Shakespearean Tragedies to Modern Anti-Heroes: Misreading Masculine Complexity
The rush to label difficult male characters as “toxic” is not limited to real life – it spills into how we interpret art and culture. But many of the greatest stories about men grapple with why flawed male characters behave as they do, in ways far richer than a buzzword can capture. From Shakespearean heroes to film noir anti-heroes to modern TV drama leads, we have ample examples of multidimensional men who might today be slapped with the “toxic” tag, yet reducing them to that would sell them (and the story’s message) short.
Take Shakespeare. In Othello, the titular general murders his innocent wife Desdemona in a fit of jealous rage – certainly a heinous, inexcusable act. Modern commentary might simply brand Othello a symbol of toxic masculinity (violent possessiveness of a woman). But Shakespeare’s tragedy delves deeper into Othello’s psyche and circumstances: he’s an outsider in Venetian society, insecure about his race and age, manipulated by the villain Iago’s cunning lies. One literary analyst notes that Othello “expects the worst of everyone, especially women,” likely because of trauma and threats he’s faced, and this pessimism makes it “easy for Iago to manipulate him.”
In other words, Othello’s downfall arises from insecurity and learned distrust – not an inherent love of dominating women. The play “sheds a light on trauma, PTSD, [and] toxic masculinity,” showing how external oppression and internal fear drive a good man to terrible ends. Shakespeare certainly didn’t have the term toxic masculinity, but he understood the concept: Othello’s masculine honor culture and jealousy turn lethal. Crucially, though, we sympathize with Othello even as we condemn his deed. He is a tragic figure, not a one-dimensional villain. The lesson isn’t “men bad”; it’s a warning about how pride, fear and manipulation can destroy love.
Similarly, think of Hamlet – a young man told to “man up” and avenge his father, who berates himself for his hesitation (“unmanly grief” is what his uncle calls Hamlet’s mourning). His vacillation and angst could be viewed as a commentary on the pressures of traditional masculinity clashing with conscience. Or Macbeth, egged on by his wife’s taunts to prove his manhood by murdering the king; his toxic ambition (fueled by the notion that manhood = taking what you can by force) leads to ruin. In each case, Shakespeare explores the context and mental state behind the violent or “toxic” act. A broad label adds little; a psychological and social analysis (the kind the Bard masterfully provides in soliloquies) adds a lot.
Jump ahead to film noir and you find a pantheon of brooding, morally gray male protagonists. Detective Sam Spade in The Maltese Falcon (1941) is cynical, sleeps with his partner’s wife, and brusquely dominates conversations – could be described as having toxic traits (deception, coldness). But noir aficionados would point out Sam Spade operates by a personal code of honor in a corrupt world; his aloof tough-guy persona is a shield against constant betrayal. The classic noir anti-hero is often a war veteran or world-weary man trying to survive in a treacherous environment. They slap a femme fatale or shove someone around not because it’s good, but because these stories inhabit a morally bleak landscape where the usual ethics don’t apply cleanly. Label these characters “toxic males” and you miss the critique noir was often making of society – a world of greed, crime, and disillusionment that produces broken people. The movies weren’t celebrating misogyny or violence; they were showing men haunted by fate, grappling with their conscience (think of Fred MacMurray’s guilt-ridden narration in Double Indemnity, or the loneliness of Robert Mitchum’s hitman in Out of the Past). These guys are anti-heroes, not role models, but their flaws are the point of cautionary tales, not an endorsement of “men should behave badly.”
In more modern drama, we continue to see complex male leads who are often misunderstood. One example on stage: Stanley Kowalski in Tennessee Williams’ A Streetcar Named Desire (1947). Stanley is brutish, violent, and infamously abusive – the play ends with him committing sexual assault. Today, he’s frequently cited in discussions of toxic masculinity (indeed a 2018 production explicitly aimed to “unpick toxic masculinity” in the play. And yes, Stanley embodies a hypermasculine, swaggering machismo that is destructive. But Williams didn’t create Stanley simply to say “masculinity bad.” Stanley represents a “primitive,” raw force of desire and reality that clashes with Blanche DuBois’s genteel illusions. He’s a product of his working-class environment and post-WWII male anxiety. None of this excuses his cruelty, but the drama gains power because we see Stanley’s humanity (however coarse) alongside his brutality. Reducing Stanley to a “toxic male” stereotype would strip the play of its exploration of class conflict, gender roles, and the tragedy of incompatible worlds. It’s noteworthy that Stella, Stanley’s wife, still loves him despite everything – highlighting the tangled complexity of human relationships beyond simple labels. Modern audiences are keen to spot toxic masculinity in Streetcar, a lens that wasn’t in Williams’ mind in 1947, yet the play’s enduring resonance comes from its nuanced characters, not from being a moral pamphlet.
Consider also crime dramas like The Sopranos or Breaking Bad. Tony Soprano and Walter White are often cited as examples of toxic masculinity: a mobster asserting dominance through violence, a mild teacher turned drug lord out of wounded ego. True, both display textbook toxic behaviors (entitlement, aggression, refusal to be vulnerable – Tony literally says “toxic masculinity?” in therapy with a smirk at one point). But the genius of those shows was getting audiences to empathize with these men’s inner lives even as we condemn their actions. We see Tony’s panic attacks, depression, and desperate attempts to connect with his family. We watch Walt’s pride and fear of inadequacy drive him to become “Heisenberg.” These are cautionary tales of masculinity gone awry, yet also human portraits. They reinforce the idea that men who do evil aren’t alien creatures – often they are ordinary men who succumbed to the worst parts of themselves. If we simply write off characters like these as “ugh, toxic men,” we miss the opportunity to understand the pressures and pain that led them there, which is often the very insight the creators want us to glean (so that maybe real people might avoid the same fate).
Even satirical takes like Fight Club (1999) underscore this: on the surface, Fight Club’s characters glorify macho violence and anti-consumerist rebellion – plenty of toxicity there – but the film is actually a critique of the emptiness and misplaced anger of a generation of men. It’s telling (and a bit humorous) that some viewers totally misinterpreted it as endorsing Tyler Durden’s toxic ethos, when in fact it was satirizing it.
Tyler’s macho mayhem was the product of the Narrator’s mental break and yearning for meaning. Fight Club recognized that what some call “toxic masculinity” can be a seductive outlet for men who feel emasculated by modern life – but ultimately it’s a destructive delusion. Again, the story digs into why that toxicity appeals, rather than just saying “bad man do bad things.”
The common thread here is that great storytelling about men doesn’t shy away from the damage men can do, but it contextualizes and humanizes it. Using the shorthand “toxic masculinity” for characters like Othello, Stanley Kowalski, or Travis Bickle might capture one aspect, but it ignores the depth. Real male psychology – in life and fiction – is complex. Men can be protectors and destroyers, often within the same person. Their flaws often stem from trauma, social conditioning, or emotional neglect. Many “toxic” behaviors are exaggerated performances of what men think is expected of them.
As we challenge harmful male behaviors in society, we would do well to remember these nuances. A term like toxic masculinity is fine to describe patterns, but when talking to actual human beings (or interpreting characters), a bit more compassion and curiosity goes a lot further. Instead of branding young men as “toxic” by default, we can discuss the specific behaviors that are problematic and why they occur. It’s encouraging to see that even Adolescence, while unforgiving in showing the horror Jamie inflicts, still paints him as also a victim of a toxic culture – a boy who might have been saved if interventions came earlier. As one of the teens in the show remarks, “if there’s a problem with boys’ behaviour, it’s because of us” – meaning adults who failed to guide them. That ethos suggests the solution is not to bash boys, but to mentor them toward a healthier masculinity.
Towards a Nuanced (and Slightly Humorous) Understanding
All this heavy analysis doesn’t mean we can’t find a bit of humor in how overblown the conversation can get. The term “toxic masculinity” itself has almost become a parody online – blame it for anything! Stub your toe? Must be toxic masculinity. World on fire? Toxic masculinity. It’s as if masculinity is a chemical spill and we’re all hazmat teams trying to scrub it clean. Perhaps we need to dial down the hysteria a notch. As the character Adam (the detective’s son in Adolescence) wisely implies, not every boy who watches a Joe Rogan clip is a budding psychopath. There is a “very small pocket” of truly radicalized incel teens, Ryder Jack notes, and they often hide their beliefs until confronted.
Most boys are not irredeemably toxic – some are confused, some are foolish at times (show me a teen who isn’t), and yes, some absorb awful ideas. But treating the entire gender as a public health hazard is neither fair nor effective.
We can absolutely push back against misogyny and dangerous macho posturing while still affirming the worth of men and boys. One can criticize Andrew Tate’s message (indeed one should, as Adolescence does) without implying that every teen boy secretly wants to be an Internet misogynist. We can talk about healthy relationships, consent, and emotional openness with young men in a way that doesn’t feel like an attack. Rather than just warning “don’t be toxic!”, we might also say “here’s how to be a good man – strong and kind, confident and respectful.” That positive vision is something many boys are craving. In fact, William Costello’s work suggests many incels might never have gone down that rabbit hole if they’d had better guidance and felt valued by society
Let’s face it, phrases like “toxic masculinity” make for spicy headlines and punchy tweets, but they don’t tell the whole story. Just as Shakespeare knew a 400 years ago, and as Netflix’s Adolescence reminds us today, behind every angry young man there’s often a tale of pain, longing, and loss. Address that human story, and you have a chance to change the outcome; ignore it, and you’ll just keep shouting into the void while the cycle repeats.
So maybe it’s time to retire the blanket use of “toxic masculinity” and focus on specific behaviors and solutions. It’s a bit like retiring a well-worn stage prop that’s overstayed its welcome – the audience has gotten the point, and now they’re ready for a deeper dialogue. In the meantime, we can all take a cue from the arts: approach these characters and real individuals alike with a desire to understand first. Because if we reduce every complicated, flawed man to a one-dimensional toxin, we risk missing the cure for what truly ails them.
After all, as any good dramatist might tell us with a wink, the play’s the thing – and this play called modern masculinity is still being written. Let’s strive for a narrative where men aren’t simplistically vilified or sanctified, but seen in full: capable of great harm, but also great growth. And maybe, just maybe, we can replace the toxic with something tonic.
