Two 2024 Oscar Contenders Demonstrate Vastly Different Approaches to Contemporary Political Allegory
The first time Donald Trump became president, I remember people saying, “Well, at least we’re going to get some incredible films in response.” And sure, there were great films. In 2018, BlacKKKlansman and Sorry to Bother You delivered a one-two punch of sharp, socially conscious storytelling. But if I’m honest, the overall cinematic response to Trump didn’t live up to the moment. The potential was there, but the results often felt muted, overly polished, or lacking in intellectual rigor. There are a few reasons for this.
First, Trump may have won the presidency through the Electoral College, but he lost the popular vote in 2016 by a significant margin and in 2020 by an even larger one. Corporations, driven by mass appeal rather than the Electoral College, shaped their response accordingly. Many films that could have been bold, incisive critiques were instead softened to maximize profitability. They became the cinematic equivalent of corporate Pride Month campaigns—safe, performative, and devoid of genuine edge.
Second, Trump’s presidency began with Jordan Peele’s Get Out, a masterpiece that fused social commentary with horror in a way that felt entirely fresh. But Peele is a singular talent, and his genius can’t be replicated. What many filmmakers latched onto wasn’t his tonal control, satire or wit but his ability to weave politics into genre, often reducing their own attempts to hollow didacticism. Later, Parasite set a new bar for social critique, but it also inspired a wave of “eat the rich” films that felt superficially produced by and for the same wealth they purported to critique.
The third issue, and perhaps the most fundamental, is that the cinematic response to Trump focused too much on empathy and not enough on intellectualism. Many filmmakers seemed to believe the 2016 election revealed a lack of empathy in the country, when in fact it revealed a lack of critical thinking. Representation became the priority, and while representation is undeniably important, it doesn’t address the deeper issue of how people process and interpret information. Empathy without literacy is directionless. It becomes easily manipulated.
Films challenge us to think critically, to parse layers of meaning, and to confront the biases and structures that shape our understanding of the world.
This is why I disagree with the idea that we are a country devoid of empathy. We have empathy—but it’s often misapplied because we lack the media literacy to evaluate what we’re being told. Take Trump’s infamous rant about immigrants supposedly eating dogs in Ohio. People with media literacy understood this as scapegoating and bullying. But others—those more vulnerable to conspiracy theories—empathized with imaginary victims of a nonexistent crisis. Their empathy wasn’t absent; it was misguided because their understanding of the situation was shaped by lies.
Media literacy is the ability to decode and analyze the messages we consume—to understand what is being said, who is saying it, and why it’s being said. Art, particularly film, is one of the most effective tools we have to develop this skill. Films challenge us to think critically, to parse layers of meaning, and to confront the biases and structures that shape our understanding of the world. If you can “read” a film—if you can pull apart its themes, dissect its intentions, and understand how it works as a text—you are better equipped to navigate a complex world full of bad actors and misinformation. This connection between media literacy and art is why the films we make matter, not just as entertainment but as tools for intellectual empowerment.
Take Wicked, for example. The film is being hailed by some as an anti-Trump narrative and is already generating Oscar buzz. It’s a well-crafted adaptation, and this isn’t to diminish its quality. But what’s fascinating is IndieWire critic David Ehrlich’s negative review, followed by his reflective piece questioning the role of harsh criticism in a time of polarization. His argument highlights the necessity of engaging with art critically—of breaking it down and interrogating its meaning, rather than simply accepting it as spectacle. That’s what media literacy demands: not passive consumption, but active engagement.
Contrast that with Brady Corbet’s The Brutalist. This nearly four-hour epic doesn’t just ask you to engage—it demands it. The film follows László Tóth, a Hungarian-Jewish architect and Holocaust survivor, as he emigrates to the U.S. in 1947. Despite his immense talent, László faces systemic prejudice and exploitation, his artistry shaped and constrained by the harsh realities of post-war America. The film is, much like its namesake architectural style, unflinching and raw. It doesn’t try to coddle its audience. It respects them enough to challenge them.
What makes The Brutalist extraordinary isn’t just its narrative—it’s how it teaches you to read it. László’s struggle to maintain his vision while navigating the power dynamics of his new world mirrors the very act of critical engagement. The film forces you to confront questions of power, privilege, and legacy. It’s not just a film about architecture; it’s a film about structures, both literal and metaphorical, and how they shape our world. Watching The Brutalist is an intellectual exercise, one that sharpens the very skills we need to make sense of our increasingly disorienting reality.
This is where the divide between Wicked and The Brutalist becomes instructive. Wicked offers empathy, a feel-good narrative, and a polished sheen that appeals broadly. The Brutalist, by contrast, offers discomfort and complexity. It doesn’t simply ask how you feel—it asks what you think. Both have their place, but if we want to address the root of the issues plaguing our society, it’s the Brutalist approach we need more of.
Empathy alone isn’t enough. It must be paired with literacy—with the intellectual tools to interpret and apply that empathy meaningfully. In a world where misinformation reigns and conspiracy theories thrive, art that challenges us to think critically isn’t just valuable—it’s essential. Films like The Brutalist don’t just entertain; they arm us with the skills to navigate a world where truth is increasingly hard to find. And if we want to build a society capable of resisting manipulation and understanding its own complexities, these are the kinds of films—and the kind of media literacy that we desperately need.