Graphic by Dani Ramirez
Written by Timothy Walker
This article contains spoilers for “You,” “Tell Me Lies,” and “His & Hers.”
If you tune into recent media, you will likely encounter an assortment of sympathetic manipulators, romanticized violence and morally sanitized villains.
Think of series like “You,” “Tell Me Lies” and “His & Hers” that orbit figures like Joe Goldberg, Stephen DeMarco and Alice Andrews; all of whom cause serious harm while being framed as understandable, wounded or doing their best. Their actions are rarely excused outright, but they are consistently made emotionally legible causing an ethically divisive climate amongst viewers.
This trend is not accidental.
It reflects a broader cultural moment in which traditional moral authority has eroded. A former reality television star and businessman, Donald Trump, rose to the presidency amid fraudulent scandals and his own admissions of entering teenage pageant locker rooms uninvited. Federal U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement agents, both on and off duty, have been repeatedly recorded conducting fatal enforcement practices against those in the way of assigned procedures that blur legal and ethical boundaries. After political commentator, Charlie Kirk, was assassinated, parts of the public responded with grief and outrage while others openly celebrated his death online, exposing how quickly political violence is processed as ideology and entertainment rather than as harm.
The case of convicted murderers Lyle Menendez and Erik Menendez continues to bounce between narratives of abuse and criminality, with public opinion shifting depending on which lens is emphasized. Meanwhile, Luigi Mangione has been elevated by chambers of the internet into an ideological symbol of anti-corporatism rather than treated solely within the traditional boundaries of a criminal defendant.
Needless to say, there are plenty of examples of when power, violence and manipulation are filtered through competing narratives and in part, moral clarity has begun to feel naive. Although moral ambiguity itself is nothing new, what is new is how consistently popular media invites audiences to empathize with harm and how often explanation is treated as justification.
This shift towards sympathetic wrongdoing has been crafted intentionally scene by scene through carefully considered narrative choices and few series demonstrate this as clearly asYou” which turns stalking and violence into a first-person love story.
In Season one episode five of “You,” Joe Goldberg kills Peach Salinger because she poses a direct threat to his relationship with love interest Guinevere Beck and is beaten nearly to death. He tells himself afterward, “That beating was karmic. I know it. I did a bad thing today but for a good reason and if there is any justice in the world, you are the reward for all of my suffering.” Later, in the season finale, he reinforces this logic by insisting, “Sometimes, we do bad things for the people we love. It doesn’t mean it’s right. It means love is more important.” Joe is a walking case study in how self-awareness does not block self-deception. Despite recognizing his actions as wrong, he continually reframes them as necessary, protective or meaningful. His introspection does not restrain him, it enables him. “You” illustrates how reflective language and emotional vulnerability can coexist with extreme harm. This logic mirrors the real-world cases discussed earlier as spilt blood is justified through appeals to loyalty, ideology or protection. Whether framed as institutional duty or personal vengeance, harm becomes acceptable when it is packaged as love.
This is the same kind of moral facade is visible in the television series and novel “Tell Me Lies,” where Stephen DeMarco’s emotional abuse is framed through intimacy and vulnerability rather than named for what it is: manipulation.
The series invites viewers into his trauma, insecurities and private reasoning; constructing a psychological alibi for cruelty. By revealing his wounds, the show teaches audiences how harm is rationalized before it is committed. In Chapter 14 of the novel, DeMarco exposes his emotional emptiness when he admits, “I came to the realization that I was different. I didn’t want to hurt people, but I could and when I did, there was something cathartic and liberating about it. … I know about guilt and it doesn’t apply to me.” This confession reveals how self-awareness becomes a shield rather than restraint. DeMarco recognizes his capacity for harm yet treats it as evidence of uniqueness rather than a reason for accountability. His cruelty is reframed as identity.
The novel furthers this theme through DeMarco’s mother, Norah DeMarco, whose own manipulative behavior models emotional exploitation. After deliberately bringing her family to a restaurant where she knows her ex-husband and his pregnant wife will be, she deflects responsibility by insisting, “You chose that restaurant, Stephen.” In moments like this, blame is displaced and emotional control is disguised as an accident.
“Tell Me Lies” functions as both a cautionary tale and a manual, revealing how narcissistic and self-destructive behaviors cloak themselves in sincerity, remorse and romantic language. The result is not moral complexity but moral dilution, where understanding replaces accountability and sympathy substitutes for judgment.
This logic reaches its most extreme form in “His & Hers,” where love is used to justify outright murder. Alice Andrews kills multiple people connected to her daughter’s abuse, framing her actions as necessary acts of maternal devotion. Even Anna Andrews, a journalist devoted to exposing violence and injustice, is unable to fully condemn her mother. As a survivor of severe physical and sexual abuse, she remains suspended between shock, fear and admiration for the lengths of Alice Andrew’s “protection.”
In the final episode, after it is revealed that Alice Andrews witnessed Anna Andrews’ abuse through recorded tapes, she declares, “Whoever said ‘two wrongs don’t make a right’ lacked imagination,” openly reframing vengeance as moral creativity. She then exploits her age and dementia to evade suspicion while methodically eliminating her daughter’s abusers. In her final message, she instructs Anna Andrews to raise her children with the same relentless love, presenting violence as inheritance and duty rather than as a moral transgression.
What is framed as heroic sacrifice is, in reality, moral corruption disguised as devotion. Alice Andrews’ actions feel redeeming because the narrative tugs relentlessly at the viewer’s empathy. However, stripped of sentiment they reproduce the very cycle of violence Anna Andrews sought to expose. Love does not interrupt harm here. It authorizes it.
Across “You,” “Tell Me Lies” and “His & Hers,” harm is presented as understandable responses to pain, loyalty or love. Stalking becomes devotion, manipulation becomes vulnerability and murder becomes sacrifice. With each case the audience is trained to follow emotional logic of wrongdoing rather than confront the ethical stakes. These habits mirror contemporary political life where violence, corruption and institutional cruelty are routinely reframed as necessary, misunderstood or for the greater good. Viewers who are taught to emphasize first and judge later set aside action for understanding and become perpetrators of the same violence they bear witness to.
These shows enforce moral ambiguity, conditioning audiences to tolerate harm as long as it is wrapped in trauma, sincerity or love. Viewers are prepared for a world in which power is rarely held accountable and cruelty is endlessly rationalized.
Love no longer functions as a barrier to violence. It has become its most effective justification.
