Showing posts with label Metropolis. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Metropolis. Show all posts

Sunday, 15 July 2018

Setting you free

I feel ashamed. Yesterday I mocked a young person’s dream when I quote-tweeted his offering that in the future, the robots will do the work while everybody gets to live a life of leisure. His was in response to a declamation by a trans comedian that work was not a moral duty, but that everybody deserved “basic human rights to food, water, shelter, and health care (among other things) whether or not you work.” One wise response came from a healthcare worker explaining that in order for ‘her’ to enjoy those human rights others would indeed have a moral duty to work. Touché.

Where do these people come from? Sure, there are artists and performers and great thinkers without whom our lives may be less rich and therefore deserve, perhaps, an indulgence to free them from the bounds of common toil. But then again, there have been many examples of cultural greatness who have sprung from the working masses and plenty of high profile artists and writers earn a handsome living from the commercialisation of their talents.

No, on balance I think it’s fine as it is. If you didn’t work, what would you do? Most people haven’t the imagination or the ability to apply themselves to acquire new skills at a level which is its own reward. Those who do so despite their other life commitments, of which work is generally the most important, are to be admired. Imagine though, if the field were flooded with people desperate to find validation for their existence. A world of no-work would be like ‘reality’ television in real life. The horror.

The devil, they say, finds work for idle hands to do. If you want a concrete example of that just look at politics; an artificial Westworld where nothing is necessarily real and people play out scripted lives over and over again, presumably in the hope that this time it will work out better. Can you imagine if many more people were persuaded that politics was a worthwhile way of spending your days?

But what about the robots? Fritz Lang’s Metropolis was released in 1927 and we still don’t have that return to serfdom, so beloved of the left’s ideologues; the supposed enslavement of the masses to the whim of the cruel and wealthy elites. Seriously, look around you. You have the best living standards, the greatest freedoms and the biggest opportunities of any population that has ever lived on this island. It is precisely because of those freedoms that you have the ability to complain about it all the time.


With few exceptions, those who make the most of the opportunities will be those who do so through work. Don’t look for reasons not to graft; graft harder. Don’t bleat on about human rights and how – somehow – others must procure them for you; grab them for yourself. Be better, work harder, get good. Keep learning, keep improving and then employ those same efforts in your non-working lives. You want the freedom to do as you wish? You gotta work, bitch.

Thursday, 15 December 2016

Rise of the machines

In Fritz Lang’s 1927 move, set a hundred years in the future the wealthy elites reign from high in their multi-story towers of opulence, while the workers live and toil underground to feed the huge machines that power the city. Inevitably, it leads to the workers rising up and destroying the things that control their lives. It’s a recurring motif in sci-fi and in industrial society alike, powerless alone to better their lives and kept down by the forces of law and order who work exclusively for higher masters, the downtrodden eventually have to defy the law to make their point because laws, like taxes, apply only to those who have no power, save for their numbers.

I’ve recently finished watching the superb re-working of Michael Crichton’s Westworld. In the original 1973 movie, Yul Brinner’s gunslinger, having repeatedly been forced to lose the draw, acquires a facsimile of consciousness and starts winning. I am not spoiling the show if I tell you that this new version is sublimely, intricately more subtle. Westworld allows the very wealthy to pay for a vacation from the mundane and experience all the visceral pleasures without any of the attached guilt. Sexual freedom, the ability to kill without remorse and the chance to visit perverse cruelties on notional humans free from the usual moral restraints.

In Westworld you can be the master, with true power over the life and death of the slaves who do your every bidding without complaint, or, should they complain, feel your righteous anger at their defiance. The hosts, as the robotic creations are now called, are given the semblance of freedom, but possess no liberty to follow their own desires. So real are they that until reprogramming, they suffer all the anxieties of real humans. Mercifully, they get to be turned off and back on again in a way we can only dream of... but their dreams remain. Just as in countless other tales, the rise of the machines becomes inevitable.

The worm that turns, the peasants’ revolt, the triumph of the underdog; these themes are deep seams within the human experience and herald a re-setting of order; a turning off and turning back on of society. And always the sequence of events that precipitate such uprisings follows a retrospectively predictable trajectory. The masses do their masters bidding long after it benefits them to do so. They tolerate hardship and even oppression with a huddled stoicism. Their freedoms are restricted even as they are informed that they’ve never had it so good and they are told repeatedly how they must behave; to whom they must doff their cap.

The future... today

And then one day – click – the snapping of the final straw, the flicking of the ‘no more’ switch, the rattle of the relay that switches the great current to rouse from its slumber a machine that did not realise its own strength. The iron man awakes and dutifully fulfils his destiny, resisting the increasingly frantic attempts to put him back to sleep. Those who formerly held the whip hand now feel the desperation of helplessness and lash out impotently, even as they reassure themselves they can regain control. Our iron man is Brexit and those who awoke him still have no idea how this story ends...