I like movies that make you semi fall in love with the villain

Hearken, O seeker of wisdom, to the words of Megan Thee Stallion, who once declared: “I like movies that make you semi fall in love with the villain so you have sympathy for him.” Though spoken in the voice of our own age, her utterance carries the resonance of ancient truth, for it calls us to reflect upon the hidden complexity of the human soul. The villain, often cast as the dark one, the destroyer, the shadow of the tale, is not without his humanity. To feel sympathy for him is not to condone his deeds, but to recognize the faint glimmer of shared suffering within him, and to admit that even those who walk crooked paths were once touched by light.

In the ancient tragedies of Greece, the playwrights knew this well. Consider the tale of Oedipus, who slew his father and wedded his mother. Was he not branded as a monster by fate? Yet even as the chorus condemned him, they wept, for they saw that his deeds sprang not from malice but from blindness. Thus did they teach that the line between the hero and the villain is drawn not in stone but in shifting sand, and that wisdom lies not in judgment alone, but in compassion.

The power of the villain lies in his mirror. He shows us what we might become if anger swallows love, if grief hardens into cruelty, if the hunger for power blinds us to fellowship. When Megan speaks of movies that make us “semi fall in love with the villain,” she speaks of the stories that dare to hold this mirror before us. They force us to see that the villain is not alien but kin—that his laughter, his longing, his wounds are not so different from our own. In this way, stories break our pride and make us humble before the shared burden of being human.

History too gives us such figures. Consider Marcus Brutus, the friend of Caesar who became his assassin. To Rome, he was both savior and traitor, hero and villain. Shakespeare himself wrote of Brutus not as a mere conspirator, but as a man torn by duty and love. The audience, beholding his anguish, could not wholly despise him, for they saw in him the eternal struggle between loyalty to the one and duty to the many. Here lies the heart of Megan’s insight: that we must not close our hearts too quickly against those who stumble into darkness, lest we forget that their struggle is also ours.

Sympathy for the villain does not excuse his cruelty. Instead, it sharpens our understanding. For when we see the pain that drives his hand, we gain the power to heal such pain in ourselves and in others. To love blindly is folly, but to see clearly—even into the shadows—and still extend compassion, this is strength. It is the strength of a people who know that hatred breeds only more hatred, but sympathy may open the path to redemption.

Therefore, let the lesson be this: Do not harden your heart too quickly. When you meet one who wrongs you, pause to ask what wound compels their cruelty. When you hear of crimes and betrayals, ask what sorrow lies beneath. To practice this is not to welcome harm, but to train your spirit in compassion. In your own life, when anger rises, try first to see the brokenness within yourself, and then to see it within others. Speak with patience, even to those who oppose you. Offer understanding, even when you must set boundaries.

The ancients tell us that the heart that can pity even the villain is the heart that grows vast like the ocean, able to contain both storms and calms. So too may you grow. Choose not the narrow path of judgment, but the wide path of wisdom. For in the end, the villain is not only in the story you watch, but also in the world around you—and sometimes, if you are honest, in the quiet chambers of your own soul.

Thus, remember Megan’s words, not as a fleeting jest, but as a call to greater sight. Fall half in love with the villain, not to embrace his sin, but to recognize his humanity. For when you can see the spark of light in even the darkest places, you carry the torch of wisdom that no shadow can extinguish.