Brady Corbet, the director behind The Brutalist, one of this year’s most Oscar-nominated films, recently made headlines by admitting he made zero dollars from it, and that many of his fellow contenders can’t even afford rent. So it’s no surprise that, with the downturn in entertainment, my feed has been subtly nudging me with takes on skill-swapping, career pivoting, and the like.
“Outsiders” are being elected to run nations around the world, so there’s nothing groundbreaking about the current administration insisting on running the country like a corporation. This idea has been debated before, with those against it arguing that a nation is not a company and cannot be managed as such. But for those who defend this approach, my question has always been: which companies are we actually modeling? Anyone who has seen documentaries like The Big One or American Factory can attest that the days of loyal reciprocity, where giving one’s life to a manufacturer was met with security, fair wages, and even a sense of belonging, are long gone.
Dehumanization aside, nothing new here.
Nor is it a revelation that when new leadership takes over a company, they often make structural changes and sometimes feel it’s necessary to “shake things up”—meaning massive layoffs. They foresee some pushback, maybe a few people protesting outside, holding vinyl-printed signs on the corner, a few cars honking as they drive by. But ultimately, they assume it will pass, that the world will keep moving, and that employees who don’t like the new order of things can find work elsewhere.
Growing up in Argentina, I became accustomed new administrations inevitably replacing entire state departments’ personnel. So, when seeing Elon Musk brazenly flaunting a chainsaw—gifted to him by Argentine President Javier Milei, who has made it his signature symbol of government cuts in Argentina—I can’t say I’m all that surprised.
However, where this approach seems to be breaking new ground is in the disregard for a fundamental reality: When applying a corporate strategy to any given nation, people don’t just “go somewhere else.” Citizens aren’t employees, they don’t just leave because they got “laid off.” If you treat them like disgruntled employees, assuming resistance will be small or temporary, you’re ignoring a key difference: unrest in a country doesn’t just fade away. It builds. And when people reach their breaking point, it’s not just a handful of protesters on a street corner, it’s something far bigger.
I’ve seen this happen in Argentina multiple times, but most notably in 2001, when the president had to flee in a helicopter in a scene eerily reminiscent of Civil War—a film that envisions a similar breakdown happening in the U.S. When people truly get fed up, they don’t just protest in small groups anymore; they mobilize. And, eventually, things explode.
It’s fair to say people’s financial hardships do not date back to early January. In my case as a filmmaker, these past years have been particularly uncertain, and for many this has been brewing for much longer. Yet, the flamboyancy of how things are being handled seems to be springing a whole new scent of disgrace.
Judging purely on their exit strategies, it’s sensible to at least grant them the credit of not being completely out of touch. I’m not saying they have any kind of affect towards the average person. But we should view their luxury bunkers or prepaid tickets to Mars as indication that, sooner or later, they know it’s coming.
