Hey everyone!
I’m excited to announce that I’ve just started a podcast called “Shut Up and Watch” as a new member of the William & Mary Podcasting Network. Check it out below!
Listen on SpreakerListen on Spreaker
I have two episodes out so far: one on Annihilation, the other on Ready Player One. I plan on uploading another episode within the next week, in which two guests and I will discuss John Krazinski’s A Quiet Place. Hope you all enjoy!
Here’s the thing: I hate the Academy Awards. They’re shady and unfair. So… why do I find myself investing my entire soul and being into the Oscars every year? Anyhoo, here’s a list of what I want to win vs. what probably will win tomorrow night.
Nominees: Call Me By Your Name; Darkest Hour; Dunkirk; Get Out; Lady Bird; Phantom Thread; The Post; The Shape Of Water; Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri
What I want to win: Get Out
Putting aside its obvious artistry and wit, this film triggered a whole lot of important discourse. Plus… a Get Out win right after a Moonlight win? That would be amazing.
What will probably win: Get Out???
The Shape of Water would be the most predictable choice. But, this category has grown increasingly unpredictable, so I don’t really know… I honestly think Get Out has a pretty good shot this time, since more people seem to be willing to recognize its brilliance, especially after the success of Black Panther and after the faux-snub of Moonlight last year.
Nominees: Timothée Chalamet, Call Me By Your Name; Daniel Day-Lewis, Phantom Thread; Daniel Kaluuya, Get Out; Gary Oldman, Darkest Hour; Denzel Washington, Roman J. Israel, Esq.
Who I Want to Win: Timotheé Chalamet, Call Me By Your Name
Chalamet is able to convey a plethora of emotions without even saying a word. The “Visions of Gideon” scene speaks for itself.
Who Will Probably Win: Gary Oldman, Darkest Hour
His uncanny transformation from handsome, middle-aged, British white guy into jowly, old, British white guy is just too juicy for the Academy to pass up.
Nominees: Sally Hawkins, The Shape Of Water; Frances McDormand, Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri; Margot Robbie, I, Tonya; Saoirse Ronan, Lady Bird; Meryl Streep, The Post
Who I Want to Win: Sally Hawkins, The Shape of Water or Saoirse Ronan, Lady Bird
While I was floored by Hawkins’ performance in The Shape of Water, I feel slightly uncomfy about her being awarded for playing a mute woman when, you know, an actual mute woman should have played the role. But maybe she’d point this out in her acceptance speech. Regardless, I don’t think she’s up for the win. I would, however, love to see Ronan get this one for her portrayal of a realistically complicated and multidimensional teenage girl and for the way she depicted her complex relationship with her mother (Laurie Metcalf).
Who Will Probably Win: Frances McDormand, Three Billboards or Margot Robbie, I, Tonya
Frances McDormand’s hardened Mildred Hayes is practically made for the Oscars. But in tackling one social problem, Three Billboards fails to address another; while the film rightfully targets the issue of sexual abuse, it completely shoves aside its racially problematic components rather than make an actual point about them. I wonder if McDormand would mention this in her speech. But Robbie is definitely in the running here, too, for her transformation into a raspy, gives-no-shits portrayal of Tonya Harding.
Nominees: Nominees: Willem Dafoe, The Florida Project; Woody Harrelson, Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri; Richard Jenkins, The Shape Of Water; Christopher Plummer, All The Money In The World; Sam Rockwell, Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri
Who I Want to Win: Willem Defoe, The Florida Project, I guess
First, I just wish The Florida Project was nominated in other categories. It should be. Second, Defoe does a fantastic job playing the dedicated owner of a crushingly depressing hotel on the outskirts of Disneyland, but it sort of seems to me like the Academy has a major soft spot for weathered father figures. I think of Defoe’s character here, Harrelson’s character in Three Billboards, and last year’s winner, Mahershala Ali of Moonlight (who, don’t get me wrong, gave a phenomenally captivating performance); we just seem to love the beat-down anti-hero who somehow exudes benevolence despite an ethically murky background, but we rarely give that love to their complex female counterparts or mother figures. I must admit to being insanely bitter that The Florida Project‘s Bria Vinaite has not gotten the awards recognition she deserves.
Who Will Probably Win: Sam Rockwell, Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri
He does an increidble job. But this, too, would make me uncomfy.
Nominees: Nominees: Mary J. Blige, Mudbound; Allison Janney, I, Tonya; Lesley Manville, Phantom Thread; Laurie Metcalf, Lady Bird; Octavia Spencer, The Shape Of Water
Who I Want to Win: Laurie Metcalf, Lady Bird
She just nails it.
Who Will Probably Win: Allison Janney or Laurie Metcalf
Just like its proclivity for the aforementioned Defoe types, the awards love their eccentric, bad mothers. Now, I’m referring exclusively to Janney’s character, because Metcalf’s mother in Lady Bird is realistically complex and anything but cartoonish. I, Tonya‘s portrayal of LaVona Golden, on the other hand, feels like the sort of glorified caricature of motherhood that always makes me feel uneasy. (Think running eyeliner, smoking in the kitchen, any sort of accent, etc… basically Jennifer Lawrence in American Hustle.) Janney undoubtedly makes the most of it, but I think I, Tonya falls into the trap of romanticizing a variety of difficult topics, particularly socioeconomic inequality, in a way that says, “Look, isn’t this abusive, poverty-stricken family crazy and fun?”
Nominees: Roger A. Deakins, Blade Runner 2049; Bruno Delbonnel, Darkest Hour; Hoyte van Hoytema, Dunkirk; Rachel Morrison, Mudbound; Dan Laustsen, The Shape Of Water
What I Want to Win: Hoyte van Hoytema, Dunkirk or Roger A. Deakins, Blade Runner 2049
This one’s tough. Dunkirk‘s camera work is so effective that it throws you into wartime and will likely even cause you to have a visceral reaction when watching the film. The use of sweeping, open spaces and tight, claustrophobic ones is ingeniously executed. Meanwhile, the Blade Runner reboot achieved the impossible by building on the aesthetic of its predecessor without simply copying it. It’s spectacular to look at.
What Will Probably Win: Roger A. Deakins, Blade Runner 2049 or Dan Laustsen, The Shape of Water
I would be okay with The Shape of Water winning, because it, too, is beautiful and unique.
Nominees: Paul Thomas Anderson, Phantom Thread; Guillermo Del Toro, The Shape Of Water; Greta Gerwig, Lady Bird; Christopher Nolan, Dunkirk; Jordan Peele, Get Out
Who I Want to Win: Greta Gerwig, Lady Bird (but WHY ISN’T SEAN BAKER NOMINATED?)
This film nears perfection, and I think it is largely thanks to Gerwig’s direction. I feel like this could be a very easy story to adapt from page to screen badly, but Gerwig has the magic touch that allows Lady Bird to be what it is.
Who Will Probably Win: Guillermo Del Toro, The Shape of Water
He would certainly deserve it, but Gerwig deserves it more.
Nominees: Paul Machliss and Jonathan Amos, Baby Driver; Lee Smith, Dunkirk; Tatiana S. Riegel, I, Tonya; Sidney Wolinsky, The Shape Of Water; Jon Gregory, Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri
Who I Want to Win: Lee Smith, Dunkirk
Smith’s editing is integral to the film’s impact; the way he plays with time is just so smart. Think about the scene near the beginning of the film in which two characters sprint across the beach carrying a stretcher. This kind of thing is what puts you on the edge of your seat.
Who Will Probably Win: Paul Machliss and Jonathan Amos, Baby Driver or Lee Smith, Dunkirk
I would actually support Baby Driver winning this. I would not support it ever winning anything else.
Nominees: Hans Zimmer, Dunkirk; Jonny Greenwood, Phantom Thread; Alexandre Desplat, The Shape of Water; John Williams, Star Wars: The Last Jedi; Carter Burwell, Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri
Who I Want to Win: Hans Zimmer, Dunkirk
While I have a deep, unconditional love for Zimmer, I must admit that his overbearing blasts of sound can sometimes go the gimmicky route. But his signature big sound actually makes perfect sense in the Dunkirk score; at times, I couldn’t even tell the music from the sound effects. Complete with the sound of Chris Nolan’s ticking watch, this score works to construct an almost unbearably stressful experience.
Who Will Probably Win: Alexandre Desplat, The Shape of Water
As all Desplat scores are, this one is beautiful. I think its whimsical senimentality, along with the way it perfectly matches the film’s aeshetic and story, will give it a win.
Nominees: “Mighty River,” Mudbound; “Mystery of Love,” Call Me By Your Name; “Remember Me,” Coco; “Stand Up For Something,” Marshall; “This Is Me,” The Greatest Showman
What I Want to Win: “Mystery of Love,” Music and Lyric by Sufjan Stevens, Call Me By Your Name
A tragic and magical song with fitting lyrics brimming with religious allusions.
What Will Probably Win: “Mystery of Love,” Call Me By Your Name or “Remember Me,” Coco
I hate myself just as much as you do, but… I haven’t gotten around to seeing Coco. But I hear this song is a potential winner.
Nominees: Beauty and the Beast; Blade Runner 2049; Darkest Hour; Dunkirk; The Shape of Water
Who I Want to Win: Paul Denham Austerberry (Production Design) and Shane Vieau/Jeffrey A. Melvin (Set Decoration), The Shape of Water
The diegetic world is completely unique.
Who Will Probably Win: Paul Denham Austerberry (Production Design) and Shane Vieau/Jeffrey A. Melvin (Set Decoration), The Shape of Water
Or, I don’t know, maybe Dennis Gassner (Production Design) and Alessandra Querzola (Set Decoration), Blade Runner 2049.
Nominees: Blade Runner 2049; Guardians Of The Galaxy Vol. 2; Kong: Skull Island; Star Wars: The Last Jedi; War For The Planet Of The Apes
Who I Want to Win: John Nelson, Gerd Nefzer, Paul Lambert and Richard R. Hoover, Blade Runner 2049
Self-explanatory.
Who Will Probably Win: John Nelson, Gerd Nefzer, Paul Lambert and Richard R. Hoover, Blade Runner 2049
Nominees: Molly’s Game, Mudbound, Call Me By Your Name, The Disaster Artist, Logan
Who I Want to Win: James Ivory, Call Me By Your Name
I mean, come on.
Who Will Probably Win: James Ivory, Call Me By Your Name
I mean… come on.
Nominees: The Big Sick; Get Out; Lady Bird; The Shape Of Water; Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri
Who I Want to Win: Jordan Peele, Get Out or Greta Gerwig, Lady Bird
Ahhh, I just don’t know. It depends on what wins Directing and Best Picture.
Who Will Probably Win: Jordan Peele, Get Out or Greta Gerwig, Lady Bird
Don’t forget to watch the Oscars on Sunday at 8 ET!
Since the dawn of science fiction cinema, the scare tactics of filmmakers have heavily relied on male anxieties. Dan O’Bannon, writer of the 1979 hit Alien, even admitted to injecting the film with images meant “make the men in the audience cross their legs.” Alien has it all: extra-terrestrial eggs, womb-like caverns, unfamiliar fluids that seep and stick and burn through anything. Horror has followed suit, possessing mothers and daughters with devils and demons. But recent years have brought an onslaught of films which critique and satirize this trend, whether it be the sexually-transitted curse passed through the female protagonist of David Robert Mitchell’s It Follows, or the vagina which literally bites back in Mitchell Lichtenstein’s Teeth. Alex Garland’s newest thriller Annihilation is the latest of sci-fi horror films that turn the genre on its head, challenging audiences to consider the potential of the female body rather than its threat.
Annihilation presents us with a variety of body horror sci-fi tropes of female abjection. Much of the unsettling imagery in the film evokes female reproductive organs and processes; the film even addresses this theme more directly than its cinematic predecessors by putting biology at the center of its plot. But as Annihilation treads onward through its runtime, it begins to subvert the “monstrous feminine” by turning those feminine images into something more complex than pure gore.
Throughout the film, Garland incorporates familiar motifs we can automatically point at and identify as indicators of the “alien.” Thanks to Stranger Things and its revival of ’80s science fiction nostalgia, these signals have been even more recently pounded into our heads. This begins with the protagonists’ entrance into the lucid, embryonic wall of the Shimmer; but perhaps the most prominent visual of this sort is the vaginal opening in a wall, a sinister portal leading to the cavernous womb.
One of Annihilation‘s wall openings has literally torn a man apart; his head is forever frozen mid-decapitation. The psychological fear of femme castratrice— “castrating woman”– allows for this sort of imagery to disturb us. The abject or monstrous feminine is defined by Barbara Creed (The Monstrous-Feminine: Film, Feminism, Psychoanalysis) as “related intimately to the problem of sexual difference and castration.” Women have been “constructed as ‘biological freaks’ whose bodies represent a fearful and threatening form of sexuality”; the female body is alien, menacing, and perhaps a failed version of the male.
After all, Alex Garland’s last film, Ex Machina, builds on Hollywood sci-fi’s long-standing history of associating the threat of technology– particularly Artificial Intelligence– with the sexualized feminine “other.” Although more contemporary films like Blade Runner and Her may first come to mind, the femme castratrice can be traced all the way back to Weimar Cinema with Fritz Lang’s Metropolis (1927). Brigitte Helm’s portrayal of Maria and her evil robotic double, the Maschinenmensch, are symptomatic of the patriarchy’s parallel fears of women and machines, both of which threaten the system’s control.
But maybe sci-fi and horror are changing. Films are, in the end, usually about film itself; I trust that these genres are beginning to parody and critique themselves in more complex explorations of issues like the male cinematic gaze. In 2008, Teeth played with the male fear being consumed or castrated by female sexual organs by following a protagonist whose genitalia is a physical actualization of the vagina dentata. Consider the Annihilation scene in which, after the group is attacked by some sort of enormous mutant alligator, Lena inspects its teeth with decreasing fear and increasing fascination.
This moment marks how Annihilation harkens back to traditional science fiction projections of male anxieties about the female body, but with a fresh look at how those anxieties have been internalized by women themselves. I believe the film illustrates a story of overcoming those fears and celebrating the body in wonder and awe of its natural capabilities.
The world within the Shimmer is a lush, fertile terrarium which defies modern science. This fertility is both strikingly ethereal and alarming. It causes the bodies of whoever exists inside it to change. In a fairly clear-cut analogy to female reproductive processes– and perhaps, more generally, the constant changes which occur to a woman’s body throughout her life– those who enter the Shimmer are physically invaded by some alien entity. What is more terrifying than the idea of a foreign creature crawling beneath your own skin? In video footage found by Dr. Ventress’s team, Oscar Isaac’s Kane cuts open a fellow soldier’s abdomen to reveal the unknown living thing moving around in his stomach. From The Thing to Alien, body invasion is linked to both male and female fears about birth.
However, the Shimmer is only dangerous if you perceive it that way. If you instead see it as a natural process or life force— and perhaps even a thing of beauty, like Tessa Thompson’s Josie does— then that is what it will be. Natalie Portman’s Lena is weighed down by guilt after cheating on her missing husband; she admits to hating herself, and perhaps she despises her body equally. But her quarrel with her “alien” counterpart— which is, quite literally, a physical struggle with her own body— in the film’s climax ends with a sort of coming-to-terms. The all-female group of protagonists who venture into the Shimmer also share a common thread of struggles with their bodies: Lena with her sexual infidelity and shame, Josie with her self-harm, Dr. Ventress with her illness, Anya with her addiction, and Sheppard with her loss of a child and, according to her, loss of the person she once was— she must mourn both her own body and an extension of it (her daughter).
When the scientist interviewing Lena says the Shimmer “destroys,” Lena counters with the idea that it simply “changes.” Not only is the Shimmer no longer a threat in Lena’s eyes, but it is a creator rather than a destructor. The female body is not a weapon, a monster, or a threat to humanity, but rather a creative life force and natural power source which, like Annihilation, may forever remain an enigma to us— but its very mystery only strengthens its beauty.
After making the drive from Williamsburg to Newport News, Virginia so we could finally see this film, two of my closest college friends and I shuffled into the ticket line, shoulders damp from the cold drizzle of the bleak east coast winter. I sat down in the theater, tossed my dripping umbrella under my seat, and the movie began. As the lush scenery of northern Italy swept across the screen, it transported me to a place and time I’ve never precisely been but feel nostalgic for. That summer feeling of sweat and sticky limbs, bare feet padding across wood floors, light breezes cooling your neck, lying in bed at night with the balmy air floating in through a moonlit window– all of it is familiar and bittersweet. In all forms of media, summer has long been a coming-of-age marker. It’s a time of freedom when it feels like anything could happen; but isn’t it also torture, waiting for something to happen? Directed by Luca Guadagnino, written by James Ivory, and based on the novel by André Aciman, Call Me By Your Name stars Timothée Chalamet and Armie Hammer in an ode to human desire and longing.
NPR’s Glen Weldon says, “Representation equals better art.” I agree. This film tells an underrepresented type of love story, so its modes of storytelling are fresh. Too often in tales of heterosexual romance, we’re repeatedly given the same old tropes. Some of these are easy to pick out; what rom-com doesn’t feature the protagonist racing through an airport? But others are so ingrained that we don’t realize they’ve been fed to us again and again. Call Me By Your Name is simultaneously unconventional, realistic, and universal because we don’t get those leftovers. This is evident in the film’s narrative, which avoids a formulaic structure; the conflict is not what nor where we expect it to be within the film’s plot.
The story takes place in 1983, amidst the AIDS crisis, yet the epidemic is never mentioned. There are also no external homophobic forces visibly playing a role in the plot. In fact, all conflict seems to be internal. This is somewhat rare for love stories at all but particularly rare for non-heterosexual ones. Elio (Chalamet) and Oliver (Hammer) so expertly convey a sense of yearning without even looking at each other. When they’re together in the still heat, all is calm– water lapping gently against the sides of the pool, Oliver basking lazily on the warm stone, Elio gazing down at his compositions through the opaque lenses of his Wayfarers– yet, both agony and euphoria are palpable. Their bodies are close, but they feel miles away. This sense of disquietude within the quiet stretches across the film’s entire narrative rather than following the prescribed, zig-zagging path of a typical romance film conflict. I was especially grabbed by a shot of Elio’s notepad laying on his bed, pages flipping as a gust of wind passes over it, revealing frenzied scrawls in which Elio berates himself for acting too “harshly” towards Oliver. There is nothing more excruciating than having the time to replay and dissect your interactions with another person; you will drive yourself mad with self-criticism and millions of imagined alternative scenarios.
The collective turmoil between the two main characters, however, stems from unrest within each of them as individuals. On his Adonis-esque exterior, Oliver is a hedonist who quite literally glows with confidence; he sleeps in, charms the local girls, and lights up the dance floor. In one scene, he delightedly devours a soft-boiled egg at breakfast. But perhaps Oliver is selective with what he allows himself to enjoy; when urged by Elio’s mother to have another egg, he refuses because he “knows himself”—knows that he will just have another, and then another. Pleasure to him, in this moment, is excessive, maybe sinful. After sharing their first kiss, Oliver tells Elio, “We haven’t done anything to be ashamed of … I want to be good.” But it is also Oliver who– upon listening to Elio calling himself “sick” after a moment of sexual exploration and indulgence– says, with a curious and enraptured grin, “I wish everyone were as sick as you.” Elio can be cocky, too—particularly in front of a piano. Both characters have glinting moments of self-assuredness, but both also reveal a deep fear and shame gnawing at their desires. And how refreshing it is that this gnawing is not necessarily because of religion, stigma, or spiteful outsiders condemning their sexualities. The age difference may make some uncomfortable, but the storytellers know this. This is not a perfect love story– there is no such thing, anyway.
Since watching the film, the motif of houseflies has been nagging at me. Some believe the short-lived insects represent the fleeting nature of Elio and Oliver’s relationship. Or some have guessed they reference death and illness, and thus the threat of AIDS. Alternatively, Slate‘s Eleanor Cummings suggests that “flies might not be about death so much as carnal desire; the fixation on the flesh, the festering of repressed desires.”
It may initially seem as though Elio is raised into and surrounded by a culture of unapologetic hedonism. His parents enthusiastically encourage guests to fill their bellies at the dinner table. Elio’s father admires photographs of classical statues, celebrating the beauty of the human body as well as the natural attraction to it. Elio romps half-naked through nature with his friends, and plump, sensuous fruits are grown and plucked in his own yard. But the film reminds us that such a generalization is a presumptuous act of exotification. Elio chuckles at a portrait of Mussolini hanging over the doorway of a courtyard where he and Oliver stop for water; “That’s Italy,” he says. We lust over the landscape and lifestyle onscreen, turning it into a thing of whimsy– after all, its descriptor is nothing more than “Northern Italy,” dissolving any chance of geographic specificity and instead posing it as some fantastical paradise. Perhaps we are meant to view this place as perfect because the characters do (at least, they view the memory it represents as perfect). While Italy is astonishingly beautiful, it has its own hidden baggage as well; it would benefit us to remember that the setting is just as complex a character as Elio or Oliver.
The film is strengthened by its multidimensional representation of insecurity. Elio’s lack of confidence is not traced exclusively to his sexuality (as is unfortunately done to LGBT protagonists in many films) but to a range of traits that make him feel like an outsider. He explains to Oliver his unusual racial background, and his life is split across multiple homes in various countries. He’s also just awkward in a universally slouchy, teenage way; at that age, we can often feel insecure for no identifiable reason at all. But Elio’s religion weaves through the film as a potential source of insecurity; he reveals to Oliver that he stopped wearing a Star of David after his mother voiced that she prefers their family’s Judaism to remain “discreet.” Both men are what Oliver calls the “odd Jew out.”
Religion plays a fascinatingly nuanced role in the film and is enhanced by the musical work of Sufjan Stevens. Stevens is a rare breed of Christian indie musician, incorporating faith-related themes into a genre whose core audience is young progressives. The musical artist has publicly acknowledged his religious identity and consistently weaves that identity into his music. In “The Predatory Wasp of the Palisades Is Out to Get Us,” off of his album Illinoise, Stevens seems to meditate on childhood experiences of sexual awakening and same-sex attraction. With all of its whimsical melancholy from a perspective of nostalgia, yearning, and childlike infatuation, this song could easily be hand-picked from Illinoise and dropped into the Call Me By Your Name soundtrack, perhaps replacing the wasp with the looming anxiety of Oliver’s infected scrape wound:
Thinking outrageously I write in cursive
I hide in my bed with the lights on the floor
Wearing three layers of coats and leg warmers
I see my own breath on the face of the doorOh I am not quite sleeping
Oh I am fast in bed
There on the wall in the bedroom creeping
I see a wasp with her wings outstretchedNorth of Sylvanna we swim in the Palisades
I come out wearing my brothers red hat
There on his shoulder my best friend is bit seven times
He runs washing his face in his handsOh how I meant to tease him
Oh how I meant no harm
Touching his back with my hand I kiss him
I see the wasp on the length of my armOh great sights upon this state, hallelu
Wonders bright, and rivers, lake, hallelu
Trail of tears and Horseshoe Lake, hallelu
Trusting things beyond mistake, halleluWe were in love, we were in love
Palisades, Palisades
I can wait I can waitWe were in love, we were in love
Palisades, Palisades
I can wait I can waitWe were in love, we were in love
Palisades, Palisades
I can wait I can waitI can’t explain the state that I’m in
The state of my heart, he was my best friend
Into the car, from the back seat
Oh admiration in falling asleep
All of my powers, day after day
I can tell you, we swaggered and swayed
Deep in the tower, the prairies below
I can tell you, the telling gets old
Terrible sting and terrible storm
I can tell you the day we were born
My friend is gone, he ran away
I can tell you, I love him each day
Though we have sparred, wrestled and raged
I can tell you I love him each day
Terrible sting, terrible storm
I can tell you
Stevens composed three songs for Call Me By Your Name, the two most well-known of which contain a variety of religious allusions. “Hand of God, deliver me,” Stevens breathes overtop twinkling guitar plucks in “Mystery of Love.” He seems to find not only a tolerance or compatibility but a powerful, inherent connection between his faith and romantic desires: “Blessed be the mystery of love.” Both this song and “Visions of Gideon,” which plays over the indescribably heartbreaking end credit scene, haunt the film with a beautiful and tragic air of other-worldliness.
“Visions of Gideon” in particular has quickly earned a reputation for its emotional force. In the book of Judges, God selects Gideon to lead the Israelites into battle, and to turn them away from idol worship and back to YHWH. Gideon must overcome his doubts about God’s identity and power and eventually decides to trust God. Gideon leads the Israelites to military victory and successfully eliminates Baal worship amongst the nation. However, Israel strayed away from YHWH yet again after Gideon’s death forty years later. Perhaps Stevens takes on the perspective of Gideon, who was visited by a blindingly bright, ethereal being and experience for a fleeting moment, briefly feeling its glory before being abandoned again. (I think of Elio’s mental playback of his trip with Oliver in negative, as if the memories are burned into his eyelids.) The divine experience is Oliver. Or perhaps Stevens’ narrator sees himself in the larger nation of Israel, with Oliver taking the role of Gideon; once he leaves, everything returns back to the way it was, as if such magnificent events never happened. Life’s center shifts.
Along with Stevens’ work and The Psychedelic Furs’ “Love My Way,” the instrumental components of the soundtrack also contribute to the film’s vivid aesthetic of sound. John Adams’ “Hallelujah Junction” plays during the opening credits and introduces us to the protagonists’ story before we even see them. The left and right hands busily flutter about, falling in and out of sync with one another. It’s frantic and excited– the way it feels when you think too much, like pacing around a room or scribbling furiously in a notebook. When the two hands do meet, the melody is not quite a melody at all, but rather a clumsy, dramatic crash against the piano keys; it sounds a bit like falling down stairs. Later, Ryuichi Sakamoto’s fidgety “M.A.Y. In the Backyard” carries on the energy of culminating emotions throughout the rest of the film. The song is quick and choppy in the way the film’s editing sometimes cuts Oliver and Elio’s interactions short and reminds us that time is slipping away. But perhaps the classical piece which moved me the most was André Laplante’s “Une Barque Sur L’océan from Miroirs,” which floats in and out of the film like a breeze. Guadagnino says the song is only played in the film when Oliver and Elio are separated. It’s restless and moves like water, never still.
In this way, Guadagnino effectively designs his own unique auditory cosmos. He does the same thing with the film’s visuals; when the two protagonists interact intimately, a new aesthetic of movement unfolds before our eyes. Hammer and Chalamet’s acting has a distinct physical component during these scenes, and that physicality is not conventionally sensual; instead, Elio and Oliver bound around each other, clumsy and excited, throwing themselves onto one another only to pull back away. Their bodies act out their turbulent experiences of uncertainty, desire, and impulse. Even in the calm glow of moonlight in Elio’s bedroom, when the two are practically silent so as not to disturb the quiet of the house, there is a rowdiness in the way they frolic around one another. Together, Oliver and Elio create a space of unabashed play where they are free to explore each other and the world. After the pair first sleeps together, the camera observes the tangle of Elio’s and Oliver’s legs lying in bed, their naked limbs a charming, indistinguishable mess. The work of the actors as thoughtful animators of their own bodies combines with the work of the director as a master architect of movement to construct a body language we’ve seldom seen before.
We might also begin to pick up on the subtle strangeness of the way the characters make a point of saying each other’s names. After an afternoon swim, the pair lies dreamily in the grass, and you can feel the sunlight kissing their eyelids. Elio lets out a blissful sigh and murmurs, “I love this, Oliver.” At least in my experience, people don’t really talk like this. Perhaps in falling in love with Oliver, Elio has even fallen in love with uttering his name.
“Call me by your name, and I’ll call you by mine,” Oliver whispers later in bed. It’s childish and doting in some endearing way, like writing your crush’s name all over your notebook. But it also allows Elio to finally say his own name with the same amount of love and adoration he pours into Oliver’s. He is hesitant at first, as if he’s saying his name for the first time: “Elio, Elio, Elio…” His lips creep into a smile like they’re tasting the word, and he begins to speak with more assurance. The love Elio devotes to his own name is dedicated knowingly to Oliver and unknowingly to himself.
As the star of David shimmers on Oliver’s neck, I think of the weight and power of spoken word in ancient Israel; to speak in Hebrew is a concrete act in itself rather than simply a reference to action. When Jacob tricks Isaac into giving him his birthright instead of to his older brother, Esau, Isaac is unable to take back his blessings once he learns the truth. He has already spoken, and thus given, his blessings to Jacob. Speech is sacred. Names are sacred; one’s name is not merely an individual label but instead a proclamation of one’s people and their relationship with God. When God calls Jacob, “Israel,” the name goes beyond Jacob himself; God’s word establishes the nation which will rise from Jacob’s lineage. “Call me by your name…” A delicate flutter of words, a love poem, but ringing with certainty and purpose. A command, an assertion, a promise. Etched in stone.
Taylor Sheridan’s newest thriller Wind River boasts plenty of stellar reviews. Although I’ve never seen the two other films (Sicario, Hell or High Water) in Sheridan’s crime “trilogy,” I was excited to see this movie; the cinematography and storytelling style somehow looked both fresh and reminiscent of something older, and I couldn’t remember the last time I saw a true mystery film in theaters. I also really enjoy watching Elizabeth Olsen act (save for the Marvel movies, when her acting chops have to flail beneath that murky Romanian accent).
So, as I settled into my seat to watch Wind River, I had high hopes. As the next couple hours went by, those hopes faltered. And when the movie finally reached its somber end, the following text appeared on the screen before the credits began to roll:
“While missing person statistics are compiled for every other demographic, none exist for Native American women. No one knows how many are missing.”
And at these words, my head felt as though it were tightening under some real, tangible pressure of anger and frustration. The harsh truth of those words is of course upsetting enough, but what made it all the more disturbing was its insincerity. The movie I had just watched did not come close to achieving the goal behind its final message; it did not expose the murders and rapes of Native American women nearly as much as it exploited them.
Warning: spoilers ahead.
On the subject of women in the film, let’s start with Jane Banner (Elizabeth Olsen), the FBI agent who accompanies wildlife tracker Cory Lambert (Jeremy Renner) in the investigation of the rape and death of a young Native American woman named Natalie on the Wind River reservation in Wyoming. And I say “accompanies” deliberately; although Jane is expertly trained and holds one of the most esteemed positions any American or USA Network lover can dream of, Cory leads the way throughout most of the story. At first, I expected there to be some kind of turnaround; maybe Jane would teach Cory a thing or two, or perhaps shut down men’s jeering remarks about her looks and age, or even solve the case and avenge Natalie’s murder at the film’s close. There is one scene in particular in which Cory takes Jane aside and mansplains the hell out of a set of tracks on the mountainside to an extent that nearly made me feel ill. Closer to the end of the movie, he also must reassure a bruised and hospital bed-ridden Jane that she is a “tough woman”– after saving her life, I should add. I wanted so much for Jane to have a Clarice Starling moment, but there were no such moments. Instead, she is consistently the object of desire, the butt of the joke, or the vehicle for Cory’s heroism.
Deborah Ross of The Spectator puts it well in her article:
Because it’s federal land an FBI agent must be summoned, but as the FBI aren’t much bothered by dead Native American girls they send Jane Banner (Elizabeth Olsen), a clueless rookie who is otherwise based in Las Vegas. (She is very pretty, though; she has that on her side.) Jane is entirely ill-equipped for the freezing conditions. You’ll die in two minutes flat if you go up into the mountains wearing that, she is told. She is offered more suitable clothing and as she changes we must witness ‘The Underwear Scene’. I mention this not to be a bore, even though I so often am, but because there could so easily have not been ‘The Underwear Scene’. Does it advance the plot, seeing Jane Banner in her pants?
Overall, Jane seems like a good character trapped beneath a much shallower one. Alas, she is restricted to a role whose core functions seem to be a.) to provide opportunities for Jeremy Renner to deliver drawn-out monologues about his daughter’s death and fill in holes the audience could easily fill themselves, and b.) to show how emotional women get when they hear about other women getting raped. Are female movie-goers supposed to feel satisfied and validated when Jane cries at the tragedies of other women? Are we supposed to relate? This feels like a half-assed attempt to emulate the female experience of pain and terror when one’s worst fears about aggressive masculinity and sexual predation are reaffirmed. I can hear Sheridan saying, “Ladies, I understand. I get it.” Well, if you truly got it, you wouldn’t serve us up a graphic rape scene at the film’s climax, forcing us to watch our worst nightmares– or tragically, for some, worst memories– play out in detail.
The scene I’m referring to depicts Natalie visiting her boyfriend, Matt, in his trailer in a somehow even-more-desolate-than-usual area of the vast snowy landscape. They sleep together and afterward lay in bed, talking about the future. They’re interrupted by a group of Matt’s belligerent work buddies swaggering into the trailer and making cracks at the couple’s obviously post-sex status. Things escalate, the men fight, Matt gets knocked out, and Natalie gets raped.
I don’t often cry in movies. This is why I was surprised to find tears spilling down my face at the precise moment the group of men burst through the trailer doors– before the fight, before the rape, before things even began to get out of hand. I later realized that, as it often is with film, this sort of emotional response comes from a place of recognition and familiarity. Horrifyingly enough, that moment presented symptoms and patterns that we know all too well from the world on our side of the screen. Although nothing sinister had yet occurred, you could absolutely feel what was about to happen from the very first second of the scene. You just knew.
Ross comments on this part of the film far more articulately and effectively than I can:
At this point, the storytelling abruptly swerves into flashback mode, where we stop following tracks in the snow and see exactly what happened, and it is gruesome, involving that violent, graphic rape scene. I know. Rape happens in real life. But child abuse also happens in real life and those films manage to advance the plot without explicitly showing us the abuse — we’d be horrified if they did — and are no less powerful for it. I won’t bore on here, even though it’s my inclination, but will say that while Sheridan’s intentions were undoubtedly noble, this makes the whole enterprise feel cheaply mainstream and exploitative.
So, we have a female FBI agent who needs to be babied through a rape and murder investigation by a man who has no real training in investigating rapes and murders, we have two Native American women whose defining characteristics are that they were raped and/or killed, and we have two other Native American women who we basically only get to see for 5 seconds at a time through cracked doorways. One of these women is Cory’s wife and the mother of their dead daughter Emily. Emily’s mysterious and tragic death– which is eerily similar to Natalie’s demise– is the apparent motive behind Cory’s dedication to the central murder investigation and the film’s entire narrative; meanwhile, we get about one line about Emily’s death from her mother. The other woman I referred to, Natalie’s mother, gets a grand total of zero lines and maybe 10 seconds of screentime, half of which graphically depicts her cutting her arms. These two mothers are defined by a kind of general, half-baked idea of grief; yet, the entire film is dedicated to exploring the complexity of the father’s grief. On the other hand, we are fortunately given a look into how an actual Native American man– Natalie’s father Martin, played by the great Gil Birmingham– mourns his daughter’s absence, although his character is usually forced to sit quietly and listen to Cory spout wisdom all over him. And, again, he is a man.
So, if the film’s message is about Native American women, then why isn’t the protagonist, I don’t know, a Native American woman? Instead, not only does Sheridan frame the movie around Jeremy Renner’s character, but he also makes him the hero of the story. Wind River is not a film about rape or missing Native American women; it is about how those things affect a white man.
Here’s more from Ross:
To be fair, Sheridan does make some sociopolitical points along the way about the poor quality of life for Native Americans on these reserves, and the drug and violence problems, and all the women that have disappeared, but he doesn’t have much to say about them, and it’s all incidental to the main meat. Even the rape is incidental to the main meat, as this is essentially Lambert’s story. Renner does bring some heft to the role, but even so it’s the is role of a generic male action hero; a gruff, taciturn one in the manner of John Wayne or Clint Eastwood, who is always on hand to save those who need saving and kill those who need killing.
Meanwhile, the Native Americans are all sidelined as sad victims with no agency — Natalie’s mother, for instance, does nothing but self-harm — while Jane is sidelined too. She is gutsy and has spirit but is principally an expository device so that everyone else can tell her how things work around here, and how tough it is around here. Plus, it’s Lambert who ultimately has to get her out of a hole. Still, she is very pretty. And also, she looks nice in just pants.
This movie has a lot going for it cinematically: crisp visuals, a beautifully haunting (albeit sometimes overdone) score, patient storytelling, and some ingeniously calculated moments of suspense. But it posits itself as a sociopolitical prophet when it obviously cannot practice what it preaches. Tip: your film should make its point without you having to throw it in at the end. If you have to explain it, you probably never made it at all.
Audiences usually consider the film world to be separate from the reality in which they live. Only the audience truly distinguishes film reality from true reality; therefore, only the audience decides how the lines between the two can blur. In both Rosemary’s Baby and The Shining, depictions and mentions of TV and film prompt viewers to question how the problems of our own reality may be embedded in film worlds, depending on how we look at them. Both films remind the audience of the media’s numerous illustrations of the world and critique viewers’ ability to recognize their applicability to our own world.
Uses and mentions of media in Rosemary’s Baby reflect common perceptions and critiques of pop culture, women, and gender roles in the 1960s. The laundry scene consists of many TV- or film-related elements, including Rosemary’s comparison of Terry Gionoffrio to Victoria Vetri, Vetri’s casting and meta dialogue, Rosemary’s recitation of her stuff-my-husband-has-acted-in spiel, and Terry’s statement about how she spends most of the day watching TV. A particularly intriguing moment in the exchange between Rosemary and Terry is when Terry claims that she doesn’t see her own resemblance to Vetri and adds that she doesn’t know her. Hearing Victoria Vetri say that she doesn’t look like or personally know Victoria Vetri is such an odd experience that it may trigger a few uncomfortable laughs as the audience struggles to understand what to make of it. Her lines express some disconnect; perhaps the actress feels completely separate from each character she plays, or maybe she even feels detached from her identity as a celebrity. The disjuncture between Terry the character, Victoria Vetri the actress, and Victoria Vetri the person reminds viewers of the illusions of Hollywood or pop culture and how what the media feeds us is far from reality.
The contrast between Rosemary and Terry in this scene presents both static and dynamic elements of the popular image of young women in the 1960s. Victoria Vetri’s cameo as Terry initially appears to serve as a commentary on the overall pop culture of the ‘60s. In the novel on which the film is based, Rosemary remarks to Terry that she looks like Anna Maria Alberghetti, a famous Italian opera singer and stage and film actress. In the film adaptation– as I mentioned before– Rosemary notes Terry’s resemblance to Playmate Victoria Vetri. Perhaps this casting choice and change in dialogue critiques the book’s portrayal of young people in the ‘60s by suggesting that their interests are less cultured or sophisticated, and they instead are engrossed in celebrity sex symbols.
Terry’s character as a whole may also reveal some negative commentary on young people of the ‘60s, particularly when she’s compared to Rosemary. Rosemary depicts all the glorified aesthetic appeal of the era—the waifish, Twiggy-like body type, the pure, doe-eyed, childish femininity, the bright mod clothes, the gorgeous actor husband, and the hip, young, apartment-partying friends. Terry is beautiful, stylish, and hip like Rosemary, but her image is somewhat shattered by the depressing, messy reality of her life; she confesses to Rosemary, “I was starving and on dope and doing a lot of other things.” Her story asks the audience to momentarily look past the glamorous illusion of the ‘60s and to wonder if all the charm and allure is just a product of our tendency to sensationalize things as a distraction from harsher realities.
As Terry goes on to explain how she came into the care of the Castavets, she discloses that “at first [she] thought they wanted [her] for some kind of sex thing,” which quickly brings the dialogue back to sex. If an audience were to judge 1968 solely by watching this scene, they might envision a sex-crazed generation; or, they may see women to be primarily associated with sex. After all, Terry’s immediate reaction to being offered a home was thinking that the people offering solely wanted her for sex.
Terry and Rosemary also mirror each other in a few very symmetrical shots, further urging the audience’s comparison between the two and perhaps solidifying the notion that they each represent a different version of the ‘60s, or of women in the ‘60s in particular. These “versions” may be found throughout various films and their portrayals of this time period. 
The actresses themselves represent these versions eerily similarly to how their characters do; Mia Farrow was an object of fetishy infatuation, emanating naivety and innocence, while Vetri was a Playboy star. It’s also interesting that Vetri wasn’t quite a household name at the time; she was probably more likely to be mentioned in the locker room than at the dinner table. However, an alternative idea to consider is that the two women don’t portray different versions of the same time period but rather personify two different time periods of women’s evolution. Their comparison may comment on the changing image of the beautiful young woman, from pure to openly sexual.
The scene also emphasizes the trappings of gender roles that transcend Rosemary and Terry’s differences—and even transcend time. Despite their differences in demeanor, the two characters express several similarities in this scene—all of which lie within their gender roles. The whole scene practically screams these roles at the audience; the two women meet whilst doing laundry, Terry asks what Rosemary’s husband does rather than asking what Rosemary does (or asking anything else about Rosemary at all), Terry admits to “watch[ing] TV all day long,” and they decide to start hanging out together while doing laundry. They also both express their fear and dislike of the basement and it is established that they will habitually return to the basement as a pair to do chores. The basement goes beyond giving them the heebie-jeebies; it is a sort of trap that continuously confines them to their social roles, which are the same despite their different characters. The audience may see how outward appearance and sexual behavior or candidness can vary across time—or across women from the same time—but the general outline of social expectations for women remain the same, keeping them in a perpetual routine of confinement and conformity.
The emphasis on visual media and pop culture in Rosemary’s Baby’s laundry scene may suggest that those elements—film and TV—are major players in the maintenance of gender roles. The media feeds society culture with sexed-up celebrities like Victoria Vetri, and society gives up its life for it in return; Terry spends all day devoting herself to television, and Guy literally sells his soul to the devil to move up in Hollywood. This scene hones in on the public’s dependence on media and pop culture and the ways in which that can trap people across generations, whether it be in restrictive gender roles or in the confusing disconnect between the celebrity image and the person underneath.
The visual media also plays a notable role in The Shining and reminds the audience to apply metaphorical meanings in film to real-world problems all around us. The scene in which Danny and Wendy watch TV begins with the television screen taking up almost the entire shot, then the camera slowly pans backward to reveal the blizzard in the background through the windows. The viewer is first watching the film that is playing on the TV but is then gradually transitioned into watching a film within a film. This triggers viewers to consider that this scene is partially, of course, about film.
This movement also allows the audience to see that the television is—eerily and surreally— not plugged in. Where is this movie being transmitted from? Is it all in the characters’ imagination? The viewer may see this as a message to not take this scene, or the entirety of the hotel, literally, but rather as a set of symbols to decode. Immediately before this scene, upon Danny’s vision of the dead twins, he tells himself, “It’s just like pictures in a book… it isn’t real”; this line may function to prime the audience for the TV scene, reminding viewers to question what is real. However, Danny’s failed attempt to convince himself that what he sees isn’t real may also mimic our own; we separate fiction from reality in the film-watching process, but the two worlds sometimes have more in common than we like to admit.
In addition to revealing the unplugged TV, the slow pan backward emphasizes a contrast between the TV and the storm outside. Perhaps the outdoors represent what is real, while the inside of the hotel remains to be an eerie, dream-like realm, full of illusions and omens, that serves to symbolize the film’s major conflicts and themes.
With this understanding, the audience may see that several of these “omens” support the film’s critique of oppression. For example, the patterned rug on which the TV stands hints at the oppression of Native Americans. The placement of the TV suggests that film— and perhaps American media and culture overall—literally tramples on Native American culture and history (similarly to how Jack aggressively lobs tennis balls at Native American designs on the hotel walls). It is also of note that the fil
m that plays on the television is Summer of ’42, which tells the story of a teenage boy’s affair with an older, married woman. This expands on the film’s suggestion of child sexual abuse, specifically Jack’s abuse of Danny. The motif of the teddy bear and the aforementioned theme of oppression of other groups support this idea of Danny’s oppression and submission throughout the film.
The manner in which Danny and Wendy watch this film on the TV once again references Danny’s oppression and also critiques society’s obsession with the media and mindless consumption of its messages (similarly to how Terry spends her days watching TV). Danny asks his mother a question while watching, and Wendy’s distracted-sounding response is delayed a moment as she watches the screen. Danny looks at Wendy while he speaks to her and isn’t distracted by the movie, but Wendy’s gaze stays glued to the TV as she continues to give him delayed replies. Danny may have a better grip on distinguishing illusion from reality than Wendy does, or perhaps he is just less entranced by pop culture and the media than Wendy is. (Danny would prefer to play with his toy fire truck than continue watching TV.) The viewer might also perceive this as a hint that Wendy is delusional, specifically regarding Jack’s abusive nature. As I mentioned before, the film’s sexual themes are applicable to Danny and Jack; the film reality bleeds into Wendy’s reality. However, Wendy is unable to apply the film world to her own.
An overlap of shots after this scene further reminds the audience that all elements of The Shining—and of film in general—are highly symbolic and applicable to real life. The exchange between Wendy and Danny is followed by a dissolving transition into a shot of the door through which Danny enters the Torrance’s’ room, causing the ending shot of the last scene to be shown on top of the first shot of the next. The brief overlap of mise-en-scene depicts the lock chain as almost connecting the window to the television, the spot where Wendy sits is replaced by floral wallpaper, and the spot where Danny was sitting is replaced by the keyhole below the doorknob.
This graphic match may answer the audience’s earlier question as to where the wire or antenna for the TV is; the chain becomes the TV’s means of transmission, connecting it to outside of the hotel. Meanwhile, 
Wendy’s delusional character is solidified as her body fades into the ditsy, feminine pattern of the wall. Danny as the keyhole suggests something about his character, as well; perhaps this shot emphasizes his vulnerability as a sort of open vessel. Or, alternatively, maybe Danny is illustrated as the “key” to the whole film or to the conflicts the film conveys.
Nonetheless, this overlapping shot is yet another surreal visualization that makes the audience view all elements of the Torrance family and of the Overlook Hotel as highly symbolic. This brings us back to film; the original scene began with a film—Summer of ’42— that represents what is happening in the world around it—the world of The Shining. So, perhaps the film/world of The Shining represent what is happening in the world around it, as well—our world. The step backwards from Summer of ’42 that the camera takes may encourage viewers to take the same step back from The Shining and to continue looking at film as layers of meaning that translate into the problems of the real world—not just Native American genocide, but violence and oppression as a whole.
Both scenes’ mentions and portrayals of visual media outlets like TV and film urge audience members to compare film worlds to the real world. There is an overall theme of questioning the illusions and reality of film. One could argue that Rosemary’s Baby emphasizes the disconnect between these worlds, while The Shining encourages viewers to focus on similarities and applicable connections between film and reality. Alternatively, one could claim that both films portray film itself as a medium through which intentional and unintentional messages are sent, and that the outcome depends wholly on the audience. It’s up to the viewer as to whether they read film critically and with an open mind as to how it may point out the flaws of our own reality.
Cool sidenote: Roman Polanski wrote and directed Rosemary’s Baby. John Cassavetes plays Guy in the film. And the name of the antagonistic character at the helm of Rosemary’s nightmarish narrative: Roman Castevet.
The scene in which Thomas photographs the fashion model Veruschka in this film repeatedly presents sexual motifs. This is a product of several film elements, including sound, cinematography, and mise-en-scene, but I’ll primarily focus on the last. The intimacy of the photo shoot ultimately causes the audience to reflect on how “realities” are constructed and how we often naturally assume them to be objective.
The scene’s structure and feel strongly parallel those of a sex scene. It begins slowly, but as attraction and tension build, it progresses and eventually escalates to a loud and energetic climax, after which the two characters exhaustedly fall silent and still. Throughout this process, mise-en-scene plays a large role in the sexualization of the scene. Thomas drinks wine before, during, and after the shoot, and he takes off his shoes 
beforehand. Slow, jazzy, diegetic music sets the mood.
Thomas gradually approaches Veruschka while holding a cluster of large, blush-colored feathers, fiddling with them in front of his body as she looks him up and down.
The next shot cuts to a slightly later moment in time when the feathers have been assembled into a long structure. The shot solely contains Veruschka and this feather 
formation, which is positioned to reach toward her from the camera and from what the viewer presumes is Thomas’s off-screen location as he takes her picture. The large, erect structure works as strong phallic imagery that further establishes a sexual charge between Thomas and Veruschka.
The cinematography mingles with the mise-en-scene in this moment, too. Thomas isn’t in the shot, so the viewer might consider him to be behind the camera or to be exactly where the camera is—or, in a sense, be the camera itself. Maybe the audience is given a brief glimpse through Thomas’s lens. This idea complicates the viewer’s understanding of the scene’s narrative depth; does it mean that the audience is seeing from Thomas’s perspective? Or is that not quite the same as looking through his camera? And does this mean that the audience is, in a sense, engaging with Veruschka sexually as well?
This point of view doesn’t last for long, however, as the film cuts to a slightly closer-up shot of Thomas taking more photos of Veruschka. Thomas’s photographing becomes more frantic as his movements, speech, and breath quicken. He gets much closer to her, and the space becomes shallower overall. He sometimes hastily kisses her between frenzied directions about how to pose. He stands up, his shirt partially undone, and excitedly tells Veruschka to lie down on her back. As she obliges and sensually writhes on the ground, with shots becoming more close up, Thomas lowers himself down to straddle her as he continues photographing her. His speech becomes more excited in tone and higher in volume, and he even fervently tells Veruschka, “Make it come.” Finally, the excitement settles, and Thomas finishes shooting. He walks away to flop down on the couch, and Veruschka remains lying on the ground for a moment; both of them appear to close their eyes. The space becomes deeper again.
Thomas’s costume is worth noting, as well; his dark clothing causes him to nearly blend into the charcoal backdrop of the set as he photographs Veruschka. This adds to a feeling that he’s both observing and participating in her actions; he documents her from the outside, as a part of the photo shoot set itself, but simultaneously takes part in the shoot as he becomes more intimate with her. He doesn’t take photos of her existing independently, but rather, he takes photos of a moment she shares with him, of a situation in which he is engaged. In a way, he creates the moment he “documents” in his photos.
This idea leads to some potential meanings behind the sexual tone of this scene. The film undoubtedly sends a message about the construction of reality. Thomas directs and even seduces Veruschka in order to get her to look and act a certain way; he manipulates what he photographs as a means of creating his desired reality, or a commercially appealing reality. This raises questions about photography and film in general, such as: do photographic and film documentations actually document reality, or do they solely construct their own? Do we think of this as completely making up a reality, or perhaps just as giving a pre-existing one a make-over? It is worth thinking about how the audience fits into this process, as well; because viewers momentarily watch Veruschka through Thomas’s camera, maybe Blow-Up also suggests that the audience participates in this construction of reality when watching film, or even all the time.
Earlier in the film, when Thomas presents the photos from his night at the doss house to his agent, they peruse through the images of impoverished residents as if leafing through a fashion magazine. They seem to assess each shot based on its aesthetic value, viewing the photos in a way that removes them from their subjects. “Don’t you like them?” Thomas asks. “They’re great,” Ron calmly replies. Instead of discussing the content of the photos, they immediately jump into the logistics of how the photos will be incorporated into Thomas’s art book. This may be because the stories of the people in the pictures are unimportant to them; instead, their primary focus is the product Thomas has created: the photos themselves. He took an experience and crafted it into a work of “art” to be observed and advertised, in a manner some might deem exploitative. Similarly, Thomas molds Veruschka’s photo shoot into a work of art. Just as he participated in the experience of the doss house—in which another parallel lies, regarding the way he uses a costume to blend in—Thomas participates in the photo shoot with Veruschka in a highly intimate way.
Although these two photo shoots have a stark contrast in subject area, style, and tone, Thomas uses a similar overall method of—if put into terms borrowed from anthropology— participant observation. But the anthropological field has long struggled with this seemingly paradoxical concept because of the questions it raises about subjectivity and objectivity, which brings us back to a potential theme of Blow-Up: what happens when we think of something as objective or documentary when the process of its creation was actually highly subjective and controlled?
Recently, Karlie Kloss and Vogue Magazine were ridiculed for a geisha-inspired photoshoot in their March 2017 “diversity issue.” This controversy, as well as my own conflicting feelings about it, reminded me of an issue that’s been on my mind and served as further evidence of its relevance. I’m going to talk about some common problems regarding how non-Japanese people talk about and define Japanese cultural appropriation. (I’m NOT going to be talking at length about cultural appropriation on the whole; I’m just focusing on this particular phenomenon.)
Obviously, Americans have a tendency to assume our Western perspectives can be applied to other cultures. We cast, or often force, our values and definitions onto other societies. (Check out Lila Abu-Lughod’s Do Muslim Women Need Saving?, or the article the book is an expansion on.) This tendency bleeds into how we deal with cultural appropriation.
Because of that, this topic is a little difficult for me– being part Japanese American– to grapple with. My first instinct is to be outraged when I see the Vogue photoshoot. I’m angered by the magazine’s approach to producing a “diversity issue” by simply plucking a white supermodel from America, dropping her into a Japanese setting, and adorning her with semi-Japanese garb. I see no attempts to truly promote diversity by, let’s say, using an actual Japanese model for this spread, and I see no desire to teach or learn about the Japanese culture itself. When I think of the hardships my extended family has been through, I want representations of their culture to channel the strength of Japanese people despite those hardships. Instead, I see total non-acknowledgment of Japanese struggles and power in a selfish act of white privilege which reduces an oppressed culture to a solely cosmetic entity.
This initial frustration is similar to my emotional experience when seeing things like Katy Perry’s infamous 2013 AMAs performance.
Watching the recording for the first time, I saw it as the blending together of stereotypical
or fetishized ideas of various Asian cultures just to look cool. In my eyes, the choreography involved vague references to how Westerners imagine traditional Japanese dance, complete with tiny shuffling steps. The costumes were sexualized kimonos. Perry threw some Chinese concepts into the aesthetic in a way that lumped Asian traditions together into one “Other.”
That kind of perspective views similar instances as turning Japan and its Japan-ness into a pretty backdrop for white people to stand in front of. This portrays a country and its customs as exotic, Oriental, something that exists in a solely aesthetic realm. This is playing dress-up with a culture.
Here’s the thing: many Japanese people love that we play dress-up! In fact, they highly encourage it. It delights them to see Westerners celebrating and wearing kimono, because it means they get to share their culture with the world. They want people to enjoy all the beautiful things unique to Japan, and they adore watching foreigners get something out of that experience. They’re flattered. (For more on this, I HIGHLY recommend watching this video that my mom showed me.) Most importantly, many Japanese people value Western desires to learn about their culture. Seph Rodney of Hyperallergic believes we should focus our attention not on whether or not foreigners can play dress-up, but rather on how they do it. In his article on the Boston Museum of Fine Arts “Kimono Wednesday” debate, he writes:
For me, the worst aspect of this debacle is that it feeds the notion that culture is a kind of precious object that may only be doled out to those outside the specific culture by those designated as appropriate cultural handlers. I do believe that culture is a precious resource. However in the view propagated by the Boston protesters, the emphasis for non-Westerners should be on guarding and regulating the representation of culture, instead of making it available in ways that are productive to a more profound understanding. I do not want to be cultural cop. That’s not work I need to be doing. We would benefit more from critical thinkers rather than gatekeepers. We are merely opportunistic and short-sighted when we close down conversations on the basis of sloppy thinking fueled by indignation.
After Klossgate, a plethora of Japanese Twitter-users took to the Internet and expressed their confusion over the controversy. Their perplexed reactions to the Western outrage over the shoot illustrate this point of view– this interpretation of “appropriation” as celebration. One person tweets (translated):
Karlie Kloss dresses like a Japanese person.
Japanese people: “Wow! You respect Japanese culture! You’re our friend! We’re happy!”
People overseas: “She’s stealing Japanese culture!”
People overseas: “She’s making fun of Japanese people!”
Japanese people: “Huh?”
So, why am I speaking on behalf of Japan? Some might even consider my presumptuous mindset more racist than that of the “cultural appropriators”; I am, after all, forcing my ethnocentric view and all its ideological bias onto another group of people. By calling these instances of “cultural appropriation” opportunist, am I, ironically, the opportunistic one? It’s not saving somebody if they don’t want saving… It’s ignorant.
Another layer of our misunderstanding of Japanese cultural appropriation– in fact, of Asian cultural appropriation as a whole– lies in the Western emphasis on “white-on-other” appropriation and our failure to acknowledge distinctions within that “other” group. Lilian Min of Complex writes:
Though it’s not only American public figures being called out for cultural insensitivity, American-centric conversations around appropriation are almost always uniformly negative, and almost always centered on whiteness. These kinds of critiques are valuable, but tend to miss another part of the discussion: the larger, less binary relationships between histories, peoples, and cultures around the world, and how the concept of appropriation changes within them.
Min also interviewed writer and ethnographer Christina Xu, who discusses how Americans default to speaking about cultural appropriation in binary terms that we inaccurately deem universal:
As Xu explains it, the conversation about cultural appropriation is largely defined by the nature of the histories between the approrpiator and the appropriatee. In the case of the U.S., “[It] is a place where LOTS of different immigrant groups coexist, with a legacy of European colonial genocide and slavery and occasionally xenophobic oppression.”When this conversation is carried over to someplace like East Asia, “Where do you even draw the bounds when there’s so much inter-ethnic blending and migration and HISTORY that’s not as one-sided as the story in the U.S.? Is Chinese people making/repping ramen ‘appropriative’ of Japanese culture, even though ramen is a descendant of Chinese noodle soups? Personally, I don’t really want to live in world where we’re trading thinkpieces about that,” Xu says. She stresses that fair cultural exchange is entirely possible, but that it’s the power dynamics behind that exchange that dictate appropriation versus appreciation.
This is NOT to say that I believe cultural appropriation doesn’t exist, or that it isn’t a problem. This is also not to say that these instances that I’ve discussed are objectively, absolutely non-problematic. I’m simply pointing out the many dimensions of such instances. I’m trying to suggest that our very whiteness, accompanied by its complex history and the frameworks of thinking that are rooted in that history, gets injected into how we identify and react to cultural appropriation. More generally, I’m attempting to emphasize the importance of stepping back and examining a conflict and your role in it more closely. We need to check our own perspectives, and most importantly, listen to other ones. Why would we claim to protect or stand up for a group without even asking what they have to say? I also want to note that the Vogue “diversity issue” remains highly problematic in its overwhelming lack of actual diversity… So, there are no simple answers here; the discourse is still muddled, and every new point splinters off into several more. However, it’s a necessary discourse– not despite this complexity, but because of it. Min writes:
Conversations about cultural appropriation, while tricky and prone to devolving, still function as one of the easiest ways to understand not just why, but how race and ethnic distinctions are important. Intraracial passing is but one reflective phenomenon of the culture wars’ permeable membrane. While “culture” itself is a malleable, evolving idea that can’t—and shouldn’t—be contained, educating ourselves on the ways we all pass and move within it is, for white people, a matter of responsibility. For people of color, it’s the way to survive.
In short, I fell (and still frequently fall) into a trap of tone-deafness that I hope others become aware of and avoid; by listening to other voices rather than getting lost in the noise of our own, we can form a more effective global dialogue.
Here are some other good articles, among many others, on this from a Japanese perspective:
https://heatst.com/culture-wars/these-people-from-japan-dont-care-if-you-wear-kimonos/
Today I’m posting something written by my good pal Emma Graig. Aside from being one of my best friends, she can be very accurately described as my movie partner-in-crime. We spend a fair amount of our time forcing each other to watch whatever our latest cinematic obsessions are. Also, she recently revealed that she associates me with the film Music and Lyrics. I have never seen Music and Lyrics, and I kind of hate her for this.
Anyways, after her first viewing of Close Encounters of the Third Kind, Emma quickly took to her laptop and furiously typed out the following insightful words. She focuses on Spielberg’s use of sounds as motifs and sound overall as a character. In a new era of sci-fi flicks that so frequently allude to past ones, it’s important that we consistently glance back at movies like Close Encounters with a refreshed critical eye and read them in context with contemporary cinema. Anyway’s, here’s Emma doing just that:
I watched Close Encounters of the Third Kind for the first time the other night. Steven Spielberg’s pet project—side note, Spielberg and I have a history. I was not three feet from him over winter break in the lobby of a museum in New York, we made eye contact as he watched the realization of who I was looking at dawn over my face and slowly turned his back to me. We are very close now. Close Encounters has quickly become one of my favorites, not a unique opinion as it is widely recognized as one of the greatest films ever made, but I think it has a particular relevance in the canon of incredible feats of cinema not because of its dialogue or acting, but because of its use of sound to tell its story. In typical Spielberg fashion, the movie is full of homage to movies and stories that came before it; the idea that aliens could help humans reach a higher state of consciousness directly aligns with the rebirth of the human race at the end of Stanley Kubrick’s classic 2001: A Space Odyssey and the story it’s based off, “The Sentinel”. Despite being supported with a foundation of great filmmakers that came before him, the aspects of Close Encounters that shine brightest are those that are original to Spielberg and this movie. Spielberg made sound, that is the movie soundtrack and sound effects used throughout the film, a character in and of itself. Lately, I’ve been very into the idea of music as a storytelling tool; actually helping to push the story forward rather than an accompaniment to the dialogue on screen, and Close Encounters does this perfectly.
Close Encounters opening credits begin, and for the first thirty seconds the audience sits in silence. My dad and I questioned whether we had the sound on our TV on or not, as we expected some loud opening characteristic of most sci-fi/alien invasion movies. John Williams’ Academy Award nominated and Grammy Award winning soundtrack begins to slowly build, an eerie ambient hum that jolts to a stop with a loud cymbal crash and trumpet note that echoes his work on the Star Wars score. Close Encounters has not even really begun, and our senses are already being consumed with sound rather than what we see on the screen.
Close Encounters is at its core, the story of a man, Roy Neary (Richard Dreyfuss), who has a “close encounter” with a UFO. He becomes obsessed with ideas and images that he cannot fully communicate or understand that he believes the aliens implanted in his mind. Neary is driven to madness, constantly building a shape of an upside down ice cream cone out of anything he can get his hands on, leading to infamous scenes where he begins to build a mountain out of mashed potatoes at the dinner table, and dumps his trash and most of the contents of his backyard into his kitchen through the window outside. This erratic behavior leads his wife to leave him, which he is little fussed about as he is so consumed by the ideas the aliens have left with him. This utter and total control these ideas have over him mimics what Williams score does to the audience as they watch. We are so totally enthralled in what we are watching, not because every scene features aliens coming down to earth, but because the music tells us that something is building; something is coming.
Like many sci-fi films of its time, Close Encounters begins with multiple different plot lines that converge during the last 45 minutes of the film. Not only does this mean that the audience’s mind is spread across five different storylines, but Williams’ music enhances this confusion, and builds off of it. The dialogue in the beginning can be difficult to follow, so the music serves a dual purpose: to guide the audience in suspense, but also to muddle our senses, to consume us with so many different feelings that we are just as confused as the characters on the screen. The infamous scene where a spaceship pulls up behind Neary on the road, and slowly rises above his car features the song “Roy’s First Encounter”. It is a jumble of many different music styles, and features the signature jolts and shifts that embody Close Encounters. Listening to the song, without knowing anything about what is happening on screen, you feel the dread, wonder, horror, and suspense that embody the film.
In Muncie, Indiana, three year-old Barry Guiler (Cary Guffey) is awakened in the middle of the night to his toys beginning to move around and play music on their own. He goes downstairs to see the kitchen in disarray, and then smiles and motions to something off screen, and follows it outside. His mother, Jillian (Melinda Dillon), awakens to see him playing outside in the yard, seemingly talking to something she can’t make out. The audience doesn’t see the aliens themselves until the last ten minutes of the film, and this is not by mistake. Though E.T. wouldn’t come out for five more years, Spielberg is laying the groundwork in the idea that children’s innocence allows them to befriend what others might be afraid of, but there is something else here. We don’t see the aliens because, like Neary, an idea is being planted in our brains that we won’t be able to actually see in front of us until the end of our story. But that doesn’t mean we can’t see it at all. We feel the aliens, and sense what they might be like through the sounds we associate with them throughout the film. This is done through the five-tone musical scale motif that appears later on, when the scientists find that witnesses of the UFOs in India report they make a distinctive sound, a five-tone musical phrase in a major scale.
The scientists broadcast this noise into outer space, and are confused when they receive a seemingly meaningless set of numbers in return. That is until one of the scientists realizes they are longitude and latitude coordinates corresponding to the location of Devils Tower in Moorcroft, Wyoming. Devils Tower being the exact shape of the objects Neary keeps drawing and building. The now infamous five-tone musical scale continues to be played throughout this sequence of scenes, mimicking the signature two-tone Jaws theme that Williams also created for Spielberg. The scale is calming to listen to, contrasting the other sounds that Williams includes throughout the soundtrack, and the erratic behavior of many of the characters of screen. It is not by accident that Williams and Spielberg chose a calming motif to be associated with the aliens, as it is easy to forget how new of an idea of an alien presence on Earth without any sort of destruction really was for 1977, or even now. This scale is one of the few sounds in the film that is played with complete clarity—though voices are in the background at certain points, this sound is not overlaid with any sort of orchestral notes or sound effects, and it cuts through our senses to remind us that what is coming might not be bad after all. It is this scale that we associate with the aliens, and provides a much more dynamic and complex idea of what their intentions are and what they are like than simply showing us a little green creature (ghoul? It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia haha) within the first ten minutes ever could.
The music also mimics Spielberg’s ability to master the speed of a film, and play with his audience. Some of Williams songs have seconds of silence, making one think the song is over, only to slowly build into what one would think would be a climax, but, as with “Encounter at Crescendo Summit”, aptly named, is one long crescendo into nothing at all. What is so interesting is that the film, overall, is quite slow. Like Williams score, it is one long crescendo into…what? Even though each encounter with UFOs we see is climactic in and of itself, nothing really happens. When Neary sees the UFO above him, and later when he goes off at night to observe them again, all they do is fly above him, no abduction, no attacks on earth, nothing. Without the music, there would be little to be excited and suspenseful about at all. But we continue to watch, as with Neary, Williams has planted a sound in our minds that we need an explanation for, we need to know why it is that we feel so confused and thrilled by watching this film. This power is shown perfectly in the scene where something big really does happen, Barry gets taken by the aliens. I avoid using the word abducted because we never see that signature scene many would anticipate—him rising into the spaceship, the light shining down on him. Instead, we are left again with the suspense of Williams incredible sound effects as the ship surrounds Jillian and Barry’s home, and a record begins to play accidentally, “Chances Are” by Johnny Mathis, a 1950s love song. The contrast between the horror that is going on onscreen and the calming melody that is playing throughout the screeching sound effects again consumes our senses, and renders us unable to think about anything else, much like Neary and the Devils Tower shape.
The movie ends with the arrival of the mother ship to a landing field created by the US. Government, as government officials communicate with the mother ship through different versions of the five-scale melody. The mother ship communicates back through many different notes; a conversation through musical notes, rather than attempted dialogue or writing.
The mother ship and government officials begin to play what sounds like full movements back and forth to one another, before the ship opens up and releases what could be hundreds of people from different time periods they had abducted, perfectly fine, including Barry. It isn’t until the last fifteen minutes of the movie that the aliens are actually shown. Many exit the ship and huddle around its entrance, doing nothing in particular. Again, playing with the audience’s sense of timing—we had all thought the climax would be some sort of big altercation or interaction between the humans and aliens, but this interaction already happened—through music, minutes before. In the end, Neary is chosen by the aliens to join them on the spaceship, and they leave with him. The final scene is a conversation between one of the main scientists, and an alien, using hand motions that they have created that correlate to the five part scale used throughout the movie. No one speaks, and hasn’t spoken for the last five to ten minutes of the movie. We only have what we see on screen, and Williams’ incredible score. As the mother ship rises away from Earth, and the end credits roll, his score plays a the five-tone musical scale, though a beautiful heavily orchestrated version, it is that same motif that has been returned to time and time again. The amazing, anthemic sound that brings the movie to a close directly contrasts with the silence that opened it. In this way, at the start of the movie our minds were open, curious as to what we would be consuming from the film. At the end our minds are filled to the bring with sound, and at the heart of it the five-tone scale. This scale becomes our version of Neary’s Devils Tower, and is this, rather than any alien figure, that is left implanted in our minds long after the movie is over.
Spielberg mastered this skill in 1977, and other movies within the sci-fi genre, this year’s Arrival for instance have done amazing jobs of taking their scores out of the place of being simply complementary to the action, to actually becoming a part of it. Other movies, like There Will Be Blood featuring Jonny Greenwood of Radiohead’s haunting screeches that are the perfect sound embodiment of Daniel-Day Lewis’s horrifying character, much like Brian Eno’s “Lizard Point” used in Shutter Island to parallel Leonardo DiCaprio’s arduous journey in his own head. Lighter movies like the Coen Brothers’ O’Brother Where Art Thou have taken their soundtracks to the next level, almost to the point of it becoming a musical rather than simply a comedy. There are definitely more films that master this, but not enough. A movie’s score and sound effects can take it from being good to being fantastic–something you can’t stop thinking about. Close Encounters of the Third Kind deservedly measures up to some of the other great works of art because it is not simply an adventure to watch, it is also phenomenal listen to.
I grew up on the Archie comics. Every trip to the grocery store ended with the ritual act of plucking an issue from that incredibly strategic rack that lures you into getting everything you don’t need (IceBreakers, tabloids, your 3910th chapstick at the moment) and tossing it onto the conveyor belt… never bagged, of course, so I could read it on the car ride home. The words “Double Digest” were my kryptonite. My older sister and I would sometimes fight over whose book was whose, but after obsessively reading our own, we had an 
unspoken agreement that we would swap (only temporarily, of course– each issue returned to its rightful owner in the end). I don’t think I quite chose a favorite between Betty and Veronica; my preference changed as frequently as Archie’s does. But I did love that Veronica’s hair looked closer to mine.
I also remember adoring Jughead, which is why I was so intrigued by the CW’s take on this franchise. The most unexpected blend of icons from my childhood– Cole Sprouse and Jughead– was undoubtedly as weirdly appealing to other people my age as it was to me. It certainly helps that Cole Sprouse has turned into what so many people think of as “one of the good ones” of the Disney Channel child star variety; NYU undergrad degrees and witty social media presences have aided in keeping Cole and Dylan likable and, more importantly, relatable to the once-kids, now young adults who populated their fan base. They have somehow managed to be simultaneously high-profile and pedestrian. And I think that Cole’s cultural perception plays a huge part in how he’ll be perceived in his role as Jughead. Cole has turned into a thoughtful observer of (and arguably an outsider to) the world he was once a part of; he regularly makes playful jabs at pop culture and his past as a kid star. While Jughead’s character in the comics expresses his outsider-ness in a lighter, jokier way, and while maintaining his friendship with the main characters, Riverdale portrays him as somewhat of a recluse who contemplatively watches his old life with the Archie gang from afar. I (too optimistically, some would argue) think that, as time goes on, his narration will bring an interesting dimension to the show– one that we can get behind, that we can relate to, and through which we can effectively experience the plot.
EDIT: Thought I’d include something that came to me as the show progressed. I would say that Jughead’s “reclusiveness” reaches hilarity; he is that kid you hated in high school. Or worse, he is you in high school, name-dropping indie filmmakers and acting like he invented angst. Hating everything makes him a philosopher, and wearing the same, probably-pretty-damn-gross-hat everyday puts him above materialism. God, it’s so spot on, I love it. Some people probably think he’s just kind of obnoxious, but to me, Jughead is an absolute gem. Just do what I do when a film or series annoys you, and say it’s deliberately ironic. See? It works!
I should stress that this show isn’t just for Archie fans. There are, of course, plenty of treats for those who grew up on the comics; I felt myself get literally GIDDY upon hearing each of the characters’ names (Smithers!) and seeing Pop Tate’s Chock’lit Shoppe brought to life. But Riverdale makes sure to craft its own personality and aesthetic so as to pull in a larger audience. Believe what you’ve read about this show being any variation of Twin Peaks meets Dawson’s Creek meets The O.C. meets Gossip Girl; I think there’s a bit of Bates Motel in there, as well. Riverdale takes place in a small town, with all its Small Town™ features: a retro diner high school hangout, girls- and boys-next-door, love triangles, and people way too involved in other each other’s business. That’s where the teen drama comparisons stem from; then, throw in an eerie river death (featuring a nearly shot-for-shot body bag scene reminiscent of Laura Palmer), some mysterious relationships with slowly revealed hidden pasts, and a nice dose of Mädchen Amick, and you’ve got yourself a David Lynch homage. (Not to mention Luke Perry of 90210, Skeet Ulrich of Scream, and Molly Ringwald, ’80s teen queen and epitome of awkward, disgruntled adolescence.) However, just because the show pays tribute to a few of our old favorites doesn’t mean it doesn’t have a mind of its own. This knack for references and self-awareness is precisely what I think gives Riverdale the potential to be unique.
First, we have to talk about Geraldine Grundy. For non-Archie-readers, here’s a quick comparison of the comic depiction and TV depiction of Ms. Grundy’s character:
Um……. yeah.
This transformation from the matronly, gray-haired teacher who literally “yoks” and “cackles” into a sort of fetishized-librarian-looking figure is… interesting. Ms. Grundy’s relationship with Archie could just be a cheap storyline that writers felt was mandatory to fill the “sexy thriller” plotline quota. But their choice to so drastically change this character seems so deliberate that I feel like I should have at least a little faith in it– whether or not I actually do is another question. We’ll see what it turns into. (The show has already gotten a lot of rightful flack for glamorizing statutory rape. On this note, though, I think Ms. Grundy’s glasses are ironic in their nod to Lolita, a story in which the genders and ages of the two characters are flipped.)
Meanwhile, I think the show nailed Betty and Veronica. I appreciate their choice not to create characters identical to their comic book counterparts; they instead created two complex, non-archetypal young women. (I think. Let’s hope I maintain that impression.) Betty Cooper, played by fresh-faced, Brittany Murphy look-alike Lili Reinhart, is sweet, and usually a little too sweet.
I wouldn’t mind some deeper characterization here; however, I think Betty will unflatten a bit and undergo an interesting development as the show goes on. But I can’t help but kind of fall in love with Veronica right off the bat. Maybe it’s the Blair Waldorf fan in me, the Summer Roberts fan in me, or the even bigger Audrey Horne fan in me…. but something about Veronica pulls me in, and I know I’m not the only one. But Veronica Lodge is no Blair Waldorf. Blair is a caricature, a cartoonish expression of the extremes of her personality. Don’t get me wrong– that’s precisely what I loved about her. But Veronica’s departure from this is precisely what I love about her. I found Veronica, who glides into town straight out of the big city and immediately becomes Archie’s new infatuation (a la Jen Lindley), kind of refreshing. Just because she’s rich and enjoys being rich doesn’t mean she deserves a 
realistically complex character any less than the others. Actress Camila Mendes portrays her as stylish, confident, and a little superficial, but striving to be a better person than she once was. And here’s the kicker; she reaches out to Betty, befriends her, fiercely sticks up for her, and tells her to stick up for herself, too. She’s self-assured and beautiful without being The Bitchy One. She values her female friendships. And what makes this even better is that the show seems to value them, too; this episode doesn’t revolve around Archie’s relationship with Betty or Veronica (although those relationships are featured). What really shines is the beginning of Betty and Veronica’s friendship. I only hope that, in Bechdel Test fashion, their conversations begin to center around Archie much less.
EDIT: Betty did get more interesting. So much more interesting. (Nobody with a bedroom that girly and a mother that overbearing doesn’t have major Black Swan-esque psychological baggage.) But that seemed to come at a price, as Veronica’s initially enchanting character sort of turned to mush (around the time she hopped back on the Archie train, in fact… hm). I guess it’s too much work for writers to develop two dynamic female characters at one time.
P.S. Betty also reminds me of young Joan Cusack for some reason… thoughts?
P.P.S. Regarding Veronica, I’ve never understood why, in the TV universe, being rich means perpetually dressing in business casual attire. (I just hope Ronnie doesn’t miss her big meeting with the CEO of Cosmo!)
Oh, and last but not least, Archie himself (played by K.J. Apa). I’ll be honest… I currently see Archie as the Nate Archibald of this show. He is pure vanilla. (As Donna Meagle of Parks and Rec would say, “You’re fine but you’re simple.”) He is a hunk, and he is nothing more than that– absolutely predictable but pretty nice to look at. Archie Andrews is Ol’ Reliable. You just keep looking good, sweetie, and I’ll gorge on popcorn while watching your adorable struggle between football and songwriting… and between Betty and Veronica (who really deserve better– check out NPR’s Pop Culture Happy Hour coverage comparing Archie to the tiresome Dawson Leary). This is, of course, just my first impression; who knows, he may become more dynamic. But his personality seems to stay true to that of his comic book character, and perhaps even parodies it a little; he remains a clueless heartthrob with good intentions and good hair.
EDIT: The other edits have noted a change in my perception of the characters. There was no such change for Archie. He is still nothing to write home about. And I am glad.
Overall, Riverdale plays with pop culture quite a lot and acknowledges its own role in it. Along with a couple Mad Men references, the show sassily sprinkles teen dramedy tropes throughout the pilot, such as Archie’s big “Am I a jock or a musician?” dilemma, some tyrannically run cheerleading tryouts, and the random, “sexy” lesbian kiss– accompanied by Cheryl Blossom’s fantastically meta comment that girl-on-girl action for the sole sake of drama or sex appeal is blasé. Cheryl– whose character has a bit of a Ryan Murphy touch– delivers another great line that sums up what I take away as Riverdale’s mantra: “Some people say it’s retro. I say it’s eternal and iconic.” Although Cheryl is talking about cheerleading, this applies to the entire Archie franchise and perhaps the whole teen drama genre the show unabashedly associates itself with. Riverdale is here to bring us our favorite familiarities and clichés, but with some tongue-in-cheek new spins that are sure to keep us interested. So, if you’re looking for something fun and a little bit weird, watch this show. It’s not yet great, but it could be. And God knows you could probably use a little distraction right now.
EDIT: Last one. At the wrap of the season, I realized why the show is called Riverdale, and not Archie or Betty and Veronica (even though, I think, the show is more about Betty and Veronica than Archie– huzzah!). The series is undoubtedly about the town itself, as a kind of unfolding phenomenon, rather than its inhabitants. The characters seem to be at the whim of a larger force that disrupts Riverdale’s plans of starring in a Norman Rockwell painting. I think Jughead even rambles on about a “darkness” overtaking the town. Not to mention that Jughead’s real-life counterpart, Cole Sprouse, says that the murder of Jason Blossom is really just the “catalyst” for Riverdale’s “end of innocence.” Think about it: there is so much messed up stuff going on in this town. The deaths, hookups, and scandals are simply white noise distracting us from its driving agent, which may be something totally more abstract. I know it sounds like I’m stretching myself thin trying to draw real-life implications from a CW show, but this honestly feels all too familiar and relevant to our current political climate.
I’ll put it this way: Riverdale is a place we used to look at through rose-tinted glasses. We loved the wholesome look of those football players in their letterman sweaters and cheerleaders in their bobby socks and saddle shoes. We loved that Riverdale residents’ simple lives literally revolved around dating and hamburgers. The Nifty Fifties, man… We absolutely adored this (blindingly white) stock photo of a town!
Well, Riverdale snatched that nostalgia out of our hands and stomped it into the dirt.
i'm still reeling 