You Won’t Like What You Find ‘Inside the Manosphere’

I don’t follow the world of the Manosphere. Personally, I think anyone with two brain cells should be able to see past grifters promising health, wellness, women and money, so long as you pledge $50 a month to gain special access into their clubhouses. But yet, here we are — these “red pill” hucksters make boatloads of cash off impressionable young men who look to social media for guidance in a world controlled by an algorithm that demands their money, attention, and personalities as currency in a dice game controlled by “soy boys” or “libtards” or “feminists.”

Documentarian Louis Theroux likewise did not follow that world, but jumped headfirst into it for his debut collaboration with Netflix, Inside the Manosphere. The results are telling.

Released on Netflix on March 11, Louis Theroux: Inside the Manosphere finds the veteran documentarian doing what he does best — letting deeply unself-aware people hang themselves with their own rope. The film examines social media influencers and podcasters who speak to disenfranchised males, weaving homophobic and sexist messaging into their content: primarily financial advice and workout material (get rich and get ripped!).

The documentary’s sharpest trick is that because a core tenet of the subculture is distrusting traditional media, Theroux negotiates remarkable access to these men, who frequently walk back their worldviews when questioned or when their wives and mothers are sitting nearby. The real commodity these men sell isn’t courses or supplements — it’s themselves, a perpetual performance of envy-bait wrapped in the language of self-improvement. What’s more troubling is how many of these influencers have cultivated real proximity to the Trump White House.

The main subjects are Harrison Sullivan (known as HSTikkyTokky), Myron Gaines, Nicolas Kenn De Balinthazy (known as Sneako), Justin Waller, and Ed Matthews.

Waller is probably the most jaw-dropping — a Tate-adjacent influencer who openly practices “one-way monogamy,” meaning he sleeps with other women while his partner Kristen raises their kids. Theroux interviews Kristen, who describes their arrangement in terms of “lanes,” and the moment where it becomes clear she isn’t legally married to Waller — apparently for “financial” reasons — is one of the film’s most uncomfortable scenes. What the documentary captures best is the persistent awkwardness when these men are pressed on how they actually live — the stammering around “arrangements,” the careful language around dating outside the relationship. They present themselves as lions of prowess while their women stay home, barefoot in the kitchen, available on demand — the reality is somewhat different.

Waller also claims his businesses have made him worth north of $30 million (the truth seems closer to half that), most of which comes from a construction company called RedIron Construction which he founded in 2011, but he likes to flex as if most is driven from pure social media brilliance.

But perceived wealth isn’t just a byproduct of success, it’s the product itself. Figures like Sneako, Myron Gaines, Justin Waller, Ed Matthews, and HSTikkyTokky operate in a space where real income from content, courses, and businesses is often blended with exaggerated claims, selective transparency, and lifestyle signaling designed to sell their image. The money they make is frequently tied not to traditional ventures, but to teaching other men how to achieve that same success, creating a feedback loop where perceived wealth drives actual revenue. In that system, net worth becomes less a verifiable number and more a marketing tool, one that pulls in followers (Waller has around a million Instagram followers) by selling aspiration, even when the reality behind it is far murkier.

Sneako is the most politically alarming, openly arguing women shouldn’t vote and claiming society is controlled by Satanists. He was at President Trump’s inauguration and says Trump’s 19-year old son Barron watches his content.

For his part, Myron Gaines has since claimed on his podcast that he tried to get footage removed from the doc, which tells you everything about how the film landed for its subjects.

Theroux travels to Miami, New York, and Marbella to meet these men, and the consistent thread is that nearly all of them unravel the moment an unhurried British man asks a simple follow-up.

Theroux does business with a smile and simple questions. He doesn’t go for “gotcha” moments but instead asks earnest questions that require a modicum of depth. A lot of the influencers insist on filming Theroux in return, convinced they can control the narrative, but really, the subjects are doing all of the work themselves. He never attacks or makes claims; he just draws them into conversations where they are clearly out of their depth.

What’s alarming about Inside the Manosphere is all the young men who approach these influencers as they walk around filming and “making content” — there is a consistent stream of well-wishers who see what these men are doing as morally correct, despite its appalling stance on women, society, and self-worth. There’s a pipeline here, and it runs straight through loneliness into the waiting arms of men who’ve monetized resentment, to the tune of millions, thanks to men looking for an easy fix to their own self-worth. That’s not an internet punchline or a hokey overpriced t-shirt. That’s a social crisis.

What’s worse is that with guys like Sneako having access to Trump and his world, these views bleed into the mainstream. That generates a political will to expand this fringe group so it becomes an important movement for young men who feel like the world is forgetting them.

As these guys rake in millions for being assholes, the real question isn’t whether we can see through them — it’s why so many young men can’t. And that question doesn’t have an easy answer.