Why Simon Cowell's The Next Act shouldn't have used The Last Strategy

Simon Cowell is not a man who needs reintroducing; he’s a blueprint. One of the most powerful architects in modern pop history, Cowell built an empire on instinct, authority, and a complete lack of interest in being liked. Through American Idol, The X Factor, and his label Syco Entertainment, he didn’t just discover talent, he industrialised it, manufacturing global phenomena like One Direction with ruthless efficiency. This ruthlessness wasn’t a flaw; It was the product. That was the brand. That was the power.

Which is exactly why Simon Cowell: The Next Act fails so spectacularly with ex-1D stans rising from their pushing-30s-cocoons to criticize the show on social media. Not because Cowell lacks influence, access, or legacy, but because the show fundamentally misreads what made him culturally dominant in the first place. Instead of leaning into the sharp, unapologetic authority that built him into a hit-making machine, it tries to soften him, humanise him, and ask the audience for sympathy.

This wasn’t a comeback problem. It was a strategy problem.

The Sympathy Angle (Literally) Nobody Asked For

The first and biggest misstep of The Next Act is its insistence on reframing Simon Cowell as misunderstood, humbled, and—worst of all—unsure. The show leans heavily into emotional vulnerability, positioning Cowell as someone fighting to prove he still belongs in a culture that’s moved on. That framing is fatal, especially when you’re targeting a generation that’s basically broke. Baby, you’re a millionaire, nobody feels bad for you.

Simon Cowell was never the underdog. He was never the relatable one. His authority came from confidence bordering on arrogance; from being the man who could say “this isn’t good enough” and be right more often than not. Turning him into a figure audiences are meant to feel sorry for doesn’t humanise him; it shrinks him. Viewers didn’t reject the opening scenes because they didn’t believe fewer people showed up to auditions, we know they didn’t. They rejected them because they understood why fewer people showed up. 

Cowell’s era of cultural control is over (and that’s okay), but pretending otherwise doesn’t build intrigue; It builds dissonance.

Branding that Screamed ‘You’re So 2000-and-Late’

The moment the group was named December 10 (D10), the internet clocked it. Like, what did you expect? The name quite literally reads like One Direction ‘1D’ backwards, and in a post–One Direction world, that’s not clever, it’s derivative. When the original band (or brand–y’all better be taking notes) still holds cultural weight, repetition doesn’t feel nostalgic, it feels lazy. The audience didn’t see a new act. They saw an old formula trying to pass as evolution.

The visual identity didn’t help. From the typography to the overall aesthetic, the branding very closely echoed One Direction’s Midnight Memories era. Even if intentional, it landed as imitation, not homage. Culture doesn’t reward recycling what already worked, especially when the reference point is still untouchable. This wasn’t continuity. It was creative stagnation. Cowell didn’t misjudge the talent. He misjudged the moment.

Copying K-Pop Without Understanding the Culture

The Next Act also makes a visible attempt to borrow from the K-pop playbook: larger group size, heightened emotional stakes, and global ambition. On paper, it makes sense; K-pop is one of the most powerful cultural exports in the world. In practice, it falls flat.

K-pop isn’t just about numbers or aesthetics; it’s about infrastructure, fandom literacy, and digital participation. The show adopts the surface elements without understanding the ecosystem underneath them.

That disconnect peaked when band member Cruz Lee-Ojo (19) compared their potential success to iconic K-pop boyband BTS, claiming that if BTS could sell out Wembley in 5-minutes, they could sell out Pluto in 5-minutes. Scripted or not, and if it was meant to stir social chatter or manufactured PR, it was a misread. K-pop fans didn’t hear ambition; they heard entitlement. The clip travelled fast, but not in the way anyone wanted. Conversation happened, sure, momentum didn’t.

Cultural credibility isn’t something you shortcut. You earn it; or the internet reminds you why you don’t have it.

POV: Social Media, But Make It Out of Touch

The most telling moment in the show is when the team admits they turned to social media only after traditional advertising failed, as if trying old-school ads to recruit a demographic of teenagers wasn’t the first red flag. The issue wasn’t that social media didn’t work; it’s that it was treated as a last resort instead of the starting point. By the time they pivoted, the approach was still outdated, relying on polished announcements and casting calls rather than native, creator-style content built for how teens actually use TikTok.

That’s the core problem. Social platforms don’t reward presence, they reward participation. Posting about auditions isn’t the same as building momentum around them. Without cultural hooks, creator seeding, or content designed to be remixed, the show never generated the signals needed to travel. Cowell built stars in a broadcast era. The Next Act tried to apply that logic to a participatory culture—and the internet responded accordingly: with indifference. Because social fluency isn’t optional anymore, it’s the baseline.

The Art of Knowing When to Bow Out

Simon Cowell changed pop music; that part is untouchable. His influence is locked, his legacy secure, which is precisely why The Next Act felt unnecessary. 

Not everything needs a reboot, and not every era needs a sequel. There’s a difference between evolution and overstaying the moment, and this show crossed it. It didn’t rewrite Cowell’s legacy, but it did reveal the cost of refusing to let it stand on its own. 

As for television, it didn’t land, as for marketing, it felt dated, and as for strategy, it belonged to another time. Dear Simon Cowell, it’s a “no” from us. But, can we at least get a red buzzer next time?