Tag: Film

Tulsa King

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.

Making Movies

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.

IP Bloat and ZIRP

IP bloat and zero interest rates, my friends, are the twin nightmares of our modern entertainment and economic systems. The former, a grotesque carnival of stale franchises and soulless sequels, floods the market with an avalanche of derivative dreck, hoping to drown out the creaky echoes of its own mediocrity. The latter, zero interest rates, is a mind-numbing drug administered by our overlords to keep the capital tepid, stagnant, and utterly devoid of life.

It’s a classic case of the emperor’s new clothes—except the emperor here is a blundering idiot, and the clothes are made of garbage. The system churns out endless rows of overpriced, overblown spectacles and rotting franchises, while the so-called “investment opportunities” provide nothing but a monotonous drip of zero returns. It’s a cosmic joke, where the punchline is a world choked by its own excesses and failures.

The only remedy to this grand farce is to stop pretending that pouring millions into soulless, formulaic monstrosities is a viable strategy. Give the damn car keys to the creators, the directors, the writers—the real dreamers and schemers who might actually have a spark of originality left. Not one $180 million bloated blockbuster, but nine $20 million productions brimming with fresh ideas and raw energy. Give them the chance to experiment, to fail, and to surprise. It’s the only way to pull ourselves out of this dismal quagmire of creative bankruptcy and financial futility.

The Cheaper The Mortgage

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

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

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

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

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

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

Film Executive Priorities

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

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

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

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

  1. MORTGAGE

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

2. LOOKING BUSY FOR INVESTORS

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

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

3 NAVIGATING STUDIO POLITICS

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

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

4 AVOIDING BLAME FOR FLOPS:

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

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

5 PER DIEMS/EXPENSES


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

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

6 MAXIMIZING PERSONAL BRAND:

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

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

7 MAINTAINING INDUSTRY CONNECTIONS

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

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

8 CHASING THE LATEST TREND

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

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

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

9 WINNING THE NETWORKING GAME

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

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

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

10 CONTROLLING THE NARRATIVE

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

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

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

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

11 LEVERAGING DATA ANALYTICS FOR MARKETING

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

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

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

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

12 FRANCHISE POTENTIAL

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

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

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

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

13 BOX OFFICE NUMBERS

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

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

14 ASSURING FILM QUALITY

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

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

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

Expanded Universes and Auteur Theory

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Auteur Theory

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Illusion of Funding: How Hollywood Forgot How to Dream

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

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

@bravojohnson

Hollywood: A Gonzo Audit in the Age of Algorithm Gods

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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