Alpha males, misogynists, toxic masculinities or the manosphere. Call them what you like. They like to think of themselves as the James Bond on steroids. Like Bond, they project themselves are embodying suave, dominance, and are unapologetically flirtatious, with nameless women at their feet. Yet, unlike James Bond, they are not the heroes and do not possess an ounce of his confidence.

The "alpha male" culture is gaining momentum, especially online. It claims leadership, yet thrives on endless tutorials teaching men how to be men. A masculinity that performs dominance while depending on instruction, validation, and an audience. It is spectacle, not substance, far removed from any meaningful project of positive change. Unlike Man in the Mirror by Michael Jackson, which urges introspection as a path to collective betterment, this version of masculinity gazes into the mirror with vanity, not reflection, turning inward only to inflate the self.

This week I watched Louis Theroux's documentation 'The Manosphere', to see what all the noise was about. It is about a kind of online subculture of young lads claiming that they can define the 'real man'.  The topic of misogynism underpins the whole documentary. At first glance, it appears as a backlash, a reaction to the shifting gender roles, a repudiation of the "new man" who cooks dinner, changes nappies, and talks about emotions. But beneath the spectacle lies something more troubling: an elaborate performativity of identity rooted not in confidence, but in insecurity, trauma, and the desperate need for validation.

In that sense, this is not new at all. In previous decades we had seen various masculine reaction to accentuate validation. In the 1960s, the mods epitomized style as aspiration: sharp suits, Italian scooters, and the promise of social mobility through fashion and white-collar ambition. They performed a carefully curated masculinity, one rooted in aesthetic distinction and upward mobility. Soon after, the skinheads emerged, with boots and shaved heads. They were a celebration of toughness and physical labour, with masculinity worn like armour. Both movements, in different registers, were reactive: they negotiated the shifting social terrain marked by the feminist advances of the 1960s and 1970s, externalizing identity as both performance and defence. Today's manosphere has simply swapped scooters and boots for crypto, podcasts and algorithmic fame. But the real engine behind it all is the attention economy. Attention is the currency. Not truth, not responsibility, not even coherence. What matters is the click, the share and the endless scroll. Say something outrageous. Stage something provocative. The algorithm rewards visibility, not wisdom. And visibility brings followers. Thousands. Sometimes millions.

But the story of the manosphere is somewhat different to previous male subcultures. It takes masculinity to the next level. A dangerous level for young boys who are emulating them. My interpretation of this manosphere is that it is the illegitimate child of a neoliberal climate and the consumer culture. It is propelled within a context in which success is measured almost exclusively through material acquisition and the visibility of wealth. In such a framework, value is attached less to social contribution or collective wellbeing and more to the ability to accumulate and display. What counts is not simply power, but the performance of power: the conspicuous signs of status that signal triumph within an imagined hierarchy. Fast cars, luxury watches, stacks of cash: these symbols function as equating a kind of pseudo success and authority.

Within this logic, masculinity becomes intertwined with the market ethos of competition, individualism, and relentless self-optimization. The ideal man is framed as an entrepreneur of the self, someone who constantly hustles, dominates, and monetizes. Crucially, the morality of how wealth is obtained becomes secondary to the spectacle of having it. Whether the money is made through legitimate enterprise, dubious online schemes, or outright illegality is often treated as irrelevant; what matters is the display of limitless accumulation and the promise that such success is attainable for those willing to play the game.

Central to this vision is domination over women. Within the manosphere, women are routinely commodified and sexualised, reduced to objects through which masculine status can be demonstrated and validated. They become part of the symbolic economy of success: trophies that signal power, desirability, and control. In this framework, masculinity is constructed not only through wealth and visibility, but through the ability to dominate intimate and gendered relationships.

In this digital arena, performance becomes proof of worth. Identity is curated, staged, and broadcasted for validation. It is a masculinity engineered for the algorithm, a version of manhood designed not for reflection but for the endless scroll of the reel. The architecture of social media rewards spectacle over substance. It amplifies the most provocative voices and the most exaggerated displays.

And this is precisely where the danger begins. Because the audience is young. Often very young. Adolescent boys navigating the uncertain terrain between boyhood and adulthood, searching for direction, identity, and belonging. They arrive online with questions they cannot always articulate: What does it mean to be a man? How do I succeed? Where do I fit? In the absence of clear guidance from schools, families, or communities, they turn to the loudest voices available.  The manosphere is ready with answers. Its message is disarmingly simple: Be rich fast. Be dominant and never be vulnerable. Success is measured in money, control, and conquest. Empathy is framed as weakness. Emotional openness becomes something to suppress rather than develop. If what we see shapes how we understand the world, what impact is this having on young minds absorbing these messages about what truly matters in life?

Before watching the documentary, I expected to feel angry, instead, I felt profound sadness. What is portrayed is not the confidence or assertiveness commonly associated with young men, but rather the fragility and vulnerability of youth shaped by early trauma. Louis Theroux describes it as 'ideologies rooted in trauma'. The subjects appear as influencers whose identities are constructed around unresolved anger, deep-seated insecurity, and a persistent need for validation from peers and society.

The documentary offers a stark illustration of these dynamics at play. The reactions to it are largely critical of the manosphere, yet the very system that sustains it, the attention economy, remains firmly in place. Influencers, including local ones, continue to chase likes and views at any cost, turning provocation and spectacle into currency. In the process, they sell not just content but a culture that thrives on outrage, rewards extremity, and ultimately proves deeply damaging.

Prof. Valerie Visanich is an Associate Professor in Sociology