Slag Magazine

By Maura Cleary

When I first learned that my friends were watching video essays on YouTube, I thought that they must have been smarter than me.
To me, the leisurely pursuit of knowledge is an admirable act. It signifies an intellectual curiosity that is scarce in the Age of Brain Rot, where we exist (or, rather, languish) today.

So I watched my first video essay. I want to be smart, too. Niche but well researched, Mina Le’s “the coquettification of catholicism” resonated with me: your archetypal guilt-ridden, raised-
Catholic young woman. I retained absolutely nothing from the video, save for a vague memory of papal fashion statements. Still, I felt like I accomplished something, even though I was only
lounging in bed, eating popcorn, and playing a brain-rotting video game.

I then watched another creator’s video essay. The citations were of the Substack variety, so I questioned the information I was given. I figured that Substack may just be the forum of our great modern thinkers. That, or it’s just a platform with subscription-based options where anybody can share their thoughts and opinions in written form. Regardless, I cannot simply dismiss any internet content as Slop without evidence, and these writers provided substantive supporting evidence themselves. Who am I to judge?

The video itself explored “Brain Rot” and a common desire for mental acuity. The creator discussed Simone Weil, a philosopher who engaged extensively with the concept of attention. Her thoughts may ring familiar for anyone with a background in cognitive behavioral therapy, or anyone who has had a therapist suggest mindfulness as a quick fix to psychological distress. In (a very unqualified) layman’s terms: the core idea is that attention wields great power, and unintentional attention will yield a lack of
imagination or empathy, as well as a tendency toward what we call burnout, or anxiety, or depression.

It’s true: without this video essay, I would not know about Weil which is arguably a piece bit of intellectual knowledge. Like, hello, I can name a female philosopher. Can your average person do
that? Truly, can they? If it is not self-fulfillment we are seeking, I fear we are striving for intelligence as a status symbol that signifies a greater awareness than that of others. A sense of superiority—or supremacy—is a creature I would personally rather not feed.

I often think about a TikTok by @glamdemon2004 (aka Serena Shahidi) in which she challenges her followers to “name a single hobby of [theirs] outside media consumption.” She caught some flak for suggesting they read a book instead, which is in fact, also media consumption. We generally create tiers of media consumption, comparing media that we deem respectable to that which we find downright embarrassing. One book (think Tolstoy) counts, but one movie (think low-budget rom-com) does not. Now, I see that the video essay falls in an esteemed tier among Gen Z, but I worry that a portion of these video essays are just Slop.

In addition to being the subject of ridicule when used as a LinkedIn heading, the term “content creator” implies that content overrides quality. In an attempt to generate consistent content, these creators may grasp at straws to find a compelling narrative. “Compelling” tends to be synonymous with “engagement-boosting” though, rather than more broadly impactful—whatever that even means. The desire for a lucrative weekly upload can outweigh the need for accuracy and reliability, which leads to the output of more internet Slop. Worse still, it can be disguised as informative with the right title and thumbnail.

In terms of intellectual stimulation, maybe video essays hardly differ from conversation. In natural conversation, we rarely cite our sources. Even the most vigilant of us spews misinformation now and then. It is not unusual for an “I read it somewhere” to be an ego-boosting placeholder for “I saw a TikTok.” Or a tweet. Or—back we go—a Substack essay.

Perhaps the video essay is another form of isolation in this Age of Brain Rot: instead of human interaction that leads to epiphanies and counterarguments aplenty, we open ourselves up to someone else’s convincing tone and (somewhat) cited sources. They can tell us what to think, and we can claim insight into a topic we actually know very little about.

By the way, I am not ashamed to say that I, too, saw an incredible tweet. User @freshhel (aka Helena Riley) wrote, “I understand [that] a very popular personality to perform [right now] is like ‘glamorous philosopher’ but some of you are stupid.” Maybe this is what lies at the center of my argument: Glam Philosophy. There is a subtle allure to video essays. Especially in female-skewed content, the creators are often on-trend, conventionally beautiful young women. Their embodiment of young audiences’ desires transcends their words of wisdom. They are smart and they are beautiful: they are glamorous philosophers.

Of course, there are also plenty of male video essayists. Maybe they seem less apparently glamorous, but they are just as guilty of wanting to philosophize something into content (in my experience, often film or niche history). There lies a power in uploading a video of one’s own—well-researched and well-viewed or not. I am sure it is comparable to the high of uploading a thirst trap on Instagram, and passively wondering if someone will jerk off to it. You will never know for sure, but maybe your actions had an impact on someone.\

In this essay, I referred to multiple video essays, and essentially cited a TikTok and a tweet on what I perceive as a not-so-dire crisis. I could blame this on a lack of reliable research, or I could call it what it is: I also aspire to be a glamorous philosopher in the Digital Age, drawing bold conclusions from excessive media consumption and little else.