Where Have the Heroes Gone?

Growing up in the shadow of Johnny Sokko and His Flying Robot and Ultraman was a peculiar kind of childhood education. These weren't polished American cartoons with flawless animation and moral sermons delivered like after-school specials. They were raw, colorful, Japanese tokusatsu imports—dubbed into English with that unmistakable cadence that forced you to lean in and follow the often-ridiculous plots. The dubbing was half the fun: earnest voices over rubber-suited actors stomping through miniature cities. You had to concentrate, because the stories moved fast and the logic was gloriously elastic.

The Married with Children gag—"Phone Tokyo"—was pitch-perfect. Al Bundy hearing that grandma was upstairs and immediately assuming kaiju-level catastrophe captured exactly how these shows imprinted on a generation. Godzilla wasn't just a movie; it was the default explanation for any household disturbance. Ultraman and Johnny Sokko were its weekly television companions, beamed in from a place where monsters were real, heroes wore helmets, and the fate of the world rested on a kid with a control device or a blinking Color Timer.

Johnny Sokko spoke to something deeper and darker than it let on. A boy controlling a towering robot against an alien terrorist syndicate, with adults in uniforms who sometimes felt a bit too comfortable around children in peril. There was real tension there: the threat of capture, the casual violence, the sense that good people could die badly. The annoying younger female agent (Mari, I believe) served as the rule-following foil to Johnny's pragmatic impulsiveness. Her constant presence grated in the way only a TV sibling-rival can, yet it was balanced by moments of pure charm—like that whistling motif that somehow made the whole enterprise feel whimsical even amid explosions. The violence never felt cheap or consequence-free. Good guys rarely got hurt in satisfying ways, but when stakes rose, the losses could be permanent and sobering. It prepared young viewers for a world that wasn't always fair.

Then came Ultraman, which opened with the hero dying. Shin Hayata perishes in a crash, only to be reborn through merger with an alien protector. It's a modern retelling of sacrifice and resurrection—echoes of Acts, or any number of mythic hero journeys, wrapped in silver-and-red spandex and miniature destruction. The Science Patrol (SSSP) felt like a real team: Captain Muramatsu's steady leadership, Ide's comic relief, Arashi's bravado, and Fuji. Ah, Fuji Akiko. Smart, compassionate, capable—the kind of character a certain generation of boys fell for without quite understanding why. That blushing "Fuji apple" memory hits home: she represented competence and care in a world of rampaging beasts. Who among us didn't secretly wish the giant hero would notice her too?

What we didn't fully appreciate as kids was that grown adults—talented stuntmen, actors, and effects wizards—were having the time of their lives in those rubber suits. Eiji Tsuburaya's team poured creativity into every wire-assisted leap and pyrotechnic blast. The camp was unintentional but glorious. These shows weren't ironic; they were sincere. They believed in heroism, duty, and the idea that even a child (or a merged salaryman) could stand against impossible odds.

So where have such heroes gone?

Modern blockbusters give us CGI spectacles with quippy dialogue and endless franchise tie-ins, but they rarely capture that same unfiltered wonder. Today's children's entertainment is often either hyper-polished animation or live-action drenched in sarcasm and moral ambiguity. The simple thrill of a giant robot flying in to punch a weekly monster, or an alien hero arriving with three minutes to save the day, feels almost quaint. We've traded earnest rubber-suited battles for polished cynicism. We've traded Fuji’s quiet competence for characters who spend more time deconstructing heroism than embodying it.

Yet the appeal endures. Those dubbed episodes still whistle through memory like Johnny Sokko’s tune—imperfect, earnest, and strangely comforting. They remind us that heroism doesn't need to be grimdark or ironic. Sometimes it just needs a kid with conviction, a giant friend, and the willingness to face the monster anyway.

In an age of streaming algorithms and focus-grouped content, perhaps the real question isn't "Where have the heroes gone?" but "Are we still brave enough to phone Tokyo when the trouble starts?"

The Color Timer is blinking. Let's not waste the three minutes.

Alfred Hitchcock’s 1935 adaptation of John Buchan’s novel remains one of the most delightful and influential thrillers ever made — a perfect showcase of the director’s emerging “Hitchcockian” artifice. With economical editing, sly visual wit, and a relentless forward momentum, Hitchcock turns a straightforward spy chase into a sparkling entertainment that blends suspense, romance, and dry British humour. Robert Donat’s portrayal of Richard Hannay anchors the film with effortless charisma that never overwhelms the story.

Hannay is the quintessential capable innocent: a decent, resourceful everyman thrust into a world of jaded, cynical spies and double-crossers. Fresh from the colonies (reimagined as Canadian in the film), he stumbles into intrigue after a beautiful, dark-haired woman — Annabella Smith (Lucie Mannheim) — bursts into his life with urgent secrets, only to die in his apartment, leaving him framed for her murder. From there, Hannay is propelled on a breathless journey northward, eventually handcuffed (literally and figuratively) to a cool, elegant blonde, Pamela (Madeleine Carroll). Their reluctant partnership crackles with sexual tension and witty banter, one of the film’s greatest pleasures.

Hitchcock’s directorial touches shine throughout. He employs his signature MacGuffin (the secret of the 39 Steps), rapid montage, and clever visual puns. One inspired inclusion is the autogyro (gyrocopter) sequence over the Scottish moors. Hitchcock had heard that Scottish industrialist and aviation pioneer James G. Weir commuted daily in his own autogyro, and he couldn’t resist working the novel machine into the police pursuit of Hannay. It adds a flash of futuristic flair to the 1935 landscape — a brief, memorable moment that feels both playful and cutting-edge for its time.

Another standout sequence involves the lonely young wife (Peggy Ashcroft) of a dour, elderly crofter (John Laurie) in the remote Scottish Highlands. Married to a jealous, pious older man, she finds a fleeting connection with the courteous Hannay. In 1935, her isolation felt tragically believable — farms were genuinely cut off from communities, with no easy escape. Today’s viewers might instinctively wonder why she didn’t just catch a bus, train, or Zoom her friends for support. That cultural shift only underscores how effectively Hitchcock captured a vanishing world of quiet desperation.

What makes Donat’s Hannay so enduring is how lightly he wears his stardom. Unlike more bombastic leading men who might dominate every frame, Donat’s presence feels natural and unintrusive. He is charming without smugness, heroic without arrogance. Hannay fights to survive, knows right from wrong, and remains decent even in victory. He isn’t mean-spirited in success. In our current era of cynicism and moral ambiguity, one can’t help wishing for more figures like him quietly serving British (or any nation’s) interests — principled, competent, and quietly patriotic.

The 39 Steps is more than a thriller; it’s a blueprint for the modern chase film and a testament to Hitchcock’s genius for making the ordinary extraordinary. Tight, witty, visually inventive, and still remarkably fresh after ninety years, it rewards repeated viewings. If you haven’t seen it lately, remedy that immediately. Donat’s Hannay is the kind of hero we still need.

Social media has always attracted impersonators, but the explosion of fake Elon Musk accounts represents something more insidious than harmless role-play. These profiles—some created yesterday, others lingering since 2009—aren’t just digital costume parties. They erode trust, waste precious time, facilitate fraud, and distract from real discourse. They are not victimless.

Every day, users like me receive messages from accounts claiming to be Elon Musk. The tactics vary. Some pose as helpful insiders offering “exclusive” investment opportunities. Others engage in provocative chats designed to sow division or extract personal information. A few use voice modulation software for calls, as happened to me recently while juggling groceries and unlocking a chained gate after a long workday. “Do you believe I am Elon?” the modulated voice asked. The absurdity was matched only by the intrusion.

There is no legitimate reason for an individual or group to systematically impersonate one of the world’s most recognizable figures. The real Elon Musk maintains verified channels and does not cold-DM strangers for favors, investments, or casual banter. Claiming otherwise isn’t playful homage—it’s deception by design.

The damage takes multiple forms. First, financial scams. Fake “investment advisers” prey on optimism and familiarity with Musk’s companies—SpaceX, Tesla, xAI, Neuralink. They divert attention from legitimate opportunities and productive work. As someone who has published 46 books (with more on the way) and rebuilt resources after losing everything at age 58, I’ve seen these conversations eat hours that could have been spent writing about the genuine impact of Musk’s technologies. Investment is worthwhile, but not when it’s a scripted distraction from people who see only a wallet, not talent or experience.

Second, these accounts erode platform integrity. X (formerly Twitter) thrives on direct, unfiltered conversation, yet fake profiles dilute that promise. They create noise that makes it harder to find signal—whether from the real Elon or from thoughtful users. Some appear to be sponsored operations pushing agendas, including attempts to inflame political or cultural tensions. Others are lone actors chasing clout or crypto gains. The effect is the same: cynicism spreads. Users grow wary of all outreach, even from authentic sources.

Third, there is the human cost. At nearly 60, weighing 192 kg, and managing conditions from sleep apnea to diabetes and gout, my time is finite. Like many who have faced financial ruin and rebuilt, I remain open to ideas and connections. But the constant barrage of impersonators pulls focus from what matters: real contributions, whether sharing hard-earned insights on weight loss, technology, or public policy. The fakes don’t see the person behind the profile—they see a mark.

This isn’t unique to Elon Musk, of course. Iranian operatives pretending to be Israelis, romance scammers, and political sock-puppets all exploit the same vulnerabilities. Yet Musk impersonators carry extra sting because they trade on innovation, ambition, and competence—the very qualities that attract productive people to the platform. Pretending to embody those traits while delivering deception is particularly corrosive.

Platform improvements like better verification, faster takedowns of clear impersonators, and user tools to report fakes are essential. But individuals also bear responsibility: skepticism is healthy, and no legitimate high-profile figure needs you to send money, click shady links, or drop everything for a surprise voice call.

Fake Elon Musk accounts aren’t benign fun. They are a tax on attention, a vector for fraud, and a drain on the goodwill that makes online spaces valuable. The real work of building the future—through invention, writing, investing wisely, or simply living productively—deserves protection from those who only impersonate its champions. It’s time platforms and users treated them with the seriousness they deserve.