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At this point, your puny non-celebrity minds are probably labouring to grasp that this is about something even greater than myself. (Pause for audience protests that nothing is greater than Wolf of Wall Street performance, especially not stupid McConaughy’s stupid Oscar-winning role for stupid whatever-else-he-was-in.) This issue, in addition to being about myself, is about people who attend the same parties as myself. Like Emma Watson, the world’s greatest feminist, because only she can attest to intersecting prejudices against gender-based and Muggle-based identities. Or Bono, the ultimate fighter of poverty, because he’s successfully ensured that he’ll never suffer from it.

This is about how art is less important than celebrity, and democracy is celebrity.

Some guy who probably had to wait in line outside of nightclubs once said that art is a mirror held up to reality. So here’s the next piece of art I’m pitching:

It’s a movie about a world in which the best witness for forced labour is a wealthy singer who visits a camp one afternoon, the best spokesperson for post-hurricane housing is an actor who owns a French chateau, and the best messenger for the environment is an incredibly handsome, talented and all-around-great guy who talks about it at the most distinguished multilateral organization on the planet.

Meanwhile, the most powerful artistic community is deeply prejudiced against art, because it’s embedded in the very systems of power that art is meant to hold a mirror up to — gendered systems, economic systems, military-industrial systems. And off-screen, the actor is celebrated for embodying what he should (but often can’t) critically represent onscreen: privilege.