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The Gospel According to South Park

Somehow, five years have passed since the COVID summer of 2020. My son had just “finished” fourth grade. His mother and I were distracted parents of him and his seven-year-old sister, both of us teetering from cabin fever. It felt like we were hanging on to our sanity, and our marriage, by a thread.

We held on to both, thankfully. Our kids seem to have recovered, too. But by this time that summer, it’s fair to say we had completely “lost contain” of our children. Even under normal conditions, we’ve favored a loose-reins approach to parenting, with a healthy dose of Lenore Skenazy-style “Free Range Parenting.” But that summer? I gave up entirely. I let my son watch TV. A lot of TV.

By the time school resumed, he had watched every episode of The Simpsons and every episode of South Park.

At the time, I felt more than a little guilty about letting a 10-year-old binge-watch two decades of South Park. It was a bit early, I thought, for him to be learning proper condom application techniques from Mr. Garrison. When I told friends later, the story always got a laugh – a kind of comic confession from a parent who’d fallen asleep at the wheel.

But as my son made his way through middle school and into high school, something changed. One night over dinner, we were talking about wars when I mentioned Saddam Hussein. My son chimed in casually – he knew exactly who Saddam was. I asked him how. His answer: “South Park.”

That kept happening. From Michael Jackson and Neverland Ranch, to Mormonism, to the NSA, to wokeism … my son was not only familiar with these topics, he was informed, funny, and incisively skeptical. I realized that this crash course from Butters and Cartman and Mr. Mackey had functioned like one of those downloads Neo gets in The Matrix; except that instead of instantly learning martial arts, my son had instantly become culturally literate. And, just as important, that literacy came wrapped in a sense of humor rooted in satire, absurdity, and a deep mistrust of power, regardless of party affiliation.

He jokes about Joe Biden’s senility and Trump’s grifting grossness. He refers to COVID-era masking as “chin diapers,” a phrase South Park coined while many adults were still double-masking alone in their cars. It struck me: my greatest parenting lapse had somehow turned into one of my best decisions.

Of course, it’s not just that South Park is anti-authority and unapologetically crude. So was Beavis and Butthead. The difference is that South Park is crafted. It endures not just because of what it says, but how it’s made – with discipline, speed, and storytelling intelligence.

South Park co-creators Matt Parker and Trey Stone are master storytellers. In a short video that should be required viewing for anyone who writes, they explain that if the beats, or scenes, of your story are best linked by the phrase “and then,” you’re doing it wrong. Instead, each scene should be connected by “therefore” or “but.” It’s deceptively simple, and it’s the single best explanation of narrative momentum I’ve ever seen. (Watch it here.)

Combine that storytelling mastery with a relentless work ethic that has allowed them to churn out weekly takes on almost every major current event of the last three decades, and you get the South Park that we know and (that most of us) love today. A generational institution that’s still funny.

by Jeremy Radcliffe, Epsilon Theory | Read more:
Image: South Park

[ed. Smart moronic vs dumb moronic. People are probably just grateful for any kind of resistance these days.]

Eric Cartman, Welcome (for Now) to the Resistance

There is a slang term that, because I am not writing this for a foul-mouthed satire on a streaming service, I will refer to as “bleep-you money”: the amount of cash you need to feel free to do and say what you want.

For Trey Parker and Matt Stone, the makers of “South Park,” that number appears to be around $1.25 billion — the price tag on their recent deal with Paramount. Once the ink dried, they put their mouths where their money was, going hard after President Trump and their own corporate benefactors.

The Season 27 premiere aired July 23, shortly after Paramount agreed to a lawsuit settlement with the president that the late-night host Stephen Colbert called a “big, fat bribe,” and shortly after CBS, which Paramount owns, announced that Colbert’s show would end next year. (Paramount said the move was purely a financial decision.)

In the episode, “Sermon on the ’Mount,” the president is suing everyone, and everyone — from local governments to “60 Minutes” — is giving up. The town of South Park has to literally bring Jesus (a recurring character since the show’s earliest days) into its schools. President Trump appears as a tinpot dictator, in bed (again literally) with Satan. Desperate, the townspeople turn to Christ, who bestows his wisdom: “All of you, shut the [expletive] up, or South Park is over,” he says. “You really want to end up like Colbert?”

In the follow-up episode, the school counselor, Mr. Mackey, gets fired because of funding cuts and signs up with Immigration and Customs Enforcement. (“If you need a job, it’s A! Job! To have!” goes the recruiting jingle.)

Mr. Mackey and his inexperienced comrades pull up their face masks, bust a “Dora the Explorer” live show (another repurposing of a Paramount property) and raid heaven to round up Latino angels. For good performance, Mr. Mackey wins a trip to Mar-a-Lago — here, a debauched Fantasy Island with President Trump as Mr. Roarke and Vice President JD Vance as Tattoo.

If you were making a list of the series likeliest to become voices of the Trump 2.0 resistance, “South Park” would not have been close to the top. It has savaged liberal pieties and has been credited, if not by its own creators, with inspiring a wave of “South Park conservatives.”

The show’s politics have been elusive — close to libertarian, in the neighborhood of cynical. It’s not that “South Park” is amoral — it is often deeply moralistic, summing up episodes with speeches and epiphanies. But for years, its core principle has been that people who care too righteously about any cause are ridiculous.

That message may have been a blueprint for civic nihilism, an invitation to LOL all the way to dystopia. But the show’s history may also be exactly what makes “South Park” a compelling voice at this moment. Along with its three-comma price tag, the show has amassed cultural capital, a reputation for not being in any party’s corner. (...)

Beyond the crackdown on media and academic speech, the new “South Park” also focuses on the people who feel more free than ever to speak up in the new order. Eric Cartman, the show’s Magic 8-Ball of offensiveness, begins to realize that “woke is dead”: People are free to spew the kind of slurs and insults that used to get him yelled at. A classmate steals his material — anti-Jewish conspiracy theories, kneejerk sexism — to start a hit podcast. Cartman has won, and he’s miserable. “You can just say ‘retarded’ now, nobody cares,” he moans. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.” (...)

Of course, you could counter that Parker and Stone are free to mock. They have become very rich doing it, and, unlike Colbert, no one is taking their show off the air yet.

But this, too, is part of the meta point. It is still a free country. You can still say what you want. So why are so many powerful institutions behaving like it isn’t and they can’t? If a few bratty cartoon kids can peel off the emperor’s clothes, what are the grown-ups so afraid of?

The show has a theory for that, and it’s also about money. In the premiere, big institutions — up to heaven itself — are brought to heel by billion-dollar litigation. Later, Mr. Mackey quits ICE despite the pressure to swallow his qualms and go along with things he doesn’t believe because he needs to “make my nut” — that is, pay his bills.

It’s the same story either way: Everyone’s got to make their nut, even if some people’s nuts are bigger than others. Maybe it takes bleep-you money to buy your freedom. But maybe, “South Park” is telling us, freedom comes from deciding that your self-respect is priceless.

by James Poniewozik, NY Times | Read more:
Image: Comedy Central

[ed. Double thumbs up. Kristi Noem episode is an instant classic.]

Sermon on the 'Mount'

“South Park” Skewers a Satire-Proof President

There’s a legal strategy known as the small-penis rule, wherein an author who writes a character based on a real person can potentially evade a libel suit by giving said character a small penis—the logic being that, in order to sue, a plaintiff would have to tacitly admit that the description of his manhood is accurate. This rule technically does not apply to the latest episode of “South Park,” in which the series’ creators, Trey Parker and Matt Stone, make absolutely no effort to anonymize President Donald Trump, but one wonders if the logic of embarrassment still holds. Trump is portrayed as a deeply insecure leader who literally gets into bed with Satan, his apparent lover. (“I’m not in the mood right now,” the Devil tells him. “Another random bitch commented on my Instagram that you’re on the Epstein list.”) Most notably, the Trump of “South Park” is endowed with a penis so small that Satan says he “can’t even see anything.” If the actual Trump were to retaliate, as he so often does, he’d be playing directly into Parker and Stone’s hands.

“South Park,” amazingly, is in its twenty-seventh season. It’s the second-longest-running animated show on U.S. television, behind “The Simpsons,” and easily the most offensive. Since its première, in 1997, the cartoon—which follows a group of profane elementary schoolers in the town of South Park, Colorado—has managed to piss off nearly every political group, pop-culture fandom, and religious denomination... To the extent that the show has any “beliefs,” it’s that all beliefs are asinine, whether they’re held by the left or the right. Environmental groups criticized the series, in 2006, for portraying Al Gore as a delusional figure obsessed with an imagined monster named ManBearPig. The show was banned in China, in 2019, for mocking Chinese censorship, and the creators famously received death threats after depicting the Prophet Muhammad.

Although “South Park” has declined both in quality and in popularity over the years, it’s still valuable enough that Paramount recently paid $1.5 billion for exclusive streaming rights to the series, and for Parker and Stone to make another fifty episodes. The studio has long been in the process of merging with Skydance Media—a deal that was in a holding pattern for about a year, until Paramount agreed to pay sixteen million dollars to settle a lawsuit that Trump filed against its subsidiary CBS’s “60 Minutes.” A few days before the F.C.C. finally approved the merger, Stephen Colbert, the host of “The Late Show,” on CBS, called the settlement a “big fat bribe”—and then his show was cancelled, ostensibly for financial reasons. All of these are crucial plot points in the latest “South Park” episode, “Sermon on the ‘Mount,” which is now available on Paramount+.

The town of South Park has its fair share of Trump supporters, albeit increasingly disillusioned ones. (“I voted for him to get rid of all the woke stuff,” one man says, “but now that retarded faggot is just putting money in his own pockets.”) Some parents are especially upset when religion is introduced at the local elementary school—in the form of Jesus Christ himself physically showing up and milling around. When the parents call the President to complain, he says that he’s going to sue the town for five billion dollars, setting up an extended riff on Trump’s status as a serial litigant. (Throughout the episode, he also threatens to sue people who make reference to his unfortunate penis.) But Parker and Stone’s true focus is media cowardice, which becomes clear when a fictionalized “60 Minutes” runs a segment on the showdown between Trump and the town of South Park.

The anchors are visibly anxious. “Oh, shit,” one says, as the news broadcast begins. “The small town of South Park, Colorado, is protesting against the President. The townspeople claim that the President—who, who is a great man, great guy, we know is probably watching—and, uh, we’re just reporting on this town in Colorado that’s being sued by the President.”

His co-anchor cuts in: “To be clear, we don’t agree with them.”

“We think these protesters are total retards,” the first anchor adds.

The demonstration is interrupted by Jesus, who flies onto the scene, Superman-style. He hands everyone bread. “Just eat the bread, and listen,” he says, and so begins his Sermon on the ’Mount: “I didn’t want to come back and be in the school, but I had to, because it was part of a lawsuit and the agreement with Paramount.” He explains that Trump “can do whatever he wants now that someone has backed down,” adding, “Do you really wanna end up like Colbert?” He tells the people that they need to shut up, or else “South Park is over.”

Donald Trump poses a real conundrum for comedians. He’s an endless wellspring of material, but what he says and does is inevitably more absurd—and often more compelling—than any satire could be. Parker and Stone realized this early on. They initially dealt with Trump by having one of the show’s recurring characters, a former schoolteacher named Mr. Garrison, act as a surrogate; he ascends to the Presidency by promising to build a wall, and gradually turns orange. But the showrunners quickly found that, as Parker put it, “what was actually happening was way funnier than anything we could come up with.” So they pivoted to the other defining issues of our time: Kanye West’s antisemitism, ChatGPT, the COVID-19 pandemic (in this case, caused by a character’s decision to have sex with a bat in China).

The Paramount drama has prompted “South Park” to go after Trump more directly than ever before, but the gags, which all too often come back to his anatomy, or his penchant for memes, aren’t exactly revelatory. The sharpest joke is a meta one: the last time we saw Satan in bed with someone was in the 1999 film “South Park: Bigger, Longer & Uncut,” which depicted an abusive relationship between Satan and Saddam Hussein. (Hussein was the abuser.) Rather than concoct a new playbook for Trump, Parker and Stone have returned to an old one.

Trump’s existential threat to comedy has another dimension, one that intensified after his reëlection, as figures like Shane Gillis and Tim Dillion gained mainstream appeal: it’s hard to make boundary-pushing statements when there are no longer any boundaries. This problem is especially pressing for Parker and Stone, and they confront it via the angst of South Park’s resident provocateur, Eric Cartman.

The episode opens with Cartman turning on a radio station, where he’s met with the sound of static. “Mom, something’s wrong with my favorite show,” he complains. “National Public Radio, where all the liberals bitch and whine about stuff.” His mother informs him that Trump has cancelled NPR. Cartman is devastated: “That was, like, the funniest shit ever.”

Later, Cartman confides in his friend Butters, who’s more of a snowflake type. “Woke is dead,” Cartman says, sadly. “You can just say ‘retarded’ now, nobody cares. Everyone hates the Jews. Everyone’s fine with using gay slurs.”

“That’s not good,” Butters replies.

“No, it’s terrible!” Cartman says. “ ’Cause now I don’t know . . . what I’m supposed to do.”

At first, it didn’t seem like “South Park” had an answer to this question; Cartman, unconvinced by Butters’s assurances that “woke” is “still out there, somewhere,” forces him into a suicide pact. The two of them sit inside a car, parked in a garage, with the engine running. The scene is foreboding—until it’s revealed that the car is electric. [ed. Lol!]

The townspeople, meanwhile, negotiate a settlement with the President, who agrees to a sum of $3.5 million. (“We’ll just have to cut some funding for our schools and hospitals and roads and that should be that,” one woman says.) But there’s one condition: as part of the settlement, the town also has to engage in “pro-Trump messaging”—an apparent reference to recent reports that Trump has demanded the same from CBS. What follows is genuine shock comedy, and a treatment of Trump that feels original. The town’s first P.S.A. is an A.I.-generated video of Trump—a live-action one, not a cartoon—trudging through a desert. He proceeds to take off his clothes, though he leaves his dress shoes and sock garters on. “When things heat up, who will deliver us from temptation?” a voice-over says. “No matter how hot it gets, he’s not afraid to fight for America.” Trump lies down in the sand, and his micropenis, which has googly eyes and a mouth, slowly becomes erect, before announcing, “I’m Donald J. Trump, and I endorse this message.” The P.S.A. is labelled one of fifty, leaving open the possibility that, in the course of the forty-nine “South Park” episodes still to come, we’ll get forty-nine more.

Is this too much? Probably. Yet there’s an age-old tradition of political vulgarity, of which Trump himself is a practitioner—it’s the crux of his appeal.

by Tyler Foggatt, New Yorker | Read more:
Image:South Park Studios/YouTube

[ed. Classic.]

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[ed. absolutely..]

Matt Groening
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Tom Guald
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Tom Gauld

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Cows With Guns

[ed. Moooving.]

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Tom Gauld
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Studio Ghibli’s Midlife Crisis

Disney, Pixar … Ghibli. For its legions of admirers, the Japanese studio hasn’t just held its own against the American powerhouses, it has surpassed them with the impossible beauty of its hand-drawn animation and its commentary on the ambivalence of the human condition.

Although he would refuse to acknowledge it, much of Studio Ghibli’s success is down to one man: Hayao Miyazaki, a master animator whose presence towers over the studio’s output. Making a feature-length anime the old-fashioned way may require a large and multitalented cast, but Miyazaki is the thread running through Ghibli’s creative genius.

Now, as the studio marks its 40th anniversary, it faces an uncertain future, amid renewed speculation that its figurehead auteur really has wielded his pencil for the last time.

Roland Kelts, a visiting professor at the school of culture, media and society at Waseda University, said Ghibli had failed to anticipate a time when Miyazaki, who is 84, would no longer be at the helm, even after the succession question grew more urgent following the death in 2018 of co-founder Isao Takahata.

Instead, the studio shifted its focus to commercial activities. “The studio failed to produce heirs to Miyazaki and Takahata, and now it’s a merchandising monster,” says Kelts, author of Japanamerica: How Japanese Pop Culture Has Invaded the US.

In 2013, Miyazaki announced that he would no longer make feature-length films, citing the difficulty of living up to his own impossibly high standards.

But four years later, Ghibli said its co-founder had had a change of heart and would make “his final film, considering his age”. The result was The Boy and the Heron, winner of the 2024 Academy Award for best animated film.

While Ghibli performs alchemy on the screen, there is nothing it can do to shapeshift itself clear of the march of mortality: Miyazaki’s main colour designer, Yasuda Michiyo, whose work appeared in most of his films, died two years before Takahata, while another co-founder, producer Toshio Suzuki, is 76.

As a result, the studio is finally looking ahead to a future without its leading creative light, notwithstanding persistent rumours that Miyazaki is not quite done yet. “Miyazaki is 84 and may not have time to make another movie,” says Kelts.

A cultural phenomenon

The studio was formally established by Miyazaki, Suzuki and Takahata in 1985 – a year after it released the post-apocalyptic Nausicaä of the Valley of the Wind. It has since become a cultural phenomenon, winning an Oscar in 2003 for Spirited Away, and a second Oscar in 2024 for The Boy and the Heron.

Told through the prism of the fantastical, and featuring characters and themes that defy the pigeonholing that underpins much of Hollywood’s output, Studio Ghibli’s films are widely considered masterpieces of their genre, earning two Oscars and the devotion of millions of fans across the world.

Watching a Ghibli movie is like reading literature, says Miyuki Yonemura, a professor at Japan’s Senshu University who studies cultural theories on animation. “That’s why some children have watched My Neighbour Totoro 40 times,” she says. “Audiences discover something new every time.”

In some ways, Ghibli shares certain values with Disney, says Susan Napier, a professor of Japanese studies at Tufts University in the US, believes. “Both are family oriented, insist on high production standards and have distinctive worldviews.

“But what is striking about Ghibli is how for the last 40 years the studio has reflected and maintained a set of values and aesthetics that are clearly drawn from its founders and not from a corporate playbook,” adds Napier, author of Miyazakiworld: a Life in Art.

Miyazaki has made no secret of his progressive politics, informed by his experience living through conflict and postwar austerity, and has publicly criticised attempts by conservative politicians to revise Japan’s war-renouncing constitution. His films address the themes of war and the environment, but stop short of distilling the narrative into a simple battle of good versus evil.

The Boy and the Heron, for example, opens with Mahito Maki, the 12-year-old protagonist, losing his mother in the US’s aerial bombardment of Tokyo in March 1945, in which an estimated 100,000 people died.

However, Ghibli’s decades of independence ended in 2023 when the studio was acquired by Nippon TV – a move that the studio conceded came amid uncertainty over its future leadership.

Speculation that Miyazaki’s eldest son, Goro, was heir apparent has dampened since the latter voiced doubt about his ability to run the studio alone, and amid reports that artistic differences had contributed to “strained” relations between father and son.

Now it will be up to Nippon TV to develop a pool of directors to gradually replace the old guard, including those with expertise in computer animation, considered anathema to Ghibli’s fierce commitment to hand-drawn frames. (...)

While computer-generated animation and AI make the painstaking, aesthetically stunning animation that Ghibli is renowned harder than it was a generation ago, Napier is not convinced the octogenarian auteur is ready to retire.

“I can’t imagine someone like Miyazaki, with his intellectual and artistic vivacity, simply being content to sit around, so who knows?”

by Justin McCurry, The Guardian |  Read more:

Images: Studio Ghilbi/Deviant Art; and Chris Pizzello/AP

[ed. See also: Welcome to the Semantic Apocalypse (DS).]

PhD Timeline

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[ed. Definitions matter.]

AI, Cartoons and Animation

[ed. See also: What if Making Cartoons Becomes 90% Cheaper? (NYT). Better cat videos?]
via: YouTube/X

No part of the entertainment business has more to lose — and gain — from A.I. than animation.

The $420 billion global animation industry (movies, television cartoons, games, anime) has long been dominated by computer-generated imagery; Walt Disney Animation hasn’t released a hand-drawn film since 2011. In other words, unlike much of Hollywood, animation companies are not technophobic.

Even with computers, however, the process of making an animated movie (or even a cartoon) remains extraordinarily expensive, requiring squadrons of artists, animators, graphic designers, 3-D modelers and other craftspeople. Studios have a big incentive to find a more efficient way, and A.I can already do many of those things far faster, with far fewer people.

Jeffrey Katzenberg, a former chairman of Walt Disney Studios and a co-founder of DreamWorks Animation, has predicted that by next year, it will take only about 50 people to make a major animated movie, down from 500 a decade ago. If he were founding DreamWorks today, Mr. Katzenberg said of A.I. on a recent episode of the podcast “The Speed of Culture,” he would be “jumping into it hook, line and sinker.” (NYT)

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Hartley Lin
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