Libertarian Literary and Media Criticism

In the introduction to Libertarian Literary and Media Criticism, the editor (Jo Ann Cavallo) stakes out an intellectual agenda, integrating libertarian philosophy and Austrian School economics into the analysis of literature and media. More than a tribute to Paul Cantor (1945–2022), this chapter is a methodological manifesto, arguing that libertarianism offers an interpretive framework uniquely suited to understanding the complexity, creativity, and spontaneity of cultural production analogous, but in contrast, to Marxist literary theory.

Cavallo acknowledges the volume’s inspiration in the life and work of Cantor, whose scholarship was both wide-ranging and unconventional. Cantor wrote on subjects as diverse as Shakespeare, H. G. Wells, South Park, and Breaking Bad, all with equal intellectual seriousness and deep historical grounding. 

I have a personal anecdote to illustrate this aspect of Paul’s character, and interests. The two of us once had a lengthy, spirited, and bourbon-fueled argument in a conference hospitality suite; the matter was whether Shakespeare’s Coriolanus was a credible hero for a modern audience. I argued “no,” claiming that the events of Act I, Scene 5 could not possibly be played for anything but laughs. As the reader recalls, in this scene the army is outside the gates of the Volscian capital, Corioles, and Caius Martius gives a rousing speech to the men, urging them to take advantage of the open gates to take the city. The stage directions read: 

They all shout and wave their swords, take him up in their arms, and cast up their caps.

Then Martius goes alone into the city gates, which close behind him.

That’s hilarious; there is no way to play it seriously. Rousing speech, all cheer, they lift him up, put him down, and he runs into the city, nobody follows him, and the doors close behind him with a loud bang.

Cantor would have none of it, and said it must be played straight, to show what a hero was Caius Martius. I finally gave up, and said, “Look, Homer Simpson, from the cartoon, is a more serious hero than Caius Martius!”

Paul immediately stared at me, and (quite seriously) said, “Oh, well, yes. I agree with that. But what’s your point?” That was Paul. 

What unified Cantor’s approach was a broad commitment to an interdisciplinary methodology rooted in Austrian economics. That tradition is of course completely marginalized, even mocked, in literary studies, which are dominated by doctrinaire Marxist, structuralist, or postcolonial frameworks. (In lit departments, it’s Edward Said, yes; Ludwig von Mises, no). Paul Cantor stood firmly, but nearly alone in the mainstream, against this tendency, championing free markets and individual liberty not (only) as political ideals but as analytical tools for engaging with culture.

Cavallo does not just “phone it in,” as might be expected for an edited volume, where the introduction often just lists the authors and summarizes their contributions. This first chapter presents the Austrian School as an interpretive lens and reads more like a free-standing manifesto. Drawing on Austrian thinkers such as Carl Menger, Ludwig von Mises, and Friedrich Hayek, Cavallo highlights core concepts such as subjective value, methodological individualism, and spontaneous order. These ideas, she argues, are particularly useful in the analysis of literature and media because they focus on human creativity and decentralized action rather than deterministic class struggle or collectivist narratives. Whereas Marxist criticism tends to reduce texts to reflections of material conditions or ideological domination, the Austrian-libertarian approach emphasizes the autonomy of individuals, the emergent nature of culture, and the moral significance of choice and responsibility. That is certainly consistent with Cantor’s “bring the hero back in” worldview, even (especially?) if the hero is Homer Simpson.

Cavallo gives a brief historical overview of the field, noting that libertarian literary criticism was once so marginal that Cantor and Stephen Cox, when co-editing Literature and the Economics of Liberty in 2009, struggled to find contributors. Cantor ultimately wrote half the essays himself. Despite this initial scarcity, Cavallo argues that the field has since grown to include a wide range of studies, including treatments of Confucianism, cowboy films, and contemporary popular culture. Her own efforts to compile a growing bibliography of libertarian humanities scholarship reflect the vitality of the movement and its continued relevance.

The introduction does of course also preview the structure of the book itself, which proceeds chronologically through the cultural works under study—from Renaissance drama to modern television. The essays apply libertarian and Austrian insights to figures as varied as Ben Jonson, Leo Tolstoy, and Hermann Hesse, as well as to unlikely but revealing subjects such as Scrooge McDuck, Undercover Boss, and the television series Yellowstone. In doing so, the volume embodies Cantor’s belief that high culture and mass media alike are worthy of serious intellectual engagement.

Ultimately, Cavallo’s introduction argues that libertarian literary criticism is not just a niche project or ideological counterpoint to Marxism—it is a compelling, humanistic, and philosophically rich approach to the arts. It brings into focus the moral and political dimensions of storytelling while respecting the complexity and freedom of the creative process. As Cavallo concludes, interpreting Shakespeare or television through this lens is not simply an academic exercise; it is an inquiry into the deeper structures of human action and the ideals that make a free society possible.

It seems to me that there are three core themes to the essays in the volume. At the risk of oversimplifying, the authors all argue some variant of these three:

• It is important to draw a contrast between capitalism and statism in literary and media narratives.
• The use of Austrian economic principles such as like marginal utility, individualism, and spontaneous order is useful as an analytical device to interpret cultural works.
• Social criticism must elevate and take seriously the popular culture of television and other mass media as legitimate subjects for serious analysis and discussion; be the anti-snob who could seriously compare Homer Simpson and Caius Marcius.

What comes through in the essays is an extended argument for why Cantor’s approach is not just important, but portable; young scholars can use this approach to ensure their own scholarly flourishing and success. Using the 2009 book Literature and the Economics of Liberty as a wellspring and model, it is possible explicitly to align literary criticism with Austrian economics, turning libertarian theory into a viable lens for cultural analysis.

In terms of substance, there are three main themes in the essays. First, the essays address the tension between authorial intent vs. structural representation. Some literary works explicitly promote pro-market ideals (e.g., Carlo Collodi’s Pinocchio), while others suggest authors unintentionally promote libertarian values by offering contradictory views on the state and economy. I have certainly found this kind of tension useful myself, pedagogically: if the author wants personal freedom and self-realization, but argues for a full-on collectivist vision of society . . . well, let’s talk about that. 

Second, not only are literary scholars allowed to study popular media and culture, but in fact that is their obligation. Still, enlisting a source as being allied with the Austrian program should be done carefully: some contributors embrace Cantor’s valorization of popular culture (e.g., Scrooge McDuck, Shark Tank), but others are skeptical about whether such media can simply be ported over to advocacy for coherent libertarian insights or merely reflect ambivalent capitalist narratives.

Third, the essays themselves vary in the rigor and enthusiasm with which they apply Austrian economic concepts. Some essays lean heavily into economic modeling (e.g., marginal utility, methodological individualism), while others maintain a looser thematic connection, diluting the method Cantor championed.

In Cantor’s own essay on Undercover Boss, he critiques the popular reality show as a cultural artifact that both reveals and obscures important truths about capitalism. While acknowledging its emotional appeal and positive portrayals of human dignity, he ultimately challenges the show’s sentimental and almost feudal vision of commerce.

For those who don’t know, the show features CEOs disguising themselves to work at entry-level jobs in their own companies, leading to dramatic reveals where they reward deserving employees. These moments serve as modern “conversion narratives,” akin to Charles Dickens’s A Christmas Carol, rehabilitating the capitalist boss as a benevolent father figure.

On the other hand, Undercover Boss replaces the impersonality and efficiency of capitalism with a nostalgic ideal of paternalism. The show suggests that businesses should operate like families, with CEOs acting like feudal lords who dispense justice and charity based on personal knowledge and moral judgment. The hierarchy is not so much contractual and voluntary as filial and organic. Cantor sees this as a distortion. Capitalism, he argues, advances precisely by making relationships impersonal and scalable. The impersonality of the market enables equality under contract and economic efficiency—not exploitation.

The show’s main dramatic moment, the catharsis, is the “reveal” at the end where the workers who have had to deal with the disguised “undercover boss” learn the truth. Cantor questions whether it’s efficient—or honest—for a CEO to pretend to be an entry-level worker. He suggests that a well-run company should already have systems in place to communicate employee needs through delegation and management, rather than relying on dramatic personal revelations. Cantor then contrasts Undercover Boss with Shark Tank, which more openly embraces the competitive and innovative aspects of capitalism. Where Undercover Boss hides capitalism under a mask of compassion, Shark Tank celebrates its disruptive and meritocratic nature. There is no sentimentality or moral obligation that drives the “Sharks” to invest, or not invest, in an idea; it’s purely about the value that is created for society, and the profits expected as a result. 

Cantor acknowledges that Undercover Boss reveals a public hunger for more humane forms of capitalism—people want to believe their bosses care, and they yearn for meaning and recognition in their jobs. However, he cautions against returning to the “moral economy” of pre-capitalist societies, where justice and charity depended on arbitrary personal ties rather than legal rights and market institutions.

He proposes that capitalism doesn’t need to become feudal to become humane. Instead, it should stay true to its strengths: contractual fairness, impersonal efficiency, and decentralized innovation. Real reform, in Cantor’s view, lies not in hugging your employees, but in building systems that respect their time, labor, and privacy while still ensuring upward mobility and opportunity.