For the rich set in South America, exotic pets are a status symbol. I learned this when I went to visit an old friend of mine from Manhattan who in recent years has moved to Lima, where his family owns and runs a successful Peruvian company. As I traveled the city visiting affluent homes for lunch and dinner parties, I began to realize that nearly every wealthy person in town has at least one pet that looks like it belongs in a David Attenborough documentary or on the island of Dr. Moreau. 

“Mira, mira, mira!” my lovably South American hosts would shout to me as we traversed the drawings rooms and back hallways of their lavish houses, which invariably gave way to oversized decorative cages filled with a monkeys, jaguars, pygmy deer, and something the Lima elite like to call the Cock of the Rock.

Admittedly it was a genuine pleasure to see such foreign creatures living on display in private residences, especially when the animals were tame and given the freedom to leave their enclosures. At one home in particular, a pair of adorable Titi monkeys would descend from the branches of the fruit trees in the garden every time a meal was served outdoors. I made a habit of sharing my orange juice with the more sociable of the two. I like to think it was a special moment for both of us.

Just the other day, I received a call from a screenwriter friend of mine who was looking for a true story on which he could base a script. An executive at a movie studio had asked him to find a real-life tale about an ordinary person who challenged the corporate establishment and succeeded at forcing rich industrialists to temper their greed and reform corrupt business practices. “Do you know anyone who has a story like that?” my friend asked. “It needs to be just like Erin Brokovich.”

With nothing but grim economic forecasts clouding the horizon, it appears that tastemakers from all different realms of popular culture are scrambling to adjust to rapidly shifting attitudes towards wealth and luxury. Film producers are searching for scripts that reflect the current anti-capitalist sentiment; television networks are beginning to program reality shows whose main characters are philanthropists; and according to The New York Times even the fashion industry, which is traditionally known for its brazen celebration of affluence, is embracing a new movement called “recession chic.”

Ever since 2003, the year I completed a documentary film that chronicles the lives of children born to wealthy families, people have made a habit of engaging me in conversation about the American rich and the place they hold in our society. On several occasions, historians and sociologists have told me that they believe our culture’s interest in wealth over the last decade has reached unprecedented heights. These intellectuals cite the rise of Paris Hilton and the growing number of celebrity billionaires as two of many examples supporting their assertions. Interestingly, though, most of the academics I spoke to usually concluded their statements by predicting that the deep fascination with the rich—and specifically the desire to view the rich as heroic figures—would certainly come to an end. And as the economy founders, their observations seem to be prescient.

Last week, Anderson Cooper introduced a new segment on CNN called "10 Most Wanted: Culprits of the Collapse," which seeks to single out individuals whose irresponsible behavior contributed to the recent economic meltdown. Every night, Wall Street “rogues” appear between crosshairs and receive a verbal ass-whupping from network commentators. When the thrashing is complete, the culprits' faces are superimposed on a wild west-style "wanted" poster and gunshot sound effects ring out.  

The segment--and the vast number of strongly worded comments on the show’s Web site supporting Cooper’s initiative—suggest that outrage over the failings of corporate leaders has reached unprecedented heights. “Seize their assets, and arrest them as the criminals they truly are,” a woman named Pamela exclaims. There is a growing sentiment that the villains implicated in the financial crisis must be brought to justice.

As a documentary filmmaker who has spent several years chronicling the lives of the vastly rich, I’m often asked about America’s wealthiest citizens and how they respond to current events. Lately, the questions I’ve been getting are born out of frustration over tough economic times.

The first time I heard the term “serving heart” was during a discussion with a man named Bob Shaheen. He was using the phrase to characterize his disposition toward his former boss the famed Saudi banker and arms merchant Adnan Khashoggi. Bob and Khashoggi worked together negotiating some of the most lucrative and highly publicized business deals of the 1970s and 1980s. At the zenith of their success, they held nearly every marker of status by which businessmen are measured: a fleet of private jets, influence on Wall Street, and friendships with heads of state, including several American presidents. The sum of their efforts catapulted Khashoggi to the title of World’s Richest Man. 

Not long ago, I found myself sitting down with Bob, asking him questions as part of my research for a documentary film I was making. In the middle of our conversation, I offhandedly and unconsciously referred to Bob as Khashoggi’s business partner. This did not please him. Bob silenced me with a solemn expression and an instructive raising of his index finger. “Jamie,” he said, “let’s be clear. It was really Adnan. You see, I was there to help.” He added, “I’ve always had a serving heart.” His deep sense of loyalty to and reverence for his former employer was palpable.

I was surprised by Bob’s reaction to my comment. Even though Khashoggi was clearly in charge, according to everything I have read and heard about their operations, Bob was a fundamental part of the system. Khashoggi also confirmed the importance of Bob’s role in the business.  

Last weekend while on a casual stroll through the Strand Bookstore on Broadway in Manhattan, a friend of mine alerted my attention to a lesser-known work by manners expert Emily Post called How to Behave Though a Debutante. The book was written in 1928 as a satire that cleverly pokes fun at a generation of affluent yet immature Jazz Age socialites whose informal behavior at the time was threatening Gilded Age values and well-established codes of conduct.

Born in 1873, Post herself was a traditionalist. In page after page of How to Behave Though a Debutante she uses an ironic voice to tease young men and woman of the day about their obsession with members of the opposite sex, their tendency to curse too much, and their appearance of being altogether naïve and ill-equipped to deal with the world. On one occasion Post makes a point of having the main character audaciously declare to the reader, “We talk quite a lot about sex, of course.” Indiscretions like this, Post implies, were corrosive to decent society and offended 19th-century sensibilities.

Now, while I generally dislike enforcers of etiquette and feel they are painfully pretentious, I must admit that during a recent lunch party at the home of a wealthy family I caught myself secretly frowning upon an adolescent boy in much the same way Emily Post might have. The behavior that caught my attention was the improper use of a fork.

Recently I sat having a drink at an intimate little bar in the West Village of Manhattan, listening to a conversation between two multi-billionaires who had just discovered that they both had plans to travel to London the following morning. “Oh, how are you getting there,” one asked the other. “Taking the B.B.J.?” Then a roar of laughter erupted between the two of them. At first, I wasn’t sure what was so funny, but after they explained that B.B.J. stands for Boeing Business Jet—the largest and most expensive private jets in existence—I gradually began to understand the sarcasm underlying the joke.

Although both of the individuals can afford a Boeing Business Jet, which costs anywhere from $55 million to $150 million, it seems that neither would ever want to. For them, it doesn’t matter that the custom 747 and 787 airplanes with master bedrooms, gourmet kitchens, and theater-quality screening rooms are the latest addition to the private-aircraft market. The billionaires I sat chatting with see the B.B.J.’s as emblematic of what has become a seemingly limitless supply of—and demand for—exorbitantly expensive luxury goods. And as far as they are concerned, the idea that anyone would purchase such an item is laughable.

Someone once said to me, “I never met a billionaire I didn’t like.” It’s a line that has stuck with me over the years, mainly because there’s a genuine cynicism in the sentiment that I suspect nearly all people share. I don’t mean to suggest literally that everyone likes all billionaires, but I do believe that our culture has an obsession with wealth, albeit an uneven one.

Perhaps it’s easiest to imagine as a love/hate relationship. Wealth is something that almost every American spends the better part of his or her life seeking, yet it is also a common subject of ridicule.

Social critics and academics have traditionally observed that the general public’s interest in wealth, and in particular the media’s, fluctuates according to the rhythm of the economy.

As the theory goes, in prosperous times Americans are typically less concerned with affluence and less drawn to stories about wealth. And conversely, during difficult times, when access to spare cash is limited to all but the super-rich, images of opulence and tales depicting the heroic deeds of wealthy men become popular.

At the movies recently, I have been reminded of our country’s attraction to and inconsistent appreciation for portrayals of the rich and their lavish lifestyles. The two films generating real excitement this spring and summer are Iron Man and Batman: The Dark Knight. Both stories are built around central characters who are billionaire industrialists. These men use their fortunes to transform themselves into epic crime-fighting figures. In addition to money, they have superior intelligence and transcendent strength. They are unconquerable in conflicts with their enemies and beloved as much by the public they protect as the moviegoers they entertain.

In 1783, the Queen of France, Marie Antoinette, built a small imitation farm on the outskirts of the royal palace of Versailles. She called it Le Petit Hameau de la Reine, or the Little Hamlet of the Queen, and it served as her retreat from her official residence at the main chateau. When visiting, she indulged her naïve fantasies about the purity and simplicity of peasant life. She dressed as a shepherdess, milked cows that her servants had handpicked for their docile nature, and carried porcelain dairy churns around in specially designed pails embossed with her personal monogram.

Today we tend to think of the French queen and her extravagant behavior as emblematic of a different time, a distant era when wealthy aristocrats spent frivolously and acted on absurd desires to live simultaneously as nobility and members of the lower classes. But in recent weeks, after listening to many vastly rich people I know discuss their summer-vacation plans, I have come to realize that escaping large country estates for nearby faux-rustic lodgings is as fashionable as ever.