Is Authenticity Still Possible in a Culture of Copies?

While reading Module 3’s texts and video, one idea that immediately caught my attention was Walter Benjamin’s theory that mechanical reproduction destroys the “aura” of an artwork. In Benjamin’s terms, aura refers to the unique presence and authenticity of the original work. When art is copied, these qualities are diminished. Benjamin saw this loss as both tragic and liberating. On one hand, mechanical reproduction diminishes the mystery and authenticity that once defined traditional art. On the other, it frees art from those constraints, allowing it to reach wider audiences and serve new social and political purposes. We can see this tension clearly in pop culture today, where art is reproduced, repackaged, and consumed in ways that often prioritize familiarity and profit over originality, often lacking the emotional depth and charm.

Copying masterworks isn’t a modern invention. Renaissance artists such as Leonardo da Vinci and Rembrandt worked alongside apprentices who often replicated their style with remarkable accuracy. These copies preserved techniques and allowed the master’s influence to live on. Money was also a factor, as copies helped meet demand and generate revenue. What sets today’s reproduction apart isn’t the act of copying itself, but the scale and intent behind it.

Artists like Andy Warhol pushed this idea further by making the copy the artwork itself. Through mass production, Warhol embraced repetition as both subject and method. Ironically, it was precisely Warhol’s rejection of originality that made his work so iconic. Warhol’s approach raises the question of whether authenticity is truly destroyed through mass reproduction or simply transformed. By highlighting repetition and mass production, he showed how originality was already being replaced by branding, shifting authorship away from the individual artist and toward systems of production and consumption.

This same logic now runs through Hollywood on an industrial scale. Studios openly remake and reboot familiar properties to guarantee audience recognition and financial returns. Franchises like Spider-Man and Batman have been reimagined countless times. In the past two decades alone, there have been ten Spider-Man films, with more currently in production. Disney’s live-action remakes show this pattern even more clearly. Maleficent offered a fresh take on Sleeping Beauty, but later remakes became increasingly repetitive.

The 2019 Lion King remake, in particular, highlights the shortcomings of mass-produced entertainment. It recreated the original almost shot for shot using computer-generated imagery, but despite its technical realism, it completely missed the warmth, humor, and emotional connections of the animated classic. Dialogue felt stiff, performances were lifeless, and the characters lacked any real semblance of expression. The film was visually impressive but emotionally empty compared to the hand-drawn original.

Like Warhol’s mass-produced works, The Lion King remake prioritizes marketability and profit over the visible hand of the artist, illustrating Benjamin’s point that mechanical reproduction diminishes authenticity. Both examples show how human presence and emotional warmth can be lost. Yet modern audiences seem largely unfazed. The Lion King remake earned over $1.6 billion worldwide, proving that commercial success doesn’t always require emotional depth.

Now, as AI becomes increasingly embedded in art, film, and popular culture, there is a growing worry that we might lose the human creativity that once gave art its depth and allowed us to truly connect with what we see on screen. If audiences are willing to embrace work that is technically impressive but lacking any sense of human involvement, should we still worry about the loss of authenticity? Or have we simply redefined what authenticity and artistic value mean, and what, if anything, is lost along the way?