fourth draft: Not everyone who performs is lost. We perform for progress, especially in this stage of social media where content is king and the creator its obedient servant. All of us go home each evening and at some moment, with whatever degree of awareness, review the signs that sustain the continuity of our character. The dilemma of the performative person is believing that one day their act will be done. “I’m only doing this now so that one day I can do what I really want with my life.” The passport bro may say, “I will travel and sow my wild oats… only then will I settle down with a woman to have children.” The situationship may think, “If I stay with him long enough, he’ll commit to me one day.” Both operate on the pretence that things will be different in a fundamental way as long as their act continues. It rarely does. They may not intend malice, let alone plan for it, but performative people justify thinking too highly of themselves. “I am good, am I not, very, very good? All right then, tell me why I am so good.” The clueless consultant who is sent into his office to find clients is hardly encouraged to fix their problems. He sees only his clients and his computer, then sinks into the role of a cog in the corporate machine. Boring professors’ lectures have scarcely any ideal worth; they are ridden by the routine of research, subjecting their souls to dollars. Dull students become messengers for artificial intelligence, outsourcing their lessons to machines that are far from creative. Their daily rehearsal may become permanent. The passport bro who rents intimacy learns to negotiate desire. The consultant who sells certainty learns to avoid doubt. The student who delegates thought learns without understanding. So it goes for consultants, professors, students and passport bros: they wake up more refined at being what they already were. The solution is simple and deeply uncinematic. Identifying a performative male is like running a Turing test to see whether a machine is human; you’ll know he’s real when he stops pretending. Like the For You Page, such people become clever algorithms designed to manufacture admiration, not meaning—running until the man inside realizes he has worked overtime to impress people who are not actually there. The only sensible escape is without an audience. It’s the same feeling Truman felt as he exited his show: “In case I don’t see you, good afternoon, good evening, and good night.”