As some day it may happen that a victim must be found
I've got a little list — I've got a little list
Of society offenders who might well be underground
And who never would be missed — who never would be missed!

Dear Wags,

Back when we worked in legacy media, we confronted an unsettling trend. Journalists were increasingly afraid of being put on enemies lists. How absurd, to fear anonymous social media blowback from a snarky review of The Witcher, or an interview with Ricky Gervais—to cite two actual examples. Reporters were supposed to be irreverent and fearless.

Well, we vastly underestimated the power of digital media to wreck lives and the timidity of challenged institutions in the face of threats. Fear of retribution cast an exhaustively documented pall over brands whose business it was to ask inconvenient questions. In many newsrooms, the grownups fled the room and journalistic credibility crumbled.

Human beings have a knack for grievance, and social media has a terrifying flair for amplifying it. Schadenfreude is powerful algorithmic accelerant, and a petty beef can quickly become career-ending. If people are reliably lousy, going after them online is an especially insidious form of retribution.

Virtual existence has turned vast numbers of us into public figures—and targets. What fun it is to watch some ghastly individual humiliate herself on video. It’s never been easier to track offenders down, find out where they work (for now), and put them on a manifesto that will ping around cyberspace forever. Too bad any form of prosecution is prone to error; reality is more complicated than clickbait. Due process is not a problem for list-makers and those of us who gather to gawk. By the time the real truth is revealed, we’re off to another necktie party.

In the wake of the Israel-Gaza war, it’s been addictive and awful, diving into a mushrooming array of sites dedicated to tallying competing enemies lists. You can scroll through compendiums of protestors and counter-protestors, all being showcased in order to cause ruin. Well, they put themselves out there, you might say. But what if we got it wrong? And just wait until it happens to you.

PEN America, an organization dedicated to freedom of expression, has been roiled by controversy involving activists making lists of writers decreed too soft on The Zionist Entity. Since the Trump verdict, MAGA types are (again) drawing up lists of enemies to jail and even hang. After #MeToo, the notorious Shitty Media Men List went after alleged offenders by publishing unsubstantiated anecdotes. That orgy of vigilantism ended in a lawsuit over a destructive false accusation.

There was a blithe assumption at the dawn of the social media age that such activity really did not matter. People say terrible things about other people, who cares! If you were a good person, blindsided for whatever reason, somehow this would sort itself out in the wash. How naive that was. There is such a thing as bad publicity, and it is now written in permanent ink.

We have no innovative way of revising the record to clear the names of those who are smeared, to excuse those who have made amends, to acknowledge that every single one of us makes mistakes. Do we really wish to punish feckless 19-year-olds with obnoxious politics forever? Do we want to destroy strangers’ lives over seconds of context-free mobile phone video? Apparently we do.

That sort of impulse is authoritarian, no matter what your politics. It does not punish notorious ideological opponents as much as ordinary people who make the mistake of stepping out of line. Incidentally, it’s how police states work.

One day, there may be a Truth and Reconciliation Commission for the Internet, in which those who have been wronged can confront their accusers. Perhaps by then, we’ll have learned that innovative forms of bullying set differences in cement and smother discourse. At the moment, offline legal remedies are expensive and ineffectual for most individuals caught in the digital crosshairs. But history is clear: Enemies lists do not wear well. Long before the internet, our better angels told us to delete them.

Yours Ever,

Thomas Stockmann

Butter by Asako Yuzuki

Manako Kajii is a gourmet cook. She’s also a serial killer, accused of luring lonely businessmen with her cuisine. Manako won’t talk to the press, until reporter Rika Machida asks for her beef stew recipe. Soon, the women are bonding over the culinary arts — and murder. As Rika follows her subject’s instructions for delectable meals, she stimulates more diabolical appetites. This is one savory thriller about gastronomy and misogyny, artfully translated by Polly Barton. Not since Hannibal Lecter have we met a more beguiling man-eater. Book a reservation. —Mikage Sakurai.

Charlie Hustle by Keith O’Brien

Peter Rose was baseball phenomenon, racking up more hits than anybody in the history of his sport. He was also a blue collar hero in his hometown of Cincinnati. For fans old enough to remember the Big Red Machine, he exemplified a glorious era. Then it all went to hell. In the 1980s, Rose was banished from baseball for betting on the game, a stain that has never gone away. Sportswriter O’Brien captures the magic of Rose at his peak and his wrenching downfall in this all-American fable. The story is enriched by interviews with Rose, those close to him, FBI records, and diligent research. The result is an epic that reveals as much about America as its national pastime.— Ebby Laloosh

After the Revolution by Nellie Bowles

How silly it is, to get mad at

Nellie Bowles

! An instinctive liberal and a formidable reporter, she happened to be working at theNew York Timesduring the convulsions of 2020. As a journalist, she had fair questions about progressive overreach, which got her into hot water with colleagues who felt she wasn’t helping their cause. Why did she poke into what was going on the streets of San Francisco, Portland, and Seattle? Wasn’t there a big orange fish to fry? Bowles cannot help herself, which has been a boon to her career. She’s a wry chronicler of American excess in the manner ofTom Wolfe. Right and left, those who can’t tolerate critique are a problem. Meantime, this gadfly happens to be quite funny. — Joe Frady

Lady Killer

Hit Man (Netflix). Wag Supremo Richard Linklater delivers a loopy thrill ride based on the real-life misadventures of Gary Johnson, an undercover cop who specialized in posing as hitmen. Done up in nutty disguises, Johnson set up meetings with people who wanted to murder other people, which led to arrests and charges of entrapment. What makes this all work is Lovable Glen Powell as the poseur. Powell co-wrote this genial bang-bang, which turns the hero into a drippy New Orleans academic tapped by cops to play assassins. If it’s possible in the streaming age, this role should turn him into a star.—Max Durocher

Fashion Victim

Becoming Karl Lagerfeld (Hulu). If you dress like Louis XIV, wave a black fan, and lavish millions on your kitty Choupette, people are going to notice you. Yet like any great diva, Karl Lagerfeld (Daniel Brühl) demanded to be left alone. Or, paid attention to on his terms, which this miniseries makes clear were exacting. This is a sort of super villain origin story, charting Lagerfeld’s rise as a Paris courtier (it’s adapted from Raphaëlle Bacqué’s Kaiser Karl). No surprise, he was impossible! There’s enough hissing and scratching in this show to make Choupette jealous. The late ’70s vibe is well executed (inevitably, Blondie is on the soundtrack singing Heart of Glass). Théodore Pellerin plays Lagerfeld’s lover, Jacques de Bascher, while Arnaud Valois is the designer’s rival, Yves Saint Laurent. The costumer clearly loves American Gigolo.—Slim Chrysler