It’s a two syllable word that is everywhere and nowhere at once. Taboo—easy to miss, yet glaringly obvious. But what does it mean today with the commodification of art?
In 2024, A24 released the movie Babygirl, which is about a powerful CEO who engages in a BDSM relationship with her much younger male intern. In 2023, Laurel Parmet’s film The Starling Girl was released, wherein a teenager engages in a sexual relationship with her youth pastor. Then there’s Adrian Lyne’s 1997 movie, which to this day finds itself on Pinterest boards and Tumblr blogs (hint: Lo-lee-ta). Bones and All, released in 2022, is a visual tale about a cannibalistic couple. Some singers like Ethel Cain and Lana Del Rey divulge in incestuous themes or the idea of dating a man old enough to be your (grand)father. There are authors out there doing the same as well, exploring the distance between partners who have everything except age and power in common.
What these forms of content explore are no longer taboos. A taboo, in the traditional sense, is something that is forbidden. The word has emotional roots in shame, trauma, and secrecy. Yet none of that carries when presented to us on the big screen or through other mainstream means, because we are not experiencing the taboos firsthand—just viewing it from the eyes of another, mimicking their feelings. This is precisely what Jean Baudrillard spoke of in Simulacra and Simulation.
According to Baudrillard—a French sociologist and philosopher who wrote in the 20th century about the Industrial Revolution and onward—there is a blurring of representation and reality through the consumption of mass media. Originally, in the premodern period (prior to the 1830s), representations of something (for example, a painting of an apple) were evidently placeholders for the original thing (the apple). Then, through mass production, the distinction broke down, and the representations took on their own identities due to the mass reproduction of the copies. Now, representations take precedence over what they are representing, and the distinction between the two vanishes. This is what happened to the taboo.
Today, taboos are evidently used for narrative functions in media. Of course, there is nothing wrong with this. It is not forbidden or unlawful when depicted in fiction (and it shouldn’t be). But when it’s the selling point of the latest Hollywood flick, or the title of a literary fiction novel, the taboo is no longer taboo. It is something else entirely—a monster with its own set of limbs that we have not yet figured out.
What makes a taboo is all the things that we, as consumers or even creators, assign to it: disgust, shame, hurt, trauma—and most importantly, secrecy. If your deepest, darkest fantasies are the foundation for the latest blockbuster, then it is no longer your secret. It’s everywhere—on the IMAX screen, playing on the radio, or in the hands of commuters on your 9 am train. Like all topics of discourse, depicting taboos in creative works opens the floor for discussion and debate. It also allows for shame—the pointing of fingers, downturned mouths, audible yucks, and, worst of all, the belief that you are irredeemable and should be punished. However, with the increasing amount of tales exploring the ugliest bits of your psyche, it seems that everyone is expected to have a taboo. If the cannibalism movie didn’t hit home, then perhaps the one where the young woman engages in an affair with her boss will. Or maybe the one where Timothee Chalamet finds erotic satisfaction in dead bodies will. Either way, there should be a part of you that others cannot find out. It’s just that you don’t know what it is for now. That is what the representations of taboos tell us.
In Baudrillardian terms, if we were to outline the transformation of the taboo, it would go as so: at first, the media straightforwardly depicts the taboo, but it is a rare occurrence among the general trend of storytelling, and thus, the secrecy remains. Then, as more depictions are released with varying takes, the originally shameful aspects of taboos are concealed and presented as something desirable in a conventional sense. Then, through specific and creative plotlines, the depictions pose as representing something original, yet they are fictional takes on basic taboos. Lastly, which is what we experience today, the representations of taboos no longer reflect reality of taboos whatsoever, therefore changing the definition and attitude towards taboos. The ever-evolving definition of taboo is further complicated when representations of taboos are cherry-picked for aesthetic purposes, or when they are intrinsically linked to the #BookTok and dark romance readers, which adds fuel to the fire of disconnection, as they are now seen as ‘tropes’ or ‘filters’ for books as short-form content.
The question that lingers is, can the taboo be reclaimed? With the pace that art-for-sale is moving at, it may seem impossible. The basic idea of a taboo (being something forbidden and shameful) remains within the representations. However, taboos are expected to be encoded in our DNA, into every thought, belief, and behaviour. They are said to be interwoven in the very fabric of life. For some, a taboo is a marker of trauma, and, for others, it is a means of relaxation or indulgence. Perhaps the eating of a corpse speaks to a part of them they cannot name. The exploration of the darkest kinks, fantasies, and secrets is inevitable. Though mainstream media has changed the culture of the taboo from being something one shouldn’t have, to being the latest and hottest commodity, there is nothing inherently wrong with this representation of humanity. Slices of life will undeniably showcase the parts of us we have learned to shroud under covers and lies. But, like all things represented, the taboo will evolve and distort into something unrecognizable. Yet it will live on, just like its enjoyers, because while they seem like true representations of taboos, they bear no resemblance to the piece of you that stays hidden.