So About That Characterization...
Loki
And now we get to where the rubber meets the road, so to speak: in terms of the MCU portrayal of Loki, are his choices and interactions with the Grandmaster “in character”? Do the requirements of the narrative, which positions Loki as a foil to Thor’s heroism in this specific way, affect his characterization? If so, how exactly is his characterization changed? To find out, let’s compare some similar situations from the other MCU movies in which he appeared.
The effects of fitting Loki into this narrative begin even before we get to Sakaar, and begin with the motivations that are suggested for him, which drive his actions and his choices. In the previous MCU movies, Loki is depicted as craving recognition, respect, and acknowledgment from those he cares about. And when that fails and he suffers rejection, we see him wanting and aggressively pursuing vengeance on those who hurt him. Driven by his ambitions, the conflict between his desire for belonging and his craving for power, and his complicated relationship with his family, he makes (often very bad) choices. Nonetheless, these bad choices are depicted as emotionally comprehensible, and he makes them knowing they hold great risk of pain or death.
In Ragnarok, from the very start, his characterization is changed in order to present us with a version of MCU Loki who would cooperate with the Grandmaster for the sake of safety and comfort. To give us a Loki who “fits right in” to this den of vice and iniquity that is the trash planet, we have to start with a Loki whose true desires, when he has stolen the throne of Asgard, are for luxury, self-indulgence, universal worship and adoration, and lack of limitations. What this Loki truly desires, we are shown, is to lie around eating grapes and engaging in frippery. (Nearly like a mirror of the Grandmaster, but—pathetically—less successful and powerful, a failure even as a tyrant.) And this Loki might scheme, but he would not be able to muster up any actual resistance.
In none of the previous movies, however, do we ever see Loki take the easy way out to avoid hardship and pain; he will do what he must to survive, and he does not stand up against pain for ideals and principles, the way the traditional hero does. But he does stand up against it for his freedom, for his integrity, for the things he values and desires. He does not happily give people power over him in order to attain creature comforts; rather, he will give up creature comforts and risk pain and death in order to gain power and respect. Even out of sheer stubbornness: he furiously antagonizes Odin during his trial at the beginning of TDW, even after Frigga begs him not to make things worse for himself. Perhaps if he had apologized and pleaded for mercy, explained how terribly traumatized he had been, and promised to behave himself going forward, Odin might have given him a less severe sentence than life alone in a cell. But to Loki, standing his ground and defending his own perspective (his pride, his own self-respect) was more important than that, and he would not budge an inch. In all the previous films, Loki is an expert, out of pride or arrogance, at making things harder for himself with his bad attitude.
Moving forward in the tale, to the point where we see him after he has made that choice, we see a Loki who behaves very differently than he previously had in similar situations, due to the requirements of the narrative. The closest comparison to the Sakaar situation is his time working for Thanos leading up to Avengers 1. We don’t know how he got there exactly, and we do see him cooperating with a powerful figure who has at least some control over him. But in that movie, his interactions with “the boss” are portrayed very differently: it shows Loki being treated with at least a businesslike respect when he receives the scepter (of which he must be judged worthy of, which in itself implies he is regarded as a valuable servant, if not ally, for reasons other than his pretty face and whatever else). It also shows Loki challenging the Other, standing up for himself (“until your forces are mine to command, you are but words,”) even when the Other still has the power to psychically threaten and inflict pain on him (and we see Loki stoically enduring both, a situation that is depicted sympathetically, without detracting in any way from Loki’s dignity, but reinforcing our sympathy for him, while still showing Loki as the villain). It is made abundantly clear that Loki is acting under duress in his cooperation (even ignoring the mind-control debate, the casual use of violence on him is there to make us question what would happen to Loki if he didn’t comply.) And Loki loathes this forced cooperation, he denies it strenuously; he bristles at Thor’s suggestion that he is not in control, and he viciously smacks away any outstretched hand seeking to help him. (If he doesn’t accept the help, he can keep telling himself that he doesn’t need it.)
In other cases as well, whenever Loki is being threatened or hurt, he responds with pride and defiance, turning up his chin and telling them to take their best shot: he voices mocking contempt of Laufey when he’s surrounded by much-larger Frost Giants ("restore Jotunheim to all its, ahem, glory.") Handcuffed and shoved around by his brother on the skiff, Loki still runs his mouth and tries to start a fight. He even yells back at the Hulk. Loki is an annoying, ballsy little shit even when outnumbered and in full risk of his life. (So that's that for "this is Loki and has always been Loki.” It’s fucking bollocks and comes from nowhere.)
Compare that with what we see in Ragnarok when Loki is under the Grandmaster’s thumb. To the Grandmaster, he is all deference and pleasantry. He doesn’t challenge him, but instead tries to appease him—and he appears perpetually uneasy and on edge; he doesn’t seem to be enjoying this game. When Thor unexpectedly appears on Sakaar, Loki reacts like he’s been caught doing something dirty; the mask he had been using to charm the other partygoers falls instantly, and he rushes over to Thor, looking shocked and embarrassed. (Yet another sign that we are indeed intended to interpret his cooperation as shaming and shameful, if Loki himself is shown feeling this way about it). The discomfort level rises as he is subjected to Thor’s judgment.
Another (valid) interpretation for that scene is that what Loki is feeling at that moment is alarm, panic, fear that Thor’s sudden appearance might somehow put his position in the Grandmaster’s court in danger. Loki does state—very blandly and matter-of-fact—that he can’t help Thor because he has gotten friendly with the Grandmaster and doesn’t want to jeopardize his position.
Does that mean Loki’s “doing fine,” that he is not ashamed, and that he is, if not happy, at the very least resigned to his situation? Well, no: almost immediately afterwards, Loki sends his projection to Thor’s cell, seeking to collude with Thor to overthrow the Grandmaster, explicitly eager to get out of his current predicament.
These depictions do appear to share a similarity, in that Loki is seen cooperating with a bigger bad, despite being uncomfortable with it. But the narratives differ greatly beneath that surface level. In the case of Avengers 1, the narrative shows Loki as a villain, but a sympathetic one. His choices are wrong, he cannot be allowed to prevail, and the heroes must defeat him. However, his choices don’t define him, and they aren’t shown as making him personally morally repugnant. The particular set of circumstances that have affected Loki’s choices and his perspective, and resulted in those wrong choices, are brought to bear again and again: this is Loki after a mental breakdown led him into villainy. The audience is encouraged to feel sympathy for him, and to hope that he will recover.
In Ragnarok, in contrast, the narrative doesn’t treat Loki’s behavior as a constrained choice (which would elicit sympathy), a clever maneuver that ultimately succeeds (which could be applauded), or a villainous crime (which could be hated but would have to be given weight and importance). It barely lingers on it, or allows any of the characters to do so, as if to say: of course he would. It is treated as inevitable, not worth asking about or investigating. It’s just who he is —someone who would sell out his family and his world for a cushy gig.
When Thor later demands that Loki change, the narrative is taking the contrast between them, and identifying Loki’s choices as the mark of a moral turpitude that has always made him inferior to Thor throughout their 1000 years of life. Loki’s actions aren’t shown as a deviation from his norm, from which he can recover. We are intended to see that they are his norm, such that if he is to change, he must change an intrinsic, essential part of himself.
And Thor
Now, lest we be accused of favoritism, let’s also ask how the demands of this narrative affect how Thor is characterized.
What does it mean for Thor’s heroism to be defined in opposition to a character who is not a threat or a fallen companion, but a disgrace? What does it mean for Thor’s heroism to be defined, specifically, as being someone who will not sacrifice his honor by consenting to gay sex, but would rather be forced to engage in deadly violence?
After all, if the filmmakers really were after something “different” and “refreshing,” not to mention humorous, wouldn’t it have been fun if it was Thor the one to use his looks and charms to ensnare the Grandmaster? If they wanted to turn the tables on the old Thor so much, why not put HIM in yellow and blue and have him meet the cuddly tentacles? It wouldn’t even be OOC! Didn’t he once put on a dress and pretend to be a woman in actual Norse myth to get his hammer back from Thrym? And talk about different! Talk about refreshing! Talk about respectfully disrespecting what had come before! Talk about brave, and even revolutionary! It would have been a wink to the myth, and absolutely hysterical!
Well, that didn’t happen. The filmmakers considered that making Thor clownishly clumsy and changing his speech pattern was enough of a shakeup, and patted themselves on the back a lot for it. In every other sense, they gave us as old-fashioned a kind of hero as can be. We’re talking the ultra-macho ‘80s here, classic in the sense of (a very shallow understanding of) the ancient Greek archetype. (Put a wig on Mel Gibson and we’re set. Cutting-edge stuff, eh?)
To see what they changed to fit Thor into that mold, let’s take a look at how Thor’s heroism was set up and defined in the previous movies for comparison.
In all cases, Thor’s stubbornness is intrinsic to his heroism. His refusal to give up or give in, even when the odds are against him, because his goal matters, and people are depending on him, and he can make a difference. Surrender is not in his nature, after all.
This is true in Ragnarok as well. But the nature of the challenges he faces and how he goes about it, that’s where the paths diverge. In Thor 1, the challenge he must overcome is, in fact, himself. He must come to terms with his own failings (his arrogance, his narrow viewpoint on the world, his first impulse of resorting to violence to address any problem) and learn how to leverage his true strengths (relationship-building, compassion, faith in others). This learning process is carried out in parallel with the narrative of Loki’s downfall, in which he faces his own challenges but makes the wrong choices because he does not trust others and does not seek help, and instead works himself up to a disastrous conclusion. The nature of Thor’s heroism is thus posited as his stubbornness, applied to improving himself as a social being.
In Avengers 1, despite Thor’s arc being only a small part of the film among many others, the challenge Thor faces is again mostly internal, and we see it clearly: tasked with bringing his wayward brother home and preventing him from wreaking havoc on the comparatively helpless population of Midgard, Thor is confronted with this broken relationship with someone he loves deeply. In the brief scene in which he hesitates to reach for his hammer in the field, we see him struggle with the conflict between two values: protecting the innocent humans, and staying loyal to his beloved brother. Sacrificing either value would be damning; in this case, the narrative pits Thor against the possibility of a no-win situation, and his stubbornness is to refuse to accept that he must choose—instead, he sets himself to the task of staying true to both values, no matter how impossible it seems.
In TDW, the narrative begins with Thor discouraged by Loki’s continued antagonism. Thor has retreated into himself somewhat: he has been shaken by everything that has happened, and as Odin pushes him toward taking on greater responsibility, Thor is reassessing what he actually wants. Thor’s established skill at relationships and constructive leadership is brought to the fore as the Dark Elves attack and Thor gathers the team he needs to enact his plan to defeat them. This includes breaking Loki out of prison and convincing him to help: here, Loki is again the foil to Thor, but as a collaborator and ally. Now, TDW admittedly suffers from all the late edits to the plot; it is hard to make quite as strong arguments here because, well, the movie started out as one thing but by the time we saw it, it had become something else (i.e., it’s a bit of a mess in places). Still, Thor is undeniably the hero of the piece, and his heroism consists of refusal to give in against the tangible threat of the Dark Elves, against the simmering conflict with his brother, and the possibility that their relationship cannot in fact be repaired, and against the notion that he has to become the sort of king that Odin is. If a unified theme exists, it is that Thor’s heroism consists of finding a path that he can be proud of, rather than taking an expedient or expected one that goes against his principles. So it’s not so much about what heroes do so as finding out what Thor will do.
So now, what about Ragnarok? As we’ve already described, the narrative of Ragnarok depicts Thor’s heroism, for the most part, in opposition to Loki’s lack of it. What Thor’s stubbornness resists in the film is the idea of giving in to a depraved tyrant, the idea of cozying up to a madman to save himself from pain or danger. The contrast being set up is between this particular masculine ideal and a queer, cowardly submission.
The methods that Thor uses to meet this ideal fall into line with those values: instead of the softer, empathic, more socially connected Thor of the previous movies, this one brazenly deceives and manipulates his friends (Banner/Hulk) to try to gain their assistance, and he goes into a snit when they refuse (compare to his calmly noble acceptance when Jane & company tell him he’s on his own). This sets the stage for his later stubborn resistance against Hela and her bid to rule Asgard, and it is notable that unlike his previous encounters with enemies, he does not try to reason with her or talk her down; upon his return to Asgard, he opens by insulting and goading her. Because, again, he can’t be seen as compromising with an enemy or giving any quarter, not an inch; not in this version of heroism, without internal conflict, whose only self-doubt comes from fearing he will not be strong enough to defeat his enemy, but never wonders if he is worthy.
And Their Relationship, Too
Where else do we see this change in the methods and motives of Thor’s heroism, resulting from the requirements of the narrative setup? Where is possibly the biggest, most jarring change? In his relationship with his brother.
In the previous movies, Thor and Loki had always been equals. Not the same, of course; they were set up as a dichotomy, with complementary skills and flaws, able to balance each other perfectly, or else destroy each other utterly. In Thor 1, Avengers 1, and TDW, both brothers were shown as having valuable (if different) strengths, and could meet each other head on, and when they were in conflict, Loki was a worthwhile antagonist because he was formidable: when faced with one another, you could not predict who would prevail. And the stakes were so emotionally rich because they also had the capacity to complete each other. The tension of seeing whether they would end up as the greatest of enemies or the best of allies was the beauty of it. The emphasis, in Thor 1, of Loki wanting to be Thor’s equal has an impact on the audience because we are able to see, in their conflict, that they are equals.
To make the narrative of Ragnarok work, Loki had to be severely demoted in all of these respects. He had to be made less physically powerful, or else why would he not be fighting in the arena at Thor’s side (or against him)? The Frost Giant with ice blades for hands, the cloning and illusion magic, the handiness with his knives that makes him able to fight and best five Dark Elves in seconds, the physical might to fight his own brother, the fucking god of thunder himself, and almost defeat him (and actually defeat him) several times? In Avengers, if he hadn’t been so busy grandstanding and making speeches, Loki may have been able to stand up to the Hulk as well.
He also had to be demoted as a worthwhile ally; Ragnarok needed a foil who was distinctly not Thor’s equal, such that he would have to look elsewhere for assistance. Loki had to be demoted in terms of his skills and competency from the linchpin Thor (cautiously) relied upon to enact his plan in TDW, so he’s made into a lazy, buffoonish failure and a predictable one-trick pony.
More importantly, he had to be demoted from the most important person in Thor’s emotional life, the one Thor would never give up on, to the point that he would fight against the very notion of impossibility to save Loki and remain loyal to him, never losing faith in his potential for redemption.
Ragnarok’s narrative had to abandon the previously established dynamic, in which Loki had been Thor’s best friend and closest confidant of 1000 years, the only one to whom Thor allowed himself to show weakness or self-doubt; instead, it had to be implied that they had been at each other’s throats in a series of petty, childish squabbles throughout their lives, such that Thor could be fed up and have no qualms about walking away, without introducing any pesky emotional weight into the equation or having Thor suffer any doubts or internal conflicts (which would make him into a different sort of hero—one more like he previously was).
Here, Thor’s stubbornness is not about not giving up on Loki, but the opposite. Following the argument that the ending of TDW proved Loki had not redeemed himself, and therefore, that Thor’s previous attempts at reaching his brother had failed, it was clearly stupid of Thor to keep trying the same old thing. And Thor is not stupid. The tables have turned: this is a new Thor. Right? So in Ragnarok, Thor’s stubbornness is turned to the idea of not going soft on his brother, either. Unlike his previous incarnation, who is perhaps seen by some as kind of a doormat that allowed Loki to walk all over time and time again, this Thor is nobody’s fool. He is done beating a dead horse, and that allegedly proves how much he has grown, against how little progress Loki has made.
And just as he won’t sell out to the Grandmaster, Thor likewise will not offer or accept an olive branch from Loki. The narrative has established that Loki is undeserving of any such.
Asserting that Loki had continued lying to Thor by faking his death for no reason worth discussing and showing his following actions in the most distasteful light—that Loki had banished Odin to take the throne and sit there relishing his own (pathetic) tragedy and (false) redemption, and eat grapes while “the Nine Realms fall into chaos”—Ragnarok gives us a Loki who has finally earned Thor’s permanent mistrust.
From this basis, everything else in his characterization “follows naturally”: Loki's lack of moral fiber and heroic values, his willingness to give in to the Grandmaster, the shameful ways he goes about gaining any benefits this grants him (see Thor’s disgusted look when Loki reveals that he has gotten access to the ship codes… because of what is said explicitly to go on in those ships.) All of these make Loki an unsuitable ally to Thor, and someone he shall not cooperate with or trust. (After all, we're told that Loki lies and betrays compulsively, even against his own best interest. It’s just the way he is.)
Thor’s heroism as put forth here will only allow him to work with Loki after he has proven that Loki is not an exception to Thor’s heroic code as presented in this movie: Thor has to reject Loki and reject the shame that is attached to him. He must avoid falling victim to Loki’s tricks, which would be another display of unheroic weakness, but must trick him instead. And finally, he has to give his ultimatum that Loki must change himself intrinsically in order to be worthy of that relationship.
And if we accept the story that Ragnarok tells us about their history together and who they are to each other, we might not argue with that.
But this isn’t the first time the movies have dealt with the idea of there being some sort of shame attached to Loki’s identity. After all, the notion that Loki’s sorcery was considered unmanly and weak was introduced early in the first Thor movie, through Thor’s own words, as he belittled Loki for only “doing tricks” where others “do battle.” Of course, Thor says it thoughtlessly—it doesn’t reflect his true opinion of his brother or any real belief in Loki’s inferiority; Thor simply says it out of arrogance, and because he doesn’t realize the impact of his words. And those are things that the narrative of that film shows as Thor’s flaws, things that he has to improve in himself.
Moreover, that realization—that he has treated his brother poorly and contributed to his mental breakdown—and how Thor responds to it, demonstrates one of the most important elements of Thor’s values and his heroic code of that movie and the two that followed: that Thor deeply values relationships, and he refuses to turn away from those he cares about. Doing so because they are inconvenient to him, or because he finds the person shameful, or because he fears to appear weak for caring about them—the idea would be anathema to him. Thor learns about himself that he does not want to be the sort of man whose brother thinks he is ashamed of him. He does not want to be the sort of man who is callous to those he loves. He does not want to look back at broken relationships, and know that it is because he stopped trying.
Surrender is not in his nature, he says, but that’s not just manly bravado meaning violence and struggle to the last breath, at whatever cost. It also means sticking to lost causes if they are worthwhile, keeping the faith, and letting that faith move mountains. (With Thor, it usually does.)
And there aren’t many more things more worthwhile to Thor than his brother and their relationship. Thus his refusal to give up on Loki. Even when it was unwise, even when it seemed undeserved. Even on the Bifrost, after Loki has lied to him and stranded him on Earth and nearly killed him with the Destroyer when he was unarmed and pleading, Thor screams “I will not fight you, brother!” Even while the alien armies Loki had summoned and unleashed were ravaging New York, Thor once again offered his hand (“we can fight them, together”). Not one of his friends trusts Loki when Thor includes him in his plan in TDW, and gives him a crucial, central role in it—not even the audience does. We believe it when Loki turns on his brother one more time, when it seems he has sold him and Jane to the Dark Elves, and we grieve with Thor this new treason, only to realize that we have been fooled, that Thor was counting on the impression of deviousness Loki projects to make the plan work.
This stubborn loyalty, this willingness to forgive again and again, is seen by many (in and out of the narrative) as stupidity, blindness, Thor being unable to see his brother for what he really is. But that is missing the point: Thor can be well aware of the villain his brother has become, but that is not a reason to abandon his own values and principles. In fact, that is just when they most matter. Thor is anything but a fair-weather friend.
And, you know, in the first three movies, it also turns out that he is right when it comes to his brother. Thor does not give up on him but keeps trying. Refuses to fight him. Goes after him. Brings him home. Chooses to place his trust in him. And this isn’t Thor’s stupidity or short sightedness or his unconditional love that has him mistaken and confused. Thor’s loyalty to his brother isn’t blinding him. He believes in Loki, as he believes in so many other seemingly lost causes, and he is right. And although Thor’s peers are skeptical, the audience is made privy to Loki’s own inner conflict, so we see how important Thor’s stubborn love for him is in bringing them back together. We see him moved and in turmoil and hurting himself to push his brother away; and ultimately, we are shown Loki sacrificing his own life for Thor, and for Jane, and for vengeance, for love of his mother, and for Thor’s plan. We see Loki brought back to himself because Thor refused to give up on him, even when that would have been very easy and the “sensible” thing to do.
In those narratives, valuing love is more important than not appearing weak. In those narratives, Thor is decidedly not a run-of-the-mill macho hero because his heroism must always also meet that test as well.
That is the heart of Thor’s story. That is his struggle, his arc. What is a hero, what makes a hero—that was also the theme, the conflict of the first Thor film, and it continues as an undercurrent in the following two.
Thor started out as pretty much a run-of-the-mill macho hero, insensitive, aggressive, prepotent, arrogant, a “vain, greedy, cruel boy.” There was never any doubt that he was a mighty, formidable hero, in the classic sense of not just possessing formidable physical strength and prowess in battle, but also never allowing himself to appear weak: never budging, talking back to challengers, never allow an insult to go unanswered, meeting any threats head on (he would not even let himself consider alternate strategies or diplomacy to disarm a threat). All of that, Thor had already mastered a long, long time ago.
His mission, so to speak, was to unlearn all of that (let’s go ahead and call it “toxic masculinity,” with caveats) and become a different type of hero. Thor must learn to care about more than his own pride. He must learn to be humble and listen to those who know better, must learn prudence, must learn caution, must learn respect (to collaborate and build up relationships, trust his allies, fight together), and must learn to talk and reason to de-escalate situations (rather than just quashing them with his hammer), and he must learn to take responsibility for his actions—all those things he would have once regarded as “weakness.” Rather than seek a glorious death for himself and go to Valhalla, he must learn to use his strength and his powers for the greater good (which sometimes means swallowing an insult or an offense, and even retreating), be a better man, and live for more than himself and his own glory (victory, the throne of Asgard, his honor). That’s what (true) heroes do, or at least what the kind of hero Thor is striving to be would do.
And a crucial aspect of his chosen mission is his brother.
This Thor, placed in a narrative that shames Loki as Ragnarok does, would defend, not reject him. Even if he were the only one left on Loki's side. This Thor would take Loki's hand, however cautiously, if there were any chance at all. He would not need to prove himself smarter or superior to his brother in any way. This Thor has different priorities. What is treated as weakness in Ragnarok Thor used to be the previous Thor’s greatest strength.