No secondary school English lesson on analysis was complete without someone declaring: “Maybe the curtains were just blue.”
What began as a light-hearted pushback against over-analysis gradually became a broader preference for surface-level discussions over critical analysis. This early dismissal of deeper meaning, combined with an education system increasingly skewed towards STEM subjects, has contributed to the broader devaluation of theoretical and humanities-based disciplines. Until 2015–16, more than half of all A-level students consistently took at least one humanities subject, but by 2021–22, that number had dropped to just 38%. As fewer students take analysis-driven subjects, they miss the opportunity to develop essential critical thinking and interpretation skills—leaving them ill-equipped to navigate complex information, weakening political discourse and media literacy.
But what does an anti-intellectual crisis even mean, and what fuels it? At its core, anti-intellectualism is a deep distrust and hostility toward experts and intellectuals. In its most extreme form, it has historically been a tool of totalitarian regimes—leaders like Hitler, Stalin, and Franco weaponised anti-intellectual sentiment to suppress dissent, imprisoned scholars, and eliminated those who challenged their authority. While modern democratic societies may not resort to such brutal measures, the consequences of anti-intellectualism are still profound. A key irony of this crisis is that while the humanities are often dismissed in favour of science and technology, anti-intellectualism also fosters a rejection of science. This is evident in movements like vaccine hesitancy and climate change denial, where misinformation thrives because people cannot critically evaluate sources or differentiate between legitimate expertise and conspiracy theories. The COVID-19 pandemic further exposed this trend, as scepticism in scientists and public health officials—fueled by widespread misinformation—led to resistance against vaccines and safety measures.
In recent years, the rejection of expertise has become increasingly mainstream, particularly in politics. Figures like Donald Trump have weaponised misinformation, not only normalising scepticism toward science and academia, but also elevating conspiracy theories into legitimate political viewpoints. Anti-intellectualism is no longer a fringe issue; it actively shapes public opinion, policy, and democracy. One of the most alarming consequences of this trend is the rise of political and media illiteracy. Nowhere is this more evident than in the United States, where the media landscape has allowed nativist, racist, and blatantly false narratives to flourish. During his 2016 campaign, Trump dismissed expertise outright, famously declaring: “The experts are terrible.” More recently, in the current election cycle, he made the entirely baseless claim that immigrants from Haiti were eating Americans’ domestic pets. While a critically literate public would recognise this as political fear-mongering, some of his supporters accepted his words at face value. The repercussions were immediate: within weeks, his statement fueled a wave of bomb threats. This growing disdain for expertise has transformed misinformation from a political tool into a powerful weapon, eroding truth, inflaming division, and threatening the very foundations of democracy.
The rise of social media has accelerated anti-intellectualism, reshaping how people consume information. Algorithms prioritise engagement over accuracy, amplifying misleading headlines, emotionally charged content, and viral conspiracy theories while burying well-researched journalism. Studies show that younger generations spend an average of 4.8 hours daily on social media, yet media literacy skills are at an all-time low. Many struggle to differentiate fact from opinion or credible sources from misinformation. The consequences are far-reaching: false claims influence elections, fabricated statistics drive policy decisions, and reactionary movements gain legitimacy without scrutiny.
While reversing this crisis may seem daunting, solutions exist. Mandatory media literacy education could equip students with the tools to assess information critically rather than passively consume it. Tech platforms must take greater responsibility for curbing misinformation through stronger fact-checking measures and algorithmic transparency. Finally, a broader cultural shift is needed—one that values intellectual curiosity over instant outrage, rewards analytical thinking over reactionary discourse and encourages engagement beyond ideological bubbles. Without these changes, we risk losing our ability to participate in democracy meaning fully—replaced by a society governed by misinformation, manipulaed narratives, and surface level thinking.
“Maybe the curtains were just blue” has long been used to dismiss deeper analysis, but its implications extend far beyond literature. The rejection of nuance in media, politics, and public discourse has allowed misinformation to thrive and critical thinking to erode. Humanities subjects train us to question narratives, recognise manipulation, and engage with complexity. Yet, as they are increasingly devalued in favour of so-called “practical” fields, society becomes less equipped to navigate a world of misinformation and political spin. Engaging critically with information does not mean we cannot enjoy it or appreciate simplicity—just as questioning political narratives is not the same as being cynical. However, rejecting intellectual inquiry doesn’t make us more independent thinkers; it only makes us easier to manipulate. If we continue to undermine analysis, we risk normalising anti-intellectualism to the point where facts, history, and expertise lose all value.
In an age of misinformation, critical thinking is not just a skill—it is a responsibility.