Did The Author Portray The Hero Complacently Before The Twist?

Songs that show people coasting after their spotlight fades fascinate me. I can’t stop coming back to Bruce Springsteen’s 'Glory Days'—it’s practically a template: the protagonist sits in a bar trading stories about a high-school peak, content with memories and a small-town life that keeps rolling on. The song isn’t mean about it; it’s affectionate and slightly rueful, which is why it reads as complacency more than tragedy. The guy’s not chasing more; he’s sitting comfortably in the afterglow. Another track that lives in that same neighborhood is 'Once in a Lifetime' by Talking Heads. It’s more surreal and existential, but the refrain about letting the days go by captures people who have achieved something and then just watch life happen to them. It’s less about the glamour and more about the stunned acceptance that follows a peak. Then you have 'Candle in the Wind'—Elton John’s lyrics paint Marilyn as someone flattened into routine by fame, almost numbed by it. The complacency there is sadder; it’s the kind that comes from being constantly observed. I also find 'Celebrity Skin' by Hole useful for a sharper angle: it’s about curated ease, a manufactured comfort that fame brings. And 'Mr. Jones' by Counting Crows flips it—one character dreams of that comfortable, famous life and imagines its complacencies. Altogether, these songs form a small gallery of people who live well enough on past triumphs or who accept a softened life after the rush. They make me think about what peace versus stagnation really is, and I often find myself siding with the bittersweet peace—there’s something quietly human about choosing the couch over the stage.

Lately I've been turning over how directors shape complacently naive characters into people we both root for and quietly judge. I notice they rarely rely on a single trick — it's a patchwork of framing, sound, costume, and performance choices that create a little bubble around the character. Close-ups with soft focus, a warm color palette, and a soundtrack that treads the line between whimsical and lullaby-like all soothe the viewer into the character's perspective, making their ignorance feel less like stupidity and more like a chosen shelter. A director will often stage these characters in repetitive domestic routines to sell that complacency: montages of morning rituals, the same route to work, the same polite nods at neighbors. Editing plays a huge role — longer takes and fewer cuts slow the world down around the character, so external threats feel muffled. Meanwhile dramatic irony is leaned on heavily: the audience knows more than the character, so every misplaced trust or naive remark becomes both endearing and slightly tragic. Costume and props help too; pastel clothing, tidy hair, and comforting objects like stuffed animals or an immaculate teacup suggest someone cocooned from harder truths. I can think of films where directors balance affection and critique this way: the staged perfection in 'The Truman Show' makes Truman's complacency architectural, while 'Forrest Gump' uses voiceover and montage to make innocence feel like destiny. When it all clicks, the character becomes a mirror — you smile, you squirm, and you keep watching because the camera treats them with such careful, sometimes cruel, tenderness. That mix of warmth and unease is what keeps me hooked every time.

A strange calm can creep into a person standing on a cliff's edge, and that calm often looks like complacency to anyone watching from below. For me, the protagonist's laid-back reaction to danger read as a mixture of exhausted calculation and quiet rebellion. He'd been through so many close calls that adrenaline no longer registered the same way; danger had been normalized. In scenes where everyone else flinches and scrambles, he stands like a weathered statue because, to him, fear has become background noise. I think of characters from 'No Country for Old Men' or the stubborn serenity in parts of 'The Old Man and the Sea'—they're not indifferent so much as deeply, painfully aware of the stakes and have chosen a kind of dignified resignation. Beyond numbness, there was also strategy in his composure. I could almost see him using complacency as camouflage: if you never panic, your enemies can't tell what you really intend. I noticed moments where his apparent boredom was perfectly timed—he'd lull people into underestimating him, and that gap created opportunities. That bluff works in stories and in real life (I've seen it used in tense debates and negotiations), and it turns complacency into a weapon. Sometimes the bravest move is to act ordinary while everything is falling apart, because predictability breeds confidence in allies and leads opponents to make mistakes. Finally, there was an emotional layer: a stubborn faith that panicking won't help the world he's trying to protect. He'd learned that rage and panic often destroy the same things we're trying to save—relationships, plans, hope. So he chooses a quiet, almost filial patience with danger, which to me felt like a bittersweet form of courage. That choice made him more human, not less. I left those chapters feeling oddly comforted and unnerved—comforted by his steadiness, unnerved because steady doesn't always win, and sometimes stubborn calm hides a broken heart.

I can see why critics labeled the climax complacently executed: it skirts around risk and opts for a tidy, familiar wrap-up instead of making the narrative pay a real price. For me, a satisfying climax needs escalation, consequence, and a change in the characters that feels earned. When the big confrontation is resolved by a contrived reveal, a last-minute forgiveness, or a score that insists we feel triumph even when the characters haven't truly earned it, the scene reads as safe rather than inevitable. Often that complacency shows up as predictability and padding. The antagonist suddenly becomes less threatening, the obstacles evaporate through convenient coincidences, or the pacing stalls so an emotional beat can be politely ticked off. I think of moments where the film or book wants applause rather than gut reaction: the lighting softens, the music swells, and everything gets congratulated for being 'moving' without any internal logic backing it. Critics pick up on that because it's a failure of craft—direction, editing, and writing all conspiring to paper over thin stakes. On a personal level, I also notice complacent climaxes when thematic threads are abandoned. If the story spent two acts interrogating moral ambiguity and suddenly flips to a one-note triumph, it feels like a bait-and-switch. That kind of closure is designed to placate audiences or satisfy advertisers more than to deepen the story. I respect works that take brave, imperfect endings; complacency just leaves me wanting more, not feeling fulfilled.

I really get a kick out of spotting those little moments where characters settle into comfort and start believing nothing bad can touch them — it's such a relatable human thing, and anime loves to exploit it. One of the clearest examples for me is in 'Psycho-Pass': the early episodes show ordinary citizens trusting the Sibyl System so completely that they stop asking questions. There’s a quiet, almost festival-like everyday life pictured in the city while the scanner quietly judges everyone's mental state, and that very normalcy is the setup for the show's moral punch. Watching officers and civilians accept the system’s word as gospel, and rarely challenge it, made the later ruptures feel like a betrayal — exactly the point. Another scene that hits hard is in 'Attack on Titan' when life inside the walls resumes its routines after a period of relative calm. The Military Police and the aristocracy fall into complacency, convinced that the walls are an absolute shield and that their status insulates them from danger. Scenes of bureaucratic posturing, backroom comfort, and people treating the walls like a guarantee are juxtaposed with the ever-present threat beyond them; it’s suffocating and tragic. That false security makes the big shocks land with more force — the complacency itself becomes a character flaw for whole institutions. Then there’s the personal kind of complacency in 'Death Note': Light’s slow slide from careful strategist into someone who believes he’s untouchable. Small moments — casual use of the notebook, confident monologues, play-acting in front of the task force — build into an overconfidence that costs him dearly. I love how anime uses complacency both as a societal theme and a personal failing; it creates suspense and, for viewers, a grim little satisfaction when hubris meets consequence. It’s one of those storytelling tools that never gets old to me.