#vapid consumerism

[psalmsofpsychosis]

yeah so i dont get the "wasn't that some fucked up shit? anyway i'm Rod Sterling" mentality some people have towards different narrative reads. It's all sweet and cool to want to explore all the different variations of a fucked up scenario, but i'm gonna need the reasons for it. I need the "why"; why are we exploring this thing? Why is it important to explore this story? what am i getting out of it? and no it's not about morality.

I dont need a story to teach me "good" life lessons, though that'd be lovely. I dont need it to be an exceptional and exemplary narrative even, but i need my discoveries to be purposeful and meaningful. Sometimes the aim for an exploration of say, a very tragic story, is to simply experiences the different flavours and nuances and complexities of a deeply held personal emotion; sometimes it helps us find the mirroring and connection and relatedness that we need to feel seen and heard and understood. Sometimes it helps you parse out your own bullshit by taking it out of your head and putting it in front of you– i dont care what the reason is, but there's a reason. There's a purpose for every single endeavour you take on, even if you haven't discovered the reason yet. "i just want to experience a fucked up shit" lazy superficial thinking, dig deeper. I hate superficial and purposeless shit; and no i'm not gonna explore the 863796373th trending trauma porn piece of the day because "wouldn't that be fucked up?" nah. I dont care, it's got no use to me. I will absolutely respect the endeavour and make space for it if someone tells me something as simple as "it is relevant to me and my interests and experiences and my mental preoccupations, and helps me refine my humanity and my understanding of humanity in general", that is a lovely and true statement. But if someone keeps churning out worst possible fucked up sad scenarios one after another under the "wouldn't that be fucked up?" flag, i'm out, i dont give a fuck. take your sad shit somewhere else, i have absolutely zero space for purposeless horrible narratives that positively add nothing to my life and dont help me navigate it in any meaningful way.

[justaholeinmysoul]

Tumble is weird because every celebration is considered an outrage for something else. Christmas is anti Muslim,Valentines day is anti around aces, father's day is anti kids with shifty fathers etc. No, there are festivities for a thing you don't celebrate and they're not the opposite or a way to denigrate. If you don't celebrate them ignore them, if you want to celebrate something else do it oh my God why are yall always so mad

[sparksinthenight]

Petite bourgeoisie: I’m so SAD because I read a fictional white saviour book and I projected onto the characters. D: I’m truly the most hurt in this world.

Working class: I work 14 hour days every day doing work that kills my body for starvation wages. But I still try to look on the bright side and find joy wherever I can.

[maeby-cursed]

➴ OH, STUPID CUPID ! ♡

✧ a/n: happy valentine's, dear angels ! ♡

Toji Fushiguro doesn’t believe in Valentine’s Day.

Why would he, after all? It’s merely a capitalist ploy to keep the consumerism engines turning. You can disguise greed in glittery pink polish and white chocolate bonbons but at its core, it won't change its nature.

And so, he spends St. Valentine’s like he would any other day; gets up at dawn, works until his hands are peeled and his back aches and gets home to eat whatever he has left over. 

It’s a good routine, the most stable one he’s found for himself in years. 

He can't recall a time where the fourteenth of February meant anything at all. 

(Except for that one year that it had.)

But he won't think of withered flowers or laughing kisses or other sweets that have since rotten in his memory. A woman, a child, an apartment downtown.

That is all long gone now. The apartment downtown had gotten expensive, and the child had grown older. The woman had gone long ago and there were no more flowers or kisses or laughter.

It’s all capitalism, it’s all vapid and stupid and childish.

So, Toji Fushiguro doesn’t believe in Valentine’s Day. That is until you come along, knocking on his workshop’s door.

You’re obviously lost, mumbling an inquiry about how much you could get for selling a motorbike you keep referring to as "an old piece of garbage".

He can't help but snicker at your wording, a little chuckle that grows into a full chest laugh when he sees what you’ve dragged to his shop. It’s painfully obvious that this thing isn’t yours.

You keep holding the handlebars with careful hands, sparing few disgusted glances to the vehicle, as if its mere existence wounded you.

He asks how long you’ve had it, and where you got it, and how much you’d like to get. 

You answer back curtly: two years, your ex, nothing as long as you get rid of it.

You seem annoyed just by having to be there and for some unexplainable reason this amuses him to no end. Maybe being surrounded by car engines in a small workshop with no windows is starting to affect him.

“I’ll take it.”

You raise your gaze from the dusty headlight, shocked by his offer.

“You will?”

“Sure thing. You don’t want it, I could use some new parts, I’ll just scrap it.”

You let out a sigh, relieved, and all the tension dissipates from your shoulders.

“Oh, that… well, that would be great! Thank you.”

Your smile makes him stop in his tracks. Pretty and warm and familiar – something dangerous. His head travels back.

After a second that lasts forever, he acknowledges what you've said, grunting as his only response and getting back to the store with you in tow.

“Could I leave it with you now or…?"

“Bring it back next week, I don’t really have a place to put it right now, y’know?”

You look around the place. It’s full of buckets of paint and car parts, no decor but stacks upon stacks of metallic shelves full of objects you can’t recognize. You chuckle awkwardly, seemingly in a better mood after the compromise you've arranged.

“Right, uhm… Actually, I'm not here next week, could I come back tomorrow?”

Toji turns back to stare at you, and for the first time, really sees you. You look young, probably in your mid-twenties, of bright eyes and shiny hair, and that pretty smile that keeps fluttering over your lips. 

He hasn’t done this in a long time… But maybe…

“I close at 10pm today, why don’t you come back then?” he says, closing his fists to stop them from sweating.

Your wondering eyes freeze on him then, and your lips part slightly. He just can't stop staring.  

“But it’s Valentine’s Day. Don’t you have any plans?” you ask, shyly.

“I don’t believe in that crap.”

Shit. That wasn’t supposed to come out like that.

“Oh,” you whisper. You're still grinning up at him, but your expression has lost its warmth, instead replaced by a polite awkwardness and doubtful gaze, and now he's kicking himself in his head.

“Sorry, did that bother you?” he asks, hiding his guilt with a smirk.

“No, not at all!" You laugh, playing with your hands. "I… just, I don’t mind it, I guess.

"I know it's not even a real holiday and that it's merely a product of capitalism, and that it’s all about sales and consumerism and all of that, but… I find it nice, you know? Having a day to be with the people you love…" You look around his shop once, before giving him a shy stare. "It’s sappy, I know.” You end with a shrug, your ears flushed.

Toji doesn’t say anything for a minute, he just breathes and takes it in. 

Oh, he’s grown bitter, hasn’t he? Old and sour. 

His son is out there right now buying flowers with his friends, his coworker is on a date at a fancy place, his one and only friend is buying chocolates for his wife… And he’s here at 5pm, with his hands dirty and his neck sweaty and the prettiest woman he’s seen in a long time in front of him, with no plans for tonight and a lovely smile hidden by a familiar sort of nervousness.

What is wrong with him? Is he truly that fucking stubborn? Can't he deal with a bit of pink?

He’ll admit that he's never minded the chocolates and the roses – even if they aren’t his favorite – and that he always laughs at the cherubs and the cheesy postcards. Of course, he won't talk about how he still hums old 50s songs while he works or how he indulges in a bit of dessert when February rolls around, though.

But he knows. He's always known.

So, maybe it’s not all about the money. Maybe it’s more about being accompanied for once since he was twenty three and alone. Maybe it’s more about taking a shot at getting something good back.

Maybe it's not all capitalism, not all vapid and stupid and childish.

“Yeah… I guess it’s not all that bad.”

“I do like it… sometimes,” you finish, as if completing his train of thought. This hasn't happened to him in a long time. "I’ll be back tonight then…?”

He recovers quickly, smirking briefly before turning to clean his hands with a rag.

“Sure, at 10pm," he says, over his shoulder.

You laugh, cheerful once more, and begin walking to the door.

“It’s a date!”

And, God, he really hopes it can be, if only because it’s Valentine’s Day.

© 2024, MAEBY-CURSED — do not copy/repost/edit.

[meadowmousey]

Modern aesthetic is based on consumerism

Seriously. If you look up like fairycore or Whimsigoth (using these as examples bc i love that vibe) all you will see are items to purchase. Which is what capitalism and consumerism have done to us as a society. We base our identities not off of what we are, but rather what we have. We create profiles for ourselves irl to look like the kind of person that does xyz. It’s made subculture feel hollow and vapid.

I am sososososo sick of this. Let’s not walk the walk, let’s talk the talk too. I want to hear your fairycore playlists. I want to know the activities that make someone that. I want to know what books are whimsigoth. Let’s create an *actual* subculture rather than a fashion trend that will have us throwing our items away in a year.

I’m gonna rb this later with how I’m gonna start defining these particular aesthetics. I want to belong to an actual community of people with a shared interest, not just a shared wardrobe. It should be about so much more than just what we look like! It’s about shared values and thinking. Let’s actually have a philosophy behind this.

*before anyone comes for me, yes clothes and overall look are valid things to have an interest and passion for, and are a big part of aesthetic/subculture, and I love my wardrobe but I want to see more than JUST items! I love fashion but I want to partake in something deeper than simply a micro fashion trend and I feel like subculture lately is really lacking in anything BUT items, but I’m not trying to gatekeep nor tell anyone that they’re not good enough/doing it right! Let’s all be kind to each other plz*

[esmeislewd]

Imagain if there is a secret society of vampires running the world. Slowly encouraging consumerism, pushing fast food, easy at home delivery, stay at home jobs, closing gyms, discouraging critical thinking, all in an effort to make transform humans into livestock.

The vampire society is waiting for the day when humans have become so domesticated they mentally and physically can’t fight back

In the future humans will live on blood farms constantly eating, being kept docile by Ai entertainment, food, and sexual stimulation. Living a pointless life as livestock until they are chosen to be sent to market for a vampire to feast on

Oh god I wish this was real so much you have no idea!!!

Being made so docile and submissive I can't recognise the fact that I'm being used fattened and drained continually to feed my owners too engrossed in my food and vapid entertainment to realise what is happening to me. Living in blissful ignorance as I make myself more vulnerable to their predatory instincts my body and blood being finely and delicately managed to make me prettier and more delectable to them.

Everything I was and could have been slowly melting away as they simplify my life down to a couple of base hedonistic instincts they can manipulate me and keep me compliant until at last I can safely be snatched up and put on the farm where the changes will only accelerate making me a better and better cattle. Until perhaps one day a vampire takes a special liking to me, finding my blood to be exceptionally delicious they buy me out right and take me back to their home. Where they let me sprawl around the house showing off my soft doughy body to guests and servants and allowing a few select friends to feed on me as well, savouring my rich taste~

They'd leave me as a soft, spoilt pet that hardly wants for anything and all she needs to do to maintain this lifestyle is keep eating and don't flinch when they sink their fangs into my soft neck~

[firstsqualler]

just watched tbosas yesterday and one thing i'm still thinking about is how interesting the fashion in the capitol was.

it was so different from the capitol fashion in the original trilogy- much more understated and grounded in reality. I think it shows that at that point, the capitol wasn't nearly as far removed from the districts as it is by the 74th games.

these costumes specifically could be from the 19th/20th century. and while the district citizens continue to dress in a simplistic/vintage style 64 years later, the capitol's changing styles exemplifies their descent into vapid hyper-consumerism.

[duelistkingdom]

wasting all your faith on me

Summary: when you can see all the worst flaws in yourself in someone else, it's easy to hate them. the line between hate and love, however, is just so thin it might as well not even exist.

Rating: M

Ships: Violet Foxglove/Karma Carter

Author’s note: prompt is "mirror" for @sapphic-september. watch out for the suicide idealization and hm. how to phrase this. the entitlement to the body of a celebrity frankly discussed in terms of psychological harm? once again, non canon scene that is testing what works and is a character study.

read on ao3 / support me on kofi (battle city & up supporters get early access) / join my discord (18+)

Violet Foxglove was a mirror to the worst of Hollywood.

She was always hungry, always desperate, and always had a reason why she needed to do what she'd done. Karma could've sworn that she was nothing like Violet, and yet something kept dragging her back. There she was, an impossible beauty draped in jewels and sequins - a testament to consumerism. Whether it was the jewels up for grabs or Violet herself, Karma didn't know. Not that she could say much either. The same event, and Karma was dressed to the nines in brands she had to memorize for when she was asked "who are you wearing" by eager reporters looking for a scoop. All of them were vultures, and they were willing to touch her without any permission asked. This was the world they lived in, and Karma Carter couldn't say that she hated the attention.

Her life was easy because of everything that her mother and father had worked for. Her mother assured her constantly they didn't have to worry about anything, and she believed her. This was who she was. She was elegance and beauty, the new queen that sat at the very top of everything. Karma didn't ask about who came before her. She didn't want to know. If she asked, she'd find out why the crown was rusted with blood. She heard stories, and yet she was still pleased with all she'd managed to achieve in such a short time.

Karma Carter was a mirror of the worst of the modeling industry.

Stick thin, impossibly tall, with sharp angles everywhere. She was vapid, with no thoughts in her head. Violet could've sworn she was nothing like Karma, and yet something kept dragging her back. She pranced across the catwalk with a regal air to her - queen of her own domain, and a testament to consumerism. Whether it was the designer outfits she peddled or Karma herself, Violet didn't know. Not that she could say much either. The cameras flashed, eager to write their little think pieces about how different Violet was now. They grasped at her without any permission asked, eager to come up with their own stories about her. This was the world they lived in, and Violet Foxglove couldn't say she hated the security it provided.

Her family was taken care of, and her sister's school was paid for. She had her reasons, and no one else needed to be privy to them. And it worked out for her, hadn't it? Sure, she had no privacy. Sure, she moved in the shadows to avoid having people stalk and follow her. She twitched when people touched her, treating her like she'd heal their wounds. Didn't they know that she was just as sick as they were? No one worried that maybe she wanted to fling herself off something very tall. She could picture her own guts lining the street, and she wondered who would cheer at the sight.

They were mirrors to each other, but neither of them wanted to see it. Drunk, in the dark, they embraced for the night knowing in the light they'd pretend it never happened. No one needed to know.

[ozmatippetarius]

also think everybody needs to go back and read this passage again

“She’s from Hell,” Charles said drunkenly. “Oh, she’s not that bad,” said Francis. “You just say that because she kisses up to you all the time,” Charles said. “Because of your mother and stuff.” “Kiss up? What are you talking about? Mrs. Corcoran doesn’t kiss up to me.” “She’s awful,” Charles said. “It’s a horrible thing to tell your kids that money’s the only thing in the world, but it’s a disgrace to work for it. Then toss ’em out without a penny. She never gave Bunny one red—” “That’s Mr. Corcoran’s fault, too,” said Camilla. “Well, yeah, maybe. I don’t know. I just never met such a bunch of greedy, shallow people. You look at them and think, oh, what a tasteful, attractive family but they’re just a bunch of zeros, like something from an ad. They’ve got this room in their house,” Charles said, turning to me, “called the Gucci Room.” “What?” “Well, they painted it with a dado, sort of, those awful Gucci stripes. It was in all kinds of magazines. House Beautiful had it in some ridiculous article they did on Whimsy in Decorating or some absurd idea—you know, where they tell you to paint a giant lobster or something on your bedroom ceiling and it’s supposed to be very witty and attractive.” He lit a cigarette. “I mean, that’s exactly the kind of people they are,” he said. “All surface. Bunny was the best of them by a long shot but even he—” “I hate Gucci,” said Francis. “Do you?” said Henry, glancing up from his reverie. “Really? I think it’s rather grand.” “Come on, Henry.” “Well, it’s so expensive, but it’s so ugly too, isn’t it? I think they make it ugly on purpose. And yet people buy it out of sheer perversity.” “I don’t see what you think is grand about that.” “Anything is grand if it’s done on a large enough scale,” said Henry.

Charles mourning how much his dead friend was fucked up by his family’s shallow, loveless treatment of him and their obsession with consumerism, and Francis and Henry interrupting to have their own vapid conversation totally exhibiting the behavior he was condemning, with no self-awareness whatsoever: this is the TSH experience.

[anthrotographer]

Challengers (2024) | A review w/ spoilers*

Tumblr is not going to like my review, I already know. I acknowledge this movie wasn't made for me, but I feel I give credit where it's due.

Last night I had a staggering movie going experience. I felt like I was being sold a lie a minute sitting through the agonizing commercials, the movie previews, and till the end of Challengers. Back to back promos for military branches, painting them as organizations of peace and innovation (a rally during war time). I understand there’s nothing new about that experience. Consumerism and propaganda tactics have a long tradition at the cinema. We’ve been advertised a false reality for so long it’s hard to think about our world without using the images fed to us to line that canvas. Take how modern horror treats rural living. It’s very common to see (in fact I saw) a movie trailer where a young couple vacations in a secluded part of the country to get away from it all. The idea of ruralism as a peaceful alternative to stressful urban living is benign and actually has some merit to think about in a country as urbanized and unhappy as ours. Yet the common movie trope is that there are evil forces lurking in the dark outskirts, that living ‘out there’ turns people into kooks or murderous cultists. One movie by itself with this premise can be harmless, but within a whole genre that trends this way it feels insidious. Almost like we are supposed to all fear each other. Challengers is another example of a genre movie that warps human reality into a lifeless opportunity to sell things. 

When a movie feels more like a commercial or a music video then why even bother with the movie going experience. The distinguishers between television and film are fading away over time. In one particularly unabashed scene we cut between three different product placements for Coke, Adidas, and the U.S. Open. It was shameless, the way Josh O’Connor was most likely told to hold that CocaCola label perfectly centered in the frame. Those three brands are far from the only ones displayed. Tennis, and sports events in general, flash a ton of advertising so I understand that the film’s stuck in that universe. Still there are ways to artfully sidestep brazen product placement. 

I don’t want to spend much time trying to analyze the relationship between Tashi, Art and Patrick. The film doesn’t give you enough about why these three are fatefully attached to each other besides vapid attractions. Yes all three are enamored by one another but what’s the motivation to stay in this toxic ménage à trois dynamic for so long? Zendaya plays Tashi, a master manipulator trying to mold her husband Art Donaldson into the star tennis player she was supposed to be before her injury. And her “little white boys” Art and Patrick feel like pawns that are content to be pawns. Men who don’t have any freewill and are solely motivated by their lust for this supermodel of a woman. In a way I don’t blame them. My disconnect comes because there’s a lack of depth with the characters and their relationships. Each of them seems to have a singular focus; Tashi wants vicarious glory through Art, Art wants to be loved, and Patrick wants Art’s life. But there is no depth to the desires. Time is never spent on why Tashi loves tennis more than people or why Art and Pat let their, supposedly strong bond, get broken so easily by a “home wrecker” that forecasted her own home wrecking. And look, as a seductive art piece it succeeds, for the most part, but as a story about real people it reduces its characters to their base desires while pretending they are complex. Maybe I don’t understand Romance—as I’ve been told. I am content to treat it as just a romantic fantasy and give it credit for being hot, but it was also a long drawn out tease. 

There was no reason for this experience to be more than two hours long! Half of it was in never ending slow-mo where I felt like the same tennis ball was being served for half an hour. The dreaded slow motion, which can be good for a sporty movie to capture athletic movements and build suspense, but here it was overused to a point where it left us thinking “get on with it already”.  Thank goodness some of my theater neighbors were also moaning about this because I felt alone, trapped in a drugged fugue state. So much of the film was disorienting. For a period you are meant to feel like a tennis ball being battered around through the camera. Editing wise this movie had the same problem that so many modern movies have; death from a thousand cuts. And the slowly unraveling chopped timeline executed so many arbitrary flashbacks and flash forwards. Eight weeks before, two days forward, then a five year flashback, all when you could tell this story sequentially with similar suspense building and less confusion. 

Seeing this movie was a spur of the moment, going in blind experience. I know now that I was not the target audience. Today I mentioned it to a friend and he ended up watching the trailer. The text I got back: “looked like a bit of a teenager movie”. I don’t mean to spoil the enjoyment for anyone with this review. From a certain angle I did have fun with Challengers. Sometimes simply devouring some eye candy is what the mood demands. 

If you found my writing at all interesting please visit and follow it on Substack!

[holdoncallfailed]

idk it's weird to me because barbie was an extremely politically-charged figure for me growing up because i understood that she represented an ideal of femininity that i didn't see reflected in any of the real women in my life and i knew that she was associated with vapidity based on various parodies, the barbie girl aqua song, etc. i was always gravely offended when someone who didn't know me well gave me a barbie doll because i didn't want to be thought of as girly (even tho i wore pink and purple and dresses and liked lisa frank and didn't like roughhousing etc.) and therefore shallow or unintelligent, which i recognize was due to internalized misogyny, but i didn't make that association out of nowhere.

that's why i'm so baffled by people saying "all movies are selling a product this is no different" because barbie has ALWAYS been the locus of culture clashes because she has ALWAYS been first and foremost intended for little girls. the obvious angle of the film is going against the mainstream understanding of barbie as a symbol of superficial consumerism by literally turned her into a real woman, that's why it's intriguing. so obviously the marketing for the film is implicitly if not explicitly hinging on the idea of female empowerment through consumerism. and these products are geared toward adults, who have way more disposable income than children but are also ostensibly better equipped to resist commercialism and yet here we are. like surely you are not all this dense

[vaulttecvevo]

i fully understand (not endorse) consumerism now the lives of the full time employed are so vapid and boring id love to buy a bluetooth enabled umbrella just to feel smth

[machine-saint]

the thing about "cringe culture", like any sufficiently slippery term with a negative connotation, is it's very easy to just redefine it to exclude things you personally approve of. making fun of people who like marvel movies or funko pops isn't cringe culture, it's criticizing vapid consumerism (unlike my personal collection hobbies). the fact that the way i express that criticism is basically indistinguishable from soyface wojak CONSOOM memes is pure coincidence, I assure you

(and of course the counterpart is drawing anything you don't like into the circle so you can say "it's cringe culture and therefore bad". you can criticize funko pops for the same-y aesthetics and the just overall weird design! you can talk about bad CG in marvel movies or the bizarre politics! just don't act like your own personal tastes are unimpeachable and that liking bad things is a character flaw.)

[pierre-priestly]

The Tiresome Truth About Trends

By Pierre Priestly

Another season, another barrage of supposedly "must-have" looks and accessories bombarding us from all angles. The relentless cycle of fashion trends and consumer culture has me utterly fatigued. When did it become acceptable - enviable, even - to mindlessly chase after each new fad like lemmings obediently gulping down the latest "It" product?

This disturbing lack of individuality and inability to think for oneself makes me want to cancel my subscriptions and burn every magazine that hits my desk. How many faux pas-filled celebrity looks and cringeworthy street style galleries can we possibly consume before recognizing the vapid excess for what it is?

The fashion world used to be a brilliant bastion of exclusivity and taste-making prestige. Visionaries like the iconoclastic Elsa Schiaparelli rejected boring conformity in favor of avant-garde sophistication and magnificent whimsy. Her iconic Surrealist collaborations with artists like Dali and ingenious abstruse designs - like the beautiful Lobster dress and Skeleton sweater - redefined modern chic as something wildly imaginative yet supremely cultivated.

That singularity of creative brilliance has tragically become all too rare. We've become a culture enslaved by newness for newness' sake - addicted to the adrenaline hit of fevered hype and perpetual want for more, more, more. And for what? A fleeting high that dissipates into self-disgust and emptiness as soon as the next big trend hits the scene? I think not.

While the breathless herd chases after each passing novelty, the true fashion greats understood something more profound: The art of cultivating a signature aesthetic that transcends temporal vagaries. Like when Hubert de Givenchy brought rarefied elegance and modern glamour to his sculpted, minimalist creations for muse Audrey Hepburn. Their discreet sophistication has far outlasted the momentary blips on fashion's radar.

Even the house of Prada - built on the avant-garde conceptualism and progressive feminist spirit of Miuccia's anti-status nylon handbag - has managed to retain uncommon dignity and intelligence amid industry hoopla season after season. While others flit about chasing ephemera, Prada has stood for something greater.

My dears, isn't it time we awoke from this materialistic trance and reclaimed our discerning taste and sense of self-respect? When you find yourself coveting an "It" item or look solely because the echo chamber of social media and fast fashion has manufactured a frenzy around it, pause. Ask yourself: Does this piece inspire true sartorial artistry the way an iconic Schiaparelli design or Armani masterwork does? Or am I simply chasing windswept vagaries and momentum for momentum's sake?

It's a question to which the answers may prove quite unflattering at times. The truth often is. But I have far more respect for those brave enough to think for themselves - to forge an identity of substance over hollow want-mongering and wanton consumerism.

The path of individuality and self-actualization is arduous and unending, but taking the road more discernible is a matter of self-respect. It starts by canceling the noise and rediscovering what you truly hold dear.

So I'll leave you with this: What trite trends and ill-advised impulse buys are no longer serving you? Let today mark a renaissance of reverence for true style over senseless materialism. Discern what is built to endure and inspire like the creations of Schiaparelli, Prada and Armani. Only then can you ascend from the incessant thirst trap of consumerist trends. Who's with me?

[brd6147]

i present to the construction executive a floor plan of a mall designed with the sole purpose of trapping its patrons in an endless maze of vapid corporate consumerism and manipulative advertisement. he shakes my hand, and then calls his security to toss me into the mall's farthest reaches so that i can never reveal to the world that his wife bore a monstrous half-man-half-bull which he has also trapped in the mall with me and is using as a means of execution for captured citizens from our rival commercial district

[princeescaluswords]

Re: the unreliable narrator theory in your post about Scott/Allison, I hadn’t come across it before in this fandom, so I did a little digging and wow! Curious what you think about fandom fights borne out of writing devices (Scott/Derek framing you mentioned), cliches/tropes (Scott/Stiles’ many communication mishaps), and errors (timeline mistakes, the infamous 6x20 line). Wild how much energy is wasted arguing about things that are more about the writing process than the characters themselves.

Not to be too contrary, but I don't think the energy is wasted at all. I think these particular arguments are well worth having as many times as necessary. To me, the only logical and functional response when being confronted by toxic culture is to take a stand against it. I'm not trying to imply that everyone should do what I'm doing. Far from it, but I have the background, I have the interest, I have the time, and I have something to say. There's no reason for me not to argue against these particular fandom behaviors.

And, let me be perfectly clear, there are few clearer examples of toxic fandom culture than the "Scott McCall is an Unreliable Narrator" meta. In the great sweep of the United States cultural experience, it's not particularly significant, but it is real. It embodies the privilege, shallowness and dissipation of an all-devouring consumerism.

That sounds pretty grandiose, so I owe an explanation. Art, music, and literature, which contains and is contained by media, is about the experience of change. Even the simplest Tin-Pan Alley song had the purpose of eliciting a shift in its listener's emotional state. It made the audience happy or it made the audience sad. From this we get phrases like "it moved me," which requires us to be the subject. In contrast, consumerism rests all power in the audience; the audience is entitled pick apart media for only what they desire, avoid art that makes them feel uncomfortable, or narrow their music to one or two particular artists or genres. They control the act of experiencing media to the point where it no longer changes them; they are empowered to change it.

The problem, of course, is that this can lead to exploitation. It can lead to a numbing self-focus that prevents a member of the audience from a reaction they weren't already expecting. For example, how many times have you witnessed the audience's reaction to a new show or movie with "which two white guys can I imagine kissing each other?" Anything else that the media might want to express is ignored, or more damagingly, discarded.

And that brings us back to the meta. When the audience heard the line from The Wolves of War (6x20), "I'm gonna tell you a story. Maybe it'll sound familiar," they didn't feel the need to try to make it fit with everything else was they had watched on the screen. Instead, led by a corrupt and vapid BNF, they used it to support the same position that they had held since 2011 -- one that has never wavered -- that the show could not possibly have a Latino as a protagonist. It didn't matter that the line actually fits much more comfortably into the production's constant use of recursion (from the symbols for revenge, the pack symbols, the way that Derek was "a lot like Scott" and that Liam is also "a lot like Scott", that the Nogitsune's attack was "all this had happened before" that the Doctors "how many people died the first time they came here", etc., etc., etc.) because that would force them to look at the story in a way they weren't interested in. Instead, they twisted it into evidence for the conclusion they wanted in the first place.

Ever notice that so many people say that they love Eternal Sterek and they much prefer their fabricated fandom alternative than the actual show. "Eternal" is a good word, because it's the same thing again and again and again and again, violent white men being the ultimate focus of the story, in a bland repetition of the last ten television series they've watched. And because of consumer privilege, they never have to confront the flaws in their "Scott is an Unreliable Narrator" meta. And, oh boy, does it have flaws.

There's no payoff. If we're supposed to view the show through the lens that Scott's telling us these stories to make himself look better, where's the reveal? Where's our "Rosebud is a sled!" moment? There isn't any. Not in the series; not in the movie. It's not like the show got canceled out of the blue. It is only logical, only sane, that if the whole idea of the show was an unreliable narration, there would be a moment where the truth is confirmed. Unless you actually think that the production, the actors, the studio would spend millions of dollars and SEVEN YEARS and never ever pull the curtain aside. What an elaborate, expensive, and fundamentally unfunny practical joke that would be.

It destroys the themes of the show. As a bildungsroman, Teen Wolf tackled ideas about not allowing trauma to control your actions, the importance of knowledge, and the responsibility you have to your family and friends. It should be obvious to the casual observer because Scott's embodiment of compassion, resilience, and resistance to the corruption of others serve as the signifiers of these themes. If it was all unreliable narration, than nothing that happens really matters in terms of what growing up is like. It would be all delusion.

It's f*cking racist (and sexist). Have you ever noticed that the application of Unreliable Narrator Scott only works in certain specific directions? In these interpretations, Scott is always worse than what the narrative shows, but so is Deaton, Melissa, Rafael, Braeden, the Yukimuras, and Allison. Scott's twisted perception tends to make characters of color and female characters better than they truly are (according to the fandom). Conversely, the interpretation of Unreliable Narration always seems to say that the white male characters are better than what the production actually showed. Even though Narrator Scott has hope for Peter, he is always more noble and justified when freed from Scott's lens. Even though Narrator Scott tries to protect Derek, in the interpretations Scott denies Derek his true position by usurping him. Even though Narrator Scott loves the Stilinskis, Stiles is always capable of far more, and the deluded protagonist misses it. And yet, no matter how much hope, faith, and love the Unreliable Narrator Scott had for these white male character, there is never an interpretation where that hope, faith and love is misplaced. It's always, instead, inadequate.

The Unreliable Narrator Meta, no matter how you look it, is Invalid. It is inconsistently applied, illogical in its consequences, and completely in servitude to a gargantuan confirmation bias. And yet, fandom culture loves it, because it reinforces the consumerism that has hollowed out United States cultural practice.