Screenwriters' Perspectives, Vol. 1

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

2020 | Volume 1 No. 1

About Screenwriters’ Perspectives 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 characters 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.

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. 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.

Screenwriters’ Perspectives 2020 Volume 1 No. 1 Editor-In-Chief Kenneth Ting

Junior Editors Elizabeth Coulter Vikram Nijhawan

Design Director Didier Huynh

Content Contributors Elizabeth Coulter Bridget Raymundo Nujhat Tabassum Vikram Nijhawan Faisal Hay Ruichen Yan Robyn Bacon Kenneth Ting

Screenwriting at Victoria College 2019 Fall - 2020 Winter President & Founder Kenneth Ting

VP Internal

Elizabeth Coulter

VP External Vera Li

VP Design

Didier Huynh

Copyright © 2020 Screenwriting at Victoria College. All rights reserved. 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.

Table of Contents 04

Letter from the Editor-in-Chief

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The Design Principle

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Freedom in Art

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The Case for Amy and Laurie: Deconstructing Gender in Little Women

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Jojo Rabbit, A Bildungsroman Disguised as a Hitler Comedy

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“Don’t let the past die”: a case for nostalgia in Star Wars: The Last Jedi

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“It’s treason then” - How the Star Wars Sequel finale defiles the grave of Palpatine

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To be or not to be - there is no hesitation

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Female sensual desire in Mrs. Fletcher: a coming-of-age story in reverse

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Retelling the love story of Napoleon and Joséphine at the JFK airport

A book review of The Anatomy of Story: 22 Steps to Becoming a Master Storyteller (2007)

A featured film analysis of The White Crow (2018)

A featured film analysis of Little Women (2019)

A film analysis of JoJo Rabbit (2019)

A film analysis of Star Wars Episode 8: The Last Jedi (2017)

A film analysis of Star Wars Episode 9: The Rise of SkyWalker (2020)

A film analysis of The Shawshank Redemption (1994)

A TV show analysis of Mrs. Fletcher (2019)

A film analysis of The Terminal (2004)

Letter from the Editor-In-Chief Dear readers, It is my absolute honor to present you the inaugural issue of Screenwriters’ Perspectives, a journal that is founded in 2020 by Screenwriting at Victoria College. The primary purpose of establishing this journal is to provide a platform for showcasing in-depth film analyses written by students at the University of Toronto. Unlike conventional movie reviews, the analyses published in this journal place heavy emphasis on critiquing the fundamental principles of storytelling because we believe that the strength of any criticism made against a movie is dependent on the critic’s knowledge of storytelling. At the end of the day, how can you criticize a movie constructively and effectively if you have never been through the writing process yourself? Therefore, this journal also serves as a learning opportunity for students to learn how to critique movies from a screenwriter’s perspective, eventually fostering their development in becoming more perceptive individuals.

In our first issue, we are publishing eight original, academic and comprehensive analyses written by students. Original means the analyses are derived from the students’ direct personal thoughts and observations. Academic means the analyses are written in a concise manner and supported with evidence.

Comprehensive means the analyses are multi-layered and address multiple aspects of the story. Apart from this, among all the analyses, I have selected the ones written by Elizabeth Coulter and Bridget Raymundo as “featured analyses” because the quality of their analyses exceeds the journal’s expectation. Therefore, I recommend everyone to read their analyses as you browse through our issue.

Finally, I would like to take this opportunity to extend my sincerest gratitude to Victoria University Students’ Administrative Council (VUSAC) for their support in funding the publication of this journal.

This initiative would have not been possible without their financial support. I would also like to thank all the students who have contributed to this issue, including all the authors and editors. Your hard work and dedication have truly inspired and amazed me. Also, I would like to give special thanks to Didier, our design director, for her effort in designing the layout of this issue. To all the readers, I hope you will enjoy the content in this issue and appreciate the time and effort that these students have invested in writing and their analyses. Since this is the first issue of our journal, we are still actively recruiting new members to join our executive team. Therefore, if you are interested in contributing to our journal in the future, please do not hesitate to contact us. We always welcome new members to join our family.

Yours Sincerely,

Kenneth Ting

Kenneth Ting PhD Candidate, Department of Immunology, University of Toronto Founder & 2018-2020 President of Screenwriting at Victoria College

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The Design Principle A book review of The Anatomy of Story: 22 Steps to Becoming a Master Storyteller (2007) Written by Kenneth Ting1,2 1 Department of Immunology 2 Alumunus of Victoria College, University of Toronto

The Design Principle The design principle is the most novel story-telling concept that John Truby has introduced in his book. Not surprisingly, it is also the most difficult concept to understand due to the abstract nature of its definition. In The Anatomy of Story, the design principle is defined as the presentation of the story, in which the presentation itself is the essence of the story. In other words, it is how the story is being presented, in which the method of presentation is the heart of the story. For example, in the movie, Manchester by the Sea, Kenneth Lonergan has used unannounced flashbacks extensively to demonstrate Lee’s horrifying backstory throughout the movie. The use of unannounced flashbacks here is more than just a style of story presentation. It demonstrates the essence of the story, which is the concept that broken people constantly experience disruption in their present lives from their tragic memories. This concept is demonstrated by analogously disrupting the audience visual experience on a constant basis with the use of unannounced flashbacks. While not all great movies will have a design principle, if a movie has one, it will be a great movie. In the case of Manchester by the Sea, the effective use of unannounced flashbacks has earned its place in winning the Best Original Screenplay from the Academy Awards in 2016.

Reverse Chronology In The Anatomy of Story, reverse chronology refers to the process of constructing a story by starting from the end of it. While this concept is not particularly unique, John Truby has highlighted its importance throughout his book because it ensures the writers know by the end of the story if the hero has accomplished his or her goal (outer journey) and how that relates to the hero’s self-revelation (inner journey). In fact, a common mistake that can often be found in the works of professional writers is that they are unable to genuinely connect the hero’s inner and outer journeys. This can be attributed to the fact that some writers place so much emphasis on the hero’s inner journey that they neglect the progression of the outer journey.

This often becomes a problem, especially near the end of the story, when both journeys must intertwine. At this point, these writers often have no choice but to connect their well-crafted inner journeys with unrealistic outer journeys to foster a sense of unity. For instance, in Mean Girls, Cady’s inner journey is so well crafted that her outer journey is neglected. Therefore, her self-revelation is intertwined with an unrealistic outside story, in this case, during the state championship. Specifically, the writers of the film expect the audience to believe that Cady’s rapid response during the sudden death round is more than sufficient for her to reflect on her life and gain a self-revelation, while at the same time determining the correct answer for the math question. As John Truby described, the success of a story depends on the quality of the hero’s self-revelation.

While Mean Girls is a successful teen comedy, the story could be significantly improved if Cady’s inner and outer journey were intertwined in a more genuine fashion.

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Freedom in Art A featured film analysis of The White Crow (2018) Written by Elizabeth Coulter1,2,3 Department of English, 2Department of Germanic Languages & Literatures 3 Second-year undergraduate of Victoria College, University of Toronto

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Freedom in Art The main theme of The White Crow is the idea that freedom can be found through art. The film follows Rudolf Nureyev’s determined pursuit for the freedom to be the best of himself which he does through his art: ballet. The subthemes of ‘solitude and selfishness,’ ‘discipline, obligation, and obedience,’ and ‘The West versus The Soviet Union’ with the motif of ‘the train’ playing throughout work together to demonstrate Nureyev’s personal path to freedom.

The Train The motif of the train, mostly in the form of a Trans-Siberian train, is visually presented and referred to throughout the film in connection to Nureyev. From the very first scene of the film, we learn that Nureyev was born on a Trans-Siberian train, a fact which Nureyev reminds us of at the end of the film when he says: “I can live anywhere. Remember, I was born on a train,” suggesting that the train is a representation of movement, as Nureyev moves both physically from the Soviet Union to the West, but also from a poor background to a world famous ballet dancer. An interpretation of the train perhaps more in keeping with what sets Nureyev apart from everyone else is the idea of the train as a symbol of progress. In traditional Russian literature, the train is a symbol of advancement, as Russia lagged behind the West for a long time before rapidly catching up, starting under Peter the Great. As such, the train, a product of industrialization that made movement and the modernization of such a huge country dramatically easier, from a Russian perspective came to represent modernity. In many of the flashbacks of Nureyev as a child there is a train or the young Nureyev plays with a toy one. Upon arriving in Paris, one of the first things Nureyev does is to find a shop where he can acquire a trainset which he later visits to get a trainset of the Trans-Siberian Express. To Nureyev, the train is important to him as a symbol of development and improvement which is what he strives for for himself with his ballet.

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Solitude and Selfishness The idea of Rudolf Nureyev as a ‘white crow,’ from the Russian idiom used to describe an outsider, someone different, extraordinary even, establishes how Nureyev stood out from his peers, leading him to eventually become a renowned ballet dancer. In a flashback to Nureyev’s time in Saint Petersburg, Nureyev goes to a dance friend’s party. Nureyev is unsure as to how he should act in a group of people who want to talk about things that he does not really care about like politics, which is evident in his manner of speaking as he insists that he should not stay long. The reason as to why Nureyev seems to have decided to visit at all appears evident when he mentions that his friend was telling him about Rembrandt and that he would like to talk more about him. The divergence between what most people like to talk about such as politics and themselves and the specificities of art that Nureyev wants to talk about highlights a way in which Nureyev is different from many people.

We also learn that Nureyev visits the Hermitage every day, something that we see carried over in France where he visits museums often, where he is usually alone. In flashbacks of Nureyev’s childhood, we also see Nureyev always alone, perhaps in part due to being raised as the only boy of four children with an absent father, as we see him struggle to fit in with ‘boyish activities’ or to connect with his father. Although we do see Nureyev engage well with people in the film, they are almost always dancers or people willing to talk with him about art and dance. As such, art to Nureyev is his world, separating himself from the world of sitting around and chatting like most ‘normal people’ like to do.

Yet to his separateness, there is a clear side of arrogance, selfishness, rudeness, and fragility to Nureyev. Because in the rest of the film he can be a very nice person, as well as the fact of course that he is the great ballet dancer Rudolf Nureyev, these flaws humanize him. We see Nureyev be very kind, for example to Clara Saint, with whom he becomes very close, helping her through her mourning over her late boyfriend; However, we do see Nureyev have outbursts of great temper even with Saint. It is difficult for us the audience to fully understand why Nureyev always acts the way he does quite shockingly at times, and it is Saint through who’s reaction the audience can relate. At a famous Russian restaurant with Saint, Nureyev becomes very upset, and upon being asked why by Saint, proceeds to say “I know what he [the waiter] thinks of me…

Bashkirian peasant. He looks down. No manners. No education.” And when Saint says what we are also thinking during the scene: “…how do you know that? He hasn’t said anything,” Nureyev continues, “…Alright, I am a peasant from Ufa. I’m boy born on train. I play princes in theatre, but I’m not prince. Fuck him. Fuck Paris. Fuck you,” plainly revealing his insecurity about his past. Even though we have seen how Nureyev turns parts of his life such as his being born on a train into a symbol of the progress he wants to achieve and does, it is still a reminder to him that however much he progresses, he will always have started in great poverty. It is particularly a reminder of the flashbacks from Nureyev’s first days at The Leningrad Choreographic School where Shelkov is rude to him, seemingly due to Nureyev’s Ufa background. When Saint tells him to apologize, Nureyev continues to be very rude to her, finishing by saying “Little girl, if you like apologies, you’re with wrong man.” In her next encounter with Nureyev, Saint expects him to acknowledge his previous behavior, but Nureyev refuses to and Saint responds: “I forgive you for being the most selfish man I’ve ever met,” again reflecting how the audience is meant to react, as even though Nureyev seems to behave unnecessarily rudely at a few times, refusing to show any sign afterwards of recognition of the event or apology, not only do we know why Nureyev feels insecure and can somewhat sympathize, but we also see that the rest of the time he shows kindness and of course his admirable and respectable qualities of a great artist and so we too forgive him for all his flaws.

Discipline, Obligation, and Obedience Art is generally perceived as something with no rules, that is meant to be used however the artist wishes to express themselves because freedom of expression and creativity are some of the wonderful things about art. These aspects of art make it hard for us to see just how discipline and learning can really fit into it. How can one learn about the arts when they are subjective? How can there be rules? The rules of art are made to be broken, but in order to break them, one must become an artist, someone who has reached the capacity to have freedom in art, a freedom that can only be found through discipline. Pushkin explains to Nureyev that “…technique is only a means…not an end…” and that the real purpose of art is story: to tell the story you want to tell. This idea recalls a flashback from the beginning of the film where the man to whom Nureyev goes to talk about how he is doing after the first few weeks at the Leningrad Choreographic School tells Nureyev that “Ballet is about rules, it’s about discipline. It has to be. That means it’s about obedience. Only through discipline can you find freedom,” meaning that Nureyev cannot expect to become a great dancer who can do what they want when he is just starting out. Back in the future Paris timeline, there are many clips in between scenes that show Nureyev practicing his technique alone and looking at many forms of art. He explains to Saint how he himself made changes in the ballet world by, as he puts it, “[taking] from the woman.” Nureyev states: “Before me, male part boring. Man only stands, does nothing.

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Women leap, jump, turn… I ask, why not man be like woman?” showing us how Nureyev used his relentless practice of ballet technique and study of art to make innovative changes as to how he as a male dancer wants to express himself artistically.

In a flashback to Nureyev in Moscow, we see him protest about being sent to the small city of Ufa, where Nureyev grew up, to dance. Nureyev points out that if he goes to Ufa, he will never be able to progress to a greater dance theatre such as the Bolshoi in Moscow as he would be too old. He is told by the lady at the ministry of culture in Moscow that “It doesn’t matter what you want,” because “The state paid for you. The Soviet people. Isn’t it time you did them the favour of saying thank you?” laying out the moral dilemma that Nureyev faces; on the one hand he has an obligation to the Soviet state and people that paid for him to become a dancer, and that in return they want him to dance where they need him to dance. On the other hand, Nureyev’s obligation to the state contradicts his obligation to himself to progress and learn, something he cannot do if he continues to dance in his hometown until he is too old to continue. Nureyev tells Lacotte: “I have an obligation. See as much as possible, learn…Picasso, Matisse, Rodin. Go everyday, new painting. Look, really look. See what it teaches,” explaining why we see him so often at art galleries. Nureyev’s passion and drive for progress in art through self-discipline requires him to travel and experience new things which he could not do if he stayed in his hometown. We are meant to feel torn here, as we know in hindsight the great things Nureyev goes on to do from the scenes where he is in France and he becomes a great dancer and the idea of stunting his artistic potential seems wrong. On the other hand, the ministry of culture lady’s point that Nureyev has an obligation to give back to the people that gave him the opportunity to learn ballet by sacrificing the time he could use to reach his artistic freedom to instead continue the rest of his dancing days in artistic discipline does have a moral point to it as both paths can be seen as one of selfishness or selflessness on the part of Nureyev.

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The West versus The Soviet Union It is in part due to Nureyev’s Russian background that makes his style of dance stand out in the West, especially since the arrival of the Kirov company is the first time since the second world war that they have come to the West. The famous French dancer Pierre Lacotte tells him: “It’s always Russia. It’s always the Russians. The French invented ballet, but the energy always comes in from the East…What you do is not technically perfect. Sometimes it’s even a little bit clumsy. But its spirit is perfect,” pointing out the differing qualities of Eastern and Western ballet, and in doing so, showing how Nureyev’s Eastern upbringing gives him a unique quality to his dancing for the Western audience. What really makes Nureyev stand out in the West is his drive to learn about the West, something highly controversial to the Soviets. When at a party for dancers, upon noticing that the room is split with Westerners on one side, Soviets on the other, Nureyev remarks: “Why aren’t we talking to each other? This is ridiculous,” and proceeds to speak to some Western dancers who he impresses with his knowledge of who they are, explaining “I see you in dance magazines. I study,” in English which he took upon himself to learn, stating: “I want not to be deaf and dumb when I come to West.” Again we see Nureyev’s striving to learn through and for his art, especially given that his art, ballet, is a French invention. Such commitment to being informed about the Western ballet world leads him to make connections with Western dancers such as Lacotte, even though such behaviour

is frowned upon by some Soviets. Nureyev’s taking initiative to “build the bridge” singles him out as someone different, someone who can move easily between the East and the West. Although from a Western perspective it is tempting to take away a view of the ‘good and free West’ versus the ‘bad and oppressive Soviet Union’ due to the fact that Rudi chooses the West over the Soviet Union for the freedom to dance he finds for himself there, the differences between the West and the Soviet Union between which Nureyev must choose are made more complicated by the fact that apart from Nureyev, no one else from the West or the East takes the initiative to understand the other. At the end of the film the French policeman gives Nureyev the choice between two doors: one that leads to France, and one that leads to the Soviet Union. Given the tense scene that precedes this one where the KGB tries to take Nureyev back to the Soviet Union because of his affection to the West, it seems, to a Western audience at least, that the obvious choice should be to choose France. However, we are brought back to the issue of obligation. The two doors can be reimagined as one that fulfills Nureyev’s obligation, but would mean never seeing his family or country that made him who he is again and the other fulfilling Nureyev’s obligation to the State and to his family at the sacrifice of his own wants. This is emphasized when we are immediately afterwards shown a flashback to Nureyev’s first dance lesson as a child with his dance teacher and his mother - the state and his family, where he learns traditional folk dances, reminding us of the Soviet influence that helps Nureyev in the West. The KGB accuse Nureyev of loving the capitalist life of money and being able to engage in selfish individuality, concluding that he does not care for the country that made him. To the West, it can seem that Nureyev surely chose the West for freedom from the unjust Soviet system. Both of these views are politically charged and impose their own political agendas to Nureyev’s choice.

However, we are reminded throughout the film that Nureyev is not at all interested in politics – his drive is for his dance.

A fact that even the audience can forget because we can be so tempted to think politically and favour our own system. At the end of the film, Nureyev tells the Western press: “I fell I will never return to my country. But I may never be happy in yours,” reminding us that although the West gives him the freedom in art he strove for throughout the film, it will never be able to give him the happiness of all he left behind in The Soviet Union.

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The Case for Amy and Laurie: Deconstructing Gender in Little Women A featured film analysis of Little Women (2019) Written by Bridget Raymundo1,2,3,4 Department of English, 2Women and Gender Studies Institute, 3Book and Media Studies (St. Michael’s College) 4 Second-year undergraduate of Victoria College, University of Toronto

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Capturing the complexity of gender in film has often been at the forefront of contemporary conversations— audiences crave authentic representation. Greta Gerwig has gained notoriety in recent years as an intelligent director; yet, she has continued to compel audiences in her approach to screenwriting. The depth of the page and how Gerwig translates her words to the screen creates a fluidity within her characters beyond conventional representations of gender. Her second film, Little Women imbues new life into a classic story. Through a controlled chaotic dialogue, interweaving past and present, and just a sprinkle of modernity, Gerwig has created a script that communicates youth and all its unknowable complexities.

While the protagonist, Jo March, is also reinvigorated in this retelling, Gerwig’s adaptation has shifted perspectives on two characters previously villainized for their choices: Laurie and Amy. Laurie, often seen as Jo’s other half becomes the male on-looker, as much of Gerwig’s description of him is in admiring the little women, who then become the focus. Amy, as the antithesis to Jo suddenly becomes more similar than ever to her sister in her quest for independence. Neither Laurie nor Amy are the central figures of this story; however, they are symbolic of a tender nature Marmee claims is “too noble to curb, too lofty to bend”.

Amy, in particular, has always been somewhat detested by readers and viewers, and critiqued for her seemingly shallow dreams. Gerwig rejects this claim in her writing, and Amy’s highly in-tune sense of self distinguishes her from past interpretations. Laurie does not understand Amy’s fixation on attaining wealth and he remarks, “I understand queens of society can’t go on without money. But it does sound odd coming from one of your mother’s girls”. Amy’s aspiration to marry rich, while commonplace in society at the time, is a radical diversion from the norms of the March women. Even Meg, who wants a traditional home and family, marries for love over wealth. Thus, Amy’s goal in marrying rich is understandably misinterpreted as anti-feminist. However, Gerwig suggests an alternative pragmatic motivation to the idea of “marrying rich” that is later repeated by Jo. Amy retorts to Laurie, “Even if I had my own money, which I don’t, it would belong to my husband the moment we were married... So don’t sit there and tell me that marriage isn’t an economic proposition, because it is. It may not be for you but it most certainly is for me”. Amy is identifying a base distinction between men and women in this period. Laurie has a choice to be romantic and non-conforming, Amy does not. She feels a responsibility to her family, and because of that burden, Amy’s ladder-climb into high society becomes the furthest from a self-centered ambition. Amy’s sense of obligation originates in the parallel narrative of childhood when Amy stays with her aunt. Aunt March, who represents the ideal of self-sufficiency to the March sisters, heeds Amy, “You are your family’s hope now… So you must marry well and save your family”. These two characters become the most companionable as they both understand the transactional nature of marriage. While Amy also desires to be loved, unlike her sisters, she is not driven by this desire— her ideal goal is to be respected by her peers in society. Amy knows that the most sensible way to provide for her family financially is to marry the richest suitor. She understood how to navigate a system designed to suppress her and instead, reclaims the dominant narratives of being a “lady” for her own economic gain.

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In this adaptation, Laurie is essentially the fifth March sister—he acts as the bridge between these two gendered worlds, and Gerwig makes it known how different domestic lives can be. She writes, “Mr. Laurence sits with his grandson, Laurie, his grandson’s tutor, Mr. Brooks. It is quiet and proper, the opposite of the merry mayhem of the March household”.

The “mayhem” Gerwig refers to is the interrupting dialogue used throughout the film, where the sisters will often talk over one another to create a seamless and natural rhythm of words. The symmetry of the dialogue is one facet of the greater framework Gerwig establishes in the co-consecutive narratives of childhood and young adulthood. Laurie comes from a privileged upbringing and is expected to be a gentleman of society, and yet the place of propriety that should feel comfortable to him becomes a world he rejects. Apart from the women Laurie is conveyed as a shy and reserved character.

For instance, he is hidden from the rest of the party where he meets Jo and is often looking longingly at the March house in front of his grandfather and tutor. Laurie is initially unsure of where he fits into the dynamic of the girls, then as he journeys through adolescence, he finds his place there. In the script, Gerwig describes that Marmee, “sees his loneliness, his lack of a mother”, which suggests that the March’s represent a feminine world he has previously been denied. Beyond his desire for a motherly figure, Laurie is consistently shown as an admirer of womanhood. Within Jo and Laurie’s first interaction, it is written that, “Laurie doesn’t look disappointed that [Jo’s] a girl at all”. This demonstrates that femininity is not a disadvantage to him, in fact, it becomes something he aspires to. He observes the March women in their entirety, independent from their beauty or gender. Laurie identifies with a household Gerwig describes as a, “slightly medieval utopia of artists and thinkers”, which differs from the business-minded world of his grandfather. The only time Laurie diverts from his tender nature is in the present storyline where most of the women, him included, are “without a sense of direction” in life. He is seen drinking and courting women without any real aim. Gerwig clarifies that the reason he has fallen into the trap of male conformity is because in the parallel storyline he’s lost his other half in Jo and as a result, his ability to be his former vulnerable and tender-hearted self. Through his relationship with Amy, which is finally given the depth it deserves, Laurie is able to regain the romanticism of his adolescence.

The entire storyline of both Amy and Laurie is building towards this moment in present day Paris where the two characters are finally honest with one another. Through their dialogue, Amy and Laurie both get in passion when Laurie alludes to his growing feelings for Amy. Gerwig prefaces, “Laurie gets very intense all of the sudden, words rush out”. Laurie goes on to tell Amy not to marry Fred and as he draws closer to her, he is vulnerable again for the first time since Jo broke his heart.

Yet, just as Laurie’s protective walls come down, Amy is quick to shield herself, responding, “I have been second to Jo my whole life in everything and I will not be the person you settle for just because you cannot have her. I won’t do it, not when…

I’ve spent my entire life loving you”. This line reveals two fundamental aspects of Amy’s character: she will always value being treated fairly over misplaced adoration, and despite her sense of practicality she is also, by nature, a romantic. Gerwig reinforces Amy’s secret tendency for longing through a humorous transition to childhood in the following scene where younger Amy says, “I’m making a mold of my foot for Laurie to remind him I have nice feet”. Amy’s admittance of feelings for Laurie conveys to the audience that Amy has always loved in the same way Laurie has— youthfully and wholeheartedly.

Nonetheless, Gerwig does not admonish this way of loving or treat it as independent from a rational mind. If these characters are meant to be progressive, the dreamer and the realist must work in tandem. The unification of these two characters argues that emotion is not separate from reason, as Gerwig remarks, “This is the way it was meant”. The genius of Gerwig’s writing is that these characters, although distanced from us by over a century feel real and genuine because they simply get to be young and not downplayed for their emotion. The superiority of age is a problem of many older writers who write young characters. What makes her writing so powerful is that she does not conform to dominant male-centred narratives.

Ultimately, Gerwig becomes a force of feminine empowerment, and through her subversive approach to storytelling, her characters are given the chance to breathe.

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Jojo Rabbit, A Bildungsroman Disguised as a Hitler Comedy A film analysis of JoJo Rabbit (2019) Written by Nujhat Tabassum1,2,3,4 1 Department of Physiology, 2Department of Human Biology, 3Department of Psychology 4 Fourth-year undergraduate of Victoria College, University of Toronto

The Necessity of a Whimsical Tone At first glance, Jojo Rabbit seems to be a typical black comedy, one that makes light of one of the most controversial time periods in human record, the final days of World War II in Nazi Germany. As expected of the Hitler comedy, it is filled to the brim with slapstick humor in the form of gratuitous violence and absurdest dialogue poking fun at the Nazis and their silly bigoted worldview. The adults around Jojo, except for his mother, are portrayed as incompetent idiots, most notably Jojo’s imaginary friend, a heavily caricatured, fractured version of Adolf Hitler, who comes across as more of a scatter-brained fool than the fearsome leader, responsible for the death of millions.

Shortly prior to the film’s release, there were growing concerns from critics and the general public that using such a flippantly humorous tone to portray one of the darkest times in human history would not only be ineffective as a storytelling device, but it would also be insulting to the victims of the war. Contrary to these beliefs, however, Jojo Rabbit manages to use its whimsical tone to its advantage, using it to immerse the viewer into the perspective of a child living in that time.

The presence of the film’s silly tone can partially be attributed to traditional satire – the film can be viewed as social commentary, poking fun at the enemy, as the absurdity behind the Nazi Party’s doctrines and modes of operation are presented and picked apart. The film is silly because the situation it is based on is ridiculous – young kids aged ten and up, who were barely able to tie their own shoelaces, were expected to join the Deutsches Jungvolk, where they were handed guns and grenades, and trained in military warfare. By 1944, the Nazis, short on eligible adults, and desperate to keep the war going, resorted to employing these children into the Volkssturm militia, sending them off to the frontlines to fight against the enemies. German children and adult alike were heavily indoctrinated into the Nazi ideology, being brainwashed into believing the ridiculous propaganda that was being spread about the Jews, one that painted them as horned bogeymen that belonged in folk tales rather than real life.

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However, there is another layer to the outlandish, nonchalant nature of the film’s tone. Even more than being the so-called “anti-hate satire” film that it is marketed as, Jojo Rabbit is the story of a child, one living in the midst of a deteriorating wartime Germany during the ebbing tides of World War II, one who, at the outset of the film, has already faced a lifetime’s worth of trauma in his young life. He has lost his older sister to illness, and his father has disappeared in the war, being labeled by his bullies as a traitorous deserter. To cope with and make sense of the chaos surrounding him, he has become a blind devotee of Nazi fanaticism. In the eyes of such a child, the daily atrocities committed by the Nazis have not only become ordinary, but also necessary to the cause he has aligned himself with. However, as expected of a naïve 10-year old, his fascination with the Nazi Party is only surface-level. He is enticed by the charismatic leader and the patriotic machismo that comes with being in the army but is blissfully unaware of the true cruelty of the party he worships. As he lives in an environment where even families report each other to the Gestapo for merely voicing their concerns on Hitler’s actions, his mother doesn’t correct his skewed point of view, in order to keep him safe. The tone of the film reflects Jojo’s mental state, delivering a sort of numbing effect – public hangings and allusions to the Holocaust are shown and discussed, but the audience is rarely given time to dwell on them, because Jojo would not dwell on them. Rosie’s involvement with a resistance group is alluded to throughout the movie, but never made explicit until the end, because Jojo does not know about his mother’s involvement in the war.

The dialogue benefits from the viewer knowing more than the protagonist, and a casual comment about the war carries a heavier emotional weight for the viewers than it does for the frustratingly naïve Jojo. The movie starts off with the viewers waiting for Jojo to catch up with what is already known, to grow and see the truth – the real truth, their truth. In the movie, this truth, and Jojo’s growth, comes straight from the enemy’s serpentine tongue.

Hitler versus the Rabbit: The Road to Embracing the “Monsters” Around Jojo In the beginning of the film, Jojo is a weak, unpopular kid with only one friend and one parent. He is fueled by a strong desire to find purpose in his life and to grow into a man, one who is strong and respectable enough to take care of his mother, and one who can finally gain the acceptance and admiration of all his peers. In his eyes, joining the Nazi Party is the best way to reach this goal. The manifestation of this blind desire comes in the form of an imaginary Adolf Hitler. Imaginary Adolf is Jojo’s role model – he serves, at least in the beginning, as Jojo’s primary advisor in all his plans, perhaps occupying the role of a guiding father figure to replace the one Jojo has lost. But as he is a creation of Jojo’s mind, Adolf is an inaccurate representation of Hitler, being portrayed as aloof, childish, inconsistent. He initially comforts Jojo and encourages him, but Screenwriters’ Perspectives Vol. 1 No. 1 2020

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his reassurances are empty, insincere fluff – his stories and plans are things that only an imaginative child could come up with. (“The rabbit is no coward. The humble little bunny faces the dangerous world every day, hunting carrots for his family, for his country. My empire would be full of all animals. Lions, giraffes, zebras, rhinoceroses, octopuses, rhinoctopuses.

Even the mighty rabbit.”) The fragmented nature of Hitler not only highlights the fact that Jojo’s knowledge of the Nazis is heavily flawed and surface-level, but it also represents the flawed nature of the identity Jojo has chosen to pursue in the beginning. Fully immersing himself in the Nazi Party will not allow him to grow into the man he truly wants to be, as it would require him to kill the part of him that wants to protect the rabbits.

As much as Jojo tries to suppress the innate compassion inside of him, it is shown throughout the film with the rabbit motif.

He refuses to kill the rabbit in Hitler Youth Camp, instead choosing to set it free, despite the jeering of his peers. The rabbit is a representation of the weak and vulnerable. Humans see themselves as being superior to rabbits, and they hold in their hands the power to either kill the rabbit, like what is expected of Jojo, or to save it, as Jojo does. In Nazi Germany, Jewish people have been forced into the vulnerable role of the rabbit – other Germans view themselves as superior to them, and their lives fall in the hands of the others, those who would readily sentence them to death when given the opportunity, and a kind few, like Rosie, who would give up their lives to protect them. Jojo has this inherent kindness within him, but in his blind urge to impress his peers and be a true Hitler Youth, he chooses to suppress it, thereby preventing any real growth he may achieve. This is also highlighted in the beginning of the film, where Jojo is portrayed as an immature child who is unable to tie his own shoelaces without his mother’s assistance, one who refuses to accept the presence of the rabbit in his life (“Grab the rabbit by the tail, wrap it around his ear. Tie it all up and then stuff him back down the hole.”) However, a real opportunity for growth presents itself for Jojo after he gets injured after a failed plight to impress his bullies. On the surface, the aftermath of the grenade explosion leaves Jojo at his lowest point – he is left feeling even more rejected by his peers than before, living as a disfigured monster that can no longer fight for his country. However, finding Elsa hiding in the walls of his dead sister’s bedroom restores his sense of purpose. He plans to gather intelligence from the creature in the dark to write an informative book about Jews that will aid the army in their identification. He hopes the book will allow him to rejoin the military, still foolishly believing that joining the Nazis is the only way for him to grow into a man. Little does he know, chasing after this false sense of growth is what ends up being the avenue for his true growth, through the stories of Jewish “monster” concealed in the shadows.

Freeing the Rabbit: How Elsa Breaks the Nazi’s Spell on Jojo The exchanges between Jojo and Elsa are silly, typical of a conversation between an imaginative ten-year old and a fifteenyear old that humors him, with Jojo’s nonsensical questions,“Jews love ugliness. That’s another thing we learned in school.

You love them, yes? Ugly things”and Elsa’s sarcastic replies,“Obviously, we are demons, who love money, right?... But what people don’t know is that we also allergic to food. Cheese, bread, meat. That stuff will kill us instantly. So, if you are thinking of ending my life, that’s the fastest way.” This sarcasm proves to be more effective to get through to Jojo than any earnest answers ever would. Jojo has been blinded by the false knowledge that has been fed to him all his life, and it is Elsa’s imagination, laced subtly with her opposing perspective, that coaxes him out of the veil the Nazis have placed over his eyes. Through their interactions, their collective myth-building on the Jewish race, and Jojo’s made-up letters to Elsa from her fiancé in France, Jojo starts to see Elsa less as a creature hiding in the shadows and more as a real person, and more significantly, as an important person to him. At the same time, Jojo’s blind admiration in Hitler steadily fades, as he increasingly rebukes imaginary Adolf’s suggestions, finally pushing Hitler’s ideology out of the window along with him by the film’s end.

Not only that, the end of the film showcases Jojo’s true growth. After seeing the drawing Elsa made of him, he learns to embrace the compassion within him, deciding to set the rabbit free from the cage she has been locked in. He chooses to let go of his selfish desire to keep Elsa with him forever, and finally tells Elsa that she can leave the house. With this action, Jojo has finally grown into a man, a fact that is further highlighted by him successfully tying Elsa’s shoelaces for her before she steps outside for the first time. In the end, as the Germans have lost the war, Jojo Rabbit has been freed from his cage of ignorance and grown into a man, finally catching up with the audience, finally learning to accept the truth.

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“DON’T Let the Past Die”: A Case for Nostalgia in Star Wars: The Last Jedi A film analysis of Star Wars: Episode VIII – The Last Jedi (2017) Written by Vikram Nijhawan1,2,3 1 Department of English, 2Department of History, 3Department of Classics 2 Second-year undergraduate of Trinity College, University of Toronto “I wish I could make you understand, but I’m not coming back. Nothing can make me change my mind.”

This is what Luke Skywalker says to his lifelong droid companion R2-D2, when the latter berated him for abandoning the Resistance and the Jedi ways in Star Wars: The Last Jedi. It is also likely these same words were uttered by a disgruntled fan, explaining to a friend why he refuses to return to the theatre to watch this film for a second time.

There is no question Rian Johnson’s second installment in the Star Wars sequel trilogy drew a fine line of division between audience members. Many applauded the film for steering the franchise in a new, unexpected direction, subverting the typical beats to create a more nuanced Star Wars story for the modern age. Meanwhile, the diehard fans criticized Johnson’s creative choices for disrespecting the lore which preceded it, resulting in a film which felt a long time removed, and very far far away, from the traditional Star Wars they enjoyed. It makes sense that a movie which advocates, on a thematic level, “letting the past die” would upset many long-time viewers.

The handling of Luke Skywalker in particular drew much controversy. The hero of the original trilogy seems unrecognizable from the character presented in this film. No longer is he a bright-eyed and optimistic warrior fighting for good; rather, he is a jaded and depressed Jedi, who feels he’s past his prime. There have been countless analyses of his actions in The Last Jedi, from casually tossing away his lightsaber at the beginning, to his arguably anticlimactic, undeserved death at the film’s end. However, one small moment, near the end of the first act, was seldom-addressed and yet incredibly riveting: Luke’s re-encounter with R2-D2.

Prior to this, all the audience witnesses of the great Jedi master is a curmudgeon, who wishes to remain in his self-imposed exile. When the young Rey seeks his guidance in the Force, Skywalker flat-out rejects her. Yet this two-minute scene reveals the plucky, high-spirited farm boy fans fell in love with back in the very first Star Wars film in 1977. Of all the scenes in this movie, it is this one which best acts as a bridge for the franchise’s past and present, able to satisfy long-time viewers and newcomers alike. The technique it uses is pretty simple: recontextualizing an iconic moment from the original films to fit the current one’s story. If the rest of the plot followed that underlying principle, The Last Jedi may have received praise from both segments of the audience. Instead, it merely illustrates what could have been.

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“Sacred Island, Watch the Language!”

The main aspect that distinguishes this scene from others is its subtlety. It conveys a surprising amount of information with little dialogue, which makes sense considering one of the characters speaks entirely in unintelligible robot noises. When Skywalker first enters the Millennium Falcon, examining all the old fixings and widgets, he is sombre. The viewer can infer that he is reflecting on all his past adventures in the famous starship, a stark contrast to the hollow and disheveled Jedi they see now. The disparity between his past and present self dismays Skywalker, as it likely does the audience, who are expecting their bold hero from the old films to resurface.

When R2-D2 awakens, the viewer catches a glimpse of that classic hero. Just as the fluorescent blue lights of his old droid sidekick light up, so too does the dour expression on Skywalker’s face. This is the first instance in the film where he appears genuinely happy to reacquaint with his past. After exchanging pleasantries (half of which the audience cannot understand, but can nonetheless appreciate), R2 addresses the Bantha in the room -- Luke’s abrupt disappearance. The droid’s aforementioned lack of discernible dialogue allows this scene to be more self-reflective for Skywalker. R2 is an excellent device for the disgraced Jedi to express his inner conflict to the audience in a natural way.

After Skywalker reaffirms his complacence, R2 plays his “cheap move”, projecting an old hologram message from the first Star Wars film, in which Princess Leia requests aid from the Jedi’s previous mentor, Obi Wan Kenobi. At this moment, it becomes clear to both Skywalker and the audience that his character journey has come full circle. When he first witnessed this hologram, he was a naive and impatient child, yearning to become something greater. Or as Joseph Campbell would put it, this was Skywalker’s initial “Call to Adventure”. Now, looking back on that recording as a cynical Jedi master, he finds himself on the other side of the threshold. Skywalker understands it’s his duty to fulfill the next crucial step in The Hero’s Journey, that of a mentor for Rey, as Obi Wan did for him all those years ago. By the end, he finally agrees to train the Force-sensitive girl.

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“Not a Cheap Move?”

This scene is poignant in its simplicity. It shows Skywalker’s character struggle in a mere two-minutes, without the need for hefty, dramatic diatribes about how the Jedi order needs to end, as is shown throughout the rest of the film. But more importantly, it functions as a worthy passing-the-torch moment, both in terms of Luke teaching the Jedi ways to Rey, and the franchise passing from the old generation to the new. This reunion between two old friends exemplifies how the right amount of nostalgia can benefit a decade-spanning story, not hinder it.

Disney has shown they are capable of executing this type of nostalgia well in other beloved franchises. One only has to look at 2019’s other epic cinematic conclusion, Avengers: Endgame, to witness that. When Tony Stark utters the line “I am Iron Man” at the film’s climax -- right before making the ultimate sacrifice and saving the universe -- it is a natural endpoint for his character arc. While in previous Marvel outings, he said this exact line under different circumstances, there is an organic continuity between the moments he uttered it and the state he was in as a character. Earlier, the line evinced Stark’s brazen, selfish nature, but when he declares “I am Iron Man” to Endgame’s antagonist Thanos, he is solidifying his heroic status, which is further reinforced by his subsequent altruistic action. The line doesn’t feel like it is there merely to pander to fans, and actually serves a valuable narrative function.

Much like Stark’s line, the appearance of Leia’s hologram message acts as a connective tissue for the whole Star Wars franchise up to that point, stringing together the plights of Jedi masters, and their continual obligation to pass on the teachings to the new generation. If the rest of the film adhered to the same theme and tone of this scene, it would have been a cohesive and satisfying narrative. But the film-maker’s goal of severing all ties with the past Star Wars conventions rendered this impossible.

With The Rise of Skywalker set to be released during the 2019 holiday season, the culmination of three film trilogies with millions of fans worldwide, expectations for a dignified conclusion are at an all-time high. To ensure this, perhaps a healthy dose of nostalgia is this saga’s only hope.

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“It’s Treason Then” — How the Star Wars Sequel Finale Defiles the Grave of Palpatine A film analysis of the movie Star Wars Episode IX: Rise of Skywalker (2020) Written by Faisal Hay1 1

First-year undergraduate of St. Michael’s College, University of Toronto

“The Dark Side of the Force is a pathway to many abilities some consider to be… unnatural.” These were the words spoken by Chancellor Sheev Palpatine to Jedi Knight Anakin Skywalker in the opera scene of Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith, when the former recounted the Tragedy of Darth Plagueis “The Wise”, a Sith Lord who could supposedly manipulate the Force to prevent the inevitability of death.

This would serve as one of many acts of manipulation by Palpatine, who was in actuality the Sith Lord Darth Sidious, in tempting Anakin toward the Dark Side of the Force and establishing him as the iconic Darth Vader; he then proceeded to use his position as Chancellor of the Galactic Republic to execute Order 66 against his enemies, destroying the Jedi Order and declare the beginning of a Galactic Empire which he would rule with an iron fist as Emperor Palpatine. With the entire galaxy under his heel and a vast imperial military at his disposal, it was only through the tenacious efforts of the Rebel Alliance, the stoic heroism of Jedi Luke Skywalker (whom Palpatine attempted to seduce like his father before him) and the redemption of Anakin Skywalker that his evil reign would be brought to a well-deserved end.

Sheev Palpatine, main antagonist of the Star Wars Original and Prequel trilogies, can easily be considered one of the greatest villains in the history of film, and a perfect example of the Evil Mastermind archetype. Sadly, this Palpatine — like many fan-favorite characters of the past — would have his character and legacy tarnished by the recently concluded Sequel trilogy. How they did it: by taking that quotable line from Revenge of the Sith’s opera scene and turning it into an entire film. Star Wars: Rise of Skywalker may well be considered the Alderaan of screenwriting; a cinematic disaster that fails at nearly every level of storytelling, from gaping plot holes to unnecessary McGuffins to even a blatant Avengers: Endgame rip-off for a climax. Yet, like the preceding films in the Sequel trilogy, Rise of Skywalker suffers most of all from its poorly-written characters, be they primary or secondary, hero or villain, older generation or new. Furthermore, the first two films have already seen a good number of these characters killed off, including the poorly written antagonist Supreme Leader Snoke, leaving Rise of Skywalker with the difficult task of taking the overarching conflict of those who remained and giving it a satisfying resolution. In doing so, however, it would also attempt to fill the antagonistic void left by Snoke; hence were the circumstances surrounding Emperor Palpatine’s sudden return as the trilogy’s final antagonist — “A surprise to be sure, but a welcome one,’’ right? Initially perhaps, but as it turns out Palpatine would not only find himself no exception to poor character writing in this trilogy, but perhaps one of the most jarring examples as well; in fact, the presence of Sheev in Rise of Skywalker and his role as its antagonist would go on to negatively affect the other storytelling aspects in this film as well, like the tentacles of a Diagnona ensnaring its victims within the trash compactor that is the Sequel trilogy.

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It would be easy to label Palpatine in Rise of Skywalker as being not Palpatine at all, but rather a badly conceived clone or a talking corpse — and it would not simply be metaphorical. However, this opens up the first issue regarding Palpatine’s presence in the film: the presence itself, or rather the way in which he is present. Meaning, how is he still alive? As the Emperor himself admits after his unveiling in the film, “I have died before…”, something which Return of the Jedi made painstakingly clear when Vader threw him down the reactor shaft of the Second Death Star (which in turn was destroyed by the Millennium Falcon not long after).

Yet, here he is in the flesh, albeit badly decayed flesh; but forget decayed; the chances of him having escaped complete obliteration in Return of the Jedi are extremely narrow (as if anyone needs to tell us the odds).

So by all accounts even if Palpatine’s consciousness or Force spirit were to survive, his body clearly shouldn’t have; so how is it possible? Now, contrary to popular belief, this is not the first time Star Wars dabbled with the concept of Palpatine’s resurrection; the non-canon comic series Dark Empire featured him being kept alive through cloning technology Its not unlikely that Rise of Skywalker could have borrowed this concept — but then how would that explain the decaying body? Unfortunately, the closest thing we ever receive from Palpatine is a requoting of his own line from Revenge of the Sith regarding the Dark Side as a pathway to unnatural abilities. Evidently, the only thing more “unnatural” than Palpatine defying the rules of mortality is the way in which it is written in Rise of Skywalker.

Having established the undead Palpatine as the main antagonist, the film then proceeds to lay out his “evil plan” to the audience. While the First Order battles with the Resistance throughout the Sequel trilogy, we find Palpatine conspiring with fellow Sith occultists on the hidden Sith World of Exogol to regain absolute dominance over the Galaxy; their plan is to assemble a massive fleet of Star Destroyers equipped with Death Star lasers (because third-or-fourth time is the charm apparently), which they prepare to merge with the First Order fleet to create the supposed “Final Order”. This may seem like the ultimate doomsday plan, yet there just so happens to be a loose thread that would serve to unravel it all: the several Sith wayfinders which Palpatine (intentionally or otherwise) left scattered throughout the Galaxy, McGuffins which would provide the Resistance — and anyone else who stumbles upon them — with coordinates to locate Exogol, discover the Star Destroyer fleet (whose single weakness, like the Death Star weapons of previous films, renders them easily disposable) and foil Palpatine scheming once and for all.

More than anything, it feels as though Palpatine’s role as villain in the Sequel trilogy is a sloppy fusion of his roles as villain in both the Prequels and Originals; in the Prequels, he was the Evil Mastermind who used his political genius and connection with the Dark Side to strategically manipulate his way to greater power, secretly orchestrating conflicts that pitted whole worlds against each other and — after accumulating enough power as Chancellor — annihilating his enemies in one fell swoop, leaving few to stand in the way of his new Empire (in other words, he was “The Senate”); though not as present or nuanced in the Originals, Emperor Palpatine still served as a compelling antagonist in the background, using his craftiness in Return of the Jedi to lure the Rebel Alliance into a trap at Endor and almost succeeding in turning Screenwriters’ Perspectives Vol. 1 No. 1 2020

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Luke Skywalker over to the Dark Side; however, his unlimited power as Emperor cultivated within him a stronger sense of “overconfidence”, a weakness which proved to be his fatal character flaw. In the Sequels however, the Palpatine embraces his overconfidence when he dismisses the trail of breadcrumbs he left the Resistance to follow as part of another “trap”; but unlike in the Originals, he barely has any power or security to justify it; and unlike in the Prequels, when Palpatine used the element of subtlety to his advantage as he shifted between the public and private identities of Chancellor Palpatine and Darth Sidious (only having revealed himself when all the cards were in place), undead Palpatine apparently has no problem broadcasting his resurgence as the evil Emperor Palpatine to the entire Galaxy (as narrated in the opening crawl), essentially inviting his enemies to seek him out and destroy him in his most vulnerable state. As if undead Palpatine did not alone proven himself to be a poor character, his interactions with the other badly written characters of this film only reinforces it — starting with Kylo Ren. If Snoke was the Sequel parallel of Palpatine, then Kylo Ren is the parallel of his grandfather Darth Vader; a fallen Jedi who turned to the Dark Side and apprenticed himself to Snoke, following in Vader’s footsteps so as to “finish what he started.’’ After killing his Dark master (also like his grandfather before him) and assuming control over the First Order in The Last Jedi, Palpatine’s broadcast and Sith Wayfinders would inevitably draw him to Exogol; there, he discovers that it was, in fact, Palpatine all along who puppeteered Snoke and lured Kylo to the Dark Side; as he tells Kylo through shifting voice, “I have been every voice you’ve ever heard inside your head”. This revelation is taken rather well by Kylo (who was established earlier as an emotionally unstable character), despite the fact that everything he had done throughout the Sequel trilogy — from betraying his master Luke, burning the rebuilt Jedi Order back to ruins, slaughtering thousands in the name of the First Order — was all based on a lie. In fact, instead of collapsing into an Anakinstyle breakdown (as he or any other character in his situation would be expected to), Kylo would yet again submit himself to Palpatine’s for his own self-serving reasons; he would eventually redeem himself later on in the film (something which the previous two films had mislead the audience into thinking he would not do) and join the fight against Palpatine. However, in the brief period he spent yet another Dark apprentice, Kylo also brings another character into the fold, one whom Kylo shared a mutual Force connection and frequent confrontations throughout the Sequels and whose overall character arc would suffer yet again because of Palpatine’s presence: the Jedi protagonist Rey. In her quest to find the Sith Wayfinder McGuffins for the Resistance, Rey is met with another one of Rise of Skywalker’s “shocking” twists as Kylo Ren reveals to her that yet another Palpatine continues to exist, one who is neither clone or corpse, but a relative; as Kylo may well have put it to Rey, “he is your grandfather”. This revelation practically serves as a w of The Last Jedi, which previously put an end to rumors surrounding Rey’s unknown character origin by dismissing them as “nothing” and her parents as “nobody” (a subversion of the “I am your father” legacy in other words). Furthermore, it can also be interpreted as a means of justifying Rey’s supposed “Mary Sue” label, something which has affected her character arc throughout the Sequel trilogy; after all, it only makes sense that a character who continually breaks the logic of storytelling by surpassing her friends and enemies in everything from piloting to lightsaber dueling (with little to no training whatsoever) would just so happen to be related to someone who now recently managed to break the logic of storytelling himself. However, in trying to answer the trilogy-long question of “what is Rey’s origin”, Rise of Skywalker unintentionally

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opened the way to begging another; that is “when and how did Dark Lord of the Sith Sheev Palpatine find himself a wife and children?” It would also seem as if the Palpatine was just as confused as the audience, as he — the Sith Lord with a long history of converting Jedi to the Dark Side — apparently cannot decide whether he wants Rey killed by Kylo or made the “heir” of his new Sith Empire. Nonetheless, the movie still tries to use this revelation as the new source of Rey’s inner conflict, summarized by the moral of “Never be afraid of who you are.” Interestingly that conflict turns out to be a losing battle for Rey, as the film ends with her unofficially adapting the name “Rey Skywalker”, not dissimilar to how the villain of Rise of Skywalker attempted to usurp the name of “Palpatine”.

On the topic of usurping, this brings up one final character affected by undead Palpatine, a character whose name and legacy had been stolen and what remained of him — figuratively and literally — buried in the sand. When Anakin Skywalker pledged himself to Palpatine and the Dark Side in Revenge of the Sith, it was so that he could attempt to unlock the means of preventing his wife Padme from dying as the tragedy of Darth Plagueis entailed. However, after using Palpatine to justify Rey as a Mary Sue, Rise of Skywalker went on to grant her the ability to “stop people from dying” via her discovered Force Healing ability (and like with Palpatine, no real explanation is given as to how it even happened). Furthermore, when Darth Vader sacrificed himself to save Luke in Return of the Jedi, it was initially believed that he not only destroyed the Emperor, but in doing so had fulfilled the ancient Chosen One prophecy that foretold of a Jedi who would “destroy the Sith and bring balance back to the Force”. But as it turns out, not only would Palpatine still be active thirty years later, but it would be Rey who end up taking the kill when she obliterates Palpatine with his own lightening in the films Avengers: Endgame climax and bringing back the balance that should have been restored thirty years ago; at the very least she could have shared the moment with Kylo, the last remaining Skywalker by that time — but apparently the movie thought it more convenient to have him sidelined from the final standoff, then reenter the scene to revive a mortally wounded Rey with Force Healing before dying himself...maclunkey. Couple that with the fact that Luke would later be killed in The Last Jedi and it is easy to conclude that, aside from “moral redemption”, Vader may well have died for nothing (then of course, given his failure to “save those he cared about from dying” unlike Rey, his moral fall would have been all for nothing too).

Thus is the tragedy of Star Wars: Rise of Skywalker, a film that thought it could save the Sequel trilogy from death, but could not even save itself. Just as the overarching theme of The Last Jedi can be interpreted as “let the past die”, the theme of this film (if any) would be “no one is ever really gone”; as Palpatine’s necromancy demonstrates, Rise of Skywalker seemed to take that theme quite a bit too seriously. That said, the concept of bringing Palpatine back from the dead predates this film as mentioned earlier, and it might not have been a bad idea to bring this concept back to the main canon if done so carefully, especially helping to give greater narrative significance to the tragedy of Darth Plagueis and serving as the bridge between Kylo and Rey’s interconnected relationship. Unfortunately, the mechanics by which it came to be in Rise of Skywalker made little to no sense in regards to the narrative, concepts and themes that had been established in previous films, and the attempt to rekindle the villainy magic of Palpatine from the Prequel and Original trilogies, Rise of Skywalker only succeeds in creating a pale imitation of both; in other words, he is just another Snoke. This, along with the other gaping flaws of this film, constitutes a very disappointing end to the Star Wars saga.

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To Be Or Not To Be – There Is No Hesitation A film analysis of The Shawshank Redemption (1994) Written by Ruichen Yan1,2,3,4 1 Department of English, 2Department of Drama, 3Department of History 4 First-year undergraduate of St. Michael’s College, University of Toronto

From Being “Institutionalized” to Achieve Self-Actualization Needs Before Andy’s arrival at the prison, Red and others are living their lives without a purpose because not only are they physically confined within the walls of the prison, but more importantly, their sense of individuality is also eroded by the mundane tasks that they have to complete on a daily basis at the institution. As time passes, Red and others eventually lose their identities that they have previously defined by themselves. Instead, they are now re-defined by the prison that they are living in, or in other words, “institutionalized”. This is evident based on Brook’s experience upon his release from the prison, as well as Red’s commentary on Brook’s suicide, “Believe what you want. These walls are funny. First you hate ‘em, then you get used to ‘em. After long enough, you get so you depend on ‘em. That’s “institutionalized.” In addition to losing their previously established identities, the repetitive daily tasks at the prison also erode Red and others’ ability to hope.

Hope, which is the desire that something will happen in accordance to one’s expectation, has no place in prison because everyone’s future in the institution is pre-determined. There is simply no room of uncertainty. In fact, this incompatibility between hope and prison is explicitly described by Red, where he says “Hope is a dangerous thing. Drive a man insane.”

However, unlike Red and others, Andy’s true innocence of his crime confers him with the strongest determination to resist his identity from being institutionalized. To achieve this, he seizes every single opportunity that he finds in the prison to restore hope and positivity. From writing letters to the state legislature to request for funding, to playing an excerpt over the public address system, all these acts represent his resistance from being institutionalized and his pursuit for hope and liberation. Witnessing Andy’s progressive acts and his eventual liberation, as demonstrated by his escape from the prison, Red eventually changes his perception about hope. This is demonstrated by his arbitrary violation of his parole. Upon his parole violation, he feels the first time in his life that his future is unknown and remains to be determined. This is the first time in his life that he acquires the desire to become the most that he can be.

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The Symbolism of Carving Stones Among all the symbolisms in The Shawshank Redemption, the symbolism of carving stones is of particular interest. In general, stones such as alabaster and soapstone are the softest types, therefore they are often extensively carved for a variety of different purposes. In the case of The Shawshank Redemption, they were carved for the pieces of chess. Similar to the carving stones, Andy himself is also remarkably adaptable, which is a significant factor that leads to his success in escaping from the prison, in addition to his true innocence of his crime as previously described above. From becoming the accountant for the warden and prison guards, to becoming the librarian and the teacher of Tommy, Andy demonstrates his strong determination and competent flexibility in becoming just anyone, even Randall Stephens, who is simply a figment of his imagination. In addition to the symbolism of carving stones, the act of carving stones also represents Andy’s overarching journey throughout the movie. Like carving stones, which is a process that requires significant of time and commitment, Andy’s pursuit for freedom and liberation also demands his patience and dedication, specifically 19 years of effort. Although the process of carving is difficult and time consuming, the end transformation from an unnoticeable rock to a highly distinguished stone craft is a truly satisfying experience. Similarly, for Andy, his transformation from a falsely convicted murderer to a liberated wealthy individual is also a genuinely rewarding experience for him and the audience.

Like The Count of Monte Cristo or Hamlet, The Shawshank Redemption is an outstanding work that describes the mentality which has seeded in everyone’s mind—freedom and the eagerness to be themselves. It reminds us that we should never be settled by the confusions ahead, because behind those obstacles, the light from the destination is still shining.

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Female Sensual Desire in Mrs. Fletcher: A Coming-ofAge story in Reverse A television show analysis of Mrs. Fletcher (2019) Written by Robyn Bacon1,2,3,4 1 Cinema Studies Institute, 2Book and Media Studies (St. Michael’s College), 3Creative Expression & Society (Victoria College), 4Fourth-year undergraduate of Innis College, University of Toronto

In the first episode, Eve’s needs are almost completely eclipsed by her teenage son Brendan and appear non-existent to the audience. Eve’s altruistic character disposition is displayed through her relationship with Brendan and her occupation as executive director of Haddington Senior Centre. Both Eve’s professional and personal life is spent taking caretaking the needs of others.

As a mother, Eve does everything for Brendan. Eve cleans his room, prepares his meals, and organizes his daily schedule— treating him as if he were a ten-year-old boy. Eve’s helicopter parenting techniques are a reaction to Brendan moving away to college and her personal struggle to let go of her past when Brendan was a sweet and caring young boy. Now, Eve is unwilling to come to terms with the fact that Brendan has turned into an apathetic and unappreciative son. Brendan neglects to show appreciation for the hard work Eve puts into making his life extremely comfortable and privileged. In the first episode, Eve independently packs up the entire car for Brendan’s first day of college, individually assembles his new college dorm room, and politely requests that Brendan send her one text a day while living in college residence. However, even more so Eve’s anxiety surrounding Brendan’s departure for college is rooted in her existential fear to confront her own identity once he leaves—and subsequently discover who she really is besides being Brendan’s mother. The relationship between Eve and Brendan remains tremendously imbalanced—as Eve’s labour as a single mother go completely unacknowledged by Brendan and she remains the passive parent—afraid to scold Brendan for his transgressions.

However, this dynamic in their relationship shifts once Brendan leaves the house and Eve must begin to confront something that completely frightens her—her new identity.

Over years of taking care of Brendan, Eve routinely neglected her own needs. It scares Eve that her identity is more complex than merely being Mrs. Fletcher—and so her journey of selfdiscovery begins. The second episode leaves Eve feeling lost—but by the third episode Eve begins to ignite a series of activities that allow her to engage in an intimate journey of self-discovery. Immediately following Brendan’s departure Eve decides to enroll in a personal essay English night class Screenwriters’ Perspectives Vol. 1 No. 1 2020

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taught at the local community college in town. The professor begins to ask Eve questions that make her question her own life choices that have shaped the course of her life. As the class progresses so does Eve’s habit of consuming Internet pornography. Eve finds herself consistently revisiting a website called the Milfateria to observe women on screen who she sees a part of herself reflected in—and from there Eve finds her own path of sexual self-actualization.

The fascination of Eve engaging in Internet pornography—a field highly dominated by the male gaze—is that Eve is not merely engaging with an objectification of the image, but rather an identification with it. Eve is the narrative subject who also finds visual pleasure as the spectator by watching porn stars receive their own sexual gratification and social freedom on screen. The pornography is a spiritual tool Eve uses to uncover a part of her identity that had lay dormant for many years, or a part of herself she didn’t realize existed at all.

The last episode of Mrs. Fletcher is undoubtedly climactic when Brendan accidentally interrupts Eve’s three-way sexual encounter with her co-worker and his previous high school classmate. Brendan spontaneously decides to visit Eve one weekend and walks in on the three of them naked after their threesome. The last shot of the series shows Eve standing on the front of her porch and staring off into the distance—feeling lost once again. After playing an intriguing game of back-andforth repressing and indulging her fantasies, Eve feels lost once again and that her identity crisis has returned indefinitely.

The open-ending leaves Eve confront the aftermath of her conscious choices. The end hints to the existential and dreadful possibility that Eve’s identity crisis has resurfaced—and perhaps it never left.

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Retelling the Love Story of Napoleon and Joséphine at the JFK Airport A film analysis of The Terminal (2004) Written by Kenneth Ting1,2 1 Department of Immunology 2 Alumunus of Victoria College, University of Toronto

Life is all about waiting The main theme of The Terminal revolves around the concept that life is full of moments of waiting, and this is illustrated by creating the story at the terminal. The terminal is more than just a location of the story. It serves as the design principle because it symbolizes the waiting phase of our lives before we arrive at a new destination. Therefore, all the characters created in the terminal are also in this waiting phase of their lives. Viktor is waiting for the end of the civil war in his country, while Amelia is waiting for her lover’s phone call. Waiting does not discriminate.

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Xenophobia in USA An important sub-theme being illustrated in The Terminal is xenophobia in USA. The purpose of demonstrating this concept is easy to understand because The Terminal is written after the 9/11 terrorist attack, therefore it still reflects the fear that are instilled in many Americans. In an attempt to eliminate xenophobia, The Terminal utilizes both positive and negative examples to demonstrate the importance of love and compassion to foreigners. For instance, a positive example is how Viktor successfully befriends with other Americans despite his identity as a foreigner, eventually helping others, such as playing the matchmaker for Enrique and Dolores. On the other hand, a negative example is how Milodragovich is being mistreated by Dixon upon his arrival at the airport. In fact, it is explicitly stated when Salchak criticizes Dixon for his heartless behavior, “The people, compassion. That’s the foundation of this country.” Together, these examples show the prevalence of xenophobia in USA and the importance of eradicating it to solidify the foundation of any country.

Napoleon & Joséphine at the JFK airport The love story between Napoleon and Joséphine is used as the backbone to describe the relationship between Viktor and Amelia. Specifically, Viktor sees himself as Napoloen, while Amelia sees herself as Joséphine. Therefore, it is not a coincident that Viktor and Amelia also share similar traits as Napoloen and Joséphine respectively. Similar to Joséphine, Amelia enjoys her engagement in adultery, while Viktor’s one-sided devotion to Amelia is comparable to Napoloen’s.

Apart from this, the dysfunctional love relationship between Napoloen and Joséphine also foreshadows the doomed ending of Viktor and Amelia’s relationship. Near the end of the story, Amelia terminates her relationship with Viktor by making a reference to the gold locket inscribed with the word “destiny” that Napoloen gave to Joséphine during their wedding. This can be interpreted based on Heraclitus’s quote, “Character is destiny”, meaning that Amelia still accepts her own character at the end. In other words, she still enjoys in engaging adultery, which defines both her destiny and the impossibility of Viktor’s engagement in her personal life. This interpretation is reasonable because we, as audience, know that Amelia is perfectly aware of her own contradiction, which is both her enjoyment and dissatisfaction in engaging adultery. However, she still indulges herself in these affairs for many years. Even when Viktor tells Amelia that she is farsighted, which literally means she is farsighted, but also implies that she is poor at judging the men who are near her, Amelia still deliberately chooses not to correct her vision, as she says, “I always see men the way I want to see them”. Based on these examples, it can be inferred that Amelia decides to embrace her character, and therefore her own destiny at the end.

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