“Superman resonates with everyone because he’s an amalgamation of the legends we’ve loved for 5,000 years. He’s Moses, Hercules, Icarus, and Jesus Christ all rolled up inside an American flag. He’s the greatest fictional character of our time.” —Mark Millar in “Red Son Rising” for Wizard, quoted in Greg Garrett’s Holy Superheroes!
Greg House is a jerk. He’s a genius, mind you, but a jerk nonetheless. He’s a brilliant doctor who solves cases no one else can, but he doesn’t do it to heal or help people. He only cares about solving mysteries, challenges, and puzzles (and thereby feeding his massive ego). Dr. House lies, demeans his patients, and plays mind games with his friend (singular) and colleagues. He is an ardent atheist who insists that life is meaningless and that people are nothing more than selfish animals. Oh, and he has a Vicodin addiction. House is a deplorable, fascinating, flawed, and entertaining character.
Superman is nothing like House—he’s an icon, an All-American hero. His jaw is square, his hair is combed, and his face is free of stubble. Superman doesn’t curse, cower, deceive, or degrade. He stands up to evil, he protects the innocent, and he “fights for truth, justice, and the American way.” Superman uses his power to serve, not dominate, humanity. Heck, Superman as a character is comprised of so many literary parallels to Jesus Christ that creators Joe Shuster and Jerry Siegel almost named his earthling parents Joseph and Mary before opting for a more subtle varia¬tion—Jonathan and Martha. The Man of Steel is a man of virtue and family values, worthy of honor and respect. In short, Superman is a hero, and Greg House is not.
Why, then, does an audience of more than 12 million (myself included) watch House operate on a weekly basis? Because Greg House is an antihero and characters like him are everywhere these days. Falling woefully short of Superman’s wholesomeness is House’s appeal; he is an imperfect protago¬nist for an imperfect audience living in imperfect times.
Merriam-Webster.com defines an antihero as “a protagonist or notable figure who is conspicuously lacking in heroic qualities”—a description that fits Dr. House to a tee. But he’s not the only one. Even if you don’t watch House M.D., you probably have a favorite antihero.
For example: Jack Bauer allows circumstances to dictate his ethics. Breaking Bad’s Walter White became a methamphetamine mogul in order to provide for his family. Nancy Botwin from Weeds is a widow and a mother who sells marijuana, so she can take care of her kids. The Shield’s Vic Mackey was a crooked cop with a flexible concept of justice. Tony Soprano was a philandering mafia boss. Mad Men’s Don Draper is a conflicted advertising executive who hides a few mistresses and a huge secret. Dexter’s title character is a serial killer who is nice enough to limit his pool of victims to serious criminals. And as for the ensemble cast of Lost, well, you could write a book about their stockpile of daddy issues, substance abuse problems, and felonies.
All these dramas find their most complex and meaningful conflict in the flaws of their antiheroes. Similarly, many modern comedies derive their yucks from the imperfection of their leads. Consider Michael Scott’s unwitting bigotry and juvenile mismanagement on The Office. Or consider 30 Rock’s triple threat of Tracy Jordan’s myopic idiocy, Jack Donaghy’s insensitive greed, and Liz Lemon’s thinly-veiled superiority complex. It seems America’s favorite TV characters—regardless of whether they’re meant to be funny or dramatic—are “conspicuously lacking in heroic qualities.” In light of this revelation, the important question becomes, what does our affinity for antiheroes say about us as a society?
The simple answer is to conclude that the combination of rising secularism and declining family values have produced a culture in which the pinnacle of entertainment is watching and admiring depraved people doing depraved things. In other words, virtue is no longer virtuous to us, and thus traditional heroes grow increasingly rare in our pop culture landscape. Instead, the argument goes, we glorify characters who embody regrettable pursuits such as greed, lust, and pride.
This way of thinking, while probably right in identifying signifi¬cant shifts in our cultural values, ultimately draws the wrong conclusions. Placing a mob boss at the center of a TV show doesn’t necessarily glorify him or the mafia lifestyle, and The Sopranos is a prime example. Yes, Tony Soprano was powerful and wealthy, but he was also plagued by conflict, paranoia, tension, insecurity, anger, and violence. In fact, Tony’s life was such constant chaos that most of his devoted viewers were probably grateful they didn’t live in perpetual fear of getting whacked. Rather than aspiring to be more like Tony Soprano, Sopranos fans probably held out hope that Tony would grow to become more like them. I believe that hope holds an important key to the rise of the antihero.
When we meet Superman, he’s already a hero. We can watch in awe as he uses his superpowers to triumph over yet another villain, but the chiseled-superhuman-from-another-planet archetype leaves little room for growth or redemption. Perhaps more now than ever before, character arcs that track growth and redemption (or decline and breakdown) are the driving force of scripted television. Antiheroes, bearing the scars of their backstories, are better suited to undergo trials and face moral dilemmas because we’re not sure how they’ll respond. Will they do the right thing or will they take the easy way out? Will they progress or regress? Will they grow as individuals or will they shrink from the moment? We don’t know, but we’re dying to find out. So we watch. One thing we can be sure of is that flaws must first be present if redemption is to follow.
Potential for growth and redemption explain one aspect of the anti¬hero’s appeal, but another aspect is more personal: we can identify with an antihero. We love Superman; we idolize Superman. We consume stories of his adventures, and we buy his Halloween costumes, pajamas, posters, and action figures. But we identify with House, and there’s a colossal difference. Superman is admirable but ultimately unattainable. House feels less like a fantasy and more like real life.
Children put on makeshift red capes and dream of flying like Superman, and they don’t imagine themselves limping around a hospital, popping pain pills and keeping others at arm’s length like Dr. House. And yet, which character are we most likely to resemble when we grow up? Maybe we’ll never struggle with an addiction, beat informa¬tion out of a suspected terrorist, or cook meth like some well-known antiheroes do, but we each have our flaws. As a result, I think we’re drawn to characters who make messes of their lives and have some growing to do. We identify with those characters because we see bits and pieces of ourselves reflected on the screen. As we watch their weekly misadventures, celebrating their victories and stressing out over their mistakes, our subconscious identification with our favorite antiheroes puts our minds at ease. After all, identi¬fication and resonance lead us back to the potential for redemption.
We wonder if House can change. We wonder if he can be forgiven for his misdeeds and redeemed. We want to see if he can find acceptance and lasting love in spite of his many flaws. It’s possible that we’re collectively holding out hope that the antihero can one day drop the “anti” and just be a hero—that House’s journey can transform him into Superman. Our culture finds solace in watching scoundrels, but not because we want to see just how bad they can be. I think we want a little reassurance that change is possible, and I think it comforts a lot of people to know that the stories of imperfect people are still stories worth watching. When Christians turn to Scripture for wisdom and guidance, we often find inspiration in stories of God’s grace and love toward flawed figures such as Abraham, Noah, Jacob, Rahab, David, and the disciples.
As we use stories—both real and imagined—to honor and reveal our Creator, we shouldn’t shy away from characters who are lacking. Those kinds of characters are inarguably engaging, and their narratives of trial and redemption are among our greatest means for pointing people toward the only truly perfect figure in history—Jesus.