About a month ago my wife and I decided to sit down and finally begin watching one of television’s most revered shows of the past couple decades, Mad Men. We had intentionally avoided the series up till now because neither of us were ever in the mood to watch a bunch of stuffy white business men from 1960 America, all wearing the same Ralph Lauren suit with notched lapels, pompously talking about advertising. But, we knew we had to do our due diligence as writers and give the iconic series a watch. Now three seasons in, and I will admit that the show has gotten its hooks in me, in no small part due to Jon Hamm’s spectacular performance as the enigmatic Don Draper.
As the creative director for the fictional advertising agency, Sterling Cooper, Draper is often lauded as one of the best in the industry at what he does. As such, you’d expect a character like that to carry himself with a certain pride, an ego that was (and still is) far too common for men of such stature. Yet, Mad Men subverts that trope and writes Don Draper as a quieter man with a calm yet intense energy, an energy that’s almost intimidating and seems to always be teetering at the edge of his otherwise taciturn (if not outright stoic) exterior.
He still does all the things that men in his position (especially of that time, though it’d be naïve of me to think it doesn’t still happen within the walls of Wall Street today) often do; from the 10AM cocktails and Cuban cigars, to using (and at times abusing) his power at the company, and finishing up with a little infidelity. But even within these common acts, there’s a mystery behind the man. A mystery that Jon Hamm plays so brilliantly, giving us snippets every now and then with a reaction shot or small gesture. Add to that the fact that the show barely reveals anything about his character’s past in the first season, and you have yourself a character that I can’t take my eyes off of. Eventually, we do get to see Draper’s tragic backstory, unmasking much of the mystique that embodies his being. Though the slow revelations never took away my interest for the character. If anything, it added to them. Because now that I knew the “why” of what made Draper the man he is, I now wanted to see if he could fight through his past instead of having it sabotage his present.
It got me thinking about other male characters that reminded me of Draper. Interestingly enough, most of the characters that came to mind when thinking of the archetype were from video games. Master Chief, Geralt of Rivia, Kratos (in recent God of War titles), Joel Miller, Cloud Strife—these are all men of the monosyllable that each have a tragic backstory of their own. Ones that they had to fight to overcome. Men that exude a certain masculinity that would be deemed desirable by the men in my family. Cloud might be an exception here as his hair would be a tad too flamboyant for my South Asian uncles, though his sword would likely offset that—because we all know men have an affinity for big phallic things that destroy stuff. And every time any of them show an iota of emotion, one that would be otherwise commonplace for any other character, I find myself increasingly enamored by them.
A recent example of this was in Halo: Infinite’s campaign where, while traversing the open-world Esparza asks Chief if he had family, to which Chief replied with a curt “No.” Then Esparza followed up by asking, “Then why do you do this? Again, and again?” Chief’s reply was one that I wasn’t expecting: “It’s all I know.” As someone who has not only played all the Halo games, but even went so far as to read a couple of the books, these four words hit me quite hard. Because there’s a weight behind those words, a weight that I knew all too well. So to hear Chief acknowledge it, even if it was delivered in his usual stoic timbre, showed a sliver of sensitivity that, though uncommon for his character, was necessary in humanizing him. Whether it’s Joel letting go of his loss and allowing himself to grow closer to Ellie, or Geralt having a moment of empathy, or Kratos not allowing his anger to fog his judgement as he once did—these moments of vulnerability are something that many (though in this case, particularly male) audience members connect to.
It’s interesting, then, that this archetype isn’t one as commonplace for female protagonists, whether in video games or otherwise. The only one that comes to mind at this moment is Samus Aran in Metroid, though I’d say her character is more akin to that of the ‘silent protagonist’ like one of Nintendo’s other mascots, Link from The Legend of Zelda. And when we do see some of these traits be attached to a female character, they are oftentimes the villains—Maleficent being an example that comes to mind. Katharine Hepburn in her roles throughout the decades did many a times embody some of these traits in her films, though her characters were never vocally reserved; quite the opposite in fact. Though some of her characters might have had a feminine mystique to them, they always had a soulful depth and were carried by Hepburn’s poise and strength. I’m sure there’s some Freudian psychological aspect to this ongoing trend that deserves some more research. Something along the lines of a boy’s relationship with his detached father that never hugged him, yet still putting his father on a pedestal as boys tend to do; leading to a slew of men writing characters that emulate their father’s coldness, while still keeping them in the role of the hero.
Nearly ten years ago author Rosalind Wisemen alongside voice actor and now television producer Ashly Burch did an extensive presentation at 2015’s Game Developer’s Conference (GDC) wherein they showcased the results of a number of surveys they conducted that revealed the habits of young gamers. According to one of the surveys, which consisted of more than a thousand boys, many consistently chose Master Chief as their favorite character, with the stoic armored hero being the only one that the boys “consistently took time to describe” according to Burch. The description given by the boys? That he’s “badass.” As a former boy, that tracks. Burch continues by saying that Chief is “an amalgamation of all the things boys want to be…they want to be cool and save the day.” The problem, for her, is that Master Chief is “emotionless,” and in so being does not offer nuance to the boys playing as him of what being human means, saying:
“Boys’ abilities to express themselves, to understand their insecurities, to be okay with showing pain, to be okay with needing help, is essential to their happiness because those abilities are essential for social connection, without it boys’ only acceptable outlet is anger.”
There were quite a few responses to this presentation, including one by writer Patrick Stafford of The Atlantic, who wrote in their piece suggesting that though video games are not responsible for the violent or abusive behaviors of young boys, “video games are where boys go to be horrible” further elaborating on the points made by the two women about Master Chief. This article itself was a point of contention for many, including another writer, Neil Drumming, who wrote in their piece titled, “In Praise of Silent, Stoic Video Game Heroes,” writing:
“Master Chief is not merely stoic, he is a cipher, a puppet, an empty vessel meant to be filled with the personality of the player, no matter how foul-mouthed or belligerent.”
Drumming would go on to write that most if not all of Chief’s ‘personality’ existed in the game’s campaign, not in the multiplayer where most of the bullying takes place. His latter point is fair, and we can have a larger discussion about the ongoing (and important) issues of online bullying another time, but for the sake of this article let’s focus on his former point of Chief being a “puppet,” which is a description I cannot agree with. Chief isn’t a ‘silent protagonist’ like Half Life’s Gordon Freeman, or GTA III’s Claude; he has a story and is an active (albeit vocally reserved) participant of said story. There was never a time while playing a Halo game where I was like, “yes, this is me.” I was always playing as the Master Chief, whose story and personality were already written out quite clearly.
As far as the points made by Burch, I wholeheartedly agree that young boys need better characterization of male protagonists that showcase a wider breadth of emotions. However, I don’t think we need to nix the archetype of the ‘stoic protagonist’ altogether, which is something she alludes to throughout the presentation. There’s something about a character, male or otherwise, that carries with them an aura of mystique that’s captivating. As audience members it’s engaging for us to chip away at trying to figure out who this character is. With each time we play as them, or watch them in a new scene, or a new episode, we get to learn (hopefully with good writing and acting) more of their humanity. My only hope is that moving forward we get these types of characters for other genders as well, not just the hyper-masculine ones. And that writers do them justice by allowing them more moments of frailty and folly.
Do you like your video game heroes tall, dark, and laconic? Or are you looking for a protagonist who weeps as much as they bleed? Let us know in the comments!
