Tag Archives: Media

NETWORK 50th Anniversary Review

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When satire ceases being satire–we’re living inside it.

There are films that feel timely, films that feel dated, and then there is Network—a work so disturbingly elastic that it seems to recalibrate its relevance with each passing decade. What Sidney Lumet’s incendiary masterpiece offered in 1976 as provocation now functions as diagnosis. Network ceased being satire the moment we began living inside it. And at fifty years on, it is no longer prophetic so much as instructional—a grim field manual for the media ecosystem we willingly built.

On its surface, Network is a scathing critique of television news and the corrosive marriage between journalism and entertainment. But that reading now feels almost quaint. Today, the film operates as a far more expansive lens—one through which we can examine social media’s performative outrage, the collapse of editorial integrity, the rise of influencers over actors, and “content” replacing cinema as both commodity and aspiration. The film’s possibilities for interpretation are not merely endless; they are inescapable.

You can listen to the NETWORK episode of ReelTalk, which serves as a great companion piece to this article through your favorite podcast service. For your convenience, I’ve included some links that may work for you.

When I survey the contemporary media landscape—where outrage is currency, truth is malleable, and spectacle supplants substance—I often find myself echoing Howard Beale’s immortal lament: “I’m as mad as hell, and I’m not going to take this anymore.” The tragedy, of course, is that Beale’s righteous fury is swiftly commodified, packaged, and sold back to the public. In Network, that process is the warning. In 2026, it is the business model.

What Network ultimately offers is not just a critique of television news, but an elegy for every so-called Golden Age of legacy media—journalism, cinema, and serialized television alike. Watching it now, I am reminded of Norma Desmond’s aching declaration in Sunset Boulevard: “I am big. It’s the pictures that got small.” Substitute “pictures” for platforms, algorithms, and engagement metrics, and the lament lands with devastating clarity. In my view, social media and streaming have not merely disrupted cinema and television; they have delivered a mortal wound—one from which craft, patience, and collective cultural experience may never fully recover.

Network endures first and foremost because it is built on one of the most ferocious screenplays ever put to film. Paddy Chayefsky’s Oscar-winning script is not merely well-written; it is weaponized language—monologues that cut like scalpels, dialogue that oscillates between blistering satire and operatic tragedy, and ideas so densely packed they continue to unfold decades later. This is writing that trusts intelligence, that dares to be verbose, ideological, and confrontational in a way modern studio cinema rarely permits. Chayefsky understood that words—spoken with conviction—could be more explosive than spectacle, and he built Network accordingly.

What makes the screenplay extraordinary is its refusal to choose a single target. It indicts television news, corporate capitalism, religious fervor, political apathy, and audience complicity with equal venom. The famous “mad as hell” speech is not a populist rallying cry so much as a trap—an emotional release engineered to be monetized, emptied of meaning, and repackaged as programming. Chayefsky was not predicting outrage culture; he was anatomizing it. In an era where dialogue is often sanded down to algorithm-friendly soundbites, Network feels almost alien in its literary ambition—proof that cinema once trusted language to carry weight, risk, and consequence.

Sidney Lumet’s direction is the perfect counterbalance: disciplined, precise, and deliberately unflashy. Lumet stages the film like a moral courtroom drama, allowing performances and ideas to occupy the foreground while the camera observes with quiet authority. His restraint is crucial. Rather than amplifying the satire through stylistic excess, Lumet grounds the absurdity in realism—office spaces feel oppressive, boardrooms feel sterile, and television studios feel eerily sacred. The effect is chilling: the madness is not heightened by cinematic flourish; it emerges organically from systems that feel frighteningly familiar.

Together, Chayefsky and Lumet create a film that feels less like a movie and more like a controlled detonation. There is no indulgence, no wasted motion, no attempt to soften the blow. In contrast to today’s cinema—often drowned in visual noise, diluted themes, and studio-mandated ambiguity—Network stands as a reminder of what happens when writing and direction operate with absolute clarity of purpose. It is fearless, articulate, and devastatingly focused. And perhaps most damning of all: it proves that cinema once had the courage to tell audiences the truth, even when that truth was deeply uncomfortable.

Yet if Network endures as forcefully as it does, it is not solely because of its prescience. It endures because it is performed with astonishing precision and gravitas by one of the greatest ensembles ever assembled. Peter Finch’s Howard Beale remains one of cinema’s most unforgettable figures—a man whose breakdown is mistaken for authenticity, whose humanity is exploited until nothing remains. Finch’s posthumous Academy Award win feels less like recognition than inevitability.

William Holden, meanwhile, brings a weary, world-worn melancholy to Max Schumacher that resonates deeply with his earlier turn as Joe Gillis in Sunset Boulevard. Both characters are men who recognize the rot of the system even as they remain complicit within it—observers with just enough moral clarity to feel shame, but not enough power to stop the machine. Holden’s quiet resignation here serves as the film’s conscience, a reminder of what professionalism and restraint once meant.

And then there is Faye Dunaway, delivering a tour de force for the ages—one of those rare performances that does not merely dominate a film, but defines an era of acting. Her Diana Christensen is ambition incarnate: ice-cold, ferociously intelligent, and utterly unencumbered by empathy. Dunaway doesn’t soften the character or seek audience approval; she weaponizes Diana’s ruthlessness, allowing her to move through the film with the predatory calm of someone who understands power not as responsibility, but as leverage. The performance is so precise and so unflinching that it almost feels inhuman, as though Diana has already evolved into the algorithmic logic the film warns us about—ratings as morality, attention as currency, and human cost as an acceptable casualty.

It is no accident that Dunaway earned the Academy Award for Best Actress for this role. The Oscar was not simply recognition of a great performance; it was an acknowledgment of something rarer—a character so vividly realized that she became a cultural archetype. Diana Christensen is not just a television executive; she is the prototype for the modern media operator, the spiritual ancestor of today’s content strategists, brand architects, and engagement-obsessed executives. Dunaway plays her with surgical control, her clipped delivery and laser-focused gaze conveying a woman who has replaced conscience with metrics long before such thinking became normalized.

In the broader context of film history, Dunaway’s work in Network cements her status as one of the greatest actresses of all time—very much in the lineage of Bette Davis and Joan Crawford, yet operating outside the classical Golden Age of Hollywood. Like them, Dunaway possessed an unapologetic intensity, a willingness to embrace unlikable women, and a commanding screen presence that bent films around her gravitational pull. But unlike Davis or Crawford, her era offered fewer guardrails and less mythmaking; Dunaway emerged during a transitional moment in American cinema, when performances could be raw, confrontational, and morally untidy.

That makes her Diana Christensen all the more extraordinary. It is not a performance cushioned by studio glamour or softened by melodrama—it is sharp, modern, and terrifyingly plausible. Decades later, Dunaway’s Oscar-winning turn feels less like a relic of 1970s cinema and more like a warning label we ignored.

The supporting cast—Beatrice Straight, Ned Beatty, Robert Duvall—forms a devastating chorus, each representing a different facet of institutional decay. Straight’s Oscar-winning performance, in particular, remains one of the most remarkable achievements in Academy history. The fact that Straight’s Academy Award for Best Supporting Actress was won with comparatively limited screen time only underscores the magnitude of her presence. Every line, every glance carries weight. Gravitas is not measured in minutes.

It is impossible to discuss Network without reckoning with its unprecedented—and now unthinkable—Oscar performance. The film received ten Academy Award nominations, including Best Picture, Best Director, and an astonishing four acting nominations across all performance categories. Even more remarkable: Network won three of the four acting awards—Peter Finch (Best Actor), Faye Dunaway (Best Actress), and Beatrice Straight (Best Supporting Actress)—with Finch’s win occurring posthumously. That trifecta remains a singular achievement in Oscar history.

What makes this feat so haunting in retrospect is not merely its rarity, but what it represents: a time when the Academy rewarded performance-driven cinema rooted in language, ideas, and moral urgency. These were not roles engineered for “Oscar moments” clipped for social media circulation. They were fully realized characters inhabiting a screenplay that demanded intelligence, restraint, and theatrical rigor. Even Beatrice Straight’s win—earned with fewer than six minutes of screen time—speaks to an era when gravitas mattered more than exposure, and emotional truth outweighed narrative gymnastics.

Contrast that with the modern awards landscape, where performances are often subsumed by brand visibility, platform allegiance, and campaign machinery. Today’s Oscars frequently feel less like a celebration of cinema than a referendum on cultural relevance as defined by streaming metrics and algorithmic reach. In that context, Network’s acting sweep feels not merely impressive, but elegiac—another artifact from a period when cinema trusted adults to speak, listen, and think.

This is where Network dovetails uncomfortably with my broader reflections on the erosion of cinematic prestige and journalistic integrity. The film arrived at a moment when studios still believed movies could challenge audiences, when networks still pretended journalism was a public service, and when awards bodies still recognized craft over content. That ecosystem no longer exists.

Today, companies like Netflix and Disney—titans of scale and convenience—have played outsized roles in flattening the cultural landscape. Netflix’s content-first philosophy has blurred the line between cinema and disposable product, prioritizing volume over vision and treating storytelling as a data problem to be optimized rather than an art form to be refined. Disney, meanwhile, has transformed legacy filmmaking into brand maintenance, where risk is minimized, mythmaking is franchised, and even news-adjacent programming is filtered through spectacle and marketability.

In that environment, Network feels almost confrontational. It reminds us that journalism once aspired to truth rather than virality, that cinema once valued language over noise, and that performances once carried weight beyond their runtime. The film’s Oscar dominance is not simply a historical footnote—it is a marker of how far the industry has drifted from rewarding seriousness, substance, and moral clarity.

Ultimately, Network foresaw where we were headed with terrifying clarity. But perhaps its greatest sorrow is that it did not imagine how eagerly we would embrace that future. Our media landscape has not merely changed; it has lost its soul. Journalism has become performance. Cinema has become content. And authenticity—once a virtue—has been repurposed as branding. Half a century later, Network stands as both benchmark and indictment. It is proof that cinema once mattered enough to scare the powerful—and a reminder that somewhere along the way, we stopped demanding that it do so.

Ryan is the general manager for 90.7 WKGC Public Media and host of the show ReelTalk “where you can join the cinematic conversations frame by frame each week.” Additionally, he is the author of the upcoming film studies book titled Monsters, Madness, and Mayhem: Why People Love Horror. After teaching film studies for over eight years at the University of Tampa, he transitioned from the classroom to public media. He is a member of the Critics Association of Central Florida and Indie Film Critics of America. If you like this article, check out the others and FOLLOW this blog! Follow him on Twitter: RLTerry1 and LetterBoxd: RLTerry

“Tomb Raider” (2018) review PLUS exploring the “video game movie” problem

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Strives to put cinematic storytelling first and video game representation second, but still comes across as tropey and borrows heavily from Indiana Jones and the Raiders of the Lost Ark and The Last Crusade. However, in all fairness, it does provide this generation with a moderately good action-adventure film based on a best-selling video game series. Alicia Vikander’s Lara Croft differs from that of Angelina Jolie’s in that she comes across to audiences as someone who’s impulsive, reckless, and experiencing difficulty in managing her life. Furthermore, she does not excel at everything she is trying to do to survive life and make ends meat. Those qualities give this Lara Croft a level of humanity that allows her to connect more with audiences. Moreover, she is a believable character–she feels real. In fact, that is probably the best element that this reboot has going for it–the realness of the adventure. Not that the film is without exaggerations and fantasy elements; but, the story almost feels like an adventure that could take place under the right circumstances and with the right tools. The realness might have been increased by not feeling like, at times, you were sitting there playing the video game version. Although this initial return to the video game turned motion picture adaptation is frocked with predictable plot beats and turning points, it does show promise for a solid franchise if tweaked. Moving forward, the stories need to be stronger, original, and leave room for SUBTEXT.

Lara Croft is the fiercely independent daughter of an eccentric adventurer who vanished years earlier. Hoping to solve the mystery of her father’s disappearance, Croft embarks on a perilous journey to his last-known destination — a fabled tomb on a mythical island that might be somewhere off the coast of Japan. The stakes couldn’t be higher as Lara must rely on her sharp mind, blind faith and stubborn spirit to venture into the unknown. (IMDb)

Video games turned motion pictures aren’t anything new. From Super Mario Bros to Mortal Kombat to Resident Evil to this year’s Tomb Raider, there have been many attempts to adapt interactive media (video games) for scripted/narrative cinematic storytelling. Ultimately, it has proven to be nearly impossible to create a successful motion picture from a video game. In short, Hollywood simply cannot seem to crack the code for a movie adaptation of a video game. There has yet to be a video game to film adaptation that has even encroached upon the fresh threshold of Rotten Tomatoes. But why is that? Often, movie adaptations of video games fail because their is more emphasis placed upon video game brand representation than the art of cinematic storytelling. In its defense, 2018’s Tomb Raider shows an effort to overcome that obstacle. Today’s Tomb Raider made a solid effort to spend time worrying about it’s quality as a film, but still fell victim to being too grounded in its interactive media roots. If studios who either own or license a video game intellectual property (IP) can spend time analyzing the source material for purposes of tapping into what makes the story itself work, then perhaps a successful video game movie can be produced.

Not just limited to interactive media –>film adaptations, but anytime there is a well-established franchise, the writers and director struggle to find where the happy medium is in satisfying the core of the fan base and translating the story between two forms of media. As much as modern interactive media has in common with films (referring to the cut scenes), there is still the human component that cannot be translated for the screen because there is no “choose your own adventure;” it’s this disconnect that often contributes to the poorly written plot for the screen. Much in the same way that movies based on comic books struggled for a long time until Iron Man, with the brilliant exceptions of Tim Burton’s Batman (a Barman movie directed by Burton) and Batman Returns (a Tim Burton movie that happens to have Batman characters), interactive media based movies will eventually find the sweet spot. I feel that this sweet spot will be found when writers and directors take the characters from a video game IP and place them in an original cinematic story that skews more towards the focus being on the cinematic storytelling than adhering to brand recognition and the existing story that can be played, and has been played, on the console or computer. Take Burton’s approach to Batman Returns. Create a story that works for the screen that happens to have the characters from the video game.

Movies aren’t the only adaptations of interactive media; themed entertainment has also spent time adapting a game for an entire attraction. According to Theme Park Tourist (2014), popular seasonally operating Paramount’s Kings Island (purchased by Cedar Fair in 2007 and all Paramount property removed) spent $20MIL on a ride that lasted a mere five years. Based on the hit video game and blockbuster action movie Tomb Raider: The Ride was on par with Disney and Universal in respect to story, setting, and special audio/visual effects; however, after Paramount sold off its theme park investments to Cedar Fair, the ride got rebranded as The Crypt, a generic theme, and all direct associations with the movie and game Tomb Raider were removed following the 2007 operating year. Interestingly, the ride attendance continually dropped following the rebranding, and the ride was eventually moved to Kings Dominion in Virginia in 2012. Although there may be other reasons as to why the ride became less popular and eventually moved to another park, it is conceivable to conclude that there is a special relationship between the characters and story of the game and a themed entertainment attraction. Both the attraction and the game have the advantage of the human component–the ability to truly experience the elements of the game. 

Over all, I found the new Tomb Raider to be a fun watch! Certainly don’t feel that my time or money was wasted. I remember playing Tomb Raider on the original Playstation and Playstation II (it was soon after that, that I lost interest in gaming), and as a mild fan, I feel that this film did the characters and story justice. By the end of the movie, it is obvious that MGM’s intention is to attempt to produce a blockbuster franchise. And to the film’s credit, this first installment had a satisfying ending plus it quickly setup the next movie. If you like action-adventure movies or even a fan of the video game series, I feel that you will enjoy Alicia Vikander as Lara Croft: Tomb Raider!

“The Post” movie review

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The Fourth Estate, triumphant! Steven Spielberg’s The Post is a historic biographical drama depicting the story behind the infamous Pentagon Papers that set a monumental precedent in the US Supreme Court following a ruling in the favor of the freedom of the press. Probably the most significant ruling affecting journalism, this film goes beyond the cold, hard facts of the case and into the offices and houses of those who were responsible for shedding light on the lies the US government was spinning to keep the War in Vietnam going. In a manner of speaking, this film could be read as Spielberg’s ode to US journalism, and by extension, to the free press at large. While traditional ink and paper newspapers may be slowly becoming a thing of the past, Spielberg’s film shows that the press has an important place in a democratic society. Without the free press, a nation’s government could easily lie and maliciously mislead its people to serve its own gain. No surprise, Meryl Streep’s and Tom Hanks’ acting is simply brilliant; while the rolls may not seem incredibly complex, it’s the beauty in simplicity that demonstrates the excellent commitment to character that we all have come to respect over the years for these Oscar-winning actors. The Post is a historical drama brought to life for the screen through precise editing, beautiful cinematography, and a gripping score.

Unrest grows at home while the US is deep in the middle of the Vietnam War. With conflicting reports coming out of the warzone, the people of the United States have only the word of their government to assure them the war is going well but they have to continue sending the boys overseas to “win.” After a rogue journalist leaks papers from the Pentagon describing how the US is losing and it keeps sending boys overseas to keep up appearances to the New York Times, the attorney general places a restraining order on the iconic newspaper to prohibit it from publishing the classified material. After word of this unprecedented extension of power, the editor-in-chief of The Washington Post Ben Bradlee (Hanks) comes to have a copy of the papers and desires to publish them in order to show the American people what the government has really been up to. Only one small problem, the owner of The Washington Post Katharine (Kay) Graham (Streep), the first woman to own a major newspaper, is unsure if the papers should be published because she seeks to take the paper public and this could damage that–not to mention that she and Bradlee could go to jail. Go beyond the pages of a history book to witness the thrilling drama unfold as you find out just why The Pentagon Papers was such a big deal.

While many critics and fans of the movie are touting it as the “best movie of the year” or commenting to managers at cineplexes that it’s “amazing,” I am not convinced that it truly is “the best” or as “amazing” as it’s being heralded. Before you go questioning my taste in movies, I completely agree that The Post is an excellently made film–there is nothing wrong with it. For all intents and purposes, it is a perfect film. But just because it’s figuratively perfectly produced and directed, does not mean that it is “amazing.” In many ways, this movie reminds me of Spielberg’s Bridge of Spies. It too is a perfectly made historic drama (coincidentally also starring Hanks) that falls within the same subgenre of drama as The Post. When I think of a Spielberg film, I have come to expect a wow factor. And it’s that lack of a wow factor that troubles me in awarding this film with an accolade such as “best picture.”

Usually, there is a particular scene that evokes strong emotion, perhaps it’s a powerful monologue or heated emotionally-driven exchange between two characters, there are other methods for evoking an eruption of feeling and emotion within the mind and body. Never once did I feel my emotions run high with this film. And I happen to be an entertainment journalist, I teach media writing at a popular university, and spent time in broadcast news. I have a love for the media, the press, and publishing. I also spent time in a media law class in graduate school analyzing the very papers in question, and I still did not feel emotionally woken up by the film. I find the film very well written, produced, shot, directed, acted, scored–everything is done with extreme precision. But, that’s what I have come to expect from Spielberg, Streep, and Hanks. Yes, to be able to consistently deliver excellence is nearly uncanny; but when I know what to expect, it’s much more difficult to surprise or wow me. That’s what is missing from this film in my opinion–the wow factor.

On the socio-political spectrum, I find the commentary on women in leadership is brilliant! Quite happy that the film chose such an incredible woman’s story to tell so cinematically well. The character of Kay Graham is not only an inspiration to aspiring female leaders, but she is an inspiration to all who find themselves in positions of influence or power for which society does not feel he or she is suited. Whereas this prejudice can affect men and women, history has shown that is has affected women more. And this film is a breath of inspiration for young women who will become future leaders around the world. Brave. Kay Graham was an incredibly brave woman who fought the good fight and proved that she could make the tough decisions that are required in order to grow a company. I also find that The Post serves as a beacon of hope that the press is here to serve the American people in a day and time that our government’s leaders claim that the press at large is “fake news.” Newspapers are here to serve the governed NOT the governers. Let the Pentagon Papers be a sign that our leaders are not past deception even if it means sending our military to certain death in order to keep up appearances.

The Post is definitely a movie that all journalists should watch. And not just “conventional” journalists. But anyone who takes part in publishing written, audio, or video media content. Especially those who cover governmental affairs should watch this historical drama highlighting a huge turning point in the freedom of the press.

Don’t Pass GO, Don’t Collect Your Oscar

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Corporate monopoly is the enemy of creativity and variety. The biggest news in entertainment this week was the talks between Disney and Fox to sell most of 21st Century Fox to The Walt Disney Company. Whether the talks are still going on behind closed doors or not presents a fascinating topic to discuss! This deal, which would be the biggest film/media deal ever, has far reaching effects upon the industry. Some may even argue that it has danger written all over it. If there wasn’t already a rigid oligopoly amongst the studio/distribution companies, there will be if this goes through. Should this go through without the government swooping in to save the day with monopoly claims in the vein of the historic Paramount Decision, the lion’s share of the cinematic marketplace would be controlled by Disney, TimeWarner (Warner Bros.), and Comcast (Universal), with Sony (Columbia) and Viacom (Paramount) bringing up the rear. Five. That’s right. Five companies would essentially determine the future of the industry, and control the majority of the motion pictures released in theaters and the content on cable television (and the streaming services that access it). It’s a mirror image of the 1940s. Instead of The Big Five and The Little Three, we have The BIG Three and the Little Two.

From the big screen to the small screen, you will notice the effects in the programs you watch. When one company controls the majority of any marketplace, it usually spells disaster for the consumer; furthermore, it means that there will be a primary gatekeeper in future artists getting his or her work out there. Not to mention that the programming on FX and other Fox (non-broadcast) subsidiaries could begin to gradually feel and look more like ABC programming. Could this put shows like The Simpsons and Family Guy on an endangered species list of sorts? Not right now. The deal, in off-and-on talks, would sell off 21st Century Fox (movie studios) and not Fox or Fox Sports (an acquisition of that sort would not be permitted because it WOULD be illegal). So, even if this buyout were to happen, The Walt Disney Company would still continue to be the brunt of many jokes on The Simpsons and Family Guy. A buyout could mean, however, that program options will seem less varied and just more of the same ABC-schlock that already pervades the bandwidth. The two companies that have the most TV programming are Fox and Disney, with Sony (CBS), Viacom (non-broadcast Nickelodeon), Comcast (NBC), and TimeWarner (CW) trailing in original programming. That being said, TimeWarner has done very well with The CW, and I hope it continues to churn out programs such as Vampire Diaries, Supernatural, Riverdale, etc.

Beyond the negative impacts on content, which, in all honestly, can be quite subjective in nature, are there legal or ethical implications here? Is there perhaps a past precedent that could be used in the courts to stop such a buyout (or sellout rather–Fox)? Let’s look at the most famous suit brought against the major motion picture studios: The Paramount Decision [(U.S. V. PARAMOUNT PICTURES, INC., 334 U.S. 131 (1948)]. Prior to the Paramount Decision, the motion picture industry was controlled by a few companies that were heavily vertically integrated. The Studio owned the facilities, production companies, staff (under long-term contracts), the films themselves, distribution channels, and the movie theaters. When the studios were growing so large that they began infringing upon the free marketplace, the US Government forced the (then) eight major/minor studio players to end the practice of block booking (meaning, films would now be sold on an individual basis), divest themselves of their respective theatre chains (sell them off), and modify the practice of long-term employee contracts (though, this would continue until the 1960s). This marked the beginning of the end of the Studio System, AKA Hollywood’s decentralization. There are many similarities between the situation in the late 1940s and today. In fact, it’s a little worse today because the industry is mostly controlled by five (instead of eight) companies, and these companies have heavy investments in streaming and television programming.

The problem with the current state of capitalism in the Unites States isn’t worries of monopolies but oligopolies (monopolistic practices between a few firms that essentially control a market). Certainly the state of the film industry already lends itself to an oligopoly because of the few companies; but the buyout of 21st Century Fox by The Disney Company would greatly increase this issue of a blatant oligopoly. If a monopolist (in many other industries) did what Disney is doing, neither the public nor the government would stand for it; but because it’s Disney, and because it’s the film industry, most of the general public is unaware of the negative consequences of such a buyout. Technically speaking, oligopolies are not illegal nor is monopolistic competition; however, this can be a slippery slope towards stifling creativity or making is increasingly difficult to break into any given industry as a newly emerging competitor. Incidentally, monopolistic competition causes the variety or level of differentiation of similar products (i.e. moves and TV shows) to become less heterogeneous and nearly come across as homogenous. For many, it will feel like there are only two primary companies controlling the majority of programming on TV and a few companies controlling a large portion of the movies that get released in movie theaters.

When a strong oligopoly exists within a specialized industry (for our purposes, media & entertainment), one of the side effects is a concept known as parallel exclusion. This concept can be described as the collective efforts of the few industry leaders who essentially act as the main gatekeepers to prevent or make it difficult for would-be newcomers to enter the arena. Parallel exclusion is nothing new, and has been in the news as recently as the last 2-3 decades within the airline and credit card industries. Throughout the eighties and nineties, Visa and MasterCard essentially blacklisted any bank that set out to do business with AmEx. Thankfully, the U.S. Justice Department stepped in when the manner in which the exclusionary rules were written crossed legal, fair trade boundaries. There were similar issues within the airline industry as well. When a few companies control the content or services in the marketplace, antitrust issues are raised.

Although we are not facing a technical monopoly with the possible acquisition of Fox by Disney, we are looking at an abuse of power that leads to anticompetitive conduct. If nothing else, the consumer should be worried about having fewer options for programming. Not that the number of programs or movies will shrink, but there will be little difference between what is released under the Disney banner and the Fox name (if it’s still even called that). In a deal like this, it’s the consumer who gets the short end of the stick. The consumer would be wise not to give Disney a pass just because there are a small group of big film studios instead of just one. While Marvel fans may be excited that the X-Men can join the MCU (Marvel Cinematic Universe), there is the possibility of a lack of competition between brands thus mitigating innovation and ingenuity. Competition is the mother of innovation just as necessity is the mother of invention.

Because the Walt Disney Company is primarily focussed on producing the biggest movies possible (after all, they made five of the 10 most successful films last year), the mid-budget dramas and comedies that used to thrive in Hollywood–you know, the ones that cause you to cry and laugh–would dwindle in number–there would be little room for them to make their respective ways into theaters in a predominantly Disney controlled industry. What we are essentially talking about here is a corporate cinematic monolith, the likes of which, has never been seen before.

Written by R.L. Terry

Graphic by Tabitha Pearce

Best Picture: What Does it Take to Bring Home the Oscar?

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oscar_criteriaI created this infographic using Piktochart for the Media Writing class I teach at the University of Tampa. This infograph outlines some of the correlating criteria in respect to the films that win the Best Picture Oscar at the Academy Awards.