What Netflix’s ‘Adolescence’ Tells Us About the Dark Web of Misogyny

Netflix’s Adolescence is a chilling wake-up call on how online subcultures fuel misogyny, turning quiet boys into vessels of modern male rage.

When it comes to crime dramas, no one does it quite like the Brits. Netflix’s Adolescence has all the hallmarks of a classic whodunnit: shocking twists, haunting characters, and tension so thick you’ll forget to breathe.

Since its debut on 13 March 2025, the limited series has become a global sensation, racking up over 24 million views in just four days. Phenomenal acting and daring one-take shots draw us in—but it’s the why at the heart of Adolescence that lingers, forcing us to confront what innocence and guilt really mean.

[Warning: major spoilers ahead!]

Three minutes into the first episode, we’re already thrown into chaos. Armed police swarm a quiet suburban home and arrest 13-year-old Jamie Miller (Owen Cooper) for the alleged murder of his classmate, Katie Leonard. We’re strapped in—literally—as we follow Jamie in real time to the police station where Detective Inspector Bascombe (Ashley Walters) interrogates him.

Amid his parents’ frantic protests and advice from his appointed lawyer, Jamie’s cries of denial cut through. We’re right there with him—until DI Bascombe hits play on CCTV footage, showing Jamie brutally stabbing Katie. It’s hard evidence, yet we still can’t fully believe it. We’re left wondering: what could drive a teenage boy to commit such an unthinkable act?

Creators Jack Thorne and Stephen Graham avoid making excuses for Jamie, but they don’t paint him as a mere monster either. Instead, they let the horror of his crimes unfold slowly, tracing his descent through the eyes of those trying—and often failing—to understand him.

In episode two, DI Bascombe searches for a motive behind Jamie’s violence. His breakthrough comes not from evidence, but from his teenage son, Adam. When Bascombe shows him Katie’s Instagram comment—a string of red pill and dynamite emojis—Adam immediately sees what his father doesn’t:

“She’s saying he’s an incel, dad. She’s saying he always will be. That’s why they say you’re an incel, they’re saying you’re going to be a virgin forever.”

Enter the manosphere: a toxic corner of the internet where misogyny and resentment fester. Here, controversial influencers such as Andrew Tate prey on vulnerable boys like Jamie, feeding them the belief that women are the root of their loneliness.  

Central to this warped ideology is the ‘red pill’ theory, borrowed from The Matrix. In the 1999 film, taking the red pill means waking up to a harsh reality, while the blue pill lets you remain blissfully ignorant. In the manosphere, that “reality” is twisted into the belief that women hold all the power, which convinces men they’re victims of a society that oppresses them. 

Throw in the 80/20 rule, a myth claiming 80 per cent of women are only attracted to the top 20 per cent of men, and the formula is disturbingly clear: the world owes them something, and women are the enemy.

The result? A sense of entitlement and bitterness where rejection becomes a personal injustice that must be fought with anger. As Adam tells his father, “Women, you must trick them because you’ll never get them in a normal way.”

For Jamie, rejection isn’t a normal part of adolescence. It’s a humiliating blow to his ego. 

It’s why Katie’s death feels less like a murder mystery and more like a slow, painful unravelling of how misogyny morphs into violent rage. Katie isn’t just a victim of crime—she becomes the target of an ideology that reduces her worth to how she reacts to male attention.

Jamie’s psychiatrist, Briony Ariston (Erin Doherty), hits a wall when his obsession with controlling how women perceive him becomes palpable. He rages at her to assert dominance, mocks her for being scared of him, and questions if she liked him as a person, not just a patient. 

This relentless need for validation leads to an accidental confession: he killed Katie simply because he “wanted her to be sorry”. Yet, he insists he’s better than other boys because, unlike them, he didn’t do anything more to her body.

A year has passed by episode four, and Jamie’s trial looms. His family clings desperately to the illusion of normalcy, celebrating Eddie’s (Stephen Graham) 50th birthday, until Jamie shatters it by announcing he will plead guilty. 

The façade crumbles, leaving his parents to wonder: where did they go wrong? They believed his room was a safe haven, a place protected from the outside world, yet they failed to realise that the world is bigger than what we can physically keep inside.

What makes Adolescence truly gut-wrenching is its refusal to point fingers at a single cause. Jamie isn’t a monster from the start; he’s shaped by a system—school, family, law enforcement—that is too slow or too overwhelmed to intervene. 

The show offers no easy answers, but it forces us to ask: how many more Jamies are out there? We may never know until it’s too late, and that uncertainty is what makes it linger long after the credits roll.

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