Why Do Audiences Sympathize With Undesirables In TV?

I've always been fascinated by how storytellers simplify messy social realities into clear-cut villains, and anime does this with a particular visual and cultural language. On a basic level, marking 'undesirables' as villains is an efficient storytelling tool: a person who looks, acts, or lives outside the expected social norms immediately signals conflict. Anime leans on visual shorthand — darker clothing, asymmetrical scars, unusual eyes, or even a dramatic musical cue — so audiences can quickly understand who's opposed to the protagonist. That economy matters in shows with long episode lists and crowded casts; a single visual note can replace pages of exposition, which is handy in mid-season confrontations or shonen tournaments. Digging deeper, there are real cultural currents underneath that shorthand. Japan has a long history of valuing group harmony and showing suspicion toward those who don't conform — a backdrop that naturally seeps into the media. Historically marginalized groups like the 'burakumin' or people who deviate from expected roles have been othered in subtle and explicit ways, and some creators either mirror or critique that tendency. Sometimes the outcast-villain is a lazy caricature rooted in prejudice; other times they’re a deliberate mirror for society’s failures. Works like 'Tokyo Ghoul' or 'Psycho-Pass' flip the script by making the so-called monsters sympathetic, forcing viewers to examine why the system deems them undesirable in the first place. I also think about genre mechanics and audience catharsis. Villains-as-outcasts offer emotional clarity: they embody fears about contamination, difference, or social collapse, which makes the hero’s struggle feel morally right and satisfying. That can be comforting, especially in escapist stories where viewers want clear moral lines. But it’s not universal — lots of modern anime challenge or complicate the trope. Shows such as 'Neon Genesis Evangelion' and 'Dorohedoro' layer ambiguity onto monstrosity, making the undesirable a source of empathy or systemic critique instead of merely a target to defeat. When a series chooses to humanize the outsider, it can feel powerful and subversive, and I find myself rooting for narratives that force us to confront our own biases rather than patting us on the back. If you’re curious, look for interviews with creators and pay attention to who’s being othered and why — it reveals a lot about the story and the society that produced it.

There’s a weird little thrill when a movie takes someone you’ve been taught to hate and turns the lights on behind their actions. I get that rush most when the twist isn’t just a cheap surprise but a reframe that forces me to rethink motive, context, and consequence. Films redeem undesirables through twists by shifting perspective: a late reveal can turn a petty criminal into a desperate parent, a cold-blooded killer into a guardian who made the worst possible choice, or a scheming mastermind into someone protecting an even darker secret. That shift makes the audience do mental gymnastics—suddenly we’re arguing with ourselves about blame, mercy, and whether understanding equals forgiveness. Mechanically, directors and writers do this in a few repeatable ways. One is the reveal of coercion or duress: learning a character acted under threat reframes their agency. Another is the confessional/unreliable narrator twist, where the ‘‘truth’’ we took for granted is peeled back and we see the inner life that explains (but doesn’t always excuse) actions—think of moments like the late scene in 'Atonement' that complicates guilt and intention. Sometimes the twist exposes sacrifice—someone’s cruel act was actually a cover for protecting someone else, which retroactively complicates our moral calculus. Then there’s the compassion trick: we’re shown a traumatic backstory, and empathy softens our judgment. On the flip side, some twists deliberately strip away sympathy (‘‘they were lying the whole time’’), and that contrast itself becomes part of the film’s moral game. I also pay attention to craft because the way the twist is delivered matters: timing, foreshadowing, actor microbeats, and score can persuade us to root for a character suddenly made sympathetic. Misdirection is a tool—edit a scene so the audience sees what a character wants them to see, then yank the rug with a reveal that rewrites the scene’s meaning. That’s why some redemptions feel earned and some feel manipulative. A twist that honors prior clues and deepens character psychology tends to make redemption feel believable; a twist that retrofits virtue onto an unchanged character can feel like emotional trickery. I love debating these kinds of reversals with friends—over coffee or in the glow after credits—because they force you to ask whether redemption is a narrative device or a moral reckoning. Movies don’t always offer tidy answers, and the ones that stick with me are the films that leave you a little unsettled about how much sympathy we owe each other.

There's a thick tradition in speculative fiction and dystopia of authors inventing a term or label for people their societies deem "unfit" or "undesirable," and it's fascinating to watch how different writers use that device to critique real-world prejudice. For me, some of the clearest examples are the ones where the label itself becomes a mirror for history: George Orwell literally uses the idea of 'unpersons' in '1984' to show how totalitarian regimes erase people from history; Margaret Atwood coins 'unwomen' in 'The Handmaid's Tale' to make the reader feel the bureaucratic cruelty of excluding women who don't fit a narrow role; Kazuo Ishiguro's 'Never Let Me Go' treats clones as a socially acceptable underclass whose very destiny gets sanitized by euphemisms. Reading these felt like watching a slow-motion unmasking of how language is weaponized against a group. Other authors take slurs and social categories that might be familiar and twist them into worldbuilding devices. J. K. Rowling's 'Mudblood' in the 'Harry Potter' books captures how bigotry attaches to ancestry; Veronica Roth literally has a 'Factionless' class in 'Divergent' that functions as society's cast-offs; Lois Lowry in 'The Giver' builds a society where difference is pathologized under the banner of 'sameness.' In sci-fi, Philip K. Dick's dehumanization of androids in 'Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?' and Octavia Butler's recurring explorations of caste and othering (see 'Parable of the Sower' and other works) lay bare how economic, racial, or biological difference gets framed as moral or physical inferiority. Comics and graphic novels do it too: Alan Moore's 'V for Vendetta' shows a regime that targets 'undesirables' (political dissidents, minorities, the poor), and you can see echoes of historical language used to ostracize people. Even YA and genre fiction—Scott Westerfeld's 'Uglies' (labels around beauty), Suzanne Collins' 'The Hunger Games' (Capitol's jargon for districts and 'tributes')—play with naming to show how social exclusion works. What ties these authors together isn't genre so much as purpose: the invented names, slurs, or bureaucratic categories dramatize the mechanics of exclusion. I often find myself mentally cataloging how a single invented word can carry centuries of real-world violence and contempt—then noticing it in news headlines or in a casual conversation, which is unnerving and useful at the same time.

There's a real thrill in watching a so-called 'undesirable' get handed the hero's cape, and fanfiction does this with a sort of guerrilla storytelling energy that I find addictive. For me, it starts with perspective: flip the camera, let the underdog narrate. When you read a version where the exiled knight, the arrogant side character, or the 'villain' gets first-person chapters, their small choices and private thoughts suddenly make sense. That shift alone humanizes them; details like why they flinch at mention of a name, or how they fix a child's toy in secret, become narrative currency. I jot those tiny gestures in the margins of my drafts over coffee, because those moments are the seeds of empathy. Mechanically, writers use a bunch of clever tools. There's the backstory-dump done gently—flashbacks, found letters, or confessional diary entries—that rewires our moral compass toward someone previously labeled irredeemable. There’s moral reframing too: swapping the context so the 'crime' looks like survival, or showing a corrupt system that forced harsh choices. Redemption arcs are popular, obviously, but I love when creators go subtle—small repairs, acts of care, the slow building of trust rather than an overnight saint-ification. Fanfic also experiments with genre: a noir rewrite makes the 'bad' character pragmatic and necessary; a domestic slice-of-life turns cruelty into loneliness; a romance softens edges while still keeping flaws honest. What feels most delightful is the community aspect. In threads, I’ve watched readers collectively rummage through canonical gaps and shout, “What if they had a brother?” or “Did anyone notice that look in episode three?” That collaborative mythmaking produces retcons, alternate timelines, and spin-offs where formerly unloved figures become found family anchors. It's not just wish fulfillment—it's critique and healing. Reimagining undesirables into heroes lets us interrogate labels our favorite media hands out, and it gives writers a playground to explore accountability, growth, and complexity. Sometimes I close a long night of writing and feel like I’ve rescued a character from a single bad chapter of their life—maybe that’s the real magic, and maybe I’ll write one more scene before bed.

There’s something delicious about scoring a scene full of undesirables — the kind of people who make you glance twice at the corners of a frame. I like starting from texture rather than melody: low-end drones, metallic scrapes, and a slow, irregular pulse give a room the smell of danger and dirt. Think sub-bass you can feel in your teeth paired with sparse, brittle percussion (a hand-rubbed tambourine, a distant rattling chain). Those elements create space for the viewer’s imagination to fill in the moral rot without the music spelling everything out. For revealed threats or tension that’s about to snap, I reach for dissonant strings and brass stabs. A tight interval — minor seconds, tritones, or a cluster thrown across violins — makes the ear itch in the same way a character’s stare does. Contrast that with moments of false calm: a lone, slightly out-of-tune piano, reverb-heavy, playing slow intervals in a Phrygian mode, or a muted, noir electric guitar with lots of spring reverb. If you want a modern edge, layer in industrial textures or dark synth pads à la 'Blade Runner' to hint at cold bureaucracy behind the grime. Placement matters as much as tone. For entrances, short, rhythmic motifs (staccato bass hits or a clicky hi-hat pattern) can mark a villain’s steps without announcing them fully. During confrontations, drop the music out for a beat to let diegetic sound—metal chair scrape, a cigarette tap—land harder, then bring a low, humming bed back in under the dialogue. For aftermaths, the palette shifts: thin, high-register instruments (glass harmonica, bowed cymbal) suggest moral emptiness or a lingering threat. I love borrowing moods from 'No Country for Old Men' and 'Se7en'—they show how silence and restraint can be more frightening than a full orchestra. Lastly, don’t forget cultural or situational color. A back-alley deal in a port city can carry maritime percussion and accordion flourishes; an urban drug den benefits from grimey hip-hop sub-bass and chopped vocal samples. Always consider the camera’s perspective: close-ups hunger for intimate, sparse scoring; wide shots let you breathe with broader, environmental textures. When the music and picture breathe together, the undesirables feel palpably alive — or deliciously dead inside, depending on what the scene needs.

When a beloved novel or comic gets adapted, the first thing I notice is what's been quieted rather than what’s been shouted from the rooftops. Adaptations censor undesirables for a messy mix of reasons — legal limits, broadcast standards, advertiser comfort, and the desire to hit a certain age rating — and the tools they use are surprisingly creative. They’ll mute profanity, cut explicit sex scenes, and shift graphic violence off-screen. Sometimes an entire subplot that dealt with a taboo subject is excised, or a character’s queerness or ethnicity is downplayed to avoid backlash in certain markets. Creators also use implication: a close-up, a change in music, or a lingering shot of an empty room can carry what the camera won’t show. I’ve seen this firsthand on a long-haul flight where the version of a film was noticeably tamed — bloodless fight choreography, lines re-dubbed, and a romantic scene left intentionally chaste. That made me grumpy as a purist, but it also made me notice the adaptation’s different interest: it was less about shock and more about moral consequence. Beyond technical trims, adaptations frequently reframe perspective — telling the story through a less controversial character, or changing the ending to soften a critique. If you love both formats, I’m always for tracking down director’s cuts, translated editions, or the original book: the differences tell you as much about culture, market forces, and creative priorities as they do about the story itself.

When writers tag people as 'undesirables' in dystopias, it almost always feels like watching society pick at a scab—messy, deliberate, and meant to teach everyone else a lesson. I love how authors layer this: there’s usually a linguistic move first (new labels, euphemisms), then visual markers (badges, shaved heads, color-coded clothing), and finally procedural dehumanization (curfews, rationing, removal from records). Reading '1984' after a long day, I kept picturing the way language itself becomes a weapon—if you strip someone of words, you strip their reality. That’s one of the cruellest tools on the page, because it’s slow and bureaucratic, and we almost don’t feel it happening until it’s too late. Another tactic that hooked me is moral framing through fear. Authors often create crises—overpopulation, disease, crime waves—and then point the finger at a group as the root cause. In 'Brave New World' and 'The Handmaid’s Tale' you can see how the state normalizes exclusion as protection. I’ve been in book clubs where arguing over whether the protagonists are truly sympathetic becomes the main event; that conversation always circles back to how the author positions the 'undesirable' as both victim and scapegoat. That tension—are they dangerous, or are they simply different?—drives the story and makes you squirm because it forces you to consider who gets labeled in your own world. Sometimes the portrayal is compassionate, sometimes it’s horrific, but the best novels force empathy by shifting perspective. 'Never Let Me Go' broke me because it humanized so vividly people society treated as expendable. Other works make the exclusion grotesque and undeniable, like the barcoded collars in 'The Hunger Games' or the exile trains in 'Snowpiercer'. I find myself jotting lines in the margins, or pausing to think about modern parallels: who in my city gets ignored, policed, or erased? Authors aren’t just showing us villains—they’re showing systems. And that’s what keeps me reading late into the night: the hope that literature can wake us up enough to change the script for real people, not just fictional undesirables—maybe even start with small, stubborn acts of recognition in everyday life.

There’s something quietly contagious about rooting for the person everyone else calls dangerous or broken. For me that spark usually flips on when a mangaka lets the undesired character breathe in small, human moments—an offhand smile while nobody’s looking, a ritual they cling to, a kindness that contradicts their reputation. I was sitting on a late-night train once, reading 'Tokyo Ghoul' on my phone, and the way Kaneki’s private anxieties were drawn—the awkward way he holds a book, the smallness of his hands in close-ups—turned what could have been a monstrous plot device into a painfully sympathetic person. Those tiny details make a reader slow down, feel the friction between image and label, and suddenly the “undesirable” isn’t a schematic villain anymore but someone with routines and regrets. Technically, creators build sympathy through layered context. A slow drip of backstory that reframes past actions, moments of vulnerability, and juxtaposition against worse cruelty are all classic moves. But it’s not just what’s told; it’s how. Panel composition, silence between speech bubbles, and art that lingers on the eyes or the hands can telegraph fragility or conflict without spelling it out. Think of 'Monster' where Johan’s calm, almost mundane gestures make his chilling acts more tragic and uncanny. Or 'Hunter x Hunter' with Meruem’s learning curve toward empathy—those gradual shifts force the reader to reconcile the monster label with emergent humanity. On a personal level I find my own life experiences act like a lens: being ostracized in school made me sensitive to narratives where the undesired is shaped by neglect or fear rather than inherent evil. When a character’s cruelty traces back to trauma or social rejection, I can’t help but empathize. Redemption arcs help, sure, but so do arcs that simply complicate moral categories—where a character keeps doing awful things but we glimpse motives that are heartbreakingly ordinary: survival, love, shame. That complexity, paired with brilliant visual storytelling and occasional domestic scenes, turns an outsider into someone you want to understand, not just defeat. If you want to spot or craft these moments, look for the quiet contradictions: a villain who cares for a pet, a tyrant’s handwritten letter, a moment of hesitation before a violent choice. Those small human beats are what stay with me long after the last page.