What am I supposed to like? What am I allowed to like? What media should I consume?
I don’t mean this from a purely cultural or social perspective. It’s true, I’m young, I’m male, I’m well-educated—or I’m supposed to be, at least. According to 21st Century North American culture, I fall under a series of key demographics that would do perfectly well to consume very specific kinds of media. Rock, pop rock, punk. Action-thrillers, stoner comedies. Game of Thrones, because it’s “awesome,” and House of Cards, because Frank Underwood is a “bad-ass.” Certainly, I shouldn’t like Friendship is Magic, nor should I be a consumer of The Bachelorette.
Keeping Up with the Kardashians is right out.
Video games, however, are in. As a 20-year-old male in North American society, I must like video games. Not puzzle-platformers like Mario or Braid. Nothing as intricate as Fez or Journey. No, I should like video games—a specific niche of video games—including the latest Call of Duty, Battlefield, and NBA Jam. There was a time when the Halo franchise was included in that list of video games, but in today’s market, Halo is actually a niche shooter. It’s for fans addled with nostalgia, and nerds who can’t appreciate the marketing complexities of Call of Duty Black Ops 4: Now we hate the Cambodians.
My culture—at least, those who are paid to analyze my culture—claims that I should like a certain genre of music, film, television, and video game. For some reason, books aren’t included in this equation. When did we collectively decide to exclude print media from the demographic breakdown? We seem obsessed with Young Adult literature, but that’s not a genre, that’s a recommended-reading age bracket.
I’m young, I’m male, I live in North America in the 21st century, and I consider myself a connoisseur of the fine arts—though I can’t actually spell connoisseur without consulting spell-check. According to that specific list of traits, there’s actually a small niche of art that I should be able to proudly boast about consuming.
I like Game of Thrones because of its complex characterizations and intricate narrative framework. It’s a political juggernaut that touches on issues of home, family, duty, honour, and personality. In that same vein, I watch House of Cards because of its Machiavellian character, and its deep political web. It presents the most vile aspects of the human condition, and it’s a modern adaptation of Shakespeare’s tragic style to boot. I don’t like the modern iterations of Call of Duty because they now pander to the lowest common denominators, catering to the average consumer instead of working on advancing video games as a viable artistic medium. I’m not even sure if EA makes NBA Jam anymore, and that’s the way it should be.
Peer pressure—in all its forms—is a tricky thing, because the mere act of denying or rejecting its influence over our lives plays into its larger construct. When everyone shrugs off peer pressure, doesn’t that mean that we’re all influenced by what others think of us? Surely, if you and me and him and her and them and us insist that we’re not influenced by each other, aren’t we all admitting that we’re influenced by each others’ lack of influence?
My problems with consuming media extend far beyond market caps and demographic tables and peer pressure, however. I have a far greater problem to worry about: What should I watch?
We live in a golden age of entertainment, where more artists than ever before not only have access to great art, but are capable of delivering great art to a population crying out for greatness. Yes, we still have reality TV, and, yes, online video streaming is dragging traditional consumption habits through the mud, but we also live in an age of True Detective, and Mad Men, and Breaking Bad, and Game of Thrones, and Silicon Valley. Now, more than ever before, we’re able to access great art without needing to hinder ourselves with dreck.
This greater access to great art poses a problem of consumption. Now that I can watch whatever I want to watch, I’m never going to stumble upon a new favourite show. Instead, my new favourite show is going to be whatever the reviewers at Metacritic and The AV Club—or my friends and family—tell me is worth watching. Of course, HBO, FX, Adult Swim, and Showtime are going to spend millions of dollars advertising their surefire next-big-hits, but I’m not really going to catch the next episode of Penny Dreadful on television, I’m going to wait to read a review first, and then watch it when it’s uploaded to Showtime’s web-service. If I don’t think the premise is strong enough, if I’m not compelled by the trailers, and if I’m not convinced by what Scott Von Doviak has to say, then I’m not going to invest any time into the series.
I reach my final concern: There are some things I consume because I want to consume them, some things I want to consume because I feel that I will like them, and some things I want to consume because it seems like it would be right to consume them.
I want to watch more of HBO’s Silicon Valley. I want to watch Rick Famuyiwa’s Dope, because I feel that I will like it. However, I want to watch Orphan Black, Black Mirror, The Blacklist, Star Wars Rebels, Steven Universe, Adventure Time, and almost everything else on my Netflix queue not exactly because I want to watch them, but because it seems appropriate for me to watch them. These are all highly-rated shows, they’ve all been recommended by friends and family, and they seem like the kind of shows that I should watch—because they’re all programs that have reportedly revitalized failing, dull, uninspired genres. In short, they’re true examples of art in their respective media.
Herein lies an issue with attempting to fulfil expectations for my viewing habits: no one’s really going to like me less if I don’t watch certain television programs or movies. No one’s going to ostracize me if I dislike Attack on Titan. None of my friends are going to disown me if say that I haven’t seen a single episode of Damages. Instead, I’ll feel like a failure—not to film, not to literature, not to consumerism, not capitalism, and not to criticism—but to art as an abstract, metaphysical concept.
This is an existential crisis for the developed 21st Century citizen. It’s a first-world problem of the highest order. However, based on the internet, it’s a pressure that I believe many of my peers face. After all, there’s no way anyone would lie on the internet. Right?