D.A.M.N.*

With this feeling, the survivors, in red stained khaki pants and linen shirts, fly away, leaving the park in the claws of the beasts. The movie ends, the franchise rises: a second park, then a third, then the world arc. Richard Attenborough dies, therefore John Hammond does too. Micheal Crichton leaves the screenplay adaptation into the hands of David Koepp . Steven Spielberg becomes the executive producer. The camera takes different directions. The Dinosaur tanks every hits. It stands still, proliferates, survives every meteor: Tamagotchi, Berlusconi, 9/11, climate change, the housing market crash, you name it. Equity firms fall and give birth to Silicon based ventures. The Velociraptor becomes a shapeshifter, adapting to new economic climates. It re-engineers itself for the likes. It fuses with the T-Rex: Indomitus, memetic, the bird of pray snowballs into a viral mass of content and crushes into the commons, imploding into a blank format for jokes, mundane philosophy, deep fried shit.

It's July the 2nd, the 7th instalment of the Jurassic movie is out. You buy your ticket, get yourself in the car and drive to the theatre. In the theatre, the premiere attendees are a handful of regrouped families laughing: together, at each other, at the movie, at themselves. People smoke IQOS indoors and chronically look at their phones.

In the cold darkness of the theatre, the movie starts and your senses are tickling. You watch the movie and the movie watches back at you. A doubt sparkles and you realise that you are not sure anymore what a monster really is. You wonder If the beast is the theatre or the AC, if it's the screen or the movie, if it's in the movie or maybe the franchise itself, if it's the mosquito, the dinosaur, dead Attenborough therefore dead Hammond, Spielberg, Crichton, Koepp, Flusser, you, the guy next to you vaping cherry-flavoured tobacco, watching the movie, filming the movie, scrolling his phone, watching his messages, his feed, the feed, the memes, the rot, the shark with three fins and three Nikes:

Anything dissolves into everything, and the protagonist of the opening scene is a Snickers wrapper with the superpower of hijacking security systems. Then it's Big Pharma who has replaced the military industries that had already replaced media and entertainment. Humans are now vampires that need dinosaur blood to save themselves from cardiovascular diseases. There is not a single mosquito bite in the whole movie. Traffic jams are still our top priority on the getting-shit-done list. The T-Rex is a huge dog. You call your pet Dolores and after an hour and a half you unlock the final level and the boss is the Distortus-Rex: A hyper-mirrored image ad absurdum of your childhood Rex. A form that exists only in function of the original: a rabbit hole, meaningless, void, truncated, malformed, begging to die with skibidi, stuttering dinosaur screeches with a bloated head that signals an incredibly high and an incredibly low IQ at the same time. You are contemplating the word Dementodon.

The text has switched many times between third and second person and Scarlet Johansson is in charge to save a world burning to the core, melting to the point where even dinosaurs stay on permanent vacation instead of dying in the city. In her hands there is a tool, a device, a mcguffin: a syringe. The post-informed mosquito, ready to suck out and inject in. Mounted on a rocket launcher, ofc.

As a matter of fact dinosaurs have bigger hearts. And bigger hearts are easier targets to shot to. And she does. She aims and pulls the trigger at the reborn beast, at the tech-industry, at Big-pharma, now convinced that privatisation of innovation raises hell and therefore the mission is to dis her never-to-be-seen employer, sabotage his plant and give the recovered blood to an undisclosed open-source platform for humanity to cure its broken heart disease. She is fainting under a desiccating sun, you have cervical cramps under the AC stream. It's hot, it's cool, it's desperate.

It's the plastic-wrapped photo album of the you-then-now asking yourself what does It mean to be a content creator. It’s Pulp cast into synthetic amber. It's in your face to reboot fragments of memories in the event that a dinosaur becomes a CEO becomes a director becomes a writer becomes you becomes the identity of a hallucinated AI that thinks it’s a CEO that dreams a dream and gives you an appointment in its office to tell you all about it and you run there, sweating and present yourself on time just to find an empty building and it's freezing inside and you have a revelation: the dream is a world where humanity walks the Earth and the next-big-thing is 182g of transparent polyurethane resin coating a microprocessor with an Little Language Model that stores a psychological cold brew of a time when humans walked the Earth and talked to personal assistants about how it feels to be damned to navigate life. And in the mind of the AI, in the mind of the CEO, in the one of the Dinosaur, in Scarlet’s, in your’s the venture sounds extremely profitable, great for imagination. Perfectly safe.