Accelerationism
Trump, Land, Dugin
Trump is not Land’s monarch nor Dugin’s tsar. He is their degraded symptom: the parody of a fascist synthesis of technology and tradition, replayed in the register of meme stock and casino populism.
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Trump is not Land’s monarch nor Dugin’s tsar. He is their degraded symptom: the parody of a fascist synthesis of technology and tradition, replayed in the register of meme stock and casino populism.
From PwC’s colour-coded attendance dashboard to HSBC’s biometric checkpoints and the rise of Algorithmic Affect Management, the new wave of “bossware” represents less an innovation than the latest stage in capital’s long history of making workers legible. What began with the factory bell and the punch clock now extends to our faces, moods, and keystrokes.
Zarah Sultana’s interview in Sidecar captures the anger at Labour’s complicity in genocide and austerity, but it risks becoming another broad reformist project, haunted by the ghosts of Corbynism—vulnerable to sect capture, parliamentary illusions, and the same popular-front logic that has historically disarmed the working class.
Nigel Farage’s TikTok wunderkind wants us to imagine a Britain that never fought Hitler, kept its colonies, and models itself on Bukele’s prison state. This is not contrarianism; it is fascist nostalgia dressed up as common sense.
Alexander Dugin calls the Trump–Putin summit in Anchorage “splendid,” insisting the US and Russia must find an “understanding as superpowers.” The problem is that this fantasy of bipolar order flatters two declining states while obscuring the real forces shaping the 21st century.
With armed red-state troops patrolling a blue city, Trump is not protecting Washington; he is rehearsing the mechanics of civil war.
Every August, the right reheats its old contempt for higher education. Their complaint is not about debt or “Mickey Mouse” degrees, it is about closing the gates of knowledge, keeping universities for the dominant class and consigning everyone else to warehouses and call centres.
A man, his car, and his gun. This is pure Americana, not the myth of reinvention, but the fantasy that remains when everything else is lost. Sovereign begins with poverty. The ideology comes later.
Alienation, Collapse, and the Myth of the Western
Warfare looks and sounds like war, but says nothing about it. Iraqis are reduced to bullet magnets, the mission is never named, and behind the realism lies a vacuum: of politics, of purpose, of meaning.
If Reaganism found its myths on the big screen, Trumpism built its own spectacle—and may now be searching for its Riefenstahl.
A film about marines and monsters, yes—but also about empire, capital, and the systems that survive by turning crisis into opportunity. Watching Aliens now is like reading the minutes of a future board meeting: the Company adapts, the hive expands, and the mission continues.
A masterful dissection of power, corruption, and the making of modern America, The Apprentice deserved to sweep the Oscars, but the Academy, as always, chose safety over truth.
The end of the year wouldn’t be complete without a list.
Sidney Lumet’s “The Hill” (1965) is a harrowing exploration of the human cost of military service and colonialism, set against the harsh realities of a British military prison during World War II.
In his latest dystopian film, Civil War, director Alex Garland presents a thought-provoking and unsettling vision of a divided United States, inviting viewers to contemplate the consequences of societal polarisation and the role of journalism in capturing the truth amidst conflict.
Patrick Keiller’s Robinson trilogy explores modern Britain through a psychogeographic lens, revealing how landscapes shape collective psychology. The films expose spaces that reflect political and social forces underlying the nation’s fractures.
