If you're lost, any road will get you there

[…] It doesn’t change the fact that it’s all your fault. The banks, the government, the recession, the United States, the extremism.

Absolutely everything that went wrong is your fault. Every one of us. We can sit here all day blaming others. We blame the economy, we blame Europe. The opposition. The weather. And we blame the great events of history. How everything is out of control, how we are unprotected, small, and fragile. But it’s still our fault. You know why. It’s the five-dollar t-shirt. We can’t resist. None of us. We see a five-dollar t-shirt and think it’s a bargain, we love it, and we buy it. Not because it’s better, but it’s a good shirt for winter, to wear as an undershirt. It works.

And the store owner makes a measly twenty cents on the shirt. And a farmer, in some field somewhere, makes five cents. And we think that’s fine. All of us. We give our money and participate in this system our whole lives. It started going wrong in supermarkets, when they replaced human cashiers with self-checkout machines. When they appeared, did you protest? Did you write letters of complaint? Did you shop somewhere else?

You didn't like it, but you went along with it. And now all those people are gone. And we let it happen. And I think we like those machines. We want them. Because we can go through, grab our groceries without having to look that person in the eye. The person who makes less than we do. They don't exist anymore, they were fired. Very nice.

So, yes, it’s our fault. We are the ones who built this world.

How much does this narrative sound like something you have experienced in some way—whether talking to a friend, reading an article online, or watching the news—over the course of this year?

In May, the series “Years & Years” premiered as a partnership between HBO and the BBC. In just under 6 hours, we follow the evolution of our society through the eyes of the British Lyons family over the next 15 years. It’s as simple as that.

Any resemblance to current reality is no coincidence.

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The narrative provided is intentionally similar to a possible future scenario. In the symphony of the world, it is politics that sets the tone: Donald Trump was re-elected president of the United States; Russia invaded Ukraine; Great Britain left the European Union; refugees are increasingly present in everyday life. From the point of view of technology, themes such as the underemployment generated by the emergence of the 4th Industrial Revolution and the use of deepfakes caused by the post-truth phenomenon are (re)called to mind at every moment. Finally, from the point of view of humanity, we can see issues like our sexuality, gender identity, and our relationship with our filters (technological and social) becoming increasingly exposed—and normalized.

Of course, there are problems with its production: this is clearly a Eurocentric film, where we see almost no references to the Global South and developing countries. We hear about China, the United States, Great Britain, Europe… but there is no clear mention of the transformation that emerging countries have undergone over the years. But that is a conversation for another time.

When we create stories, we bring possibilities of the future into the world. The construction of new narratives allows us to become the actors and authors of this potential future. And these narratives play a fundamental role in the real future.

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Brit Marling knows this. The creator of Another Earth andThe OA, she writes the episodes and stars as the lead character in these narratives. Regarding her use of science fiction as a method for building futures, she said on her Instagram:

Someone once asked me on a panel, “Why are you so obsessed with science fiction?” I hadn’t realized I was “obsessed,” or that most of the narratives I’ve written so far fell within the speculative fiction genre.

It’s hard to feel inspired to write stories about the “real” world when you’ve never felt free in it. As a woman writing characters for myself and other women, it has often felt like the paved roads available for travel in narratives are limited. Perhaps one day I’ll be evolved enough as a writer to pave my own roads in “reality,” but to this day, I’ve always felt frustrated.

I can write about a few women “at the top,” but then I’m perpetuating the same hierarchies that oppress us (and just asking for that oppression to be shifted onto others). I can write about the vast majority of women at the bottom of the economy, but the power to move images and charismatic actors often glamorizes or perpetuates the very stereotypes that films hope to critique. I can write about self-deprecating women who expose the abundant gender inequalities for a good laugh, but then […] I am, in some way, trading my humiliation for my paycheck and the chance to have my voice heard.

[…] We imagine that the collective is stronger than the individual. We imagine that there is no hero. We imagine that the trees of San Francisco and a giant octopus had voices we could understand and should listen to. We imagine humans as one species among many, and not necessarily the smartest or the most evolved. We imagine movements that brought unlikely people together in rooms, setting them in motion, willing to risk vulnerability for the chance to enter another world.

Among the main themes of The OAare NDEs (Near-Death Experiences), parallel realities, and the expansion of consciousness. These are concepts that are not easy to understand or explain. Nor are they easy to sell.

The result? Cancellation after the second season due to low viewership. Below are some interesting screenshots that can be seen throughout the two seasons:

The most interesting part came next. People didn’t accept the end of the series. They began to gather, plan, and execute actions so that Netflix—which owns the rights to the series—would resume production. In less than 15 days, more than $5,500 was raised to place an ad in Times Square with the hashtag #SaveTheOA. Groups began meeting up to rehearse the “movements” from the show. Countless flashmobs were held around the world. Netflix subscriptions are being canceled. Flowers with letters are being sent to key employees at the company.

Regarding all this commotion, Brit was quite emphatic:

So, perhaps, at this late hour, in the dire circumstances of climate change and a widening gap between the “haves” and the “have-nots,” we are hundreds of years behind on new mythologies. Narratives with modes of power outside of violence and domination. Narratives with goals for human action outside of conquest and colonization. Narratives that illustrate the power of collective agency, or do away with agency entirely to illustrate how lasting, real change happens—ordinary people, often outsiders, often marginalized—organizing anonymously, working together, achieving small feats one day at a time, which will eventually become a movement.

You have broken the mold of storytelling. You have built something far more beautiful than we did, because it is in real-time, in real life, with real people. It is rhizomatic—constantly redefining its collective goal as it grows. It is elliptical—it has no real beginning or end. And it certainly has no single hero.

The other day, Zal (the other creator of The OA) and I stopped to offer a bottle of water and some food to a young woman who was protesting the show's cancellation on a street corner in Hollywood. As we were leaving, she said, "You know, what I'm really protesting is late-stage capitalism." And then she said something I haven't been able to forget since: "Algorithms aren't as smart as we are. They can't account for love."

It’s a provocation: we are embedded in the narrative of late-stage capitalism, where a person working as a delivery driver for an app-based network (with no employment contract) rents a bicycle (which isn't theirs, but is a necessary tool for the proposed work) and delivers food from a restaurant (where they don't work) to a person who didn't hire them (and doesn't even know them). This worker has no labor rights, no employment record, and no formal ties to anyone. It is the underemployment mentioned at the beginning of this text. Today, it’s someone you don't know. Tomorrow, it could be your cousin. Or your father. Or your friend. Or you.

Years & Years is about a narrative that is all too predictable. The OA is about the possibility of being protagonists—not necessarily individual ones—of the potential narratives we want to build.

It’s not about the consequences of technological advancement in our lives. It’s about changing the prevailing narrative. How can we change this? Investigating the way we handle consumption—experiences, art, products, services—might be a good place to start.

Where did the last piece of clothing you bought come from? What is the origin of the items you purchased on your last trip to the grocery store? When was the last time you helped an acquaintance by buying a product they made?

It might be a bit cliché, but in the end, "it's not about having the best answers, but about asking better questions." Whether in the political, technological, or human sphere, which path do we want (or would we like) to follow?