Project Hail Mary is winning acclaim from critics and audiences alike as that rarest of modern phenomena: a film just about everybody seems to enjoy. The movie is based on a novel by Andy Weir, who also penned the source material for the successful film adaptation, The Martian, a few years ago. Given his back-to-back hits, it’s reasonable to ask what Weir’s secret is, and in an effort to answer that question, the internet has dug up a quote from an old interview, in which Weir discusses his philosophy on writing.
“I dislike social commentary. Like… I really hate it. When I’m reading a book, I just want to be entertained, not preached at by the author. Plus, it ruins the wonder of the story if I know the author has a political or social axe to grind. I no longer speculate about all possible outcomes of the story because I know for a fact that the universe of that book will conspire to ensure that the author’s political agenda is validated. I hate that,” Weir said.
It’s understandable why this quote would attract attention and praise from moviegoers. In an era where politics is seemingly shoved down our throats at every opportunity, it’s refreshing to be permitted to enjoy entertainment for its own sake. Still, critics of Weir are quick to scoff, dismissing such attitudes as shallow and banal. Given the near-limitless set of problems faced by society, and indeed the world, the “all art is political” crowd find it lazy and irresponsible for artists to forsake their duty to serve as a mouthpiece for justice, tolerance, or whatever the cause du jour happens to be.
Weir’s point is well taken, and he’s basically right, but perhaps he could have phrased it a little better to avoid snobbish accusations of cretinism (assuming it’s even possible to avoid such things). By falling back on “I just want to be entertained” he’s opening himself up to criticism, as well as doing a disservice to the art form for which he has become so well known.
The fact is that there is rarely such a thing as “just” entertainment. While Weir’s comments may evoke images of slobbering couch potatoes mindlessly guffawing over an endless procession of garish colors and cartoon sound effects (at least in the minds of the self-appointed elite) this is not a fair characterization of quality entertainment or its effects on the viewer. Good books teach without being didactic; good shows have morals without being moralistic; good movies have something to say about society without bludgeoning the audience with political slogans. In short, social commentary need not be propagandistic.
The conflation of these two ideas seems to drive much of the discourse around modern mass media. One group of viewers complains that they dislike being lectured at, while the other group dismisses their concerns with accusations of stupidity, racism, misogyny, and homophobia. They imagine that the only reason someone could dislike TV shows whose only message is “girls rule and boys drool” must be an innate hatred of women, and the only reason not to want a superhero movie to turn into a PowerPoint presentation about global warming must be an attitude of anti-intellectualism. The mistake here is assuming that the only way to insert social commentary into a script is to do so in as condescending and ham-fisted a manner as possible.
What, then, is the difference between social commentary and propaganda? I would argue that the former contains universal truths that can be applied by the viewer to a variety of situations in the real world, while the latter imposes the author’s opinion rigidly onto the story, and demands that the audience accept this point of view in order to enjoy the work. I’m reminded of the words of author J.R.R. Tolkien in the foreword to the second edition of The Lord of the Rings, in which he complains about critics attempting to reduce his fantasy world to a narrow commentary on the atomic bomb, communism, or other real-world boogeymen.
“I cordially dislike allegory in all its manifestations, and always have done so since I grew old and wary enough to detect its presence. I much prefer history, true or feigned, with its varied applicability to the thought and experience of readers. I think that many confuse ‘applicability’ with ‘allegory’; but the one resides in the freedom of the reader, and the other in the purposed domination of the author.”
Of course, there are thousands of ways in which The Lord of the Rings can be understood as relating to the society of Tolkien’s day, or to any society for that matter, but that’s precisely because he as author didn’t force the story to be about one thing and one thing only.
A simple example will, I think, illustrate the point. Imagine a story about a hungry mouse who, spotting a hunk of delicious-smelling cheese, rushes over to it only to find himself caught in a mousetrap. This may not be a very interesting story, but already it contains a general lesson that can be applied to an enormous variety of real-world situations. Not all that glitters is gold; beware of things that appear too good to be true, for they probably are; don’t let your base appetites overwhelm your caution or higher reasoning; look before you leap, etc. Already we can see how these lessons can be used to protect the safety of children, to give religious instruction, to warn against Nigerian princes, to give dating advice, to comment on the trustworthiness of politicians who promise the moon, and so on in a list we could continue indefinitely. The story is not about any of these individual things; it is about a mouse and some cheese, designed for entertainment rather than instruction. But it can be about any or all of these things depending on the reader’s imagination or individual outlook on life.
Now imagine that the author of this story, with all the subtlety of a political cartoon, slaps labels onto each of the story’s elements. The mouse, we’re told, represents the American worker; the cheese represents capitalism; and the trap represents the wealthy industrialists who exploit the labor of others for their own gain. Suddenly, the story is transformed from a timeless fable to a Marxist harangue which, unless you already agree with the author’s conclusions, will offer nothing of value to the reader.
This is the difference between social commentary and propaganda. To an extent, I agree with Weir’s critics that great stories are never “just” entertainment: they always have something more to teach us. Fight Club, The Matrix, Star Wars, Indiana Jones, Aliens, Terminator, and any number of other universally-beloved movies contain plenty of social commentary, without ever being preachy. The lessons in these films are not taught through self-righteous lectures about the evil of Republicans or the original sin of being born a white man. Instead, we learn from stories that are honest about the human condition. A good book or film will necessarily contain a healthy dose of the author’s wisdom, accumulated through the sheer act of living, and that wisdom will be passed along to the audience as an often unconscious byproduct of entertaining them. But when authors treat their audiences like schoolchildren, held captive to passively receive the heavy-handed instruction of their superiors, they will succeed at neither educating nor entertaining, and will earn only resentment in return.
Republished from Free the People.