It is heartening to see the impassioned discourse surrounding Netflix’s Adolescence. Like many, my social media feed has been flooded with commentary and hot takes on the show’s impact and value; even the Labour government is rushing to capitalise on the moment and suggest it be shown in schools as a tool to tackle misogyny and male violence. Yet I wonder if this fervour is driven by more than hard-hitting writing, sensitive acting and timely themes. Are we, perhaps, more receptive to stories that centre men’s struggles – however real or raw – than we are to stories of women’s suffering?
As a therapist working with survivors of violence and abuse, I have seen young men fearful, raging and wounded, and sometimes this incendiary pain spills out as hate and violence against others, most often women. So I am encouraged by the open dialogues that this show has generated around the societal pressures on young people: the ubiquity of misogynistic pornography, the murky waters of the ‘manosphere’, a burning planet and increasingly unfeasible future. These issues have sparked policy discussions and deep concern for a generation of ‘lost boys’, which includes a fear that focusing on misogynistic attitudes or behaviours will further demonise and marginalise boys and young men. While this is an important consideration, I must ask: where is the concern for girls and young women?
In Adolescence, we don’t hear from Katie, the murdered girl at the centre of the drama, and this omission seems intentional: a police officer directly laments the absence of her voice (“we’ve followed Jamie’s brain around this entire case, right? Katie isn’t important. Jamie is.”). Like Lolita’s barely there existence in Nabokov’s infamous novel of male entitlement and child rape, the absence of victims’ voices in art and media can emphasise the real-world unwillingness to acknowledge their existence. Yet this absence is also apparent in professional discourse, where women are talked about and talked to, but rarely get to talk and be heard in the arenas where change is made. Media can be a powerful vehicle for amplifying victims’ voices, but only if we keep sight of whose stories are elevated and who is being sidelined.
I had a similar feeling last year when Baby Reindeer was the talk of the proverbial town (i.e. Twitter/X). Richard Gadd’s semi-autobiographical drama drew much-needed attention to the experiences of male survivors of abuse and led to a dramatic increase in contact to a men’s charity following its release. This demonstrates the value of media as a means for empowering survivors to speak out and seek help. Yet this makes me question why equally powerful stories focused on female survivors have not generated the same cultural momentum. Michaela Coel’s I May Destroy You (2019, BBC) deserves all the critical acclaim and accolades for its exploration of sexual assault and consent, the experiences of Black women and Black gay men, and the messiness of healing and justice. Yet it did not create the tsunami of outrage and action that we have seen with Adolescence, despite women of colour being more likely to experience violence and less likely to be treated with respect by authorities. The highly successful Unbelievable (2019, Netflix) brutally exposes the precarious nature of credibility and how class and socioeconomic background dictate whether women are believed or cared about in the aftermath of rape. Until I Kill You (2024, ITV) lays bare society’s relentless demand for ‘perfect’ victims and the almost gleeful eagerness with which we scramble to blame women for men’s violence.
These shows should have been just as impactful: they are equally well crafted, grounded in reality (all are based on the experiences of real women) and arguably just as urgent. Yet they have been overlooked by practitioners, policy makers and politicians in (seemingly endless) debates about racism and misogyny in police, criminal justice failings and the appalling treatment of victims. Why have these shows not been elevated as educational tools or awareness-raising opportunities? Is it because they focus on the pain of women rather than the struggles of men? Perhaps we’ve become desensitised to the spectacle: after centuries of watching women suffer on page and screen, their pain risks being seen as unremarkable, even expected. Maybe we can only empathise with women when they are murdered by their abusers and forever enshrined in victimhood.
Or perhaps there is something more insidious behind which depictions get lauded or shown in schools. Despite centuries of education and activism, there is still a universal tendency for us to prioritise men’s pain above the hurts and needs of women: Kate Manne refers to this as ‘himpathy’. If we really mean to talk about misogyny, gender inequalities and men’s violence – and not just talk but listen and act – then we need to talk about everyone. All wounds matter, all pain is valid.
Of course, a TV show cannot change the world: otherwise, sexual violence and domestic abuse would have long been relegated to the shameful past of human history. But well-crafted and well-intentioned media can be an invitation, a window through which we can look outside ourselves and embrace the complexity of human experience with empathy and compassion. It can be surprisingly affecting; the finale of I May Destroy You made me cry for a nameless rapist, something I never thought I would do.
If we are to be serious with the indignation and anger galvanised by shows like Baby Reindeer or Adolescence, we need to be open to the whole picture. Women and men, girls and boys are hurting, but some of these hurts are complicated and undermined through biased and uncaring notions of gender, race and ethnicity, class or sexuality. There are no perfect victims, only victims. As a rising tide raises all ships, all stories can contribute to our so-far ineffectual attempts at preventing men (and, to a much lesser extent, women) from abusing and killing others. All victims deserve rage and tears, compassion and justice.
Amy Beddows is a trauma therapist working in Edinburgh. She has a PhD in women’s experiences of victim blame and has a special interest in the ways that media can reflect, subvert and challenge misogyny and violence against women and girls.
‘Forget TV, it will never show you the experience of the victim’: representations of rape in Mindhunter by Amy Beddows from the Journal of Gender-Based Violence is available on Bristol University Press Digital.
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