I try to approach cultural criticism fairly, even when trends frustrate me. One noticeable shift in recent years is how much of mainstream entertainment and public discourse has become heavily politicized, racialized, and focused on identity. A major casualty has been humor and open debate. When disagreement is quickly labeled as bigotry of one kind or another, genuine conversation and laughter suffer.
It’s been disorienting to watch longtime friends and family members—people I remember as open-minded and quick with a joke—adopt more rigid ideological positions. Social media purity tests and unfriending over politics became common. It can feel like a cultural version of Invasion of the Body Snatchers. The thicker-skinned, “live and let live” liberalism that once celebrated irreverent classics like Blazing Saddles has given way to something more brittle and humorless in many circles.
I haven’t suddenly become a traditionalist or joined any political tribe. I remain skeptical of organized religion after reading the King James Bible and the Quran cover to cover. What concerns me is how easily humans fall into groupthink and ideological enforcement, regardless of which side. The cultural Overton Window has shifted dramatically left on many social issues, and that shift shows up clearly in Hollywood.
With that in mind, I watched Steven Spielberg’s Disclosure Day.
I’ve long admired Spielberg’s storytelling craft in films like Jaws, Close Encounters, and War of the Worlds. This one left me aggravated. The cast checks every contemporary diversity box, which feels more like box-ticking than organic storytelling. More centrally, the film’s core message seems to be that empathy is humanity’s highest virtue—elevated above honesty, courage, justice, or the pursuit of uncomfortable truths when they conflict with feelings.
Empathy has real value. It helps us understand others and build connections. But as a supreme virtue, it has serious limits. Unchecked empathy can lead to moral confusion—excusing violent behavior, avoiding hard judgments, or prioritizing emotional comfort over reality and accountability. When empathy overrides evidence or justice, it stops being compassionate and becomes dangerous to the integrity of a society.
The movie itself plays like a long, earnest lecture. Teary news anchors and vulnerability montages feel dated and preachy rather than compelling. Who really trusts legacy media anymore? The film treats it with a reverence that might have worked in the 1990s but feels naive today. It lacks the tension, wonder, or memorable stakes of Spielberg’s stronger work. The result is safe, sentimental, and oddly bloodless—more like a warm cup of cocoa than a thrilling cinematic experience.
Steven, if you want your films to recapture that sense of awe and excitement that defined your best work, lean back into storytelling that trusts the audience with complexity rather than ideological certainty. Allow for a genuine diversity of thought and ideas rather than assuming we all swim in the same direction like a school of fish. Audiences still hunger for courage, truth-seeking, and bold narratives. Though some may feel affirmed by your political views, many of us would rather lose ourselves in a good story than be preached to.
America has always been better when we argue vigorously but keep space for disagreement, humor, and good art that transcends the latest political fashions. I look to you to let me escape reality—politics, race, identity—for the better part of two hours. Not to remind me why I canceled my Netflix subscription last year out of preach fatigue. “That’s some bad hat, Harry.”