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gulfportofficial · 2 years

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Crybullying a trans woman into fucking hospital because she wrote a complicated work about trans fem hurt and insecurities and how those get weaponized in a military industrial world which he was too stupid to understand is actually the latest in a long line of Ana Mardoll being a transmisogynist. And being stupid as well, but the fact that Ana is really fantastically stupid for someone who prides himself on being the smartest specialist thinker on Earth* is not really relevant to this rant. (Warning: rant is in bad English but I don’t care).

Ana is and has always been an “I would never!!!! How dare you hurt me this way!!!! I am a TERF-hating defender of trans womankind!” transmisogynist AND he is still somehow managing to get a contingent of uwus being like “oh poor babu. He is sad and disabled and trans, you cannot bully him for working at a weapons contractor for 15 years even if he DID spend that entire time lecturing everyone else about the horrible REAL VIOLENCE** they were doing by things such as... saying cishet because it might make a cis straight demiromantic invalid and so in order to stop doing VIOLENCE WITH OUR WORDS we should instead say “unqueer”***... like some kind of one-very-stupid-person panopticon tower.” Actually, “still somehow get a contingent” is redundant. That literally IS the transmisogyny. People will bully the shit out of a trans woman for the slightest thing, especially if she has something complicated to say and doesn’t want to spoonfeed it to escapist babies like Ana “reading is ableist” Mardoll. But they will handhold and defend escapist babies like Ana “French chef stereotypes are dehumanizing racism” Mardoll specifically because they’re NOT trans women. Anyway, since I have hated his work for a loooooong time, I would just like to say that I remember Ana:

- before he settled on his boy identity, he ID’d for a long time as a “trans woman” and “trans femme” - as in, he was an AFAB person who still felt like a woman, but also felt trans. He did this and did this over again until, according to him, literally told to stop by transfem friends. - CONSTANTLY centered/centers himself in ALL trans issues, saying things like “TERFS hate trans people like me.” Which like, no, sorry. Yes, TERF shit impacts all trans people. Yes, they do say horrible, invalidating, aimed-at-legislative-restriction things about afab trans people. But their rhetoric about that is about “saving poor misguided girls”. TERFS HATE TRANS WOMEN very specifically. The vitriol, the nastiness, the emailing people’s bosses to out them, making “feminist” websites with photos calling them predators... that’s all for trans women, baby. - Look, maybe you think this isn’t so bad, but I think it’s self-victimizing shit and I feel like his whole thing of constantly feeling “invalid” and “not queer enough” and other such horseshit means he’s incapable of putting his feelings aside to focus on the material needs of our community. - Ana is king of tenderqueer shit. You know, being a soft boy baby at age 40+ or whatever. More thoughtful people than I have written a lot about how tenderizing transness to the extent people who do has a lot of run-on effects, including making trans men afraid of the effects of gender affirming care such as hormones; being really racist because being “uwu goblin gender” is really... not always as accessible to anyone who isn’t white; being TRANSMISOGYNISTIC as is relevant here. Fetishizing being a soft smol bean and hating anything hard or critical or big or strong... it’s not a 1:1 but it often has the effect of weaponizing being afab and framing trans women as unwelcome and scary once again, and I think we can see that in how Ana does his thing... - In that holy shit crybullying itself (what a perfect word for the exact crazy-making wobbling jelly thing he does) being so SAD and SCARED and HURT like a poor little creature who didn’t MEAN to say anything bad he just is not NEUROTYPICAL while a BIG MEAN HURTFUL ELITIST ABLEIST trans woman has made you feel INVALID and TRIGGERED is such a fucking example of this. Man, I have like years of examples of Ana just being a complete jello-cube of a person but I’ll just vent this here and cease. * GOD remember when he wrote about how NLOG as a concept should not be criticized because some girls actually weren’t like other girls, such as fat, queer, and disabled girls. Because no girl has ever been fat, queer, or disabled of course. And all of those “other girls” are just a hive mind of skinny straight ablebodiedness. Top feminist analysis, Ana “the little mermaid is an otherkin allegory” Mardoll.

** HE. WORKS. FOR. LOCKHEED. MARTIN. and HAS. DONE. SINCE. THE BUSH. ADMINISTRATION.

*** Actual example.

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johnrossbowie · 4 years

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LEAVING TWITTER

I wrote this earlier in the fall, before the election, after dissolving my Twitter account. I wasn’t sure where to put it (“try up your ass!” – someone, I’m sure) and then I remembered I have a tumblr I never use. Anyway, here tis.

How do you shame someone who thinks Trumps’ half-baked policies and quarter-baked messaging put him in the pantheon of great Presidents? How do you shame someone so lacking in introspection that they will call Obama arrogant while praising Trump’s decisiveness and yet at the same time vehemently deny that they’re racist? How do you shame someone for whom that racism is endearing and maybe long overdue?

You don’t. It’s silly to think otherwise.

Twitter is an addiction of mine, and true to form, my dependence on it grew more serious after I quit drinking in 2010. At first it was a chance to mouth off, make jokes both stupid and erudite and occasionally stick my foot in my mouth (I owe New Yorker writer Tad Friend an apology. He knows why, or (God willing) he’s forgotten. Either way. Sorry.) I blew off steam, steam that was accumulating without booze to dampen the flames. Not always constructive venting, but I also met new friends, and connected with people whose work I’ve admired for literal decades and ended up seeing plays with Lin-Manuel Miranda and hanging backstage with Jane Wiedlin after a Go-Go’s show and exchanging sober thoughts with Mike Doughty. When my mom passed in 2018, a lot of people reached out to tell me they were thinking of me. This was nice. For a while, Twitter was a huge help when I needed it.

I used to hate going to parties and really hated dancing and mingling, but a couple of drinks would fix that. Point is, for a while, booze was a huge help, too.

But my engagement with Twitter changed, and I started calling people my ‘friends’ even though I’d never once met them or even heard their voices. These weren’t even penpals, these were people whose jokes or stances I enjoyed, so with Arthurian benevolence I clicked on a little heart icon, liked their tweet, and assumed therefore that we had signed some sort of blood oath.

We had not. I got glib, and cheap, and a little lazy. And then to make matters much worse, Trump came along and extended his reach with the medium.

There was a while there where I thought I could be a sort of voice for the voiceless, and I thought I was doing that. I tried very hard to only contribute things that I felt were not being said – It wasn’t accomplishing anything to notice “Haha Trump looks like he’s bullshitting his way through an oral report” – such things were self-evident. I tried to point out very specific inconsistencies in his policies, like the Muslim ban meant to curb terrorism that still favored the country that brought forth 13 of the 9/11 hijackers. Like his full-throated cries against media bias performed while he suckled at Roger Ailes’ wrinkly teat. Like his fondness for evangelical votes that coincided with a scriptural knowledge that lagged far behind mine, even though I’m a lapsed Episcopalian, and there is no one less religiously observant than a lapsed Episcopalian. But that eventually gave way to unleashing ad hominem attacks against his higher profile supporters, who I felt weren’t being questioned enough, who I felt were in turn being fawned over by theirdim supporters. If you’re one of these guys, and you think I’m talking about you, you’re probably right, but don’t mistake this for an apology. You suck, and you support someone who sucks, and your idolatry is hurting our country and its standing in the world. Fuck you entirely, but that’s not the point. The point is that me screaming into the toilet of Twitter helps no one – it doesn’t help a family stuck at the border because they’re trying to secure a better life for their kids. It doesn’t help a poor teenager who can’t get an abortion because the party of ‘small government’ has squeezed their tiny jurisdiction into her uterus. It doesn’t help the coal miner who’s staking all his hopes on a dying industry and a President’s empty promises to resurrect it. I was born in New York City, and I currently live in Los Angeles. Those are the only two places I’ve ever lived, if you don’t count the 4 years I spent in Ithaca[1]. So, yes, I live in a liberal bubble, and while I’ve driven across the country a couple of times and did a few weeks in a touring band and am as crushed as any heartlander about the demise of Waffle House, you have me dead to rights if you call me a coastal elitist. And with that in mind, I offer few surprises. A guy who grew up in the theater district and was vehemently opposed to same-sex marriage or felt you should own an AR-15? THAT would be newsworthy. I am not newsworthy. I can preach to the choir, I can confirm people’s biases, but I will likely not sway anyone who is eager to dismiss a Native New Yorker who lives in Hollywood. I grew up in the New York of the 1970s, and that part of my identity did shape my politics. My mom’s boss was gay and the Son of Sam posed a realistic threat. As such, gays are job creators[2] and guns are used for homicide much more often than they are used for self-defense[3]. I have found this to be generally true over the years, and there’s even data to back it up.

“But Mr. Bowie,” you might say, though I insist you call me John - “those studies are conducted by elitist institutions and those institutions suck!” And again, I am not going to reason with people who will dismiss anything that doesn’t fit their limited world view as elitist or, God Help Us, fake news. But the studies above are peer-reviewed, convincing, and there are more where those came from.

“But John,” you might say, and I am soothed that we’re one a first name basis - “Can’t you just stay on Twitter for the jokes?” Ugh. A) apparently not and B) the jokes are few and far between, and I am 100% part of that problem.

I have stuff to offer, but Twitter is not the place from which to offer it.

After years of academically understanding that Twitter is not the real world, Super Tuesday 2020 made the abstract pretty fucking concrete. If you had looked at my feed on the Monday beforehand – my feed which is admittedly curated towards the left, but not monolithic (Hi, Rich Lowry!) – you’d have felt that a solid Bernie surge was imminent, but also that your candidate was going surprise her more vocal critics. When the Biden sweep swept, when Bernie was diminished and when Warren was defeated, I realized that Twitter is not only not the real world, it’s almost some sort of Phillip K. Dickian alternate timeline, untethered to anything we’re actually experiencing in our day to day life. This is both good news and bad news – one, we’re not heading towards a utopia of single payer health care and the eradication of American medical debt any time soon, but two, we’re also not being increasingly governed by diaper-clad jungen like Charlie Kirk. Clouds and their linings. Leaving Twitter may look like ceding ground to the assclowns but get this – the ground. Is not. There.

It’s just air.

There are tangible things I can do with my time - volunteer with a local organization called Food On Foot, who provide food and job training for people experiencing homelessness here in my adopted Los Angeles. I can give money to candidates and causes I support, and I can occasionally even drop by social media to boost a project or an issue and then vanish, like a sort of Caucasian Zorro who doesn’t read his mentions. I can also model good behavior for my kids (ages 10 and 13) who don’t need to see their father glued to his phone, arguing about Trumps incompetence with Constitutional scholars who have a misspelled Bible verse in their bio (three s’ in Ecclesiastes, folks).

So farewell Twitter. I’ll miss a lot of you. Perhaps not as badly as I miss Simon Maloy and Roger Ebert and Harris Wittels and others whose deaths created an unfillable void on the platform. But I won’t miss the yelling, and the lionization of poor grammar, and anonymous trolls telling my Jewish friends that they were gonna leave the country “via chimney.” I will not miss people who think Trump is a stable genius calling me a “fucktard.” I will not miss transphobia or cancelling but I will miss hashtag games, particularly my stellar work during #mypunkmusical (Probably should have quit after that surge, I was on fire that night, real blaze of glory stuff I mean, Christ, Sunday in the Park with the Germs? Husker Du I Hear A Waltz? Fiddler on the Roof (keeping an eye out for the cops)? These are Pulitzer contenders.). Twitter makes me feel lousy, even when I’m right, and I’m often right. There’s just no point in barking bumperstickers at each other, and there are people who are speaking truth to power and doing a cleaner job of it – Aaron Rupar, Steven Pasquale, Louise Mensch, Imani Gandy and Ijeoma Oluo to name five solid mostly politically based accounts (Yes, Pasquale is a Broadway tenor. He’s also a tenacious lefty with good points and research and a dreamy voice. You think you’re straight and then you hear him sing anything from Bridges of Madison County and you want him to spoon you.). You’re probably already following those mentioned, but on the off chance you’re not, get to it. You’ll thank me, but you won’t be able to unless you actually have my email.

_______

[1] And Jesus, that’s worse – Ithaca is such a lefty enclave that they had an actual socialist mayor FOR WHOM I VOTED while I was there. And not socialist the way some people think all Democrats are socialist – I mean Ben Nichols actually ran on the socialist ticket and was re-elected twice for a total of six years.

[2] The National Gay and Lesbian Chamber of Commerce, “America’s LGBT Economy” Jan 20th, 2017

[3] The Violence Policy Institute, Firearm Justifiable Homicides and Non-Fatal Self Defense Gun Use, July 2019.

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bambamramfan · 8 years

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“protagonist, audience, and critics”

Last Dead Freddie post for a while (ie, recovering pieces of deBoer’s writing that were killed by his website hack). Mostly this was a really good piece about antiheroes in prestige television, and I wanted to endorse its good points, and engage with the fundamental errors of artistic criticism it has towards the end.

I’ll post my response later, since this is enough to read on its own.

Edit: the title of the post included the word “audience” not “author”, but either could work.

That the early parts of the Golden Age of Television were dominated by antiheroes is an idea that’s by now as cliché and tired as, well, the phrase “Golden Age of Television.” From Tony Soprano to Walter White to Don Draper to the various self-destructive cops and criminals in The Wire, the rise of high-production-values, critically-lauded narrative television was attended by stories told from the perspective of people who weren’t very nice. The essayist Brett Martin’s book on this period, in fact, was titled Difficult Men. In recent years, we’ve seen a growing diversity of perspectives on HBO and AMC and the like, with more racial and gender diversity, a greater range of themes and issues, and less reliance on the tropes of antihero fiction. Thankfully, for those of us who think that art should reflect the full diversity of human experience, the obsession with those difficult men seems to have subsided.

And yet I think that, as much as the antihero has been discussed to death in recent years, the concept could stand to be connected in a deeper way to a broader context: the tangled relationship between protagonists, the audience’s empathy for them, and the moral intent of the artists who create them.

Prestige TV – a term I find viscerally distasteful, but never mind – has famously engendered a cottage industry of analysis, recaps and reviews and explainers by the thousands. The structural incentives for such coverage is obvious; high-profile shows drive clicks for publications, and the regular episodic nature of television provides writers with steady work, a reliable income source of a kind that’s essential for the career of a freelancer. And though I’ve occasionally teased producers of this stuff – how many fresh takes, really, can there be on the same episodes of television, with dozens or hundreds of people doing it? – it’s good for art and for audiences for a robust critical conversation to occur alongside these shows. Not all of the takes will be novel, interesting, or convincing. (Indeed, given the nature of things, a majority won’t be.) But communally digging around and exploring in the text will often provide us with some useful insight.

And yet it’s important to remember that the vast majority of viewers of these shows won’t engage in the text in this way. I don’t just mean that most people who watch shows don’t write or read about them. I mean that, for the average viewer, the concept of treating a show as a kind of intellectual challenge, a puzzle to be disassembled and reassembled again, probably defies the point of watching in the first place. Distraction is a very valid reason for watching television, after all, and after coming home from a long day of work, many of us naturally want to turn off the analytical part of the brain and just enjoy the straight narrative of a given series. But what happens when the series is asking you to analyze? What happens when the basic moral work of the art you’re enjoying requires a deeper consideration of the tension between what’s depicted and what morals are intended?

I want to argue that the tension between fiction as entertainment and fiction as object of analysis – the difference between consuming a story straightforwardly and reading that story against the grain for more complex moral lessons – takes on added weight when so much of what’s depicted in our popular culture is not meant to be emulated or celebrated. I’m not trying to establish some sort of hierarchy of tastes here – the first purpose of art is to entertain, and no one should ever apologize for engaging with commercial art on the level of surface enjoyment. But the prevalence of antiheroes and immoral protagonists in contemporary narrative art leaves me profoundly nervous about the actual ethical impact of such work. There’s reason to believe that too many people are taking entirely the wrong lessons from the shows, video games, and movies they love.

YouTube clips from popular shows offer obvious, depressing examples of what I’m talking about. The Sopranos is exemplary in this regard. Hundreds of clips of Tony Soprano and various other bad actors on the show are presented as role models for life, their grim pursuit of (what they believe to be) their own self-interest and their capacity for violence valorized in video titles, descriptions, and comments. A particularly egregious example states that Tony tells it like it is when it comes to what really matters: family. The clip (since removed from YouTube, likely due to copyright issues) was of a self-aggrandizing Tony Soprano waxing on about the importance of family and how family members are the only ones you can really trust. This should be, to anyone with even a minimal knowledge of the show’s plot, a moment dripping with irony and indictment: Tony is comprehensively terrible to his family. He is a lousy father, a cheating husband, and a bullying and obnoxious sibling. He tries to kill his own mother and succeeds in killing his cousin and nephew. It’s hard to imagine a point more consistently established in the show than that Tony Soprano is an awful family man.

Yet such is the power of the protagonist (and the charisma of James Gandolfini) that the person who uploaded the video and dozens of commenters were convinced that Tony’s speech amounted to the show imparting a life lesson. And this general attitude, that Tony is someone to emulate rather than to despise, is replicated again and again online, with thousands of people taking his oafish violence, sexual aggression, and total indifference to the well-being of others as some sort of exemplar of masculine real-keeping. It’s here where the power of the protagonist is truly revealed, the way that simple depiction of a character’s point of view seems to overwhelm everything else we know about them. It’s as if the human power of identification is too strong, at least in art; we forgive in our protagonists things we know should never be forgiven in real life.

David Chase, the creator of the Sopranos, has talked about this frustrating tendency himself many times, betraying his irritation with audience members who seem intent on seeing the show as little more than a wish fulfillment fantasy for those who would like to be able to whack their annoying coworkers.

In another clip that’s favored by people looking to draw life lessons on masculinity, Mad Men’s Don Draper dispenses with a young rival at his advertising firm with a cutting putdown. “I feel sorry for you,” says gifted young copywriter Michael Ginsberg. “I don’t think about you at all,” replies Draper, asserting his masculine dominance via the Principle of Least Interest. In an age when “giving no fucks” is taken as a Zen-like state of effortless superiority, this is the ultimate alpha male moment. The clip is summarized by the person who uploaded it: “Don Draper puts Michael Ginsberg in his place. He’s still the boss.”

Except that the show has gone out of its way, that entire episode, to demonstrate that Draper is thinking about Ginsberg. Incessantly. Over and over, the episode establishes that Don can’t stop thinking about Ginsberg and the threat he represents. It’s a classic tale of the wounded pride of an aging worker who feels threatened by the younger, sharper, hungrier counterpart. Sure, Don looks cool when he dismisses Ginsberg. But the limits of looking cool is one of the most relentlessly depicted themes in Mad Men, all of the sharply tailored suits and gorgeous midcentury modern design hiding alcoholism, bigotry, and failed relationships. The essential dramatic tension of the show lies in contrasting Don Draper the myth with Don Draper the reality. During the sixth season, when the character devolved deeper into addiction and failure, his façade of control and professional mastery slipping away, many devoted viewers complained that they wanted “the old Don” back – the cool, sexy, invulnerable Don. But in doing so, they were denying the central message of the show, the essential point both in plot terms and thematically: Don Draper does not exist. The ideal is not possible. Both the man himself and the icons he represents are myths. To see the show as simply a depiction of a gorgeous and powerful figure of old guard masculinity means denying its most obvious thematic message.

Reflecting on the divide between authorial signaling and audience interpretation through the example of Walter White of Breaking Bad – a truly reprehensible figure – Isaac Butler writes,

With Breaking Bad, the major, unresolved issue was the character of Walter White. What sort of man was he? And how were we supposed to feel about him? And how did the creators feel about him?…

For many watching Breaking Bad, Walter White was in a morality play, and thus would be sufficiently punished by the time the finale concluded. For an odious group known as Team Walt, Breaking Bad was wish fulfillment, and Walter would in some way be rewarded for his awesomeness. For another group—one I belonged to—Walter was the anti-hero protagonist of a classical tragedy.

A classical tragedy, that is, in the sense that the point is not the Manichean moralism of an episode of Law and Order SVU but the challenge of seeing our own potential flaws in a work of art, to better understand ourselves. What troubles Butler is the show’s moral relationship to its own characters and its audience, and in particular those who are bent on seeing genuinely evil characters as badass instead of bankrupt. And the question I constantly ask myself is whether, in a culture that has so habitually depicts violence as cool and cathartic, that group will always outnumber those who respond to violence with horror.

The point is not that we should take some sort of blanket critical approach to protagonists, but that we should recognize the complexity and nuance in their depiction. The critical reaction to Fight Club shows how both an unthinking acceptance of protagonist behavior, and an overactive judgment of same, can both sand away the subtleties that are essential a movie. Yes, indeed, there are far too many “How to Be As Cool as Tyler Durden” articles and videos online. (Step one: look as good as Brad Pitt circa 1999.) The phenomenon of fans of that movie or book over-identifying with Tyler Durden and the narrator has come in for some deserved mockery, with many pointing out that starting your own fight club – or, even worse, your own Project Mayhem – is a ridiculous exercise, one that clearly misses the satirical and critical aspects of the story. (You should make your own soap, though, it’s fun.) The entire second half of the film depicts the narrator’s gradual realization that he has become involved in something far more destructive than he imagined.

Yet it would be easy to fall too far on the other side of the equation, and to see the narrator’s distaste for the triviality and consumerism of contemporary American life as itself pathological instead of natural. Yes, the violent nihilism he and his alter ego develop in response to that culture is childish and ineffective, but we shouldn’t take that to mean that the world of corporate speak, consumerist conformity, and IKEA aren’t worth rejecting. It means that part of the point of the narrative is precisely the difficulty in channeling legitimate distaste for the way things are into productive avenues.

The last shot of the movie, pregnant with emotional power, demonstrates the closest thing to a message for how to actually live in the film: finding a partner who is equally willing to look past your own flaws to navigate a world that seems bent on destroying the things that make us feel authentically human. Endorsing the romantic ideal as a potential cure for modern disaffection isn’t particularly novel, but the execution of getting there strikes me as the basic point, the recognition of the seduction of nihilism and its impediments to real human connection. You don’t have to think the movie pulls that off, mind you – many people don’t – but failing to really parse out the nuances of the film’s relationship to its protagonist means missing its artistic foundations. The presumption that depiction means endorsement kills drama.

The film and TV writer Matt Zoller Seitz, a great critic who sometimes strikes me as too concerned with whether the films he reviews conform to contemporary liberal social norms, demonstrated the perils of a certain politicized literalism in how we treat the prerogatives of the protagonist when reviewing last year’s Ghostbusters reboot. In contrast to the workaholic women of the newer film, he chastises the original film’s leading character, Bill Murray’s Peter Venkmann, as “a deadpan hipster who fakes most of the knowledge he claims to have,” complaining that he is part of “a long tradition of anti-authority posturing by straight white male characters who act as if the world’s indifference to their happiness is a personal affront.” But what, exactly, is the alternative that Seitz would prefer? That Venkmann conform to the stuffy dictates of elite academia, which he (accurately) sees as full of bullshit? Become a Company Man, another Reaganite yuppie content to play within the system without irony? Yes, it’s definitely true that women and other marginalized groups have traditionally had less ability to subvert the social and economic structures around them. But the response to that should not be to insist that everyone play by the rules, but that we spread the privilege Venkmann enjoys to everyone. It’s a strange form of progressivism that would compel a movie character to drop his sardonic critique of the way things are and get to work on those TPS reports already.

More to the point, if Venkmann was more of a tryhard game-player, going along with the conventional plan, Ghostbusters wouldn’t be much of a movie. Of course there’s a lot of male fantasy in the original Ghostbusters; the question is whether showing such a fantasy for enjoyment necessarily entails seeing the fantasy as a goal worth pursuing. Again, there’s an implicit assumption that artistic depiction presumes that the audience should want to emulate the protagonist. Comedy is full of smirking subversives not because everyone should act like those characters – no one is that clever or funny, and not everyone can be an iconoclast – but because everyone recognizes the need for subversion, the steady drumbeat of absurdities and indignities piled on us by the systems around us.

(Seitz also, incidentally, claims that Murray’s character has an attitude of “The only part of this that excites me is the prospect of getting laid by a demon-possessed Sigourney Weaver,” despite the explicit plot point of a possessed Weaver propositioning Murray and him turning her down, which seems remarkably uncharitable for a thoughtful critic like Seitz.)

The power of identification in art leads to bad political readings of music as well. In recent years, the Beatles tune “Run For Your Life” has been singled out as #PROBLEMATIC for its threatening message to the unnamed romantic partner in the song. (This is made somewhat more disturbing by the fact that John Lennon, the song’s author and singer, admitted to abusing his wife, which is of course inexcusable.) The lyrics are indeed disturbing. What’s strange is the belief that the song, or people who enjoy it, are somehow endorsing threats or violence against women. Depiction is not endorsement, not even in music, perhaps the art form we are most likely to feel intimately inside of ourselves. Lennon felt things that would be rightfully impermissible to express directly. That’s precisely why he embedded them in his music. To argue for the legitimacy of the song as art is no more an endorsement of violence against women than singing the praises of Lolita is an endorsement of pedophilia.

The prevalence of obsession and possessiveness in songs about love reveals one of the cherished functions of art: to depict that which is human that cannot be defended by the rational mind. We are, after all, animals. We remain defiantly irrational creatures. We lust, we feel jealousy, we fantasize, we yearn for revenge, we imagine ourselves as beings of impossible power, and we do it all out of proportion with what is reasonable. My conscious mind, which is what guides my behavior, wants to be a loving and respectful partner to someone, a partner that recognizes the autonomy and independence of that someone and reacts to their adult desires for space and time apart appropriately. My emotional self is filled with an unjustifiable need to possess. That is not an attempt to rationalize or defend jealous romantic behaviors in a relationship. It is a statement of the permanent irrationality of human emotions.

When Nicki Minaj releases a music video depicting herself as a fascist dictator, to considerable controversy, her critics are misunderstanding the basic nature of fantasy. Who hasn’t imagined themselves, at times, in a position of autocratic power? We can pretend that such fantasies don’t exist, thanks to their obvious political problems, or we can express them in art where they do less harm. When Selena Gomez depicts herself as a stalker breaking into a celebrity’s home in a music video, she’s not romanticizing actual stalking but exploring the animal intensity of human emotion and its uncomfortable outcomes in truly obsessive behaviors. Romantic obsession is a commonplace in music because it is in music where those powerful, ubiquitous human emotions can be explored safely.

The contemporary attitude that we must run all of our thoughts and feelings through a political litmus test before we express them in art simply means that many shared thoughts and feelings will go undiscussed. The heart is not woke, and it never will be, and to remove that which is unconsciously felt but consciously impermissible from art simply leaves us less aware of the human condition. Worse, such a condition leaves us bereft of the kind of understanding we need to navigate our tangled feelings for the Tony Sopranos – the ability to recognize that the power fantasies we might enjoy while watching such characters are natural, but that actually valorizing those behaviors is contrary to the public good.

I’m not too worried that the average viewer will take up a life of crime in emulation of Tony Soprano and Walter White, though I cringe to think of how such unthinking appreciation of them deepens the association between masculinity and the capacity for violence. I’m far more worried about our continued inability to recognize the ethical failings of the wealthy and the system that empowers them. Our culture is rife with depictions of wealth that straightforwardly valorize money and those who have it, the shameless promotion of luxury on HGTV and celebrity gossip magazines. Lots of movies and television shows attempt to correct for that by showing the moral rot and personal destruction underneath all that ostentation. But sometimes, the depiction of wealth and glamour is so emotionally compelling that the critical and satirical elements are undone. This is the Wolf of Wall Street conundrum.

I have no doubt that Martin Scorsese and the others involved in the production of the film intended to indict Jordan Belfort and his actions. But I don’t think they achieved such an indictment artistically. When the film’s defenders argue that it was intended as a critical depiction, they’re defending intent rather than execution, which is no more useful than defending a film’s intent at realism, emotional catharsis, humor, or drama. Scorsese’s work has always drawn from the productive tension between how arresting his characters are and how destructive their behavior is. At its best, this leads to a kind of fascinated revulsion, the way that Travis Bickle is both a contemptible figure and an impossibly magnetic one, the light in which the glamor and cool of Howard Hughes in The Aviator were cast by the intensity of his mental illness. For me, The Wolf of Wall Street simply didn’t provoke that same queasiness; the cars were too fast, the suits too well-tailored, the women too hot, the glee on the part of Jordan Belfort too palpable. The intent may have been satirical, but a cursory examination of the internet’s collective opinion on the film shows that for many of its ardent fans, its effect was salutary. And we really don’t need more affection for Wall Street sharks.

You can, of course, argue that Fight Club fails in the same sense, or that Wolf of Wall Street actually achieves its critical intent. At some level we are simply talking about differing subjective takes on the quality of different works of fiction. And you might well ding me for arguing both ways at once – saying that audiences need to do the work of excavating implied critiques of protagonist behavior and also that creators have a responsibility to make those critiques apparent. If nothing else, I am saying that the role of the protagonist seems to inspire deep sympathy regardless of the actions depicted, particularly over the very long haul afforded by a television series, to a degree that many artists seem unprepared for. I imagine this power is even more compelling in video games, where the player literally directs the main character through the story, occupying their point of view. And in a critical world where more and more people are explicitly subordinating aesthetics to politics – where more and more critics are erasing any distinction at all between a work’s aesthetic value and its perceived effectiveness in delivering progressive political morals – the relationship between what is depicted and what lessons are imparted become even more fraught, more pregnant with meaning. We should take care with such things.

The sophisticate’s take on this question has typically been to insist that no artist should be held to account for the misreading of their audience, and of course I agree, in a limited sense. Still, I am at this point profoundly ambivalent towards the concept of the antihero or unsympathetic protagonist in art. These tropes have been mined to great effect for centuries in various artistic genres and media, and I value much of that work. But the consistency with which devoted fans of antihero fiction completely miss the thematic purpose of that fiction makes it hard for me to enjoy it, these days. Authorial intent is, obviously, contested and uneasy ground, and getting invested in parsing it rarely a productive activity. But I cannot help but observe the frequency with which implied moral positions in contemporary artwork seem to completely bypass large parts of their audiences, often to the point of leaving them with the exact opposite lesson that was seemingly intended.

Perhaps, then, the exhaustion with antiheroes and flawed protagonists came at just the right time. Perhaps the fad fizzled out when it most needed to. There will always be antiheroes, and I will no doubt find myself following with interest the stories of protagonists who are not good people. But simple depictions of flawed characters attempting to do their best for others and acting in ways we associate with morality seems like fertile ground. Hell, at this point, the story of good people doing good might seem downright subversive.

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