Cory's Reads #16: Leaving a Legacy
In 2021, filmmakers reckoned with their pasts. What does that mean for our future?
In August of this year, South Park creators Matt Stone and Trey Parker signed a deal with ViacomCBS, worth north of $900 million. The agreement entails several future seasons of the hit series, and several more spin-off films exclusive to Paramount+. It is considered one of the most lucrative deals in television history.
Not bad for two guys from the foothills of Colorado.
South Park has far outgrown its humble beginnings. It’s an entertainment behemoth, responsible for a great deal of its parent network Comedy Central’s success over the last couple decades, and now for Parker and Stone’s immense net worth. Of course, South Park is much more than a cash cow. It’s a cultural institution, a valued (if not always appreciated) voice in our current moment. The show’s libertarian leanings haven’t always been in line with what the world needs to hear, but Parker and Stone would likely concede that point. In fact, they kind of already have.
With their first two spin-off specials for Paramount+, the South Park creators offer an innovative glimpse into the future for the show’s cast of characters. And in doing so, the co-creators reflect on the show they birthed over two decades ago, and the legacy it has left along the way.
One of the best running jokes throughout South Park: Post COVID and South Park: Post COVID: The Return of COVID is the sanitization of humor in the future. Even against the politically incorrect backdrop of the early 2000s, South Park has always been something of an iconoclast in its willingness to offend. In recent years, the show has been particularly incongruous with the comedic environment surrounding it, but lobbying against political correctness and challenging our notions of what is acceptable have always been at the core of South Park’s agenda. And so in rendering a version of the U.S. circa 2061, Parker and Stone hilariously suggest what comedy might look like by that time.
In the future, comedy aims not just to avoid offending, but to actively compliment and uplift others at all times. The result is something rather cloying and toothless, albeit not too far off from what may pass as comedy on today’s late-night television, or in ill-advised reboots like Space Jam 2. Parker and Stone’s vision of the future leaves no room for a show like South Park, wherein every identity group imaginable is appropriated and offended for laughs. But if 2061 in the United States is incompatible with South Park, it is only because the show is on the maligned (yet not quite losing) end of a decades-long culture war.
This is not a diatribe against those uncomfortable with South Park and its crude sense of humor. Everyone has a right to feel respected and included, and the show’s creators would likely agree. Besides, those interested in canceling the show (both literally and figuratively) have always tried to do so in vain. South Park’s longevity is a testament to its creators’ give-no-fucks attitude. The media ecosystem of the future may seem uninhabitable for a show like South Park, but South Park is here to stay nonetheless. Still, both Post COVID and its sequel suggest existential concerns on the part of both Parker and Stone.
What does their show mean? What will it mean? How will it be remembered, if at all?
In their flippant insistence upon lambasting anyone and anything, Parker and Stone have empowered a dangerous form of apathy over the years. Much has been said about South Park’s strange blend of the political and the apolitical, and it’s something I’ll likely always struggle with as a massive fan of the show. But it’s hard to argue against the show’s suggestion that we’re always choosing between a douche and a turd sandwich, and it’s particularly irresponsible to look past Kyle and Stan’s agreement in Post COVID that “obviously we’re never going to agree on certain things, so we shouldn’t talk about them.”
That’s all South Park and its similarly offensive peers have ever been trying to say. People disagree! People will always disagree! There will always be a range of opinions, outlooks, and ideas, and we would be wise to see everyone for who they are and what they stand for, rather than obscure it all via some unnatural sense of cultural cleanliness.
As Parker and Stone wrestle with their show’s impact and its long-term role in the cultural landscape, it’s worth noting they are far from alone in their existential worries. Indeed, 2021 has been a year of reflection for filmmakers all across the industry, and it sure doesn’t seem like a coincidence.
The autobiographical film is nothing new. When Alfonso Cuaron released Roma in 2018, it was a welcome throwback to cinematic masterpieces like Federico Fellini’s 8 1/2 (1963) or Cameron Crowe’s Almost Famous (2000). I wouldn’t dare put Roma in such company — I’ve never been a huge fan of the film — but its focus on its director’s childhood evoked a kind of nostalgic yearning that only a few other films have ever tapped into.
Of course, Hollywood is a copycat industry, and so several Roma imitators have followed suit in 2021. Kenneth Branagh gave us Belfast, a black-and-white recollection of his tumultuous childhood in 1960s Northern Ireland. Paolo Sorrentino gave us The Hand of God, an even more personal meditation on his tragic adolescence and his longtime love of film.
Still, this is a unique kind of mimicry. It’s not as simple as combing through a back catalog of superheroes, or spinning a wheel to determine which rock star’s life you want to adapt into a biopic next. Indeed, a Roma imitation may be an easy sell, but it’s not the kind of idea that originates in an exec meeting at NBCUniversal. Instead, these reflective tales stem from their creators. More specifically, they stem from a deep-seated desire to shape and cement one’s legacy.
Even indirectly, creatives have looked to address their legacy in some way. Will Smith’s award-worthy turn in King Richard may ostensibly serve as a tribute to the father of Venus and Serena Williams, but it’s hard to watch the film without thinking of Smith’s own aspirations as a father and a forger of his own sort of dynasty. Just as Williams fiercely sought to instill greatness in his two daughters, Smith and his wife Jada Pinkett have sought to do the same for children Jaden and Willow.
Val Kilmer took rather explicit ownership over his legacy this year with Val, an autobiographical documentary detailing the events of the actor’s life. Zack Snyder’s Justice League marked a unique attempt by a high-profile director (with the support of a major studio) to preserve his legacy and that of his now-defunct(?) extended universe. And after a series of delays, Wes Anderson’s The French Dispatch was finally released into the world in 2021, offering a layered reflection on the auteur’s career. Anderson has referred to the film as a “love letter to journalists” but the stunning anthology film operates as a fascinating rumination over Anderson’s own line of work. The director wonders aloud about his own legacy, and that of the quirky cast of characters he has introduced us to over the years. He simultaneously celebrates his signature style, whilst expressing anxieties over its potentially hollow interior. When Roebuck Wright (Jeffrey Wright) finds himself — if only momentarily — sitting alone in a television studio amidst his rapid-paced recount of “The Private Dining Room of the Police Commissioner,” one can’t help but think of Anderson, an air of warmth emanating from his images, a sense of alienation pinning him to the director’s chair. The French Dispatch is indeed a smorgasbord of everything that its director has delivered over the years, a raw excavation of his creative process, an honest admission of both its pleasures and pains.
Even two of 2021’s most high-profile remakes carry with them a sense of legacy and tradition. Guillermo del Toro’s Nightmare Alley may hit all the same story beats as its legendary 1947 predecessor, but those beats take on unique significance in the context of del Toro’s career. Nightmare Alley is the first of del Toro’s films not to feature a monster of any kind. Of course, the core conceit of del Toro’s work has always been that his human characters are the most monstrous of them all. His latest is no exception, with one late shot of Stan Carlisle (Bradley Cooper) amongst the most chilling of the director’s career. But with Nightmare Alley, del Toro is doing much more than retreading old territory. He’s ripping it up, reckoning with its impact. If humans truly are as capable of monstrosity as del Toro’s grotesque creations have ever been, why create such creatures at all? If we are the true monsters, then what is the legacy of a career defined by demons and fauns and fish-men?
In Nightmare Alley, carnival tricks and attractions constantly blur the line between real and fake. The original film extracted from this fine line an inquiry into cinema itself, and del Toro is reengaging that question for the modern age. As film shifts further and further away from the theater and into our living rooms, it becomes less and less like those unbelievable carnival amusements. Is there still room for a director like del Toro, he wonders. Should there be?
Even the overwhelmingly saccharine work of Steven Spielberg faced some existential dread in 2021 via the most unlikely of films. Spielberg’s magnificent West Side Story adapts the 1957 musical to the big screen for just the second time. The 1961 film adaptation remains arguably the greatest musical film of all time, but Spielberg’s version manages to pay tribute to its predecessors — casting Rita Moreno as Valentina is just one of many strokes of genius in the film — and justify its existence in ways both expected and unexpected. Spielberg always intended the film as a tribute to his father, who died at 103 just a year prior to the film’s release (the film ends with the dedication “For Dad” before the credits even roll). Arnold Spielberg gifted his son a record of the 1957 musical when Steven was just a boy, and the music stuck with him ever since. Of course, either tragically or divinely or both, Stephen Sondheim’s passing just weeks before West Side Story’s release injected the remake with even greater poignancy, gifting Sondheim’s fans a well-timed and moving tribute to the late lyricist. And the film’s script, written by Spielberg’s longtime collaborator Tony Kushner, provides a kind of cultural and socioeconomic specificity that just wasn’t possible sixty years prior.
As Spielberg laments the displacement of the white and Puerto Rican communities at San Juan Hill, West Side Story’s romantic trappings are granted a dash of reality. Spielberg’s film is unsurprisingly beautiful, but it doesn’t shy away from the sobering nature of its setting. If both the Sharks and the Jets are “in the way,” as Corey Stoll’s Lieutenant Schrank so bluntly points out in the film’s opening scene, where does that leave West Side Story itself? Surely, a Steven Spielberg spectacle can withstand the seismic changes of the last two years? Surely, the film’s lackluster box office numbers say more about the uncertainty surrounding the Omicron variant of COVID-19 than they do the film itself? West Side Story’s struggles have prompted many to consider the role of the movie musical in the contemporary entertainment landscape. If even an icon like Spielberg can’t rescue the genre from its box office depression, perhaps no such role exists, ironically ceded to a series of blockbusters modeled after the (much more innovative) kinds Spielberg helped pioneer just a few decades ago. West Side Story is far from autobiographical, but it is in clear conversation with its director’s past, present, and future.
Spielberg’s next film, by the way? A coming-of-age drama inspired by his childhood in Arizona.
Perhaps my favorite take on such a project came in 2019 via Joanna Hogg’s brilliant The Souvenir. Hogg followed that film up with a similarly excellent 2021 sequel, The Souvenir Part II. Taken in tandem, the films follow a young student filmmaker named Julie (Honor Swinton-Byrne) as she works towards the completion of her thesis film. As she endures both the taboo pleasures and the inescapable traumas of an abusive relationship, Julie must navigate an increasingly fine line in her art. Where does inspiration end and exploitation begin? Where does her story end and the film’s begin? The Souvenir and The Souvenir Part II are autobiographical films about autobiographical films. They are legacy-builders designed to confront the very notion of building a legacy at all.
So why now? Do all these filmmakers know something the rest of us don’t? Is it high time we all put together a retrospective on our lives so the survivors of the apocalypse can know who we all were? Growing up amidst forever wars, a burning planet, and a global pandemic has led me to believe the apocalypse is never too far away, yet the answer likely lies elsewhere. The concern isn’t necessarily that the external world is nearing its end, but rather the interior one.
I expressed a similar fear way back in Cory’s Reads #3, but today’s angst feels especially dire. It’s safe to say a not-so-secret cultural malaise has mauled at us all in recent months, but even that may be an underestimation. What I find so terrifying about this moment in history is not necessarily our shared societal struggle, but the personal ones we keep private. I can say with a fair degree of certainty that we are all going through some shit right now. And yet, it doesn’t seem many of us are too prepared to confront that feeling, or even talk about it. The aforementioned films are all expressions of that frustration and fear. They are answers to the world’s demand that, when we inevitably look away, we at least look inward. Of course, many of these projects predate the pandemic, but that only strengthens my point. Whatever inexplicable curse is taking hold of our physical world extends well beyond the immediate horrors of the COVID-19 pandemic. Its ramifications are more than just political or social. The great crisis of our time plays out not in the material world, but in our minds. As disaster strikes in new ways worldwide seemingly every other day, one can’t help but internalize such suffering. No matter the fate of the world — even writing that phrase feels absurdly bleak — it is clear that we are at an inflection point in human history. And from this inflection point rises anxieties about who we are and how we’ll be remembered.
I’d be remiss if I didn’t acknowledge the obvious economic incentives of revisiting the past and establishing control over certain narratives, not unlike Spider-Man: No Way Home’s ambitious albeit transparent attempt to incorporate the character’s entire history into a single film, and tap into some cheap nostalgia along the way. It is also not lost on me that the existential fears of the aforementioned filmmakers are largely a response to a box office increasingly dominated by the No Way Home’s of the world. This recent trend of legacy-concerned cinema may speak to a kind of shared societal trauma, but arguably its most immediate concern is the future of cinema itself. After all, as these directors reflect on their own careers and their own filmographies, cinema’s future simultaneously hangs in the balance. It’s especially fitting, albeit disappointing, that so many of these films struggled this year at the box office, or even avoided a theatrical release entirely. Sorrentino’s The Hand of God released worldwide on Netflix. It’s difficult imagining such a release model giving way to another Fabietto, the film’s protagonist, a young boy who can’t stay out of the cinema.
I don’t know if there’s still an audience for this kind of cinema. I like to think there might be. I don’t know if the industry wants there to be one. I hope they do. Of course, all is not lost. Filmmakers will always want to look back, ask questions. A couple guys even just got paid close to $1 billion to do so.
In imagining adult versions of Stan and Kyle, Parker and Stone confirmed what had been obvious for years. The perennial fourth-graders are indeed stand-ins for the creative duo (Parker’s parents are named Randy and Sharon, while Stone’s are Gerald and Sheila, just in case it wasn’t already obvious enough). South Park is therefore autobiographical in the loosest of senses (I’ll leave it to you to decide what’s real and what’s not across the show’s 23 seasons) and its recent streaming specials could be read as personal reflections, in addition to politico-cultural ones. Does the duo deserve the powerful mantle South Park has granted them? Do they want it? As reality outpaces satire, what is left for a show like South Park to really say?
2021 gave us cinematic reflections, apologies, recreations, and corrections. In an era many of us would sooner rather forget, many more opted to harness history and remember. The question is, will we remember them?
Thanks for reading! Happy holidays to you and yours. I’m thankful for your support today and everyday.