ISSUE 8: Migration (JUNE 2023)

THE FILM DISPATCH

chief editors

Flora Stokes

Yasmeena Sulaiman editors

Muyuan Wu

Ethan Radus

Yuqi Wang

Yiwen Shi

Rhys Monaghan

magazine design

Rhys Monaghan

graphic design team

Rhys Monaghan

social media Team

Ronglian Xu

Ivy

website manager

Mengyan Gao

proof-reader

Lauren Chalker

MIgratIon

By The Chief Editors

We are excited to present the eighth issue of The Film Dispatch magazine, for which we have chosen the theme “Migration”. Our editorial team is made up of many international students, each of whom has a unique and intimate experience with migration. Beyond the multicultural status of the modern University, we wanted to investigate cinema’s response to an increasingly globalised world and, as we had hoped, the theme inspired considerations of the broad depth of expression found in postcolonial and diasporic cinemas, political narratives concerned with displacement or disorientation, “road movies”, and so much more. This issue also includes works which address migration’s more literal connotations of movement and motion. Our contributors responded to the prompt in wonderfully different ways, even surprising us with several critical analyses of animated motion pictures—a form often overlooked in discussions of migration. This issue also features the reviews of three films: Gaman (1978), Up (2009), and Rye Lane (2023), as well as short

pieces touching upon the globalisation of cinema through streaming and discussing the internationally acclaimed Everything Everywhere All at Once (2022). The carefully crafted analyses produced by these pieces, engaging with their various genres and forms, speak to the existing myriad of cinematic representations of migration.

A warm thank you to our proofreader and editorial team for working diligently to compile this issue. We also want to thank our social media team and web designers for their contributions and support. Your passion and dedication do not go unnoticed.

Please enjoy these pieces from our tremendous writers, and read on.

Your Chief Editors, Flora

& Yasmeena

rye Lane (2023) revIew

By Flora Stokes

Having spent the last six months raving to anyone who will listen about Charlotte Wells’ directorial debut Aftersun (2022), it’s now time for me to turn your attention to another feature film novice: Raine Allen-Miller. Though ‘novice’ is maybe a stretch… the Mancunian has directed several music videos, advertisements, and a short film about the Windrush generation titled Jerk (2018). This history of experience is evident in her recent debut feature Rye Lane (2023), a film colourful and wacky enough to send the makers of Deliveroo’s whimsical adverts into spirals of resentment. A self-professed “love letter to South London”, the film follows two young adults as they meander through the streets of Brixton and Peckham. Note my use of the

word “follows” here – the camera becomes an ambler of its own as it pans, ducks, tracks, and weaves its way alongside their journey.

Motion is imbued within the film from the start. It opens with a bird’s eye view shot, taking us quickly over events unfolding in various toilet cubicles, each seemingly disconnected in space and time. Young girls take selfies in a mirror, a businessman shouts on the phone, and a mother changes her baby’s nappy. Ultimately, we arrive at the toilet of our destiny, where Dom (David Jonsson) is crying. A not-so-cute meet-cute ensues as our other protagonist, Yas (Vivian Oparah), is unable to wash her hands in peace on account of Dom’s sniffling. Over 85 minutes and multiple boroughs, the two strangers

talk love, exes, and the rock-bottom of finding yourself crying into your fifteenth Greggs sausage roll of that week.

Allen-Miller’s South London lifts a bemused eyebrow at the whitewashed capital of Notting Hill (dir. Michell, 1999) and the less whitewashed (yet somewhat anaesthetised) capital of the Paddington films. Many of Rye Lane’s sequences sing proudly of the diasporic influences inherent within the genetic makeup of South London: (“Kingston, Jamaica – not upon-Thames”, as helpfully clarified by Dom). While paying homage to aspects of London’s multiculturalism which often go underrepresented, the film also allows itself the occasional embellishment: I am sad to say that Colin Firth doesn’t really work in a Brixton Village burrito stall called “Love Guactually”, and very rarely have elderly men in aquamarine sequined suits danced

across my path in the middle of the day. These embellishments, although fanciful, speak to Allen-Miller’s belief that, despite the city’s magnitude, a community can be found. As is immediately obvious during the toilet-themed opening, Rye Lane isn’t afraid to jump around in time and space, and its most delightful sequences consist of Dom and Yas wandering through the retellings of their break-ups. When Yas delivers the iconic life principle, “If you make the hummus, you get the head”, a theatre filled with Doms breaks out in applause. In an age that is witnessing the deaths of many inde-

“ Love, exes, and the rock-bottom of finding yourself crying into your fifteenth Greggs sausage roll of that week”

pendent cinemas, it is comforting to know that even if this film played in an empty room, it would not play without an audience. As Rye Lane draws to a close, it slips into the somewhat predictable and hackneyed mould of the romantic comedy genre. Even the camera seems to demand a rest, as still, shots begin to dominate the sequences. Regardless, the Duracell-bunny energy and constant motion of the

film’s first half are more than enough to tide you over; and worry not, the endlessly fun set design and costume persist throughout. I leave you with a question: Why are we arguing over whether Burna Boy or Barry Keoghan wore it better at the MET gala when Dom wore it first?

Up (2009) revIew: why MovIng on Is okay

By Elliot Walker Hayes

Up is about moving house: not in the figurative sense of leaving one and going to another, but rather in the literal sense of moving a house. The film starts with our protagonist Carl (Ed Asner) and a girl he seemingly has a liking for, as children. Carl and the girl, Ellie (Elizabeth Doctor), gush over an explorer called “Charles Muntz” together - a man they both idolise and wish to emulate. Shortly after this scene, we are presented with arguably the

greatest opening to a film ever: a montage (that in all honesty, I could write another article about) depicting Carl and Ellie’s life together. In this montage, they get married, fix up a house and sit in their armchairs next to one another. After this, we see Carl’s seemingly mundane job as a balloon salesman at the local zoo where Ellie works. These balloons represent Carl’s love and devotion for Ellie, as he is willing to do a mundane job simply to be close to her while she does her dream job. We see them grow older and, as time slips by, so does their dream of going to Paradise Falls in South America. Carl decides that it’s never too late to have an adventure and buys them both tickets as a surprise, but Ellie sadly collapses and passes away before they can go.

Following this, we see an older Carl still living in their house, alone. As pressure to sell up the house for its valuable real estate mounts, Carl decides that enough is enough and, using balloons, is able to lift his house into the air and sail it to Paradise Falls. Yet, whilst mid-air, he hears something unexpected: a knock on the door. He opens it to find our other protagonist, the boy scout Russell (Jordan Nagai). Initially Carl seems unimpressed to learn he has a stowaway on his very personal journey though, as the film progresses, Carl grows increasingly fond of Russell (alongside the other characters they meet on the way), as he starts to realise the possibility of a life beyond the loss of Ellie. After happening upon a strange

ostrich-like creature that they name Kevin, Carl and Russell are captured by Carl’s childhood hero, Charles Muntz, who has been driven mad in the pursuit of a rare bird. The explorer is the film’s representation of what can happen to a person if they are unable to move on from the past. His relentless pursuit of this bird has ruined not only his reputation but also his life, even driving him to murder tourists he suspects will find the bird before him.

After their escape, Russell wants to go back to Charles’ blimp to rescue Kevin, though Carl stubbornly refuses, causing Russell to run off. Realising he has made a mistake, Carl tries to pursue Russell but, due to his age, can’t keep up and decides instead to use the house to get to Russell. However, the balloons have partially deflated. In order to refloat the house, he starts emptying it of everything from his past and, in the process, he finds a scrapbook ccontaining a message in which Ellie thanks him for their adventure. Carl, staring around the now empty house as it drags along the ground, notices the last thing that remains: Ellie’s armchair. As he pushes the chair that was both physically and metaphorically weighing him down out of the door, the house floats into the air. Thus, the chair is left where Ellie always wanted to be, in Paradise Falls.

After returning to the blimp, Carl manages to defeat Muntz by tangling him in the balloons. Muntz, still clinging to his past, weighs the balloons down and falls to his death. As Russell dangles from the blimp,

Carl is presented with a choice: Russell (his future) on the one hand and the house (his past) on the other. One must be let go. Carl - finally realising which is more important and realising that, not only is he allowed to move past his trauma, but also that Ellie would have wanted him to - releases the house. Once he has pulled Russell up, Carl watches his house slowly drift away into the clouds. The house, a sign of his life with Ellie, is laid to rest.

Whilst watching Up, the viewer cannot help but empathise with Carl’s feelings. They become immediately attached to Ellie during the opening montage, and genuinely feel the loss when she is so cruelly ripped away. I felt a sense of relief when Carl let that house go. I am sure he did too. All said and done, Up is a film about moving house, moving past trauma and moving whoever is lucky enough to watch it.

“ I felt a sense of relief when Carl let that house go. I am sure he did too.”

FroM kotwara to MUMbaI: coMMentatIng on the worLd oF gaMan (1978)

By Saad Siddiqui

Muzzafar Ali’s 1978 directorial debut Gaman (trans. Departure), is a skilful and authentic portrayal of an urbanised India. His film captures the nuances of city life with sincerity, delving into the intricate challenges faced by its internal migrants. With his vast experience of urban life in Mumbai, Ali’s ability to convey the complexities of modern living is evident. Overall, his work presents a masterful and noteworthy contribution to the migrant film genre. In Gaman’s case, the city depicted is Mumbai (previously Bombay). It is a city that has earned a reputation as both a land of opportunity, and a place of disappointment for many. It is widely considered to be a dynamic and complex metropolis, with a rich cultural heritage and a vibrant economy. However, it is also recognised as a city where many individuals struggle to achieve their aspirations despite their best efforts. Many people call it the city of dreams, but the harsh realities it embodies make it feel more like a city of shattered

hopes. The notion of urban living, often idealised by those residing in rural areas of India, is emphasised by certain plot points. Specifically, the film tries to draw attention to the requisite skill and dexterity that eventually takes the shape of resilience, reflected through its migrants.

Gaman is the story of Ghulam Hussain (Farooq Shaikh), a resident of Kotwara (a small village in Uttar Pradesh)who decides to relocate to Mumbai in pursuit of a better quality of life. However, he is obliged to leave behind his ailing mother (Sulabha Deshpande), and wife, Khairun (Smita Patil). After his arrival, Hussain reaches out to his close acquaintance, Lalulal Tiwari (Jalal Agha), who assists him in obtaining a job as a taxi cleaner. Through unwavering dedication and perseverance,

“ Gaman effectively portrays themes of alienation, whilst also showcasing moments of solidarity”

Hussain acquires the skills necessary to operate a taxi and eventually becomes a driver himself. Regrettably, despite his persistent efforts, he is unable to accumulate sufficient funds to either visit his family back home or make a living. His friend Tiwari, a long-standing resident of Mumbai, faces his own set of challenges, having been unable to afford suitable accommodation for himself and his beloved, Yashodra (Gita Siddharth). As a result, they are forced to reside in a substandard tenement that is slated for demolition by the city’s Municipal Corporation. The film conceptualises the unified arc of the duality of struggles that migrant workers face through Hussain and Tiwari, the former having just started his journey, and the latter who has become tired of his.

Gaman effectively portrays themes of alienation, whilst also showcasing moments of solidarity. Despite coming from diverse backgrounds, the film’s individuals are united in their attempts to overcome the challenges of poverty and survival in the city. The narrative calls attention to the persistent economic disparity in cosmopolitan cities, and in particular the issue of housing affordability. It also highlights the relationship between Lalulal and Yashodra, who cannot marry due to societal expectations and financial constraints, thus effectively portraying the divisive political and economic challenges that many migrants in urban cities face. The use of ghazals (amatory poems in Urdu poetry), by the poet Makhdoom Mohiuddin also

significantly contributes to the plot points, through which the audience is offered glimpses of the characters’ internal psyches. In the song/ghazal ‘Aapki Yaad Aati Rahi, Chashme-Nam Muskurati Rahi Raat Bhar’ (trans. ‘I remembered you all along, that smile never left my moist eyes the entire night’), Khairun grieves the distance between her and Hussain. These immersive cinematography methods capture Mumbai’s paradoxical nature. Gaman becomes a story of truth, an honest depiction of the migrant experience, that showcases real problems, quivers and depth.

the

In-betweenness oF the reFUgee experIence In hIs hoUse (2020)

By Lesley Finn

Refugees run from unsafe spaces, where to return could mean death. But…what if the place you are running to is no better? This in-between space is where horror resides.

Many current events have encapsulated this horrifying experience. There is fierce fighting in South Sudan, with tens of thousands of refugees fleeing Khartoum and Darfur on foot towards neighbouring Chad. Simultaneously, the British government has doubled down on its refusal to accept “illegal” refugees, once again threatening to offload asylum seekers to Rwanda or some other “safe third country”, and thus essentially condemning these asylum seekers to nomadic status. Even those permitted to enter the UK, itself a hotbed of racial violence, are funnelled into a system stretched beyond its abilities, and rife with Kafkaesque hurdles and insanities.

Bol and Rial Majur of His House (dir. Weekes, 2020), live in this in-between space, having fled South Sudan, (wherein they endured a frightening sea journey that resulted in the death of their child by drowning), before being tossed onto British shores. They know they are fortunate in having a roof over their heads, but are still neither welcome nor wanted in this barren, concrete, inorganic and inhospitable new environment. As they attempt to navigate their new home, they begin to realise that something has followed them from their homeland, something that threatens to sabotage their efforts to settle into this strange new world. Trauma is not simply alluded to in

this film, it is made real: the Majurs are haunted, quite literally, by a creature that Bol refers to as a seawitch. Horror is an appropriate genre for an immigrant tale, stuck as the Majurs are in an uncategorisable space, neither in their familiar South Sudan nor ‘at home’ in Britain. They cannot return, nor can they move forward until they have been assessed. Jeffrey Jerome Cohen argues that a culture can be analysed through the monsters it produces, and monsters – both real and societal – abound here. First, the social worker assigned to the Majurs embodies the simultaneous concern and disdain felt by those wielding power over those who have none. He wants the refugee couple to succeed by being “one of the good [refugee families]” and yet enforces rules apparently designed to make them fail. The seawitch, a fear-inducing presence inside the walls of their house, reveals itself as a whitefaced, hollow-eyed, inhuman figure: a true monster. The schoolboys that Rial approaches to ask for directions confuse her by deliberately sending her off in the wrong direction. Their monstrous taunts of “Go back to Africa” are not mere examples of racial hostility, but illuminate the divide between those who belong and those who do not (and by inference, never will). Then, as the narrative pro-

“ Horror in His House is located in the feelings of [...] being nowhere and, by extension, no one.”

gresses, Bol himself is shown to act monstrously, as it is revealed that in South Sudan he stole a child to save himself, and then failed to protect her. But it is not the presence of monsters that truly makes this story horrific. It is the untethered, traumatised state of the refugee, combined with the impossibility of assessment for refugee status, that is revealed to be the site of horror here. Horror in His House is located in the feelings of isolation and in-betweenness, of not belonging to the new place whilst no longer being a part of the old place, of being nowhere and, by extension, no one.

The film makes continual attempts to represent this in-between space formally, often by visually threading two opposing situations into the same moment, creating a visual manifestation of what it means to be caught between the proverbial traumatic rock and the unwelcoming hard place. At the film’s halfway mark, Bol is eating in his kitchen. He is attempting to assimilate to his

new life by sitting at a table and using cutlery (instead of eating with his hands, cross-legged on the floor, as is the custom in South Sudan).

Gradually, however, the camera pulls out to reveal another spatial dimension behind him, comprised of a red, glowing, misty ocean, with water bubbling beneath him, and voices whispering in his native tongue. The soundscape here further indicates an in-betweenness, with Bol’s knife and fork clattering against the side of his plate as he cuts his food in the house in England, mingling with the wind whistling and waves splashing around Bol’s feet as he stands in an endless ocean, far from the English housing estate. Bol falls into the water as bodies rise from it and then, suddenly, he is awake and standing in the kitchen. There then follows a reality-defying sequence that turns on the interplay between light and dark. The darkness of the interior of the house provides no comfort and this sequence of jump scares is generated by the simple act of turning

the lights in the house on and off. Just as Bol has been trapped in an in-between space (neither house nor ocean), something terrifying exists in the space where light and dark meet. Bol wakes in his darkened kitchen, following his terrifying vision of the ocean. He can hear voices and turns on the lights. There is nothing there at first, but then a series of unex-

plained wet footprints appear on the kitchen floor. Bol switches the lights on and off and we understand that the voices (and now shadowy figures) only exist in the half-light when the lights are turned off. Suddenly, the lights turn on and off, seemingly of their own accord, until Bol sees a small child (the girl he stole and who drowned) with her hand on the light switch. She is in control of the light and it is her that is controlling his trauma. As she switches the lights off one last time, multiple figures attack him, choking him and almost slicing open his throat. Bol’s hands reach for the light switch, turning the lights on and the figures vanish.

“ The walls of the house act as a membrane [...] where the horrors of their past confront the horror of the here and now.”

This interplay between light and dark throughout the film underscores the idea of something not-quite-right existing in the space between the two. Immediately upon moving into the house, it is noted that there is no working lighting. Despite the social worker’s reassurance that this is just a case of a missing lightbulb, the couple eats by candlelight every evening, keeping the curtains open for some light from the bright street lamps. Eventually, Bol rips away the drywall, pulls out some electric cables and manages to connect the lighting. In the process, however, the resulting holes in the walls allow their trauma-related demons to emerge. The

walls of the house act as a membrane between the real and the unreal, where the horrors of their past confront the horror of the here and now. When Bol destroys the walls with his hammer he destroys this membrane, allowing the ghosts, the manifestations of his trauma, to pour through. Even when the lighting is connected, the house is still dark and dingy, creating shadows around every corner (and we all know what lurks in the shadows in a horror film). In sharp contrast, the world outside of the house is bright – too bright – glaring and yet drained of colour in a concrete, sharp-angled world. There is no warmth or greenery in this out-

door space, only hostility and garbage, piled high outside of their front door. But the darkness inside the house provides no comfort.

What is the solution for the Majurs? How do they begin to adapt to a new life when both their past and their current situations make it so difficult? The film does provide one possible solution, after revealing the horrors that they, and countless refugees like them, have faced, including fleeing massacres, atrocities, barren landscapes, and explosions. This is the trauma that they are dealing with at the same time as they confront the horror of realising that their arrival

in England is no escape from violence, prejudice, or injustice. Bol and Rial, like most refugees, carry their trauma with them and their resettlement does not make the monsters go away. In fact, His House suggests that in a country with unsympathetic refugee policies, refugees are often faced with yet more monsters to add to their collection. And so, in the final frames of the film, the couple are seen surrounded by their ghosts; their acceptance of them allows them

“ Their resettlement does not make the monsters go away”

to tentatively move forward. There is no guarantee that they will be allowed to stay in England but by confronting their past trauma, they can perhaps accept it, giving themselves space to move on with their lives.

everythIng everywhere once (2022): chInese LaUndro U.

By Yiting

verywhere aLL at

the aUdIted ndroMat In the U.s.

Yiting Liu

Directed and written by Daniel Kwan and Daniel Scheinert, Everything Everywhere All at Once (2022) won seven awards at the 95th Academy Awards in 2023. For me, the film’s most notable achievement was Michelle Yeoh’s performance winning the Best Actress award, making her the first Southeast Asian to receive the award. Born in Malaysia, Michelle Yeoh underscores the very same notion of immigrant identity that her character Evelyn (a Chinese immigrant woman) represents in the film.

Everything Everywhere All at Once is a story about a middle-aged Chinese woman who becomes involved in an adventure when she connects with different versions of herself by travelling through time and space. The main backdrop of the story is the plight of the Wang family’s laundromat, which is being audited. The Wang family’s plight may also, more generally, represent the experience of other Chinese-American immigrants. In the following article, I will draw on the history of Chinese-American immigration to interpret this setting in the film.

To begin with, the movie’s setting is “Americanized” because of Evelyn Wang’s laundry business, which is a

phenomenon that can be traced back to the 1990s, although at that time the laundry business was almost exclusively by men, also known as “Chinese laundrymen” (Takaki, 201). This phenomenon occurred because Chinese immigrants faced exclusion and discrimination from within the local American workforce (particularly from white workers), due to their provision of cheap labour. This discrimination was particularly pronounced between 1870-1890 and sometimes developed into violent riots, such as the Los Angeles Chinese massacre of 1871 (Zesch 147), which caused the deaths of many Chinese immigrants. Since working in mines or railway companies resulted in exclusion, discrimination, and even, at times, danger to one’s life, Chinese immigrants had to opt for self-employment, with low costs and minimal educational requirements. Thus, the management of laundromats became a common mode of employment for them. Does a laundromat mean a stable income and life? Not necessarily. The U.S. government, specifically the U.S. Internal Revenue Service, also posed a major obstacle for Chinese immigrants, as portrayed in the movie through the audit conducted by Deirdre Beaubeirdre (Jamie Lee Curtis). The auditor’s black bold circles on the tax form become a symbol of evil, a black hole that could instantly devour Evelyn’s family’s life. The language barrier during the auditing meeting between the auditor and Evelyn leads to misunderstandings, and the Wang’s ultimately face the

“ Chinese immigrants had to opt for self-employment, with low costs and minimal educational requirements. Thus, the management of laundromats”

confiscation of their laundromat. This plot not only criticises the contemporary attitude of the US tax authorities towards immigrant businesses, but also alludes to the Red Scare which occurred between 19471957, during which Chinese laundry businesses were targeted by the FBI due to widespread fear of a potential rise of communism (Yung et al. 226).

Whether the directors intended to allude to such history or not, Everything Everywhere All at Once portrays parts of the struggles faced by Chinese immigrants in the US. They endure the ‘glass ceiling’ imposed on their careers, and the government’s constant scrutiny, the challenges are both social and official. However, at the end of the film, Waymond Wang’s positivity and

goodwill resolve the family’s dilemma and the auditor grants them a second chance. This ending leaves me to wonder if it is merely a beautiful yet overly-hopeful ending, as the auditor still holds the ultimate decision-making power and there are still problems to be solved. However, alongside the prevalent discussions in modern academia on anti-racism and postcolonialism, this movie’s success at the Academy Awards and in the box office may be a sign of a changing American society. Hopefully, in the near future, immigrants in the US, regardless of their race and ethnicity, will be able to live in a world as beautiful as that of the movie.

[I] wonder if it is merely a beautiful yet overly-hopeful ending”

Cited

1. Everything Everywhere All at Once. Directed by Kwan Dan and Daniel S. Dan, performances by Michelle Yeoh, et al., A24, 2022.

2. Takaki, Ronald T. A Different

Mirror: A History of Multicultural America. First edition., Little, Brown & Co., 1993.

3. Yung, Judy, et al. Chinese American Voices: From the Gold Rush to the Present. University of Califor-

nia Press, 2006. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/ed/detail.action?docID=254866.

4. Zesch, Scott. ‘The Night of Horrors’. The Chinatown War: Chi-

nese Los Angeles and the Massacre of 1871, edited by Scott Zesch, Oxford University Press, 2012, pp. 122–50. Silverchair, https:// doi.org/10.1093/acprof:osobl/9780199758760.003.0007.

FILM: a FacILItator oF cULtUre For those abroad

By Julia Marques Da Silva

Film is probably one of the most important ways of importing different cultures abroad, and allowing people access to new spaces that they might not be able to enter otherwise. While streaming services such as Netflix offer media from different countries and different national identities, they do not facilitate the transnational network of culture provided by internationally distributed film and their streamed content sometimes fails to grasp cultural nuances. In some cases, Netflix’s content, which is designed to appeal to a specific region in the world, promotes stereotypes of or romanticizes different cultures, packaging them in a more easily consumed and globalized way. Consequently, the audience that this media attempts to appeal to is not always the same audience that it reaches. However, the rise in localized streaming services has made Netflix largely irrelevant in the race to form transnationally significant cultural exchanges between host and origin countries.

My own transnational background as a Brazilian American has allowed me a personal insight into these phenomena. Having gained access to a Brazilian streaming service called GloboPlay, I have found myself amongst a treasure trove of Brazilian media. The service was created by TV Globo, the largest Latin American TV network, and the second-largest commercial TV network after the American Broadcasting Company. As a network, Globo produces a variety of content, including four telenovelas aired from Monday

through Saturday evenings, news coverage, and special coverage for

events such as Carnival and Brazilian football league games. Globo has been one of the biggest producers of Brazilian content for many decades. Before Globo’s streaming platform opened access to its content from outside the country, people would go to great lengths to remain in touch with the comforts of home media. Maxine L. Margolis’ ethnography of Brazilians living in New York City shares how some, on their return to Brazil would record hours of Globo’s novellas onto videocassettes and share them with their friends back in the U.S., so as to stay in touch with the culture of their home country. Now, with GloboPlay, much of this media can be accessed around the world, allowing the Brazilian diaspora to stay in touch with the pop culture back home. The impact of Globo within transnational spaces can also be seen throughout the decades in other Lusophone countries. Brazilian telenovelas have become so popular in Portugal, that there have been discussions about the impact of Brazilian media on Portuguese culture, language, and the Portuguese accent in particular.

Globo provides an important

“ Brazilian telenovelas have become so popular in Portugal, that there have been discussions about the impact of Brazilian media on [...] the Portuguese accent”

link for Brazilians living in their host country. Telenovelas set in the present recognize when holidays are coming up, depict cultural events like Carnival, and consider contemporary issues such as climate change and internet safety. These telenovelas exhibit a Brazil-focused approach, which platforms like Netflix are unable to do despite their global audience. They also recognize the nuances of regional accents, slang, dress, and food, among other cultural aspects, which might not be appreciated on larger streaming platforms. Importantly, GloboPlay has given me access to shows that my mother, grandparents, and aunt

are watching, allowing me to watch along with them, just as I did when I was little. When I visit them, we still share a common interest that would not exist without the transnational exchange of film and media content. GloboPlay, and other streaming services like it, have facilitated these transnational connections for people living in host countries, giving them the chance to stay more in touch with their own culture than ever.

the LIttLe MerMaId (1989)

as a taLe oF

MIgratIon

By Yasmeena Sulaiman

In light of the release of Disney’s live-action remake of their classic animated film, The Little Mermaid (dir. Marshall, 1989), I want to revisit the original film in a different context. Many people love the animated movie to this day and, having watched it again as an adult, I believe the magic of the story has endured. When the topic of The Little Mermaid comes up, it usually revolves around conversations on identity, female empowerment, transformation, happily-ever-after, and coming-of-age themes. However, I want to look at the theme of migration in the film, as I think there is compelling evidence to suggest that the narrative can be viewed in such a light.

For those who may not be familiar with the story, or those who may need a refresher, The Little Mermaid follows the tale of Ariel, a young mermaid and the daughter of the mighty King Triton, ruler of the seas. Forbidden from making contact with the human world, the rebellious Ariel frequently explores shipwrecks and collects trinkets, which she then stores in a hidden cavern. When Ariel comes across the ship of Prince Eric, who loves the ocean and relishes being out at sea, she is immediately infatuated with him. After saving him from drowning when a terrible storm causes his ship to wreck, she sings him back to consciousness and he becomes enthralled by the voice of his saviour, but is unable to recall her face. When King Triton discovers what Ariel has done, he destroys her cavern full of trinkets to force her to understand that there must not be

be no contact between her and the human world. Devastated, she turns to the wicked sea witch Ursula, who ensnares her into a terrible bargain: Ariel must give up her voice in exchange for three days as a human. If she can obtain a true love’s kiss by the third day, Ariel will remain a human forever and regain her voice. Ultimately, Ariel and Eric defeat Ursula. King Triton grants Ariel her human legs, and they live happily ever after.

The stark differentiation between the human and ocean worlds is the most obvious reference to how The Little Mermaid can be viewed as a story about migration. King Triton has strict rules prohibiting contact between the surface and ocean worlds, between humans and the merfolk. Despite these restrictions,

Ariel is passionate and curious about humans, and regardless of King Triton’s attempts to exercise his power, even he cannot prevent the two

to differentiate between the two is also telling. A fear of the unknown dominates King Triton’s rhetoric about humans, for he views their treatment of the sea creatures as a direct reflection of their world and values. He makes extreme generalisations about the culture and beliefs of humans. The same can be said about the humans, who mythologise the merpeople and view them with trepidation, as told by the sailors in the film’s opening song. This parallels our own tendencies to “other” different races, cultures, and countries, relying on fear-driven conclusions to navigate our worldviews. It is not until the two worlds interact that a clearer understanding of each other can be achieved. It takes the kindred spirits of Ariel and Eric, both fascinated with one another’s worlds, to bridge them with acceptance and love.

worlds from interacting. This contact is like that between our cities, countries, and people; the boundaries between these can feel impenetrable, but there are always fissures to be found. In our modern society, globalisation has connected us all in ways we could never have imagined, not only through social media, but even in the clothes and trinkets we buy and the media we import: crossover is inevitable. The language used

The film goes out of its way to highlight Ariel’s love for all things human. She gleans so much about humans in finding their trinkets on the ocean floor, falling in love with a world she knows only through wreckage. Although she has never directly interacted with humanity before, her appreciation for their creations helps her believe that their world cannot be the evil, horrible place her father claims it to be. Ariel’s values of empathy and curiosity are beautiful lessons to breathe in. Sometimes, exercising such values can take more strength than the inherent distrust and paranoia displayed by Triton. Through saving Prince Eric, Ariel permanently breaks the boundaries

“ It takes the kindred spirits of Ariel and Eric, both fascinated with one another’s worlds, to bridge them with acceptance and love”

between their worlds, as she is no longer an archaeologist or voyeur but can now join the human world through him.

Thrust into the human world as a mute young woman with shaky legs, Ariel approaches her task with the same reckless passion with which she scavenges shipwrecks. Her disbelief that she could become a human makes her affection for their world all the more charming, as it comes from a place of purity and wonder. She is steadfast in her dream of becoming part of this world and making her migration permanent. Eric does not recognise her without her voice, but his court takes her in as an assumed shipwreck survivor.

Ariel’s lack of knowledge of the customs of the humans becomes immediately apparent during a meal,

as she mistakenly uses a fork as a brush, and a tobacco pipe as a musical instrument. Realising that Scuttle (a seagull and her informant on all things human) has misinformed her, Ariel is embarrassed. But Eric and his court are enormously kind about her faux pas, finding humour in the situation. Ariel adapts to her surroundings through observations and mistakes, diving headfirst into the human world as Eric shows her around his home. In one sequence, Ariel leads Eric around his village, enabling her to look at, and touch, anything she desires. Her naivety means she is unabashed in joining the townsfolk in their dancing, not at all discouraged by her lack of experience. Ariel is vibrant and joyous, and Eric is utterly enamoured by how she interacts with the world and its

inhabitants. Despite being from two different worlds, they have fun together and can connect without verbal communication.

The film’s finale sees Ariel losing the bargain and turning back into a mermaid. Triton intervenes and offers up his crown and soul in exchange for Ariel’s safety and release from Ursula. Eric intervenes whilst holding his breath to throw a harpoon at Ursula and help Ariel stop her. Eric and Ariel save one another and they eventually defeat Ursula. Eric delivers the final blow, steering a ship into Ursula and impaling her. His willingness to risk his life to protect Ariel gains him the trust of King Triton, who bestows upon Ariel a bargain-less pair of legs. Triton’s change of heart is bittersweet, as he knows he is losing his daughter, but understands that this loss will assist her in finding happiness.. He sees the authenticity of Ariel’s passion and love for the human world, and Eric proves that he is just as devoted to her and her world, as well as being able to take care of the most precious piece of Triton’s heart.

One of the film’s final shots shows the merfolk and humans together celebrating the marriage of Ariel and Eric, and thus the union between their worlds. It implies that land and sea are no longer hostile towards one another, but connected through love and acceptance. Eric and Ariel cannot be with one another without their two worlds interacting and making contact. Although a straightforward and not very complex story, the characters and themes

of The Little Mermaid are nuanced and timeless. The film is enjoyed by people at many stages of life because it is a wholesome reminder of the most valuable and important lessons we have learned as a civilisation: connection, love, passion, curiosity, excitement, and acceptance can transcend barriers between worlds and are invaluable for the type of migration Ariel takes part in—the kind that involves a willing and deliberate immersion of oneself in a new environment.