Screenwriters' Perspectives, Vol. 3

Screenwriters’ Perspectives Journal of Screenwriting at Victoria College, University of Toronto

2022 | Volume 3 No. 1

Screenwriters’ Perspectives About Screenwriters’ Perspectives

2022 Volume 3 No. 1

Screenwriters’ Perspectives is a student-run journal that is published by Screenwriting at Victoria College on an annual basis. It features high-quality, original, critical analyses written by students who are learning how to critique movies from a screenwriter’s perspective. Samuel Langhorne Clemens (Mark Twain) once said, “One mustn’t criticize other people on grounds where he can’t stand perpendicular himself”. Like Mark Twain, Screenwriters’ Perspectives embraces this principle and believes that the value of any criticism made against a film is heavily dependent on the critic’s knowledge on the process of writing a screenplay.

Therefore, unlike conventional movie reviews that summarize plots with general evaluations, the analyses published in this journal place heavy emphasis on assessing the fundamental storytelling elements that constitute to a story’s structure.

This includes but is not limited to character development, themes, setting, symbolism, plot, scene weaving, dialogue and design principles. We believe that this writing convention will not only enhance the quality of the analyses, but more importantly, it fosters the development of both the readers and writers in becoming more perceptive individuals.

Co-Editors-in-Chief Elizabeth Coulter Vikram Nijhawan

Section Editors Cailin Ball Marta Anielska Sofi Abouassali Bridget Raymundo Corinne Langmuir

Associate Editors Ailin Barnachea Suhana Danee

Design Director Didier Huynh Corinne Langmuir

Layout Designer Supriya Shakya Saha

About Screenwriting at Victoria College Screenwriting at Victoria College is a student club that is recognized and funded by the Victoria University Students’ Administrative Council and the Dean’s Student Initiative Fund from the Faculty of Arts and Science at the University of Toronto. Our club aims to provide a high-quality learning environment for students who are interested in learning the arts and craft of screenwriting. By learning from reputable screenwriting books, screenplays and movies, members of our club will learn the fundamental principles and techniques of storytelling, ultimately preparing them to pursue screenwriting as a future profession.

Printed in Canada by Superior Printing & Litho Inc. ISSN 2563-545X (Print) ISSN 2563-5468 (Online) Authors retain copyright and grant the journal right of first publication with the work simultaneously licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 International License that allows others to share the work with an acknowledgment of the work’s authorship and initial publication in this journal. Reproduction without permission is prohibited. Screenwriters’ Perspectives is a student-run initiative. Any opinions expressed by the author(s) do not necessarily reflect the opinions, view or policies of Victoria College or the University of Toronto.

Content Contributors Sofi Abouassali Eva Chang Ailin Barnachea Cailin Ball Colin Morley Elizabeth Coulter Marta Anielska Nujhat Tabassum Vikram Nijhawan Eden Prosser Carson Zhang Faisal Hay Michelle Cruz Simran Randhawa Suhana Danee Nebula Islam Kenneth Ting

Faculty Adviser

Professor Daniel Scott Tysdal

Founding Editor Kenneth Ting

CONTENTS 04

Letter from the Co-Editors-in-Chief

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Interview with Caru Alves de Souza

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Featured Analysis - The Graduate: Subjectivity, Attraction, and Character Roles

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Featured Analysis - The Truman Show: The Portrayal of the Disharmony between the Real and Technological World

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“This Could Be the Defining Moment of Your Life”: Succession’s Kendall Roy as a Modern-Day Tragic Hero

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Tangerine - An Independent Blockbuster

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From the Mists of History to the High Resolution Screen: Barbarians

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The Haunting of Hill House and the Illusion of Space

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The Materialization of the Spectacle: The Role of Allegorical References in I’m Thinking of Ending Things

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Next of Kin: Writing Undeniable Empathy

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“The Greatest Change”: The Legend of Korra and the Elements of Character Growth

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Dismantling the Stereotypical Nature of the “Strong Woman” in Greta Gerwig’s Little Women

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Gosford Park’s Necropsy of The Citizen McCordle

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“Different Yet Fantastic” - Fantastic Mr. Fox and the Theme of Identity

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Lady Bird: Redefining the Love Story in the Coming of Age Genre

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Blinded by the Light: Establishing a New Identity for the Immigrant Child through Music and Relationships

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Marriage Story: The Sacrifice of Transactiona Relationships vs. The Sanctity of the Human Bond

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Hate Watch

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Hidden Gems

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Theme of the Year

Letter from the Co-Editors-in-Chief Dear readers, It is our pleasure to present you with the third issue of Screenwriters’ Perspectives, a journal aimed at providing students with the opportunity to delve deeper into the practice of film analysis from the perspective of the screenplay. The screenplay is but one component of film, however it is an absolutely fundamental one constituting its very basis. In the face of the finished product, one can easily forget the screenplay amongst all the visuals of camera work, acting, and so on. In this issue we present sixteen analyses which explore the screenwriting techniques of a broad range of films chosen by the students themselves.

Our “Theme of the Year” for this issue is, perhaps unsurprisingly, “virus”, for which we have a section of three analyses concerning films that explore this theme and its relation to current events. Although the word has gained such a singular association over the past couple of years – we even speak of “the virus” – it carries multiple definitions. We similarly encourage people to think about all the different perspectives around current events and we look to support the medium of film as a voice in the sphere of global issues.

We are also delighted to present an interview with director, producer, and screenwriter Caru Alves de Souza and we would like to express our gratitude to her for giving us the time to talk to her about her work. As the only screenwriting club at the University of Toronto, we naturally attract many aspiring screenwriters, so being able to present perspectives and advice from people currently in the industry is incredibly important. In our last issue we interviewed our faculty advisor Professor Daniel Scott Tysdal, who has continued to work closely with us to fulfil a similar role. We would like to thank Professor Tysdal for his continued support, most notably for hosting a popular screenwriting workshop for our members this past semester, that we hope will be the first of many for our club in the future.

As in our last issue we have our “Hidden Gems” section devoted to small reviews of films which students feel have not received the attention they deserve. This year we have introduced a new section to our journal called “Hate-Watch”. As the named suggests, this section is dedicated to films that are fun to watch despite perhaps lacking in certain aspects. We all know these kinds of films and they can be a lot of fun to watch together with friends. However not only can they be a source of amusement, but the analysis of films which are not necessarily of the top calibre can help us better understand what makes for a successful screenplay.

This year is our last with the club as we approach graduation. We have been authors and editors for Screenwriters’ Perspectives since its very first issue and seen for ourselves the growth of our brilliant editorial team and the introduction of all the special sections. Of course, we would never have been able to come as far as we have alone. We would first like to thank Kenneth Ting, founder and former president of the club, for creating this wonderful community in the first place and for his invaluable guidance over the years. We would also like to thank our diligent executive and editorial team members for their support as well as their friendship during our time together. Another massive thanks to our general members for engaging so enthusiastically with us and teaching us new things about film. And finally, we would like to offer our blessings to next year’s CoPresidents, Cailin and Marta, who have already proved themselves to be more than capable leaders as VicePresidents. We can’t wait to see what direction the club takes in the future!

Elizabeth Coulter and Vikram Nijhawan Co-Presidents of Screenwriting at Victoria College, and Co-Editors-in-Chief of Screenwriters’ Perspectives (2021-22)

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Interview with Caru Alves de Souza

By Sofi Abouassali 1 Department of Cinema Studies, 2School of Environment, 3 Second-year undergraduate of Innis College, University of Toronto Caru Alves de Souza is a director, screenwriter, and producer from Sao Paulo, Brazil. She is a partner in Tangerino Entretenimento, a production company based in Sao Paulo. Her debut fictional feature Underage (2014) won Best Film at Rio IFF and was licensed by HBO Latin America.

Her second fictional feature My Name is Baghdad won Best Film in the Generation 14 plus section at the 70th Berlin IFF. She is also a member of Coletivo Vermelha, a Sao Paulo based group of female audio visual professionals.

“How did you begin writing, directing, and producing?”

I did my major in History, I didn't go to film school, but my parents are filmmakers in Brazil, so I was always in this environment of film. I grew up in it, so when I was studying History I started to make some money by working in film festivals as a producer or an intern. I worked at MTV, but at that time I thought it was only to make some money because I was studying. But when I finished college I realized I didn’t want to work as a teacher or as a researcher, and I was taking a script course even though I don’t know why because I didn’t want to be a screenwriter, but in that course I realized that’s what I wanted to do. So it was by chance, but not completely, because I was very close to a film environment.

“My Name is Baghdad explores a full range of expressions of femininity in its characters, as well as responses to these varying expressions through the use of other characters. What made you want to explore this?”

Well since my first film I was always concerned about how women were depicted in films. This concern began to be more present in my life when I started to be a member of Women’s Collective in Brazil, and we began this collective to think about how women are represented in films, and that is when I started to do My Name is Baghdad so it was built together with this. One of the things that makes me very angry is when I see films and women can only be this or that. This is not new – everyone’s talking about it now, but I mean five or ten years ago no one was, this idea was very new. So when I started My Name is Baghdad I thought, “okay as a woman I cannot be writing and directing this film and allow there to be only one type of woman.” So it was very important to have different bodies, different stories, different ages, and different accents.

There are people from all over Brazil in the film.

"The film makes use of documentary-style shooting within the story context of the feature. Does this come from previous work on documentaries or a love of the style?"

Actually, this was more a result of the way I wanted to make the movie. I didn’t set out to do a documentary style, but it was more a result of some thinking. I didn’t want to tell the actresses and actors how they had to move and how they had to talk.

For me, My Name is Baghdad is a film about people, so the people were more important than the machines. That’s why the camera follows the actors and actresses and why we improvised a lot. We rewrote the script with the actresses and that’s why we didn’t have lighting with all this paraphernalia. I didn’t want any of that. I said to Raphaelle that I don’t want to wait three hours for the crew to make the set and then thirty minutes to shoot the scene – let’s do the opposite. It was important for this film that it was made like that. I didn’t want to make a movie about skateboarders or about women. I thought this film should be a result of collective collaboration and that’s why it’s more documentary-style.

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"The camera work in My Name is Baghdad is very interactive in style. Is there a reason why you chose to have this feeling of following the performance?"

To me the camera is level with and like one of the characters. I didn’t want the camera to be totalitarian. I wanted it just to be one element of the scene because the camera can be very oppressive, dictating everything, and I didn’t want that.

"What inspired you to start a production company with your partner?"

It’s not a romantic story. My mother was beginning a film company, and I said, “I’ll help you build the company but then I’ll go.” Because I didn’t plan to work with my mother, but that partnership still lasts until now. Since My Name is Baghdad, I’m working more with my friend, Raphaelle. Now I don’t want to produce my own films anymore, but what made me stay was that I could make the films I wanted to make. To this day, I never made anything I don’t believe in just to make some money. I am very fortunate – all the movies I have made have been with love and passion and because I believed in the project. To have your own production company, at least in Brazil, gives you the freedom to do the projects that you believe in, and for me that was very important. I’m not comfortable doing something I don’t believe in.

So what is the story of how you began partnering with Raphaelle?

Well, Raphaelle introduced a film to the company and we became friends. Then after my first feature, it was really hard for me to produce and direct. I was like, “okay I can’t do this anymore”, I will always think about producer things while directing, but I didn’t want to carry the whole burden of producing while directing. So I started to talk to Raphaelle about this and she was like, “okay why don’t we do your next film in my production company,” and it was like the perfect match – I love her. For the project that I’m writing now she’s in all the meetings with the script writers because we both see the producing and directing as very intertwined.

"Between your debut feature Underage and your most recent feature, My Name is Baghdad, there seems to be a theme of family in your works-both biological and chosen. What makes you want to explore this?"

Well I think that family offers some interesting dramaturgic possibilities. I mean, in family, you have everything there.

Everything there in society is what you have concentrated in family connections, and what I like the most is that in families you can explore these things in a microscopic way. I love how these things present themselves in a daily way, so the little gestures, the little violence, little demonstrations of affection. I like the vibe, so I think that’s why I always think about families and if not biological then chosen. My next movie is completely about that, people who don’t have family so they start a quirky family.

"Is there a certain work that you continuously go back to for inspiration or a steady source of inspiration for your work?"

Unfortunately, most are male directors. Jone Casa Vetz, I never went to film school but he is my teacher. I love his style, I love his book. My Name is Baghdad is inspired by the things he did. Agnes Verda also because I want to be her when I grow up – she is amazing and her movies are amazing. But what inspires me most about her is she only did films she wanted to do, she never got distance from the films she believed in. There is one particular film I always see before I do my work, and that is Kids by Larry Clarke because that is an amazing movie, it’s perfect.

"What is the best piece of advice you could give to aspiring screenwriters, directors, and producers?"

I would say it’s very nice to set up a plan. A plan could be a dream or a dream can be a plan, and go for it. Stop and think a little bit about where you want to be in five or ten years then make things work to go for that. But also it’s very important to make room to lose yourself in this world and make space for chance or things that are not planned. Question yourself because we are never completely right or completely wrong. Unfortunately, as artists we are always doomed to questioning.

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The Graduate: Subjectivity, Attraction, and Character Roles Featured analysis by Eva Chang1,2,3,4 1 Department of Art History, 2Book and Media Studies, 3Cinema Studies 4 Second-year undergraduate of Woodsworth College, University of Toronto The Graduate follows Benjamin Braddock and his subsequent misadventures after he returns home from college, as he desperately attempts to find purpose in his future. Accompanying him on these misadventures are Mrs. Robinson, an older family friend who seduces Ben into a friends-with-benefits relationship, and Mrs. Robinson’s daughter, Elaine, who Ben ultimately falls in love with—but not before his taboo relationships are exposed.

Evidently, the plot is absurd and bombastic, and Ben gets himself into messy and explosive situations that culminate into the film’s message of meaninglessness in Ben’s contemporary society.

This theme is further explored by the fluidity of the characters’ decisions and interactions, which are seemingly contrived and excessive. But fluidity manifests in more than just their interactions: it manifests in their perspectives and roles. Notably, Ben, as the protagonist, manipulates his perceptions of Mrs. Robinson and Elaine, to the point that they change roles in the film’s physical plot, driven by his attraction and interest towards them. Ben’s thoughts and feelings create a subjective world around him, and that world is dominated by attraction. His view of both himself and the other characters is hindered by his ideas of romance and love, and ultimately proves that he can only fit them into his own story, into shallow roles that lack a deeper understanding of their personalities and backstories.

Attraction, then, serves as a focal point in the plot: sex and love determine drastic decisions, driving the main conflicts of the story. The characters’ dialogue employs the word “attraction” quite a few times when referencing the three focal characters, determining Ben’s perspective of Mrs. Robinson, Elaine, and himself.

Establishing Roles Though Ben does not physically meet Elaine in the first act, Mrs. Robinson invites him to look at her portrait. He immediately gauges her by appearance: “Elaine certainly is an attractive girl, isn’t she? I don’t remember her as having brown eyes” (13:57). He is attentive to her looks, proved when he pinpoints the minor detail of her eye colour. However, because of her lack of physical presence in the first act, she remains as a side character in Ben’s narrative, only appearing through dialogue. Ben’s circumstances in the first act do not allow him to know Elaine any better or allow him to see her as fitting into a major role in his life—but he is sure of his attraction to her.

Mrs. Robinson, on the other hand, plays a central role in the first act, acting as a supporting character. Ben also sees her as attractive, but with a caveat. During their first foray together, he says, “oh no, Mrs. Robinson. I think – I think you’re the Screenwriters’ Perspectives Vol. 3 No. 1 2022

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most attractive of all my parent’s friends” (37:11). Though this taboo may add to a certain kind of attraction, the gap—both in generational mentality and age—stops the two from truly understanding each other. Ben perceives Mrs. Robinson as superficial, having only an interest in sex. Her appearance, too, further indicates this, as her appearance further represents a certain performativity or mirage: dyed hair, clip-on earrings, makeup, carefully planned out movements and dialogue.

However, though Mrs. Robinson refuses to talk about her personal life, Ben fails to empathize when she ultimately opens up. However, though Mrs. Robinson refuses to talk about her personal life, Ben fails to empathize when she ultimately opens up.

In a pivotal scene, the audience sees Mrs. Robinson and Ben together in bed. The scene consists of Ben curiously prodding about Mrs. Robinson’s past, while Mrs. Robinson starts resistant but slowly softens up to conversation. They both laugh when Ben remarks, “A Ford! A Ford! Goddamnit, a Ford! That’s great,” indicating a growing closeness between them. However, when Mrs. Robinson criticizes the possibility of Ben and Elaine together, Ben reacts angrily. Mrs. Robinson’s attraction diminishes, in Ben’s eyes, because of both her cold nature and the taboo nature of the relationship—which he remarks as being uncomfortable with. He reaches a certain breaking point during the argument, and though he ends up returning to bed with Mrs. Robinson, he no longer wishes to speak. Though Mrs. Robinson sheds more light on her past than she has so far, Ben fails to empathize because he grows aware of their lack of compatibility, ultimately deciding he does not want to make her a recurring character in his life.

Elaine, on the other hand, is the only person Ben’s age that the film gives the audience the name of in the first act. So far, Ben has been surrounded by those who are his parents’ age, no one that can truly understand how he feels. Elaine is the one traditional lover he could have, and the one person that can understand him. Ben’s attraction towards Elaine in the first act is on the basis of her portrait. Her picture represents an idealization. Ben’s conditional attraction for Mrs. Robinson causes her role in the film to drastically shift as the plot progresses. In the same vein, Ben’s complete infatuation with Elaine allows Elaine to do the same.

Solidifying Roles The film progresses, not because of character development, but because of Ben’s changing perspectives on the characters— Mrs. Robinson goes from a lead romantic interest to a villain, while Elaine goes from a side character to main supporting role. After Elaine and Ben connect over their date, Elaine soon after learns of Ben and Mrs. Robinson’s relationship. The narrative then quickly flips. As Ben grows an obsession over Elaine and pursues her, Mrs. Robinson, suddenly and completely, exits the plot, only to return as a ‘villain’. Mrs. Robinson, to Ben, is no longer attractive because she stands in the Screenwriters’ Perspectives Vol. 3 No. 1 2022

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way between him and Elaine. Their past sexual relationship proves to amount to nothing but a barrier to Ben’s attraction towards Elaine.

When Ben and Elaine do actually meet, despite a shaky start, sparks fly. While sitting at a drive-through diner together, Ben, for the first time, can explain his situation without judgment: “I’ve had this feeling – ever since I’ve graduated – this – kind of compulsion that I have to be rude all the time. Do you know what I mean?” (1:02:43).

Elaine replies with a brief, “Yes I do” (1:02:47), implying an understanding that surpasses a need for words. In contrast with Mrs. Robinson, whose relationship with Ben consisted of constant tension and misunderstanding, Ben can be attracted to Elaine without any supposed negativity (at least, separate from any family drama).

“You’re the first – you’re the first thing for so long that I’ve liked.

The first person I could stand with” (1:05:43), he states. Thus, Ben’s subjective world flips upside down. His attention, and subsequently, the plot, is centered on her now. He dedicates himself to tracking her down and proposing, with every decision he makes in the last half of the film dictated around getting to her. Ben’s entire life turns from meandering existential crisis to a manic chase for Elaine. Elaine, plot-wise, is now his main love interest.

How Affection is Won Mrs. Robinson’s presence completely disappears between when Elaine discovers her relationship with Ben and when Ben breaks into the Robinsons’ home in order to track down Elaine’s wedding location. In hindsight, Ben describes the relationship to Elaine: “It just happened. It was just this thing that happened along with everything else” (1:06:38). In comparison to a possible relationship with Elaine, Mrs. Robinson’s relationship means very little to Ben. When they do finally interact, as Ben sneaks into the Robinsons’ home and finds Mrs. Robinson packing, they argue again—over Elaine. She is now Ben’s antagonist, the woman representing all the physical and metaphorical barricades that exist between Ben and Elaine, and no romance, or even good will, exists between them. In striking similarity with the last time they were in a bedroom together, the two both refuse to budge in their goals. In the final scene, Mrs. Robinson actively opposes everything Ben wants to achieve, grinning and stating, “he’s too late” (1:42:48), when she believes Ben cannot stop the wedding.

Conclusion The Graduate explores the fluidity in relationships and understanding, told through the lens of a singular, lost college graduate. Ben’s escapades take him to explore the taboo and the untraditional, as he ultimately breaks completely out of the mundanity of the middle-class suburbs when he runs away with Elaine. The film, however, remains to be one of an unreliable narrator. He perceives Mrs. Robinson solely on how she treats him though she proves to have a deeper, empathetic past. He idolizes Elaine to be his love interest and perceives her to be his main love interest. In doing so, he adjusts the entire plot of the film in order to match with his perception of attraction for those he has relationships with. Ben’s story may seem factual, but rather displays a subtle subjectivity that seeps into the plot’s actions.

Work Cited The Graduate. Directed by Mike Nichols. 1967. Film.

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The Truman Show: The Portrayal of the Disharmony between the Real and Technological World Written by Ailin Barnachea1,2 1 Department of English, 2 First-year undergraduate of Victoria College, University of Toronto There comes a time in one’s life when one truly feels estranged from their existence. The mundanity of going to the same places, interacting with the same people, and waking up as the same person every day, induces a certain dissatisfaction that humanity is all too familiar with. As life progresses, one cannot help but experience themselves dissociating from what is considered their reality. Ultimately, these thoughts will lead to questions of existentialism such as, “Is this all my life is to be? Am I truly in control?” and most importantly, “What is the meaning of life?”. Created in 1998, The Truman Show revolves around the protagonist named Truman Burbank who unbeknownst to him lives a fabricated life. His whole existence has been structured as a reality TV show which has encapsulated the hearts of television viewers all over the world. It is only until Truman acknowledges that everything in his existence is counterfeit that he is determined to get to the bottom of his fake existence and revolt from his mundane life.

As a result, the film effectively portrays the theme of how the technological age has restricted people from living a fulfilling and authentic life, which is demonstrated by the screenplay’s ingenious use of symbolism through the character’s actions and dialogue.

The Struggle of Differentiating Between the Real and Technological World As the premise of the film entails the story of a man’s life being broadcast to the world, everyone who is a part of the ordeal is characterized to believe in a specific ideology that is carried throughout the film, thus these actions effectively demonstrate the technological world’s progressive dominance over the real world in our modern day. In the movie’s first scene, the audience is introduced to the show’s three integral characters who carry the greatest responsibility of establishing Truman’s fabricated life. Christof, the creator of the show, states that “While the world he inhabits is in some respects counterfeit, there’s nothing fake about Truman himself” (00:00:30 – 00:00:38). Similarly, Truman’s fictional wife, Meryl, profoundly claims that “there is no difference between a private life and a public life” (00:01:23 – 00:01:30) as she describes her life to undoubtedly be ‘The Truman Show’. To which Marlon, Truman’s best friend, affirms that “It’s all true. It’s all real. Nothing here is fake. Nothing you see on this show is fake. It’s merely controlled” (00:02:00 – 00:02:08). Evidently, the concept that Truman’s television life is authentic displays how there is no distinction between what is considered real and fake in the technological world. What once made life particular and unique, such as one’s interpersonal relationships, has now been replicated to the technological world. All the people that are a part of Truman’s life, from the most intimate to the least relevant, are all disguised as legitimate. Consequently, the moral judgement of the cast and crew has been compromised as a result of the promotion of this shared ideology of performing for Truman, as their actions are evidently exploiting a human life. Thus, this ideology represents how difficult it is for one to be authentic through the technological world, for the binary of the two concepts has diminished and are now overlapping. Television has become a hyperreality, as it has overcome its initial inspiration. In the eyes of society, the television world is as real as ‘real’ could get. Television is gradually becoming synonymous with the real world.

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Use of Advertisements in The Film’s Dialogue and Actions The prolific use of advertisements in the film’s dialogue and actions further encapsulates how exploitative the technological world is to society, due to the economic order of consumerism. This is apparent in the scenes when Truman is in a vulnerable state of mind, as others around him consistently carries a consumeristic intent. In the second act of the film, Truman is characterized to be erratic as he slowly realizes that the whole town is on a continuous loop that centers around his actions, likewise to a crew on a television set. When he gets home and deconstructs this idea to his wife, she is portrayed as someone who does not follow along. This is simply because Meryl is a fictional character in Truman’s world. The actress who plays Meryl, Hannah Gill, is scripted to not let him grow suspicious of his fabricated life and must continue her false performance.

Therefore, it is significant that in a vulnerable situation, wherein the real world a wife would be consoling her husband, Meryl is consistently portrayed to be indifferent to Truman, as she resorts to advertising a brand, such as a kitchen tool ‘The Chef’s Pal,’ a lawnmower ‘Elk Rotaries,’ and in this particular scene ‘Mococoa Drink’. Ironically, for the brand ‘Mococoa Drink,’ Meryl is seen to promote and praise an authentic product, as it does not contain artificial sweeteners. This is a direct juxtaposition to her character, for she is heavily praised for her role in ‘The Truman Show’ due to essentially being artificial.

Similarly, in most of the scenes that Marlon is in, he is displayed to be holding the product ‘Penn Paverly Beer’ with the logo facing the camera. Beer is commonly associated with the idea of letting one’s guard down, as one would share an intimate discussion with a friend. In contrast, this symbolism of beer does not apply to the character of Marlon since he is also performing whenever Truman confides in him, as later in the movie it is implied that Christof has been directing Marlon on what he should say via an earpiece. Even with the tertiary characters that Truman mundanely interacts with every day, they are characterized to be indifferent to Truman due to consumeristic intent, as they forcefully push him against certain posters to advertise a product to the public.

Additionally, throughout the film, advertisements are also used to consistently keep Truman disillusioned from his tragic reality, thus demonstrating how the technological world keeps people engaged in their platforms through consumeristic intent. Since his childhood, Truman has been conditioned to be wary of what is beyond his home, to prevent him from ever leaving the island that he lives in. As a result, the show feeds into this trait of Truman to ensure that he continues to engage in his artificial world.

Whenever Truman is seen to be booking a flight, he is bombarded with advertisements of planes crashing and terrorism infographics. When he was showing great signs of leaving the island, a TV commercial would emerge and promote the idea Screenwriters’ Perspectives Vol. 3 No. 1 2022

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that “you don't have to leave home to discover what the world's all about. And that no one's poor who has friends,” (00:38:21 – 00:38:32) to manipulate Truman to conform to the ideals of his technological world. Therefore, The Truman Show displays how the technological world is polluted with destructive values of consumerism to trap people from ever leaving the medium. This is evident through the repetitive use of advertisements in the film’s dialogue and actions, thereby demonstrating how difficult it is for one to live authentically in the technological world.

The Truman Show’s Unconventional Sky As the movie progresses, the audience can see many instances of Truman’s sky not performing properly since his environment is a humongous television set, hence the symbolism of Truman’s unconventional sky eloquently emphasizes the struggle of pursuing an authentic life in a technological world. The sky is one of the most realistic things in our world. To a certain extent it is sacred, as humanity has made the sky related to concepts that are holy and beyond our control. This is evident through the religious symbols that the sky upholds, such as heaven or God. Within the first few minutes of the film, the audience becomes aware of the inauthenticity of Truman’s world as a set light plummets to the ground, thus setting the ambiguous tone of the entire movie. When Truman goes to the beach to reflect on his growing suspicion that he may be living in a fabricated world, the sky malfunctions once again as a stream of rain begins to pour only on the area that Truman is situated in. The repetition of the sky’s inability to act properly demonstrates how the technological world will never be able to replace the authenticity of the real world. When the two worlds are in juxtaposition with each other the technological world will always falter, as it cannot compete nor replicate the sacredness of the world’s actual reality. Towards the end of the film, Truman experiences one last interaction with this artificial sky before he leaves. As Truman rides his boat to the horizon, with the intent to finally leave the island, he crashes into the sky which is revealed to be a wall. In this instance, the sky begins to malfunction due to Truman’s passion for escaping the constricting means of his technological world. Therefore, this scene symbolizes the idea that the only way for a person to experience true freedom from an inauthentic world is if they revolt from their tragic condition. It is only when Truman acknowledges that everything in his existence is counterfeit that he is able to break through the fraudulent replications of the technological world metaphorically and physically.

Conclusion The Truman Show is a well-written cinematic masterpiece that encapsulates the idea of how constricting the technological world is in allowing a person to live a fulfilling life. This idea is demonstrated by the screenplay’s use of symbolism through the character’s actions and dialogue to criticize the toxic relationship that humanity has with technological mediums, such as television programs. The repetition of the characters insisting that Truman’s fabricated life is authentic exemplifies how misleading the technological world is, since the differentiation between what is real and fake is no longer easy to detect. The consistent use of advertisements throughout the dialogue and action of the film portrays how manipulative the technological world is to society, as consumerism becomes the foundation of the medium, thus entrapping the people to remain engaged.

The repetition of Truman’s sky malfunctioning throughout the movie exhibits the truth that the technological world will never compare to the sacredness of the real world’s complexities, for the only way to escape the constraints of technology is to revolt against one’s tragic condition and search for authenticity in the real world. Ultimately, The Truman Show warns audiences of the dangers of when the technological world becomes more privileged than real life. It is essential for one to deviate from a life that constricts oneself from experiencing the wonders of existence, as this will ensure the achievement of living a prosperous life.

Works Cited The Truman Show. Directed by Peter Weir. Scott Rudin Productions, 1998. Film.

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“This Could Be the Defining Moment of Your Life”: Succession’s Kendall Roy as a Modern-Day Tragic Hero Written by Cailin Ball1,2 1 Cinema Studies Institute, University of Toronto 2 Undergraduate of New College, University of Toronto The first season of HBO’s drama-satire Succession follows Kendall Roy, heir-apparent to a multi-billion-dollar media company, in his continually failing quest to become CEO. Despite his flaws – notably arrogance, disloyalty, and a perpetual drug addiction – the audience cannot help but root for Kendall, despite the lingering sense that he will continue to fail, no matter what he tries. In this way, Kendall fits the archetypal mold of the Classical tragic hero. The show even makes direct references to Kendall’s Oedipal trajectory, emphasizing just how tragic and Classical his hero arc is.

Nobility by Birth and Betrayal The tragic hero, originating in early Greek literature, was defined and explored in depth by Aristotle (Leech 33). He identified a number of criteria which apply to this sort of hero, many of which can be recognized in Kendall’s character arc.

The first of these is the state of nobility by birth, which Kendall clearly aligns with (Leech 34). Immediately, in the season’s first episode, it becomes obvious just how wealthy the Roy family are, and have been their entire lives. Despite this ‘nobility’ and wealth, however, Kendall seems unsatisfied with his position, viewing anything but CEO as insufficient. Aristotle noted this also, as a tragic hero characteristic; despite being born into means, the tragic hero is unsatisfied, and is willing to betray those around him for more (Leech 37). Also similar to a Classical tragic hero, Kendall seems more suited to power than the average person, possessing smarts, strong leadership skills, and extreme confidence. However, this is seemingly not enough for him. After the pilot, wherein Kendall’s imminent takeover as CEO is rescinded by his father, he begins the downward spiral and quest for power that continues throughout the season. When his father reveals that he plans to continue as CEO for years to come – contrary to the plan for Kendall’s takeover – Kendall is spurred to action, and to betrayal. His father’s illness immediately after this decision allows Kendall the perfect opportunity for a takeover, despite Logan’s wishes. This, of course, does not last long. As his father recovers, the two are locked in a dirty power struggle, leading Kendall to plan a vote-of-no-confidence, gathering shareholder support to vote his father out, and himself in. Kendall’s fatal flaw is his confidence, especially in the face of his father’s authority, and it is this that leads to his inevitable and devastating downfall.

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The Inevitable Fall Another characteristic of the tragic hero, according to Aristotle, is hamartia, a major error in judgement that leads to the hero’s tragedy and downfall (Leech 38). For Kendall, this fatal error is made when he makes a last-minute visit to a shareholder, hoping to garner the final vote he needs to win against his father. However, due to a suspected terrorist threat, airspace is closed, and Kendall is late for his own vote. As a result, many of his supporters instead vote for Logan, and thus he retains his position as CEO, while Kendall and all of those who voted with him are promptly fired. Like a typical tragic hero, Kendall plays a role in his own tragedy (Leech 39). Had he not made the last minute trip, he almost certainly would have won the vote. As such, he indirectly causes his own downfall, exacerbating this by falling back into his old drug habits and further estranging himself from his family. This is also the moment of Kendall’s anagnorisis, wherein the tragic hero recognizes their mistake at a time too late to prevent their downfall (Leech 37). Kendall realizes that his allies are not loyal, and also recognizes the fatal error he made in his visit to the shareholder. However, it is too late to reverse this mistake, and Kendall cannot prevent the beginning of his downward spiral. This fall, and its tragic end, ultimately feel inevitable, with the atmosphere of doom which has lingered since the season’s opening simply coming to realization. This initial tragedy creates a chain reaction, culminating in a drug-fueled car accident at Kendall’s sister, Siobhan’s, wedding, wherein he is indirectly responsible for the death of an employee. Again, despite the lurking feeling of inevitability, Kendall clearly plays a role in his own doom – it was, after all, at his request that the two ventured out in search of drugs. Throughout the entire season, Kendall is unable to escape disasters, both fated and self-made, and this makes him a textbook tragic hero.

Poetic Justice and Dramatic Irony Kendall’s most tragic and symbolically-fatal mistake throughout the season is his continuous attempts at a takeover, despite the fact that he has failed every prior attempt. Throughout season one, he attempts a whopping four takeovers, each of which fails more miserably than the last. Thus, a final, more devastating failure seems inevitable. This is the Aristotelian tragic hero’s “poetic justice” (Leech 38). He argues that, regardless of actual guilt, the tragic hero must have an inevitable final, catastrophic, tragic failure (Leech 43). The audience feels pity for Kendall, because of the struggles he has faced, but also recognizes that his failure is inevitable. If instead, the season ended with Kendall achieving some sort of success, the pay-off would feel disingenuous. A success after so many failures would be a feel-good ending, raising him to a truer heroic stature, but it would feel unearned and perhaps even forced. Thus, the logical conclusion, both storytelling and morality-wise, is a catastrophe. This catastrophe also brings a sense of irony to the season’s conclusion; despite his numerous attempts at a coup, Kendall has now effectively placed himself under complete control of his father. By revealing his knowledge of the accident and demanding Kendall rescind his current attempt at a takeover, Logan effectively destroys any chances he may have had at succeeding. He can lord this knowledge over Kendall, preventing him from any further betrayals, under threat of having this information publicly revealed. Thus, it is Kendall himself who ultimately destroys his own chances at success. Despite the seemingly destined failure, Kendall still plays a key role in his own demise, like a Classical tragic hero (Leech 39). This scene, in particular, emphasizes the true tragedy of his heroism. This moment can be recognized as yet another moment of anagnorisis, making it all the more ironic.

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If Kendall had learned from his initial mistake in the the vote-of-no-confidence and the anagnorisis he experienced at that point, perhaps he would not have continued in his tragic quest. However, his confidence and dedication in his pursuit of CEO prevent any of this self-awareness, and merely contribute to his tragic downfall. In depicting Kendall’s catastrophic failure, alongside the emotional breakdown that follows, the audience is reminded of just how much he has risked – and ultimately lost – in his attempts at betrayal.

Regardless of how righteous or promised his takeover as CEO may have seemed, both to Kendall, himself, and to the audience, this failure merely emphasizes how tragic his character arc has been throughout the entire season.

The Hero of His Own Tragedy Despite its adherence to the tragedy model in terms of Kendall’s arc, Succession also dabbles in Aristotelian comedy, playing into the darkly satirical nature of its subject matter. This comedy is explored in most characters’ arcs, but notably less so with Kendall.

Kendall’s losses are played for true tragedy, while his siblings’ have a more comedic tone. An example of this is a scene in episode ten “Nobody is Every Missing”, wherein the rocket launch Roman is overseeing fails, resulting in a catastrophic crash.

Despite the tragedy of this event, it is mostly played for laughs, and seemingly does not have any lasting effects on Roman. In strong contrast to Kendall’s tragedies, this is merely an awkward experience, not an event that will leave him with lingering trauma. Although some of Kendall’s more tragic moments are played comically – for example, the sobriety struggle he endures throughout Tom’s bachelor party in episode eight – the darkly tragic elements of his arc tend to dominate. In this episode, Kendall even explicitly jokes about the dangers of his addiction, reminding his cousin Greg that “my dad’s gonna be super disappointed if his son ODs” (“Prague” 39:20). In this way, the show dramatizes and emphasizes the contrast between Kendall and his siblings. While the others are merely part of cast in a tragedy, Kendall is the tragic hero himself.

Conclusion From his introduction until his tragic end, Kendall’s development throughout season one truly adheres to the Classical tragic hero model. Despite his constant attempts to achieve what he views as his ‘fate’ or ‘right’, Kendall’s ultimate catastrophic failure is the the only logical conclusion to his storyline. Through masterful character development and story structuring, the show’s screenwriters, including creator Jesse Armstrong, garner audience sympathy for Kendall, while also preparing them for what seems like an inevitable, tragic end. Through his struggles for ‘nobility’, his hamartia, leading to an inevitable downfall, his moments of anagnorisis, and the resulting poetic justice and irony, Kendall’s storyline adheres to that of the Aristotelian tragic hero (Leech 34-43). Like a Classic tragic hero, Kendall’s character development still encourages sympathy from the audience, both genuine, in hoping for his success, and tragic, due to the seemingly inevitable nature of his failure.

Works Cited Leech, Clifford. “The Tragic Hero.” Tragedy, 1969, pp. 33-43. Accessed 30 May 2021.

Succession, season one. Created by Jesse Armstrong, HBO Entertainment, 2018.

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Tangerine – An Independent Blockbuster Written by Colin Morley1,2 1 Department of History, University of Toronto 2 Fourth-year undergraduate of Victoria College, University of Toronto.

Much More Than A Chase The screenplay of Tangerine closely builds on both the whodunnit and cat-and-mouse plot devices of blockbusters past and present. In a typical blockbuster, this device involves one character, the cat, pursuing or chasing another, the mouse, often repeatedly nearly catching them before they escape again.

In the introductory scene, Sin-Dee, newly released from prison, meets Alexandra at a coffee shop where she learns of her pimp Chester’s infidelity. She spends the remainder of her day scouring the streets of Los Angeles to find the mystery woman. As she travels through the city, Sin-Dee reacquaints herself with many of her fellow sex workers, pimps, drug dealers, and addicts. Each new character reveals a piece of information that brings Sin-Dee closer to her goal and keeps the viewer guessing about the outcome of her search. For example, one woman tells Sin-Dee that Chester is with a woman called Desiree; however, another says her name is Destiny. Similarly, a pimp tells her the woman is at the food line, but a different man says she is on Vermont Street. Moreover, by making these interactions short and varied, Baker and Bergoch give the viewer a sense of Sin-Dee’s relentless determination, evoking the same suspenseful quality of Hollywood chase films.

As the audience follows Sin-Dee and Alexandra through the city for clues, they are exposed to the circumstances and personalities of the poor and LBGTQ communities in Los Angeles. For instance, when Sin-Dee goes to the food line during her search, she talks to a recovering drug addict trying to stay clean by avoiding Chester and prostitution. Nevertheless, despite these challenging conditions, the viewer also gets to see the humorous and joyful nature of Sin-Dee. Alexandra and their friends. In this way, the chase and whodunit devices are used not just for entertainment but as a way to circumvent the stereotypes audiences have come to expect in depictions of sex workers and the LGBTQ community on film.

Specifically, they showcase how trans women are fully-fledged human beings with personalities and feelings of happiness, rather than simply sorrowful victims defined by their work. The best example of this representation of trans women in the film are scenes involving Alexandra as she follows Sin-Dee on her quest. After Sin-Dee interrogates each of her friends, clients and coworkers, Alexandra hands them a flyer to her upcoming singing gig at a local club. As the audience later learns, Alexandra paid the club with the little money she has in order to be allowed to sing. These scenes show aspects of AlexanScreenwriters’ Perspectives Vol. 2 No. 1 2021

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dra’s personality outside her work, as well as her hopes and dreams for a life beyond what she has. This contrast between personality, aspiration and circumstance, in turn, demonstrates how the persecution of trans women has forced them into sex work of out necessity rather than choice.

Humour, Action, and Humanity Much like viewers have come to expect in movie star led superhero and action films, Tangerine effortlessly blends humour and violence to engross its viewers. However, unlike these films, the physical confrontations in Tangerine have an element of darkness and tragedy that reminds us of the inherent physical danger trans women and sex workers face. This is evident in a scene where Alexandra performs a sexual service for a man who refuses to pay her. Alexandra easily overpowers the man and starts to chase him, giving the scene an element of humour and absurdity that maintains its levity. The scene mimics the overall chase structure of the film, eliciting the same entertaining energy.

Although, at the same time, Alexandra’s preparedness and ability to use self-defence shows her awareness of both the bodily harm and financial risk she faces each time she enters a client’s personal space. This reality is emphasized further when a police officer comes to stop the fight and mentions that they have “worked” with Alexandra in situations like this before, revealing to the audience that this is not the first time Alexandra has had to resort to violence to protect herself (25:17). At first viewing, Alexandra’s interaction with the police is also humorous as she struggles to explain why the man owes her money. However, the officer’s unsympathetic response also showcases that not only are trans sex workers threatened by their clients but by broader social institutions that fail to provide them security and accountability. A reality made all the more poignant by the realization that sex work is often one of the only sources of livelihood for marginalized LGBTQ women like Sin-Dee and Alexandra.

Baker and Bergoch use comedy as an entry point for the viewer. It is a way to get to know Alexandra and Sin-Dee for those who do not know what it is like to live in their world. In the film’s first scene, the audience bonds with the two as they reunite and make jokes at a coffee shop after Alexandra has been newly released from jail. Humour lets the viewer discover who Alexandra and Sin-Dee genuinely are. It shows us their pain, such as when Sin-Dee makes a joke about how cruel it is that God gave her male genitals (10:07). However, it also shows us their love for each other, which can be seen in a scene where Sin-Dee drags the recently captured mystery woman to the club to hear Alexandra sing.

Alexandra and Sindee In Tangerine, the laughter, action sequences, and the chase all provide a gleeful candy coating to the film’s central theme: the comradery of trans women of colour in the face of almost insurmountable adversity. This message is exemplified at the end of the film when transphobic men unexpectedly assault Sin-Dee, and the viewer is left with a final image of Alexandra holding her hand to comfort her. In this moment, Baker and Bergoch show us that Alexandra’s enduring support of Sin-Dee in her chase is ultimately a metaphor for how love and friendship can triumph over injustice.

Works Cited Tangerine. Directed by Sean Baker. Magnolia Pictures, 2015. Film.

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From the Mists of History to the High Resolution Screen: Barbarians Written by Elizabeth Coulter1,2,3,4 1 Department of English, 2Germanic Languages and 3Literatures 4 Fourth-year undergraduate of Victoria College, University of Toronto Netflix’s 2020 series Barbarians brings to life the Battle of the Teutoburg Forest, transporting the viewer back 2000 years to the 1st century AD, Roman-occupied Germania. Despite the pivotal nature of the battle as a triumph for the early Germanic tribes against the Romans, our written sources exclusively tell the Roman perspective of the event, since the Germanic tribes of the time did not write anything down. And yet, it is the seemingly overwhelming task of providing the perspective of the Germanic peoples that the creators of Barbarians have taken on with their series. While it may be easy enough to use archaeological evidence to visually reconstruct the world of ancient tribes such as the Cherusci (their buildings and clothing and so on), it is ultimately through the screenwriting techniques employed that we the audience are immersed in the perspective of the Cherusci. The attempt to construct the outlook of the ancient Germanic tribes is vital in drawing the viewer into their world. It is achieved through such intangible, yet culturally defining elements of society: the language we use, the way we think, and the interactions we have with the people around us.

“Verstehst du, was er sagt? (“Do you understand what he’s saying?”) (“Wolf and Eagle”, 4:46-7) A framework for who the audience is to identify with is created in something as basic as the choice of language for the Germanic peoples and the Romans respectively. Reflecting the immense Roman literary output of the period, the Romans speak in meticulously reconstructed Classical Latin, creating a sense of realism by bringing to life the language of our dusty grammar books. The Latin is set in contrast to the modern German spoken by the Germanic peoples. As one may expect, the Proto-Germanic language of tribes such as the Cherusci is not fully known, but even if a masterful reconstruction were to be constructed to aid our time-travel, it would likely sound even more foreign to the audience than the Latin. By having the Germanic peoples speak Modern German, it associates the audience with the Germanic tribes in opposition to the Romans whose language “others” them. The film being German-made and covering a significant event in German history, the chosen language for the audience is naturally German, however even in the foreign language dubs the Romans’ lines are left in Latin. As common as Latin may be in written form today, it is not often heard spoken. Therefore, the choice of the ancient Roman language as opposed to a modern Romance language serves not only to give a sense of realism in the time period, but also to provide the Romans with a language that sounds particularly unfamiliar and therefore signals a very different culture.

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“Der Wolf kommt!” (“Wolf and Eagle”, 1:22-3) When Arminius is reflecting on the battle to Varus’ severed head in its aftermath, he says “You never understood…that some want to live differently than you. To worship and to feel differently than you do” (“The Battle”, 36:08-18). Working from the language used, we naturally arrive at the way in which it is used; the imagery and turns of phrase that work to get the audience into the head of the Cherusci – how they thought and perceived the world. From the very first line of the series: “Der Wolf kommt!” (“Wolf and Eagle”, 1:22-3), which can be translated as “The wolf comes” or perhaps more menacingly in the continuous: “The wolf is coming”, to the very end of the series when Arminius sees a wolf after the victorious battle, we are asked to think like a Cheruscan. The motif of the wolf pulls from later written Germanic mythology and works it into the idea of the wolf as a symbol of the fact that nothing lasts forever, everything in nature is cyclical; the wolf is ever-present, always waiting, and will one day consume everything. The Roman symbol of the maternal and nurturing wolf by contrast is only given a very brief mention and never explored, thereby remaining a foreign concept; and Varus’ statement that only the Roman army can destroy the world in the same scene strikes a naïve note.

The Germanic motif of the wolf is not one present in our modern consciousness, but it is introduced through the modern language, particularly in Chief Segimer’s lines. However, the concept is introduced to us smoothly through concepts we do understand, so that it feels natural to us. For example, Segimer begins his final speech by stating that “Nothing lasts forever.

Stars…trees…animals…people. Even the gods. Everything perishes eventually.” (“A New Reik”, 12:37-57), which is a universally understandable statement that then flows straight into the metaphorical version of it: “The wolf will come…and the world will burn. The wolf…will devour the moon. He’ll devour the sun. He’ll devour everything. Everything that ever existed. But that is not anything you need to fear. Everything that begins…must also end” (13:00-42). The effect is such, that when we are shown a wolf visually on screen, we know how to interpret it without the need of dialogue. At the very end of the series, when Arminius has become the great battle leader who has united and led the Germanic tribes to victory over the might of Rome, we know that the wolf is there as a reminder that this will not last forever.

“Bring me the head...of Folkwin Wolfspeer.” (“Vengeance”, 36:27-34) Perhaps the screenwriting choice that has attracted the most criticism is the central narrative itself. The dramatic elaboration of the sparse historical record appears to some clichéd, while others might see it as a natural storytelling choice. The historical events of the Battle of the Teutoburg Forest are but the backdrop to the dramatic story of three friends, including Arminius, the key figure in instigating battle, and his wife Thusnelda; a stereotypically feisty female lead. The third main character, Folkwin, is pure fiction, created to add the tension of a love-triangle to the story. The choice to create small-scale conflict between the Germanic tribespeople specifically allows the audience to get to know them individually, making us more personally invested in the tribes, while the Romans are largely presented as a uniform, antagonistic force. Furthermore,

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many of the interactions among the Germanic tribes and individuals revolve around themes of trust and betrayal.

For example, when Arminius is put in a position where he has to choose between his Roman allegiance and his friendship with Folkwin, he chooses to spare his friend’s life and kill his Roman comrades. Such scenes thematically tie themselves to the Battle of the Teutoburg Forest, which resulted from Arminius’ choice to betray the Romans and side with his native Cherusci tribe.

However, the question of to what extent a screenwriter should or should not rely on tropes and stereotypical characters when telling a story remains a difficult one.

There will always be critics who argue that any period drama simply isn’t “historically accurate enough”, but as writer for the show Arne Nolting states, “It’s not a history lesson…We’re making entertainment” (as quoted by Langmann). The screenwriter’s dilemma is perhaps sharpened by the lack of relevant source material from the Germanic perspective. Much longer TV series such as The Last Kingdom or Vikings, which pull from the history of much later Germanic peoples, have a wealth of Germanic literature at their disposal in order to spin stories that arguably do not lean so heavily on modern storytelling clichés since they have fewer gaps to fill. However, it is clearly much more difficult to avoid tropes when dealing with such murky history as that of the early 1st century Cheruscans.

Conclusion

It is ultimately the screenwriting techniques of Barbarians which really work to transport the audience into the Germanic perspective of the Battle of the Teutoburg Forest. These techniques can be drawn out to create a framework for bringing to life a foreign perspective and momentarily placing the viewer comfortably in that otherwise unfamiliar mindset. Details the viewer may not even think about such as language choice colour the way in which we perceive and connect to various characters. It is then the use of the language which we are most immersed in that a way of thinking can be built through the way various concepts are phrased, giving us an idea of the mindset of peoples such as the Cherusci. Finally, the story itself ultimately relies on smaller-scale conflict between the characters whose perspective we want to understand, not only to provide entertainment, but also to make the audience invest in and identify with them.

Works Cited “A New Reik.” Barbarians, written by Andreas Heckmann, Arne Nolting, and Jan Martin Scharf, directed by Barbara Eder, Gaumont International Television and Netflix, 2020.

Langmann, Brady. “Barbarians Season Two Can Continue an Ancient Conflict to its Bloody Conclusion.” Esquire, October 28th 2020.

“The Battle.” Barbarians, written by Andreas Heckmann, Arne Nolting, and Jan Martin Scharf, directed by Steve Saint Leger, Gaumont International Television and Netflix, 2020.

“Vengeance.” Barbarians, written by Andreas Heckmann, Arne Nolting, and Jan Martin Scharf, directed by Barbara Eder, Gaumont International Television and Netflix, 2020.

“Wolf and Eagle.” Barbarians, written by Andreas Heckmann, Arne Nolting, and Jan Martin Scharf, directed by Barbara Eder, Gaumont International Television and Netflix, 2020.

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The Haunting of Hill House and the Illusion of Space Written by Marta Anielska1,2 1 Department of English, Department of French, University of Toronto 2 Third-year undergraduate of University College, University of Toronto Throughout the 2018 Netflix mini-series The Haunting of Hill House, the titular building looms over the narrative, large, decrepit, and empty. Though every member of the Crain family is traumatized by their brief stay in the house, that trauma is compounded by the isolated narratives they have constructed. The characters maintain their narratives by denying that the house may have not been as empty as it seemed, and through a belief that no other family member truly understands what happened that summer. As the narratives of the Crain siblings converge, the house is exposed as a malignant figure that manipulates physical space to create emotional space that drives a wedge between the families it targets. The convergence of this narrative, consequently, becomes the mechanism by which the Crain siblings save their family, demonstrating how human isolation is a construct formed by trauma.

A Fractured Narrative The first few episodes of the show quickly establish the physical and emotional space created between the Crains by their trauma, most obviously from the fact that half of the siblings live on the east coast of the United States and the other lives on the west. Though siblings often grow apart over time, the narrative style focuses each episode on a single sibling’s experience with the house and consequent trauma. Each sibling’s perception of their time at Hill House is at odds with the fact that the time they spent there and their mother’s suicide was a shared experience that only creates a coherent sequence of events when combined. This is especially true of Steven and Nell, the siblings with the largest age gap. While the former remembers their mother’s state slowly deteriorating over time, Steven interprets her decline as mental illness without Nell’s direct knowledge of the ghosts of Hill House. As a result, even the siblings that live close to each other have an oddly distant relationship. For example, Theo living in Shirley’s guest house, separated from the main family, feels more like a cold courtesy one would extend to an acquaintance rather than any warm familial bond. To both characters, the other is someone that they know instead of someone that actively plays a part in the narrative of their lives.

The oddly formal and distant relationship between the Crain siblings becomes even more obvious when they are forced together by Nelly’s death. The sixth episode, titled “Two Storms,” which marks the halfway point in the series and instrumentalizes the ‘bottle episode’ trope, eliminating the physical distance between the Crains; however, it also makes clear that bridging any kind of emotional distance will be much harder. Even when in the same room, the camerawork of the episode reveals Screenwriters’ Perspectives Vol. 3 No. 1 2022

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that the failure to connect is due to the emotional isolation created by the narrative isolation of each of the Crains’ experiences.

Throughout the episode, the shot will focus on one of the siblings while others are having conversations in the background; their communication is blurry and disconnected compared to the loneliness they feel. Consequently, Theo is a visual focus of the episode since the isolation of her narrative led her to touch Nell’s dead body and absorb the horrors she faced, leaving her emotionally numb. Many shots linger on her as her siblings bicker in the behind her. Wide, sweeping shots also make one room feel much larger than it is, showing how the vast emptiness of Hill House is hardly necessary to make a space feel daunting. Despite theoretically having escaped the house, the siblings continue to drag around its weight.

Filling the Gaps Tension is, however, not built through the audience’s knowledge of the physical and emotional space between the Crains; rather, it’s created by the suggestion that space is not really empty. This is most literally clear through how the camera lingers on empty spaces in Hill House once characters have already left a room. Consequently, the audience suspects that something might actually be there, even if it is not presently visible. Moreover, as a convention of the horror genre, it specifically makes the audience expect a jump scare; the subversion of that expectation ironically leaves them even more confused and tense. This effect is cleverly woven into the narrative which takes place when the Crains are adults, and shots that have two of the siblings on opposite sides of the room are yet again used to suggest a presence of tension rather than an absence. The bottle episode crystallizes this concept because Nelly, invisible in the past and dead in the present, stands in the background as her family descends into chaos. In both cases, she is a representation of everything that is unsaid between her siblings, and when secrets start to be revealed, the camerawork swoops in to narrow down the space, spinning dizzily around arguing characters as though they themselves have stepped into the tension Nelly’s ghostly appearance represents.

At first, the bottle episode seems like a collision course; having aired all their secrets, the Crains fail to reconcile their narratives and fall into disrepair. Instead, it forces all the Crains towards the climax which, inevitably, must occur in a confrontation of Hill House. They confront their trauma together, all ending up in the red room — one of the greatest mysteries of Hill House — and fending for their lives with the help of Nelly, the only Crain that has tried to weave their narratives together time and time again. The episode comes with a startling revelation: the Crain siblings have all been in the red room before. During their stay in the house as children, the majority of the Crains had retreated to separate rooms when wanting to be alone — but all these rooms had simply been the red room, shifting and adapting to create an illusion of space. Despite feeling the vastness of the house and the individual siblings’ experiences differing so much, the siblings had all, ultimately, inhabited the exact same space. Rather than empty space being filled with horrors as the show’s camerawork suggests, it is simply inhabited by other humans. The Crains just had to realize that was the case to take away the house’s power.

Conclusion The Haunting of Hill House works both as a story that evokes our greatest fears and one that comments on the nature of fear itself. None of the siblings know exactly what happened, and all of them fear that whatever happened in the past might come back. That fear can only be perpetuated when we blind ourselves through the limitation of a sole perspective and ignore the importance of shared experience. When humans share experience, they quickly become aware that the space that could be filled by that which is terrifying and deadly can also house that which is familiar and comforting.

Work Cited The Haunting of Hill House, season one. Created by Mike Flanagan, Netflix Inc., 2018 Screenwriters’ Perspectives Vol. 3 No. 1 2022

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The Materialization of the Spectacle: The Role of Allegorical References in I’m Thinking of Ending Things Written by Nujhat Tabassum1,2,3,4 1 Department of Physiology, 2Human Biology, 3Psychology, University of Toronto 4 Alumnus of Victoria College, University of Toronto Through stark alterations of characters and setting, and unreliable narration, I’m Thinking of Ending Things thrives on ambiguity, effectively disorienting first-time viewers.

Despite their confusion, enticed by the film’s withholding nature, many viewers feel compelled to return for multiple viewings, in attempts to decrypt its ‘true’ meaning. Ending accomplishes this, in part, through its overabundance of visual and literary allegorical references. Like tantalizing bait, the sources of these references are dangled in front of the audience, either directly stated through philosophical dialogue or noticeably placed in a scene’s setting.

Understanding these references as representative of Ending’s narrative details and overarching themes, viewers attempt to use them as keys to crack the film’s coded language. However, stated but rarely elaborated upon, these references instead enhance the barrier to knowledge between the film and its audience, preventing the average viewer from achieving intelligibility of the story. As a result of not being equipped with the foundational knowledge required to gain deeper understanding of the material, these viewers cannot help but feel alienated from the film.

However, in line with Ending’s overarching themes, this effect is intentional.

A Not-So-Beautiful Mind As referenced in the film, David Foster Wallace’s essay “E Unibus Pluram: Television and U.S. Fiction” states, “Pretty people tend to be more pleasing to look at than non-pretty people. But when we’re talking about television, the combination of sheer Audience size and quiet psychic intercourse between images and oglers starts a cycle that both enhances pretty images’ appeal and erodes us viewers’ own security in the face of gazes.” (1:34:21-1:34:42). The perception of intelligence and talent, conflated here as genius, creates the same cycle between Jake and the Girlfriend, and between the references he surrounds himself with. Similar to the principles stated in the essay in relation to prettiness, human beings find appeal in and tend to identify with things they consider genius. Due to Jake’s deep desire to be perceived as genius himself, he diligently absorbs knowledge from those he reveres. Like prized commodity, the quantification of this desire is shown through shots of Jake’s childhood bedroom, teeming with notable works of art and science. Fitting this frame of genius as a material possession, Jake’s fractured psyche constructs the Girlfriend to be an idealized partner to not only carry his breadth of academic knowledge, as a physicist-artist-poet-gerontologist-biologist, but to be earned by him, as validation of his own genius because he appeals to and is accepted by her. The relationship between the film and its audience follows similar logic. The Girlfriend’s genius qualities are presented directly to viewers, through conversations about her scholarly pursuits, displays of her artistic talent (her breathtaking poetry and paintings), and her original arguments (like her scathing review of the film A Woman Under the Influence (1:16:56-1:19:29)). Through this evidence, the Girlfriend becomes established as genius in the audience members’ minds, and in line with Wallace’s essay, they find themselves both attracted to her (and Ending’s) genius, and pride themselves in their ability to recognize the refined qualities associated with genius. Through this ability, they believe they have gained access into the exclusive social sphere of genius, earning identities as at least genius-adjacent.

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While Ending does not present direct evidence of Jake’s genius, the audience believes he is one, because the genius Girlfriend believes so. As shown through her monologues, Jake in the Girlfriend’s mind is idealized – for example, she recounts profound words of wisdom he has imparted to her in the past (“Jake once said, ‘Sometimes the thought is closer to the truth, to reality, than an action…’” (1:36-1:48)). Though the withdrawn, inarticulate Jake onscreen pales in comparison to the Jake of the Girlfriend’s mind, the audience trusts her judgement.

By continuously surrounding himself with knowledge, however, Jake simultaneously nourishes his attraction to genius and attacks his own self-esteem, forced to face the realization that in comparison to the geniuses who exist, he is lacking. Jake attempts to protect the Girlfriend and her idealized image of him from this realization by forbidding her from going down to the basement. But she defies him, witnessing prints of the landscape paintings she previously claimed to have created, this time credited to artist Ralph Albert Blakeblock. Furthermore, she spies unskilled imitations of the prints painted and signed

by Jake. This revelation not only hints at the fabrication of the Girlfriend’s personhood, but provides a direct visual comparison of Jake’s desired perception of his possessed skill and the actual lack of it. Viewers previously considering themselves intelligent enough to understand the film’s nuances feel ashamed for not having the background to be able to discern the Girlfriend’s (and Ending’s) misleading, derivative nature. By having gaps in their knowledge exposed, viewers feel alienated from the film, kicked out of the social sphere they pr-eviously thought they occupied. With this device of baiting and withholding thematic information, the film lets the audience experience firsthand a crucial part of Jake’s fragile psyche.

A Woman Escaping the Influence As quoted by the Girlfriend, herself manufactured by Jake’s mind from a hodgepodge of existing people and quotations, “ ‘ “Nothing is more rare in any man,” says Emerson, “than an act of his own.” And it’s quite true. Most people are other people. Their thoughts are someone else’s opinions. Their lives a mimicry, their passions a quotation.’ That’s an Oscar Wilde quote.” (1:10:26-1:10:43) Itself an adaptation of a novel by Iain Reid, the film begins with monologues lifted wordfor-word from the novel (0:51-3:23). The poem and film review the Girlfriend has ‘written’ have been recited verbatim from Eva H.D.’s poem “Bonedog” and Pauline Kael’s review of the Cassavetes film. By cutting and pasting quotes from the minds of other intellectuals and passing them off as the original thoughts of film’s main character, Ending seems to admit it lacks originality, more akin to a plagiarized duplicate than an adaptation. This admission is evident when the couple are discussing Guy DeBord’s The Society of the Spectacle, where they claim that the spectacle (mass media and pop culture) is the materialization of worldviews that creeps into one’s subconscious and personality (1:35:33-1:36:4)) Like a virus, the spectacle one absorbs skews their perception of the world, until the self left behind is one devoid of true autonomy. A stark example of the spectacle subconsciously infecting Jake’s mind and altering his ideals is shown when, not long after the Janitor (elderly Jake) watches a parody romantic comedy film set in a diner (44:41-46:41), younger Jake claims to his parents that the Girlfriend is a waitress he met when she was serving him, a far cry from her previous occupations in academia (1:6:17-1:6:33). As highlighted by the frequency of their appearances, the parody film, along with the musical Oklahoma!, have lodged themselves deep in the recesses of Jake’s mind, altering his thoughts and ideas, perhaps contributing to Jake’s unrealistic ideal of romantic love. As the audience has familiarized themselves with Jake’s mind (and with Ending as a representation of Jake’s mind), mainly through the references cited throughout, it becomes difficult to distinguish Jake’s identity from the pop culture references he hides his truths behind. It becomes clear that while the references depicted can exist separately as original works of their own, Jake and Ending have become so codependent on the references that they cannot be recognized without them. Or so it seems.

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Pore Jud Ain’t Daid Although Ending remains referential throughout its run, the references signal a significant deviation from the primary source material. The film uses completely different references from the novel to symbolize similar themes. Though the references themselves are recited, the characters alter the meanings of the references through the context the film provides, tinging the words to hold new interpretations. The brutal assault on Mabel Longhetti’s character in the Girlfriend’s review transformatively becomes extended towards Jake, who mentions previously that he feels a kinship with her. Under this light, the review and Jake’s subsequent reaction allows viewers to gain insight into the despairing isolation he feels as a societal outcast (1:20:41:21:40). Furthermore, immediately preceding the first appearance of a reference, an episode of Peabody’s Improbable History (5:23-5:34), the Girlfriend’s monologues shift from transcriptions of the novel to paraphrases and unique musings (4:19-1:51:22). These changes in wording and behaviour serve as the precursor to more pronounced changes in the Girlfriend’s and Jake’s characterizations, ultimately leading to major alterations in the conclusion of the film. Mirroring the aforementioned codependency of the references and Jake’s mind, the novel ends when, realizing she’s part of the entity that is Jake the Janitor, the Girlfriend, as the companion personality, ‘helps’ Jake by stabbing themselves, fully integrated in death (Reid ch. 13).

However, in the film, the Girlfriend is given symbolic freedom from the prison of Jake’s mind when she speaks to the Janitor, revealing herself to be a creation born out of a lifelong regret of not pursuing the Girlfriend’s likeness in real life. Much like the likeness that lives a life separate from Jake, the Girlfriend is allowed to leave the school while Jake decides to face his suicide alone. By singing “Lonely Room” at the film’s conclusion (2:6:19-2:8:59), Jake signals that he is at the end of his symbolic journey, having shed his pathological need to be rewarded by society for his merits, by embracing his identity not as the musical’s leading man, American cowboy Curly, but as the outcast farmhand that doesn’t get the girl, Jud. Resembling the Girlfriend’s borrowed plein air paintings, the final lingering shot of the snow-covered pickup truck implies that Jake the Janitor has passed away in his car, having reconciled himself with the knowledge that like most of humanity, he was a maggot-infested pig, his life and ideas derivatives of the culture around him. Yet the film subverts expectations even in the final seconds, as a car motor is heard revving to life in the background, leading the audience to wonder if there’s hope for Jake’s survival after all. Freed from the shackles of societal expectations, the allegorical journey did not consume, but rather transformed him, allowing Jake (and Ending) to be reborn from the snowstorm of references, wholly original by the end.

Works Cited I’m Thinking of Ending Things. Directed by Charlie Kaufman, Likely Story and Projective Testing Service, 2020.

Reid, Iain. I’m Thinking of Ending Things. e-book, New York, Scout Press, 2016.

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Next of Kin: Writing Undeniable Empathy Written by Sofi Abouassali1,2,3,4 1 Cinema Studies Institute, 2School of Environment, 3Certificate in Sustainability. University of Toronto 4 Second-year undergraduate of Innis College, University of Toronto

Introduction Next of Kin(1984) as Atom Egoyan’s debut feature accomplishes an impressive feat within the short runtime of seventy minutes. The 1984 film is an excellent example of using emotion to transcend boundaries in terms of empathy. Egoyan’s writing allows audience members to understand the characters beyond just responding to the characters’ words and actions.

Using storytelling techniques and focusing on the characters’ psychology allows for a deep understanding of a family dealing with a generational and cultural pull between parent and child. This allows for a rich and deep understanding of the first-generation experience.

The Use of Narration The film’s protagonist, Peter Foster, narrates in first person through the course of the film, offering backstory insight and using audiotapes as a tool for narrating his thoughts. This narrative style offers the audience insight into the character Peter’s psychology. In addition, Peter actively narrates what he finds in the psychology of his surrounding characters. Peter’s self-proclaimed problem is that he likes to pretend, stating part of himself is the actor while the other part is the audience.

This makes Peter a malleable character who can conform to whatever situation Egoyan puts the character in, creating an excellent tool for the audience to gain information. He often takes in his surroundings and contemplates questions that the audience ponders. He is able to “perform” in whichever scenario he needs to. Peter envies therapists; he wants the opportunity to explore what he finds intriguing- other families’ problems. At the beginning of the film, Peter states, “What can be more exciting than getting to know another family, trying to solve their problems. What can be more satisfying than giving direction to their life?”(7:44) He decides to watch the tape of another family’s therapy session in this desire. The tape he chooses is of an Armenian Canadian family with a ghost-child son, the same age as Peter. Peter takes this opportunity to pretend to be the missing child, Bedros, to resolve familial tension. His decision to “perform” as Bedros gives the audience a chance to witness firsthand what goes on inside the family. Peter’s relationship with each family member also allows the audience to see different sides to the same characters. Rather than morally good or bad characters, each character has flaws, but Egoyan explores the reason behind these character flaws. He writes to explore how the seeds of how the characters’ beliefs and actions have been planted and grown.

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Storytelling Style Egoyan does this type of storytelling based on emotion and understanding in a very effective way. This is because the empathetic film is persuasive at its very core. The audience must be persuaded to view the story world to align with the characters to believe their actions are justified. The audience viewing the story world through Peter’s eyes gives exploration to the characters George and Azah. They both justify the viewpoint of their shared relationship to Peter, allowing the audience to understand how these characters are layered.

Beyond this style choice, the written dialogue between characters is primarily based on their feelings.

An example of this is in an interaction between Peter and Azah when he tells her to think of agreeing with George as acting. Azah states, “I would feel terrible.” Peter responds by saying, “Not if you realize why you are doing it… to show you love him.” (43:50) This emphasis on emotion achieves audience members who do not identify with the scenario to understand the characters beyond differences.

Cultural differences are explored, but not in a way that flattens the character as commonly seen in mainstream media.

Instead, Egoyan treats these as an added layer to an already complex human nature- giving just representation to minority characters not usually found in mainstream entertainment.

Egoyan and the Audience, Students of Human Nature Emotion- the core string that runs through all of humanity, the one thing the entire population has in common; how does that make you feel? This film is used as a vehicle for both the characters and the audience to explore how they feel. Further, the film also explores how these feelings become translated into actions and how actions are interpreted and felt by other characters. Within George and Azah’s relationship, Peter finds that George acts the way he does out of care for Azah, but Azah believes this is ridicule because of how George acts on his emotions—causing Azah, in turn, to act in a way that hurts George as well. Egoyan’s writing promotes a type of self and universal understanding. George and Azah act as mirrors to one another, often resulting in conflict and repellence. Both are rather progressive for their described home environment, but their most significant blockage is their greatest commonality- their pride. This pride must be understood and overcome in order to achieve a sense of harmony amongst the characters. Peter continues to explore his own mental and emotional fabrication, gaining insight from the family’s experiences. While Peter states the family is different from what he is used to, once he pokes and prods inside each character’s mind, he can understand beyond his own experience of “normal.”

Conclusion Next of Kin is an emotionally evocative script that encompasses the characters’ mental, emotional, and psychological progression within the story. Egoyan does not write a screenplay that satisfies an audience thirsting for brash action and climax; rather, he writes for an audience that is ready to engage with him on a journey to understanding the most complicated and self-contradicting thing on the planet- human beings. Admittedly, a much more daunting and difficult task, but one that he achieves with grace.

Works Cited Egoyan, Atom, director. Next of Kin. YouTube, Ego Film Art Production, 1984, Film.

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“The Greatest Change”: The Legend of Korra and the Elements of Character Growth Written by Vikram Nijhawan1,2,3 1 Department of English, 2Department of History, Department of Classics 3 Fourth-year undergraduate of Trinity College, University of Toronto

“When we hit our lowest point, we are open to the greatest change.” (“Endgame”, 21:20-25) This moment is emotionally-resonant for viewers just as much as it is for Korra, which makes her change feel earned and compelling. The wisdom Aang imparts through these words, in the final episode of Book One: Air, summarizes the titular character’s arc. Even though The Legend of Korra is primarily a fantasy-action show, the protagonist undergoes a profound inner journey, which culminates at this penultimate scene of the season. Just as unfamiliar viewers may be misled by the show’s genre status, Korra too suffers from similar misconceptions about her status as Avatar, focusing solely on the external aspects, related to fighting enemies, at the expense of the internal aspect of attaining closure and personal equilibrium. When the former Avatar speaks these words to his tempestuous successor, Korra, she finally understands the lesson she struggled to learn throughout the entire season. Through this self-actualization, she achieves her full potential, and transforms into the heroine the world needs.

Just as Korra struggles to live up to the expectations of her predecessor Aang, so too has The Legend of Korra often been unfairly and negatively compared against the beloved show which preceded it, Avatar: The Last Airbender. Compared to the vicarious fantasy and whimsical escapism of Avatar, many long-time fans had trouble adjusting to the narrower focus and less optimistic tone of the sequel series. While the world of Korra admittedly lacks the grand scope and far-reaching stakes of its predecessor, this proves to be the show’s greatest strength. Its near-singular focus on the protagonist invests the audience in Korra’s growth, and the result feels just as poignant – if not more so – than any of the character arcs in Avatar. Book One: Air in particular adheres to the tried-and-tested features of a positive change arc, and Korra’s journey provides a valuable template for understanding how an action-story protagonist like her can provide inspiration through her meaningful character change.

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“I’m the Avatar, you gotta deal with it!” (“Welcome to Republic City”, 1:33-37)

At their core, all character arcs are based on two fundamentally-opposed aspects: Wants and Needs. In a positive change arc, a character begins the story pursuing a flawed goal, or Want, and throughout the story, gravitates towards what she truly Needs to achieve personal and external fulfilment. Wants stem from a character’s misguided perception of her world, also known as a Lie. Conversely, it is only through recognizing her Need that a character can understand the greater Truth.

The Southern Water Tribeswoman Korra makes a literal splash in her first scene, as she expertly manipulates the elements of water, earth, and fire, in front of the audience of the White Lotus. She asserts her dominance, and in doing so, differentiates herself from her predecessor in an important way. Unlike Aang, Korra does not shy away from her destiny, instead embracing it with full fervour. She makes her Want resoundingly clear. However, Korra’s eagerness to assume the responsibility of Avatar, witnessed in her first two scenes, also reveals her Need. As a White Lotus advisor explicitly states, she excels in the physical and martial aspects of bending, but neglects the internal and spiritual ones which are just as crucial for the role.

This is externalized by her inability to master the more spiritual and intangible element of air, thus preventing her from becoming a fully-realized Avatar.

In this manner, Korra’s mentor Tenzin functions as a character foil who highlights the Lie which fuels her attitude, and the Truth she must learn. Tenzin’s pacifist mindset reveals the Lie that she believes, when he reprimands her by saying, “Being the Avatar isn’t all about fighting” (“A Leaf in the Wind”, 20:15-20). Korra, whose arrival in Republic City is marked by her engaging in fights with both criminals and the police officers who attempt to apprehend her, embodies this outlook. In contrast to his headstrong and combative student, the Air Nomad is calm and meditative, encouraging Korra to be introspective rather than belligerent. The Truth she must learn is that being the Avatar requires not only great physical strength, but also a strong spiritual connection, symbolized by her ability to unlock the element of air. The ensuing events of the plot will lead Korra to re-evaluate her deeply-held beliefs, and put her on the path to spiritual and inner growth.

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“A Leaf in the Wind” Throughout Book One, Korra faces conflicts both major and minor, which force her to confront the limitations of her ‘mightmakes-right’ approach. An incident which presages her larger eventual character growth can be seen as Tenzin attempts to teach her the basics of airbending, with little success. Korra is far more interested in playing the martial sport of pro-bending, but soon realizes that success in the game requires her to adopt Tenzin’s evasive and non-combative tactics, to emulate a “leaf in the wind”. Her choice to deviate from brute force, and instead rely on more subtle and self-reflexive methods to solve problems, represents her grasping at the Truth, if only partially.

While this external conflict lays the foundation for Korra’s path to self-fulfilment, her growth is also visible through her navigation of interpersonal conflict. Her fighting skills, while useful in the pro-bending arena, are not nearly as helpful in the arena of love, as she attempts to pursue her romantic feelings towards Mako. Such challenges shift the emphasis away from Korra’s physical formidability ever so slightly, and toward her ability to develop inner control. Within the lore of the world, the Heart Chakra, unsurprisingly associated with love, also corresponds with the ability to airbend. The magic system of the world connects Korra’s external goal of mastering the element, and her internal one of self-fulfilment through love, making the achievement of the former dependant on the latter.

Above all, the season’s primary antagonist, Amon, is structurally-effective for Korra’s growth. He seeks to strip all the benders in Republic City of their bending, and positions himself to attack what Korra prizes most: her mastery over the three combative elements. Her inability to defeat Amon in a physical bout, and the lingering trauma from their past confrontation, signifies her moving closer to understanding what she Needs – to acquire internal and spiritual control.

An analogous but more apparent example which showcases the limitations of physical conflict resolution can be seen at the season’s midpoint, where Korra’s fighting prowess fails her, and she is imprisoned by the corrupt City councilman Tarrlok.

In her confinement, she has no choice but to take a proverbial leaf from Tenzin’s book, and meditate to arrive at a solution.

Through this, she is able to glimpse at visions from her predecessor Aang’s life, setting the stage for their greater connection at the end of the season. The events of the plot, and the various opponents she faces, render Korra’s physical might useless, and forces her to turn inward to find solutions. This will culminate in her larger transformation by the end, as she nears the destination of Avatar status.

“Avatar Korra”

(“Endgame”, 23:06-10) At the crisis point in the final episode, Amon fulfils Korra’s worst fears by taking away her bending abilities. But in doing so, it enables her to finally master airbending. Without her other elemental powers, Korra must watch as Amon threatens to do the same to Mako. At her most physically vulnerable point, she allows herself to be emotionally vulnerable too, and by acknowledging her love for Mako, she unlocks her airbending, and defeats Amon to save her friend.

While Korra and the rest of Team Avatar succeed in quelling the Equalist movement, her inner conflict remains unresolved.

Even though she has grown enough to airbend, she still resolves the primary conflict, defeating Amon, in a similar manner as she would have at the beginning of the season. Her transformation is not yet complete. In this way, the climax of the plot – resolved by Korra subduing an external and physical threat – is separated from the climax of her character arc, which can only be resolved internally.

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This bifurcation of conflict pushes Korra to change in an even greater capacity. She has lost access to the other three elements, preventing her ascension to the status of a fully-realized Avatar. In her despondence and dismay afterwards, she rejects Mako’s reciprocal expression of love. With nothing left to focus on other than her internal being, Korra feels overwhelmed. There is no external threat to overcome at this moment, and her only adversary is herself. This setback is at once her lowest point, but with her newfound ability to connect with Aang and her past lives, eventually proves to be her path to profound change. Korra resolves her inner turmoil, and is finally able to pursue her love for Mako.

Conclusion Korra begins the season with a desire to prove her worth, just as the show itself seeks to live up to Avatar’s towering standards. As the protagonist herself learns, this cannot solely be accomplished through impressive martial feats. Initially, Korra Wants to be the Avatar, but approaches her role from a physical and combative stance. Through her interactions with allies and adversaries over the course of the season, Korra slowly realizes the limitations of her imposing physical powers, and moves towards her Need of inner and spiritual connection. Only through this, and achieving balance within herself, can Korra fulfil her primary duty as Avatar, and bring balance to the rest of the world.

Works Cited “Chapter One: Welcome to Republic City”. The Legend of Korra Book One: Air, written by Michael Dante DiMartino and Bryan Konietzko, directed by Joaquim Dos Santos and Ki Hyun Ryu, ViacomCBS Domestic Media Networks and Nickelodeon, 2012.

“Chapter Two: A Leaf in the Wind”. The Legend of Korra Book One: Air, written by Michael Dante DiMartino and Bryan Konietzko, directed by Joaquim Dos Santos awnd Ki Hyun Ryu, ViacomCBS Domestic Media Networks and Nickelodeon, 2012.

“Chapter Twelve: Endgame”. The Legend of Korra Book One: Air, written by Michael Dante DiMartino and Bryan Konietzko, directed by Joaquim Dos Santos and Ki Hyun Ryu, Viac.

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Dismantling the Stereotypical Nature of the “Strong Woman” in Greta Gerwig’s Little Women Written by Eden Prosser1,2,3 1 Department of English, 2Department of History, Department of Classics 3 Fourth-year undergraduate of Trinity College, University of Toronto

In an era so oft hailed as progressive, one might expect to find strong women across the small and silver screens.

And yet, when Greta Gerwig’s Little Women (2019) first graced the theatre, it felt different than any project that had come before. Here were four women, who were not simply defined by their physical strength or “notlike-other-girls”-ness, but were instead unique and multi-faceted. Through their trials and tribulations, they each demonstrated inner power, showing that one need not hide their more feminine qualities to be accepted in a wide world full of men. In Gerwig’s lush and nuanced script, each of the four March sisters undergoes a blossoming arc in which they learn to define who they are, what they want, and how they are going to get there. And yet, these are overarching arcs, stretching across 135 minutes of glorious development. Throughout this time, beliefs are dismantled, stereotypes are dismissed, and women are portrayed in ways they have never been before. One such young March sister is Jo, the feisty protagonist: a writer unafraid to share her truth, who learns to shoulder love through the progression of her story.

To Make it in a Man’s World, One Must Hide That Which Makes Them a Woman From their very first introduction, the four March girls appear different as can be. Meg, the eldest, is traditional: caring for child-rearing and marriage, carrying on the family legacy. Beth, the youngest, is quiet and demure, content to play the day away at her piano. Amy, the brash and naïve middle child, is rife with dreams and craves all the attention. In contrast, there is Jo. Josephine “Jo” March, the traditional protagonist of Alcott’s initial tale.

She is introduced as a tomboy: preferring trousers over tulle and lessons over love. Early in the film, she informs her aunt that she has no intention of ever marrying; she instead intents to “make [her] own way in the world,” presumably through intellectual and authorly pursuits (35:20). Her sisters even jokingly refer to her as their “only brother,” despite her female sex (32:16). In short, she is the antithesis of the eighteenth-century woman: a characterization Gerwig steadfastly leans into.

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Notably, Jo dreams of becoming a writer—a traditionally-male occupation, and one where women are oft not taken seriously. Women, after all, are supposed to settle and get married, not let their dreams run wild—a sentiment made explicit by Jo’s gatekeeping editor, Mr. Dashwood. According to him, women—be they the figments of Jo’s tales, or the real ones walking the world—must be “married by the end” of their life stories, as he so pointedly reminds her (3:48). For a woman, a career cannot be the goal. Thus, if Jo is to make it as a writer, she must shove out all semblance of womanliness. Only by acting like a man can she, a woman, make it in a man’s world—and in a typically masculine career, no less.

This explains much of her dress and disposition. This is precisely why she is viewed by her contemporaries as “a boxer, about to go into the ring” rather than delicate and demure: an opening metaphor that introduces her in a strong and manly light (1:13). Her fingers are not dainty, nor are her nails painted; instead, her hands are described as being covered in ink stains, demonstrating her lack of care for her appearance (2:23). It is hard for Jo to separate the concept of “woman” from that of “meek,” “ignored” or “forgotten,” and so, throughout the script, she discards her femininity, hiding what she believes makes her seem weak.

Uncovering What’s Hidden: Shattering (Psychological) Armour, and Opening Oneself to Love It is not until the script’s hundredth page—far into the third act of the story—that her facade begins to crack, betraying all she truly feels, the feelings she thought she had to lock away. Because a woman—in Jo’s eyes, and in the eyes of her society—cannot wear her heart on her sleeve and still expect to excel in a man’s career. And yet, despite her best attempts, Jo still struggles. She is not writing at her best, and what little words she does force out sell for less than a man’s starting price.

And that is just occupationally—mentally, she is barely holding on.

Still, she forces down her womanly desires, insisting on rejecting romance from the suitors in her life. She fears getting close to her co-worker Friedrich, fleeing when he acts astute, shying from his watchful observations (5:46). Despite her evident attraction to the man—evidenced by her reverie when asked, by him, to dance—she cannot bear to open her heart Screenwriters’ Perspectives Vol. 3 No. 1 2022

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and let him in (10:55-12:08). Later, in the third act, when Laurie asks to marry her, she similarly shuts him down, going so far as to flee the city (1:36:41-1:40:00). She cares for him, more than she ever has for any man; he is her best friend, and respect can easily blossom into admiration and attraction. Still, she tells him she cannot accept. As she tells him, she “does not believe [that she] will ever marry”, and is “happy as [she is]” (1:38:40-1:39:23). Be that true or a façade, it is the front she puts up, so as not to give in to his—or any other man’s—offering of love.

She cannot accept their offerings. After all, showing such a “womanly” emotion as care or love—at least, in her eyes— would dismantle her strong, capable exterior, the carefully-constructed front she has forged and maintained. Allowing it to crack—well, that could very well be her downfall. And Jo is nowhere near ready to give up her dreams, her future.

Learning to Love, and Loving as Strength: Jo’s Miraculous Revelation It is only on that hundredth page where her fears—and with them, her true feelings—begin to seep through. “Women have minds,” she starts, “…and souls” (1:42:27-1:42:41). This makes sense: Jo is a firm believer in her intellect, and every human has a soul. These traits are unsurprising. It is the following admittance, however, that demonstrates her vulnerability: “… and hearts” (1:42:47). Hearts, that is, to feel emotion, to feel love.

The next line in the monologue continues her realization. “Ambition and talent, as well as beauty” (1:42:48-1:43:04). These traits—some stereotypically male, others, stereotypically female—are not mutually exclusive, nor are they truly limited to just one of the sexes. Women, she realizes, can be smart, and still be empathetic. They can throw themselves into their work, and still care for skirts and jewels.

It is through this monologue that Jo finally admits, both to her Marmee and herself, that wanting a career does not mean that she must hide her heart, nor does it mean that craving love or companionship makes her weak. Through her words, Jo realizes that women are not solely one thing—smart (but plain), beautiful (but ditzy); instead, they are multi-faceted.

Strength, she concedes, does not just come through hardening the heart, but rather from accepting every side of the self.

With this realization, Jo finally unlocks the mental block holding her from completing her magnum opus. Finally, she can be herself—and let her dreams run wild. She unlocks ideas and inspiration. She recovers the desire to put her pen to paper.

For the first time in a long time, she writes all night. Through the lifting of this weight, Jo is able to begin—and, more impressively, complete—her first publishable novel. In accepting her true self, she can finally fulfill her long-held authorly dream (1:51:46-1:1:54:28).

Conclusion: The Reality of the Multifaceted Woman Ultimately, Jo’s discovery opens her eyes to the reality of the world. Women do have minds and souls and hearts (1:42:271:43:04). They can be brainy and empathetic, driven yet demure. Strength, as demonstrated throughout the film, is not simply physical, nor can it be summed up in one core trait; instead, strength is a mosaic. It is found in Jo’s intelligence, yet also in her desires; in her relationships—with Marmee, with her sisters, with the love that she so craves—while also in her authorly imagination. Little Women (2019) may have been one of the first films to delve into the multifaceted nature of the woman, the persona of one who is both elegant and flirtatious, clever and romantic. The day where this becomes recognized as the norm, then—both in fiction and reality—will be a very powerful day indeed.

Works Cited Little Women. Directed by Greta Gerwig, Sony Pictures Releasing, 2019. Film

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Gosford Park’s Necropsy of The Citizen McCordle Written by Carson Zhang 1 Department of English, 2Computer science 3 Second-year undergraduate of Trinity College, University of Toronto Before Downton Abbey launched Julian Fellowes into the mainstream consciousness, he first garnered screenwriting acclaim for penning the murder mystery Gosford Park. The hit PBS series was originally intended to be a spin-off from the Robert Altman-directed film, evident in the skeleton of Downton as another 20th century British upstairs/downstairs dramas featuring Maggie Smith in a witheringly humorous role. However, the show’s brand of sentimental period drama, which became Fellowes’ trademark, is a far cry from the seething class censure of Gosford Park. Set in the pre-war 1930s and centered around a weekend shooting party at Sir William McCordle’s eponymous estate, the film uses the divide between servant and employer to depict the suffocating culture of silence that arises when powerful people abuse their authority.

Where Downton boasts a vast range of beloved aristocratic characters, Gosford Park boasts a bushel of rotten apples: between hollow niceties, practically every one of the weekend residents is cruel and tormenting. The rest are tormented themselves, by those with even greater status. Of course, above all others in status and cruelty is Sir William himself, the towering patriarch of the family.

Despite lacking the imposing severity that the archetype might suggest—more Charlie Brown than Charles Foster Kane—the tumultuous events leading up to and surrounding his death reveal the perniciousness of his influence. At best, his indifferences and ridiculous grievances breed countless conflicts; at worst, his violent caprices tear the lives of his defenseless dependents to shreds.

As an effectively redundant leader of the household who wreaks havoc upon the estate with his whim, Sir William exemplifies Gosford Park’s sharpest condemnations against society’s hierarchical structures.

Blowing Smoke Quite literally, the presence of William casts a thick fog of secrecy over Gosford Park. In an amusing instance of pathetic fallacy, the weather prior to his demise is gray and rainy; the very next day, the sky finally opens on the country estate with Screenwriters’ Perspectives Vol. 3 No. 1 2022

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sunny ebullience. Observing the narrative structure of the screenplay, however, in which every conflict precedes the murder and is resolved afterwards, the contrast between William’s death and the cheery weather can hardly be described as ironic. The first half of Gosford Park introduces most of the story’s plotlines, which all notably involve conflict with William: Anthony needs him to retain his army investment, his affairs with Elsie and Louisa cause tension with Sylvia, Freddie and Rupert manipulate his neglected daughter Isobel for his money—the myriad grievances Fellowes compiles against William are overwhelming, but piercing through each case’s individual nuances is a keen sense of how widely despised he is. That these conflicts simmer under the party’s polite surface is not simply a matter of courtesy, as William refuses to help anyone with his privilege. Despite having incredible means, William only uses them to serve his juvenile impulses; consequently, his ambivalence towards his dependents prevents them from gaining their own autonomy. His apathy towards Anthony’s financial plight, for instance, nearly costs the lieutenant his independence and the estate a valuable investment. Exploiting their dependence on him, William guarantees subservience and secrecy in all his indiscretions. Only in his absence can the characters finally open up to one another, and while he is not directly responsible for every suppressed secret—Dorothy’s love for Jennings being an obvious example—Fellowes’ use of pathetic fallacy illustrates how pervasive William’s silencing influence is around the entire household: like a poisonous smog, it envelops the estate.

An Eye For An Eye, For An Eye… Before his death empowers his victims, however, William abuses his power to get away with rampant sexual misconduct.

Mrs. Croft’s explanation to the other servants that he used to rape his factory workers, forcing the pregnant ones to give up either their job or their child, reveals the extent of his abuse. Still, she omits Mrs. Wilson and her own rapes and illegitimate children by William because her silence protects her from public shame and allows her to keep her job. By preying on poor women with few job prospects, William leverages their need for employment to prevent his victims from speaking out.

Even in his consensual affairs with Louisa and Elsie, his privilege insulates him: Louisa would face much more scrutiny as a woman for infidelity than he would, and public knowledge of the affair between Elsie and William would—and does— cause her to lose her job. William’s patterns of abuse spread across the estate like a pestilence as Freddie and Sylvia mirror his behaviors. Moreover, Fellowes’ introduction of guests from Hollywood, a parallel setting in which people in power exploit their positions for sexual favors, further clarifies the systemic structure of abuse that William creates at Gosford Park. Though it is not explicitly stated, a terse exchange between actor Henry Denton and film director Morris Weissman is heavily suggestive of a sexual relationship between the two; moreover, the actor’s disingenuous excuse to avoid sleeping Screenwriters’ Perspectives Vol. 3 No. 1 2022

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with the director suggests that their relationship is—like William’s in his factories—transactional rather than romantic. In both instances, the toxic iniquity of the rich and powerful spreads until every person has become a frightened bystander or adopted the system’s abominable behaviors.

The Perfect Servant Due to the oppressive nature of William’s leadership at Gosford Park, his underprivileged victims are dehumanized until their own identities are consumed by their masters. The relationship between Sylvia and Lewis is a prominent early example of how Fellowes demonstrates the codependence between servant and master; the latter’s servitude to Sylvia leaves her no time to live her own life, for which she compensates by living vicariously through her lady. The servants’ lack of identity outside of the upstairs drama is built into the estate, which identifies a guest’s servant with the guest’s name rather than their own; fundamentally, a servant is nothing more than a master’s extra ligament in the British class system. At the film’s climactic conclusion, Gosford Park’s multiple revelations magnify the toxicity of the servant-master codependence to an abject degree by finally divulging the buried traumas of Mrs. Croft, Mrs. Wilson, and Robert at the hands of William. They each trudge forward: Mrs. Croft with anger and bitterness, Mrs. Wilson with indescribable heartbreak, and Robert with the prospect of revenge—in a dark twist, however, it is their utterly crushed spirits that make them great at servanthood.

As Mrs. Wilson notes herself, the absence of personal character, substituted with mechanical devotion to those upstairs, is an essential aspect of the British class system’s perfect servant. Their overlords, on the other hand, are free to do as they please, a liberty which allows William’s vile impulses to metastasize without constraint or reproach.

Tomorrow The quintessential example of the British class system’s failings, William is a cancerous addition to his own household, taking advantage of his position to force people into deference—whether he is throwing away his own children or forcing himself on his factory workers, the enormous privilege his wealth provides him ensures that he will not legally be held accountable for his own actions. His cruelty proves to be contagious and smothering, cultivating a threatening culture of silence among its victims. However, his assassination introduces optimism to the estate and evinces the narrowing distance between servant and master. The film’s ending deliberately ties the murder of the all-powerful William to the promise of a better Britain; the elimination of the family’s moral abscess allows everyone the opportunity to reclaim their own lives outside of his oppressive influence. The thick fog of secrecy and deception is brilliantly expunged with his murder, bringing the characters and their conflicts to catharses that cumulatively suggest a brighter, more equal future. With the death of its old patriarch, Gosford Park ushers in a new day.

Works Cited Gosford Park. Directed by Robert Altman. USA Films, 2001. Film.

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“Different Yet Fantastic” – Fantastic Mr. Fox and the Theme of Identity Written by Faisal Hay1,2 1 Department of English 2 Third-year undergraduate of St. Michaels College, University of Toronto One of many new additions made by Wes Anderson in his adaptation of the classic Roald Dahl novel Fantastic Mr. Fox can be found in a scene almost halfway through the film (roughly after the first quarter of the novel), when the titular Mr. Fox is questioned about his decision to steal food from the infamous farmers Boggis, Bunce & Bean (or “B, B & B”). His response: “Because I’m a wild animal.” (00:34:10 – 00:34:12) The irony behind this line is that neither Mr. Fox nor any of the other animal characters, as anthropomorphs endowed with the power of human speech and inhabiting their own human-like society, can be described as merely “wild animals”. Yet animals they are indeed, with their conflict with the humans being a stark reminder of that fact, and whether these characters lean more toward one side or the other is a question that plays into the greater theme of identity; this movie is about characters like Mr. Fox confronting their own identities and those of each other as they struggle to survive within the whimsical world of Dahl and Anderson.

A Very Existential Fox Naturally, the character through which the theme of identity is mainly expressed would be the main character and “wild animal” himself: Mr. Foxy F. Fox. Unlike Dahl’s original Mr. Fox, who is essentially a flat character both inside and out, Foxy is given the luxury of an arc; a former squab thief turned newspaper columnist, Foxy’s desire to relive the glory days (as well as his more desperate need to put food on the table) drives him and his opossum friend Kylie to pull off his “Master Plan”: a string of robberies targeting the farms of B, B & B. This surface-level midlife crisis is underwritten by a deeper identity crisis resulting from Foxy’s self-consciousness (undoubtedly a by-product of his human-like intelligence), which he exhibits throughout the film to an extreme degree; in a line of rhetorical questioning, he asks his friend: “Who am I, Kylie?... Why a fox? Why not a horse or a beetle or a bald eagle? I’m saying this more as, like, existentialism... Who am I, and how can a fox ever be happy without… you forgive the expression, a chicken in its teeth?” (00:12:36 –00:12:53) According to Foxy, one’s identity is directly tied to one’s purpose in life, and for a fox that purpose is to “court danger, hunt prey and outsmart predators” as he claims to be good at (00:52:50 – 00:52:53). Contrarily, the life of an anthropomorphic fox — not unlike that of a human being — is one with no clear purpose and, therefore, no clear sense of identity; in the face of his complex human-like responsibilities as a husband and father, Foxy yearns for a return to simplicity — the simple life of a sly fox, just like his novel counterpart. However, this yearning causes Foxy to lose sight of the bigger picture, creating devastating consequences for more than just him and his family.

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Key Word is “Aware” A moment of great irony can be found in a quote from Foxy during the dinner party celebrating his fake victory against B, B & B, when he interrupts a toast by Clive Badger to make the following statements: “I guess we do have these three ugly farmers to thank for one thing: reminding us to be thankful and aware of each other. I'm gonna say it again. Aware.”

(00:47:32 – 00:47:41) As well as coming to terms with himself and his identity, Foxy’s arc involves extending that same courtesy to others.

This lesson is first applied to Foxy’s wife and son, two characters from the novel given more prominent roles in the film.

As Foxy’s former partner-in-crime, Mrs. Felicity Fox is shown to be less conflicted about her anthropomorphism; after narrowly escaping death at a squab farm with Foxy and her unborn cub, she readily gives up her reputation as the old “town tart” in favour of that of a housewife and — in a departure from the novel — makes Foxy promise to give up stealing as well. Consequently, while Dahl’s Mr. Fox stole from B, B & B with Mrs. Fox’s knowledge and consent, Foxy has to enact his “Master Plan” behind Felicity’s back. However, the truth comes out eventually, and Felicity has this to say about Foxy’s “wild animal” excuse: “I don’t care about the truth about yourself. This story is too predictable… In the end, we all die unless you change.” (00:34:19 – 00:34:35) For Felicity, identity is a trivial matter compared to survival, and it is through her role as the film’s “voice of reason” that she works to convince Foxy of that fact, even while she gradually remembers her own “wild animal” past as well (00:52:58 – 00:53:00). Then there is Ash, whose conflict with his own self-image mirrors that of his father; as an antisocial teenager with aspirations of becoming an athlete, Ash’s seeming lack of skill, coupled with his envy of his cousin Kristofferson — his character foil — breeds an inferiority complex made even worse by his craving for attention from Foxy, who dismisses Ash’s frustrations as just him being “different” (00:06:29 – 00:06:32). This lack of fatherly appreciation is what compels Ash to try and earn it by stealing back Foxy’s tail from Bean, only to inadvertently get Kristofferson captured instead; in trying to be like his father, Ash ends up demonstrating more of his flaws than his merits and — through his later redemption — provides a distanced model by which Foxy can better understand both his son and himself.

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Speaking of redemption, that brings us to Foxy’s conflict with the greater community of anthropomorphic creatures and his struggle to recognize them as more than just a set of background characters. In his quest to prove himself a fox, our existential protagonist is driven to achieve an even greater title: the “quote-unquote Fantastic Mr. Fox” as he puts it in a moment of blatant self-reference (00:52:36 – 00:52:48); this obsession blinds him to Clive Badger’s earlier warning against living near the farms as well as Felicity’s warning against robbing them. The result: the entire valley of creatures are driven out of their homes; even Foxy’s attempt to make amends by leading the homeless critters through a digging heist causes the vengeful farmers to retaliate even harder. Yet, when it seems like the only way for Foxy to resolve both his outer and inner conflicts is to martyr himself at the hands of B, B & B, he soon returns with the realization that the better solution can be found in the very people that he took for granted — a community of anthropomorphic creatures with merits and skills pertaining to both their social roles and natural biology; as he puts it, “Wild animals with true natures and pure talents. Wild animals with scientific-sounding Latin names that mean something about our DNA... I think it may very well be all the beautiful differences among us that just might give us the tiniest glimmer of a chance of saving my nephew and letting me make it up to you for getting us into this crazy whatever-it-is.” (00:58:54 – 00:59:43) Foxy’s newfound awareness of the value offered by his fellow anthropomorphs means that they all get to play a big enough role in the final climax, allowing Foxy to outsmart the farmers for good. It is only after setting aside his ego and anxieties that Foxy’s recognition as a “fantastic fox” is earned by the other characters, whom Foxy comes to recognize as “fantastic” in their own right.

“To Our… Survival” It is rather fitting that the film should end with Foxy taking up yet another new line of work: stealing from supermarkets instead of farms. Whether he identifies more as a wild animal than a person or vice versa is irrelevant to his ultimate purpose in life: survival. The ending shows how Foxy finally manages to come to terms with his anthropomorphism, reconciling tradition and modernity and embracing the best of both; in doing so he achieves both wants and needs and affirms himself as the “Fantastic Mr. Fox” in the eyes of a family who will never go hungry again. On a more meta level of interpretation, it also shows just how well a classic Dahl story can adapt to modern times.

It is no mystery that Wes Anderson, in making Fantastic Mr. Fox, set out to make a film that would both honor the legacy of Roald Dahl and further his own — an ambition virtually analogous to the arc of Mr. Foxy F. Fox himself. In doing so, he created an adaptation that — while still arguably faithful to the source material — clearly was not afraid to take some creative deviations in conveying the theme of identity more clearly. Of course, being identified as “different” is nothing to be ashamed of; as Felicity Fox would say on the matter of difference: “... there’s something kind of fantastic about that, isn’t there?” (00:41:44 – 00:41:47). In any case, Anderson ensured that the story of Fantastic Mr. Fox would survive in its same old fantastic form.

Works Cited Fantastic Mr. Fox. Directed by Wes Anderson, screenplay by Wes Anderson and Noah Baumbach, 20th Century Fox Animation, 2009. Film.

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Lady Bird: Redefining the Love Story in the Coming of Age Genre Written by Michelle Cruz 1 Department of English, 2Department of Cinema Studies 3 Fifth-year undergraduate of University College, University of Toronto Lady Bird: “I just wish that you liked me.”

Marion: “Of course I love you.”

Lady Bird: “But do you like me?”

Coming of age films typically represent thetransitional stage from a young person’s childhood into their adulthood. In most coming of age films focused on teenaged girls, this is conveyed through the experience of a first romantic love which leads to the “losing” of virginity to gain a sense of enlightenment. Greta Gerwig’s Lady Bird revises this trope. Instead, the film prioritizes the strained relationship between Lady Bird and her mother, Marion, to uncover an alternative love that is arguably as essential as romantic love.

While Lady Bird experiences romantic love and heartbreak twice, the declaration of the love she has for her mother over the phone at the end of the narrative is what officially allows for her to come of age.

“We’re Afraid That We Will Never Escape our Past and We’re Afraid of What the Future Will Bring.”

Lady Bird is set in the year 2002 – post 9/11. This timeframe serves as the “design principle” as the film aligns the nation’s attempt to reconstruct its collective identity after the previous year’s tragedy with Lady Bird as she is trying to come to terms with her own identity. The global financial crisis caused by this historical event is mirrored in the film through Lady Bird and Marion’s financial conflictual dynamic. Additionally, the setting propels the narrative in its climax; when Marion finds out that Lady Bird applied and got accepted into NYU, Lady Bird infers to her mother that she was most likely waitlisted because not as many people applied due to 9/11. In other words, the film’s narrative structure relies on the effects of this American historical event to relay this coming of age story and tension between mother and daughter.

“Fuck You, Mom.” Lady Bird’s cast represents one of the ways that she rebels against her mother. After a heated argument in the car, Lady Bird opens the door and abruptly throws herself onto the road while her mother screams. The writing of “Fuck you, Mom,” (03:21-03:23) on her cast signifies her bodily autonomous defiance against her mother, who harshly tells her that she will Screenwriters’ Perspectives Vol. 3 No. 1 2022

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only be able to get into a city college because of her lack of work ethic and that her Lady Bird name is ridiculous, an insult to Lady Bird’s attempt at reconstructing her identity. This scene foregrounds this complicated mother and daughter relationship by showcasing how tenuous Lady Bird and Marion are together and establishes Lady Bird’s character motivation; her desire for physical and emotional emancipation from her hometown Sacramento, but more importantly, from her mother.

“Different Things Can Be Sad. It’s Not All War.” Although Lady Bird says this to Kyle when he brings up the gravity of the Iraq War after she learns that he lied to her about never having had sex before, this dialogue could be applied to Lady Bird and Marion’s relationship. The film often situates Lady Bird and Marion’s narratives side by side to compare their generational differences. After Lady Bird has her first kiss with Danny, she arrives home and finds her parents struggling with finances. In the following scene, Lady Bird enters her room and Marion criticizes her for not keeping her room clean. While Lady Bird cannot understand why her mother is upset with her for this, Marion reveals that her mother was an abusive alcoholic. This fact enhances Marion’s character as it illustrates her inability to compassionately communicate with her daughter at times because of her experience with trauma which she inherited from her own mother. Moreover, Lady Bird exhibits this similar issue when she does not tell Marion about her plan to attend NYU, creating a familial cycle between these women with intergenerational trauma.

“You Can’t Walk Up to the Gates Anymore, Anyway,” This quote refers to how airport security became much more enforced in America after the terrorist attacks, but this dialogue also symbolizes Lady Bird and Marion’s dynamic shift in their relationship after Lady Bird decides to move to New York. Over the course of the film, Lady Bird wedges a metaphorical gate between her mother and herself, but it is now Marion who puts up her guard and no longer trusts her daughter. Once she drives through Sacramento, Marion reaches a turning point in her character development and realizes that her disagreements with Lady Bird are trivial in comparison to being absent while her daughter officially steps into her independence. Additionally, this scene parallels the film’s final Screenwriters’ Perspectives Vol. 3 No. 1 2022

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monologue about driving in Sacramento, reconciling their mother and daughter relationship through their self-discovery journey in the city that bonds them.

“I Gave It to Myself. It’s Given to Me, By Me.” Lady Bird defies the Roman Catholic religion in many instances throughout the film; most notably, through adopting the self-given name “Lady Bird” instead of using her birth and baptized name, Christine. According to The Free Dictionary by Farlex, the name “Christine” means “follower of Christ.” Lady Bird rejecting her name is significant as she renounces her belief in God or in a greater authority such as her mother who named her.

“I’m So Sorry I Wanted More.”

In the post-graduation scene, Marion showcases her resentment towards Lady Bird’s dissatisfaction with what she has been able to provide her through her refusal to communicate. The one-sided dialogue in this scene allows for Lady Bird to display her vulnerability, finally taking accountability for her ungrateful attitude. This moment allows Lady Bird to recognize her own flaw of selfishness and thus recognize that she needs the love or attention that her mother has always given her. This calls back to the earlier scene with Sister Sarah Joan, wherein she states, “Don’t you think they are the same thing? Love and attention?” (01:26:23-01:06:28). This inspires Lady Bird to rectify her relationship with her mother because she is afraid Marion no longer loves her. It is through this scene that Lady Bird discovers that the word “love” is stronger than the word “like” which in a previous scene, she shows her discontentment with her mother when Marion says that she “loves” her, but does not say that she “likes” her.

“Did You Feel Emotional the First Time That You Drove in Sacramento?”

In spite of what Lady Bird believes Marion and Sacramento both lack – economic wealth and culture – the film also shows that she takes for granted what they do have to offer her. When she is hospitalized in New York and sees a mother and her child in a bed across from her, she fully comes to understand the absence of her past in Sacramento. This scene also contrasts with the beginning of the film when Lady Bird injures herself because now her mother can no longer be there for her.

This scene propels Lady Bird to call her mother in the final scene to tell her that she loves her; emphasizing the film’s central theme of love. She calls herself by her birth name, Christine, over the phone to further solidify the bond that she desires with her mother. While Christine and Marion’s personalities do not change to the extent where they completely see eye-to-eye on every matter, the film offers the moral lesson that these two characters can love each other despite their flaws. The film ends with Christine finally coming of age.

The film promotes the message of unconditional love. The setting of post 9/11 influences the film’s trajectory and parallels the evolving conflictual relationship between Lady Bird and Marion, suggesting that reparations between people are possible in America’s post 9/11 society. Ultimately, Lady Bird redefines what a love story looks like in the coming of age genre by its fixation on ending the narrative with the comforting idea that Christine and Marion’s mother and daughter relationship will prevail in spite of their different outlooks on life.

Works Cited Lady Bird. Directed by Greta Gerwig. IAC Films, 2017. Film.

“Christine.” The Free Dictionary by Farlex, Farlex, Inc, https://encyclopedia.thefreedictionary.com/Christine+(name).

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Blinded by the Light: Establishing a New Identity for the Immigrant Child through Music and Relationships Written by Simran Randhawa 1 Centre for Criminology and Sociolegal Studies,2Department of English, Department of Philosophy 3 Fourth-year undergraduate of New College, University of Toronto British director and screenwriter Gurinder Chadha first brought the perspective of the brown immigrant child adjusting to a Western society in her well-known sports and romance film, Bend It Like Beckham (2002). Seventeen years later, Chadha’s Blinded by the Light (2019) is a similar coming-of-age story where the film’s protagonist, Javed, establishes a new identity that encompasses his British and Pakistani roots through the discovery of Bruce Springsteen’s music. Set in the year 1987 in small-town Luton, England, predominantly populated with Caucasians, Javed and his Muslim family stands out and are often victims of hate crime and racial slurs. As Javed tolerates the relentless realities of his hometown, he simultaneously struggles to fulfill his father’s expectations of him as the only son in the family, one that participates in cultural and socio-economic responsibilities. Fundamentally, Chadha emphasizes the dilemma for brown immigrants between assimilating to Westernized norms while preserving their culture and traditions. The film tells the story of how a teenager confronted with racism, financial insecurity, and obligations finds an avocation that echoes his emotions, shapes his decisions, and reveals the truths about individualism and family.

The Parallel Between Song Selection and Character Development Based on the real experiences of journalist and major Springsteen fan Sarfraz Manzoor, who also had a role in writing the script, the film’s soundtrack includes songs specific to Javed’s external circumstances and inner world. The protagonist first encounters The Boss’s music through Roops, a Sikh-Punjabi classmate who gives him two of Springsteen’s cassettes: Darkness on the Edge of Town and Born in the U.S.A. He only gives these a listen when life takes a turn with his father being laid-off from work and the realization that he will have to financially support the family instead of pursuing his dreams as a writer. The first song that hooks Javed onto Springsteen is “Dancing in the Dark,” which expresses a desire to change from the mundane and routine. The lyrics, “I’m just livin’ in a dump like this,” quickly followed by “There’s somethin’ happenin’ somewhere,” awakens Javed and reveals to the viewer his inner thoughts and emotions concerning his hometown and predestined life.

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When he switches to “The Promised Land,” Javed experiences an epiphany about music and the unfamiliar territory of having someone express his perception of life despite being of Pakistani heritage. Both songs are integral to Javed’s awakening because his immediate connection with Springsteen’s lyrics draws him into constructing a new identity where his voice is heard and repressed emotions are released.

After listening to both tapes, there is a dramatic change in Javed’s behaviour. While the film begins with him as a boy sulking away in his dreary town, the inciting incident of crossing paths with Springsteen’s music transforms him into a man eager to actively partake in his life and pursue his dreams. For the first time, Javed feels that someone knows “everything [he’s] every felt, everything [he’s] ever wanted” (00:29:40), despite him living in a different country than Springsteen’s New Jersey, USA, and being a child of immigrant parents.

As Javed continues to idolize his newfound hero, he starts adopting his traits, too, from his dressing sense to his exuding confidence. By making Javed a reflection of Springsteen, Chadha captures the exhilarating experience of becoming a fan, especially in one’s youth. It is especially significant for the protagonist to embody and embrace his new profound attitudes because his race and ethnicity often leave him isolated from society or as an easy target of discrimination. For example, when the college bullies racialize Javed and Roops as “Pakis” (00:40:50) and mock the stereotypical brown accent, Javed confronts them by loudly reciting Springsteen’s “Badlands.” This song becomes the protagonist’s rebel anthem as it parallels his constant battle against discrimination and desire to be seen. Specifically, when the boys sing, “I wanna find one face that ain’t looking through me / I wanna find one place / I wanna spit in the face of these / Badlands/ you gotta live it every day” (00:42:04), they confidently relish in Springsteen’s philosophy to confront their realities by challenging the odds put against them.

The Boss’s “Born to Run” is an honourable mention, which Chadha selects to parallel with Javed becoming a Springsteen missionary. Desperate to show his college that Springsteen’s music remains relevant to their time despite being seen as ‘old school’, Javed finds himself breaking the rules by playing “Born to Run” on the school’s radio system without permission. In contrast to where he begins his story with poor self-esteem and a quiet demeanour at school, Javed’s act of rebellion through the manifestation and promotion of his hero’s music illustrates his shift to boldly express himself without fear.

However, the more Javed tries to live by Springsteen’s lyrics, the more distant he becomes from his cultural and family roots. A significant turning point in the film is when Javed momentarily leaves his family on his sister’s wedding day to buy concert tickets for Springsteen’s show in London. In this brief time, members of the National Front assault Javed’s father.

Chadha selects The Boss’s “Jungleland” for this scene; however, instead of having Javed actively listen or perform the song, it focalizes the erupting chaos of this scene from Javed’s eyes. In this scene, the shift in communicating silently through Javed delves into the intensity of his emotions and experiences. Unlike the previous songs, “Jungleland” returns Javed to reality, where his two identities, the Pakistani-immigrant-and-son and the assimilating Brit-who-loves-America’s-Springsteen, clash. The unfolding events pull Javed away from fantasy and provoke him to choose between family and Springsteen. In choosing the latter, the protagonist separates himself from a believed suffocating environment by embarking on a Screenwriters’ Perspectives Vol. 3 No. 1 2022

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journey to New Jersey and living with Roops. However, he reveals a pang of itching guilt on the price of individuality as he observes the physical and emotional distance between him and his family.

In the climax of the film at a school award ceremony, Javed references the song and the film’s title, “Blinded by the Light.”

He shares that when he first listens to the song, he understands the lyrics on a surface level concerning love or materialism. Yet, when he returns to it at his breaking point, he reveals that the song speaks to obsession and selfishness. Javed’s character arc lies in his realization that his admiration for The Boss blinded him into seeing only himself. Perhaps the most important lesson revealed to Javed through this song is accepting and embracing the dualities of identity. When he says, “But we’re not all just individuals. We are friends and family and what they think does matter…” (01:45:00), Javed’s character development comes full circle. By reflecting on how he absorbed an avocation from a self-centred lens, Javed becomes aware of his ignorance, and the song “Blinded by the Light” mirrors this revelation. While the beginning of his story uses Bruce Springsteen’s music as an escape and model for his dreams, he revisits the singer’s philosophies and aligns them with his family and ethnic values—conjoining and embracing two different worlds simultaneously.

The Three R’s of Immigrant Stories: Relationships, Racism, and Responsibility Blinded by the Light is a feel-good film that incites nostalgia of the teenage years while depicting the experiences of immigrant children forced to choose or establish identities that satisfy two distinct cultures. Javed strongly captures this quandary through his old diminishing and newly developing relationships throughout the film. In his discovery of The Boss, Javed develops a bond with Roops, who equally resonates with the racialized and immigrant-child perspective, and Eliza, his Caucasian girlfriend. Nearing the climax, Javed blaming his family circumstances becomes repetitive, and Eliza eventually and implicitly brings him to realize his own accountability by saying, “Stop making your family your excuse for everything” (01:30:53).

Several circumstances reveal Javed to his fluctuating attitude and identity, which he tries desperately to tune out through Bruce. For example, his father emphasizes the new intrapersonal behaviour Javed exhibits by asking, “‘I’? What is this ‘I’?”

(01:07:41). This is significant in showing Javed’s migration from the Asian values of family orientation and sharing responsibilities to a Westernized narrative of “me, myself and I.” By having Javed say, “I don’t wanna be your son! I wanna be more than that” (01:28:10), he unintentionally degrades his role in his family and disrupts the order of responsibility. Javed fails to realize that his family are his closest allies because they, too, live in a world where they are racialized and targeted, with dreams that did not come true.

The protagonist captures the essence of immigrant stories when he states, “My hope is to build a bridge to my ambitions but not a wall between my family and me. That’s my dream” (01:45:41). The American Dream is a driving force for emigration.

Though Javed believed his dream was about becoming a writer and moving far away from Luton, he realizes that it is not worth sacrificing his relationships and the responsibilities that come with them in an already racialized time. Javed shows viewers that an immigrant child does not have to choose between his modern dreams and traditional lineage. Instead, he rejuvenates the idea that our family can be our dreams and that there is no shame in questioning and rewriting your individuality to include the opinions of those you love most.

Work Cited Blinded by the Light. Directed by Gurinder Chadha, Warner Bros. Pictures, 2019. Film.

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Marriage Story: The Sacrifice of Transactional Relationships vs. The Sanctity of the Human Bond Written by Suhana Danee1,2,3 1 Department of Cinema Studies Institute 2 Second-year undergraduate of Univeristy College, University of Toronto Marriage can be a beautiful thing. Two compatible souls, who share an everlasting, almost insurmountable, amount of love for each other are united. They make themselves at home in the warm sanctuary of each other’s quirks, despite how neurotic they might be. So these two people take a legal vow to love each other unconditionally, in sickness and in health, till death to them part. That is, until they file for divorce.

Given that half of all marriages result in some form of separation, divorce has become an unfortunate common-law practice of today’s society. It has become so common that individuals regard the phenomenon as second nature, a seeming sixth sense of the human condition. As a result, divorce has lost all emotive meaning, except to those who have had to endure it. In Noah Baumbach’s Marriage Story (2019), the writer/director uses the power of dialogue, symbolism, and dualism to shape a narrative that reawakens society to what divorce truly is: an utterly complex crisis that demands a sacrifice of one’s way of life… and by extension aspects of their own persona. Baumbach makes it evident through the construction of Charlie and Nicole’s character arc that such a separation stems from reasons deeply rooted in a person’s psyche, and often has nothing to do with the absence of love. By the time the screen cuts to black, divorce does not seem so mundane anymore, but rather complicated beyond human conception.

Charlie and Nicole are good, normal people In Marriage Story, Baumbach highlights from the beginning that first impressions matter. He strives to create loving, positive bonds between the viewer and each protagonist in the first minutes of the running time. Through a series of montages voiced over by each other’s ex-spouse, the writer-director infuses each character with an irresistible persona by describing their mundanities, the endearing quirks that anchor them to the real world. Nicole can drive stick and open really tight jars, yet always forgets to close a cabinet or finish her brewed tea. Charlie cries in emotional movies and tries to conserve energy when he can, but is a little too competitive when it comes to playing Monopoly. Every characteristic showcased, even those that seem slightly peevish, is perceived as charming, especially when described by the person who is supposed to hate them the most. Yet this affectionate “real portrait” is a distant memory as the camera cuts to the duo, now angry, in a marriage counselor’s office. Oftentimes, such characteristic details become lost in the vortex of a film’s winding narrative, to be erased in the audience’s mind. Yet in Marriage Story, Baumbach insists on the prevalence of these quirks, digging them deeper and deeper into the body of the screenplay not only to secure Charlie and Nicole as compassionate humans, but to also remind the viewer of their inward benevolence as they become outwardly cruel. By establishing the prevalence of these habits in the opening act, the characters establish a line between the business of divorce and the sanctuary of their everlasting bond. These ‘inconsequential’ eccentricities symbolize the duality of their relationship as it becomes more complex, as shown through the film’s turning points.

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In the first turning point, as Nicole serves Charlie, Baumbach showcases their quirks through an amicable lens. Nicole’s modest outlook and propensity for finding a silver lining in a given situation shines through when Charlie tells her about the grant he won, which is still a secret. Charlie’s attention to detail becomes his leading trait in rekindling kinship with his in-laws, speaking to each other in phony Cockney accents seconds before the serve at the height of the scene. By lacing the subtleties of their personas into the scene’s core, Baumbach preempts the serve that concretizes the duo’s divorce to carry less emotional weight than previously thought. In the second turning point, the once bold line that divides the legal and personal aspects of the divorce becomes inevitably obsolete. The affection that Charlie and Nicole have for the other now exists deep beneath the surface, their actions increasingly fueled by hatred rather than empathy. All the quirks they once loved of each other become opportunities to gain an upper hand in the courtroom. The one time Nicole tripped on the stairs and jokingly blamed it on “the wine” becomes evidence for alcoholism (00:43:03 – 00:43:05). Charlie’s tardiness in picking up Henry is another reason for his irresponsibility as a parent. These habits no longer carry the tenderness it once did, molding into a symbol of their harrowing, irreversible divide. By the end of the film, the relationship flips again to mirror the original dynamic the two had. Gradually, humanity and affection find its way back in their relationship as their divorce loses all legal meaning. When Charlie reads her letter in the final act, the admirable quirks are reignited, becoming more lovable through its subversion. By bookending the letters the two wrote to each other, Baumbach proves that loss of marriage does not equate to loss of self, but a redefinition.

The New York vs. LA Dichotomy Baumbach’s dualism is reflected throughout the story through the seemingly infinite symbols he wrote into the film, namely its two primary locations: New York and Los Angeles. These static locales become characters in the film alongside the protagonists, deepening their dualistic nature. As the duo’s divorce proceedings begin, Nicole solidifies their separation by sacrificing her position in Charlie’s theater company and their New York apartment for an opportunity to star in her own show and embrace an independent life. Nicole’s dramatic shift from a New Yorker theater actress to an L.A. television star not only symbolizes her desire to redefine her lifestyle, but cements her separation, physically and metaphorically. Baumbach embeds the character shifts into the screenplay, splitting the singular narrative into two sub-narratives: one in New York, where Charlie is the sole protagonist, and the other in L.A., where Nicole is the main character. At the film’s start, New York and the characters attached to it take up the entire narrative. Yet when Nicole redefines her routine and the L.A. narrative bears a larger presence in the film, New York consumes less screen-time and personifies a distant memory. Charlie, despite his efforts to keep his life with Nicole intact, has no bearing on the inevitability of Nicole’s L.A. counterpart. New York symbolizes nostalgia for Charlie, of a more unified time in his life, now shifting to be a source of resentment for Nicole. L.A. is a symbol of hope for Nicole to live a life she has yearned for, a life that Charlie cannot partake in. Eventually, New York becomes obsolete, a finished story. As Charlie accepts this and takes up a role in Nicole’s story, the narrative becomes one.

Conclusion By crystallizing his characters and developing them in a symbolic story world, Baumbach creates a narrative that leaves a personal touch for each spectator. The relationship that Nicole and Charlie possess and the multitude of intricacies that exist beneath its surface are analogous to the viewer and their fears. Baumbach strives to impart the power each person has onto those in their life, in the world they built. As the credits roll, it is evident that divorce is not a phenomenon that can redefine every aspect of one’s lifestyle. As the phenomenon becomes more common, divorce still remains alone in its complexities.

Like separation, Marriage Story is singular in its effect on the viewer, transcending its film value, and graduating into a cathartic experience.

Works Cited Marriage Story. Directed by Noah Baumbach. Netflix, 2019. Film.

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HATE WATCH “The rise of horrible Netflix Original romantic-comedies has fostered a sub-genre in the world of YouTube commentaries: bad movie reactions. Internet creators such as “Dylan Is In Trouble” on YouTube, have began video series surrounding movies that have divisive or bad audience ratings. Dylan Is In Trouble’s “Until I Hate Myself” series has a straight-forward premise; he hate-watches a film or TV show until he questions why he is watching the material in the first place. This “hate-watch” sentiment is a popular attitude in the era of streaming services pumping out content, championing quantity over quality. For this issue of Screenwriters’ Perspective, we have embraced this new lens on entertainment. We asked our club members and executives to write about a film or TV show that they think is horrendous, but can’t help watching. We found that there is a lot of entertainment value in enjoying bad films, and this phenomenon is not new-films such as Tommy Wiseau’s 2003 hit The Room gained popularity through word-of-mouth and how outlandish it was. Netflix Originals, such as He’s All That starring Addison Rae, generate a similar reaction from the modern-day audiences. With all this in mind, here is SVC’s 2022 “Hate-Watch” list.”

- Corinne Langmuir

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The Green Knight (2021) A24 took a swing at adapting this 14th-century Arthurian romance poem – and missed the mark by a long shot. Dev Patel stars as the protagonist Sir Gawain, a young up-and-coming knight and nephew of the legendary King Arthur, who seeks to prove his worth by accepting a beheading challenge from the titular opponent. Patel’s transformation from dork with an everpunch-able face to a Casanova in the public eye is stranger than anything Morgan Le Fay would conjure. Questionable character changes aside, the film’s self-indulgent cinematography and style may impress arthouse-loving audiences, but it will leave fans of the source text feeling just as green as the oddly-coloured antagonist.

- Vikram Nijhawan

Beowulf (2007) Barbaric people who shout for mead and grab for gold living in dirty, gloomy halls in a bleak and cruel landscape – a truly unique interpretation of the Middle Ages. Drawing its inspiration from a period of literature not widely read might have provided the perfect opportunity for a reimagining of 6th century Scandinavia that challenges popular notions of “the dark ages”. The film may be a stereotype of the modern idea of the Middle Ages, but it is at least nice to see a bit of Old English worked into the script.

A

- Elizabeth Coulter

Never Have I Ever (2020-)

A teen romantic comedy Netflix series, Never Have I Ever depicts the living fantasies of a young Indian teenage girl Devi, who seeks nothing but an improved status in school, however, the hindrance of friends and family make it utterly tough on her. With her adhered fantasies to be with the hottest boy in school, her life seems to be challenging as she is deemed to choose love over friendship. Through the characters, the director aims to propose a comedic and entertaining atmosphere to the audience with a series of humorous dialogues. Although Devi persists to overcome several setbacks in school, her image to the public grows to be viewed as a trouble maker. Her questionable decisions and silly attempts lead to chaos and failures in relationships. Nonetheless, Never Have I Ever enlightens the audience with Devi’s immature and impulsive actions yet entertaining and memorable remarks.

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- Nebula Islam 50

H D E

I D N

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2 0 2 2 “Hidden Gems is a specialized section of Screenwriters’ Perspectives that shines a light on films that deserve greater recognition.

Members of Screenwriting at Victoria College have detailed in one short paragraph why they think their chosen film is underappreciated and you should watch it.”

– Elizabeth Coulter

Inland Empire (2006) With a narrative structure as meticulous as it is confounding, David Lynch’s experimental horror film Inland Empire challenges the very nature of cinematic storytelling with its towering ambitions.

Lynch veteran Laura Dern stars as a dizzying myriad of characters, but most notably she is Nikki Grace, a movie star cast as Susan Blue in a supposedly cursed Hollywood production. As time goes on, the lines between Nikki and Susan become blurred and the film descends into chaos. A deep plunge into the mind of one of cinema’s greatest auteurs, Inland Empire reveals a twisted tapestry of artistic perfection and human exploitation as its countless narrative threads weave together in cacophonous poetry.

- Carson Zhang

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The Girl on the Train (2016) The Girl on the Train (2016) establishes the realm of fantasy and desire of a middle aged woman, Rachel, who seeks nothing but perfection in a marriage.

The representation of the plot was utterly disappointing and poorly constructed in the film, however the story itself deserves high appreciation and acknowledgement. The best part of the story is the plot which keeps the viewers engaged and intrigued because of a series of plot twists, its grasp of the psychological mind and the aura it creates around the audience to connect with the characters.The narrative culminates in themes of mystery and thriller which unravels insights of the characters and conflicts throughout the film.

- Nebula Islam

Host (2020) – Even malicious spirits need to use Zoom: horror movies in the pandemic era While the concept of a horror movie being shot with video chatting technologies is not novel, Host (2020) is yet far more successful than its predecessors, such as Unfriended (2014).

This is mainly attributed to the common usage of Zoom technologies during the pandemic, thereby allowing the film to engage with the audience more effectively. Apart from this, the subtle sense of humor used to contrast the horror tone of the film is primarily derived from the social behaviors that we have newly adopted during the pandemic, which increases the familiarity of the film to the audience.

- Kenneth Ting

A Hidden Gem Underneath the Surface Varahit Uthaisri’s short film Surface is an excellent example of associational and abstract avant-garde cinema. Like an experimental film, Surface explores the visual technique of filmmaking in a way that does not even expose its actors as characters- the short film is entirely shot underfoot. These different thematic parts of the film often relate to each other through action or sound. This anxiousness becomes further heightened by the film being visually underfoot- the audience’s eye feels anxious to connect what it cannot fully see. This choice utilizes the human tendency to fill in the blanks. However, there is no guarantee that we will be correct. Surface is a great hidden gem to watch when you want to be reminded of the poetry of cinema. Recognizing power held in the nonverbal and ambiguous is a great reason to view this short film.

- Sofi Abouassali

Adaptation (2002) – Writing about writing Based on Susan Orlean’s book The Orchid Thief in only the broadest strokes, this Spike Jonze and Charlie Kaufman film raises intriguing questions about authorial intent, as it relates to the titular process. The film features Nicholas Cage standing in for the screenwriter Kaufman, as both he (and the real-life Kaufman) attempt to adapt a seemingly unadaptable work of nonfiction into a film. Paralleling this is a subplot showcasing Orlean, portrayed by Meryl Streep, in the process of writing her own book, which Kauffman attempts to adapt years after these events. These two storylines work in tandem to present an unconventional, hilarious, and sincere work of metafiction – one which has since spawned parodies and spoofs, and has become a cult classic in its own right. Adaptation is a must-watch for all aspiring screenwriters and creatives, who will be all too familiar with the feeling of sitting down at a keyboard for hours on end, attempting to bring a story to life.

- Vikram Nijhawan Screenwriters’ Perspectives Vol. 3 No. 1 2022

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Theme of the

Year

After adapting our day-to-day lives to a pandemic for over a year, the word virus seems to have taken on multiple meanings. More than the COVID-19 pandemic, it refers to the burning underbelly of society that one virus has simply exposed. As political tensions rise, social issues like racism, sexism, classicism, and income inequality also act as insidious forces at the very roots of our world. Problems are only exacerbated by misinformation and conspiracy theories that turn groups against each other and spur violent reactions from various actors. With technology thrown in the mix, there’s a true sense of foreboding about where the world is going and whether humanity will be able to cure the sickness at its centre. When thinking about this theme, consider how the idea of viruses and diseases functions in our society, its multifaceted meanings, and its impacts on the individuals that these viruses come into contact with.

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LORENZO’S OIL

By Kenneth Ting

Does medical science service humanity or vice versa?

Lorenzo’s Oil (1992) is based on the true story of Lorenzo Odone’s parents, who relentlessly searched for a cure for their son after his diagnosis with adrenoleukodystrophy (ALD). Like other parents, whose children were also diagnosed with ALD, the Odones initially adopted a reactive position and enrolled Lorenzo in clinical trials. However, the disappointing clinical results eventually forced them to take a more proactive stance, where they took the initiative to search for an effective therapy on their own. During this journey, the Odones learned the harsh reality of medical science, such as the lack of therapeutic development for orphan diseases due to the absence of commercial interest, the immense depth of biological knowledge that is required to understand the pathogenesis of a disease, and most importantly, the advancement of medical science at the expense of patients’ lives in clinical trials. While these cold facts did not deter the Odones from finding a cure, they were prompted to challenge the application behind medical sciences: is it in the service of humanity or vice versa? A paradox that was mostly irrelevant to us, yet instantly became a dayto-day reality upon the outbreak of COVID-19.

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th Ting

With the rapid spread of the virus, many government authorities have accelerated their approval for the use of newly designed vaccines, despite not fully understanding their long-term side effects. Therefore, this presents a scenario where humanity is serving the advancement of medical science as we acquire new knowledge about these vaccines at the cost of many participants’ well-being. However, given that the adverse health effects posed by vaccination are relatively insignificant compared to being infected by COVID-19 itself, this favourable risk to benefit ratio, on both an individual and population level, has helped to justify the need for humanity to serve for the advancement of medical science, at least in this particular instance. However, in the occasion where there is an unfavourable risk to benefit ratio, such as the one presented in Lorenzo’s Oil, can this still be justified? If so, what additional principles must be in place to ensure this justification is ethical?

This was the same question posed to the Odones, and their response was simple and inspirational, “[Lorenzo] should not suffer by our ignorance” (Lorenzo’s Oil 42:58 – 43:01), meaning despite an unfavourable risk to benefit ratio, his service for medical science can be justified as long as the research process is carefully planned to the best of our knowledge, such as the therapy that the Odones have discovered themselves. Not surprisingly, this notion is also reflected in the Declaration of Helsinki, which is a set of ethical principles for medical research that involves human subjects.

Specifically, the declaration recognizes that advancement in medical progress must ultimately include research on human subjects, and thus a careful assessment of all predictable risks, and measures to reduce those risks must be adequately implemented prior to conducting the study. These principles, which reflect the Odones’ values, serve as safeguard measures to ensure clinical trials are ethical, even when an un-

favourable risk to benefit ratio is presented.

There is no doubt that the purpose of medical science is to improve the physical well-being of individuals in our society.

Yet on some occasions, the advancement of our knowledge inevitably comes at the cost of human lives, and it is this irony which then prompts us to ask the paradoxical question: is medical science in the service of humanity or vice versa? The true story of the Odones has demonstrated to us that humanity can serve medical science as long as the research is performed with minimal ignorance. A violation of this condition will undermine the justification of our service, and without this, medical science can never serve humanity in return.

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I

Th eB oy s(

By Vikram Nijhawan In the first episode of the Amazon series The Boys, renegade FBI agent Billy Butcher proposes that, “See, people love that cozy feeling that Supes give them … [someone] to swoop out of the sky and save the day so you don’t go and do it yourself. But if you knew half the shit they get up to … fuckin’ diabolical.” (“The Name of the Game”, 27:22 – 27:40). On a meta level, Butcher’s words speak to naïve and outdated audience expectations of the superhero genre, as much as they do to the show’s immedi-

ate premise. The Boys adapted from the comics books by Garth Ennis, imagines superpowers and superheroes in a hyper-realistic world in an eerily prescient way – with ‘superheroes’ used in the loosest sense of the word. Although the Ennis comics were ahead of their time in a certain way, presaging the eventual abundance of gritty and grounded superhero stories, they also relished in the carnage that could be wrenched out of depicting destructive individuals with superpower to often obscene and sophomoric extents. By contrast, the Amazon series heightens the deeper themes of the original story, making it more resonant for our current COVID age, and our oversaturated superhero media landscape – at a time when we are all too familiar with the conventions of the genre, and they no longer hold the sway they once did. In the world of The Boys, superpowers are the result of a substance known as Compound V, manufactured by the nefarious American corporation Vought. Compound V is smuggled into hospitals across the country, injected into newborns unbeknownst to them, and affects the population indiscrimiScreenwriters’ Perspectives Vol. 3 No. 1 2022

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nately. Far from being a blessing, these physical augmentations merely serve to empower the worse parts of humanity, as seen through the amoral actions of Vought’s professional superheroes. In this sense, Compound V metaphorically functions like a virus, spreading from person to person, but under the guise of a genetic gift. As with a virus, it also serves to reveal the dark side human behaviour.

eB oy s( 20 19 ):

e Th

ers pow Super mic of ide Ep

Comic books (and by extension, comic book films) have long drawn inspiration from real-world conflicts. For instance, in his original comic book debut in the 1960s, Tony Stark built his armoured suit and became the hero Iron Man while a prisoner-of-war in Vietnam. The MCU updated this setting to Afghanistan for their post-9/11 film adaptation of the character in 2008. Since the genre’s inception, the primary sources of conflict within the superhero genre have been inextricably linked to the pressing geopolitical issues faced in the Western world at the time. Now, as the entire world grapples with a new invisible and unseen enemy, this traditional antagonistic mould feels out of place. The Boys represents a relevant story for an era in which intangible threats and systemic injustice have dominated the public conversation. The main source of conflict in the show does not derive from bombastic battles against conventional supervillains, because the superheroes themselves, through their corrupt behaviour, are shown to be the true villains. Over the course of the ongoing storyline, the protagonists learn that an evil so ingrained in the human condition – only emboldened by the advent of Compound V – cannot be defeated through physical force, because there is no fighting off

the virus of human nature with mere punches.

The Boys reflects many of the ideological concerns of our time – political tribalism, corporate corruption, America’s expansionist foreign policy, and the rising underbelly of hatred and discrimination worldwide. However, the major difference is that many of these issues are exacerbated, rather than remedied, by superpowers. In doing so, The Boys presents a unique and timely prospect for the genre, one which soared in popularity during the latter half of 2020 as COVID-19 coursed across the globe. Although the end of our real-world viral threat remains elusive, Amazon’s ongoing series has saved us from the threat of stale superhero stories.

Works Cited “The Name of the Game”. The Boys, written by Eric Kripke, directed by Dan Trachtenberg, Sony Pictures Television and Amazon Studios,

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