After the release of the movie “Citizen Vigilante,” some viewers saw the main character as almost a libertarian avenger: the state is failing, the courts release criminals, and an armed citizen takes the protection of society into his own hands.
It sounds impressive. But this character has about as much in common with libertarian philosophy as a sea pirate does with the protection of private property. The external attributes are similar: distrust of the state, weapons, independence, and contempt for bureaucracy. But inside, there is a completely opposite system of values.
Libertarianism begins not with a pistol, but with the recognition of every person’s right to life, liberty, and property. From this follows the non-aggression principle: violence cannot be used against someone who has not initiated it themselves. And this is where the image of the “people’s avenger” falls apart. The vigilante kills not only criminals. He executes the relatives of a rapist—people who did not participate in the rape. Yes, they say disgusting things, justify the crime, and blame the victim. Their words are loathsome. But libertarianism does not presume the death penalty for vile views.
A person is responsible for their own actions, not for the crimes of a son, brother, father, or neighbor. Collective responsibility is a favorite practice of authoritarianism. Today, a family is shot for the act of a relative; tomorrow, property is seized from the “wrong” class; and the day after tomorrow, people are sent to camps for having an unfortunate last name. The path is well-trodden, and the signs have long been in place.
Even more terrifying is the scene with the oncoming car. The hero intentionally drives into the opposite lane, forcing an innocent driver off the road. The car falls into a ditch and explodes. People die simply because the vigilante needed a vivid illustration for another monologue. This is no longer “private justice,” but the murder of innocents for the sake of a political spectacle.
At the same time, the film tries to endow the hero with a moral code. On the bus, he pays the fare for teenagers and gives them a lecture: if some do not pay, the costs are shifted to others. Everyone must follow the rules! The thought itself is clear. Only it is preached by a man who entered the country illegally, did not legalize his status, hides the real owners of real estate behind a network of holdings, and raises questions with tax authorities. The result is a surprising moral compass: if you don’t pay for a public transport ticket, you undermine society. If you hide your business, money, and legal status—well, that’s something else, that’s an “extended vacation.”
Of course, a libertarian is by no means obligated to consider state law just. Immigration restrictions violate natural human rights, taxes are theft, and financial regulation is a violation of property rights. Breaking any law that punishes “crimes” without a victim does not make a person a villain and is entirely permissible.
But then one must be consistent. You cannot declare yourself an opponent of the system when the rules hinder you, and become a stern defender of order when a teenager doesn’t buy a ticket. This is no longer a philosophy of freedom, but the good old “everything for friends, the law for everyone else.”
“Citizen Vigilante” could have raised an interesting question: what should society do when the state justice system truly fails to protect victims? Where is the line between self-defense, civil resistance, and vigilantism? But instead of a complex conversation, the film presents the viewer with a man who has appointed himself investigator, judge, and executioner. Moreover, evidence, proportionality of punishment, and the rights of the innocent interest him about as much as a cash receipt interests a bank robber.
The film’s protagonist does not protect individual freedom. Instead, he creates his own pocket state: he writes the laws himself, determines the guilty himself, passes sentences himself, and exempts himself from the rules. This is not libertarianism, but the dictatorship of one man—just without a coat of arms, a parliament, and boring meetings.
