anti-hero

After watching the movie Hancock, I can relate deeply to him, but reading the original script before Hollywood touched it, left me disappointed.

In the original Hancock, untouched by Hollywood, he is the last of his kind. Destined to be alone forever, trapped in a never-ending loop of anguish where he can’t find his place in a world that won’t love him, all while holding the unbearable, chronically aching truth that he can’t rewrite his fate.

His superhero catchphrase: “I gotta do what I gotta do.”

He only wants to be free and for someone to save him. This version is uncomfortably intimate with an ugly truth.

He voraciously searches and yearns for love, understanding, and companionship. It’s not that these things are unattainable, what makes it worse is that they’re right there. He just can’t have them. He finds a family he gets attached to, and his hope is stripped away through being rejected by their unwillingness to reciprocate the bond he truly desires.

The family consists of a normal, weak man, Horace, emasculated daily by incompetence and poor self-image. A son, Aaron, who’s adopted his father’s spineless habits and is bullied at school. And Mary, the light, faith, and strength holding the home together, whom Hancock begins to admire obsessively.

Horace wants nothing more than Hancock’s strength and superhero confidence, while Hancock wants nothing more than to be a regular man enjoying the simplicity of being loved.

In the burning internal rage of envy and pain, Hancock makes a desperate attempt at romance with Mary and fails miserably as she remains loyal to Horace. He crashes out completely and kidnaps her to force love. In the run-down building where he holds her hostage, the structure collapses. The hopeless Horace tries to save her but fails. Mary dies beneath the rubble.

The script ends here.

The most popular theory is that Hancock, heartbroken, transfers his consciousness into Mary’s son and sends him back in time to save her, and, essentially, himself. But he’s trapped in the inescapable fate of isolation.

Most directors, including myself, would love this raw version of the unrevised script: a gritty, rated-R portrait of a morbidly flawed anti-hero. A man burdened by God-like strength and crippling emptiness, holding the crushing weight of the world on his invincibly fragile shoulders. But the studios wanted a PG-13, hopeful, happily-ever-after version they deemed more “digestible.”

I hate that we were robbed of a film that could’ve spoken to the darker corners of people’s hearts. So many would’ve felt represented by Hancock’s trials. Broken, misunderstood, searching. Contrary to Hollywood’s predictions, many could have found comfort, not horror, in his pain.

That’s the healing property of that version or of anything that honest. The “tone-down treatment” subconsciously communicates:

“it’s not okay to feel or be this way, so keep it lighthearted.”
“Don’t let those ugly truths out for the world to see because that’s not emotionally, socially, or financially profitable.”

The truth is, it may not be. Some parts of our shadow aren’t meant for the world. Not because they aren’t real, but because the world would rather exploit our weakness than heal it. Ironically, that’s the other side of the message buried in the original script. A reflection of the reality many suffer in and never escape.

There’s one thing I love about the final cut: hope. It reminds us there are people who will see every part of us. Especially adoring the flawed parts.

In the version that was released, Horace becomes Ray, a more competent but unsuccessful man who’s hopelessly optimistic. He sees the good the world has to offer despite how often it beats him down. He persists through the impossible. He inspires everyone around him. Even Hancock, who, despite his superhuman strength, admires Ray’s quiet strength in the more human parts of life. Ray’s presence, hope, faith, and unwavering belief in Hancock make it possible for everyone around him to grow into a space where they can live and love their inner and outer world more authentically.

The twist in the Hollywood-revised version is that Hancock isn’t alone. Ray’s wife, Mary, turns out to be one of Hancock’s people. He’s still rugged, still battling debilitating conflicts, but he isn’t alone and that changes everything. He learns that he’s loved her for thousands of years across his immortal existence. His weakness is proximity: he grows weaker around his only other partner in the entire world.

He’s extraordinary and able to change the world but the closer he gets to love, the closer he gets to being mortal, losing his powers and, in a way, his purpose.

the bottom line is both realities exist, and in both scripts the soul of the character never changes.

In one, he’s cursed to live forever, chasing love through lifetimes of loss. In the other, redemption comes through connection through someone who refuses to stop believing.

Both can be true, depending on our scripts.