Remember when billionaire Elon Musk and President Donald Trump were supposedly enemies? At the start of Trump’s second term, the world’s richest man, was busy ripping through nearly every level of the U.S. government with the Trump-approved Department of Government Efficiency. But by June 2025, the Wall Street Journal reported the pair had “torched” their relationship, which amounted to a lot of social media slapfights and accusations about who was in the Epstein files. But the truth is, the two men have a storied on-off relationship that seems to fluctuate based on who’s grabbing the check.
Lately, Musk and Trump are back to acting like close pals. It was hard not to cringe watching the president award Musk the National Medal of Science on Oct. 8, the highest honor the U.S. can bestow on a scientist or engineer. I was probably reading too much into it, but I sensed some awareness on Musk’s part that it was an empty gesture, unless inflating stock prices is a scientific achievement. But maybe the pageantry is meant to distract from how many government grants Musk has been awarded. According to multiple reports, Tesla and SpaceX basically would not exist without the government giving Musk’s companies wads of cash.
At any rate, Musk is now stepping in to try to save Trump’s allies in the midterms, dumping hundreds of millions into races, with Axios reporting he is “single-handedly keeping the Republican Party afloat in some of its most vital races.” So far, he’s spent some $366 million in pro-GOP midterm TV spots and other campaign efforts, with $276 million donated since July alone. No other known donor comes close to dishing out more funding. But for Musk that’s a relatively trivial amount, even though his fluctuating trillionaire status is currently hovering below the threshold for designation.
Some of Musk’s money went to his own super PAC, but a good chunk also to the Senate Leadership Fund and the Lone Star Liberty PAC, both of which are backing Texas GOP Attorney General Ken Paxton’s endangered campaign for the U.S. Senate against state Rep. James Talarico. Right now polling indicates that statewide election results in the Lone Star State are going to be extremely tight, with new data from the University of Texas/Texas Politics Project released Wednesday indicating Democrats are statistically tied in key races. It’s not just Talarico, who leads Paxton 50% to 47%, but Democratic state Rep. Gina Hinojosa holds a one-point lead over Republican Gov. Greg Abbott, which is effectively a tie. Trump is reportedly already searching for someone to blame if Democrats pick up their first Senate seat in Texas since 1988.
Across the country, other races indicate a high likelihood that Democrats will retake the House, while the Senate still looking like a tossup. With these numbers, Musk is likely to dump even more cash into the election before Nov. 3, but it increasingly smells like desperation. As Alex Gibney, director of the new documentary “Musk,” recently told Salon’s Melanie McFarland, Musk is “literally paying for political advantage.”
“He’s spending way more now than he did for the presidential campaign in 2024, and in part that’s to get more money for himself in the form of military contracts,” Gibney said. “But also, he knows that a reckoning is coming for him if the Democrats take over the House and the Senate, and there’s going to be a lot of investigations into him for corruption and abuse of power, taking our information, particularly possibly relating to DOGE, and doing God knows what with it.”
It remains to be seen if this midterm meddling will pay off for Musk. He got what he wanted out of the 2024 presidential election by propping up Trump’s campaign, but his attempts to financially sway results in other races haven’t worked. In 2025, Musk dumped more than $18 million into a Wisconsin Supreme Court race, hoping to suborn the state’s redistricting efforts and regulations of car manufacturers and dealers. His influence made it the most expensive judicial race in U.S. history, but that still didn’t get him the outcome he wanted.
Last Thursday, Musk settled a class action lawsuit alleging that his PAC had engaged in fraud in the 2024 presidential election by falsely telling voters they had a chance to randomly win $1 million when the winners were actually predetermined. He also dodged bribery charges in August for trying the same stunt in the Wisconsin Supreme Court election.
In the end, the results will all come down to voter appetites, and there are increasing indicators that the majority of Americans are fed up with the ultra-rich meddling in government. A recent Fox News poll indicates that corruption is the top concern among both Democratic and Republican voters, with 60% extremely concerned, a figure that outpaces inflation (58%), gas prices (50%), government leadership (49%) and healthcare (48%). Data from a Washington Post-ABC News-Ipsos poll released Sunday found roughly two in three Americans believe Trump is using the presidency to enrich himself, with most of the increase over the past year coming from people who lean Republican.
These numbers may indicate that people are starting to see through Musk’s ruse. He could probably pour even more money into politics, and probably will anyway, but there’s a glimmer of hope that it won’t accomplish much.
Earlier this month, three data centers in western Russia suddenly went dark due to a “rapid unplanned disassembly,” to use euphemistic engineering parlance. They exploded, in other words. Operated by Yandex, a Russian technology company often compared to Google that offers many similar services — a search engine, online shopping, cloud computing and the like — the centers were heavily damaged in a series of coordinated drone strikes over four days by Ukraine, which saw them as a valuable target in the country’s military campaign against Russian infrastructure.
As Russia’s war against Ukraine slogs on, both sides are increasingly adopting this strategy. While power plants and oil refineries have been hit, data centers and internet facilities are becoming the latest quarry for drone and missile strikes — and not just in Europe. Data centers operated by Amazon in Bahrain and the United Arab Emirates have also been targeted in the ongoing Iran war.
Few Americans have probably heard of Yandex, let alone use its services, and most likely didn’t notice when many of its hosted websites became inaccessible. But after Ukraine’s attacks, many people started to claim that social media was seemingly different. Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelenskyy was quick to suggest his country had dealt a massive blow to Russia’s online disinformation machine, saying, “It suddenly became a little easier to breathe on many social platforms. There was less hate, less division and fewer provocations.” Several reports seemed to support his claims, citing data from internet monitoring service Cloudflare, that allegedly showed “Russia’s Yandex bot traffic nearly eliminated overnight.”
But the truth is far more complicated, as some experts have noted. Yandex did experience a crash in bot activity, but at least some of that traffic seems to be legitimate. “When Cloudflare data shows a precipitous drop in ‘bot’ traffic, that does not mean ‘automated social media troll accounts’, it means ‘software that makes automated web requests on a large scale,’” Michał ‘Rysiek’ Woźniak, an internet infrastructure expert, told The Guardian. Others noted that they haven’t seen an actual drop in online disinformation. “Our platforms are still monitoring Russian social networks across the world and there is no discernible change in their posting patterns,” said Amil Khan, the chief executive of Valent, a tech startup that tracks disinformation.
None of that has stopped Reddit and other corners of the web from celebrating and memeing the issue. If those celebrations aren’t quite justified, there’s still something to be learned from the ordeal, which digs into the so-called dead internet theory. The basic premise is that almost nothing we see online is human-generated anymore. In his 2025 book “Market-Oriented Disinformation Research,” business academic Carlos Diaz Ruiz, who has studied how disinformation spreads in social media echo chambers, describes what many of us experience online on a daily basis: “an eerie feeling that the Internet is made up of bots talking to bots, following and liking bots, and posting AI-generated content designed for machine consumption, the algorithm, not humans.”
Indeed, bot traffic makes up an increasingly large share of the internet, surpassing human traffic for the first time in history over the summer, according to a June Cloudflare report. No doubt the surge in generative artificial intelligence use is what tipped the scales, but of course, not all bots are created equal. Many have legitimate, beneficial uses, like archiving web data.
Some people have wedged dead internet theory into a conspiracy theory that Diaz Ruiz divides into “weak” and “strong.” The weak version of the theory is that the internet is now little more than a hall of mirrors used to manipulate the masses into fighting a culture war instead of a class war. “The Internet drama keeps the population occupied and distracted, preventing them from resisting the elites secretly controlling the world,” as Diaz Ruiz says. “The ‘strong’ version of the dead internet conspiracy theory claims that online activity is entirely disconnected from human activity because our society ceased to exist some time ago. In some versions, a catastrophic event occurred in the past, triggering society’s collapse.”
OK, so we’re basically talking the plot of “The Matrix” here. The argument that humanity peaked in 1999 may be compelling, and I won’t argue against it. If reality truly is nothing more than a hallucination, dream or computer screensaver in the brain, why should we waste time disputing it? Proving a negative with such a lack of evidence is fruitless. The point is, some people may be taking dead internet theory a little too far, but that doesn’t change the fact that within the last week people felt like they got a taste of some version of it.
If we lift the hood on some of these conspiracies, we can understand what people are really afraid of. Last December in the journal Computer, Hal Berghel, a computer science professor at the University of Nevada, argued the dead internet is more than a conspiracy and should not be dismissed, writing, “There’s certainly evidence of the distortion of the internet from the original concept as a liberating, self-healing, packetized purveyor of useful and important information: the original commitment to net neutrality is on life support, the goal of a shared public information repository is constantly compromised by paywalls, the content has moved from valuable scholarship to a sub-cerebral landfill, and the users are subjected to a mind-numbing cacophony of digital threats: spam, phish bait, spyware, malware, online bullying, online fraud, extortion, hacking, VoIP 911-swatting, doxing, slander, pretexting, etc.”
In other words, there’s a good reason so many people find dead internet theory attractive. Once a zone of promise and connection, the web has not only rotted and enshittified, it’s turned into a literal warzone. There really are algorithms out there, unleashed by governments actively dropping bombs on one another, that are designed to infect our minds and prejudice our ability to perceive the truth. It’s one of the many ways modern warfare has become invisible, pervasive and endless. No wonder social media is making so many people depressed — it can be a form of assault.
“In tandem with proxy warfare, cyber operations have become a central pillar of modern statecraft. Cyber warfare enables states to conduct aggressive acts; espionage, sabotage, infrastructure disruption without engaging in kinetic violence,” philosophers Oluyemi Opeoluwa Adisa and Kareem Shwan Adham wrote last year in a study published in the International Journal of Scientific Research and Management. “The strategic advantage of cyber warfare lies in its stealth and ambiguity. Because it blurs the line between war and crime, attribution becomes difficult, enabling perpetrators to operate with minimal consequences.”
How do we even tell how much of the dead internet theory is true? Perhaps through that old tech-support adage: Turn it off and back on again. And no, I don’t mean bombing more data centers, though we’re likely to see more of that, for better or worse. If everything feels fake, maybe we’re better off getting outside and experiencing something real for a minute. Yeah, yeah, we’ve all been told to touch grass so much that such advice is routinely mocked, and anyway, not everyone can easily do that.
But here’s your daily reminder that humans are primates whose still-evolving brains are exponentially outpaced by technological advancement. Being in nature is essential because we are nature. There’s a certain reset available in the presence of trees, birds and clouds. Even more important is connecting with real humans: family, friends, neighbors. Socialization is the essence of the primate brain too. You don’t have to uninstall any apps or delete Facebook, though you could try it too. Off, on again.
And when you are online, which is unavoidable for many of us, try to remember that you are probably interacting with fewer humans than you might think. So don’t take it so seriously. Temper those outrageous emotions, the ones the algorithms have gotten so good at teasing out of us. Maybe instead we can fortify them into weapons to attack the real problems we face, like widening wealth gaps, destruction of the environment and the rise of authoritarianism.
Not long ago, celebrities took to social media to express their contempt for a business and barely made a ripple in the public conversation, let alone national headlines.
When Alec Baldwin furiously smashed his big thumbs into his tiny BlackBerry keyboard, tweeting, “Starbucks on 93 and B’way. Uptight Queen barista named JAY has an attitude problem,” no news outlets darted to the Starbucks location to interview Jay.
When Kelly Osbourne tried in vain to pop into a Starbucks bathroom during New York Pride, inventing the hashtag “#PissedMyOwnPants,” no one ran to that Starbucks to see if they could recover evidence of Osbourne’s urine to prove her woes.
We used to treat these complaints as absurd follies of celebrity excess — tone-deaf musings that proved how out of touch the rich and famous are with the everyday person working a customer-facing service job. Without fail, the celebrity always looked like the ridiculous party. But no part of celebrity culture in the past 10 years has proven that we are well past this comical stage more than Kelly Clarkson’s war with a small business that wouldn’t sell her a singing bird mounted on their wall.
A business capitulating to a celebrity who reflexively sends a dogpile on them would set an alarming social precedent. Even more frightening is that so many demanded that capitulation blindly, without knowing a single additional detail. No matter whose side one might gravitate toward, the speed at which a celebrity’s will can mobilize the public should be deeply concerning.
Over the weekend, Clarkson stopped into a curiosities shop called Art of Play in Brooklyn, New York, with a few items in mind. Within minutes, a national tragedy in the form of an egregious misunderstanding occurred between Clarkson and a shop attendant. According to the store, Clarkson inquired about purchasing Molly, a custom-made singing automaton bird mounted on their wall for magic shows and public display — a bird that is not for sale. Clarkson was told they could find a comparable item for her, but apparently felt slighted. “. . .Literally was looked at as if I couldn’t afford it,” Clarkson posted on X a few minutes after the initial interaction. “You’re an idiot and just lost a huge sale. But y’all should check out Art of Play in Brooklyn if you enjoy being treated like Julia Roberts’ character in ‘Pretty Woman.’”
The fallout was swift. Thousands of people flew to the store’s Google reviews to tank its ratings and leave upset comments, despite never having set foot inside. People crowded their Instagram page, commenting on a post from earlier in the week, “Here before they turn the comments off!” And while the situation has become multilayered and far too overblown in the days since, I found this initial reaction most disconcerting.
This was one post, fired off in disgust from a major celebrity with a massive, very supportive audience. Sick in bed with nothing better to do this weekend, I watched the fallout play out in real time minutes after the post went up. It was as if Clarkson’s fans had their sleeper cells activated, ready to use the weapons at their disposal — their phones — at their commander’s word. The situation extended far past stan culture’s typical digital boundaries and immediately into the real world. Based on Clarkson’s behavior over the last month, I’m confident not only that the real world isn’t a place she ventures into often, but that many of us could stand to venture into it far more frequently, too. If a former karaoke-singing talk show host, a cocky shop owner and a sweet wooden bird caught in the middle can have so many people at each other’s throats, the world has officially tilted off its axis and begun spinning into perdition.
For those not already intimately versed in the situation’s details — consider yourself lucky — here’s the brass tacks. Art of Play clarified that Clarkson asked to buy Molly the singing bird automaton, which they told her was not for sale. The store continued, “It’s been a surreal experience to be the focus of such widespread outrage after just one mention by a celebrity. Clarkson responded with a post from the store’s Instagram story, featuring a blurry $15,000 price tag next to Molly. Art of Play clarified that their wall-mounted piece was not for sale, but that the artist would sell a twin creation for $15,000; meanwhile, a store employee offered her a comparable $2,000 option.
One of the store’s co-owners, Adam Rubin, gave an interview to Curbed, saying, “Kelly Clarkson put us in danger,” which is one of the more patently hysterical results of this entire situation. Earlier this week, investigative reporter Pablo Torre obtained audio-free security footage showing the entire interaction between Clarkson and the store employee. In the footage, recorded on a crowded day with plenty of customers, the employee appears to tell Clarkson about Molly, then points out a similar bird elsewhere in the store and helps another customer. Clarkson goes to leave, stopping on the way out to exchange what seem like heated words with another employee behind the counter. The entire sequence of events lasts just five minutes, yet it has consumed the zeitgeist for days.
As someone whose years of retail experience led to everything from customers crumpling their receipts and throwing them in his face to others threatening him after being unsatisfied with their discounts, my initial reaction was to side with Art of Play. Frankly, I don’t see how anyone’s reaction wasn’t. There isn’t one celebrity, living or dead, who I’d blindly support in using their five-minute shopping experience — which caused only ego bruises, not physical ones — to sic their millions of fans on a store. That’s just not something any human with an ounce of couth or self-awareness about the power of platform would do. Clarkson, who has been famous for her entire adult life and managed to grow her audience into a loyal following largely unscathed by scandal, is responsible for wielding her influence with tact. This was not a tactful decision.
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Art of Play jokingly raising Molly’s price to $15 million in the wake of the controversy doesn’t exactly paint the store in the best light either — though it at least exhibits a sense of humor. (I can’t say the same for their gross decision to try to prove their innocence with security footage.) I don’t entirely believe Rubin’s assertions that his employees have been put in danger, but his store certainly has. In commerce’s current state, small businesses live and die on Google reviews. It’s well within the store’s right to stick up for themselves and express shock at the way Clarkson’s fans operate. Capitulating to a celebrity who reflexively decides to send a dogpile on a business would set an alarming social precedent. Even more frightening is that so many demanded that capitulation blindly, without ever knowing a single additional detail outside of Clarkson’s post. No matter whose side one might gravitate toward, the speed at which a celebrity’s will can mobilize the public should be deeply concerning.
We live in a country where viral videos of unpleasant exchanges are valuable social capital, where those seeking power are looking to those who have it to learn what can be weaponized to seize control. It was always going to end this way when Clarkson named the store and pressed send.
But this is what happens when civilians stop treating celebrities like famous people and start trusting them like friends. Call it the talk show effect, or the America’s sweetheart effect; whatever you call it, it’s poisoning how we think and react. Internet stan culture has evolved so much that online culture wars have become real-life battles. When did a singer versus a singing bird become a saga that would capture the world’s attention? There is no world in which any of us should care about Clarkson’s innocuous interaction with a puzzle shop employee, and certainly no world where Clarkson should make it any of our business.
That’s what’s saddest about this situation: There are better ways to spend everyone’s time, and far more important ways for Clarkson to use her platform. Clarkson doesn’t appear to have posted anything on her X account that hasn’t gone through a manager in well over two years. And yet, she’ll go to bat for a perceived slight at a glorified magic shop? It’s been less than a month since her music industry peers, Macklemore and Ed Sheeran, got into a very public, contentious disagreement over Macklemore’s support of Palestine. And though several musicians spoke up and shared their opinions, Clarkson was not one of them. That issue — or the midterm elections, ICE protests, response to Flock cameras in Clarkson’s home state of Texas, anything! — was not important enough for Clarkson to log on to say something. Receiving less-than-perfect assistance in a small, crowded store? Alert the troops.
All this shows that, no matter how much Clarkson brands herself as everybody’s best friend, her actions don’t always reflect everybody’s best interests. This was clear as day two weeks ago when Clarkson was asked her thoughts on AI during an appearance on the “Las Culturistas” podcast. “Controversial, I don’t care: I love AI,” Clarkson said. “There are very amazing things with AI that I am obsessed with. I am very into it artistically, too.” Clarkson went on to say that her “issue” was with AI musicians potentially competing with human artists. In other words: Clarkson’s concerns aren’t with AI stealing other people’s art, gobbling up natural resources, replacing people’s jobs, or generally making the world worse. She cares when it affects her. What a perfectly succinct way to frame the feud with Art of Play too — and a perfect bit of cosmic irony that Clarkson wasn’t allowed to take a handcrafted bird home to an AI-obsessed household.
I’d like to think that Clarkson’s views on customer interactions, AI and the weight of political and social events don’t reflect the public’s. But judging by the response to Clarkson’s tweet, I don’t think that’s true anymore. In fact, Clarkson’s opinions are all-too indicative of the confluence between idol worship and social outrage. You might say it’s not that serious, and it wasn’t — until Clarkson made it that serious.
We’re a jacked-in species, seamlessly ported to our devices and the ephemeral digital worlds inside them, allowing them to dictate our emotional responses and how we use our precious time. We live in a country where viral videos of unpleasant exchanges are valuable social capital, where those seeking power are looking to those who have it to learn what can be weaponized to seize control. It was always going to end this way when Clarkson named the store and pressed send. How very ironic that the first American Idol has become a picture of the blind devotion synonymous with Western exceptionalism. Perhaps we should’ve listened a bit closer to the refrain in “Since U Been Gone,” where Clarkson tells us, straight up, “I get what I want.”
Just like comedy fans replay their favorite routines every so often, I often find myself returning to a few journalistic pieces written about comedy to help me order my thoughts. One is Lindy West’s 2013 Jezebel piece she wrote in the wake of debating Jim Norton concerning comedy’s role in perpetuating rape culture on the canceled FX series “Totally Biased with W. Kamau Bell.”
The aftershock is probably more memorable than the piece. The barrage of hatred that bombarded West moved her to record a YouTube video wherein she reads the litany of threats prompted by her daring to suggest that comedians be more thoughtful in their stand-up routines.
The essay she wrote about that experience plainly summarizes her reasonable stance. “I believe that the way we speak about things and the type of media we consume profoundly influences how we think about the world,” she wrote.
Emily Nussbaum’s 2017 New Yorker essay “How Jokes Won the Election,” a second repeat reader, is a kind of response to that call, taking a hard look at the far-right’s weaponizing of humor and cloaking threats in punchlines. This tactic helped Donald Trump, a most ridiculous candidate, sail to the White House.
“How do you fight an enemy who’s just kidding?” Nussbaum asked, a question we should be mulling each time Netflix triumphantly announces a new stand-up special from celebrities who can’t get enough of reducing queerness into a punchline.
One year before West debated Norton on TV, Joe Rogan’s NBC gig “Fear Factor” aired its last episode. He talks about his departure in his Netflix stand-up “Burn the Boats,” in which he revealed that the line he refused to cross was to challenge contestants to drink donkey semen.
“When I’m the voice of reason,” Rogan said, “you’ve got a really f***ed-up program.” You could reasonably apply that same note to Netflix, which recently debuted Rogan’s hour-plus special as a live comedy event.
Netflix is determined to maintain its claim as the top destination for stand-up specials, which it does by flooding the stream with choices. The Hollywood Reporter cites a source that counted the total number of comedy specials released in 2023 at more than 150, with most of those appearing on Netflix.
Amazon’s Prime Video is also a player, countering Netflix’s “anything goes” approach with a select stream of comics known for working clean like Nate Bargatze and Jim Gaffigan. Hulu is also beefing up its stand-up presence with 12 specials per year while one-time king HBO is going niche, matching Amazon’s eight-special ballpark.
This feels like light years from the era when a Comedy Central special was every ambitious comic’s goal – that, or getting a sitcom deal. Then HBO became the comic’s dream gig and, to a lesser extent, Showtime.
Now Netflix is the comedian’s golden ticket. Get a stand-up special there or a deal for multiple gigs, and the possibilities are endless. On the lower end, lesser-known comics can fill clubs or maybe larger theaters.
Mid-to-top range comics can fill arenas once they’re in with the service’s top executive Ted Sarandos. Taylor Tomlinson was a relative unknown when she signed on to do a few specials. Now she has a weeknight broadcast network gig, “After Midnight,” following “The Late Show with Stephen Colbert.”
Live events, however, are reserved for the top-level killers. Chris Rock’s followed nearly a year of silence about getting slapped at the Oscars, which also happened live. Katt Williams’ live special “Woke Foke” came after his post-New Year’s tea-spilling on Club Shay Shay.
Other live specials, including “The Roast of Tom Brady” and John Mulaney’s six-episode variety talk show “John Mulaney Presents: Everybody’s in L.A.” were exercises in brand establishment as much as entertainment events, although Mulaney’s was undeniably more of a creative high-wire act.
Rogan’s stand-up special, his first in six years, is a mutual exhibit of power and influence. He’s one of a very few entertainers whose presidential endorsement makes headlines. (He’s backing Robert F. Kennedy, Jr., as you may have guessed.)
He doesn’t need Netflix, but surely Netflix is happy to have him.
The Wall Street Journal reported that the new multiyear contract Spotify signed with Rogan in February to continue hosting his podcast could be worth as much as $250 million and is no longer exclusive to the streamer.
He’s also opened Comedy Mothership in Austin, drawing performers from around the country to the Texas city in a quest to create another stand-up epicenter driven by successful podcasters as opposed to New York’s and Los Angeles’ comedy club pipeline.
And Rogan, who caused a furor in 2022 for spreading misinformation during the pandemic, is accepted as an inevitability of modern popular culture. A recent Bloomberg profile softened his reputation to just short of baby skin texture by describing his podcast as “[mixing] marathon interviews of prominent guests with a hefty dose of often conventional and sometimes iffy lifestyle advice — including diet tips, exercise routines and vitamin supplements.”
Some have moved their lives to Austin to be close to Rogan’s Mothership, including the likes of Tom Segura and Shane Gillis. Exerting his pull in the comedy world, which boasts a booming live performance market, only makes him more powerful. Pollstar says the Top 30 comedy tours grossed nearly $514 million in 2023.
Joe Rogan doesn’t need Netflix, but surely Netflix is happy to have him.
But what he and the other comics he boosts have in common, besides Netflix deals, is their penchant for anti-trans material and platforming far-right bigots in the name of “asking questions” and pursuing the “truth.” They also sell out arenas, cultivating their audiences online and forwarding some truly odious ideas in the name of yuks and supposed pondering.
Segura welcomed accused sex trafficker and vocal misogynist Andrew Tate as a guest on “Your Mom’s House,” which he co-hosts with his wife Christina Pazsitzky. Gillis and Matt McCusker’s “Secret Podcast” is where listeners can hear more of the racist material that got Gillis fired from his “Saturday Night Live” gig before it began.
Rogan has hosted all these comics along with all types of conspiracy theorists, “free-thinkers” like Matt Walsh and Tucker Carlson, and worst of all, repeat Rogan guest Alex Jones.
Rogan goes on at length about Jones in “Burn the Boats,” calling him “right about a lot of things . . . he was wrong about that one thing, though. But he’s right — the wrong thing was a big one! But he’s right — that one thing was huge. But he’s often correct!”
That is quite a stance to take about a man who not only concocted a massive lie about the Sandy Hook massacre, that one thing he was wrong about, but recently opined that Trump should embrace Project 2025 instead of distancing himself from it. And not for the jokes.
Let’s not forget another significant event Jones made possible: he spearheaded the organization efforts that became the “Stop the Steal” rally on January 6, 2021. You know, the direct attack on democracy sane people refer to as an insurrection.
This is part of Rogan’s Netflix special, in which he also jokes, “We lost a lot of good people during the pandemic. Many of them are still alive.”
Ha! Kidding! Not about his admiration for Alex Jones, though.
The prevailing model in any business, showbiz included, is that success breeds success. A week after Rogan’s special premiered it’s still in the service’s Top 10 most popular titles, sitting at No. 4 as of Friday.
Netflix’s average output of one special per week along with its other debuts means Rogan will eventually be washed down the stream along with the other comics. But his Netflix berth places him in front of many more people, including those who don’t follow his podcast.
Contemplating what all of this means returned me to West’s thoughts from 11 years ago because they apply here. “I do believe that comedy’s current permissiveness around cavalier, cruel, victim-targeting rape jokes contributes to (that’s contributes — not causes) a culture of young men who don’t understand what it means to take this stuff seriously,” she wrote.
Indeed. Comedians who may have made light of sexual assault a decade ago have since moved on to joke about others more easily vilified than half the human population. Mainly transgender people.
Rogan is right there with them. And Netflix’s willingness to further elevate a performer whose entire schtick is slapping a smile on disinformation and normalizing trans panic should worry more of us, even if they’ve done it several times before.
A predictable rebuttal is that people don’t have to watch if they don’t want to, which is true. A lot of people watch Netflix, though; the service accounted for 8.4% of TV usage for June, according to Nielsen, a month during which 40.3% of time spent watching TV in June was attributable to streaming.
You can turn on Netflix and watch Hannah Gadsby or other progressive comedians who took a stand against the service’s promotion of Dave Chappelle’s anti-trans material. Besides, there’s a market for this stuff, as Spotify proved by standing by Rogan in 2022. The service lost subscribers and artists over Rogan’s conspiracy-mongering related to COVID and vaccines, but even Neil Young’s back now. If you can’t beat ‘em, et cetera, et cetera.
“[A] joke can be another kind of Big Lie, shrunk to look like a toy,” Nussbaum wrote. “It’s the thrill of hyperbole, of treating the extreme as normal, the shock (and the joy) of seeing the normal get violated, fast.” Flood the stream with so many jokes like that and from a whole lot of mainstreamed mouthpieces to the point of making fringe nonsense into just another normal bit, and like Rogan said, you’ve got yourself a really f***ed-up program.
Just what you’ve been waiting for: a story that just about out-pervs “Hot Tween Nurses.” Speaking of waiting, this one made the rounds of some other blogs a short while ago, but we figured, hey, let’s try not to subject our readers to a full eyeball scrub more than once a month.
But now it’s May, so here goes. Some of us are fortunate to have lovely memories of growing-up milestones with Dad. Mine taught me to ride a bike, to drive, to whistle with a blade of grass. You may recall a father-daughter picnic, a father-daughter heart-to-heart.
And how about a Father-Daughter Purity Ball? This past spring brought us the fourth annual such event sponsored by Colorado Springs’ Generations of Light Ministries; according to Focus on the Family, other cities and organizations are following suit.
Call these balls “Virginity Pledge: The Musical.” Or “Pretty Baby,” without the actual auction. Dolled up in tiaras and pearls — or perhaps abstinence jewelry — the girls (some of whom look young enough to wish they were home watching “Dora the Explorer”) are escorted by their dads to this creepy cotillion that, as far as I can tell from the photos, includes some sort of interpretive dance, as well as “a memorable ceremony for daughters to pledge commitments to purity and their fathers to pledge commitments to protect their girls.”
Here’s daddy’s script: “I, [daughter’s name]’s father, choose before God to cover my daughter as her authority and protection in the area of purity. I will be pure in my own life as a man, husband and father. I will be a man of integrity and accountability as I lead, guide and pray over my daughter and as the high priest in my home. This covering will be used by God to influence generations to come.” OK, “high priest?” Also, I’m guessing the part about “I will pay for my daughter’s therapy in perpetuity” is in the fine print.
I mean, for one thing, I’d want my dad thinking hard, really hard, about my virginity even less than I’d want to think about my parents having sex.
Here’s what one 11-year-old (or adult publicist) for the Ministries had to say: “The moment I put my hand in my father’s, I felt like a princess. In those six precious hours, I believe I grew in relationship with my father more than I ever have. I knew it was my night, and I treasured every minute of it.” I probably don’t have to spell this out for you, but replace the word “father” with “boyfriend” (or, to be charitable, “new husband”) and … eeuw.
Want some more? “How can you measure the value of your eleven-year-old looking up into your eyes (as you clumsily learn the fox-trot together) with innocent, uncontainable joy, saying, ‘Daddy, I’m so excited!'” wrote a dad who has taken both of his daughters to the ball. “It is impossible to convey what I have seen in their sweet spirits, their delicate, forming souls, as their daddy takes them out for their first, big dance. Their whole being absorbs my loving attention, resulting in a radiant sense of self-worth and identity. Think of it from their perspective: My daddy thinks I’m beautiful in my own unique way. My daddy is treating me with respect and honor. My daddy has taken time to be silly, and even made a fool of himself, learning how to dance. My daddy really loves me!” I don’t know, I’m pretty sure my dad got that same feeling from taking me out to the yard to play badminton.
Look, I’m not a parent yet, but I’ve been thinking about how to have a cool and convincing “Why I recommend that you wait to have sex” conversation with my daughter — and, I might add pointedly, my son — for years. And surely there’s some truth to the suggestion that the health of a girl’s relationship with her father (or father figure, if any) can have some effect on the health of her relationship with potential boyfriends. But … a dance? A public pledge? An, ahem, Georgia O’Keeffe-shaped canopy of white balloons? And where do the boys come in? Will these girls grow up thinking of them as predators from whom they need daddy’s protection, or as peers with whom they can set boundaries together? Better these parents should teach their princesses to throw balls instead of dress for them.
Of all the tawdry delights in “Verity” — Michael Showalter’s adaptation of bestselling author Colleen Hoover’s massively popular psychological thriller — the best and most unexpected is how well the film hides its secrets. Now, don’t get me wrong: The movie isn’t exactly garnering Oscar buzz, or even eliciting the fervent “you’ve got to see this!” refrain that followed 2014’s “Gone Girl” around. “Verity” is trashy fun through and through, and doesn’t try to elevate itself past that pulpy baseline. But Showalter and the movie’s screenwriter, Nick Antosca, are skilled in the art of misdirection. They know how to surprise, and they use their trio of actors to do it cleverly.
Take Anne Hathaway, fresh off a string of box-office smashes in “The Odyssey,” “The Devil Wears Prada 2,” “The End of Oak Street” and “Mother Mary.” (Alright, the last one made a few pennies and a nickel, but we can dream.) This year alone, Hathaway has repeatedly proven her versatility, jumping between gun-toting moms, tortured pop stars and struggling journalists. In “Verity,” she plays the titular character, Verity Crawford, the author of a string of hit thriller novels who’s been mysteriously incapacitated after a car accident and can’t finish her final three books.
(Dave Allocca / Starpix) Josh Hartnett attends the “Verity” New York Premiere
Hartnett stands out among the roster of stubborn, uncompromisingly masculine leading men from his heyday, proving that there’s much more to winning over an audience than simply playing into the public’s perception.
To complete the series, Verity’s publisher taps little-known writer Lowen Ashleigh (Dakota Johnson), who agrees to step into Verity’s place using her copious notes. While Johnson’s elasticity as a performer is a bit more contentious, I’ve always found her choices fascinating — oscillating between rom-coms, superhero films and arthouse horror with the bat of a mascara’d eye. “Verity” is no different, allowing Johnson to move her character between suspicion and warmth with languid ease as she settles into Verity’s Vermont home to work.
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But the key piece to the “Verity” puzzle is Josh Hartnett, who plays Verity’s put-upon husband, Jeremy, with all the unnerving capriciousness a film like this demands. Here, Hartnett’s character exists in flux, somewhere between his old life and a new start. He’s both charming and chilling, expertly using a near-imperceptible shift in expression or tone to keep the audience on their toes. With Hartnett weaving through the entire story, it’s nearly impossible to get a handle on what’s really going on in “Verity.” And that volatility is what makes the film so exciting, even when it goes full-tilt cheesy.
This is nothing new for Hartnett, who’s spent the last few years enjoying a well-deserved career renaissance, following up his role in “Verity” with a starring role in Netflix‘s supernatural thriller miniseries, “Below.” Once the quintessential ’90s heartthrob, Hartnett has parlayed the goodwill from his hunky idol days into something far more compelling. Though he’s always been a great actor, popping up here and there to elevate material, Hartnett has found an artistic sweet spot, using his effervescent charm and boy-next-door-all-grown-up good looks to subvert expectations. Hartnett stands out among the roster of stubborn, uncompromisingly masculine leading men from his heyday, proving that there’s much more to winning over an audience than simply playing into the public’s perception.
For those who have watched Hartnett grow throughout his career, the actor’s keen yet unassuming abilities surely don’t come as a shock. His late ’90s breakthrough in the triple-hitter lineup of “Halloween: H20,” “The Faculty” and “The Virgin Suicides” catapulted him to international fame practically overnight, cementing his place alongside the era’s Tiger Beat celebrity infatuations. The primary difference between Hartnett and his contemporaries, though, was that Hartnett could hold his own on screen. He may not have had the bona fides of someone like Leonardo DiCaprio, but Hartnett’s work was consistent and appealing. He knew how to play the everyman (or everyteenager), caught up in frequently absurd or abrupt situations beyond his control.
That’s not to say they were all hits, of course. 2002’s “40 Days and 40 Nights,” an offbeat rom-com about a Bay Area web designer who chooses to abstain from sex and masturbation for the duration of Lent, is patently ridiculous and more than a little sexist. But that’s also where Hartnett’s appeal lies. He understands how to use his innate magnetism to charm his way through even the silliest scripts, occasionally creating a dissonance between the film and his performances that makes even the duds memorable.
(Netflix) Josh Hartnett as Calvin in “Below”
These days, I can’t say the same about some of Hartnett’s early peers, like Brad Pitt and Tom Cruise, who, despite rising to fame earlier than Hartnett, never fully figured out how to separate themselves from their reputation. Both Cruise and Pitt have a death grip on their A-List prestige, hyper-aware of how much the world perceives and enjoys their work. That self-awareness has made their late-period work all too stodgy, selecting roles clearly informed by their notable reputations. Take Pitt’s “F1: The Movie” and this year’s “Heart of the Beast,” where Pitt plays hypermasculine characters whose lives, actions and goals are defined by a relentless desire to come out on top. For someone whose notoriety has twice become inseparable from who he’s married to, Pitt’s choice to play gruff loners feels noticeably calculated, keeping an arm’s distance between his work and the audience.
For Hartnett, shading in a complete picture, warts and all, is essential to making a character believable. It’s an old-school way of thinking for the modern era — a belief that the work should be taken seriously but without ever letting the viewer in on how intensely he’s considering it.
In Cruise’s case, artistry seems to have taken a backseat almost entirely. Over the last decade, Cruise has resigned himself to action stardom, writing death-defying stunts into his contracts. Even with “Digger,” Cruise’s most ambitious project in years, he confines himself to a loud, obnoxious character destined to be written about as a “big swing.” The problem is that “Digger” only feels like a big swing because it’s marginally different from what Cruise has been doing lately. Cruise’s ambition is moot if he’s otherwise resigned himself to crowd-pleasers, making his occasional enterprising choices look even more daring.
Comparing Hartnett to actors like Pitt and Cruise might seem like a stretch. But consider that “Verity” topped last week’s box office by a wide margin, leaving “Digger” and “Heart of the Beast” eating its dust. No doubt this is partially due to Hoover’s extreme popularity, and Hathaway and Johnson’s bankability — those are fair elements to incorporate here. But when it comes to the difference in performance among all three leads, there’s really no competition.
Hartnett’s work is dynamic and unsettling, making what could be a forgettable tertiary character into an integral part of the story that viewers hold in the back of their minds, even when he’s offscreen. From the start, when Jeremy runs into Lowen on the street before they meet at Verity’s publisher’s office, Hartnett makes Jeremy’s presence feel dubious. His every motive feels ulterior, and his inevitable simmering romance with Lowen resembles a can of worms that could pop open at any moment.
But that’s Hartnett’s great skill. He understands how to keep viewers vigilant, how to shock them and startle them as soon as they think they know where he’s headed. He doesn’t just subvert expectations; he perverts them, creating characters who appear to have rich inner lives and plenty of secrets that the audience may never fully understand. M. Night Shyamalan’s 2024 thriller “Trap” used Hartnett’s expertise to its full potential, crafting a character who could be both a doting dad and a vicious serial killer at the same time. For Hartnett, shading in a complete picture, warts and all, is essential to making a character believable. It’s an old-school way of thinking for the modern era — a belief that the work should be taken seriously but without ever letting the viewer in on how intensely he’s considering it. With Hartnett, what you see is never what you get, at least not fully. And what a delight it is that this world still holds some surprises for us.
In the wake of a national story of an alleged gang rape at the Chi Phi fraternity house at Cornell University in October 2024, both students and faculty are turning their ire on the Ivy League school’s administration. On Monday, thousands of students and faculty members marched on the office of Michael Kotlikoff, who became the university’s president a few months before the alleged rape, with chants of “Resign!” The night before, graffiti appeared on his office building reading, “At Cornell, rapists are protected, protesters are expelled,” a reference to students who were suspended for protesting Israel’s war on Gaza. The university’s faculty senate is preparing a vote of no confidence on the administration’s leadership over claims that the school mishandled the rape allegations after the alleged victim, called Jane Doe, made a report to the campus police.
The whole debacle has refreshed interest in the previous big controversy of Kotikoff’s brief but eventful presidential tenure: Cornell’s $60 million settlement with Donald Trump’s administration, which was announced in November 2025. The agreement was widely lambasted as a capitulation to the White House’s all-out war on diversity, equity and inclusion programs. Not only did the university implicitly concede that programs meant to help women and minorities are discriminatory against white men, they agreed to hand over data on race in admissions to the Trump administration and impose anti-DEI materials, provided by the White House, on faculty and staff.
After the settlement was announced, the American Association of University Professors said in a statement that the agreement would “threaten some of the most vulnerable students on campus and invite ongoing federal government supervision to reduce the diversity of Cornell’s student body.” In July, the organization published an extensive report comparing the administration’s war on DEI to the Red Scare of the 1950s and called on university leadership to resist the Trump administration’s efforts to destroy racial diversity and gender equity efforts on campus.
As the AAUP report shows, Cornell was far from the only university to cave to Trump; the norm for colleges and universities was rapid compliance. Diversity offices were shut down. Progressive student protesters were bullied and punished. Title IX protections, including rules protecting students from sexual harassment and abuse, were scaled back. Anecdotes have spread from faculty and students about a new chill descending over college campuses — a fear of retaliation for acknowledging the ongoing realities of racism, sexism and homophobia on campuses and in larger society.
The fallout from the Cornell assault accusations, however, suggests that it may have been more than fear that was compelling this swift bending of the knee by many universities to Trump. There is also a degree of complicity. Progressive reforms to make campuses more welcoming to women and minority students are often a hassle for university administrators, even those ideologically who are aligned with the left. It means conflicts with board members, donors and alumni with more conservative leanings. It means having to handle student complaints of harassment, discrimination and even sexual abuse that would be easier to sweep under the rug. It means having to confront institutions — like fraternities — that reinscribe racism and sexism but are often simultaneously protected by the most elite and wealthy people connected to the universities. Giving into the Trump administration on DEI means being able to revert to older, easier ways of doing things — even if it comes at the expense of student freedom and safety.
It’s worth remembering that Jane Doe filed her complaint before Trump was president. Her case has all the hallmarks of an institution that tried to make her go away. Cornell police excluded relevant language — including the unambiguous phrase “I was raped” — from their report to the district attorney on Doe’s statement. Her lawyer claims that the university made her believe that the authorities were pursuing a criminal investigation, even though her case had already been closed. As Cornell philosophy professor Kate Manne noted in an essay for New York magazine, the university’s student code of conduct has a stricter definition of rape-by-intoxication than New York State’s, which would seem to cover the situation alleged here, where a woman is as high and drunk as Doe admits she was. And yet only five of the seven men accused were expelled from school, even as she was forced to drop out due to the subsequent stress and anxiety.
Kotlikoff has a public record of flirting with “anti-woke” backlash. Last year, he wrote an op-ed for the New York Times that framed “free speech” as a conservative concern and censorship as a leftist phenomenon, bragging about how his school had invited Ann Coulter and other right-wing speakers to campus, despite student protests. But as reader Michael Handelman wisely pointed out in a letter to the editor, “I was troubled by what he didn’t say. Right now, the greatest threat to academic freedom is the Trump administration.” Kotlikoff’s omission was telling, and left the reader with the impression that a few student protesters are a bigger threat to free speech than the heavy boot of the federal government stomping on academic freedom, which the administration was doing by suing Cornell in the first place.
If Cornell is guilty of abandoning Jane Doe, it has no reason to fear consequences from the federal government for failure to enforce Title IX protections against sexual abuse on campus.
Earlier this year, Kotlikoff made news by bumping student protesters with his car, claiming he was the victim of “harassment and intimidation, with the direct motive of silencing speech” — an odd statement, as student protest is a form of protected speech. In this case, the students were asking Kotlikoff about the suspensions of pro-Palestinian protesters, which also put them on the “pro” side of the free speech issue the Cornell president claims to hold so dear. The board of trustees cleared Kotlikoff in its investigation and blamed the students, but the student protesters accused the board of bias.
If Cornell is guilty of abandoning Jane Doe, it has no reason to fear consequences from the federal government for failure to enforce Title IX protections against sexual abuse on campus. As the New York Times reported this week, the Trump administration barely enforced the law during his first term. In his second term, enforcement is basically nonexistent. According to analysis by the Washington Post, Cornell’s track record is already alarming. From 2018 to 2024, there were 1,216 reports of sexual assault, domestic and dating violence, and stalking on campus. Only 51 people were ever found responsible, and of those, fewer than half faced serious consequences.
Jane Doe reported her alleged rape a few days after Trump got elected. With that history in mind, Cornell police and administrators could have had every reason to believe there would be no federal repercussions if they failed to reach a just outcome in her case.
Jane Doe’s lawyer, Thomas Giuffra, told CNN that his client “was not somebody who was a legacy [student], from a wealthy family” and “came from a small town.” Fraternities, in stark contrast, enjoy immense protections from exactly those wealthy people from legacy families. As historian Nick Syrett, author of “The Company He Keeps: A History of White College Fraternities,” told Time, former fraternity members are “a base of alumni that universities don’t want to upset because they’re generous and they’re powerful.” Whatever an administrator’s personal feelings, in a situation like this, it is objectively easier to cut loose an alleged victim rather than take on alleged assailants who are well-connected to powerful elites.
From a purely self-interested point of view, the Trump administration’s demands that schools give up policies and programs to help women and minority students is a win-win for administrators. It allows school leaders to give up a miserable, uphill battle against elite forces, while handing them a way to deflect blame onto the White House for forcing them into it.
We can’t peer into the hearts of administrators and know the exact mix of complicity and fear that drove these capitulations. But the Cornell case is a stark illustration of why the prospect of letting Trump have what he wants has a dark allure.
“Monster: The Lizzie Borden Story” takes a lot of liberties with the truth. But the most egregious one comes in the last fifteen minutes of the eighth and final episode of this portrait of an axe murderer.
At this point the story has jumped to the 1910s, roughly two decades after Lizzie (Ella Beatty) brutally and famously killed her father, Andrew Borden (Charlie Hunnam), and stepmother, Abby (Rebecca Hall). An older, haunted Lizzie, who was acquitted of the crimes in 1893, prays for forgiveness for committing them, something she never publicly admitted to in real life. She subsequently tells Maggie (Vicky Krieps) — her lover/former housekeeper/accomplice to the murders, at least according to “Monster’s” version of events — that she wants to make her notoriety “mean something.” Then the show immediately cuts to a group of suffragettes who have gathered in Borden’s parlor to sing “The March of the Women,” an anthem among the female pioneers who sought to win the right to vote, and got it in 1920.
That’s right, “Monster” wants us to believe that Lizzie Borden ultimately redeemed herself by becoming an active member of the suffragist movement. If you’re currently scratching your head and going, “Huh, I don’t remember that from the musical ‘Suffs,’” that’s because it’s not in there and it isn’t true. But making it seem like Borden played a small role in the successful pursuit of the 19th Amendment — she even announces the news of its passage to a roomful of elated women — brings closure to the narrative thread that this fourth season of “Monster” commits very hard to pulling: that Borden was a feminist hero unfairly ostracized for unleashing her justifiable anger toward her abusive parents and rebelling against the expectations of an inherently misogynistic society.
(Netflix) Ella Beatty as Lizzie Borden and Vicky Krieps as Maggie Sullivan in “Monster: The Lizzie Borden Story”
Making it seem like Borden played a small role in the successful pursuit of the 19th Amendment brings closure to the narrative thread that this fourth season of “Monster” commits very hard to pulling: that Borden was a feminist hero.
Throughout its four seasons, “Monster” has routinely played pretty fast and loose with facts. Co-created by Ryan Murphy and Ian Brennan, the latter of whom wrote this entire current season, the series sometimes embellishes details to help its audience empathize with the real-life killers it depicts in fictionalized form. (Jeffrey Dahmer, the Menendez brothers and Ed Gein have been previous subjects.) But there’s something especially absurd about trying to assert the relevance of Lizzie Borden, a woman best known for slicing up her parents, by suggesting that her name belongs in the same sentence as Susan B. Anthony and Ida B. Wells. When the U.S. is approaching a midterm election in which voting rights are being threatened on multiple levels and reproductive rights will very much be on the ballot, it feels especially galling to be so glib.
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On a logical, storytelling level, this development doesn’t even make sense. A few scenes prior to Lizzie’s entry into feminist politics, she realizes the degree to which she has become a public laughing stock and a shameful figure with whom no one wants to be associated. At one point, she actually slaps a young trick-or-treater in the face when she realizes the girl is dressed up as Lizzie Borden for Halloween. The idea that a bunch of women who want to be taken seriously as astute citizens would happily gather in the home of the country’s most famous female murderer, or march for suffrage alongside her, simply does not compute.
This is just one of the ways that “Monster: The Lizzie Borden Story” attempts to underscore Borden’s significance and influence. As the Ed Gein season did, this one also connects its protagonist to a future murderer inspired by her: Aileen Wuornos, portrayed here with borderline campy intensity by Murphy muse, Sarah Paulson. Wuornos pops up in multiple episodes, including one in which she and her girlfriend Shelby stay at the Lizzie Borden house in the ’80s, when it’s operating as a macabre bed and breakfast. (This never actually happened.) After having sex on the same fainting couch where Lizzie stabbed her father to death (!), Wuornos has a conversation with the ghost of Borden and tells her, “You’re, like, a woman who didn’t take any sh*t.” In an absolutely ridiculous fantasy sequence near the end of this episode, Aileen, Shelby, Lizzie and Maggie dramatically dance together to Bronski Beat’s “Smalltown Boy” in the dovecote where Lizzie tended to her beloved birds.
(Netflix) Sarah Paulson as Aileen Wuornos in “Monster: The Lizzie Borden Story”
There’s something especially absurd about trying to assert the relevance of Lizzie Borden, a woman best known for slicing up her parents, by suggesting that her name belongs in the same sentence as Susan B. Anthony and Ida B. Wells.
The idea unsubtly conveyed here is that these women are connected by shared, traumatic experiences and resilience in the face of them. Wuornos murdered multiple men after they turned violent while she was working as a prostitute in Florida. During her trial — yes, we get to see some of that in the season finale, because why not? — she insists that she acted in self-defense after being assaulted and raped. Wuornos also was abused throughout her childhood, and so was Borden. In its early episodes, “Monster” depicts the cruelty routinely directed at Lizzie by her heavy-drinking, negligent father and her vile stepmother, who tells her stepdaughter, repeatedly, how useless she is. When Lizzie finally violently chops them up, something that “Monster,” ever infatuated with gore, shows us multiple times, it comes across as an act of self-defense. She’s ultimately acquitted by an all-male jury not because they buy a self-defense plea, but because they don’t believe a woman could be capable of such butchery. Even after unleashing her fury in the most gruesome way possible, Lizzie is somehow still underestimated. In a way, the central argument of “Monster” is nothing more than: “Women: We can kill just as good as men!”
In truth, the experiences of both Borden and Wuornos reflect a reality that existed for women in the 1800s and the 1980s, and still does in 2026: that when women are attacked, society tends to turn a blind eye, which, in some cases, forces those women to resort to extreme measures. If you need a current example of turning a blind eye, look no further than the recently reopened case of alleged gang rape at Cornell University.
In a culture that seems more misogynistic with every passing day, the latent rage that burns within so many women — women, by the way, who haven’t resorted to axe-murdering — is a legitimate, real thing, which is why it’s so frustrating to watch “Monster” explore that truth by resorting to telling lies. Those themes come across extremely loudly and very clearly without needing to suggest that when the ladies go to the polls in November, we should whisper a thank you to Lizzie Borden for making it all possible.
“The Lizzie Borden Story” wants us to see Lizzie as the ultimate nasty woman, someone who would have defiantly donned a pink pussy hat had she lived to see Donald Trump get elected. This is not just a stretch; it’s an insult to women who have stood up to their oppressors, and continue to do so, without resorting to violence.
The most honest, self-owning moment in “Monster” is a scene in the final episode where Lizzie visits a bookstore and asks the proprietress to stop selling recently published tomes about her life because “they are full of lies.”
“Miss Borden,” the shop owner says, “I can’t control what’s written about you. And I certainly can’t control the appetite there is to read about you.”
“You’re certainly happy to profit off of it,” Lizzie responds.
“Very much so,” the seller responds. Then she looks into the eyes of her fellow woman and adds: “And you sell well, Miss Borden.”
Based on “Monster’s” popularity on Netflix — it’s been one of the most watched shows on the platform since it debuted in mid-September — Miss Borden still sells well. And the makers of this program are more than happy to reap the benefits of that, even if their story is also full of lies.
John Stewart was always going to claim his ring. That much was a given on “Lanterns” from the moment HBO debuted the first images of Aaron Pierre’s John and Kyle Chandler’s Hal Jordan – there’s that, and DC Comics’ established lore. The question was always how.
The answer, in the end, was by breaking his lifelong conditioning, contradicting one of the main qualifications of heroic worthiness established by a council of powerful beings most people aren’t even aware exists. John was taught that Green Lanterns must be fearless beings capable of focusing and wielding their will. In 2016, John did exactly that when he finally took the ring from Hal and killed an adversary he’d grown to care about.
Maneuvering Hal to a place of vulnerability required focus. Summoning the will to surrender that power he’d trained all his life to inherit, to the Guardians of the Universe ordering him to betray his friend, is a Herculean act.
But the ultimate reveal of the “Lanterns” finale, besides resolving the mystery established in the series premiere, is that the supposedly infallible Guardians are wrong to view fearlessness as the ultimate virtue. “Fear and love make people scared,” John says to his friend Kerry (Kelly Macdonald), a small-town sheriff, “and scared people can do anything.”
What a long, strange hero’s journey it’s been. In its eight episodes, “Lanterns” wrestled with an array of concepts some viewers loved and others … well, you know, fanboys and the internet.
Along with being an origin story and an alien hunt unfurling in a 2016-set timeline, “Lanterns” grounds itself in a murder mystery that defines its 2026 plot running in parallel. Only in 2026, John isn’t a Lantern, and Hal, his one-time mentor, turns up dead.
Throughout the season, “Lanterns” played upon established canon to thread a host of themes. Among them are white male entitlement versus the crushing demands of Black exceptionalism; the complicated bond linking fathers to sons; and the agonizing bravery required of mothers raising boys the world is conditioned to ostracize.
That last one is how John solves the season’s overarching mystery, settling one of the story’s defining and tormented relationships into a peaceful place. On the surface, John’s trajectory is that of a son forced to correct his father’s failure. But it’s John’s mother, Bernadette (Jasmine Cephas Jones), who always keeps him on task — even as it pains her to do it.
Only after John declines the call to be Earth’s Lantern and gets to know Kerry and her family, including her son Noah (Shea Pritchard), does he realize the purpose in breaking his programming.
(John Johnson/HBO Max)
Noah has his own to overcome. He’s a star high school jock, the pride of Rushville and the grandson of Zoe (Poorna Jagannathan), who seduced John in 2016 and turned out to be the rogue extraterrestrial he and Hal were looking for: a Manhunter, synthetic beings created by the Guardians before the Lantern Corps replaced them. Zoe nearly destroys Rushville to save herself, while John almost violates his principles to seize the ring from Hal, per the Guardians’ orders, and take out Zoe.
If you watched that pivotal fifth episode and wondered why she smiled right before John put a bullet in her brain, maybe it’s because she knew she wasn’t the last of her kind. Noah is extraordinary because he’s also a Manhunter, created by the alien technology Zoe used to impregnate Kerry.
And as one exceptional son recognizes in another, the difference between how we’re born and what we become is who nurtures us.
Kerry is the reason that Noah grew up a kind, considerate young man. But he can’t help feeling the tug of his genetic programming to infiltrate the highest rungs of politics and manipulate the levers of power, he admits.
It’s only after he confesses to murdering Hal, looking visibly afraid all the while, that John realizes the only person more fearful of Noah being discovered is his mother, Kerry — the person who actually shot Hal Jordan in the face.
The fact that “Lanterns” is a conversation with and about fear — its avoidance and the lengths we go to to negate it — explains the audience’s divided response to the show. Some people will always want their superhero TV shows to feature battles and explosions every week. “Lanterns” delivered that primarily in its fifth episode, then fueled the rest with dramatic chemistry and punchy dialogue.
Its scripts also hold plenty of wisdom, including what exiled fugitive Lantern Sinestro (Ulrich Thomsen) shares after John finds him on a dead world, along with a lantern Sinestro forged for Noah that uses fear as part of its power source. The fallen Sinestro calls fear an evolutionary intelligence: “Show me a species that’s fearless, I’ll show you something on the extinction list,” he says.
“If harnessed correctly,” Sinestro adds, “fear can be the most powerful force in the universe.” To charge Hal’s nearly dead ring, then, means changing the terms of engagement with its might. It also means erasing the construct of Hal’s consciousness that has guided John since his mentor died.
Throughout its run, some viewers have been bewildered as to why some of the same people who loved “Peacemaker” and “The Boys,” two other superhero shows that indicted white supremacy, deemed “Lanterns” to be performatively progressive.
Basic hypocrisy is the simplest answer; it comes as easily to some of us as breathing. But what “Lanterns” does with John Stewart delineates the divide between sympathetic and empathetic storytelling. “Peacemaker” creator James Gunn and “The Boys” creator and showrunner Eric Kripke are paragons of a white guy conveying their understanding of nonwhite experiences from their perspective. Both shows’ white heroes understand that racism, and specifically Nazism, is bad.
(John Johnson/HBO Max)
“Lanterns” is also co-created by three white guys — showrunner Chris Mundy, Damon Lindelof and Tom King — who tapped Vanessa Baden Kelly, a Black woman, to tell John Stewart’s story from a place of firsthand experience. By placing us inside John’s life, Baden Kelly vicariously produced, in some, a feeling of familiarity and, in others, discomfort. She wrote John’s story from a place of empathy; Gunn and Kripke, along with the “Lanterns” creators, can only be sympathetic.
Sympathy is, by its nature, separate from another’s discomfort, thoughts and prayers offered from a distance. Empathy can make us feel things we may not like, including reactions like fear. Hence the Christian nationalist push to brand empathy as toxic.
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Intentionally or not, then, John’s ultimate choice to let Noah live and keep Kerry’s culpability in Hal’s death a secret is a demonstration of empathy’s bravery. With Kerry’s nurturing to keep Noah in check — perhaps — John can embrace his destiny on his terms, as he tells arrogant Guy Gardner (Nathan Fillion), the Guardians’ official doofus, when John calls for him.
“Think of me as an independent contractor. No Guardians. No Corps,” he says. “You take the stars, have fun. I’ll take the dirt. I’m completely confident we won’t get in each other’s way.”
One of the last things Hal Jordan’s hologram tells John before he blinks out, possibly forever, will define Pierre’s hero moving forward, along with this series, should it earn a second season. “Don’t be afraid to be afraid,” he says.
Then, as John charges his ring, he composes a new oath: “In brightest day, in the darkest night / I’ll embrace my fear. I’ll do what’s right / I choose this ring, I choose this fight / In service to this lantern’s light.”
Earth has Guy Gardner’s sympathy, but the world needs John Stewart — a hero who knows fear and was raised to understand what to do with it.
All episodes of “Lanterns” are streaming on HBO Max.
Before digesting Zoe Kazan’s seven-part reconsideration of “East of Eden,” I never would have suspected that we, as a society, had been conditioned to misread Cathy Ames, the angel-faced succubus at the broken heart of John Steinbeck’s novel.
Cathy has always had her champions, mind you. The internet is laden with Reddit arguments and academic examinations questioning Steinbeck’s portrait of her beastliness. The author himself was conflicted about her, writing Cathy as a dangerous beauty incapable of empathy in his book, yet expressing how dear she was to him in letters to his editor, Pascal Covici. My English teachers and literature professors were probably too tired to parse such nuance, and I don’t blame them.
Besides, Cathy is not an easy empathy object. She killed her parents, drove a man to suicide when she was young, and shot her way out of marriage and motherhood later. She changed her name to Kate Albey but never changed her ways.
Steinbeck never points to a definitive incitement to explain her behavior, instead writing, “I believe there are monsters born in the world to human parents” to open a chapter devoted to Cathy’s backstory.
When read in the author’s voice, that seems like a conclusive diagnosis. But to hear Florence Pugh deliver it as Cathy’s belief, and the establishing paradigm of Kazan’s limited series, changes things. Once we discover more about Pugh’s Cathy—once we’ve seen her do the horrible acts I’ve listed—her observation that the only true freedom in this world is economic freedom makes more sense.
“For the modern woman,” she adds to that thought, “that presents a problem.” In her time, and in her opinion, a sensible woman’s paths to financial freedom were limited to hoping for a windfall or making one’s fortune off others’ backs as a madam. In other words, you can be forever reliant on the universe’s mercy or merciless in bending it to fulfill your ambition. That doesn’t magically justify Cathy’s criminality. But she isn’t completely wrong, either.
Central to both Steinbeck’s novel and Kazan’s update is the author’s interpretation of the Hebrew word timshel, which he translates as “thou mayest.” Adam’s servant, Lee (Hoon Lee), who raises the twin boys Cathy abandons, explains that the term expresses free will. It’s a blessing of agency that sounds much easier to accept when you have more options than Cathy. Besides, she says in the opening scene’s voiceover while clawing her bloodied, broken body across a dirt field toward the home of Charles Trask (Mike Faist) and his brother Adam (Christopher Abbott), “normalcy” is relative: “Everyone is normal to himself.”
Netflix’s Cathy-centered take on “East of Eden” comes before us at a very different time than the one in which Zoe Kazan’s grandfather Elia introduced his acclaimed 1955 film. It arrives in a season dotted with trauma plots serving as gateways to female rage – some well executed, like Hulu’s extraordinary “Furious,” and others slicked in a messy goo of “been there, done that” tropes, a la “Monster: The Lizzie Borden Story.”
We’re also witnessing, from a distance, the legal perils of Lindsay Clancy, a Massachusetts labor and delivery nurse tried, on TV, for killing her three children, all under the age of 5, before attempting suicide in January 2023. Clancy pleaded not guilty, and her trial recently ended in a mistrial due to a hung jury.
The question of why she did what she did may remain unanswered. During her trial, Clancy’s defense argued that postpartum psychosis drove Clancy out of her mind. The prosecution’s argument is simpler and meaner, almost reminiscent of Steinbeck: Clancy’s actions were premeditated, her way of escaping a life she didn’t want anymore. Now Clancy’s lawyers are arguing she should be found not guilty due to a lack of sufficient evidence that she killed her children, and by lack of criminal responsibility due to insufficient evidence she was not in psychosis at the time. Another status hearing is scheduled for Nov. 2.
When Steinbeck first introduced Cathy Ames to the public in 1952, and when Elia Kazan brought his version to the screen three years later, we were only allowed the slightest glimpse into her soul. Elia Kazan’s movie, written by Paul Osborn, barely covers the last third of Steinbeck’s 600-page epic. It also omits Lee and focuses primarily on James Dean’s Cal Trask, one of Cathy’s sons, leaving most of her story to secondhand whispers. When a lawman confirms to Cal the rumor that Cathy, known by then as the nearby town’s madam, Kate, shot his father, Cal muses, “He must have done something to hurt her.”
“No, sir,” the man counters. “He gave her everything that any woman could ask for.”
But how would he know? Zoe Kazan’s Cathy, which closely hews to Steinbeck’s original vision, defies easy assumptions about a woman’s wants and needs. Nothing about her, or the way Pugh plays her, is simple.
“East of Eden” parallels the Biblical story of Cain and Abel first through Adam and Charles Trask, then again through Adam’s twin sons Aron and Caleb. Cathy, meanwhile, deciphers the key to life through Lewis Carroll’s “Alice in Wonderland,” a story about a girl like her who survives an upside-down world.
Both Steinbeck and Zoe Kazan infer that something happened to Cathy when she was very young. The filmmaker does this through spare imagery: a man baiting a little girl in a blue dress with sweets, coaxing her to follow him into a dark hole that could lead to Wonderland or much darker places. With this, Cathy’s favorite book and her mysterious violation teach her it’s better to be a predator than prey, to be the queen calling for her the heads of her enemies instead of a man’s pawn.
Cathy Ames is a complicated symbol, as the countless people who glommed on to Clancy’s case want her to be. Viewers accustomed to crime stories about perpetrators whose behavior is explained, perhaps even justified, by what they survived may see Clancy as another alleged trauma plot come to life—a sum of biological and social hazards, as Elizabeth Bruenig wrote in The Atlantic.
“And some elements of it seem inarguably true, such as the idea that Clancy’s psychiatric care was woefully uncoordinated,” Bruenig added. “But this theory also has the odd effect of making Clancy the star of her own murder trial, for whom the viewer at home may be encouraged to root, which risks eliding the gravity of what she did.”
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We must be clear that differences between the entirely fictional Cathy and Clancy, a real and suffering person, are vast. But if the best fiction can also be instructive, maybe the last moral of Kazan’s “East of Eden” can help us hold multiple truths at once. Cathy’s reasons for doing terrible things may be understandable, even relatable, while the transgression remains unforgivable. A person may even warn us by crying for help or, as Cathy does, advising those on the verge of falling into her trap to turn back.
“You’re so kind to me, and I’ll only ever bring you trouble,” she purrs when it’s clear that Adam is smitten with her. But he refuses to listen and marries her anyway. When Cathy discovers she’s pregnant, she warns him that she’s going to leave the first chance she gets, even attempting to self-administer an abortion with a knitting needle. Not to worry, a kindly male neighbor assures Adam — her maternal urges will kick right in after the babies are born. They do not.
Instead, Cathy makes good on her many cautions, leaving her wailing infants and bleeding husband behind for a new life and a fortune earned by cunning, a con and poison. But for a few twists of fate, she could be any of us. And I wouldn’t be surprised if Pugh’s exquisite, gorgeously brutal rendition leads more of us to her defense.
Before it became reality, the biggest fear around a second Donald Trump administration was an increased level of competence. The candidate and his team displayed shocking measures of discipline and consistent messaging throughout the 2024 race, with much of the credit going to campaign manager Susie Wiles, who became his White House chief of staff. As a result, some feared that the shambling jankiness of his first term would be replaced by an efficient, experienced administration that would carry out a ruthless, quasi-fascist platform with few hiccups.
That hasn’t happened. Once in office, Trump replaced the GOP’s establishment scolds who curtailed his worst impulses in his first term with loyalists who were just as green as him. The result has been constant outrage over blatant graft and executive overreach, as Trump is unable to stop blabbing about his — possibly illegal — dealmaking and unconstitutional policy goals. But look to the Republican Party’s backbenchers: You’ll see what MAGA could do with a figurehead who can keep their trap shut.
A loyal Trump acolyte, Louisiana Gov. Jeff Landry has happily deployed bored-looking National Guard troops to New Orleans and the U.S.-Mexico border for little more reason than pleasing the president. He has successfully pushed a law to require the display of the Ten Commandments in schools, and he rarely shies away from red meat conflicts with his state’s few Democratic strongholds. Little surprise, then, that Landry was hailed as MAGA’s next-generation hero by Rolling Stone in 2024.
Unlike Trump’s premature crowing over his massive ballroom or countless would-be Iran ceasefires, the governor has a tendency to let his work speak for itself.
But when the time comes to pass Republican policies he truly cares about, or to hand out contracts and favors to his preferred businesses, Landry goes eerily quiet. Unlike Trump’s premature crowing over his massive ballroom or countless would-be Iran ceasefires, the governor has a tendency to let his work speak for itself.
When it was published, Landry’s profile in Rolling Stone made hay out of his ability to go dark. Lately, though, when he gets quiet, it’s out of legal necessity. His administration has proven remarkably open to signing non-disclosure agreements while working out public deals with megacorporations.
According to a report from the New Orleans Times-Picayune, the Landry administration has signed nearly 300 NDAs since he took office in 2024. The Gulf States Newsroom uncovered a further 100 NDAs between the governor’s office and its employees, restricting what they can share about their time on the job. Reporter Drew Hawkins, who spoke to employees of former Louisiana gubernatorial administrations, said the broad gag orders on public employees was unprecedented.
“[T]hey’ve never seen anything like this,” Hawkins told New Orleans television station WWL. “They don’t know about anybody else signing them. They never signed them, and then you know one of them reviewed it and went through it point by point and talked about just how wild this would be to enforce.”
The result of all these hush-hush agreements is most noticeable in recent headline deals with SpaceX and Meta. The former was given the OK to build a massive spaceport in coastal Louisiana in between two wildlife refuges. While the under-wraps deal was being worked out, Landry signed laws exempting aerospace operations from property taxes, nuisance liabilities and public records requests. The final deal, approved in a public meeting of a new development board announced just 24 hours before, granted SpaceX more than $24 billion in tax breaks to build a rocket-launching facility no locals had even heard about.
A similarly tight-lipped dealmaking process led to Meta’s announcement of its largest data center to date in rural Northeast Louisiana. The project, dubbed Hyperion, will cover six square miles of Richland Parish. The tax breaks granted to Meta, again without public input, total more than $3 billion.
For his part, Landry kept quiet about the agreements until the last possible moment. But once the ink was dry, he was downright boastful about them. “I have no problem letting the people in the state of Louisiana decide whether what we put together was worth it,” he said, telling the Times-Picayune that he was motivated by pragmatism and a desire to drag his economically underperforming state into the future. “You don’t do these deals in the public,. At some point, you have to give the people elected to lead this state the opportunity to lead.”
Since Louisiana’s have a habit of ending up in prison, some level of backroom chicanery is to be expected in the Bayou State. At the moment, Landry’s NDA-heavy approach is largely a Louisiana phenomenon. But the ethically dubious practice of burying public-private deals under NDAs could be put to use elsewhere.
Landry’s down-low dealmaking offers a blueprint for post-Trump Republicans looking to push through potentially unpopular agreements and policies, including those involving data centers and artificial intelligence. While the president may no longer be able to harness the support he enjoyed by virtue of being loud-mouthed himself, his followers can work quietly to carry on his project under a blanket of keep-quiet agreements — springing them on the public when the deals have already been made.
Five episodes into Netflix’s “A Different World” sequel, Hillman gets a bomb threat. This is a very real part of life for students at historically black colleges and universities, but that doesn’t make it any less frightening. Everyone gathers at The Pit, including Dwayne Wayne (Kadeem Hardison) and Freddie Brooks (Cree Summer) — who are Hillman faculty now — to talk it out. One student expresses shock at being targeted at a place they chose because they thought they’d feel safe. Another wonders if it’s an inside job.
The person who best sums up the moment is Dwayne’s daughter, Deborah (Maleah Joi Moon), when she says, “It’s all so exhausting. We go to their institutions, they punish us. We try to build our own; they destroy it. We mess up, they use it against us. What is even the point of trying?”
Right now, that statement could and will be read any number of ways.
Deborah could just as easily be critiquing the Trump administration’s vacillation between defunding educational opportunities for minority students, citing the DEI boogeyman, and infusing HBCUs and tribal colleges with millions in cash. Great for those higher-learning institutions, but targeting minority grant funding elsewhere ensures, particularly at the Ivies and Big 10 schools, less diverse undergraduate populations at places that weren’t racially or economically diverse in the first place.
To know “A Different World” as it was is to anticipate that this 2026 visit to Hillman, a fictional HBCU, must contend with these real-world concerns. But, returning to the episode in question, what’s just as vital is how its students deal with this crisis. When the waiting becomes almost too much, Deborah starts humming a few bars of a familiar song. More join in, and soon everybody is singing along, dropping the tension enough to relax a little.
A few breaths later, the lockdown ends. Everyone resumes their business, carrying with them the lesson of never sacrificing their spirit even while living in a state of constant vigilance.
Expecting the modern, single-camera version of “A Different World” to recapture the multi-camera original’s magic is unreasonable. Read the title, read the room. The 2026 version of “A Different World” comes to us not on a traditional broadcast network, but on a streaming service, where Norman Lear’s return to “One Day at a Time” became a loving chronicle of a Cuban American family’s life. It also adapted Justin Simien’s indie flick “Dear White People” into an in-your-face comedy revolving around the Black experience at an Ivy League college.
But that show relied on the specter of white ignorance to serve as a cultural contrast, whereas “A Different World” is, as the title promises, almost entirely centered on Blackness – and with it, Black joy.
To those wondering what this show has to contribute 39 years after its 1987 premiere, and following the returns of “Roseanne” and “Will & Grace,” “Full House,” and “That ‘70s Show” (reborn as “That ’90s Show“), that should be enough.
Those other revivals were justified by our nostalgia for their characters, and the love people have for crunchy Freddie, showboating Ronald “Ron” Johnson (Darryl M. Bell), brainy Dwayne and his wife, the eternally bougie Whitley Gilbert-Wayne (Jasmine Guy), is just as strong.
Presumably, explaining Black college life to an audience that almost elected Howard graduate Kamala Harris to our nation’s highest office — and that views her fellow alumnus Ta-Nehisi Coates as one of Black America’s representative voices — is less of a requirement these days.
Even so, “A Different World,” being a spinoff of “The Cosby Show,” faced different backroom hurdles before its executive producer Debbie Allen got her long-sought greenlight. The holdup is precisely what you think it is. Although Allen and the original series’ head writer, Susan Fales-Hill, shaped the show into the version considered a sitcom classic, Bill Cosby’s creator credit tainted its reputation. The comedian is accused of sexually assaulting dozens of women and was convicted in 2018. That conviction was overturned in 2021 because of a non-prosecution agreement struck with a previous prosecutor. (Cosby continues to maintain his innocence.)
Now that it’s back and under the guidance of “Grey’s Anatomy” alumna Felicia Pride, I can almost guarantee there will be right-wing media commentators crowing, “Who’s they?” while trying to paint this sequel as an extra-woke version of the original.
Doing that would betray their ignorance of the show’s legacy, especially the five seasons that Allen captained. At a time when other sitcoms occasionally tackled social issues in “very special” episodes and “The Cosby Show” hewed to its namesake star’s dedication to respectability politics, “A Different World” regularly confronted harder topics.
Author and professor Brittney Cooper explains what that means in a 2013 Salon story, where she remembers Dr. Huxtable’s eldest daughter Sondra naming her adorable twins Winnie and Nelson after anti-apartheid revolutionaries Winnie and Nelson Mandela in 1988, when they were mainstream political celebrities. Two years later, Hillman student Kimberly Reese (Charnele Brown) agonized over whether to reject a scholarship funded by a company linked to South Africa’s apartheid regime, which was a political act.
None of it felt forced to anyone who sees the college experience as one of political and social awakening. But even “A Different World” hit its limits when it plunged the audience inside the Black folks’ shock and despair after the 1992 Los Angeles uprising. That decision likely led NBC to yank the plug despite its high ratings, Fales-Hill admitted to Vanity Fair. It’s easy to say that was a different time, except we know that isn’t true.
On the contrary, this return to “A Different World” simultaneously reminds us of how far TV has regressed since the late ‘80s and early ‘90s. The original’s success paved the way for a surge in shows centering Black life in America, including “Living Single,” “Moesha” and “Martin.” It also brought HBCU culture and traditions like step competitions into Middle America’s living rooms.
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Still, this generation of “A Different World” viewers needs to be spoken to in ways beyond the cultural lingua franca of online posting and situationships, which the first season does well. Deborah Wayne and Ron’s son Shaquille (Cornell Young IV) are in one of those, following in the footsteps of Dwayne and Whitley. But under the constant watch of phone cameras and gossip that travels at the speed of social media feeds, they face greater pressures.
Within that on-again-off-again tension crackles an exuberance reflected in the whole ensemble, an array of determined smiles and easy joking that momentarily pushes aside those ever-present societal shadows — including the very real possibility that Hillman might close.
But as Freddie points out to her students, that cliff has always been there. “Black learning spaces have always been seen as dangerous,” she tells her students, “not just because of what students do, but because of who you might become.” Maintaining their joy, then, is seen as both an educational priority and an act of resistance. That’s worth reviving, too.
“Dear White People” could not have asked for a better concluding coincidence than the parallel between this season’s show-within-a-show “Big House” and the current cycle of “Big Brother,” the CBS reality show it parodies.
The 23rd round of “Big Brother” is set to be the first in the show’s existence in which a Black player will win. This is all thanks to The Cookout, an alliance of Black players who secretly agreed to stick together near the top of the season expressly to achieve that purpose.
Reactions to The Cookout have fallen along predictable lines, with an offending slice of the “Big Brother” viewership boo-hooing about this alliance’s supposedly racist underpinnings. This intentionally ignores all the prior seasons’ history of treating racism as a sideshow attraction and white players excluding people of color with a regularity you can set your watch to.
Before The Cookout only one Black person made it to any Fiinal Six over the past 11 seasons, as Reality Blurred’s Andy Dehnart reports in his concise breakdown of the team’s extraordinary run. Now that “Big Brother” is down to its final three candidates the gender breakdown becomes a fascinating factor, since the choices are between two men, Derek Frazier and Xavier Prather, and a woman, Azah Awasum.
Obviously “Dear White People” creator Justin Simien and showrunner Yvette Lee Bowser did not think such a turn was possible, although the show’s parody, “Big House,” ends up crowning a Black champion who wins by force, and whose victory is itself a part of the farce.
Representing the Netflix show’s fictional Ivy League school Winchester University in “Big House” are Colandrea “Coco” Conners (Antoinette Robertson), the Black student community’s embodiment of assimilationist striving, and her best white friend Muffy Tuttle (Caitlin Carver).
Muffy is the walking representation of clueless white girl privilege, the type of girl who means well but can never entirely understand why her Black friends are so upset over the state of the world. She and Coco have their ups and downs but always find a way back to each other. Nevertheless, taking part in “Big House” snaps their bond as the gameplay breaks down, predictably, along racial lines manipulated into the storyline by the show’s producers. One of the first casualties of the season is the other Black woman, who the white kids and producers goad Coco into betraying.
What goes down inside “Big House” isn’t central to the fourth and final season of “Dear White People,” but it fulfills the same purpose as previous seasons’ shows-within-the-show by becoming a metaphorical mirror to the main theme. In this last season the Armstrong-Parker students are in their senior year and finding themselves with a surfeit of choices, many of them forcing characters to weigh their integrity against guarantees of career success, fame and for some, huge paydays. It’s also a 1990s-style musical building toward a theatrical production that is, yes, a 1990s-style musical.
The storyline leaps between the future and the core ensemble’s senior year, when the honor of producing Winchester’s traditional Varsity Show falls to Armstrong-Parker House for the first time. An opening scene from the future (where, sorry to say, the pandemic is no longer a societal bug but a feature) hints that creating the show leads to a falling out between Sam (Logan Browning) and Lionel (DeRon Horton). Others, including Troy (Brandon P. Bell), merely fall out of touch.
The exception to this is Sam’s friendship with Joelle (Ashley Blaine Featherson), still going strong after graduation. This is worth noting in the context of Coco’s future, where she holds political office but doesn’t appear to have many friends.
Structuring the entire season around pop interludes has proven to be a polarizing, at least among critics. Such the case with musicals: people either love them wholeheartedly or tolerate them in doses.
But if you follow the original urging by Giancarlo Esposito’s narrator, and watch closely from another angle, the melodic approach makes sense.
“Dear White People” draws its season-long arc from contemporary conversations about racism and race relations in America. That’s been the case since Simien’s 2014 independent film of the same name, from which the first season recycles and expands core characters, story and structure.
Subsequent seasons build upon Simien’s original critique of mainstream culture’s devotion to the convenient myth of a post-racial America, with Season 2 questioning our devotion to legacy and the third presenting cautionary tales about hero worship. But the show’s focus on how white audiences perceive Black people and how that view contributes to the way they’re treated by their peers, by law enforcement and political and social systems, remains constant.
It’s the reason “Dear White People” treats the fourth wall as permeable, with characters frequently cutting their eyes in the direction of the camera as a silent inquiry, acknowledging they know we’re watching and hoping, perhaps, that we’re seeing situations as they do.
The description for this technique is Brechtian, named for playwright Bertolt Brecht, and a term Future Lionel drops and defines both for the audience’s edification and Sam’s. (He also shades Sam for getting so far in her filmmaking career without knowing this technique’s proper definition.) Lionel applies the term to a project they’re mapping, but it also explains the finale season’s creative direction.
Brechtian technique and epic theater are intellectual concepts one would most likely learn about at a place like Winchester, so of course it guides “Dear White People” from Esposito’s narration to the musical numbers that define this cohort’s senior year.
Even if the series never mentioned the term, the show parodies bring attention to its principle of calling attention to the viewer and questioning our objectivity. Mainly, though they’re simple, edgy satires designed to give the students a reason to be in community.
In Season 1 the show’s “Scandal” parody “Defamation” is must-see TV for Armstrong-Parker House residents, transforming the dormitory common room into a neutral, welcoming space.
This changes in the second season when a fire forces the historically Black hall to integrate. During gatherings to watch the drama’s “Love & Hip Hop” equivalent “Traphouse Tricks,” the “Empire” spoof “Prince O’ Palities,” or “Dereca: Set Me Straight,” white students treat the Black characters in these shows as comic stereotypes, making their Black peers uncomfortable.
Calling attention to our love affair with problematic entertainment is precisely what these joke shows are supposed to do, hand in hand with entertaining us. In case that point isn’t apparent, the third season’s in your face clones of “The Handmaid Tale,” “Queer Eye” and Simien’s exaggerated minstrel figure Mista Griggins set it off in neon.
“Big House,” then, is a fitting last act to the in-story metatextual lineup. Instead of existing in tandem with the lives of Winchester students it absorbs one of them, Coco, into its terrarium. Nobody can look away from what happens.
The fact that Coco’s character is on a reality show that takes place inside a season where everyone else spontaneously bursts into song is uniquely absurd. At the same time, it all makes sense.
Antoinette Robertson and Caitlin Carver compete on “Big House” in “Dear White People” (Lara Solank/Netflix)
Out of everyone at Armstrong-Parker, Coco is the one who is most concerned with how she looks, how she’s perceived and how many people are watching her at any given moment. She goes to ridiculous lengths to insert herself in white spaces early in the series, but as she’s matured her experiences with white students at Winchester and her own people make her more ruthless and obsessed with setting herself up for long term success. That give her the edge in “Big House.”
At first she assumes a nice girl persona to avoid being painted as another aggressive, unapproachable Black woman. But another Black girl who could be her twin enters the house, and that woman has a British accent, which in Coco’s mind places her one step closer to whiteness.
Out of self-preservation Coco throws in with Muffy, assuming her white college friend will save her come election time. (Hmm, why does that sound familiar?) She doesn’t . . . but a production-inserted twist does, because the self-serving persona Coco creates is too good to let go.
Discussing his parodies with Vanity Fair in 2018, Simien pointed out how they fit the show’s overall exploration of “the dichotomy between the roles that we play and who we really are. And the thing that conditions us is our culture and the things that we watch on TV.”
That merely got folks in the door. Without making the choice to act with an eye toward achieving a goal history indicates none could fulfill on their own, we wouldn’t be looking at an all-Black final three heading into the season-ending episodes. It goes back to what Cookout compatriot Tiffany Mitchell said when the alliance initially formed in July: “Everything is not about the game.”
Derek agreed with her, saying “It’s not! We’re here to also change the culture. Think about the year we just had.”
Some of this conversation is self-serving strategy, since winning on “Big Brother” and similar competition shows that employ social elements requires people to display loyalty to other players until that loyalty has outlived its purpose.
Still, it’s telling that Derek, the man who spoke about playing for a purpose greater than himself, also prevented the final three from being a complete sausage fest. Azah went into Thursday’s eviction episode outnumbered three to one by her male housemates, but Derek voted to save her – a move Xavier claimed as a product of his manipulations.
The how and why of it matters less than the knowing the outcome places a Black woman within reach of $750,000 for the first time “Big Brother” history.
Coco also secures the “Big House” crown, which comes with a portion of fame she parlays into a political career. But at the friends’ future reunion she forlornly admits she wishes she had the luxury of, as others describe it, doing one project for “them” – i.e., to pay the rent – and one for personal fulfillment.
“‘Big House’ was the last time I let them be generically powerful white people,” Future Coco says very sadly, “But it was for them.”
The last players standing at The Cookout have no such reason to hang their heads, which makes me wonder whether Coco’s meta debut would have turned out differently if they had showed up on CBS even a year or two earlier. But while this may not be the last time “Big Brother” has a non-white winner, The Cookout is likely a one-time phenomenon.
Whereas “Dear White People” and its in-show satires gaze at issues that existed before the series and will be with us years from now, asking through punchlines and meaningful stares at the audience whether the questions the title poses will ever be answered to everyone’s satisfaction.
“Dear White People” is currently streaming on Netflix. “Big Brother” airs Sundays, Wednesdays and Thursdays at 8 p.m. on CBS, and also streams on Paramount+.
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