Cinemorphosis

Tag: movies

  • Weapons of Fear: Epistemic Collapse in Eddington and Weapons (college writing prompt)

    Weapons of Fear: Epistemic Collapse in Eddington and Weapons (college writing prompt)

    Over the last decade, American culture has undergone a profound crisis of shared reality—what scholars call an epistemic collapse. In the vacuum created by fractured institutions, algorithm-driven outrage, political opportunism, and a populace trained to distrust expertise, communities have turned inward, building their own private universes of truth. Two recent films—Ari Aster’s Eddington (2024) and Zach Cregger’s Weapons (2025)—stand at the center of this cultural conversation. While their genres differ—Eddington as a neo-Western political drama and Weapons as a folk-horror anthology—both films dramatize the same underlying catastrophe: when people no longer agree on what is real, they become dangerously easy to manipulate, divide, and weaponize.

    In Eddington, the small New Mexico town is already fractured before the plot begins. The COVID-19 pandemic becomes the spark that exposes deep fault lines: anti-mask sheriff Joe Cross stokes resentment and paranoia, pro-mandate Mayor Ted Garcia attempts to preserve public health in a community that no longer trusts him, and the town’s institutions melt under the weight of political rage, conspiracy theories, and personal vendettas. Masks, lockdowns, land rights, and municipal policy become symbols of existential war. Citizens drift into echo chambers where identity outweighs truth and where “freedom” can be invoked to justify violence. Through these tensions, Eddington examines how tribal politics, misinformation, and fear transform ordinary people into agents of chaos—into what the film metaphorically frames as “weapons.”

    Weapons begins in a seemingly different register—a folk-horror narrative involving children, trauma, and community superstition—but it ultimately reveals itself as a story about the same phenomenon: collective panic filling the void left by failed institutions. When mysterious events shake the town, people reach not for evidence, reason, or communal deliberation, but for myths. Rumors calcify into “truth,” grief mutates into paranoia, and the community turns against itself in a desperate search for someone to blame. In this atmosphere, children, grief-stricken parents, and unstable townspeople all become susceptible to narratives that promise clarity and purpose, even at the price of cruelty. Like Eddington, Weapons suggests that the human need for certainty can be exploited, turning vulnerable people into instruments of violence.

    Both films take place in communities that feel abandoned—by government, by truth, by stability, by the social contract. In Eddington, the pandemic reveals a town already primed for collapse: neighbors distrust each other, public servants abuse their power, and media ecosystems churn conspiracies at a devastating pace. In Weapons, the terror centers on mysterious disappearances and supernatural dread, but the underlying cause is similar: when people feel unmoored, they grasp at stories—however irrational—that make sense of suffering. In both cases, the crisis is not just external; it is psychological, emotional, and cultural. These films argue that a society that no longer shares a framework of truth inevitably begins producing its own monsters.

    Your task is to write a comparative, argumentative essay that analyzes how both Eddington and Weapons depict the collapse of shared reality and the transformation of ordinary individuals into “weapons”—tools of fear, ideology, grief, or superstition. You will argue how each film uses different storytelling techniques to illuminate the same cultural trauma: a nation where trust in institutions has eroded, where truth is increasingly privatized, and where communities respond to uncertainty with tribalism, scapegoating, and paranoia.

    To frame your argument, consider the following thematic questions:

    1. Epistemic Crisis: What happens when communities no longer share the same reality?

    In Eddington, the pandemic becomes a catalyst for unraveling collective trust. Sheriff Joe Cross exploits the crisis for personal power, leveraging fear and resentment to undermine public-health directives. Misinformation spreads faster than illness, and political theater replaces governance. In Weapons, suspicion and folk belief dominate; characters construct supernatural explanations for grief they cannot otherwise process. How do these fictional communities illustrate the broader national struggle to maintain a shared understanding of truth?

    2. Scapegoating and Manufactured Monsters

    Both films show societies that create monsters when reality becomes intolerable. In Weapons, grief and superstition lead to scapegoating—outsiders, children, even supernatural entities become symbols of community anxiety. In Eddington, “the monster” is political: masks, mandates, immigrants, liberals, conservatives—whatever the tribe defines as the existential threat. Analyze how each film uses its respective genre (horror vs. political drama) to critique the human impulse toward blame when confronted with collective fear.

    3. The Weaponized Individual: When people become instruments of chaos

    Sheriff Cross turns himself into a political weapon; Vernon weaponizes conspiracy thinking; Brian transforms a viral video into a career. Meanwhile, characters in Weapons become pawns of rumor and superstition. How do the films examine the way individuals can be radicalized or repurposed by fear, trauma, or ideological narratives?

    4. Institutional Failure and the Vacuum It Creates

    In Eddington, institutions collapse under pressure: public health, municipal leadership, local law enforcement, media, and even basic civic trust. In Weapons, institutions either fail or play no meaningful role, leaving individuals to fill the void with folklore and violent improvisation. Compare how each film portrays the consequences of institutional breakdown—and how that vacuum shapes community behavior.

    5. The Loss of Humanity in a Post-COVID World

    Even though Weapons is not explicitly a pandemic film, its emotional landscape reflects post-COVID anxieties: loneliness, grief, mistrust, and the longing for clear explanations. Eddington addresses the pandemic head-on, depicting how fear strips people of empathy and connection. In both films, humanity erodes as people prioritize survival, identity, or belonging over compassion. Analyze how each story portrays this transformation.

    6. The Role of Media, Algorithmic Influence, and Storytelling

    Eddington explicitly critiques media spectacle and algorithmic manipulation; Weapons does so more subtly through mythmaking and rumor. Compare how each film reveals the power of narrative—factual or fictional—to shape belief, identity, and behavior. What does each film suggest about the modern American hunger for stories that confirm our fears, validate our tribal loyalties, or simplify our grief?

    7. The Nietzschean Last Man: A Society Without Higher Purpose

    For extra depth, you may choose to integrate the concept of Nietzsche’s “Last Man”—the individual who seeks comfort over purpose, safety over meaning, distraction over responsibility. Which characters in each film exemplify this drift toward nihilism? Does each film suggest that the Last Man is a symptom of cultural decay—or part of its cause?

    Write a comparative essay of 1,800–2,200 words that argues how Eddington and Weapons portray the following intertwined themes:

    • the breakdown of shared reality
    • the rise of tribalism and paranoia
    • the transformation of ordinary people into “weapons”
    • the creation of monsters—psychological, political, or supernatural—to fill the void left by institutional failure
    • the erosion of humanity in a culture defined by fear, spectacle, and algorithmic influence

    Your thesis must make a clear, debatable claim about what these films reveal about post-COVID American society. You must support your analysis with close reading of key scenes, comparison of cinematic techniques, and sustained argumentation.

    Your essay must also include:

    1. A Counterargument

    Acknowledge at least one opposing view—for example, the claim that Eddington is primarily about political extremism while Weapons is primarily about horror and grief, and therefore the comparison is forced. Then rebut that view by showing that genre differences sharpen, rather than undermine, the thematic parallels.

    2. A Rebuttal

    Explain why your central claim still holds. You may argue that both films are ultimately parables about epistemic breakdown and human vulnerability in the absence of trusted institutions.

    3. A Conclusion That Opens Outward

    Discuss what these films suggest about where American culture may be heading if fragmentation, mistrust, and weaponized narratives continue.

    Your writing should demonstrate:

    • analytical depth
    • clarity
    • engagement with cinematic detail
    • strong comparative structure
    • thoughtful paragraph organization
    • precise sentence-level control

    This essay invites you not only to compare two compelling films, but also to reflect on the cultural moment that shaped them—and the uncertain landscape we now inhabit.

  • In Defense of Watching True Crime

    In Defense of Watching True Crime

     A couple of weeks ago my wife DMed me an Instagram reel: one reviewer, dozens of true-crime docuseries. I pressed play and fell down the shaft. I binged everything—some episodes like gravel in the throat, others slick as a thriller—and realized I was hooked the way novels used to hook me: late nights, one more chapter, living on cliffhangers and bad coffee.

    A year ago I would’ve dismissed the whole genre as tabloid embalming fluid: pain turned into programming. That was the lazy take, the one you reach for when you haven’t looked long enough. The better work in this space isn’t cheap; it’s meticulous. At its best, it has social value.

    Watch the detectives. The strong series showcase minds like scalpels—profilers knitting together motive and method, investigators reconstructing a life from fibers and timestamps. The good ones don’t myth-make; they interrogate reality. Their craft can outstrip a screenwriter because the stakes aren’t applause—they’re truth and, sometimes, prison.

    Credit the pursuit, too. The suspect is slippery, the evidence thin, and still the chase continues—phone records, shoe tread, the geography of a lie. You can see how the work rewires them. They read a face like a ledger. They separate panic from performance. They carry that calibration into ordinary life, for better and worse.

    But the badge isn’t a halo. Some episodes show coercive interrogations, tunnel vision, a theory clung to past its sell-by date while exculpatory facts stack up in the corner. Those missteps belong in the record. A genre that can praise tenacity should also indict certainty when it curdles.

    What keeps me watching, beyond craft and cautionary tales, is the way communities assemble under pressure—search parties in neon vests, casseroles and candles, volunteers mapping creek beds while the cameras spin. These stories remind you how much ordinary goodness survives the worst day a town can have.

    Then there are the perpetrators, often undone by their own theater. The vanity is operatic: cryptic boasts, trophies kept, shoplifting while on the run because entitlement feels bulletproof. Not all are violent; some are artists of fraud whose lies cascade through bank accounts, marriages, and nervous systems. The harm is quieter, not smaller.

    The hardest stretch is the parents—the permanent gray in the eyes, the architecture of a life collapsed on one missing pillar. They stay decent, they organize scholarships and vigils, they become advocates—but you can see the subtraction. A part of them is gone, and the camera can’t restore it.

    I do feel the moral splinter: I’m consuming narratives built from someone else’s worst night. There’s a voice that hisses, How dare you. And a voice that answers: Then look harder. Don’t watch for spectacle; watch to learn—about procedure, about predation, about how to be a better neighbor and a sharper juror. The difference between voyeur and witness is attention and intent.

    So here I am, converted, with reservations. The good series map the borderlands between justice and error, courage and vanity, community and collapse. They don’t restore innocence; they invoice it. If I keep watching, it’s because the genre—at its best—insists on seeing clearly, and because clarity, though it stings, is a civic skill worth practicing.

  • The Sycophant Parade That Followed Charlie Sheen

    The Sycophant Parade That Followed Charlie Sheen

    I’ve got nothing against Charlie Sheen, which makes it stranger that I’ve never actually seen him act. Not a single episode of Two and a Half Men. Not one Charlie Sheen film. When I see his face, I think of a sensibility I avoid on sight: handsome, cute, smarmy—smirk plus wink. That brand of humor feels predictable and annoying. And yes, I admit the obvious contradiction: since I’ve never watched him, I can’t swear the schtick is real. Call it intuition—enough to keep me away.

    What did reach me was the public meltdown—what I remember as the “Tiger Blood Tour”—where addiction didn’t deliver humility but its opposite: bluster so loud it became a punchline. 

    So out of mild curiosity I watched the two-episode docuseries aka Charlie Sheen, and left neither admiring nor loathing him. Mostly, I felt sad—for him and for his family—because he seemed to have no guardrails, no one capable of stopping the wrecking ball before it knocked down everyone nearby.

    The most disturbing part isn’t Sheen; it’s the swarm. The morally bankrupt enablers, the sycophants, the fans who latch onto his fame and power as he self-destructs. At peak collapse they fed on the trainwreck like zombies on a buffet line, dressing in his party uniform, cheering as he staggered on and off private jets, becoming an intoxicated parody of himself. Love? Concern? Not in evidence. The meltdown was entertainment—an addictive feast for empty lives. My biggest challenge watching wasn’t parsing Sheen; it was resisting misanthropy.

    There is, thankfully, a pulse of humanity. Sean Penn, a childhood friend, offers wise, sobering context about Sheen’s volatility; so do Terry Todd and Sheen’s older brother Ramon Estevez. But watching Sheen narrate himself from a diner in Hawthorne, California is only partially satisfying. The charm flickers, the unease shows, yet the self-analysis feels shallow—short on the rigorous introspection required to grapple with the demons that keep derailing him.

    I left with the sense that his family and friends have been doing the heavy lifting for years—like he hasn’t had one life coach but several dozen—while he sits in a booth, reminiscing about the agony of being an artistic genius with impulses mere mortals can’t grasp. Whatever sobriety he’s achieved, he still reads as weakened and impoverished by the same consuming egotism that keeps baring its fangs.

  • Gene Wilder’s Prelude to Mischief and Mayhem

    Gene Wilder’s Prelude to Mischief and Mayhem

    In fourth grade at Anderson Elementary in San Jose, our teacher cracked open Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and unleashed a literary sugar bomb on the classroom. The characters didn’t just leap off the page—they kicked down the door of our imaginations and set up shop. The book hijacked our brains. Good luck checking it out from the library—there was a waiting list that stretched into eternity.

    A year later, the film Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory hit theaters, but my parents, apparently operating under some moral suspicion of Hollywood whimsy, refused to take me. I wouldn’t see it until the VHS era, when cultural consensus finally upgraded it to “beloved classic” status. That’s when I met Gene Wilder’s Wonka—equal parts sorcerer, satirist, and deranged uncle.

    The best moment? Easy. He hobbles out, leaning on a cane like a relic of Victorian fragility—then suddenly drops the act, executes a flawless somersault, and stands up with a gleam that says, I know exactly what game I’m playing, and so should you. That glint in his eye, equal parts wonder and judgment, has haunted me for decades. His entire persona is a velvet-gloved slap to the smug, the spoiled, and the blissfully ignorant. He isn’t just testing children—he’s taking society’s moral pulse and finding a weak, sugary beat.

    That gleam stayed with me. So much so that I wrote a piano piece inspired by Wilder’s performance. I called it Gene Wilder’s Prelude to Mischief and Mayhem. The first movement was a nightmare—rewritten more times than I care to admit. Oddly, the second and third movements came first, composed together in the aftermath of my mother’s passing on October 1, 2020. Nearly five years later, I finally completed the first movement, like some strange reverse birth.

    The result? A tribute in three acts to the sly grin, the righteous mischief, and the bittersweet brilliance of Gene Wilder—a man who, like the best artists, never let kindness become cowardice or magic become a mask for mediocrity.

  • A Missed Opportunity for Nicolas Cage in The Surfer

    A Missed Opportunity for Nicolas Cage in The Surfer

    Yesterday, I subjected myself to The Surfer (2025), a cinematic hallucination starring Nicolas Cage, filmed somewhere in a fictional Luna Bay, Australia—or at least in a version of coastal Australia designed to feel like a fever dream. Cage plays a middle-aged man who seems to believe he lives inside a Lexus commercial and is some kind of real estate baron returning to reclaim the beachfront childhood home that slipped through his fingers decades ago. A house that, in his mind, will grant him redemption, absolution, and perhaps a complimentary cappuccino.

    Here’s the twist: he’s almost certainly homeless and entirely unhinged.

    The local surfing gang—shirtless nihilists who act like they’re in a meth-fueled remake of Lord of the Flies—perform what can only be described as satanic hazing rituals and torment Cage’s character with such sadistic flair that one wonders if they were cast straight from a skate park exorcism.

    The whole production gave me flashbacks to the art house theaters I frequented in Berkeley in the early ’80s. It has the self-important weirdness of Jodorowsky’s El Topo (a film I admired in theory and loathed in practice), but desperately wishes it had the quiet transcendence of Nicolas Roeg’s Walkabout, a true masterpiece. Alas, The Surfer is neither.

    Once it becomes clear—about twenty minutes in—that Cage’s character is a delusional man harassing beachgoers, the rest of the film becomes a masochistic ritual for the viewer: 80 long minutes of escalating humiliations. He’s mocked by surfers, snubbed by a barista, rejected by a dog-walking woman, and disdained by a real estate agent with the warmth of a lizard in escrow. Each scene checks off another indignity in a cinematic punishment parade.

    And yet, somewhere in this wreckage is the seed of a decent story. Imagine this: Cage plays a sane, if eccentric, man with a legitimate past beef with the local surf gang. The setting becomes a character in itself. The plot thickens into a psychological turf war. Give it ten episodes and some competent writers, and you’d have a fascinating limited series. But no—The Surfer opts for a half-baked film that commits the worst artistic sin: not provocation, but tedium.

    This movie didn’t just reaffirm my bias against most modern films—it fortified it. This is why I stick to television. At least TV has the decency to pretend it respects my time.

  • Truth or Trick Play? Storytelling, Sanity, and Self-Mythology in Mike Tyson: Undisputed Truth and Charlie Hustle (College Essay Prompt)

    Truth or Trick Play? Storytelling, Sanity, and Self-Mythology in Mike Tyson: Undisputed Truth and Charlie Hustle (College Essay Prompt)

    In an era where image can be engineered and confession can be weaponized, two notorious sports figures—Mike Tyson and Pete Rose—offer radically different approaches to self-narration. Both were cultural titans who became cautionary tales. Both became pariahs in the eyes of the institutions that once celebrated them. And both—decades later—attempted to reclaim their stories in front of the camera. But what emerges in Mike Tyson: Undisputed Truth and Charlie Hustle: & the Matter of Pete Rose is not just a comparison of reputations; it’s a clash of narrative strategies, a psychological autopsy of fame, and a meditation on how the public consumes redemption, performance, and illusion.

    Tyson’s Undisputed Truth is a one-man show where he delivers a raw, often disturbing monologue infused with comedy, trauma, confession, and defiance. It is part therapy session, part theater, and part media rebrand. In contrast, Rose’s portrayal in Charlie Hustle is built on decades of resistance to public apology—anchored in charm, denial, and a lingering fantasy that he alone controls the narrative of his life. Where Tyson leans into pain and absurdity, Rose leans into myth and markets nostalgia.

    This essay asks you to compare and contrast how these two men use storytelling to carve out a space of sanity and coherence in a world of media distortion, scandal, and moral judgment. The assignment also challenges you to explore not just how these men present themselves—but how we, the audience, respond. What does the public hunger for? Clean redemption arcs or messy truth? Fallen heroes who confess, or ones who remain defiant?

    Your essay should address the following key tensions:

    1. Storytelling as a tool for reclaiming identity

    How does each documentary attempt to make sense of a chaotic life? In what ways does storytelling create clarity, coherence, or at least a coping mechanism?

    2. Confession vs. Self-Mythology

    Mike Tyson uses confession—vulgar, honest, sometimes performative—to humanize himself. Pete Rose, by contrast, clings to a self-mythologizing script, resisting vulnerability. What are the psychological and rhetorical consequences of each approach?

    3. Managing public and personal perception

    To what extent are these documentaries efforts to manage not just what the public thinks—but how the subject thinks about himself? Is the audience being let into a sacred, unfiltered truth—or another polished, marketable persona?

    4. Audience complicity

    Why do we crave redemption stories? Are we looking for truth—or the performance of truth? How does our cultural addiction to authenticity (or its simulation) shape how these figures present themselves? Are we, as an audience, demanding an impossible paradox: icons who are real?

    5. Cultural expectations and iconography

    Both Tyson and Rose were lionized and then demonized. But is our relationship with their downfall really about justice—or spectacle? How does American culture cycle through its icons? And what does it mean that these men are now trying to write their own endings?

    Requirements:

    • 1,700 words
    • Comparative structure: you must analyze both documentaries with balanced insight
    • Engage in close reading of scenes, quotes, tone, and structure from both films
    • Present a clear thesis and develop it through specific evidence and thoughtful reasoning
    • Address at least one counterargument: for instance, what if Tyson’s confessions are also just theater? What if Rose’s refusal to confess is, in its own way, honest?

    Five Sample Thesis Statements (with Mapping Components)

    1. While both Mike Tyson and Pete Rose attempt to reclaim their stories from the wreckage of fame, Tyson succeeds through painful confession and theatrical vulnerability, while Rose fails by clinging to self-mythology and denial—revealing how authenticity, when filtered through media, is less about truth than about the performance of control.
    2. Undisputed Truth and Charlie Hustle reveal a striking contrast in narrative self-management: Tyson embraces chaos through emotional honesty and humor, while Rose constructs a sanitized legacy rooted in nostalgia and evasion, exposing how audiences both demand and sabotage authenticity in their fallen icons.
    3. Tyson’s raw confessional style and Rose’s curated nostalgia campaign expose two opposing strategies of narrative control, but both are shaped—and warped—by an audience that demands vulnerability while punishing imperfection, consuming not truth but the illusion of redemption.
    4. Though both documentaries attempt to create a space of inner clarity against a backdrop of public spectacle, Tyson’s open confrontation with his demons reveals the healing potential of narrative, while Rose’s mythmaking underscores the psychological toll of refusing vulnerability in a culture that fetishizes both punishment and repentance.
    5. In exploring Tyson’s emotionally chaotic confessional and Rose’s carefully guarded image-building, these documentaries show that the battle between public perception and private truth is not fought on the field or in the ring, but in the slippery terrain of storytelling—where authenticity is always suspect and the audience is never innocent.
  • Truth or Hustle: Performing the Self in the Age of Spectacle (College Essay Prompt)

    Truth or Hustle: Performing the Self in the Age of Spectacle (College Essay Prompt)

    Essay Prompt:

    In the HBO Max special Mike Tyson: Undisputed Truth, Tyson delivers a raw, emotionally charged monologue in which he recounts the highs and lows of his life—abuse, addiction, fame, disgrace, and grief—with moments of striking self-awareness and brutal candor. The performance walks a fine line between personal catharsis and public spectacle.

    In contrast, the Netflix documentary Untold: The Liver King exposes Brian Johnson—a self-styled primal lifestyle influencer—as a constructed persona built on lies, steroid use, and performative masculinity. Johnson’s brand sells authenticity while hiding calculated deception, ultimately revealing the blurred line between self-expression and grift.

    In a 1,700-word essay, analyze and compare how these two figures—Tyson and Johnson—use storytelling as performance, and to what extent their narratives can be seen as acts of truth-telling versus brand management.

    Consider the following questions to shape your argument:

    • What makes storytelling feel “authentic,” and how is that authenticity earned or staged?
    • How do vulnerability and confession function differently in Tyson’s monologue vs. Johnson’s documentary revelation?
    • To what extent are both men grifters—selling pain, performance, or redemption to maintain relevance or profit?
    • Where does the audience’s complicity come into play? Are we consuming truth, or just another curated persona?

    Support your argument with close analysis of both documentaries, and engage at least two secondary sources on authenticity, performance, media, or masculinity.

    Three Sample Thesis Statements (with Mapping Components):

    1. Performance vs. Persona

    While Mike Tyson: Undisputed Truth offers a raw, emotionally grounded form of storytelling that embraces contradiction and vulnerability, Untold: The Liver King reveals a carefully curated identity rooted in deception and spectacle, showing how authenticity can be performed—and faked—for commercial gain.

    Mapping:

    • Tyson’s emotional transparency and narrative arc
    • Liver King’s constructed masculinity and hidden steroid use
    • The commodification of pain and image in public life

    2. Redemption as Product

    Both Tyson and the Liver King use storytelling to shape redemptive narratives, but where Tyson uses confession to reconcile with past chaos, Johnson’s confession serves primarily to preserve his brand—revealing how vulnerability, when monetized, can become just another form of grift.

    Mapping:

    • Redemption arc as performance
    • Strategic confession vs. genuine self-reckoning
    • The role of audience sympathy in validating narrative authenticity

    3. The Grift We Applaud

    Tyson and Johnson exemplify the thin line between storyteller and hustler in modern media culture, where charisma and spectacle blur truth. Ultimately, both rely on the audience’s desire to believe in transformation—whether real or manufactured—making us complicit in their self-mythologies.

    Mapping:

    • The myth of the fallen hero vs. the primal guru
    • Audience complicity in enabling the performance
    • Spectacle as the currency of truth in influencer culture

    Suggested Reading List

    On Authenticity & Performance:

    1. Erving Goffman – The Presentation of Self in Everyday Life
       Classic text on how individuals perform identity for social audiences.
    2. Lionel Trilling – Sincerity and Authenticity
       A deeper philosophical look at how authenticity has evolved as a moral and aesthetic concept.
    3. Andrew Potter – The Authenticity Hoax
       A critique of how “authenticity” has been commodified and repackaged as lifestyle branding.

    On Grift, Media, and Branding:

    1. Chris Hedges – Empire of Illusion
       Sharp cultural critique on how entertainment has replaced reality, and spectacle has displaced truth.
    2. Naomi Klein – No Logo (selections)
      On the rise of personal branding and the corporatization of identity—relevant to the Liver King’s monetization of lifestyle.
    3. Alissa Quart – Branded: The Buying and Selling of Teenagers
       Helps contextualize how audiences, especially younger ones, are trained to consume personality as product.

    On Masculinity and Image:

    1. Susan Faludi – Stiffed: The Betrayal of the American Man
       Explores how modern men feel disconnected from authentic purpose and turn to performance and power narratives.
    2. Michael Kimmel – Guyland: The Perilous World Where Boys Become Men
       Useful for analyzing the Liver King’s appeal to adolescent masculine ideals rooted in tribalism, strength, and dominance.

  • Flex, Regret, Repeat: My Midlife Crisis, Sponsored by Conor McGregor

    Flex, Regret, Repeat: My Midlife Crisis, Sponsored by Conor McGregor

    My life as an aspiring narcissist hit a new low when my wife and I got home, plopped down on the couch, and decided to indulge in the cinematic masterpiece Road House. This film, if you can call it that, stars a Jake Gyllenhaal so chiseled that he looks like Michelangelo got bored and decided to make an action hero. In this gripping tale, Gyllenhaal plays a tough-as-nails fighter scraping a living in a Key West bar, doing what any self-respecting muscle mountain would do—protecting the bar and its lovely owner, played by Jessica Williams, from corrupt mob bosses. Naturally, this leads to the inevitable showdown with their number-one heavy, played by none other than a bulked-up, foaming-at-the-mouth Conor McGregor, who looks like he’s been subsisting on a diet of raw meat and anabolic steroids.

    The plot is thinner than a strand of dental floss—a Western rehash where an outsider rides into town to clean up the mess. But let’s be real: the story is just window dressing for the film’s true agenda, which is to showcase sweaty, glistening muscles and fight montages that could double as a fitness competition highlight reel. The camera lingers on every bulging bicep and rock-hard ab like a love-struck teenager, turning what should be an action movie into a high-budget commercial for protein powder, creatine, and whatever the hell UFC fighters are injecting these days.

    As Gyllenhaal and McGregor flexed and fought their way through scene after scene, I found myself reaching for my phone, not to check the time—oh no—but to Google “What is Conor McGregor’s diet?” Because watching this movie is less about enjoying a plot and more about realizing you’re a gelatinous blob compared to the human marble statues parading around on screen. Road House isn’t so much a movie as it is a two-hour reminder that you’re one donut away from needing a forklift to get off the couch.

    When the credits finally rolled, and I managed to peel my eyes away from the testosterone-soaked spectacle, I turned to my wife, feeling more deflated than a balloon at a porcupine convention. “I wish I could lose forty pounds and look the way I did when I entered Mr. Teenage San Francisco,” I lamented as if my sad sack of a body was just a protein shake away from making a comeback. I had the muscle once, I swear! But now it’s hidden under layers of adiposity that could cushion a fall from a ten-story building. If they ever invented an advanced generation of Ozempic that came in a pill form, had no side effects, and was covered by my insurance, I’d be the first in line, elbowing grannies out of the way to get my hands on it.

    My wife, however, had zero interest in my nostalgic waxing about the “great body” of my youth. This was not her first rodeo. In fact, she could probably recite my entire “glory days” speech from memory, down to the last calorie of the diet I used to follow. Rolling her eyes with the practiced ease of a wife who’s heard it all before, she suggested we watch a rerun of Northern Exposure—her go-to escape from my never-ending lament about the “Greek god” I used to be. But the seafood restaurant ordeal had left me more drained than a used dishrag, and I waved the white flag of surrender. “Nope, I’m hitting the sack,” I muttered, retreating to the bedroom like a defeated warrior, leaving my wife to her beloved reruns while I dreamed of a time when I was ripped, instead of just ripping on myself.

  • If You Only Watch One Black Mirror episode, Let It Be “Joan Is Awful”

    If You Only Watch One Black Mirror episode, Let It Be “Joan Is Awful”

    If you only watch one episode of Black Mirror, let it be Joan Is Awful—especially if you have a low tolerance for tech-dystopian fever dreams involving eye-implants, social scores, or digital consciousness uploaded to bees. This one doesn’t take place in a dark tomorrow—it’s about the pathology of right now. It skewers the Curated Era we already live in, where selfhood has been gamified, privacy is casually torched, and we’re all trapped in the compulsion to turn our lives into content—often awful, but clickable content.

    Joan, the title character, is painfully ordinary: a mid-level tech worker trying to swap out one man (her manic ex) for another (her milquetoast fiancé) and coast into a life of retail therapy and artisanal beverages. Her existence—Instagrammable, calibrated, aggressively average—is exactly the kind of raw material the in-universe Netflix clone Streamberry is looking for. They turn her life into a show called “Joan Is Awful,” starring a CGI deepfake Salma Hayek version of Joan, who reenacts her life with heightened melodrama and algorithmically-optimized awfulness.

    This isn’t speculative fiction. It’s just fiction.
    Streamberry’s vision of a personalized show for everyone—one that amplifies your worst traits and pushes them out for mass consumption—is barely an exaggeration of what Instagram, TikTok, and YouTube are already doing. We’ve all become our own showrunners, stylists, and publicists. Every TikTok tantrum and curated dinner plate is an audition for relevance, and the platforms reward us for veering into the grotesque. The more unhinged you become, the more “engagement” you earn.

    “Joan Is Awful” works both as a laugh-out-loud satire and as a metaphysical gut-punch. It invites us to contemplate the slippery nature of selfhood under surveillance capitalism. At its core is the concept of “Fiction Level 1”: the dramatized version of Joan’s life generated by AI, crafted from data scraped from her phone, her apps, her browsing history. Joan doesn’t write the script. She doesn’t even get to protest. She’s just the original dataset—fodder for narrative extraction. Her real self is mined, exaggerated, and repackaged for mass appeal.

    Sound familiar?

    In the real world, we all star in our own low-budget version of “Joan Is Awful,” plastered across social media feeds. These platforms don’t need deepfakes. We willingly create them, editing ourselves into marketable parodies. We offer up a polished persona while our actual selves starve for air—authenticity traded for audience, spontaneity traded for algorithmic approval.

    You can enjoy “Joan Is Awful” as slick satire or you can unpack its metafictional mind games—it rewards both approaches. Either way, it’s easily one of Black Mirror’s top-tier episodes, alongside “Nosedive,” “Rachel, Jack and Ashley Too,” and “Smithereens.” It’s not science fiction. It’s just a very well-lit mirror.

  • Velvet Fists: Sentimentality, Violence, and the Lie of the Crappy Love Song

    Velvet Fists: Sentimentality, Violence, and the Lie of the Crappy Love Song

    In the early ’90s, screenwriter Dennis Potter—whose haunting 1980 film Blade on a Feather once grabbed my imagination by the throat—sat across from Charlie Rose, passionately defending one of humanity’s most derided cultural artifacts: the “crappy love song.”

    Potter’s argument was simple and oddly noble:
    In a world where we grovel like pigs at the trough of materialism, even the cheesiest love ballad points, however clumsily, toward something higher—a yearning for transformative love, the kind that rattles the soul and redeems our miserable existence.
    And that, Potter insisted, should be celebrated, not sneered at.

    I see his point.
    But I can’t quite choke it down.

    What happens when the music is even crasser than life itself?
    Forgive the offense, but Kenny G springs to mind—a man whose saxophone emits what can only be described as the ambient soundtrack of lobotomized love.
    Millions swoon to his treacly squeals, convinced they’re tasting transcendence.
    But what they’re really swallowing is sentimentality in its most lethal form: syrupy, infantilizing, and vaguely unhinged.

    While I love Potter for wanting to defend the human need for transcendent emotion, I can’t ignore the underlying rot.
    These “crappy love songs,” much like Kenny G’s ambient anesthesia, often peddle not real love, but an emotionally stunted counterfeit—sentimentality, a soft mask stretched tight over something far uglier.

    Sentimentality terrifies me because it is not benign.
    It is childish emotion weaponized.
    It is the refusal to mature, to engage with the complicated ambiguities of real love, real pain, real life.
    And because these stunted feelings are defended with the ferocity of a cornered child, sentimentality often harbors its dark twin: violence.

    Saul Bellow, with his characteristic unsparing clarity in Herzog, nailed it:
    It’s the most sentimental people who are the most violent.

    Why?
    Because sentimentality is a velvet carpet stretched precariously over a tiger’s claw.
    It’s the illusion of sweetness clinging desperately to a subterranean rage—the rage of people who cannot tolerate having their fragile, maudlin dreams challenged.
    To question sentimentality is to trigger a defensive violence, a panicked fury at the idea that real adulthood demands something sterner, braver, and infinitely less sweet.

    So no, Dennis Potter, I can’t fully join you in your defense of the crappy love song.
    Because too often, beneath that soaring key change and saccharine lyric, I hear not the longing for transcendent love—
    but the faint, snarling growl of a soul that refuses to grow up.