I’ve just read Clay McLeod Chapman’s Ghost Eaters, where one reviewer noted that none of the characters are likable. It’s kind of true. The protagonist, Erin, was a vulnerable drug addict wrestling with co-dependency issues. But she wasn't all that sympathetic. That didn’t tank the story, but I didn’t really care about what happened to Erin, either. Was she going to live? Die? I was curious to see what nasty things would happen to her but I wasn’t invested in her well-being. I didn’t really care if she came out alright in the end. I was never afraid for her, so the story wasn’t really scary. Ghost Eater’s horrors become voyeuristic intrigue rather than a true, deep-down fear. When a character is likable, they’re easier to empathize with. When they hurt, you hurt. When they’ve won, you feel a victory right alongside them.
I’ve read countless opinions on how vulnerability makes a character relatable (and thus likable). What is it about vulnerability that can make a character so irritating? Why is it hard to empathize with so many of them? Think Shelley Duvall’s Wendy Torrance in the movie The Shining. Many people find Wendy annoying if not downright loathsome. What makes her all that different from fan favorite Jamie Lee Curtis’ Laurie Strode in Halloween? They’re both running, screaming, and being chased by a lunatic with a sharp object. Both are final girls. Why root for one to overcome the killer, while you secretly wish the other would die and just get it over with?
Maybe likability lies in how sharply that character arc curves, and how quickly they can morph from victim to survivor. Does it take too long to see weakness turn to strength?
Part of any relationship with a fictional character lies in our own schemas and how we perceive the world and its workings. Maybe we’re annoyed most with the character flaws we own. Take Stephen King’s Carrie White: she’s an awkward outsider with a terrible home life who has no clue about how coming of age works. Either you sympathize with her because you’ve felt that to a small degree, or you find her intolerably annoying because you’re watching yourself fall for the mother of all pranks.
Readers and writers criticize King’s style for doing a deep character dive before shoving them inside the horror chamber. I admire it. When the protagonist is ravaged by whatever mayhem King has cooked up, you are in lockstep with them, feeling everything they feel in “real time.” Their relationships with the half dozen or more characters he’s invented feel authentic. King knows we are nothing without our relationships. That character feels meatier, more real, what happens feels more consequential. Fear becomes insidious. It sneaks up and implants itself in your brain while you are living the life of a character he’s carefully crafted to be so normal that they’re boring. So boring that they are you. When King is ready to unleash Pennywise, or Kurt Barlow, the terror is intense, and the payoff for your patience is well worth it (in my opinion, anyway).
Ultimately, likability comes from our relationship with that character, how we relate/identify/empathize with the character, how we see ourselves in them, and whether we like what we see. If we don’t get to know them deeply, do we care? If we don’t care, what is there to be afraid about?
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