Author Archives: Matt Forney

NOTE: This article was originally published at Right On on October 1, 2016. I’m re-posting it here as the site is now defunct.

No politician is more emblematic of America’s slide towards Gomorrah than disgraced exhibitionist Anthony Weiner. Weiner is a painful but entertaining examination of the man’s fall and a warning for the Hillary Clinton campaign.

Going by the logic of Johnny Cash’s song “A Boy Named Sue,” a man named “Weiner” was destined to spend his days cruising around high schools in a windowless van with “FREE WEED” painted on the side. A one-time rising star among D.C. Leftists, Anthony Weiner saw his career go supernova five years ago after he Tweeted out a pic of his own erection, fueling weeks of hysterical giggling and adolescent puns on his name. Two years later, he was a rising star in New York City politics before he was caught texting pics of his junk again, giving late-night talk show hosts and shitposters free material for two straight months. Three years after that, Weiner was a rising star in the Hillary Clinton campaign when he did it again.

At this point, it’s not even funny. Carlos Danger has slowly metamorphosed from a walking punchline to a legitimately disturbed individual. With his boss in the political fight of her life, Weiner was given the heave-ho the day after his putz hit the tabloids, with long-suffering wifey and Hillary confidante Huma Abedin kicking him to the curb. Social Services is now investigating him over the pics of him cuddling up to his four-year old son with a raging boner, and he’s been sexting underaged girls as well. Smart money is on him “mysteriously” dying from autoerotic asphyxiation between now and Inauguration Day.

Ever since the Lewinsky scandal two decades ago, Leftists and moral autists have argued that the sexual peccadilloes of politicians shouldn’t disqualify them from public office. After all, it doesn’t affect you. The problem with this is that personality traits don’t exist in a vacuum: someone who is a scumbag in one aspect of their life is usually a scumbag in other areas as well. Women who support abortion make poor wives and girlfriends; fat girls are sluttier than skinny ones; sexual deviants are more likely than heterosexuals to be mentally ill. This is why philanderers like Bill Clinton make poor leaders: sexual indiscretion is a sign of a disordered and malleable mind.

People forget that before he became infamous for making his wiener go bump in the night, Weiner was known as one of Congress’ most vocal and obnoxious feminists. He was loved by Leftists for his histrionic speeches attacking Republicans’ so-called attempts to curtail abortion and women’s rights, and near the end of his House tenure, he embarked on a crusade to get rid of a “sexist” statue in Queens called “Civic Virtue” (which puts his sexting addiction in a hilarious new light). He’s what Vox Day would call a “gamma male,” gerbiling away on behalf of the Jezebel set in a pathetic attempt to get laid. If he hadn’t been caught with his hand in his pants, he’d no doubt be pushing for affirmative consent laws, catcalling bans, and fines for “manspreading” on the subway.

Weiner, a recent documentary chronicling the man’s rise and fall, could just as easily been called Hubris Comes Before Nemesis or Cringe: The Movie. An account of Weiner’s 2013 campaign for New York City mayor, I picked it up on the recommendation of a friend, assuming it’d provide a few laughs. After watching it, I felt like I’d witnessed a gang rape victim getting an autopsy. Weiner is a worthwhile watch, because it not only captures the arrogance and psychosis of its eponymous subject, it serves as a depressing examination of America’s decline.

The film opens with a montage of Weiner’s feminist House speeches and news clips about his first sexting scandal in 2011. Two years later, Weiner launches his campaign for mayor, with an eye to restore his name and get his nagging wife Huma off his back. The filmmakers had nearly unprecedented access to Weiner and his family; maybe too much access, as there are far too many shots of the man lounging in his boxers at night.

The movie does a superb job of showing how close Weiner was to winning the mayoralty, and how badly he screwed it up. In 2013, with billionaire midget Michael Bloomberg term-limited out of office and no high-profile Republican to replace him, the Democratic primary was a bloodbath. Hormonally unbalanced lesbian (and City Council Speaker) Christine Quinn was the presumed front-runner, but she failed to catch fire due to her overly comfy relationship with Bloomberg, which included supporting his attempt to overturn the city’s term-limit laws. It was a wide-open race, and Weiner was there to fill that hole until it was gushing.

The first third of Weiner focuses on his initial successes, as he rockets to the top of the polls, fueled by voters looking for change and willing to forgive his past mistakes. One of the early scenes, featuring Weiner marching in various gay and ethnic pride parades, captures just how popular he was, with people cheering him on, thanking him for running, and constantly approaching him on the subway. The filmmakers contrast his popularity with that of eventual winner Bill de Blasio, who is shown marching in a pro-Israel parade with a pitiful crowd and zero onlookers. If you can fake it in New York, you can fake it anywhere.

Then it all goes to hell.

The second act begins with Weiner’s sexting paramour Sydney Leathers (yes, that’s her real name) spilling the beans. Within hours, the R.M.S. Weiner is treading water and headed for Davy Jones’ locker. Weiner’s gay and women millennial staffers revolt against him, the once-skeptical press becomes hostile, and New Yorkers turn on him almost as quickly as they embraced him.

Weiner depicts the collapse of the man’s political career as a product of his perversion and hubris. As his poll numbers dip and his staffers defect, he responds by lashing out at his critics. One of the movie’s most cringeworthy scenes shows Weiner bombing a gotcha interview with MSNBC’s Lawrence O’Donnell, screaming at him and threatening to “kick [his] ass.” Showing the interview to Huma later, Weiner brags about acing it; she’s so horrified that she has to leave the room. In another scene, he gets into a vicious argument at a Jewish deli that makes the evening news.

Indeed, Weiner will provide ample fuel for the rumors that Huma Abedin is Hillary’s lesbian lover and Weiner was her beard. The two of them have zero chemistry in the film and even seem slightly revolted by each other at points. A scene early on sets the tone, showing Weiner playing with their son while Huma sullenly stares at them from a corner. Even after his second sexting scandal becomes public, she doesn’t seem hurt in the way a wife would ordinarily be hurt by her husband’s infidelity; she just seems annoyed that this braying infant she’s chained to is derailing her career.

The movie also fuels the hypothesis that Anthony Weiner is a masochistic exhibitionist. Weiner reveals so many embarrassing details of his life—only twice does he ask the cameramen to leave the room—that I’m convinced he gets his jollies from being publicly humiliated. The film’s climax, in which Weiner devises an elaborate plot to avoid talking to Sydney Leathers (who, at Howard Stern’s suggestion, tried to ambush him outside his campaign office on Election Day), is a particularly painful example. The movie is supplemented with candid after-the-fact interviews with Weiner, a permanent texture of grease adhered to his face. Even the quote that opens the movie—a smarmy reference to his name—is designed to mock him.

The irony is that many of the people who watch Weiner will miss its core message of how sexual degeneracy corrupts a man’s soul. If you laugh at Weiner’s follies yet you spend your free time cranking it to Internet porn or you have a “polyamorous” relationship, you and him are no different. In the absence of spirituality, Whites have elevated their genitals to divine status, and they believe they have an infinite right to stick their private parts where they don’t belong. As Weiner’s sad, pitiful tale shows, those who defy the wisdom of our forefathers end up proving it.

Weiner is aided in its delivery by first-rate cinematography and editing, depicting the man’s implosion in clear, aching detail. One particularly effective technique the film uses is cutting between recorded news footage of Weiner and the filmmakers’ own footage of the same events, underlining what’s going on. The film’s laser-focus on Weiner is a detriment at points, and some extra context on the political situation in NYC would have been nice. In particular, Weiner misses a big opportunity by not mentioning ex-governor and human trafficker Eliot Spitzer’s run for city comptroller. Then again, given that Spitzer insists on wearing black dress socks when he has sex, one creeper per movie is probably enough.

Viewed against the backdrop of the presidential election, Weiner also provides an ominous warning for the Left. While I don’t know the political affiliation of the film’s creators, considering the Democratic nominee is the wife of a possible rapist, the movie’s underlying theme of crooked politicians getting their comeuppances is particularly relevant. Weiner even includes an appearance by Donald Trump; in a montage about Weiner’s announcement of his mayoral run, the Donald declares that “we don’t want perverts elected in New York City.” The contrast between Trump’s patriarchal, masculine personality and the sneaky fucker ways of Weiner and Bill Clinton could not be greater.

Despite its flaws, Weiner is an affecting look into both the American political scene and the American mind. As a character study, it’s fascinating; as a condemnation of moral autism, it’s a must-watch.

Read Next: The Matt Forney Show, Episode 135: In Weiner We Trust

NOTE: This article was originally published at Right On on September 2, 2016. I’m re-posting it here as the site is now defunct.

Many alt-Righters have the delusion that socialism could work in an all-White society. The experience of New Zealand from the 1930’s to the 1980’s says otherwise. Revolution is an interesting examination of what happens when European societies adopt broken economics.

The biggest problem when political movements become popular is that they attract people who aren’t committed to the core ideology and just want to be one of the cool kids. So it is with the alternative Right, increasingly infested by normies who cling to their Leftist delusions like Linus to his security blanket. One of the most popular wrong-headed ideas in the alt-Right is that Whites can magically make socialism work if we just kick out everyone with melanin in their skin.

Saying that Whites can defy the laws of economics is like saying that some men can pass for women. Sure, a virgin with rage can flambé his private parts, get breast implants and blow his monthly tugboat on Dollar Store makeup, but that doesn’t change the fact that he’s a biological male with an overpriced sexual fetish. Similarly, while an all-White nation won’t collapse under socialist policies as quickly as an African cesspool, that doesn’t make socialism desirable or viable as an economic system.

Christopher Cantwell hammers this point on his radio show frequently, and it’s the truth: good economics is an integral part of building a healthy society. You can’t have a patriarchal, family-focused nation if bugchasers are running around pozzing each others’ negholes, and you can’t breed a nation of strong men and women with an economic system that encourages sloth and degeneracy.

Fortunately, I don’t need to rely on conjecture, because the White socialist experiment has already been tried. I recently watched Revolution, a 1996 four-part documentary series on New Zealand’s transition from welfare state socialism to capitalism in the 1980’s. Revolution is a must-watch for anyone who thinks that socialism can be decoupled from the Leftist hydra. New Zealanders thought they could ignore basic economics, and they nearly paid for it with total social and economic collapse.

It’s not surprising that few know Revolution’s story, since New Zealand is one of those countries that you don’t think about unless you have to: it’s the Canada to Australia’s U.S. Remote and isolated, New Zealand subsisted for decades on its links to the U.K. and the Commonwealth of Nations (Aussies derisively refer to Kiwis as “South Sea poms” for their comparatively cozy relationship with the motherland), sustaining its economy with agricultural exports. New Zealanders were also primarily of British stock, with the only non-Whites being the indigenous Maori. In other words, socialism should have worked out perfectly for the Kiwis… right?

Starting in the 1930’s, New Zealand built a sprawling welfare state designed to insulate its citizens from the devastation wrought by the Great Depression. Said state kept growing to the point where by the 80’s, New Zealand arguably had more in common with communist states than with other Western democracies. State-owned corporations controlled large chunks of the economy, from forestry to manufacturing. Government regulations dictated everything, from what prices shops were allowed to charge, to how many products factories were allowed to manufacture, to how far truckers were allowed to transport goods. The top marginal tax rate was 66 percent.

While New Zealand prospered in the 1950’s and 60’s, the seed corn always runs out. By the time the 70’s rolled around, New Zealand was one of the poorest countries in the West, deeply in debt and borrowing like mad to keep the lights on. Exports to the U.K. collapsed following that country’s entry into the European Economic Community, worsened by the New Zealand dollar being artificially pegged to the U.S. dollar. Innovation died out, as businesses focused on appeasing the country’s all-powerful bureaucracy rather than improving the quality of their products or services. Emigration to Australia and other countries skyrocketed, along with the unemployment rate.

At the center of New Zealand’s economic dysfunction was Prime Minister Rob Muldoon. Much like other Right-wing parties in the West after World War II, Muldoon’s National Party had long given up on being conservative and instead tried to out-Left the Left at every election. Muldoon came to power in 1975 after promising to replace the incumbent Labour government’s superannuation (pension) scheme with one that paid out sooner and to more people. Combined with his status as Minister of Finance, he held a dictatorial level of control over the New Zealand economy, and he intended to use it to prop up the welfare state as reality closed in.

Muldoon’s tenure was defined by his failed attempts to bail water out of New Zealand’s sinking ship, from a series of grotesquely expensive public works projects (known as “Think Big”) to a total freeze on wages and prices in 1982. After a National backbencher refused to support the government’s policy on nuclear weapons in 1984, Muldoon got drunk on live television and called a snap election, losing decisively to David Lange’s Labour Party. Despite being a Left-wing party on paper, Labour had fallen under the influence of Roger Douglas, a reformer who sought to restructure the New Zealand economy along free market lines.

The next six years saw New Zealand radically reshaped. Under Douglas’ tenure as Minister of Finance, the government streamlined inefficient state-owned corporations, eliminated unnecessary regulation, and removed subsidies for many industries. Lange’s government also slashed tax rates, removed controls on foreign exchange, and allowed the value of the New Zealand dollar to float (Muldoon’s refusal to devalue the dollar nearly led to an economic collapse in 1984).

The rapidity with which the government rewrote New Zealand’s economic landscape was somewhat masked by Lange’s progressive social policies, which included making the country a nuclear-free zone (splintering the ANZUS alliance with Australia and the U.S.) and ameliorating relations with the Maori. In the short-term, Rogernomics (the term for Douglas’ reforms, akin to Reaganomics in the U.S.) caused massive social upheaval. For example, removing agricultural subsidies caused severe hardship for many Kiwi farmers, while whole rural towns that were dependent on state-owned enterprises were wrecked by mass layoffs.

Revolution emphasizes in its interviews that New Zealanders—even those who were adversely impacted by Rogernomics—agreed that change had to happen. Muldoon’s New Zealand was well on its way to becoming what Greece is today: bankrupted by bureaucratic mismanagement and having its finances controlled by the IMF or other unaccountable international organizations. As Geoffrey Palmer (Lange’s successor as Prime Minister) puts it in the film, “You can’t have social justice if you’ve got no economy.”

The scope of New Zealand’s economic breakdown was so severe that Jim Bolger’s National Party, elected in 1990 on the promise of halting Douglas’ reforms, was forced to continue them through Finance Minister Ruth Richardson and her cuts to welfare benefits. Rogernomics and Ruthanasia bore fruit in New Zealand’s comparatively free, prosperous economy today; New Zealand ranks #3 on the 2016 Index of Economic Freedom while the U.S. isn’t even in the top ten.

While dry at times due to its mid-90’s visuals and aesthetic, Revolution is propelled forward by candid interviews with many of the major players in New Zealand’s economic renaissance. David Lange steals the show as a jolly, witty fat man playing good cop to Roger Douglas, whose blunted affect and chomo mustache make him the movie’s obvious heel. The film ends with the 1996 election, in which New Zealanders, disgusted with both National and Labour, vote in a series of minor parties with the aid of proportional representation.

My takeaway from Revolution is that socialism corrupts White people as assuredly as it corrupts everyone else. Five decades of a cradle-to-grave welfare state made New Zealanders lazy and complacent. As r/K selection theory shows us, free resources inevitably breed a nation of sexually deviant layabouts. A society where success is determined not by your intelligence or ingenuity but by how well you can game the bureaucracy is one that will inevitably fall apart, regardless of its racial composition.

While far from the most riveting series, Revolution is worth a look as an examination of a White society degraded by generations of gimmedats. Alt-Right proponents of a controlled economy would do well to study how well it worked in New Zealand.

Read Next: The Managerial Revolution by James Burnham

NOTE: This article was originally published at Right On on July 16, 2016. I’m re-posting it here as the site is now defunct.

It’s not enough for Hollywood to constantly recycle the past: they need to spit on it as well. The all-female Ghostbusters reboot is a fine example of this, and it’s a massive bomb that drips with contempt for White men and normality.

Whenever communist or socialist regimes rise to power, one of the first things they do is destroy the cherished symbols of the nation. The Soviet Union replaced Christmas with Stalin’s birthday and declared Ded Moroz (the Russian equivalent of Santa Claus) to be an affectation of the hated kulaks; Maoist China eradicated Confucian principles of filial piety by training children to spy on their parents and rat them out to commissars. The end goal was to sever any ties the population had to their families or cultures, replacing them with absolute loyalty to the state.

The recently released grrl power Ghostbusters reboot was birthed according to the same logic: it’s a Marxist defilement of a classic American film. Granted, a lot of the nerd whining about modern adaptations of cartoons/toys from the 80’s or earlier is itself a sign of cultural decline; if you’re crying about how Hollywood “ruined your childhood,” you’re a manchild who needs to grow up. The problem is that Americans didn’t simply kill God: we dumped His corpse on the side of the road for the buzzards to feast on. Pop culture effluvia is the only thing left that unites us as a people.

Feminist Ghostbusters is a terrible film for many, many reasons. It’s a confluence of Hollywood’s worst trends, from creative necrophilia and rapid-fire ADHD editing to an excess of CGI and characters who can’t have a conversation without screaming at each other. But more importantly, Ghostbusters is repulsive because it’s a deliberate subversion of a cherished piece of American culture. From beginning to end, everything about the movie is designed to slap White men in the face.

The film’s plot is largely the same as the 1984 original, revolving around a team of parapsychologists who specialize in catching ghosts. Kristen Wiig plays Dr. Erin Gilbert, a Columbia professor who is drawn back into studying the paranormal when she joins her ex-partner Dr. Abby Gates (Melissa McCarthy) and Dr. Jillian Holtzmann (Kate McKinnon) to investigate a ghost sighting at a mansion. Eventually, the three of them (plus MTA worker Patty Tolan, played by Leslie Jones) are shanghaied into stopping Rowan North (Neil Casey) from bringing about the apocalypse.

While it certainly wasn’t impossible for the Ghostbusters reboot to be a good film, it’s clear the creators went out of their way to be as unfunny as possible. I attended a matinee screening of the movie, and not only was the theater barely a third full, almost no one laughed the entire time. Much like the similarly hyper-PC, female-focused Star Wars: The Force Awakens, Ghostbusters is oblivious to the fact that its plot is driven by grimy, shopworn clichés. For example, token Black character Patty Tolan is a coward who is always running from danger, while the porcine Abby Gates is constantly eating (one particularly bad running joke involves her favorite Chinese take-out joint constantly messing up her orders).

Feminist Ghostbusters also ratchets up the anti-White, anti-male hatred to headache-inducing levels. For example, Chris Hemsworth portrays the Ghostbusters’ mentally damaged secretary Kevin, a clear stand-in for Annie Potts’ character in the original film. Thing is, while Janine Melnitz was ditzy and a bit slow, she was also lovable, charming and the protagonists respected her. The lady Ghostbusters treat Kevin with such eye-rolling contempt—and he’s so incompetent at his job—that it’s inexplicable why they don’t fire him or he doesn’t quit. Bill Murray also makes a cameo as a Penn Jillette-style skeptic who questions the Ghostbusters’ honesty and gets defenestrated in the process.

But it’s the film’s antagonist Rowan who truly gets the short end of the stick; he’s a socially retarded weirdo despised by everyone he meets. You can practically visualize the writers muttering “Fuck you, MRAs!” every time he pops up on screen. In fact, during the climax, McCarthy’s character taunts him by saying he “left [his] virginity in the Lost and Found,” and the final battle scene ends with the feminist Ghostbusters shooting Rowan (after he morphs into a cartoon version of the ghost logo from the original movie, another insult to the fans) in the crotch. Subtlety and nuance are not on the menu.

Make no mistake: everything about Feminist Ghostbusters is intended to trash the film it was based on and spit in the faces of everyone who ever liked it. It’s full of Leftist dogwhistles and blatant assaults on Whiteness and masculinity, all the better to rope in the pop culture-addled SJWs who serve as corporate America’s most faithful drones. Given that young Leftists need Hollywood to constantly affirm their beliefs—see all the bombastic headlines about how Amy Poehler “crushed” men’s rights activists or how John Oliver “destroyed” Donald Trump—I expect we’ll soon see a wave of listicles about how Ghostbusters “demolishes” anti-feminists.

Unfortunately, it won’t be enough to save the movie from box office ignominy. Ghostbusters fans have been revolting against the reboot in epic fashion: the film’s trailer is the most downvoted movie preview in YouTube history, and its toys are so unpopular that stores are already putting them on the clearance rack. Subverting a nation with cultural Marxism is like boiling a frog, and Feminist Ghostbusters has cranked the heat up so high that the polliwogs are jumping out of the pot.

In response, the Left has been pulling out all the stops, from director Paul Feig accusing his film’s detractors of misogyny to others claiming that the original Ghostbusters is “mediocre.” This is a classic gaslighting tactic by profaners from Pussy Riot to Chuck Klosterman: attack a beloved symbol, get people riled up, then ridicule them for getting upset. “God, it’s just a movie. Stop taking it so seriously.”

Well, you can’t punch someone in the face and claim it’s a kiss, and you can’t spend millions of dollars creating a Marxist funhouse movie reboot and claim it’s no big deal. The original Ghostbusters is to cinema what Talking Heads is to music: something that everyone—young and old, Black and White, hipster and normie—can enjoy. It may just be a comedy, but it’s a well-rounded and funny one that sprang from an original idea (the film’s premise was based in part off of Dan Aykroyd’s paranormal research).

Feminist Ghostbusters has none of this. There’s zero freshness in the plot, zero warmth in the characters, and zero mirth in the dialogue. At best, it’s a rancid cash-in on an iconic film franchise; at worst, it’s an open assault on White men. Don’t waste your time with it.

Read Next: Harriet Tubman, Cultural Marxism, and Cuckservatives

NOTE: This article was originally published at Right On on March 5, 2016. I’m re-posting it here as the site is now defunct.

NOTE: This article was originally published at Right On on February 17, 2016. I’m re-posting it here as the site is now defunct.

NOTE: This article was originally published at Right On on December 21, 2015. I’m re-posting it here as the site is now defunct.

Star Wars: The Force Awakens rehashes A New Hope for the lowest common denominator, with a side helping of Leftist propaganda. What is good about it is not original, and what is original is not good.

In his memoirs, Alec Guinness recounts a story in which he gave an autograph to a fan of his who claimed to have seen Star Wars over a hundred times, on the condition that the boy never watch the movie again. He was so shocked that he started crying, with his mother insulting Guinness before huffily ushering her son away. Guinness wrote in response that he hoped “the lad, now in his thirties, is not living in a fantasy world of secondhand, childish banalities.”

I can only assume that poor Sir Alec is spinning in his grave so fast right now that the south of England is quaking like San Francisco in 1906.

Star Wars: The Force Awakens debuted last Friday, summoning legions of unwashed manbabies to the theaters like battered housewives to their abusive husbands. After the six-year limp-out that was the prequels, I’m astounded that anyone could view the prospect of another Star Wars film with anything more than cautious optimism. But apparently, no one will ever go broke underestimating the taste of the average nerd; the theater I went to had a line of dweebs going out the door (in below-freezing Chicago weather).

I went to see The Force Awakens for the explicit purpose of tearing it apart for Right On, but I left the theater less enraged than depressed. J. J. Abrams’ take on Star Wars is a blatant ripoff of the original film, with whole scenes lifted from George Lucas’ movie (such as the trench run on the Death Star). His only contribution to the series is a heaping pile of anti-White agitprop, like a dog turd stapled to a Big Mac.

The sad thing is that Abrams’ cultural Marxism isn’t even egregious enough to hate. The Force Awakens is so formulaic that it almost induces narcolepsy. The film exists for one reason: to swindle more money out of the fanboys. It’ll make a ton of cash for Disney, revive interest in the franchise, and help sell more plastic toys to middle-aged men who never grew up. Everything about the movie feels prefab and insincere, right down to the unnaturally shiny uniforms the stormtroopers wear.

Counter-Currents’ Trevor Lynch already pointed out how The Force Awakens is basically a shinier remake of A New Hope, so I want to concentrate on the actual changes Abrams made to the plot. In particular, his Luke Skywalker stand-in Rey (Daisy Ridley) is quite possibly the most unlikable, unrealistic female lead in a film since Lieutenant Uhura in the Star Trek reboot (itself another Abrams production).

Ridley’s character is you-go-grrl feminism taken to its cartoonish logical conclusion; in fact, the Leftist media is already declaring her a “feminist hero.” Despite being a 14-year old homeless orphan who scavenges junk in the desert to survive, Rey can effortlessly pilot any ship, use the Force to stage a jailbreak, and master lightsaber combat in the span of about a day. In fact, the film’s final scene is a duel between Rey and antagonist Kylo Ren (Adam Driver), which she wins. Keep in mind that it took Luke until the end of Return of the Jedi before he could so much as hold his own in a fight with Darth Vader.

This blatant Mary Sue-ism would be less offensive if Abrams had any clue how to inject human warmth into his characters, but Rey constantly comes off as vindictive and insecure. For example, in one early scene where Rey and Finn (John Boyega, the “Mace Dindu” affirmative action hire) are being carpet-bombed by TIE fighters, Finn grabs her hand only for her to slap him down: “Don’t hold my hand.” If I was in Finn’s place, I would have just let her get napalmed, but what do I know?

Indeed, The Force Awakens rests on a visible undercurrent of anti-White, anti-male hatred. Han Solo is depicted as a terrible father and two-bit con artist who won’t grow up; Harrison Ford plays him like a cranky old whore disgusted at the increasingly degrading tricks she has to turn in order to put food on the table. Luke Skywalker is shown as a reclusive failure who abandoned his friends after his actions plunged the galaxy into chaos. Kylo Ren is a whiny emo played by the guy who portrayed Lena Dunham’s boyfriend in Girls (no, I’m not kidding). Even Mace Dindu isn’t spared, as the only character trait Abrams gives him is cowardice (apparently unaware that depicting Black men as fraidy cats is a racist trope from the bad old days).

These cultural Marxist clichés aren’t wholly Abrams’ fault: Hollywood films have been sliding in this direction for at least the past decade. Every major action film these days is dumbed down for an audience that has the attention span of an aphid. ADHD editing and rapid cuts make it impossible to follow the action; CGI is overused, making everything look glossy and fake; characters are constantly yelling at each other because modern moviegoers are too stupid to appreciate subtlety.

Most importantly, the only way Hollywood can create “strong” female characters is by depicting them as flawless Überfrauen with heavy flow. Gone is the subtlety and complexity of Kira Nerys, Audrey Horne, or even Rachael in Blade Runner. Hell, Princess Leia in the original films fits the bill. Carrie Fisher famously described Leia as a “distressing damsel” as opposed to a damsel in distress, but for all the barbs she traded with Luke and Han, she didn’t have ice water running in her veins.

I was never a big fan of Star Wars—the first film was released more than a decade before I was born—but they’re genuinely good movies, regardless of nerds’ creepy fascination with them. The original trilogy is a fun story with interesting, likable characters set in a compelling world. Even the prequels, as poorly written and unwatchable as they are, featured original ideas. They weren’t executed well at all, but Lucas was at least trying.

Star Wars: The Force Awakens has no ideas. It’s a cynical cash-grab from the first frame to the last, leavened with Leftist mumbo jumbo to further subvert our culture. Were it not for the Star Wars name, it’d be one of those popcorn flicks that people see to pass the time, then forget about as soon as they leave the theater. Even from a hate-watching perspective, Abrams’ baby falls flat.

Skip this one.

Read Next: Leftist Witch Hunts, Social Justice Warriors and the Myth of Free Speech “Consequences”