The Cardinal Sin of Self-Ignorance

At the risk of revealing the depths of my current television obsession, let me just say that although this blog entry starts with an example from House, it’s not *about* House.

My favourite-and-least-favourite character on House is Cuddy. The “least favourite” is because she’s been undergoing quite the character assassination over the later part of the story. In fact, in the past two episodes alone, she’s been smacked down in scenes like these*: (completely paraphrased, because though I am indeed obsessed, I’m also lazy)

CUDDY: You should talk to House because you’re friends and stuff and it would make you both feel better.
WILSON: Stop pretending like you care about me! You just want me to go nursemaid House for you!
CUDDY: *pretends this isn’t true*

and

CUDDY: Are you in love with House? Because Chase is really upset, and –
CAMERON: You don’t care about me or Chase, you’re just scared I’m putting the moves on House!
CUDDY: *pretends this isn’t true*

Oh, snap. At first, I thought the way these scenes worked was pretty straightforward: the audience looks down on Cuddy because she’s being selfish – she’s dishonest with other people and using them for her  ends while pretending it’s for their own good. When a character does something wrong and other people call them out, it makes that character look bad. End of story, right?

But then I read a comment on a message board that made me rethink that understanding.

In a nutshell, what the commenter said was this: they wouldn’t have minded the Cameron-and-Cuddy scene if Cuddy had had the confidence to own what she was doing. In other words, the real smackdown wasn’t what the other person said; it was the “*pretends this isn’t true*” part. Instead of the scene going the way it actually did:

CUDDY: Are you in love with House? Because Chase is really upset, and –
CAMERON: You don’t care about me or Chase, you’re just scared I’m putting the moves on House!
CUDDY: You shouldn’t be with House! I shouldn’t be with House! NOBODY SHOULD BE WITH HOUSE! AND NOBODY WANTS TO BE! ESPECIALLY NOT ME! LALALALALALALADENIAL!

it could have gone like this:

CUDDY: Are you in love with House? Because Chase is really upset, and –
CAMERON: You don’t care about me or Chase, you’re just scared I’m putting the moves on House!
CUDDY: Damn right. Now get back in the ER!

In both cases, the character is doing the exact same thing: using other people to get what she wants without regard for their feelings. The difference is, in the first version, the character is unwilling to know this about herself. In the second, she’s not only aware of what she’s doing, she’s accepted it. And I agree with the original poster’s point: Cuddy is a more appealing character in the second version.

Why? In real life, the answer would be simpler: I like it better when I’m arguing with people who have the same view of the world as I do. Even if we disagree on some of the normative aspects, we still agree on the descriptive ones. It’s like how I’d rather have a prof who’s openly mean to me than one who convinces themselves they’re being nice but acts mean anyway. At least if I talk to the first, we’re both on the same page. We agree that he or she is being a jerk, and I don’t have to deal with the frustration of trying to convince the second that, yes, he or she is being a jerk. If you really were Cuddy’s friend or employee, it would be a lot less annoying to deal with version two than version one, even if the outcome was the same.

But what intrigues me about this is that it’s fiction. And it seems to me that the principle applies all across the board. The more a character is willing to accept her own shortcomings, the more fun she is. If Sherlock Holmes was like, “Yes, Watson, I am a whiny suckface. Too bad for you!”, I would quite possibly love him even more. Likewise, if Terry Pratchett’s Commander Vimes had no idea he was a belligerent, stubborn could-very-easily-be-an-alcoholic, it would be difficult to enjoy his story. Even a villain is much cooler if she admits parts of her plans are, in fact, wrong**. For instance, to me, this Voldemort –

VOLDEMORT: I am going to kill all Muggles and Muggleborn.
PETTIGREW: But that’s murder!
VOLDEMORT: No, it’s not! I’m just making the world a better place!

– is a lot less fun than this Voldemort –

VOLDEMORT: I am going to kill all Muggles and Muggleborn.
PETTIGREW: But that’s murder!
VOLDEMORT: Sure is, biznatch! Got a problem with that?

– or even this one –

VOLDEMORT: I am going to kill all Muggles and Muggleborn.
PETTIGREW: But that’s murder!
VOLDEMORT: I know. But it’s worth it if it makes a better world for everyone.

Don’t get me wrong: I’d hate Voldemort number one. But I’d love to hate Voldemort number two. And Voldemort number three would open up a whole new storyline.

Before this turns into the villainous version of The Dating Game, let me concede that seeing self-ignorance as a major flaw is a matter of personal taste; you can tell this by looking at the main characters of a lot of older books (especially older children’s books – Julian, Dick, George, and Anne, anyone?), who are about as self-knowing as sacks of rocks but nevertheless were and are extremely popular.

Despite this, I think there’s something to be said for the idea that self-ignorance in fiction is, in general, a distancing move. You don’t sympathize as easily with a character when you know something bad about him that he doesn’t or won’t see. That’s why self-ignorant characters often make great comedy: it’s hard to laugh at someone when you sympathize deeply with her***. When you know Daffy Duck’s an ignorant buffoon and Daffy doesn’t, it’s easier not to feel his pain when Elmer Fudd blows his beak off or Bugs Bunny gets the best of him again.

Maybe another reason self-ignorance is such a big deal in fiction is because, unlike real life, fiction tells us things about two different worlds: the imaginary one in the text, and the subjective one in the author’s head. Sometimes, when a character has a flaw of which he or she is unaware, it’s because the author him- or herself is unaware of it, too. (I suppose you could make the case for Julian, Dick, George, and Anne being self-ignorant characters of this type.) So sometimes self-ignorance has that extra twinge of the author not agreeing with you. Like, when Harry Potter tortures one of the bad guys, and he never acknowledges it’s wrong of him to do this, it’s particularly off-putting because the author also seems blind to this character trait being a flaw.

This is kind of borne out by the fact that it’s easier to find self-ignorant characters amusing when the author shows you that their narration is unreliable – that he or she knows they’re flawed, too. Oswald Bastable doesn’t understand that he’s sometimes conceited and selfish and unthinking, but his account of his siblings’ adventures is hilarious because of this, not in spite of it. That’s because E. Nesbit shows us what Oswald can’t see: when Oswald tells us he goes first into a dark cellar bravely and manfully to lead the way for the others, we know that he’s really doing it because he can’t stand the idea of his younger sister being more courageous than him.

Hmmm… I guess, in conclusion, self-ignorance isn’t necessarily a deal-breaker when it comes to getting the audience to feel something about a character. But it is a deal-breaker when it comes to making the audience feel deeply for that character, in his or her shoes, even if the character is otherwise admirable or fun. Or maybe it’s all a matter of personal taste? I dunno – opinions?

* OK, this is a matter of personal taste. You might not feel that these scenes are necessarily smackdowns. I’m not 100% sure about it, either. But I do know that they made me cringe for Cuddy in a bad way – like, not the I-identify-with-this-character-who’s-undergoing-something-unpleasant way, but in the ugh-did-she-really-act-like-that? way.

**I know this seems to go against what I said a month or so ago about villains thinking they’re right. But there’s a difference between thinking you’re right and thinking you’re not doing anything wrong. For instance – if I really did believe the Earth was being invaded by Martians who wanted to kill us all, I’d think it was right to fight back, but I’d still recognize that killing is wrong. It’s just that I wouldn’t think there was any other option.

*** Sort of unrelated anecdote, but this is also evident in the fact that if you do sympathize with a character whose circumstances are intended to be funny, it’s really hard to laugh. My sister got very upset with me because I thought a clip (intended to be comedic) from a TV show where a guy accidentally kills a turkey he fought to free from a Thanksgiving display would be funny. She sympathized too much with the guy and found the whole thing very distressing.