#commander lawrence

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INTRODUCTION

Let me start by saying I loved Lawrence’s character, I enjoyed every scene he was in, and I admire Bradley Whitford’s performance. But I wasn’t blinded by his charisma or wit, and I didn’t let the writers convince me he was a hero or make me forget who he was at the beginning — as many fans did, swayed by the disastrous writing of the final season.

Before Gilead, Joseph Lawrence was a celebrated economist, a professor, and a published author — a man of intellect and influence. But when the political climate shifted, he aligned himself with religious extremists, admitting he had to “ally with religious nutcracks” to achieve his vision of “saving America.” That vision birthed a totalitarian regime built on systemic oppression, mass surveillance, and brutal exploitation — a regime Lawrence helped design from the ground up.

Among his “innovations” were the Colonies — toxic labor camps where women were sent to die in slow agony cleaning up radioactive waste. The idea wasn’t a byproduct of Gilead’s cruelty; it was Lawrence’s direct contribution. His fingerprints are all over the regime’s structure, from its economy to its slave labor system.

Lawrence’s power was made clear in Season 3 when the Commanders held meetings in his house just so he wouldn’t have to leave. He was no outsider reluctantly dragged into Gilead’s politics. He fraternized with men like Commander Winslow before Gilead, playing golf and networking within the elite circles that would later uphold the regime. If Lawrence had ever truly wanted to bring Gilead down — or even let it collapse under economic strain — he had every opportunity. He didn’t.

His bookcases reveal volumes by misogynist thinkers. His personal life, too, reflected this blind spot: despite having a wife who battled mental illness, he disregarded both mental health and maternal love when crafting Gilead’s policies — as he himself later said. The Marthas who served in his household feared him when we first met him — until the writers softened his image in later episodes.

Ultimately, Lawrence’s only real loyalty was to Eleanor. He didn’t oppose Gilead because it was monstrous. He opposed it because Eleanor saw it for what it was and her suffering pricked his conscience.

So when fans claim Nick acted for the Resistance “only because of June” (which isn’t even accurate, as I showed in my Nick article), let’s ask the same of Lawrence. His New Bethlehem project wasn’t born out of conviction. It was his way of easing his guilt toward Eleanor’s memory. Why is that any different?

Even as the audience grew familiar with Lawrence, the show kept giving us glimpses of who he truly was. He remained ruthlessly pragmatic — like when he chose to save only three women from the Colonies because “three is better than none.” He wasn’t above cruelty either: he used Hannah as leverage to extract information from June, a move so cold I don’t know how June could ever forgive him. (But forgiveness — and the absurd Season 6 rewrite of it — is a whole different mess.) He also manipulated Nick, pressuring him to push for a ceasefire when it served Lawrence’s economic goals. But when Lawrence realized cozying back up to the Council was the better long-term move, he abandoned the plan and threw Nick under the bus , cutting a secret deal with the Commanders behind Nick’s back. He only revealed this after Nick, in a rare moment of speaking up at Council, suggested revisiting the ceasefire idea — only to be publicly humiliated when Lawrence coolly announced the Council had already agreed… to bomb the rebels in Chicago before calling the ceasefire. A move that was as calculating as it was gutless. And Lawrence was well aware June was there — he was the one that told Nick.

And let’s not pretend Lawrence ever stopped being a misogynist. Across every season, we see him belittling and undermining women — such as when he publicly ordered June to fetch him a book in front of the Commanders, forcing her into a humiliating performance because women were not permitted to read. He even guided her by describing the color and location of the book, turning the moment into a subtle display of dominance. Fast forward to Season 6, and he continues to assert that power — condescending to the Mayday leader by outright dismissing her objections with a smug “Dismissed.” The contempt was unmistakable.

By Season 5, he was climbing even higher in Gilead’s ranks, consolidating power as a strategic backup for his New Bethlehem project — regardless of who was harmed in the process. He stood by while other Commanders planned two assassination attempts on June, despite Nick personally asking him to intervene — and despite clearly owing Nick multiple favors. He even ordered Gilead to shoot down the planes meant to raid Hannah’s school and rescue the kidnapped American children. And yet… June forgave him. Because apparently, consistency and character logic no longer applied.

In Season 6, Lawrence attempts to manipulate June by abruptly claiming that he never trusted Nick — a claim that directly contradicts the established dynamic between the two men. Throughout earlier episodes, Nick was portrayed as the only Commander Lawrence could speak to with any degree of openness or candor. While their relationship was complex and never entirely equal, there was a clear sense of strategic trust. Recasting their relationship as fundamentally adversarial not only distorts prior characterization but undermines the narrative continuity the series had spent years constructing.

CHARM OFFENSIVE: HOW WRITERS FRAMED HIM AS A ‘WITTY’ ALLY

One of the biggest tricks The Handmaid’s Tale writers pulled was reframing Joseph Lawrence as the “witty, reluctant ally.” They banked on his dry humor, deadpan delivery, and Bradley Whitford’s undeniable charisma to blur the lines between collaborator and friend.

From the moment we met him, Lawrence was written with sardonic wit — dropping quips and cynical observations that instantly made him stand out. His dark humor gave him a kind of moral ambiguity the writers leaned on heavily, using it to paint him as a man too smart for Gilead’s brutality. But being clever doesn’t make you innocent. Instead of confronting the system he helped build, Lawrence hid behind sarcasm, as if that excused him from its crimes.

The writers fed into this by giving him ambiguous, layered dialogue that often sounded wiser — or more self-aware — than it really was. Lines like “I’m a monster” played like self-deprecating confessions, but they were really just shields. He wasn’t repenting; he was deflecting. And because viewers love a “complicated man,” it worked.

His dynamic with June especially softened his image. The show positioned him as her intellectual equal — sometimes even a mentor — which completely blurred the power imbalance between them. Let’s not forget: he was still her Commander. And yet the writers framed their scenes like strategic partnerships, conveniently ignoring that Lawrence always held the upper hand.

On top of that, Lawrence’s screen time was carefully calibrated. Whenever he was around cartoonishly evil Commanders like Putnam or Bell, he seemed like the lesser evil — the “one good man in a corrupt system.” That contrast wasn’t accidental. It served to make him look better by comparison, even though he was every bit as complicit. But the one who truly deserved that distinction — the better man among these Commanders — was Nick. Unlike Lawrence, Nick’s moral compass remained consistent from the beginning. He quietly opposed Gilead from the inside, made choices guided by principle rather than power, and never lost sight of what was right, even when it came at personal cost.

Lawrence’s rare moments of “helpfulness” were never without self-interest. Take the Season 3 escape with the children — Lawrence promised to help June but later tried to bail and flee the country when things got risky. It wasn’t heroism that stopped him; it was the fact that he couldn’t get across the border. Yet the writers gave him credit for that operation anyway, allowing his character to bask in goodwill he didn’t earn.

Every time he threw June a bone or dropped a clever line, the show scored it like a redemption moment. The combination of Whitford’s screen presence and the writers’ softening of his image worked. Viewers wanted to believe he was “one of the good ones,” even though nothing in his behavior truly justified that label.

Maybe if Nick had been given a few snarky one-liners and a jazz record collection, he could’ve earned a heroic death too — because that’s what casual viewers remember the most about a character.

SELF-PRESERVATION, NOT REDEMPTION: HIS MAYDAY INVOLVEMENT

Let’s get one thing straight — Lawrence didn’t join Mayday out of ideology, guilt, or moral awakening. He reached out to them only after realizing the other Commanders wanted him dead. That’s it. His so-called alliance with the Resistance lasted maybe a few days — a week at most — and even then, it was a desperate, calculated move to save himself.

When the Council turned against him and his life was at risk, then he decided to help the Resistance. Not earlier, not when he had power, not when he could’ve actually changed anything. He didn’t risk anything until his own survival was on the line. Yes, he gave Mayday weapons — a sedative and knives — so they could carry out the assasination of key Commanders. But let’s not overstate it: this wasn’t a long-term commitment.

After the Gallows scene, he didn’t return to Mayday’s base. He didn’t contact Tuello. He didn’t strategize next steps. He disappeared. In fact, the only reason he showed up at the Resistance camp later was because he was dragged there by soldiers. That’s not the behavior of someone ready to keep fighting — it’s someone who wanted out the moment the immediate threat was neutralized.

His alliance with Mayday was never about dismantling Gilead, it was about eliminating personal threats and staying alive a little longer. And yet, the writers treated this fleeting, self-serving involvement like a major moral turning point. Suddenly Lawrence was positioned as someone who had tried to redeem himself and viewers were encouraged to see him that way.

While Nick, who had long been aligned with Mayday and repeatedly risked his life for the cause, was rewritten in the final season as complicit, cold, and weak. Many fans dismiss his resistance efforts as motivated solely by June — an interpretation that overlooks his established involvement with the Resistance well before their relationship even began.

If any character acted out of love rather than principle, it was Lawrence. As I mentioned earlier, he only began to question Gilead because of Eleanor — his wife, who suffered from a mental illness Gilead refused to acknowledge, let alone treat. He didn’t regret Gilead’s cruelty until Eleanor called him out for building it. He didn’t want to change the system until it destroyed her. And he only began his New Bethlehem experiment as a way to ease his guilt and honor her memory.

So if we’re going to question motivations — if we’re going to ask who was acting “only for someone they loved” — then Lawrence deserves far more scrutiny than Nick ever did.

Lawrence’s deal with Mayday wasn’t redemption. It was risk management. And as soon as the immediate danger passed, he tried to vanish — and would have, if he hadn’t been physically pulled back in.

THE ‘HEROIC’ DEATH THAT WASN’T

Yes, Lawrence ultimately died in what appeared to be an act of sacrifice — but in reality, his choices were limited. The Commanders were already planning to kill him, and he was left with two options: die by their hands, or die alongside them. In that context, his decision was not a pure act of self-sacrifice, but a final, calculated stand that allowed him to control the narrative of his death. It was arguably the only selfless thing he ever did, and while it was emotionally effective, it felt inconsistent with the character we had come to know. The problem lies not in the act itself, but in how the show elevated it — presenting Lawrence as a tragic hero, when in truth, he never truly confronted the regime he helped build or the harm he caused. He died with somber music swelling, June watching from a distance, and the camera lingering just long enough for viewers to feel something like… grief. Closure. Even admiration. And that was exactly the problem.

For a long time, many viewers expected Lawrence to be executed by Gilead — not only because of his proximity to June, but because that would have been a genuinely redemptive arc: a powerful man finally making a principled choice and paying for it with his life. Instead, he slipped out of the story at a convenient moment, in a way that rewrote his legacy into something complicated, tragic, even heroic.

But let’s be honest: he died a war criminal. A guilty man, deeply complicit, who never dismantled what he built and never fully atoned.

The dynamics behind Lawrence’s redemption arc become even more revealing when considering external influences on the writing process. Bradley Whitford — a widely respected actor and already a fan favorite — reportedly advocated for a redemptive trajectory for his character, and the writers obliged. The result was a narrative that increasingly centered Lawrence, granting him more screen time, sharper dialogue, and ultimately a dignified exit. In contrast, characters like Nick — who had opposed the regime from the beginning, albeit quietly — were sidelined, stripped of complexity, and recast in a more ambiguous light.

Nick didn’t risk everything in a dramatic or performative way, he operated carefully, strategically, within the limits of his position. But he was consistent. He helped Mayday before he ever met June, and kept helping them long after it endangered him politically and personally. He didn’t need a grand gesture to prove where he stood — his quiet, steady resistance spoke for itself.

Max Minghella — who played Nick with quiet precision and consistency — remained professional, saying he trusted the writers to stay true to the story. How sad that this trust backfired, because the writers seemed to forget the very story they were telling.

Let’s not forget: Margaret Atwood herself wanted Lawrence dead by the end of Season 3. But the writers — seeing an opportunity to keep a beloved actor and charismatic character onscreen — kept him in the spotlight. They centered entire plotlines around him. And by the time he died, the show had bent over backwards to convince us he was more than the architect of a totalitarian state.

He got a hero’s send-off not because he earned it — but because he was clever, quotable, and marketable.

THE DANGERS OF NARRATIVE WHITEWASHING

Yes, heroes can be flawed — mythology has always embraced that. In Greek myths, figures like Heracles committed terrible acts and were still remembered for their strength and redemption. But traditional heroes were often the powerless: poor, orphaned, or born into obscurity. They rose not because they were privileged, but because they chose to act when they didn’t have to. Nick fit that model more closely than Lawrence ever did. As literary scholar Joseph Campbell noted in The Hero with a Thousand Faces, the hero is “someone who has given his or her life to something bigger than oneself.” Lawrence gave his life to a system — and only questioned it when it began to hurt him.

Even Margaret Atwood has pointed out that heroes are not defined by status or perfection, but by the ordinariness of those who step up in extraordinary moments. The hero, she suggests, is often the simplest of people — not the architect of power, but the one caught beneath it who still dares to resist (“On tyrannies and the fragility of freedom,” UkraineWorld podcast).

This is one of the most troubling forms of narrative whitewashing: when a powerful man who helped design and maintain an authoritarian regime is given just enough charm, clever lines, and self-awareness to be rebranded as “complicated” — even noble. Lawrence’s arc was never structured as a warning. It was softened into tragedy. He became the misunderstood genius, the reluctant architect, the man who “tried.”

But in reality, he watched Gilead flourish under his economic system, benefitted from its structure, and only began questioning it once it harmed someone he loved. The system’s victims never moved him — Eleanor’s suffering did. It wasn’t heroism; it was a personal loss recast as political awakening, rooted more in emotional proximity than ethical conviction.

And yet, Lawrence was the one who received a grand exit, not just narratively but emotionally. He got to die with dignity. His story was wrapped in melancholy. Conversely, Nick, who never endorsed Gilead’s ideology and acted in line with his principles from the beginning, was vilified by the story, and by large parts of the fandom.

Fandom perception played a role in this too. Lawrence’s wit and visible regret were interpreted as depth. Nick’s guardedness and silence were seen as moral ambiguity. But this says less about the characters and more about the way we consume stories: charisma is often mistaken for goodness, and subtle resistance is ignored if it’s not loud enough to be entertaining.

To be fair, Lawrence had shown flashes of guilt and moral discomfort as early as Season 3, which made his redemption arc — while unearned — feel slightly less jarring than Serena’s, who never demonstrated genuine remorse and yet was granted a similar narrative absolution without justification.

To be transparent about my position: I enjoyed Lawrence’s character. I liked watching him. I admired Bradley Whitford’s performance. But what I can’t support are the double standards — the way the show rewarded one architect of Gilead with a poetic ending while punishing another character for resisting quietly and consistently. I didn’t like the message that sent.

Especially when you consider that Nick was one of the show’s most realistic characters. He wasn’t born into privilege or power — he came from poverty, instability, and limited options. And yet he still chose, again and again, to help. In a story so focused on systemic injustice, it would have meant something to let someone like him — someone from a low socioeconomic background, someone who had not started as a Commander and, even once he became one, did not possess the same level of institutional power or status as someone like Lawrence — have a real, earned heroic arc. But instead, the writers gave that to yet another privileged white man who had power and influence since the day he was born.

And we’re supposed to be okay with that?

He was raped, he lost a loved one under incredibly tragic circumstances, he lost his power, had to remarry against his will, had the threat of hanging on the wall held over his head and had to say goodbye forever to a small child he loved and that depended on him.

Somewhere along the way he began to believe that he might never make up for what he did, but that didn't mean he couldn't still do good. He started small, trying to change the system before he realised the system is the problem and it needs to be destroyed.