The Internet at large is very weird about sydney sweeney. For a while, she merely attracted the typical scrutiny and fixation of a magnetic young actor who is depicted in explicit sexual situations. It’s uncomfortable, but not unexpected. Over the past year or so, as the app formerly known as Twitter has been redesigned to amplify its ickiest users, Sydney and her body have become the subject of even more bizarre and uncomfortable discourse. Creepy regressive men have selected the blonde, blue-eyed Sweeney as their model of “true beauty,” the thing (in their eyes, surely, a “thing”) that you are allowed, even obligated to find sexy to combat the woke mind virus. It’s yet another layer to the Monroe-like obsession with which Sweeney has admitted an understandable difficulty. Unlike the late Norma Jean, however, Sweeney has platforms with which to assert her humanity, not only through interviews and social media but through her choice of projects. Immaculate, the eerie and bloody horror film of which she is both producer and star, feels directed squarely at the individuals and institutions that have made her an object of worship—emphasis on object.
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