Modern ZYNema is a showcase of recent additions to the great cinematic psyop, created by Darius Csiky.

The modern man yearns for wealth, lusts over it, and covets his neighbor’s bag in a sort of inverse gambling addiction in which the pain of another’s loss feeds a sense of superiority within the counter-gambler. He gets nothing else out of it, but as long as others have lost, he’s won. He laments the new and glorifies the old, a slave to the law of diminishing returns, without care for genuine merit.

“Gross revenues of [20th Century Studios] were $227,259,000 for fiscal year 1966, earnings before taxes $23,763,000, net earnings after taxes $12,504,000, earnings per share of stock $4.28. Richard Zanuck’s salary was $150,000 with an additional $150,000 a year deferred; one television producer was being paid $435,000 a year, another $365,000 a year.” —John Gregory Dunne, The Studio (pg. 3)

I’ve lost track of the money, but audiences haven’t. Box office returns now serve as the barometer for cinematic quality. And why not? What’s more cynical about cold hard cash than a percentage on a review aggregator? In the end, the outcome is still binary, a “fresh” certification by a legion of nameless critics or a box-office “bomb.” Rotten tomato, to-mah-to. In a post-Siskel-and-Ebert world, most Americans couldn’t name a film critic, much less one they read regularly. Still, opinions are shared and films are viewed (in that order). Right here, right now, long after those who’ve proclaimed the death of cinema have died themselves, great motion pictures blossom.

EXHIBIT 1: AGGRO DR1FT (Harmony Korine, 2023)

“The old world is no more. No more… truths.”

Harmony Korine is the sole surviving proponent of “avant-garde” in modern cinema. Uninhibited by the fears of age, ethics, or playability alongside this year’s “socially-conscious” fest-bait, the 51-year-old filmmaker embraces artifice with his latest picture. The fact that Aggro Dr1ft is a hilarious retina-scorching joyride is a happy accident rather than the result of a cynically-calculated pastiche of “Un Certain Regard” replicas.

While other films and miniseries carefully dip a toe in the neural network acid bath, Korine’s accelerationist opus takes a running start and dives in headfirst, thrusting past early adopters’ fears by pushing the use of AI to its current extreme. From its vivid infrared visuals to the repetitive loops its characters’ actions seem to be stuck in, every aspect of Aggro Dr1ft embodies techno-terror. The protagonist, portrayed by Spanish actor (and Korine’s ex-neighbor) Jordi Mollà, kills like he repeats platitudes; without mercy, again and again, in a world without shame in which no cliché is spared. 

“I am the world’s greatest assassin. Violence is bad. Children are the future.”

These are the types of mantras he feeds us as he leads us down Aggro Dr1ft’s sucralose-rush depiction of Miami. I adore this film not because it is polarizing, but because it exists for its own sake. I laughed, I was moved, and I enjoyed myself.

The more we immerse ourselves in an artform, the snobbier we tend to get, and we often forget to trust our enjoyment rather than the volumes of theory we’ve been cramming into our overwhelmed heads. It’s all so vast, and to assume a deity-like omniscience when exposing ourselves to something new can only lead us to despair. I’ve now seen around 3333 films, but I’ve never seen a picture like Aggro Dr1ft. Originality doesn’t signify quality, but it shouldn’t ever be shunned. Audiences praise derivative garbage for its “freshness” and “audacious treading of new ground,” but they reject what hasn’t yet been sold to them as worthy of their time. Out comes Korine on a stage in Toronto, wearing a plastic “aggro demon” mask, talking about Fortnite integration and his boredom with movies. His alienation from the present, and its people, is complete. 

The director has received massive backlash from unprepared audiences and critics alike, but it seems like he couldn’t care less. The experiment has been carried out. Our century’s James Cook has ventured beyond the Arctic Circle, and all those who follow his path owe a great deal to his courage. His latest picture might make you nauseous now, but as Wild West gunslingers’ graves push daisies and superheroes fade out on life support, AGGRO DR1FT is coming.

EXHIBIT 2: Priscilla (Sofia Coppola, 2023)

“You’re losing me to a life of my own.”

A modern filmmaker who understands the flip side of the “game” perfectly is Sofia Coppola, who wrote, produced, and directed Priscilla. The film plays on its audience members’ weaknesses to lure them to its side. The modern urge to detest those who have achieved greatness while being less-than-ideal in their personal life, and the feelings of isolation that have lingered beyond their reign in the year 2020, are both components of a shared affliction that primes modern audiences for what they will witness in Coppola’s latest picture.

Cailee Speany shines in her role as Elvis’ wife by reaching beyond realism in her idealized version of “Priscilla.” Jacob Elordi never becomes Elvis, instead using elements of his media hunk persona to embody the idea of Elvis, the all-encompassing masculine idol who is reduced to a childish, self-absorbed caricature in the film. Speany’s Priscilla is always in the right, always the collected one, always the “rock” on which the dysfunctional Elvis character relies.

One is reminded of the timeless recordings of Mel Gibson shouting expletives over the phone to Oksana Grigorieva. In no way am I excusing his behavior, but the person holding the recording device (a pen, in Priscilla’s case) is rarely self-aware enough to recount their experiences without painting themselves as a Christ-like tolerator of all things evil. That’s how the dynamic’s poignancy expands beyond the story of a 20th-century couple. No man is Elvis, but many women feel like Priscilla. Film is fake, chemical imprints of people pretending, but the ideas, they’ve never been more real. If a movie is able to rouse disgust in a viewer who is fully aware of the exceptional ability of the toxic spouse—if it’s unacceptable for Elvis Presley to behave that way—what the hell are you putting up with in your relationship?

In an early scene, a 14-year-old Priscilla is sitting in a diner, minding her business. Suddenly, a married military man goes out of his way to first invite her, then convince her parents, to let the girl meet Elvis. Young readers may not necessarily comprehend the absurdity of the scene; but to claim that realism was even attempted is an insult to the filmmakers. The Elvis estate understandably refused to grant Coppola’s production the rights to the King’s music. A blessing disguised as a bummer, I’d say, as this fact freed Sofia Coppola’s art from its obligations towards Elvis’ legacy.

Coppola remains indebted to Priscilla Presley, but that doesn’t get in her way, as the gravity of her message doesn’t rely on fact-checking the now 79-year-old author’s claims. The urge to oppose people who put everything on the line to create something new will never die as long as human beings are as flawed as they’ve always been, but the good news is that one way or another, as an artist, a path will be open to you. An undoubtedly difficult path, as both Korine’s ‘guns blazing’ approach and Coppola’s “stealthy” one offer their fair share of limitations, but a path nonetheless. And if you don’t want to take it, that’s fine too—just realize that your name is not Lynne, and that this is not your kitchen. You’re back at work, elbow-deep in the office fridge. Co-workers surround you like the lynch mob from the beginning of Hang ‘Em High (1968).

“Hiya, what did you think of X?”

The noose tightens around your neck. Your ears ring in unison with the fridge compressor’s hum. Your gaze darts around while the top-down LEDs flood your vision with purple clouds. The Fresca’s in your hand, but the socially acceptable window for hydration has closed. It’s too late for a sip. All dampness has migrated from your throat to your armpits, unable to evacuate your body because of the new antiperspirant soap you’ve ordered from an Instagram affiliate. Baggy eyes are staring, always staring. They don’t care how long it’s been, the ball’s in your court.

You go for it. It takes a moment, but hot air eddies start escaping your oral canyon:

“That was a domestic flop, wasn’t it?”

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