The Antihero Problem: Why Our Culture of Moral Complexity Is Failing Us and the Climate
How Tony Soprano broke television—and maybe our capacity for moral clarity.
This is an essayistic summary of episode 345 of the Reversing Climate Change podcast. You can listen on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, or wherever you get your podcasts.
There's a moment in The Sopranos when you realize you're rooting for a murderer. You catch yourself hoping Tony outsmarts the FBI, or that his wife Carmela doesn't discover his latest affair. And then you think: Why am I thinking this?This is a terrible thought. He's a philandering, violent criminal who should be in prison.
But that's exactly what makes The Sopranos great art—it generates empathy against your will. It forces you to see the humanity in someone whose actions are fundamentally inhumane. And somewhere along the way, this became the gold standard for serious television.
The Rise of the Antihero
The Sopranos did for television what Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band did for rock music—it elevated the medium to high art. Before Tony Soprano, television was largely associated with sitcoms and soap operas. HBO's masterpiece changed that forever, proving that the small screen could handle complex, morally ambiguous characters worthy of critical acclaim.
But here's the problem: we've become addicted to moral complexity. Nearly every prestige show since The Sopranos has centered on an antihero. Walter White in Breaking Bad. The entire cast of Game of Thrones. Even recent shows like The Last of Us force us to question whether the protagonist's choices are truly heroic.
Consider Joel from The Last of Us—a smuggler tasked with delivering an immune girl named Ellie to scientists who could develop a cure for humanity's zombie plague. When he discovers that creating the cure would require killing Ellie, he chooses to save her instead, potentially dooming the human race. The show presents this as morally complex, but it's maybe just another case of a protagonist prioritizing personal attachment over the greater good.
The Difference Between Good and Bad Moral Complexity
Not all moral complexity is created equal. Victor Hugo's Les Misérables offers a masterclass in how to do it right. Jean Valjean, the ex-convict seeking redemption, faces off against Inspector Javert, the lawman who believes unwaveringly in justice over mercy. Hugo gives us this beautiful line: "The judge speaks in the name of justice. The priest speaks in the name of pity, which is nothing but a more lofty justice."
Both characters have coherent worldviews. Valjean represents mercy and second chances; Javert represents the rule of law and social order. Neither is merely good or evil—they're complex human beings with understandable motivations. The story explores the eternal tension between justice and mercy, and by the end, both characters have been transformed by their conflict.
This is what great moral complexity looks like: rounded characters with defensible positions who grow and change through their struggles.
The Antihero's False Promise
Modern antiheroes rarely offer this kind of genuine moral exploration. Tony Soprano spends six seasons in therapy discussing how hard it is to be a gangster, but he never seriously considers giving up the lifestyle. Walter White claims he's cooking meth for his family, but admits in the final season that he did it for himself—for the power, the respect, the empire.
These characters don't grow. They don't transform. They simply exist in a morally gray space where we're meant to empathize with their struggles while excusing their terrible choices.
Even more troubling, this empathy can distort our judgment. When Breaking Bad was airing, fans regularly attacked Skyler White on social media, calling her horrible for opposing her husband's criminal enterprise. They were so invested in Walter's journey that they couldn't see his wife as anything but an obstacle to their antihero's success.
The Political Dimensions
I believe the antihero's prominence connects to broader political trends. Donald Trump's appeal partly stems from his embrace of antihero status—his rejection of traditional presidential rhetoric about American exceptionalism in favor of a more cynical, "America First" realpolitik.
Where previous presidents spoke of America as a beacon of hope and democracy, Trump essentially argued: "That's all baloney. Every other country looks out for their own interests. Why don't we?" This resonated with audiences already primed by decades of antihero media to distrust noble rhetoric and appreciate "honest" self-interest.
The antihero archetype trains us to be suspicious of moral authority and comfortable with moral compromise. It teaches us that everyone is corrupt, everyone has an angle, and the best we can do is look out for ourselves and our immediate circle.
The Climate Connection
This cultural shift has profound implications for climate action. When our media constantly presents moral complexity as sophistication and earnest hope as naivety, it becomes harder to mobilize around issues that require genuine moral clarity and collective action.
I've sometimes felt cynical about climate activism projects that emphasize hope and possibility. Works like All We Can Save and Dr. Ayana Johnson's What If We Get It Right? can feel vulnerable, almost embarrassingly earnest in a culture that rewards cynicism.
But being hopeful is an act of supreme vulnerability. It's much easier to be a "realist" who accepts that we might have to compromise our values or change our rhetoric to be more politically palatable. There's something beautiful about believing in the good of humanity and wondering what if we actually created a beautiful world.
The Hero's Journey We're Missing
This isn't an argument for returning to simplistic John Wayne westerns where good guys wear white hats and bad guys wear black. What we need are more stories about what I call the "Redeemed Rogue"—characters who've lost faith but find their way back to believing in something larger than themselves.
Think of Rick in Casablanca, who rejoins the resistance movement after his heartbreak. Or Han Solo, who evolves from a cynical smuggler to a hero of the rebellion. These characters start as antiheroes but complete genuine moral transformations.
The best documentary I've ever seen, The Act of Killing, achieves this moral authority without preaching. It follows Indonesian death squad leaders as they reenact their mass killings from the 1960s. Watching these men confront their own actions—often saying things like "we can't do it this way, it makes us look like the bad guys"—creates a profound moral reckoning without ever telling the audience what to think.
Permission to Believe Again
Our culture has trained us to be suspicious of hope, to see moral clarity as simplistic, to mistake cynicism for sophistication. But what if we gave ourselves permission to believe again?
What if we acknowledged that while moral complexity exists, some things really are worth fighting for? That climate action isn't just about political calculation but about the world we want to leave behind? That American ideals, however imperfectly realized, are still worth striving toward?
I'm going on record as a sap. I want content that helps me reclaim moral authority, that teaches me what I believe without pandering. I want to believe that we can create a beautiful world, that hope isn't naivety, that heroes—not just antiheroes—have a place in our stories.
The antihero served an important purpose: it complicated our understanding of character and motivation, moving us beyond simple good-versus-evil narratives. But we've overcorrected. In a world facing existential challenges like climate change, we need stories that inspire genuine moral transformation—not just moral confusion.
It's time to remember that the coolest thing an antihero can do is become a hero. And the coolest thing we can do is believe that transformation is possible—in our characters, in our leaders, and in ourselves.
If you find yourself with a broken heart in this way, but want to believe again, I'm giving you permission to believe again. It's okay to do that. Our culture doesn't want you to do that. Go ahead and do it. Believe again. It's cool to believe again.