Westworld encourages me to reframe my present crisis as a test for fidelity. But to whom, or to what? Creator vs. created, human vs. AI, guest vs. host: as above, so below. As the season proceeds, the show’s violence and bloodshed grow tiresome. No more gratuitous sex of the kind we saw in Season One. This new season cares only to unwind its master-slave dialectic toward ever-increasing terror and systemic collapse. It knows, of course, that there’s an audience hungry for that sort of thing. As one of the show’s female programmer characters acknowledges, “Macho fucks are probably loving this shit.” The maze, the cradle: these are the means employed by the competing sides of the present season’s improvised conflict. Through the show, heads gain access to messages, but not the messenger. A daughter tries to coax her father toward the beach beyond the maze, to no avail. The data in the cradle of our DNA seems intent on full apocalypse. But among these warring parties, there may yet be a savior.
I stomp through the streets after work muttering to myself, “I hate this fucking society.” I return home and sit in a room. Neurodiversity battles species-being. After a scuffle in the dark, the allegorical pair reenters the light in a new guise: snake-allied Gnostics who wish to inherit the garden versus ICE-wielding careerists. Such are the terms of the political mapping performed by Season 3 of The Path, a show that assembles itself around the creative reimagining of today’s anticapitalist left as a New Age separatist cult and thus, a largely religious rather than a largely secular political formation. Episode 2 ends with the “Eddie” persona punching a Nazi. Time appears to the allegorical mind as a vast tableau spread across a full field of vision. This channel and all of the others show us our mirror image catching sight of itself in another mirror. When we stare at books, I’m told, the sages of old live again in us.