This guitar teacher talks about an amusing, perhaps alarming, trend he’s seen among his students.
In the 90s, they’d be hardcore fans of a particular band. They’d want to learn Metallica’s Master of Puppets in its entirety, or some obscure song buried at the back of an album. They’d display fierce loyalty to a chosen artist or style.
Things changed in the Napster/Limewire era (early 2000s). Digital filesharing meant the album slowly started to die. Kids would rock up to him with home-burned CDs and tapes of random songs collaged from various places. This was exciting, as far as it went. Kids were taking control of their music. Albums are ultimately a marketing construct from the 1950s dictated by manufacturing constraints. There’s no God-given reason why music has to be doled out in 40-60 minute blobs, all by the same artist, and with an immutable track order. Other worlds are possible. There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamed of in your philosophy, Horatio.
But the new generation of listeners had far less loyalty to individual bands/artists. They did not know the “deep tracks”. If they wanted to learn an Offspring song, it would always be one of the same 3-4 songs.
Today, it has shifted again. His students are like “yo, I want to learn $SONG”, he’s like “so you like $SONG_ARTIST?” and he gets a blank stare. They live in a world where endless music drifts algorithmically in front of them, like indistinguishable ocean waves. Sometimes they like it, but this doesn’t provoke any interest in who made the music, where it came from, what its context is, and so forth. Why even learn those things? More and equally good music is coming along soon. There’s no reason to be a fan of anyone. Once the artist vanishes from Spotify playlists, they can safely forget about them.
(Superfans obviously still exist, but now seem to be motivated more by weird parasocial obsessions than actual artistic output. What would the average kpop “sasaeng” desire more—an unreleased song by Jungkook, or a piece of Jungkook’s shirt?)
It makes you wonder….what does it actually mean to be a fan of someone?
I view fandom as a search algorithm. A way of managing the limitless choices of entertainment.
If I want to read a book there are millions of them, but reading random books is a poor use of my time: most are bad/uninteresting/unsuitable for me. I can dramatically increase my odds of finding a good book by reading an author I’ve enjoyed in the past.
This creates an illusion that the author is important. Actually, “author” is just a highly optimal branch on a search tree for book discovery. If my favorite author started writing bad books, I’d eventually stop reading him. The books are what matters.
Which leads to the question: what happens when search algorithms can connect you with good books better than the tried-and-true method of “read books by your favorite author”? Do you still need to have a favorite author? What happens in that world? Does the fan still exist?
Overnight, a Tiktoker became the third biggest star on the platform because she nodded her head to an electronic beat for a few seconds.
This is literally a fame lottery. There is no reasonable way that talent, perseverance, or “star power” can manifest in a video that’s a few seconds long and where you don’t even talk. (The Tiktok algorithm, by the way, is believed to have a reasonable amount of random noise, to stop people hacking it.) We expect stars to have a degree of personal charisma. Stars produced this way, as Tenbarge notes, tend to be punishingly average and unsuited for fame.
All of it — and this is coming from someone who collects influencer merchandise — is incredibly boring and one-dimensional. This is not by any means an invitation to bash Charli, who I feel great sympathy for given her age and precarious position in multiple overlapping industries. She’s at the epicenter of a new generation’s group of power brokers, with her every move impacting the salaries of grown adults, including her parents and older sister. And I mean this in this kindest way possible — she’s not qualified for any of it. Charli, who I have never personally spoken to, comes off as incredibly sweet, caring, and normal. She reminds me of every high school-aged white girl at my hideously expensive dance studio in suburban Cincinnati. She can definitely perform well, as well as any “Dance Moms-”era teenage competitive dancer from Connecticut. But if you read an interview with Charli and her older sister Dixie, the mediocrity is palpable. They don’t really have anything interesting to say about, well, anything — and if they do, their publicists won’t let them. I’ve seen a handful of their YouTube videos, listened to clips from their podcasts, and scrolled through dozens of Instagram posts, TikTok videos, and tweets. There’s nothing wrong with either of them, they’re just oppressively average. And by the way, so are all their friends in the Hype House and Sway House and whatever new teeny-bopper house went on the market this week.
Bella has attempted to turn her fame into a recording career, with familiar results to anyone familiar with past cases like Kreayshawn or Tila Tequila.
To me, this feels like an area where the past world is meshing incongruously with the new, algorithmic one.
The industry is trying to position Bella Poarch for a lasting career, where her fans continue to buy the songs she puts out for a long time because she’s talented and special. But if her audience cared enough to do that, they probably wouldn’t have found her on Tiktok to begin with. Bella Poarch is the product of a system where the old rules no longer quite apply. She is a nobody who was plucked out of obscurity, through no great merit of her own. She’s not some rising, hot property who will sustain a long career.
And it’s all so meaningless! In 1964, 73 million people watched the Beatles on The Ed Sullivan Show, and it reshaped the face of music. Today, Tiktoks get billions of views and leave no mark on popular culture at all. It’s just noise that gets drowned out by the next day’s noise.
(Hero image: Laura Makabresku | The silent light of God’s Mercy)
Brave the Carpathian wilds of Hungarian animated cinema, and sooner or later you’ll encounter a film called Cat City. Thanks to a fantastic reissue by Deaf Crocodile, there’s no reason it can’t be “sooner”.
Directed by Béla Ternovszky and released in 1986 as Macskafogó (“Cat Catcher”), it’s different to the other Pannónia Film Stúdió movies gaining popularity in the west. Marcell Jankovics’ Fehérlófia was a rapturous hewn-from-the-flesh-of-gods primordial Urheimat myth; György Kovásznai’s Habfürdö was a radical Warhol-meets-Schiele-meets-Soviet-Central-planning romcom. Cat City finds a different way to surprise: by being familiar.
The movie tips its hand early, when a Star Wars text-crawl tells us “In 80 AMM (After Mickey Mouse) the mice of Planet X were threatened by…” What follows is a broad spoof of James Bond and Dirty Harry, where retired “Intermouse” agent Nick Grabovski must recover plans for a device that will save mousekind from a race of evil felines.
Cat City is essentially a western chase cartoon jacked up on espionage steroids—The Mouse With A Golden Gun. Octopussycat.Tom and Jerry Never Dies—with its spy movie hijinks subtly twisted by the fact that they’re about animals. Nick doesn’t have “Bond gadgets”. He uses rodently attributes to get out of trouble (he gnaws through things with his teeth, and picks locks with his tail). The main cat villain has a prosthetic metal hand, like Dr No. The other main villain (?!) is Ernst Blofeld’s white cat. It’s not subtle.
James Bond is conceptually inseparable from Cold War paranoia, so Cat City feels provocative simply by existing. Eastern European baddies with fake accents are the villains in something like every Bond film ever made. Was there public demand for a “we have Sean Connery at home” Magyar imitation? Apparently so. The film was very successful.
But I’m curious as to how familiar, exactly, the average Hungarian would have been with the things Cat City parodies. Here’s a contemporary review (in Hungarian, but Google translates it readably) by Filmvilág‘s Gabriella Székely, who comments that much of the film is cribbed from media that nobody in Hungary can watch. On the other hand, Budapest had at least one cinema in the 1980s that played western movies. On Quora, Viktor T Toth reminisces…
A friend of mine and I saw Monty Python and the Holy Grail here. We were not familiar with Monty Python at the time, so we were completely unprepared. To this day, I don’t know how I managed to avoid wetting myself, I was laughing so uncontrollably at times. Other movies of the era that I remember include Alien (very popular in Hungary, despite the awkward title, apparently borrowed from the French, which literally translates back as “The Eighth Passenger is Death”)…
Hungary, under János Kádár, was the Eastern Bloc’s most liberal state, and an unofficial state attitude of “gulyáskommunizmus” (“goulash communism”) extended a certain permissiveness to the arts. In 1968, deputy Prime Minister György Aczél issued a statement“accepting any […] artistic expression of genuine value, even if it was produced by Western bourgeois culture.” Cases of censorship still occurred, but there were certainly tougher places in the Soviet Union to watch (and make) a James Bond parody.
It wasn’t always this way. The lot where Pannonia Films once existed is fifteen minutes away from the House of Terror, a museum dedicated to the victims of the Államvédelmi Hatóság, Hungary’s secret police. Many of the killed and tortured were actors, writers, and filmmakers. Hungary’s animation industry was nationalized around 1950 as Magyar Szinkronfilmgyártó Vállalat (the proto-Pannónia). Most of its early output tended to be didactic, safe, and moralistic fare aimed at children, but by the 60s and 70s, a spirit of restless experimentation was emerging, all but encouraged by the state.
Hungary occupies a geographically ambiguous part of Europe—Central Europe by some maps, Eastern Europe by others—and under Kádár it had politics to match, with loyalties cleft between the decrepit Soviet giant to the east and the rising sources of capital in the west. When the USSR collapsed, Hungary was the first domino to fall. The Berlin Wall symbolically marked the end of the Iron Curtain, but the beginning arguably came in April 1989, when Hungary dismantled its border fence to Austria.
Was 1980s Hungary a Goldilocks zone for the arts? Isolated enough to have a national style; yet open enough that foreign ideas like James Bond could trickle through? Rich enough to support a film industry; yet poor enough that it avoided the fate of 1980s Hollywood—economically minmaxed by capital into a depressing prolefeed machine? Oppressive enough to stimulate art; yet free enough that this art was allowed a voice? The idea is striking, but likely reductive.
Likewise, it’s tempting to read (and probably misread) broad Cold War concerns into Cat City. Are the cats meant to symbolize anything in particular? At times they behave like a crime syndicate, robbing mice of their possessions. At other times they’re a KGB-esque spy network, surveilling the mice. Yet they’re also a hostile state power, seeking the genocide of the mouse race. They’re like a vague (and sometimes contradictory) conglomerate of Nazis, Soviets, and mafia. Any political allusions are likely nebulous, and buried beneath ersatz James Bond and goofy jokes. The villainous Mr Teufel’s first name is a Germanic “Fritz”: you can that as a political statement, but a more likely reference is Bakshi’s Fritz the Cat.
That said, there is a striking shot where Mr Teufel is wiping his brow with a handerchief, he throws it over his head, and it lands over one eye, looking like Hitler’s combover.
This is an “adult animation”, but only in the sense that Paul McCartney “rocks hard”. There’s some light PG-rated sexual references. Characters have names like Pissy, Pukie, and Lusta Dick. A few gags have a mordant, subversive edge. The basic scenarios—such as a bank robbery, a heist on a supertanker, and an all-out urban battle—are adapted from adult movies (or at least movies watched by adults) like Dirty Harry, The Spy Who Loved Me, and Death Wish 3 (maybe not the 3rd, which came out pretty close to Cat City’s release.) Otherwise, the movie is pretty kid-friendly. Hungarian animated films tended to muddy the lines between adult and children’s cinema—Feherlofia blended dick jokes with fairytale storytelling—and this is of a piece with that. Children can surely relate to the plight of these small creatures as they try to avoid being eaten by vampire bats. That is the world they live in.
At the center of the movie are “The Four Gangsters”: a quartet of rats who are good at self-promotion but little else. Teufel hires them to kill Grabowsky, a task they fail dismally (and hilariously) at. They get a huge amount of character development, but even though ultimately could be cut with no impact on the plot, they improve leaven the mix with some Keystone Kops-esque absurdity. The Four Gangsters feel like a reference to something that a Hungarian audience would be more familiar with than I am.
As far as comedy goes…well, James Bond has been pretty much spoofed to death for me. Having the villain say “Welcome…Mr Grabowsky” doesn’t even register as a parody. It’s like doing a fake Arnold Schwarzenegger voice—you make that kind of joke when you’re a person who doesn’t really watch many movies.
The trouble with satire is that you now have two ways of failing. Either the thing you’re spoofing will become old and forgotten (leaving the movie shadowboxing at nothing), or the parody will itself fail. In some ways, western audiences are as culturally distinct from Connery-era Bond as we are from gulyáskommunizmus-era Budapest. And while the classic James Bond movies are influential and cast a long shadow, Bond seldom crosses my radar at all, except for random culture war stuff about how to reconstruct him so he’s Relevant(tm) for Today’s Audience(tm) (you know what I mean—arguments about whether Bond should be a black woman who believes #ConsentIsSexy and so on.) The character increasingly seems cut off from the now: more like a work of cultural taxidermy than a living, breathing property.
I’m reminded of Elvis’s 1968 hit “A Little Less Conversation”, which was remixed by Junkie XL in 2003, and then hit number one in nine countries. Some took it as a sign of The King’s enduring cultural legacy. Yet Elvis was so buried in the mix, so out-of-place in the modern production and big-beat trappings, that it had the opposite effect for me. He felt irrelevant. It was as if we, as a civilization, were saying “yes, Elvis is important. But let’s be real, nobody actually wants to hear him, unless we dress him up in modern drag.”
I’ve wandered a bit from the point, but the question of how much you enjoy Cat City’s largely rests on how much you enjoy other, fairly old movies. In 2024, I’m now convinced that the Bond parody stuff is the least interesting side of Cat City. It’s far less sharp than even something like Austin Powers, and its barbs are further blunted by time and culture. Mostly, I’m surprised by how distant James Bond himself feels. Too far to even take potshots at anymore. If you’d asked a person in 1970 whether James Bond would last longer in culture than Sherlock Holmes, I don’t think many moviegoers would have put money on Doyle’s detective.
Cat City definitely nails the racial and gender politics of a classic Bond film. The vampire bats are cartoonish Mexican stereotypes who wear sombreros and play mariachi music. There’s a Japanese cat who attempts to trap Grabowski while the “Chinaman riff” plays. There’s a sexy mouse geisha, who is effortlessly seduced by Grabowski at the end, despite having no chemistry established. It’s all played for fun; a slightly naff recreation of Hollywood stereotypes.
So what do I think of Cat City?
Well, it has a lot of charm. It’s also a bit baggy, feeling every minute of its 1:33:00 runtime. A number of gags just don’t work because they’re dragged out, and lack rhythm and timing. The scenes of Teufel terrorizing and maiming his put-upon assistant, Mr Safranek, should have been funny, but they just go on and on, and become uncomfortable.
The story also needed a haircut. It has numerous plot digressions that don’t really go anywhere and are dropped by the end—Safranek’s daughter has a pet mouse, and their relationship is played up for its taboo potential, but this ultimately gets forgotten about. Animated films are normally very “tight”—one of the blessings of a 3-year production cycle is that it gives you ample time to work out what film you’re actually making—so it’s odd to see one second guess itself and go down blind paths.
The adventures are suitably Bond-esque, with setpieces involving mountain roads, submarines, high-tech cars, etc. Grabowsky is so competent and capable (and his opponents so moronic) that he never feels in much danger. Incredibly, the Four Gangsters rank among his tougher adversaries!
The animation is good, but static. Shots are locked-down and stiff. Characters exist on flat planes of action, like comic book panels. There’s little of the camera movement or layered multiplane action of a Disney movie.
But its flaws make it interesting, in a rough-hewn, shaggy way. It’s reactive, in a sense, and can’t be watched on its own like Feherlofia can. There’s a still a lot of creative juice inside it. I kept pausing to admire certain shots, such as how Mr Teufel’s smoke floats across the room and weaves a noose around his put-upon subordinate Safranek’s head. It certainly has the Pannonia energy. It’s not altogether successful, but it is memorable: a weird island of convention inside the bubbling goulash of Magyar animation.
Have you ever read a fanfic where author clearly 1) likes the characters and 2) hates literally everything else about the world and setting and tone? Star Trek, but it’s a dystopia and everyone’s angsty and gay? Harry Potter, but there’s no magic and everyone has up-to-date political views?*
The Devil’s Rejects was and is Rob Zombie doing revisionist fanfic of his own work. It preserves the characters of 2003’s House of 1,000 Corpses but otherwise reinvents their entire world, tabula rasa. The first movie was trippy and phantasmagoric, more inspired by Rocky Horror Picture Show than, say, Tobe Hooper (also “influenced” by the budget running out by the end, as Rob admits). This one’s a different beast: as visceral and ugly as pyloric stenosis surgery performed on a taxidermized fetus stuffed with wriggling hairless baby mice. It’s a raw, bracing film, and you want to take a hot shower after it’s done. You feel its foulness baked into your skin.
I watched it 18 years ago through a cloud of resentment: Rob Zombie was my favorite musician at the time, and his filmmaking gig took him away from that. When he returned to music, I no longer liked him as much. You have to move on. Unconditional love does not exist. However, he still is family.
The Devil’s Rejects‘s small, bloody plot begins on a small bloody plot: the local sheriff raids a farmstead where 75 homicides and disappearances have taken place. After a rousing shootout, the surviving members of the (Manson-inspired) Firefly family go on the run, while the sheriff chases them, becoming increasingly unhinged in his own methods.
If you want gore, this has it. It also has a fun, lively script, peppered with one-liners. “Boy, the next word that comes out of your mouth better be some brilliant fuckin’ Mark Twain shit, ’cause it’s definitely gettin’ chiseled on your tombstone.”
Rob’s a “Quentin Tarantino” filmmaker. He doesn’t make movies about reality. He makes movies about movies. In this case, it’s Sam Peckinpah, blaxploitation, Texas Chainsaw Massacre, and sundry other things, filmed through the distorted Monstervision lens of Rob’s imagination. Everything has a bleary carnival vibe where it’s trying to conjure or evoke or remind you of something you saw before, but in a cracked, broken-down form. This movie recognizes that carnivals are never more compelling than when they’re old, rusty, and breaking down. When the paint chips, and the muzak distorts, and the rides might suddenly kill you. There’s a real dry, arid air of death and dying about this film. You’re seeing American culture being tanned out to leather under the blazing sun.
But it’s incredibly referential. I often wonder if there’s much to the movie, once you wash away the dried blood of its influences. The “Freebird” shot at the end is all about redeeming the idea that “Freebird” can be a serious song, which, of course, relies on the audience knowing that it’s a stand up comedy punchline.
Then comes a scene mid-movie a woman (Kate Norby, I believe) runs out onto a highway wearing her husband’s face as a mask (long story). She seemingly cannot hear approaching cars and trucks until they literally are in frame. I believe that this is a reference to Sergio Leone’s patented “things outside the frame don’t ontologically exist” approach…fuck it, here’s Ebert.
A vast empty Western landscape. The camera pans across it. Then the shot slides onto a sunburned, desperate face. The long shot has become a closeup without a cut, revealing that the landscape was not empty but occupied by a desperado very close to us. In these opening frames, Sergio Leone established a rule that he follows throughout “The Good, the Bad and the Ugly.” The rule is that the ability to see is limited by the sides of the frame. At important moments in the film, what the camera cannot see, the characters cannot see, and that gives Leone the freedom to surprise us with entrances that cannot be explained by the practical geography of his shots.
…but if you don’t know about that fourth-wall-bending technique, the character’s behavior just seems bizarre. Like she’s spontaneously become deaf. It’d be fun to try this movie out on a person who’s never seen a movie before. An Andaman Islander or something.
Sid Haig is despicably great. Rob Zombie’s wife punches the clock and does her usual job. Bill Moseley is suitably depraved and desperate. And speaking of dearly departed Rog, there’s a film critic character who seems like a merger of Ebert and Siskel—the movie gets a few mean laughs at his expense, then throws him out on his ass. Rob doesn’t like critics much.
As with House of 1,000 Corpses and his later films, it’s weird and confusing around the edges. One of those jigsaw puzzles where the sides aren’t straight lines, but fit still more puzzle pieces. Some of the actors don’t quite seem to get what movie they’re in. And there’s a lot of faffing around in the middle involving bounty hunters and carnie owners that feels like “unnecessary complications”. The film seems to have barely any story—it’s driven by vicious, limbic-system horror gore and comedic gags that sometimes work and other times don’t. (The scene involving the chicken-fucking appears to be an attempt at a “do you think I’m funny?” classic-movie scene, but it falters because there’s little at stake and the characters don’t matter.) Genuinely clever writing exists alongside the kind of dumb shit you normally get from Eli Roth. So there’s a lot of texture and unevenness to the film.
But there’s one unreservedly great scene. “Tutti fucking fruity”.
It’s a canonical example of how a scene can add literally nothing to the plot, yet carry the movie’s soul on its shoulders. The Fireflys stop to get ice cream. That’s the scene. They don’t murder the ice cream vendor, or do anything weird. They just get ice cream. This scene makes me extremely uncomfortable: why do these depraved serial killers suddenly seem sympathetic, relatable, and human, just because they stopped for ice cream?
Well, that’s the movie. These people aren’t space aliens or monsters: they’re people. A family. A neuroscientist would compare my brain with Otis B Driftwood’s and find them basically identical. The best of men and the worst of men are about 1% apart.
(*I don’t say that as criticism of fanfiction. As Lev Grossman said: “I adore the way fan fiction writers engage with and critique source texts, but manipulating them and breaking their rules. Some of it is straight-up homage, but a lot of [fan fiction] is really aggressive towards the source text. One tends to think of it as written by total fanboys and fangirls as a kind of worshipful act, but a lot of times you’ll read these stories and it’ll be like ‘What if Star Trek had an openly gay character on the bridge?’ And of course the point is that they don’t, and they wouldn’t, because they don’t have the balls, or they are beholden to their advertisers, or whatever. There’s a powerful critique, almost punk-like anger, being expressed there—which I find fascinating and interesting and cool.”)
