Netflix’s series adaptation of “Lord of the Flies,” which premiered this past week, begins with the character Piggy. He is lying on wet, soft earth, his glasses are askew and clouded. It’s shot from above with a fisheye lens, as if the viewer is leaning over him, hungry or paranoid, or both. The boy looks fragile, his cheeks are red — bloody or flushed with heat, we don’t yet know.

Then we meet the other boys, single-name references in their own right: Ralph, Jack, Simon, Roger.

Created by Jack Thorne, who also wrote and produced the 2025 award-winning series “Adolescence,” this mini series adaptation of “Lord of the Flies” stays close to author William Golding’s original source material.

It is impossible to encounter “Lord of the Flies” in 2026 and not consider the current conversations about masculinity and the crisis men and boys are facing.

The premise, for those few who may not remember from high school assigned reading: a plane carrying British schoolboys, from young children aged five or six to pre-teenagers, crash-lands on an uninhabited tropical island, with the boys as the only survivors. Without the moral and social guidance of adults, the boys are reduced to their worst impulses. They are careless and reckless, and then violent and cruel.

“Lord of the Flies” has remained an enduring classic because of its commentary on leadership, the fragility of society, and human nature. Thorne’s version is episodic, broken down into four parts, four perspectives, centering on our primary characters: Piggy (David McKenna), Jack (Lox Pratt), Simon (Ike Talbut), and Ralph (Winston Sawyers).

The boys, particularly the power-hungry and ruthless Jack, are afforded more dimension than in the original text. Jack is often portrayed, and therefore analyzed, in a single note: as a sociopathic villain. The show takes interest in the motivations behind his behavior and his relationships with the other boys.

It is impossible to encounter “Lord of the Flies” in 2026 and not consider the current conversations about masculinity and the crisis men and boys are facing: where so-called men’s rights activist lay regressive and violent blame on women and feminists for the lack of community, disenfranchisement, and the personal struggles of modern men.There’s a temptation to reduce the story, including Thorne’s adaptation, as an examination of a certain toxicity inherent in all men and boys.

But I think that misses an important point about this series, and about the reality of where so many young men find themselves today. Thorne told Esquire, “I don’t think this is about boys in a state of nature. I don’t buy any of those sorts of arguments. […] It’s about a group of kids that come with a culture and a socialization that they then reenact on the island.”

I watched Thorne’s adaptation of “Lord of the Flies” as a nuanced yet universal story of the importance of vulnerability, the perils of social conditioning, and the fragility of coming-of-age.

Thorne’s “Lord of the Flies” and “Adolescence” could almost be treated as companion pieces, equally emotionally demanding, equally painful to witness. Although both are works of fiction, “Lord of the Flies” exists in the grey, in the symbolic, where “Adolescence” exists in the black and white, taken straight from news headlines. They’re both devastating, but for different reasons: “Lord of the Flies” because it makes you wonder what others truly are capable of, “Adolescence” because it shows you exactly that.

Although the cultural markers of manhood have shifted since the 1950s, vulnerability has consistently been seen as antithetical to masculinity.

Although the cultural markers of manhood have shifted since the 1950s, vulnerability has consistently been seen as antithetical to masculinity. Simon, almost Christ-like in his adherence to morality, collapses to the ground in the first few minutes of the first episode. Jack scoffs and proclaims him “the least capable.” Piggy, the arbiter of intelligence and practicality, is ridiculed for being overweight, bespectacled, and frequently coughing from asthma. As in the book, both boys are murdered.

Their deaths are meant to be outrageous and profoundly emotional. For much of the audience, they are. But in a world increasingly culturally and politically dominated by President Donald Trump, his cult of personality, and men like self-described “misogynist” Andrew Tate, fringe streamer Sneako, and their hordes of manosphere imitators and followers, it isn’t hard to consider an audience who would sooner align themselves with a Jack or a sadist like Roger, than with a Piggy or a Simon.

At its core, “Lord of the Flies” is a compressed coming-of-age story, a rapid loss of innocence. Nick Cutter, author of “The Dorians” and a stirring modern adaptation of “Lord of the Flies” called “The Troop,” described this to me as “a crucible.”

“It is a time when you would consider [boys] to be generally innocent. The idea is, you put the [boys] in a crucible, that forces them to take on adult decisions at a point when they really shouldn’t have to.” Here, there is a failure of moral guidance, emotional permission, as well as safety.

I consider my own adolescence, my own coming-of-age experience as a heteronormative girl. No one ever asked me to cleave any parts of myself away to fit into the restrictive space of accepted womanhood. Even now, in my early 30s, I am allowed to express myself in ways that feel as intuitive today as they did at seven, at 13. I wonder if my brothers, my friends, and my husband, most of whom were raised in households as loving and as charmed as my own, were permitted the same. Were they allowed to hold on to skipping rocks and face paint and sleepover parties and glitter glue and asking their mothers for help?

An island is not required for these young men to find themselves in a place without empathy, vulnerability or kindness. It doesn’t take a crucible for young men to adopt violent and backward notions about women, about their own identity and self-worth, about what it means to be a man. All they need to do is scroll their TikTok feeds.

My best friend is pregnant with a boy, due in the middle of summer. We talk about who he will become all of the time: the curious toddler, the brave child, the fair-minded adult, the loyal friend, the loving dad. We talk about the person that she and her husband intend to raise him to be and how they will do that.

I suppose, if nothing else, Golding, Thorne, and their pack of boys are a reminder of the importance of providing moral guidance, nurturing empathy and a willingness to speak up. We must demand men stand up to other men, boys to other boys. We must demand men and boys take an active part in stopping the systemic violence against women and girls.  Pollyannaish? Maybe. For now, though, these lessons, the work of parents, and community and peers, are our best antidote for the worst-case scenarios that Thorne explores in his work.

I think, when you finish the series or close your worn copy of “Lord of the Flies,” you’re left with two fundamental questions: Would you rather raise a Simon, a Jack, a Piggy, or a Ralph? And does your answer scare you?

The post Why the Netflix adaptation of ‘Lord of the Flies’ is so utterly terrifying right now appeared first on MS NOW.

From MS Now.