Mr. Robot, or the cost of being right

Television has entered a golden age, or so we are told. Premium cable and streaming platforms have gifted us with countless programs described in breathless detail as “unflinching,” “provocative,” or “darkly relevant.” These shows gesture toward systemic critique the way a debutante gestures toward the punch bowl, with practiced elegance and no intention of actually drinking. They deploy anti-capitalist aesthetics as set dressing with corrupt executives, soulless corporations, and montages of urban decay scored to melancholy indie rock. One watches and feels appropriately concerned, so we subscribe to another streaming service. The circuit completes itself, and no one is harmed.