Cult of the Effete; Why millionaires want you to shut up
"I approached 'Cult of the Amateur', ready to hate it." So goes the lockstep cliché opening for reviews of Andrew Keen's childish polemic. That this is followed rather ubiquitously by something akin to "I found myself agreeing with much of what it had to say" pretty much bears testament to the old Alfred E. Newman saying; many people become lost in thought simply because it's unfamiliar terrain.
As blithe and smug as a medieval papal
screed, 'Cult's' main point is that the current trend toward democratization of
expression is not enlivening our culture, but rather, destroying it. Keen is
right to a certain extent. His culture is dying, but why shouldn't it?
Tech writer cum doggie groomer Jon Katz foresaw the death of newsprint way back
in the early 90's. "Drop the harrumphing, tut-tutting voice",
he advised. "Your not smarter than anybody else, you just control
more machinery." The mummified elite took but small notice before
further cocooning themselves against the rabble they so benightedly strive to
educate. Newspapers going bankrupt left and right? Good enough.
Culture is in a constant state of flux, and to an aging generation stewed in its
own comfortable convention, what is foreseeable evolution will always seem like
a radical shift. Going your Grandpa one better, in Keen's privileged little
myopia the decentralization of informational authority is not seen as natural
growth, but as an unpardonable sin against those who are owed by birthright our
eyes, ears, and treasure.
Such a stupefying sense of untilled entitlement is by no means isolated. From to
cheeseball hacks like George Lucas musing about the superiority of their art, (Yousa
gotta be fuc&ing kidding meesa!) to legacy journalists griping about Google
between bowls of warm Jello, there is a palpable bitterness that the silver
spoon sucklers of our culture will not be allowed to rest on their laurels
forever.
The major faults cited with Keen's thesis is
that it is largely un-researched, cherry-picked, and anecdotal. This is akin to
saying that the tenants of Scientology are somewhat hard to prove. 'Seduction of
the Innocent' was largely anecdotal. 'Cult' is hyperbole on crack.
Take for example the truly retarded grasp of economic principles required to
issue such blanket statements as "Every defunct record label, or laid-off
newspaper reporter, or bankrupt independent bookstore is a consequence of
"free" user-generated Internet content…" Really? Not a single
faltering business has sunk out of shifting product demand, fiscal incompetence,
or simply refusing to adapt to a changing global market? As a "silicon
valley entrepreneur" the neo-luddite implications of some of Keen's more
kooky rants are generally overlooked. (Especially when at the end of 'Cult', and
he starts flailing like a blind prizefighter at everything from net gambling and
MySpace to "gothic porn".) The fact that many of Keen's brilliant
projects (Audiocafe, *cough*) have crumbled like a popsicle stick
cinderblock tends to get glossed over in his resume. Not that he's bitter at us
thieving proles, of course. After all, there must be something to blame for his
failure other than antiquated business models and intellectual laziness.
Like most solipsistic would-be tyrants, Keen
constantly echoes Orwell while simultaneously genuflexing to the type of
overarching socialist control and monochromatic media that the man himself
decried. (Wow, I just remembered the one part of '1984' I found unbelievable is
that in the future everyone would even bother to listen to insipid songs written
by computers.) I know nothing of the Andy's politics, nor do I care to, but much
of his bellyaching carries the distinct aroma of pampered leftist culture shock.
(I wouldn't use the term elitist to insult Keen. Like so many patrician Saxon
dullards, he "pithily" considers it a compliment. Fine, how does
joyless limey cackface work for ya' Andy?)
Keen blathers about the affront of an oil company using YouTube to mock Al
Gore's greenie propaganda, but there is not surprisingly, no mention of the Blog
community's uncovering of RatherGate. I can see why Keen so abjectly adores the
old, decrepit guard of journalism. They both share the same operational
philosophy; Never let the facts get in the way of the "Truth".
Our lad's cries of political spin, corporate brainwashing, and just plain
artistic hackery, are more than a little disingenuous given how abjectly the
lame-stream media is pickled in such. His reflections on this are rather amusing
to a point. As there have been a handful of cases of business putting forth
their point of view (gasp!) or MySpace pages made for fictional characters, how
do we know that every single review, artwork, and human voice encountered on the
internet is not a ruse? (In my day, we had a little thing called critical
judgment.)
Oh my, it's tinfoil hat party time already. But Keen's contentions are
schizophrenic in that they don't decry a daily diet of-or even a steady
allegiance to-uniform media agitprop, unless it comes from a URL instead of a
glass teat.
There is a reason for this of course. In all
his presumption and pretension, the crux of Keen's idiocy is that it seems to
take for granted that in all the immense volume of Web2.0, there is a no measure
of quality. Professionals are not simple better at all that can be, and has ever
been done (You know, polished commercial-savvy producers like Van Gogh,
Melville, and Sam Raimi.) other voices should simply not be considered. Much
like a messageboard flame from a Sony fanboy against the Wii, it's not that
opposing facts are outweighed in 'Cult', the pesky things just never seem to
find their way in. Veritas is granted, dissent is madness.
The only reason someone would choose a factually spotty Wikipedia (actually, um,
turns
out this is just another mainstream myth) over Britannica is that the
content is free, not that the former exhibits a far greater capacity, and dare I
say competence, (I dare) in covering a huge variety of niche topics.
The truth is, Keen isn't blind to the value of web 2.0, it simply behooves his
agenda to bypass it. You see, in this world, truth, beauty, expression, are all
irrelevant to the bottom line. The dyspeptic leopard's true spots were shown in
his recent interview on the 'The Colbert Report'. Isn't it good that people can
access great art from their homes?, asked our plucky host. No, they're
stealing!, shot back Keen.
Stealing the vision of art?
Thus we come to the heart of the matter. Much like ancient fear of literate serfs, or even turn of the century terror tales about copper pots and AC current, the breadth of the status quo's concern for you stops at exactly how they can keep their tendrils in your wallet, and more importantly, your mind. While this battle is eternally and ruthlessly fought, this is a round I am happy to report the illuminati is destined to lose. I say this for no other reason than when faced with the consequences of the own sloth and greed, their first and last action is to whine about it.
I suppose this is the point in my review where I should parrot the "much to think about" line others use in reference to Keen's bucket of snot and bile. (You can almost sense the nervous "Please invite me to the next beautiful person dinner party" tremulations in their typing.) Fine, you know what, lordy lordy I done wrong. I'll shut down this site ASAP and become a turnip farmer. I'll stop downloading the meaningful bits of entertainment from my past from YouTube. I can see now it's morally superior to let the work of talented unknowns pass from human memory while I preorder the 'Transformers' dvd.
As I lack the judgment even to decide what
to stare blankly at, I will need the informed opinion of others. Unfortunately,
I can no longer rely on the informed, articulate, and witty opinions of mere
buffs. Dang, where's Pauline Kael when you need her? Likewise, I repent of my
recent purchase of bootleg dvd's of both 'Daria' and 'Sifl & Olly'. I should
have turned my attention to the syndication of '2 and ½ Men', which judging by
the commercials, consists solely of an eight-year-old boy propositioning blond
syphilitics. After all, Viacom decided that I never wanted to see those shows
again, and who am I, a sinner, to question.
And while we're at it, why did I ever buy 'John Dies at the End', a magnificently
quirky novel I've already read, when Doubleday was so kind to print for me the
pampered apologetics of a smug, humorless, twat.