Nadav Lapid, the darling of the international film circuit and the self-appointed conscience of a nation that clearly didn’t ask for one, has discovered a revolutionary new weapon in the arsenal of geopolitical conflict: the scream. Not the scream of a victim pinned under a slab of concrete in Gaza, nor the scream of a soldier realizing his legs are in different zip codes, but the curated, high-definition, award-winning scream of the Israeli intellectual. According to Lapid, the failure of Israeli society to halt the ongoing carnage is an artistic failure as much as a moral one. It is the ultimate indulgence of the creative class—the belief that the vibrations of one’s vocal cords can somehow act as a counter-measure to a 2,000-pound JDAM.

The filmmaker’s lamentation that Israeli society 'failed' is perhaps the most charmingly naive take since someone suggested that the United Nations could actually enforce a resolution. It assumes that society had a coherent, functional moral compass to begin with, rather than a collection of competing tribal grievances and a high-tech iron dome designed to ignore any reality that doesn't fit on a propaganda poster. Lapid speaks of 'complicity' with the breathy intensity of a man who just realized his Netflix subscription might be funding the very infrastructure he decries. He treats the 'duty to scream' as if it were a tactical maneuver, a sort of sonic boom of righteousness that could shatter the resolve of a government that treats international law like a vague suggestion from an annoying waiter.

But let’s be honest: Lapid’s admission of complicity is a fascinating exercise in brand management. By declaring himself and his fellow artists guilty, he instantly ascends to a state of secular grace. It is the 'I’m the biggest sinner' move used by televangelists to ensure the congregation keeps their eyes on the pulpit and their wallets open. If you’re the one who admits the failure, you’re the only one smart enough to have diagnosed it. It’s a closed loop of intellectual narcissism that provides exactly zero calories of actual change. The 'scream' he advocates for is a boutique emotion; it’s a luxury item exported to the West so that audiences in Paris and New York can feel a vicarious shiver of 'importance' while they sip their fair-trade espresso.

On the one side of this tragedy, we have the Israeli Right—a collection of greed-driven, moronic expansionists who view the 'other' as a demographic inconvenience to be managed with explosives. On the other side, we have the performative Left, represented by the likes of Lapid, who think that if they just find the right frequency of artistic agony, the tanks will simply stop out of sheer embarrassment. Both sides are trapped in a feedback loop of mutual destruction where the only winner is entropy. The Right provides the violence, and the Left provides the mournful soundtrack for the international news cycle. It’s a symbiotic relationship that keeps everyone employed and the cameras rolling.

The tragedy of the Middle East is perpetually served as a buffet for the global commentariat. Lapid laments that artists were 'complicit,' but he ignores the fundamental reality that the scream he wants to produce is just part of the entertainment cycle. The scream doesn’t stop the machine; it is the byproduct of the engine running at full speed. It adds the 'prestige' to the horror. In a region where historical parallels are used as bludgeons, the only constant is the absolute lack of imagination on all sides. They are reenacting the same tired scripts with better cameras and more expensive ordnance. Lapid thinks his voice could have changed the rhythm of the machine, but the machine is fueled by the very noise he advocates for.

We are witnessing the final atrophy of the 'Intellectual as Savior' myth. When the dust finally settles on the ruins—if it ever does—there will be dozens of documentaries, three or four haunting features, and perhaps a retrospective at the Berlinale dedicated to Lapid’s 'bravery.' He will be there, looking appropriately tortured, discussing his 'duty' while the people who actually lived the nightmare continue to be ignored by everyone who isn't trying to win a golden statue. The scream isn't for the victims. It’s for the screamer, to make sure he can still hear his own soul over the sound of the world burning. It is a pathetic, human, and utterly predictable display of ego masquerading as activism.

In the end, the Israeli public isn't listening, the government isn't listening, and the victims are beyond hearing. The only people listening to the scream are other artists, who will nod solemnly and prepare their own screams for the next festival season. It is a cacophony of the useless, a symphony of self-importance performed while the house burns down. Lapid says it was their 'duty to scream.' I say it was their duty to be relevant, but they traded that for a distribution deal long ago.