Writing critically about a film like My Son Hunter feels kind of like sending the kid making fart noises from the back of the class to detention. Any measure of reprimand means giving the troublemaker exactly what they want – engagement, which is to say attention, which is to say validation. When your only goal is to get a rise out of a perceived opponent, even the most cool-headed retort means the game is on.
In the case of far-right ear-flicking such as this fiction-laced retelling of the Hunter Biden laptop nothingburger, a writeup in a semi-reputable publication like the Guardian gives hyperventilating Breitbart commenters all the ammo they need to prove that the libs have been thoroughly and irrefutably triggered. The truth is that the latest feature-length output from the conservative peanut gallery poses little threat to the viewing public, its foamy-mouthed partisanship speaking only to those already simpatico to its theories and alienating the saner majority within its opening minutes. It doesn’t deserve time or mental energy from right-thinking citizens, but if the past decade of American politics has taught us anything, it’s that ignoring extremism does not make it go away.
