Earlier this week came the announcement that A24 and Apple are developing a movie about Sam Bankman-Fried, the FTX cryptocurrency founder who was convicted of fraud in 2023. Lena Dunham is attached to write the script, based on the Michael Lewis non-fiction book “Going Infinite: The Rise and Fall of a New Tycoon.”

My fundamental question is always this: Beyond providing a showy role for an actor hoping for an awards campaign, why adapt an already widely reported story? What unexplored insights are there to be mined?

I was in the minority two years ago when I said we didn’t need “The Dropout,” Hulu’s prestige series about Elizabeth Holmes and her Theranos scam, and I’m probably in the minority saying the same about this project too.

Hollywood executives never seem to tire of this trope, churning out a quartet of series in 2022 that were a variation on the same theme, including the one about Holmes, another about the con artist Anna Delvey, yet another about the rise and fall of WeWork executives Adam and Rebekah Neumann, plus one more about Uber co-founder Travis Kalanick, who resigned from the company after a series of concerning allegations.

It’s unclear what we, as audiences, are meant to get from these projects. Maybe some viewers find some entertainment value, but to me, these shows come across as empty re-enactments that tend to be shrugging in their “welp, corruption!” sensibility.

All that aside, looking ahead to the proposed Bankman-Fried movie, I’m not sure Lewis’ book is the best source material. According to U.S. Attorney Damian Williams, Bankman-Fried “orchestrated one of the largest financial frauds in history, stealing over $8 billion of his customers’ money.” He was sentenced to 25 years in prison and ordered to forfeit $11 billion.

Despite these facts, Lewis has been criticized for developing a “misguided soft spot for the fallen crypto king,” per The Guardian, resulting in a book that is unable to “disguise the fact that Lewis can’t bear to think ill of his subject.”

A 1997 profile of Lewis in Vanity Fair noted that his work “raises the question of how heavily he may be placing his thumb on the scales when he weighs the ingredients of his dashing dispatches” and his “history suggests that he may be particularly susceptible to the lure of a shapely, larger-than-life narrative.”

Those are concerning traits in a non-fiction writer, but ironically, prized skills in Hollywood. Is Dunham, most famous for capturing millennial angst in her TV series “Girls,” the right person to tackle any of this with a clear eye? Time will tell.

As a critic, I’m always curious why certain types of projects get green-lit. A cynical read might be this: These stories don’t galvanize audiences to demand more scrutiny of corruption, but instead deliver a false but reassuring message that the system works because every so often, a powerful figure falls from their lofty perch.

Hollywood has always had an affinity for schemers and maybe that’s because show business is run by similar types: High on their own supply of overconfidence and fast-talking obfuscation. In 2022, when all those prestige series came out, I wrote about a different and far more interesting approach to the scammer genre:

1993’s “Six Degrees of Separation” starring Will Smith (and based on the John Guare play, which was inspired by real events) is a good point of comparison. It’s a movie that’s interested in more than the mere fact of the swindle, but why it worked: Smith’s character has an innate understanding of human nature and, despite the con, a genuine desire and need to connect with people. And the self-congratulatory swells taken in by his lies are really just projecting onto him all their neuroses and biases. Perhaps that’s because Guare (who also wrote the screenplay) wasn’t aiming to recreate a scandal, but instead used a true story to inspire his imagination and poking around the nooks and crannies of human nature.

”Six Degrees of Separation” … feels rich and complicated because it also contemplates the way ideas about race, and the smug assurance that only other white people are racist, plays into the game Smith’s character is running. That’s notably missing from the aforementioned projects. Whether it’s Anna Delvey or Elizabeth Holmes, their whiteness is so obviously key to affording them the benefit of the doubt and getting them through doors. And yet the shows about them aren’t interested in exploring this in any depth.

I’m holding out hope there are screenwriters with deeper things to say about the moral rot that has shaped corporate America. Whether there are media executives and financiers willing to back them is the tougher question.

Nina Metz is a Tribune critic.

The glamor but also the nasty underbelly of Hollywood have always loomed large in the imagination. You’d think the great destabilization that’s hit the TV and film industry would have led to all kinds of showbiz satires excavating the anxieties and disruptions brought on by streaming and, more recently, artificial intelligence. And yet the latest entry in this genre, HBO’s “The Franchise” — about the absurdity of superhero moviemaking — has nothing to say about any of it. Worse, it’s not even funny.

Perhaps it’s fitting that in such an uninspired era of commercial entertainment, not even a satire of this moment can muster up an original idea.

That got me thinking about better, more thoughtful attempts in the past, which prompted me to revisit “The Comeback.” I haven’t watched the show since it originally aired (on HBO, ironically enough) nearly 20 years ago.

Created by Michael Patrick King (“Sex and the City”) and Lisa Kudrow (who also stars), the series is equal parts comedy and tragedy, following the travails of a middling sitcom actress named Valerie Cherish. After being out of work for a few years, she’s asked to audition for a new series, but it comes with an awkward stipulation: If she’s cast, a reality TV crew will follow her around during the process to capture her “comeback.”

She’s often accompanied by her doting hairdresser (a hilarious Robert Michael Morris). “I pray you get this sitcom, because I’m two years from retiring and I need those health benefits,” he tells her. “They found two more questionable melanomas — don’t cry for me, Argentina!”

“Well, here we are,” she interrupts as they arrive at the network. “I’m sorry, darlin’, just put a pin in that.” Just put a pin in that revelation you have skin cancer, no big deal!

Kudrow was coming off her 10-year run on “Friends” when the first season of “The Comeback” premiered in 2005. It wasn’t meant to be a commentary on the show that made her famous. Even so, it’s a savage behind-the-scenes depiction of sitcom life. A second season aired in 2014, which was a meta turn of events — a comeback for “The Comeback,” a decade later. (Both seasons are available to stream on Max.)

The series portrays an era when pilot season and the network sitcom still were dominant. Watching it now, I expected “The Comeback” to feel dated. And yet the show’s observations are still so on point about Hollywood itself. King and Kudrow capture a searing but also empathetic look at the way show business can make a person deranged. Through it all, Valerie keeps a smile on her face because she has an old-school approach to stardom: Never let them see you sweat (or cry or fall apart).

We’re witnessing the raw footage of Valerie’s reality show as it’s being shot and she’s a wonderful amalgam of ridiculous but also professional.  Her standard greeting upon walking into any room: “Hello, hello, hello!” When she thinks a moment is unflattering and shouldn’t be filmed, she makes a time-out motion while her director (Lauren Silverman) consistently ignores her pleas. This makes Valerie frantic and vulnerable, forever trying to maintain her composure in the face of humiliation. She also has plenty of self-sabotaging tendencies. She’s terrible at reading the room or knowing when to let things go. The more she feels minimized, the worse she gets. She has no chill, and yet you feel deep wells of sympathy for her.

That sympathy only goes so far. “Oh, there’s that girl writer,” she says of the lone woman who’s been added to the sitcom’s writing staff. Valerie can’t be bothered to learn her name because she’s only interested in people who have power.

Veteran sitcom director James Burrows plays himself, and he is a very funny and grounding presence as he tries (in vain) to give Valerie a reality check. Her mere presence has become an annoyance to her sitcom bosses and Burrows takes her aside. “Why are you so worried about this show?” he asks and then points to the reality crew filming: “That’s your show.” He’s the voice of reason, but it’s a harsh truth that she is not prepared to accept, and the genius of “The Comeback” is that Valerie is usually some combination of wrong and right at any given moment.

Her nemesis is one of the sitcom’s creators, a hateful and obnoxious person known as Paulie G (a terrifying Lance Barber, who more recently played the dad for seven seasons on “Young Sheldon”). In “The Comeback’s” long-belated second season, we learn that Paulie G was a heroin addict when he and Valerie first worked together. Now he’s clean and making a prestige series about his time working on that sitcom. Valerie is cast to play herself, and she takes the role because her consuming hunger for fame means she’ll put up with all manner of insults. You can practically see the rage shooting out like laser beams from Paulie G’s eyes. He is Valerie’s worst nightmare — and she his.

More than a stock villain, Paulie G is a miserable, complicated man. Several years ago, when I interviewed Kudrow, she said the show’s various writers had encountered a similar personality type at some point in their careers.

“When we were interviewing people to write for the show, they all thought they knew who Paulie G was based on, and everyone had a different person in mind.  So there are a lot of those guys out there, that’s what that said to me.”

Despite the many shifts that have reshaped Hollywood in recent years, I suspect this aspect hasn’t changed much at all.

“The Comeback” makes fun of, but also has so much compassion for, an actor’s self-involved absorption and desperation. Valerie is just trying to retain some dignity in a business that’s doing everything to demolish it. Aren’t we all.

Nina Metz is a Tribune critic.