Apparently, I am a relic.
Trapped in a generational time warp.
Sentenced to rage. To rebel. To be pissed off.
Oscar-level, table-flipping rage.
Also, angry at the Oscars. Once upon a time, in my world, they were a criterion for quality cinema. Now, increasingly, they’re political-ideological nonsense.
In my world, legends walked the earth. Nobel Laureates like Gabriel García Márquez, Hemingway, Sartre – writers who transformed literature. Today? Today we’ve shifted from literary genius to symbolic gestures. A few years ago, Liu Xiaobo (had to google the name) won it because he was a Chinese dissident, not because of what he wrote.
Back then respect was currency. Real respect.
Doctors weren’t corporate stooges in white coats.
Teachers didn’t tolerate, let alone enable, the antics of bored kids.
Scientists pursued truth, not grant money and Instagram followers.
Activism was about conviction, not hashtags.
Even politicians somehow seemed more dignified.
And the music. Lord, the music!
Sure, every era had its share of sonic garbage. Even in Beethoven’s time, there was stupid music, but it was stupid. Despised.
Being a musician meant mastery. Solfège wasn’t a foreign language. ‘Flat’ wasn’t a selfie angle – it was a musical term.
Now? Now looking good is talent.
In the now-world, it’s enough to be able to drone a monologue and look decent in a selfie – Voilà! Vous êtes un créateur!
Here, have a glass of anger! And cheers!
The image above, The Deer Hunter, an iconic moment in Oscar-winning cinema, represents the mastery that once defined Hollywood craftsmanship, something absent in today’s industry.
→ For completists, obsessives, and people with too many tabs open.
Go root around in the archive. It’s messy, but so is life: themaladapted.substack.com
