PSG, Real Madrid, and the Kylian Mbappé nexus

For the seventh time in 13 seasons, Real Madrid and Paris Saint-Germain are both in the last eight of the same UEFA Champions League. That is perhaps unsurprising. In fact, it likely borders cliché. But while the outcome feels inevitable, the method of its attainment differs wildly from the typical script.

Real stumbled through a tense last-16 showdown with Atlético, their crosstown antithesis, and eventually progressed on penalties. PSG also required a shootout to defeat Liverpool at the same stage, but Luis Enrique’s transformed outfit was far more convincing – far tighter, sharper and more coherent – than the frayed, reactive hodgepodge observed by Carlo Ancelotti.

One player embodies this interconnected shift in attitude and strategy, of course: Kylian Mbappé, the moody megastar who swapped Paris for Madrid in June. And quite frankly, less than a year into the high-octane experiment, PSG look better without Mbappé, while Real look worse with him.

Firstly, let’s examine PSG, whose fruitless quest for Champions League glory has taken on a Sisyphean hue. Enrique was hired in July 2023 as an agent of change, with Les Parisiens pivoting from a failed galácticos model – ironically, of Madridian descent – towards a more lithe, cohesive and tactically astute ethos. They yearned to become a real team, rather than a subservient vehicle for superstar largesse.

Sergio Ramos was released. Lionel Messi was dispatched to America. And Neymar was shipped to Saudi Arabia. Mbappé remained, initially, though Enrique implored the lone surviving megalodon to defend as well as attack – a decree all too often ignored by egotistical superstars at the Parc des Princes. Mbappé did so occasionally, between signature strops and disinterested daydreams, and a domestic treble masked lingering resentment. He was finally freed last summer, though, ending interminable speculation by signing for Real.

Yet far from devastating PSG, losing the world’s best player galvanised them, as Enrique doubled-down on his utilitarian project. The sublime Khvicha Kvaratskhelia was drafted in as a replacement, filling perhaps half of Mbappé's offensive output while far eclipsing his defensive diligence. Headlined by Bradley Barcola and Vitinha, others have bought into team-first ethic, too, while even the mercurial Ousmane Dembélé has experienced an epiphany.

The result? A cogent, agile, hungry unit committed to a shared vision, with trust in a proven head coach whose meticulous schematics are actually enacted. PSG are unbeaten domestically, seemingly headed for another slew of silverware, while their Champions League grail has never seemed more attainable.

By contrast, Real appear disjointed, imbalanced and – oddly – rudderless. Yes, the perpetual champions are through to yet another European quarter-final, and domestic glory is still also within reach, but there is something off in the alchemy, something rancorous in the culture. This group feels different – more individualistic, petulant and entitled – than Madrid teams of recent vintage, who burnished the club’s classy archetype with unfussy excellence.

Against Atléti, as against many opponents this season, Real lacked a consistent strategic thread. There was no discernible paradigm, no pressing pattern, no reliable shape. Karim Benzema was once the catalyst for such things, and he is sadly long gone. Likewise, Toni Kroos, the exquisite metronome, is sorely missed, evidenced by a gaping chasm in midfield.  

This is the Ancelotti doctrine, of course – in times of feast and famine. Don Carlo is the ultimate hands-off manager. He waits for, and relies on, individual brilliance, rather than obsessing over the minutiae of strategic game-plans. Even during the most recent Real dynasty, with two Champions League titles under Carlo since 2022, Los Blancos often appeared mundane, only to be rescued by an unforeseen lightning bolt, a paroxysm of personal magic, from an adlibbing superstar. That was the blueprint, to the extent there was one: hang around and wait for the enchanted Bernabéu elixir.

With his penchant for audacious explosions of genius, Mbappé would, therefore, seem to be the ultimate Ancelotti player – a predatory star capable of conjuring something out of nothing, of puncturing the pedestrian with splurges of the prodigious. There have been flashes of greatness from Mbappé in the sacred white jersey he always dreamed of wearing, and in a team sport, Real’s splutters cannot be solely blamed on him. But so far, Mbappé has lacked the consistency demanded of a Real talisman, and his insertion has thrown the Madrid synergy out of whack.

Most pertinently, Mbappé himself looks uncomfortable, shoehorned into a centre-forward berth rather than approaching play from his favoured left flank. Why? Because Real have Vinícius Júnior, another uber-talented star with a humongous ego, ensconced out wide. Throw in Jude Bellingham, a tempestuous, roaming phenom without a clear cut position, and Madrid have a trio of absurdly talented conglomerates whose capricious esteem can make or break the team’s fortunes. Sound familiar? Mauricio Pochettino and Christophe Galtier say, ‘hi.’

All too often, Mbappé, Vinícius and Bellingham can be seen sulking, remonstrating with officials, or admonishing teammates. Worse, they can be seen walking, marooned up field, nursing bruised egos after losing possession. The body language is routinely terrible, akin to stropping about, and the resultant miasma is redolent of the beleaguered, top-heavy, La Décima-hunting Real teams of the 2000s.

This approach – instinct over intellect, chaos over calculation – can work, of course. And for Real Madrid, it very often does. They have won ole big ears 15 times, after all, and have an inexplicable ability to conjure miracles born of mystique. Even Cristiano Ronaldo was never a paragon of humility, and he won four Champions League titles with Real, so there are limitations to team-centric evangelism. There are also many years ahead for Mbappé to hone his legacy.

Previously, however, there was always a baseline fluency to this team, a foundational organisation and a mutual agreement to work hard between spasms of spontaneous brilliance. Behind every successful galáctico, glittering and glorified, there was a cast of unheralded enablers – for Ronaldo, see Casemiro; for Zidane, see Makélélé; for Di Stéfano, see Gento. This Real iteration does have unsung cogs – Rodrygo, Fede Valverde, Raúl Asencio – but they seem burdened with outsized workloads. The skewed distribution of effort feels unsustainable, and the enchanted individualism is running on fumes. There may not be enough to last through May.

Undoubtedly, Real can never be written off, and obituaries to their incantation often die in the drafts. PSG, meanwhile, are yet to get over the hump and remain stalked by continental demons. Poetically, the two clubs are on collision course to meet in a marquee semi-final, Arsenal and Aston Villa be damned, with Mbappé the headline name in lights.

Maybe there, and then, the shadow cast by his nexus will clarify itself.

Maybe there, and then, we will see what the future holds for two teams of interwoven destiny.

Maybe there, and then, things will fall into place.

The world waits patiently, agog and enthralled.