More Fun Wrinkles of the Is-Ought Problem

About a year ago I wrote this post clarifying some of my thoughts on the pervasiveness of the is-ought problem in modern discourse.  Specifically, I showed that part of the reason for the relevance of that framework is that neither category represents a strict binary orientation towards one's rhetorical aims, which allows one to consider the "is-ness" and "ought-ness" of any particular claim.  Most of the piece discusses how the "is" half of the equation is routinely abused to advance what are fundamentally conservative arguments, and I conclude by addressing the other half as well:

"After all, saying what ought to happen is not merely a rhetorical device; rather, it's the first step in potentially making that thing happen.  If you instead decide to alchemize your fear into a categorical imperative that effectively forbids any demands of those in power then you have implicitly, if not explicitly, accepted defeat."

By addressing this problem dialectically, I allow for one to, in good faith, apply multiple interpretations of any seemingly pragmatic argument against progressive change.  Is such an approach overly generous towards some pundits we know to be undeserving of this good faith?  Yes!  But is it also useful to consider some of their arguments through this framework, so as to better understand our own positions and arguments?  Also yes!  Why don't we do this together!

Friend of the blog Eric Levitz provides a helpful demonstration of how one can over-index the "ought-ness" of an argument.  Buried in that chain of screenshots is the metrics for Ken's post where he published the "manifesto" in question.  Ken is clearly arguing that the incredibly high demand for this information indicates a meaningful public interest for that item.  It does not necessarily claim that either a) any popular post indicates a legitimate public interest, or b) there are not other considerations for what might constitute the public interest.  Indeed, Ken's refusal to publish the fake manifesto is an implicit demonstration that he likely does not believe either of these claims.  And yet, Levitz appears to assume that Ken's specific claim that releasing the manifesto is in the public interest is actually a far more universal claim.  

Other friend of the blog Yair Rosenberg commits a very similar error to Levitz here, assuming that some level of tacit endorsement of a specific act of violence is equivalent to a categorical approval of all vigilante justice and/or all violence, period.  This paternalistic exaggeration of the "ought-ness" of the situation is easily countered by repeated demonstrations of this exact type of concern in similar situations.  Furthermore, Rosenberg appears to make a faulty assumption about the "is-ness" of political violence in our society.  Indeed, if he were to "crack open a history book" on the subject of American healthcare, he might find that the capital class purposely imposes violence on the masses in search of increased profits.  Perhaps it is this shallow understanding of reality that leads him to misunderstand the normative values of others who do not share his ignorance.

In short, the framing of the is-ought problem suggests a rigid dichotomy, but category errors within either side of the problem can support and reinforce incomplete understandings of not just others' positions, but of reality itself.

Top TV of 2024

A common refrain among the masses is that TV is not as good as it was during the "Golden Age."  A ongoing rewatch of The Sopranos has helped me to partially confirm this, albeit with an important clarification.  Yes, we are absolutely past the era where a particularly incorrigible set of auteurs created a pantheon of series that commanded the television viewing public's attention.  The craft, the uniqueness, the weight and importance, and most importantly, the television-ness of these series is not something that is likely to be replicated soon if ever again.  But I do think it's a mistake to write off television as a medium.  Even if the centrality of "Prestige TV" is long gone, the same artistic impulse and shared pursuit of television is still present, and in far more dimensions than it used to be.  You just might have to do a little more work yourself to find what is both best and best for you.  But if you do that as I have done, you might find it to be as rewarding as before, just in a different way.  Here is the result of my "work" for 2024.

#8 (tie) - Pachinko (Apple TV+), The Bear (Hulu)

My new strategy of only ranking the best of the best means I don't know quite what to do with slightly lesser seasons of great shows.  One on hand, I left the fourth season of Only Murders in the Building off the list entirely as it somehow got too episodic (it turns out that wrapping up each week's red herring within the span of thirty minutes makes the work as a whole kinda shallow).  On the other hand, Pachinko is too great to leave off the list entirely, even if the second season dragged a bit compared to the first.  While the 1989 plot lacked the intrigue of the first season and the earlier storyline flattened out some of its characters, the bones of a great program are still there.  Anytime a show manages to echo the quiet contemplation of others' perspectives of Rectify and the subtle nods to the spiritual/supernatural realm of Twin Peaks, it's probably worth sticking it out.

Same goes for The Bear, which partially collapsed under the weight of its expectations.  Excepting the brilliant premiere (the best 25-minute Nine Inch Nails music video you'll ever see) and the midseason highlight "Napkins," this season was something of a watered-down version of both the breezy nature of the first two seasons and the aura of "prestige" that Christopher Storer and friends seem enamored with.  This aspiration to be something different than the successful thing that it is hurts the show in other ways, as well.  I've remarked in previous year-end lists how The Bear echoes the thematic nature of Whiplash.  This was one of the primary reasons for the show's greatness (and still is!), but the structural problems I mentioned serve to crowd this out, sometimes explicitly.  When Carmi confronts Joel McHale's chef from hell in the finale, it's all just...spelled out, rather inartfully, in their brief conversation!  The chef is not a real, developed character like virtually everyone else in the show, but rather a cartoon villain taking the form of Carmi's insecurities and regrets.  This could (and does!) work if he merely remained a spectral force in Carmi's psyche, but his incarnation in the present world of The Bear belies how the show's creators don't seem to understand the limitations of this approach.

#7 - Sugar (Apple TV+)

Shows built around a narrative twist often don't work.  Sugar, home to the most notable twist of the year, does work.  Perhaps having the twist happen at the end of the sixth episode (of eight) and having it be something fairly obvious to anyone paying attention is a way to tell the viewer not to care that much about it.  Or, going a step further, if a twist is just a normal part of the proceedings, is it even a "twist"?  Either way, if we allow ourselves to free our minds from second-guessing the plot mechanics of the show, then perhaps we can understand just how critical they are to making Sugar what it is.  Indeed, orienting the whole show around (spoilers, kinda) Sugar's foreign understanding of humanity is one of the few postmodern approaches to storytelling that actually worked for me.  After all, we all perceive and interpret reality through our memories of movies and television, at least to some degree.  Creating a character who can only do that enables a worthwhile reflection on the push and pull of that phenomenon.

UNRANKED - The Curse (Showtime)

On one hand, The Curse is often slow and repetitive, engages in the gawking nature it seemingly exists to repudiate, and almost seems antithetical to the televisual form.  On the other hand, it features one of the performances of the year in any medium (Emma Stone), employs a wonderfully unique and fitting score, and absolutely nails the landing.  And perhaps the "weaknesses" I listed above are actually its strengths, making it above all a commentary on the nature on entertainment and art.  This push and pull made me think much more about the nature of evaluating whether or not the thing was good than about the thing itself, which I suppose is an accomplishment worthy of a unique praise.  As such, congrats to Nathan Fielder and friends for creating the first show that I simultaneously rank and do not rank in my year-end list.

#6 - Shogun (FX)

Thesis: A great drama like Shogun is great because it demands that we withhold judgment and observe another way of being, another set of values.

Antithesis: Even when we do this as authentically as possible, it's revealed that much is fundamentally the same.  Pride, honor, humility, and the like are all universal features of humanity, revealed in myriad ways across infinite contexts.

Synthesis: Perhaps what Shogun ultimately shows us is that The Other is fundamentally unknowable  across all ages and cultures.

Super-Synthesis: Maybe it's just a good television program and everything else flows from that

#5 - Fargo (FX)

A welcome return to form for one of the true delights of late-Golden Age TV.  Basically everything about this season was note-perfect, including the well-earned optimism of the syrup-infused denouement.  But nothing was more Fargo-y than the other prominent scene from the finale, where Jennifer Jason Leigh's capitalist matriarch put Jon Hamm's sheriff character in his place.  Sheriff Tillman served as a wonderful foil throughout the season, putting a comical spin on an all-too-real American story, while still serving the interests of his powerful friends.  But ultimately, the Sheriff's antics were bad for business, so he is sent to prison, where Lorraine is able to turn the screws one last time.  Just a wonderful parable of how the spectacle of the American Id is wielded by the powerful when it's useful and put down when it is not.

#4 - Industry (HBO)

I am struggling to think of another drama whose first season was good and promising, whose second season was something of a struggle, and whose third season was downright transcendent.  Why is Industry that show?  In one sense, it's all about the mechanics of the story.  Ruthlessly stripping out some characters and focusing on one primary storyline (Pierpont's pursuit of the ESG market) helped declutter the proceedings, and allowed enough breathing room to produce the series highlight "White Mischief."  But just as much, the show finally seemed to understand its own strengths, especially when contrasted with its oxygen-sucking influence.  Industry found multiple ways to interrogate its characters' psychology without luxuriating in their excesses or relying on hokey cliches.  In doing this, it's able to avoid the moralizing pitfalls that other examinations of capitalist excess suffer from, which allows us to better contemplate the lives of the people propping up the horrible machine.

#3 - Squid Game (Netflix) 

Note: I finished this in April 2025, and it was too good not to go back and include it in this list

There was much consternation late last year, including from the show's creator himself, about the sheer foolhardiness of trying to revisit the world of my top show of 2021.  While I don't necessarily disagree with the arguments that past greatness is best left alone, I think this is one of those cases where modern capitalism has absorbed its critiques (anti-capitalist art) into its normal proceedings (more slop for the slop machine).  Fortunately, the second season of Squid Game is in no way slop.  The sense of foreboding doom, the deft storytelling, the impeccable world-building—everything that made the first season work returns in spades.  By the time we get to the finale, there's a metaphor so striking that it would be silly if it wasn't profound.  One group of contestants crosses a made-up border to attack the other group, all while a plan is being hatched to unite and attack the people who have placed them in this situation in the first place.  This is obviously an overly simple depiction of a conflict that was anything but, and yet, it is striking to see everything laid out with such moral clarity, in a way that American art avoids for infamous reasons.

#2 - My Brilliant Friend: The Story of the Lost Child (HBO) 

There's not much to say about the final installment of an all-timer that I haven't said before.  The story of Lenu's final entanglement with Nino drags at times (in part because her foolishness can no longer be attributed to the naivety of youth) until it suddenly doesn't.  Various storylines are resolved effortlessly with the appropriate level of heft and resonance for each one.  And the central tension between Lenu and Lila remains as resonant as ever, even as it is weaved into the nature of the work itself in the concluding moments.  One thing that especially struck me as I savored the final run was just how novelistic this adaptation is.  Which, well, duh.  But the specific deployment of the voiceover, the way the camera lingers on certain shots as if echoing descriptive passages, and its long and detailed memory all make this show the apotheosis of projecting a beloved work of writing onto the small screen. 

#1 - Ripley (Netflix)

In the past decade of post-Golden Age TV landscape, we've progressed from quaint complaints about treating seasons of television as movies to a funhouse mirror business model, where the demands of profit have shifted the narrative work that used to reside in low-to-mid budget movies to the small screen.  This, plus a reliance on existing IP over new ideas, has created a TV lineup of literal eight-hour movies.  To be fair, some such series are intriguing and/or legitimately good.  The Girlfriend Experience nearly topped my list years ago, and recent entries like Interview with a Vampire and Dead Ringers are worthwhile updates to classic films.  But overall, this trend towards recycling old ideas and fitting round pegs into square holes has been a net negative for the medium.

The success of Ripley, then, is instructive as to how this tendency toward mediocrity can be countered.  Don't just stretch out the story artificially—instead, literally stretch it out.  Take the ethos of a Breaking Bad set piece and apply it in painstaking detail to every detail of Ripley's slow descent into amorality.  Choose a striking visual affect, and use it not only to creating something beautiful in and of itself, but also something that stands in direct contrast to everything else that trades on the cheap luxury of Italian scenery.  Make some small but meaningful changes to the proceedings that upend things without being showy.  And center everything on a set of actors perfectly cast for their roles.  In particular, Andrew Scott's portrayal of the titular character is precisely the right kind of empty: a man who clearly acts with purpose, but a purpose whose true nature can never quite be known.