The Carousel Keeps Spinning (And We Keep Paying for Tickets)

Falling for the Nostalgia Trap

I need to tell you about the exact moment I realized nostalgia had me in a chokehold: I was sitting in my basement, watching the third trailer for a Masters of the Universe reboot, and I felt my wallet start levitating out of my pocket like some kind of monetary poltergeist situation. My brain was screaming “DON’T DO IT” but my heart was already booking tickets for opening night, whispering sweet nothings about Castle Grayskull and Battle Cat and that absolutely unhinged scene where Skeletor just... screams at the sky.

It’s all shimmering CGI, really, really attractive people, and scenes that could have appeared in virtually any blockbuster from the last 20 years (also, Jared Leto as Skeletor is a profoundly dubious sign at best).

This is what we’ve become, people.

The thing about nostalgia is that it’s the perfect scam. It’s like if someone figured out how to weaponize your childhood and then charge you $15 plus popcorn to experience it. And we KNOW it’s a scam. We’ve seen this movie before — literally. We watched G.I. Joe turn into a two-film embarrassment where Channing Tatum yells at robots or whatever (I genuinely cannot remember the plot, which tells you everything). We endured SIX Transformers movies that somehow got progressively worse, which shouldn’t even be mathematically possible. Michael Bay looked at giant robots punching each other and said, “what if we made this boring and also three hours long?” and we still showed up.

The Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles — TURTLES, mind you, who were supposed to be teenagers, which implies a certain scrappiness, a certain pizza-loving goofiness — got turned into Dwayne Johnson-sized behemoths who looked like they could deadlift a Honda Civic. Where’s the joy? Where’s the substance? They’re turtles! They should be eating pizza in sewers and making jokes, not looking like they’re about to compete in the Ninja CrossFit Games.

And now, AND NOW, they’re making a Rambo prequel. Let me repeat that so it can fully marinate in your brain: they’re making a movie about how John Rambo GOT his PTSD. You know, the PTSD that Stallone portrayed in First Blood in one of the most raw, vulnerable, groundbreaking depictions of veteran trauma ever put to film? Yeah, that. But as an origin story. “Come watch a man experience psychological devastation! In theaters this summer!” It’s like making a prequel to Schindler’s List called “Schindler’s First Day at the Factory: He’s Just Excited About Manufacturing!”

Here’s what I know about Generation X: we are the generation that required public service announcements to remind our parents we existed. “It’s 10 p.m. Do you know where your children are?” was an actual thing that had to be broadcast on television, which is WILD when you think about it. I mentioned this in one of my university classes in the fall, and several of my classmates thought I was joking.

And then they had to air ANOTHER PSA reminding parents to hug us.

We’re the generation that watched the Challenger explode in our classrooms seventy-three seconds after liftoff, while our teachers stood there in their “TEACHERS IN SPACE!” t-shirts, and then we got sent home for the day to process national trauma alone because our parents were at work and didn’t know where we were at 10 p.m.

So yeah, maybe we want to go back to a time machine that feels safer. The carousel, as Don Draper would say.

But here’s the thing Don Draper didn’t mention in that speech (which, real talk, is one of the greatest moments in television history): the carousel doesn’t actually take you anywhere. It just goes around and around in circles. You’re not traveling. You’re just dizzy.

Look at what’s coming in 2026: Avengers: Doomsday. Toy Story 5 (FIVE). Spider-Man: Brand New Day. More Mandalorian. Mortal Kombat II. A Super Mario Galaxy MOVIE. Street Fighter. Scream 7. Another Mummy reboot (and this might start a few brawls in my comments,but the Brendan Fraser/Rachel Weisz is TERRIBLE). A Michael Jackson biopic. They’re rebooting THE ROCKFORD FILES, a show that ended before I knew how to tie my shoes.

It’s not that these will all be bad. Some might even be good. There are still brilliant filmmakers making original, stunning work out there too. But the sheer VOLUME of it, the relentless strip-mining of our collective past, it starts to feel less like honoring what came before and more like running out of ideas while the planet literally burns.

Because that’s the other thing: Bono (yes, THAT Bono, the man with the most endearing messianic complex in popular music) once shouted “You glorify the past when the future dries up.” And my friends, the future IS drying up. Data centers are chugging water like it’s going out of style. The planet is cooking. The future feels uncertain and scary, and maybe that’s why we keep reaching backward, trying to grab onto something solid, something we remember feeling good about.

I admit I am complicit. I went to see Oasis in Chicago last year. Twenty-three songs of sensational (and exceptionally loud) ‘90s Britpop perfection. I sang every word. I felt thirteen again. And you know what? I’m probably going to see Masters of the Universe too. I’m going to give them my money, sit in that theater, and when someone yells “I HAVE THE POWER,” I’m going to feel something light up in my chest that hasn’t been touched since about ‘85.

There’s one reboot I’m genuinely excited about, though: The Muppet Show coming back to network television. But here’s the thing about the Muppets — they exist outside of normal time and space. Kermit doesn’t age. Fozzie’s jokes don’t get old (they were always old, that’s the POINT). Miss Piggy remains iconic. The regular rules of nostalgia don’t apply because the Muppets were never actually trying to be cool. They just WERE.

My only hesitation is that Disney owns them now, and Disney has shown us repeatedly that they care more about quantity than quality. The greedheads in those boardrooms know they can produce actual garbage and still print money. But… Jason Segel is executive producing, and he GETS it. He understands the assignment.

Here’s where I land: nostalgia is absolutely a trap. It’s a fun trap, sure, a comfortable trap with excellent production design and a killer soundtrack. And look, there’s no real harm in visiting that rabbit hole for a couple hours, chasing the dopamine hit of childhood wonder. Fozzie Bear in his porkpie hat, wearing a tie but no pants, driving a Studebaker—that’s a style icon. That’s forever. Wocka wocka.

Taking in Don Draper’s eloquent speech, Bono’s warning, the state of American everything, yeah, they can have my money for two hours. I’ve made it a point not to LIVE in the past. But visiting? For a matinee? While eating overpriced popcorn and letting my brain turn off?

That’s fine.

The carousel keeps spinning. And I keep buying tickets.

Because at least on the carousel, you know where you’re going. Around and around and back home again. To a place where you know you’re loved. Even if your parents didn’t always know where you were at 10 p.m.

Even if it’s just for seventy-three seconds before something explodes.