The rise and fall of Star Trek liberalism

After ten years of continuous production, the Star Trek franchise is finally being wound back down. It’s far from the first time of course. Though we now live in an era in which fandom, sequels and reboots are ubiquitous, Star Trek was a very early outlier, with fans of the original series rocketing it into success, and, frankly, rather better remakes, long years after its first outing in the 80s and 90s. If that period is now warmly regarded, the most recent revival has been vastly more divisive. From the outset, fans complained of a darker atmosphere, marvel-style “banter” replacing the more formal tone of earlier dialogue, and a slide into “woke” politics. This reached a nadir with Star Trek: Starfleet Academy which featured a gay pacifist Klingon male nurse from a polygamous family (yes really), and sweary, YA-style dialogue. 

Yet as fictional spacefaring disappears up its own event horizon, real-life Star Trek is alive and well. As I write this article, a diverse crew of idealistic scientists is hurtling back from a jaunt round the moon, as America returns to the “final frontier” of space in fact rather than fiction. 

I’ll be reflecting more profoundly on the mission in the latest issue of The Critic, but one thing that struck me is how much of a certain sort of American civil religion is wrapped up in space exploration. Whilst Star Wars was an escapist return to the comfortable certainties of plucky rebels fighting an evil empire, Star Trek is a bolder speculation on the possibility of America’s highest ideals — life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness — transposed into a cosmic context. 

It embodies a very particular form of American post-war optimism, one that in a sense only gained romantic appeal as it faded in the real world of US politics and partisanship of later decades. As public life became harsher, coarser, and more cynical, Star Trek was a chance to see a team of brave and hopeful men and women explore the universe, untroubled by the earthly conflicts of creed, tribe, sex or skin colour. Space is in a sense a return to American colonialism, but shorn of the mistakes, crimes and complications of the continent’s original settlement. 

You could call this “Star Trek liberalism”, and it’s a surprisingly powerful idea, one which came to have real influence in the 90s and 2000s. The hopes of a post-racial America, which reached their crescendo with Obama’s election in 2009, seemed plausible at the time. Even despite the horrors of the war on terror and the shock of the 2008 crash, a spirit of post-Cold War optimism, fueled by the rise of the internet, seemed to be emerging. Shows like The West Wing were the terrestrial equivalent of Star Trek liberalism, in which intelligent, attractive, and idealistic people worked to make the world a better place, despite difficulties and obstacles. 

Star Trek’s return to TV in 2017 coincided pretty precisely with the death of Star Trek liberalism. Trump’s election, the murder of George Floyd and the rise of the LGBT movement meant that the years of 2016-2020 would evermore be associated with the rise of a newly puritanical progressive politics. This new progressivism wished to embrace, rather than transcend individual identities, and was more interested in introspection than it was exploration. 

The new Star Trek reflected these changes, and was itself profoundly marked by the era of streaming. Fragmented into a large number of glossy but confusing shows, it was a franchise at once desperately chasing nostalgic fans, whilst simultaneously desperate to keep up with contemporary culture. Whereas prior Star Trek episodes were wreathed in the shipboard military formality that Gene Roddenberry gleaned from the British naval customs of the Hornblower books, recent series are distinctly casual. Not only are the modern versions lazily casual, but the characters have the looks and mannerisms of contemporary millennials, not the military and scientific elite of a future society. From off-beat haircuts to widespread obesity, and characters perpetually having mental health crises, it’s hard to imagine these characters in any military organisation, let alone one in charge of interstellar warships. 

Like many stories and franchises beloved by the left, Star Trek’s apparent progressive idealism is more conservative than it appears

None of this is by coincidence. There has been a shift from a cultural centering of aspirational figures — physically fit, good looking, intelligent, moral — to “relatable” characters. Heroism must be undercut comedically in the dialogue, or cynically undermined in the plot. The integrity of narrative and good storytelling is increasingly sacrificed either to commercial imperatives, or through pandering to the fans. Ironically, this inevitably backfires, with Star Trek’s latest revivals floundering into critical and commercial failure. 

Like many stories and franchises beloved by the left, Star Trek’s apparent progressive idealism is more conservative than it appears, and ceases to be compelling when its more “reactionary” elements are removed. The sense of moral idealism that it conveys is only possible because it portrays a group of people engaging in research, diplomacy and exploration under military discipline and hierarchy. Inclusivity and respectful dialogue are possible because characters follow a strict set of rules, defer to lawful authority, and have been carefully selected for ability. Old school liberalism has always been elitist in this sense, and was much better when it was unapologetically so, rather than engaging in the kabuki theatre of victim culture and virtue signalling. 

It may seem silly to put so much weight on fictional space adventures, but Star Trek has long been a barometer for the state of American progressive politics. Its decline is the result and reflection of the ethical, conceptual and narrative collapse of American liberalism itself. 

But if American liberalism is long overdue a reevaluation, the best elements of American culture and character that it has long mediated must not be lost along the way, and remain alive and kicking. Anyone wanting to see their rude health need only look at the crew of Artemis II. 

The first black man and first woman to orbit the moon, Victor Glover and Christina Koch, did so with little identitarian fanfare, and much quiet professional humility.  In an interview with fellow astronaut Micheal Hopkins, Artemis II pilot Glover emphasised the similarities between the two over the differences. Glover was a black kid from the inner city, and Hopkins a white farmboy, but they climbed the same ladder into the stars. Strong in both sports and academics, they both pursued careers as military test pilots. Glove describes how “military culture probably pervades more than any other single facet of my life; I read the constitution multiple times a year and I take my oath very seriously”. He sees the big enemy both in America, and in the sky: “We fly together in a high-performance aircraft. We’re doing something very unique, hard, technical, and operational together. So, division is the thing that worries me.”

The lack of individualism in these exceptional individuals was especially striking in Christina Koch’s reflections on returning home, speaking of how we are all “inescapably, beautifully, dutifully linked.” 

There is something still stirring and inspiring about people of different backgrounds and walks of life coming together to do something extraordinary, unburdened by ego, guided by hope and curiosity. The fact that NASA and the US military can still deliver it, but contemporary American pop culture cannot, even fictionally, says much about what kind of institution, and what kind of culture, is likely to be a fit standard-bearer for liberty in the 21st century.