Let’s start with where you’re right—because you are right in places. Your exploration of historical cycles of moral panic is well-documented and clearly researched. Society has repeatedly blamed emerging media for youth violence: comic books, rock & roll, Dungeons & Dragons, rap, video games. Those fears were often rooted more in cultural anxiety than actual causality. You successfully demonstrate how teen aggression and male violence long predate TikTok or YouTube. And yes, moments of societal stress have always made easy scapegoats out of the newest cultural trends. These points are insightful, and they matter.
But where your piece begins to unravel—and ultimately exposes itself—is in what it chooses to ignore, distort, or conveniently sidestep. You claim Netflix’s Adolescence (2025) pushes a simplistic narrative: that teen boys watch Andrew Tate content, become radicalised, and commit murder. But that’s not what the show actually portrays. It examines the ecosystem a vulnerable young man operates within—an ecosystem that doesn’t create violence out of thin air, but amplifies existing wounds. Pain, rejection, loneliness, the need for control. The online manosphere doesn’t invent these things—it exploits them, packages them, and monetises them.
That’s what the show explores. Not a direct cause-and-effect, but an emotional and psychological pipeline. You know this. But you frame the narrative in the most literal, surface-level way to dismiss it more easily. That’s not critique. That’s erasure.
Worse, you mention the real-world case the show is based on—and then sidestep it. You include a single image and a throwaway line: "I think that it speaks for itself..." It doesn't. It demands engagement. A teenage girl was murdered by a boy whose behaviour, mindset, and rhetoric echoed the exact content Adolescence critiques. This isn't theory. It's precedent. And you buried it beneath smug insinuation and an unwillingness to confront the emotional reality of what happened.
This is where your intellectual scaffolding collapses. You cite dozens of articles, academic trends, and media patterns to give the illusion of distance and control. But all you're really doing is protecting a version of masculinity that thrives in abstraction. A masculinity that performs empathy but fears vulnerability. That lifts quotes from discipline culture but never asks who that culture leaves behind.
Then comes your defence of the Tates. You reduce their messaging to neutral, even aspirational soundbites: get fit, take responsibility, don’t worship women. But the Tates don’t operate in a vacuum. Their influence is layered in misogyny, control, and manipulation. You present their message as misunderstood stoicism, but ignore the coercion that often follows it. You cherry-pick the palatable parts and ignore the dangerous whole. You write like someone trying to clean the brand, not critique it.
And it shows. The tone, the posture, the curated detachment. Your article isn't a deep dive. It's reputation management with a bibliography. You say the show manipulates emotion. But so does this article. It selects facts that serve your image, dodges those that don't, and hides behind citations instead of accountability. You don't wrestle with the real implications of manosphere rhetoric on young men—you just defend the parts that make you feel in control. Your version of critique isn't brave. It's safe. And ultimately, it's dishonest.
And let’s be honest—you are that guy. Not maybe. Not hypothetically. You present yourself as the voice of reason, but everything about your writing echoes the very traits you’re trying to excuse. You posture with curated detachment, you lean on borrowed authority instead of personal insight, and you defend ideologies not because they're true, but because they validate a persona you've clearly built: emotionally unavailable, intellectually superior, physically disciplined. The kind of guy who posts gym mirror selfies and sends "checking in" messages to women already spoken for—soft enough to look harmless, calculated enough to keep control.
That tone of restrained charm? The lightly poetic DMs? The rehearsed sincerity designed to position yourself as the emotionally evolved alternative? It’s not subtle. It’s strategy. And maybe ask yourself this—if you believe so strongly in stoic self-improvement and detached discipline... would you send those same sweet, low-risk, high-reward messages to someone in a committed relationship? Would you say it with the same smile if her partner was listening? Or is it just easier to play the thoughtful guy when no one’s watching but you?
The way you write about Adolescence doesn’t just mirror manosphere logic. It is manosphere logic—just cleaned up, cloaked in citations, and dressed in pseudo-critique. The show doesn't preach hysteria. You just couldn't handle its honesty. Because the mirror it held up didn’t reflect a stranger. It reflected you. And instead of facing it, you hid behind a wall of references and wrote it off as a script.
And no, I’m not a bot, and I’m not AI. Just an educated reader who won’t be waving red flags or launching a Substack to rebut you. You’ll likely brush this off like you do anything that doesn’t flatter your sense of command. But the irony? That reaction only proves the point. The one the show made. The one you buried.
Want to keep the discussion going? Or let this stand as the last word? Because as responses go, this one leaves no shadows to hide in.
You’ve made an interesting connection between historical influences and media portrayal. It’s true that media can amplify certain narratives, but it also has the power to educate and inspire positive change. Understanding history helps us address root causes and create constructive conversations around youth behavior.
Jacob,
Let’s start with where you’re right—because you are right in places. Your exploration of historical cycles of moral panic is well-documented and clearly researched. Society has repeatedly blamed emerging media for youth violence: comic books, rock & roll, Dungeons & Dragons, rap, video games. Those fears were often rooted more in cultural anxiety than actual causality. You successfully demonstrate how teen aggression and male violence long predate TikTok or YouTube. And yes, moments of societal stress have always made easy scapegoats out of the newest cultural trends. These points are insightful, and they matter.
But where your piece begins to unravel—and ultimately exposes itself—is in what it chooses to ignore, distort, or conveniently sidestep. You claim Netflix’s Adolescence (2025) pushes a simplistic narrative: that teen boys watch Andrew Tate content, become radicalised, and commit murder. But that’s not what the show actually portrays. It examines the ecosystem a vulnerable young man operates within—an ecosystem that doesn’t create violence out of thin air, but amplifies existing wounds. Pain, rejection, loneliness, the need for control. The online manosphere doesn’t invent these things—it exploits them, packages them, and monetises them.
That’s what the show explores. Not a direct cause-and-effect, but an emotional and psychological pipeline. You know this. But you frame the narrative in the most literal, surface-level way to dismiss it more easily. That’s not critique. That’s erasure.
Worse, you mention the real-world case the show is based on—and then sidestep it. You include a single image and a throwaway line: "I think that it speaks for itself..." It doesn't. It demands engagement. A teenage girl was murdered by a boy whose behaviour, mindset, and rhetoric echoed the exact content Adolescence critiques. This isn't theory. It's precedent. And you buried it beneath smug insinuation and an unwillingness to confront the emotional reality of what happened.
This is where your intellectual scaffolding collapses. You cite dozens of articles, academic trends, and media patterns to give the illusion of distance and control. But all you're really doing is protecting a version of masculinity that thrives in abstraction. A masculinity that performs empathy but fears vulnerability. That lifts quotes from discipline culture but never asks who that culture leaves behind.
Then comes your defence of the Tates. You reduce their messaging to neutral, even aspirational soundbites: get fit, take responsibility, don’t worship women. But the Tates don’t operate in a vacuum. Their influence is layered in misogyny, control, and manipulation. You present their message as misunderstood stoicism, but ignore the coercion that often follows it. You cherry-pick the palatable parts and ignore the dangerous whole. You write like someone trying to clean the brand, not critique it.
And it shows. The tone, the posture, the curated detachment. Your article isn't a deep dive. It's reputation management with a bibliography. You say the show manipulates emotion. But so does this article. It selects facts that serve your image, dodges those that don't, and hides behind citations instead of accountability. You don't wrestle with the real implications of manosphere rhetoric on young men—you just defend the parts that make you feel in control. Your version of critique isn't brave. It's safe. And ultimately, it's dishonest.
And let’s be honest—you are that guy. Not maybe. Not hypothetically. You present yourself as the voice of reason, but everything about your writing echoes the very traits you’re trying to excuse. You posture with curated detachment, you lean on borrowed authority instead of personal insight, and you defend ideologies not because they're true, but because they validate a persona you've clearly built: emotionally unavailable, intellectually superior, physically disciplined. The kind of guy who posts gym mirror selfies and sends "checking in" messages to women already spoken for—soft enough to look harmless, calculated enough to keep control.
That tone of restrained charm? The lightly poetic DMs? The rehearsed sincerity designed to position yourself as the emotionally evolved alternative? It’s not subtle. It’s strategy. And maybe ask yourself this—if you believe so strongly in stoic self-improvement and detached discipline... would you send those same sweet, low-risk, high-reward messages to someone in a committed relationship? Would you say it with the same smile if her partner was listening? Or is it just easier to play the thoughtful guy when no one’s watching but you?
The way you write about Adolescence doesn’t just mirror manosphere logic. It is manosphere logic—just cleaned up, cloaked in citations, and dressed in pseudo-critique. The show doesn't preach hysteria. You just couldn't handle its honesty. Because the mirror it held up didn’t reflect a stranger. It reflected you. And instead of facing it, you hid behind a wall of references and wrote it off as a script.
And no, I’m not a bot, and I’m not AI. Just an educated reader who won’t be waving red flags or launching a Substack to rebut you. You’ll likely brush this off like you do anything that doesn’t flatter your sense of command. But the irony? That reaction only proves the point. The one the show made. The one you buried.
Want to keep the discussion going? Or let this stand as the last word? Because as responses go, this one leaves no shadows to hide in.
You’ve made an interesting connection between historical influences and media portrayal. It’s true that media can amplify certain narratives, but it also has the power to educate and inspire positive change. Understanding history helps us address root causes and create constructive conversations around youth behavior.