Debrief: Writing

Writing is HARD WORK. I’ve been hard at it on my new contemporary thriller for what seems like FOREVER.

Back when I wrote questionable Sherlock Holmes pastiche short stories and novellas, I rarely second-guessed myself. Somewhere during my PhD, I think something in my mind broke.

The intense, gruelling feedback you get from your supervisors is unlike anything an editor at any level will give you. I recall after one such session I came home, stood in the kitchen totally lost, as I contemplated wtf I should do. If I even had it in me to write professionally or academically.

I pushed on and managed to pass my PhD without corrections.

Now that novel I wrote is available as NO SAINTS ONLY KILLERS. In July, the fantastic audiobook narrated by Miguel Perez was released, which I highly recommend.

But as I continue to write (and re-write and re-write, and re-write) my new book, I realised how broken I am from my PhD. I am second-guessing my ability as a writer and my worth within the writing community. Would anyone notice if suddenly I stopped writing? Likely not.

To compare the writer’s journey to Joseph Campbell’s hero’s journey, right now I am in the belly of the whale. Struggling with my purpose and battling self-doubt as a writer.

The belly of the whale is a point of isolation (cut off physically, emotionally, or both). To say I feel cut off is an understatement! But psychologically, the belly is a place where, while cut off, you confront your fears and desires. It is something of an identity crisis. Hello! It’s the Spider-Man suit in the bin phase.

That is where I am in my writer’s journey. I second-guess my ability as a writer, my worth within the writing community, and think it might be time to dump all this in the bin and walk away.

But the belly of the whale isn’t a defeat. It’s just a painful reinvention. It’s a point where you break old habits, address bad ways of thinking, confront your demons, and let go of things that hold you back/down in order to progress. It’s a slow process in my case.

And I’m not on the other side of it; I am in it. So I have no happy conclusion. No motivational nothing, or big win. I’m just Peter Parker eating a hot dog while sirens go by…

Debrief: What I Watched

July was a busy month seeing new releases in the cinema. I saw both The Odyssey and Spider-Man Brand New Day. Both of which we reviewed over on my podcast CINEMA SLEUTHS.

What I’ll say about The Odyssey was that I appreciated a lot of the practicality. Too often films today are green screen. More often, actors who appear to be in a scene together were shot at different times. And the overuse of CG background means the lighting looks fake af. You get none of that with the film, and that I love.

What I found tough was Nolan’s doggedness for ‘realism.’ He strikes me as a director who needs to steer clear of material that involves fantasy. The whole time I got the impression he was too afraid to embrace the gods and monsters aspect of this epic poem.

However, one thing I did find insightful was the framing of the Siege of Troy. I never studied this text growing up, and therefore my knowledge is limited, but Nolan's framing of the Trojan horse trick (a false gift from the gods) as a total abandonment of a people’s morals and values in order to slaughter others, all to take back Helen, was compelling.

Debrief: What I’ve Read…

My reading this month consisted of all sorts of comics. From reviews on Action Comics to Ninja Turtles and Hawkeye and more. I am still on my big Daredevil read-through, and currently completing volume 2 of Mark Waid’s run, where, after years of Matt Murdock being beaten down and depressed during Bendis, Brubaker, and Diggle’s runs, the series lightens up a little to give both Daredevil and the audience some reprieve! That continues to be a joy to read.

One comic I was VERY excited to read was SPIDER-PUNK written by Cody Ziglar

You might’ve seen Spider-Punk in the SPIDER-VERSE films. I, for one, didn’t realise Marvel did a mini-series. So when I spotted this at Forbidden Planet, I got it no questions asked…

I should’ve asked questions.

For a title like Spider-Punk and a cover like that, you sort of expect there to be an element of, well, PUNK! You know, anti-establishment, revolting against corruption, capitalism, corporations, organised religion, going against societal norms. Maybe even backlash at the military complex and war mongering. I mean, this story is titled ARMS RACE!

The story is anything but PUNK.

Instead, what you get is cringy upper-class American pop-punk. It’s rich kids with all the privilege in the world posing as punks without the convictions.

When your Spider-Band consists of kids funded by the government of Wakanda and Spider-Punk is heralded as a future leader of the people and operates from a technologically advanced quasi-military base of operations, it’s hard to see where the PUNK in all this is.

The art was cool; the concept of a superhero punk-rock band made up of punk versions of heroes like Daredevil and Kamala Khan et al was intriguing. But this was anything but punk. It was corporatised American pop-punk. A real shame.

Marvel, I’ll happily write you a punk story about a poor kid with a guitar and spider-powers who scrapes on the underground scene while performing super-heroics.

That’s it for this month. Thanks for reading. Please subscribe (following does nothing), like, and restack!

In the meantime, support a doubting writer!

Buy NO SAINS ONLY KILLERS

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Lately, I’ve been deep diving into comics far more than usual. The reasons are many, but one is that I just needed a break from novels. Partly because I’m having a frustrating time with my current novel-in-progress, daily questioning my viability as an author, but also to digest different forms of storytelling.

As of this morning, I completed a read-through of Brian Michael Bendis’ famous DAREDEVIL run, and it left me with an existential crisis! Am I headed for creative jail?!

I don’t know if Matt Murdock has ever gone through so much distress in his entire life as during this run. Bendis builds so wonderfully off the noir foundations established by Frank Miller’s reinvention of the character in ’81.

Bendis’ entire run is a masterclass in psychological tension. Matt’s secret identity is on the verge of exposure; he’s under a media microscope, he’s losing himself, being reckless, and, in a bold move, takes out Wilson Fisk and claims the title of Kingpin. The end of Bendis’ run puts Matt Murdock in jail as his identity and purpose become murky.

Bendis does a great job exploring the dichotomy between Matt Murdock and Daredevil. By day, Matt is a calm, resilient lawyer… and an expert at turning the narrative around. A guy with a firm grasp of his ‘art.’ But his world, both as Matt Murdock, an attorney, and as Daredevil, a vigilante, is under intense fire. In each issue, you feel the strain on him as his world shrinks, his anger builds, and the Kingpin ultimately forces, if not breaks, Matt to do the unthinkable.

The final panel of Bendis’ run ends on Matt Murdock sitting in a prison cell. I couldn’t help but feel a strong sense of relatability to the tug-of-war between Matt’s two modes as a lawyer and a vigilante, where he ends up, and how that relates to my creative experience.

I’d like to think it’s not just me, but most creatives can relate to the Murdock/Daredevil duality on some level. Matt believes justice comes through the law, and is fulfilled by that idea; artists believe they will be fulfilled through making art. In either case, it turns out to be untrue. Matt desperately wants to believe in the Law, like we want to believe in our art. We strive for our art to mean something. We hope what we do is good and of value. However, reality sets in, and we discover that the pursuit is flawed, the systems are unfair, and problematic.

Daredevil represents not just a reaction to a flawed system or to Matt’s personal failures and losses within it, but also a desperate attempt to succeed. Failure is the burden that drives Matt to continue as Daredevil, but, unchecked, it risks his own destruction.

Likewise, failure drives creatives. Every failed idea, every self-doubt, every rejection… keeps us going, keeps us fighting like mad devils to create and push back against losses for a win that might mean something.

Or am I kidding myself?

The Bendis run is, perhaps, a warning against the destructive road of losing yourself to the art. Maybe failure shouldn’t drive you to continue down a path but get off entirely? Matt obsessed over who he was as a lawyer, as Daredevil and as the new Kingpin and lost big time. Matt’s world collapsed.

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It’s quite a powerful representation of that moment when artists succumb to our inner demons. When our identity and self-worth are only valid as ‘artists.’ Matt became frustrated by his inability to control the criminal element in Hell’s Kitchen and lost himself. Artists can easily lose themselves when we obsess over what we can’t control (sales, reviews, rejections) and eventually find ourselves locked in a psychological prison of our own making.

Matt's obsession with being Daredevil caused him to lose his way and get the better of him. How do artists avoid that same trap? Maybe the trick to avoiding creative imprisonment is to untether one’s identity and self-worth from the art before it becomes the prison.

What Have I Watched?

I’ve seen a number of blockbusters these last few months: Disclosure Day, Toy Story 5, Supergirl. I won’t go into detail on my thoughts because you can head over to my podcast, Cinema Sleuths, and hear what we thought. Needless to say, it hasn’t been a great summer, so I’m hoping for big things from Spider-Man: Brand New Day and Nolan’s The Odyssey!

House of the Dragon Season 3 (No Spoilers)

I’ve also been eating up Season 3 of House of the Dragon. After a somewhat stalled second season and a weird season three premiere, the show has found its footing again with episodes 2-4. There’s bound to be an interesting psychological dissection of Rhaenyra’s journey when this is all said and done: the futility of war, the obsession with power, the thirst for vengeance, and the utter lack of mercy. I’m eager to see how this plays out.

HAWKEYE (2021)

After a big Daredevil rewatch, I decided to fill in the gaps and watch the Disney+ shows with some connection to the old Hornhead. That included Hawkeye.

I did not watch the show when it came out, mostly because I felt I needed a break from Marvel. 2008–2019 was an insane stretch for nerd culture. So, post-Endgame, I was cool taking a break. Most of the Disney+ shows went unwatched (and still are).

But because of my Daredevil rewatch, I knew Echo and Kingpin were in Hawkeye, so I figured it would be worth a shot. If I didn’t like it, I could always turn it off, right?

Hawkeye, aka Clint Barton, has never lit my world on fire. While he’s fun as a supporting character, I never cared for him as a lead. I’m also not a mega Jeremy Renner fan. Like Hawkeye, he’s always good in supporting roles versus lead roles.

So, with some reluctance, I watched, and the miniseries truly took me by surprise and very quickly won me over.

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I loved it. It’s the best post-Avengers piece of media since Iron Man 3 because it addresses the effects of Infinity War and Endgame.

This six-episode miniseries was a very charming and, at times, moving story about an Avenger who is a little lost in a post-Endgame world where the team is no more, his best friend (Black Widow) is dead, and the sins of his past have put Kate Bishop (played wonderfully by Hailee Steinfeld), a big Hawkeye fan, in danger.

Steinfeld was really the winning aspect for me. Her performance and charisma were fantastic. She balanced fangirling over her idol (Hawkeye) while slowly becoming a mentee and, in turn, a friend.

There was a sweet father-daughter-type relationship between Clint and Kate Bishop that was both infectious and endearing. Not to mention, this series gave us the epic return of Vincent D’Onofrio’s Kingpin.

At the time the show was released, I recall it was under fire from online culture-war commentators (i.e., YouTube dudebros) because “the show wasn’t about Clint, but really about Lady Hawkeye.” Whatever. A lot could be said about the hate-mongering surrounding various films and TV shows (Supergirl being the most recent example). And I remember the uproar when Echo (a character created by David Mack in the epic Daredevil & Echo run) did exactly what she did in the comics to Wilson Fisk.

All I can say is I found the show to be a gem: a sweet, mostly lighthearted buddy comedy that thoroughly entertained me.

In Other News

On July 6, I had the pleasure of being on a panel at the West Hampstead Library, in North London, alongside authors Chris Lloyd, Jamie West, and Matthew Booth and chaired by Barry Forshaw.

It was a great hour, discussing our novels, why we write historical crime fiction, and more. So a big thanks to some friends who came out for that! I think I’ll be doing another library event in Oct, so watch this space for more info.

And if all goes to plan, I'll also be at Preston Crime Festival in September, potentially moderating a panel, which I’m looking forward to.

And lastly, No Saints Only Killers was the best-selling book for my publisher during the month of June! That was a nice pick-me-up. Also, the audiobook is coming very soon, so anyone waiting on that won’t have long to wait!

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More from Luke…

Tune in to my weekly film review podcast: CINEMA SLEUTHS

Get my new 1920s noir thriller, No Saints Only Killers

That’s right, my 1920s noir thriller, NO SAINTS ONLY KILLERS, is out! It’s almost hard to believe. After several false starts, teases from various publishers and agents, I had nearly given up on this book. But for whatever reason, I kept pushing for it to get out… and here we are! It’s happened!

In the life of the book, today will be the hardest. There is no big book launch with wine, canapés and speeches. Just me, at home writing my next book. But you can’t help but think: ‘Has anyone bought it? Will anyone like it? Will they leave a review? Will my friends get it? Will they leave positive reviews?!’

The reality is that writing a novel is a solitary endeavour for most. So, when a book comes out, it is like nervously entering a party, hoping you’ll be accepted, embraced, and welcomed.

The reason for that is, writing is a precious act. Not in a fragile way, though it can be that too, but precious in that it is a special act. It is a vulnerable act. Whether that writing is deeply serious or playful, the art retains a piece of the artist’s soul, which is exposed to the world for judgment. So, while it is precious, one can’t be precious about it either.

Which means, today, of all days, I have to push any thoughts of ‘will they, won’t they read/like my book far out of my mind’ and just be proud that, despite this difficult industry, its imbalances, and genre tickboxes, I fought for my book to get out there, and it is.

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No Saints Only Killers was worth the fight. It is uniquely special to me because I have lived with this book for YEARS. I started writing it in 2017 for my PhD at Kingston University. My project was remarkably a pass without corrections. Prior to that, No Saints had been shortlisted for the Amazon New Voices Awards at London’s Capital Crime Festival, and it was a finalist at Bloody Scotland’s Pitch Perfect under the title Wasteland.

So, at most, I knew there was a small appetite for it.

Now, will No Saints be a mega hit?

Of course not. I might sell a couple of hundred copies max.

But I don’t care. What matters is that the book is out there for readers to stumble upon, take a chance on it, and, at most, be entertained.

Anyone who knows me is aware that I adore hard-boiled fiction. The lone private eye against the world of corruption is my kinda stuff. Philip Marlowe through to Spenser, Milhone, Rebus, and even Daredevil. I love these characters and gritty stories about crime, corruption, and a fool’s hope that some good can be done in a bad world.

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No Saints Only Killers is my love letter to classic hard-boiled literature, but with a twist. I put the American urban cowboy on the mean streets of post-First World War Britain. My Private eye, Logan Bishop, is one hell of a dude. He’s no Gentleman, but he’s got a set of skills that make him very useful to the upper classes who have lots of secrets they’d like kept.

So as I sit here on publication day, I’m trying not to worry about anything. Not who will or won’t read or review. I just hope the right readers find their way to Logan Bishop and enjoy his adventure.

If you want a little slice of noir, pick up a copy of NO SAINTS ONLY KILLERS available wherever books are sold!

Bookshop Org - https://tinyurl.com/NoSaintsBSORG

Waterstones - https://tinyurl.com/NoSaintsWaterstones

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Kindle US - https://tinyurl.com/NoSaintsKindleUS

Days after the season two finale, I still can’t stop thinking about it.

Social media has been flooded with reactions — celebration, debate, analysis, and outrage. Some don’t like the big reveal, others don’t like the politics. But for that latter group, have you even watched the show?

Daredevil has always been political. Since it exploded on Netflix, the show and the comics have been hard-boiled, noir. It’s been this way since Frank Miller took over the books in the ‘80s. Daredevil commentates on the political landscape of the era, more so than most other Marvel Comics.

Born Again season two focuses on the politics of Fisk’s reign over New York and turns it into something frighteningly contemporary.

This isn’t simply a superhero show about a masked vigilante punching criminals in alleyways. It’s a story about authoritarianism, propaganda, institutional corruption, and the terrifying ease with which democracy can erode when people willingly hand power to a strongman promising to “fix” everything. And Matt Murdock is the hard-boiled detective, more or less, battling a corrupt system while trying to hold fast to his morals, but even he is pushed into the grey at times.

And like all good hard-boiled fiction, it has something to say about the here and now. Born Again has not held back!

Kingpin as the Modern Political Strongman

During season one, MAGA was furious because the series openly echoed the rise of Donald Trump through its loose adaptation of the 2017 Mayor Fisk storyline written by Charles Soule. That comic arc itself emerged from the disbelief many Americans felt after watching a blatant conman ascend to the highest office in the country.

Season two pushes that allegory even further.

Wilson Fisk isn’t just a corrupt politician anymore. He’s a wannabe dictator.

He locks people in cages. He sidesteps due process. He weaponises law enforcement through his brutal Vigilante Task Force — effectively a group of corrupt, bloodthirsty cops acting as a state-sanctioned militia. Citizens are detained without cause. Fear becomes policy. Justice becomes whatever Fisk says it is.

When we see ICE gunning innocent people down in the streets of the United States, what’s happening in Born Again doesn’t feel too far from the facts.

The parallels aren’t subtle because they aren’t supposed to be.

The show taps directly into the anxieties festering across Western democracies: the fear that institutions are weakening, that authoritarianism is becoming normalised, and that people are increasingly willing to sacrifice freedom in exchange for the illusion of order.

Since season one, the opening credits have symbolised this destruction—Lady Justice literally crumbling into nothing, and justice being born again as Daredevil.

The Victims of Propaganda

One of the season’s smartest choices is the character arc of Daniel Blake.

Daniel represents the ordinary person seduced by political mythology. He buys into the propaganda. He genuinely believes Fisk will save the city. “Fisk Can Fix It” becomes less of a campaign slogan and more of a cult mantra.

There’s a painful realism to Daniel’s journey because Born Again understands that authoritarian movements rarely sustain themselves purely through fear. They thrive because people want to believe.

Daniel is the everyman who swallowed the snake oil.

And when reality finally crashes through the propaganda, the season captures that devastating “What the hell have I done?” moment with remarkable effectiveness.

BB Urich serves as the lead back to the light, but not in time. Daniel is forced to cross a line for Fisk, because if he doesn’t, he’ll be killed… suddenly, the man Daniel has idolised doesn’t seem so cool.

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There’s an element of societal awakening running throughout the entire season. A slow, painful coming-to-your-senses process. A “Why did we let it go this far?” realisation.

A Liberal Inversion of January 6

The finale is where the show’s political commentary becomes impossible to ignore.

Outside the courthouse, an enraged public gathers as Fisk takes the stand. Inside, Matt Murdock fights not with his fists but with the law itself. It becomes a battle for democracy inside the halls of justice while chaos brews outside.

The imagery is deliberate.

The crowd storming the courthouse functions as a liberal inversion of January 6 — not conservatives attempting to overturn democracy, but furious citizens raging against authoritarianism and institutional corruption. It’s messy, volatile, and morally uncomfortable in exactly the way it should be.

Because Born Again isn’t arguing that mob anger is inherently righteous. It’s illustrating what happens when people lose faith in systems designed to protect them.

The courthouse becomes symbolic of Western democracy itself: fragile, overcrowded, vulnerable, and one step away from collapse.

Matt Murdock’s Greatest Fight

What makes the finale so compelling is that Matt Murdock wins not as Daredevil, but as Matt.

For years, this franchise has centred around duality: Matt versus Daredevil. Justice versus vengeance. Law versus violence. Good versus evil embodied through Matt Murdock and Wilson Fisk.

Season two brings that thematic battle to its most poignant conclusion yet.

Matt doesn’t simply beat Fisk physically. He dismantles him publicly.

And in what will undoubtedly become one of the defining moments of the franchise, Matt exposes his identity as Daredevil in court to bring Fisk down.

It’s the MCU equivalent of an “I am Iron Man” moment.

The reveal draws clear inspiration from various comics in which Matt’s two identities are revealed. But here, the choice feels even more powerful because it represents total sacrifice.

Matt gives up everything — privacy, safety, anonymity — because preserving democracy matters more.

That’s the central thesis of the season: sometimes protecting justice requires personal destruction.

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Wish Fulfilment for a Frustrated Liberal Audience

There’s also no denying the finale operates as wish fulfilment.

Watching Fisk’s own ego lead him into a public reckoning feels intentionally cathartic for viewers desperate to see powerful political figures finally held accountable. Replace Fisk with a certain president and the Vigilante Task Force with ICE imagery, and the allegory becomes crystal clear.

A bloated narcissist convinced he can manipulate the legal system. A public exhausted by corruption. A courtroom transformed into a battleground over truth itself.

The destruction of Fisk’s dictatorship becomes a fantasy not because it feels unrealistic, but because many people increasingly fear reality may never provide that kind of accountability.

What’s remarkable is that after five seasons of storytelling — counting the original Netflix era — the conflict between Matt Murdock and Wilson Fisk still feels compelling.

Some online complain that Marvel keeps returning to Fisk versus Matt.

But why wouldn’t they?

This rivalry remains one of the strongest hero-villain dynamics in comic book media because it’s fundamentally ideological. Fisk believes power justifies itself. Matt believes justice must restrain power.

That conflict never becomes outdated because society never stops wrestling with it.

And Born Again proves Marvel still has an audience hungry for grounded, character-focused storytelling rather than endlessly escalating CGI spectacle. The show succeeds because its stakes feel human. The violence and politics matter.

In many ways, the season evokes comparisons to The Dark Knight Rises. Both stories explore cities collapsing under extremism and chaos. Both examine heroes sacrificing themselves to restore order.

But honestly? Born Again handles those themes better.

Where Nolan’s Gotham sometimes felt abstract, Born Again makes New York’s decay feel intimate and terrifyingly plausible.

Matt Saving Fisk Speaks Volumes

One of the most powerful moments in the season 2 finale is the confrontation between Daredevil and Fisk.

An enraged public has begun to dogpile Fisk, proceeding to beat him to death. Mob mentality and utter chaos ensues.

What is happening is far from OK. How many times did Matt clash with Punisher over murder? Or Karen, who argued that he just won’t stop Fisk in the way he ‘needs’ to be stopped… is killed.

Matt intervenes and stops the public from killing Fisk, which goes back to the heart of his character. Killing is never OK. It’s never the answer. It’s not justice!

In our real world, in which there have allegedly been assassination attempts on Trump’s life, the ‘damn they missed’ jokes that spring up on the internet come to mind. There is no denying the show was hinting at the “just take him out” mentality, and why it is wrong.

No matter how despicable, heinous, and deplorable Fisk/Trump are… murder is not justice. Daredevil Born Again goes so far as to have Matt rescue Fisk, which anchors Matt in his quest for true justice and his belief in democracy. He will not cross that line.

The Future of Hell’s Kitchen

By the finale’s end, Fisk is on the run. Matt Murdock faces imprisonment. Heather has fully transitioned into Lady Muse. New York remains fractured and traumatised.

And that uncertainty is exactly why the ending works so well.

Unlike many MCU projects that rush toward restoring the status quo, Born Again leaves scars behind. Matt’s identity reveal cannot easily be undone. The city cannot simply forget what happened. Democracy, once broken, doesn’t magically heal overnight.

That lingering damage gives the show weight that will ultimately play into season 3.

Ultimately, Daredevil Born Again season two succeeds because it understands superheroes are at their most powerful when they reflect the fears of the real world. Beneath all the brutality, courtroom drama, and comic-book spectacle lies a story about democracy under siege and the people willing to sacrifice themselves to protect it.

And right now, that feels less like fantasy and more like a warning.

When I first read that, I had to let it sit with me for a moment. I sort of pushed back against it for a moment… I write fiction, I write about crime and the seedy underbellies of London. I don’t write about my life! At least not directly! And then it hit—that was the point.

All writing is autobiographical, albeit indirectly!

Fiction writers appropriate memories, experiences, and events that were either witnessed firsthand or secondhand, and repurpose our understanding of a situation, putting it into dialogue with fiction.

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When I write, I am telling the reader a little bit, if not a lot, about how I see and understand the world.

There is no objective truth; that’s why the best novels don’t tell you what to think or believe. They pose a question, explore a dilemma, and allow the reader to pick a side.

That’s because there is only our perception of truth.

Everyone, me included, is predisposed with a lens through which we absorb and understand the world. Our truths, our experiences, may not be someone else’s. Our lived reality might be totally foreign to another person. You can give two writers the same prompt, and they’ll turn in two vastly different stories based solely on who they are and their experiences!

When we sit down to write, it is our version of reality we are filtering and channelling into fiction… even if we are writing about a time and place unlike any we’ve physically experienced.

While writing NO SAINTS ONLY KILLERS, I first wanted to tell a story about a 1920s private eye. Then I wanted to tell it in Edinburgh and London. Therefore, I needed to research the era, the sociopolitical tensions, all that post-war disillusionment. I, wearing the hat of a historian, then had to reinterpret the past, wrestle with it, and present a fictionalised version that was all chopped up and filtered through my psychological predispositions and prejudices.

It’s safe to say that I did not live in 1920s Britain, nor did I grow up as the son of a preacher man in suburban Chicago in the 1900s. Nevertheless, as the author, I inevitably mined a lot of myself when putting this story together.

I do come from Midwest America, I am from a deeply religious background, and I now live in the U.K. with no desire to ever go back.

Logan Bishop is an American in the UK. He is an outsider; he’s a loner, he doesn’t have many friends, he doesn’t trust many people, he’s quite unlucky, he’s a foreigner, he’s not thrilled with his country of origin, and he’s put off by religion. All of those are things, to varying degrees, that are me or were me at the time of writing.

Those who have read NO SAINTS ONLY KILLERS might interpret the above differently. Some might think I hate the United States. Some might think I see no value in faith. That would, of course, be the reader bringing their experiences to my work, filtering my words through their lens, reacting accordingly, and giving themselves an experience to share with others.

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It’s possible the reader may not see those things in Logan that I see or feel in myself.

Nevertheless, he reflects aspects of my experiences.

In reality, the elements of me, the autobiographical bits that I mined, exaggerated, and fictionalised, were a form of therapy. A way of working through a problem, whether historical or contemporary.

I think when writers say they must write, what they are really acknowledging is the therapeutic value of channelling direct and indirect experiences through a fictional output.

How many times have crime writers said, “Piss me off, I’ll kill you in my next book!”

An autobiographical experience made fictional, and hella therapeutic!

On the flip side, when you read characters that are righteous, suave, seductive, strong, bold, brash, uber-smart, and so on, they don’t emerge from nothing. They are part of the writer, a wish-fulfilment, so to speak, likely rooted in a direct or indirect experience with someone you want to be like, be with, or loathe.

So I might have written a 1920s thriller set in Edinburgh about a private eye whose estranged father gets attacked, thereby sending him on a quest for answers that puts him in a world of hurt. Some of that hurt might’ve been real… some of it not. But that novel is full of me…

So when you crack open a book, you’re getting a glimpse into the life and experiences of its author. It’s not all fiction; some of it is fact, just a little different. As Palumbo called it, “was and wasn’t.”

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A Father was brutally attacked.

A woman has vanished.

The truth will get you killed

No Saints Only Killers is a gritty 1920s noir thriller set in Edinburgh—a city split down the middle, where wealth and poverty collide, and trust is a luxury no one can afford.

At the centre of it all is Private Investigator Logan Bishop—an American expat with a past he can’t outrun. When his estranged father is left for dead, Logan is pulled into a case that quickly turns personal. What begins as a search for answers spirals into something far darker, leading him through the city’s shadowy underbelly—where every clue comes at a cost, and every ally could be a threat.

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Previously shortlisted for the Amazon New Voices Award (under the title Wasteland) and featured in Bloody Scotland Pitch Perfect, No Saints Only Killers delivers a tense, atmospheric descent into a world where morality is blurred, and survival is never guaranteed.

If you’re drawn to:

• Hard-boiled detectives with an edge

• Historical Thrillers that pack a punch

• Explosive mysteries with deadly consequences

…then NO SAINTS ONLY KILLERS is for you.

Think Raymond Chandler in one of the meanest cities, in one of the meanest times!

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Mimetic Desire in The Big Sleep

I never tire of the insight I gain and re-gain from my favourite authors. As I was reading about René Girard’s Mimetic Theory, I couldn’t help but think about it in connection with Raymond Chandler’s The Big Sleep (1939).

WTF is Mimetic Theory, you ask? Well, according to Girard, human desire is imitative. We imitate the things we want to be. The “Romantic Lie” is that we choose our path because of our own desires; the “Novelistic Truth” is that we are actually imitating a Model or Mediator. We hope to achieve the goal of our ‘hero.’

Prior to writers like Chandler and Dashiell Hammett, the dominant form of crime fiction was the British puzzle-based mystery. From Conan Doyle to Agatha Christie, crime was a disruption, an aberration, to everyday life that, once resolved, allowed the world to return to normal. These stories weren’t interested in deep social commentary and were often rigid with procedural rules. In mythic terms, Golden Age detective fiction is about a kingdom disrupted by a monster; a knight is brought in, he slays the monster, and the sun rises brighter with evil vanquished. They were Romantic Lies.

Crime was a game.

Chandler wasn’t interested in the game. He was interested in the Novelistic Truth.

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As Chandler famously said, Hammett “gave murder back to the kind of people that commit it for reasons, not just to provide a corpse.” While Golden Age detectives like Holmes and Poirot were “superheroes”—Arthurian knights with superior intelligence—Marlowe represents something more human and, ultimately, more tragic, even though he wishes to be more!

Mimetic And The Stained-Glass Knight

The Big Sleep opens with Marlowe wearing his “armour”: a powder-blue suit, clean, shaved, and sober. He is “everything a well-dressed private detective ought to be.” Upon entering the Sternwood mansion, he immediately identifies with his knightly Model:

“Over the entrance doors... there was a broad stained-glass panel showing a knight in dark armour rescuing a lady who was tied to a tree... I stood there and thought that if I lived in the house, I would sooner or later have to climb up there and help him.”

Marlowe desires to be the “good guy” who saves the princess. But as the story progresses, the Romantic Lie that our hero should be a virtuous knight shatters. The Princess (Carmen) is not a damsel in distress; she is a deceiver and a murderer, who uses her “vulnerability” as a weapon.

To take it back to the stained glass image, as soon as the princess is untied, she’s going to slit the knight’s throat, because the whole thing was a ruse.

Ultimately, the monster Marlowe needs to slay isn’t a blackmailer; it’s actually the princess. However, he doesn’t want to upset the dying King (General Sternwood), whom he respects, with this revelation.

The Undifferentiated Mess

The Hero’s Journey typically depicts an emergence from ignorance to enlightenment, but for Marlowe, this enlightenment is a descent into the sump.

In Girardian terms, intense conflict eventually leads to a state where all distinctions collapse—the undifferentiated mess. By the end of the novel, the hierarchies of “Knight,” “King,” and “Criminal” are revealed as mere illusions. We’re all going to die and what does it matter?

Marlowe’s existential struggle can be defined by the tension between External and Internal Mediation. He initially identifies with the stained-glass Knight—an External Mediator who exists in the world of myths and fairy tales. Because the Knight is unreachable, Marlowe can admire him without the threat of rivalry. However, as he descends into the sump of Los Angeles, he is drawn into the sphere of Internal Mediation, rubbing shoulders with figures like Vivian Sternwood. As the distance between the hero and the villain collapses, Marlowe stops merely observing their world and enters into what Girard calls mimetic rivalry with it. Marlowe becomes indistinguishable from the evil forces he intended to transcend.

When Marlowe discovers that Carmen murdered Rusty Regan, General Sternwood’s son-in-law, whom he liked very much, he chooses to cover it up to protect the old King. In doing this, he realises he is no longer the hero standing outside the corruption.

He is part of it.

“What did it matter where you lay once you were dead?... You were dead, you were sleeping the big sleep... Oil and water were the same as wind and air to you. You just slept the big sleep, not caring about the nastiness of how you died or where you fell. Me, I was part of the nastiness now.”

Characters like Holmes and Poirot et al were never part of the nastiness. They always remained outside of it, above it. That was part of their charm as early detective superheroes. It’s why they still appeal today! They were/are mythic, aspirational-like heroes. Like King Arthur and his knights. They never had to question their integrity. They would never do the wrong thing.

On the other hand, The Big Sleep says no matter how much you want to relate to knightly heroes, there’s no chance of obtaining that in this amoral world. There is no way to set the world ‘right’ after a crime… just more crime.

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The Novelistic Truth

This is the moment of revelation that the mimetic quest is unachievable, no matter how hard we strive for it. Marlowe was everything “a Private Eye ought to be.” A heroic fantasy in motion. His desires reflected in the stained-glass.

The Romantic Lie sees Holmes return to Baker Street having restored order, sharing a brandy with Watson. The novelistic truth underpinning The Big Sleep is that restoration is off the table. Marlowe is left in the dumps. He spared the General public humiliation by masking his family’s crimes, but at the cost of his own soul. Perhaps Chandler’s Novelistic Truth is that in a corrupt world, like ours, the attempt to play the knight is an unachievable fantasy—even the good guys aren’t really all that good.

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Do you remember a time when the art you engaged with wasn’t complicated by the question of who or what created it? In the very short span of time, the what has become the most important question in the arts.

2012: The End of Reality

While reading Christine Rosen’s The Extinction of Experience (2024), and the ways in which flesh-and-blood ‘you had to be there’ experiences have suffered since 2012, in combination with Jonathan Haidt’s The Anxious Generation (2024), which discusses the rise of mental health issues (2012 being the key year again, not coincidental), I couldn’t help but think about how Big Tech has impacted and harmed creativity.

For years, I have been unabashedly vocal about my disdain for the celebrity novel—particularly those written by ghostwriters but peddled to the (mostly) unaware public as being written by a hack celebrity the publishing industry decided to use as a cash cow.

The Mayan calendar is known for predicting the world’s end in 2012. And maybe it wasn’t far off? Maybe the end wasn’t the destruction of the physical world, but another end—the end of reality as we knew it.

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Staged Life and Pseudo-Reality

2012 marked the year Facebook (Meta) bought Instagram, and smartphones became widely accessible. Life became about a beautifully curated series of events. Since then, mental health has been in free-fall as depression, self-harm, and anxiety have spiked.

In this digital landscape, people project a false reality of how amazing their lives are, fooling people into buying into a pseudo-reality. Many have turned their lives into a cheap reality-TV show. Whether that is documenting the dramas of your train journey, the killer night you had, or sitting in a cafe with a perfectly framed muffin and coffee for Insta—Life has become staged.

We don’t go to a concert. We pay money, get smashed in a crowd, and watch the show through our phones as we film it to show everyone what we are doing. Experiences have become cheapened and filtered.

In the wake of all this, it comes as no surprise that post-2012 saw a sharp rise in celebrity novels (both ghostwritten and non-ghostwritten). As social media infested every aspect of our lives, we entered a pseudo-reality where authenticity didn’t matter, only likes and clicks. With that, authenticity in art was jeopardised.

The rise of social media coincided with the rise of celebrity culture, and with that, new ways of monetising fame. Authors suddenly had to compete against massive celebrity book deals, edging out new voices, so Marcus Rashford and Jamie Oliver can take up shelf space in Waterstones. Many of these books are fraudulent, inauthentic, shameful gimmickry because the name on the front cover didn’t do the work. Then you get actors like Millie Bobby Brown sharing staged (i.e., pseudo-real) photos of herself in a bathing suit by the pool, reading “her” novel (i.e., pseudo-art).

Since 2012, we have witnessed the slow murder of art. Death of the Author has taken on a new meaning. Pseudo-reality has led to pseudo-art.

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The Next Extinction

Enter the year 2026. The arts are facing an extinction-level crisis.

Every industry is pushing AI. Commercials depict business meetings in which deals are made with quick retorts after asking AI for answers. Every social media platform, from X to TikTok, is overrun by AI, ranging from feel-good dog videos to Tom Cruise fighting Brad Pitt with dumbo dudebros saying, “Hollywood is cooked!”

Meta, Google, Microsoft, Apple, X, and every other tech company push tools that foster the false idea that anyone can make art now. Someone can write and publish a book in a day. A few prompts can create songs, clips, and images. You can generate an entire podcast using AI if you want. This technology is not about levelling playing fields or about providing access to tools that the less privileged wouldn’t have—like the addictive nature of social media or the chemicals in fast food, this is about controlling and hooking people.

It’s brainwashing.

Big Tech is creating a generation of frauds. First, it created influencers—talentless, vapid hacks chasing celebrity. Now it wants you to believe you are a creative. You aren’t really a creative to them; you are a User, and they want to mine you for data and your bank account. The reality is, punching a prompt into AI is no different than someone saying, “I got this really good idea… you should write it!” It’s not different to a celebrity saying, “I got this idea Mr/Ms Ghostwriter, can you do it for me?” It’s all hollow.

The publishing industry’s overall acceptance of trite ghostwritten celebrity fiction was a warning of things to come. Now, the creative industry's acceptance of AI is sadly only going to validate the pseudo-creatives, in the same way children playing T-ball all get a trophy. It’s nothing to do with skill, just making one feel special when they are not. But it means production costs will drop and profits will go up—right?

Again, it’s all about brainwashing the pubic.

The False Creator

I was having coffee with a friend recently who told me that someone he knew had released a song. This friend was proud of the ‘work’ they did. The song was entirely AI-generated. His response was, “It made me sad.” We talked about why, and the reasons were simple: there was no real artistry there. No real person played any of the instruments, no one composed the melody, and there was no spontaneous creativity involved. It was soulless, inhuman, and algorithmic.

Pseudo-art isn’t art. And punching in prompts will not make you an artist, and more than asking a ghostwriter to make you a novelist.

Pseudo-art will only ever be a pale imitation of human experience, as it will never have said experience. Think of food replicators in Star Trek. While the crew eats replicated meals, nothing beats real food when they get it.

No one will ever be truly inspired by pseudo-art in any positive way. An AI film will never have the creative passion of Ridley Scott while making Blade Runner or Peter Jackson while making The Lord of the Rings. It’ll never have the shared experience of Blink-182 as they wrote the song ‘One More Time.’ It’ll never perform like Avery Brooks in the Star Trek Deep Space Nine episode ‘Far Beyond the Stars.’

It might entertain a mouth-breathing audience who love basic-bitch entertainment—winning over a Michael Bay Transformers audience or a Netflix paint-by-numbers rom-com group. But in the same way those are jokes, pseudo-art will forever be a joke.

My hope is to see people rally behind authentic art.

In the same way that Christine Rosen, in The Extinction of Experience, laments the loss of real experiences (from basic human interaction to attending events) but also champions having real flesh-and-blood experiences, I, too, do not want to lament the loss of art entirely. But the situation is grim.

We are facing an extinction-level event in the art world.

As the mass-market paperback is being phased out in the United States, and as cinema tickets, theatre prices, and concerts become increasingly unaffordable for the average person, the concern is that human art will only be available to the wealthy. While the poor dive deeper into pseudo-reality and chase pseudo-art. Sit in front of Netflix and let the algorithm lead you by the hand, taking away your ability to explore and find new things. Sit in front of Disney+ and use their AI to generate a story between Mickey Mouse, Wolverine, and Buzz Lightyear, tricking you into thinking you made something.

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The Art of Humanity

Art should not be exclusive to the upper classes.

We are on the cusp of a Blade Runner meets The Matrix future. Who needs human relationships when a replicant can be programmed to pleasure you? When AI can validate you. Who needs the real world when you can live in a VR world and be anyone you want to be? In the same way that an existence in a pseudo-reality isn’t an existence at all, pseudo-art isn’t art.

We must understand that art, as a shared and communal experience, is vital to humanity. Reducing art to algorithms and prompts is buying into a lie. Anything less than authentic art will not do. Big Tech is fooling talentless people into thinking they are creative. Celebrities never should’ve been allowed to have novels they didn’t write. Influencers never should’ve been allowed to exist, period. Wannabes who don’t have the determination to master a skill should not be allowed to falsely parade the title of creator.

So what do we do? How do we combat the brainwashing?

Well, aside from burning social media and the internet to the ground… I want to encourage people to think twice about the art they consume. Think again about how they engage with AI. Chase the people mastering their talents. Find the indie bands, novelists, and filmmakers. Give that your attention. If we do not, art as we know it will go the way of the dodo. I’d rather experience something poorly made by a human than a glossy, inhuman facsimile.

In the era of fraudsters, when nothing online can be accepted at face value, seek authenticity.

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SUPERMAN Has Aged Poorly Five Months After Release

When SUPERMAN (2025) was released, I cringed at its clumsy handling of the Israel/Palestine conflict analogy. James Gunn’s script was nowhere near deep enough to tackle something like that adequately in a pulpy popcorn movie. But as clunky as the analogy was, there were two moments in the film that stood out as jaw-droppingly disturbing. The first was when we learn that Superman intervened in an international conflict, thwarting a war (YAY!), by abducting the President of Boravia—a Putin/Benjamin Netanyahu parody—pinning him to a cactus and ordering him to do things Superman’s way or face the unspoken consequences…(OOF!)—hopeful stuff.

Sure, Lois and Clark, I mean Superman, have an all-too-brief, consequenceless ‘interview’ about his questionable actions, but it goes nowhere, so why bother? Lois never prints that article. Superman isn’t really underfire on the world stage. It’s not until his parents’ message is leaked that the world turns on him, including the government. So the US was cool with Superman’s illegal actions because it benefited them, you can presume.

The second scene was later in the film when the Justice Gang crossed those same international borders into Boravia to stop a war by abducting the President of Boravia, only this time, Hawkgirl, with a wild grin on her face, joyfully abducts and then murders him.

On the surface, these two events are played as cinematic spectacle: our “heroes” take the law into their own hands because it’s the right thing to do. They stop a war, they ‘save lives,’ and everyone loves them for it! However, this wasn’t some kind of Inglourious Basterds moment, where you root for revolutionists to take out Hitler. To accept these events in Superman is to turn a blind eye to just how ethically flimsy and deeply problematic the film’s narrative is. If we take away the pop songs, quips, quirk, bloated action sequences, and the general James Gunn-ness of the film, the main theme here is a troubling message: might makes right—Superman is the strongest being on Earth; if he wants to stop a war, he will. If he wants to pin a head of state to a cactus and threaten him, he will. And at no point does he realise this action was wrong. If he wants his Superfriends to invade a country, murder a head of state, and walk away as heroes, he can make that happen. The real shocker is that audiences don’t care whether the heroic violence is justified if they like the outcome and it supports their political ideas.

Five months ago, when the film came out, all this felt disturbing. Now, in light of what Donald Trump has just done in Venezuela, it’s horrifying to see our heroes, like Superman, act like wannabe dictator tyrants.

Trump Followed Superman’s Lead

Yesterday, January 3, 2026, Donald Trump announced that American forces had carried out a “large-scale strike” in Venezuela, successfully capturing President Nicolás Maduro and his wife and transporting them out of the country. The US will ‘run’ the country via Big Oil (of f@cking course), and Maduro will supposedly be held accountable for his crimes… Sure, Jan. The operation has come under criticism from legal experts and world leaders who argue that Trump’s actions violate international law and national sovereignty. I’m with them on this—what Trump did was reckless and harmful.

Manduro is not unlike the fictional President of Boravia in Superman. Like Trump wrongly going into Venezuela, Superman and the Justice Gang did the same thing going into Boravia, but in a popcorn film with men in capes and tights, no one seemed to care. Well, now you should. Superman and the Justice Gang’s unilateral choice to take matters into their own hands was wrong.

Superman always has the potential to become a global dictator. He’s that powerful. He knows he must limit his actions. I mean, hell, even in the goofball film Superman IV: The Quest For Peace, there was an attempt to explain Superman’s justification and general global support for him disarming/dismantling the world’s nuclear arsenal. He didn’t just act on his own accord for a ‘greater good’ that he believed in, despite having the power to do so—something that seems to have gone over Gunn’s head.

Now we live in a world where the latest Superman film and the most corrupt US President in history are acting the same way, and I hate it.

Where the film frames Superman/the Justice Gang’s actions as a liberal triumph met with celebration from the mouth breathers in the audience, the very real act committed by a heinous Republican president is not sparking cheers, so why did we cheer for Superman?

The RedLetterMedia quote comes to mind: “Don’t ask questions, just consume product.”

Don’t think about what Superman did, don’t think about Hawkgirl murdering the President of Boravia, because Superman says kindness is real punk rock! “I’MA PUNK ROCKER, YES I AM!”

Whatever. I say, hold your popculture to a higher standard, you troglodytes.

Why This Matters

My critique of SUPERMAN is that fiction shapes perception. The perception SUPERMAN shaped is that it’s OK for Superman to do the right thing through wrong means and get away with it without question. We are already in one of the most politically divided eras in history, and Gunn’s film is the perfect example of the Left and Right being two sides of the same coin. Both are in the wrong. Superman is no better than Trump in 2026. Yay?

Superman’s “heroic intervention” is packaged as exciting and justified. We’re meant to side with Superman and the Justice Gang without grappling with the legal and ethical fallout of kidnapping and murdering a head of state.

Had writer-director James Gunn properly explored and dealt with the fallout of Superman’s actions, that could have been something interesting. A young, reckless Superman goes too far doing what he believes is right, but needs to learn a better way to deal with global issues. That would’ve added weight to the film’s events. Elements of that are currently being explored in Mark Waid’s current run on Action Comics as Superman looks back on his days as Superboy. Instead of Gunn taking these story beats seriously, he dumbs them down and plays them so that audiences will clap like seals in their seats and not think twice about the seriousness of Superman’s actions.

Yet today, when a real-world leader is captured by foreign forces and the global community recoils, we see the harm of normalising that narrative. It’s one thing for a comic book movie to thrill, inspire, and challenge us with its fantasy; it’s another to allow pop culture to erode our instinctive understanding of international law and sovereignty.

A Film That Should Age as a Cautionary Tale

Watching SUPERMAN (2025) now, it’s difficult not to see the film as part of the cultural drift in which Left and Right use the same playbook. The spectacle of a “hero” taking on geopolitical issues, local, and national corruption can be thrilling, until the writers of these stories lack the intelligence to handle these themes, make their heroes ignorantly no better than the bad guys, and fail to explore the causes and effects of actions.

If anything, Trump’s attack on Venezuela amplifies why James Gunn’s handling of Superman/Justice Gang’s interventionism was weak — not simply as a plot device, but as a reflection of a worldview that equates power with moral authority. Superman would’ve known better than this, and the film did the character and the audience a disservice by not recognising Superman’s role in geopolitics. Because right now, the world is being reminded of what happens when a madman has the same Might as Superman in stark, frightening detail.

The deed is done… well, maybe. Netflix has entered into exclusive talks with Warner Bros. to buy the 100-year-old studio.

The news gave me the same gut-drop that Disney buying Marvel and then Star Wars did. That I don’t have a good feeling about this vibe was strong and right about that. Disney has single-handedly bombarded the world with Marvel/Star Wars content, pushing both beloved franchises to the brink of irrelevance. I fear the same with Netflix/WB.

Now, WB, the home of The Lord of the Rings, Harry Potter, Game of Thrones, Casablanca, The Big Sleep, the entire DC universe, and countless other iconic films and franchises, is likely to merge with Netflix—the streaming behemoth that loathes physical media and sneers at theatrical release. All of this has been devalued by streaming in general, while Ted Sarandos—the head of Netflix—babbles about how his film editor son once watched Lawrence of Arabia on his phone and didn’t think it would have changed his experience if he'd seen it on the big screen. Whatever.

I’m not a pundit. I won’t pretend to know the economic fallout: jobs, box office, or the long-term corporate gymnastics. But I do understand one thing—the impact of art as a social event.

Since the announcement, two big fears dominate Hollywood chatter:

1. The demise of theatrical releases.

2. The death of physical media.

Both are things Netflix notoriously refuses to embrace. Just Google Rian Johnson and Daniel Craig’s frustration over the Knives Out sequels’ laughably short theatrical run.

Ted Sarandos claims, “A film playing in theatres for two months… that’s an outdated concept. What is the consumer telling us? That they’d like to watch movies at home, thank you.”

Is the consumer really telling you that, Ted?

Theatres, sports, concerts—every communal form of entertainment—still thrives. But apparently, cinema is the only thing that’s suddenly outdated?

I call bullsh*t.

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Netflix wants everyone holed up at home, bingeing content like mindless drones. There’s a reason Netflix hasn’t produced a single film with genuine cultural impact. Go ahead—name one, I dare you. Netflix has no E.T., no Saving Private Ryan, no Mission: Impossible. Even its biggest TV “hits” evaporate faster than ’70s sitcom reruns. We’re still talking about The Brady Bunch (“Sure, Jan”), Friends, The Office, Columbo, ’90s superhero cartoons, Smallville, One Tree Hill, and countless other shows that remain part of the cultural bloodstream; none of which are Netflix originals. Why? They spike, trend for two weeks, and vanish. I mean, hell, the only staying power of Stranger Things has nothing to do with the show, but the show’s use of 80s nostalgia and pop culture. Strip that away, and what is the appeal of the show? Notta. Even That ‘70s Show transcended ‘70s nostalgia to become a hit in its own right.

Who still talks about Orange Is the New Black? House of Cards? Even Ozark, a massive success, doesn’t linger in the zeitgeist the way Breaking Bad does. And Netflix can’t take credit for Black Mirror, You, or Cobra Kai, since they merely acquired them.

What Netflix fails to grasp is this: art is a social experience.

Whether on stage or on the big screen. Art thrives when the community can engage with it, digest it, and discuss it. When you binge and forget it, it devolves the role of art in society.

The binge model, in my opinion, is one of the worst things to happen to television. Suddenly, thirteen hours of content is dropped at once, and within eight hours, every entertainment outlet has released spoiler-filled recaps. Then the conversation dies within days. Yes, Netflix have tried splitting seasons into two blocks in the hopes that it’ll keep the conversation lasting longer—it doesn’t.

Meanwhile, Disney, Paramount, and Prime Video have the good sense to release episodes weekly.

Why?

Because people talk.

Ten to twelve weeks of regular chatter online and in person goes a long way over eight to ten days of media buzz.

The binge model suffocated watercooler culture. You’ve seen seven episodes of Bridgerton, your colleague has seen one, and you can’t discuss anything without landmines. A week later, the show is, poof, gone. Like the 24-hour news cycle, the world has moved on.

Giving audiences everything instantly is like giving a toddler whatever they want on demand: eventually, you create a monster. Netflix has created an audience that wants the whole thing now—but can’t focus on it long enough for it to matter.

Well done, Big Tech.

Since the beginning of human history, we’ve gathered for stories—around fires, in coliseums, in amphitheatres. Ancient Greece gave us theatre as we know it: crowds packed together to experience tragedy, comedy, myth. Cinema evolved from that tradition—a collective way of seeing stories unfold. For over 100 years, film and theatre have fed each other, as plays become films and films become plays. Wicked: For Good (a novel turned play turned film) is currently one of the biggest box office hits of 2025.

What Ted misses is that art experienced together is more powerful than art experienced alone. It’s easy to claim “the consumer wants to watch at home” when you refuse to give them a real theatrical option. Until Netflix supports proper runs, he’s talking out of his ass, peddling bias, and treating storytelling like disposable content.

And here’s the truth:

I have zero emotional memory of watching House of Cards, Mindhunter, Stranger Things, or any Netflix movie.

None stayed with me.

Why?

Binging doesn’t allow for digestion. It’s just a flood of images and sounds.

But I remember seeing Back to the Future’s 25th anniversary in Manchester in 2010. It was incredible. Despite watching it countless times on VHS as a kid, this time, the details popped off the screen like never before. The drama was bigger, the emotional stakes higher, the thrillers greater! That packed cinema were sucked in. I remember a Jaws/Jurassic Park double bill at the Prince Charles Cinema, in London, surrounded by fans. Pure magic! Even seeing Rogue One: A Star Wars Story with a buzzing crowd was special, despite feeling that the film was a goofy mess.

Communal energy transforms the experience.

When I reach back even further: Toy Story, the 1997 Star Wars re-releases, Spider-Man, The Lord of the Rings, Casino Royale, even duds like Fantastic Four and Transformers left a mark on me. I can remember sitting in Transformers (2007), hearing Optimus Prime’s voice over, ‘In the beginning there was… THE CUBE,’ and sinking into my chair.

Every one of these films (and more) is tied to a memory—a place, a crowd, a collective moment. I remember seeing the final TWILIGHT movie with a girlfriend and her visceral reaction when Edward’s dad got his head snapped off, because it deviated so much from the books, it floored the fans. I gotta good laugh out of it.

Next week I’m seeing Thunderball on the big screen. I’ve seen it countless times at home, but that’s not the point. I want the collective experience—the shared immersion. Because that’s what’s missing on a phone or in an isolated living room: community.

So no, Ted. You say Netflix is saving Hollywood? It’s not.

You think that Cinema isn’t “evolving.” That this instant consumer gratification is the answer? No. Actually, you’re single-handedly harming cinema, devolving it—turning a communal ritual into a lonely, disposable one.

Only time will tell if this is good or bad, but I’m cynical about the whole thing.

If we lose the communal cinematic experience to a cold, lonely at-home only one, it will be a crying shame. Do directors and filmmakers need to be bolder, act louder, and not cut deals with this beast? Maybe.

Because Netflix won’t stop until there’s serious pushback or its subscribers speak with their wallets and unsubscribe. But then, how will people watch Love is Blind?

Welcome to the end of cinema, everyone.

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The MCU is back with one of its most buzzed-about films in years—Thunderbolts*. Critics are fawning over its stripped-down tone, supposed emotional depth, and grounded feel, in contrast to the recent CGI-saturated chaos that has plagued Marvel’s output. But amid the praise, few seem willing to engage with the film’s deeply problematic subtext.

Because here’s the uncomfortable truth: Thunderbolts* wants you to cheer for a murderer in Captain America’s boots—and a team of Russian operatives wrapped in the sheen of reluctant heroism.

There is a moral rot under the surface of this film—and failure to recognise it says something about the United States’ continued shifting moral compass.

John Walker: Captain America by Way of Trump

John Walker, played by Wyatt Russell, is not new to the MCU. He debuted in The Falcon and the Winter Soldier as the government’s choice to succeed Steve Rogers. But Walker is no Steve Rogers—he’s a soldier with a hair-trigger temper, a warped sense of duty, and zero accountability. On paper, that’s an interesting concept to explore. In execution, it failed when Walker became a cold-blooded murderer.

The most infamous moment? In Episode 4 of that series, Walker’s closest friend is killed by a member of the Flag Smashers. Fueled by rage, he hunts down a member of the group—not the one responsible for his friend’s death—and publicly beats the man to death with Captain America’s shield. The image of a blood-soaked symbol of justice reverberated across the internet. It wasn’t just a murder—it was a desecration.

There’s a version of this story that could have worked and been compelling and challenging in a Frank Castle sort of way. But Marvel is rarely compelling or challenging today. Like death, nothing really matters in this bouncy castle world.

Instead of facing lasting consequences, Walker is court-martialed and then quickly repurposed by shadowy interests and becomes the “U.S. Agent.” Because, in today’s world, accountability is negotiable—especially if you’re still useful to the powerful. Sound familiar?

Walker’s entire arc is disturbingly Trumpian. When he is court-martialed, all he does is deny fault, project blame, deflect outrage, and walk away with a promotion, working for Valentina Allegra de Fontaine, the director of the CIA.

Daredevil: Born Again season 1 explored dirty politics and power-tripping bent cops who murder in cold blood—and guess what, they are the villains. While the show, Falcon and Winter Soldier, might’ve tried to comment on the dangers of glorifying military power and a lack of moral foundations, Walker doesn’t walk away a changed man. He remains a bad guy. This isn’t a redemption arc—it’s an indictment of America’s tolerance for unchecked violence under the guise of patriotism. Walker violently murdering someone and only getting a slap on the wrist is not the right message Marvel should be sending, unless they accept this character is, and forever will be, a bad guy… but that’s not happening.

Now the guy who desecrated Captain America’s shield is teaming up with a literal relic of Soviet propaganda in order to take out the corrupt head of the CIA (wrap your brain around that!), and we’re meant to accept him as a lovable anti-hero and root for him in Thunderbolts*? I think not. At least DC’s crappy Suicide Squad (2016) understood the team is comprised of outright villains who are in prison, serving time for their crimes.

The Soviet Heroes the MCU Wants You to Love

If John Walker is one problem, this Thunderbolt is arguably worse.

Red Guardian, played by David Harbour, is a glaring issue, despite Florence Pugh’s Yelena Belova also being a Russian sleeper agent. Red Guardian was the Soviet Union’s answer to Captain America—literally engineered as a symbol of Soviet power and anti-Western ideology.

Red Guardian may be played for laughs, with his wistful tales of Cold War glory and bruised ego, but make no mistake—his entire existence was crafted as a weapon of state propaganda. He refers to Captain America as his great nemesis, makes comments about Black Widow being indoctrinated into the ‘Western agenda.’ Hardy, har har… This character leans into his nostalgia as a harmless delusion, but the context cannot be ignored: he’s a symbol of a regime that stood in direct ideological opposition to Western democracy. He is the anti-Captain America. He is anti-American. He is not an American hero. He’s not a Western hero.

Let’s put it another way. Imagine the outcry if the MCU centered a heroic arc around a Nazi super soldier who still wore the uniform “for old time’s sake.” Well, swap out “Nazi” for “Soviet” and suddenly it’s quirky? Romanticised? Harmless Cold War kitsch?

Dear lord.

The MCU’s attempts to sidestep the real-life implications of this character are deeply troubling—especially when Russia is actively waging war in Ukraine, meddling in Western democracies, and whitewashing its past through modern disinformation.

I mean, my God, the main villain is the Director of the CIA, who needs to be taken down by… a Soviet and a dirty ex-military officer? This feels utterly misguided.

The MCU has always played with morally grey figures. From Tony Stark’s arms-dealer-turned-hero to Bucky Barnes’ recovery from brainwashed assassin, redemption arcs can work when grounded in accountability and real character growth.

But Thunderbolts* doesn’t wrestle with its characters’ pasts—it embraces them. It plays them for giggles for a moronic tiktok audience who aren’t paying attention to the what they are actually engaging with. Red Guardian is never forced to reckon with the regime he served. John Walker is never made to confront the moral collapse he embodies. And audiences are expected to root for this ragtag band of misfits as though their pasts are just flavour, not a fundamental part of their identity.

At a time when authoritarianism is on the rise, and real-life Russia is committing atrocities on the world stage, centring a heroic narrative around its fictional legacy—and pairing it with a corrupt symbol of American power—feels tone-deaf. It feels dangerous.

Heroes We Can’t Afford

The Thunderbolts* are meant to be the MCU’s version of the Suicide Squad—flawed anti-heroes doing good against the odds. But context matters. And right now, Western audiences are being asked to cheer for:

• A government-trained murderer in a knock-off Captain America costume,

• Russian state operatives with zero remorse for their origins,

• And a team that collectively represents the erosion of moral clarity in both fiction and reality.

Marvel lacks the skills and cleverness to explore these topics and characters with any amount of intelligence, conviction, or nuance. To quote RedLetterMedia, they want you to “Don’t ask questions, just consume product.” That is an uncomfortable reality.

The issue Marvel has is its inability to delve deeply into these characters and address their flaws in a meaningful way. Dare I say it, most MCU writers don’t have the skill or knowledge to be able to do anything other than surface-level gags.

We all fawn over a lovable rogue like Jack Sparrow or Deadpool. We love stories of conspiracy like the Bourne novels and films. For many, Thunderbolts* is just a fun time at the cinema, but if you think hard about what you’re watching and who these characters are, it’s a questionable piece of pro-Russia propaganda and Trumpian ideology that goes unchecked. That’s troubling. Is that really where Marvel wants to go? It sure as hell isn’t where I want to go.

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“If this city actually elects him, then maybe New York’s getting the mayor it deserves.”

A bold line that Matt Murdock says in the first episode of Daredevil: Born Again now streaming on Disney+, and one that sets the tone for the series’ unapologetic political message. Make no mistake: Born Again is a clear Trump analogy, and MAGA fans are already furious.

Me? I love it.

The get woke, go broke crowd wasted no time coming for Daredevil: Born Again. Mere hours after its March 4th premiere, the usual suspects flooded social media, calling it lazy man-hating woke garbage because Fisk’s wife has taken over his criminal empire and Matt is no longer in partnership with Foggy and Karen, but instead a black female attorney, and it paints Fisk as a Trumpian politician.

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But here’s the thing, these dopes clearly weren’t paying attention—Fisk has been a Trump allegory from the very start of the series, not to mention Born Again season 1 is based on the Mayor Fisk storyarc from 2017—a direct reaction to Trump’s first attempt as a dictator. What Born Again is doing is what you expect a neo-noir series to do: commentate.

Daredevil is one of the most noir characters in Marvel’s pantheon, something that truly took shape during Frank Miller’s legendary run. The original Netflix series (2015-2018) masterfully leaned into gritty neo-noir storytelling: Matt and Foggy, two low-rent attorneys, take on cases no one else will, not for money or fame, but for justice. That’s classic hard-boiled detective DNA—think Philip Marlowe or Sam Spade.

In noir, the true villain is corruption personified. In Daredevil, that personification was Wilson Fisk, aka The Kingpin, played to perfection by Vincent D’Onofrio.

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Fisk Will Fix It—Sound Familiar?

From episode one of Born Again, Fisk is running for mayor, and he tells Matt Murdock matter-of-factly that he will win. His campaign slogan? Fisk Will Fix It. Sound familiar?

Fisk asks his eager young campaigner, Daniel Blake, “You’re young. Why would you vote for me?” Indeed, why!

Blake responds with the same vague gobbledygook that Trump voters say time and time again: “Because you get shit done! You made things happen for yourself, now you’ll make things happen for New York. Mayor Fisk… that’s the coolest fucking thing on the planet.”

Translation? If I lick your boot, maybe I’ll get something out of this.

Fisk later asks his campaign manager where she found Blake. Her response? “…he was cheap.”

Cheap.

Desperate.

Daniel Blake is every MAGA voter who buys into the con, thinking a corrupt billionaire actually cares about the little guy. Blake believes Fisk gets things done, but does he stop to question how he does it? Or does he simply not care? I choose to believe the latter. There is no mistake who or what Fisk is, just like there is no mistake who or what Trump is… and their followers know it and support it openly and willingly.

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Fisk Has Always Been Trump

Fisk's mayoral campaign makes perfect sense for the character’s arc. The reality is, Fisk has always been a Trumpian figure—MAGA fans just don’t like seeing themselves portrayed as the nasty villains they are.

While watching, my wife asked, “How could Fisk be elected mayor?”—That is the exact question people ask about Trump. HOW! .

Over three seasons, Fisk has ordered murders, personally killed people, bribed politicians, paid off city officials, laundered money, blackmailed, and engaged in witness tampering. Yet, because most of his crimes happen behind closed doors, he controls the public narrative. Even after his arrest, he spins the truth making HIMSELF out to be the victim, just like Trump.

In Daredevil Season 3, Episode 11 (“Reunion”), Fisk proclaims:

“I know that most of you find this difficult to accept. That's only because you've been manipulated, poisoned into believing the news media's fake story... that I am evil, that I am a criminal. Quite the opposite is true. Because I challenge the system, because I've told the truth and tried to make this city a better place, the people in power decided to tear me down, to tear me down with false allegations. They sent someone to frame me.”

And the public buys it. Hook, line, and sinker. Anyone watching this scene in 2018 would know well and good that this sort of victimhood and media blaming is Trump 101.

Trump and Fisk—The Victim Complex

Trump has played the role of the persecuted victim for years, enabling him to repeatedly lie and distort the facts.

• In 2016, in response to sexual assault allegations, he claimed: “Every woman lied when they came forward to hurt my campaign… total fabrication.” (No, it wasn’t.)

• After being found guilty of 34 felonies in 2024, he stated: “This was a rigged, disgraceful trial.”

Trump and Fisk need the world to perceive them as victims. This fuels their illusion of being anti-establishment warriors, fighting a broken system for the “everyman.”

But here’s the truth: they, Fisk and Trump, are the system. They embody the very corruption they pretend to combat. They create bogeymen and cast shadows on the walls of your imagination to terrify and brainwash people into supporting them.

Fisk cons the public into believing he’s a misunderstood philanthropist who wants to save New York—saving meaning control, own. Trump, likewise, sells himself as an outsider who will drain the swamp of the corrupt in Washington all while saddling up to Putin, pardoning insurrectionists (many of whom are sexual predators), and calling President Zelenskyy, a man fighting an illegal invasion of his country, a dictator.

Fisk, like Trump, never takes responsibility for anything; in his narrative, the true villains are always his accusers. He is always the hero. Though behind closed doors, Fisk at least admits what he is: “I am the ill intent.”

What is certain, whether Trump admits it in private, or not, he knows, he too, is the ill intent. A con man, a grifter, a Russian pawn.

To the MAGA viewers who are throwing tantrums because Daredevil: Born Again holds up a mirror and forces them to see who they really are, and they don’t like the reflection. GOOD! Know that the world sees you for what you are.

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The Devil’s Work Is Never Finished

Daredevil Born Again, is bang on the money in its social commentary.

We, the viewer, are Matt Murdock. Baffled, confused, and mortified by the reality that wraps itself around us, slowly blackening the sky and suffocating us. Matt says, “maybe New York’s getting the mayor it deserves.” He is called a cynic for it, to which he says, “or maybe I’m just wisin’ up.”

And he has a point.

Are we getting what we deserve?

Since season 3, where has Kingpin been? How is he out? Why has Matt or the law not done more to contain the monster? Did Matt become complacent, like so many after Trump lost the 2020 election? We didn’t REALLY think he’d win again, right?

Whether Daredevil Born Again will explore this facet, I don’t know, but, there is undoubtedly a commentary to be made about the people, the politicians, the civil servants, the religious leaders, the educators, etc., who enabled the world to become so radically polarised that someone like Trump can take office...TWICE!

Almost nothing was done to hold Trump accountable for his actions pre-during-post presidency, including instigating an insurrection, which should’ve been a fine line in the sand for every single American and should’ve seen him locked up in prison. It wasn’t. And now, with Trump pardoning insurrectionist, Musk throwing out Nazi salutes, Trump deporting immigrants to an El Salvadorian mega-prison despite a court order telling him not to… where the fuck are the voices on the Left? Outside of a few Democrats, you don’t see former Presidents like Clinton, Obama, or Biden speaking out. Hell, I’d even expect Bush to be a little uneasy with all of this. Where the hell is Hilary, where is Kamala Harris? They’re too busy with the CCA deal and booking speaking engagements, I guess.

There is an air of complacency. So maybe I’m, also, just wisin’ up.

Maybe the United States is getting what it deserves… and what Born Again is trying to do is what all good noir and neo-noir fiction does…try to make sense out of the chaos. It’s, perhaps, emphasizing, through Matt’s character, that we, those who continue to see immorality and injustice committed by our ‘leaders’, need to continue to push back against their corruption, even when those so-called heroic politicians are nowhere to be found.

James Bond Is Dead.

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For the first time ever, James Bond died saving the world. No Time to Die (2021) marked the explosive conclusion to Daniel Craig’s tenure as 007. Bold? Yes. Different? Absolutely. Infuriating? For many fans, without a doubt—but that’s a discussion for another day.

Turns out, Craig’s Bond wasn’t the only thing to die in that explosion. The Broccoli era did, too.

From Dr. No to No Time to Die, the Bond franchise has been a family affair, managed mostly by the Broccolis, from Albert R. Broccoli to his daughter and stepson. It’s one of the few franchises not solely in the hands of "the corporation."

Until now.

While Skyfall (2012) was a triumphant celebration of 50 years of 007, what followed was, in this writer’s humble opinion, a downward spiral of nostalgia-fueled self-parody à la the Moore era. Spectre (2015) and No Time to Die fizzled out, culminating in Bond’s demise. And now, in 2025, the franchise finds itself in turmoil.

Since No Time to Die, fans have waited for news on the next Bond and the future of the series. What they didn’t expect? Barbara Broccoli and Michael G. Wilson, the shepherds of the franchise since GoldenEye (1995), selling their creative control—for a cool billion dollars—to the corporate overlords at Amazon.

Like many others, when the news broke, I took to social media in disbelief. "It turns out Bond really did die in No Time to Die," I lamented. Just a year shy of Bond’s 60th anniversary, no one realized how symbolic that ending would be.

In the wake of Amazon seizing control, I started thinking about franchises in general, and there seems to be a trend—when they hit or near their 50th anniversary, something goes wrong. A mixture of corporate BS, fatigue, and creative bankruptcy.

And Bond is just the next casualty of the fifty-year curse.

Another Franchise Falls

Three massive franchises—Star Trek, Star Wars, and Doctor Who—have all stumbled in recent years. And now, Bond joins them.

Each of these franchises peaked around their 50th anniversaries before spiraling into mediocrity. Star Wars barely made it to forty before Disney drove it off a cliff in 2017 with The Last Jedi.

Star Trek has been stumbling ever since Star Trek Beyond (2016). The franchise’s big 50th anniversary was fraught with production issues—rushed script, director troubles, and a mandated release date. Beyond, while decent, didn’t wow audiences and underperformed at the box office. As a result, Star Trek hasn’t returned to the big screen since.

Its small-screen output hasn’t been spellbinding either. From Discovery to Picard (seasons 1 and 2), audiences have generally been unhappy with where Trek has gone. Neither show has a favorable audience rating on Rotten Tomatoes. Even Star Trek: Section 31 (2025), the franchise’s first “film” since its 50th, flopped spectacularly—uniting critics and audiences in disappointment for the first time in Trek’s modern era.

The franchise that most closely followed Bond’s trajectory was Doctor Who. Its 50th-anniversary special, The Day of the Doctor, like Skyfall, was a high point—culminating in a not-perfect but perfectly entertaining adventure that ended with a hopeful feeling for the future of the series.

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Unfortunately, since Doctor Who’s 50th, the show has hemorrhaged viewers. It pushed hard on retcons, lazy storytelling, and member berries, and it lost touch with what made it special. It’s now a shadow of itself.

Bond felt the same, post Skyfall.

There usually comes a nice, neat endpoint for a franchise—a moment when those in control should take stock and reevaluate. For Doctor Who, that moment was Peter Capaldi’s finale in Twice Upon a Time. It was the perfect opportunity to bring the franchise full circle, then pause the show, regroup, and restart fresh in five years or so with a reboot.

For Bond, that was Spectre. An average at best, but a decent enough send off for Craig’s Bond, that, for better or worse, tied up his entire era.

Instead of these franchises taking a step back and recalibrating, there is a “more more more” mentality. What’s not been understood is that this weakens a franchise’s freshness and relevance.

And Bond? He’s on the same tragic path.

The Amazon Problem

In the last ten years, Disney has flooded the market with twelve Star Wars films, seven live-action TV shows, and six animated series. Paramount did the same with Star Trek, pumping out two prequel series, two cartoons, and a legacy series that no one liked until season 3 (Star Trek: Picard). In a desperate attempt to catch up to Marvel and Star Wars, for Doctor Who’s (very tired) 60th anniversary, the BBC created the "Whoniverse" to pave the way for upcoming franchise spin-offs. Yay? In addition, the BBC handed a piece of Doctor Who over to Disney, giving the creatively bankrupt behemoth "creative input."

Has the glut of films and TV shows made any of these franchises better?

Nope.

Since Amazon acquired MGM, its lustful eyes have been on Bond like Gollum’s on the Ring of Power. However, Barbara Broccoli and Michael G. Wilson refused to dilute 007 with endless spin-offs. Even when the Craig era wobbled post-Skyfall, Bond at least continued to feel special. There was always excitement for the next adventure—not nothing, like I feel today for so many franchises! I might not have liked Spectre, but I sure was pumped to see it. Same with No Time to Die.

Now that’s over.

Since the MGM/Amazon deal, Amazon has been thirsty for Bond content—something Broccoli was not willing to give them. And rightfully so. Why? Because, in my opinion, the future of Bond was precious to Barbara. According to The Hollywood Reporter, Amazon pitched spin-offs for Moneypenny, Felix Leiter, and, of course, a female 007. Unsurprisingly, Broccoli and Wilson rejected these ideas. Their focus was always the films—rightfully so. The Star Wars/Marvel churn drains franchises of momentum and appeal.

But you can also look at Amazon’s track record. They already attempted an expanded universe with another popular spy franchise through the show Treadstone (2019), a Jason Bourne prequel series. That landed like a wet fart. No one wanted Bourne without Bourne. Broccoli knows fans don’t want Bond without Bond.

So it’s no wonder Broccoli reportedly called Amazon executives “fucking idiots.”

In the age of streaming, most studios just want to push out content. So it comes as no surprise that after Broccoli’s unwillingness to pump out ‘content’—for which I have much respect—and her criticism of Amazon executives, Amazon CEO Jeff Bezos allegedly said, “I don’t care what it costs, get rid of her.”

Aspiring for content is how you wind up with Treadstone and The Rings of Power. It is a soulless exercise in driving traffic to a platform.

Don’t get me wrong, Amazon has many successful shows. Bosch and Bosch: Legacy are among my favorites, as are The Boys, Ripper Street, The Expanse, The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel, and Jack Ryan. It’s not impossible for Amazon to make quality entertainment, but when it comes to handling major franchises? Their track record is abysmal. Again, I point you to Treadstone and The Rings of Power.

The most disappointing thing with Broccoli and Wilson’s departure, 007 is now at the mercy of corporate decision-making. Much like my interest in new Doctor Who and Star Trek series died, I now feel Bond may be the next beloved thing to go. I fully expect a Moneypenny spin-off, an M prequel, and whatever uninspired content the algorithm spits out next. It’s already happening with Bond books, so of course it’ll happen on the small screen. And none of it interests me.

The Future of Bond—Or Lack Thereof

That said, the sad truth is that the Bond franchise was exhausted even before the Amazon takeover. Craig’s Bond had drifted into Moonraker-era self-parody, desperately in need of fresh energy. But that’s typical of Bond. Connery’s era waned, just as Moore’s and Brosnan’s did by their end. And Craig was there.

I think Broccoli and Wilson knew this to some extent, which is why they were taking so long to decide what to do next with Bond, in addition to dealing with Amazon dickheads. Yes, Craig overstayed his welcome by two films, as Broccoli and Wilson grossly overestimated his importance to the franchise and character. He was an excellent Bond, but we needed a new Bond post-Skyfall. Instead, we got more of the same—bloated, overly familiar films with silly villains that put more emphasis on the gluttony of Bond references than on character.

However, I believe Broccoli and Wilson could have given the world one more great Bond film. I’m sad we won’t see that. Yes, I know they are responsible for No Time to Die and Die Another Day, but they have plenty of hits to prove their worth, for goodness’ sake! What could have been Bond’s and Broccoli and Wilson’s saving grace was loosening their grip when directors like Christopher Nolan and Danny Boyle were circling the director’s chair—or accepting Spectre as Craig’s finale.

The Broccoli era would have ended eventually, but it didn’t have to end like this—not on the weak note of No Time to Die. But maybe the death of Bond is exactly how it should end? Maybe Bond is dead and it’s time to move on? Looking at today’s bloated, tired franchises still limping along beyond or near their 50th—Star Trek, Doctor Who, Star Wars—it’s painful to add Bond to that list, mainly because it didn’t have to be this way.

Lee Child might think Amazon is the answer to reviving Bond, but is the algorithm-driven breath of Amazon the solution? I’m not sold. I always wanted Bond to live to die another day, but I think we’re past that. But if and when the deluge of Bond spin-offs and prequels happen, I’ll remember what Barbara Broccoli (reportedly) said: fucking idiots.

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(This article contains spoilers for Ian Fleming’s Moonraker)

I recently read Ian Fleming’s Moonraker (1955) for the first time. I’ve read plenty of Bond over the years, but this one had eluded me, mostly, I think, because I hated the film so much that I didn’t make time for the novel—even though most Bond books are nothing like the film counterparts.

And honestly? I’m glad I waited. It hit hard, particularly with where we are politically.

Bond thrives in that sweet spot I call espionage-noir. He often operates like a private eye. Like Philip Marlowe, Spenser, or Kinsey Millhone, his work is a mix of intelligence-gathering and inevitable showdowns with villains, all before returning to his lonely life, waiting for the next mission. Britain might be saved, but Bond never is.

Moonraker leans effectively into noir sensibilities. Unlike the globe-trotting adventures of other Bond stories, this novel takes place entirely in England. Bond isn’t dealing with a shadowy international conspiracy—his enemy is a celebrated English patriot, a man beloved by the public. A theme that is common among noir literature, where trusted public figures are dirty rats. This makes Moonraker one of the most paranoid Bond novels, steeped in the fear that the real threat isn’t lurking in the shadows of some foreign land but hiding in plain sight, shaking hands with the Prime Minister, and writing letters to the Queen about how he can protect her.

It’s a classic noir setup: Bond is called in to investigate a personal favour for M. The mission? Look into Sir Hugo Drax—a national hero, multimillionaire, and mastermind behind Britain’s first nuclear deterrent, the Moonraker missile.

All because M suspects Drax is cheating at cards!

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Cheating at cards! That suspicion alone is enough to raise M’s alarm. Gone are the days when something so simple could trigger a response such as M’s. And, of course, he’s right—not only is Drax cheating, but he turns out to be a Nazi and wartime saboteur, plotting to use the Moonraker missile to wipe England off the map as revenge for Germany’s defeat in WWII.

This is what makes Moonraker so compelling—it’s a story about deception, manipulation, and the dangers of misplaced trust. Drax is a fraud in every sense of the word, from his rigged card games to his carefully constructed backstory as a self-made war hero. The novel thrives on noir’s favourite themes: the corrupt elite, the betrayal of institutions, and the loner, the tarnished knight—Bond—going to battle against the dragon, knowing full well it is only a momentary peace, because crime never stops.

Now, let’s talk about another notorious cheater: Elon Musk.

Musk is said to have “cheated at video games to get a high score.” Silly, right? Who cares about gaming cheats? That’s hardly newsworthy. Hardly worth a spy wasting time on, surely? If Moonraker were set today—that would be the catalyst that spurred M to have Drax investigated. He would want to know for certain if Drax was a cheat because a person who cheats at the little things can’t be trusted with the big stuff.

M was right to worry. And we should have been…

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Fast-forward to 2025, and the parallels between Moonraker and our reality are unsettling. Musk, a rocket building, unelected billionaire, has been handed enormous power by Russian sympathiser and Dictator-in-Chief Trump. Unlike Drax, Musk isn’t even hiding his ideology—at Trump’s presidential inauguration, he twice performed what looked like the Sieg Heil. A few weeks later, Steve Bannon followed suit at CPAC, openly performing an identical gesture and declaring that Jews are the enemy of MAGA. The enemy isn’t out there… they are INSIDE.

Fleming’s Moonraker, like Casino Royale and Live and Let Die, explores the ever-present danger of the traitor within. Right now, Neo-Nazis have infiltrated the Republican party like Spectre did in 007’s 2015 film Spectre, and most Democrats are too busy pussyfooting around to do anything important about it. For years, Musk courted America—selling dreams of Mars colonization, appearing on The Big Bang Theory, South Park, and SNL, and even making a cameo in the Marvel Cinematic Universe. He cosied up to the left, donating to Obama, Hilary Clinton, and Biden. But unlike Drax, his shift from sort of Left to Alt-Right wasn’t exactly subtle.

Why buy Twitter, one of the largest social media platforms, and rebrand it as X? Because he doesn’t just want to control the narrative—he wants to suppress dissent. Like most tech billionaires, he’s a megalomaniac. Musk, like Hugo Drax, needs you to think you can’t survive without him, that he’s a champion of the people, and, despite all the red flags, demands your allegiance. And if you don’t follow him, he’ll come after you. He throttles news links on X, ironically punishes his right-wing critics, silences opposition, and fires employees who disagree with him publicly. Like Drax, he’s not just obsessed with power and control, but also revenge. And now, the man behind Tesla, SpaceX, and X—the man literally building rockets and throwing out Nazi salutes—has wormed his way into the White House and is working for a President-turned-dictator as an SGE aka ‘Special Government Employee, a job that is meant to be a temporary advisory role. While it’s not unusual for SGEs to come in, it is unprecedented for Musk to threaten to shut down government agencies and fire government employees—something he does not, nor anyone one person in the White House, have the authority to do. Yet, here we are. All because people trusted a cheat to be President back in 2016.

America has fallen for the greatest political con in recent history.

Hugo Drax wanted to blow up England.

Elon Musk wants to blow up American democracy.

And so far? He’s doing one hell of a job.

M was right—don’t trust a cheat.

The question is—has the real-life Hugo Drax actually won?

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The Authors Guild recently revealed a new “Human Authored” certificate for authors to slap on their novels, making it clear that no artificial intelligence was used in the creation of a book. They say it’s about being transparent. I say it’s also about the quest for real art. The authentic, 100% pure stuff. Transparency in the publishing industry is kind of a joke. There is already an ongoing battle with ghostwritten celebrity fiction, which continues to push out working-class writers in favour of some half-baked, celeb-endorsed product. Now, AI coming onto the scene is like the Battle of the Five Armies in The Hobbit... It’s ANOTHER force coming to beat down on poor (literally) writers barely scraping by while publishers fatten their wallets.

Boy, did I make all the wrong career choices.

The need for a Human Authored certificate is in reaction to the ever-growing catalog of AI-written books flooding the market (mostly on Amazon) by a bunch of untalented, unskilled average Joes and Janes. And we’re kidding ourselves if we think traditional publishers (and indies) aren’t going to start using AI to crank out more books. Just wait for the day a “new” Agatha Christie novel is “written” by feeding all her books into AI and telling it to produce a new Poirot mystery using only her words and style—that’s coming, I promise you.

Where AI is going and where it’ll take us is yet to be determined, but one ongoing crisis of the twenty-first century is the hunt for authenticity. As our entertainment becomes more fast-food-oriented (that is, churned out, run-of-the-mill, clichéd, processed shit), the more inauthentic it’ll be. The injection of AI doesn’t make that any better—just means a faster production.

AI art isn’t impressive. It’s inauthentic art by inauthentic wannabe-artists. Any sixty year old skilless hack and type in a prompt and say ‘look what I did’ while actually having done nothing creative at all. We’re at the stage where anytime we open social media we now have to ask: Is this profile real? Is it a bot? Who or what drew this picture? Who or what created this clip? Who or what wrote this book? Are these podcasters humans or AI?

Most of the time a decerning eye will spot the inauthentic.

Nicolas Cage recently said, “Robots cannot reflect the human condition,” and he is correct. AI might be able to produce some of the most middling fiction, but it will never understand what it means to be human and how a single person’s life experiences impact and reflect in their art. It can eat up all of Raymond Chandler’s writings and produce a poor pastiche, but it’ll never be Raymond Chandler.

In Star Trek, the characters frequently complain about synthohol (synthetic alcohol—all the taste but no real booze). Or they complain about replicated food. It’s stuff that can appease, but it’s ultimately unsatisfying because of its inauthenticity—that’s why Benjamin Sisko’s father, in Star Trek Deep Space Nine, runs an authentic restaurant using authentic ingredients and can’t stand replicated food and why Ben is always cooking on DS9.

The authentic will always outdo the inauthentic. There’s something truly special about the human element when creating—and that’s something AI can never account for. I am, of course, not saying there is no place for AI… I think there is, but within reason and boundaries. How much agency we give it is vitally important. But as a manufacture of art, it has no place.

My prediction, my hope, is that as AI becomes more prevalent in our day-to-day lives, the desire for authenticity will rise. Not just in art but in people. A person, any artist’s worth should be based on their authenticity. Knowledge is no longer power when we’re all walking around with supercomputers in our pockets. Power is how you wield knowledge and function without the supercomputer. That means the authentic artist is one who, regardless of AI, masters their craft and produces art with the same pride that Walter White had for his blue meth in Breaking Bad. And no doubt the consumers will tell the difference… Nothing hits quite like authentic art.

Have you ever read a novel or watched a film where a character does or says something senseless or contrived, prompting you to ask, “Why?” I have—far too often. What you’re noticing in those moments is a lack of Reason.

In Poetics, Aristotle describes Reason as the third essential element of tragedy: “the ability to say what is apt and appropriate in a situation.” He couldn’t be more correct, and his advice is as relevant today as it was in Ancient Greece.

So why do so many modern writers neglect this principle? The reasons range from inexperience to laziness, with the latter often dominating. In contemporary storytelling, Reason has become the lesser priority, overtaken by the allure of Spectacle. You only need to watch just about any new show or film on Netflix or Disney+ to see what I mean. Consider, for example, the Marvel films. Compare Iron Man (2008)—a tight, character-driven narrative about a cutthroat businessman discovering his humanity—with Avengers: Endgame (2019). The latter is three hours of relentless CGI battles, globe-hopping, quips, and gags, with minimal character development.

Spectacle might entertain, but even Aristotle criticised its overuse in tragedy. He saw it as a lesser art form compared to the poetry of story, acting, and drama.

While I don’t entirely agree with Aristotle’s disdain for spectacle, his point stands: when spectacle overshadows the story’s heart—its Reason—it becomes a hollow, superficial experience. The narrative feels mechanical, and the audience disengages.

But if your story’s Reasoning is tight, this won’t happen.

Why Every Story Needs Reason

Not every story is a tragedy in the traditional sense, but every story demands Reason. Without it, your narrative falls apart like an unarmored target. To write a bulletproof story, you must have razor-sharp reasoning behind every choice, every line of dialogue, and every interaction.

Reason (n) is defined as: a cause, explanation, or justification for an action.

A story thrives on watertight Reasoning (even if a character's reasons are flawed!). If your audience starts questioning the mechanics of the plot or the characters’ actions, something has gone wrong. When the cause, explanation, or justification for an action—or lack thereof—is a cliché or a contrivance meant to artificially create tension, your audience will see through it.

Since I’ve already called out Marvel, let’s take Avengers: Endgame as a case study. The plot hinges on the Avengers gathering the Infinity Stones to undo the five-year blip caused by Thanos. Tony Stark insists they bring everyone back without erasing the intervening five years, citing his daughter as the reason.

But why?

This explanation feels insufficient. Aristotle’s definition of Reason emphasises that the story should determine what is “apt and appropriate” in a situation. Tony’s choice is neither apt nor appropriate. Did the writers of Endgame consider this? It seems not—because here I am asking why.

Let’s break it down:

By refusing to reset the timeline, Tony Stark ensures irreversible consequences for billions of people. What about the woman whose husband disappeared and has since remarried and had a child? The athlete who lost a scholarship? The countless individuals who returned to find their homes, jobs, and lives gone? All of this upheaval happens because Tony couldn’t bear to sacrifice his newfound family for the greater good.

Does anyone in the story question Tony’s choice? No. Are there any negative ramifications? Also no. Tony gets what he wants, and subsequent Marvel films largely ignore the consequences of the five-year blip.

This is bad storytelling.

A better approach would have been to address the consequences head-on. If the story demands pulling everyone forward in time, those repercussions need acknowledgement and exploration. Alternatively, the heroic arc for Tony could have involved sacrificing his family to restore the world to its pre-snap state—a poetic and fitting conclusion to his character.

As it stands, Tony’s death is framed as heroic, but it isn’t. A closer look reveals it as selfish, even though the film seems unaware of this. Strip away the spectacle, and the poetry of the story doesn’t rhyme.

The Importance of “Why?”

When I mentor creative writing students, the most frequent question I ask is, “Why?” Why did this happen? Why didn’t that happen? Why did this character act this way? Why did they withhold this information? Why did the narrator withhold details?

These questions are meant to expose areas where Reason needs strengthening. Weak reasoning undermines a story’s integrity.

Aristotle understood that a character is defined by their choices. When those choices lack clarity or logic, the character—and the story—falls apart. As Aristotle observed, Reason becomes clear in drama when characters argue the truth, question actions, and express opinions.

To write a story that resonates, every cause and effect must feel apt and appropriate, driving the narrative forward in a way that feels organic and inevitable. Reason is your story’s Kevlar vest—don’t leave it out.

All my life, Conservatives have complained about ‘politics’ and ‘agenda’ in storytelling and entertainment, generally. When I was a child, I knew someone who had to return a Schoolhouse Rock CD because the credits acknowledged that the proceeds were going to a charity helping gay people. This was the mid-90s, I was maybe eight or nine, so I can only assume it was aids related. As a teenager, I had an Avril Lavigne CD confiscated because it was ‘ungodly,’ ‘secular’ music (HA!). As a child, I was not allowed to watch X-Men the Animated Series or Pokemon because it promoted ‘evolution,’ and that’s not Biblical. Naturally, in secret, I watched these shows and listened to ‘secular’ music anyway. Growing up in mid-west America in a blood-red state, everything was evil, Satan was out to getcha, and non-religious entertainment was a gateway to hell. God, it was exhausting.

Recently, a certain social media app was abuzz with conservatives pushing the ‘keep politics out of books’ agenda…

Oh dear…

There is an obsession amongst Conservatives to dictate what is appropriate or not in storytelling. (There is an argument that this is happening on the far left, but that’s a topic for another day). The last ten years, particularly, have seen an explosion of far-right wannabe critics on YouTube/TikTok (think Nerdrodic, Geeks+Gamers, Critical Drinker) who lambast pop culture, from Star Trek to Doctor Who to The Little Mermaid, for being too political, too woke, too agenda focused, as they look back on the early 00s and prior through a distorted lens of nostalgia where ‘everything was better’. These types get upset because there’s a black dwarf and elf in Rings of Power or because Ariel in the ‘live-action’ Little Mermaid is played by the beautiful and talented Halle Bailey. Race and gender swapping in on-screen adaptations, to them, is a political message. A common complaint among this crowd is they want ‘politics and agenda kept out of storytelling.’ This really means: ‘Keep anything I don’t agree with out of storytelling.’

What these faux-critics miss is that storytelling is inherently political. All writers have agendas. Storytelling is designed to convey a message about something—whether you agree with it or not—be it a warning, to teach, condemn, or inspire, etc. Stories help us make sense of the world, push back, confront, and shine a light on sociopolitical issues.

You can’t read J. R. R. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings and not pick up on his anti-industrial agenda, rooted in Tolkien’s feelings about growing up during the Industrial Revolution. Nor can you read The Great Gatsby and miss the point that the American Dream is a farce. For all the fun and thrills of noir fiction, every book and short story by Raymond Chandler is really about political corruption and the real victims of crime being the everyman/woman.

You can’t read comic books like X-Men and not be aware that they are metaphors for discrimination or not get that Alan Moore’s Watchmen is criticising a morally bankrupt and war-mongering U.S. Government. You can’t read The Adventures of Paddington and not pick up on the fact Paddington is an illegal immigrant who snuck into the country via a boat. The Birth of Jesus is a story about refugees fleeing their home country to ensure their child’s survival. In and amongst the retelling of the Superman mythos, the TV show Smallville makes a point to highlight Clark Kent’s illegal immigrant status in the episode ‘Subterranean’. He’s an illegal alien (literally) with forged documents who landed in America (or on Earth) in hopes of having a better future vs dying on Krypton.

There is a sense of irony that so many Conservatives complain about politics in entertainment, as if this is a new phenomenon and that novels, films, and TV shows of the past weren’t loaded with it. This ignorant nostalgia is a bit like those old prudes who lie and say, ‘Back in my day, no one had sex outside of marriage.’ Take off those nostalgia-tinted glasses, maybe?

At the end of the day, this author and academic is bored of hearing certain groups clamour about what should/shouldn’t be in stories and how stories shouldn’t be political. Because guess what… they are political. There’s no escaping it. From the tamest of children’s fiction to the densest of literary fiction, from Saturday morning cartoons to peak cinema, all storytelling comes with an agenda.

That doesn’t mean politics can’t be abused in storytelling. Go watch any “Faith-Based” film starring Kevin Sorbo. Watch seasons 3 and 4 of The Boys on Amazon Prime. Yes, that’s right; the left and the right are capable of abusing politics in storytelling. Often, when politics is abused in a story, it’s when the ‘message’ is mishandled and poorly delivered in a ham-fisted or condescending way.

It should be accepted (re-accepted?) that any author (regardless of political leaning) has the right to explore politics in their writing, whether the reader/viewer agrees with them. But I guess the Bible-thumping conservatives didn’t get that memo. However, there is a knack to handling politics in fiction well. In Story by Robert McKee, he wrote, “A well-told story neither expresses the clockwork reasoning of a thesis nor vents raging inchoate emotions. It triumphs in the marriage of the rational with the irrational.”

Far too often in recent years, I have seen films and TV shows express “the clockwork reasoning of a thesis” and “vent raging inchoate emotions.” The Boys season 4 is probably a good recent example. While it’s always been a satirical critique of far-right conservatism/extremism, it put politics before story and character. To quote Paul Tassi in his Forbes review of The Boys season 4, “It’s going way, way overboard in terms of mirroring exact real life events in a way that can just feel goofy.”

You'll lose your audience in a flash when your story is painfully obvious and self-righteous about what it’s saying. It's an instant turn-off when politics is front and centre, wagging a dirty little finger at the crowd. For one, that’s just lazy. For another, a story shouldn’t preach, but it should teach. That kind of craftsmanship requires subtlety.

On the Lethal Weapon (1987) Blu-ray commentary, director Richard Donner highlights the importance of putting entertainment and character first in your stories. Then, when all that is working, and you’ve got the audience on your side, you can slip in your messages. If you’ve seen Lethal Weapon, peppered throughout the first film is anti-Apartheid messaging, which becomes the central focus in the second film. You don’t hear Danny Glover’s Murtaugh nor Murtaugh’s family mention it, but you know their politics. And sometimes, seeing something is all a story needs to convey a political message. Show, don’t tell, right? 

So, where do I end this? How about where we started? Should entertainment be political? The answer is yes, it always was. To avoid politics in entertainment, one might literally need to bury one's head in the sand. But why live in fear? I wasn’t allowed to watch X-Men the Animated Series or Pokemon because of fear. Fear is a major cause of the anti-politics/agendas in entertainment debate. The X-Men is all about a world that fears (and hates) mutants. Fearing what one doesn’t know or understand. The fear (primarily rooted in ignorance) of new/different ideas and how they might change the status quo is what leads to hatred. Embrace the diversity of thought entertainment offers because fear of thought will only ever hinder civilisation. Ignorance is never bliss, nostalgia is a cage, and fear is the mind killer.

Dr Luke Deckard is the author of BAD BLOOD. He co-hosts MEAN STREETS - THE FILM NOIR PODCAST. He mentors creative writing students and has a PhD in Creative Writing. Learn more at lukedeckard.com

How do we, particularly writers, make sense of the world we are living in? 

The same way we always do.

Write. 

Now more than ever, the world needs noir fiction. People need to get back to reading Raymond Chandler, Sue Grafton, Robert B Parker, and James Crumley. They need to re-watch film noir classics like Out of the Past, The Big Heat, Chinatown, Murder, My Sweet, and Dead Reckoning (not Mission Impossible 7, the Bogart film), et al. 

And it’s not for nostalgia’s sake… it’s not to go back in time to ‘when things were better.’ No, it’s to learn how little the world has progressed and have a long, hard think about our future—because it’s looking more like Blade Runner than anything else.

Hard-boiled (noir) fiction was birthed from the disillusionment following the First World War. In the wake of the devastating loss of life, a broken economy, homelessness and poverty skyrocketing, Christian conservative nut-jobs (mostly white women) leading the charge for Prohibition, and hundreds of thousands of men crippled by PTSD (many of whom suffered in silence), up rose Hard-boiled fiction in America. It grabbed readers by the collar and told them what the hell was up. It made crime fiction realistic in a way the British Golden Age refused to do. Noir fiction did away with the twee, over-the-top escapism that was Golden Age fiction and demanded its audience pay attention to the world around them. 

Writers like Dashiell Hammett and Raymond Chandler grappled with the disillusionment of a post-war world and, with a cynical wit, set out to paint a literary portrait of why America was morally bankrupt. The real criminals weren’t the thugs on the street; they were a symptom. The cause of crime was the wealthy, old money-types, the politicians, and tax-dodging businessmen… you know, people exactly like Donald “grab ‘em by the pussy” Trump. 

Many of the earliest hard-boiled stories and novels could easily be transposed onto today’s socio-political landscape.  

Go watch Chinatown (1974), a film about the rich and powerful megalomaniac Noah Cross, a sexually abusive rapist who controls political figures (man, these noir villains sure do sound like Trump, huh?).

Read Looking for Rachel Wallace (1980), a novel about Spenser, a PI hired to bodyguard a lesbian feminist activist who is being threatened with violence by far-right and anti-gay hate groups. Take Dashiell Hammett’s novel The Glass Key (1931), a novel about a corrupt politician (insert Trump) who has a major newspaper (insert FOX NEWS) in his pocket and feeds the public, wait for it, fake news! Today, not only is fake news spread by tabloids, but Trump’s henchman, Elon Musk, has allowed a devastating amount of false claims to be shared on X.

Do you see a trend? Hard-boiled fiction shines a light on the darkest sides of society and politics. Polite Society is anything but, and the squeaky-clean politician is a closeted dirt bag. Raymond Chandler wrote in his essay The Simple Art of Murder that hard-boiled fiction depicts a world in which “Gangsters can rule nations and almost rule cities.” That sums up America, baby, and Britain isn’t far behind.

The thing about crime fiction is its entire existence functions as a form to explore societal issues wrapped in the lie of fiction… It’s a punk-rock, rebellious form of literature that drags big issues into the light kicking and screaming. It says, “This is a problem; we can’t continue like this.”

America is deeply broken, confused, and lost. Its moral compass is defunct. Its ability to do the sensible and decent thing is gone if it was ever truly there. Blind tribalism is crippling growth. American politics have become a battleground for the last twenty-four years, at least, if not since the Reagan era. The left and right have been at each other's throats, depicting both sides as the devil incarnate. It has created an ever-expanding schism. The country’s ability to support a convicted felon and sexual predator like Donald Trump is the result of decades of political mudslinging and an ever-shrinking middle. 

Since its inception in Black Mask Magazine (above), hard-boiled literature has responded to the unrest of the time. It bends and molds with the changing political landscapes. It is by far the most dexterous of the many crime fiction sub-genres. Its writers aren’t always left-leaning; some are right, and some are middle. Micky Spillane (one of the most right-winged hard-boiled writers) responded to the sensationalised communist threat of the 40s/50s. James Crumbly wrote about post-Vietnam America; Robert B Parker, in the 80s-90s, wrote about the rise of 2nd wave-feminism, gay rights, the aids epidemic, and racism; Sara Paretsky, from the 80s to today, wrote(writes) about violence against women, feminism, and anti-semitism etc. Very little noir fictions respond positively to the current political state and reacts the hardest when there is political turmoil. The problem we have now is that the political right has devalued education, and nuanced debates have been eradicated for ‘absolutes’ by the far-left. Getting through to people couldn’t be more difficult.

Despite people shouting about how shocked they are by the election results, the cold, hard truth is that the 2024 election isn’t a surprise. It wasn’t like America was a Promise Land, suddenly corrupted by far-right ideologies. It’s always been there. What Trump and an ever-radicalised Republican party have allowed, though, is for an entire political party to become blatant about their racism, sexism, and phobias. It’s dangerous. 

The other cold hard truth is the far-left has enabled the far-right Trumpian monstrosity by policing thought, being ignorant and uncompromisingly absolute about nuanced issues, and day-dreaming of a utopia of conformity that is far more dictatorial than happily ever after. 

Noir fiction understands that there is no “good” party, but its heroes don’t compromise their morals and allow the villain to win or get away just because he or she is (falsely) in their corner. Anyone who thinks Trump is for the ‘little guy’ is a fool.

There’s a reason hard-boiled figures are generally apolitical rogues, even when their authors are not. They might be liberal here or conservative there, but, outside of a handful of figures like Mike Hammer, they don’t ascribe to be a Democrat or Republican. Politics makes their skin crawl, so they function as outsiders with a strong moral code. Most hard-boiled figures' backstories are rooted in working for the police, military, or government, but left when they found the corruption inside too much to stomach. It’s nothing for Spenser to take a job for a right-wing conservative Christian politician, like in The Widening Gyre (1983), or a far-left feminist, like in Looking for Rachel Wallace (1980). 

Our hard-boiled, noir heroes know the world is grey and use their sharp eyes to scrutinise the bent world we live in.

They see the plight of the working classes, who are victims of corporate greed, while CEOs and politicians line their pockets and dodge taxes with off-shore accounts and loopholes unavailable to the average Joe or Jane. They see the discrimination and marginalisation of POCs and women being oppressed and their rights taken away by outdated religious and patriarchal systems. They see gay people and lesbians being discriminated against and trans individuals being used by political parties to scaremonger.

This isn’t a time to bury our heads in cosy crime “because the world is so bad I need an escape.” Burying heads in the sand is what got us here. It’s time to write and read crime fiction that matters. We need tough crime fiction that challenges our political systems, putting it and its ‘leaders’ in their place and demanding accountability. There’s no room for virtue signalling here or for demeaning one side over the other; the entire establishment needs to be scrutinised and picked apart in our fiction. So fuck off with those celebrity-written geriatric crime novels; write and read crime fiction that questions the status quo. This isn’t the time for escape…

Dr Luke Deckard is the author of BAD BLOOD. He co-hosts MEAN STREETS - THE FILM NOIR PODCAST. He mentors creative writing students and has a PhD in Creative Writing. Learn more at lukedeckard.com

The most recent celebrity to throw their name into the ring is Pirates of the Caribbean star Keira Knightley. God, where is the rum?

It was announced that she is writing a children’s book labelled a ‘modern classic’. Sure Jan. In the wake of Knightley’s news, actual authors took to social media to express their frustration about the latest celeb cash grab. (This happens literally every time).

Some authors tread carefully when criticising celeb books because A) their agent represents one or two, and B) They want that celeb endorsement. Therefore, some praise the celebs who “actually write” their novels. Others decry ghostwritten celeb novels because of the lack of transparent because readers don’t know who really wrote the words they are about to feast on, but are ‘OK’ with people like Millie Bobby Brown and Keanu Reeves, whose not-so-ghostwriters are named in the book. Some authors accept that publishers release celeb novels (including ghostwritten ones) and believe the enormous amount of money earned from them benefits smaller writers… again, Sure, Jan…

Publishing has taken cues from Hollywood. Originality is sacrificed in favour of celebs, tired trends, and recognisable IPs, and the two hottest IPs are celebrities and franchises like Bond, Philip Marlowe, The Great Gatsby, et al. Publishers, in a very John Hammond way, never asked whether they should publish certain things by certain people; they just pick a celeb, slapped their name on a book, and now they are selling it to a built-in audience that doesn’t care who wrote what or if the celeb even has the skill or craft required to write.

The art of writing has become trivialised…

Publishers claim celebrity novels help them stay afloat and allow them to take risks on smaller books. Can you smell that, Jan? That’s bullshit. What publishers are describing is Reaganomics or trickle-down economics. The idea is that the vast sums made by the privileged few will allow for more business growth and benefit the smaller authors in the long term. Guess what? That’s a crock of crap.

In the way trickle-down economics has never proven to work, publishers suggesting celebrity novels allow them to spend money on smaller books or take risks with new authors has yet to be proven. Publishers are painfully risk averse; they bank on what will sell. It’s an open secret that a bestseller is chosen a year before it’s released. Don’t believe me, go read Yellowface. That’s pretty much how the industry works. The publishers know who they will pour money into and who they will not. They aren’t adding any extra marketing budget to Little Book C because Big Book A, “written” by a celebrity, was successful. The money Big Book A makes goes to the publisher and the celebrity and to marketing the next book by said celebrity. To believe otherwise is foolishness.

A few years ago, a piece came out about WH Smith’s ‘charts’ being fraudulent. Publishers, it turns out, pay for placement. To be number 1 in WH Smith means your publisher paid to put you there, not because sales said you belong there. So when I went into WH Smith at St Pancras Station the other day and spotted multiple slots taken up by Richard Osman… well… I don’t see the bank he’s making his publishers trickling down to a newbie. Publishers just aren’t going to do it.

Why authors are annoyed by celebrities suddenly bagging a book deal is that most haven’t worked for them. It’s something their name and upper-middle-class privileged status gave them. It’s an easy win for the publisher, as the celeb comes with an audience attached. Few celebs will do what Hugh Laurie did when he submitted his novel The Gun Seller. He subbed anonymously. He didn’t want his ‘name’ to be the reason someone picked up his book; he wanted the art to speak for itself. I respect that. They say JK Rowling did the same thing as Robert Galbraith.

Therein lies the difference—talent vs privilege. Privilege wins most of the time.

That’s not to say celebrities shouldn’t be allowed to write and publish a book. Some actors or musicians et al. are incredibly talented storytellers! The question is, how do you make a fair playing field? Anonymous submissions? Maybe. No more ghostwritten novels with a celebrity endorsement masquerading as an ‘author’? Yes! Make the celebrity who ‘has an idea’ learn to write vs pretend they can via a ghost. That sounds ideal to me.

Writers turning to their unions, like the Society of Authors or the Writers’ Guild, are probably banging on the wrong door. Neither group, which I am a member of, is interested in this battle. At least, that’s my impression. Hell, they don’t do anything about agents/publishers ghosting authors. A few months ago, questions were raised about the honesty of literary agents when one took to X to brag about how they liked the idea behind a submission but wanted someone else to write a better version of it, strongly implying a nefarious practice that agents might be taking submission ideas and passing it on to their stable of authors. If these organisations cared about this stuff or the growing problem of celebrity novels pushing out space on the shelf for working-class writers, they would have done something by now. They can read the room on social media. But, frankly, what could these organisations do? Sure, we can tell them how annoyed we are, how upsetting it is, and spin a yarn about its effect on morale and mental health, but they can’t stop publishers from doing what they are doing. In truth, authors are shouting at clouds every time another celebrity novel is announced.

The heartbreaking thing about all of this is how trivialised publishing has allowed the craft of writing to become. It’s no easy task crafting a well-told story. It takes years to hone the skill. Society praises the lengthy work of other art forms, such as dancing, singing, playing musical instruments, acting, painting, drawing, mastering a sport etc. Any ole celebrity doesn’t just get to become a ballet dancer or master the piano. I don’t see celebs being able to slap their names on musical competitions or be able to direct a major motion picture for Disney just because of their name. Publishing, it seems, is the main industry where the person listed as ‘author’ doesn’t actually have to have written a word to be a success. That’s is insane.

The easy ride celebs get when it comes to publishing is like a runner (aka a real writer) training for a race only to be beaten by some punk in a Porsche with a bot belly. It’s cheap, unfair, and infuriating. But people came to the race to see the car, and ticket sales inflated, so over time, the foot race became a drag race. All this is doing is creating a schism between writers and agents/publishers and readers and quality books.

Anyway, I’m just another writer yelling at clouds, wishing the industry had more integrity…

Game of Thrones hit our screen back in 2011. The HBO show took the world by storm. It was violent, sexy, complicated, and well-written. Or so I was told. I never got swept up in the craze. But after falling hard for House of the Dragon, I finally wanted to sit down and watch Game of Thrones, and it did not disappoint. I knew everyone universally loved it until those final two seasons, and particularly that finale.

To say fans were angry is an understatement. Collider, ScreenRant, Forbes, CNN, NBC, and a billion other media outlets, YouTubers, and angry Twitter users vented their outrage about how Game of Thrones crashed and burned with its ending. People are still talking about it. Just last month in the Hollywood Reporter, Jon Snow, actor Kit Harington admitted he felt mistakes were made with the finale… and maybe so. No ending is ever perfect.

But did the finale actually jump the shark? Was the finale badly written? Was it a bad story? Or was Game of Thrones the victim of fan entitlement? Perhaps the latter. Fans and outlets raged about a show famous for subverting expectations by killing off and harming beloved characters at the drop of a hat for not providing them with the happy ending they wanted. To them, I say, boo hoo!

Of course, the ending of Game of Thrones is complicated by the fact that George R. R. Martin has yet to publish the final two instalments, which meant the show’s creators, David Benioff and D. B. Weiss, had to pull the finale together themselves with some input from Martin about where certain storylines would go. And Martin has recently said he had little input on the last four seasons, adding more fuel to the fire of hatred for season 8.

Many think Benioff and Weiss failed; fans were so upset that they demanded Season 8 be rewritten and reshot. Even actors like Charles Dance, who played the villainous Tywin Lannister, said he was ‘disappointed’ with the conclusion.

Collider called the finale “emotionless”, with most complaints focused on Jon Snow and Daenerys’s conclusions. They lamented that Jon Snow didn’t get a hero’s ending with the promise of future adventures. They also criticise Daenerys for “very suddenly” becoming power-mad. Truly, if you think Daenerys turn was sudden, you’ve not paid attention in class.

As I watched the show, I kept waiting for the show to tank, to become unwatchable…. that didn’t happen. Instead when I reached the finale I had to ask myself: were millions of viewers just not watching the show properly?

Let’s chat the Mother of Dragons!

In season one, Daenerys was sold to the Dothraki so that her immature, power-hungry brother Viserys could build an army with hopes of retaking the Iron Throne after their father lost it some seventeen years earlier.

Daenerys, at the start, is sweet, kind, and somewhat naive. She’s doing her duty by marrying Drogo, so her family can reclaim what was taken from them. She doesn’t love Drogo, who sexually forces himself upon her until she eventually starts to accept it. And that’s when her character changes. She buys into a love that was never real, buys into a position of power as Drogo’s queen that was nothing but an arrangement, and by the time Drogo and her brother, Viserys, die, she sees herself as god-like, having walked into a fire and emerged with three dragons.

Daenerys sees herself as a righteous liberator who spends the remaining seasons obsessed with the idea of retaking the Iron Throne for herself. She marches across lands, building her army and storming cities where she “liberates” slaves, murders and slays the masters, but provides no plan on how these societies move forward when their institutions are crushed overnight, and more or less does not give the enslaved any other option except following her. The Unsullied replace one master for another.

Daenerys calls herself the ‘breaker of chains.’ But is she? On the surface, what she’s doing is great—she is freeing enslaved and demanding justice for injustice. However, very quickly, her knee-jerk reaction when she raids a city is to kill anyone who disagrees with her, who is ‘wrong’ in her eyes. She beheads and crucifies without thought. Throughout the seasons, the concepts of mercy and kindness are lost on her.

Daenerys rules with a bloody iron fist. You follow her, or you die.

She’s told how her father brutally murdered those who opposed him, yet still, she chooses violence in the end; Tyrion, Jon Snow, and Varys beg Daenerys not to raise King’s Landing to the ground and peacefully take the city. Violence is her only language.

So, for Collider (and others) to say she suddenly became power-mad is ridiculous. The moment she burned the Dothraki witch, it set her down a path of violent justice and uncontrollable narcissism.

Her journey was one of tyranny.

As I watched the show, I began to call her a Liberal Hitler. Daenerys, for all her proclaimed morals and touting freedom and righting injustice across the world, did so as a dictator operating a fascist government. She believes what she's doing is right. She claims she brings peace but uses violence and gets angry when her actions are questioned. She sounds a lot like people on Twitter! Her death was inevitable. She was not a liberator or breaker of chains; in the end, she was another form of oppression, which grew in her character as early as Season 1.

What did people want? Did viewers really think she would be a good queen? One aspect of her character that I liked was that she was dangerous and uncompromising to a fault instead of being a perfect liberator. But as she continued unchecked, you can see her character going down a path without redemption.

Let’s talk about that Bastard, Jon Snow!

Jon Snow was the other character fans were outraged about. The true heir to the Iron Throne, Jon grew up thinking he was a bastard. Spending five-ish seasons confined to the Watch, when his origins were revealed, and he was crowned king of the North, I can see why fans were hopeful that he would fulfil some sort of Aragorn-like role and bring peace to Westeros. He would somehow tame the rageful Daenerys, and they could rule together happily ever after. But get real!

Instead, Jon is a man who many think is right for the job, but he doesn’t want it. Since childhood, he’s been a boy in the background. He’s not after power. If you’ve really watched the show, you know this aligns with his character! He never wanted to be Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, to sit on the Iron Throne, be King of the North, or want any responsibility. He’s a follower more than a leader.

He’s also foolishly devoted, particularly to Daenerys, because she’ll do the job he doesn’t want. He wants her to lead and takes the first opportunity to relinquish his crown. He ignores Daenerys warning signs and the concerns of his sisters and Varys, who tell him she is not fit to rule, but he is. It’s not until Jon witnesses his Queen destroy King’s Landing, murdering and slaughtering innocent people, that he finally takes action against her.

Jon is a passive protagonist. He responds when there’s a threat, and he tries to act as honourably as possible, but that’s it. And in this case, he acts far too late.

So, the idea that he would actually sit on the Iron Throne is absurd. It’s just not in his character (as the show portrays, who knows what Martin will do with the books… last we saw Jon, he was dead).

Jon’s story has been sad from the beginning. A king in hiding, labelled a bastard, never truly belonging anywhere except with the wildlings. He rose high, but he never wanted power. All he truly wants is peace. And when pushed will make the tough calls to accomplish that. So his story’s melancholy conclusion by being banished from the North for murdering Daenerys (where Sanas is Queen of the free state) and forced to re-take the Black and become a Watcher on the Walls fits—otherwise, his only other option was that the Unsullied would kill him for the death of their Queen.

Jon was never destined for glory.

If Game of Thrones did anything, it told you not to expect a happy ending. What most viewers didn’t realise is that the show’s two main protagonists (Daenerys and Jon Snow) were never going to accomplish their dreams because when did anyone in the show accomplish their dreams? And when someone did, they quickly lost them!

No one becomes the thing they thought they would. Bran, Sansa, Arya, Tyrion, Brianne, Bronn, et al. The world of Game of Thrones is unpredictable, chaotic, and bittersweet. Anyone going into the finale expecting something like Lord of the Rings, where Jon and Daenerys live happily ever after and restore Targaryen rule in Westeros, wasn’t watching the show properly. Daenerys wanted to ‘break the wheel.’ But to break the wheel, no Targaryen (including her or Jon) could rule. A whole new electoral system had to be devised because monarchies never end well…

The seeds were planted from the very beginning! If you came to Game of Thrones for a happy ending, you came to the wrong place. Were there other missteps with the final seasons? Sure. But there were mistakes in every season. But nothing that warrants the backlash GoT season 8 received. Overall, the show's ending felt right if you were paying attention.

Post Script

It’s worth noting that I do not love everything about Game of Thrones. I think seasons 5 and 6 are by far the worst. Some storylines were perhaps rushed and could’ve been fleshed out more (the absurd religious storyline in seasons 5 and 6). Some characters overstayed their welcome (Theon bloody Greyjoy!!!). Other characters were shortchanged (Margaery Tyrell!), and a few were given victories they didn’t deserve (Arya killing the Night King). But these are topics for another day if that day ever comes.