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Violence in Fiction: 6 Archetypes

Naturally, this becomes a complex subject. To avoid violence in fiction altogether is impractical, if for no other reason than the fictive world soon ceases to be an accurate representation of reality. And yet, fiction is not only informed  by  reality, it also informs reality. Therefore, it behooves any writer using any level of violence in fiction to do so with awareness of its true implications, not just as part of a moral discussion, but also within the needs of the plot.

Today, I’m happy to share with you another thoughtful post from Usvaldo de Leon, Jr. A few years ago, I asked him to write a post based on an email conversation we had shared about the often dehumanizing portrayal of mindless violence in fiction. Today, he’s back with a breakdown of how violence functions in modern fiction and how to recognize certain archetypes of violence that might be showing up in your stories, so you can portray them with as much awareness and power as necessary.

In “real life,” violence is held in abeyance. It is a demon trapped in a bottle, and care must be considered before the bottle is broken; sow the wind and reap the whirlwind. For this reason, we are socialized against using it. We are taught to bury our violent impulses. “He made me so mad I could hit him,” we say, but we won’t. Once, as children, we smacked anyone who displeased us. Over time we learned to restrain ourselves.

However, an impulse repressed does not equal an impulse removed and therefore we employ and even enjoy violence in our stories. “Apology accepted, Captain Needa,” Vader says, and the incompetent underling collapses lifeless while our inner five-year-old nods admiringly.

What are we responding to when we watch violent stories? Are there archetypes of violent stories that we can use as writers? Can we respect violence as a plot element?

6 Ways Violence in Fiction Is Used Today

1. plot device.

The primary use of violence in fiction is as a plot device and intensifier, like using a spice. Obi-Wan does not have to die in Star Wars : he could be arrested, for example. He could be called away suddenly by Yoda. Either choice forces Luke to grow up. But his death adds spice—it livens up the scene.

Star Wars: A New Hope (1977), 20th Century Fox.

2. Plot Mover

Violence moves the story along. In The Maltese Falcon , the death of Sam Spade’s partner propels him into the mystery.

The Maltese Falcon (1941), Warner Bros.

3. Third Plot Point Symbolism

And, of course, what would the “all is lost moment” be without the death of a character? This moment symbolizes death, and storytellers love to make it literal.

Violence is used to communicate the stakes. In Escape From New York , Snake Plisken has twenty-four hours to find the President before tiny explosives in the blood vessels leading to his brain will explode.

Escape From New York (1981), AVCO Embassy Pictures.

If Luke doesn’t stop the Death Star, it will destroy the Rebel base, dooming the galaxy to the Evil Empire.

In Kill Bill Vol. 1 , to face her nemesis O Ren Ishii, The Bride must first kill O Ren’s personal army of 88 sword wielding yakuza assassins.

Kill Bill, Vol. 1 (2003), Miramax Films.

5. Conflict

Violence can also be used for conflict. In The Graduate , to rescue Elaine from her wedding, Benjamin Braddock literally has to fight off the wedding party and guests like they were a zombie horde. If everyone had calmly discussed the situation in order to resolve it peacefully, well, where’s the fun in that?

The Graduate (1967), Embassy Pictures.

6. Catharsis

Finally, violence in story can be a release. The characters are not bound by social conventions; if someone is preventing them from achieving their goal, they are free to do them bodily harm. As audience members, we are often pleased to witness others do things we would not allow ourselves to do. In High Fidelity , when the insufferable Ian Raymond steals Rob Gordon’s girlfriend, he lashes out, dispensing the beat down the character so richly deserves for a satisfying laugh for the audience.

High Fidelity (2000), Touchstone Pictures.

3 Polarities of Violence in Fiction

Violence in story occupies three axes:

1. Authorized or Unauthorized

Authorization refers to the role of the character. A police officer is authorized to use violence in the course of duty; so, too, in a different way, is a mob hitman.

2. Justified or Unjustified

Justification refers to just that: was the killer justified in the use of violence? In a typical story, the violence deployed by the main character will be justified and that of the antagonist will be unjustified, but not always. In Red River , for example, Thomas Dunson is never justified in his violence and it is a crucial clue for how the story develops.

Red River (1948), United Artists.

3. Orderly or Chaotic

Order or chaos refers to how the violence affects the story world. When the policeman in a story shoots the serial killer, that is restoring order. When the Joker in The Dark Knight Rises plants bombs on two ferries and tells them to blow each other up, it is an attempt to devolve Gotham to a base chaotic state.

6 Archetypes of Violence

Using this system, we can identify six possible archetypes through which violence in fiction may portrayed. Let us look at each of the archetypes.

Archetype #1: The Policeman (Justified/Authorized/Orderly)

The Policeman is most concerned with order. When chaos is introduced into the story world, it is the Policeman’s job to restore order to the world. In Dirty Harry , chaos is a serial killer stalking the streets of San Francisco.

However, the desire for order is not limited to law enforcement. In Batman Begins the Policeman is Ra’s Al Ghul. Consider that the League Of Shadows has acted as a check on human corruption and decadence for centuries. Therefore, the actions Ra’s takes are “authorized.” Gotham is depicted as a city collapsing under its own corruption, making these actions are “justified.” The end of Gotham will allow a better, cleaner city to arise. Therefore the actions are “orderly.”

Batman Begins (2005), Warner Bros.

Archetype #2: The Avenger (Justified/Unauthorized/Orderly)

The Avenger is most concerned with justification. For example, the bad guy has murdered someone close to the Avenger, and the Avenger has the ability to settle the score, returning to a semblance of “order.” The only difference between the Policeman and the Avenger is that one is “authorized” and the other is “unauthorized.”

These archetypes are slippery. It is possible for someone to begin a story as a Policeman and then to lose their authorization, turning into an Avenger. Beverly Hills Cop is one such story. Axel Foley is literally a Policeman, but when Foley’s friend is murdered, Foley’s captain will not sanction an investigation. Foley heads west to his friend’s home area as an Avenger.

Beverly Hills Cop (1984), Paramount Pictures.

Archetype #3: The Outlaw (Justified/Unauthorized/Chaotic)

The Outlaw is not interested in returning the world to its previous state. They are most most concerned with chaos. They seek to push the limits of the world—to change it. In Batman Begins , it is Batman who is the Outlaw, fighting the brutal order Ra’s Al Ghul seeks to impose.

Archetype #4: The Warrior (Justified/Authorized/Chaotic)

The Warrior seeks to destroy until the enemy is subdued or wiped out. The deliberate act of total war in this way is naturally chaotic, as it is impossible to know what the ultimate outcome will be. As the name implies, this archetype is most often seen in war films. In the eponymously named film, John Wick starts as an Avenger, seeking revenge for his poor dog. However by the end of the first film, his scope has expanded, and he intends to destroy Viggo’s entire criminal outfit. Devolving from Avenger to Warrior is a standard story beat, as also seen in the original Get Carter and The Road to Perdition.

John Wick (2014), Summit Entertainment.

Archetype #5: The Criminal (Unjustified/Unauthorized/Orderly)

The Criminal preys upon the order of the world because it is stable, predictable, and profitable. The Criminal may be on the wrong side of the line, so to speak, but they have a vested interest in preserving that line. Danny Ocean in Ocean’s 11 is a typical Criminal: if he has done his job properly, it will be as if he was never there. Any violence the Criminal engages in will be the minimum necessary to achieve the job. Heat is about a crew of professional thieves who would just as soon not be violent if possible, but when violence is necessary are ruthless in executing it.

Ocean’s 11 (2001), Warner Bros.

Archetype #6: The Anarchist (Unjustified/Unauthorized/Chaotic)

The Anarchist has no interest in anything but chaos. As Alfred says about The Joker in The Dark Knight , “Some men just want to watch the world burn.” The Anarchist is unauthorized, unjustified, and chaotic, and that makes them singularly terrifying because it is impossible to know exactly what they might do or why.

Thoughts on How and When to Use Violence in Fiction

Violence in fiction is much like the wind blowing: the impact is not so much from the incident itself but the reaction to it. The weight of the scene is created not by the violence but by the reaction to the violence.

Humans are by nature empathy machines. As such, when someone suffers, our inclination is to suffer with them. In The Thin Red Line , when Sergeant Keck accidentally explodes a grenade, the scene becomes excruciating as he becomes weepy and delirious and calling out to his mother.

The Thin Red Line (1998), 20th Century Fox.

On the other hand, when the good guy frequently just mows down seemingly hundreds of faceless baddies , who barely get a half second for us to acknowledge their passing, this signals that the deaths are unimportant. By its very lack of importance, this suggests the violence is unnecessary. If the use of violence in fiction is enhance your story, it must be seen as necessary, even inevitable, much as The Graduate could not end without a fight.

Violence is a significant element in fiction, and its cathartic properties frequently make it necessary for a story to feel complete. But use it wisely like salt in cooking to enhance your story. Be careful not to oversalt the story and make it unappetizing.

Wordplayers, tell me your opinions! Which of these archetypes have you used to portray violence in fiction? Tell me in the comments!

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Usvaldo de Leon, Jr., is a screenwriter who lives in Tucson, Arizona. He won the Nobel Peace Prize in 2013 for his screenplay Let Us Hold Hands and Sing Folk Songs . Most of these statements are true (Usvaldo is so obviously a fake name).

Interesting essay. I agree violence should be used thoughtfully in writing, and frankly there’s way too much entertainment where it’s served up like cotton candy. Honestly, I think the main use of violence, particularly early in a piece, is to define character. I was not entertained by Vader’s killing of the general; I took this as a sign he was evil. It’s almost step one of creating a stock antagonist – have them exercise unnecessary violence. There are tons of exception, but what’s relatively rare is for a character to process the impact of their violence. That’s impossible for a stock villain, because he’d stop being “stock,” but even most good guys aren’t particularly reflective. Does Luke ever worry about those he’ll kill? No, it’s not that type of story. So, end the end, violence informs both theme and character.

When violence is deployed, as you say, like “cotton candy”, it’s impact is diluted. And yes, seeing a character take stock of the violence they’ve seen/perpetrated is underutilized.

Hi Andy, I had a similar experience with that Star Wars scene. I thought it made Darth scary. I thought if he would do that to one of his people, what wouldn’t he do? I was a kid when I saw it—seven or something, and lived in a home infected with violence. I’m wondering if you were also a kid and/or had any brushes with violence prior to seeing the film?

Interestingly enough, my hero (who was a real-life person) went from being a criminal to being a warrior fighting for his country.

I can see that transition! It makes perfect sense to me.

Ah, this reminds me of the axis of Law and Chaos / Good and Evil in the Dungeons and Dragons games (at least the original Baldur’s Gate / Icewind Dale / Neverwinter Nights series). Chaotic Good was coded as a Robin Hood-type who will waylay the evil baron’s tax collectors. The evil baron is oppressing the people and bleeding them dry when not outright robbing them.

But this hinged on the Robin Hood stopping the highway robbers if the rightful king is present and NOT milking the peasants of tax money. A Hermione Granger who normally follows the rules until the rightful headmaster is overthrown, and the evil usurper must be resisted. Whereas Lawful Good would enforce the law either way; they’d just be unhappy working for the evil baron.

For me a bad guy who is Archetype 6 is difficult to write, because it’s too easy for “I want to watch the world burn” to be a cop out. I liked how Babylon 5 had the Shadows at least believe they were pruning and culling weaknesses in assorted species by starting chaotic wars and conflicts. My favorite type of [fictional] tyrant is the kind CS Lewis warned about, who “oppress you for your own good.” They have a discernible motive, which makes it possible to strategize against them.

To me Archetype 6 as a corporeal villain forecloses all possibility of negotiation, because they are unreasonable and predatory. Like a savage animal, they are chastised only via pain [violence]. I picture them failing the gom jabbar test of a Bene Gesserit. I can also see a hero break bad if they treat every opponent as an Archetype 6. I specify corporeal, because a monster / demon suits that archetype in a way that makes sense to me while still challenging the hero. For me, anyway.

Yes, I don’t think I could write an archetype 6 because I find them difficult to understand.

I think the trick to writing a good Anarchist, is showing how they have rationalized their beliefs/ideals at least with themselves. While “throwing the baby out with the bathwater” doesn’t make sense to most people, convincing the audience the Anarchist believes this is the only solution to the problem will create an interesting and somewhat appealing character. Tyler Durden from “Fight Club” comes to mind as the best example of a well-written Anarchist archetypes.

Fight Club is a tremendous story. What I love about it is that Durden seems appealing in the first half and then takes those ideals to a terrifying end. It’s a great sleight of hand trick and as you say a great example of the Anarchist.

I love these kinds of characters. My main character starts out an Anarchist, but he thinks he’s an Outlaw. How he uses his backstory to justify his unjustifiable actions is what interests me about his character. I don’t know if this would work for a whole book (he arcs out of Anarchy pretty quick), but it creates lots of external and internal conflict to delve into.

Yeah, Heather, an MC who was an anarchist the entire time would certainly be a challenge to accomplish, lol. Good luck with your story!

I also saw the D&D alignment connection and thought it interesting how they added a new axis to distinguished between a social authority and moral authority.

Regarding Archetype 6, one of reasons I liked The Dark Knight’s version was because of how they subverted the stereotypical villain origin story and made it clear that the events that might have led up to his world view didn’t matter. There are no neat, easy-breezy answers here. He’s not a person to be related to or reasoned with but a force of nature that has to be dealt with. He’s a purely thematic force.

As refreshing as that was, however, I also appreciate the painful Warrior–>Avenger–>descent into Anarchy arc when it is done well. (As Lucas ultimately *tried* to do with the Anakin to Darth Vader arc.)

I hadn’t thought about Anakin’s arc in that way, wow…

Thanks so much for sharing with us today, Usvaldo!

And thank you too!

Ooops- Here’s what I’d hoped would post before I hit the wrong key: It’s almost becoming expected for me, that when I receive your latest postings, it’s what I most need to learn. I’m there in my current wip, and now have some added ‘punch’ if you will, to spice up this portion. I can now call my protagonist an “Avenger” type 2 – as he brings order back and in so doing, creates a catharsis for the situation and another main character! Sincere thanks once again. I’m back to my keyboard now, need to decide if the bad guy is merely knocked down, or…out. Regards, Curt

Hi Curt, I’m glad that you found this useful! One thing that just occurred to me reading your comment: what happens to the avenger once there is nothing to be avenged? Good luck with your story.

Hi Again Usvaldo. This avenger will no doubt find another good cause to defend! Thanks for asking & Good luck to you also.

Thank you for having me!

#7 Natural Catastrophe (Unjustified/Inunauthorizable/Chaotic)? I couldn’t find a name for #8 which would be unjustified, authorized and orderly

So I had to grid this out to make sure I got this, lol. Yes, there are 8 combinations. The two I didn’t mention would be Authorized/Unjustified/Orderly and Authorized/Unjustified/Chaotic. The first I consider to be an oxymoron – there is no way for a person authorized to act violently to do so in an unjustified manner and have the result be orderly. Perhaps I’m mistaken, but I don’t see it as possible. On the other hand, Authorized/Unjustified/Chaotic is possible and I believe this would be a shadow archetype of a policeman: the Bad Cop, if you will. A show like The Shield comes to mind as one exploring that. A natural catastrophe, unauthorized/unjustified/chaotic, that would be an anarchic situation and probably unpleasant to boot, lol.

I identify Authorized/Unjustifed/Orderly with The Assassin. Maintains the status quo, works in a precise and organized fashion, and is sanctioned by the tyrannical powers-that-be.

I can see that, sure. Makes sense.

I like the Assassin as Unjustified, Authorised and Orderly. I think the 8th one (Unjustified, Authorised and Chaos) could be the Dictator/Cult Leader, who authorise themselves and set to create a new ‘order’ which is usually only looks like order on the surface.

Makes total sense to me! What the dictator perceives as order is usually just fear, which is inherently a chaotic state.

I can also see this as a good definition of the inhuman impersonal institutionalized injustice story. Sorry, but that’s just how the system works.

Reminiscent of The Trial by Kafka, One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest by Kesey or even Catch 22 by Heller.

Authorized/Unjustified/Orderly would be the Tyrant archetype? Evil Stepmother or Hitler…

Violence that is authorized, unjustified and also orderly does seem like the actions of a tyrant, yes.

Authorised/Unjustified/Orderly would be a maverick policeman type – think “Demolition Man”, perhaps – in which the violence is authorised and meant to restore order, but frequently taken too far. Unleash this hero only when desperate!

Authorised/Unjustified/Chaotic would be the deranged psychopath given licence to fight a bigger evil. Like the maverick above, their violence would be taken too far, but they’d revel in the chaos it causes. “Suicide Squad” is a possible example here, and there’s an argument for “Deadpool” as well.

The Suicide Squad crew are a great example, lol. The last film was essentially a live action cartoon.

Interesting. In both of my current projects, the male characters are avengers and the female characters are outlaws. I guess the females are more motivated to change a status quo that stifles them. I noticed that the six archetypes don’t leave room for any Unjustified but Authorized behavior. What would those be? Some kind of dystopian government?

It seems to me that to be Authorized but Unjustified is a shadow archetype of the Policeman. To my mind, though, if someone authorized commits violence that is unjustified, they then lose their authorization. In Beverly Hills Cop, for example, at the beginning of the film he is arranging a buy and the crook steals the delivery truck. If Axel were to shoot the driver, that would be authorized. But when he is in Beverly Hills, none of his actions have any authorization. So I see the archetypes as essentially devolving one into the other. Axel was the policeman but devolves into the Avenger because his captain refuses to grant authorization.

Interesting. In both of my current projects, the male characters are avengers and the female characters are outlaws. I guess the females are more motivated to change a status quo that stifles them. I noticed that the six archetypes don’t leave room for any Unjustified but Authorized behavior. What would those be? Some kind of dystopian government (orderly) or a mercenary/assassin (chaotic)?

I was thinking The Brute (Unjustified/Authorized/Chaotic) for the character that uses violence whenever they want because they can, without any real agenda behind it. Basically, any Bully in any story you’ve ever read. On the flip side, the other missing archetype would be the Enforcer (Unjustified/Authorized/Orderly) using violence to meet an agenda even when it’s not really warranted. Many of the Star Wars/Imperial villains meet this persona. Just my thoughts.

Feel free to take my thoughts and use them best as you believe works for you. But I think The Enforcer as you term it IS justified. I’m thinking of a film like Killing Them Softly, where Brad Pitt is called in to find out who knocked over a card game and eliminate them. So for the characters of that world, Pitt’s presence is Authorized, Orderly and Justified; these goofs stole from the wrong people and an example needs to be made. However, if you want to look at it from a larger societal standpoint that murdering a thief cannot be justified that’s a valid viewpoint, sure. Now your point on The Brute is well taken; I’m reminded of Daniel Craig’s character in the Road to Perdition, who sows a very chaotic, unjustified path but under the protection of his father.

Cool essay! I feel people who have experienced violence tend to process fictional violence differently. I find it cathartic when it’s done well, as you said, with the reaction being shown, as opposed to mindless violence, which I can find triggering if I’m not on guard for it.

This is a great point!

As the 25th anniversary of the Columbine shooting approaches, I am thinking about writing a somewhat fictional-somewhat autobiographical story about it. (I had three sons at Columbine then; none hurt, but friends killed, and they knew the shooters.) One of the killers was, by all indications, an 18 YO psychopath; the other was an accomplish whose willingness to go along made it possible. A strange and powerful dynamic. The psychopathic one was clearly an Anarchist (per the model above), but I can’t make up my mind about the other half of the duo. Plus, the pursuit of fame–rather, infamy–played a role that sits alongside the archetypes described.

BTW, I’m still not sure I’m up to the story. It was a hard, hard time.

I chuckle now at my mistyping “accomplice” as “accomplish.”

Wow, this sounds like a heavy story, even after all this time. I would say that both boys are anarchists viewed from our POV: they are unauthorized/unjustified/chaotic. That’s simply how the violent actions happened. And of course it is awful, one of the darker days of American history. To me it feels like it was a turning point , a harbinger of foreboding. The one young man who was the leader was clearly nihilistic and the other bought into that world view. the pursuit of fame played a role – I know both the boys names, as do millions of others, no doubt. We are creatures of story and real life events like Columbine we want to turn into a story as much as possible. We want it to have a beginning, a middle and an end, much like how the commission Report on 9/11 is paced and structured like a story. Because we can understand a story, we can process it. Raw, tragic events that have little rhyme or reason, that arise and dissipate like a tornado, it’s very hard to live with that. But that is why, as mentioned, the anarchist archetype is so terrifying. I usually wish people good luck with their story but for you, instead, I think I will wish peace and closure for you, however you achieve that.

This is fantastic! It gives me a lot to think about as I finish out my fantasy series which ends with a war. While I think the conflict needs to be there because the overall theme I’m trying to convey, but maybe I need to go about presenting it differently.

Stories are symbolic and the battles characters back almost demand violence. If your story involves protagonists who are good facing antagonists who are evil, it would likely be unsatisfying if the two groups did not have a final conflict. In story, the things that we want to achieve are often things we have to literally fight for.

As theandyclark commented, don’t forget to have your characters take stock of what happens. The lack of any kind of acknowledgement or reckoning with the violence makes character seem flat. The scene with Woody Harrelson in The Thin Red Line starts off as kind of a comic beat- at first it feels a bit like a cartoon. But soon enough, as the character begins dying, it is his platoon mates reaction and their reassurances and words of comfort and empathy that give the death it’s full weight.

Good luck with your story!

Your post was most valuable–thank you. I needed to write a dueling scene for Book Two of my historical novel series. In truth, I never identified it as writing violence!–especially since I abhor it. My hero, who was justified, would win. My biggest concern was focused on not making it sound stiff and boring. My solution was to hire a fight choreographer, who with her incredible talent for changing/adding just the right words/actions brought the scene to life.

I’m glad that you found it useful! And what a clever idea to bring in a fight choreographer to make sure the action was gripping. If we need to have violence in our stories to symbolically resolve our differences, then let’s make sure it is not boring!

If I think about it there are three or maybe four types of violence in my current WIP. One is control of the working class, by class violence in both propaganda and the weilding of power via wealth i.e. the charity hospital maintains control by subjugation of the workers/ patients, if they do not conform health care is withdrawn the same with work if they do not perform or are unable to perform they lose their livelihood. Two violence by the antagonist out of greed. He and his sister have no compunction in murdering their father and planning to do the same to his subsequent heirs, including a child, in order to gain an inheritance. Three the inner anger of the protagonist, which grows with the injustice which pervades the society in which she lives, to the point of making the terrible decision to abort the foetus she is carrying. The fourth a violent rape by her ex-husband to satisfy his need for control. I totally agree that we are all capable of violent thought, provoked in many cases by anger about an injustice. It can be as simple as becoming annoyed by something that someone does, intentionally or unitentionally that provokes anger and a desire to get even. And it is a constant battle to control the desire to react in one way or another. Even though one might profess to be pacifist the automatic trigger of anger is always there. So to have violence in fiction is as you say unavoidable. How one treats it is crucial to the plot and needs to be consistant with the theme of the book.

“To have violence in fiction is unavoidable” This reminds me of the film Parasite, which has one of the best midpoint changes I’ve ever seen. I won’t spoil it for anyone who hasn’t seen it but suffice to say my immediate reaction was “Oh, you’re just going to have to kill them – because story is heightened and dramatized. No one can ever “agree to disagree” in a story; it’s zero sum and that will be expressed somehow violently.

I think you would profit from reading Jack Donovan´s essay “Violence is Golden”

I will, thank you! https://www.jack-donovan.com/sowilo/2010/09/11/violence-is-golden/

I’m now approaching the end of my 100,000 word novel with scenes in the 1860’s and the 1970’s. There are two very different violent scenes that define my protagonists. The first portrays the violence of the “hornet’s nest at the 1862 battle of Shiloh, in which the hero miraculously survives. The second scene is in the 1970’s where the protagonist, a woman, is caught up in a torrent where in the flash flood she is saved at the last minute from near drowning and hypothermia. Both scenes are defining moments for both of my protagonists lives and has significant impact on other characters brought into the story subsequently. The events of the two centuries come together in the end. Thus, without these examples of violence my book would lose all impact. By-the-way, both of these scenes are based on real life happenings.

“Both scenes are defining moments for both of my protagonists lives and has significant impact on other characters” – when this is the case, we are using violence as a plot element wisely. Best of luck with your story!

I agree that violence is generally overused in some genres of storytelling, and that it should be used as responsibly as possible. I think a good example of violence being treated with some weight is surprisingly the original Japanese anime adaptation of Trigun. (Mild spoilers for that series ahead) While most of the violence is cartoony slapstick at first, it’s established that the main hero, Vash, is an idealistic pacifist who hates violence; thus, all the Wild West-style shootouts come from the villains who mistakenly think he’s dangerous. Vash never purposefully kills anyone until later in the series, and from what I remember, he laments every single life he takes, including those of villains. I don’t really know what violent archetype I would classify Vash as, if any of them. In fact, I think a lot of Japanese anime heroes defy common Western media hero archetypes (at least the ones for seinen/mature audiences; shonen/teen anime protagonists fit in pretty well). For most Western media, though, I think these violent archetypes you’ve presented are quite useful for classifying characters. Thanks for the post!

Glad you enjoyed it. Thanks for the contrasting viewpoint re: Eastern media depictions of violence.

Talking about violence in fiction, there are over 50 books involving school shootings. It’s almost become a subgenre.

I can’t imagine it, but for the new generation of writers, setting a book with a school shooting probably gives instant authenticity and a frisson of catharsis.

Interesting post! I see people have various label for the type of violence which is Unjustified / Authorized / Chaotic, and I think I’d named it as the Narcissist. The victim in a sense authorizes the narc by submitting to their power. Or The Abuser, whether that is an abuse of power or abuse within relationships.

What’s interesting is how they helps in designing the protagonist and antagonist, either as complete opposites on all axes, or just in one axis to make the difference between the two characters slight.

Another interesting thing is if you use Robert McKee’s four quadrant thematic square, you can separate the sides further by the type of violence they use.

Those ideas, to incorporate the violence into McKee or along axes are really fascinating! I’m glad you enjoyed the post.

A few years ago I had a chance to watch (most of) “John Wick” on the telly. I was struck by how much it resembled the anime series “Noir” in that the protagonist leaves the corpses of hordes of faceless baddies in his/her wake. Cartoon violence. That’s all it is. Oh, and “Kill Bill” as well. I chuckled through most of that film (skipped over the part where the bride was being abused). Yes, the public loves simulated violence, but we’re a notch above the ancient Romans who needed to see real bloody violence. But what can you expect from a people who felt the need to invent a word for “kill every tenth man”?

Yes, it does make one wonder what that society was like that they needed to view hand to hand combat for entertainment purposes.

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Some people think that the fictional violence portrayed on television is harmless entertainment. Others disagree and think that it encourages violent behaviour. Discuss both these views and give your own opinion.

Fictional violence can be defined as the violence done in fictional movies or shows. In some people’s opinions fictional violence is harmless whereas others think that it promotes violence. I think that fictional violence is harmful and it should not be shown on television. Fictional violence is harmful as it influences children to use violence. […] Read More Band 5+

It is argued that the fictional violence showed on television is just an entertainment purpose with no harm. Whilst others disagree and believe that it encourages violent behaviour. The essay agrees that watching fictional violence as an enjoyment purpose is not an issue at all. However, taking the fictional charecters too seriously and grabing the […] Read More Band 5+

These days more and more imaginary violence are being transmitted in different TV channels. They are those who say that, functional aggression presenting on broadcasting media is not detrimental entertainment. However, others contradict and believe that, it encourages threatening behavior. in this essay I will discuss both view as fer as I am concerned about […] Read More Band 4+

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Don Winslow: The Complicated Ethics of Writing Violence in Fiction

There are some hard ethical questions in the writing of crime fiction.

For me, the most difficult one is how to portray violence.

For one thing, should you depict it all?

And if so, how do you do it with some sense of morality?

I wrestle with this issue all the time. It’s a fine line to walk. On the one hand I don’t want to sanitize violence—I don’t like presenting murder as a parlor game, or worse, a video game in which there are no real consequences. On the other hand, I don’t want to cross that thin line into what might be called the pornography of violence, a means to merely titillate the worst angels of our nature.

But we have to deal with it.

After all, we write crime fiction, and crime often involves violence. So either we choose crimes that don’t—the slick, bloodless heist, the clever con game—or we write scenes that involve shootings, stabbings and various kinds of murder.

And maybe that’s the answer—maybe we have come to a time when we should stop writing violent crime altogether. But if we make that choice, we say goodbye to the murder mystery, the procedural, the forensic novel.

And maybe I’m wrong about not sanitizing the violence. There is, after all, a place for the cleverly plotted, suspenseful whodunit with its witty dialogue, exotic locales, and intriguing characters. (Who am I to judge?) It’s fine, as long as we know it’s a game and we play by its rules and know its conventions. So if Colonel Someone kills Lord Someone Else in the study with a monkey wrench, we don’t expect to see the blood and brains and we don’t feel much from the grieving family except anticipation of the will.

Fair enough, I suppose.

But I write realistic crime fiction.

For twenty-three years, I wrote close-to-the-bone novels about the Mexican drug cartels. The actual violence was horrific, and I was faced with a stark choice: Do I back away from the violence, soften it, mute it, make it less terrible than it was, or do I bring it to the reader in realistic, graphic language that showed it the way it was?

For the most part, I chose the latter option.

It was hard choice.

Just researching these events was a brutal experience, and I knew that reading about them in these terms would be likewise brutal. But every violent incident in those books actually happened in one form or another , and I wanted the reader to understand the real tragedy of the so-called War On Drugs, I wanted the reader to feel the suffering of the people involved, comprehend the consequences of the violence.

If you’ve ever seen a gunshot wound, ever talked the family of a murder victim, ever gone to the funeral, you there is nothing sanitized or antiseptic about violence.

It is not the beautifully lit, slow-motion ballet seen in many films, nor the glittering, pounding action on the video screen.

It is ugly, it is dirty, it is heartbreaking.

But does that mean we should burden the reader with all that?

Not necessarily. Many readers of crime fiction go to books for an escape from reality, and there’s nothing wrong with that. It’s a legitimate choice on both the writers and reader’s part. I’ve made that choice myself, in pieces that were never meant to depict real events.

I felt a different responsibility in writing realistic novels about the drug cartels. I wanted to get behind the headlines, to bring the reader into a close relationship with individuals instead of stereotypes, so that when one of them was killed – as so many were – the reader felt something.

But the question still remained—how far do you take it, how graphic do you want to be, where is that thin line?

At times I did back away from it. There were some incidents in the drug wars that I knew for a fact happened that were so horrific as to be surreal. I didn’t think the reader would even believe them. But, in all candor, the larger reason I didn’t was that just couldn’t bring myself to write them. I just couldn’t do it to the reader—or to myself.

Did that violate my precept of wanting readers to feel the effects of the drug wars? Yes, I suppose so, but at some point, enough is enough—how much pain do you want to inflict?

Not that much.

There is also the real danger of inuring the reader to violence, by repetition or escalation desensitizing the reader – the actual opposite of what I intended.

It can happen—researching those books I often spent days looking at atrocity photos and videos. The first one I saw was sickening, the thirtieth…was just depressing. (I always made an effort to put names to the victims, it was the most I could do to not be a simple voyeur.) But trying to convey those images on the page, to be accurate, realistic and truthful without being merely obscene was an ethical dilemma. I went back and forth on whether I should do it all and then decided that I had to because it was the truth and people needed to know the truth.

I hope I was right.

I became aware of the phenomenon of desensitizing the reader about halfway through writing the second book, The Cartel , which depicted an extraordinarily violent era. More and more, I stopped depicting the scene of violence itself, but had a character come upon the scene and react to it. That way, I got the emotional and psychological consequences of the violence, which I think is the more important value. I think it also made it easier for the reader to relate in real human terms—we can all understand grief, revulsion and anger.

There were still times when the story required that I write the actual violence, but I started more to write the funeral, the wake, the feelings of the survivors., the effects over the course of years. Maybe I’ve just softened over time myself, I don’t know.

I do know that when I was on tour for those drug books, there was not a single event at which someone didn’t come up to me who had lost a relative, a loved one, a friend in the drug wars. Or someone’s who had lost someone to an overdose. A few even asked me if I could tell them something about a missing family member. When that happens, over and over again, you feel a keen responsibility to the people that you write about, even if they are fictional.

I became more careful about how I wrote the violence, knowing that while I could still be realistic, what I must never be is glib.

Maybe our ethical responsibility lies in depicting the results of violence, the real human pain of the victims and their loved ones. In spending time with cops, writing a book called The Force , I learned, for instance, that a homicide detective’s primary relationship in a crime is not with the criminal but with the victim and the surviving family, and that they feel it intently and forever. I once sat with a retired detective and watched tears stream down his face as he told me about the killing of a child that happened thirty years before.

I didn’t write about that murder. Couldn’t do it—not to myself, the reader, that detective, or that child. I wrote around it, in an elliptical reference to a police officer’s past and what haunted him.

That felt fair, that felt right.

And I think it was effective, because it was human feeling that I was after. I wanted the reader to understand the cop.

And maybe that’s our guide. Maybe we have to feel our way to the right approach, case by case, consult our own humanity in deciding how far to take things, how graphic we can be without violating that humanity.

Again, it’s hard not to cross that invisible line.

I find that I use fewer words these days to describe violence, that I try to make small images stand in for large ones, symbolic ones for graphic ones. I find myself cutting more in the editing, while adding more lyrical sequences in the remembrance of a violent event.

I’m still realistic, but perhaps in a different way.

How do we ethically portray violence in crime fiction?

I wish I had all the answers, but I certainly don’t. Perhaps one answer is that we write what we think is necessary and then make sure that we also write the consequences. Maybe we just try to be human, aware of other humans, their experiences and their emotions.

And maybe that’s what being ethical is.

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How to Write Believable, Realistic, and Responsible Violence

A thriller author shares 7 lessons for writing violence..

“All fiction arises from conflict,” a professor once told me, and I believe that’s true. If the conflict in a story rises to the level of physical violence, writers have a responsibility to get it right, for verisimilitude, certainly, but because—and this is just my opinion—because portraying it lightly or failing to show its effects on real humans is morally irresponsible and risks glorifying violence.

If you write about struggle and are going for realistic, if you want to portray real human beings caught up in or even perpetrating violence, it may help to keep these few things in mind.

• People have strong reactions to violence.

Here is retired Marine Randy Hoffman describing combat to young men and women in training. “Your heart rate is uncontrollable,” he tells them. “Your pulse goes up so much that your ears kind of stop up. Everything goes kind of in slow motion. Your brain focuses on minute details to help you get through engaging the enemy before he can kill you.” [Wall Street Journal, December 13, 2019]

There are also delayed physiological effects. Here is the late Paul Russell, a combat medic in Vietnam, describing his reaction after he crawled under incoming fire to rescue wounded GIs, an action for which he would be awarded the Silver Star. “I threw my guts up all the next day. Adrenaline.”

And yet, in so much fiction we see the protagonist battling and even killing multiple attackers without breaking a sweat, and then calmly sitting down to order drinks with a love interest. This is fine for James Bond—whose story is always a little campy—but chances are your character is going to perspire, fidget, hyperventilate, maybe feel some shaking in the knees and hands.

Only a sociopath has no reaction to inflicting violence. In Silence of the Lambs , a doctor tells Agent Clarice Starling how Hannibal Lecter—perhaps the most frightening villain in popular fiction—chews off the face of an attending nurse while he is hooked up to a pulse monitor. His heartbeat barely registers a change. Lecter is an anomaly, a rare human being. Unless your character is sick enough to find pleasure in inflicting pain, he or she certainly will have a physiological reaction and perhaps be haunted by a psychological reaction.

A character in my World War Two fiction shoots a young enemy soldier in a sudden kill-or-be-killed moment. Although the killing was justifiable—even necessary to save the GI’s buddies—it haunts him. Years later and still troubled, he says, “I’ve shot that boy in a thousand nightmares.”

• Implied or threatened violence can be as frightening as an assault.

The actor Joe Pesci has played a lot of unhinged bad actors. For me, one of his most frightening scenes is one in which he never gets out of his chair or raises a hand.

In Goodfellas , Pesci’s Tommy DeVito—his character already well-established as a dangerous man—is telling funny stories to his buddies in a nightclub. Ray Liotta’s character, Henry Hill, thinks he’s paying Tommy a compliment when he says, “You’re a funny guy.”

“Funny how?” Tommy asks. When Henry can’t explain it further, Tommy presses him.  “Like I’m a clown to you? I amuse you?”

Pesci is brilliant as he turns the formerly friendly conversation into something closer to the fraught few seconds before two gunfighters, squared off in a dusty street, reach for their weapons.

Consider putting your character in a menacing situation that stops short of violence. Make him suddenly aware of how vulnerable he is, how his escape routes are closing off, how his antagonist has suddenly stepped closer.

• Close-in violence is physically messy and psychologically disturbing.

Psychologist Dave Grossman, in his thoughtful On Killing: The Psychological Cost of Learning to Kill in War and Society describes the difficulty of training soldiers to overcome the normal revulsion to taking a human life, which is stronger the closer the victim is to the perpetrator. Stabbing someone is both more gruesome and more difficult—psychologically and physically—than shooting someone at a distance. And victims bleed a lot: there are 1.2 to 1.5 gallons of blood in an adult body.  Not all of it will come out, but big wounds—multiple gunshots or a long gash with an edged weapon—are going to make a mess.

In a World War Two-era book on hand-to-hand combat, one of the techniques illustrated is how to gouge out an enemy’s eye.  In this book for combat soldiers, where illustrations of how to bayonet a person are clinical, technical and explained in bland language, this particular move called for special additional text. The reader is warned, This won’t be easy. You will recoil, you might get sick, but in a life or death struggle, it may be necessary .

Even violence that is justified is going to elicit a response in the perpetrator. If you put a character in a knife fight, if your character clobbers someone with a blunt object, be sure the attacker reacts to her own fear and to the sight of what she has done.

• Most people do not know how to fight.

Watch CCTV footage of fistfights, especially between more-or-less equally matched opponents—two drunk adult men—and you’ll note that most people are more interested in not getting hit than they are at hitting an opponent. They stay at arm’s length; they do not close with their adversary. They lean back and carry their weight on their heels, which is the opposite of what one does to throw an effective punch.

Before real fights come to blows, there is often a lot of posturing and threats, sheer bluster that comes from fear and in the hopes of making the other person back off.  So unless your character has been trained to fight and has some experience, an altercation is likely to result in more smack-talk than blood.

Often, big people—especially big guys—intimidate with their size and have never actually been tested. They’re surprised when someone stands up to them. If you have a diminutive character—a petite female Private Eye, for instance—take on a male nightclub bouncer, the bouncer’s complacency may work to his disadvantage. Remember, though, if she suckers punches him, she should probably run.

Sometimes when opponents are unevenly matched, the element of surprise might restore balance. Remember the scene where Indiana Jones is facing a giant, sword-wielding assailant who silences the entire marketplace by slicing the air with his scimitar? Jones shoots him.

• Physical combat is a perishable skill.

Maybe your protagonist took a hand-to-hand combat course twenty years ago; unless she’s been practicing—a lot—she is unlikely to call up those skills. There may be some dormant muscle memory, but no one is going to mistake her for Jason Bourne. Unless your character is a robot or was a professional MMA fighter who still spars regularly, don’t flash back to decades-old Green Beret training.

Chances are better that your character will throw sloppy, poorly timed punches; that he will trip over his own feet; that he will drop a weapon when he needs it or wrench his back grappling with an opponent.

• It is hard to hit someone with a handgun, or even with a long weapon.

Here’s the opening of a September 27, 1989 article in the New York Times:

“A dozen off-duty soldiers from Fort Lewis engaged in a 30-minute gun battle last weekend against a group of alleged drug dealers. Hundreds of rounds from handguns, shotguns and semiautomatic weapons were fired, witnesses said, but no one was hurt.”

The soldiers were from the US Army’s elite 2nd Ranger Battalion. They train all the time with their weapons and are as prepared as soldiers anywhere in the world for the stress of a gun battle. And yet no one on either side was hurt.

Can your character get off a lucky shot at extreme range that saves the day? Sure. Just keep in mind that most people, even at a short range, are going to miss much more often that they hit the target. Someone who has been trained—such as law enforcement or the military—and is in a life-or-death gun battle is going to keep shooting until the target is down or the ammo is gone. If you’re striving for realism, your character will run out of bullets at some point and will have to do something to get more.

• Humans have a strong drive to live.

When threatened, people can find previously untapped strength: they run, they crawl, they kick, scream and fight back. When cornered, even mild-mannered people are capable of fighting. Real people—like your characters—sometimes escape from their kidnappers, they surprise their attackers by refusing to submit, they use ordinary household items as weapons.

Let’s say your character is a mother who has never been in a fight (let’s discount wrestling with the nosy brother she catches reading her teenage diary): if her child is threatened, almost any physical reaction will be plausible. She may be glad she’s the one still standing at the end, but she will still have an adverse reaction and may be horrified—in the moment or later—at what she has done.

If you want to create compelling, believable characters that readers care about—and isn’t that every writer’s mission?—and if you then put those characters in violent situations, give them plausible, human reactions.

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