Alex Honnold, Taipei 101, and what it means to be seen

On January 25, Alex Honnold succeeded in climbing Taipei 101: a 508-meter giant of glass and steel. And he did it his way—alone, and without protection. The entire ascent was broadcast live on Netflix in the special Skyscraper Live.

Honnold is universally known in the climbing world for his free solo ascents. After the historic climb of El Capitan documented in the film Free Solo, this new feat brought him onto an artificial structure, transforming a practice born on rock faces into a global media event.

On one hand, the performance remains extraordinary. Completed in about an hour and a half, with moments of extreme tension, the climb captured the attention of millions of viewers. It celebrated the physical and mental endurance of an exceptional athlete and brought a form of extreme climbing—one few people on Earth could even imagine attempting—into the spotlight.

On the other hand, the event sparked an ethical debate that I believe is necessary. A debate that touches on something deeper: why we watch, and how we watch performances like this.

Historically, free solo climbing has been conceived as a practice internal to the climbing community—a solitary, almost existential experience: you, the wall, and the consequences of your choices, without any safety net. When that same act becomes a live global broadcast, something fundamental changes.

In my humble opinion, the problem is not the climb itself, but the way it is consumed. The moment Netflix does not simply document success, but sells the possibility of failure—the direct gaze into the unpredictable—we enter the territory of risk as spectacle. The question I raise is not whether Honnold is capable or prepared—his competence is beyond dispute—but how the act has been transformed into content. Bringing a performance to prime time, broadcast live to a global audience—something that, in another context, would unfold in front of only a few devoted climbers—means entering a communicative regime in which the viewer is invited not only to witness risk, but to consume it.

Beyond the mountain or the skyscraper, the question that emerges is this: what kind of relationship do we want to have with risk—and with death—when we observe them from a distance?
Are we witnessing a sporting act, or a form of entertainment constructed around the tension of a possible tragic outcome? Is it legitimate to transform a personal act into global content whose primary unique selling proposition is risk itself?

The fact that the event was scheduled, anticipated, and broadcast as a spectacle introduces a new dynamic: risk is no longer only the athlete’s lived experience, but a narrative possibility. In this sense, it becomes a product as much as a performance. And this opens a reflection that concerns all of us—not only athletes or adventure enthusiasts.

When risk becomes programmed content, when spectacle feeds on the possibility of tragedy, we must ask ourselves what our role is as spectators. Are we truly there to celebrate skill and preparation, or are we consuming something else—a distant, controlled terror, an emotional tension available at the cost of a monthly subscription?

The challenge for all of us is not to limit what athletes can do, nor to condemn those who produce or watch. It is to pause and reflect on the meaning of the gaze we turn toward risk, and on the kind of relationship we want to build with these narratives.