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In the age of hyper-visibility, “cancelling” celebrities has become one of the most powerful social tools for holding public figures accountable or to simply “punish” them. We did it with all the big pop girls, James Franco, and so many more. Yet, as the culture of cancellation has evolved, so too has the public’s inconsistent application of it.
One of the most striking dynamics at play is “pretty privilege”: the tendency for attractive individuals to receive more forgiveness, the benefit of the doubt, and more rapid reputation recovery than their less conventionally appealing counterparts. The recent “un-cancelling” of actor Noah Schnapp illustrates how deeply this bias shapes public judgment.
Schnapp, best known for his role as Will Byers in Stranger Things, faced widespread backlash in 2023 after a viral video featured him, among others, with pro-Israel stickers. Social media, especially on platforms like X and TikTok, exploded with criticism. Many fans declared him “cancelled,” claiming his actions were insensitive and harmful. Since then, Schnapp has become a case study in how quickly the tide could turn against a young star, whether they are innocent or not.
But as Stranger Things returned in 2025 for its fifth and final season, the discourse around Schnapp abruptly shifted. Suddenly, one single clip of him in the series went viral, not because of controversy, but because of his perceived attractiveness. Fans who had once loudly condemned him are now praising his looks, calling him “hot.”
The same corners of the internet that had cancelled him two years earlier began to “un-cancel” him. One particular user on X made a post emphasizing his looks, writing, “Finally, people are appreciating how Noah Schnapp looked at the Argentina Comic Con.” Others are making edits of him. While it has not been confirmed by fans, it is evident they have forgotten the past because of newfound attractiveness.
This phenomenon lays bare a truth that many prefer to overlook: cancellation is rarely about morality alone. Public outrage often intertwines with parasocial desire, aesthetics, and bias. When someone is deemed attractive, especially within celebrity culture, audiences frequently soften their stance. Pretty privilege grants them a wider margin for error, more empathy, and a quicker path to redemption.
In Schnapp’s case, his physical appearance overshadowed the political controversy that once engulfed him. Fans reframed the narrative, insisting he was young, had apologized, and that he had learned from past mistakes. These defenses, though valid in some contexts, became noticeably more vocal only after his appearance sparked renewed interest. The timeline suggests that forgiveness was not earned through accountability but granted through appeal.
This raises pressing questions about the ethics of cancel culture itself, namely, that if accountability can be undone by attractiveness, was it ever genuine? And if society selectively punishes and forgives based on looks, how meaningful can public reckoning truly be?
Noah Schnapp’s journey from cancelled to not highlights not just the volatility of online judgment, but the persistent power of pretty privilege, a force that continues to shape celebrity culture more than many will admit.
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