There is a particular kind of desperation that clings to a former star whose light has dimmed. You can see it in the way they hold themselves at airport lounges, the too-loud laugh at a party where no one recognises them, the sudden pivot to politics. This week, one such actor has traded the screen for the sermon, positioning himself as a prophet of the so-called manosphere. And in doing so, he has ignited a debate that cuts to the heart of modern free speech.
Let us call him James, though that is not his name. James was a middling lead in nineties thrillers, a face you might place but a name you would forget. He has spent the last decade festering in the amber of resentment, convinced that the industry, the culture, and women collectively owe him something. Now he has found his audience: young men who feel the same. His podcast, filmed in a garage that tries very hard to look like a studio, has become a rallying point for the disaffected. He talks of ‘red pills’ and ‘beta males’, of a world where men have been emasculated by feminism and diversity quotas. The comments section is a horror show of misogyny and self-pity.
But here is where it gets complicated. When a prominent streaming platform dropped James’s show citing a breach of ‘hate speech’ policies, the free speech warriors mobilised. They called it censorship. They called it a hit job by the liberal elite. And they had a point, however unpalatable. James had not broken any laws. He was spouting nonsense, yes, but nonsense wrapped in the language of grievance that is protected speech. The platform, a private company, made a commercial decision. But in an era where a handful of tech giants control the public square, the line between commercial and constitutional blurs.
I watched the fallout from a pub in Soho, where a group of young men gathered around a laptop to watch James’s defiant return on a smaller, less scrupulous platform. They cheered. They felt attacked. And they felt, for the first time, that someone was speaking for them. This is the human cost of the culture war: real alienation, real anger, festering in real time. The men I met were not monsters. They were insecure, underemployed, and desperate for a narrative that explained their pain. James gives them one, however toxic.
The cultural shift here is subtle but profound. We are moving into a phase where the old gatekeepers of discourse are crumbling. Anyone with a webcam and a grudge can build a congregation. The challenge is not silencing James; it is offering a better story. One that does not blame women or minorities for the loneliness of modern masculinity. One that acknowledges the crisis without the misogyny.
Free speech, as we are rediscovering, is a weapon. It cuts both ways. James wields it clumsily, but he wields it. The question is not whether he should be allowed to speak, but why his message finds such fertile ground. Until we answer that, there will be more men like him, more garages turned into studios, and more young men looking for a messiah in the wrong places.
