The recent glut of 90s nostalgia, for everything from recession-stoked grunge to the goopy bubblegum byproduct of the Clinton boom years, has clogged the arteries of pop culture. To the point that every Clueless homage or metric ton of BuzzFeed content has the opposite of the intended effect. The relentless “remember this??” elbowing only serves to disconnect us further, stripping everything of any real context, insisting that we broadly remember it all fondly.
…in the absence of more tangible political goals, any movement that is about fighting for better social mirrors is going to eventually fall victim to its own narcissism.
The film community has all these redefinitions of terms, often amusing: net profit means no profit, residuals means no profit, producer equals liar, lawyer equals frustrated agent, agent equals frustrated director, director equals frustrated actor.
But to demand that a work be “relatable” expresses a different expectation: that the work itself be somehow accommodating to, or reflective of, the experience of the reader or viewer. The reader or viewer remains passive in the face of the book or movie or play: she expects the work to be done for her.
I am not grown up in certain ways that might allow me to plan ahead. That often results in panic and darkness. But it’s also what prevented me from throwing in the towel. I don’t know where I would throw it.
Unlike the age of the proud segregationist, the contemporary creed of racial progress has resulted in an entirely dishonest state of affairs—one in which any action, no matter how clearly racial in intent or outcome, is followed by a declaration of innocence and a résumé of racial goodwill.