American Artists Eat Their Own

by Ace

“The result is that the present age has been one of multiple civil wars
that are not limited to the world of art and entertainment.”

– Marshall McLuhan

When Canadian author and philosopher Marshall McLuhan described artists in his 1964 book The Medium Is the Message, the criticism didn’t seem to stem so much from the individual person as it did from the industrial environment around him. It wasn’t poets and painters who resembled his explanation by modern standards. American directors matched his words and became responsible for elevating art to new heights before being condemned by their own fans.

After extensive coverage and critical acclaim, the summer blockbuster Oppenheimer (2023) was put on trial by critics and fans alike. Due to its long-awaited release, many anticipated its potential to celebrate the historical record put to film. However, it wasn’t a guarantee that this Cold War story had cachet among modern film critics. While the film may be beloved by Christopher Nolan’s legions of fans, it may mark the end of an era for Hollywood’s high art. The box office numbers won’t be a reliable indicator, but someone as prolific as Nolan may be a victim of commercial fatigue. While it may seem strange to say that a successful film was a sign of decline, hesitant fans might want to check the life cycle of American art.

Nolan’s latest films assumed that the Hollywood formula of yesteryear still worked. The current audience reveling in the bandwagon may be nostalgic for a bygone era and experiencing its dying days. When Inception (2010) and the Batman trilogy (2005–12) gained popularity, it was a national happening. The cultural impact was felt. But that time has passed. The American audience of the aughts doesn’t overlap with that of the 2020s. An audience politically and culturally hyper-aware had waged war against their own art and the industry that supplied it.

No longer were the spectators dutifully grateful of the performers on stage. The tide had turned. Star power has been decentralized as the biggest directors age out of their prime. Steven Spielberg’s The Fabelmans (2022) may have been successful, judging by its Academy Award nominations. However, the Oscars have been losing viewers so consistently that not even the biggest names in the industry could salvage their legacy. Over time, American artists were replaced as the form expanded. No better example could be cited in recent memory than Damien Chazelle’s Babylon (2022). Not only was it dismissed by critics for ironic reasons, but it also described the state of art from an insider’s perspective. Brad Pitt’s character, Jack Conrad, enthusiastically details how to keep his era of art relevant as the times are changing. “We got to redefine the form,” he says. “It’s the dinosaurs, kid.”

The Silent Era of film was ending, and Al Jolson’s performance in The Jazz Singer (1927) made history. More specifically, American art was redefining the form. Jolson begot Judy Garland begot Gene Kelly, and so on. Hollywood kept its audience on such a steady diet until the vaudeville routine reached its peak and got one-upped by darker art: noirs and epics. These consisted of violence, crime, and politically charged messaging as the on-screen subcultures seeped into the mainstream — far away from the romantic Americana aesthetic that defined its previous eras. However, its population embraced the low art along with the highs, a pattern that continued for generations.

Today, the retrospectives on past American artists reveal the life cycles that govern all modern art. Biographies like Elvis (2022) and Blonde (2022) were prominent in terms of notoriety; however, that hardly translated into cultural significance. Barbie (2023) has brought that level of investment and online excitement. It seemed unfair that the pop sensation based on a doll was comparable to Nolan’s historical tragedy. Yet, that was a common theme of American art for decades. The commercial products get sold in the same market as the intellectual art. Both represent America in their own capacity. The conflicting identities of high and low art, intertwined with widespread approval. A culture that wants to rival the best, while settling for the slop.

Another Canadian offered a relevant example of the transhumanist world that McLuhan described as a “prison without walls.” David Cronenberg, a man whose reputation unfortunately stays within the bounds of horror, made a case study in film form with the notorious Videodrome (1983). An ’80s thriller that didn’t embrace the dystopia genre like Mad Max (1979) and Escape From New York (1981), it instead found a home alongside satirical modernist movies like RoboCop (1987) and They Live (1988) due to their parody-leaning approach that isn’t far from the state of American decline. 

These two Canadian perspectives, depicting the American society from within the media industry that gives them employment, represent one of the most ironic examples of social commentary in recent decades. Unfortunately, it’s only gotten worse since the death of McLuhan and the expiration of that genre after the ’80s. Instead, we find those moments of self-referential decline in other areas, like Babylon. The appetite for such projects seems to be waning as miscellaneous art fills the market.

The industry can sell whatever it wants, but it only seems to incentivize commercial products. Cronenberg and Spielberg got to see the tide turn as McLuhan expanded his thesis from television to film. “The percussed victims of the new technology have invariably muttered clichés about the impracticality of artists and their fanciful preferences,” he said. Chazelle is late to the party. His romantic appeal to a pre-global village world had no chance. The fix was in.

It’s not to say that the world has lost all hope of romanticism. However, the American market, once a symbol of Western confidence, has abandoned its hegemony. A critic can still find its remnants like an archeologist, and cinema can still thrive in the modern era. It takes a romantic heart with a cultured mind that goes back further than the time of McLuhan’s books. It’s part of a heritage that built the foundation of the American nation prior to its affinity for entertainment. That American drive that motivates men to struggle through decline, personal or societal, is still alive. It takes an optimist to find hope in our current state of decadence as an opportunity to reclaim high art as something that can still be produced today.