Which Book Protagonists Were Misjudged By Critics Initially?

Growing up with a stack of dog-eared paperbacks and a weak VHS player, I learned to defend movies that got the short end of the stick. One of the biggest examples for me is 'Blade Runner' vs. 'Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?'. Ridley Scott's film was initially misjudged as a failure for being slow and moody, but what people missed was that it traded Philip K. Dick's philosophical bread crumbs for an atmospheric meditation on identity. The film's visual poetry and ambiguous ending actually amplify the book's central questions, even if the specifics differ. Over time that misjudgment flipped into worship, which feels satisfying to me. Another movie that caught flak unfairly is 'The Shining'. People often gripe that Stanley Kubrick betrayed Stephen King's novel, and King certainly felt that way, but I find the film a daring reinvention: it turns familial horror inward, strips supernatural scaffolding, and leaves you with a gnawing coldness. It's not better or worse—it's different. Then there are cases like 'World War Z', which was slammed for not following Max Brooks' oral-history structure. The movie turned a documentary-style novel into a globe-trotting blockbuster, and fans accused it of flattening the book's systemic critique. I actually think both versions work in their own media: the novel is a sharp sociopolitical mosaic, while the film is a pulse-pounding survival thriller. Finally, adaptations like 'The Golden Compass' got misjudged more for what they removed than for what they added. The studio trimmed religion and theological nuance to avoid controversy, and the result felt neutered to readers. Overall, I tend to judge films on their own terms while appreciating how they riff on the source; some get slammed unfairly, others deserve it—but I always enjoy the debate.

I get a kick out of telling people about the underdogs that ended up towering over the medium, so here's a little tour of manga that were misread at first but later became undeniable classics. Take 'JoJo's Bizarre Adventure' — for years people treated it like a strange curiosity: bizarre art choices, flamboyant poses, and a storytelling rhythm that flips genres every arc. Early readers either loved the audacity or shrugged it off as eccentricity. The real turning point was how the series refused to settle into a single mold; each part reinvented itself, and that experimental fearlessness eventually became what people celebrate. The anime adaptation and internet meme culture helped, but the core is Hirohiko Araki's relentless creativity. Then there's 'Berserk', which launched as a brutal, gothic epic that many publishers and casual readers dismissed as too grim or niche. I used to see folks skim the first volumes and move on because of the intensity. Over time though, Kentaro Miura’s worldbuilding, character depth, and sheer artistic virtuosity forced critics and readers to re-evaluate it as a towering work of dark fantasy — influence you can spot in so many novels, games, and anime. Similarly, 'Monster' by Naoki Urasawa started as a slow-burn psychological thriller; its pacing cost it early hype, but its moral complexity and plotting made it a touchstone for mature storytelling. What binds these is that they demanded patience: unconventional art, weird pacing, or heavy themes. Publishers and early reviewers sometimes misjudged how tastes would evolve, but word of mouth, adaptations, and reprints changed minds. For me, discovering these titles later felt like catching up with friends who'd been whispering about a hidden masterpiece — and the payoff was always worth the wait.

On late-night rewatch sessions I often realize how rushed collective judgment can be. I remember being part of the initial uproar around the cut-to-black at the end of 'The Sopranos' and feeling the same mix of anger and confusion as thousands of viewers — but stepping back years later, that silence felt intentionally brutal and brilliant. The premiere reaction wanted closure, a tidy moral ledger; what it got was ambiguity, which was always the point. Over time critics and fans dug into the storytelling craft and themes of consequence, legacy, and audience complicity, and the finale softened from betrayal to brave provocation in my book. Another one that suffered instant derision was 'Seinfeld'. People wanted a laugh-track wrap-up or a nostalgia parade and instead got a moral mirror that punished its characters for their smugness. That felt jarring at first, but on repeat viewings it lands as a daring, oddly fitting choice for a show that spent nine seasons celebrating petty self-interest. 'How I Met Your Mother' also drew fire for its tonal shift in the last minutes, but when I revisited it after a few years, the bittersweet pivot made sense alongside the series’ recurring themes of timing, regret, and growth. Finales often get judged as verdicts on an entire series, which is unfair; they’re more like epilogues written under impossible expectations. I still prefer endings that respect the story’s emotional logic even if they don’t hand me a neat bow, and those premieres taught me patience — sometimes a finale is simply asking to be digested rather than shouted down.

I used to roll my eyes at the ‘‘villain becomes sympathetic’’ trend, but some characters genuinely made me rethink snap judgements. Take Itachi Uchiha from 'Naruto'. For the longest time fandom had him pegged as the cold-blooded traitor who slaughtered his clan for shivers-and-mystery vibes. Watching 'Naruto: Shippuden' flip the script and showing his reasons — the political pressure, his illness, that impossible moral bind — forced a lot of people (me included) to reconsider who the real antagonist was. The later side stories like 'Itachi Shinden' and the manga flashbacks add so many layers that what looked like cruelty became heartbreaking sacrifice, and it made me care more about nuance in storytelling. Then there's Vegeta from 'Dragon Ball Z'. He started as the archetypal rival with a smirk and a mean-spirited power complex, but over the years he became one of the franchise's most emotionally rewarding redemptions. The scenes where his pride conflicts with being a family man, his struggle during 'Majin Vegeta', and his quieter moments in 'Dragon Ball Super' rewired how I judge characters who begin as villains. Similarly, Light Yagami from 'Death Note' highlights how initial charm can disguise deeper toxicity; early episodes made me root for his version of justice, but the more I replayed his choices, the more I saw the corrupting thrill of playing god. What all these flips taught me is that first impressions in fandom are often shaped by surface beats, marketing, or a single arc. When authors reveal backstory, give moral ambiguity, or let characters evolve across arcs and spin-offs, it dismantles quick labels and creates richer debates. I love that the conversation keeps changing — it’s part of why I keep rewatching and diving into the fandom discussion.

Gotta say, villains get a bad rap sometimes. I used to write off movie bad guys as cardboard cutouts — till I started paying attention to the little things filmmakers slipped in: a look, a line, a memory. Take 'Star Wars' and Darth Vader: the iconic helmet makes him feel like a walking threat, but the movies, especially later installments and extended material, give him grief, loss, and coercion that explain his choices. He’s not evil for the sake of spectacle; he’s tragic, and once you see the pressure points, his actions feel eerier and sadder. Another pattern I noticed is the ‘righteous villain’ — characters like Magneto from 'X-Men' or Killmonger from 'Black Panther' who are labeled one-dimensional because their methods are violent, but their motives are rooted in very human grievances. 'X-Men' frames Magneto as a reaction to real persecution. 'Black Panther' gives Killmonger a backstory about diaspora trauma and systemic exclusion, which complicates whether he’s just a villain or a symptom of a bigger failure. Even Thanos in 'Avengers: Infinity War' gets dismissed as a cartoon cosmic tyrant until you hear his logic about resources and balance; it’s chilling because it’s coherent in a disturbingly rational way. There are also villains presented as purely monstrous — think of some early takes on Hannibal Lecter from 'Silence of the Lambs' or Anton Chigurh from 'No Country for Old Men' — and yet the more you study them, the more they reveal themes: trauma, fate, critique of society. For me, realizing villains often encode cultural anxieties or moral puzzles turned them into the most interesting parts of movies. I now enjoy films because of those gray zones, not despite them — feels like discovering hidden levels in a favorite game.