It’s hard to enjoy the writings of Franz Kafka, though in some of his story telling we find a reflection of the contemporary or perhaps a dirty glass panel into the past. In his book, The Trial, we experience a bureaucracy of inhumanity through the eyes of an unnamed man. He is arrested and prosecuted for an unspecified crime, taken on a journey where he has no rights or agency and is one in many victims of an oppressive system. To live in a world where one does not know or understand the law, and where the layers of administration are so great one is not even considered human, no longer seems a fiction. Then again, it did not then either for some places of the world.

When a fiction writer gives us these portraits we understand the context by which to view them, even if there is a similarity to our world. The story becomes allegory or even imitator of life. Many Soviet writers depicted the harsh incompetence and relentless misery found beneath the tyranny of the communist regime of Russia. There is no joy or satisfaction for the characters, let alone reader. These stories act as both warning and record. The truth of a reality, that even some today crave, so long as they are the managers and elites, not the peasantry and worker.

George Orwell sought to experience the world among the blades of grass and by knowing the people, common and real of the world. He was a child of the British empire, and in his youth joined the imperial service to know how it was administered. He hated imperialism because of it. In his time spent in the mines and factories of Wigan Pier, he came to know an England so close, but far from the aristocracy of rule and academic abstracts of illusory delusions. He felt in his hand the whip while in Burma imposing empire on the natives, his fingers and skin had been thick with coal and dirt in the Britain of the common person.

While fighting as an adventurer in Spain, he saw first hand the violence of war and the putridness of ideologies. In fighting the fascists, his comrades the Anarchists, Socialists, Syndicalists and whatever other left-wing reactionaries formed at the time, exhibited hypocrisy. Giving him a tasteful hatred of politics. These experiences culminated into his writings, Animal Farm and 1984. In this day we see how claimed principles and values are exchanged brutally in the need to ‘win’, or get revenge. There never was principles, just political struggle for power.

When Animal Farm was first published in 1945, during the war, it was received with modesty. Few publishers wanted to have anything to do with a book criticising their soviet allies. Ukrainian dissidents came across the book and requested to have it translated. Orwell granted them the rights for free and soon the book spread among the Eastern European territories. The US military authorities however confiscated copies and handed them over to their Soviet allies, along with thousands of Soviet and non-Soviet citizens, whose fates were shared with the copies of Animal Farm. To be destroyed.

It was most likely Orwell who first coined the term Cold War, and it was only once the former allies fixed their positions and settled into a frosty arrangement of belligerency that his writings became fashionable among the apparent liberal West. Other writers penned their warnings about the police state and authoritarian dangers, such as Ray Bradbury and his Fahrenheit 451 or Phillip K Dick’s Minority Report. Bradbury’s book warning about the destruction of books and words, much like Orwell did in 1984. While Dick introduced us to the concept of pre-crime. Where our intentions, thoughts and words can be used to predict whether we are criminals and threats to the State.

In the years before World War Two, when fascism was a brilliant idea to academics and intellectuals, books supposed a vision of the future when central planners and genius minds could steer and control society into a united vision. Just as others tinkered or fell in love with communism, those who benefited from state planning, wanted more of it. So long as others died while toiling over the shovels or choked in the factories, the proletarian dream was in fact a nightmare. Not in their fictions however, when minds revel in abstracts and make believe realities, the consequences are far from them. Many academics imagine such a world while their limp wrists and soft hands avoid the blistering necessity to make their plans come true.

After the second world war it was hard for those in the liberal West to make a serious argument for totalitarianism. When H G Wells wrote The Shape of Things To Come, the black shirts of Europe and America were intriguing and a counter balance to internationalist communism of the Bolshevik’s or the unfocused nature of liberalism. To be read after the war, most understood it to be a book of it’s time. Fashions change, even ideologically. It seems that fashion sense has returned.

The trend for dystopian fiction carried on into the late twentieth century, turning into a popular young adult genre up into the 2010s. And, just as the term young adult was retired to be the now all encompassing “child”, dystopian fiction has disappeared as a popular genre. Books warning us about the rise of police and surveillance states to the destruction of individual liberty became a fashionable dignity to be dropped. Passe to concern one self with the rights of others and self.

It’s cliché to claim the present is a reflection of the past fictions, to use terms like Orwellian or invoke Kafka. They are useful tools, even for those who have not read them, but still understand the gist of the concept. The trade off made when critical thinking and reason is dropped for comfort and dependency, is that we no longer have choices or even agency. Instead we are ruled by agencies, and governed as subjects and not as those who are supposed to have power over the government.

It turns out it was all a lie, like most stories we tell ourselves, just a myth to satiate an inability or unwillingness to change. Hannah Arendt, the historian and philosopher in her extensive research and writings on the subject concluded that authoritarian rule comes about when there is an erosion of freedom in the pursuit of stability, predictability and comfort. There is also a need in authoritarian systems to be in a struggle, to have an enemy. Whether this is racial, class or external, it’s a necessity to justify a powerful state and to constantly strip away freedoms.

Maybe people gave up on reading dystopia’s because a lot of them stopped seeing them as a bad place to be. Or, they only need to look into the screens of their devices, while they still can, to see feeds reminding them of the current outlawed words, actions or items. Or, to watch police killings, extrajudicial executions or forever wars. The fictions did try to warn us, and give us the language and concepts to frame an awareness and understanding of where things generally lead. Now as we leave our homes to be monitored by cameras, our messages read and our everything controlled, it’s called normal and apparently ‘the price to pay to live in a free society’. An Orwellian expression if their ever was one.

As I wrote in my previous blog on cinema, the story can still be told. Just as it may now, in the pages of unread or forgotten books and short stories. Surely the future is not for the robots to consume our literature and to devise thoughts and understandings of what could have been, to dream of electric liberty and dissent. Even Peter Thiel and Alex Carp refereed to fiction for their technocratic corporation, Palantir. It’s unlikely when Tolkien wrote his books which gave these men their surveillance and police state regime’s name, he could understand how far humanity would decay with it’s critical thinking and wisdom into an unheroic journey of dependency and obedience.

As is the case in fictional writings, all great villains need to believe that they are the good guy. That their ambition is the greater good, it’s for the betterment of all. At least, they claim or, or maybe originally did once believe. In reality, it’s less like this. The truth is, power and coercive institutions attract those with the worse kind of ambition. They are rewarded for it. We don’t need to open the pages of a fiction any more to read dystopia, or imagine the nightmare. We were wide awake when the blood dripped over the pages that tried to warn us all.

“Don’t be mean, we don’t have to be mean, coz remember, no matter where you go, there you are,” said Buckaroo Banzai as he stood on stage with his band of as multi-faceted men. The Hong King Cavaliers. Buckaroo, the scientist, surgeon, rock star, comic book character among other things, above all else, a hero. Champion for the human race, even as two rival alien empires battle one another. Earth a weak proxy in such a struggle, the ‘ally’ aliens are not good, rather less evil and see us humans as useful, a malleable race to manipulate and threaten into helping them with their war. Despite this, Buckaroo Banzai and The Hong Kong Cavaliers are competent, poised and do good despite a strange world setting around them.

It’s still our world, 1980s America at least, peak Cold War, where the petty squabbles between human nation states are insignificant in scale to whatever the aliens are fighting over. Buckaroo understands this and heroically saves the day, without compromise to his principles. Not the aliens, not the governments, his and the Cavaliers. Buckaroo’s principles also has a tendency of aligning with the audiences. The story telling and audience align morally.

There was a time when story telling invoked morality which was understood by the reader or viewer. Compromise and pragmatism could tar a character into moral ambivalence and see them residing in a grey area. A lesser evil status. Noir and the 1970s cinema and pulp writings gave us such complicated characters, anti-heroes or simply protagonists who we could journey with as the plot takes shape. Not entirely good people. We knew this.

Whether Parker from the Richard Stark novels and subsequent books or The Man With No Name as portrayed by Eastwood in the Leone trilogy of Dollar films. Both had a code of sorts even if it the code revolved around them making money, for themselves. These characters at times do good, at least can be framed mostly in such a manner. Travis Bickle from Taxi Driver, Lolita’s Humbert Humbert or Tony Montana from Scarface, are not good men even if some men fantasy about being them. Or, in some way romance and fetishise them and their victims in a manner which is not universally moral. Revealing instead the intuition and instincts of those drawn to such aesthetics or entitlements over others.

Bales portrayal of Patrick Bateman in American Psycho, has become a meme with a serious reflection on boys and males who fixate on aesthetics and corporately entwined yuppy capitalism. The sociopath appeal and…charm? By which Bale portrays Batemen over rides the critical thinking of some in the audience. Perhaps, it’s that some viewers forget we can watch and read fiction with unreliable narrators and bad protagonists, unfortunately in an age of ‘looks-maxing’, narcissism affirmation and main player syndrome the appeal of such a character transcends any understood morality and instead validates the worse qualities in an individual.

For the anarchist brained, Snake Plissken is the anti-establishment arch type who with patched eye, occasional limp and scowl disregards authority regardless of how they captured him and convinced him into serving them. In doing so, he is able to do it his way, overcome adversity and still push his middle finger into the face of the tyrants. In the Escape universe it’s not that life is cheap, it was traded for order and authority. We don’t see the suburbia and cities away from the prison of LA and New York. They may as well be Demolition Man’s San Angeles, a utopia where facades and gentrification reduce life into insincere platitudes and meaningless slop. For those in the sewers, they are the filthy human rodents who would find themselves in the prison cities of Carpenter’s Escape movies. Not because they are violent criminals, rather they rejected authority and the homogenised tyranny of a San Angeles.

The world does not suddenly become such realisations, it deceives and fattens itself up in the mean time. With promises of stability, a law, ban and restriction here and there until choice is limited to no choices, only what is allowed or mandated. The whims of the State or in case of cyberpunk, corporate monopolies determines that people no longer have any individual agency, if they do it’s stolen in fragments or exists like a weed in the cement. Sex is safe to the point it’s a bland disconnected ritual of non-contact hygiene, music empty jigs, or put simply a vibe. Food limited slop of the corporate victor in the fast food wars, Taco Bell or Pizza Hut depending on where you watched the movie. But people are wealthy, they have comfort. Entertainment so long that’s it not challenging, degenerate or violent. Disney-adults.

The Running Man, both film incarnations, exists in a less extreme manner. The balance between grime and violence to the clean corporate and government comforts of the suburbs and apartments is less segregated or hidden. The proletariat still work and pollute the streets with the stench of their working class existence while their betters live in perfumed deceptions and technologically enriched laziness. Not quite an Elysium, where trusted old technology remains because it’s reliable and doesn’t not betray the user. Smart devices and modern technology is anti-proletariat and just another aspect of surveillance and censorship. The affluent watch the violence with deceived excitement, a breads and circus sort of dimension. The criminals and the dirty must run and try to survive those who hunt them, whether trained killers or pro-wrestling like figures of violence.

The districts and cities of the Hunger Games was more a dystopian apartheid sate, though anyone who is the victim of apartheid like conditions already consider their reality a dystopia. Unlike The Running Man this cities inhabitants enjoy a ritualistic orgy of violence where the youth kill and die for their delights. Those in the city wrap flabby and sickly bodies with fashion, morally bankrupt self interested creatures who see the world as a pantry and screen by which to gorge themselves on or watch with voyeuristic sadism. There is no empathy, no morality, no dignity, just lavish comfort for themselves and death and starvation for those beyond. All extractive societies convince themselves it’s done for a greater good.

We the viewer understand the antagonists in The Running Man, Hunger Games and Escape from New York/LA films as being evil, or bad. Even if we watch them with more in common with the audiences of their worlds, Yet, here we are in a world that aspires to live out such hubris and lack of moral dignity. A world where smart devices spy and censor, and soon can be shut down from afar. We can watch with ease, gorge ourselves on less healthy slop, while the dirty who die and starve live far away. A genocide city like Gaza may become a metropolis some day as promised in Davos, built on the bones of the dead. Among the rubble is no Snake Plissken or running men, no Mocking Jay flies above those graves and ruins. It’s a dystopia without story for the audience to care about, only exploitation and misery.

Those who do the viewing and ruling, those who are paid to kill and the societies themselves have chosen to be the anti-heroes of the most perverse kind and the antagonists. The dystopia is now viewed as a utopia. The heads of state, wealthy and the powerfully adored view the pre-pubescent and barely pubescent girls who were coerced or manipulated into sexual servitude with less affection than even Humbert Humbert had for Lolita. Yet, as they pull their silk suits down to reveal goose flesh covered bodies, each putrid thrust into innocence a celebration for liberal democracy and with every climax ending in a child’s tear another roar for Western civilisation. Government and the institutions of power made it all possible, conceals it and enabled. Those girls have no father like Bryan Mills, avenging them as he did it Taken. If there was he would be a criminal terrorist, and most of you would love the rapists and their mercenary cops for punishing him for his dignity and love of his child.

As the countless dead lay in cement powder or buried under masonry while drones and the most sophisticated weapons of tyranny and killing surround a city, or what remains, the world shrugs on. It somehow understands this is the way, it’s how it always has been. Even if some voices cry with helpless anger, the mob, those who pretend democracy is a virtue and the rule of law works beyond enriching power. Gorge themselves as those in San Angeles do or in the city of The Hunger Games. On an individual level minds wracked in drugs and profitable mental health diagnoses convince themselves they are Tyler Durden or even Patrick Bateman. None want to be Katniss Everdeen but would rather be Anastasia Steel. Debt is wealth, so long as things surround one in a castle of imposed ignorance where consequences and privilege is believed to be entitlement.

Even the morality space plays of Star Wars and Star Trek have been invaded by cynical corporate irrelevancy. Deconstruction, and gentrification, aesthetics only, no character or understanding of what made the story and world living. A New Hope? what is hope? what is heroism? What is good and evil? When the producers of such products don’t know and their audiences abandon all hope, or don’t care for it. We are left with products, costumes and logos. The Federation, despite its pretentious Utopianism was above all else a place that valued individual rights, or did it’s best to consider them. The moral narrators of the films and shows, the captains and crew, each in their own way balanced principles with pragmatism. Some doing better than others, it was often in conflict and complicated. Episodes were a philosophical debate or lesson, not merely entertainment or a thing to stare at for your brain to switch off while to. And double screening was not a consideration for the writers and show runners back when. Was Gul Dukat was right? Q certainly was.

And now as the pillars of Western hubris denigrate themselves into censorship and agents running rampant on the streets, we can witness the apology for dystopianism. The intolerance of tolerance and the unreason, a need to win, control has become the singular ideological basis. Yet, despite the jingoism and nationalism. The racial pride or religious zealotry, there is no story. No character other than hate of the other. The heroism is in bravery itself or victory. Or might. There is no regard for moral courage and what would have once, for viewers of fiction have been understood as antagonists are now revered in life. The fictions and realities merge, and both no longer even pretend to care about right and wrong, only legal and illegal, order and authority.

It’s unlikely we would see a Barry Newman character like Kowalksi or John Talbot, counter cultural and anti-authority where individuals overcome odds, and meet unique characters. The State with it’s lust for war will create numerous John Rambo’s as fond in the first book, while the government killers may think themselves a Rambo. And silently the veterans like the film, based on real life Chattahoochee and less a Tim Kennedy pulp fiction or American Sniper propaganda. There is no Megaforce coming to save the Gazans or those in the Sudan. “Deeds Not Words” have less meaning now, the deeds are dirty. The words banned or empty. No Ace Hunter remarking, “…the good guys always win, even in the eighties.” Winning according to history decides the perspective of Good and Evil. But in 2026 no one even pretends to be good. They no longer need to.

We will have no Buckaroo Banzai pointing and yelling, “Evil! Pure and simple, from the 8^th dimension!” Because it exists in our dimension. The evil, is most of us. Inside, or the allowances made in accepting injustice or ratifying it. With every call for more laws, to ban, to censor and to hate with irrational viciousness leads the planet closer to the dystopia, where the antagonists rule and are all that remains. Maybe a Megacity One here, or the wastelands of Wall-e there. Perhaps that’s the story of history, fiction just let us escape knowing the truth, instead of showing us how to be good. But wouldn’t it be nice to defeat evil, and walk like Buckaroo and The Hong Kong Cavaliers into the rolling credits and beyond? The story of good can still be told, “no matter where you go, there you are.”

Greg was irate. It had been the second time in a week he had been cut off like that. His car recovered from the swerve, the offending gaggle of cyclists barely paid him notice. He pulled into a nearby service station, checked his tyre. All seemed alright.

“Those pricks think they own the roads,” he said loud enough for a nearby man to hear.

“Yep, like a plague.”

The men agreed while others looked past their conversation including two Lycra clad bike riders who looked Greg up and down as he entered the service station. A pair of police officers were entering as he was leaving, Greg nodded and greeted them with friendly sincerity. He was fond of the hard working boys in blue. He had grown up being told to trust and respect them, his traditional values ensured he still did.

Later that night Greg sat on the couch, flipping through his phone. The social media feed gorged him with random and cultivated images and clips. A short video of cyclists cutting off a semi trailer truck caught his eye. They rode on while the truck crashed into a tree. He could not help himself, he shared the video with a comment, “these bloody cyclists think they own the roads. Enough is enough!”

Later that night Greg was about to set himself to bed. It had been a long day. In his seventies, his dear wife had passed away three years earlier. A photo of her watched over him as he smiled in it’s direction. He looked at a collection of her rare dinner plates she had restored, they belonged to her mother and were precious to his wife. Now to him.

He yawned while he flicked through the channels, fifteen stations of the same thing. His empty screen gaze was broken by heavy knocks on his front door. His heart pounded, carefully he walked to answer, robe concealing his naked torso and faded pair of underwear.

“Greg Smith? Police, can you please open your door regarding a post you made earlier this evening.”

Greg complied. Four police officers stood armed and ominously in his front porch, “can I help you?” he asked.

The senior constable, a burly man with twenty years of service held up a printed paper inside a plastic sleeve. It was Greg’s post from earlier in the night.

“At approximately seven PM this evening, someone from your account made an offensive and intimidating post, was this person you?” The senior constable asked.

Greg nodded, “yes.”

“After a responsible member of the Bike Riders Awareness Group reviewed this post, they concluded that it was hurtful and contained elements of hatred. They felt intimidated and in danger from this post. We are now placing you under arrest.”

“But I have done nothing wrong,” Greg defended.

A female officer, much shorter than the senior constable stepped closer with a hand on her sidearm, “at around two pm, while entering the Lamewank petrol station did you mutter the comments, ‘Those pricks think they own the roads’. In reference to nearby cyclists?”

As two police officers secured his hands behind his back he replied, “Um, I may have but they cut me off. They blocked my car and I had to swerve.”

“A minor traffic incident like that is hardly cause to use hateful words, you are aware of the implications of your speaking?” the female officer said.

“No, not really,” Greg frowned.

“You are under arrest for a hate crime. A review board will consider your situation. We will take you into custody for a period of up to forty-eight hours.”

“Do I get a lawyer?”

“No, due to the severe nature of your words and how much it hurt the feelings of a responsible member of the targeted community, you will not be allowed any legal council. A review officer will consider your case and severity of what you have done.”

“But, it’s a free country, don’t I have rights. I didn’t hurt anyone,” Greg pleaded as he was stuffed into the back of the lockable cell of the police panel wagon.

“The price of living in a free society is obeying it’s laws. Offensive and hateful speech is akin to terrorism.”

The police left his house unlocked for the two days he was inside their prison cells. He returned home, tired, confused and sore. He had been handed a caution and a fine, any further offences of such a nature would result in severe jail time. He found his house a mess, belongings stolen and his personal effects vandalised. He sat with sadness as he looked at his wife’s photo ripped among the pieces of shattered dinner wear. He felt a terrible sadness as he picked up her picture, then delicately placed her mothers precious dinner wear into a container.

When he filed his police report about the robbery of his home, he was told, “it’s unlikely we will locate the offenders as they are likely long gone. Perhaps in the future you may find it wise to lock up your house.”

Greg sat at his phone later that evening with a sense of dread. He was unsure what he could look at, what he was allowed to say. He deleted his social media and turned the television on, he would watch the State approved stations and hide inside of his home. He was too old to fight and but one man. He did not know what he could or could not do any more. He felt hurt, in pain and sad.

Later that week while he drove his car, a bike rider cut him off, Greg looked the other way and pretended as if it never happened. He thought what he might say, mumbling inside his own mouth, “those pricks.”

A police car drove past a moment later, “fuck you cunts too,” he whispered with a hatred he had never before felt.