How the ruthless assassins like the Jackal or the Black Doves trigger man can become unforgettable and, yes, sympathetic icons of chaos and control.
When I was a kid, I went paintballing in the grounds of a large mansion. It was snowing. I found a trench, ducked down, made myself a snow camouflage – and didn’t move for a couple of hours.
I took a few potshots from my snug, safe in the knowledge of my own security.
No-one knew.
No-one found me.
Everyone else was having a whale of a time, blasting enemies, taking hits, stealing the flag but I prided myself – with youthful hubris and blue extremities – that I was the wiser combatant, outthinking my opponent, laying low, surviving.
Cold in mind and body.
For this reason, I’ve always had an affinity with the sniper-assassin, those masters of control who sit for days behind a scope to take an impossible shot over a mile away before packing up and heading back to base camp.
Two charismatic killers for hire
There’s just such a trigger man in The Day of the Jackal (Sky). The remake has Eddie Redmayne as the inscrutable, merciless gunman, unmatched in his field and with the sort of preparedness that would mark out a chess master.
Elsewhere, in Black Doves (Netflix), we have Ben Wishaw as Sam Young, a different kind of assassin. Up close and personal for a start. Less cerebral, more chaotic.
I’ve always thought of Wishaw and Redmayne – as actors – as different chips off the same block – quintessentially English, light of touch, slightly whimsical. I mean, Ben Wishaw voices Paddington and Eddie Redmayne is Newt Scamander in the Fantastic Beasts movies.
They are as far as possible from the serious business of killing for money.
Strange casting you might think.
Or inspired, depending on the productions’ aims.
Because the writers of both series have another mission in mind other than plugging some corporate bigwig or gangster bad boy for money. Indeed, it’s a perennial theme in fiction: who is the human behind the killer?
So we have Eddie Redmayne wailing at his wife about the shame of his profession and Ben Wishaw confronting the cost of his immorality in the form of broken hearts and wrecked lives.
Does this ring true?
I’ve never been so sure.
Do killers ever feel remorse?
In one episode, Eddie’s Jackal kills two entirely innocent, indeed good-hearted, elderly people who help him out. He kills them solely because they are mildly inconvenient. And yet, he winces slightly. Shows signs of regret. Is sickened by his actions.
How can that be reconciled: the deliberate act and the ensuing regret? The answer should be simple. Don’t kill and you won’t hate yourself for being a killer. Isn’t that a conclusion you would inevitably reach? Isn’t that the conclusion we all reach, to a lesser or greater extent, as we make life choices?
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How can anyone whose chosen job is to kill for money have the slightest flickering ember of morality? Surely, it’s utter heartlessness or quit the job. Is this, I wonder, a true characteristic of a cold hearted killer or a clunky affectation of a writer who wants to create internal conflict.
Is it credible or even possible for someone in the killing game to work burdened with a grim dislike of his own work and knowledge of his own wrecked soul? Wouldn’t that give him the yips?
I did some research.
Here’s what I discovered
How true to life is all this?
- A person who kills for money is primarily motivated by pragmatism, by money and convenience. They tend to make an accommodation with themselves. They depersonalise their actions, viewing them as a business transaction. This psychological detachment means that killing Grandma and Grandpa Bystander is unfortunate by no more than that.
- Research shows that many professional criminals exhibit a form of moral compartmentalisation, where they separate their “work” from their personal lives. They may genuinely love their families and lead normal lives outside of their profession. This duality allows them to maintain a sense of normality and humanity while engaging in morally reprehensible acts.
- While empathy might be limited in their professional lives, it isn’t entirely absent. A killer might feel remorse or conflict if they unintentionally harm innocents, as this could challenge their self-justification. But they have priced in the psychological damage. It is the equivalent of the hangover – horrible, but insufficient as a deterrent.
- Real-world accounts of professional killers indicate that remorse, when present, tends to be a rare or delayed response, influenced by factors like stress, PTSD, or a moral awakening later in life. The idea of immediate regret over collateral damage is less common in reality than in fiction but not entirely absent.
How to write compelling characters
Writers often exaggerate or fabricate emotional depth in killers to make them more compelling. A character conflicted about their actions offers a richer narrative, allowing for themes of redemption, internal conflict, and moral ambiguity. These elements can resonate with audiences who enjoy exploring the grey areas of morality.
It is interesting though that at the other end of the spectrum, stone-cold killers, without heart or remorse and unlikely to attract any empathy, are viable options for writers too, if they are willing to fully lean in to the villainy. They don’t make it easy for us. How come we love this brutes quite so much? Mostly the answer is because they are unrestrained and charismatic, defying society’s norms. Something we aspire to be, although without the bloodshed.
5 killers we’ve turned into icons
Think of these characters and how quickly they became icons.
1. Anton Chigurh (No Country for Old Men)
Anton embodies the randomness of fate and the inevitability of death, making him a chilling antagonist. He represents the nihilistic themes of Cormac McCarthy’s novel and the Coen brothers’ movie making him more than just a villain – he’s an unstoppable force of nature.
2. Villanelle (Killing Eve)
Her quippy, irreverent attitude makes her entertaining despite her cruelty. While unremorseful, her obsession with Eve creates a layered, twisted dynamic that fascinates. A female assassin who is unapologetically ruthless breaks away from stereotypes, making her stand out.
3. The Joker (The Dark Knight)
His belief in chaos and the fragility of social order makes him a philosophical challenge to the hero. His lack of a clear motive makes him terrifying and unforgettable.
4. Patrick Bateman (American Psycho)
His character critiques materialism, vanity, and excess in 1980s corporate culture. His absurd, often comedic internal monologues contrast disturbingly with his violent actions.
5. Hans Landa (Inglourious Basterds)
Christoph Waltz’s Oscar-winning performance makes Landa both terrifying and oddly charismatic. His intelligence and charm redefine what it means to be a “cold-blooded killer” in film.
Balancing dramatic licence and plausibility
One common theme here is that these characters often embody societal fears, existential questions, or critiques of morality. And, crucially, they are brought to life by actors often delivering career-defining performances. Some of the charisma of the star mitigates the actions of the character.
So, some of the Paddington softness and accrued goodwill for Newt Scamander softens the edges of characters who are, ‘in real life’, beyond the reach of sympathy.
The trope of humanising assassins by showing remorse or family connections is largely the product of dramatic licence. However, the fiction is still grounded in psychological plausibility. While it’s unlikely that a professional killer would be haunted by collateral damage, there’s sufficient truth to leverage and play up this emotional conflict.
In short, selective remorse, a gradual realisation of guilt, or a psychological breaking point are useful dramatic arcs that don’t break credibility while fulfilling the requirements of a satisfying story paradigm.
Meanwhile, I’m getting hypothermia in my snow hole so I’m off for a warming cocoa.