control, suddenly reduced to plucking old coffee grounds out of the trash. This brief moment of powerlessness makes him relatable. When you show your character at a power disadvantage, even for just a moment, the audience can’t help but sympathize. It’s fundamental to our human nature to root for the underdog.
Some characters naturally elicit sympathy—a little girl living in abusive poverty, as in Beasts of the Southern Wild, or a grown man with a humiliating stutter, as in The King’s Speech. In these cases, the power disadvantage is built in. But what if your story revolves around characters who have more than their share of power? This is where it gets interesting.
Take J.C. Chandor’s Margin Call, for example. The film is about the corporate culture that led to the 2008 economic collapse. The characters are wealthy, powerful men—hardly the type you’d expect to feel sympathy for. But Chandor introduces them in moments of vulnerability. We meet Peter Sullivan when he’s mistaken for his boss who is about to be laid off. Will Emerson is desperate to get more Nicorette gum to cope with stress. Sam Rogers is grieving his dog, who has to be put down. These small glimpses of vulnerability are enough to get us on board with these characters, even if they are part of a system we don’t care for.
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Then there’s James Bond—a character who is the epitome of invulnerability. In the opening of From Russia with Love, Bond is on the run, visibly anxious and at a disadvantage. But just when we start to worry for him, it’s revealed that this isn’t Bond at all; it’s a decoy in a training exercise for the bad guys. When we finally meet the real Bond, he’s lounging by a river with his lover, only to be interrupted by a call from his boss. Even James Bond, the ultimate cool character, is at the mercy of a higher authority. This power differential continues throughout the Bond series, with Bond often being under the thumb of his superiors.
What’s fascinating about this approach is that it allows you to engage the audience with characters who might not be likable at all. In The People vs. Larry Flynt, the writers faced the challenge of making the audience sympathize with a man who profits from exploiting women. They tackled this by starting with Flynt’s hardscrabble Kentucky childhood, showing him being shot at by his drunken father. Similarly, Patty Jenkins in Monster explores the story of the female serial killer, Aileen Wuornos, a character who is not easy to love. Jenkins begins by showing us Wuornos as an abused young girl, her battered dreams gradually turning into the lonely desperation of her adult life. These moments of vulnerability help the audience understand the characters’ later actions, even if they don’t condone them.
But you don’t always need a tragic childhood to create sympathy. In The Wolf of Wall Street, we meet Jordan Belfort as a filthy-rich, drug-addicted, reckless man. The film tells us outright that we aren’t supposed to like him. But then it takes us back to his first day on Wall Street, where we see a relatively innocent young man being corrupted by the greed around him. The film doesn’t justify Belfort’s later behavior, but by showing how he got there, the film keeps us engaged.
In drama, examining human deviance is just as important as celebrating triumphs over adversity. But for the viewer, the story has to feel personal. As a writer, this means crafting a sympathetic attachment, even with characters who are far from likable. Once the audience is on board, you can take them through all kinds of outrageous behavior, as long as you have established that connection at the beginning.
So remember, your character doesn’t have to be likable—they just need to be human. And the best way to show that humanity is to show them in a moment of vulnerability. When you do that, your audience will stay with you, eager to see where the story goes, no matter how unlikable your character might be.