The media expert does not formulate hypotheses: they assert truths. This methodological inversion reveals a mechanism of symbolic domination that threatens the democratic exercise of critical thinking.
The Imposture of Media Expertise
On television sets, on the radio, and across social media, we are witnessing the proliferation of a singular figure: the self-proclaimed expert who asserts simplistic truths under the guise of scientific authority. This speech benefits from a double legitimation: that of the digital platforms that provide visibility, and that of the journalists who welcome them in the name of a so-called diversity of expression. Yet, other voices—more rigorous ones—struggle to find their place in a saturated media space.
What I wish to point out here is the fundamental difference between a genuine scientific approach and this expert imposture. The scientific method presupposes the study of a subject—always partial, always provisional—followed by the communication of hypotheses formulated with caution to third parties. Pierre Bourdieu, in Pascalian Meditations (1997), spoke of the “reflexivity” necessary for intellectual work: the ability to question one’s own tools of thought. Media experts do the exact opposite: they do not formulate hypotheses; they assert what they present as definitive truths, never based on serious scientific procedures. It is the reign of opinion.
Through their social role as experts, which they have assigned to themselves, these figures are legitimized by their self-proclaimed status. They are then free to lie or say absolutely anything. They are equally legitimized by journalists who allow themselves to be just as easily deceived by this position of authority. Noam Chomsky and Edward Herman analyzed this mechanism in Manufacturing Consent: The Political Economy of the Mass Media (1988), showing how the media manufacture consent by selecting certain voices at the expense of others, thereby creating a “democratic propaganda” that dares not speak its name.
Deconstructing a Discourse: The Example of Martin Blachier
A recent example perfectly illustrates this mechanic: Martin Blachier’s discourse on psychoanalysis. In a widely broadcast media appearance, he claimed that psychoanalysis is “a form of religion”, that there are “priests”, and that “the very idea of the existence of an unconscious is completely absurd”. Let us analyze the rhetorical structure of this argument, as it reveals the sophisticated techniques of expert imposture.
The first technique employed is what might be called an argument from inverted institutional authority: “in discussions at the National Assembly, we see that people want to stop reimbursing psychoanalysis”. This formulation is a remarkable piece of rhetorical sophistication. It suggests that a parliamentary debate constitutes, in itself, proof of the legitimacy of a critique, operating a shift from the political to the scientific. The fact that a subject is debated in the Assembly proves nothing regarding its scientific validity; let us remember that assemblies once debated the banning of Galileo or the legitimacy of slavery. Yet, this simple mention creates an effect of legitimation by association with institutional power. Michel Foucault masterfully analyzed these “regimes of truth” in The Order of Discourse (1971), where the power to speak the truth stems not from the truth itself but from the position of the speaker.
The second technique is the fallacious religious analogy. Blachier constructs a systematic parallel: “prophet” (Freud), “apostles,” “rite” (the couch), “dogmas” (the unconscious). This analogy aims to delegitimize psychoanalysis by placing it outside the scientific field. However, this rhetorical technique, frequently found in anti-science discourse, relies on a deliberate confusion between belief and working hypothesis. As Thomas Kuhn showed in The Structure of Scientific Revolutions (1962), all science functions with paradigms that organize research without being “religious dogmas.” The analogy used by Blachier is not a tool for understanding but a weapon for disqualification.
The third technique: the appeal to a supposed international consensus. By quoting Jodie Foster, who claimed that “psychoanalysis had been completely cancelled in the United States”, Blachier mobilizes the argument from authority by celebrity (why would an actress be an expert in the epistemology of human sciences?) and the geographical argument (if the United States abandoned it, it must not be valid). This logic is doubly fallacious: on the one hand, the abandonment of a practice proves nothing about its scientific invalidity—think of climate research, which was marginalized for a long time—and on the other hand, it establishes an implicit hierarchy between national practices that stems more from intellectual colonialism than from critical analysis.
Expert vs. Intellectual: A Structural Opposition
The expert is the opposite of the intellectual. This opposition, which Laurent Mucchielli develops in his analyses of security discourses, seems to me structural for understanding what is at stake. The intellectual is someone who reflects, who works, who proposes to step outside the existing framework. Jacques Rancière defines them in The Ignorant Schoolmaster (1987) as one who participates in intellectual emancipation by refusing the logic of “stultification.” The expert, on the other hand, is paid by specific interests—or believes they are serving certain interests—and does not hesitate to lie to defend them, knowing full well that they are lying. If, for example, they believe they are defending democracy or public health, they may, for the sake of this “higher interest,” utter the most blatant lies.
This opposition is not just a question of individual good or bad faith. It reveals two radically different relationships to truth and power. The intellectual, in the sense that Edward Said describes in Representations of the Intellectual (1994), exercises a critical function that necessarily places them in tension with established powers. They accept uncertainty, formulate hypotheses, and recognize the limits of their knowledge. The media expert, by contrast, draws their authority from their ability to provide reassuring certainties to the power that solicits them or the public that consumes them.
The mechanism for legitimizing the expert lie rests on a simple but formidable principle: a lie, if repeated, if legitimized, if it seems to come from multiple sources because it has been absorbed into a collective imagination, begins to become part of reality. It is legitimized as a piece of reality, even if it was originally the most shameless lie. Pierre Bourdieu analyzed in The State Nobility (1989) what he calls “symbolic capital”: the capacity to impose certain representations of the world as legitimate. The media expert accumulates this capital not through the rigor of their work, but through their visibility and their ability to occupy public space.
We cannot change the fact that people lie in this way. Nor can we directly change the fact that journalists, completely unaware of the consequences of their actions, relay these lies. On the other hand, building our own critical thinking—that is, not taking at face value the word of a person who asserts without providing any trace of actual work—is our individual and collective responsibility.
Building Critical Thinking in the Digital Age
To deconstruct the submission to authority within ourselves, we must not distrust everything—which would be another form of alienation—but rather take the time to think for ourselves. Stanley Milgram showed in Obedience to Authority (1974) that we have been conditioned to obey authority figures. Our first tendency is to believe what we are told when it comes from a source perceived as legitimate. This is neither stupidity nor gullibility: it is the result of social conditioning to obey authority and to bow to authoritarianism.
Thus, I propose a very concrete approach, applicable in daily life and transmittable to those around us: today we are fortunate to have access to immense sources of information via the Internet. We also have the chance to use artificial intelligence, which allows us to quickly synthesize documents and information. When we hear something presented as a truth, let us adopt this method: query not one, but several AIs, including those with different biases. Grok, for example, is presented as an “alt-right AI”; simply put, it does not have the same filters as others. Each AI is unique, trained on specific datasets with specific biases. Let us ask multiple AIs to inform us about the existing debates surrounding the topic at hand.
To return to the example of psychoanalysis: what is the history of its controversies since its invention? What are the arguments of its critics and its defenders? What are the sources of these positions?
This may seem like a lot of work, but in reality, it takes only a few moments and allows one to obtain diverse viewpoints almost immediately on any subject. This practice equips our knowledge, for we cannot intuit everything on our own. Bernard Stiegler, in Telecracy against Democracy (2006), would speak here of an “organology”: AI as a technical organ at the service of our attention and discernment, rather than an instrument for others to capture our attention.
The exercise of critical thinking always presupposes a distrust of ourselves, particularly regarding things for which we have an immediately reassuring answer. These spontaneous certainties are precisely the most suspect. Knowing what one thinks, being radical in one’s thought, and having arguments for one’s own radicality is excellent. But regarding what comes from outside ourselves, we must step out of the system in which we were formatted. Paulo Freire calls this “conscientization” in Pedagogy of the Oppressed (1970): the process by which the oppressed become aware of the mechanisms of their own oppression and develop the tools to liberate themselves. Critical thinking is not a natural gift; it is a practice that is learned, exercised, and transmitted.
