Virtually everyone in Aster’s COVID Western is a victim to one extent or another, even if some of them have a lot more blood on their hands by the end of it than others; there’s no need for false equivalencies in a film whose characters are all powerless to disentangle the internet from the fabric of their personal lives.

He’s trying to make peace with the fact that his QAnon-susceptible wife Louise (Emma Stone) would rather watch numerology videos on YouTube than acknowledge her husband’s existence, but Eddington’s mask-happy mayor Ted — a handsome tech entrepreneur (Pedro Pascal) who secretly intends to host a massive artificial intelligence datacenter on the outskirts of Eddington after he wins re-election — is in thrall to the state’s liberal governor, and his political career hinges on enforcing their various COVID mandates.

That doesn’t sit well with the asthmatic Joe, who doesn’t consider the coronavirus to be a “here” problem, in much the same way as he later tries to wave off the idea that Eddington is a microcosm of the structural racism and class inequalities that people begin to protest on Main St. after police execute a man in St. Louis. Everyone in his jurisdiction is getting their news from a different source, and tensions are spilling into the supermarket aisles as people struggle to find a common harmony amid the noise of their competing echo chambers

The more that Aster’s latest freakout begins to resemble an apocalyptic kumbaya about the need for non-partisan communication, the more gleefully he obliterates any hope of restoring a shared reality between his characters

Aster’s fourth feature is less effective as a shock to the system than it is for how vividly — and how uncomfortably — it captures the day-to-day extent to which our digital future has stripped people of their ability to self-identify their own truths.

we looked at the data another way, measuring the gap between each person’s birth year and their ideal decade. The consistency of the resulting pattern delighted us: It shows that Americans feel nostalgia not for a specific era, but for a specific age. The good old days when America was “great” aren’t the 1950s. They’re whatever decade you were 11, your parents knew the correct answer to any question, and you’d never heard of war crimes tribunals, microplastics or improvised explosive devices.

The closest-knit communities were those in our childhood, ages 4 to 7. The happiest families, most moral society and most reliable news reporting came in our early formative years — ages 8 through 11. The best economy, as well as the best radio, television and movies, happened in our early teens — ages 12 through 15.

almost without exception, if you ask an American when times were worst, the most common response will be “right now!” This holds true even when “now” is clearly not the right answer. For example, when we ask which decade had the worst economy, the most common answer is today. The Great Depression — when, for much of a decade, unemployment exceeded the what we saw in the worst month of pandemic shutdowns — comes in a grudging second.

measure after measure, Republicans were more negative about the current decade than any other group — even low-income folks in objectively difficult situations.

Hsu and her friends spent the first part of 2024 asking 2,400 Americans where they get their information about the economy. In a new analysis, she found Republicans who listen to partisan outlets are more likely to be negative, and Democrats who listen to their own version of such news are more positive — and that Republicans are a bit more likely to follow partisan news.