Tag: film

Perceptual Realism in Film

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3–4 minutes

I watched this video so you don’t have to.

Video: Why Movies Just Don’t Feel “Real” Anymore

Only teasing. It reads as pejorative unless you catch the self-inflicted mockery baked in. This chap Tom has for film what I seem to have for language: an alarming degree of enthusiasm paired with the creeping suspicion that most of civilisation is determined to ruin the very medium we love.

I don’t actually share his fondness for film, mind you. I merely recognise the feral passion. What pulled me into this clip wasn’t cinema but dissection. The language of his breakdown dropped me neatly into my natural habitat.

I seldom watch films, television, or whatever corporate imagination-by-committee is calling itself these days. Besides being an outrageous time-sink, Sturgeon’s Law doesn’t just hold; it’s juiced up as if someone ran it through a cheap VFX plug-in. The decline in visual quality Tom describes feels depressingly familiar.

A similar aesthetic rot crept in during the digital audio shift of the ’80s. Vast new possibilities, yes, but a certain grain, a certain breath, went missing. I remember an engineering mate in ’84 being asked to record a well-known jazz artist using Sony’s shiny new digital system. He refused on technical principle, writing a blistering hand-delivered letter explaining why the end result would sound worse. He was right, of course. The label didn’t care, of course. And he walked.

The problem then resembles the problem now. Most people aren’t experiencing media in the environment it was built for. We consume films on phones, tablets, monstrous living-room billboards, or, in my case, a knackered 32-inch monitor. Half the audience barely looks at the screen anyway. They want distraction, not discernment. Some, like Tom – and to a lesser degree, me – actually notice that something in the visual vocabulary has been quietly amputated.

Perhaps that’s why I avoid the form: the predictability, the shallow craft, the sense that the whole affair is engineered for attention-drifting multitudes rather than people who actually, well, look.

Anyway, the whole point was to share the video. Naturally, I ended up editorialising. I learnt something from it. You might too.

I promise I won’t continue injecting Claude into the conversation, but this is where my brain went as I watched the linked video:

How might the indexicality of Charles Peirce relate to Galen Strawson’s notion of episodic self-identity?

Thought Process

This is an interesting philosophical question that connects two different thinkers and concepts. Let me think through this carefully.

Charles Peirce’s indexicality refers to his theory of indexical signs – signs that point to or indicate their objects through a direct, existential connection (like “this,” “here,” “now,” “I”). These are part of his broader semiotics, where he distinguished between icons, indexes, and symbols.

Galen Strawson’s notion of episodic self-identity relates to his work on the phenomenology of the self. Strawson distinguishes between “Diachronic” and “Episodic” self-experience. Diachronic individuals experience themselves as continuous over time, with a narrative extending into past and future. Episodic individuals (like Strawson claims to be) experience themselves more in terms of discrete, present-centered episodes, without a strong sense of narrative continuity.

How might these relate?

  1. The indexical “I”: Peirce’s indexicality is crucial for how the “I” functions. The first-person pronoun is paradigmatically indexical – it picks out the speaker/thinker in the moment of utterance. For Strawson’s episodic self, each moment’s “I” might be more purely indexical, pointing to the present subject without necessarily carrying thick narrative continuity.
  2. Temporal indexicals: “Now” is also indexical. Episodic self-experience emphasizes the “now” of experience over temporal extension. The indexical nature of present-tense self-reference might support episodic rather than diachronic self-conception.
  3. Existential connection vs narrative construction: Indexical signs work through direct, causal-existential connection, not through resemblance or convention. Similarly, episodic self-experience might be more immediately indexical (this experience, now) rather than mediated through narrative construction.

This is a sophisticated question that deserves a nuanced response.

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Written by Bry Willis

microglyphics

Metamodernism: A Postmodern Critique

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The genesis of the Modernity Worldview Survey was Metamodernism. Is this still a thing? In recent years, metamodernism has emerged as a supposed successor to postmodernism, claiming to transcend the seemingly irreconcilable tensions between modernist sincerity and postmodern irony. Yet, upon closer examination, this framework reveals itself not as a genuine paradigm shift but rather as a modernist invention that fails to escape the very critiques it attempts to address.

Video: Introduction to Modernity Worldview Survey concepts

The Modernist Roots of Metamodernism

Despite its claims of oscillation between poles, metamodernism betrays its modernist underpinnings through its implicit teleology and notion of progress. The very framing of “meta” as beyond or transcending suggests a linear progression that is fundamentally at odds with the postmodern rejection of grand narratives. Metamodernism positions itself as forward-moving whilst attempting to recapture elements of premodernity, revealing an anxiety about being perceived as regressive or naive.

Podcast: Audio version of this content

This desire to have it both ways—to acknowledge the constructed nature of meaning whilst still pursuing transcendent meaning—doesn’t represent a resolution so much as a psychological coping mechanism. The cognitive dissonance created by attempting to simultaneously hold contradictory positions is assuaged through a clever rhetorical move: claiming that oscillation itself is the point.

A Rebranding Exercise

What metamodernism presents as novel is ultimately a recombination of elements from premodern, modern, and postmodern frameworks without resolving their fundamental contradictions. Rather than being mutually exclusive from these earlier paradigms, it cherry-picks aspects of each whilst maintaining the basic ontological framework of modernism.

The notion that one can meaningfully “oscillate” between accepting objective and subjective realities is particularly problematic. Either reality has objective features, or it doesn’t—pretending otherwise doesn’t create a new philosophical paradigm but rather a convenient means of avoiding the implications of either position.

Postmodern Irony in Motion

Perhaps the most intriguing interpretation of metamodernism is not as a sincere attempt to move beyond postmodernism but as postmodernism performing its own critique. Viewed through this lens, metamodernism becomes postmodern irony in motion—a knowing wink at the impossibility of escaping construction whilst performatively engaging with the desire to do so.

The irony deepens when we consider that “postmodernism” itself is essentially an externally imposed label rather than a self-identification. Most thinkers characterised as postmodernists reject the label, which functions primarily as a modernist attempt to categorise and contain ideas that fundamentally challenge its frameworks.

Art vs. Philosophy

Where metamodernism succeeds is as a descriptive label for certain artistic and cultural productions that deliberately play in the space between irony and sincerity. Works like David Foster Wallace’s “Infinite Jest,” the television series “BoJack Horseman,” and Wes Anderson’s films effectively combine postmodern techniques with sincere emotional engagement.

However, what works as an artistic sensibility fails as a comprehensive philosophical framework or moral compass. The oscillation that enriches art becomes paralysing when applied to ethics or ontology. A moral framework requires some stable reference points; constantly shifting between believing in objective moral truths and viewing morality as entirely constructed provides no reliable guide for actual decision-making.

Insider vs. Outsider Perspectives

Like religious frameworks that balance literal and metaphorical interpretations, metamodernism may function as a lived experience for those who embrace it, even if it doesn’t hold up to external philosophical scrutiny. The cognitive manoeuvres that appear as tricks or inconsistencies to outsiders often feel like natural, intuitive ways of navigating complexity to those within the system.

This insider/outsider divide recalls Thomas Nagel’s famous “What Is It Like to Be a Bat?” (PDF) thought experiment—there may be experiential aspects of inhabiting a metamodern worldview that aren’t fully comprehensible from the outside. Yet this doesn’t invalidate external critique; inconsistencies and contradictions still matter philosophically.

Conclusion: Beyond Labels

Perhaps the most postmodern insight is recognising that we cannot escape having an ideology—even a position of having no ideology is itself an ideology. What distinguishes various approaches isn’t whether they have ideologies but how explicitly they acknowledge them, how consistently they apply them, and how willing they are to subject them to revision.

Metamodernism, for all its aspirations to transcend earlier frameworks, ultimately reveals more about our contemporary psychological condition than it offers as a coherent philosophical position. It captures our desire to maintain meaning in a world where we’ve recognised its contingency—a desire that may be fundamentally human, even if philosophically untenable.

Rather than seeking yet another “-ism” to resolve our existential and philosophical tensions, perhaps we might more honestly confront the limitations and partialities of all our frameworks, recognising that the search for a perfect synthesis may itself be a modernist fantasy.

Refeshing, Žižek

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What a relief. After trudging through a couple of so-called ‘popular’ books, it’s refreshing to read something that actually reflects the complexity of reality.

The first essay in Slavoj Žižek’s Against Progress is titled Progress and Its Vicissitudes. It opens with a nod to the opening scene of The Prestige, directed by Christopher Nolan. But Žižek, as always, takes it further. He unearths something far more sinister in the magician’s sleight of hand—something unsettlingly perceptible to the young girl who witnesses the trick.

Life isn’t always what it seems on the surface. It isn’t as neat or digestible as our perceptions make it out to be. Žižek embarks on a scathing critique of the concept of progress, dismantling its conventional interpretations and exposing the often-overlooked consequences that lurk beneath its glossy exterior. He unravels the paradoxes and failures inherent in the notion of progress, urging readers to rethink their blind faith in the idea of a linear march towards a utopian future.

Defining ‘progress,’ he argues, is akin to laying claim to the future. But whose future? And at what cost? He interrogates the competing visions that shape human possibility, questioning whether, in the face of our cascading ecological, social, and political crises, things can actually improve—and what ‘better’ even means. He skewers various ideologies—neoliberalism, populism, and the self-improvement industrial complex—for their roles in manipulating and distorting the very concept of progress.

From a postmodernist perspective, Žižek’s analysis aligns with the scepticism towards grand narratives and universal truths that define postmodern thought. He deconstructs the monolithic idea of progress, revealing it as a construct that conveniently conceals underlying power structures and exclusions. By exposing the ‘squashed dead birds’—the inevitable collateral damage of progress—he underscores just how arbitrary and manufactured our notions of advancement really are.

Moreover, Žižek’s critique echoes the postmodernist fixation on desire, denial, and disavowal. He examines how different visions of progress systematically exclude or sacrifice certain elements and how these dynamics manifest across cultural phenomena, from Hollywood blockbusters to decolonisation movements. His analysis reinforces the postmodernist conviction that meanings are never fixed—they are fluid, contested, and often riddled with contradiction.

In the end, Against Progress is not just a critique—it’s an invitation. An invitation to abandon the comforting illusion of an inevitable march towards something better and to face the messy, contingent reality of human existence head-on.

When Hollywood Tried to Cheer Up Less Than Zero and Missed the Point Entirely

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Let’s talk about Less Than Zero. No, not the film. I’m talking about the book—Bret Easton Ellis’s nihilistic masterpiece that drags you through a moral cesspit of 1980s Los Angeles. You might remember it as the story that makes American Psycho look like a quirky self-help guide. It’s dark, it’s bleak, and it doesn’t pretend to offer you a shred of hope.

And then there’s the movie adaptation.

Oh, the movie. It’s as though someone read Ellis’s unflinching tale of moral rot and thought, You know what this needs? Friendship. And a redemption arc. And maybe some heartfelt music in the background. Hollywood, in all its infinite wisdom, decided that audiences couldn’t handle the book’s existential despair. So, they took a story about the void—about the emptiness of privilege, the suffocation of apathy, and the complete erosion of human connection—and gave it a fuzzy moral centre.

Here’s the gist: The book is nihilism incarnate. It follows Clay, a disaffected college student who comes home to LA for Christmas and is immediately swallowed whole by a world of cocaine, vapid socialites, and casual cruelty. No one learns anything. No one grows. In fact, the whole point is that these characters are so morally bankrupt, so irreparably hollow, that they’re beyond redemption. If you’re looking for a happy ending, don’t bother—Ellis leaves you stranded in the abyss, staring into the void, wondering if there’s any point to anything. Spoiler: there’s not.

Then along comes the 1987 film, directed by Marek Kanievska. It keeps the names of the characters—Clay, Blair, Julian—but not much else. Instead of being an icy observer of LA’s decadence, Clay is transformed into a love-struck saviour. Blair, a passive figure in the novel, becomes a supportive girlfriend. And Julian—oh, poor Julian—is turned into a sacrificial lamb for the sake of a heartfelt narrative about friendship and second chances.

The film turns Less Than Zero into an anti-drug PSA. It’s basically Nancy Reagan Presents: a story of addiction, redemption, and the power of love, wrapped in a slick 80s aesthetic. Robert Downey Jr., to his credit, gives a brilliant performance as Julian, the doomed addict. But the character is barely recognisable compared to his literary counterpart. In the book, Julian’s descent into drug-fuelled depravity isn’t a cautionary tale—it’s just another symptom of a world where nothing and no one has any value. In the film, Julian is tragic, yes, but in a way that invites sympathy and, crucially, an attempt at salvation.

Let’s not forget the ending. The novel ends on a note so cold it could freeze your soul: Clay leaves Los Angeles, unchanged, unbothered, and unmoved. The film, however, concludes with Clay and Blair driving off into the sunset, having vowed to turn their lives around. It’s saccharine. It’s pandering. It’s the cinematic equivalent of slapping a motivational poster over a painting by Francis Bacon.

Why did Hollywood do this? Simple: nihilism doesn’t sell. You can’t slap it on a movie poster and expect audiences to line up at the box office. People want catharsis, not existential despair. And so, the filmmakers gutted Less Than Zero of its soul (or lack thereof), replacing its stark nihilism with a hopeful narrative about the power of human connection.

Here’s the kicker, though: by doing this, the film completely misses the point of Ellis’s novel. Less Than Zero is a critique of LA’s shallow, soulless culture—a world where connection is impossible because no one feels anything. Turning it into a feel-good story about saving a friend from addiction is not just a betrayal; it’s downright laughable. It’s like adapting 1984 into a rom-com where Winston and Julia overthrow Big Brother and live happily ever after.

To be fair, the film isn’t bad—if you forget the source material exists. It’s well-acted, stylishly shot, and undeniably entertaining. But as an adaptation, it’s a travesty. It’s Ellis’s Less Than Zero with all the edges sanded down, the grit scrubbed clean, and a shiny coat of sentimentality slapped on top.

So, if you’ve read the book and thought, Wow, that was bleak—I wonder if the movie is any lighter?, the answer is yes, but not in a good way. It’s lighter because it’s hollowed out, stripped of its existential weight, and repackaged as something safe and digestible.

And if you haven’t read the book? Do yourself a favour: skip the movie, pour yourself a stiff drink, and dive into Ellis’s bleak masterpiece. Just don’t expect any warm, fuzzy feelings—it’s called Less Than Zero for a reason.

What Still Remains

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I haven’t done any film reviews, and I’m not about to start now. I’ve just watched What Still Remains on Netflix.

People become their own kind of monster.

What Still Remains Film Trailer

This is decent post-apocalyptic fare, some catalyst, societies, competing factions, good versus evil, at least in the eyes of the devout. But that’s not what I am going to be writing about.

What still remains contains good writing and strong character development. It does over-employ tropes, but this seems to be the norm these days: modular writing; rearranging the Lego pieces to make something that appears fresh. So what do I have to say?

Spoiler Alert: Proceed with caution…

This is a perfect depiction of the problems with property rights and social contract theory. There are apparently 3 factions—4 if you count independents.

Anna

Initially, there were the Changed, never seen on screen and perhaps not even contemporaneous to the current period, though they may reside in the unseen cities. Anna, the protagonist, and her family are among the independent. Peter, a preacher from the ordained, holier than thou faction. In the realm of ‘if you’re not with me (and our God), you’re against me, thence evil’, they are the arbiters of all that is good. And then there are the Berserkers, as named by the Ordained. To the Ordained, Berserkers aspire to be Changed, but the Berserkers view themselves more along the line of Spartans: Pain is good.

Peter

All scenes are shot in the wilderness, but the various factions have staked property claims with wide perimeters. The penalty for trespass appears to usually involve death of the offending party—or at least a hefty fee. This is Hobbes’ ‘solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short’ life outside of society quip, though he didn’t exactly account for a class of societies despite this being common in his day.

Berserker

So, these factions don’t actually have property rights; what they have is a notion of property, and they defend it with violence, as is a necessary condition for all property. In so-called modern societies, the violence is obfuscated much in the same manner that supermarkets obscure the carnage behind the meat. It’s still there; it’s just at arm’s length. Violate one of these ‘rights’, and you’ll see the violence inherent in the system.

And then there’s social contract theory—or the gaping flaw in the logic. Anna is an independent, but one can only be as independent as the ability to defend their independence. It’s sort of like contract law. If you can afford to defend a contract, you are entitled to having it enforced.

Redact intellectual property rant.

Anna doesn’t particularly want to belong to either faction, who have divided their world into two pieces in the same manner that, say, Britain and Scotland might have. If you happen to be born there through some loin lottery, you pretty much have to choose a side. Given Sartre’s no excuses policy, you can choose neither; it just won’t bode well for you. You’ve got no real choice.

Social Choice Theory

In Anna’s eyes, upon the death of her mother and brother, she is persuaded with reluctance to return with Peter to his community, a God-fearing bunch. Her mum had indoctrinated her into this cult of God through bible readings, so she was primed for the eventuality. Some independent interlopers attempted to block their return journey by claiming trespass, so Peter summarily offed them rather than paying their ransom—a fee Anna has been willing to tender.

When the two finally reached the sanctuary, Anna quickly realised that she had no say in the matter: she was either a (good) member or (an evil) dead. To reiterate, this is an underlying problem with social contract theory. There is no exit clause.

Side Bar: Some have argued that the cost of coerced—though they’d never use this term—participation and compliance is owed to the greater good. There is no reason given why this is preferred or across which dimensions better is being assessed—or good for that matter—, so don’t ask. Long live Jeremy Bentham and John Stuart Mill with a hat tip to David Hume.

“The first man who, having fenced in a piece of land, said “This is mine,” and found people naïve enough to believe him, that man was the true founder of civil society.

From how many crimes, wars, and murders, from how many horrors and misfortunes might not any one have saved mankind, by pulling up the stakes, or filling up the ditch, and crying to his fellows: Beware of listening to this impostor; you are undone if you once forget that the fruits of the earth belong to us all, and the earth itself to nobody.”

Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Discourse on the Origin of Inequality

Hobbes, Locke, and Rousseau each approached social contracts from their own perspectives, but it may be interesting to note that each was a privileged white male of his day. Sure, Hobbes was a monarchist, and Rousseau was the Thoreau of his day, a nostalgist, but he like the others were beneficiaries of the status quo, save perhaps at the margins.

Anna thought she had sovereignty over her choices. In the end, the plot line prevailed, but then again, this was just a movie, so even her choices were scripted.

Calvin & Hobbes