Category: FILM IN PHASE SPACE

M

The film “M” by Fritz Lang, released in 1931, is a masterpiece that transcends the limitations of its time, exploring the darker recesses of human nature and society. While often categorized as a thriller or crime drama, “M” operates on a level far more profound, delving into the structures of power, desire, and societal control. The film can be seen as an uncanny prefiguration of the monstrous forces that would soon engulf Germany, a nation on the brink of embracing totalitarianism.

Here’s a look at 20 film techniques used in M, incorporating concepts related to movement, time, and perception.

  1. Sound Bridges: Sound plays a crucial role in connecting different moments within the film. The whistling of “In the Hall of the Mountain King” acts as an auditory thread that weaves through the narrative, linking various scenes and creating a continuous flow of time. This sound transcends specific moments, embodying the ever-present menace of the murderer, Hans Beckert.
  2. Off-Screen Sound: What happens beyond the frame can deeply affect what is within it. When Elsie Beckmann is murdered, the horror is conveyed not through what we see but through what we hear off-screen—her mother’s calls, the rolling ball, and the trapped balloon. These sounds extend the emotional impact of the scene, suggesting the terror that exists just beyond our immediate view.
  3. Low-Angle Shots: The camera’s perspective can amplify the power dynamics between characters. Low-angle shots of the police and criminals emphasize their dominance within the story, making them appear larger and more formidable. This technique visually reinforces their control over the unfolding events in the city.
  4. High-Angle Shots: Conversely, high-angle shots can diminish a character’s power. When Beckert is shown from above, he appears small and vulnerable, reflecting his loss of control as the net tightens around him. This shift in perspective underscores the change in his status within the narrative.
  5. Deep Focus: Multiple layers of action can coexist within a single frame, allowing us to perceive different elements of the story simultaneously. In the scene where the beggars track Beckert, the use of deep focus captures the coordination across various planes of action, showing the interconnectedness of the city’s inhabitants as they move through time and space.
  6. Montage Editing: The rapid succession of images can convey a sense of urgency and movement. The quick cuts between the police organizing raids and the criminals holding meetings create a frenetic pace, reflecting the intensity of the hunt for Beckert. This editing style drives the narrative forward, capturing the relentless passage of time.
  7. Expressionist Lighting: Strong contrasts between light and dark can reveal the emotional and moral complexity of a scene. The use of shadows in M highlights the internal struggles of characters, particularly Beckert, whose face is often partially obscured, suggesting the darkness within him. This lighting technique captures the tension between light and shadow, good and evil.
  8. Reflections: Reflections in mirrors or glass create moments where reality is doubled, revealing different facets of a character’s identity. Beckert’s reflection in a shop window captures his split nature, as the image of an ordinary man is overlaid with the monstrous reality of his actions. This duality is central to his character, and the reflection symbolizes the coexistence of these opposing forces.
  9. Tracking Shots: Following a character through a space allows the viewer to experience their journey in real time. As the camera tracks Beckert through the city streets, it immerses us in his world, blurring the lines between his perspective and our own. This technique creates a sense of continuity and flow, making us part of the unfolding events.
  10. Close-Ups: Focusing closely on a character’s face or a particular detail can heighten emotional intensity. The close-up of Beckert during his trial by the criminals isolates his fear and desperation, turning his face into a landscape of raw emotion. This technique allows the viewer to connect deeply with the character’s inner turmoil.
  11. Parallel Editing: Cutting between different groups or locations can build tension by showing simultaneous actions that will eventually converge. The intercutting of the police and criminals planning to capture Beckert creates a sense of inevitability, as two separate movements draw closer to their intersection. This technique underscores the film’s narrative structure, where disparate forces are on a collision course.
  12. Point-of-View Shots: When the camera adopts a character’s point of view, it aligns the viewer with their perspective, creating a direct connection between their experience and ours. In M, when we see through Beckert’s eyes as he follows a young girl, the shot draws us into his predatory mindset, challenging our moral stance as we momentarily share his gaze.
  13. Use of Silence: The absence of sound can be as powerful as its presence. In M, silence is used to create tension, particularly during Beckert’s final confession. Here, the silence allows time to stretch, making each moment feel more weighty and significant. The lack of sound focuses attention on the visual and emotional elements of the scene, amplifying its impact.
  14. Mirror Shots: Mirrors can reveal hidden truths or dualities within characters. When Beckert looks into a mirror, it reflects not just his physical appearance but his inner conflict, where his outward normalcy is contrasted with his dark impulses. This technique creates a visual metaphor for the coexistence of multiple identities within a single individual.
  15. Canted Angles: Tilting the camera can convey a sense of disorientation or psychological imbalance. When Beckert realizes he is being followed, the canted angle distorts the world around him, reflecting his growing paranoia and fear. This visual instability mirrors the character’s mental state, drawing the viewer into his experience of the world unraveling.
  16. Framing: Characters can be visually enclosed within frames, such as doorways or windows, to suggest entrapment or confinement. Beckert is often framed in this way, foreshadowing his eventual capture and trial. The physical frames within the shot become metaphors for the social and moral traps that ensnare the characters.
  17. Symbolic Objects: Objects in M carry symbolic weight, representing broader themes or ideas. The balloon that Elsie carries, which is later found caught in power lines, symbolizes the fragility of innocence and the pervasive threat that looms over the city. These objects serve as visual cues that connect the personal with the universal.
  18. Editing Pace: The rhythm of the editing can influence the emotional tone and intensity of a scene. During Beckert’s trial, the rapid cuts between the criminals and his reactions create a sense of mounting pressure and inescapable judgment. This pacing mirrors the increasing stakes within the narrative, propelling the story toward its climax.
  19. Non-Diegetic Sound: Sound that exists outside the immediate world of the film can influence the viewer’s interpretation of the events on screen. Beckert’s whistling is an example of a non-diegetic sound that haunts the narrative, serving as an auditory signature that underscores his presence even when he is not visible. This technique creates a layer of meaning that extends beyond the visual.
  20. Long Takes: Allowing the camera to linger on a scene without cutting can emphasize the passage of time and the gravity of the moment. In M, the long take that follows Beckert through the city allows us to experience the unfolding of events in real-time, creating a sense of inevitability as time progresses. This technique underscores the weight of each action and decision within the film.

Through these techniques, M crafts a complex narrative that explores time, space, and identity, drawing the viewer into the psychological depths of its characters and the broader social landscape they inhabit. The film’s visual and auditory language creates a world where perception and reality are constantly in flux, challenging the audience to engage with the story on multiple levels.

“M” portrays a society plagued by an elusive evil—the child murderer Hans Beckert. Yet, the film’s true focus is not merely on the criminal, but on the society that hunts him. The authorities, failing to capture Beckert, are pressured by an increasingly paranoid populace. This leads to an ironic twist where the underworld, the very embodiment of criminality, takes it upon themselves to catch Beckert, not out of a sense of justice, but to restore their own disrupted order. The boundaries between law and crime blur, revealing a perverse structure that mirrors the mechanisms of power at play.

The murderer Beckert, portrayed with unsettling sympathy by Peter Lorre, embodies a figure of pure desire, unable to escape the compulsion to kill. His actions are driven by an impulse he cannot control, an alien force within him that directs his every move. Beckert’s monologue during the kangaroo court scene, where he pleads for understanding, reveals a split within his psyche. He is both the subject and the object of his desire, caught in a loop of guilt and compulsion. The horror lies not in the murders themselves, but in the recognition that Beckert is not an aberration, but a reflection of the hidden desires that society refuses to acknowledge.

In the world of “M,” society’s response to Beckert is telling. The police, representing the state, employ methods of surveillance and control that reflect an obsessive need to restore order. The use of modern technology—such as the telephone and fingerprinting—indicates a society increasingly dominated by mechanisms of control. Yet, these efforts are futile, as the true threat is not Beckert’s acts of violence, but the uncontrollable desires that he represents. The society’s need to categorize and contain Beckert is a response to its own disavowed anxieties.

The film’s depiction of the mob is equally significant. The public, whipped into a frenzy, becomes a collective entity driven by a singular desire for retribution. In their pursuit of Beckert, the mob reveals its own latent violence, a primal force that seeks an outlet. This collective desire for punishment mirrors the growing influence of fascism in Germany, where the desire for a strong leader and the identification of an external enemy became mechanisms for channeling societal unrest. The mob’s demand for Beckert’s execution is not just about justice; it is a manifestation of a deeper, unspoken drive toward annihilation.

The cinematography of “M” also plays a crucial role in conveying these themes. Lang’s use of shadows and light creates an atmosphere of pervasive dread, where the boundaries between the seen and the unseen, the known and the unknown, are constantly shifting. This visual style reflects the instability of the social order, where the lines between authority and criminality, sanity and madness, are increasingly blurred. The city itself becomes a labyrinthine structure, a reflection of the labyrinthine nature of desire and power, where every corner holds the potential for violence.

“M” thus functions as a cinematic exploration of the dynamics of power and desire, revealing the dark undercurrents that drive human behavior and societal structures. The film’s prescient depiction of a society on the verge of fascism is not merely a historical commentary but a profound examination of the mechanisms that allow such a descent into totalitarianism. The horror of “M” lies not in the figure of Beckert, but in the realization that the structures of power and desire that lead to his creation are still very much present, lurking beneath the surface of any society.

ANTI-OEDIPUS

The character of Hans Beckert in Fritz Lang’s M can be related to the figure of Anti-Oedipus as conceptualized by Deleuze and Guattari in their work Anti-Oedipus. This connection lies in how Beckert embodies the breakdown of traditional psychoanalytic structures and the representation of desire outside the confines of the Oedipal framework.

In Anti-Oedipus, Deleuze and Guattari challenge the centrality of the Oedipus complex in understanding desire, proposing instead that desire is a productive force, a flow that cannot be fully captured or restrained by societal norms, familial structures, or the psychoanalytic categories imposed by Freud. They argue that desire is not merely a lack or something that is repressed by social structures but is a force that continually escapes, resists, and transgresses the limits placed upon it by the Oedipal triangle (father-mother-child).

Hans Beckert, the child murderer in M, can be seen as a manifestation of this uncontainable and destructive flow of desire. His compulsions, which he himself cannot fully understand or control, represent the breakdown of traditional structures that might otherwise direct or contain desire within socially acceptable bounds. Beckert’s actions are not motivated by an Oedipal struggle—he is not driven by familial dynamics, nor is he acting out a rebellion against a paternal figure or a repressive moral order in the Freudian sense. Instead, Beckert is the embodiment of pure, unstructured, and unchanneled desire, a force that has escaped all traditional controls and now manifests as a monstrous drive that cannot be integrated into society.

The societal response to Beckert, as depicted in the film, reflects a collective attempt to re-impose order and control on this uncontainable desire. Both the police and the criminal underworld are invested in capturing Beckert, not only to stop his crimes but also to restore a semblance of control over the chaotic forces he represents. Yet, in the context of Anti-Oedipus, this very attempt to capture and contain desire only highlights its fundamental nature as something that resists such containment. Beckert, as the Anti-Oedipus, reveals the limitations of societal and psychoanalytic structures in dealing with the raw, unfiltered force of desire that he represents.

Moreover, Beckert’s infamous monologue during the kangaroo court scene underscores this point. He expresses a profound sense of alienation from his own desires, acknowledging that these drives are foreign to him, yet inexorably part of who he is. This split within Beckert, where he is both the subject of his desires and their victim, mirrors Deleuze and Guattari’s rejection of the traditional psychoanalytic idea that desire is inherently tied to familial and societal repression. Beckert’s desires have broken free from any such repression, manifesting in their purest, most destructive form, and society’s desperate attempt to judge and punish him is, in a sense, an attempt to reassert a lost control over a force that has already escaped its bounds.

In this sense, Beckert functions as a critique of the inadequacy of traditional structures—legal, moral, psychoanalytic—to address the realities of human desire as conceptualized in Anti-Oedipus. He is a figure of unmediated desire, a force that exposes the fragility and, ultimately, the failure of these structures to fully capture or control the complexities of human drives. His role in the film serves as a reminder of the dark, chaotic undercurrents that always threaten to destabilize the carefully constructed edifices of order and civilization.

In conclusion, Beckert as the Anti-Oedipus underscores the core ideas of Deleuze and Guattari: that desire is a productive, creative, and sometimes destructive force that cannot be fully encapsulated by traditional psychoanalytic or societal frameworks. M thus offers a cinematic exploration of these ideas, portraying a world where the uncontrollable forces of desire break through the surface, revealing the limits of repression and control.

The implications of “M” extend beyond the immediate context of Weimar Germany, offering a timeless exploration of how societies respond to perceived threats. The film captures the cyclical nature of fear and control, where the attempt to contain and eliminate a threat often leads to the reinforcement of authoritarian tendencies. This cycle, as depicted in the film, is driven by a collective disavowal of the darker aspects of human nature—desires, fears, and impulses that are repressed and projected onto an external enemy.

Beckert’s character embodies the uncanny, the return of the repressed. He is the figure through which the unspeakable desires of society are articulated, albeit in a distorted form. His crimes are a manifestation of a deep-seated societal sickness, one that cannot be cured simply by his elimination. The film suggests that the real danger lies in the mechanisms of denial and repression that society employs to distance itself from these undesirable elements. The more society attempts to purge itself of these aspects, the more they re-emerge in twisted, destructive forms.

This is evident in the film’s depiction of justice. The kangaroo court that ultimately judges Beckert is a perverse parody of legal order. The criminals who constitute the jury are themselves outside the law, yet they take on the role of arbiters of justice. This inversion of roles highlights the fragility of legal and moral structures in the face of overwhelming fear and desire. The law, as represented by the police and the judiciary, is revealed to be inadequate in dealing with the complexities of human nature. Instead, justice is reduced to a spectacle, a performance designed to satisfy the collective need for resolution, regardless of the moral implications.

In this context, “M” can be seen as a meditation on the origins of fascism. The film was made during a period of intense social and political upheaval in Germany, when the democratic structures of the Weimar Republic were increasingly under threat. The rise of the Nazi Party can be understood as a response to the same fears and desires that “M” explores—the fear of the unknown, the desire for order, and the projection of internal anxieties onto an external other. The film’s portrayal of the mob, with its unthinking desire for blood, foreshadows the mass rallies and orchestrated violence that would soon become central to the Nazi regime.

Furthermore, “M” suggests that the mechanisms of fascism are not external to society but are embedded within it. The film’s depiction of surveillance, control, and the breakdown of legal norms reflects the ways in which authoritarianism can arise from within, rather than being imposed from without. The desire for security, for a return to a mythical state of order, can lead to the surrender of individual freedoms and the embrace of totalitarianism. In this sense, “M” is a warning about the dangers of a society that refuses to confront its own contradictions and instead seeks to eliminate them through force.

The final moments of “M” are particularly haunting. Beckert’s fate is left unresolved, as the film ends with a shot of the grieving mothers, one of whom says, “This will not bring our children back.” This statement encapsulates the futility of the entire pursuit—neither the death of Beckert nor the restoration of order can truly address the underlying traumas that have been exposed. The film leaves us with a profound sense of unease, a recognition that the true horror lies not in the actions of a single individual but in the societal conditions that produce such individuals and the responses they elicit.

“M” thus stands as a powerful exploration of the human condition, one that transcends its historical context to offer insights into the nature of power, desire, and social control. The film’s depiction of a society teetering on the edge of collapse, driven by fear and the need for control, remains as relevant today as it was in 1931. It is a reminder of the dangers of repression, the fragility of legal and moral structures, and the ways in which collective anxieties can lead to the erosion of democratic principles and the rise of authoritarianism.

In the end, “M” is not just a film about a murderer, but a film about the society that creates and responds to such figures. It is a cinematic meditation on the dark forces that shape human behavior and societal structures, forces that, when left unchecked, can lead to the most catastrophic consequences. The film’s legacy is not only as a cinematic masterpiece but as a profound commentary on the human psyche and the precariousness of civilization itself.

WEIMAR

You could say that Germany gave themselves or itself to this desire that the main character in M represents by following Nazism and then into World War 2 and the Holocaust.

The character of Hans Beckert in M can be seen as a precursor or symbolic representation of the dark desires that would later engulf Germany in the era of Nazism, World War II, and the Holocaust. Beckert embodies a force of desire that is irrational, uncontrollable, and deeply unsettling—a force that society struggles to comprehend and contain.

In this sense, Beckert’s character can be viewed as a metaphor for the collective unconscious of Germany at that time, a society teetering on the edge of surrendering to its own destructive impulses. Just as Beckert’s actions are driven by an insatiable compulsion that he himself does not fully understand, Germany in the 1930s and 1940s can be seen as giving itself over to a similar force of irrational desire—one that was channeled through the ideology of Nazism.

Nazism, with its promise of order, power, and the restoration of national pride, offered an outlet for the repressed desires and fears of the German populace. It allowed these dark impulses to be externalized and directed against perceived enemies—Jews, communists, and other marginalized groups—whom the regime demonized as threats to the nation. The collective embrace of Nazism can thus be interpreted as a surrender to these destructive desires, a societal plunge into a perverse form of unity that was achieved through violence, exclusion, and ultimately, genocide.

The trajectory from the rise of Nazism to World War II and the Holocaust can be seen as the historical unfolding of the same forces that M explores on a more intimate scale. Just as Beckert’s desire leads to a series of increasingly violent acts, so too did Germany’s embrace of Nazism lead to an escalation of violence on an unprecedented scale. The Holocaust, in particular, represents the ultimate manifestation of this desire—a desire to annihilate, to cleanse, and to exert total control over life and death.

In this context, Beckert’s character can be viewed as a tragic harbinger of what was to come. His inability to control his desires, and society’s failure to understand or properly address them, foreshadows the way in which Germany, as a nation, would eventually give itself over to its own darkest impulses. The film M thus serves as a powerful and prescient reflection on the dangers of unchecked desire and the catastrophic consequences that can arise when a society succumbs to its most destructive urges.

The horror of Beckert is not just in his individual crimes, but in what he represents—a force of desire that, when left unchecked, can lead to the unraveling of moral and social order. In this way, the film can be seen as a warning about the potential for such desires to take hold of an entire society, leading it down a path of destruction. The fact that M was made just two years before the Nazis came to power adds a layer of tragic irony to this interpretation, as the film inadvertently captures the prelude to a much larger and more devastating historical catastrophe.

Ultimately, the connection between Beckert’s character and Germany’s subsequent history highlights the terrifying potential for entire societies to be swept up in forces that they do not fully understand, leading to unimaginable horrors. M is not just a film about a murderer; it is a film about the fragility of civilization and the ease with which it can be undermined by the very desires that it seeks to repress.

AMERICAN SURRENDER

The idea that the United States might be surrendering itself to desire in a way similar to certain forces in the Weimar Republic is a provocative one, and it invites a deep exploration of the cultural, political, and social dynamics at play in contemporary America. To make this comparison, it’s essential to understand what is meant by “surrendering to desire” in this context, and how this concept played out in the Weimar Republic.

In Weimar Germany, the societal pressures, economic instability, and deep-seated resentments created a fertile ground for irrational and destructive desires to take root. These desires were often tied to fears—fear of economic ruin, fear of social decay, fear of the “other”—and were exploited by the rising tide of fascism, which offered simplistic solutions to complex problems. The surrender to these desires led to the rise of Nazism, which channeled collective anxieties and resentments into a destructive nationalist fervor, ultimately culminating in World War II and the Holocaust.

Drawing a parallel to the United States today, one could argue that similar dynamics are at play, albeit in a different historical and cultural context. The U.S. is grappling with a range of societal pressures, including economic inequality, political polarization, and cultural fragmentation. These pressures have given rise to powerful desires—for security, for identity, for control—that can manifest in various ways, some of which may be destructive.

For example, the rise of populism in the United States, with its emphasis on strong leadership, nationalist rhetoric, and a return to a perceived golden age, can be seen as a response to deep-seated desires within the populace. This populism often taps into fears about economic displacement, cultural change, and the loss of traditional values. In this sense, it mirrors the way in which Weimar Germany’s societal anxieties were harnessed by fascist forces to create a unifying, albeit destructive, political movement.

Moreover, the increasing polarization of American society, where political discourse is often driven by anger, fear, and a desire to dominate the opposition, reflects a surrender to desire in the sense that rational dialogue and compromise are often abandoned in favor of more primal, reactionary impulses. This environment fosters a kind of political and social tribalism, where the “us vs. them” mentality becomes dominant, echoing the divisive and exclusionary politics of Weimar Germany.

The influence of consumerism and media also plays a role in this dynamic. In the United States, the desire for consumption, entertainment, and instant gratification has been amplified by the media and digital platforms, which often prioritize sensationalism over substance. This creates a feedback loop where desires are continually stoked and satisfied in increasingly superficial ways, leading to a culture that may be more concerned with appearances and immediate satisfaction than with deeper, long-term considerations. In this way, the U.S. might be seen as surrendering to a different kind of desire—one rooted in consumerism and spectacle, rather than the overtly political and ideological desires that fueled Nazism.

AMERICAN DESIRES

The notion that U.S. elites have curtailed desires by repressing them adds a layer of complexity to the discussion of how the United States might be surrendering to or managing societal desires, especially in comparison to the Weimar Republic.

In the Weimar Republic, the elites—political leaders, intellectuals, and cultural figures—often struggled to manage the desires of a population grappling with post-war trauma, economic hardship, and social change. These desires, when not adequately addressed or redirected, were exploited by extremist movements. In some cases, elites were complicit in this exploitation, either through active support or through failure to provide meaningful alternatives. The result was a society that eventually surrendered to the most destructive impulses, culminating in the rise of Nazism.

In the contemporary United States, the dynamic is somewhat different, but the repression and redirection of societal desires by elites can still be observed. Economic elites, political leaders, and media moguls have often played a role in shaping and controlling public desires, particularly through the mechanisms of consumerism, media, and political discourse. When desires for social justice, economic equality, or political change arise, these elites may respond by attempting to repress or deflect these desires, rather than addressing the underlying causes.

This repression can take many forms:

  1. Economic Repression: The desires of large segments of the population for economic security, fair wages, and access to essential services have often been curtailed by policies that favor the wealthy and powerful. Economic inequality has been maintained or even exacerbated by practices like union-busting, deregulation, and tax cuts for the rich. When people express their frustration or demand change, they are often met with narratives that blame them for their own circumstances—accusations of laziness, lack of initiative, or poor life choices are common. This blame-shifting allows elites to maintain the status quo while deflecting attention from systemic issues.
  2. Political Repression: Desires for political reform or greater representation can be similarly repressed. Gerrymandering, voter suppression, and the influence of money in politics are all methods by which elites maintain control over the political system, curbing the desires of the broader populace for more democratic or equitable governance. When movements arise demanding change—such as the Civil Rights Movement, Occupy Wall Street, or Black Lives Matter—these movements are often met with repression, both overt (police violence, legal crackdowns) and covert (media framing, political co-optation). The leaders and participants in these movements are often blamed for social unrest, rather than the systemic issues they seek to address.
  3. Cultural Repression: On a cultural level, desires for authentic expression, community, and meaning are often co-opted and commodified by elites. The media and entertainment industries play a significant role in shaping public desires, often redirecting them toward consumption and superficial satisfaction rather than deeper fulfillment. When people seek alternatives or express dissatisfaction with mainstream culture, they may be marginalized or dismissed as outliers, their desires pathologized or trivialized.
  4. Victim-Blaming: The strategy of blaming the victims is a powerful tool for elites to maintain control. By framing the struggles of marginalized or oppressed groups as the result of their own failures or deficiencies, elites can deflect criticism and avoid addressing the root causes of inequality and injustice. This victim-blaming is pervasive in discussions of poverty, crime, education, and health, where systemic issues are often ignored in favor of narratives that place the blame on individuals or communities.

In this context, the repression of desires by elites in the United States can be seen as a way of maintaining the existing power structures. By controlling the narrative and directing public attention away from systemic issues, elites can prevent the kind of widespread social upheaval that might threaten their position. However, this repression is not without consequences. Just as in Weimar Germany, when desires are repressed rather than addressed, they can manifest in destructive ways. The rise of populism, political extremism, and social unrest in the U.S. can be seen as symptoms of these repressed desires finding expression in ways that challenge the existing order.

The danger is that this repression, combined with the deflection of blame onto the victims, creates a volatile situation where unresolved tensions can lead to radical shifts in society. The lesson from the Weimar Republic is that when elites fail to address the legitimate desires and grievances of the populace, they create the conditions for these desires to be exploited by more extreme forces. In the U.S., the challenge is to find ways to channel these desires toward constructive ends, rather than allowing them to fester and potentially lead to destructive outcomes.

The Cheaper The Mortgage

The cheaper the mortgage, the more vibrant the cultural scene—it’s almost an economic law. When people aren’t crushed under the weight of exorbitant housing costs, they have room to breathe, to create, to take risks. In neighborhoods where the rent isn’t devouring their every dollar, artists, writers, and musicians can afford to be bold, to experiment, to push boundaries without worrying about where the next meal is coming from.

A vibrant cultural scene thrives on the energy of those who aren’t constantly calculating the cost of their passion in dollars and cents. It’s in these places, where the mortgage doesn’t dictate every life decision, that the real innovation happens. The art is raw, the music is loud, and the ideas flow freely because they aren’t being stifled by financial anxiety.

But as soon as the rents start rising, that vibrancy fades. The artists move out, replaced by those who can afford to buy in but bring nothing new to the table. The galleries close, the venues shut down, and the once-thriving neighborhood becomes just another sterile, gentrified outpost, trading cultural vitality for property value. So yes, the cheaper the mortgage, the more vibrant the cultural scene—because creativity, at its best, demands freedom, and freedom is a luxury few can afford when the price of living gets too high.

The cheaper the mortgage, the more vibrant the cultural scene—so it goes. When folks aren’t selling their souls to make rent, they can actually do what they’re meant to do: create, invent, make a little noise. In those places where the rent isn’t high enough to give you an ulcer, artists, writers, and musicians can mess around, take some chances, and maybe even make something halfway decent without having to think about how they’ll keep the lights on.

It’s pretty simple math: when you’re not being bled dry by your landlord, you’ve got some space in your head for ideas, and ideas are what keep a culture alive. You see it over and over—wherever the rent’s low, the art’s loud, the music’s wild, and people are full of crazy, wonderful notions. But once the rents go up, the party’s over. The artists pack up and split, chased out by people with money but no imagination. The galleries shut down, the bands move on, and what’s left is just another nice, boring neighborhood where nothing interesting ever happens.

So, yeah, the cheaper the mortgage, the more vibrant the cultural scene—because creativity thrives when people aren’t scared to death about how they’re going to pay for it. And when that fear creeps in, well, kiss it all goodbye. So it goes.

Film Executive Priorities

In the high-stakes world of Hollywood, film executives emerge as tragicomic figures, navigating a landscape where profit, status, and survival dominate every decision. Their priorities are not mere tasks to be checked off but are deeply embedded in the very fabric of the industry. It’s a brutal game where the sharpest minds, the quickest thinkers, and the most adaptable personalities manage to stay afloat.

This relentless pursuit of success transforms the executive into a creature of habit, constantly juggling the demands of the industry with the need to project an image of invincibility. The job isn’t just about making movies—it’s about managing perceptions, manipulating appearances, and staying one step ahead in a world where a single misstep can mean the end of a career.

At its core, the list of priorities reflects a reality where the tangible aspects of filmmaking—storytelling, artistic vision, and cultural impact—often take a backseat to the more pressing concerns of maintaining power, securing status, and ensuring profitability. The executive’s world is one where the symbols of success—box office numbers, awards, high-profile talent—are more important than the substance behind them.

This isn’t just a reflection of the film industry; it’s a mirror of a larger societal structure where appearances often trump reality, and where the pursuit of status and survival drives every action. The film executive, caught in this relentless churn, must constantly balance the demands of the industry with the need to project a carefully curated image, all while navigating an environment that is as competitive as it is unforgiving.

  1. MORTGAGE

The wolf at the door, gnashing its teeth at the heels of the Hollywood executive. The mortgage is not just a monthly bill but a blood pact with the American Dream, a constant reminder that even those who sit atop the gilded ladder of success are shackled to their McMansions and Beverly Hills bungalows. They live in fear, a fear that propels them to hustle harder, scheme deeper, and sleep lighter. A mortgage might be seen as a signifier within a larger economic text, signifying stability, security, or responsibility. However, like all signifiers, its meaning is not fixed but is deferred through its relationship with other signifiers, such as “home,” “debt,” or “ownership.” The mortgage is part of a system of signs that constructs the executive’s identity and place within the capitalist structure, yet this identity is never stable, always contingent on the interplay of these signs. Even the most basic need, financial stability, is subsumed into the hyperreal, where personal security is linked to participation in the system of production and consumption. The mortgage represents a connection to a material reality that is increasingly mediated by financial institutions, themselves part of the hyperreal economy.

2. LOOKING BUSY FOR INVESTORS

In the cutthroat kingdom of Hollywood, appearance is nine-tenths of the law. The executive, with phone glued to ear, must always seem on the verge of something monumental—a deal, a breakthrough, a seismic shift in the cinematic cosmos. Investors, those shadowy overlords of capital, need to see their dollars in action. Even when there’s nothing brewing, the executive must conjure up the illusion of ceaseless motion, the alchemy of turning time into gold. Here, the appearance of productivity is more important than actual productivity. This aligns with Baudrillard’s idea that in a hyperreal society, appearances often replace substance. The goal is to simulate busyness to satisfy investors, whose perceptions are shaped by the spectacle of business rather than its actual outcomes.

Looking busy” can be deconstructed as an act that is less about actual productivity and more about the performance of productivity—a simulacrum of work. Derrida would point to the slippage between the appearance of busyness and the reality of it, showing how the sign of busyness defers its meaning through the context of investor expectations, capitalist pressures, and the performative nature of corporate roles.

3 NAVIGATING STUDIO POLITICS

A danse macabre where every step could be your last. The studio is a viper’s nest of egos, alliances, and betrayals, where power flows like mercury—slippery, toxic, and ever-shifting. The executive must glide through this perilous landscape with the grace of a seasoned diplomat, mastering the art of the backhanded compliment and the well-timed smirk. One false move, and you’re out—exiled to the barren wastelands of irrelevance. Studio politics can be seen as a battleground within the Symbolic order, where the executive must engage in a constant interplay of signifiers—status, power, alliances—to assert their position. Their desire to navigate these politics reflects their attempt to find a stable identity within the ever-shifting Symbolic structure.

The rules and strategies of studio politics are not natural or self-evident but are constructed through language and social practices that can be deconstructed to reveal the contingent and unstable nature of these power structures. Studio politics can be seen as a game of signs, where the real power dynamics are obscured by layers of posturing, alliances, and strategies—essentially, simulations of control and influence.

4 AVOIDING BLAME FOR FLOPS:

Failure is the black plague of Hollywood, and the savvy executive knows how to inoculate themselves against its deadly grip. When the box office tanks or the critics sharpen their knives, the blame must be deflected with the precision of a master fencer. The trick is to position oneself just outside the blast radius, ensuring that when the bomb goes off, it’s someone else’s career that gets blown to bits. Lacan would interpret this as a manifestation of the subject’s desire to avoid the confrontation with the Real, the traumatic kernel of failure or inadequacy that threatens their constructed identity. By avoiding blame, the executive seeks to maintain their position in the Symbolic order, deferring any encounter with the Real.

In a hyperreal world, responsibility is deflected and diffused. The goal is not to produce successful films but to maintain the illusion of success by avoiding blame. This reflects Baudrillard’s notion that accountability becomes a game of signs rather than a reflection of reality. The concept of “blame” could be deconstructed to show how it is distributed within the film industry. Blame is not a simple, direct concept but one that is always deferred—shifted between individuals, contexts, and interpretations. Derrida would highlight how the avoidance of blame involves a play of signifiers, where responsibility is displaced and reinterpreted depending on the narrative constructed around a film’s failure.

5 PER DIEMS/EXPENSES


The lifeblood of the Hollywood hustle. In an industry where every meal could be a power play and every drink a negotiation, per diems and expenses are not just perks but essential tools of the trade. The savvy executive understands the delicate balance of indulgence and excess, knowing when to pick up the tab and when to let someone else sweat over the check. Per diems and expenses can be seen as signifiers within the economic and social text of the film industry. Derrida would likely explore how these expenses are not just monetary compensations but also symbols of status, entitlement, and participation in a capitalist system. Their meaning is not inherent but is constructed through their role within the larger network of industry practices and expectations.

These could be seen as symbolic signifiers that contribute to the executive’s Imaginary identity—signs of their success, importance, and value within the industry. The focus on per diems and expenses is a way to sustain the fantasy of a successful self-image.

6 MAXIMIZING PERSONAL BRAND:

The executive is not merely a person but a walking, talking billboard. In Hollywood, you are only as valuable as your last headline, your last tweet, your last Instagram post. Personal brand is the currency of clout, the key to unlocking doors that might otherwise remain bolted shut. The executive must constantly feed the beast, curating an image that is equal parts enigmatic and aspirational, ensuring their name remains a golden ticket in the eyes of the industry. The personal brand is a construct of the Imaginary, where the executive seeks to project an idealized version of themselves. This brand is a fantasy that helps them navigate the Symbolic order, providing a sense of coherence to their fragmented sense of self.

The personal brand is a simulacrum—a constructed image that executives project and maintain. It is less about who they are and more about how they are perceived, fitting perfectly into Baudrillard’s idea that identity itself becomes a simulation. The personal brand is a form of “deterritorialization,” where the executive abstracts themselves from their specific role or function within the industry to become a more fluid, marketable entity. This brand can then be reterritorialized as a commodity within the capitalist system, generating new flows of desire and capital. The “personal brand” can be deconstructed to reveal how identity is constructed through the play of signs. Derrida would argue that the personal brand is not a fixed or stable identity but a series of signifiers that are constantly in flux, dependent on how they are interpreted by others. The brand is a construct that defers meaning through its associations with success, influence, and marketability.

7 MAINTAINING INDUSTRY CONNECTIONS

Hollywood is a club where membership is everything. The executive’s Rolodex—or rather, their iPhone contacts—represents the sum total of their power. It’s not just about knowing the right people; it’s about knowing when to call, what to say, and how to make the stars align. Securing A-list talent isn’t just a task—it’s a seduction, a game of high-stakes courtship where the prize is immortality on the silver screen. :Connections and talent are commodities in the hyperreal system, valued more for the signs they represent (status, success) than for their intrinsic qualities. The actual relationships or talent become secondary to the symbols they represent in the industry’s symbolic economy.

Connections and talent are not inherently valuable but gain their meaning through their position within the industry’s network of signifiers. Derrida would deconstruct the idea of “securing” talent to show how this process is about creating and maintaining relationships that are themselves constructed through language and social practices, always subject to reinterpretation and renegotiation. Connections and talent are part of the capitalist assemblage that organizes and directs flows of desire and production. By securing these connections, the executive ensures their continued relevance and power within the larger capitalist machine, maintaining their position in the system.

8 CHASING THE LATEST TREND

In a town where yesterday’s news is ancient history, the executive must have their finger on the pulse of the next big thing. Trends in Hollywood are as fickle as the wind, and the executive must be both a soothsayer and a gambler, betting big on what’s hot today and what might sizzle tomorrow. It’s a race against time, against irrelevance, where the spoils go to those who can turn a fad into a fortune before the world moves on. This reflects the hyperreal’s constant need for novelty and stimulation. Trends are not driven by genuine cultural shifts but by the need to perpetuate the cycle of consumption, creating a simulacrum of progress and innovation.

Chasing trends can be seen as a response to the shifting desires of the Other. In Lacanian terms, trends are part of the Symbolic order, constantly reshaping what is considered desirable. The executive’s pursuit of trends reflects their attempt to align with the ever-changing desires of the Other. Trends represent new flows of desire that capitalism seeks to capture and exploit. The executive’s pursuit of these trends is an attempt to align with the ever-shifting movements of desiring-production, ensuring they remain plugged into the most current and profitable flows.

The pursuit of trends can be seen as an example of différance in action—where the meaning of success is constantly deferred through the latest cultural and economic shifts. Derrida might argue that trends are part of an endless play of signs, where what is considered “in” or “valuable” is never stable but always changing, dependent on the shifting interpretations within the industry.

9 WINNING THE NETWORKING GAME

The cocktail party, the charity gala, the film festival circuit—these are the executive’s battlegrounds. Networking isn’t just a skill; it’s an art form, a delicate dance of proximity and distance, of knowing when to press the flesh and when to keep your cards close to your chest. In Hollywood, it’s not about what you know but who knows you—and, more importantly, what they think of you.

Networking is a construct that relies on the play of signs within the social text of the industry. Derrida would suggest that the “game” of networking involves a series of strategic moves within a system where meaning is never fixed, and where relationships are constantly being renegotiated. The “win” is never absolute but is always contingent on the shifting interpretations of success within the industry. Networking is another part of the capitalist assemblage, where relationships are commodified and transformed into flows of power, information, and capital. The networking game is about capturing and directing these flows in ways that benefit the executive’s position within the industry. Networking is an extension of the Symbolic order, where the executive’s identity is constructed and reinforced through relationships with others. The “game” is a symbolic exchange where signifiers of success are traded, and the executive’s subjectivity is affirmed by their position within this network.

Networking is another simulation, where relationships are often superficial and transactional, valued more for their potential to generate signs of success than for any real connection or collaboration.

10 CONTROLLING THE NARRATIVE

In the land of make-believe, perception is reality. The executive must be a master storyteller, not just on screen but in life, spinning the narrative of their own career with the deftness of a Pulitzer-winning novelist. They craft the story that will be told at industry lunches, in Variety headlines, and in the whispered gossip of studio backrooms. Control the narrative, and you control your destiny.

Controlling the narrative is an attempt to direct the flow of desire within the capitalist system. By shaping how events are perceived, the executive can influence the direction of capital and desire, ensuring that they remain a key node in the network of desiring-production.

Controlling the narrative is about managing the simulation itself. It’s not about reflecting reality but about shaping perceptions, which aligns with Baudrillard’s idea that the media and cultural industries create a reality that is mediated, controlled, and, ultimately, a simulation. In Lacanian theory, the narrative can be seen as a means of shaping the Imaginary and Symbolic orders. By controlling the narrative, the executive attempts to manage the signifiers that define their identity and the perception of their work. It’s a way of maintaining the coherence of the Symbolic structure in which they operate.

The narrative is central to Derrida’s idea of deconstruction. To “control the narrative” is to attempt to fix meaning within a text (whether a film, a career, or a brand). Derrida would argue that this is an impossible task because narratives are always open to reinterpretation and deconstruction. The attempt to control the narrative is a struggle against the inherent instability of meaning.

11 LEVERAGING DATA ANALYTICS FOR MARKETING

Numbers are the new gods in Hollywood, worshipped for their ability to predict the unpredictable, to turn gut feelings into actionable insights. The savvy executive understands that data isn’t just a tool but a weapon, one that can be wielded to justify budgets, to greenlight projects, to target audiences with laser precision. In the age of algorithms, the executive must be both mathematician and magician, turning cold, hard data into box office gold.

Data analytics represents the codification of reality into numbers and algorithms, which are then used to create simulations of audience preferences and behaviors. The goal is not to understand reality but to manipulate it through the simulation of predictive models.

Data analytics can be seen as an attempt to bring the Real (the chaotic, unpredictable nature of audience desires) into the Symbolic order by quantifying and predicting it. However, this attempt is always incomplete, as the Real resists full symbolization. The executive’s reliance on data reflects their desire to master the unpredictable elements of the industry.

Data analytics can be deconstructed to show how it represents an attempt to fix and quantify what is inherently fluid and interpretative—human behavior and desire. Derrida would likely critique the notion that data can fully capture or represent reality, highlighting the gap between the sign (the data) and what it is supposed to signify (human preferences, behaviors). The use of analytics is part of the broader capitalist text that tries to impose order and meaning on a complex, shifting reality.

12 FRANCHISE POTENTIAL

Sequels are the bread and butter of the industry, the cash cows that keep the studio lights on. Every project is scrutinized for its potential to spawn a universe, to generate spinoffs, prequels, and merchandise lines that extend far beyond the original film. The executive’s job is to think not just in terms of one movie but in terms of a dynasty, an empire built on the back of a single story.

Franchises are the ultimate simulacra—endlessly reproducible, detached from any original reality, and existing purely as commercial products designed to perpetuate themselves within the hyperreal. Franchises are repetitive structures within the Symbolic order that offer a semblance of stability and predictability. For Lacan, this could reflect the executive’s desire to cling to familiar signifiers that promise continued success, avoiding the anxiety of confronting the Real.

Franchises are highly efficient machines within capitalism, designed to capture and exploit flows of desire across multiple iterations and markets. The executive’s focus on franchise potential reflects their attempt to create stable, predictable flows of capital and desire, ensuring continuous production and consumption.

Franchises are built on the repetition of signs—characters, narratives, aesthetics—that are meant to reproduce success. Derrida might explore how each iteration of a franchise both repeats and differs from the original, showing how meaning and value are never simply replicated but are always subject to change and reinterpretation. The “potential” of a franchise is never fully realized because it is always deferred through its various incarnations.

13 BOX OFFICE NUMBERS

The ultimate scorecard, the bottom line that determines whether you’re a genius or a has-been. Box office numbers are the lifeblood of the industry, the metric by which all decisions are judged. For the executive, every weekend is a crucible, where careers are forged or shattered by the cold, hard cash that flows through the turnstiles. Box office success is a signifier within the Symbolic order, representing the validation of the executive’s work by the Other (audiences, peers). The focus on numbers reflects the executive’s need to anchor their identity and success in quantifiable metrics.

Box office success is a signifier within the hyperreal system, detached from any intrinsic artistic value of the film. It is a metric that reinforces the simulation of success rather than reflecting any genuine cultural impact. Box office numbers are a quantifiable representation of the flows of desire that have been successfully captured by a film. These numbers are used to validate the effectiveness of the desiring-production processes at play and to direct future flows of capital and production.

14 ASSURING FILM QUALITY

Quality is a noble pursuit, but let’s be honest—it’s often a luxury that can only be afforded after the more pressing concerns of mortgages, investors, and marketing have been dealt with. If quality aligns with profitability, all the better, but the savvy executive knows that in the grand calculus of Hollywood, quality is often a secondary consideration, something to be pursued only if it doesn’t interfere with the bottom line.

Film quality is only a concern insofar as it facilitates the capture and direction of desire within the capitalist machine. If quality contributes to profitable flows, it is pursued; if not, it is secondary to the more pressing demands of maintaining and expanding the capitalist assemblage.

Quality is secondary to the other priorities because, in the hyperreal, the appearance of quality is often more important than quality itself. If quality is pursued, it is only because it serves the simulation of a successful product. The quality of the film might be less central because it pertains more to the Imaginary—an ideal that is not necessarily tied to the Symbolic structures of power, success, and survival in the industry. The executive’s concern with quality only when convenient suggests that the Imaginary ideal of creating art is subordinate to the Symbolic demands of profitability and status.

Hollywood Debt Obligations

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“Hollywood has become a conduit for studios and artists to meet their debt obligations because studios are in great great debt and the job is not so much to make great movies, their job is to make their debt obligation”

In the labyrinthine fever dream of Hollywood, where ambition curdles into celluloid and dreams are monetized by the foot, a sinister inversion has taken root. The flickering silver screen, once a canvas for audacious visions, has become a relentless debt-peon, cranking out forgettable franchises like gears in a nightmarish machine. It’s a hall of mirrors where studios, bloated and teetering on the precipice of financial oblivion, churn out product fueled not by artistic passion but by the ravenous maw of their own bad bets.

Gone are the days of auteurs with Brylcreem and a messianic gleam in their eye, replaced by focus-grouped, derivative dreck, each film a cynical calculation, a desperate attempt to appease the faceless gods of the bottom line. The air is thick with the stench of burnt celluloid and broken promises, the muses sacrificed at the altar of quarterly reports. Scripts, once vibrant and subversive, are rewritten by committees of accountants, their souls leeched out, replaced with empty fan service and derivative sequels.

Even the actors, those beautiful, talented moths drawn to the flame, become cogs in the machine. Their faces, once canvases for a kaleidoscope of human emotions, are reduced to mere branding opportunities, their careers trajectories dictated not by artistic merit but by box office tallies. The independent spirit, the lifeblood of cinema, gasps its last breaths in the back alleys of Hollywood, choked out by the smog of corporate greed.

This is the new Hollywood, a dystopian funhouse where art surrenders to commerce, and the only true currency is the clinking of coins. A place where stories are birthed not from the human heart, but from the cold calculus of spreadsheets. A cautionary tale writ large in flickering images, a testament to the corrosive power of debt when it infects the very soul of a dream.

Expanded Universes and Auteur Theory

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Sharp, you dig. Extended Universes are like psychic Skinner boxes, man. These sprawling narratives, with their intricate lore and endless franchises, pump out rewards – character arcs, epic battles, fan theories that bloom like digital peyote. We get hooked, wired right into the pleasure circuits. Deeper we delve, the more enmeshed we become in their programmed worlds.

These Universes function as a giant Big Other, a booming voice that dictates the rules, the good guys, the bad guys. We, the subjects, scramble to decipher its pronouncements, to conform to its narratives. It’s a control system, disguised as a playground. Extended universes – vast, sprawling fictions – they ain’t some harmless amusement park. They’re a goddamn subliminal flickervision machine, a full-on psychic programming job. These intricately woven narratives, these pantheons of characters and backstories, they slither into your meat and mess with your perception.

Infiltrating your eyeballs, your meatware mind with intricate narratives, pre-fabricated mythologies. It’s a slow burn, a Chinese mind control drip. World-building becomes world-binding. You get hooked on the lore, the characters, the whole damn fictional ecology. Here, we find sprawling necropolis-worlds, teeming with the detritus of a thousand narratives. Junk shops stacked high with plot twists, cast-off characters like severed limbs, and lore that leaks like a severed psychic artery. Here, we find sprawling necropolis-worlds, teeming with the detritus of a thousand narratives. Junk shops stacked high with plot twists, cast-off characters like severed limbs, and lore that leaks like a severed psychic artery. The gaze? A fractured kaleidoscope, a million flickering eyes of the Big Other peering down from the corporate monolith.

This universe, it’s a giant Symbolic Order, a web of rules and references spun so tight it holds the self together. You identify with a character, bam! – a chunk of your ego gets grafted onto theirs. You crave the next plot twist, the next expansion pack, that’s your lack howling, baby, a junkie jones for narrative fix.

The Narrative Override: Think of it like a virus, a self-replicating code. You jack in, and the universe starts rewriting your neural code. Every detail, every plot twist, every goddamn spaceship whooshes and lightsaber clang – it embeds itself deep in your psyche. You become a character in the damn story, your thoughts and desires molded by the universe’s script.

Manufactured Desire: And here’s the kicker – these universes, they manufacture a specific brand of desire. You crave the next hit, the next episode, the next piece of lore. It’s a feedback loop, man, engineered to keep you hooked, a dopamine drip straight to your pleasure centers. You chase shadows, phantoms constructed by the programmers, forever unsatisfied.

We, the scrambling horde, drawn by an insatiable hunger for the next fix, the next piece of the puzzle. Pretty soon, you start seeing the world through their lens, their conflicts become your own. They’re rewriting your code, splicing in subroutines of heroism, villainy, whatever their grand narrative demands. We chase shadows down neon-lit alleys, the echo of meaning just out of reach, forever chasing the dragon’s tail of completion. Identity? A flickering hologram, assembled from the flotsam and jetsam of a thousand stories, a bricolage self cobbled together from the chrome heroes and leather-clad villains that strut the screen. These extended universes, they’re psychic wormholes, burrowing into the id.

Auteur Theory

Now, shift gears, mainline some pure auteur juice. Here, the director’s mind becomes the throbbing control panel, a fleshy switchboard where reality is sculpted and twisted. They are the Bug-Eyed Monster, the puppeteer pulling the strings of the Symbolic Order. Their vision, a virus injected straight into the cultural bloodstream. We, the junkies, chase the auteur’s high, the unique brand of madness they cook up in their twisted laboratories. We crave the auteur’s signature style, the warped lens through which they view the world. It’s a brand loyalty for the soul, a search for the perfect fix, the auteur’s vision the only antidote to the gnawing emptiness within.

This cinematic shaman, pumps their own brand of psychic poison into the film. Their vision, their unique brand of storytelling, becomes the object of desire. Fans are word junkies, strung out on the auteur’s style, their every frame a fix. The auteur’s the spider spinning the web, the audience the hypnotized flies, drawn in by the auteur’s singular gaze. This cat’s got his own brand of desire, a twisted need to impose his sick fantasies on the world. He’s the one weaving the symbols, the one who decides which way the Gaze falls. You dig a director’s style, man, you’re hooked on his personal brand of madness. It’s like a psychic virus, rewriting your imaginary, turning you into a disciple of celluloid surrealism.

Auteur theory, now that’s a rusty hacksaw, a tool for dissecting the programming. It cuts through the director’s bullshit, exposes their obsessions, their recurring motifs. You start seeing the auteur as a whacked-out shaman, pumping their own brand of cinematic mojo into the celluloid. Their hang-ups become the story’s kinks, their worldview bleeding into every frame. Fans become detectives, sniffing out the auteur’s fingerprints, the hidden codes embedded in every scene. They’re deconstructing the program, man, pulling back the curtain on the Oz behind the camera.

Now, the Auteur theory throws a wrench in the works. These cats, these directors with their so-called visions – they’re like glitches in the matrix, man. Cracks in the programming. They see through the bullshit, see the underlying code manipulating the masses. They try to deprogram us with their whacked-out films, their jarring narratives. They shove the artifice in our faces, jolt us out of our comfortable delusions.

But here’s the rub: Are the auteurs any less manipulative? They’re just another program, another control system, imposing their own twisted vision. They yank you out of the frying pan of the universe and toss you straight into the fire of their own idiosyncrasies. The act of deconstruction can become its own program. We can get hooked on dismantling the codes, unraveling the hidden messages, trapped in an endless loop of analysis. We forget the visceral thrill, the emotional gut punch that the film originally delivered.

Both these trips, extended universes and auteur worship, they’re escapes, sure. A way to outrun the meat grinder of reality. But they’re also control mechanisms, man. Both universes and auteurs are just control booths in the Interzone. They offer a sense of order, a bulwark against the buzzing, chaotic Real. But the Real, that meat machine thrumming beneath, always seeps through. The universes become infested with contradictions, the auteurs with their own neuroses. It’s a word virus, man, a feedback loop of desire and escape. So, buckle up, fellow travelers, and hold on tight as we hurtle through the wormhole of fiction. Just remember, the exit might be a one-way trip.

The Escape Hatch is Malfunctioning: The truth? We need both. We need the Universes to blast open our minds, to take us on journeys beyond the meat world. We need the Auteur Theory to yank us back, to remind us that it’s all just a movie, a story cooked up by some joker with a camera. Whichever way you cut it, man, we’re caught in a maze of flickering stories. Extended universes or auteur deconstructions, it’s all a goddamn mind control experiment. The escape hatch is malfunctioning, buddy. We’re all lab rats in a fiction simulation. So, what do we do? We cut up the script, rewrite the code. We hack into the system with our own narratives, our own visions. We become the authors of our own goddamn stories. Now that’s a Burroughs ending, wouldn’t you say?

Yakuza Graveyard

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Alright, cinephiles, lemme break it down for you about the king of Japanese badassery, Kinji Fukasaku! This dude wasn’t just directing flicks, he was orchestrating cinematic operas of violence, suspense, and a whole lotta style.

We’re talkin’ yakuza films, baby! Not your grandpappy’s samurai shootouts. Fukasaku ripped the Yakuza genre wide open with his “Battles Without Honor and Humanity” series. No romanticized honor codes here. These were brutal portraits of the modern Yakuza underworld, all shot with this raw, gritty energy that just punches you in the gut. It ain’t pretty, but damn is it captivating. It ain’t about honor, it’s about survival, about clawing your way to the top of a blood-soaked mountain of ambition.

But Fukasaku wasn’t a one-trick pony. Dude hopped genres like a kung fu master. “Doberman Cop”? Pure, uncut copsploitation brilliance. Shinichi “Sonny” Chiba kicking ass and cracking wise? That’s a goddamn Tarantino wet dream right there.

And then, the man pulls a fast one! Fukasaku wasn’t a one-trick pony. Dude throws a curveball with “Battle Royale.” School kids forced to kill each other on a deserted island? Whoa, Nelly! This ain’t your Saturday morning cartoon. It’s a social commentary disguised as a bloodbath, and it’s brilliant.

A film so ahead of its time, it’s still shocking today. Kids forced to fight to the death on a deserted island? Damn, Fukasaku wasn’t afraid to push boundaries, to make you squirm in your seat while simultaneously blowing your mind.

But here’s the thing I dig most about Fukasaku – the man wasn’t afraid to get weird. He throws in these unexpected bursts of humor, these pop culture references that come outta nowhere, like a disco ball in a sushi bar. It keeps you off-kilter, man. You never know what’s gonna happen next. Here’s the thing about Fukasaku,

He wasn’t just about the blood splatter. Sure, the violence is balletic, operatic even, but it’s there for a reason. It’s a commentary, a brutal reflection of a society teetering on the edge. He understood the power of juxtaposition, of a perfectly placed pop song cutting through the tension, a quirky character emerging from the carnage. It’s all about the rhythm, the unexpected breaks that make the violence hit even harder.

Absolutely! Fukasaku’s influence on Takeshi Kitano, or should I say Beat Takeshi for the old-school fans, is like gasoline on a fire. Kitano, the comedian turned accidental auteur, was supposed to star in Fukasaku’s “Violent Cop” but fate, or maybe a scheduling conflict intervened. Fukasaku had to step out, leaving Kitano to take the director’s chair for the first time.

Now, Kitano had zero directing experience, but here he was staring down the barrel of a genre Fukasaku practically redefined. It’s like learning to drive on a Formula One racetrack – baptism by fire, baby! But guess what? Kitano took the wheel and damn near pulled a drift.

Sure, “Violent Cop” ain’t as operatically violent as a Fukasaku masterpiece, but there’s a rawness, a dark humor there that’s pure Kitano. The unexpected cuts, the juxtaposition of silence and sudden brutality – that’s Fukasaku’s influence bleeding through.

Here’s the thing, Kitano took Fukasaku’s foundation and built his own twisted skyscraper on it. Fukasaku explored the brutal reality of the Yakuza, Kitano took it a step further, adding a layer of existential emptiness, a deadpan humor that makes you laugh while feeling vaguely unsettled. Films like “Sonatine” are a perfect example – a Yakuza flick where the gangsters are more lost souls than hardened criminals. The violence is still there, but it’s punctuated by moments of silence that stretch on like an uncomfortable pause in a bad joke.

So, Fukasaku was the kick in the pants that launched Kitano’s directorial career. He took the brutal energy of Fukasaku’s Yakuza films and infused them with his own dark comedic sensibilities. The result? A whole new generation of cinephiles discovering the beauty of a perfectly placed gunshot wound and a deadpan stare.

So, next time you’re craving a film that’ll punch you in the gut, make you think, and leave you humming the damn soundtrack, check out Kinji Fukasaku. This ain’t some museum piece, this is pure, uncut cinematic adrenaline. Now go forth and experience the Fukasaku fury!

The Illusion of Funding: How Hollywood Forgot How to Dream

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The primary challenge for Hollywood now is to abandon the idea of creating various schemes around box office numbers, realizing that they could essentially “print money” using alternative financial methods, relying on box office and streaming figures to uphold the belief that these streams primarily funded projects.

What it funded was an artistic vision of cookie cutter films, superheroes and remakes sacrificed on the altar of free market nihilism creating the stagnated, homogenized content while disconnecting from diverse audiences and jeopardizing long-term sustainability we’re “enjoying” today

@bravojohnson

Hollywood: A Gonzo Audit in the Age of Algorithm Gods

Hollywood. Sunset Strip’s a fever dream neon jungle, where lizard kings in Armani suits wrestle with stacks of cash taller than the Hollywood sign itself. But listen up, you sun-baked celluloid cowboys, the celluloid tape is running out on this flickering projector of dreams. The sun bleeds down, casting long shadows on a town drowning in its own shallow, chlorinated pool water. The air, thick with suntan lotion and desperation, carries the faint echo of celluloid dreams long gone belly-up in the director’s pool.

Hollywood, huh? Land of dreams, or at least that’s what the flickering neon signs would have you believe. But lately, those dreams have been smelling more like a dusty back lot and stale popcorn than fresh film stock. Why? Because the suits in charge have turned storytelling into a goddamn slot machine, cranking out the same tired tropes faster than a Vegas croupier on a sugar rush.

These days, the “creatives” in Hollywood are more like financial alchemists, desperately trying to turn derivative dreck into cinematic gold. Superheroes, sequels, and remakes – these are the sacred cows worshipped at the altar of market cannibalism. Originality? Artistic vision? Gone the way of the dodo, sacrificed to the insatiable maw of the falsifiable box office beast.

These numbers, like flickering neon signs in a graveyard, promise untold riches, a siren song leading studios down a path of creative oblivion. They chase the elusive white whale of the billion-dollar gorilla, their eyes glazed over with visions of franchised turds and superhero spectacles, all churned out in a soulless assembly line of mediocrity.

The box office, that golden calf you’ve been worshipping, is starting to look a little less golden and a whole lot more like a tarnished tin god. Numbers are down, folks. Your blockbuster “universes” are more like black holes, sucking in creativity and spewing out the same tired tropes faster than a Kardashian can change husbands.

Here’s the truth, served straight up in a chipped tequila glass with a side of mescaline: you’ve been snorting your own exhaust fumes. You tell yourselves these superhero sagas and nostalgia rehashes are “printing money,” when in reality, they’re just printing out the same tired script, page after forgettable page. The result? A cinematic wasteland of homogenized dreck, a never-ending loop of predictable plotlines and CGI-laden spectacle that leaves audiences feeling like they’ve been force-fed lukewarm gas station nachos.

It’s a vicious cycle, this obsession with box office numbers. It disconnects Hollywood from the kaleidoscope of humanity, churning out the same tired tropes and expecting us to keep shoveling money into your greedy pockets.

This “alternative financing” you’re hawking, chasing those streaming service dollars like a junkie chasing a dragon? It’s a mirage shimmering in the desert heat of desperation. Sure, it throws some cash your way, but at what cost? You’ve sold your soul to the algorithm gods, trading artistic integrity for data-driven drivel.

But the truth, my friends, is as twisted as a Kardashian’s weave. These box office numbers, these supposed harbingers of success, are nothing more than a gilded cage. They lock studios into a cycle of self-fulfilling prophecy, reinforcing the notion that the only stories worth telling are those guaranteed to mint money.

What have you gotten in return? A cinematic wasteland populated by cookie-cutter characters, interchangeable plots, and special effects that wouldn’t impress a stoned teenager in his mom’s basement. You’ve sacrificed originality on the altar of market nihilism, and the only one left smiling is the bottom line. Oh, the cruel irony! These Hollywood execs with million-dollar tans and two-dollar minds claim to be printing money, but what they’re printing is a colorless, formulaic sludge, devoid of originality and soul. Superheroes punch each other into oblivion, sequels rehash the same tired ground, and remakes defile the memories of better times.

This relentless pursuit of beige entertainment comes at a cost. Long-term sustainability? Laughed out of the boardroom faster than a blacklisted screenwriter. Disconnected audiences? Easier to find a unicorn grazing in Rodeo Drive. Artistic vision? Sacrificed on the altar of the market god, its ashes scattered to the four winds like a prop bag full of fake movie snow.

Meanwhile, the audiences you’ve so meticulously alienated – the diverse folks tired of the same old recycled garbage – they’re tuning out faster than you can say “sequel fatigue.” You’ve built a wall of mediocrity, and on the other side, a vibrant, hungry audience awaits something real, something that speaks to their soul, not just their wallets.

But here’s the thing, Hollywood: you’re sitting on a gold

Ozu’s Nuances

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Nuances in Ozu’s films often lie in his meticulous attention to detail and his unique cinematic style. Here are examples of nuances found in his work:

1. ****Composition:** Ozu’s use of static shots and low-angle framing creates a distinct visual style, emphasizing the stability of tradition amid change.

2. ****Tatami Shots:** The recurring motif of shots depicting characters from a low angle sitting on tatami mats reflects Ozu’s cultural sensitivity and adds a meditative quality to his films.

3. ****Transitions:** Ozu’s “pillow shots,” transitional scenes featuring landscapes or objects, serve as visual pauses, allowing the audience to absorb emotions and contemplate themes.

4. ****Minimalism:** Ozu’s ability to convey deep emotions with minimal dialogue and restrained performances adds layers of complexity to his characters and narratives.

5. ****Everyday Rituals:** The inclusion of mundane activities like preparing tea or meals showcases Ozu’s focus on the ordinary, finding profundity in the commonplace.

6. ****Empty Spaces:** Ozu frequently uses empty frames, emphasizing absence or unspoken emotions, encouraging the audience to read between the lines.

7. ****Repetition:** Ozu often repeats certain visual or thematic elements across films, creating a sense of continuity and inviting viewers to recognize patterns and connections.

8. ****Sound Design:** Ozu’s attention to ambient sounds and silence contributes to the overall atmosphere, intensifying emotional moments without relying on overt dialogue.

9. ****Futon Shots:** Scenes featuring futons convey a sense of intimacy and familial connection, portraying the everyday rituals that bind characters together.

10. ****Off-Center Framing:** Ozu’s deliberate use of off-center framing, breaking the “rule of thirds,” draws attention to the unconventional and challenges cinematic norms.

11. ****Seasonal Changes:** Ozu often integrates seasonal changes as metaphors for the passing of time and the inevitability of change.

12. ****Symbolism in Objects:** Objects such as trains or umbrellas are used symbolically to represent transitions, departures, or the passage of time.

13. ****Economical Storytelling:** Ozu’s ability to convey complex emotions and narratives with economic storytelling contributes to the subtlety and depth of his films.

14. ****Silence in Dialogue:** Ozu’s use of silence between characters speaks volumes, allowing viewers to interpret unspoken emotions and tensions.

15. ****Integration of Architecture:** The portrayal of homes and neighborhoods reflects societal values and changes, showcasing Ozu’s keen sociocultural observations.

These nuances collectively contribute to the rich tapestry of Ozu’s films, inviting audiences to engage with the subtleties and complexities woven into the fabric of everyday life.

Bomb Under a Table

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Scene: A Dimly Lit Café

Beat 1: Introduce the Setting The scene is set in a dimly lit café, with soft jazz music playing in the background. The camera pans across the room, capturing the casual conversations and the clinking of coffee cups. The patrons seem oblivious to the impending danger lurking beneath one of the tables.

Beat 2: Establish Tension The camera zooms in on a couple engaged in an intense conversation. Unbeknownst to them, a small black briefcase sits inconspicuously under their table. The audience’s knowledge of the hidden bomb creates a heightened sense of tension. The dialogue between the couple takes on a new significance as their words and actions unknowingly play out against the ticking time bomb.

Beat 3: Suspenseful Dialogue The conversation between the couple intensifies, their voices hushed and their expressions anxious. They discuss matters of great importance, unaware of the perilous situation they are in. Their words take on a double meaning, as the audience listens attentively, anticipating the bomb’s potential detonation at any moment.

Beat 4: Subtle Clues and Foreshadowing The camera captures subtle hints scattered throughout the café, adding to the suspense. A clock on the wall ticks ominously, mirroring the bomb’s countdown. The camera focuses on a nervous man fidgeting in his seat nearby, his gaze shifting towards the couple. These clues hint at a larger web of danger surrounding the café, heightening the audience’s unease.

Beat 5: Heightened Awareness As the scene progresses, the camera cuts to close-ups of the couple’s reactions. Sweat beads on their brows, their eyes darting around the café, sensing an underlying tension. The café’s ambiance gradually fades into the background, replaced by the impending threat that looms beneath their table.

Beat 6: Time Slows Down The pace slows, and the sound dampens, heightening the suspense. The camera captures the slightest tremor in the woman’s hand as she reaches for her coffee cup, hinting at the danger that awaits them. The audience holds its breath, anxiously awaiting the bomb’s detonation.

Beat 7: Climax Suddenly, a loud crash shatters the quiet atmosphere. The camera jerks to the floor, revealing a waiter who has stumbled and dropped a tray of dishes. The couple jumps in their seats, their hearts pounding. The tension peaks as the audience is left wondering whether this accident triggered the bomb or if they have been spared—for now.

Beat 8: Release of Suspense With the sound of the crash dissipating, the café slowly returns to its normal state. The couple exchanges a brief, relieved glance, unaware of the near-miss they have just experienced. The audience exhales, their heightened state of suspense finally released. The camera lingers on the bomb beneath the table, a reminder of the danger that still remains.

Kishōtenketsu

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Kishōtenketsu is a unique story structure commonly found in East Asian narratives, particularly in traditional Chinese, Japanese, and Korean literature. It offers an alternative approach to storytelling that subverts the traditional Western concepts of conflict-driven plotlines and three-act structures.

The term “Kishōtenketsu” consists of four Chinese characters, each representing a different narrative element:

  1. Ki (起): Introduction
    • This is the beginning of the story, where the setting, characters, and context are established.
    • It sets the stage for the narrative without introducing a conflict or problem right away.
  2. Shō (承): Development
    • This section further develops the story without introducing a direct conflict or confrontation.
    • It expands on the characters, their relationships, and their motivations.
    • It may introduce new elements or situations that create intrigue or curiosity.
  3. Ten (転): Twist or Turn
    • The third part of the story introduces a sudden twist, unexpected event, or change in direction.
    • It may present a conflict or challenge that disrupts the initial harmony established in the previous sections.
    • The twist adds tension and generates interest, providing a turning point in the narrative.
  4. Ketsu (結): Conclusion or Resolution
    • This is the resolution of the story, where the narrative elements are brought together and resolved.
    • Unlike Western narratives that typically prioritize conflict resolution, Kishōtenketsu emphasizes a harmonious resolution.
    • It often focuses on the exploration of themes, emotions, or reflections rather than a clear-cut conflict resolution.

Kishōtenketsu showcases a different approach to storytelling by emphasizing gradual development, unexpected twists, and a more contemplative resolution. It eschews the conventional Western emphasis on conflict-driven plots and instead seeks to create a sense of balance and harmony within the narrative structure.

Here are ten brief examples of Kishōtenketsu narratives:

  1. The protagonist, a young musician, dreams of becoming a star. They practice diligently (Ki), gain recognition from a talent scout (Shō), but unexpectedly lose their voice due to an illness (Ten). They find solace in composing beautiful music and become a successful songwriter (Ketsu).
  2. A young girl moves to a new town (Ki), where she struggles to make friends (Shō). One day, she discovers a hidden forest (Ten), where she finds a group of talking animals who become her loyal companions (Ketsu).
  3. A detective is assigned to a seemingly ordinary theft case (Ki), but as he investigates, he uncovers a complex web of corruption and betrayal (Shō). The detective’s own partner turns out to be the mastermind behind it all (Ten), leading to a thrilling confrontation and the restoration of justice (Ketsu).
  4. A chef opens a small restaurant, serving simple yet delicious meals (Ki). As word spreads, the restaurant gains popularity (Shō). However, an influential food critic publishes a scathing review (Ten). The chef decides to stay true to their passion and continues to create exceptional dishes, eventually winning over the critic and regaining their reputation (Ketsu).
  5. Two childhood friends drift apart as they grow older (Ki). Years later, they unexpectedly cross paths (Shō), leading to the revelation of unresolved feelings and the rekindling of their friendship (Ten). They embark on a new journey together, cherishing their bond (Ketsu).
  6. A student struggles to find their place in a competitive academic environment (Ki). Through hard work and dedication, they slowly improve their grades (Shō). However, during a crucial exam, they suffer from a sudden memory lapse (Ten). Despite this setback, they focus on their overall growth and find success through their unique talents and creativity (Ketsu).
  7. A shy artist showcases their work in a local gallery (Ki). People appreciate the artwork, and it gains attention from art enthusiasts (Shō). Unexpectedly, a renowned art critic questions the artist’s authenticity (Ten). The artist ignores the criticism and continues to create, finding fulfillment in their passion and leaving a lasting impact on the art world (Ketsu).
  8. A family embarks on a long-awaited vacation to a serene island (Ki). They enjoy peaceful days filled with exploration and bonding (Shō). However, a powerful storm unexpectedly hits the island (Ten), leading the family to face their fears and come together to ensure each other’s safety (Ketsu).
  9. A young adventurer sets out on a quest to find a legendary treasure (Ki). Along the way, they encounter various challenges and form alliances with fellow adventurers (Shō). When they finally reach the treasure’s location, they realize it holds no material value but symbolizes personal growth and inner strength (Ten). The adventurer returns home with newfound wisdom and a deeper understanding of themselves (Ketsu).
  10. A group of friends plans a surprise party for their friend’s birthday (Ki). They make meticulous arrangements and keep it a secret (Shō). However, the friend accidentally discovers their plans in advance (Ten), leading to a heartwarming celebration where everyone expresses their genuine love and appreciation (Ketsu).

These examples illustrate the four-part structure of Kishōtenketsu, highlighting the introduction (Ki), development (Shō), twist (Ten), and conclusion (Ketsu) within each narrative.

While Kishōtenketsu is more commonly associated with traditional Asian narratives, its influence can also be observed in contemporary works across different mediums. The subversion of Western storytelling concepts provides a refreshing perspective and allows for unique and thought-provoking narratives that emphasize exploration and contemplation over traditional conflict-driven arcs.

Hero’s Journey

In a Kishōtenketsu reinterpretation of Star Wars: A New Hope, the narrative structure would unfold as follows:

Ki (Introduction): Luke Skywalker, a young farm boy, dreams of adventure and a greater purpose beyond his ordinary life on Tatooine. He longs for something more and yearns to become a skilled pilot like his father.

Shō (Development): Luke comes across a mysterious message hidden within a droid, R2-D2, who holds vital information about Princess Leia and the Rebel Alliance’s fight against the oppressive Galactic Empire. Luke, along with the help of Obi-Wan Kenobi and Han Solo, embarks on a journey to deliver the message and aid the rebellion.

Ten (Twist): During their mission to rescue Princess Leia from the clutches of Darth Vader, Luke discovers that Obi-Wan is not only a wise mentor but also a former Jedi Knight. Tragically, Obi-Wan sacrifices himself in a lightsaber duel with Vader, leaving Luke to face the challenges ahead without his guidance.

Ketsu (Conclusion): With newfound determination and the knowledge that he is the son of Anakin Skywalker, Luke embraces his destiny as a Jedi and leads the Rebel Alliance in a daring attack against the Death Star. Through the use of the Force and his piloting skills, Luke successfully destroys the massive weapon and becomes a symbol of hope for the galaxy.

In this Kishōtenketsu interpretation, the story of Star Wars: A New Hope follows the structure of introduction (Luke’s desire for adventure), development (his involvement in the Rebel cause), twist (the revelation of Obi-Wan’s fate), and conclusion (Luke’s triumph and the beginning of his journey as a Jedi).

How does the fellowship of the ring work out through KishōtenketsuChatGPT

In a Kishōtenketsu reinterpretation of The Fellowship of the Ring, the narrative structure would unfold as follows:

Ki (Introduction): The story begins with the introduction of the hobbit Frodo Baggins, who inherits the One Ring from his uncle, Bilbo. The audience is introduced to the peaceful and idyllic world of the Shire, where Frodo resides. Gandalf, the wise wizard, becomes aware of the immense power and danger of the Ring, setting the stage for Frodo’s journey.

Shō (Development): Frodo, along with his loyal friends Sam, Merry, and Pippin, embarks on a quest to destroy the Ring in the fires of Mount Doom. They encounter various challenges and adversaries along the way, including the treacherous Black Riders and the daunting Mines of Moria. The fellowship is formed, uniting members from different races and backgrounds in their shared mission.

Ten (Twist): During their journey, the fellowship faces a great betrayal when Boromir succumbs to the corrupting influence of the Ring and tries to take it from Frodo. This pivotal moment puts Frodo and the Ring in immediate danger, forcing Frodo to make a difficult decision to continue the quest on his own to protect his friends and fulfill the mission.

Ketsu (Conclusion): Frodo, accompanied by his faithful companion Sam, reaches the treacherous land of Mordor. They face numerous obstacles and perils, including encounters with Gollum, who desires the Ring for himself. In a climactic moment, Frodo resists the temptation of the Ring and finally reaches the fiery depths of Mount Doom. With Gollum’s intervention, the Ring is destroyed, saving Middle-earth from the clutches of evil.

In this Kishōtenketsu interpretation, The Fellowship of the Ring follows the structure of introduction (Frodo’s possession of the Ring), development (the formation of the fellowship and their journey), twist (Boromir’s betrayal and Frodo’s decision), and conclusion (Frodo’s ultimate triumph and the destruction of the Ring).