Peter Vack’s Humiliation Ritual

A lesson on criticism and public opinion

Both legendary photographs by @manabovetown on Instagram

Two nights ago at a downtown NYC reading called Words at Flings, I had a public spat with director Peter Vack over my brutally honest critique of his new film, RachelOrmont.com. Things got heated: he tried to yank the mic from me, interrupting like a flustered drama kid who didn’t prepare his lines. It was, frankly, embarrassing and ended up being the humiliation of the guy who seems to gain whatever social capital one can get from constantly humiliating people in the city. Since then, my Instagram has blown up with 50+ DMs asking, “What happened?” So here’s the recap, with some backstory.

The Screening and My Review

I attended the inaugural Downtown Film Festival at the Roxy Cinema in October, eager to see RachelOrmont.com. The film had been buzzed about for years, with promises of 4chan-infused sci-fi, Chloe Cherry in the cast, and Vack’s sister, Betsey Brown, playing another one of her feral, unhinged characters (she’s excellent at that, for the record). I went in with zero cynicism and a bucket of popcorn.

By the end, the only emotion I could muster was annoyance. Not anger. Not intrigue. It's just pure, grating irritation. Here’s my review: ½ star on Letterboxd.

Worst film of the year. My opinion, sure, but hey, some people might love it. Art is subjective, after all.

The Q&A

The Q&A portion began, the audience shifting in their seats as if about to settle in for another act. I sat there, popcorn long gone, grappling with how I felt about what I’d just seen. Annoyance, mainly. Nothing profound. Nothing inspired, just a lingering irritation.

Questions floated through the room, some gushing with praise, others cautiously probing the film's intentions. I couldn’t help but fixate on the glaring absurdities of it all. Full penetration, extended masturbation scenes, public urination in front of a child—real urination, mind you. It wasn’t just the explicit content but the sheer audacity of it all, the way it felt disconnected from anything resembling a cohesive narrative or purpose. Add the hyper-niche references from New York’s downtown scene culture and the stale memes peppered throughout. How was this supposed to land with anyone beyond a downtown bubble?

When the chance to ask a question came my way, I decided to address the elephant in the room straightforwardly. “This is kind of a strange and pornographic film,” I began, my voice even though I could feel eyes shifting toward me. “How do you distribute this, get an MPAA rating, or make the budget back?”

Peter Vack stood at the front, arms crossed, his expression twitching from nonchalant to defensive. “Make the budget back?” he parroted, voice heavy with scorn. “We already made the budget back. Sorry, we didn’t get A24 this time.” He glanced toward his sister, Betsey, who shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “I can see Betsey is getting pissed. You think this can’t play throughout the country?”

I didn’t hesitate. “No.”

The room went silent for a beat, the silence that begs for tension to break. “Let’s move on from that question, we can’t end on that” Vack said, interpreting what I asked as an incendiary remark. However, to me, it wasn’t an incendiary remark—just an objective and technical trio of questions asked in the hopes of receiving an honest answer. If anything, I was voicing what half the audience might’ve been thinking but didn’t dare say. This wasn’t personal. As a critic, it’s my job to ask tough questions to push back where others might placate. I wasn’t out to attack him or his character. The issue was the film.

But Peter didn’t see it that way. His reaction felt visceral, wounded even. I later heard through the grapevine that he’d been seething about me and my page, ANTIART, ever since. I was surprised a person who is so public and so seemingly confident in his work would care that much about a few simple questions. But I was fine with this. Let him stew. I had no beef with him. Only the mess he called a movie.

The Reading: Round One

Fast forward to two nights ago. I joined a reading at Old Flings, where Vack was also on the bill. Rumors swirled that he’d had beef with me, and people even rumored he would mention me in his piece. If you don’t know the piece, he reads the same thing every time but changes names either to name drop or to be critical of someone, even if no one cares. Again, I understood and it was fine by me. I prepared a reading about criticism, Spotify Wrapped, and AI—with a light jab about RachelOrmont.com tucked in for context. Breaking it down word-for-word, the reference compromised only 8% of my work. Plus, I would also venture to guess that more than half of the audience had no idea what movie I was referencing, considering I didn't name the work nor the director by name in it — I just heavily implied it.

When it was my turn, I read, got some laughs, and sat down. Chill vibes all around.

Then came Peter’s turn. His piece was sharp and, at first, genuinely funny. But as it went on, it became clear this wasn’t just playful roasting. He called me “r*tarded,” a “plagiarist,” an “orphan,” and claimed I don’t understand art, let alone his. For seven minutes, he spiraled into a tantrum disguised as a performance, dragging me for everything from my writing to my (apparently tragic) relationship with my mother. It was clear that there was legitimate hatred here that I was unaware of. “ANTIART” or “Ryan” must’ve been said over 30 different times, and that’s a light estimate.

“MORE!” someone from his friend group shouted over my head, as if beckoning him to continue hurling insults directly at me. And let me tell you, he obliged.

When he finished, he strutted off, smug and self-satisfied, assuming this would end as the many times he has tried to humiliate people over petty grievances like this publicly. He had done this to many of my friends and friends of friends, and he was predictably incited to insult anyone who lodged the slightest criticism.

Round Two: ANTIART Strikes Back

But I wasn’t done.

I had a bonus piece prepared just in case he decided to act this way.

The host, Catie, saw that I was standing closer to the front of the room, and leaned over and asked if I wanted to respond. I nodded, grabbed the mic, and introduced my surprise follow-up piece: Interrogating the Director.

I launched in:
“I expected something like this would happen, so I came prepared…You want us to call your work a triumph—what, exactly, did you triumph over? What risk did you take? What friction did you create? Did you direct your actors, or did they direct you?”

As I continued, Peter got in my face, spit flying as he tried to argue with every rhetorical question. “Take a seat,” I said calmly. “I’m speaking.” The crowd cheered. But he continued to try to interject. “No I’m just going to inject” he yelled.

Funny enough, I finally got legitimate answers to my question from the original Q&A, and the results were exactly what I had expected.

Me: “What festivals is this playing at?”

Him: “San Francisco Jewish Film Festival Downtown Film Festival”

(Ok, so the first one you tricked your way into and the second one you got in because the producer of the film organized it. Aka, no festivals.)

Me: “How does this get distributed?”

Him: “It’s self distributed”

(Aka not distributed)

Me: “Where is that MPAA rating at?”

Him: “Uh..IT’S UNRATED”

(Ok so it didn’t secure a rating from the MPAA which will hurt distribution.)

Me: “How did you make that budget back”

Him: “THIS LEFTIST LOOOOOVES MONEY”

(Don’t films typically have to get played in theaters and make money at the box office to be considered successful? It proves that people are organically going out to see it across the country, but they’re not.)

The gist of my original Q&A questions was: how does this alienating film escape the edgelord NYC bubble and reach a broader audience? The answers I seemed to get in return amounted to: it won’t and I don’t care.

I questioned his technical skills and called out the pointless graphic nature of his film. “Worst thing to happen to downtown New York since 9/11,” I said. Then, the mic-drop closer: “The movie was piss. You, mommy, daddy, and sis should move on from the incest.”

The room erupted. Peter, unhinged, screamed about how much he hated me. “Hate you too, loser,” I said as I grabbed my coat. I later heard that he was sweating in the back of the bar, bags under his eyes saying things like “I FUCKING HATE THAT GUY.” It’s nice to get a brutally honest peak behind the curtain at how an actor behaves when he can no longer muster up the strength to hold his mask to his face.

Why I Don’t Usually Have to Fight Artists I Critique

Criticism, at its core, is a dialogue—an exchange of ideas meant to illuminate the choices, risks, and consequences that shape a piece of art. In my experience, most artists, filmmakers, and creators welcome this dialogue, even when the criticism is sharp. They know the questions about their work aren’t personal; they’re invitations to engage, to explain, and to argue for the value of their choices.

That’s why public spats like the one with Peter Vack are so rare. What he saw as a “dialogue” was a dishonest and desperate shutdown of legitimate questions. He didn’t respect my questions at the Q&A, and had no good answers for my rhetorical questions at Words at Flings. It’s all just cope. Most artists understand that criticism is not an attack but an opportunity or a chance to articulate what drove them to push boundaries, challenge conventions, or evoke discomfort. Even when we disagree, there’s often mutual respect in the exchange.

If he just plainly stated at the original screening / Q&A something like: “I know my film is alienating and because of the way it is at its core, it probably won’t reach the mainstream. But I don’t give a fuck, I will never compromise to make the art I want to make, even if it means losing money or going against the norms of basic taste and ethics. Even if it means no distribution, festivals, nationwide screenings and no rating.” I would’ve said “I think that’s an insanely misguided thought process, but I respect the integrity and how you articulated that in a thoughtful way, thank you.”

Peter’s response revealed something simpler: a terror of being seen. He surrounds himself with sycophants, mirrors of the praise he’s come to expect. Faced with critique, he crumbled, mistaking honesty for attack. It wasn’t just the fragility—it was the refusal to engage. If he’d responded thoughtfully, he might’ve shown us the risks, the ideas, the stakes behind the film. It wouldn’t have been a reactionary rebuke of my good faith question, but instead a statement of artistic purpose and freedom. Instead, he protected his bubble, as if criticism might expose him as a fraud.

Here’s the thing: I didn’t call his film “fascist” or demand it be banned. That would’ve been lazy, reductive. I called it what it was—irredeemable trash.

Criticism matters because it punctures these echo chambers, clears out the noise. It demands better of artists and sharper thinking from audiences. Art isn’t a sermon; it’s a dialogue.

Peter, maybe your next film won’t feel like a glorified Reddit post. Prove me wrong. You might even surprise us. This was never personal. I believe in your potential to be a better artist but you let me down.