The Hollywood revolution narrative is an enjoyable pastime for people like me.
Sitting here in my reclining chair, enjoying my exorbitantly overpriced popcorn, I fancy myself on the side of the Rebellion fighting against the darkness of the Empire; I feel solidarity for the plight of the Na’vi on Pandora; I stand for revolution against the Capitol; I decry the oppressive Elysium class.
I like to think of myself as standing on the side of the underprivileged and subjugated. As long as I identify with the oppressed, I am conveniently blinded to any suspicions of my own oppressive roles.
So hooray for another multibillion dollar opening weekend! Once again I can revel in my fetish for indignant uprisings, champion the cause of the systematically downtrodden, and gleefully cheer as the power of tyranny is heroically stripped away from fictional, evil regimes.
The more adamantly I mock evil, the more my capacity to question my own morality fades as a matter of consciousness concern.
After all, whoever the real oppressors are in the world today, surely they are nothing like movie-goers.
So while I cheer the fall of pretend oppressors, I shall not bother to ask who actually gains by my adherence to this soothing, placating reinforcement of my righteousness. I best ignore the question of who benefits by my devotion to this mythology. I have been given the mandate to unflinchingly identify with the fictionalized oppressed — far be it from me to abandon this duty-bound role.
Besides, I am sure the special effects will be even better in the sequel.