This show is a wild ride. Dystopian nightmare based on book by Margaret Atwood. Women forced to have babies for elite. Offred, our main gal, dodges danger while searching for family. It’s all about oppression, resistance and freedom. A real heart-grabber, right? People can’t get enough of it.

Meet the men from The Handmaid’s Tale

Fred Waterford

Oh my God, Fred is the kind of polished menace you can’t stop staring at — buttoned-up suits, that slow smile, and a voice that sounds like it’s always explaining something even when it’s a threat. He plays the gentleman so convincingly you almost forget how controlling and cold-headed he can be, and then he does something utterly regressive and you’re like, right, never forget. He’s obsessed with order and tradition, but also the sort of guy who hoards little symbols of power (cufflinks? medals? he definitely has a thing) — which is almost quaint until it’s not. Honestly he can be terrifying and oddly theatrical at the same time, like a man who reads poetry before bed and then gases the lights out at breakfast.

Nick Blaine

Nick is the wonderfully messy mystery guy — soft-spoken, protective, kind in ways that feel genuine and sudden, and also kind of dangerous if you poke too hard. He gives off this tug-of-war energy: part wounded loner, part steady anchor, and you’re never quite sure which one you’ll get on any given day (and NO, he doesn’t always answer his phone). He’s practical — a fixer and a listener — but with secrets tucked into his pockets like spare change; he might be reading a Bible one minute and humming a terrible pop song the next. There’s something heartbreakingly ordinary about him, which makes his quiet bravery hit even harder.

Luke Bankole

Luke is the aching, stubbornly hopeful father figure — refuses to be small, fiercely protective of what matters, and somehow both practical and poetic when he talks about home. He carries loss like a bruise but also carries tools and plans and the kind of optimism that makes you think he could actually pull off something impossible. He can be hot-headed in a soft way — gets furious about injustice but then apologizes like it’s his fault, which is maddening and lovely all at once. Also, random: he probably hums an old folk tune while fixing things, but then he’ll surprise you by singing off-key and meaning it.

Joseph Lawrence

Lawrence is the textbook of moral ambiguity — bookish, gray-suited, and terrifyingly rational; he wants the long game and will make decisions that feel practical until you realize they cost people. He’s simultaneously a gentle professor and a cold strategist, like someone who cares about culture and order more than individuals, but also has tender moments that make you tilt your head. He collects books and sayings and justifications, and sometimes it reads as erudition, other times as a brilliant excuse-making hobby. Honestly I can’t tell if he’s a tragic visionary or a slow-moving villain — maybe both, which is the worst part.

Warren Putnam

Warren is the smug, entitled businessman type who smiles like he’s owed the room, all bluster and thin skin under the suit; think small-town donor turned loudmouth with a golden card. He wants respect and applause more than nuance, and he’ll do performative loyalty without much real conviction, which makes him kind of pathetic and a little scary. He brags, he fumbles when challenged, and somehow he thinks a loud laugh covers a lack of backbone — kinda like a rooster who forgets how to crow. Also, pet detail: he probably chews cheap gum when he’s nervous and talks about investments he doesn’t understand.

Mark Tuello

Mark is the exhausted diplomat with a forced grin and a closet full of compromise; he looks like someone who was trained to be reasonable and it almost broke him. He’s earnest in a bureaucratic way — tries to do the right thing within a system he can’t overhaul, which makes him sympathetic but also frustratingly impotent. He keeps a small notebook, drinks terrible hotel coffee, and apologizes too much, but he’s the kind of person who will show up and say the awkward thing because somebody has to. There’s a softness under the suit, like a man who was nice once and keeps practicing being human even when the world says no.