I have studio execs from Universal, Paramount, Warner Bros. and Disney sat around a mahogany table, all smoking cigars. They’ve come to ask me what to do. They don’t know any more, they’ve ran out of ideas, they can’t seem to make a hit movie. Too much time had passed for the failings of the entertainment industry to be blamed on Covid.
“Gentlemen. Are you familiar with soft power?” I say, lighting my own cigar, filled with Bubba Kush. The head of Paramount, Brian Robbins, stands up.
“Of course, it’s the idea-“
“Will you fucking sit down.”
“It’s the idea of how a nation can exercise different kinds of power to influence others. Hard power could be considered as bombs, economic sanctions, threat of invasion. Soft power is its opposite, it doesn’t force somebody to do something but makes them want to do it. Its culture, diplomacy, that sort of thing.”
“Other countries have government bodies that are focused on Soft Power. In Germany there’s the Goethe Institute, the UK has the British Council, China has the Confucius Institute and so on. The United States doesn’t have one, because it doesn’t need one. It has Hollywood.”
“Heh heh heh, what you saying guy? We know all this shit. That’s why we work with the freaking United States military in our pictures.” Bob Iger says, flashing the Mickey Mouse NFTs he had engraved onto his front teeth. All the men around the table start laughing.
“Duh, I just noticed Hollywood produces propaganda.” Peter Cramer says in a silly voice. The head of Universal then sticks his tongue out, crosses his eyes and looks around the room.
“Look kid, we don’t need a freaking history lesson over here, just tell us what we need to hear.” Says Bob. One of the ancient founders of Warner Bros. leans forward from the darkness. He resembles an elderly toad, eyes half-closed, he speaks incredibly slowly.
“Save Warner Brothers. You need to save us.”
“If you could all shut the fuck up for a minute you might
learn something. I’m telling you America is dead. It’s like a grave filled with
trash. It’s kaput. Zip. Zylch.” I say.
“He’s doing Monty Python.” Bob Iger says, leaning over to the ancient Albert Warner.
“I’m not actually. It is just a minor coincidence. Anyway, your country’s fucked, your leader is a demented old fool, everybody’s sick of everything and the worst thing is you can’t even watch a film at the cinema because its all garbage.” I say, taking a deep hit of the blunt.
“Hey, asshole. Haven’t you heard? We’re making Avengers: Doomsday. Then we got Secret Wars. Heh, what, do you think those movies are bullshit or something?”
“I got two words for you, pal. Shrek. Five.” Peter Cramer says.
“The Hunt for Gollum.” Whispered Albert Warner. I shake my head.
“As the kids say, you’re eating reheated nachos and I’m cringing. You keep shovelling out the same old shit and have been doing for the last fifteen years. What if I said to you, Run, Forrest, Run!”
“That’s a quote from Forrest Gump. One of ours.” Brian Robbins says, looking round the room.
“Yep! How about this one – Life’s like a box of chocolates, they’re grrrrrreat!”
“That’s Forrest Gump again!” says Brian, surprised.
“Do one of ours.” Peter Cramer says.
“Okay, okay…I vant to suck your blut!”
“Dracula! The one from 1931.”
“I knew Bela. He was Hungarian, me, I’m Polish.” Albert Warner said. His cigar had turned to ash in his hand.
“What I’m getting at is, you clowns haven’t made anything good for a generation. You pay actors millions of dollars to stand in a green room. Its all done in post. Where’s the movie magic guys? Where’s the craft of film-making, the artistry? You switched from making cinema to selling products. Nowadays every film needs a popcorn bucket you can fuck. And even your close ties with the United States military is abandoned because you made Transformers be about robogorillas rather than tanks and shit. You have audiences that have lost the skill of watching. It’s all fucked up and it’s all your fault.” I say. The four men stand up, even Albert Warner, and start cursing at me, gesturing towards me with their cigars, knives made of smoke stabbed at me in the air between us.
“But you forgot about soft power, didn’t you? You forgot you only existed to further the geopolitical interests of the United States government and solidify your position of worldwide entertainer. You stupid fucks, you forgot to do your jobs and now everyone’s going to pay for it.” I say, snarling at them.
“Blasphemy…blasphemy…” muttered Albert Warner.
“Heh heh, hey guy, not my problem. You think all of us go to the White House and get told what movies to make? Do you think Donald Trump told me to make a live action Moana movie?” Bob Iger says, leaning across the table.
“Hey fucko, at Paramount we’re still putting out big hitters. Little trilogy called Sonic The Hedgehog, heard of it much?” Brian Robbins says. I bang my fist on the table.
“In a 2018 article, Jeet Heer posited that the decline of the American Empire could be measured by three things: its economy, its military and its soft power. We know your economy’s fucked, look outside. People are getting into debt for fast food deliveries. The military is overspent after committing genocide in Afghanistan and Iraq and you’ve lost control of Israel. And last, but definitely least, its cultural output has been less than dogshit for most of the century. And every one of you here had a hand in trying to squirt that dogshit through a tube and all over the eyes of billions of people.” I say. The four men look to one another.
“So how should we fix it then, bright boy?” Peter Cramer says.
“What do you mean?”
“How should we improve our soft? Make more movies?”
“Oh no, I don’t know about that. I just wanted you to know you had a hand in America’s downfall. If you survive the Ameripocalypse you should be tried in court for high treason.”
“But that’s the whole reason why you’re here, why we’re talking to you!” Brian Robbins says.
“Okay, okay, maybe there’s still time. But you need to listen to me very carefully and do exactly as I say, no questions, is that understood?”
“No.” Albert Warner says, his great wrinkled head rising and falling.
“Go on, spill it, bright boy!” Peter Cramer says. I nod solemnly.
“Okay, here’s what you do. You get rid of all the actors, all the directors, all the film studios, everything. You start all over again. You hire real people to be in films, and all that money you spent on CGI, flip that round to practical effects and set dressing. The directors? Just hire anyone off the street, it doesn’t matter. What does matter is that its real. Its all real again.” I say. The four men are silent, looking down, trying to compute what I had said. They weren’t going to listen to me, not even if their lives depended on it (which it did in a historical sense), but I had said my bit and made peace with the four studio heads.
“You know, it’s sad. I used to love films. Then I watched most of the good ones and everything else is bad in comparison. I just want more good films, you know? Is that so much to ask of you, for a bit of creativity? Please. Just try something new.” I say, beginning to get emotional. I have to leave the meeting as tears well up in my eyes and I think of the films that were never made and the actors that never got work and all of what we never got to see or experience.
America’s soft power got even softer. But who was there to replace
the gaping hole that the U.S. left? If global politics was a computer game, who
would win a cultural victory? There was everything to play for in the future of
worldwide cinematic domination, and so it shall come to be that whoever controls
the box office controls the world. My heart can see where I cannot.
