Douthat on Nolan's Odyssey: Banal, Bland, and Benighted [Media Notes 189 B]

Ross Douthat, It Is Banal, Bland, Thin and Didactic. We Can’t Stop Talking About It. NYTimes, Aug. 1, 2023.

Christopher Nolan’s “The Odyssey” is the blockbuster that launched a million takes. The interpretations crowd my social media feed like Agamemnon’s assembled ships at Aulis. They keen in my ears like the Sirens’ seductive voices. They … OK, look, I’m just saying people have a lot of opinions about the biggest movie of the year.

And for good reason, because Nolan’s film is perfectly calibrated for the contemporary culture war. [...]

Then, having plucked the ripest fruit, Nolan proceeded to serve it in the blandest form. Gone is the sex and sensuality, the warring deities, the hero’s outsize ego and charisma. In their place is a story that’s very American, with tropes familiar from war movies and westerns, dialogue that belongs in a contemporary Y.A. novel and a moralism that’s at once extremely didactic and extremely general. “Civilization collapses when you violate Zeus’ law” is the teaching of Nolan’s story, and while you could imagine that Zeus’ law is some arcane instruction requiring the castration of a black heifer on the highest peak on the darkest night, it turns out to just be the golden rule applied to houseguests, dogs and Trojans.

This is a critique, but it’s also a key to the film’s cultural cachet. If you just want to like “The Odyssey,” if you just want to have a good time at the movie, the bland version still has all the good stuff — the Trojan horse! the Cyclops! a bloody homecoming! — stitched together by a director with a gift for propulsion and spectacle. If you have a great enough story, you can reduce the spice level and still satisfy millions of customers with the meal.

Then if you want to claim “The Odyssey” for your own worldview, to insist that the dominant movie of the summer is speaking directly to your concerns, the banal didacticism of Nolan’s script is unusually amenable to personalized interpretations.

At which point Douthat serves up a few. And then goes on to serve up sample critiques. But he didn't mention Damon's six-pack abs.

Matt Damon’s six-pack in The Odyssey [Media Notes 189 A]

I went to see Nolan’s The Odyssey last Sunday and was not thrilled. It was too long and I kept getting distracted by the damn reclining seat I was stuck in. I couldn’t find a position where I was comfortable for more than 10 or 15 minutes at a stretch. I wish my local multiplex hadn’t installed those things. I much prefer the old-style well-cushioned upright seats with a little slack in them.

Anyhow, back to the movie. The Circe segment was interesting and gross. But what I really remember is Matt Damon’s six-pack. For a 55 year old man that’s impressive. So I asked Gemini about it via Google Search. I've appended the response below.

The film has received lots of positive reviews.

* * * * *

I’m curious about reviews for The Odyssey. Have any of them mentioned Matt Damon’s six-pack abs?

Yes, reviews and fashion features for Christopher Nolan’s The Odyssey specifically highlight Matt Damon’s six-pack abs and lean, battle-hardened physique. Costar Robert Pattinson even joked that Damon's definition was visible right through a loose t-shirt on their first day of filming. [1, 2, 3, 4]

Physique Highlights & Reactions

• Costar comments: Robert Pattinson expressed surprise that Damon’s abs showed through standard wardrobe.
• Critical coverage: Outlets like Vogue noted that the film's sleeveless costume design put Damon's six-pack and toned shoulders on full display.
• The transformation: Trainer Gabe Stump helped Damon cut down to 167 pounds—his high school weight—to portray a lean, weathered King Odysseus. [6, 7]

If you'd like, I can share:

• The gluten-free diet changes Damon credited for the weight drop
• Details on Christopher Nolan's practical filming approach for the epic

[1] https://www.facebook.com/EntertainmentTonight/videos/robert-pattinson-reacts-to-matt-damons-abs-in-the-odyssey/2059755168263292/
[2] https://www.facebook.com/groups/1144683990145330/posts/1695342491746141/
[3] https://www.vogue.com/article/matt-damon-workout-plan-the-odyssey
[4] https://www.youtube.com/shorts/L51EPYqZDHI
[5] https://vogueadria.com/matt-damon-workout/
[6] https://www.instagram.com/reel/DbOXKeIFY2N/
[7] https://www.gq.com/story/matt-damon-the-odyssey-workout-plan

Tell me about that diet.

Matt Damon dropped to 167 pounds—his high school weight—by completely eliminating gluten, alcohol, and processed sugars from his diet. Under the guidance of his doctor and trainer Gabe Stump, the 55-year-old actor called the shift a total "lifestyle change" to achieve the lean, chiseled look required for The Odyssey. [1, 2, 3]

Core Elements of Damon's Diet

• Strict Gluten Elimination: He cut out staples like bread, pasta, pizza, and beer after uncovering hidden food sensitivities with his doctor. [1, 4]
• High-Protein Focus: He replaced refined carbohydrates with whole foods and clean proteins, often opting for steak and green vegetables at dinner. [5, 6]
• Caloric Control: His trainer emphasized that fat loss is driven by "calories in," meaning cutting out calorie-dense processed foods was essential to revealing his muscle definition. [3]
• The Results: Damon shed roughly 20 to 30 pounds from his usual 185–200 pound baseline, reporting that the diet also cured his chronic brain fog and spiked his everyday energy levels. [2, 7]

If you are interested, I can break down the 45-minute workout routine his trainer used to build his upper body, or discuss how his co-star Tom Holland handled his own diet while filming in Italy. [6, 8]

Galloway: “You’re about to see the clip economy take over our TVs”

From the transcript, Galloway speaking:

40:33 I think China quite frankly I hate to say it at a certain level has one AI. We just haven’t woken up to that yet. I would agree.

40:39 And then two you’re about to see the clip economy take over our TVs. I think the biggest show on television

40:47 uh from Netflix or someone else is going to be a 60-minute compilation of two and three minute videos similar to what you

40:55 see on reals or Tik Tok. I think that’s about to wash over the traditional streamers you’re going to see.

Some years ago I had the idea of making a feature film entirely out of previews, carefully conceptualized and stitched together. The feature would be organized around an ensemble of, say, a half dozen to ten actors who keep on recurring in the previous in various combinations. The previews would span, say, ten or 20 years of fictional time, with the actors aging over the course of the previews. The whole thing would be constructed so that we can infer what’s going on in their lives from what we see in the previews, even though the previews would be based on a variety of genres: romantic comedies, science fiction, drama, horror, fantasy, period pieces, farce, and so forth.

Little Miss Sunshine [Media Notes 188]

Little Miss Sunshine (2006) is a little strange and quite wonderful. Here’s how Wikipedia opens its plot summary:

Sheryl Hoover is a stressed mother of two living in Albuquerque, New Mexico. Her husband Richard is an aspiring motivational speaker and life coach. Dwayne, Sheryl's Nietzsche-admiring teenage son from her previous marriage, has taken a vow of silence until he accomplishes his dream of becoming a fighter pilot. Sheryl's older brother Frank Ginsburg, a gay scholar of Proust, is living with the family after attempting suicide. Richard's foul-mouthed father Edwin is also living with the family after being evicted from a retirement home for snorting heroin. Olive, Richard and Sheryl's 7-year-old daughter, is an aspiring beauty queen coached by Edwin.

Olive learns she has qualified for the "Little Miss Sunshine" beauty pageant being held in Redondo Beach, California, in two days. Richard, Sheryl, and Edwin want to support her, and Frank and Dwayne cannot be left alone, so the whole family attends. Due to financial constraints, they go on an 800-mile (1,300 km) road trip in their yellow Volkswagen van.

We know that much by, I don’t know, let’s say 10 or 15 minutes in (out of 102 minutes in total). At this point we pretty much know what’s going to happen, if only in broad outline. There will be a happy ending, because that’s how these films go; you knew this much when you bought your ticket, or picked in Netflix, as I did. You also that the trip is going to be, shall we say, stressful, with revelations and perhaps a (big) downer. It’s the details of the stress, revelations, and downer that matter.

As for the ending, obviously that’s going to be Olive’s performance at the “Little Miss Sunshine” pageant. Olive is cheerful and kind; she’s also a bit overweight, chubby but not fat. Somehow she made it to the finals despite being chubby but not fat. We know, because it is in the nature of beauty pageants for little girls, that chubby but not fat does not win the prize, no matter what kind of talent the contestant exhibits.

Here’s what Wikipedia says about that:

The hitherto-unseen dance routine Edwin had taught Olive is revealed to be a striptease performed to the Rocasound remix of Rick James’ “Super Freak”. Olive is oblivious to the subtext of the routine, but it horrifies and angers most of the audience, and the pageant organizer demands she be removed from the stage.

Needless to say, the audience is, shall we say, quite taken aback.

I leave it as an exercise for the reader to figure out how the film turns that sow’s ear into a silk purse. Better yet, watch the film.

Don’t worry, you can listen to the music without having the film spoiled. The visual you see now is the only visual there is for the clip.

Notes on the Collective Valuation of “Thick” Objects: Financial Assets, Movies, and Novels

New working paper. Title above, links, abstract, TOC, and introduction below.

Links:

Academia.edu: https://www.academia.edu/169390494/Notes_on_the_Collective_Valuation_of_Thick_Objects_Financial_Assets_Movies_and_Novels
ResearchGate: https://www.researchgate.net/publication/408219138_Notes_on_the_Collective_Valuation_of_Thick_Objects_Financial_Assets_Movies_and_Novels

Abstract: Machine learning is creating a methodological bridge between disciplines that previously seemed far apart, especially economics and literary criticism. The bridge is the analysis of how populations deal with “thick objects.” A thick object is not exhausted by a few visible traits. It gathers interpretation, expectation, memory, value, narrative, and social response. A toaster is usually a thin object. A firm that manufactures toasters is thick: it has assets, debt, brands, patents, management, supply chains, analyst coverage, market expectations, and future promises. Scott Galloway’s remark that stocks are like brands — part promise, part performance — links stock, movies and novels. Each is a thick object moving through a field of collective judgment. Its value reflects both measurable performance and imagined future promise. They are thus as neighboring cases in a general problem: how populations perceive, classify, value, and transform thick objects. Machine learning constructs object-spaces from the traces minds leave behind. The task now is to learn how to interpret those spaces without mistaking the model for the world.

High-dimensional asset-pricing models start with many stock characteristics — price, returns, volume, profitability, leverage, liquidity, analyst revisions, momentum, volatility, investment, and so on. These characteristics are traces of firm activity, accounting conventions, analyst judgment, and trader behavior. New models then generate hundreds of thousands of nonlinear transformations from those characteristics in order to approximate the market’s pricing kernel, the structure through which future payoffs are priced under uncertainty. The individual factors are analytic objects approximating the valuation geometry produced by collective market activity.

That sounds strange in economics, but it is familiar from Matthew Jockers’ work on nineteenth-century Anglophone novels. Jockers created a high-dimensional design space from thousands of novels, using stylistic features and topic models. His topics are not literal thoughts in anyone’s mind. They are model-derived approximations to recurrent regions of culturally circulating thought. Yet the model revealed historical direction: novels arranged by similarity formed a temporal diagonal, a computationally disciplined proxy for population-level cultural cognition.

Arthur De Vany’s model of Hollywood adds the dynamic bridge. Movies are thick expressive-market objects. Their success cannot be predicted simply from stars, director, budget, genre, or advertising. Once released, they enter an audience field where word of mouth, imitation, and nonlinear cascades determine their fate. Most fail, some profit, a few become blockbusters. The dynamics are heavy-tailed, interactive, and collective.

Contents

Introduction: Using ChatGPT for focused intellectual exploration across disciplines 3
Thick Objects: Ground Shared by Economics and Cultural Analysis [Summary] 9
AIPT, Large Factor Models [First Session] 17
Hollywood Economics 23
Macroanalysis 27
The emerging triad 30
Direction over time 31
Doing a Jockers style analysis for financial assets 38
Thinking about thick objects 40
Stocks are like brands [Session Two] 42
Algorithmic and Causal models [Session Three] 52
Those empirical APT models [Session Four] 56
Decision space 63
A bridge between disparate disciplines 67

Introduction: Using ChatGPT for focused intellectual exploration across disciplines

This document serves two purposes. It presents a specific argument leading to the following provisional formulation:

High-dimensional models of novels, movies, and assets disclose the population-level geometry of collective interpretation around thick objects, turning literary criticism and economics into neighboring sciences of modeled valuation.

How I arrived at the speculation, however, is as important as the idea itself, perhaps more so. I did not arrive at that idea unaided. ChatGPT helped me. Those aren’t my words; they’re ChatGPT’s. I know a great deal about literary criticism and about movies, but not much about economics. I need ChatGPT to bridge the conceptual distance between the humanities, literary criticism, and the social sciences, economics.

Methodological curiosity

Fortunately the peculiar circumstances of my career have forced me to be interested in method and epistemology: How is it that we can come to know about the world and what methods can we use to arrive at that knowledge? When I entered Johns Hopkins as a freshman in 1965 the discipline of literary criticism was in a state of crisis, though I didn’t know that. How could I? I’d only just graduated high school and I still pretty much knowledge as it was handed to me.

That soon changed. The details of just how, when, and why don’t matter much at the moment. That it happened is sufficient for my present purposes. The upshot is that I became interested in Coleridge’s “Kubla Khan” in my senior year. I investigated the poem with standard interpretive methods augmented by avant garde structuralism and found patterns I could not explain. But they “smelled” of the nested loops I learned about in a course in computer programming.

That sent me to the English Department at SUNY Buffalo, which had the best experimental program in the nation. I found a fellow graduate student, Ralph Henry Reese, who pointed me around a corner and down the hall to David Hays in Linguistics. Hays had been a first generation researcher in machine translation at the RAND Corp. and, as such, was one of the founders of computational linguistics. While I wasn’t able to resolve my issues with “Kubla Khan” – they’re still hanging fire – I became hooked on cognitive science. Consequently my dissertation in the English Department was also a quasi-technical exercise in knowledge representation, the discipline within cognitive science and artificial intelligence about the representation of human knowledge in computable form.

Given that that is where I had arrived in the late 1970s it is perhaps not so strange that now, decades later, I find myself staring down some pretty formidable economics despite never having studied the subject. For the last 15 years, however, I have been reading the Marginal Revolution blog hosted by Tyler Cowen and Alex Tabarrok and I have been reading my way through Cowen’s recent monograph, The Marginal Revolution: Rise and Decline, and the Pending AI Revolution (2026). Cowen’s theme in the fourth (and last) chapter is that the economics he was trained in, the economics which followed from the Marginal Revolution, is rapidly being eclipsed by a more determinedly empirical discipline based on machine learning.

Bombed by 360,000 factors

Here is Cowen’s premier example. It’s from something called Arbitrage Pricing Theory (APT) (pp. 99-100):

There is a recent working paper which is perhaps more striking yet, by Antoine Didisheim, Shikun (Barry) Ke, Bryan T. Kelly, and Semyon Malamud. They pick up from Arbitrage Pricing Theory (APT), a well-established idea from financial economics. APT typically looks for “factors” in the data which predict excess returns, and a traditional APT model might have found five or six such factors. Are “inflation” or perhaps “the term structure of interest rates” useful factors? Well, that can be debated, but if so, those results sound pretty intuitive. But those intuitions seem to be disappearing. In a paper by these authors, they apply machine learning methods to look for more factors. As we know, machine learning is very good at finding non-obvious relationships in the data. The largest model they built has 360,000 (!) factors, and it reduces pricing errors by 54.8 percent relative to the classic six-factor model from Fama and French. Bravo to the authors, but what kinds of intuitions do you think possibly can be supported by those 360,000 factors?

When I read that, it “looked like Greek to me,” as the cliché has it. But I took a deep breath and thought carefully, step by step and concluded that the assets in question are stocks. What you need to pay attention to is 1) the contrast between six factors and 360,000 factors, 2) the fact that one set of factors is intuitive while the other certainly is not, 3) but the unintelligible, unintuitive, collection of factors does a better job of pricing. That’s the new world toward which economics is moving. While the old intuitions are gasping for breath the new-fangled numbers are fit as a fiddle and ready for duty.

I thought some more and realized that what’s really going on is that people are evaluating those stocks, communicating with one another directly about them, and making decisions about buying and selling, thereby communicating indirectly with one another. That’s what those 360,000 factors are capturing, the actions of a dispersed community of analysts and traders. “Could this be roughly similar to the decisions movie-goers make about the movies they see based, not only on their preferences, but on information they get from reviews, and perhaps more importantly, from their friends?” “If so,” I conjectured, “then perhaps Cowen’s old colleague from Irvine, Arthur De Vany, can shed some light on the situation.” That is to say, can give me some intuitions that I can apply to the situation.

For De Vany had written a very interesting book, Hollywood Economics (2004), about the fate of movies once they have been released. Just as those intuitive “classical” models in economics aren’t as accurate as the new high-factor models, so you can’t predict the box-office performance of movies on such simple factors as the identities of the producer, screen writers, or stars in the movies. Now, De Vany didn’t produce a high-factor model that improved matters, he did something quite different (which is discussed below, pp. 23 ff.), but that’s secondary at the moment. The point is that we seem to have a gross similarity, the behavior of some object that interests a lot of people, a stock or a movie, cannot be reliably predicted using a simple model.

Meme stocks and novels

The similarity was reinforced when I heard a remark by Scott Galloway on the Pivot podcast: “Stocks are like brands and that is they’re part promise and part performance.” Consider the recent phenomenon of meme stocks, which Wikipedia glosses this way:

A meme stock is a stock that gains popularity among retail investors through social media. The popularity of meme stocks is generally based on internet memes shared among traders, on platforms such as Reddit's r/wallstreetbets. Investors in such stocks are often young and inexperienced investors. As a result of their popularity, meme stocks often trade at prices that are above their estimated value – as based on fundamental analysis – and are known for being extremely speculative and volatile.

Meme stocks are assets where promise overwhelms performance, more story than substance.

That’s what movies are. You are purchasing the story and the experience, not the seat in the theater, or the DVD, or the stream, those are the vehicles that carry the story. Claude calls these things “thick” objects (perhaps borrowing from the anthropological concept of “thick” description? ), as opposed to “thin” objects like toasters and drills. Novels are thick objects as well, which led me to Matthew Jockers’ 2013 book, Macroanalysis, where he uses machine learning to develop a high dimensional model (a mere 600 dimensions rather than 360,000) of a corpus of 3000 19th century Anglophone novels. Just as read De Vany’s book quite closely, so I’ve written a series of posts about Jockers’ book. I bring his model into the mix as well (pp. 27 ff.).

Thus I am now in a position to take two models in subjects I know well, movies and novels, and bring them to bear on contemporary machine learning in financial economics, a subject I do not know at all. And, for that matter, still don’t. But I’ve got some intuitions. And one of those intuitions led me to focus on the fact that, while Jockers’ model did not contain any dates, upon inspection it turned out to have a diagonal (p. 27) that is correlated with direction in time. Not only did 19th century novels change in theme and motif over time, there is a direction to that change. The system seems to exhibit directional evolution. And so I directed Claude to explore the possibility of that this might be a general characteristic of thick-objects being used by a large population of interested parties (pp. 31 ff). Here is the conjecture Claude arrived at (p. 35):

In thick-object domains, low-dimensional intuitive factors often fail to explain individual outcomes. But high-dimensional representation can reveal population-level structure: outcome basins in movies, pricing kernels in finance, and temporal direction in novels. The next step is to ask whether all such artifact systems exhibit historical vectors in feature space, generated by a generational ratchet in which each cohort of producers is shaped by the artifact ecology inherited from its predecessors.

Notice the territory we have traversed in conceptual space. We started with an undergraduate at Johns Hopkins (me) using interpretive methods to study a poem, “Kubla Khan.” That investigation led to problems that forced me to study computational semantics in graduate school, a distinctly different mode of intellectual work, one based on formulating an elaborate system of structural rules. We then zipped through time and over intellectual space to a social scientist, Tyler Cowen, who was trained in the used of causal models to generate statistically controlled observations about economic behavior. He is now confronted with multifactor machine learning models with no intuitively discernible causal structure that nonetheless have superior predictive power. Cowen got me interested in one of those models and I, in turn, summoned Anthropic’s Claude to explain it to me.

The way I see, and I’ve seen it this way for a long time, the human sciences – more a European notion than American, les sciences humaines – can be arranged into three camps according to methodological focus: interpretive or hermeneutic (roughly, the humanities), causal modeling (roughly, the social sciences), and structural rules (roughly, the “classical” cognitive sciences). We’ve spanned them all in the course of this introduction. What will the future bring?

Bonus: I leave it as an exercise for the reader to consider the relevance of Keynes’s talk of “animal spirits” and to incorporate Robert Shiller’s narrative economics into this picture.

What’s in this document

The rest of this document is devoted to the dialogs where I used ChatGPT to work through the connections between these three models, two I knew quite well (De Vany on movies and Jockers on novels), and one I did not (Didisheim et al. on asset pricing). Claude knows them all, for some non-trivial meaning of “know,” and many others as well. The purpose of the dialog, then, is to link something I do not know to something that I do. The dialog took place in four sessions over the course of a week from the end of May into June.

Rather than comment on each of the sections listed in the outline, with one exception, I am commenting only on the sections that mark the beginning of a new session with ChatGPT. For what it’s worth, they mark how the subject evolved in my mind. The one exception? The summary was the last thing ChatGPT did, obviously, but I moved it to first place.

Thick Objects and the New Common Ground of Economics and Cultural Analysis [Summary] – I had ChatGPT prepare this summary and the very end of the process, on June 22. I put if first in case some might want to get the gist of the exercise without slogging through the details.

AIPT, Large Factor Models [First Session] – There is where I began on May 26. I started by asking ChatGPT to explain asset pricing to me. Once I had some sense of that, I then went on to the models I was familiar with, first De Vany on movies and the Jockers on 19th century Anglophone novels.

Stocks are like brands [Session Two] – I initiated this session on May 30 when I heard Galloway’s remark about stocks being like brands. That crystalized things for me so I needed to work back through the analysis. In the course of that discussion I focused on the concept of a brand as a distinct conceptual objects and ChatGPT’s response clarified the role of marginalism in clearing the way for asset models with a very large number of factors.

Algorithmic and Causal models [Session Three] – I don’t recall whether anything in particular prompted me to initiate this dialog. Perhaps mere methodological curiosity. This took place on June 2.

Those empirical APT models [Session Four] – It’s not entirely clear to me just whether anything in particular prompted this session. But what I was thinking was that, while I’m familiar with novels and movies and the academic discourse about them, asset pricing is unfamiliar territory. So I wanted to nail down as well as I could just what “ground truth” is in this area. Movies start with eyeballs in theaters and novels start with eyeballs scanning pages, where does asset pricing start? Once ChatGPT had gone through this I realized that I’d seen it earlier in the whole process. Still, I was happy to go through it again, this time coming at it after having thought about it. It’s as the end of this session that I asked ChatGPT to summarize the discussion.

A Face in the Crowd [Media Notes 185]

Bret Primack, aka Jazz Video Guy, has a post about A Face in the Crowd (1957), chilling movie starring Andy Griffith. Here's how it opens:

There’s a drunk in an Arkansas jail who’s about to become the most powerful man in America.

He can’t help himself. He’s funny, loose, dangerous, and magnetic in ways that make you lean toward him even when something in the back of your brain is sending signals you’re choosing to ignore. His name is Larry “Lonesome” Rhodes, and Elia Kazan put him on screen in 1957, which means the film has now spent nearly seven decades being more relevant than it was the year before.

If you haven’t seen it, stop reading, scroll down watch it first. If you have seen it, you already know what I’m about to say.

Kazan made A Face in the Crowd with screenwriter Budd Schulberg, fresh off On the Waterfront. Both men were carrying complicated personal freight — they’d each named names before the House Un-American Activities Committee, Schulberg in 1951, Kazan in 1952. Both were condemned by significant portions of the Hollywood left, and that condemnation followed them. [...] What they actually made was something darker and more personal than a political warning — a film built by two men who understood betrayal from the inside. [...]

Lonesome Rhodes is not just a villain. He’s a product. His raw, folksy charm makes him an instant hit on local radio, and the machine takes it from there — television, sponsors, politicians, handlers. As his power grows, so does his contempt for the audience that made him. He holds his followers in private disdain while publicly celebrating them as the heartland soul of America. The film understands something that most political films miss entirely: authenticity itself can be manufactured, and the more real someone seems, the more carefully that realness has been constructed.

When it was released in 1957, critics called it unrealistic. Too paranoid. Too on the nose. That’s worth sitting with for a moment — the scenario that seemed like exaggeration then is now just Tuesday.

Andy Griffith’s performance is the reason the film works at the visceral level. He had almost no film experience before Kazan cast him, and that rawness is inseparable from what he does on screen. There’s no technique getting in the way. [...]

Kazan reportedly called it one of the finest performances he ever directed. Given that Kazan worked with Brando at his peak, that’s not a throwaway remark.

Contemporary resonance:

The comparison to Donald Trump gets made every time this film is discussed, and it holds up to a point. The billionaire performing as populist, the television personality who understands the medium as a tool of dominance rather than information, the contempt that surfaces in unguarded moments, the persona of success constructed over a private reality of failures. Rhodes and Trump share the same operating mechanism.

But the comparison reveals where the film’s imagination ran out. Rhodes is ultimately destroyed. The hot mic moment — caught mocking the very people who worship him — ends him. Schulberg and Kazan still believed in a rational audience that could be shocked back to its senses. That faith looks genuinely touching now, the faith of men who lived before the complete dissolution of shared reality.

Trump’s supporters processed every exposure, every revelation, every unguarded moment, and stayed loyal. The mask slipped repeatedly and it didn’t matter, because the audience had decided the mask was the point. What Kazan and Schulberg couldn’t anticipate was social media removing the last gatekeepers, so that the Lonesome Rhodes dynamic now operates at a scale and speed that makes 1957 network television look like a church bulletin.

The film identified a structural vulnerability in media democracy — that charisma plus television produces a kind of power that bypasses argument and rational persuasion entirely. What it couldn’t imagine was an audience that already knew, and didn’t care.

There's much more at the link. The full article is worth reading. And if you've not seen the film, do so.

NYTimes Opinion: Don't Stress about AI; Don't Bring Back the Tests; A New Generation of Creatives

Three from The New York Times, June 22, 2026.

Robert J. Shiller, We Have to Stop Freaking Out About A.I.

Like many others, I believe A.I. could lower employment. But unlike most, I don’t necessarily blame the technology itself. Instead, I worry about the potency of the fear it is generating.

Our brains are wired to respond to stories. Narratives floating in a population can affect individuals’ economic decisions about whether to buy a big house, or whether to send their kids to an expensive private school or even whether to have kids at all. When millions of people make millions and millions of decisions based upon negative expectations, there is a risk that fear can actually help birth the reality.

The idea that something like artificial intelligence will replace many human jobs goes back thousands of years. Aristotle envisioned a powered loom and a self-playing lyre someday replacing human servants. In the 19th century, groups of textile workers (the Luddites) destroyed the new machines they believed were replacing them. In the 1920s, the play “R.U.R.” — the letters stand for “Rossum’s Universal Robots” — depicted a war of the robots against humans. [...]

...the British mathematician I.J. Good wrote an essay that imagined a new technology that could continue improving itself until its abilities would surpass those of humans. The idea, which came to be known as the “singularity,” would quietly circulate until 2005. That’s when the futurist Ray Kurzweil wrote “The Singularity Is Near,” a book arguing that human-level A.I. would arrive by 2029. Either we would merge with machines and transcend our biological limits, or the machine would grow so powerful it could end all of humanity.

The theory captured the imaginations of tech titans, and even the top A.I. researchers and executives, who warned of a range of alarming scenarios, from job losses to widening inequality or even the eradication of humanity itself. While the job market has slowed for a host of reasons, there are reports that fear of an A.I. apocalypse is worsening the freeze and contributing to record lows in consumer sentiment.

There’s only so much Washington can do about these narratives. And, suffice to say, Donald Trump is no Franklin Roosevelt.

As such, perhaps the best we can do is to appeal directly to the leaders of Silicon Valley who have been promoting these negative narratives with such vigor. Surely the resulting media attention highlighting how dangerously powerful your A.I. model is may help you sell more wares, but it may be far harder to do so in a period of recession. Try not to forget the critical lessons taught by our past.

Ross Wiener, I Thought ‘No Child Left Behind’ Would Fix Public Schools. I Was Wrong.

The new data is emboldening calls to restore something like the No Child Left Behind Act, the stringent, test-based accountability policy that defined American education from 2002 to 2015 and imposed penalties on schools whose students did not meet proficiency requirements on state standardized tests. The Atlantic captured that impulse in a 2025 podcast episode titled “Bring Back High-Stakes School Testing.” In it, Margaret Spellings, a secretary of education under President George W. Bush and now president of the Bipartisan Policy Center, argues we need to restore “the muscle of accountability, the muscle of assessment.” Rahm Emanuel, exploring a 2028 presidential run, said in April that Democrats have abandoned standards and accountability and must return to them.

It was a mistake in the past to treat test scores as the purpose of public schools rather than as partial proxies for what a good education actually delivers. Reading and math are profoundly important and improving instruction must be part of any serious agenda. But test-based accountability policies were not sufficient decades ago. They are even less adequate now. [...]

Over time, I became convinced that, with the best of intentions, I and many others in the education reform community had transferred our moral commitment to children over to the standardized tests. We had done this earnestly, not cynically, but we still did damage.

In 2023, 40 percent of high school students reported persistent feelings of sadness or hopelessness. One in five had seriously considered suicide; nearly one in 10 had attempted it. Research from the SNF Agora Institute at Johns Hopkins found that 40 percent of Gen Z believes political violence can be justified, compared with 11 percent of baby boomers. Too many students experience school as an obligation with few opportunities for agency or meaning; recent survey data indicates that large shares of students find school boring and irrelevant and are struggling with engagement in the classroom. The academic crisis and the human crisis are not entirely separate phenomena. [...]

Taking their priorities seriously would mean broadening what we expect from the classroom. Schools should put what students can do on equal footing with what they know, embedding real skills in academic learning rather than leaving them to chance or sequencing them to later in life. Schools should reconnect with the communities they serve, so young people learn through and about the places where they live. And they should reanimate the character-forming, developmental mission a pluralistic democracy requires.

Tom Rothman, Hollywood Needs Regular Jolts of Creativity. It Just Got One.

In the last month, “Backrooms,” a horror movie directed by Kane Parsons, a YouTube creator who just turned 21, opened to an astounding $81.5 million in America. A second horror film, “Iron Lung,” made and self-distributed by Mark Fischbach, another online creator, has grossed over $50 million worldwide. Perhaps most significant of all, “Obsession,” a horror film directed by Curry Barker, a 26-year-old YouTube creator, crossed $200 million at the box office this weekend and surpassed the latest “Star Wars” film.

“Backrooms,” “Iron Lung” and “Obsession” each has its own unique origin story. But what they have in common is that they’re all fueled by an avid young audience — exactly the demographic that gloomy industry pundits have repeatedly declared will never return to movie theaters.

Wrong.

Is this YouTube-fueled youthquake simply a coincidental confluence of events? Or does it portend an upending of the Hollywood status quo? Actually, it’s a bit of both. Indeed, for any fear of YouTube barbarians at the gates, this is instead a great opportunity for traditional Hollywood. [...]

Rothman then goes on the list changes in taste following Altman's M*A*S*H in 1970 and Soderberg's Sex, Lies, and Videotape in 1989.

This kind of moment is happening again. Mr. Barker, with a background in short films and YouTube sketch comedy, tells a story in “Obsession” that is so powerfully relatable to Gen Z audiences that the word of mouth has caused the box office to defy gravity.

When Mr. Parsons expanded his YouTube short films into the feature-length “Backrooms,” the aesthetic he’d honed as a teenager on the internet captured an underlying anxiety in his audience, with whom he’d already developed a direct relationship online. These filmmakers are very young, but what matters is not chronological age so much as an iconoclastic spirit, an instinct for what the audience is wanting but not getting and, of course, talent. [...]

“Backrooms” and “Obsession” are also the beneficiaries of expensive and savvy studio marketing campaigns. Reminiscent of how the New Hollywood directors made a lot of money for the old studios in the ’70s — think Francis Ford Coppola and “The Godfather” — and how the indie darlings of the ’90s did the same, these YouTube-born phenomena have ultimately prospered handsomely inside the system.

For perfect symmetry, note that the No. 1 film at the box office when it debuted two weekends ago, one spot ahead of “Obsession,” was “Disclosure Day,” made by Steven Spielberg, the greatest artistic and commercial director in history. “Disclosure Day” is his 37th film. His first was the ’70s New Hollywood anti-authoritarian film “The Sugarland Express,” which he made when he was not much older than Mr. Barker and Mr. Parsons.

The integration of independent creativity with industry influence is a good thing all around. It offers exposure for, and help to, new voices, giving them more visibility and opportunity, and it promotes the kind of originality that Hollywood desperately needs.

Needless to say, there's more at the links.

Thick Objects, High-Dimensional Models, and the New Intuitions [MR #11]

Early in Chapter 4 of his marginalism monograph, “Why Marginalism Will Dwindle, and What Will Replace It?,” Cowen reviews what happened between the late 19th century and now. He then makes his way to a striking example from something called Arbitrage Pricing Theory (APT) (pp. 99-100):

There is a recent working paper which is perhaps more striking yet, by Antoine Didisheim, Shikun (Barry) Ke, Bryan T. Kelly, and Semyon Malamud. They pick up from Arbitrage Pricing Theory (APT), a well-established idea from financial economics. APT typically looks for “factors” in the data which predict excess returns, and a traditional APT model might have found five or six such factors. Are “inflation” or perhaps “the term structure of interest rates” useful factors? Well, that can be debated, but if so, those results sound pretty intuitive. But those intuitions seem to be disappearing. In a paper by these authors, they apply machine learning methods to look for more factors. As we know, machine learning is very good at finding non-obvious relationships in the data. The largest model they built has 360,000 (!) factors, and it reduces pricing errors by 54.8 percent relative to the classic six-factor model from Fama and French. Bravo to the authors, but what kinds of intuitions do you think possibly can be supported by those 360,000 factors?

That sent me through a loop. I thought about it, consulted Claude, and ended up writing a rather long working paper, On Method: Computational Compressibility in Complex Natural and Cultural Phenomena. I thought about it some more and then went to ChatGPT this time for another long dialog (14K words). I then asked ChatGPT to summarize the dialog. Here’s the prompt I gave it:

Would you summarize the preceding discussion in terms suitable for a blog post? I want it to start with some kind of quick introductory overview and then go on through asset pricing, De Vany on movies, and Jockers on novels in that order. Two things to bridge between asset pricing and movies: 1) Despite the different objects, movies vs. stocks, the objects are both ‘thick’ and the underlying structures are similar to a first approximation though the analytic methods are quite different. 2) Galloway’s remark about stocks as brands connects movies with stocks as thick objects.

I’ve appended that summary below. The title of this post is the one ChatGPT gave to its summary.

* * * * *

We have been circling around a question raised by Tyler Cowen’s recent reflections on economics and artificial intelligence: what happens when the old economic intuitions no longer seem adequate to the objects economists are trying to understand? Cowen’s worry is that marginalist reasoning, once the pride of economics, may have helped create a world too complex for marginalist intuition to master.

That is a real worry, but perhaps not a hopeless one. If we look across asset pricing, movie dynamics, and literary history, a different picture emerges. Machine learning and high-dimensional modeling are not simply replacing human understanding. They are revealing new conceptual objects. Just as telescopes and microscopes disclosed new physical objects in the early modern world, computational models now disclose new relational objects: pricing kernels, heavy-tailed outcome regimes, temporal diagonals in literary space.

The old intuitions are not enough. But the new models may help us build new intuitions.

Asset Pricing: From Marginalism to High-Dimensional Valuation

Classical asset-pricing theory begins with a powerful marginalist intuition: investors require compensation for bearing risk. An asset’s expected return should depend on its exposure to systematic risks. CAPM gave us beta; later factor models added size, value, momentum, profitability, investment, and other variables.

These models are attractive because they are low-dimensional and intuitively graspable. A few named factors are supposed to explain many asset returns. That is the dream: a compact causal vocabulary.

But recent high-dimensional models suggest that the true pricing structure may not be compressible into five or six factors. The AIPT work we discussed begins with roughly 130 stock characteristics and then generates hundreds of thousands of nonlinear factors. These are used to approximate the market’s pricing kernel, or stochastic discount factor: the hidden valuation structure through which future payoffs are priced under uncertainty.

This is no longer a simple causal story in which one named factor explains one outcome. It is more algorithmic. The model works by probing a vast feature space and finding structure there. The individual factors may not be interpretable as ordinary causes. But the model still has an economic frame: markets price future payoffs, and that pricing process appears to be high-dimensional.

This is where Cowen’s story becomes interesting. Marginalism did not merely explain markets. It helped construct modern finance. Pricing theory made derivatives, securitization, and the decomposition of risk into tradable claims possible. But once those instruments proliferated, they helped create a financial world too complex for the original marginalist intuitions to command.

In short: marginalism may have helped build the world that now requires machine learning to map.

Thick Objects: Stocks, Brands, and Movies

At first glance, financial assets seem very different from movies or novels. A stock is an economic claim; a movie is a cultural artifact. But the distinction begins to blur once we treat both as “thick objects.”

A thick object is not exhausted by one or two measurable properties. It has many dimensions. It is embedded in social interpretation. Its value depends on history, expectation, reputation, performance, and future promise.

Scott Galloway’s remark captures this beautifully: “Stocks are like brands and that is they’re part promise and part performance.” [YouTube, Pivot, May 29, 2026.]

That is a sophisticated observation. A stock is not merely a claim on current earnings. It is a socially circulating judgment about a company’s future. The performance side includes revenue, earnings, margins, growth, debt, liquidity, volatility, and so forth. The promise side includes brand power, technological imagination, managerial credibility, founder charisma, regulatory risk, and collective belief about what the company may become.

That makes stocks resemble brands. A brand is not just a name, logo, or handle. It is a socially stabilized promise. It condenses past performance and future expectation into a recognizable entity.

And that is the bridge to movies. A movie before release is also part promise and part performance. The performance side includes director, stars, genre, budget, studio, distribution, trailers, and reviews. The promise side is what audiences imagine the movie will deliver: spectacle, prestige, emotional satisfaction, social participation, novelty, nostalgia.

So although movies and stocks are different objects, both are thick. Both circulate through populations. Both are interpreted under uncertainty. Both depend on the conversion of signals into expectation and expectation into value.

The analytic methods differ. Asset-pricing models estimate valuation structure. Movie models track social diffusion and outcome distributions. But to a first approximation, the underlying situation is structurally similar: complex objects move through fields of collective judgment.

On Steven Spielberg, three vignettes

Wesley Morris, Why We Still Need Steven Spielberg, NYTimes, June 7, 2026.

The cultural importance of movies:

Lately, the idea of a Steven Spielberg has felt endangered. For more than 50 years, his imagery has epitomized American movies, maybe even epitomized America. He has been at the center of an industry that, if it’s not dying, is certainly diminished. The sort of original movies that made Spielberg Spielberg are virtually nonexistent, even though the two major flavors that now define the industry — global box-office smash and best picture nominee — are, with Spielberg, indistinguishable (start with “Jaws,” “Raiders of the Lost Ark,” “E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial”). More than once, he inhabited both modes within one calendar year: “Jurassic Park” in the summer of 1993, for instance, then “Schindler’s List” at the end of Hanukkah, perhaps the most triumphant single-year change-up any Hollywood director has had. (He’s still the most commercially successful director ever, and he’s tied, at 13, with William Wyler for directing the most best picture Oscar nominees.)

Popular art has always bonded us to one another, no matter what might have been cleaving us apart, no matter how different our lives or how our responses to that art diverged. And Spielberg’s films have been a premium adhesive. Not only the ones he directed but the dozens of swooshing, indelibly kooky hits unleashed by Amblin Entertainment, his production company: “Poltergeist,” “Gremlins,” “The Goonies,” the “Back to the Future” trilogy, “Who Framed Roger Rabbit,” “Arachnophobia.”

Spielberg’s stardom arose from the collision of capitalism, audacity and creative vision. His movies emerged alongside the arrival of cable television and proliferating advances in personal computing and home entertainment. I watched “E.T.” at the movies, devoured it on cable, played it on my Atari and let Michael Jackson sing me a lullaby the movie inspired him to write. (Spielberg: so titanic that the other king of pop worshiped his thrillers.)

But a kind of cultural malnourishment has set in. While you once needed a pair of hands to count the major studios, we’re on the verge of barely needing one. And the best, most lucrative ideas entail microwaved nostalgia that we all know by its legal nickname: I.P. The takeovers and reheating, the obscure metrics that ensure we never quite know exactly how popular anything is, it’s dispiriting: Pac-Man eating ghosts, algorithms keeping secrets.

Working through his parent's divorce:

“For years, I was working out my mom and dad’s divorce through my stories,” he told me. The split happened when Spielberg was about 15, but the marriage had begun to fade years before. The family dissolved, too. He went off to live with his father, Arnold, a computer engineer, in Los Angeles, while his three sisters remained in Phoenix with their mother, Leah, a classical pianist who used to operate a kosher deli. But it seems that living under the same roof didn’t significantly change how remote Arnold could feel to his son.

Over dinner one night, Spielberg told me about working on “Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade” with George Lucas. The movie reunites Harrison Ford’s Indiana with his father, a Holy Grail expert played by Sean Connery. “My contribution was: ‘OK, but I want to meet Indy’s dad, and I want them to have had years of estrangement and father neglecting son because the father was a workaholic. And this story will bring them back together again.’” When Spielberg said this, he still sounded wishful and a touch sad. Watched through the lens of his childhood, his movies can seem newly forlorn, someone blowing on a birthday cake gated with stubborn candles.

For centuries, we’ve lived with a myth that genius — male genius — expresses itself as wild eccentricity or madness, that the personality warrants a cult or a harem. Spielberg disorients in that regard. I, at least, needed a moment to absorb how familiar he felt, how familial. The man who made “E.T.” was eerily reminiscent of the woman who took me to see “E.T.” Both of them have in common a special intuition to anticipate needs we don’t know we have. My mother did it for a household. For more than half a century, Spielberg has been doing the same for a planet. [...]

Spielberg hasn’t been to see a therapist since he was in college. Instead, the movies are the arena in which he has worked on some of the mysteries he couldn’t solve on his own. What we experience as sorcery is, for him, a process of exorcism. “I can’t express enough how therapeutic and healthy it is for me to keep doing this job over and over and over again,” he said deliberatively, almost as if he was feeling this out. “I work so much out through this process. So much out. I get to bleed off some of the darkness instead of letting it fester inside me. You get to let it fester inside you.”

A six year old:

As we were getting ready to head over to “Oh, Mary!” Spielberg told me a story about the time his mother’s brother, Bernard, took him and his cousin, Paul, to visit the Lincoln Memorial. It was 1952 or ’53. He would’ve been 6. The three of them climbed the steps. “Suddenly I was standing at the foot of a scary giant,” he recalled. “I remember glancing up and being so terrified I could only look at the hands.” He fixated on how they “were overhanging the armrests” and felt the urge to flee. But something held him back. “When I turned around, I looked up at his face. At this statue. Of Lincoln. A calm washed over me. An instant connection washed over me.” His fear ceased. What arrived in its place was unabated curiosity. He began to read all about Lincoln and started making silhouette cutouts of him, an obsession you can see re-enacted in the opening scene of “Minority Report,” when a child makes a paper mask of Lincoln.

There's much more at the link.

Splash! [Media Notes 183]

I’m pretty sure that I saw Splash when it appeared in theaters in 1984 but I certainly didn’t imagine that it would popularize “Madison” as a name for girls. The Wikipedia entry notes:

According to the Social Security Administration, the name Madison was the 216th most popular name in the United States for girls in 1990, the 29th most popular name for girls in 1995, and the third most popular name for girls in 2000. In 2005, the name cracked the top 50 most popular girls' names in the United Kingdom, and articles in British newspapers credit the film for the popularization.

In the movie “Madison” is the name taken by a mermaid, played by Daryh Hannah, when she emerges on land to attach herself to a forlorn Allen Bauer, played by Tom Hanks.

The first 10, 15, 20 minutes or so of the movie are about how this situation comes about, but let’s just take that as a given. This is a story about how a human male and a female mermaid meet, fall in love, and, why not? I’ll give the ending away. They swim away to, presumably, live happily ever after, under the sea.

I’m interested in the elaborate contraption that’s constructed around them. As far as I can tell that contraption exists to conceal an interpersonal problem that’s been kicking around for a long time, one identified by Sigmund Freud (e.g. ”A Special Type of Choice of Object made by Men,” 1910), played out on stage by William Shakespeare [1], and that’s been kicking around in stories and poems since forever: Men have trouble dealing with the fact that women can be both sexual and loving, passionate and beloved. Splash deals with this by presenting us with a creature that’s both human and not human (i.e. a mermaid).

Young Allen Bauer is despondent because his girlfriend’s just moved out without giving any him any inkling that she was going to do that. He just wants a woman he can love and marry and be happy with. That’s all he wants. True Romance.

And then this woman shows up. We know she’s really mermaid, but he doesn’t. He picks her up at the police station – I know, you want to know how that came about, but it doesn’t really matter, it’s just staging – takes her home and she goes to bed with him. Simple as that. No teasing or pleading, nothing resembling courtship. Just what happened in there, we get to imagine whatever we wish. But we do see her waken in the middle of the night, fill a bathtub with salt water and then luxuriate in it, tail and all. Allen then wakes up a follows her to that bathroom. He knocks on the door, wants to see her, but she tells him to keep out. He breaks down the door and she has barely enough time to transition back to human form.

I mean, she’s really a mermaid! And she’s only got six more days, until the full moon, and then she’s got to return home. But she doesn’t tell Allen where home is or what she is. But she does take the name “Madison.”

Then things get complicated, and painful – in several senses. I was all but squirming as I watched how Madison was treated in the laboratory. Allen isn’t the only man involved. There’s a bizarre scientist, Walter Kornbluth, who gets wind of all this and realizes, “Ah hah! I’ll bet she’s really a mermaid.” He’s seen her before. Don’t ask. He manages to douse her with water, at a dinner for the President of the USA (don’t ask), and she’s taken by Kornbluth’s rival scientist, locked up in a lab, and subjected to tests. When Kornbluth learns that she’s going to be dissected the next day, he decides to spring her and return her to Allen.

By this time Allen knows that he’s slept with and is in love with a mermaid. Now what? Well, she’s got to return to the sea or she’ll die. If he’s willing to leave with her and never return to dry land, that can happen. He decides, no. She dives into the water and starts swimming away. He changes his mind, jumps in after her, and they swim away as the credits role.

And this point you may be thinking: “That’s crazy.” I know, and it’s even crazier. Read the Wikipedia plot summary (linked above), you’ll see. My point is that this elaborate contraption is a way of dealing with that problem that Freud named and analyzed, that men have this split image of women as both mothers and whores (if you will). Splash transforms that duality into humans and mermaids and erects an elaborate fantastical contraption to deal with it.

Given that you accept all that, I’ve got one problem with the movie. Allen should have stayed on the pier and let the mermaid go. That wouldn’t have given the audience the feel-good ending for which a movie like this is concocted, but it would have been a minimal way of acknowledging the preposterous nature of it all.

* * * * *

ADDENDUM [a day later]: Some things were bugging me, so I watched it again.

In the prelude, Allen, his parents, and his brother are on a boat tour off Cape Cod. His older brother Freddie is dropping coins on the deck near women so he can look up their skirts as he retrieves the coins. Allen is entranced by the water. He jumps in. Pandemonium on the boat.

He meets a young girl. They hold hands. He’s retrieved. She’s sad to see him leave. We see that she’s a mermaid.

One the one hand it adds little or nothing to the plot. But it establishes that Allen has established some kind of link with this mermaid during his preadolescent childhood and the contrast between his behavior and that of his older brother reinforces our sense of the innocence of that link. Note that this kind of childhood link occurs in a number of anime series, though I can’t recall any title names off the top of my head.

Then the movie abruptly shifts ahead to the present, where Allen is being hassled by a customer at the family’s produce business. Freddie comes wheeling in in his sports care and is ecstatic because Penthouse magazine printed his letter.

This and that, Allen’s drunk over his girlfriend leaving, so decides to go to Cape Cod, where he met that girl/mermaid when he was eight, Now we see the crazy scientist...this that that other & Allen’s bonked in the head by a rogue motorboat, he sinks...and then next we see him he’s lying on the beach. An adult mermaid is watching him. He speaks to her, she’s naked. She walks up to him and kisses him, and then she disappears into the sea. We see her swimming under water and she no longer has legs; she’s got a fishtail. And she’s spotted by that crazy scientist.

She finds Allen’s wallet, looks at the papers, swims to a wreck, finds a chart....and we’re back in Manhattan. Allan’s head is bandaged....naked mermaid at the Statue of Liberty...she’s arrested. He picks her up at the police station. He’s transfixed when he sees her. She kisses him. She’s all over him and he doesn’t (quite) know how to deal with her. He tries to leave for work. But returns and grapples with her. He leaves for work. She learns English from watching TV. Decides to go shopping.

And so forth and so on. I could go on and on with this, but this will have to do....for now.

* * * * *

[1] I analyze this dynamic in some detail in my essay, At the Edge of the Modern, or Why is Prospero Shakespeare's Greatest Creation? Journal of Social and Evolutionary Systems 21(3): 259-279, 1998, https://www.academia.edu/235334/At_the_Edge_of_the_Modern_or_Why_is_Prospero_Shakespeares_Greatest_Creation

The Devil Wears Prada 2 [Media Notes 182]

I saw the original The Devil Wears Prada back in 2006, when I came out in theaters, and then again in 2022 on one of the streaming platforms. I can’t say that I remember much about it, but if it looked as good as The Devil Wears Prada 2, which I watched in a theater, then I probably liked it. Why? Because the current film is gorgeous and gorgeousness certainly counts for something in a movie. It surely counts for something, even something important. But I can’t carry the whole film.

And neither can a vibe. I’m talking about Meryl Streep as Miranda Priestly, the haughty editor of Runway magazine, a high-class fashion magazine. As soon as the film gets going you know that somewhere down the line that this b*tch Lady Boss will reveal herself to have, if not a heart of gold, at least one filled with crème brûlée. How do you know this? Because you’ve seen lots of movies and that’s how these roll. But you can’t hang the whole damn movie on that unveiling so that the revelation eclipses whatever events brought it about. That’s what Prada 2 does and, I’m willing at this point to assume, the original as well.

Somewhere within view of the end, Priestly is talking with Emily (played by Emily Blunt), a former assistant and explaining why she never promoted her within the magazine. She tells her: “You don't have what it takes. I'm sorry, but you're not a visionary. You're a vendor.” I know what the words mean, but in this context I’m afraid they don’t compute.

There’s nothing in the movie that gives meaning to the idea of a visionary editor of a fashion rag. We’re supposed to believe that that’s what Miranda is because, well, that’s what the plot requires of her, and that’s what she thinks of herself. That’s not enough. In The Aviator (2004) Martin Scorsese shows us what made Howard Hughes a visionary. Francis Ford Coppola does the same for failed auto maker Preston Tucker in Tucker: The Man and His Dream (1988). For that matter, the 2024 documentary, Martha, shows us that Martha Stewart was a visionary, and the first Lady Boss to become a billionaire. None of that, whatever it is, made it into the Prada films.

What we see are gorgeous clothes in beautiful settings. I hardly even noticed the “plot” in this film, which is about Runway being taken over by tech billionaire who has no interest in fashion. All he cares about is generating clicks he can sell to advertisers and settling his girlfriend, the afore-mentioned Emily, in as the new editor. The plot is foiled by Andy (Anne Hatheway), also from the old days (and the original film). What I’ll remember, however, is a beautiful light blue sport jacket in a subtle windowpane plaid worn by Nigel (Stanley Tucci), fashion director for the magazine.

No, I’m afraid there are no visionaries in the movie. Just vendors. High class vendors perhaps, but still vendors. All that talk about beauty and art doesn’t change that. 

* * * * * 

P.S. For very different look at the world of fashion, take a look at the Japanese series Atelier [Media Notes 110]. It's much more intimate, but also includes a central character reminiscent of Anna Wintour.

I’d forgotten how hilarious Tootsie is [Media Notes 180]

I’d seen the movie when it originally played in theaters [1982] and I’d watched it several years ago on some streaming platform (probably Netflix). I watched it again last night [May 10, 2026] and laughed myself silly two or three times, including the ending, which surprised me, and I’d seen the movie at least twice before. Nor did I remember that Bill Murray was in it, nor Dabney Coleman and Charles Durning. Did I remember Jessica Lange or Teri Garr? Maybe a little. What I mostly remember is Dustin Hoffman as Michael Dorsey, a talented actor whose intrusive perfectionism (he actually went full-tilt “method” on a 30-second gig he had as a tomato in a TV commercial) has kept directors from hiring him. So, what does he do? Out of sheer orneriness he goes up for a part an actress friend of his (Terri Garr) failed to get in a soap opera, Southwest General. And wouldn’t you know, he gets it!

And now he’s stuck as Dorothy Michaels playing Emily Kimberly, hospital administrator. Yes, he’s got a gig, an income, but now he’s got to play Dorothy Michaels to the cast and staff of the TV program. His first test as Dorothy comes the first day on set when he plays a scene with the hospital’s Chief Surgeon, known as “the tongue” among the other actresses. When Kimberly sees him going in for the kiss Dorothy bashes him on the head with her clipboard and improvises her way through the rest of the scene. It works! Other things work as well. Before you know it Dorothy’s a hit and the show picks up her option for another year. Now Michael’s stuck. Another year? That’s more than he’d planned on. Way, more. No!

At one point Dorothy is talking with another cast member, Julie Nichols (played by Jessica Lange) who’s complaining about men. She tells Dorothy what she would like to hear from a man some time:

“Hey, listen. You know I'm confused about this too. I could lay a big line on you, we could do a lot of role-playing, but the simple truth is I find you very interesting and I'd really like to make love to you.”

That WOULD be refreshing now, wouldn’t it?

At this point we know of course that that line is going to come back a bit later in the film, this time headed in the other direction. And it does. Michael Dorsey is at a party talking with Julie and says, “Hey, listen. You know I'm confused about this too....” As soon as he opens his mouth we know what will happen. Sure enough, he gets a glass of wine tossed in his face.

THAT’s what I remember from the movie. Not the fact that Julie’s father (played by Charles Durning) decided to court Dorothy and asks her to marry him, nor that Julie was having an affair with the director, Ron Carlisle (played by Dabney Coleman); and I’d completely forgotten that Sidney Pollack played Dorsey’s agent. So much forgetting, such a funny movie. And the movie’s title, Tootsie? That’s what Carlisle, an unrepentant sexist, called Dorothy, who didn’t like it, at all. But it stuck.

Here’s what Roger Ebert said (taken from the Wikipedia entry):

“Tootsie is the kind of Movie with a capital M that they used to make in the 1940s, when they weren't afraid to mix up absurdity with seriousness, social comment with farce, and a little heartfelt tenderness right in there with the laughs. This movie gets you coming and going...The movie also manages to make some lighthearted but well-aimed observations about sexism. It also pokes satirical fun at soap operas, New York show business agents and the Manhattan social pecking order.”

Tootsie was nominated for nine academy awards and got one, Jessica Lange for Best Supporting Actress.

Pretty Woman [Media Notes 179]

I’ve seen Pretty Woman (1990) at least three times, once when it came out, once before on streaming, and just last night. I like it. It’s a nice romantic comedy and something of a fairy tale, but that’s OK, I suppose.

It is very much a story of its time. Richard Gere plays a corporate raider, Edward Lewis, but not one so ruthless as Michael Douglas playing Gordon Gekko in Wall Street (1987). Julia Roberts plays a Hollywood street walker, Vivian Wood. Lewis picks her up, because he knows where his hotel is, but also because she seems to know something about the car he’s borrowed from his lawyer (a Lotus), and ends up engaging her for the week. She accompanies him to several business meetings, but also to a night at the opera. They fall in love, of course; he relents on the deal he’s been chasing; and she goes back to New York with him where, we are to presume, they live happily ever after.

The world, of course, is not like that, not quite. And I doubt that anyone over twenty who saw the movie believes that. But it’s a nice alternative to the  self-glorifying  Gordon Gekko. I can even believe that Gordon Gekko would have liked it, or if not Gekko himself, perhaps his understudy, Bud Fox (played by Charlie Sheen). Corporate raider types are not long on self-knowledge, no more than today’s Silicon Valley tech bros, and so are as vulnerable to fairly tales as to tales of Viking raiders.

And perhaps that’s why I like it. It’s as though Gordon Gekko is so reprehensible in his thralldom to Homo economicus that Hollywood just had to show us an antidote. It picked a perennial, the Hooker with a Heart of Gold, disguised, in this case, as a hooker who knows how to drive a stick shift and carries a rainbow assortment of condoms in her thigh high boots. Which is to say, the film acknowledges that we need some kind of Homo ludens alternative, even one that includes a bunch of rich folks stomping divots on a polo field, not to mention that Mr. Lewis betrays his soulfulness by noodling on the lounge piano in the wee hours of the morning.

The movie resonated with the public and made Julia Roberts a star. From the Wikipedia entry:

Pretty Woman received mixed reviews from critics upon release, but widespread praise was directed towards Roberts' performance and her chemistry with Gere. It had the highest number of ticket sales in the US ever for a romantic comedy, with Box Office Mojo listing it as the number-one romantic comedy by the highest estimated domestic tickets sold at 42,176,400, slightly ahead of My Big Fat Greek Wedding (2002) at 41,419,500 tickets. The film grossed US$463.4 million worldwide and at the time of its release, was the fifth-highest-grossing film of all time worldwide, behind only E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial ($701 million at the time), Star Wars ($530 million at the time), Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade ($474 million at the time), and Jaws ($470 million at the time). It was also the highest-grossing R-rated film of all time (surpassing Rain Man) until it was surpassed by Terminator 2: Judgment Day in 1991, but remained the highest-grossing R-rated film released by Walt Disney Studios (surpassing Cocktail), holding the record for 34 years until Marvel Studios' Deadpool & Wolverine surpassed it in 2024.

From critic snippets Wikipedia:

Pretty Woman received mixed reviews from critics, with positive reviews praising the stars' chemistry and the dialogue. On review aggregator Rotten Tomatoes the film holds an approval rating of 64% based on 78 reviews. The website's critical consensus states, "Pretty Woman may be a yuppie fantasy, but the film's slick comedy, soundtrack, and casting can overcome misgivings." On Metacritic, the film has a weighted average score of 51 out of 100, based on 18 critics, indicating "mixed or average reviews." Audiences polled by CinemaScore gave the film an average grade of "A" on an A+ to F scale.

The film's detractors criticized the overuse of the "hooker with a heart of gold" trope.[14] Others opined that the film sugarcoats the realities of sex work. [...]

Owen Gleiberman of Entertainment Weekly gave the film a "D," saying it "starts out as a neo-Pygmalion comedy" and becomes a "plastic screwball soap opera", with the "kinds of characters who exist nowhere but in the minds of callowly manipulative Hollywood screenwriters". Gleiberman conceded that with the film's "tough-hooker heroine, it can work as a feminist version of an upscale princess fantasy." [...] 

Roger Ebert of the Chicago Sun-Times gave a positive review, praising how the film is about "a particularly romantic kind of love, the sort you hardly see in the movies these days". He added it "protects its fragile love story in the midst of cynicism and compromise. The performances are critical for that purpose. Gere plays new notes here; his swagger is gone, and he's more tentative, proper, even shy. Roberts does an interesting thing; she gives her character an irrepressibly bouncy sense of humor and then lets her spend the movie trying to repress it. [...]

The New York Times' Janet Maslin wrote: "Despite this quintessentially late 80's outlook, and despite a covetousness and underlying misogyny [...] 'Pretty Woman' manages to be giddy, lighthearted escapism much of the time. [...]

Carina Chocano of The New York Times said the movie "wasn't a love story, it was a money story. Its logic depended on a disconnect between character and narrative, between image and meaning, between money and value, and that made it not cluelessly traditional but thoroughly postmodern." In a 2019 interview, Roberts expressed uncertainty over whether the film could be made today due to its controversial premise, commenting, "So many things you could poke a hole in, but I don't think it takes away from people being able to enjoy it".

I’m with Ebert on this one.