Agatha Christie’s mid-century ‘manosphere’ reveals a different kind of dysfunctional male

This piece contains spoilers for Towards Zero.

Agatha Christie, a middle-class English crime writer who preferred to be known as a housewife, is the world’s bestselling novelist. Since her death in 1976, her work has been translated into over 100 languages and adapted for cinema, TV and even video games.

Her writing is characterised by its cheerful readability and ruthless dissection of hypocrisy, greed and respectability. Christie is fascinated by power and its abuse, and explores this through the skilful deployment of recognisable character types. The suspects in her books are not just there for the puzzle – they also exemplify the attitudes, ideals and assumptions that shaped 20th-century British society.

If we want to know about the mid-century “manosphere”, then, there is no better place to look than in the fiction of Agatha Christie. What did masculinity mean to this writer, and would we recognise it in the gender types and ideals of today? Some answers might be found through the recent BBC adaptation of Towards Zero, which confronts viewers with a range of dysfunctional male types.

Looking for something good? Cut through the noise with a carefully curated selection of the latest releases, live events and exhibitions, straight to your inbox every fortnight, on Fridays. Sign up here.

Chief among these is Thomas Royde, a neurotic twitching figure driven to breakdown by the shame of having his word doubted. Gaslit by his pathologically perfect cousin Nevile, Thomas has been dispatched to the colonies, where he has compounded his injuries through financial failure. Broke and broken, the adaptation imagines him returning to the family home with trauma quite literally written on his body.

This is not the Thomas Royde of Christie’s original 1944 novel. That figure was stoic, silent and perfectly capable of managing his failure to live up to the spectacular masculinity of cousin Nevile. Christie’s Thomas may have regretted his romantic losses and physical limitations, but the idea of exposing his pain in public would have horrified him.

This is not a case of repression; rather it speaks to a world in which pain is respected, but simply not discussed. Thomas’s friends, we are told, “had learned to gauge his reactions correctly from the quality of his silences”. The stoical man of few words is a recurrent type within Christie’s fiction. It’s a mode of masculinity of which she approves – even while poking fun at it – and one recognised by her mid-20th century audience.

These are men who embody ideal British middle-class values: steady, reliable, resilient, modest, good humoured and infinitely sensible. They find their fictional reward in happy unions, sometimes with sensible women, sometimes with bright young things who benefit from their calm assurance.

Christie also depicted more dangerous male types – attractive adventurers who might be courageous, or reckless and deadly. These charismatic figures present a troubling mode of masculinity in her fiction, from the effortlessly charming Ralph in The Murder of Roger Ackroyd (1926), to Michael Rogers, the all too persuasive narrator of Endless Night (1967).

Superficially, these two types of men might be mapped onto Christie’s own experiences. Her autobiography suggests that she was irresistibly drawn to something strange and inscrutable in her first husband, Archie. By contrast, her second husband, the archaeologist Max Mallowan, brought friendship and shared interests.

Yet while it’s possible to see biographical resonances in these types, it is equally important to recognise them as part of a middle-class world view that set limits on acceptable masculinities. In my book, Agatha Christie: A Very Short Introduction, I explore these limits, examining a cultural climate riven with contradictions.

A different time

Mid-20th century culture insisted that men be articulate when discussing public matters – science, politics, sport – but those who extended this to the emotions were not to be trusted. They were seen to be glib, foolish or possibly dangerous.

British masculinity acts rather than talks and does a decent job of work. As a result, work itself is a vital dimension of man-making in Christie’s novels, and in the fiction of contemporaries like Nigel Balchin, Hammond Innes and Nevil Shute.

These writers witnessed the conflicting pressures on men, expected to be both soldiers and citizens, capable of combat and domestic breadwinning. They saw the damage caused by war, unemployment and the loss of father figures. But the answer wasn’t talking. Rather, the best medicine for wounded masculinity was the self-respect that comes with doing a good day’s work.

This ideology still resonates within understandings of “healthy” masculinity, but there are limits to the problems that can be solved through a companionable post-work pint. Which brings us back to the BBC’s Towards Zero. Contemporary adaptations often speak to the preoccupations of their moment, and the plot is driven by one man’s all-consuming hatred of his ex-wife.

With apologies for plot spoilers, perfect Nevile turns out to be a perfect misogynist, scheming against the woman who has – to his mind – humiliated him. But the world of his hatred is a long way from the online “manosphere” of our contemporary age.

Quite aside from the technological gulf separating the eras, Christie does not imagine misogyny as an abusive mass phenomenon, a set of echo chambers which figure men as the victims of feminism. Rather, Nevile, like all Christie’s murderers, kills for reasons that can clearly be defined, detected and articulated: he is an isolated madman, not a cultural phenomenon.

Towards Zero’s topicality – its preoccupation with celebrity, resentment of women and a manipulative gaslighting villain – does much to explain its adaptation, but it does not account for the radical revision of Thomas Royde. Is it an indication that stoicism is out of fashion? Or simply a desire to convert Christie’s cool-tempered fictions into melodramas appropriate for a social-media age?

Whatever the thinking, there is a familiar consolation for Thomas’s pain. He might not get the girl of his dreams, but he does get something better: a steady, reliable woman whose modest virtues illustrate that, in Christie’s world, “ideal masculinity” is unexpectedly non-binary. Women can be just as stoic, reserved and resilient as men.

Christie’s “manosphere”, then, has its share of haters, but they are isolated figures forced to disguise their resentments. They also, frequently, meet untimely ends – another reason why Christie remains a bestseller to this day.

This article features references to books that have been included for editorial reasons, and may contain links to bookshop.org. If you buy something, The Conversation UK may earn a commission.

Gill Plain does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.