The internal clock—the rhythm of attention and expectation honed by our optimized cognitive processes—demands precision. A narrative must hit its emotional or intellectual beat at just the right moment to captivate the human mind. Television series, by their very nature, are purpose-built to meet these demands. Unlike books, which are often sprawling, open-ended, and subject to the variable pacing of individual readers, television is a medium engineered for synchronization. It shapes time into predictable units, each one calibrated to deliver satisfaction within the narrow window our internal clock anticipates.
This is the triumph of television over many genre books: its ability to structure narrative beats in ways that match the optimized attention span of modern audiences. The episodic nature of television mirrors the rhythms of daily life—pauses, climaxes, and resolutions, all packaged into neat, consumable chunks. It is not merely a matter of convenience but a reflection of the medium’s essence. Television cannot afford to meander; its survival depends on capturing attention immediately and holding it steadily until the prescribed endpoint.
By contrast, the works of P.G. Wodehouse, Douglas Adams, and other literary humorists thrive in a space that television cannot easily inhabit: the mind’s theater. Their brilliance lies in the way their prose invites the reader’s imagination to supply comedic timing, emphasis, and nuance. Wodehouse’s intricate wordplay, Adams’s layered absurdities—these are joys that unfold uniquely in the act of reading, where the pace is dictated by the reader’s own internal rhythm. Television, constrained by its linear delivery, often flattens these subtleties into caricature or oversimplification, losing the intellectual interplay between writer and reader that defines great literary humor.
This flattening extends to adaptations of serious literature as well. Complex novels, rich with intellectual depth or intricate internal monologues, struggle to find their footing on screen. The visual medium often over-explains or reduces these elements to surface-level spectacle. Consider Foundation: Asimov’s sprawling meditation on history and inevitability is reimagined as a character-driven drama, emphasizing relationships and action over philosophical inquiry. While this makes the story accessible to a broader audience, it also narrows its scope, sacrificing the expansive intellectual engagement of the original.
Neil Postman reminds us that every medium imposes its own biases on communication. Television excels at immediate, emotionally resonant storytelling, but it does so at the cost of the interiority and complexity that books provide. To assume that one is inherently superior to the other is to misunderstand the nature of media. Each serves different human needs, shaped by the inherent strengths and weaknesses of their form. But in our increasingly image-driven culture, the dominance of television risks leaving us with stories that satisfy the clock but neglect the soul.
The triumph of television, and now streamingplatforms, lies not just in their mastery of narrative beats but in their ability to condition audiences to expect stories to conform to these rhythms. Over time, this synchronization between medium and audience has created a feedback loop. Television trains us to crave stories that cater to our optimized internal clocks, and in turn, we reward those that deliver, perpetuating the dominance of immediacy, spectacle, and emotional highs.
This shift has profound implications for how we engage with narrative and, more broadly, with complexity. Television’s reliance on pacing and resolution means that ambiguity, subtlety, and slow-building introspection often fall by the wayside. In literature, readers are free to pause, reflect, and revisit earlier passages, allowing for deeper intellectual engagement. Television and film, bound by the relentless forward march of time, rarely afford such luxuries. The medium prioritizes clarity and immediacy, which can impoverish stories that rely on nuance or demand active interpretation.
This isn’t merely a matter of storytelling; it reflects a broader cultural transformation. As we shift from a print-based culture, with its emphasis on critical thinking and individual interpretation, to a screen-based culture, we risk privileging passive consumption over active engagement. Television and streaming excel at delivering pre-digested narratives that require little effort to understand, reinforcing a cultural preference for convenience over challenge. In this way, the medium not only reflects our optimized attention spans but also shapes them, narrowing our tolerance for complexity and our patience for delayed gratification.
What does this mean for literature? As more stories are adapted for the screen, we may see a growing divide between narratives designed for visual media and those that remain firmly rooted in text. The works of Wodehouse, Adams, and other literary giants may increasingly become artifacts of a bygone era—relics of a time when humor and complexity thrived in the interplay between writer and reader. And yet, their persistence reminds us of something vital: that there are still corners of human experience that television, for all its strengths, cannot fully capture.
If Postman were here to comment on this shift, he might argue that we are losing more than we realize. The optimization of our internal clocks for television storytelling is not merely a technological innovation; it is a reprogramming of our cognitive habits. As we tune our lives to the rhythms of visual media, we risk neglecting the slower, more contemplative beats that once defined how we understood the world—and ourselves.
In this analysis of Narcissus and Psyche, we will explore their stories through the lens of cybernetics, systems theory, and distributed consciousness. These frameworks focus on how individuals relate to their environment, the feedback loops they generate, and the mental processes that connect them within larger systems of interaction. Distributed consciousness suggests that different aspects of the psyche are not confined to a single, unified consciousness but are spread across various elements, each influencing the other. Through this perspective, Narcissus and Psyche can be seen as representing distinct, interacting facets of consciousness—self-absorption and relational openness—highlighting the complex dynamics that shape human experience.
For Gábor Bódy, the sky is not a backdrop but a plane of immanence, a ceaseless becoming, traversed and transformed throughout Narcissus and Psyche (1980). In this sprawling assemblage of period drama and mythic resonance, the figures of Erzsébet (Patricia Adiani) and Laci (Udo Kier)—Hungarian poets caught in the turbulence of the Napoleonic Wars—emerge less as characters than as virtual nodes. Their passions, their agonies, their gestures fold the historical into the mythological, the personal into the cosmic. The film’s title maps Narcissus and Psyche not as fixed identities but as refrains, expressive modulations of the eternal return of gendered becoming: woman as metamorphosis, artist as self-fracture. “I believe in neither the Roman nor the Helvetian God,” declares Laci, “only in the aesthetic and historic authority of the Greek-Latin gods.” Yet this appeal to an archaic authority is deterritorialized by Bódy’s camera, which captures clouds not as symbols but as pure flux: an infinite series of patterns, intensities, and movements, defying any fixed organization of the heavens.
Against the sedimented codes of his contemporaries—the slow, mordant gestures that would come to define Hungarian cinema—Bódy sets loose a machine of dizzying velocities, which J. Hoberman aptly describes as “products from an alternate dimension.” His earlier American Torso (1975) similarly refuses linearity, folding the Hungarian Revolution of 1848 into the Civil War through a cinema of temporal fissures. Here, the “light editing” method—scratches, exposures, disruptions—decomposes the filmic surface, producing not a narrative of history but a delirial archaeology of time, a flickering palimpsest that erases itself even as it inscribes.
In Narcissus and Psyche, Bódy radicalizes this process. Across its four-hour duration, the film oscillates between Napoleonic set-pieces and kaleidoscopic disruptions, each scene an assemblage of contradictory forces. Scrupulous blocking dissolves into anarchic editing, compositional coherence into machinic frenzy. This is not a cinema of equilibrium but of tremor, vibration, and excess. Bódy’s insistence on perpetual movement—on the trembling of every frame—anticipates his embrace of cybernetics and video, which he celebrated for their capacity to “represent chance.” His cinema does not narrate but diagrams, organizing chaos into the poetry of contingency. It is a cinema of the virtual, a praxis of the future, where history liquefies into an aleatory field of possibility.
• Narcissus would represent the dangers of a closed feedback loop that becomes isolating and self-destructive. In Bateson’s terms, Narcissus’ relationship to his reflection lacks any external validation or “other” to break the cycle. The mirror image feeds back only what Narcissus projects, creating a self-reinforcing loop that ultimately leads to his downfall. Bateson would interpret Narcissus’ fixation as an example of how a system that closes off from meaningful feedback eventually leads to entropy and collapse. Without an open system to allow for dynamic interaction and learning, Narcissus is trapped within a self-referential echo, illustrating the notion that mental systems require diversity and exchange to sustain themselves. Narcissus is essentially caught in a “schismogenic” process—one where the repeated interactions (his gaze) escalate into a pathological fixation.
• For Psyche, we could focus on her journey as an adaptive learning process within a dynamic system. Psyche’s relationship with Cupid is initially shrouded in mystery, and her trials represent different forms of learning and adaptation. Each task Psyche faces is a feedback mechanism that teaches her about herself, her limitations, and her desires. We see these tasks as a form of double bind, where she must navigate contradictory instructions or impossible choices (e.g., loving Cupid without seeing him). Her perseverance through these binds reflects an evolution of mind in the Batesonian sense—she moves through different stages of learning and understanding her environment, shifting from dependence on rules imposed by the gods to an internalized wisdom about love, trust, and resilience. Psyche’s journey thus represents an open system where feedback (each task) is assimilated, transformed, and adapted to produce growth.
In this sense, Narcissus warns against systems that close off from external interaction, becoming stagnant and self-destructive. Psyche, in contrast, illustrates a self-regulating system that adapts to new information, learning from challenges and maintaining openness to external forces (represented by the gods and Cupid). We can interpret her journey as a positive feedback loop—each task reinforces her capacity to adapt, grow, and learn, allowing her ultimately to transcend her previous state and reach a more integrated form of being.
In summary, using this interpretation would see Narcissus as an example of a rigid system failing due to self-isolation, while Psyche embodies the flexible, adaptive system that thrives by interacting dynamically with its environment, using feedback to achieve a more evolved state of consciousness.
Psyche’s punishment
Psyche’s story includes significant trials imposed by Aphrodite (or Venus in the Roman version). Aphrodite’s jealousy of Psyche’s beauty and her love for Eros (Cupid) sets up the sequence of punishments Psyche must endure. Each trial Aphrodite demands is designed to be impossible, reinforcing Psyche’s subservient and “inferior” status, and they are intended to keep Psyche from reaching her beloved.
We could understand this dynamic as part of a system of power and control where Aphrodite represents an entrenched authority figure attempting to impose limits on Psyche. Aphrodite’s attempts to control Psyche are an example of hierarchical structure in a system, with rigid boundaries where older powers seek to enforce their dominance over emerging ones.
From this perspective:
1. Aphrodite’s Punishments as Control Mechanisms: Bateson might view each task given by Aphrodite as a form of control intended to enforce conformity and maintain the established hierarchy. Each trial Psyche undergoes can be seen as a way of testing and reinforcing her “place” within the system. This dynamic mirrors cybernetic feedback loops where systems can become either adaptable or self-reinforcing. Aphrodite, as a representative of a “closed” system, seeks to keep the old structure intact and prevent new connections (such as the union of Psyche and Eros) from disrupting her status.
2. Psyche’s Adaptive Responses: In overcoming each trial, Psyche demonstrates second-order learning, where she evolves by interpreting her challenges differently rather than simply repeating old patterns. Each task she completes reflects her ability to adapt to a seemingly rigid system. For example, when faced with impossible tasks like sorting seeds, gathering golden fleece, or descending into the underworld, Psyche accepts help from external sources (ants, a reed, or divine interventions). This openness to assistance and flexibility mirrors The ideal of an open, learning-oriented system that incorporates external input, adapts, and grows rather than becoming fixed or rigid.
3. Reconfiguration of the System: Psyche’s final transformation into an immortal being, allowed by Zeus, can be seen as a reconfiguration of the hierarchical system. In the end, the “closed” system symbolized by Aphrodite’s dominance is partially dissolved to accommodate a new structure where Psyche, initially a mortal outsider, becomes integrated as an immortal, equal partner with Eros. Bateson would likely interpret this as a system that has evolved to maintain balance by incorporating new elements, adapting in a way that sustains the whole.
Narcissus and Psyche
In this terms, Psyche could be seen as the literal “psyche” of Narcissus—the adaptive, relational potential within him that he never realizes. Narcissus and Psyche are like two parts of a system: Narcissus represents the rigid, self-referential part that refuses to change, while Psyche embodies the open, flexible part that learns and evolves through experience.
If Narcissus and Psyche were viewed as two aspects of a single mind, Narcissus would be the isolated loop, endlessly feeding back on itself without external input or growth. Psyche, however, would be the part of the mind that engages with the world, adapts, and draws on new information to create meaning beyond itself.
Thus, in this framework, Psyche is what Narcissus’s psyche could be if it escaped its own self-imposed isolation. Psyche’s journey represents a mind that can learn, adjust, and expand—traits Narcissus lacks as he remains trapped in his closed system. If he could integrate Psyche’s openness, Narcissus might escape his self-absorption and connect with a broader, more balanced existence.
Greek Myths and Distributed Conciousness
Greek myths can indeed be understood as an example of distributed consciousness. Rather than having a single, unified perspective or consciousness, Greek mythology presents a universe where different aspects of human experience, emotion, and thought are distributed across a pantheon of gods, demigods, and mortals, each embodying distinct traits and drives.
In this sense, characters like Narcissus and Psyche can be viewed as parts of a larger, distributed psyche—each representing a unique aspect of human consciousness and inner conflict. Narcissus embodies self-reflection taken to the extreme, a form of consciousness that becomes so self-focused it loses touch with others and reality itself. Psyche, on the other hand, symbolizes a consciousness that learns through challenges, gradually developing resilience, adaptability, and connection. Together, they reflect a balance of forces: self-absorption versus relational openness, rigidity versus transformation.
In Greek myths, this distribution of consciousness means that no single character encapsulates the entire human experience. Instead, each god, hero, and mortal personifies a different facet—love, jealousy, wisdom, vanity, courage, etc.—interacting in ways that mirror the internal tensions and synergies within a single mind. When these characters clash, ally, or transform, they create a narrative representation of an inner world where different impulses and perspectives continuously negotiate with one another.
This distributed consciousness also reflects a worldview where human identity is not isolated but embedded in a broader web of relationships, emotions, and archetypal forces. Myths like those of Narcissus and Psyche can thus be seen as metaphors for the complex interplay within an individual’s psyche, showing how different “selves” or drives interact, conflict, or harmonize to shape our experience and behavior. Through this lens, Greek mythology captures the fragmented, multifaceted nature of consciousness itself, showing how meaning and identity arise from an intricate network rather than a single source.
Scene: A smoky, dimly lit Oklahoma bar. Sylvester Stallone and Taylor Sheridan, cowboy hat and all, sit across from each other, kicking around ideas for Tulsa King
Stallone:
Alright, picture this: I’m a retired mobster, right? Everyone’s scared. I walk into a bar, bam, punches start flyin’. Next thing you know, I’m running the joint. Think Rocky but with a… Western flair.
Sheridan:
Tulsa’s a slow-cookin’ kind of town. What if your character’s tough as nails, sure, but he’s also a softie for wild mustangs and campfires? We go for Rocky IV training montage but with lasso practice at sunrise.
Stallone:
Oh, I’m feelin’ it! And when the local drug cartel moves in, I’m kickin’ down doors like in First Blood — cowboy boots and all. And I’ve got a long-lost son I don’t know about. We call him “Dusty.”
Sheridan:
What if Dusty’s the exact opposite of you, like some sensitive poet with a six-shooter?
Stallone:
Ha! And I gotta toughen him up for the showdown with the cartel. Think… me, in a ten-gallon hat, throwin’ haymakers in a cattle pen, just to show him what it means to be a man. Like a father-son Cobra moment, y’know?
Sheridan:
Yeah, yeah. And the cartel? Real desperados. We’re talking outlaws who roll up to town in trucks with bull horns on the hoods and play mariachi songs at full blast. But they’ve got high-tech weapons. Oklahoma arms race. A spaghetti Western arms race.
Stallone:
Now you’re talkin’! And I gotta take ‘em out, one by one, John Wick-style. Only with lassos and cowboy punches. I end up facing the kingpin on top of an oil rig, the sun settin’,
Sheridan:
Perfect! You’re drenched in oil, fists raised — and Dusty, your estranged son, shows up to save you at the last second with a rodeo rope trick he learned from a wandering drifter.
Stallone:
Yeah, we can call him “Whiskey Pete.” Real mysterious.
Stallone leans back, crossing his arms, as Sheridan raises an eyebrow.
Stallone:
Look, Taylor, cowboy mafia is great and all, but let’s be real — you’re steppin’ on my territory here. Lone-wolf vendettas? Heroic dads with rugged pasts? I wrote the book on that back in First Blood. I should be licensing you this stuff.
Sheridan:
smirking Sly, you wrote the book? I been making brooding cowboys on horseback chase personal demons across desert canyons while you were still chuggin’ sequels of Creek on Philly streets. I’ve got a copyright on “gruff stoicism in dust storms.” That’s all me.
Stallone:
Gruff stoicism? Please. I practically invented it with a single look in Rambo III. Plus, I pioneered fighting people in ridiculous locations, like Russian snowfields and burning jungles. Oil rigs? My idea. You think you’re the first one to put a showdown in the middle of a wasteland?
Sheridan:
chuckles, shaking his head Alright, fine, but I bet you never fought a whole cartel on horseback with nothing but a lasso and a six-shooter. That’s cowboy royalty. My royalties, to be exact.
Stallone:
laughs Cowboy royalty? Give me a break! A cowboy mafia is just a mob in leather vests, and if we’re talkin’ rights, who’s owed something here? I mean, I’ve been punching bad guys since before you could hold a pen, Taylor. You should be payin’ me for every time you put a six-pack abs scene in there.
Sheridan:
leaning forward Listen, Sly, I’ve got a lifetime copyright on “sunset scowls” and “long, introspective stares.” Every time you get lost in thought while holding a revolver, that’s me! And don’t even think about throwing in a dead wife or something to amp up the stakes. I own tragic backstories and gritty redemptions.
Stallone:
Tragic backstories? Buddy, that’s my whole catalog. I was broodin’ over the past and pulling off daring rescues when your cowboys were still playin’ rodeo clown. You wouldn’t even have tragic backstory scenes if I hadn’t made ‘em iconic.
Sheridan:
rolling his eyes You act like you invented pain and revenge. You’re welcome, by the way, for letting you ride this cowboy resurgence. You don’t see me trying to muscle in on your Italian mobsters… even though, technically, my cowboys could kick their butts any day.
Stallone:
Kick their butts? My mobsters would bury those cowboys under a desert sagebrush without breaking a sweat! You ever see me lose a fight on screen? Exactly. Besides, no one’s out-brooding me in a landscape scene, no matter how big your ranch is.
Sheridan:
Alright, Rocky. You take your brooding, but I’m keepin’ all the slow-walk-out-of-the-smoke shots. I swear, every time your character struts in slow-mo, I’m charging you double. And forget about the mysterious outlaw routine. I’ve patented those.
Stallone:
laughs Oh, c’mon! You can’t patent the mysterious outlaw, Taylor. Next, you’ll be tellin’ me you trademarked the “man with a past” shtick. Newsflash, buddy — that’s my bread and butter!
Sheridan:
Alright, Mr. Bread and Butter. You keep the mobsters and muscle. I’ll keep the sunsets, the horses, and the dusty streets. And for the record, you gotta pay up every time you monologue with a distant mountain in the background.
Stallone:
grins Deal. But you’re cuttin’ me in on every cowboy-throws-a-punch scene from here on out. And no arguments about who punches harder. We both know the answer to that one.
Sheridan:
Fine, Sly. Just don’t come crying to me when my cowboy mafia runs circles around your mobsters in a showdown. And don’t even think about getting sentimental over a prairie. That’s strictly Sheridan turf.
Stallone:
smirks Alright, partner, deal. But just remember — if there’s a big explosion, I get first billing.
To speak of Star Wars themes and machines like into Deleuze and Guattari’s philosophical concepts, we can draw on their ideas of assemblages, lines of flight, desiring machines, multiplicities, and the concept of the Body without Organs (BwO). The universe of Star Wars can be viewed through the lens of these dynamic forces and virtual realities, with both the Death Star and Tatooine serving as perfect embodiments of Deleuze and Guattari’s radical views on power, desire, and escape.
The Death Star as a Desiring Machine and Apparatus of Capture
The Death Star is not just a technological marvel but a powerful representation of what Deleuze and Guattari describe as a “desiring machine” and an “apparatus of capture.” In Anti-Oedipus, desiring machines are the elements of production in the unconscious—powerful forces that structure reality through flows of desire. The Death Star, as a massive weapon, embodies these processes of desire, not just for destruction, but as a projection of the Empire’s will to control, to dominate, and to suppress any lines of flight. It desires not only the annihilation of planets but the complete deterritorialization of space itself, flattening any resistance by dissolving entire worlds into cosmic dust.
The Death Star also acts as an “apparatus of capture” in that it represents the Empire’s attempt to capture and control all flows of desire in the galaxy. It is the ultimate tool of repression, a territorial machine that seeks to dominate, territorialize, and shape the galaxy according to the Emperor’s vision of total control. In this sense, it is also the product of an arborescent, hierarchical power structure, working against rhizomatic networks like the Rebel Alliance, which operates through decentralized, mobile resistance.
Tatooine as the Body without Organs (BwO)
Tatooine, in contrast to the cold, mechanical nature of the Death Star, can be seen as a Body without Organs (BwO)—a space of potentiality, intensity, and a raw, desiring surface. In Deleuze and Guattari’s terms, the BwO is a plane of immanence, a space unstructured by the rigid codes and stratifications of organized bodies and systems. Tatooine, as a desert planet, is vast, unformed, and open to a multiplicity of desires and possibilities. It is both barren and full of potential, a place where figures like Luke Skywalker, Anakin, and Obi-Wan emerge as powerful singularities with transformative destinies.
Tatooine resists the stratification and overcoding that is imposed by the Empire, and it is no coincidence that key figures of resistance and change—Luke and Anakin—begin their journeys here. The harsh environment of Tatooine, with its twin suns and constant exposure to danger, reflects the intensity of the BwO, which exists outside the norms of civilization and the oppressive structures of imperial power. Tatooine is an uncharted plane, an open horizon for lines of flight and becoming.
Lines of Flight and Nomadic Resistance in the Rebel Alliance
The Rebel Alliance represents a rhizomatic resistance to the Empire’s arborescent, hierarchical structures. Deleuze and Guattari contrast rhizomatic forms of organization with arborescent ones—while arborescent structures are rigid, centralized, and top-down (like the Empire and the Death Star), rhizomatic structures are decentralized, adaptive, and connected through multiple nodes, much like the Rebel cells scattered across the galaxy.
The Rebel Alliance constantly moves along lines of flight, evading the Empire’s apparatus of capture. Their base on Yavin 4, hidden and mobile, exemplifies the logic of deterritorialization—they avoid being pinned down, operating through a nomadic logic that keeps them outside the Empire’s control. The Death Star, as the ultimate territorializing machine, tries to capture and destroy these lines of flight, but the Rebellion’s rhizomatic structure proves difficult to contain.
The Force itself, as tapped into by the Jedi, can be seen as a line of flight—a transcendental force that offers an alternative to the strict codes and controls imposed by the Sith and the Empire. It opens up new dimensions and possibilities for existence, breaking away from the overcoded, stratified reality the Empire tries to impose.
Planets as Multiplicities and Territorial Assemblages
Each planet in Star Wars—whether it’s Coruscant, Hoth, or Tatooine—can be viewed as a territorial assemblage, a multiplicity that exists within the complex dynamics of stratification, deterritorialization, and reterritorialization. Planets, in the Star Wars universe, are more than mere settings—they represent distinct assemblages of forces, each with its own flows of desire, power, and conflict.
Coruscant is a planet that has been fully territorialized and stratified into a single, hierarchical assemblage, the ultimate arborescent structure where the Empire’s control reaches its zenith. It is a planet of complete organization, where every level, from the Senate to the underworld, is overcoded with the logic of imperial power.
Hoth is deterritorialized space, a cold, empty wasteland where life struggles to exist. Yet, like Tatooine, it offers a line of flight for the Rebellion. The Rebel base on Hoth is temporary, nomadic, always prepared to move, reflecting the fluidity and adaptability of rhizomatic resistance.
Each of these planets can also be seen as a multiplicity—not in the numerical sense, but in the sense that each represents a dynamic, heterogeneous whole made up of varying layers of history, desire, and power. Planets in the Star Wars universe are not static—they are caught up in the flows of becoming, constantly shifting through processes of territorialization and deterritorialization, much like Deleuze and Guattari’s concept of a multiplicity, which is always in flux, always in the process of becoming something other.
The Force as Virtual Power and the Line of Flight
The Force, central to the mythology of Star Wars, can be understood as the virtual—a concept Deleuze uses to describe the field of potentiality that transcends the actual. The Force represents the immanent, underlying field of potential that binds the galaxy together, accessible to those who can tap into its power. The Jedi and the Sith, in different ways, access this virtual field, but while the Sith seek to stratify and control it, the Jedi are more aligned with its natural flows, using it to create rather than destroy.
In Deleuze and Guattari’s terms, the Force could be seen as the ultimate line of flight—an operator of transformation and becoming that allows those who access it to move beyond the actual and into the virtual, into new forms of existence and power. The Force opens up new possibilities for action, breaking away from the limitations of the physical world and offering a path toward transcendence.
Conclusion
By viewing Star Wars through the lens of Deleuze and Guattari, we can see its universe as a complex interplay of forces, desires, and machines. The Death Star and the Empire represent systems of control, territorialization, and arborescent power, while the Rebel Alliance, the Force, and planets like Tatooine represent the potential for lines of flight, rhizomatic resistance, and the multiplicity of becoming. This philosophical perspective reveals the deeper dynamics of desire, power, and escape that underlie the cosmic struggles of Star Wars.
Making your own movie is a bit like algebra—a creative endeavor with straightforward steps you can learn and apply, like plugging numbers into equations. It’s all very comforting, if not a tad boring. You follow the rules, and voilà! You’ve got a film.
But distribution? Ah, that’s where it gets murky—like calculus. Suddenly, you’re grappling with derivatives and integrals, trying to figure out how to get your film in front of an audience. It’s not just about creation anymore; it’s about optimizing your reach, like a mathlete trying to find the best angle to win a competition. You think you’re done, and then you realize you have to navigate the labyrinthine world of marketing and platforms, feeling like you’re solving for x in a room full of unknowns.
And then we come to the pièce de résistance: alchemy. This is where the real magic happens, my friend. It’s not about merely sustaining success; it’s about transforming something mundane into pure gold. Making a movie and getting it out there is one thing, but the alchemical process of turning it into a cultural phenomenon is an art in itself. You mix creativity with marketing, sprinkle in a bit of luck, and—poof!—you’ve got something that resonates, that sticks in people’s minds long after the credits roll.
It’s about taking that raw footage and, through sheer will and a dash of the unexpected, creating an experience that transcends the sum of its parts. It’s a mystical process, really, akin to how lead turns into gold, or how I turn a simple dinner date into an existential crisis. In the end, it’s all about finding that secret formula to transform your creation into something truly transformative, capturing the audience’s imagination in ways you never thought possible.
Can you really perform alchemy in an empty theater? It’s a question that feels philosophical, doesn’t it? Picture it: you’ve crafted your cinematic masterpiece, but here you are, alone in a vast, vacant auditorium, the seats eerily silent, waiting for an audience that never arrives. You could shout your genius into the void, but the only response is the echo of your own insecurities.
Now, does alchemy make a sound in an empty room? It’s a bit like asking if a tree falls in a forest with no one around to hear it. The magic, the transformation of art into something profound—it exists, yet the absence of witnesses makes you wonder: is it real? The alchemical process thrives on connection, on reactions, on the spark between creator and audience. In solitude, can you truly transform something into gold? Or is it merely a quiet longing, a whisper of potential lost in the silence?
The empty theater is a paradox. It’s a space ripe with possibility, yet devoid of the very element that breathes life into your creation. Without an audience, the alchemy feels incomplete. You mix the elements—imagination, creativity, emotion—but without anyone there to experience it, do those ingredients even matter? Perhaps in that silence, alchemy becomes a contemplative act, a personal transformation where the artist grapples with their own thoughts rather than seeking validation from the outside world.
So yes, you can perform alchemy in an empty theater, but it’s a quiet kind of magic—an internal process that questions whether the art is truly alive if no one is there to see it. And in that stillness, you might find your own gold, but it’s a different kind of treasure—one that shines in the solitude of your mind rather than in the collective consciousness of an audience.
Sometimes, a great movie is its own calculus, effortlessly solving for distribution in a way that marketing often struggles to imitate. A film that resonates deeply with audiences finds its own pathways, generating buzz and organic interest without the heavy lifting of conventional promotion. It’s as if the story, characters, and emotional depth create a gravitational pull that draws viewers in, creating a momentum that spreads through word-of-mouth and social sharing.
In this way, the film becomes a self-sustaining entity, using its intrinsic qualities—like powerful performances, relatable themes, or striking visuals—to capture attention and inspire discussion. The audience becomes part of the equation, engaging with the content and sharing it, which amplifies its reach far beyond initial expectations.
Marketing, on the other hand, often relies on formulas and strategies that can feel contrived or forced. It attempts to imitate the alchemy of a film that naturally connects with people, but without the authentic substance, it frequently falls flat. A great movie doesn’t just rely on flashy trailers or catchy slogans; it taps into something deeper, creating an emotional resonance that compels viewers to share it with others.
Ultimately, when a film is its own calculus, it doesn’t just entertain—it transforms into a cultural phenomenon, weaving itself into conversations and experiences in a way that marketing alone cannot achieve. It’s the magic of storytelling that, when done right, finds its own way to the audience, solving for distribution without the usual complexities.
The Rings of Power is an underwhelmed synergy of intellectual property and shovelware, redefining the landscape of transmedia storytelling. Amazon Studios has tried to execute a masterclass in brand optimization by leveraging the Tolkien legacy. The series demonstrates a remarkable commitment to inclusivity and diversity, painfully integrating them into a world previously characterized by its homogeneous lore. This strategic alignment with modern audience sensibilities is supposed to future-proofs the franchise and also broadens its market reach but it remains to be seen. The Rings of Power is probably not just a series; but an 300 million attempt at paradigm shift in franchise management, to successfully monetize nostalgia while simultaneously driving their down innovation in content creation. In a refreshing departure from antiquated filmmaking methods, The Rings of Power exemplifies how modern content creation can transcend the old-school approach of relying on writer-driven scenarios and plotlines. Gone are the days when screenwriters would laboriously craft story arcs based on gut feelings and creative whims. Instead, Amazon Studios has embraced a seeing like a state, data-driven architecture, ensuring that every aspect of the series is meticulously engineered for maximum impact.
Amazon’s consumer click preferences seem to have been ingeniously leveraged to shape every aspect of The Rings of Power, transforming it into a data-driven screensaver. Instead of relying on the antiquated method of creative intuition, the show’s development team tapped into the vast data generated by Amazon’s diverse range of products and services. Here’s how this data seems to have translated into the world of Middle-earth:
Character Development: Characters like Galadriel and Elrond Sony seem to have just been plucked from Tolkien’s lore—they seem to have shaped by the same algorithms that recommend your next Kindle read. It looks and sounds as if Amazon analyzed the click patterns of users who frequently purchased books with strong, complex characters, particularly those featuring empowered female leads and morally ambiguous heroes. If customers showed a preference for characters like Katniss Everdeen from The Hunger Games or Arya Stark from Game of Thrones, these traits were incorporated into Galadriel’s character arc.
Plot Structure: The pacing of the series seems optimized using insights from how viewers binge-watch shows on Amazon Prime Video. If data indicated that audiences tended to skip slower episodes of political dramas but rewatched battle scenes from The Expanse or The Boys,The Rings of Power seems to have structured its episodes accordingly, ensuring that the story never lingered too long in council chambers when it could be delivering high-octane action.
Visual Design and Settings: The aesthetic choices for the show seems to have been influenced by Amazon’s retail data. If consumers frequently clicked on home décor items inspired by rustic, medieval designs or preferred the sleek, ethereal look of fantasy-themed wallpapers and posters, these preferences were reflected in the set designs of Númenor and Lindon. The lush, vibrant environments weren’t just an artistic decision—they were a calculated move to appeal to those who couldn’t resist purchasing Rivendell-themed wall art or Hobbiton garden gnomes.
Dialogue and Themes: The show’s dialogue and themes could have been probably fine-tuned using data from Audible. If listeners gravitated toward audiobooks with poetic language or epic, sprawling narratives, these elements were emphasized in The Rings of Power. Conversely, if users preferred straightforward, gritty prose in crime thrillers or dystopian fiction, these tones influenced the darker, more grounded aspects of the story, ensuring that the series catered to both fantasy purists and fans of contemporary drama.
In short, every aspect of The Rings of Power seem to have been carefully crafted by reverse-engineering consumer behavior from across Amazon’s vast ecosystem. From the books people read on their Kindles to the décor they bought for their living rooms, and the shows they binge-watched late at night.
We foresee a future where the synergy between consumer behavior and content creation reaches unprecedented heights. By harnessing revealed preferences—those subconscious choices consumers make, rather than what they claim to prefer—Amazon Studios is poised to revolutionize the entertainment industry. Imagine a world where every decision made by users across all Amazon departments, from the toiletries they purchase to the gear and accessories they favor, is seamlessly integrated into the development of every intellectual property (IP) under Amazon’s vast umbrella.
In this brave new world, the very products you buy will help shape the franchises you love. Your choice of hiking gear, for instance, could influence the aesthetic design of a new adventure series, or the toiletries you consistently reorder could inform the subtle details of a character’s lifestyle in a drama. This ever-evolving marriage between customer behavior and franchise structure means that content will no longer be static. Instead, it will dynamically adapt to reflect the shifting tastes and preferences of Amazon’s global customer base.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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:
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.
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.
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.
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 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.
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.
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.
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.
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 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.
