Big budget movie makers don’t bother sifting through scripts anymore, they have software to do that. Using artificial intelligence to conduct surveys and polls, they analyse forecasted profits, global reach, and potential merchandising deals. Unfortunately, the majority of movie lovers have no imagination, and simply ask for what they know. The tried and tested formulas that used to put bums on seats, are now little more than fodder for mass ridicule.
Connectivity has utterly banished the element of surprise, and the audience’s attention span has reached such critical proportions, Hollywood’s major production houses have resorted to perpetuating urban myths. Much like the recent spate of axe-wielding clowns, that has proven a far cheaper and more effective alternative to expensive teaser campaigns. Even if it does cause panic amongst the nation, viral is viral, no matter how you look at it.
The silver screen is tarnished and torn, and only the most devout acolytes of meaningless drivel and sensationalist plots, still appreciate the efforts of those behind the scenes. The bulk of the majority has seen it all before, sequel after sequel, remake after remake, each deploying the same subtext, heavily skewed by a microscopic echo chamber of political consensus.
Hollywood is in its death throes, but even with its final breath, it shouts louder than ever before. The ravings of a suicidal maniac whose lost all hold on power, unseated from its throne by a silent revolution of cynical consumerism. Which might be why the cinematic concept, paying for the privilege of watching someone else’s TV, seems positively antiquated in the present day.
Hollywood used to manufacture idols, created for worship and adoration, but nowadays people prefer to make them suffer for their entirely misplaced good fortune. The poor little rich kids and their extended family of nepotists, have made some desperate moves into politics, pressing all the hot button issues to ramp up the takings. But as they monotonously repeat their scripts, spearheading tactics for moral outrage under the repressive regime of their beloved new social order, the shining lights of the phony cultural revolution are called out for their hypocrisy.
They’re very fragile creatures, the slaves at the dream factory, the broken people who made it to the top, only to see the bottom fall out of the market. But it won’t be long now before they’re usurped by new advances in technology, and the millions of potential actors and directors subsisting on the internet, all of whom are more than willing to do it for free.
The smallest screen, the one that people carry in their hands, has swallowed up the world. The more reality shrinks from view, the less the distorted reflections of Hollywood have to offer. Their consolidated vision has been blinkered on all sides by blind greed and panic. Flooding the world with new faces, attention seekers who dream of stardom and live in luxury, lecturing the oppressed to appreciate their bondage into consumer slavery has left them isolated and alone.
Hollywood’s elite can sense their own extinction, and no matter how much money they throw at the problem, in truth, they know it’s time to roll the credits. They’re painfully aware that this life, this world, this phony stage upon which we all take our turn and play our parts, is far from glamorous. The difference is that now the audience is the director of their fate, and our humdrum lives, filled with such fetid disappointment, abused from birth to death by Hollywood’s psychotic agenda, has turned their dreams to shit.