The Bard’s Rewrite
A Stage Unset for Glory
Lo, upon the golden courts of Hollywood, where dreams do dance like sprites upon the air, a tale unfolds of one most noble in intent, yet barred from honor’s seat. A company of players, with quill and craft, did shape the storied life of one great ruler past—Reagan, the gallant, who once did steer the helm of yon fair land, America. But here, within the lists of Oscar’s game, no laurels were bestowed, nor trumpet’s sound did greet the telling of his deeds.
The scribes, with brows most furrowed, did cry foul, proclaiming that the law of diversity, equity, and inclusion—that modern gauntlet through which all must pass—did cast their work aside, unfit for judgment’s eye. “Not for lack of merit,” quoth the penman, “but for want of such tokens as the lords of film demand.”
Thus stands the question, weighty as the crown: when art is bound by decree, doth not the muse herself wear chains? Shall each tale be sculpted to fit the mold of present fancies, or may the past be told in truth, unshackled by decree?
The Measure of a Tale
What is a story, if not a mirror in which time doth gaze upon itself? And yet, if that mirror be clouded by the hand of mandate, how shall truth’s visage be revealed? The lords of Oscar’s realm, in wisdom or in folly, have decreed that tales of worth must bear the mark of modern virtue—be it in players cast, in hands that shape the scene, or in echoes of justice that resound within the script.
Yet the tellers of Reagan’s fate do cry against it, for their tale was penned not to appease the tribunal’s rule, but to honor one man’s journey. “Shall we then fashion history to suit the whims of present age?” they ask. “Shall the past be thus refashioned, lest it be deemed unfit for golden praise?”
Herein lies the quarrel: whether the law of inclusion doth lift all voices high, or whether, in its earnest grasp, it strangles those that do not fit its mold.
To Serve Art or to Bind It?
If all the world’s a stage, then let each voice be heard, unfettered by decree. But if the stage be fenced, and only those whose colors match the chosen hue may tread upon its boards, what then becomes of honest craft? Is it not the audience, those sovereign souls who sit in judgment’s chair, that should bestow or withhold their favor?
This tale, now writ in Hollywood’s book, shall echo in the halls of time. For though the rules may change, and new decrees may rise, the heart of storytelling beats as ever it did—wild, unchained, and seeking only truth.
