Years ago, when I was a freelance journalist desperate for work, I went to Jackson Hole, Wyoming, on a press junket for a big-budget disaster movie. The movie was “2012,” and it was directed by Roland Emmerich, the German box-office savant known as the Master of Disaster. During one event, I sat in a cushy conference room at the Four Seasons with other journalists, eating comped elk chili and sliders, while some New Age-adjacent writers and other self-appointed experts—“2012-ologists,” they were called—briefed us on the coming apocalypse.
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