Middlemen

Can you think of a supporting character from a novel, TV, or film who really resonated with you--perhaps even more than the main character did? It's a weird phenomenon. The protagonist should be our main point of contact with the story. Secondary characters are there to get the far less glamorous jobs done. They're mediators who advance the plot and act as foils for the main character. That's why writers can get away with making second and third tier characters less well-rounded.

Sometimes supporting characters are strong enough to break out of the background and take center stage. I'm not talking about the Kramers and Boba Fetts of the fiction world, though. Today I'll shine a light on two fictitious second-stringers whose quiet excellence in support of mighty deeds goes largely unsung.

Jor-El
Not even being portrayed by the great Marlon Brando in Richard Donner's landmark 1978 Superman has gained the father of Kal-El the public esteem he deserves. I mentioned that supporting characters are mediators. This is the guy who mediated Superman to us. You're welcome.

Lest you accuse Jor-El of being one-note, he has much more to recommend him than being Superman's dad. Possessing a rare combination of intellectual brilliance and humble wisdom, this accomplished scientist eschewed his people's cold, decadent lifestyle for love of family. Failing to convince Krypton's people of their imminent doom despite his best efforts, Jor-El acted on his countercultural paternal love to give his son and a race of aliens he'd never met a chance at survival.

Remember: Jor-El's vision for Kal-El wasn't limited to flying around in a cape rescuing cats from trees. He knew what a potent symbol Superman could become and hoped that humanity would learn from his son's example.

Finrod Felagund
Chances are this name evokes only dim recognition, if any at all. That's a shame because Finrod is one of the greatest characters in Tolkien's legendarium. The Noldorin prince gets comparatively little page time and always serves a supporting role when he does show up, but his heroic pedigree is impossible to deny.

Finrod is Galadriel's brother. Though she gets far more attention in the Tolkien canon, he is far cooler. While the Lady of Lorien stands around giving wise if cryptic counsel, the Lord of Nargothrond goes out and gets things done. Finrod founded his own kingdom after the family tradition, but he didn't rest on his laurels. He went to battle against Morgoth, gave Barahir his ring to seal a life-debt (the one that Aragorn inherits as a major token of his kingship). Finrod makes good on the debt by joining Beren's quest to steal a Silmaril from Morgoth, during which he goes toe-to-toe with Sauron in a wizard's duel and dies killing a werewolf bare-handed.

Like Jor-El, Finrod's true greatness lies in his strong moral center. He's the only Noldor exile who didn't swear Feanor's oath but left Valinor out of loyalty to his friends. Also unlike the others he didn't stain his hands by slaying his own kin. His compassion and diplomacy paved the way for men's acceptance by and eventual alliance with elves. Loyalty defines Finrod, and Middle-Earth is a poorer place without him.

These are just two secondary characters that don't get nearly enough credit. Can you think of any more?

Epistemic Closure in Genre Fiction

I've come across a number of articles noting a worrisome trend in contemporary science fiction and fantasy. A cursory glance at genre best-seller lists shows a slew of derivative, paint-by-numbers premises endlessly recycling the same stock characters. (Only Wool distinguishes itself from the rest of the list).

You might argue that it's always been this way. True, there's always been a market for schlock potboilers. But try to recall a book in the sci-fi or fantasy genres from the last ten years that could stand beside Cat's Cradle, The Lord of the Rings, or Dune. Reviewer hyperbole often claims that the Wheel of Time books or A Song of Ice and Fire meet this test, but despite their quality both series stand on the shoulders of giants.

Why does current genre fiction underachieve compared to its predecessors? Donald Maass identifies a vital element of standout fiction: that the author has strong convictions and makes those beliefs come through in the book's characters, conflict, and themes.

Contemporary sci-fi and fantasy authors seem to be lacking in this regard. John C. Wright has a thoughtful essay on how postmodern disillusionment with scientific progress is stifling imagination. Writing on the Orson Scott Card affair, Jim Bennett blames rigid political correctness for creating a publishing environment that excludes challenges to the popular zeitgeist.

Neither culprit alone seems to explain the dearth of challenging fiction. Taken together though, a clearer picture of genre fiction's current malaise emerges. Escapism is the point of genre fiction. Fantasy transports the reader to a world that is better because it is simpler--both technologically and morally. Science fiction flies us either to worlds made better by human ingenuity, or else destroyed by it. In either case, genre fiction must be able to instill hope for or fear of worlds different from ours. It must therefore go against the grain of dominant thought for best effect.

In contrast, most contemporary genre fiction (I don't say "modern" because current science fiction is decidedly postmodern) adheres to one of two tropes: either the self-congratulatory insistence that everything is just fine or utter despair at the current paradigm's inevitable demise.

If we look back to sci-fi's origins, it's plain to see how the genre took up the cautionary role once held by fairy tales. Great science fiction authors from Jules Verne to George Orwell used their stories to warn society against the possible excesses of its pet theories. Likewise, great fantasy enshrined traditional understandings in danger of being forgotten. That genre fiction has ceased to fulfill this function illustrates why it's being reduced to a flavor of the month clearinghouse.