The dangerous rise of Andrew Callaghan
In an era where journalism, a crucial barrier to the erosion of democracy, is increasingly under threat, the emergence of ‘brocialism’ poses an existential danger. Brocialism, a brand of superficial socialism (bro socialism) appealing mainly to young white men, is the left’s Fox News. At the forefront of this trend is Andrew Callaghan, whose latest documentary, Dear Kelly, epitomises the perils of this burgeoning phenomenon.
Other than two friends in New York City, I didn’t know anyone who had heard of Andrew Callaghan, and yet he has a string of sold-out dates across the US; his documentaries attract tens of millions of views, with some approaching 100 million, and his last effort, This Place Rules, landed on HBO.
In Dear Kelly, Callaghan attempts to explore political extremism through the life of Kelly Johnson, a familiar figure in Trump’s MAGA community. Instead of offering an examination of how Johnson’s views impact his personal and professional life, the documentary delivers a fragmented blend of inappropriate humour and superficial poignancy, lacking the critical depth needed to address the subject effectively.
It misses the opportunity to offer meaningful insights into political radicalisation and its impact. Instead, the film reflects the fundamental flaw in brocialist media which engages with progressive ideas on a surface level almost exclusively from a male perspective.
One of the most jarring and egregious examples is the opening scene, where Kelly Johnson is filmed at a Planned Parenthood clinic. Wearing a #SaveTheKids t-shirt, a 1776 cap, and holding a giant Christian cross, he shouts abusively and demonically at staff, demanding to know if they “sell baby parts.” Designed for comedic purposes with no relevant narrative, it prompted hysterics from the audience. The grim reality of this reaction starkly highlights the complete disconnect with the genuine traumas experienced by women in a country where their healthcare is increasingly restricted and routinely weaponised.
Abortion rights in America have been hard-fought and are suffering a significant setback with the overturning of Roe v. Wade, alongside Trump’s selection of a Vice Presidential nominee who wants to criminalise abortion, including in cases of rape and incest. In Ireland, I proudly worked on the campaign to deliver a resounding ‘Yes’ vote to legalise abortion in 2018, and whilst we celebrated, the relatively recent victory more starkly highlighted the ongoing restriction of women’s rights and bodily autonomy worldwide—something not at all addressed by Callaghan.
Another striking moment occurs when Kelly Johnson pulls out a loaded gun in a public space, prompting more laughter from the audience. Callaghan later revealed that they alter the film after each screening based on audience reactions. This scene — and its response — underscores the troubling cultural dissonance that characterises brocialist media.
Other farcical scenes include Callaghan wondering why a lawyer didn’t reply to his letter written in graffiti typeface starting with “we watched you sleep,” an entirely unrelated backyard fight, and an interview with a rapper named Unkle Pill.
Meanwhile, potential underlying factors, like mental health and substance abuse, that could contribute to Johnson’s actions are apparent but rarely explored. Instead, his flaws — erratic behavior, extreme ideologies, and notably, his shortcomings as a father — are reinforced and often reduced to mere caricatures. Throughout, we are prompted to laugh at Johnson rather than attempt to understand his perspective or struggles.
About halfway through Dear Kelly, we are introduced to Johnson’s three children: Kaylee, Kyle, and Sydney. While Kyle remains close with his father, often accompanying him to MAGA events, Kaylee and Sydney have distanced themselves, presenting a prime opportunity to delve into the profound impact of their father’s political activity on their lives.
Unfortunately, this potential is squandered. Instead of encouraging anything meaningful, Callaghan exploits a frat party where Kaylee and Kyle are interviewed on camera during a night of heavy drinking. Unsurprisingly, this leads to an incoherent interview followed by a staged and uncomfortable phone call with their estranged father. These scenes, interspersed with an interview with Johnson filmed on a toilet surrounded by a bathtub filled with ice and beer, are an appalling diminution of the situation’s gravity.
But that is not the only time he muddies the waters. On multiple occasions, Callaghan inserts himself into the narrative, detracting from the required objectivity and portraying himself in a near-messianic light that complicates the film’s authenticity, questions his journalistic credentials, and skews the narrative to enhance his own redemption.
It underscores Callaghan’s prevalent echo chamber. He is lauded with praise and adulation, with some proclaiming it the best film they’d ever seen. But this predictable response from those willing to sidestep his own ethical issues highlights a broader problem within brocialism: the prioritisation of allegiance to popular figures over addressing social concerns. The readiness of Callaghan’s fans to overlook serious accusations of rape and sexual assault levelled at him reflects an emerging media that fails to transcend its narrow scope or appeal.
Despite Callaghan referring to himself as a journalist, the film lacked any serious journalistic endeavour, instead resembling a prolonged episode of Jerry Springer, where sensationalism trumps genuine inquiry and gladiator spectacle rules over thoughtful exploration. The film culminated in a dramatic on-stage finale, where Kaylee and Kyle were paraded before an audience to rapturous applause. The thoughtless manipulation of Callaghan’s subjects not only trivialises the serious issues at hand but also exposes a drastic lapse in a duty of care — standards never found in real journalism.
The post-show Q&A, hosted by a white man who introduces a white man who questions a white man who takes questions from primarily white men, was devoid of anything deeper than “Who are you being sued by?”
Andrew Callaghan and Dear Kelly exemplify the pitfalls of brocialism in modern media — draping oneself in the aesthetics of progressive thought while totally failing to engage with any of its more challenging aspects, especially if that inconveniences them or gets in the way of redeeming their ‘cancelled’ creator.
In a world where some US news channels are legally categorised as ‘entertainment’ rather than news, the distinction between the two is more important than ever. Under the false pretence of independent journalism, Andrew Callaghan elevates an uncomfortable blurring of the two, risking the integrity of documentary filmmaking and its ethical responsibilities. It is, therefore, left for us to affirm that Dear Kelly is not journalism, Andrew Callaghan is not a journalist, and the selfishness of brocialism that he promotes is a grave threat to the future of both.
