Let me preface this essay with a quick overview of the 2011 film Our Idiot Brother.
In this movie, Ned (Paul Rudd) skips through life with an unbending idealism and sense of worldly good. He trusts people, even when they give him reasons, over and over again, not to trust them. No matter the mistreatment he faces, Ned simply shrugs and smiles. Eventually, he shares his philosophy with another character.
Ned explains, “I like to think that if you put your trust out there, if you really give people the benefit of the doubt, see their best intentions, people will rise to the occasion.”
I, personally, think this is true.
I also think that Ned is not kind. He is “nice.”
Throughout the film, his commitment to “niceness” not only overrides common sense, but also leads to hurting the people he cares about most. When he stumbles upon his brother-in-law having an affair, he chooses to believe a clearly ludicrous lie about naked filmmaking. This is a decision that causes injury to his sister. He should have told her, immediately, to protect her from her emotionally toxic husband. But Ned is nice, you see, and he wants to give this cruel man the benefit of the doubt.
Later, a famous young woman confides in Ned about a physically abusive relationship she escaped years ago. His older sister, a ruthless journalist, demands to know the details of this conversation. Ned knows what she wants. He knows that she can be callous, often in pursuit of her career. He still tells her about the conversation—and then has the audacity to act shocked when she writes about it. This, again, is Ned’s warped perception of what it means to be a good person.
This is not being kind. This is being “nice.” It is refusing to step in during moments of injustice or betrayal because standing on the sidelines, smiling, somehow represents “goodness.” But it doesn’t. It’s spineless. It hurts people. When you see someone push another person to the ground, you should help that person up. You should also tell the bully that his actions were wrong. You should say something. Refusing to acknowledge or call out poor behavior does two things. First, it tells the bully that what he did was okay. Second, it tells the person on the ground that what the bully did was okay. This is devastating.
I’ve witnessed the repercussions of “niceness.” As someone who spent many formative years speaking up in class, I grew quite familiar with eye-rolls and silence. But it always made me feel alone. In college, I found myself arguing with an older male professor about rape culture on university campuses. For him, it was an intellectual debate with a sprinkle of healthy egoism. He wanted to be right and he didn’t mind leaning into an argument that lasted almost forty minutes. For me, it was a sore spot in my heart, something that left me red-faced and nauseous, but, still, I persisted. No one in class spoke up for me.
As I exited the door, two classmates approached me and said they agreed with everything I had said. They really thought I was right. But they hadn’t said anything because they thought it was an opportunity to hear the “other” side. I nodded my head silently. Then, I went to my dorm room and cried. Their words were as empty as air. I didn’t need them to pat me on the back outside, away from the professor, hidden. I had needed them to say something in class, to help me, to make me know I wasn’t alone or crazy or stupid. But these classmates wanted to be “nice.” They wanted to give our teacher the “benefit of the doubt,” even as he argued that rape culture wasn’t a big deal. In their minds, we were the same. But one of us was saying that sexual assault was a pervasive issue on college campuses and deserved notice and change. And one of us was saying the opposite. We were not the same. There was a clear distinction. But holding onto “niceness” made these students think they had successfully demonstrated goodness.
They hadn’t.
So when I first started Ted Lasso, I braced myself. Playing the titular character, Jason Sudeikis strolls onto screen with a wide smile and fluffy mustache. He goofily leans over his airport seat, speaking to his assistant coach. They joke about visiting each other’s dreams. Right away, I knew he was nice. But would he be kind?
On the show, American football coach Ted Lasso agrees to manage a beleaguered English soccer team. As soon as he arrives, the overall community, including the professional players, the passionate local fans, and journalists, treat him with disdain. They see his big smile and they hear his strong Southern drawl and they peg him as an idiot.
But, like Ned, Ted wants to trust people. He wants to see their best intentions. He believes that treating others with respect and goodwill can manifest in a change of perspective for those who regard him distrustfully. Unlike Ned, however, Ted also watches people with a canny curiosity. He notices the minutiae of someone’s expression, the dropped eyes, the hesitant smile. He notices bad behavior and he doesn’t forget. This, in turn, shapes how he chooses to continue in the future.
After observing that one of the players, Sam Obisanya (Toheeb Jimoh), struggles in practice, Ted does not immediately question his athletic ability. Instead, he wonders if Sam might be experiencing homesickness for Nigeria. So he plans a surprise birthday party with Nigerian snacks in the locker room. Then, he approaches Sam and tells him that his young son sent him a care package, including a container of Army Men to keep him safe and strong. Good-naturedly, Ted holds out one of the tiny green soldiers to Sam as a gift. Politely, Sam thanks him, but informs him that he does not have fond memories of the American military due to “American imperialism.”
If Ted were nice, he would get nicely defensive. He would say that it was simply a toy. He would say that his son sent him these Army Men as a present and that there was nothing political about it. He would tell Sam that the United States is not about “imperialism,” but about hope and freedom. You see, a nice Ted would try to “both sides” the situation. There’s no evil in his intentions. Therefore, there’s no evil in the toy. Therefore, Sam should take the toy.
But, thankfully, Ted is not nice. He is kind.
He withdraws his gift, nodding sheepishly, and apologizes for the oversight. What does Ted do in quick succession? He validates Sam’s concerns and he says sorry. He’s not driven by ego or a desire to prove his “niceness.” He doesn’t take offense, or make Sam’s decision about him. He listens before making a response.
Near the end of the series, Ted’s employer, Rebecca Welton (Hannah Waddingham), tearfully reveals that she has betrayed him. She wanted him to fail as a coach. This is a moment that viewers have been waiting for, cautiously primed for some type of affronted reaction from Ted. But he looks at Rebecca. He sees her anguish. It is clear that he knows she has already punished herself enough. He knows that her betrayal stems from a deep hurt inside her heart. He feels no need to add to her pain. So, after a season of buildup, he forgives her. Right then and there.
Here’s the thing, though. The big, important distinction between Ned and Ted. Whereas Ned gives the benefit of the doubt to everyone, even when they have proved they do not deserve it, Ted is not foolish or ignorant. He trusts people, but they do have to earn it. He doesn’t simply hand out medals of emotional validation to everyone.
Midway through the show, Ted finally meets Rebecca’s ex-husband, Rupert Mannion (Anthony Stewart Head). Charming and confident, Rupert strolls through a charity auction for the soccer team with applause from his peers. Everyone around him acts dazzled by his wit. However, Rupert spends much of his time attempting to psychologically undercut Rebecca with an even-tempered viciousness. He belittles her quietly, through his teeth, and smiles at the pain in her eyes. While others simply respond to Rupert’s behavior with a laugh, Ted notices the malevolence of his actions. He doesn’t give Rupert the benefit of the doubt because he sees that this is a man who uses trust as a form of exploitation, a way to betray and cause chaos without any consequences.
When Rebecca walks outside, trying to gather herself, Ted approaches her. He sees how alone she feels. He tells her, “You know, you may think that you’re the only one that can see who he really is…but you’re not.”
Rebecca immediately turns to him, a small, surprised smile crossing her face. For the first time, no one is trying to convince her of her ex-husband’s charm or ignore her pain. Instead, Ted says, I see you. He says, I believe you.
Later on, Ted witnesses Rupert’s enjoyment as he needles and belittles Rebecca in the local bar. Ted steps in and invites the man to play a game of darts. If Ted wins, Rupert cannot attend the soccer matches in the private owner’s box (and must, therefore, stay away from Rebecca). Rupert thinks that Ted is a fool and agrees to the bet.
Thoughtfully, Ted picks up a dart and immediately hits a bullseye. Like Ned in Our Idiot Brother, he shares his life philosophy:
“Guys have underestimated me my entire life. And for years, I never understood why. It used to really bother me. But then one day, I was driving my little boy to school and I saw this quote by Walt Whitman…and it said: ‘Be curious, not judgmental.’ And I liked that…All of a sudden, it hits me. All them fellas that used to belittle me—not a single one of them were curious. You know, they thought they had everything all figured out. So they judged everything and they judged everyone. And I realized that their underestimating me—who I was had nothing to do with it. Because if they were curious, they would ask questions, you know?”
Needless to say, Ted wins the bet. He doesn’t play darts out of a sense of hubris or to prove his masculinity. He plays darts because he considers Rebecca a dear friend and he wants to help her. He wants to show her that she has an ally. And that, really, is what makes all the difference.
Ted is kind, not nice.
He is not quick to anger. He listens to everyone with quiet humility. He offers his advice and his heart and his compassion to those around him. But, at the same time, he has a backbone. Ted knows that to say nothing or to turn a blind eye in moments of injustice is not true kindness, but weakness. He knows that associating confrontation with rudeness is a false equivalence.
Sometimes, the cruelest thing a person can do is turn away and pretend nothing is wrong.
Sometimes, the kindest thing a person can do is step in and say, “Hey, that’s not right.”
Ted knows the difference. And that’s what makes him a good man.
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