Perceptual Realism in Film

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:

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.

The Greatest Loss in American History: Donald Trump Wins (And Loses) the Presidency

I couldn’t resist posting this unedited from ChatGPT. Here’s what led to it: I just finished Mark Fisher’s Capitalist Realism. Fisher mentioned the 1974 Warren Beatty film The Parallax View. I generally don’t connect well with film or video as media, but I stashed the title in my memory. A few hours later, I read an article mentioning the film, with the claim, “Of everything lost in the age of streaming, no film genre casualty is as regrettable — or as ripe for a comeback — as the paranoid political thriller.”

Rather than trying to enjoy the film as a whole, I decided to concentrate on the plot and meta-massaging. As expected, I didn’t like the movie, but I understand why Fisher mentioned it. It renders rather like a weak tea version of a Kafka story. Unlike more contemporary fare, it’s a classic work of postmodernism, having no resolution.

After watching it, I engaged with Rotten Tomatoes and IMDB for reviews and context before prompting ChatGPT.

Asking about the film itself, this was the tail end of its response:

Then I asked what Žižek thought about it, but it turns out that he had written about a book with the same title. When I asked about Fisher, it:

Finally, I posed this query: I recently read Capitalist Realism. Although penned during the 2007-08 financial meltdown and released in 2009, it feels as relevant today as then. In fact, it seems to have foreshadowed the time between.

It’s reply is this post—and without further comment…


And so, history lurches forward with all the grace of a three-legged cow on roller skates. Donald J. Trump, the billionaire reality TV star turned political apocalypse, has once again won the presidential vote of the United States of America—only to lose the presidency to Kamala Harris. If that sentence gave you an aneurysm, congratulations, you’re now officially in 2025.

How did we get here? More importantly, why does this make absolutely no sense? Ah, but sense, dear reader, is an antiquated relic of a bygone era, much like democracy, coherent election results, and the idea that facts matter.

A Triumph for the Ages (Sort of)

Let’s be clear: Donald Trump won the popular vote. That’s what his supporters will scream into the void—or at least into their social media echo chambers where dissent is met with a virtual Second Amendment response. The red-capped faithful, still clutching their tattered “Stop the Steal” banners from the last electoral circus, are convinced that this was finally their moment of redemption.

Except, well… he lost.

Enter Kamala Harris, the political equivalent of cold toast, somehow managing to slide into the Oval Office despite Trump’s “win.” The courts, the states, the Electoral College, and whatever eldritch horror lurks beneath the Capitol all conspired—again!—to keep The Donald out of power. Or so the narrative goes.

The Electoral College Strikes Again

Ah, the Electoral College. America’s favourite 18th-century fever dream. Once again, this labyrinthine system of delegate-wrangling has managed to produce a result that defies logic, mathematics, and possibly the laws of physics. Trump, against all odds (and against, presumably, some very sweaty legal advisors), has pulled off the impossible: winning while losing.

Some claim voter suppression, others cry fraud, and a few brave souls are out there trying to explain complex election mechanics to an audience that still thinks “covfefe” was a divine prophecy. But the reality is simpler: Trump, like a political Schrödinger’s cat, is simultaneously victorious and defeated. He has transcended the normal bounds of electoral outcomes, achieving a state of quantum presidency, neither fully here nor fully gone.

What Happens Next?

Riots? Lawsuits? A new line of Trump-branded commemorative “I Won Again!” hats? Place your bets, because at this stage, America is basically one large, over-budget reality show and no one knows what the next episode holds.

For Kamala Harris, the challenge is clear: govern a nation where half the country believes she stole the election, and the other half is still googling “How does the Electoral College work?” As for Trump, he will do what he does best—declare victory, launch a thousand lawsuits, and, inevitably, turn the entire thing into a business opportunity.

And so, dear reader, the United States stumbles forward, democracy battered but still standing, a house divided but too stubborn to fall. Until next time, buckle up—it’s going to be a hell of a ride.

The Relativity of Morality: A Penguin’s Tale

I recently watched The Penguin on HBO Max, a series set in DC’s Batman universe. Ordinarily, I avoid television – especially the superhero genre – but this one intrigued me. Less spandex, more mob drama. An origin story with a dash of noir. I’ll spare you spoilers, but suffice it to say that it was an enjoyable detour, even for someone like me who prefers philosophy over fistfights.

This post isn’t a review, though. It’s a springboard into a larger idea: morality’s subjectivity – or, more precisely, its relativity.

Audio: Spotify podcast related to this topic.

Morality in a Vacuum

Morality, as I see it, is a social construct. You might carry a private moral compass, but without society, it’s about as useful as a clock on a desert island. A personal code of ethics might guide you in solitary moments, but breaking your own rules – eating that forbidden biscuit after vowing to abstain, for instance – doesn’t carry the weight of a true moral transgression. It’s more akin to reneging on a New Year’s resolution. Who’s harmed? Who’s holding you accountable? The answer is: no one but yourself, and even then, only if you care.

The Social Contract

Introduce a second person, and suddenly, morality gains traction. Agreements form – explicit or tacit – about how to behave. Multiply that to the level of a community or society, and morality becomes a kind of currency, exchanged and enforced by the group. Sometimes, these codes are elevated to laws. And, ironically, the act of adhering to a law – even one devoid of moral content – can itself become the moral thing to do. Not because the act is inherently right, but because it reinforces the structure society depends upon.

But morality is neither universal nor monolithic. It is as fractured and kaleidoscopic as the societies and subcultures that create it. Which brings us back to The Penguin.

Crime’s Moral Code

The Penguin thrives in a criminal underworld where the moral compass points in a different direction. In the dominant society’s eyes, crime is immoral. Robbery, murder, racketeering – all “bad,” all forbidden. But within the subculture of organised crime, a parallel morality exists. Honour among thieves, loyalty to the family, the unspoken rules of the game – these are their ethics, and they matter deeply to those who live by them.

When one criminal praises another – “You done good” – after a successful heist or a precise hit, it’s a moral judgement within their own framework. Outside that framework, society condemns the same actions as abhorrent. Yet even dominant societies carve out their own moral exceptions. Killing, for instance, is broadly considered immoral. Murder is outlawed. But capital punishment? That’s legal, and often deemed not only acceptable but righteous. Kant argued it was a moral imperative. Nietzsche, ever the cynic, saw this duality for what it was: a power dynamic cloaked in self-righteousness.

In The Penguin, we see this dichotomy laid bare. The underworld isn’t without morals; it simply operates on a different axis. And while the larger society might disdain it, the hypocrisy of their own shifting moral codes remains unexamined.

Final Thoughts on the Series

I’ll save other philosophical musings about The Penguin for another time – spoilers would be unavoidable, after all. But here’s a quick review: the series leans into drama, eschewing flashy gimmicks for a grittier, more grounded tone. The writing is generally strong, though there are moments of inconsistency – plot holes and contrivances that mar an otherwise immersive experience. Whether these flaws stem from the writers, director, or editor is anyone’s guess, but the effect is the same: they momentarily yank the viewer out of the world they’ve built.

Still, it’s a worthwhile watch, especially if you’re a fan of mob-style crime dramas. The final episode was, in my estimation, the best of the lot – a satisfying culmination that leaves the door ajar for philosophical ruminations like these.

Have you seen it? What are your thoughts – philosophical or otherwise? Drop a comment below. Let’s discuss.