For decades, we’ve been fed a narrative, a commandment almost sacrosanct in its delivery: recycle. It’s been ingrained in us as a solution to save our planet from the plastic plague. We’ve been told that by sorting our trash, and separating our bottles and bags, we were doing our part in the holy war against environmental ruin. But what if this commandment, this plastic prayer, has been nothing more than a fool’s errand?
This journey began in the late 20th century when the recycling symbol became a symbol of hope, personal responsibility, and environmental salvation. Schools taught children to recycle as if it were a new tenet of citizenship. Governments launched programs with fervor, creating a recycling culture that promised to turn our trash into treasure. Plastic, with its ubiquitous presence, was at the heart of this movement, marked with a symbol of three chasing arrows, a sign of rebirth.
But as we delve deeper, we uncover a startling revelation. John Stossel, a beacon of critical journalism, alongside science writer John Tierney, has exposed what they call “the recycling religion.” They argue that this practice, especially for plastic, has been a “dead-end street.” Even Greenpeace, once a staunch advocate for recycling, has admitted that “plastic recycling is a dead-end street.”
Why? Because the reality of plastic recycling is far from the idyllic vision we’ve been sold. Most plastic collected is not recycled; it is either downcycled into lower-quality products, shipped overseas to countries ill-equipped to handle it or simply ends up in landfills or incinerators. The energy and resources required to recycle plastic often outweigh the benefits, making it an economically and environmentally dubious endeavor.
Stossel explores economic implications with cities like Los Angeles, which, after mandating recycling, added hundreds of polluting garbage trucks to their fleets, ironically increasing the emissions they sought to reduce. We hear from Lynn Hoffman, co-president of Eureka Recycling, who candidly reveals that much of what is sent to recycling plants never sees a second life.
The documentary delves into the backstory of how this myth was perpetuated. We see how the plastic industry, facing public backlash in the ’80s and ’90s, cleverly spun recycling as the answer to the plastic waste problem, despite knowing its limitations. Interviews with former industry insiders reveal a deliberate strategy to shift responsibility onto consumers, while the true challenge of managing plastic waste was sidestepped.
Through historical footage, he revisits the Mobro 4000, the garbage barge that, in 1987, became a symbol of the recycling crisis when no one would accept its load, illustrating the early signs of the recycling myth’s collapse. We contrast this with contemporary scenes of overflowing recycling bins, where plastic bags jam machinery, and the reality of what happens to our “recyclables” when they leave our sight.
But what are the alternatives? He looks at innovative companies turning to biodegradable materials and reducing plastic use at the source. The video visits communities that have embraced zero-waste initiatives, not through recycling but through reducing and reusing. Experts like John Tierney suggest that perhaps the better path is not recycling but rethinking our use of plastic altogether.
The film concludes with a poignant reflection on the human psyche’s need for ritual and redemption, how recycling became a modern-day sacrament, a way for individuals to feel they’re doing their part. But as we’ve learned, this sacrament has been built on a foundation of sand. The documentary challenges viewers to question the dogmas we’ve accepted, to demand transparency from industries and governments, and to push for real solutions rather than comforting illusions.
In “The Plastic Prayer,” we don’t just debunk myths; we call for a new commandment: one of true environmental stewardship, where the focus isn’t on managing waste but preventing it, where the real religion is sustainable living, not the empty rituals of recycling.