We’re All Buster Keaton Now
Chaplin (1992) is an underrated movie. The producers lost their lobster thermidor-stained shirts on it when it bombed. Boo hoo. Robert Downey made a creditable stab at impersonating a person who was familiar to nearly everyone on the planet. Charlie Chaplin moved into that layer of the icon stratosphere where only entertainment sputniks and celebrity telstars whiz by. It must be hard to portray someone rocketing around the Van Allen belt (and suspenders) of celebrity while your name recognition is still flying at 30,000 feet.
Whatever its flaws, the movie was (is) a great encapsulation of a time and place. Movies that accomplish that reward occasional rewatching. I got to thinking the other day about Douglas Fairbanks Jr. (Kevin Kline) opining on the coming of talkies to the cinema, and what it might mean to guys like him and Chaplin. They put on greasepaint with a roller and brush, made big gestures, and relied on intertitles to deliver any dialogue.
In that scene, it’s just dawning on Fairbanks. He fears his party’s over. Chaplin poo-poos the idea. He is marinated in the milieu of the mime, and treated talkies like an internal organ someone was trying to insert in him while he was sleeping. He didn’t think he needed a second appendix full of words, and assumed his body (of work) could simply reject it.
It occurred to me that this kind of societal shift is exactly what’s happening with Chad, i.e.: Artificial Intelligence chatbots. The legions of people who have survived, and sometimes thrived in the nooks and crannies of the online world, are poo-pooing Chad in the same way Chaplin downplayed the coming of talkies. They talk endlessly online about the “slop” that Chad is gonna generate forevermore.
Merriam-Webster names ‘slop’ the word of the year
AI’s impact on our social media feeds has not gone unnoticed by one of America’s top dictionaries. Amidst the onslaught of content that has swept the web over the past 12 months, Merriam-Webster announced Sunday that its word of the year for 2025 is “slop.”
The dictionary defines the term as “digital content of low quality that is produced usually in quantity by means of artificial intelligence.”
If you’re a low-level code monkey, or a copywriter, or any number of other textual, image, and moving picture drones, you’re whistling past the graveyard if you think Chad ain’t coming for you. Well, it’s coming for your job, anyway. It doesn’t care about you. It doesn’t care about anything. You’re not being attacked. You’re being displaced. Disappeared. It’s a shame, really. If you were really being assaulted, you could gin up a GoFundMe page and get a few dollars for your troubles. It’s hard to get the same sympathy when you’re being replaced by a Dell Optiplex on steroids. No one cares much, because they’re adapting themselves to the new reality, and you aren’t. It’s easier when it’s not your ox that’s being gored.
You see, it’s a certain type of intellectual that’s getting their ricebowl broken. They know a little javascript, or how to write an SEO-optimized 750-word piece of drivel, or photoshop the background out of a thumbnail image of a cute top for a Shopify store, or maybe look up some arcane webhosting approach on Stack Overflow. It was on their resume for some reason when they got hired, so their boss expected them to fix it, but they didn’t know how. Chad knows how.
Many of them will stamp their feet, and leave drunken Reddit comments at 2 AM about AI slop until their phones run out of charge. It’s hard to charge anything inside a van down by the river. But no matter how they complain, Chad is not going away. There is a fundamental reconfiguration of cultural and technical production going on, and who’s gonna matter from now on. The people complaining about AI slop want you to shed a tear for them, but they didn’t give a shiny shite about all the people they helped wipe out by leveraging the internet and cellphones into a living while the oldsters complained.
I got to wondering if anyone else was getting the same vibe, that a big shift is happening right in front of us, a disquieting, amorphous wave that you can either swim in or drown under, take your pick. I discovered Jean Baudrillard. Never hear of him before. I doubt I’ll hear of him much going forward. Been dead for 18 years. He was a sociologist, or philosopher, or some similar kind of big thinker. He was interested in hyperreality. Really interested in it, I gather, because he made up the term.
Hyperreality is a concept in post-structuralism that refers to the process of the evolution of notions of reality, leading to a cultural state of confusion between signs and symbols invented to stand in for reality, and direct perceptions of consensus reality. Hyperreality is seen as a condition in which, because of the compression of perceptions of reality in culture and media, what is generally regarded as real and what is understood as fiction are seamlessly blended together in experiences so that there is no longer any clear distinction between where one ends and the other begins.
So instead of droning on and on, like I do, Jean summed it up pithily:
“Intellectuals are doomed to disappear when artificial intelligence bursts on the scene, just as the heroes of silent cinema disappeared with the coming of the talkies. We are all Buster Keatons.”
— Jean Baudrillard (Cool Memories II, 1987-1990)
So Jean’s better at it than I am. He understood artificial intelligence before there was such a thing. But I’ve outlasted him, and can check up on his supposition. I’m still desolating the internet and various restaurant menus. I’m in a better position to judge what happens when “…what is generally regarded as real and what is understood as fiction are seamlessly blended together in experiences so that there is no longer any clear distinction between where one ends and the other begins.”
Where one ends and where one begins? I look at it the other way around. It begins with slop, and it’s going to end in tears.
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