It is petty and weird and, maybe I’m pilled, but it’s pretty good. It grossed nearly a billion dollars, spawned three sequels (one of which competed for the Palme D’Or), a Broadway mega-musical whose makeup job on one Sutton Foster has to be seen to be believed, and a so-so theme park ride that’s permanently closing in January. Its protagonist, whose name is borrowed from the Yiddish word for ‘fear,’ was adapted from the fire-breathing monster who, at one point in the story, has a nightmare about being smothered to death by children’s kisses (this is a separate essay, I don’t have time right now) into a Mike Myers-voiced spite vehicle by spurned Disney-turned-Dreamworks-turned-Quick-Bite billionaire Jeffrey Katzenberg. Shrek, in case you do not have an internet connection or a pulse, is a 2001 Dreamworks movie adapted from a children’s book from 1990 by New Yorker cartoonist William Steig. Says it will do you good, isn’t this the sort of thing you like to do anyways, Jamie, people like reading this kind of stuff, Jamie, don’t be a narc, Jamie, just pop the Adderall and see what the Shrek scholars have to say. Sure, you may not want to attend “Two Decades of Shrek: An Online Academic Symposium” at 11 in the morning in fucking England, but that’s what the boss told you to do. This brings me to the issue of quality control. When the little sicko in charge is you, there are no legal repercussions for this sort of retaliation. I used to have vivid fantasies about being my own boss-creative control, music without headphones, giving yourself a day off for something you call ‘oxytocin methadone clinic.’ All of these things are true, but this logic critically omits the risk that your boss might be a mentally ill person who does not like you. “I am my own boss,” I tell myself as I log into a seven-hour Zoom call about the cultural legacy of Shrek (2001) at 3 a.m.
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