Review
Books
Culture
Digital
4 min read

Filterworld: algorithmic anxiety is flattening our culture

The rule of vanilla lets our unfeeling gadgets decide what’s best for us.

Simon is Bishop of Tonbridge in the Diocese of Rochester. He writes regularly round social, cultural and political issues.

A podcast guest speaks in front of a mic.
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Sebastian Pandelache on Unsplash.

Here’s another diagnosis to add to modern malaise: algorithmic anxiety.  It’s described by Kyle Chayka in his excellent book Filterworld (Heligo Books, 2024) as the: 

 …awareness that we must constantly contend with automated technological processes beyond our understanding and control, whether in our Facebook feeds, Google Maps driving directions, or Amazon product promotions. 

We don’t understand algorithms.  Even if we did, we wouldn’t know how they actually work on us as every tech company keeps it a secret, lest competitors learn from them.  This has led to the algorithm becoming the century’s newest bogeyman, a phantom we can reference in conversation to make us sound tech savvy and culturally knowing even while we remain in the dark. 

‘Algorithmic has become a byword for anything that feels too slick, too reductive, or too optimised for attracting attention’.   

Kyle Chayka

One of the oddest outcomes of the ascendency of the algorithm is the seemingly diametric effects on politics and culture.  In politics it has polarised people, sorting us into opposing camps and then ensuring we hear only good things about our ‘side’ and only maddening things about the ‘opposing’ side.  Instead of calmly listening to a different view, we hurl insults, as performative as Prime Minister’s Question Time and about as enlightening. 

Something different is happening with culture.  Here, the algorithm makes culture more homogenous; in the words of Kyle Chayka, it is ‘flattened’.  The basic rule of what he calls Filterworld is that ‘the popular becomes more popular, and the obscure becomes even less visible’.  It is a strange re-mix of Jesus for the digital age: ‘to all those who have, more will be given…but from those who have nothing, even what they have will be taken away. 

The life of an Instagram post is said to be determined in the first five minutes.  If it has engagement, it can be sure of more; if it gets none, it will sink.  Visibility on social media is vital for artists of all kinds, because this is where all publicity begins.  Artists try and game the system, figuring out what kind of content the algorithm will promote.  In the process, their creative expression is subtly compromised.  People begin to write in a style that gets attention, and what gets attention is decided by the algorithm.  Those who tweet will know how the short, pared back medium starts to influence their life away from X. Musicians know that art which is safe and mainstream – the public’s crowded middle where performers like Ed Sheeran have thrived – is likely to succeed.   

‘Much of culture now has the hollow, vacant feeling of having been made by algorithm’ according to the cultural commentator Dean Kissick.  Chayka observes that: ‘algorithmic has become a byword for anything that feels too slick, too reductive, or too optimised for attracting attention’.   

It is often at the margins that breakthroughs emerge; art that makes us see this world in a new and divine light.   

There is a valid counter to this development.  Previously, what we read, heard and saw as cultural consumers was determined by a small set of experts who filtered content for us.  These experts were often drawn from a narrow section of society who inevitably brought their own biases to bear.  While this may be true, it is hardly a triumph for the public to have an unfeeling gadget decide what’s best for them, based on what we have liked before and what seems to appeal to most people.  At the ice cream vendor, this is like reaching for vanilla every time.   

The truth is, in necessarily surrendering to the algorithm (for what alternative is there online?) we miss huge volumes of culture that might appeal to us.  It is about as effective as deciding what sea life we like based only on what pops up to the surface of the water. 

The best art is not always the most popular and there is a risk that the divine spark of invention that the creator God has placed within each of us – the unlimited potential of being made in the image of God – will not be fanned into existence as often as it could be.  Chasing likes is no substitute for patient inspiration.  It is often at the margins that breakthroughs emerge; art that makes us see this world in a new and divine light.   

‘Behold, I am making all things new’ says the one who sits on the throne in Revelation.  That algorithms are making all things similar is the reality we are learning to live with. 

Review
Culture
Film & TV
Monsters
Sport
5 min read

Horror turns pro: when greatness demands blood

The pursuit of sporting glory turns into a fever-dream of sacrifice, madness, and mythic violence
A player holding a finger to his lips stands in front of an indoor American football pitch.
Marlon Wayans.
Universal Pictures.

October is here…spooky season. Naturally, I’ve decided to pivot exclusively to the horror genre, beginning with HIM

The promotion for the film has placed Jordan Peele (who stormed onto the scene with Get Out) front and centre, so much so that one might be forgiven for assuming that he is the writer/director. He isn’t. His Monkeypaw Productions have produced the picture, and so one can assume he has had some creative input, but the film is helmed by Justin Tipping. This is Tipping’s second feature film. He co-wrote it and directed it. Sophomore, but no slump here. The film is superb! 

All horror fiction explores contemporary themes in the mode of the ‘unnerving’, and often by adopting and then playing with the conventions of another genre. In the case of HIM it is ‘sport’ that takes a horrifying turn. We begin by meeting our protagonist, Cameron ‘Cam’ Cade, as a young boy. He is watching his favourite American football star, Isaiah White, take lead the ‘San Antonio Saviours’ to victory. In the process Isaiah is injured. Cam looks away. His father forces him to look at the television screen and take in the violent scenes, while giving a speech about the necessity of ‘sacrifice’. 

A decade or so later the father has died, and Cam is a rising star in the sport, tipped to be the next ‘GOAT’ (Greatest Of All Time), the most worthy successor to Isaiah White’s legacy. While practicing late one night he is violently assaulted by a figure in a goat costume. The resulting head injury puts his prospects into question. It is doubtful that he can even play football going forward. He and his family are devastated.  

‘Salvation’ seems to come when his agent calls him with an offer that seems too good to be true. The ‘Saviours’ are seeking to sign him as their quarterback, replacing Isaiah. All he must do to earn this great opportunity is to spend a week with Isaiah at his specialised training compound, to demonstrate his potential and win Isaiah’s blessing. He accepts, and travels to the remote compound. As his car pulls up, he encounters a number of Isaiah’s demented ‘fans’ (who operate more akin to the Manson Family) decrying him in violent screams. He brushes this off and enters to meet Isaiah. He finds him engaged in an odd form of taxidermy with the skulls and skins of goats. The two embrace and share warm words of respect and welcome. The training begins.  

What follows is a rapid descent into bloody madness. 

I won’t say much more for set-up; only that the following week quickly becomes less a training camp, and more a psychedelic fever-dream of physical and psychological torture. The film is gruelling to watch in the best way. Tipping directs this masterfully, disorientating the viewer with sudden jumps from wide shots to close-ups to X-ray inflected visions of the appalling damage endured by athletes seeking to achieve their best. The cinematography of Kira Kelly keeps this relentless confusion running throughout the entire film, playing with angles and stillness and sudden swoops. 

These visuals are supplemented by some terrific performances. From the exceptionally creepy ‘fans’, led by Naomi Grossman, to Jim Jeffries reigning his comedic persona in to play Isaiah’s jaded and sardonic personal doctor (who is constantly drawing Isaiah’s blood…uh oh!), to Tim Heidecker’s unctuous agent always grasping for more. The standouts, however, are Tyriq Withers as Cam and Marlon Wayans as Isaiah. Wayans, of the ‘comedy’ dynasty, is best known for dreadful ‘funny’ (not ‘dreadfully funny’) films, including the Scary Movie franchise. Every now and then he has demonstrated his serious acting chops, shining in Requiem for a Dream, but this performance ought to cement his reputation as a genuine talent.  

He is mesmerising as Isaiah, switching in an instant from quiet melancholy, when reflecting on this past glory and the nature of sporting sacrifice, to outright unhinged menace – screaming directly in Cam’s face when trying to motivate him to go further and further. He dominates every scene he is in and is the lynchpin of the film’s mood, his performance (effortlessly walking the tightrope above measured and manic) driving the bewilderment the film seeks to force upon its audience. He is aided by Withers’ straight-man, who masterfully maintains a quiet yearning in the face of bafflement. He is muted and introverted without ever disappearing into the background, and so is instrumental in supporting Wayans as he gives the performance of his career. 

In spite of all of this brilliance, I have one small critique. The film’s theme is…messy. It is also far less subtle than it thinks it is. Its focus on the pain and suffering of sporting excellence – which is displayed in the literal brutality of injury – and the idea of selling one’s body, health, and even soul for glory, is often undermined by supernatural and theological symbolism which interrupts the dramatic thematic force. The use of the goat, both as a verbal and visual symbol, is overdone, and is rather obvious to anyone who knows even a little of biblical or esoteric literature.  

Added to this, the constant reference to sacrifice, and to behaviour resembling the cultic, continues the on-the-nose hammering; cemented at the end when an actual pentagram is emblazoned on a football field. This is a shame, as the final scene is a well-earned, wonderfully slapstick celebration of horror-movie gore and splatter, undermined by the symbolic silliness. None of this is enough to ruin the film – I still think it is superb – but I would have preferred Tipping to make a choice: subtle realism, or all-out commitment to the supernaturally sinister. In trying to have-its-cake-and-eat-it the film compromises the bake…a slight soggy bottom of a denouement. 

The film just fails to be the GOAT of this year’s horror fare. Still, a jolly entertaining cinematic experience which I highly recommend for October viewing. 

4.5 stars. 

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