Alongside the DCEU film The Flash Warner Bros. Discovery had another superhero film coming out this summer, Blue Beetle. It hit theaters in North America in August 18--and six weeks on has collected some $70 million. It has taken in an additional $53 million internationally at last check.
This works out to a grand total of $123 million.
This is, admittedly, a bit better than may have been anticipated for it--the North American component of the gross, indeed, exceeding the high end of Boxoffice Pro's mid-July expectations ($55 million). However, it is a long way from making the $100 million+ film profitable, even if one assumes commensurately strong earnings in streaming and other post-theatrical distribution--and thus also a long way from justifying the decision to "upgrade" what had originally been a straight-to-streaming project to a bigger budget and a theatrical release.
Notably this is in spite of the film seeming to be actually well-liked--rather better-liked, in fact, than the far more expensive and heavily promoted The Flash, to go by the Rotten Tomatoes scores (a critics' score of 79 vs. 63 for The Flash, an audience score of 92 vs. 83 for the other movie).
It seems at the very least more evidence of the difficulty of getting audiences to buy tickets generally--and the difficulty of getting them to do so in particular for superhero movies, especially as those features of a superhero film that may make it stand out are, alas, not the kind of thing that tidily fits into high concept marketing schemes.
Monday, September 25, 2023
"How Much Money Did The Flash Lose?" Again (The Budget Was Even Bigger Than We Heard)
These days we seem to be constantly hearing that some big-budget movie actually cost a lot more than was reported. Most of the stories I am aware of have had to do with the Marvel Cinematic Universe but this seems to have happened with The Flash as well--the circa $200 million movie actually a $300 million movie.
Given that production budgets tend to represent one-half to one-third of a studio's outlay on a big movie (there are also distribution, promotion, participations and residuals, interest) one may guess from this a total outlay on the movie of $600-$900 million.
As it happened the movie grossed about $269 million worldwide, which one might guess worked out to not much more than $130 million in theatrical rentals. It tends to be the case that big movies like these make the equivalent of two-thirds of their rentals from those post-theatrical distribution methods, like streaming and TV, but given how weak the theatrical gross was this time one could picture the movie making relatively more. So I could see the movie making $250 million when those proceeds are in--while if the theatrical flop becomes a surprise hit here, we might think $300 million.
$600 million in expenses minus $300 million in revenues is . . . still a loss of $300 million.
And $900 million minus $300 million is . . .
Well, you get the picture. Basically, this movie might, even with those later revenues counted in, easily put a $300 million hole in its backer's budgets, and possibly much more--a half billion or more not out of the question. Such is the insane gamble that a film like this has become these days . . . and time and again this year the studios are losing. Still, to go by the remarks of David Zaslav, who--in a display of the surreal disconnect between what studio executives "think" and what EVERYONE ELSE ON EARTH think, claimed that Warner Bros. franchises like the world of DC Comics, Harry Potter and the Lord of the Rings are "underused"--I do not see the studios changing course very readily.
Given that production budgets tend to represent one-half to one-third of a studio's outlay on a big movie (there are also distribution, promotion, participations and residuals, interest) one may guess from this a total outlay on the movie of $600-$900 million.
As it happened the movie grossed about $269 million worldwide, which one might guess worked out to not much more than $130 million in theatrical rentals. It tends to be the case that big movies like these make the equivalent of two-thirds of their rentals from those post-theatrical distribution methods, like streaming and TV, but given how weak the theatrical gross was this time one could picture the movie making relatively more. So I could see the movie making $250 million when those proceeds are in--while if the theatrical flop becomes a surprise hit here, we might think $300 million.
$600 million in expenses minus $300 million in revenues is . . . still a loss of $300 million.
And $900 million minus $300 million is . . .
Well, you get the picture. Basically, this movie might, even with those later revenues counted in, easily put a $300 million hole in its backer's budgets, and possibly much more--a half billion or more not out of the question. Such is the insane gamble that a film like this has become these days . . . and time and again this year the studios are losing. Still, to go by the remarks of David Zaslav, who--in a display of the surreal disconnect between what studio executives "think" and what EVERYONE ELSE ON EARTH think, claimed that Warner Bros. franchises like the world of DC Comics, Harry Potter and the Lord of the Rings are "underused"--I do not see the studios changing course very readily.
The Demise of the Gold Eagle Publishing Imprint, and the Collapse of the Mass-Market Paperback
That lack of coverage seemed to me to bespeak not just the decline of the imprint, or the associated genre of "paramilitary" action-adventure fiction, both of which were fairly "old news" by the mid-2010s, but the broader displacement of leisure reading by audiovisual media. The more recent collapse of sales of the mass-market paperback generally--not quite so unreported as the Gold Eagle collapse was, but all the same, getting relatively little attention--is part of the same process. No matter how much some would like for us to believe that we are just reading in a different format the decline of the paperback seems to me indicative of the decline of casual reading, light reading as other activities replace it.
Like mind-numbedly staring at videos where so-called "influencers" jabber about stupid crap--and, in line with the cultural importance accorded to said influencers and said stupid crap, get far more press coverage than the collapse of the mass-market paperback has got, or could be expected to have got, in an age in which even the "JOURNALISTS" OF THE ERA DO NOT READ!
Rethinking the Pandemic's Legacy for the Movie Business
Early in the pandemic my expectation was that the blow to an already fragile film business--the disruption of a much-weakened and eroding habit of film-going, the shutdown of many theaters, the increasing shift of even big-budget original content to streaming--would make recovery slow and full recovery unlikely (especially given that, as we have seen, the pandemic never went away). In late 2021 and early 2022 my view changed somewhat, such successes as Spider-Man: No Way Home (an $800 million hit in North America alone just as the latest mutation of the COVID-19 virus was running wild) made it seem as if not so much had changed, with the successes of Top Gun 2 and Avatar 2 in particular the following year giving the impression of a return to normal underway--and I suggested that the packed release slate of 2023 would see the box office normalize that year, since all 2022 had seemed to me to lack was the usual quantity of releases, and especially of near-sure-fire franchise sequels among them.
Of course, it did not work out that way. The movies came, of course, but the recovery of the box office that looked so dramatic between late 2021 and the spring of 2023 stalled out badly in the summer, suggesting that the continuation of the recovery much past three-quarters of the pre-pandemic level of business would be a long, slow process--the more in as to the extent that people were going to the theater they were not doing it for the same movies as before. Where in 2021 and 2022 we saw the usual sort of blockbusters lead the way--big franchise action films like the Marvel, Top Gun and Avatar sequels--2023 saw such films consistently underperform from Ant-Man 3 forward, and time and again flop catastrophically over the summer, with the process exemplified by the receptions to The Flash and Indiana Jones 5, and less dramatically, the newest Fast and Furious, Transformers and Mission: Impossible films. Rather it was more idiosyncratic hits that led the way--The Super Mario Bros. Movie in the spring, Barbie and Oppenheimer in the late summer period--with these accounting for a disproportionate share of the box office as the distribution of ticket sales became ever more "top-heavy." (Where in the early 2000s the top ten films of a given year accounted for 23 percent of that year's North American box office gross, and it was more like 34 percent in 2015-2019, in 2023 so far it seems to be just under 50 percent to go by the Box Office Mojo's numbers.*)
The result is that I think my earlier, more pessimistic appraisal was the more accurate--and that Hollywood will have that much tougher a time ahead of it as, with streaming proved no substitute for theatrical revenues, those revenues come to depend on an ever smaller share of hits and, in comparison with the past years when Disney flourished by ruthlessly exploiting the viability of Star Wars, superheroes and animation (both new animated movies and live-action adaptations of its old animated classics), the movies once counted on to be winners fail to deliver, while those likely to truly be winners are ever harder to identify.**
* The calculation is based on the site's "calendar gross" rather than "in-year release" figures (some $3.4 billion grossed by the top ten films against the year's overall gross of $6.9 billion).
** Exemplary of that situation seven of the ten highest-grossing movies of 2019 were Disney productions of exactly these kinds (Star Wars 9, Avengers 4, Captain Marvel, Toy Story, Frozen 2, Lion King and Aladdin), while Disney's Marvel coproduced an eighth movie on the list (Spider-Man: Far From Home), with the top six all Disney productions (of the seven previously mentioned, all but Aladdin), a truly astonishing preponderance, while every one of these broke the billion-dollar barrier globally (at a time when a billion dollars was more like $1.2 billion today, and therefore that much more substantial an achievement).
Of course, it did not work out that way. The movies came, of course, but the recovery of the box office that looked so dramatic between late 2021 and the spring of 2023 stalled out badly in the summer, suggesting that the continuation of the recovery much past three-quarters of the pre-pandemic level of business would be a long, slow process--the more in as to the extent that people were going to the theater they were not doing it for the same movies as before. Where in 2021 and 2022 we saw the usual sort of blockbusters lead the way--big franchise action films like the Marvel, Top Gun and Avatar sequels--2023 saw such films consistently underperform from Ant-Man 3 forward, and time and again flop catastrophically over the summer, with the process exemplified by the receptions to The Flash and Indiana Jones 5, and less dramatically, the newest Fast and Furious, Transformers and Mission: Impossible films. Rather it was more idiosyncratic hits that led the way--The Super Mario Bros. Movie in the spring, Barbie and Oppenheimer in the late summer period--with these accounting for a disproportionate share of the box office as the distribution of ticket sales became ever more "top-heavy." (Where in the early 2000s the top ten films of a given year accounted for 23 percent of that year's North American box office gross, and it was more like 34 percent in 2015-2019, in 2023 so far it seems to be just under 50 percent to go by the Box Office Mojo's numbers.*)
The result is that I think my earlier, more pessimistic appraisal was the more accurate--and that Hollywood will have that much tougher a time ahead of it as, with streaming proved no substitute for theatrical revenues, those revenues come to depend on an ever smaller share of hits and, in comparison with the past years when Disney flourished by ruthlessly exploiting the viability of Star Wars, superheroes and animation (both new animated movies and live-action adaptations of its old animated classics), the movies once counted on to be winners fail to deliver, while those likely to truly be winners are ever harder to identify.**
* The calculation is based on the site's "calendar gross" rather than "in-year release" figures (some $3.4 billion grossed by the top ten films against the year's overall gross of $6.9 billion).
** Exemplary of that situation seven of the ten highest-grossing movies of 2019 were Disney productions of exactly these kinds (Star Wars 9, Avengers 4, Captain Marvel, Toy Story, Frozen 2, Lion King and Aladdin), while Disney's Marvel coproduced an eighth movie on the list (Spider-Man: Far From Home), with the top six all Disney productions (of the seven previously mentioned, all but Aladdin), a truly astonishing preponderance, while every one of these broke the billion-dollar barrier globally (at a time when a billion dollars was more like $1.2 billion today, and therefore that much more substantial an achievement).
The Flash's Rotten Tomatoes Scores
In a year in which big-budget franchise action films kept crashing and burning the flopping of The Flash still stands out as an extreme case. The movie made a mere $108 million in its entire North American run (when for such a highly anticipated movie $108 million would have been regarded as a disappointing opening weekend), and not much more overseas--a mere $160 million that left it with just under $269 million in total. Especially given the film's hefty price tag--which in yet another revelation of a major film's budget being considerably larger than was originally announced, seems to have been in the $300 million range--the loss to the studio may end up in the range of several hundred million.
Interestingly, this was in spite of the film apparently not being hated. The critics' score was 63 percent, the audience score 83 percent--not spectacular, but other films with much, much worse have done much, much better, and there is room to think that the scores would have been higher had it not been for the unhinged overhyping of the movie as the greatest superhero film ever made at a moment when the standard is extremely high, the audience showing signs of becoming jaded. (Indeed, I think there is still room for the movie, given its oddities, to become a cult success.)
All of that seems to underline just how much the film market may be changing--and, much as they are evidently resisting it, forcing change on the Hollywood system of a kind not seen in a half century.
Interestingly, this was in spite of the film apparently not being hated. The critics' score was 63 percent, the audience score 83 percent--not spectacular, but other films with much, much worse have done much, much better, and there is room to think that the scores would have been higher had it not been for the unhinged overhyping of the movie as the greatest superhero film ever made at a moment when the standard is extremely high, the audience showing signs of becoming jaded. (Indeed, I think there is still room for the movie, given its oddities, to become a cult success.)
All of that seems to underline just how much the film market may be changing--and, much as they are evidently resisting it, forcing change on the Hollywood system of a kind not seen in a half century.
Balzac and the Rise of Modern Publishing
In discussing Balzac's depiction of publishing in Lost Illusions I remarked how, in contrast with so many who light-mindedly tell people that "publishing is a business" (mostly, just in the course of excusing it for the brutal way it treats writers), Balzac actually shows what that means--the essential crassness of those in control, the extreme conflict this sets up with any artistic imperative, the problems of publicity and the way they make it more important to have a "distinguished name" on the cover of a book than that the book be good, the expenses of promotion and the corruption of book reviewing, the nearly insuperable obstacles that any new arrival of whatever talent must overcome just to get their work looked at, and the rest.
Still, if all this is as true of the business today as it ever was (and set by Balzac with infinitely greater forthrightness than any contemporary person discussing the industry dares to do), it can seem the case that the entrepreneurs of the "Wooden Galleries" Balzac describes are remote from the realities of a corporatized, bureaucratized world we have long taken for granted--just as is generally the case when we consider business as it stood two centuries ago. Still, as is also the case with much we see when we look at the world of two centuries ago, and the books of Balzac, we can see that later world emergent, in a quip of the vile Dauriat's. As he remarks when, with gleeful cruelty, crushing Lucien du Rubempre's hopes, "I have eleven hundred manuscripts on hand . . . eleven hundred manuscripts submitted to me at this moment," a testament to the scale of the submissions with which a major publisher must deal. Moreover, Dauriat, quite clear on what managing such quantities of manuscripts requires, observes that he "shall soon be obliged to start a department to keep account of the stock of manuscripts, and a special office for reading them, and a committee to vote on their merits."
So did it go, the processing of manuscripts becoming increasingly bureaucratized, with the result that Jack London described so well in Martin Eden--until the Dauriats of the world decided they would not bother with such things at all, dumping the burden of running such departments and offices on literary agents and telling anyone who came to them with such a manuscript in spite of their declaration anywhere and everywhere that they "do not accept unsolicited manuscripts" to "get an agent," three little words that are the "Let them eat cake" of the Dauriats of Park Avenue.
Still, if all this is as true of the business today as it ever was (and set by Balzac with infinitely greater forthrightness than any contemporary person discussing the industry dares to do), it can seem the case that the entrepreneurs of the "Wooden Galleries" Balzac describes are remote from the realities of a corporatized, bureaucratized world we have long taken for granted--just as is generally the case when we consider business as it stood two centuries ago. Still, as is also the case with much we see when we look at the world of two centuries ago, and the books of Balzac, we can see that later world emergent, in a quip of the vile Dauriat's. As he remarks when, with gleeful cruelty, crushing Lucien du Rubempre's hopes, "I have eleven hundred manuscripts on hand . . . eleven hundred manuscripts submitted to me at this moment," a testament to the scale of the submissions with which a major publisher must deal. Moreover, Dauriat, quite clear on what managing such quantities of manuscripts requires, observes that he "shall soon be obliged to start a department to keep account of the stock of manuscripts, and a special office for reading them, and a committee to vote on their merits."
So did it go, the processing of manuscripts becoming increasingly bureaucratized, with the result that Jack London described so well in Martin Eden--until the Dauriats of the world decided they would not bother with such things at all, dumping the burden of running such departments and offices on literary agents and telling anyone who came to them with such a manuscript in spite of their declaration anywhere and everywhere that they "do not accept unsolicited manuscripts" to "get an agent," three little words that are the "Let them eat cake" of the Dauriats of Park Avenue.
The Lies They Told the Self-Published
I'm not quite sure how things stand here these days, but back when self-publishing exploded circa 2010 the writer who endeavored to go this route was beaten over the head with the "advice" that they absolutely must make great and strenuous efforts to publicize their book if they are to have any hope of anyone reading their book at all.
As with most of the advice directed toward the self-published this was less about guiding them toward a course that would let them have the fairest possible chance than crushing their hopes of self-publication being a viable alternative to the traditional publication channels out of which they had likely found themselves already completely shut out (because the means are beyond them, or the process so distasteful or unbearable)--or to foist on them very expensive services of dubious value.
As one might guess, the advice tended to be dishonest, in the small as in the large.
Consider how such writers were enjoined to get their work "reviewed."
The truth is that they did not need "reviews." A merely good review, after all, would not necessarily do much for them, while a bad review would be damaging--quite enough, perhaps, to neutralize the effect of many positive reviews.
No, what they needed rather than reviews was claquing--not reviewers, but claqueurs. Big publishers can arrange these--and do so all the time, going by the raves one sees all the time on the covers of mediocre works. They do not necessarily have to work all that hard for it--the established author likely to be treated much more generously than the newcomer for a multitude of reasons, as their failings are given the benefit of the doubt, and the critics jump on the bandwagon, in a way that cannot happen with a "nobody," who was likely to naively send out their work to such obscure reviewers as they could get to look at it, and merely land luke-warm responses--and, reflecting how much more they needed the claquing than did the already established, the less than luke-warm sales to show for them.
As with most of the advice directed toward the self-published this was less about guiding them toward a course that would let them have the fairest possible chance than crushing their hopes of self-publication being a viable alternative to the traditional publication channels out of which they had likely found themselves already completely shut out (because the means are beyond them, or the process so distasteful or unbearable)--or to foist on them very expensive services of dubious value.
As one might guess, the advice tended to be dishonest, in the small as in the large.
Consider how such writers were enjoined to get their work "reviewed."
The truth is that they did not need "reviews." A merely good review, after all, would not necessarily do much for them, while a bad review would be damaging--quite enough, perhaps, to neutralize the effect of many positive reviews.
No, what they needed rather than reviews was claquing--not reviewers, but claqueurs. Big publishers can arrange these--and do so all the time, going by the raves one sees all the time on the covers of mediocre works. They do not necessarily have to work all that hard for it--the established author likely to be treated much more generously than the newcomer for a multitude of reasons, as their failings are given the benefit of the doubt, and the critics jump on the bandwagon, in a way that cannot happen with a "nobody," who was likely to naively send out their work to such obscure reviewers as they could get to look at it, and merely land luke-warm responses--and, reflecting how much more they needed the claquing than did the already established, the less than luke-warm sales to show for them.
Saturday, September 23, 2023
Could Captain Marvel 2 be the Marvel Cinematic Universe's The Flash?
The result is that I find myself wondering--could Captain Marvel 2 (aka The Marvels) be to the Marvel Cinematic Universe what Solo was to Star Wars, what Indiana Jones 5 was to that series, what The Flash has been to the DCEU? Compared with when I made my prediction about The Marvels four months ago, at the beginning rather than the end of the franchise flop-packed summer of 2023, I see even less reason than before for optimism about the performance of superhero sequels like this one, whether from the DCEU, Marvel or anywhere else. Yet the fact remains that my estimate for The Marvels was already fairly low to begin with--premised on what the Black Panther franchise suffered in its theatrical revenues from the first to the second film, a drop of perhaps half in the "real" worldwide box office gross not inconceivable, leaving it with $600-$700 million collected.
Since that time I have seen no reason to think the film will do much better--while certain of the disadvantages it is likely to have are clearer. The film's shift in tone to something goofier than what its predecessors offered may not go over well with audiences (it is the kind of thing that tends to bespeak a run-down series, and very likely did not help Thor 4), while the crossover element can be awkward for people who did not see (or saw but did not like) the associated series--and this all counting the more at a time when viewers are less enthusiastic than before about moviegoing, more fickle in regard to movies that just a short time ago were nearly sure-fire "events." The result is that I do think a Solo/Indiana Jones 5/The Flash-style collapse (the movie's doing less than the $600-$700 million I anticipated, the movie maybe doing just half that business) is not wildly implausible--though of course we will know more in a few weeks, when the box office tracking starts to come in.
For an updated view of the issue, see the author's latest on Captain Marvel 2's prospects.
How Much Would Captain Marvel 2 Need to Make to be Profitable?
We now hear that Captain Marvel 2's production may have run Disney some $275 million, including $220 million "net" (the part that came from the producer)--a hefty sum, and likely just the beginning where its expenses are concerned. Already $45 million more in current dollars than the first Captain Marvel at that stage of things, Disney's final expenditure on Captain Marvel (what we get counting distribution, promotion, participation, residuals, interest all the way through home entertainment), should we take the Deadline figures about the movie from back in 2020 at face value, came to a little over $450 million (an extra $275 million on top of the $175 million production cost).
Extrapolating from Disney's production cost, this would work out to some $560-$570 million for Captain Marvel 2.
Going by what Deadline has reported about previous films of comparable scale and type, with $560 million spent Disney needs to make at least 55 percent of that sum theatrically--$300 million+--just to cover the rest of the outlay with earnings from streaming, home entertainment, etc.. With the film's backers keeping a bit less than half of the theatrical gross I would not expect the movie to break even much below $650 million grossed worldwide, assuming commensurately strong revenue from the post-theatrical income streams.
At the beginning of this past summer movie season it seemed to me that $700 million was the high end of what the movie could be expected to make--given how Marvel's sequels have underperformed relative to their predecessors, and given how the first Captain Marvel was something of a special event (among other things, coming out mere weeks before the mega-event that was Endgame), making it more likely to suffer the drop of a Black Panther sequel than a Guardians of the Galaxy sequel. Nothing I have seen so far has made me much more optimistic about the movie's earnings prospects. The result is that I can see the movie squeaking by in the most favorable scenario, but not much more (that $1 billion mark still likely to be well out of reach), with underperformance easily translating to losses--losses that, while unhappy for the studio, are unlikely to look very significant next to what it has suffered in the wake of Indiana Jones 5's ignominious reception.
Extrapolating from Disney's production cost, this would work out to some $560-$570 million for Captain Marvel 2.
Going by what Deadline has reported about previous films of comparable scale and type, with $560 million spent Disney needs to make at least 55 percent of that sum theatrically--$300 million+--just to cover the rest of the outlay with earnings from streaming, home entertainment, etc.. With the film's backers keeping a bit less than half of the theatrical gross I would not expect the movie to break even much below $650 million grossed worldwide, assuming commensurately strong revenue from the post-theatrical income streams.
At the beginning of this past summer movie season it seemed to me that $700 million was the high end of what the movie could be expected to make--given how Marvel's sequels have underperformed relative to their predecessors, and given how the first Captain Marvel was something of a special event (among other things, coming out mere weeks before the mega-event that was Endgame), making it more likely to suffer the drop of a Black Panther sequel than a Guardians of the Galaxy sequel. Nothing I have seen so far has made me much more optimistic about the movie's earnings prospects. The result is that I can see the movie squeaking by in the most favorable scenario, but not much more (that $1 billion mark still likely to be well out of reach), with underperformance easily translating to losses--losses that, while unhappy for the studio, are unlikely to look very significant next to what it has suffered in the wake of Indiana Jones 5's ignominious reception.
On Captain Marvel 2's Budget
Another day, another revelation that makes Disney's finances look even worse than before--with, once again, Disney-Marvel's milking of the British government's system for subsidizing movies leading to the public disclosure at the root of it.
The latest has to do with the outlay for Captain Marvel 2, with some fuss now being made over Forbes' reporting the budget as $275 million, a number touted as twice what had previously been announced--the $130 million figure we heard back in April.
However, as anyone who actually read the reports back in the spring should have registered, the claim was not that the whole project cost $130 million, but that (as the title of Forbes' own April piece put it!) the production company had spent "$130 Million Two Months into Filming." The result was that, especially as $130 million seemed paltry for a Marvel movie--especially a follow-up to the big-budgeted and high-grossing Captain Marvel, especially in this age of inflation, interest rate hike- and pandemic disruption-related production budget--and so I never took it for more than part of the total sum, to be revealed later.*
Accordingly the $275 million figure we are now hearing strikes me not as some scandal, but as completely unsurprising. (In fact it seems less surprising after those other revelations we heard about what Marvel's most recent movies cost, like the far-greater sum--$1.2 billion!--spent on Avengers 3 and 4.)
And of course, the $275 million figure fails to take into account the $55 million subsidy that is, after all, how we got to hear about all this, lowering the net production cost to the vicinity of $220 million.
The fuss thus seems to me a testament to the lack of basic reading skills among those who pass for journalists in this day and age--and, in fairness, also to the way many seem to be reveling in the way that Disney has gone from being Hollywood's champion in the '10s to looking like it is in dire straits.
* The production of the first Captain Marvel cost Disney $175 million net according to Deadline. Perhaps an underestimate (given how Deadline's figures have been consistently low next to the figures we now hear about) it is equal to around $210 million today--way more than that $130 million we heard about, even before inflation, but not much less than the $220 million net production cost of the new movie.
The latest has to do with the outlay for Captain Marvel 2, with some fuss now being made over Forbes' reporting the budget as $275 million, a number touted as twice what had previously been announced--the $130 million figure we heard back in April.
However, as anyone who actually read the reports back in the spring should have registered, the claim was not that the whole project cost $130 million, but that (as the title of Forbes' own April piece put it!) the production company had spent "$130 Million Two Months into Filming." The result was that, especially as $130 million seemed paltry for a Marvel movie--especially a follow-up to the big-budgeted and high-grossing Captain Marvel, especially in this age of inflation, interest rate hike- and pandemic disruption-related production budget--and so I never took it for more than part of the total sum, to be revealed later.*
Accordingly the $275 million figure we are now hearing strikes me not as some scandal, but as completely unsurprising. (In fact it seems less surprising after those other revelations we heard about what Marvel's most recent movies cost, like the far-greater sum--$1.2 billion!--spent on Avengers 3 and 4.)
And of course, the $275 million figure fails to take into account the $55 million subsidy that is, after all, how we got to hear about all this, lowering the net production cost to the vicinity of $220 million.
The fuss thus seems to me a testament to the lack of basic reading skills among those who pass for journalists in this day and age--and, in fairness, also to the way many seem to be reveling in the way that Disney has gone from being Hollywood's champion in the '10s to looking like it is in dire straits.
* The production of the first Captain Marvel cost Disney $175 million net according to Deadline. Perhaps an underestimate (given how Deadline's figures have been consistently low next to the figures we now hear about) it is equal to around $210 million today--way more than that $130 million we heard about, even before inflation, but not much less than the $220 million net production cost of the new movie.
What Happened to All the Paperbacks?
If you have recently visited any major retailers with which you have been long familiar--a supermarket or convenience store, for instance--you may have noticed that the mass-market paperback section has shrunk, or even been eliminated altogether.
This is no isolated oddity--and no great mystery, either. The sales of mass-market paperbacks have not been eroding, but collapsing, for years. It was thus only a matter of time before retailers started cutting back on the space allotted them--or stopped carrying them altogether.
It is also not hard to imagine why this has been the case--and the explanation is not the triumph of the e-book, which, while probably affecting the kind of light, casual reading the paperback is associated with more than any other, e-book sales plateaued some time before the paperback collapse even began. (Sales of e-books were stalling out circa 2015--whereas the analysis I have found dates the paperback collapse to 2017, well after that point.)
The stagnation of the e-book, and the collapse of the paperback, if undeniably multifactor events, testify to what is, as with so much else in the world today, obvious and intuitive and yet something that self-anointed respectable opinion absolutely refuses to admit--that people are doing less reading of novels for pleasure, and less long-form reading of any kind, and maybe less reading of any kind. And this bespeaks the even more complete collapse of such reading--because if the light stuff is "too much" for people, and ceases to be part of their lives, you can forget their getting around to picking up very much in the way of "literature."
This is no isolated oddity--and no great mystery, either. The sales of mass-market paperbacks have not been eroding, but collapsing, for years. It was thus only a matter of time before retailers started cutting back on the space allotted them--or stopped carrying them altogether.
It is also not hard to imagine why this has been the case--and the explanation is not the triumph of the e-book, which, while probably affecting the kind of light, casual reading the paperback is associated with more than any other, e-book sales plateaued some time before the paperback collapse even began. (Sales of e-books were stalling out circa 2015--whereas the analysis I have found dates the paperback collapse to 2017, well after that point.)
The stagnation of the e-book, and the collapse of the paperback, if undeniably multifactor events, testify to what is, as with so much else in the world today, obvious and intuitive and yet something that self-anointed respectable opinion absolutely refuses to admit--that people are doing less reading of novels for pleasure, and less long-form reading of any kind, and maybe less reading of any kind. And this bespeaks the even more complete collapse of such reading--because if the light stuff is "too much" for people, and ceases to be part of their lives, you can forget their getting around to picking up very much in the way of "literature."
Let's Talk Honestly About Rewriting For Once
One of the things that makes what the Internet has degenerated into so useless is that, far from being an open field for ideas we were promised it has become so totally organized around selling crap.
The crap in question includes cheerfully glib advice of the self-helpish variety.
So does it go with, for example, the advice one is likely to found online regarding the matter of rewriting.
Those who have ever attempted to write seriously know full well that rewriting is a part of writing--usually a very important part.
But they also know that many writers--I suspect, the great majority of them--do not particularly enjoy rewriting, quickly come to find it actually painful, and have only a limited patience for it. Indeed, I suspect that far more than will admit it would love to never do it again--to just crank out the words and be done with them, with cleaning up the resulting mess someone else's responsibility (as was often the case with the pulp writers back when making a living selling fiction to magazines was "a thing," as I suspect is the case with those Big Names of today that the Dauriats of Park Avenue are prepared to indulge in this way).
The combination of the importance of the rewriting, with its associated difficulties and stresses, makes it a subject worth discussing honestly. But consistent with the aforementioned uselessness an online search for discussion of this matter leads you instead to either
1. Stupid denials of the reality. (Thus do people say things like "You don't like rewriting? Why, I've never heard of such a thing! I personally LOVE REWRITING! So, no I don't understand it at all." Or they say "You think you hate rewriting? No, you only think you don't like rewriting. The reality is you love it, you just don't know it yet!" before trying and failing to change your mind.)
or
2. "Advice" that persons of even modest intelligence probably thought of long before anyone told them, will quickly hear a hundred times if they do any looking into the subject, and which is unlikely to have enough practical value at all to have been worth suggesting the first time, let alone the hundredth. ("Try to think of rewriting as writing!" Okay. Except that if you think of rewriting as something other than what it actually is, how likely are you to go about the task properly? Besides, even overlooking that hugely important fact, what they are telling you to do is switch the label on the activity, as if this would switch the reality. Of course, it doesn't, revealing this for the simple-minded charlatanry that self-help advice usually is.)
I write this post in the hopes of providing something a little more useful--though I know full well that the search engines will probably do neither I, nor any readers who might actually find this item useful, any favors in the search rankings, much more likely burying it under a city dump's worth of stupid denials and "advice" I have been talking about. Still, here is what I have to say about the matter:
A great many people dislike and even hate rewriting, and if we do not admit that key fact we will never get anywhere. This is, partly, because much of the writing we do we do not because we want to, but because we have to (and if, like myself, you have ever had to teach writing you will see how much patience people have for that).
However, even when there is no such element of compulsion people still dislike rewriting--and it is easier to understand why when considering what those who like writing like about it. What, I think, people who love writing love is the experience of the words flowing out of their brains and onto the page, during which they may actually experience a "flow state" in the sense in which psychologist Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi used the term.
Rewriting is not necessarily like that--I emphasize "necessarily," because rewrites are not all the same. If one gets lucky in revisiting a draft they have completed they may find that
1. They do not have to do very much rewriting. Most of what may have seemed wonderful during that first writing process may actually be wonderful, and finding that out can make a "rewriting" process feel very good indeed. (It may, in fact, be that rather than rewriting they have actually just done something much lighter and simpler--their supposed rewriting really more like an easy copyedit.)
and/or
2. The rewriting they must do is intuitive and easy. They look at something that may not work, and see the solution right away, everything just falling into place right away. When things go this way, again, they may actually feel good. Indeed, going about the work in this way they may experience that "flow state" people can get when the words flow out of them.
Of course, the rewriting experiences that make people hate rewriting are the ones where they do not "get lucky." Rather they find that what they wrote was not so wonderful at all--that maybe it will need a lot of work if the piece in question is even to just look decent. That in itself can be bruising to the ego, and callous or insulting as many tend to be about it, sniveling about a writer being "oversensitive" and the like, this matters--precisely because of how this process can leave an experienced writer fearing that they cannot get through a simple text message without a dozen crippling mistakes, with all that entails for one's creativity and productivity.
Moreover, the work of rewriting is likely to not proceed in that intuitive, flow state-inducing way. Rather they find again and again that they must stop and ponder what they did, puzzling out what does not work and why--an experience likely to kill any slippage into that flow state as instead they find themselves self-conscious, unsure, confused, awkward. When they do puzzle things out they are likely to find that the work requires them not to merely cross out a word here or make a different word choice there, but actually rearrange material--and eliminate material--and create new material to take its place. It can be very hard emotionally to let go of what one has created, especially on those occasions when that bit was satisfactory, or even very good, something they are perhaps proud of, but which must be discarded because however good it was in itself it no longer fits in with the rest of what they are doing. It can also be very hard to create the new material that must replace what they forced themselves to cut out--the effort to produce it likely to be a matter not of creative flow but of straining, maybe straining painfully, to pile one word atop another to cover over some hole their rearrangements and excisions opened in the text--and maybe watch the pile collapse before they are done, so that they keep rewriting the same portion of their work again and again.
Doing even a very little of this can be exceedingly time-consuming in itself, while it often feels as if one has done much more of it than they really did, because, the time consumption apart, that work process is deliberate, stop-and-go, self-conscious, confused, awkward, forced, painful. (Certainly when applying Track Changes--as I always do during a rewrite--I find that undertaking the work I often felt like I did a lot more alteration than I really did, the actual portion of the text marked in the colors and formatting indicating deletion or addition not as much as I would have guessed just going by my subjective feeling during the work.) Moreover, the writer often does not do "a very little of this," what they thought would be a small job turning into a big one as they find that altering this insignificant-seeming passage here, they have to alter all those others there in their turn; that, maybe, what looked like an alteration at the level of a paragraph or even a sentence will necessitate alterations all the way up to the level of the whole structure. And they may, in their dissatisfaction with what there was before, and their consideration of new possibilities, cross--be forced to cross--the frequently thin, sometimes almost invisible, line between "fixing" and "changing," the complications entailed in which Robert Ludlum summed up well in his introduction to a reprint edition of Trevayne when he explained exactly why he did not try to update what seemed to him a very timely book: "As anyone who has . . . remodeled a home will tell you, once you start tinkering, you may as well throw away the schematics. It becomes a different house." So they end up building the different house, but in that much more arduous way--that stop-and-go, self-conscious, confused, awkward, forced, painful way imposed on them by doing it using so much of the material of the original house as against starting that different house from scratch, while possibly forsaking what might have been a perfectly good older design, because they tinkered in that way that a significant rewriting can make very, very hard to avoid.
As if all of this did not itself make it difficult for a writers to take emotional satisfaction in any results they achieve there is the fact that they have no guarantees that, for all their work, they are actually making their first draft any better than it previously was--and have plenty of reason to fear that they are doing the opposite. Just as work produced in that state of creative flow is likely to "feel" better than it actually is, work produced in that more arduous, deliberate, way is likely to feel worse than it actually is--the strain of the work making them expect that the material when looked at will feel strained to the reader, as the whole, rather than having a happy unity that it at least seemed to during a flowing writing process, is to them too obviously a Frankenstein's monster of stitched-together parts.
Moreover, especially if the rewriting is heavy, they know they will have to give it another look, which will lead to more rewriting. Indeed, they have likely come to anticipate from past experience that another round, maybe many rounds, of the same time-consuming, deliberate, stop-and-go, forced, painful, Frankenstein's monster-stitching process lie ahead of them. Especially if they are astute enough to space out those rounds of rewriting, because they know that they can only do a decent job with the next round if they look at it with a fresh pair of eyes requiring a long break from the material, they know that the unpleasant process of rewriting this particular work will remain part of their lives for quite some time to come, with no guarantees about when it will end, or even if it will end with any positive result. Many know what it is to rewrite and rewrite and rewrite again--and in the end be forced to give up the work in hand in defeat, and have in the end the kind of "learning experience" that the moralizing tell us is edifying, but which everyone would really prefer to do without. And they know that all this can, and in the long run probably will, happen to them again, because they hoped they would never have to deal with the really grueling kind of rewrite ever again and were disappointed in that hope again.
Keep in mind, too, that through all this the writer likely has the normal human eagerness to be done with a job that felt as if it was done (and yes, even knowing intellectually that rewriting is part of writing the completion of that first draft still feels like a completion)--especially if their time is limited, and they must be concerned for their productivity, and there are other things, including other writing projects, they would like to get to (and who is not in that position?), with this perhaps weighing the more on those who (in contrast with a writer who has a deadline at which point they must simply turn in what they have, especially if it meets some minimum level of acceptability and someone else will take it from there) in the end answer only to themselves. After all, they have to decide when "Enough is enough"--another burden of responsibility that may not weigh so heavily when the rewrite is light work, but which weighs very heavily indeed when it is not, the more in as the way we are taught to think about these things give us very little guidance. (We are almost always enjoined to put "more effort" into what they are doing--and almost never advised about when it is time to leave well enough alone, when doing any more would damage something that is as good as it is likely to get, messing up what might have been quite a good enough house had they known when the right thing to do really was to "be a quitter.")
Only an idiot would trivialize, would brush off, what all of that means from the standpoint of the writing experience, and the writing life. And I think it worth saying that, contrary to what many of those who brush off expressions of distaste for rewriting would have us believe, that hating rewriting is not necessarily a sign of callowness or laziness. Often it is an indication of the complete opposite--because the person who hates rewriting takes it seriously enough to do the job right, and to have in the course of doing the job right have had some of those bad experiences; to have known the really grueling rewrites when "tinkering" turned into building a new house, or rewrote and rewrote and rewrote and just never got it right, and maybe even suffered in deeper ways for it. (Frankly, it seems to me that suffering too much in the course of rewriting can undermine the ability to write--make that critical function work in overdrive, suppressing that essential word-generation, while ceaselessly discouraging the would-be writer by reminding them that, yes, they are going to have to rewrite afterwards.) Indeed, it is probably the most conscientious, the most ambitious, the most perfectionist who suffer most from rewriting, and get to hate rewriting most. By contrast those who think rewriting is only a very slight thing are likely to not actually know much about rewriting, perhaps even to have dealt with it only in a very superficial, lazy, way while flattering themselves that they are the superiors of those who have expressed less than happy thoughts about the task.
Of course, for all that a writer who actually cares about what they are doing will suffer through the rewriting process as described here--but are entirely entitled to their feeling during that process rather than having it trivialized by the Internet Idiots. I would also add that they deserve better advice than said Idiots tend to offer them, and the search engines shove in their face should they mistake of seeking out some meaningful comment about it.
In keeping with what I said earlier of the glib "advice" so many give on such subjects I will not presume to offer the reader such "advice." But I do think that honestly appraising what rewriting involves, and why it can be so difficult and uncomfortable, is a better start to helping us all figure out how to cope with the problem, than the ceaseless repetition of banalities that so characterizes the small and mediocre mind, and which always seems so salutary to the respecter of conventional wisdom.
The crap in question includes cheerfully glib advice of the self-helpish variety.
So does it go with, for example, the advice one is likely to found online regarding the matter of rewriting.
Those who have ever attempted to write seriously know full well that rewriting is a part of writing--usually a very important part.
But they also know that many writers--I suspect, the great majority of them--do not particularly enjoy rewriting, quickly come to find it actually painful, and have only a limited patience for it. Indeed, I suspect that far more than will admit it would love to never do it again--to just crank out the words and be done with them, with cleaning up the resulting mess someone else's responsibility (as was often the case with the pulp writers back when making a living selling fiction to magazines was "a thing," as I suspect is the case with those Big Names of today that the Dauriats of Park Avenue are prepared to indulge in this way).
The combination of the importance of the rewriting, with its associated difficulties and stresses, makes it a subject worth discussing honestly. But consistent with the aforementioned uselessness an online search for discussion of this matter leads you instead to either
1. Stupid denials of the reality. (Thus do people say things like "You don't like rewriting? Why, I've never heard of such a thing! I personally LOVE REWRITING! So, no I don't understand it at all." Or they say "You think you hate rewriting? No, you only think you don't like rewriting. The reality is you love it, you just don't know it yet!" before trying and failing to change your mind.)
or
2. "Advice" that persons of even modest intelligence probably thought of long before anyone told them, will quickly hear a hundred times if they do any looking into the subject, and which is unlikely to have enough practical value at all to have been worth suggesting the first time, let alone the hundredth. ("Try to think of rewriting as writing!" Okay. Except that if you think of rewriting as something other than what it actually is, how likely are you to go about the task properly? Besides, even overlooking that hugely important fact, what they are telling you to do is switch the label on the activity, as if this would switch the reality. Of course, it doesn't, revealing this for the simple-minded charlatanry that self-help advice usually is.)
I write this post in the hopes of providing something a little more useful--though I know full well that the search engines will probably do neither I, nor any readers who might actually find this item useful, any favors in the search rankings, much more likely burying it under a city dump's worth of stupid denials and "advice" I have been talking about. Still, here is what I have to say about the matter:
However, even when there is no such element of compulsion people still dislike rewriting--and it is easier to understand why when considering what those who like writing like about it. What, I think, people who love writing love is the experience of the words flowing out of their brains and onto the page, during which they may actually experience a "flow state" in the sense in which psychologist Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi used the term.
Rewriting is not necessarily like that--I emphasize "necessarily," because rewrites are not all the same. If one gets lucky in revisiting a draft they have completed they may find that
1. They do not have to do very much rewriting. Most of what may have seemed wonderful during that first writing process may actually be wonderful, and finding that out can make a "rewriting" process feel very good indeed. (It may, in fact, be that rather than rewriting they have actually just done something much lighter and simpler--their supposed rewriting really more like an easy copyedit.)
and/or
2. The rewriting they must do is intuitive and easy. They look at something that may not work, and see the solution right away, everything just falling into place right away. When things go this way, again, they may actually feel good. Indeed, going about the work in this way they may experience that "flow state" people can get when the words flow out of them.
Of course, the rewriting experiences that make people hate rewriting are the ones where they do not "get lucky." Rather they find that what they wrote was not so wonderful at all--that maybe it will need a lot of work if the piece in question is even to just look decent. That in itself can be bruising to the ego, and callous or insulting as many tend to be about it, sniveling about a writer being "oversensitive" and the like, this matters--precisely because of how this process can leave an experienced writer fearing that they cannot get through a simple text message without a dozen crippling mistakes, with all that entails for one's creativity and productivity.
Moreover, the work of rewriting is likely to not proceed in that intuitive, flow state-inducing way. Rather they find again and again that they must stop and ponder what they did, puzzling out what does not work and why--an experience likely to kill any slippage into that flow state as instead they find themselves self-conscious, unsure, confused, awkward. When they do puzzle things out they are likely to find that the work requires them not to merely cross out a word here or make a different word choice there, but actually rearrange material--and eliminate material--and create new material to take its place. It can be very hard emotionally to let go of what one has created, especially on those occasions when that bit was satisfactory, or even very good, something they are perhaps proud of, but which must be discarded because however good it was in itself it no longer fits in with the rest of what they are doing. It can also be very hard to create the new material that must replace what they forced themselves to cut out--the effort to produce it likely to be a matter not of creative flow but of straining, maybe straining painfully, to pile one word atop another to cover over some hole their rearrangements and excisions opened in the text--and maybe watch the pile collapse before they are done, so that they keep rewriting the same portion of their work again and again.
Doing even a very little of this can be exceedingly time-consuming in itself, while it often feels as if one has done much more of it than they really did, because, the time consumption apart, that work process is deliberate, stop-and-go, self-conscious, confused, awkward, forced, painful. (Certainly when applying Track Changes--as I always do during a rewrite--I find that undertaking the work I often felt like I did a lot more alteration than I really did, the actual portion of the text marked in the colors and formatting indicating deletion or addition not as much as I would have guessed just going by my subjective feeling during the work.) Moreover, the writer often does not do "a very little of this," what they thought would be a small job turning into a big one as they find that altering this insignificant-seeming passage here, they have to alter all those others there in their turn; that, maybe, what looked like an alteration at the level of a paragraph or even a sentence will necessitate alterations all the way up to the level of the whole structure. And they may, in their dissatisfaction with what there was before, and their consideration of new possibilities, cross--be forced to cross--the frequently thin, sometimes almost invisible, line between "fixing" and "changing," the complications entailed in which Robert Ludlum summed up well in his introduction to a reprint edition of Trevayne when he explained exactly why he did not try to update what seemed to him a very timely book: "As anyone who has . . . remodeled a home will tell you, once you start tinkering, you may as well throw away the schematics. It becomes a different house." So they end up building the different house, but in that much more arduous way--that stop-and-go, self-conscious, confused, awkward, forced, painful way imposed on them by doing it using so much of the material of the original house as against starting that different house from scratch, while possibly forsaking what might have been a perfectly good older design, because they tinkered in that way that a significant rewriting can make very, very hard to avoid.
As if all of this did not itself make it difficult for a writers to take emotional satisfaction in any results they achieve there is the fact that they have no guarantees that, for all their work, they are actually making their first draft any better than it previously was--and have plenty of reason to fear that they are doing the opposite. Just as work produced in that state of creative flow is likely to "feel" better than it actually is, work produced in that more arduous, deliberate, way is likely to feel worse than it actually is--the strain of the work making them expect that the material when looked at will feel strained to the reader, as the whole, rather than having a happy unity that it at least seemed to during a flowing writing process, is to them too obviously a Frankenstein's monster of stitched-together parts.
Moreover, especially if the rewriting is heavy, they know they will have to give it another look, which will lead to more rewriting. Indeed, they have likely come to anticipate from past experience that another round, maybe many rounds, of the same time-consuming, deliberate, stop-and-go, forced, painful, Frankenstein's monster-stitching process lie ahead of them. Especially if they are astute enough to space out those rounds of rewriting, because they know that they can only do a decent job with the next round if they look at it with a fresh pair of eyes requiring a long break from the material, they know that the unpleasant process of rewriting this particular work will remain part of their lives for quite some time to come, with no guarantees about when it will end, or even if it will end with any positive result. Many know what it is to rewrite and rewrite and rewrite again--and in the end be forced to give up the work in hand in defeat, and have in the end the kind of "learning experience" that the moralizing tell us is edifying, but which everyone would really prefer to do without. And they know that all this can, and in the long run probably will, happen to them again, because they hoped they would never have to deal with the really grueling kind of rewrite ever again and were disappointed in that hope again.
Keep in mind, too, that through all this the writer likely has the normal human eagerness to be done with a job that felt as if it was done (and yes, even knowing intellectually that rewriting is part of writing the completion of that first draft still feels like a completion)--especially if their time is limited, and they must be concerned for their productivity, and there are other things, including other writing projects, they would like to get to (and who is not in that position?), with this perhaps weighing the more on those who (in contrast with a writer who has a deadline at which point they must simply turn in what they have, especially if it meets some minimum level of acceptability and someone else will take it from there) in the end answer only to themselves. After all, they have to decide when "Enough is enough"--another burden of responsibility that may not weigh so heavily when the rewrite is light work, but which weighs very heavily indeed when it is not, the more in as the way we are taught to think about these things give us very little guidance. (We are almost always enjoined to put "more effort" into what they are doing--and almost never advised about when it is time to leave well enough alone, when doing any more would damage something that is as good as it is likely to get, messing up what might have been quite a good enough house had they known when the right thing to do really was to "be a quitter.")
Only an idiot would trivialize, would brush off, what all of that means from the standpoint of the writing experience, and the writing life. And I think it worth saying that, contrary to what many of those who brush off expressions of distaste for rewriting would have us believe, that hating rewriting is not necessarily a sign of callowness or laziness. Often it is an indication of the complete opposite--because the person who hates rewriting takes it seriously enough to do the job right, and to have in the course of doing the job right have had some of those bad experiences; to have known the really grueling rewrites when "tinkering" turned into building a new house, or rewrote and rewrote and rewrote and just never got it right, and maybe even suffered in deeper ways for it. (Frankly, it seems to me that suffering too much in the course of rewriting can undermine the ability to write--make that critical function work in overdrive, suppressing that essential word-generation, while ceaselessly discouraging the would-be writer by reminding them that, yes, they are going to have to rewrite afterwards.) Indeed, it is probably the most conscientious, the most ambitious, the most perfectionist who suffer most from rewriting, and get to hate rewriting most. By contrast those who think rewriting is only a very slight thing are likely to not actually know much about rewriting, perhaps even to have dealt with it only in a very superficial, lazy, way while flattering themselves that they are the superiors of those who have expressed less than happy thoughts about the task.
Of course, for all that a writer who actually cares about what they are doing will suffer through the rewriting process as described here--but are entirely entitled to their feeling during that process rather than having it trivialized by the Internet Idiots. I would also add that they deserve better advice than said Idiots tend to offer them, and the search engines shove in their face should they mistake of seeking out some meaningful comment about it.
In keeping with what I said earlier of the glib "advice" so many give on such subjects I will not presume to offer the reader such "advice." But I do think that honestly appraising what rewriting involves, and why it can be so difficult and uncomfortable, is a better start to helping us all figure out how to cope with the problem, than the ceaseless repetition of banalities that so characterizes the small and mediocre mind, and which always seems so salutary to the respecter of conventional wisdom.
Thomas Frank Eats a Sandwich with Seymour Hersh
Interesting, too, was Frank's consideration of the consequences of his quarter century of writing on these matters "with little effect." In his view the reason the effect has been so slight is "because politics isn't book learning," but rather "a clash of grand forces . . . industry and labor . . . social movements . . . money," while admitting the pessimism of the view he allowed that "the only lessons that get learned these days are the ones that flatter the powerful players involved."
All too true--and anyone presuming to think about politics in any serious way forgets it at their peril.
Friday, September 22, 2023
What Will The Expendables 4 Make This Weekend?
Boxoffice Pro has put out its last projection for The Expendables 4's debut--anticipating a gross of $10-$15 million in the movie's first three days of North American release, which, of course, is in line with the weak gross they have predicted over the past month (a final take of under $40 million, maybe even under $25 million).
This seems all too predictable, and not just because this is a fourth installment in a never-better-than-second-string action series coming out almost a decade after the poorly received third installment at a time in which franchise films like these just keep crashing and burning (as so many bigger films from more robust franchises did this summer), though it is plenty for this film, or any other, to have against it. There is, too, the shaky foundation for the franchise. The Expendables, like pretty much everything else in Sylvester Stallone career these past two decades (Rocky VI, Creed I-III, Rambo IV and V, etc., etc.) has been about milking the public's nostalgia for his earlier film career, with the nostalgia for the '80s action film that the original The Expendables was all about now that much more remote in the past, that much fainter a draw. (I will say it once more--Top Gun: Maverick was the exception, not the rule, the beneficiary of breathless media cheer-leading amid a summer of very weak competition, as underlined by its failure to deliver much of a boost for Tom Cruise's subsequent Mission: Impossible film , and the way that even bigger '80s phenomenon, Indiana Jones, did this past summer.)
Indeed, The Expendables, which came out in 2010, is now so far behind us that, while sequels invariably trade on nostalgia for those films to which they are follow-ups, the movie is trading on outright nostalgia for yesteryear's nostalgia--nostalgia for back when people were enjoying '80s nostalgia. This seems to me symbolized by the casting of Megan Fox in the film. Megan Fox, basically, got her moment in the spotlight in the piece of '80s nostalgia that was The Transformers--and after many years of not being seen very much by very many people in actual films, here she is, appealing to our nostalgia for when she was participating in a piece of '80s nostalgia. It all feels rather anemic, such that I see no grounds to expect this movie to surprise us with a better-than-expected opening, better-than-expected legs--let alone the very-much-better-than-expected performance required to turn this $100 million movie into a money-maker for its backers.
This seems all too predictable, and not just because this is a fourth installment in a never-better-than-second-string action series coming out almost a decade after the poorly received third installment at a time in which franchise films like these just keep crashing and burning (as so many bigger films from more robust franchises did this summer), though it is plenty for this film, or any other, to have against it. There is, too, the shaky foundation for the franchise. The Expendables, like pretty much everything else in Sylvester Stallone career these past two decades (Rocky VI, Creed I-III, Rambo IV and V, etc., etc.) has been about milking the public's nostalgia for his earlier film career, with the nostalgia for the '80s action film that the original The Expendables was all about now that much more remote in the past, that much fainter a draw. (I will say it once more--Top Gun: Maverick was the exception, not the rule, the beneficiary of breathless media cheer-leading amid a summer of very weak competition, as underlined by its failure to deliver much of a boost for Tom Cruise's subsequent Mission: Impossible film , and the way that even bigger '80s phenomenon, Indiana Jones, did this past summer.)
Indeed, The Expendables, which came out in 2010, is now so far behind us that, while sequels invariably trade on nostalgia for those films to which they are follow-ups, the movie is trading on outright nostalgia for yesteryear's nostalgia--nostalgia for back when people were enjoying '80s nostalgia. This seems to me symbolized by the casting of Megan Fox in the film. Megan Fox, basically, got her moment in the spotlight in the piece of '80s nostalgia that was The Transformers--and after many years of not being seen very much by very many people in actual films, here she is, appealing to our nostalgia for when she was participating in a piece of '80s nostalgia. It all feels rather anemic, such that I see no grounds to expect this movie to surprise us with a better-than-expected opening, better-than-expected legs--let alone the very-much-better-than-expected performance required to turn this $100 million movie into a money-maker for its backers.
What Spike Jonze's Her Got Very Wrong About Artificial Intelligence
I did not particularly care for Spike Jonze's film Her.
There were many reasons for this. MANY reasons. But the one I want to discuss right now is how little sense Theodore Twombly's whole employment situation made. He writes personal letters for other people--and seems to make a very good living from it.
It seemed to me to be only too obvious that such work was likely to be ill-paid given any plausible economics of such an industry (just how many writers was one supposed to produce in a day, at what cost?)--even before one considered the extreme ease with which it could be offshored (for instance, to India, with its large population of well-educated English speakers and far lower labor and other costs), an option that Twombly's employers could not be expected to overlook.
Indeed, it seemed that the work would have been taken out of the hands of even the worst-paid humans by a level of artificial intelligence far lower than what Twombly's operating system displays at even the beginning of the film, given the scene where "Samantha" at a stroke improves the letters Theodore is working on. Editing and rewriting Twombly's work quickly, efficiently, successfully is something one cannot do unless they already know how to write at least as well as Twombly--and, as Theodore's getting this capacity as part of an ordinary consumer purchase shows, his employers could probably have replaced him with an app doing the job much more efficiently and cheaply than he could quite some time before, and would probably have rushed to do so even had they for some inexplicable reason declined to offshore his job.
I find myself thinking about all this again because our recent experience of artificial intelligence is bearing out those expectations. Today the mere creator of a first draft is decreasingly in demand--those who did such work reduced to making corrections on drafts generated by a chatbot, precisely because this is the higher-level skill that has thus far eluded the AI we have for the time being (contrary to what Twombly benefited from in his work, and what most writers today would really want, instead of the ticket to the unemployment line they are getting).
Of course, Her was not really about the likely path of such technology's development (at least, prior to the Singularitarian note on which the story ends), nor the economic and labor implications of that development. The concerns of those who make "independent-ish" films such as this, and of the critics who claque so enthusiastically for movies like these, are more "personal."
The results, however, have me once more standing with Emile Zola and H.G. Wells and all the others who tried to drag literature out of the eighteenth century in saying that it is hard to do "the personal" well when not giving any thought whatsoever to the world the "person" being written about actually has to live in.
There were many reasons for this. MANY reasons. But the one I want to discuss right now is how little sense Theodore Twombly's whole employment situation made. He writes personal letters for other people--and seems to make a very good living from it.
It seemed to me to be only too obvious that such work was likely to be ill-paid given any plausible economics of such an industry (just how many writers was one supposed to produce in a day, at what cost?)--even before one considered the extreme ease with which it could be offshored (for instance, to India, with its large population of well-educated English speakers and far lower labor and other costs), an option that Twombly's employers could not be expected to overlook.
Indeed, it seemed that the work would have been taken out of the hands of even the worst-paid humans by a level of artificial intelligence far lower than what Twombly's operating system displays at even the beginning of the film, given the scene where "Samantha" at a stroke improves the letters Theodore is working on. Editing and rewriting Twombly's work quickly, efficiently, successfully is something one cannot do unless they already know how to write at least as well as Twombly--and, as Theodore's getting this capacity as part of an ordinary consumer purchase shows, his employers could probably have replaced him with an app doing the job much more efficiently and cheaply than he could quite some time before, and would probably have rushed to do so even had they for some inexplicable reason declined to offshore his job.
I find myself thinking about all this again because our recent experience of artificial intelligence is bearing out those expectations. Today the mere creator of a first draft is decreasingly in demand--those who did such work reduced to making corrections on drafts generated by a chatbot, precisely because this is the higher-level skill that has thus far eluded the AI we have for the time being (contrary to what Twombly benefited from in his work, and what most writers today would really want, instead of the ticket to the unemployment line they are getting).
Of course, Her was not really about the likely path of such technology's development (at least, prior to the Singularitarian note on which the story ends), nor the economic and labor implications of that development. The concerns of those who make "independent-ish" films such as this, and of the critics who claque so enthusiastically for movies like these, are more "personal."
The results, however, have me once more standing with Emile Zola and H.G. Wells and all the others who tried to drag literature out of the eighteenth century in saying that it is hard to do "the personal" well when not giving any thought whatsoever to the world the "person" being written about actually has to live in.
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