Gruff Man and Child: My Favorite Duo in Storyelling
The theme of parenthood in storytelling is one that, when done right, absolutely delights me. It’s a compelling narrative force, and parenthood is at the center of many of my favorite stories. To Kill a Mockingbird is probably my favorite book. The Last of Us is my favorite video game. Saga is my favorite comic. I consider myself as having a good relationship with my folks, and that relationship has definitely influenced my taste in media. I still have fond memories of my mother reading books to me before bed, and to this day, I love digging through old comic books with my dad.
But it goes deeper than that. Parenthood allows us to explore characters at their most vulnerable: as flawed but well-intentioned human beings, caring for another human being.
Now, parenthood is too broad of a topic to talk about on its own, so I’m going to be focusing on some very similar, very specific examples. For the last ten or so years, there’s been a trend--a sort of snowball effect, if you will--that I’ve been noticing in the most popular of culture: When a story puts us in the shoes of a gruff, rough-around-the-edges, male character, and we watch them become a parent, almost always to a female and/or “gifted” child in some way or another.
As a narrative setup, it’s ridiculously effective. Our three most recent Game of the Year winners (The Last of Us Part II, Sekiro and God of War) all use this, as did The Mandalorian, which was so good it became not only the only good reason to get Disney+, but one of the only pieces of Disney Star Wars that is universally beloved in its own fanbase. Before then, the most-watched original streaming program was Stranger Things, an overnight cultural phenomenon that used this formula in its second and third seasons to massive effect.
But why is this so effective? What is it about the combination of seemingly defenseless child and merciless parent figure that audiences love so much?
I’m Jonathan, and this is my favorite duo in storytelling: Gruff Man and Child.
Part 1: The Effectiveness of the Formula
The formula that I’ve outlined, of taking a rough-around-the-edges killer and making them a parent, is effective for four main reasons.
It invites comedy. Having a tough-as-nails character being put in such a domestic role as childcare can be humorous, especially as these stories often play up how our badass killing machine has no idea how to talk to kids.
It creates drama. Having a character as a plot device is nothing new: the “Damsel in Distress” plotline is centuries old, after all. But having that person be a child is much more effective. Children are naturally weak, inexperienced, and defenseless. That drive to save our special someone is multiplied by parental protectiveness, and it can evoke emotion like nothing else.
It creates relatability. A parent watching Joel defend Ellie, or Corvo save Emily, is more likely to connect to that character, because they’ll know about those same feelings. And when we’re properly connected to a character, we can get sold on them doing just about anything.
It paves the way for character development, both of the child and the parent. The parent, now being put in a more domestic, caregiver position; has to learn how to discard their stoic self and become a more emotionally-open, caring person. The child, in turn, often picks up skills for how to defend themselves.
Part 2: Variations in the Formula
While these stories are rife with similarities, I think it’ll reveal a lot about this formula if we examine the differences. To do so, I’m going to examine a few stories close to my heart:
God of War (2018)
The Last of Us and Part II
The Mandalorian Seasons 1-2
Stranger Things Seasons 1-3
Logan
Dishonored and Dishonored 2
The Last of Us was the first time I had really encountered this formula in games, so I’ll start there. The Last of Us has an interesting take on the father-child formula in that we actually start the game with Joel’s biological daughter, Sarah. Not just focusing on her, but actually playing as her. When she dies in his arms, the tone has been set for this game as being emotional, bleak and bittersweet; and from that point on, it makes sense that his loss has molded him into a misanthropic, reserved, bitter man. By the end of that game, this has been flipped on its head: whereas the trauma of losing one child initially prevented Joel from bonding with Ellie, that same trauma now compels him to do everything it takes to save his second daughter. Even if it means condemning the world.
After all, the world took everything from Joel Miller. Now he’s just returning the favor.
Stranger Things explores similar ideas with Sheriff Jim Hopper, who I’m just going to call Hop because I think that name’s adorable. Like Joel, Hop lost a daughter before the events of Stranger Things, and it’s clearly colored his world view. He lives alone, rarely takes his job seriously, and in general, seems a bit aimless. But what’s so different about their relationship is that they were developed as people independently from one-another in the prior season. When Hop takes her in, he’s already accomplished his goals and moved past the trauma of losing his first child. No one is holding a gun to his head or telling him he’ll be rewarded; he takes El in simply out of the kindness of his own heart.
Their relationship also subverts some of the ideas we might expect from this dynamic. Eleven was a test subject her whole life, but Hop is just a normal guy who used to have a family. So rather than an emotionally-sensitive child teaching a stubborn man how to feel, it’s a more experienced father-figure teaching his sheltered surrogate daughter how to be human.
Unlike many of these other stories, Logan adapts characters, ideas and themes from existing material: the Wolverine comics. People who are comic-savvy will go into this already knowing that they’ll forge a father-daughter relationship, but this relationship is so peculiar because of Laura herself. She’s merciless, cold and bloodthirsty, whereas Logan has grown out of those traits. As a result, much of their interactions are centered on Logan trying to reel her in, and she reminds him of his dark, blood-soaked past.
God of War has something similar with Kratos and Atreus. Like Logan, Kratos used to be a monstrous, vicious killer, but unlike Laura, Atreus is a kind, sweet, gentle boy. When Atreus learns he is a god, the idea goes to his head, and acts cruel, flippant and without fear of consequences, not unlike his father’s careless revenge so many centuries ago. Kratos, like so many parents, is terrified of his child becoming like him. God of War emphasizes time and time again that Kratos and Atreus have no idea what Atreus is capable of, and that ambiguity impresses Kratos as much as it frightens him. Atreus is capable of talking to the World Serpent, hearing the voices of spirits, and communicating with his environment in ways Kratos can’t even comprehend.
Similarly, The Mandalorian takes full advantage of the fact that the audience knows all about Star Wars, but the characters don’t. As an audience member, we obviously know all about the Jedi, the Sith, the Force, and Yoda, but Mando doesn’t know shit. When we first see the child on screen at the end of episode 1, it’s a plot twist made for the audience, because we know who Yoda is, but our titular character doesn’t. His knowledge of the galaxy and his knowledge of fatherhood grow in unison.
Dishonored is probably the most unconventional father-daughter relationship relative to the others on this list. This has in large part to do with game design and story structure. In Dishonored 1, Corvo is a completely silent protagonist. We don’t get moments of comedy or drama, simply because he’s not saying anything. Now, I detest silent protagonists and think they’re a relic of gaming that need to die, but I also cannot deny that I love Corvo in this game. Like Pedro Pascal’s performance as Mando, Corvo’s characterization is established and reinforced through body language, albeit from a first-person view. My favorite scene from Dishonored is when Corvo finds Emily. His first instinct is to kneel down, hold out his arms, and motion for her to come hug him, which she does. It’s a sweet, beautiful moment that I adore with all my heart. Also unlike other entries on this list, Corvo and Emily already had a father-daughter relationship beforehand, but the players themselves didn’t actually know they were father and daughter. So the emotional experience is less about watching a man bond with a child, and more about learning the bond that already exists, which is incredibly clever.
So as we can see, the relationship between a father and child has numerous thematic meanings:
Parenthood can either unearth or lay to rest certain traumas for both the parent and the child.
If the child has strange powers, it can be used to symbolize the wondrous, hidden potential of children.
And it can show how parents mimic their children, for better or worse.
Part 3: The Role-Reversal
Regarding the formula I’ve established, a common scenario is the role-reversal that comes with this formula; the moment when a guardian or parent is down for the count, but their child takes up arms to defend the man who has protected them for so long. Sometimes, it can refer to one or two specific moments, but other times, an entire narrative is made out of this, such as Emily vowing to rescue Corvo in Dishonored 2.
This moment of “role reversal” can act as a natural beat in the story, depending on when it takes place. As far as I can tell, such moments tend to have two distinct meanings in storytelling:
It signifies that the child is actually useful after all, and not merely a burden.
Or a child definitively asserting themselves as an equal to the parent.
To explain the distinction, I’m going to use a piece of media that has both examples.
When Ellie saves Joel during their Pittsburg mission in The Last of Us, they’ve still only known each other for a few days. Joel reprimands her for using a gun, entirely ignoring the fact that she saved his life. He still sees her as a mission more than a person, but even though he’s slow to warm up, this moment demonstrates--to both Joel and the audience— she’s more than just an annoyance to him; she can actually be useful in certain situations.
Compare this to later in the game, when Ellie cares for an injured Joel during wintertime. At this point, she can hunt, track, and kill without any real problems. The very fact that the player controls her for most of this section is proof on it’s own of just how far she’s come. Compared to his reluctance to even thank her in Pittsburg, he now acknowledges her as an equal, and more importantly, as a daughter.
Does the distinction make sense now? If an entire story is centered around the relationship between parent and child, then each moment where the child acts independently and asserts themselves has its own unique meaning in the narrative. Obviously, in every story that uses this trope, the child will be of a different age, be a part of a different setting, and perhaps have different powers; so the exact circumstances will vary.
Part 4: A Coming of Age Story...From the Parent’s View
Stories about the relationship between a gruff parental figure and an innocent child tend to be told from the perspective of the parent. However, that doesn’t mean the story is inherently “about” the parent. Don’t get me wrong, sometimes that truly is the case, but more often than not, these stories have a unique feeling, in that we’re essentially watching someone else come of age from the perspective of the parent guarding them.
This isn’t always true. (Grogu is unlikely to “come of age” in any future seasons of The Mandalorian because his species ages so slowly.) But when it does come true, there’s a certain beauty to it, because we’re watching these children grow and equal their parents, with all the same pride as their parents.
The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt does this masterfully. The best ending to the game involves Geralt learning to let go of Ciri and be supportive of her while still allowing her space and the freedom to make her own decisions. She fully comes into her own as a Witcher, and in the end, she becomes an equal to her father. Wild Hunt is just as much her story as it is her father’s story.
Dishonored 2, as I mentioned, does something similar. This game is all about the patterns between parents and children, the tendency for children to mimic their parents, and the legacies that parents leave behind. It also makes it clear that children are just as protective of their parents as parents are of their children. When Emily is granted powers by the Outsider, and she goes about the world tracking down her father, it feels incredible. The scared, little girl from the first game is all grown up, and she can fight, sneak and duel on-par with her old man.
The Last of Us Part II is a similar idea, but done in a twisted, darker way. Despite not interacting for literal years, it’s clear that Joel influenced Ellie in ways she may not even be aware of. His “shoot first, ask questions later” attitude and ultra-protectiveness are not the best characteristics for a teenager to emulate.
The intense love that Joel had for Ellie proved to be his downfall, and she reflects it in the second game. When she’s in mortal danger at the end of the first game, he slaughters every Firefly to get her back. When Joel is killed at the start of the second game, Ellie, in turn, vows to kill every WLF if it brings her to Abby.
Watching a grown-up Ellie cut through WLFs like a hot knife through butter is as awe-inspiring as it is disturbing, a fact enhanced by the realer-than-real graphics of the game. More than once, I wished that Ellie would just turn around and go home, but I was engrossed all the same. I imagine that if Joel were watching her actions from the afterlife, he would feel the same way: disgusted, ashamed, and wishing with all his heart that she would give up.
The final coming-of-age tale that uses this character dynamic is Telltale’s The Walking Dead. Unlike a lot of the other children I’ve mentioned, Clementine isn’t particularly “special” in any way, nor is Lee nearly as rough-around-the-edges as someone like Kratos or Logan. I bring them up because it takes the father-daughter-esque relationship of Lee and Clementine to the logical conclusion. We only follow Lee for one of the four seasons, but throughout all successive seasons and episodes, it’s clear he’s had a profound influence on his surrogate daughter. The Walking Dead is really Clem’s story more than anything else, and by taking in Alvin Jr., we get the impression that this cycle will keep going for a long time.
Part 5: Themes
Each story I’ve discussed has its own take on parenthood and its own themes.
In The Last of Us, the core theme seems to be how parents need their kids, more so than the other way around. Joel’s speech at the very end about how you “find something to survive” isn’t just applicable to the zombie apocalypse. It’s the reason why Empty Nest Syndrome is a thing. Joel needs his child so much--and is so unwilling to lose her, and go to the dark 20 years of his life after he lost Sarah--that he slaughters the Fireflies and condemns the world just to keep her safe. It’s a selfish, monstrous, heinous action, but according to Neil Druchman, he never had a single parent playtester who didn’t sympathize with Joel.
In The Witcher 3, the theme is the independence and the freedom to make decisions that all children need to give their kids. The only way to achieve the best ending is to have faith that Ciri will succeed; anything less than that results in her perishing, and Geralt’s worst fears coming to life. But by allowing her to make her own choices, and simply offering gentle encouragement no matter the path, our children may prosper. The Mandalorian Season 2 ends on a similar theme, and coincidentally or not, Ciri and Grogu have immense powers and are destined to play huge roles in their respective universes. Therefore, I would also argue that a secondary theme of both is the wondrous, limitless potential of children.
In Dishonored 2, Logan and God of War, the theme is that parents become their kids. Though, the implications of this vary depending on the story.
Dishonored 2 seems to depict Emily’s transformation into a Corvo-esque figure as a good thing, because it gives her the strength and power to save her father.
Logan and God of War depict such similarities as a bad thing. Laura is consumed by the bloodlust that once enveloped Logan, and he tries to dissuade her from this path and teach her otherwise. Atreus is unlike his father in many ways, but at times, he exhibits a certain cockiness and disrespect that is all-too-familiar to his father.
Closing Notes
I’ve intended to write this essay for a long, long time. I’m fascinated by this topic and this dynamic in storytelling, and there was so much more I wanted to add: the relationship between Sekiro and Kuro in Sekiro: Shadows Die Twice, the titular duo in Lone Wolf and Cub, Clementine and Lee in Telltale’s The Walking Dead, even Booker and Elizabeth in BioShock Infinite. But for now, this is as long as I can get the essay while still being a semi-cohesive mess.
Thank you so much, and I’ll see you next time.
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