Why Are Villains So Unapologetically Campy?

From classic villains like Count Dracula to Hindi soap opera vamps like Komolika, what is it about fictional villains that make queer folx gravitate towards them, their aesthetics, and deem scheming tactics as “iconic”?

It’s hard to watch Disney movies these days. I try to recollect why they were such a joy to watch when I was younger. Was it because of the princesses? Of course, but something about their victory or joy still felt empty. The younger me kept thinking, “What exactly are you doing, personality-wise, other than saving people or being saved?” 

When I was a kid, my mother and I watched Mr. India (1987) quite frequently; the film was one of her favourites. While I never rooted for the character of Mogambo (a corrupt terrorist), there was something about Amrish Puri’s dyed blond wig/hair, and long, black-and-gold embroidered coat (resembling one a British officer would sport) that I loved and enjoyed thoroughly. So while my mother watched the movie for the characters essayed by Anil Kapoor and Sridevi, I did so to understand why Mogambo was dressed better than Sridevi. 

Worst Morals But Best Fashion? 

Crafting an appealing, entertaining villain begins with giving them a compelling reason to turn to crime. But sometimes, all it takes is a great outfit and a sharp sense of humour. Not every villain is a genocidal monster—some simply crave attention, autonomy, or power after a lifetime of being cast as the antagonist. Sounds familiar?

Do you know who gets villainised by society, to the point that the only way out for  them is to rebel and protest? Queer folx. Forced to lean into campy aesthetics and the inherent “villain” archetype, they turn the narrative on its head. Take Ursula,  Disney’s iconic sea witch from The Little Mermaid whose character was famously inspired by a drag queen. Her campy aesthetic—bold make-up, exaggerated gestures, and a commanding presence—represents more than just villainy. It’s a reclamation of power, rooted in queer culture, where larger-than-life fashion becomes a way to demand attention in a world that often sidelines or villainises queer folx. Campy outfits, in this context, transcend style. They become a form of resistance, a shield against societal norms that try to box people into rigid roles. By leaning into the aesthetics of the "villain", queer individuals turn the narrative on its head, using fashion as armour and humour as a weapon to challenge hetero-patriarchal expectations. 

Queer folx often find themselves in situations where every right to exist has been twisted into conspiracy theories by people in actual power, making it seem like they control society and wish to ruin it, whereas, in reality, there’s no real power they possess beyond their closet. For example, trans women wanting to use the women’s washroom often becomes an issue about cis-women’s safety—that trans women want to violate spaces made for women. But what about trans women’s safety when they are harassed in the men’s washroom?

There are fictional heroes who resemble queerphobes, donning clean haircuts and neat suits. It is far more common to see villains who look queer-coded than heroes who visibly look queer. Inevitably, this makes it hard to root for them—you know people like them would never stand up for queer rights in real life. The most common example is perhaps that of Captain America. While he has been deemed as an ally, it’s hard for many queer folx to imagine that a white, cisgender, heterosexual man from America would be willing to stand up for queer rights, especially when men belonging to the same socio-cultural group are usually the ones suggesting and implementing queerphobic policies.

Rooting For The Misunderstood

In the Marvel Cinematic Universe (MCU) it is easier to root for Loki than any of the Avengers. Loki isn’t just villainised—he’s deeply complex: a misfit and outsider constantly grappling with his identity and place in the world. In contrast, the Avengers, while heroic, are often portrayed as paragons of traditional heroism, embodying conventional ideals of masculinity, authority, and moral absolutism. Characters like Captain America and Iron Man represent institutional power and leadership—symbols of a system that can feel alienating to those who don’t fit within its rigid archetypes.

Loki, by contrast, rejects these norms. His ambiguity, fluidity, and refusal to conform resonate with those who have been cast as outsiders. He exists in shades of grey, offering a profound relatability to anyone who has ever felt misunderstood or excluded. For Loki, defiance and mischief are not just acts of rebellion—they’re survival tactics in a world that relentlessly casts him as "other."

This exploration of a villain’s humanity isn’t unique to Loki. Maleficent in Sleeping Beauty—the sorceress who cursed the princess—turns out to be a victim herself in the Angelina Jolie-led 2014 retelling of the fairytale. Betrayed and and violated, Maleficent’s “villain era” becomes a way of reclaiming power in a world that offered her none, shedding light on how the "villain" label often masks a deeper story of pain and resilience.

However, when Disney attempted a similar narrative with Cruella De Vil in Cruella  (2021), it was hard to empathise with her, even with the backstory explaining her fixation on a fur coat and the event leading up to 101 Dalmatians (1961 & 1996). Having said that, Emma Stone’s Cruella still captivated audiences with her razor-sharp wit and impeccable personal style, proving that even an unrelatable villain can be thoroughly entertaining. 

Villain Era Or Just Seeking Autonomy?

Much like Cruella’s dramatic style, vanity often becomes a weapon for villains—a way to assert power and survive in a world stacked up against them. Colourful eyeshadow, sharp eyeliner wings, sparkly jewels, and DIY fashion are all also part of queer culture, and this is perhaps why it’s easier to like—and relate to—villains. They don’t try to be righteous, they simply try to survive. For instance, in Moana (2016), Tamatoa the crab loves jewels more than anything and only causes trouble to Moana for his greed for finer things. 

A villain era is a protest at its core, so the social media trend of “entering your villain era” is people simply prioritising themselves. It has been co-opted and reduced to an individual aesthetic. But why stop there? What if it extended to the community level, becoming fuel for dissent and not further isolation? This raises the question: are villains inherently campy, or are they deliberately made to “look” queer—highlighting a deeper bias? 

Think about Rekha’s character in Khoon Bhari Maang (1988), a widow who remarries and is deliberately pushed by her husband into a crocodile-infested lake, in the hope that she would die. After she’s falsely declared dead, she returns with her new persona, seeking revenge. The persona Rekha brings with her in the second half of the film is still “peak campy” in Indian cinema. Sporting metallic ribbons and fluffy hairstyles that ruled the 1980s, and even riding horses, it’s what made Rekha the queer-feminist icon she is popularly known as today. 

Disney, on the other hand, has started straying away from its otherwise frequently portrayed queer-coded villains to much more grey-coded ones with inter-generational trauma explaining their villainous actions. Since Frozen 1 (2013), Disney’s recent releases have steered clear from giving villains much attention; the focus instead is on the more likeable characters such as the quirky Anna or  the misunderstood Elsa (who is fabulous but not campy). Films like Coco (2017) or Moana 2 (2024)—while  emotionally satisfying—feature villains whose sole aim is to disrupt, lacking the depth and flair of classic antagonists. For instance, consider Scar in The Lion King (1994)—a villain whose motivations and cunning made him terrifying yet captivating. In comparison, newer antagonists often lack such layered complexity.  

This shift raises the question of whether modern-day films are prioritising making characters universally likeable over making them truly entertaining. In doing so, have we watered down villains, making their actions too understandable or their characters overly sympathetic?

Curated by Gaysi Family | Illustration: Anjali Nair

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