"A child needs to recognise themselves in a story, but also needs to look beyond who they are today."
Author's note. This essay does not propose a return to a single form of family or a single way of living. Instead, it defends the value of a diversity of stories and, within that diversity, the right to continue portraying stability, responsibility, fidelity, courage and care as qualities worthy of admiration.
Preface - It Is Not Just Nostalgia
As a child, I read about Blek Macigno, Capitan Miki and Comandante Mark with admiration. The stories were simple, sometimes even naive. Good and evil had fairly clear boundaries, the hero knew which side to take and the reader knew why they admired him. These were not treatises on moral philosophy; they were adventure comics. Yet amid the horseback rides, chases and clashes with the villains, they conveyed something that stayed with you: honesty, courage, friendship, altruism, loyalty and respect for a promise made.
Today I can smile at that simplicity. I know very well that adult life is not laid out like a comic-book page. The best people can make mistakes; making a mistake does not turn someone into a villain; two reasonable positions can clash without either being entirely wrong. Growing up also means leaving certain simplifications behind. But I am not convinced that it should mean leaving our ideals behind as well.
That is where this reflection begins. Not with a desire to turn back the clock, nor with an insistence that society should be identical to the one of my childhood. The world has changed, and many changes have brought greater freedom, opportunity and visibility. My question is a different one: as we learnt to tell the stories of a more complex society, did we perhaps stop offering models to aspire to? Have we replaced the imperfect hero guided by values with the character who is interesting precisely because they have no direction at all?
When a Hero Also Helped to Point the Way
Blek, Capitan Miki and Comandante Mark belonged to an imaginative world in which adventure was not separate from morality. The hero fought, certainly, but he was not admired merely because he was strong. He was admired because he put that strength at the service of something: he defended the vulnerable, did not betray his friends, faced a risk he could have avoided and sometimes gave up a personal advantage.
The same pattern appeared in countless popular stories. In classic westerns, the sheriff might be afraid, but he still walked out onto the main street. In adventure novels, the protagonist might be tempted by wealth, but the treasure was not worth betraying a companion. In stories for children, from Pinocchio to certain television classics, mistakes had consequences, and growing up meant becoming more responsible, not simply more skilful at getting what you wanted.
Of course, those worlds had obvious limitations. Female characters often played secondary roles, many social realities were absent and psychological complexity was not always their strong point. But a limitation in representation does not necessarily erase the value of what was represented. We can correct the omissions without being obliged to throw away the moral core of those stories as well.
A child needs to recognise themselves in a story, but also needs to look beyond who they are today. Representation says: "You exist too." A role model says: "You too can become a better person." These are two different functions, and they can coexist.
From Exemplary Characters to Visible Personalities
Over time, the media system has changed the criteria by which someone becomes important. In the past, celebrity was often the consequence of an identifiable profession: a singer was famous for singing, an actor for acting, a footballer for playing football. You could admire their work while knowing almost nothing about their private lives.
Contemporary television, by contrast, has created a new figure: the personality who is famous primarily for being visible. Reality shows, dating programmes, social networks and entertainment news have turned exposure itself into a skill. The suitor, the person choosing between suitors on a dating show, the influencer or the television contestant is not necessarily a worse person than anyone else; the point is not to pass moral judgement on those who take on such roles. The point is to understand which quality is rewarded by the system that puts them centre stage.
If what attracts attention is above all the ability to occupy the public arena, the implicit message changes. Knowing how to do something is no longer all that matters; being watched matters too. Deserving respect is not all that matters; attracting attention matters too. And attention, unlike respect, does not necessarily distinguish between what is noble, useful, absurd or provocative.
This is an important shift. The old hero might have been unrealistic, but he pointed the way. The new personality may be very realistic, but often points towards nothing: they put themselves on display.
Fame as a Value and the Risk of Imitation
An adult can watch a reality show with detachment. A child or teenager, however, also learns through imitation. They do not imitate only behaviours; they learn which behaviours are rewarded. If they see that generosity is quiet while provocation produces thousands of reactions, they may conclude that being noticed is more important than being respected.
There is no need to imagine a cultural conspiracy. The economics of the media are enough: whatever keeps viewers watching is shown again. Conflict holds their attention; reconciliation often less so. Scandal holds their attention; normality less so. An aggressive remark spreads; an everyday act of responsibility rarely goes viral.
Yet much of real life is built on precisely those unspectacular actions: a parent who gets up early every morning, someone caring for a relative, a teacher preparing a lesson carefully, a worker helping a colleague without gaining anything in return, someone handing back a wallet found in the street. These acts do not make compelling television, but they form the supporting structure of a dependable society.
The problem, then, is not that light entertainment personalities exist. They always have, and they always will. The problem arises when light entertainment occupies almost the entire stage and ordinary goodness becomes an invisible story.
"Attention is not the same as respect."
The Family, Too, Has Become a Different Story
The same change can be seen in the way cinema and television tell stories about the family. For many decades, the traditional family - father, mother, children - was almost the automatic starting point of a story. It was often portrayed in an idealised and sometimes hypocritical way: little was shown of conflict, domestic violence, separation, loneliness or any situation that did not fit the dominant model.
It was inevitable and right that representation should broaden. Separated families exist. Blended families exist. Same-sex couples exist. There are people raising children alone, people who do not want to marry and people who build emotional bonds in forms other than the traditional ones. A culture that portrays society cannot pretend that these lives do not exist.
But diversity should mean adding, not replacing. The problem is not seeing a same-sex couple on screen; the problem would be reaching a point where it becomes difficult to see, with the same narrative dignity, a couple who have been married for thirty years, go through a crisis and decide to face it together. Not because one is by definition morally superior to the other, but because enduring commitment, fidelity and the ability to repair a relationship are also human experiences worth portraying.
True diversity does not establish a new compulsory norm. It shows many possibilities and allows us to compare them. A couple who separate can be an authentic story. A couple who decide not to separate at the first difficulty can be one too.
The Narrative Value of a Promise
There is a word that seems to have lost some of its appeal in contemporary stories: promise. A promise is interesting precisely because it limits future freedom. Saying "I will be there" means accepting that tomorrow I may not feel like it and that, despite this, my word will continue to carry weight.
Marriage, beyond its religious or civil form and regardless of the sex of the people entering it, contains exactly this idea: turning a feeling in the present into a commitment to the future. It is a demanding idea, because feelings change while commitment calls for continuity. A commitment cannot or should not always be maintained: destructive relationships exist, and there are situations in which separation is necessary. But between "you must always stay together" and "if something does not work, change it immediately" lies an enormous space: that of trying, taking responsibility and repairing.
Telling stories about that space would be culturally valuable. A couple who argue, hurt each other, come to understand each other better, change their habits and manage to rebuild are no less modern than a couple who separate. Theirs is simply another possible story. And it, too, can offer a model.
The Imperfect Family Is More Interesting Than the Perfect One
I do not miss those cardboard families in which the father was always right, the mother smiled and the children learnt their lesson in the final five minutes. That model was reassuring but often unconvincing. The family I would like to see portrayed more often today is different: it is imperfect.
I would like to see parents who make mistakes and apologise to their children. Children who go through a difficult period and are not immediately left to their fate. Siblings who quarrel over an inheritance and then discover that their bond is worth more than money. Spouses who face illness, unemployment, ageing, financial failure or simply boredom, and must decide each time whether "we" still means something.
These stories would not be propaganda for the traditional family. They would be stories about responsibility. And responsibility does not belong to only one family form: it can exist in a heterosexual couple, a same-sex couple, a blended family or a single parent. The genuinely interesting comparison is not between labels, but between ways of living our relationships: using them for as long as they suit us, or caring for them when they demand effort.
From Work as a Craft to Work as a Competition
The world of work has also changed its language and imagery. On the one hand, it is positive that we talk about ambition, skills, autonomy and personal fulfilment. On the other, the idea of permanent competition risks turning every colleague into a potential opponent and every result into a ranking.
In the old popular narrative, a good worker was often someone dependable: they knew their trade, kept their word, taught something to a younger person and did not leave a colleague in trouble. Today, the dominant model is more often the person who "stands out", "sells themselves", "builds their personal brand", climbs the ladder and makes their achievements visible.
There is nothing wrong with wanting success. The problem arises when success ceases to be a consequence of work and becomes the criterion by which we measure a person's worth. Society also needs people who do things well without receiving applause: technicians, nurses, craftspeople, office workers, teachers, parents, volunteers, neighbours. People who keep complex systems running without becoming public personalities.
Perhaps one of the new heroes we need is precisely the competent, invisible hero: someone who solves a problem without feeling the need to turn it immediately into a story about themselves.
The Old Heroes Had Flaws, but the Flaw Was Not the Point
One of the most common objections to the old models is that they were too simple. That is true. But today we risk going too far in the opposite direction: confusing depth with moral ambiguity. A character does not automatically become more interesting because they betray, lie, manipulate or think only of themselves.
Great literature has always known protagonists full of contradictions. Don Quixote is ridiculous and magnificent; Pinocchio lies and makes mistakes constantly; Renzo and Lucia are not superheroes; even many protagonists of classic comics have weaknesses, impulsive streaks and limitations. The difference lies in the relationship between flaw and direction. A character may make mistakes, but the story recognises that there is something worth striving towards.
Imperfection is human. The absence of any standard is something else. If everything is merely personal taste, convenience or strategy, there is little left to teach beyond the ability to adapt.
What a Culture Should Offer Children
A culture intended for younger people should probably do three things at once: represent, protect and challenge. Representing means helping a child understand that people like them have a right to exist. Protecting means not burdening them too early with all the cynicism of the adult world. Challenging means showing them a version of themselves that is a little better than who they are now.
It is this last function, above all, that I fear has weakened. We rightly tell children to express themselves, to be themselves and not to feel ashamed of their characteristics. But "be yourself" cannot be the whole educational programme. A child is also selfish, impulsive, jealous, lazy and capable of cruelty, like all human beings who are still developing. Educating also means saying: not everything you spontaneously are has to remain unchanged.
That was precisely what the old hero was for. He did not merely say: "Accept yourself." He said: "Train yourself." Become braver. Be loyal. Defend those who are weaker. Keep your word. Apologise when you are wrong. Do not run from a difficulty simply because it takes effort.
We Do Not Need Saints: We Need Admirable People
A role model does not have to be perfect. Indeed, a perfect model is often useless because it is unattainable. What we need is someone admirable in a specific, practical way.
It may be the doctor who speaks respectfully to a difficult patient. The entrepreneur who forgoes a profit made dishonestly. The athlete who loses and shakes their opponent's hand. The politician who admits a mistake instead of always blaming others. The teacher who defends an unpopular pupil. The young person who sees a classmate being mocked and decides not to join the group. The spouse who, when faced with a crisis, first tries to understand what they can change in themselves.
These examples are less spectacular than a superhero, but that is precisely why they are more useful. Admiration should not be reserved for exceptional people; it should also be possible to admire everyday decency.
Inclusion Does Not Mean Erasure
Sometimes cultural debate is framed as though we had to choose between two worlds. Either we portray the traditional family or newer family forms. Either we tell the story of a positive hero or that of a complex character. Either we value discipline or individual freedom. These are false alternatives.
We can portray a couple made up of two men and a heterosexual couple who have been married for forty years. We can show one teenager searching for their identity and another dreaming of building a stable family. We can tell the story of a woman who places work at the centre of her life and another who regards motherhood as an essential part of her fulfilment. Genuine diversity does not replace one cage with another.
The decisive point is that no form of life should automatically be turned into a virtue. Being modern is not enough to make us good, just as being traditional is not enough. A traditional family can be a place of selfishness and violence; a non-traditional family can be a place of dedication and care. And vice versa. What is worth judging is behaviour: responsibility, respect, dependability, care and the capacity for sacrifice.
If we return to talking about these qualities, the discussion becomes far more interesting than labels.
"Genuine diversity does not replace one cage with another."
Freedom Needs a Direction
Modern societies have secured an extraordinary range of individual freedoms. We can choose more than our grandparents could: our work, where we live, our relationships, our way of life, our interests and our public identity. This is an important achievement.
But freedom answers primarily the question: "What can I do?" It does not automatically answer the question: "What is worth doing?" That second question requires standards, examples, education, memory and dialogue between generations.
If culture is afraid to point the way for fear of moralising, it leaves that task to other mechanisms that are far less neutral: the market, advertising, algorithms and the search for approval. And these systems certainly do point the way: buy, put yourself on display, stand out, accumulate attention, do not disappear from the feed.
That is why I do not consider it moralising to say that courage is preferable to cowardice, loyalty to betrayal, generosity to selfishness and honesty to fraud. A pluralistic society can debate at length how to apply these values without having to stop naming them.
The Right to Fail Without Turning Failure into an Ideal
Another important achievement of the present is a greater understanding of vulnerability. We know that people fail, that not every marriage works, that a career can be interrupted and that life does not follow an orderly line. This is progress compared with societies in which those who strayed from the expected path were often condemned or hidden away.
But understanding failure does not mean turning it into a model. We can respect people who separate without ceasing to admire those who manage to build a lasting relationship. We can understand someone who abandons a project without ceasing to teach the value of perseverance. We can forgive a lie without ceasing to regard honesty as an ideal.
Compassion concerns people; the ideal concerns direction. Confusing the two makes education impossible: if, in order not to judge anyone, we also stop distinguishing between better and worse behaviours, we eliminate improvement along with judgement.
A New Great Blek Does Not Have to Be Like the Old One
When I say "I want the Great Blek back", I am not asking for young people in 2026 to be obliged to read the same comics I read. Every generation needs its own ways of expressing itself, its own problems and even its own heroes.
The new Blek could be a girl. They could come from a different background from ours. They could live in a traditional family or in a completely different one. They could be a character in a comic, a television series, a video game or a story told on social media. None of this is essential.
What must remain is the function: making us admire someone not for their number of followers, the money they possess, their ability to humiliate a rival or their skill at placing themselves centre stage, but for what they do when choosing their own interests would be easier.
A modern hero does not have to be free from doubt. They can be afraid, make mistakes and even fail. But at some point they must choose. And it is in that choice that they become a model.
"A modern hero can be afraid and can make mistakes. But at some point they must choose."
Perhaps What Is Missing Is Comparison
I would not want television and cinema to return to showing us only one kind of life. I would like almost the opposite: more comparison. I would like to see the couple who separate and the couple who stay together; the young person who leaves to pursue a career and the one who decides to remain close to their family; those who choose not to have children and those who regard their children as the centre of their lives; those who prioritise professional success and those who accept slower advancement in order to have more time for others.
Comparison also allows us to see the cost of choices. Every life has a price. Freedom can bring loneliness. Stability can require giving things up. A career can consume time. Family can limit opportunities. Separation can free someone from a relationship that has ended, but it can also leave wounds. Staying together can be a sign of maturity or, in other cases, the wrong decision. Stories become grown-up precisely when they show these costs without turning into propaganda.
What seems impoverished to me is not a culture that shows new possibilities. It is a culture that, having dismantled overly rigid models, can no longer offer anything genuinely worthy of admiration.
Conclusion - I Want the Great Blek Back
Perhaps, in the end, I do not really want the world of my childhood back. I do not want television that hides whatever does not reflect the majority, families obliged to stay together to keep up appearances, or characters so perfect that they seem false.
But I do want to bring back something that world knew how to do: tell stories about people better than ourselves without being ashamed to call them examples.
I would like a child to be able to encounter, among a thousand ironic, vulnerable, provocative and contradictory characters, someone who makes them think: "When I grow up, I would like to have that courage. I would like to be that loyal. I would like to know how to defend a friend. I would like to keep my word even when it costs me."
I would like them to see different kinds of families, certainly, but also families that withstand difficulties. I would like them to learn that separation may be necessary, but also that not every difficulty calls for flight. That success is legitimate, but not worth any price. That being yourself matters, but becoming better matters just as much.
Perhaps Blek Macigno was naive. Perhaps his enemies were too easy to recognise and his virtues too clear-cut. But within that naivety lay an educational question that does not seem at all outdated to me: "What kind of person do you want to become?"
And so, yes: in this sense, without erasing the present or idealising the past, I want the Great Blek back.
I WANT THE GREAT BLEK BACK
What I Would Like to Leave My Children
My children, I would like to leave all three of you with this question: who truly deserves your admiration? Do not stop at those who receive the most applause. Look at those who keep a promise, who care for someone, who know how to apologise and who defend another person even when there is nothing in it for them.
Choose your own path freely and respect those that differ from yours. I am not asking you to be like me or to become perfect. I hope you will encounter role models who help you grow, and that you will not feel ashamed of wanting to become better without feeling superior to anyone.
My heroes had other names and lived in other stories. Yours may be different. I would only like you, behind those names, still to recognise the courage to do the right thing. And to know how to be there in someone's life even when nobody is watching.
Papy