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There’s Donald Trump, and there’s everyone else. At the moment, the former president of the United States appears unbeatable in the 2024 Republican primary race. But perhaps inevitable is a trickier word than it seems.

First, here are three new stories from The Atlantic:

Ukraine after the deluge The misunderstood reason millions of Americans stopped going to church One more COVID summer?

It’s Iowa Time

What happens when you say the unsayable? Former Congressman (and current GOP presidential contender) Will Hurd found out the hard way Friday night. “Donald Trump is not running for president to make America great again,” Hurd told the Republican masses inside the Iowa Events Center. “Donald Trump is running to stay out of prison.”

The boos rained down, and, rest assured, they were mighty.

Hurd was one of 13 candidates who had trekked to Des Moines for the Iowa GOP’s cattle-call event known as the Lincoln Dinner. Prospective voters and donors gathered roughly six months ahead of Iowa’s first-in-the-nation caucus to remind themselves of their importance, which may or may not be waning. The night was ostensibly a chance for Iowans to listen to a range of electability pitches. Former Vice President Mike Pence told the room he would reinstate a ban on transgender personnel in the U.S. military and endorsed the idea of a national abortion restriction after 15 weeks. The businessman Vivek Ramaswamy rattled off a list of government agencies he would shut down: the FBI, CDC, DOE, ATF, and IRS. Florida Governor Ron DeSantis boasted that he had refused to let his state “descend into a Faucian dystopia” during the pandemic and called for term limits in Congress. (One dinner attendee, the 89-year-old Iowa Senator Chuck Grassley—currently serving his eighth term—probably didn’t like that one.)

The whole spectacle—including the after-parties where you could snap selfies with candidates or, at the DeSantis event, knock down a pyramid of Bud Light cans—felt like a study in performative competition.

Each speaker was given a democratizing 10-minute time limit to deliver his or her remarks (poor Asa Hutchinson suffered the embarrassment of having his mic cut off), but all were merely warm-up acts for the headliner. When Trump finally took the stage, he seemed tired, bored, and annoyed with this obligation. A lack of teleprompters meant that Trump spent the bulk of his 10 minutes looking down at printed notes, only occasionally making eye contact with the audience or ad-libbing. He got a few chuckles out of his old pandemic go-to, the “China virus.” He notably referred to his White House predecessor as “Barack Hussein Obama.” The only newish development was that Ron “DeSanctimonious” had been shortened to the easier-to-say but far more confusing “DeSanctis.”

Trump is not running as an incumbent, but it sure seems that way. A New York Times/Siena College poll out today shows Trump with a 37-point lead over DeSantis, who was the only other candidate able to crack double digits among respondents. Did January 6 matter? Do the indictments matter? Does anything remotely negative about Trump matter? Not yet. Trump remains the Katie Ledecky of the 2024 contest—so far ahead of the pack that it feels wrong to even call it a race. Trump knows it too. He may not even bother to show up at the first Republican debate next month, in Milwaukee.

These factors would suggest that the Republican Party is delaying the inevitable, that the GOP base earnestly wants to “Make America great again” … again. And yet, the various campaign buses keep on rolling across Iowa and New Hampshire. The noble attempts at retail politics and down-home charm continue apace. Pence strategically name-dropped the Iowa chain Pizza Ranch. Senator Tim Scott of South Carolina tweeted a video of himself fist-pumping after sinking a bag in cornhole. (“If God made you a man, you play sports against men,” Scott said onstage Friday night.) Expect much more of this at the Iowa State Fair, which kicks off in just over a week.

I was in the press pen at the Lincoln Dinner on Friday night, and I spent the weekend in Iowa speaking with various Republicans about all things 2024. I came away with the sense that a not-insignificant portion of conservatives is willing to accept Trump’s dominance, but that many are still quietly hoping for a deus ex machina to avoid a 2020 rematch. The still-rolling indictments don’t seem to have much effect—too many Republican voters argue that the legal cases against Trump are politically motivated. He shows no signs of giving up his nickname, “Teflon Don.”

The fact that Trump is running from a stance of inevitability is paradoxically both emboldening and hindering. Trump doesn’t seem to want to actually be president (as Hurd suggested). Maybe he just wants to prove he can win again. Will that motivational gap matter to voters? Will anything matter?

Related:

The revenge of the normal Republicans The secret presidential-campaign dress code

Today’s News

A state judge in Georgia rejected Trump’s bid to derail the investigation into his attempts to overturn election results in the state. A Russian missile strike on Kryvyi Rih, President Volodymyr Zelensky’s hometown, killed at least six people, including a 10-year-old girl and her mother, and wounded dozens more. The Islamic State claimed responsibility for Sunday’s suicide bombing of a political rally in Pakistan that killed at least 54 people.

Dispatches

The Wonder Reader: In 1980, the film critic Roger Ebert argued that movies were better in theaters. The recent success of Barbenheimer is evidence—and points to the ongoing magic of communal experiences, Isabel Fattal writes.

Explore all of our newsletters here.

Evening Read

Getty / The Atlantic

The Myopia Generation

By Sarah Zhang

A decade into her optometry career, Marina Su began noticing something unusual about the kids in her New York City practice. More of them were requiring glasses, and at younger and younger ages. Many of these kids had parents who had perfect vision and who were baffled by the decline in their children’s eyesight. Frankly, Su couldn’t explain it either.

In optometry school, she had been taught—as American textbooks had been teaching for decades—that nearsightedness, or myopia, is a genetic condition. Having one parent with myopia doubles the odds that a kid will need glasses. Having two parents with myopia quintuples them. Over the years, she did indeed diagnose lots of nearsighted kids with nearsighted parents. These parents, she told me, would sigh in recognition: Oh no, not them too. But something was changing.

Read the full article.

More From The Atlantic

What “fitboxing” is missing “Ukrainian is my native language, but I had to learn it.” The weird, fragmented world of social media after Twitter America is drowning in packages.

Culture Break

Joanne Imperio / The Atlantic

Read. “I Wish I Could Remember,” a new poem by Michael White.

“It’s just a dream, / I’d tell myself. But dreams are how / we travel through the dark”

Watch. Biopics tend to be “functional to a fault,” better at showcasing an actor than creating challenging art—but these 20 movies manage to break the mold, David Sims writes.

Play our daily crossword.

P.S.

Last week, the podcast host Jack Wagner went viral on Twitter (er, X) with a prompt: “serious question: if the grateful dead is not the greatest band of all time from the united states then who is?” Thousands of responses poured in: The Beach Boys, The Allman Brothers Band, and The Velvet Underground kept surfacing among the many retorts (as did Bruce Springsteen and Tom Petty; I don’t think you can really count either, because even though they play with backing bands, they’re solo artists.) I’m a Deadhead, but the strongest contender I saw was Creedence Clearwater Revival. CCR’s Willy and the Poor Boys remains one of the greatest rock records ever. You likely know “Fortunate Son” and “Down on the Corner,” but the album also features an awesome cover of “The Midnight Special”—I love the moment when the whole band kicks in just after the one-minute mark.

— John

Nicole Blackwood contributed to this newsletter.

When you buy a book using a link in this newsletter, we receive a commission. Thank you for supporting The Atlantic.

Labor stoppages are, first and foremost, about money, and the concurrent Screen Actors Guild and Writers Guild of America strikes are no exception. The actors and the writers want more of it, as well as limits on the use of AI. The studios say they don’t have nearly as much to distribute as the actors and the writers would like given the massive expenses they’ve incurred while standing up their streaming services. They find themselves at an impasse that threatens to reduce the overall pot even further by putting in jeopardy one of the industry’s greatest assets: movie theaters.

Hollywood has a history of treating evolving consumer habits first as a threat to theatrical dollars and then as a tool to be co-opted in the pursuit of earning ever-greater profits. Studios were first hesitant to license their films to television networks and then realized the small screen was an untapped market. Hollywood fought tooth and nail against VHS—fearing both illegal piracy and customers legally taping the movies that studios had licensed to TV and cable networks—until it realized home-video rentals and sales were a gold mine. VHS’s successor, DVD, peaked at $16.3 billion in annual sales in 2005, or nearly two times the domestic box office, before declining in the face of streaming. In some ways, theatrical became almost a loss leader for home-video sales; as Matt Damon has said, home-video sales helped prop up virtually the whole marketplace for “the kinds of movies that I loved,” movies for adults.

The birth of streaming—specifically, the rise of Netflix’s online component—coincided with a decline in DVD sales that created an opportunity for Netflix’s honchos. “Once it added new ways for viewers to watch movies and TV shows [online] from the couch in their living rooms … subscriptions skyrocketed 63 percent,” Dade Hayes and Dawn Chmielewski write in their book, Binge Times: Inside Hollywood’s Furious Billion-Dollar Battle to Take Down Netflix. “The budding streaming service grew at Hollywood’s expense. [The CEO Reed] Hastings and company deftly exploited the studios’ compensation structure, which paid rich bonuses when executive hit their financial targets.”

[Gavin Mueller: The luddites of Hollywood]

Its first-mover advantage, enormous movie libraries acquired from shortsighted Hollywood execs, and buzzy original series such as House of Cards, Orange Is the New Black, and Stranger Things helped Netflix become a company that could generate more than $31 billion in revenue worldwide last year, roughly three-quarters the size of the combined take at the worldwide box office of every movie studio in 2019, the last pre-COVID year. It’s why the company has a market cap of $190 billion or so.

The studios and their corporate overlords look at Netflix’s stock price and revenues and wonder why they can’t print money too. This is why the studios were all planning their own jumps to streaming even before the pandemic began. After the pandemic started, they jumped in feet first—and promptly found themselves drowning.

As Matthew Ball notes in his authoritative look at the streaming wars so far, studios’ move to streaming has been fraught and results have been mixed. Consider NBCUniversal’s entrant in the contest, Peacock, which is tentatively on track to hit both subscriber and revenue numbers yet is still hemorrhaging cash. “Comcast had originally said that from 2020 through 2024, Peacock would never lose more than $1B in a single year, cumulative losses would peak at $2B, and breakeven would be achieved in 2024. Yet Peacock lost $663MM in 2020, $1.7B in 2021, and $2.5B in 2022. Cumulative losses now exceed $5B,” Ball writes. Aside from those about Netflix, most positive headlines about streaming services boil down to “Well, They Lost a Little Less This Quarter Than Analysts Thought They Would.”

The issue for most of these companies isn’t revenue; it’s spending. Until recently, more money was being spent on more television shows and movies than ever before; as the Motion Picture Association noted in its 2021 report on the state of showbiz, 1,826 original series were produced across streaming, cable, and broadcast in 2021. The number of television shows released on streaming channels roughly doubled from 2019 to 2021.

The studios looked at this and said, “More writers and more actors are getting more work. What else do you want from us?” As the screenwriter Zack Stentz noted in The New York Times, the number of WGA members reporting earnings “during the streaming-driven boom years” bumped up “from 4,500 to more than 6,000.” And the WGA reported collecting more fees than ever before in 2022, which the anonymous streaming insider Entertainment Strategy Guy suggests means that it’s likely that WGA writers collected more total pay than ever before. This is one reason why Disney’s CEO, Bob Iger, feels comfortable going on TV saying writers and actors are being unrealistic, arguing that “they are adding to the set of the challenges that this business is already facing that is, quite frankly, very disruptive.”

That disruption is upon us as studios have begun to take movies off the release calendar. Challengers, the Zendaya-led MGM picture in the new genre of “tennis threesome movie,” had been set to open this year’s Venice film festival; it has been pushed back to 2024 in the hopes that the actor will be available to walk the red carpet then. Searchlight Pictures is pushing the new Yorgos Lanthimos picture, Poor Things, back from September to December. Ethan Coen’s Drive-Away Dolls might miss the fall festival circuit. A24 also pulled Problemista from its August release date. And Warner Bros. might just pull Dune: Part Two from its November release date. That would leave the box office relatively barren.

As someone who spent all of 2020 watching studios repeatedly push movies back three (or six, or nine) months in the hopes of releasing after the pandemic had abated, I’m sorry to say that this is starting to feel suspiciously like COVID Redux. To be clear, pushing release dates is a totally logical move on the part of the studios as long as the strike persists: No stars means no promo. But I worry that a paucity of movies in theaters so hot on the heels of a previous extended absence of movies in theaters could mean no more theaters, period.

[Read: Why you should pay attention to the Hollywood writer’s strike]

This is, perhaps, hyperbole, but only slightly. The number of screens in the United States declined by 5 percent during pandemic shutdowns; the only reason the damage wasn’t more severe was AMC’s unlikely emergence as a meme stock in 2021, which helped the company pay down $600 million in debt. But box-office earnings remain nearly 20 percent below 2019 and nearly 25 percent below 2018, year to date. Audiences were relatively understanding about pandemic-related theater closures and have started coming back, but getting them out of the moviegoing habit again just as things have been getting back on track could have dire consequences.

And these consequences would be dire for everyone in the industry. Theatrical releases remain the best and most consistent individual way to monetize any one movie. They’re the top of the revenue waterfall for films. Although some movies (particularly low-to-mid-budget pictures) may earn more in aggregate from nontheatrical than theatrical revenue, theatrical releases are still the biggest piece of the puzzle when it comes to completing the profitability picture. Even successful experiments in home distribution like Universal’s premium video-on-demand window—in which the studio charges extra for big releases still in theaters—depend on the prestige bump that theatrical exhibition bestows. The theatrical release is why customers are willing to spend $20 to rent a movie.

All of which is to say that Iger is right in one very narrow sense: This is a disruptive time for the entertainment industry, and a prolonged shutdown could be disastrous, leading to less money for everyone. But the disruption, accelerated by COVID, is a direct result of the studios’ own desire to replicate the Netflix model and treat the load-bearing wall that is theatrical release as a decorative trifle, easily demolished to complete some garish open floor plan of the sort preferred on the home-improvement shows broadcast by Warner Bros. Discovery CEO David Zaslav’s beloved HGTV.

Since the pandemic’s earliest days, epidemiologists have been waiting for the coronavirus to finally snap out of its pan-season spree. No more spring waves like the first to hit the United States in 2020, no more mid-year surges like the one that turned Hot Vax Summer on its head. Eventually, or so the hope went, SARS-CoV-2 would adhere to the same calendar that many other airway pathogens stick to, at least in temperate parts of the globe: a heavy winter peak, then a summer on sabbatical.

But three and a half years into the outbreak, the coronavirus is still stubbornly refusing to take the warmest months off. Some public-health experts are now worried that, after a relatively quiet stretch, the virus is kick-starting yet another summer wave. In the southern and northeastern United States, concentrations of the coronavirus in wastewater have been slowly ticking up for several weeks, with the Midwest and West now following suit; test-positivity rates, emergency-department diagnoses of COVID-19, and COVID hospitalizations are also on the rise. The absolute numbers are still small, and they may stay that way. But these are the clear and early signs of a brewing mid-year wave, says Caitlin Rivers, an epidemiologist at Johns Hopkins University—which would make this the fourth summer in a row with a distinct coronavirus bump.

Even this far into the pandemic, though, no one can say for certain whether summer waves are a permanent COVID fixture—or if the virus exhibits a predictable seasonal pattern at all. No law of nature dictates that winters must come with respiratory illness, or that summers will not. “We just don’t know very much about what drives the cyclical patterns of respiratory infections,” says Sam Scarpino, an infectious-disease modeler at Northeastern University. Which means there’s still no part of the year when this virus is guaranteed to cut us any slack.

That many pathogens do wax and wane with the seasons is indisputable. In temperate parts of the world, airborne bugs get a boost in winter, only to be stifled in the heat; polio and other feces-borne pathogens, meanwhile, often rise in summer, along with gonorrhea and some other STIs. But noticing these trends is one thing; truly understanding the triggers is another.

[Read: COVID sure looks seasonal now]

Some diseases lend themselves a bit more easily to explanation: Near the equator, waves of mosquito-borne illness, such as Zika and Chikungunya, tend to be tied to the weather-dependent life cycles of the insects that carry them; in temperate parts of the world, rates of Lyme disease track with the summertime activity of ticks. Flu, too, has pretty strong data to back its preference for wintry months. The virus—which is sheathed in a fragile, fatty layer called an envelope and travels airborne via moist drops—spreads best when it’s cool and dry, conditions that may help keep infectious particles intact and spittle aloft.

The coronavirus has enough similarities to flu that most experts expect that it will continue to spread in winter too. Both viruses are housed in a sensitive skin; both prefer to move by aerosol. Both are also relatively speedy evolvers that don’t tend to generate long-lasting immunity against infection—factors conducive to repeat waves that hit populations at a fairly stable clip. For those reasons, Anice Lowen, a virologist at Emory University, anticipates that SARS-CoV-2 will continue to show “a clear wintertime seasonality in temperate regions of the world.” Winter is also a time when our bodies can be more susceptible to respiratory bugs: Cold, dry air can interfere with the movement of mucus that shuttles microbes out of the nose and throat; aridity can also make the cells that line those passageways shrivel and die; certain immune defenses might get a bit sleepier, with vitamin D in shorter supply.

None of that precludes SARS-CoV-2 spread in the heat, even if experts aren’t sure why the virus so easily drives summer waves. Plenty of other microbes manage it: enteroviruses, polio, and more. Even rhinoviruses and adenoviruses, two of the most frequent causes of colds, tend to spread year-round, sometimes showing up in force during the year’s hottest months. (Many scientists presume that has something to do with these viruses’ relatively hardy outer layer, but the reason is undoubtedly more complex than that.) An oft-touted explanation for COVID’s summer waves is that people in certain parts of the country retreat indoors to beat the heat. But that argument alone “is weak,” Lowen told me. In industrialized nations, people spend more than 90 percent of their time indoors.

That said, an accumulation of many small influences can together create a seasonal tipping point. Summer is a particularly popular time for travel, often to big gatherings. Many months out from winter and its numerous infections and vaccinations, population immunity might also be at a relative low at this time of year, Rivers said. Plus, for all its similarities to the flu, SARS-CoV-2 is its own beast: It has so far affected people more chronically and more severely, and has generated population-sweeping variants at a far faster pace. Those dynamics can all affect when waves manifest.

And although certain bodily defenses do dip in the cold, data don’t support the idea that immunity is unilaterally stronger in the summer. Micaela Martinez, the director of environmental health at WE ACT for Environmental Justice, in New York, told me the situation is far more complicated than that. For years, she and other researchers have been gathering evidence that suggests that our bodies have distinctly seasonal immunological profiles—with some defensive molecules spiking in the summer and another set in winter. The consequences of those shifts aren’t yet apparent. But some of them could help explain when the coronavirus spreads. By the same token, winter is not a time of disease-ridden doom. Xaquin Castro Dopico, an immunologist at the Karolinska Institute, in Sweden, has found that immune systems in the Northern Hemisphere might be more inflammation-prone in the winter—which, yes, could make certain bouts of illness more severe but could also improve responses to certain vaccinations.

All of those explanations could apply to COVID’s summer swings—or perhaps none does. “Everybody always wants to have a very simple seasonal answer,” Martinez told me. But one may simply not exist. Even the reasons for the seasonality of polio, a staunch summertime disease prior to its elimination in the U.S., have been “an open question” for many decades, Martinez told me.

Rivers is hopeful that the coronavirus’s permanent patterns may already be starting to peek through: a wintry heyday, and a smaller maybe-summer hump. “We’re in year four, and we’re seeing the same thing year over year,” she told me. But some experts worry that discussions of COVID-19 seasonality are premature. SARS-CoV-2 is still so fresh to the human population that its patterns could be far from their final form. At an extreme, the patterns researchers observed during the first few years of the pandemic may not prelude the future much at all, because they encapsulate so much change: the initial lack and rapid acquisition of immunity, the virus’s evolution, the ebb and flow of masks, and more. Amid that mishmash of countervailing influences, says Brandon Ogbunu, an infectious-disease modeler at Yale, “you’re going to get some counterintuitive dynamics” that won’t necessarily last long term.

[Read: The next stage of COVID is starting now]

With so much of the world now infected, vaccinated, or both, and COVID mitigations almost entirely gone, the global situation is less in flux now. The virus itself, although still clearly changing at a blistering pace, has not pulled off an Omicron-caliber jump in evolution for more than a year and a half. But no one can yet promise predictability. The cadence of vaccination isn’t yet settled; Scarpino, of Northeastern University, also isn’t ready to dismiss the idea of a viral evolution surprise. Maybe summer waves, to the extent that they’re happening, are a sign that SARS-CoV-2 will remain a microbe for all seasons. Or maybe they’re part of the pandemic’s death rattle—noise in a system that hasn’t yet quieted down.

Judges said the accused extorted money from people taking repatriation flights during the Covid pandemic.

Relaxed licensing rules brought in during Covid in England and Wakes will soon come to an end.

Alexis Misko’s health has improved enough that, once a month, she can leave her house for a few hours. First, she needs to build up her energy by lying in a dark room for the better part of two days, doing little more than listening to audiobooks. Then she needs a driver, a quiet destination where she can lie down, and days of rest to recover afterward. The brief outdoor joy “never quite feels like enough,” she told me, but it’s so much more than what she managed in her first year of long COVID, when she couldn’t sit upright for more than an hour or stand for more than 10 minutes. Now, at least, she can watch TV on the same day she takes a shower.  

In her previous life, she pulled all-nighters in graduate school and rough shifts at her hospital as an occupational therapist; she went for long runs and sagged after long flights. None of that compares with what she has endured since getting COVID-19 almost three years ago. The fatigue she now feels is “like a complete depletion of the essence of who you are, of your life force,” she told me in an email.

Fatigue is among the most common and most disabling of long COVID’s symptoms, and a signature of similar chronic illnesses such as myalgic encephalomyelitis (also known as chronic fatigue syndrome or ME/CFS). But in these diseases, fatigue is so distinct from everyday weariness that most of the people I have talked with were unprepared for how severe, multifaceted, and persistent it can be.

For a start, this fatigue isn’t really a single symptom; it has many faces. It can weigh the body down: Lisa Geiszler likens it to “wearing a lead exoskeleton on a planet with extremely high gravity, while being riddled with severe arthritis.” It can rev the body up: Many fatigued people feel “wired and tired,” paradoxically in fight-or-flight mode despite being utterly depleted. It can be cognitive: Thoughts become sluggish, incoherent, and sometimes painful—like “there’s steel wool stuck in my frontal lobe,” Gwynn Dujardin, a literary historian with ME, told me.

Fatigue turns the most mundane of tasks into an “agonizing cost-benefit analysis,” Misko said. If you do laundry, how long will you need to rest to later make a meal? If you drink water, will you be able to reach the toilet? Only a quarter of long-haulers have symptoms that severely limit their daily activities, but even those with “moderate” cases are profoundly limited. Julia Moore Vogel, a program director at Scripps Research, still works, but washing her hair, she told me, leaves her as exhausted as the long-distance runs she used to do.

And though normal fatigue is temporary and amenable to agency—even after a marathon, you can will yourself into a shower, and you’ll feel better after sleeping—rest often fails to cure the fatigue of long COVID or ME/CFS. “I wake up fatigued,” Letícia Soares, who has long COVID, told me.

Between long COVID, ME/CFS, and other energy-limiting chronic illnesses, millions of people in the U.S. alone experience debilitating fatigue. But American society tends to equate inactivity with immorality, and productivity with worth. Faced with a condition that simply doesn’t allow people to move—even one whose deficits can be measured and explained—many doctors and loved ones default to disbelief. When Soares tells others about her illness, they usually say, “Oh yeah, I’m tired too.” When she was bedbound for days, people told her, “I need a weekend like that.” Soares’s problems are very real, and although researchers have started to figure out why so many people like her are suffering, they don’t yet know how to stop it.

Fatigue creates a background hum of disability, but it can be punctuated by worse percussive episodes that strip long-haulers of even the small amounts of energy they normally have.

Daria Oller is a physiotherapist and athletic trainer, so when she got COVID in March 2020, she naturally tried exercising her way to better health. And she couldn’t understand why, after just short runs, her fatigue, brain fog, chest pain, and other symptoms would flare up dramatically—to the point where she could barely move or speak. These crashes contradicted everything she had learned during her training. Only after talking with physiotherapists with ME/CFS did she realize that this phenomenon has a name: post-exertional malaise.

Post-exertional malaise, or PEM, is the defining trait of ME/CFS and a common feature of long COVID. It is often portrayed as an extreme form of fatigue, but it is more correctly understood as a physiological state in which all existing symptoms burn more fiercely and new ones ignite. Beyond fatigue, people who get PEM might also feel intense radiant pain, an inflammatory burning feeling, or gastrointestinal and cognitive problems: “You feel poisoned, flu-ish, concussed,” Misko said. And where fatigue usually sets in right after exertion, PEM might strike hours or days later, and with disproportionate ferocity. Even gentle physical or mental effort might lay people out for days, weeks, months. Visiting a doctor can precipitate a crash, and so can filling out applications for disability benefits—or sensing bright lights and loud sounds, regulating body temperature on hot days, or coping with stress. And if in fatigue your batteries feel drained, in PEM they’re missing entirely. It’s the annihilation of possibility: Most people experience the desperation of being unable to move only in nightmares, Dujardin told me. “PEM is like that, but much more painful.”

Medical professionals generally don’t learn about PEM during their training. Many people doubt its existence because it is so unlike anything that healthy people endure. Mary Dimmock told me that she understood what it meant only when she saw her son, Matthew, who has ME/CFS, crash in front of her eyes. “He just melted,” Dimmock said. But most people never see such damage because PEM hides those in the midst of it from public view. And because it usually occurs after a delay, people who experience PEM might appear well to friends and colleagues who then don’t witness the exorbitant price they later pay.

That price is both real and measurable. In cardiopulmonary exercise tests, or CPETs, patients use treadmills or exercise bikes while doctors record their oxygen consumption, blood pressure, and heart rate. Betsy Keller, an exercise physiologist at Ithaca College, told me that most people can repeat their performance if retested one day later, even if they have heart disease or are deconditioned by inactivity. People who get PEM cannot. Their results are so different the second time around that when Keller first tested someone with ME/CFS in 2003, “I told my colleagues that our equipment was out of calibration,” she said. But she and others have seen the same pattern in hundreds of ME/CFS and long-COVID patients—“objective findings that can’t be explained by anything psychological,” David Systrom, a pulmonologist at Brigham and Women’s Hospital, told me. “Many patients are told it’s all in their head, but this belies that in spades.” Still, many insurers refuse to pay for a second test, and many patients cannot do two CPETs (or even one) without seriously risking their health. And “20 years later, I still have physicians who refute and ignore the objective data,” Keller said. (Some long-COVID studies have ignored PEM entirely, or bundled it together with fatigue.)

Oller thinks this dismissal arises because PEM inverts the dogma that exercise is good for you—an adage that, for most other illnesses, is correct. “It’s not easy to change what you’ve been doing your whole career, even when I tell someone that they might be harming their patients,” she said. Indeed, many long-haulers get worse because they don’t get enough rest in their first weeks of illness, or try to exercise through their symptoms on doctors’ orders.

People with PEM are also frequently misdiagnosed. They’re told that they’re deconditioned from being too sedentary, when their inactivity is the result of frequent crashes, not the cause. They’re told that they’re depressed and unmotivated, when they are usually desperate to move and either physically incapable of doing so or using restraint to avoid crashing. Oller is part of a support group of 1,500 endurance athletes with long COVID who are well used to running, swimming, and biking through pain and tiredness. “Why would we all just stop?” she asked.

Some patients with energy-limiting illnesses argue that the names of their diseases and symptoms make them easier to discredit. Fatigue invites people to minimize severe depletion as everyday tiredness. Chronic fatigue syndrome collapses a wide-ranging disabling condition into a single symptom that is easy to trivialize. These complaints are valid, but the problem runs deeper than any name.

Dujardin, the English professor who is (very slowly) writing a cultural history of fatigue, thinks that our concept of it has been impoverished by centuries of reductionism. As the study of medicine slowly fractured into anatomical specialties, it lost an overarching sense of the systems that contribute to human energy, or its absence. The concept of energy was (and still is) central to animistic philosophies, and though once core to the Western world, too, it is now culturally associated with quackery and pseudoscience. “There are vials of ‘energy boosters’ by every cash register in the U.S.,” Dujardin said, but when the NIH convened a conference on the biology of fatigue in 2021, “specialists kept observing that no standard definition exists for fatigue, and everyone was working from different ideas of human energy.” These terms have become so unhelpfully unspecific that our concept of “fatigue” can encompass a wide array of states including PEM and idleness, and can be heavily influenced by social forces—in particular the desire to exploit the energy of others.

As the historian Emily K. Abel notes in Sick and Tired: An Intimate History of Fatigue, many studies of everyday fatigue at the turn of the 20th century focused on the weariness of manual laborers, and were done to find ways to make those workers more productive. During this period, fatigue was recast from a physiological limit that employers must work around into a psychological failure that individuals must work against. “Present-day society stigmatizes those who don’t Push through; keep at it; show grit,” Dujardin said, and for the sin of subverting those norms, long-haulers “are not just disbelieved but treated openly with contempt.” Fatigue is “profoundly anti-capitalistic,” Jaime Seltzer, the director of scientific and medical outreach at the advocacy group MEAction, told me.

Energy-limiting illnesses also disproportionately affect women, who have long been portrayed as prone to idleness. Dujardin notes that in Western epics, women such as Circe and Dido were perceived harshly for averting questing heroes such as Odysseus and Aeneas with the temptation of rest. Later, the onset of industrialization turned women instead into emblems of homebound idleness while men labored in public. As shirking work became a moral failure, it also remained a feminine one.

These attitudes were evident in the ways two successive U.S. presidents dealt with COVID. Donald Trump, who always evinced a caricature of masculine strength and chastised rivals for being “low energy,” framed his recovery from the coronavirus as an act of domination. Joe Biden was less bombastic, but he still conspicuously assured the public that he was working through his COVID infection while his administration prioritized policies that got people back to work. Neither man spoke of the possibility of disabling fatigue or the need for rest.

Medicine, too, absorbs society’s stigmas around fatigue, even in selecting those who get to join its ranks. Its famously grueling training programs exclude (among others) most people with energy-limiting illnesses, while valorizing the ability to function when severely depleted. This, together with the tendency to psychologize women’s pain, helps to explain why so many long-haulers—even those with medical qualifications, like Misko and Oller—are treated so badly by the professionals they see for care. When Dujardin first sought medical help for her ME/CFS symptoms, the same doctor who had treated her well for a decade suddenly became stiff and suspicious, she told me, reduced all of her detailed descriptions to “tiredness,” and left the room without offering diagnosis or treatment. There is so much cultural pressure to never stop that many people can’t accept that their patients or peers might be biologically forced to do so.

No grand unified theory explains everything about long COVID and ME/CFS, but neither are these diseases total mysteries. In fact, plenty of evidence exists for at least two pathways that explain why people with these conditions could be so limited in energy.

First, most people with energy-limiting chronic illnesses have problems with their autonomic nervous system, which governs heartbeat, breathing, sleep, hormone release, and other bodily functions that we don’t consciously control. When this system is disrupted—a condition called “dysautonomia”—hormones such as adrenaline might be released at inappropriate moments, leading to the wired-but-tired feeling. People might suddenly feel sleepy, as if they’re shutting down. Blood vessels might not expand in moments of need, depriving active muscles and organs of oxygen and fuel; those organs might include the brain, leading to cognitive dysfunction such as brain fog.

Second, many people with long COVID and ME/CFS have problems with generating energy. When viruses invade the body, the immune system counterattacks, triggering a state of inflammation. Both infection and inflammation can damage the mitochondria—the bean-shaped batteries that power our cells. Malfunctioning mitochondria produce violent chemicals called “reactive oxygen species” (ROS) that inflict even more cellular damage. Inflammation also triggers a metabolic switch toward fast but inefficient ways of making energy, depleting cells of fuel and riddling them with lactic acid. These changes collectively explain the pervasive, dead-battery flavor of fatigue, as “the body struggles to generate energy,” Bindu Paul, a pharmacologist and neuroscientist at Johns Hopkins, told me. They might also explain the burning, poisoned feelings that patients experience, as their cells fill with lactic acid and ROS.

These two pathways—autonomic and metabolic—might also account for PEM. Normally, the autonomic nervous system smoothly dials up to an intense fight-and-flight mode and down to a calmer rest-and-digest one. But “in dysautonomia, the dial becomes a switch,” David Putrino, a neuroscientist and rehabilitation specialist at Mount Sinai, told me. “You go from sitting to standing and your body thinks: Oh, are we going hunting? You stop, and your body shuts down.” The exhaustion of these dramatic, unstable flip-flops is made worse by the ongoing metabolic maelstrom. Damaged mitochondria, destructive ROS, inefficient metabolism, and chronic inflammation all compound one another in a vicious cycle that, if it becomes sufficiently intense, could manifest as a PEM crash. “No one is absolutely certain about what causes PEM,” Seltzer told me, but it makes sense that “you have this big metabolic shift and your nervous system can’t get back on an even keel.” And if people push through, deepening the metabolic demands on a body that already can’t meet them, the cycle can spin even faster, “leading to progressive disability,” Putrino said.

Other factors might also be at play. Compared with healthy people, those with long COVID and ME/CFS have differences in the size, structure, or function of brain regions including the thalamus, which relays motor signals and regulates consciousness, and the basal ganglia, which controls movement and has been implicated in fatigue. Long-haulers also have problems with blood vessels, red blood cells, and clotting, all of which might further staunch their flows of blood, oxygen, and nutrients. “I’ve tested so many of these people over the years, and we see over and over again that when the systems start to fail, they all fail in the same way,” Keller said. Together, these woes explain why long COVID and ME/CFS have such bewilderingly varied symptoms. That diversity fuels disbelief—how could one disease cause all of this?—but it’s exactly what you’d expect if things as fundamental as metabolism go awry.

Long-haulers might not know the biochemical specifics of their symptoms, but they are uncannily good at capturing those underpinnings through metaphor. People experiencing autonomic blood-flow problems might complain about feeling “drained,” and that’s literally happening: In POTS, a form of dysautonomia, blood pools in the lower body when people stand. People experiencing metabolic problems often use dead-battery analogies, and indeed their cellular batteries—the mitochondria—are being damaged: “It really feels like something is going wrong at the cellular level,” Oller told me. Attentive doctors can find important clues about the basis of their patients’ illness hiding amid descriptions that are often billed as “exaggerated or melodramatic,” Dujardin said.

Some COVID long-haulers do recover. But several studies have found that, so far, most don’t fully return to their previous baseline, and many who become severely ill stay that way. This pool of persistently sick people is now mired in the same neglect that has long plagued those who suffer from illnesses such as ME/CFS. Research into such conditions are grossly underfunded, so no cures exist. Very few doctors in the U.S. know how to treat these conditions, and many are nearing retirement, so patients struggle to find care. Long-COVID clinics exist but vary in quality: Some know nothing about other energy-limiting illnesses, and still prescribe potentially harmful and officially discouraged treatments such as exercise. Clinicians who better understand these illnesses know that caution is crucial. When Putrino works with long-haulers to recondition their autonomic nervous system, he always starts as gently as possible to avoid triggering PEM. Such work “isn’t easy and isn’t fast,” he said, and it usually means stabilizing people instead of curing them.

Stability can be life-changing, especially when it involves changes that patients can keep up at home. Over-the-counter supplements such as coenzyme Q10, which is used by mitochondria to generate energy and is depleted in ME/CFS patients, can reduce fatigue. Anti-inflammatory medications such as low-dose naltrexone may have some promise. Sleep hygiene may not cure fatigue, but certainly makes it less debilitating. Dietary changes can help, but the right ones might be counterintuitive: High-fiber foods take more energy to digest, and some long-haulers get PEM episodes after eating meals that seem healthy. And the most important part of this portfolio is “pacing”—a strategy for carefully keeping your activity levels beneath the threshold that causes debilitating crashes.

Pacing is more challenging than it sounds. Practitioners can’t rely on fixed routines; instead, they must learn to gauge their fluctuating energy levels in real time, while becoming acutely aware of their PEM triggers. Some turn to wearable technology such as heart-rate monitors, and more than 30,000 are testing a patient-designed app called Visible to help spot patterns in their illness. Such data are useful, but the difference between rest and PEM might be just 10 or 20 extra heartbeats a minute—a narrow crevice into which long-haulers must squeeze their life. Doing so can be frustrating, because pacing isn’t a recovery tactic; it’s mostly a way of not getting worse, which makes its value harder to appreciate. Its physical benefits come at mental costs: Walks, workouts, socializing, and “all the things I’d do for mental health before were huge energy sinks,” Vogel told me. And without financial stability or social support, many long-haulers must work, parent, and care for themselves even knowing that they’ll suffer later. “It’s impossible not to overdo it, because life is life,” Vogel said.

“Our society is not set up for pacing,” Oller added. Long-haulers must resist the enormous cultural pressure to prove their worth by pushing as hard as they can. They must tolerate being chastised for trying to avert a crash, and being disbelieved if they fail. “One of the most insulting things people can say is ‘Fight your illness,’” Misko said. That would be much easier for her. “It takes so much self-control and strength to do less, to be less, to shrink your life down to one or two small things from which you try to extract joy in order to survive.” For her and many others, rest has become both a medical necessity and a radical act of defiance—one that, in itself, is exhausting.

Last week, at a Fox News town hall (where else?), former President Donald Trump called China’s despot, Xi Jinping, a “brilliant” guy who “runs 1.4 billion people with an iron fist.” Lest anyone doubt his admiration, Trump added that Xi is “smart, brilliant, everything perfect. There’s nobody in Hollywood like this guy.”

Trump is not alone. Many in the United States and around the globe see the allure of a dictator who gets things done and makes the trains run on time, no matter the rules or laws that stand in the way. According to repeated polling, roughly one in four Americans agrees with the statement that a “strong leader who doesn’t have to bother with Congress and elections” is desirable. A much higher proportion of citizens agrees with that sentiment elsewhere, including in some of the most populous democracies: 55 percent of Indians, 52 percent of Indonesians, 38 percent of Nigerians, and 31 percent of Japanese.

This grass-is-greener view of authoritarian rule tends to emerge most often where governments are failing to meet popular expectations. When democracy delivers, dictatorship doesn’t seem like a rosy alternative. Only 6 percent of Germans and 9 percent of Swedes are seduced by strongmen.

[Brian Klaas: Democracy has a customer-service problem]

Admiration for autocracy is built on a pernicious lie that I call the “myth of benevolent dictatorship.” The myth is built on three flimsy pillars: first, that dictators produce stronger economic growth than their democratic counterparts; second, that dictators, unswayed by volatile public opinion, are strategic long-term thinkers; and third, that dictators bring stability, whereas divided democracies produce chaos.  

Two decades ago, the United States and its Western allies became embroiled in Iraq and later blundered into the financial crisis, leading think tanks to begin praising the “Beijing Consensus,” or the “China Model,” as an alternative to liberal democracy. Critiques of democracy surged in popularity in the era of Trump and Brexit. In the United States, intellectual publications ran articles arguing that the problem was too much democracy. In 2018, The Times of London published a column titled “Our Timid Leaders Can Learn From Strongmen.” China’s state media, capitalizing on the West’s democratic woes, argued that democracy is a “scary” system that produces self-inflicted wounds.

But events and new research in the past several years have taken a wrecking ball to the long-standing myth of benevolent dictatorship. All three pillars of the lie are crumbling. Every fresh data point proves Winston Churchill right: “Democracy is the worst form of Government, except for all those other forms that have been tried from time to time.”

Let’s start with the myth that dictatorships produce stronger growth. This falsehood arose from a few well-known, cherry-picked examples, in which despots oversaw astonishing transformations of their national economy. Starting in the late 1950s, Lee Kuan Yew helped transform Singapore from a poor, opium-filled backwater into a wealthy economic powerhouse. And in China, per capita GDP rose from nearly $318 in 1990 to more than $12,500 today. Those successes are eye-popping.

But a systematic evaluation of the overall data reveals another reality. Even with these outliers of strong growth, most rigorous studies have found limited or no evidence that authoritarian regimes produce better economic growth than democratic ones. Some researchers, such as the political economists Darren Acemoglu and James Robinson, have found compelling evidence that the inclusive political institutions of democracy are one of the strongest factors in producing stable, long-term growth.

When authoritarian regimes do succeed economically, they often do so at a cost, because even booming dictatorships are prone to catastrophic busts. As the political scientist Jacob Nyrup has written: “China has within a 50-year time frame both experienced a famine, where 20-45 million people died, and an economic boom, where hundreds of millions of people were lifted out of poverty.” The rosiest interpretation of the authoritarian economic data, then, is that autocrats may sometimes preside over marginally higher growth, but with a much greater risk of economic collapse. That’s not a wise trade-off.

However, the myth of strongmen as economic gurus has an even bigger problem. Dictators turn out to have manipulated their economic data for decades. For a long time, they’ve fooled us. But now we have proof: The reason their numbers sometimes seem too good to be true is that they are.

Every government has motivation to fudge its economic data. But democracies have institutions that provide oversight and block politicians from that impulse, ensuring accurate figures. No such checks exist in dictatorships.

That difference led Luis Martinez, an economist at the University of Chicago, to test whether despots were overstating their growth rate. He did so with an ingenious method. Previous studies have verified the presence of a strong, accurate correlation between the amount of nighttime light captured by satellites and overall economic activity. When economies grow, they emit more nighttime light (which is why you can clearly pick out cities on a nighttime satellite image, and why the density of light is so much lower in Africa than, say, in Europe or on the American East Coast). High-resolution images allow researchers to track changes in nighttime illumination over time, and the detailed, granular data these images produce are nearly impossible to manipulate. Martinez discovered an astonishing disparity suggesting that dictators have been overstating their GDP growth by about 35 percent.

And the more the numbers are checked, the more manipulation is exposed. In Rwanda, where The New York Times has named President Paul Kagame “the global elite’s favorite strongman” because of his apparently brilliant record of economic growth, the government claimed that it had decreased poverty by 6 percent from 2010 to 2014. Researchers found that the inverse was true: Poverty had actually surged by 5 to 7 percent. Fittingly, the notion that Benito Mussolini made the trains run on time was a lie; he built ornate stations and invested in train lines used by elites, but the commuting masses got left behind.

[Read: The undoing of China’s economic miracle]

Even China, the apparent authoritarian economic miracle, is showing signs of slowing down, its growth model no longer so well matched to the global economy. Such cracks in growth are an innate feature of autocracy. Because dictatorships criminalize dissent, normal mechanisms of economic feedback are broken, and the system doesn’t self-correct when blundering into economic mistakes. Beijing’s quixotic quest to maintain perpetual “zero COVID” was a case in point. Autocrats are adept at building ports and roads and mines. But thriving modern economies are sustained less by open mines than by open minds, of which dictatorships, by design, have a limited supply.

Advocates for the myth of benevolent dictatorship conveniently ignore a crucial fact, which is that much of the growth in autocracies comes either from manufacturing products that were invented in the more open societies of the democratic West, or from exporting goods to rich democracies. (The top destinations for Chinese exports are the United States, Japan, and South Korea.) In that way, even the outliers of autocratic growth depend for their success on the innovation and consumer wealth of democracies. Would China have lifted millions out of poverty through export-led growth quite so fast if democratic America hadn’t become an economic powerhouse first?

The myth’s second pillar turns out to be no less rickety than the first. It holds that dictators are more strategic long-term thinkers than democrats because they’re not beholden to fickle public opinion. But this lie is believable only if you don’t understand how most dictatorships actually work.

Over more than a decade, I’ve studied and interviewed despots and the henchmen who surround them. One conclusion I’ve drawn is that making decisions based on bad information is an intrinsic feature of the systems dictators run. The longer despots cling to power, the more likely they are to fall into what I call “the dictator trap,” in which they crush dissent, purge anyone who challenges them, and construct their own reality through propaganda, all to maintain control. Speaking truth to power in such a system can literally be deadly. As a result, dictators are told only what they want to hear, not what is true, and they begin to believe their own lies. Vladimir Putin’s catastrophic war in Ukraine is a tragic illustration of the dictator trap: Putin got high on his own supply, and innocent Ukrainians are the victims of his power trip.

Despots often use their power not for long-term planning, but for short-term self-glorification, as no end of examples can attest. Turkmenistan’s former dictator Saparmurat Niyazov blew millions to build, in his own honor, a golden statue that would rotate to always face the sun. In another stroke of genius, he closed all rural hospitals so that the sick could have the privilege of being treated in his pristine marble capital of Ashgabat. Most of the population lived outside the city, and countless thousands likely died because they couldn’t reach a hospital in time. His successor erected an enormous golden statue of his favorite breed of dog. Thankfully, democracies have checks and balances to suppress such narcissistic whims.

The most persistent pillar of the myth, however, is the one that holds that dictators produce stability. Some dictators have hung on to power for decades. Before his death, Muammar Qaddafi ruled Libya for 42 years. Paul Biya of Cameroon, an 89-year-old despot who had no idea where he was during a recent event, took office during the Vietnam War. Putin has been in power for more than two decades; Xi has ruled for only one so far, but he appears prepared to retain his position indefinitely.

To stay in power, authoritarian leaders face constant trade-offs. If they strengthen military or paramilitary leaders, they face the risk of a coup d’état. But if they weaken their men under arms, then they can’t protect themselves from external invasion. To keep their elites happy, despots need to make them rich through corruption—usually at the expense of the population. But a ruling class awash in ill-gotten gains could inspire a revolution, or a wild card: assassination. Autocrats appear stable, but they’re not. They’re constantly vulnerable, forced to make every decision based on what will stave off threats to survive in power.

The stability that does exist in autocracies is, ironically, derived partially from the trappings of democracy. Recent research has made clear that dictators have developed mechanisms to “mimic democracy to prolong autocracy.” Most authoritarian leaders now hold elections, but rig them. Some use parliaments or courts to enact unpopular decisions while avoiding blame.

[From the December 2021 issue: The bad guys are winning]

Eventually, though, dictatorships tend to fall apart. And when they collapse, they really collapse. Elections in democracies change governments, not regimes. Personalist dictatorships, by contrast, often implode. When Qaddafi was killed, Libya disintegrated. He had deliberately designed the political system to function only with him at its center. The same could be true of Putin’s Russia. When he is toppled or dies, the country won’t have a smooth, peaceful transition.

The often-disastrous demise of autocrats creates a negative feedback loop. Nearly seven in 10 leaders of personalist dictatorships end up jailed, exiled, or killed once they lose power. While in power, many despots are aware of this grim fact, and so they use violence to stay in power, often growing more extreme as they lurch toward their downfall. The effect can hardly be called “stability,” even if the same person occupies the palace for decades.

For anyone who still clings to the illusion that dictatorships are likely to be prosperous, strategically wise, or internally stable, I propose a simple test. Imagine that someone wrote down the names of all the countries in the world on little slips of paper and then separated them into two hats: one for democracy, one for dictatorships. You would select one of the two hats, draw a slip of paper from it, look at the name, and then spend the rest of your life living in that country. Who knows, maybe you’d get lucky and end up in an authoritarian regime that seems stable and is producing steady growth. But I know which hat I would choose. And even if you fantasize about finding the unicorn that is a benevolent strongman, I suspect you do too.

Emails obtained from the US Federal Aviation Administration reveal concerns over Beijing's 'zero COVID' policy.

Hollywood has always had a short memory. Industry analysts will predict doom for the future of cinema for months, then exult when a new release defies expectations. This summer has been no exception: A few blockbusters such as The Flash and Indiana Jones underperformed, and hand-wringing quickly ensued. But last weekend brought a colossal turnaround, thanks to Barbenheimer—the head-to-head releases of Greta Gerwig’s Barbie and Christopher Nolan’s Oppenheimer. The two films are diametrically different, auteur-driven works that doubled their individual expected grosses and together fueled the fourth-biggest opening weekend in history. The summer could be saved! And yet, with actor and writer strikes ongoing, studios seem almost hell-bent on dashing any chance at real industry momentum.

The strategy of pitting Barbie against Oppenheimer initially seemed risky. But the disparity between Gerwig’s hot-pink, brand-name comedy and Nolan’s R-rated, three-hour biographical epic generated its own hype. In the end, Barbie opened to $162 million and Oppenheimer to $82 million—the former is a record for a film directed by a woman, and Nolan landed his biggest weekend ever for a non-Batman movie.

This is a huge, heartening success for the film industry, after months of commercially unimpressive sequels. More than anything, it’s a clear sign that audiences are hungry for good products. Blockbusters aren’t obsolete, but studios can’t just rely on the latest franchise entry; some established players (such as DC Comics and Fast & Furious) are starting to lose their luster. Barbie and Oppenheimer earned their audiences’ fervor by getting positive reviews and offering something truly compelling: Barbie is very funny and joyous to see with a crowd; Oppenheimer is visually overwhelming and boosting its sales on large, premium screens such as IMAX. Both films got Grade A CinemaScores, a good indicator of word of mouth, so the box office should remain healthy through August.

Still, there’s trouble around the corner, the first example of which also came last weekend. Challengers, a fun and frothy-looking romantic tennis dramedy starring Zendaya, changed its release date from September 15 to April 26 of next year, canceling its planned release at the Venice Film Festival. The film, directed by Luca Guadagnino (Call Me by Your Name), was going to get a splashy push in theaters from MGM, but the Screen Actors Guild strike means that Zendaya and her co-stars might not be able to promote it, which would create difficulties for a project reliant on star power.

Several other projects have already been delayed because of the strike, including A24’s indie comedy Problemista, Lionsgate’s inspirational drama White Bird, and a Dirty Dancing sequel. But the real dominoes could fall next, with rumors brewing that Warner Bros. might punt its biggest upcoming releases—Dune Part Two, The Color Purple, and Aquaman and the Lost Kingdom—off the 2023 calendar. Other big movies planned for the fall include Martin Scorsese’s Killers of the Flower Moon, superhero entry The Marvels, and a Hunger Games prequel, all of which will need stars on the press circuit to propel their sales. (The casts of Barbie and Oppenheimer did many of their media interviews before they went on strike.)

A crisis isn’t just brewing; it’s here. Every day that movie studios don’t resume negotiations with SAG and the Writers Guild of America jeopardizes the future of Hollywood. Much of the existential anxiety about cinema was exacerbated by the years of delays that COVID created: More films were distributed to streaming services, and audiences got used to viewing new releases at home. Now people are comfortable going to the movies again, and the Barbenheimer phenomenon is reminding theatergoers of all ages of the value of a big-screen experience. Not capitalizing on that energy would be a catastrophic mistake.

Yet it seems to be a mistake that the Alliance of Motion Picture and Television Producers (the loose trade association representing major studios) is willing to make. The WGA has been on strike for 84 days, with no sign of negotiations resuming anytime soon. A Deadline article citing an anonymous “top-tier producer” predicted that the studios would allow the standoff to last at least until October. The AMPTP pushed back, claiming that it was “committed to reaching a deal.” Regardless, the reporting underlined how toxic the dynamic between the WGA and the studios has become; residuals, the use of generative AI, and the sharing of streaming data are all significant points of disagreement.

[Read: The businessmen broke Hollywood]

The entertainment industry has weathered many WGA strikes over the years, but SAG’s action was more surprising and immediately influential, basically shutting down all major movie productions and affecting future release calendars. Many of the same issues, particularly streaming residuals and AI, are at stake in both sets of negotiations, which is probably why the AMPTP is loath to strike a quick bargain with SAG—it is aware that the WGA could use that as leverage. Instead, Hollywood honchos seem committed to a death spiral, unsure of how to drive a deal beyond inflicting punishment both on the unions and on themselves.

At this point, almost any delay in resolving the strikes could be borderline apocalyptic for the film industry. If the studios hold off on negotiations for months, trying to force the unions to desperation, those studios’ products will end up being held from cinemas, overall ticket sales will plummet, and what might have been Hollywood’s best chance at reaching pre-pandemic levels of success will slip away. Barbie and Oppenheimer will continue to sell tickets, yes, and a few action films in August (Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, Meg 2) should enjoy modest success, but all of the corporate back-patting about the box office going on right now will be quickly forgotten. Hollywood just got its clearest confirmation since 2019 that movies can still draw an in-person audience. It would be a good idea to keep releasing them.

Asked what came to her mind when thinking about Germany, former Chancellor Angela Merkel once said, “I think of airtight windows. No other country can build as airtight and as beautiful windows.”

With its history tainted, post-1945 Germany looked to its economy for a positive conception of itself. The goods Germany produced, such as those quality windows, allowed politicians to celebrate the country as an “export world champion.” Germany Inc., was a well-oiled capitalist-corporatist ensemble. Trade-union leaders and CEOs strategized instead of shouting at one another, and the success of German industry offered an unsullied source of pride. So did the fiscal conservatism and hawkish monetary policy that allowed the Federal Republic to master high inflation in the 1970s and ’80s better than the rest of Europe and the United States were able to.

Economic success provided Germany not only with a postwar identity but also with the power of attraction. During the Cold War, the promise of a freer, better life in the Federal Republic prompted East Germans to flee the Communist German Democratic Republic. When they toppled the Berlin Wall in November 1989, East Berliners first stormed Kurfürstendamm, the shopping street and temple of capitalism they had fantasized about but had never gotten to see. German leaders relied on the country’s economic might to power reunification, co-build the European Union, and welcome Syrians escaping civil war in 2015.

Just three decades after reunification, per capita GDP in the former GDR is higher than in many regions in northern France. Unemployment, at 2.9 percent, is well below the U.S. or EU average, even though Germany took in a million Syrians in 2015 and another million Ukrainians in 2022. Berlin remains the biggest financial contributor to the EU—the organization Paris initially designed to keep post–Nazi Germany in check but that has now made war between its 27 members close to unthinkable.

Yet an economy, even Germany’s, is a slender thread on which to hang a national identity. When France struggles with unemployment, the French still have the revolutionary myth of 1789 and the Eiffel Tower. When Greece is on the brink of default, the Greeks still have Plato and olive trees. When the United States skirts another financial crisis, there is still the American dream and Beyoncé. But what happens in an “economy in search of a political raison d’être,” as the historian Werner Abelshauser once described the postwar Federal Republic, if its GDP suddenly stops growing? We are about to find out.

Germany’s economy is running out of steam, and not only because of COVID or because Russian President Vladimir Putin has turned off the gas tap. Together with—and perhaps because of—its economic malaise, the country is living through a political earthquake. Germany’s wealth, its exemplary parliamentary democracy, and its big efforts to confront its Nazi history are no longer keeping nativist parties at bay.

Two years into the government of Chancellor Olaf Scholz, the far-right Alternative for Germany (AfD) is polling as high as 20 percent. This July, the AfD got its first mayor elected with 51.1 percent of the votes in the town of Raguhn-Jeßnitz in the eastern state of Saxony-Anhalt.

[George E. Bogden: Germany’s unkept promise]

The AfD figurehead Alexander Gauland once said that “Hitler and the Nazis are just a speck of bird poop in more than 1,000 years of successful German history.” The AfD opposes weapons deliveries to Ukraine and wants to terminate economic sanctions on Russia. Split about whether Germany should leave NATO, the party agrees that all U.S. troops should vacate the country and the Ramstein air base be shut down. The party also wants the country to stop using the Euro and dissolve the European Parliament.

“As the third-biggest contributor to the United Nations,” Germany should have a permanent seat on the Security Council, the AfD program states. The party denies that climate change is human-made, wants to make abortions “an exception,” and wants to classify Afghanistan as a “safe country,” meaning that asylum requests from Afghans would be only rarely granted. The AfD co-leader Tino Chrupalla also wants schools to teach more German poems, even though, when asked, he is unable to name a single one.

A recent poll shows that, notwithstanding this radical program, only 57 percent of Germans now say that they could never imagine voting for the AfD—almost the same percentage, incidentally, by which Emmanuel Macron won the second round of the French presidential election in 2022 against the nationalist Marine Le Pen.

We are living through the end of German exceptionalism. The country’s economy is fragile, and the rise of the AfD makes its politics as unpredictable as those of Austria or Italy. In short, Germany is joining the European mainstream. And that means that trouble is ahead.

In late 2022, Germany’s economy entered a recession that lasted at least until spring 2023 and may yet continue. The longer-term picture is worse: The Federal Republic is the only big Euro member whose economy has not yet fully recovered to pre-pandemic levels. In fact, German GDP has roughly stagnated since 2019. And German manufacturing is the main problem: Industrial output lags pre-pandemic levels by some 5 percent.

[Read: Europe’s sleeping giant awakens]

If you ask Berlin who is to blame, there seems to be just one answer: high energy prices sparked by Russia’s war against Ukraine. The AfD and far-left Die Linke are nostalgic for cheap Russian gas, while the opposing center-right CDU and the governing pro-business FDP blame the Greens for insisting on turning off the country’s last nuclear-power plants this spring. Scholz decided to turbocharge renewables investment, and no one in Berlin expects the government to advance the exit from coal energy from 2030 to 2038, as initially planned.

But high energy prices are not the only drag on the economy, nor are they new. German electricity prices have run significantly above the European average for at least a decade, and Russian gas was never really cheap, especially if you compare it with U.S. fracking gas.

The reason Germany ceased to be Europe’s growth engine has less to do with Russian energy than with changing circumstances in the export markets where the country’s industrial champions once flourished. In the 2000s, former Chancellor Gerhard Schröder slashed unemployment benefits and created a low-wage sector to help German exporters increase their market shares across Europe. Since then, many other European countries, including France and Italy, have made reforms to cut labor costs themselves, and Germany faces tougher competition in its biggest export market and has been running a trade deficit in goods with other EU members since 2020.

Outside the EU, “made in Germany” goods struggle to find new clients. Exports to China have been roughly flat since mid-2015 and may even start to drop, as President Xi Jinping has made clear that he wants to make his country less dependent on European industry. German car exports to China were down 24 percent in the first three months of 2023 compared with the same period in 2022. The U.S. is Germany’s second-largest market after the EU, accounting for 8.9 percent of its exports, but to top off Germany’s troubles, Washington is becoming more protectionist under Joe Biden. The Inflation Reduction Act, for instance, includes purchase subsidies for electric vehicles that primarily benefit buyers of cars produced in North America.

So what can Berlin do if exports won’t be driving German growth anymore?

The obvious solution is for Germany to spend more. Greater investment could raise productivity in a country where the railways have the worst delays among major European countries and cellphone and internet connectivity are underfunded and therefore patchy. Investment could boost demand, and liberalizing policies could rebalance the economy toward services. But a dogma of balanced budgets and debt avoidance remains deeply anchored among German politicians and voters.

Germans don’t seem to feel much urgency around these questions at the moment. Unemployment is still low. In Mannheim, students are out and about, enjoying spaghetti ice cream, the local speciality, priced at €5.80, while the once slightly rundown Berlin Ku’damm feels more and more like the manicured Avenue Montaigne in Paris. In March this year, Chancellor Scholz even said the country will soon see a new “Wirtschaftswunder”—Germany’s age of postwar growth—a prediction that should leave any economist gasping.

In short, the penny has not yet dropped. Germany’s political elite hasn’t been moved to take the risky step of running up debts and liberalizing at the same time. But until it does, the country’s economy will likely lag European growth. And if the economy ceases to serve as a source of national pride, political forces may thrive by brandishing more nativist concepts of German identity.

More and more governments across Europe are led by right-wing parties: in Italy, Sweden, Finland, and soon possibly Spain. In all of these countries, the center-right no longer has qualms about working with the far-right. Now Germany, whose effort to confront its Nazi history seemed to inoculate its politicians from having to deal with a large far-right party, is also falling prey to populism and nationalism.

[Read: What Germany says about far-right politics]

The AfD’s rise to 20 percent in the polls—twice what it commanded in the 2021 parliamentary elections—has many causes. The party’s bastion is the formerly Communist east, where authoritarian attitudes and resentment of traditional parties feed off of feelings of having been the losers in Germany’s reunification. But something broader is going on. For Germans, the hallmark of good government is “Ruhe und Ordnung,” calm and order. The three parties in Scholz’s ruling coalition—the center-left SPD, the Greens, and the pro-business FDP—squabble over everything, including whether to ban gas heating systems, how to deal with China, and whether to raise the child-benefits system. The result is neither calm nor order, at a time when inflation and the energy crisis are already destabilizing life in Germany.

The party has also benefited from a backlash against Germany’s progressive agenda on climate and migration. Despite the country’s reputation abroad as a climate champion, in a poll of seven European countries, Germans were the least willing among Europeans to switch to electric cars, cut meat consumption, or spend out of their own pockets to renovate their houses to save the climate.

As for migration, racist views are ingrained in Germany’s formerly Communist east, where more than 28 percent of survey respondents agreed that “Jews have something special and idiosyncratic” and “don’t really fit with us,” and roughly 20 percent said that the crimes of the Nazi regime had been grossly exaggerated. Half of those surveyed wanted a ban on Muslim immigration. But the AfD has also been able to mobilize an anti-immigration electorate in big, rich, formerly West German states, such as Bavaria, the land of Siemens and Weisswurst, and Baden-Württemberg, home to Mercedes and Spätzle.

Economic conditions as well as refugee crises likely have something to do with the rightward shift on this issue. In the late 1960s, when West Germany hit its first postwar economic recession and migrants from Southern Europe and Turkey started working in its factories, the neo-Nazi NPD won 9.8 percent in Baden-Württemberg and 7.4 percent in Bavaria. In the 1990s, when Germany struggled with high unemployment and refugees came from the former Yugoslavia, the far-right Republikaner easily won 10.9 percent in elections in Baden-Württemberg. Both parties vanished into irrelevance when the center-right CDU shifted its migration policy to the right.

The eastern states of Thuringia and Saxony will hold elections next year—national elections will follow in 2025—and the CDU will need to decide whether it will continue marginalizing the far-right or start working with it instead. The AfD is leading the polls in Thuringia and polling a strong second in Saxony. The national leader of the CDU, Friedrich Merz, says he will not work with the AfD, but in Berlin many fear that the local CDU branches in Thuringia and Saxony may decide to do it anyway. Merz cannot prevent this if he does not want to risk splitting the party in two.

Germany is joining the European mainstream, with its political class struggling to counter rising far-right support and an economy that is no longer best-in-class. The two things that made postwar Germany unique in Europe are no more. Even Germany’s football team, second only to the economy as a source of post-1945 national pride, is not what it used to be.

Germany’s déclassement is a problem for the country itself, but also for the EU. When the bloc’s ancestor, the European Coal and Steel Community, came into being in the 1950s, its raison d’être was to domesticate Germany and stabilize the continent with it. Later, the EU started to rely on Germany as its anchor. The German economy was strong enough to help finance the European project, and its politicians were often far-sighted enough to realize that advancing the EU was in Berlin’s interest.

Now the rise of the AfD is pushing Berlin to become an unreliable partner in Europe. The CDU was once the champion of Schengen, the EU’s policy to allow for passport-less travel across the continent. The party’s leader, Merz, clearly concerned about covering his right flank, has now called for reintroducing passport checks at Germany’s borders with other EU members, such as Czechia, in order to turn away migrants.

The Scholz government surprised Brussels by torpedoing at the very last minute a decision to ban the sale of combustion-engine cars in Europe as of 2035. The FDP, which was the main force behind this decision, received a much-needed boost in the polls as a result. As the AfD criticizes the “reckless” spending of the Scholz government, the FDP and the chancellor are doubling down on spending cuts. Germany is becoming less willing to spend for itself and the EU.

For a decade, pundits speculated that France, led by Le Pen, would put the European project to its biggest stress test. But instead the German speed car seems ready to cut across France to the chase.

The AfD may one day accede to national government, but it cannot do so on its own. To work in a coalition, the party will almost certainly have to compromise on its most radical policy propositions, such as closing the U.S. military base in Ramstein. But even with the AfD merely exerting pressure on German politics, the EU must sooner or later face an adjustment—to a future in which Germany is no longer an economic and political anchor so much as a source of instability.