Cults are everywhere right now. Since 2016, there have been major TV series about Jonestown, the Rajneeshis and Buddhafield; Keith Raniere’s NXIVM — a cult that involved literally branding women as sex chattel while also selling them quite dry self-help courses — has had two big TV series and umpteen podcasts made about it, even though the court cases are still ongoing. The voracious world of TV rights doesn’t get more frenetic than when a new cult breaks. They’re bingeable content for a streaming age: the natty uniforms, big personalities and big ideas are baked in. You don’t have to add much to make a drama.
Beyond these penny dreadfuls, the broader notion of “cult” oozes ever-outwards, both as marketing ploy and as symptom of a fragmenting society. Increasingly, we have come to see vague social trends through the lens of belonging; to view followership as a good in itself. You could perhaps trace this to 2001, with the “cult of Apple”: the snaking tech product launch queue has become its own trope. Around this time, queues sprung up, too, at Kings Cross’ platform 9¾, where adult Potterheads can still be observed, rotating round their personal Kaaba. Nowadays anything from jelly shoes to shower heads can be “cult”.
Yet nowhere has the cult of “cult” established itself as well as in fitness. SoulCycle, the LA spinning brand, is perhaps the most obvious example: it is regularly described as “a cult” for its theatrical class leaders (each with their own devoted following), its joyous sloganeering and its “community focus”. SoulCycle’s marketers reject the cult tag, but only in the most ah shucks way.
Ever since we were throwing virgins into volcanos, we’ve understood that pain is gain, morally speaking. From Jane “No pain, no gain” Fonda on, the modern fitness business has been keen to exploit that psychic flaw. Bikram Choudhury, the now-disgraced leader of the Bikram Yoga movement, would put those who came on his Las Vegas teaching courses through three or four-hour sessions in 40 degree heat, walking up and down muttering cheeky-chappie aphorisms as he toured the room. Around him, yoga pros would be fainting or puking. This wasn’t exercise. This was self-flagellation. Like the devoted Catholic Filipinos who nail themselves to crosses every Easter, it was a chance to become one with your lord and saviour via an apex of anguish.
Of course, moving in tandem can be powerful. No wonder Falun Gong (which The Chinese Communist Party has decided is definitely a cult) founded itself upon its nationwide morning Tai Chi-like exercise sessions. Military psychologists have long known that marching is principally about compounding a disparate group of individuals into a hive mind. In China, the CCP quickly became unnerved by the sight of hundreds of Falun Gong devotees, in parks and on street corners, acting as one.
Yet Falun Gong are an interesting case, in that they do have a single charismatic leader, and he does believe in UFOs. Yet their workout theology does not appear to be harmful, nor overly inward-looking. So, where does the cultish stuff we’re sold tip over into something more sinister?
Join the discussion
Join like minded readers that support our journalism by becoming a paid subscriber
To join the discussion in the comments, become a paid subscriber.
Join like minded readers that support our journalism, read unlimited articles and enjoy other subscriber-only benefits.
Subscribe