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dossi-io · 3 years

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An introduction to DeVita

Do you want to learn all about the AOMG artist DeVita? This article will cover everything you need to know about the third female member to join the labels roster.

The content of this article is also available in video format, embedded at the bottom of this article.

Prelude

In early April of 2020, the Korean hip-hop label AOMG ambiguously announced that a new artist was signing onto the label. This label was grounded by the Korean-American triple-threat; Jay Park, who’s also one of its executives. This is a label with a very organic feel and artist-oriented nature, which stands out compared to many other music labels.

On April 3rd, the label’s official Instagram account posted a video. It was titled, “Who’s The Next AOMG?” where fellow AOMG members talked about this upcoming recruit. They sprinkled small hints and details by sharing their thoughts on the artist without mentioning who.

Around the world, fans immediately began speculating on who this could be. The major consensus was that it had to be the solo artist Lee Hi, due to reporting like this: “AOMG responds ‘nothing is confirmed’ to reports of Lee Hi signing on with the label”

A few other names got thrown in fan speculations like Hanbin (B.I), previous member of IKON, Jvcki Wai, and MOON (문) aka Moon Sujin. This despite a few of these already being signed to other labels.

On April 6th, three days later, the account was updated with a part two. This time dropping more hints, which would exclude many names from fan speculations.

On the 7th of April, the label’s official Instagram account posted a short teaser. The video sported an 80’s retrofuturistic setting, with a woman turned from the camera, dressed in all black, rocking braids, and some glistening high-heels. As it seemed to be a female, some were now certain that it had to be Lee Hi. A small few actually guessed correctly that the one who would be joining AOMG would be Ms DeVita.

Finally on April 9th, it was official! She debuted with the music video, from which the teaser clips was taken from, EVITA!, which accompanied the release of her EP, CRÈME.

What does the name DeVita mean?

The name DeVita, draws inspiration and meaning from two things. Firstly, Eva Perón – also known as Evita – who was Argentina’s former First Lady. When Chloe was learning about Eva’s life, it inspired her to combine “Devil” and “Evita”, thus creating “DeVita”. The name signifies the duality of how both Eva Perón and DeVita could be perceived. Either being a devil, or an angel depending on the eye of the beholder. Secondly, Salvatore Di Vita, a character from Cinema Paradiso, was also a source of inspiration.

An introduction to DeVita

Chloe Cho – now known under the artist name DeVita – was born and raised in South Korea, until the age of eleven. In 2009, she moved to Chicago, where she would learn English.

In 2013, she went back to Korea and participated in the third season of the show; K-pop Star. A talent show, where the “big three” (the three largest music labels in Korea) hosts auditions to find the next big k-pop star. However she didn’t win, therefore neither got signed.

Later on, she returned to Chicago and graduated high school. After reflecting on what she wanted to do next, she decided to make music. In 2014, her pursuit to become an artist brought her to the talent show Kollaboration. On this show, she performed covers and actually ended up being a finalist. Despite her talents, she did not triumph as the winner of the show.

Not letting these losses stop her, she started releasing music on Soundcloud. The earliest release I could find, Halfway Love (Ruff), was from 2016. Her catalogue consisted of both covers and original music.

One day, Kirin, an artist and CEO of the music label 8balltown Records, was introduced to DeVita’s music. He liked what he heard and the two linked up. In May of 2018, WEKEYZ, one of 8balltown’s producer duos released a track titled Sugar. This track featured both DeVita, and the AOMG rapper Ugly Duck. This was the beginning of many collaborations to come.

On August 28th of 2018, just a few months later, AOMG released Sugar (Puff Daehee Mix).

This was a remix done by Puff Daehee, the alter ego of Kirin. Along with this track, it was accompanied by a music video starring Kirin, DeVita, and Ugly Duck. For most people, this was their first time seeing DeVita.

DeVita continued doing features on many songs by Korean artists while creating a little buzz for herself. There’s one notable feature, which could be seen as an important milestone in her career. That is her feature on the track Noise, from AOMG artist Woo Won Jae’s project, titled af.

In a tweet a few days after the release of CRÈME, she shared the significance of this moment.

“I was still making minimum wage working at a restaurant back when Noise dropped- I wrote my part during my shift on the back of this receipt paper. This was about a year and a half ago. A little bit after that I got a call from Pumpkin at 3am Chicago time. He said Jay wanted to meet in Philly in 4 hours. They put me on a plane and the rest is history.”

The phone call she mentioned in her tweet, about Jay wanting to meet, must have been made around September 2018. Jay was performing in Philadelphia at the time. The moment they met in Philadelphia was actually captured through a photo of the two. However, this picture ended up getting removed later on.

Fast forward a few months and Jay had just released his Ask About Me EP. The project focused on a western audience, so he went to the States on a promo run. During his visit, he also met up with DeVita once again, as can be seen here.

Finally, on April 9th, her being signed to AOMG was officially announced and she debuted with her EP titled CRÈME. Her joining AOMG, looked like something that happened pretty naturally. The vast majority of artists she had collaborated on tracks with happened to be AOMG members. Getting comfortable with the AOMG family, likely made the decision to join crystal clear.

Artistically

Just a quick look at her body of work thus far, a majority of it is in English. However, she has no issues singing in Korean, as proven by her feature on Code Kunst’s; Let u in. The tone in her voice has this sort of mixture of many singers, a melting pot of sorts. It reminds me of Audrey Nuna, SAAY, H.E.R, some vocal riffs from Dinah Jane, and at times, just a tiny bit of Ariana Grande.

As an artist, she’s still in the early stages of carving out her own unique sound and style. There’s incredible potential here, but her distinct identity is not completely there yet. I see before me a caterpillar that within a couple years, will transform into a butterfly, with its own identifiable pattern to spread its wings out on.

From what she’s shown so far, I would say she seems most comfortable doing R&B and soul music. However, beyond a quick description I prefer to refrain from categorizing her. Mostly because artists generally feel limited when categorized. More importantly, because we have no idea what she has in store for the future.

Debut EP: CRÈME

CRÈME is DeVita’s “crème de la crème”. She constantly modified the tracklist to present her debut project in a way that held her personal standard; essentially presenting us her best tracks. The result is CRÈME, which consists of five tracks, with a runtime of fourteen minutes altogether.

This EP showcases the fact that she is a competent songwriter, able to write some soulful, emotional ballads. It is completely in English and all the tracks are written by her, telling both life stories of her own and that of others. A majority of the production was handled by her “musical soulmate”; TE RIM, but other notable names, like Code Kunst show up as well.

Tracks:

Movies, introduces the project in a very gentle manner. In the track, DeVita paints a picture of a criminal couple, getting a rush, by committing crimes together. The lyrics feel inspired by movies like Bonnie and Clyde. My initial thoughts were that, for some ears, it could possibly be “too” calm as an opener. It doesn’t demand attention the way EVITA! does. Simply put, it’s not a bad track. I would just have put this track later on in the EP.

EVITA!, is something different compared to what I hear from others in the K-R&B lane. I love the 80’s aesthetic in both the track and music video. Sonically, the nostalgic saxophone riffs, warm lush synth pads, thumping bass line, results in a trip back to the 80s. With this recipe, topped with DeVita’s “current” contemporary soul and R&B voice makes for an interesting combination. The music video had that futuristic 80’s look with the neon colors, and I loved how the guns she played around with looked a lot like the “Needlers” from the Halo franchise. The title is once again just like DeVita’s name, an ode to the controversial Eva Perón. The instrumental was originally used by TE RIM, the producer of the track in 2017. His version has the same title as DeVita’s version and I recommend giving that one a listen as well, as it has a different feel to it. This track was definitely one of the highlights of the EP.

All About You, is a simple yet beautiful piano love ballad. Originating from her own tales of love, her vocals effortlessly capture what she felt during these moments.

1974 Live, is yet another ballad, but this time, with a calm guitar backing, playing a poppier R&B chord progression. DeVita’s voice is given a lot of space to be in the center of the track. As soon as I heard this track I became curious. What was the significance of this year, which would have her title the track as such? My questions were left unanswered… until the EP had marinated a while, when she tweeted: “1974 Live is about Christine Chubbuck”. In case you’re unfamiliar, Christine Chubbuck was a television news reporter, who made history in 1974. She was the first person to commit suicide live on air. According to her mother Christine’s suicide would on paper be due to an unfullfilling personal life. All throughout her life, she had experienced unreciprocated love. With this information tying back to the track, it becomes a lot less ambiguous and reveals a more cohesive narrative.

Show Me, is the final track of the EP, featuring immaculate production from the talented CODE KUNST. The sound is very moody, which fits her voice like a glove. This is my favorite performance on the entire EP, both lyrically and vocally. The lyrics present someone who’s fed up dealing with men, who talk the talk but don’t walk the walk. Now she’s looking for love with someone who’s honest and “real”.

With the project being a year old now, it has already gotten her nominated for both Rookie of the Year along with EVITA being nominated for Best R&B & Soul Track in the 18th iteration of the Korean Music Awards.

A majority of listeners seemed to enjoy the project. Many seem to be in love with her voice judging by the endless amounts of praise she has received, often described as painfully addicting, soothing, smooth, and so on.

I also asked a friend who’s a huge fan of Korean music, especially the hiphop and r&b scene to share her thoughts on the project. Here’s what she said:

"This whole project is empowering, in particular the tracks Show Me and EVITA! DeVita being a new artist, managed to impress me and many more listeners through this EP. As mentioned earlier, empowering lyrics with unique melodies and beats. Especially with the track EVITA! The fact that 1974 Live and EVITA! was referring to, two historically important women, is something that I love. This is one of my favorite EP:s of 2020 and DeVita is now included in my list of favorite artists." @Haonsmom

From what I’ve seen, only a few have been vocal about not really being too fond of the project. Some were left a bit disappointed, as they were expecting more hip-hop and R&B from an AOMG artist. The lack of “danceable” tracks was also a concern to some. Despite these criticisms, one thing was always mentioned; the girl has a beautiful voice and is obviously talented.

After listening to this EP, I hear a lot of potential. Being an EP with just five tracks, it definitely avoids overstaying its welcome. It’s brief enough to allow a listen through the entire project, no matter what you’re doing. My favorite tracks would have to be Show Me and EVITA!, but I found the whole project to be enjoyable. This EP is sprinkled with lovely vocal performances and simple but captivating production. I do still stand by my opinion that Movies would have fit better later in the tracklist if you’re chasing that mainstream ear.

I think the way EVITA! kicks you in the face, demanding attention, would’ve been a better fit as the opening track. In contrast to the other tracks, the energy level is unique, making the placement feel odd as the rest of the tracks have a chill vibe. All in all, this project gave me a taste of the “crème” but left me with a curious yearning for what this chef will whip up for dessert.

Bright future ahead

The addition of more female artists to the AOMG roster was much needed. Hoody was the first and only female member for about four years. This was the case up until late 2019, where she was then joined by sogumm, who had just won AOMG’s audition program called SignHere. Now funnily enough after DeVita, Lee Hi actually did end up officially signing with AOMG on July 22, last year.

Based on what I’ve heard during Devita’s Kollaboration days, she has improved immensely. This topped with her leaving the impression of someone passionate about their craft, bodes well for what's to come. She seems to be someone who'll constantly evolve.

Following an artist, at the early stages of their career, is something that I always find exciting. With such a lovely debut, I cannot wait to see what the future has in store for DeVita.

To view the content of this article in video format simply play the video embedded below.

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Credits:

The first image in article: Original photo, pre-edit from @jinveun

Gif from the Sugar Puff Daehee MV: @moxiepoints

#devita #krnb #jay park #aomg #h1ghrmusic #8balltown #kpop #review #korea #uglyduck #chloe devita #chloe cho #kirin #evita!#crème #moon sujin #khh #korean hip hop #krap

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dustedmagazine · 3 years

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Music for Films, Vol. II: Chick Habit

For good and for ill, Quentin Tarantino’s movies have been strongly associated with postmodern pop culture — particularly by folks whose reactions to the word “postmodern” tend toward pursed lips and school-marmishly wagged fingers. There for a while, reading David Denby on Tarantino was similar to reading Michiko Kakutani on Thomas Pynchon: almost always the same review, the same complaints about characters lacking “psychological depth,” the same handwringing over an ostensible moral insipidness. Truth be told, Tarantino’s pranksome delight with flashy surfaces and stylistic flourishes that are ends in themselves gives tentative credence to some of the caviling. Critics have raised related concerns over the superficiality of Tarantino’s tendency toward stunt casting, especially his resurrections of aging actors relegated to the film industry’s commercial margins: John Travolta, Pam Grier, Robert Forster, David Carradine, Darryl Hannah, Don Johnson and so on. There might be a measure of cynicism in the accompanying cinematic nudging and winking, but it’s also the case that a number of the performances have been terrific.

The writer-director brings a similar sensibility to his sound-tracking choices, demonstrating the cooler-than-thou, deep-catalog knowledge of an obsessive crate-digger. Tarantino thematized that knowledge in his break-through feature, Reservoir Dogs (1992). Throughout the film, the characters tune in to Steven Wright deadpanning as the deejay of “K-Billy’s Super Sounds of the Seventies”; like the characters, the viewer transforms into a listener, treated to such fare as the George Baker Selection’s “Little Green Bag” (1970) and Harry Nilsson’s “Coconut” (1971). As with the above-mentioned actors, Tarantino has sifted pop culture’s castoffs and detritus, unearthing songs and delivering experiences of renewed value — and thereby proving the keenness of his instincts and aesthetic wit. “Listen to (or look at) this!” he seems to say, with his cockeyed, faux-incredulous grin. “Can you believe you were just going to throw this out?” And mostly, it works. If the Blue Swede’s “Hooked on a Feeling” (1974) has become a sort of semi-ironized accompaniment to hipsterish good times, that resonance has a lot more to do with Tim Roth, Harvey Keitel and Co. cruising L.A. in a hulking American sedan than with the Disney Co.’s Guardians of the Galaxy (2014).

In Death Proof (2007), Tarantino’s seventh film and unaccountably his least favorite, soundtrack and screen are both full to bursting with the flotsam and jetsam of “entertainment” conceived as an industry.

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In just the opening minutes, we see outmoded moviehouse announcements, complete with cigarette-burn cue dots; big posters of Brigitte Bardot from Les Bijoutiers du claire de lune (1958) and of Ralph Nelson’s Soldier Blue (1970) bedecking the apartment of Jungle Julia (Sydney Tamiia Poitier); the tee shirt worn by Shanna (Jordan Ladd), which bears the image of Tura Satana; and strutting under all of it are the brassy cadences of Jack Nitzsche’s “The Last Race,” taken from his soundtrack for the teensploitation flick Village of the Giants (1965). Bibs and bobs, bits and pieces of low- and middle-brow cinema are cut up and reconstructed into a fulsome swirl of signs. And there’s an unpleasant edge to it; the cuts are echoed by the action of the camera, which has been busily cleaving the bodies of the women on screen into fragments and parts. First the feet of Arlene (Vanessa Ferlito), propped up on a dashboard; then Julia, all ass and gams; then Arlene’s lower half again, chopped into slices by the stairs she dashes up (“I gotta take the world’s biggest fucking piss!”) and by the close-up that settles on her belly and pelvis, her hand shoved awkwardly into her crotch.

As often happens in Tarantino’s movies, furiously busy meta-discursive play collapses the images’ problematic content under multiple levels of reference and pastiche. The film is one half of Grindhouse (2007), Tarantino’s collaboration with his buddy Robert Rodriguez, an old-fashioned double-feature comprising the men’s love letters to the exploitation cinema of the 1960s and 1970s. In those thousands of movies — mondo, beach-cutie, nudie-cutie, women in prison, early slasher, rape-revenge, biker gang, chop-socky, Spaghetti Western and muscle-car-worship flicks (and we could add more subgenres to the list) — symbolic violence inflicted on women’s bodies was de rigueur, and frequently the principal draw. Tarantino shot Death Proof himself, so he is (more than usually) directly responsible for all the framing and focusing — and he’s far too canny a filmmaker not to know precisely what he’s doing with and to those bodies. The excessive, camera-mediated gashing and trimming is a knowing, perhaps deprecating nod to all that previous, gratuitous T&A. His sound-tracking choice of “The Last Race” metaphorically underscores the point: in Bert I. Gordon’s Village of the Giants, bikini-clad teens find and consume an experimental growth serum, which causes them to expand to massive proportions. Really big boobs, actual acres of ass. Get it?

Of course, all the implied japing and judging is deeply embedded in the film’s matrix of esoteric references and fleeting allusions. You’d have to be very well versed in the history of exploitation cinema to pick up on the indirect homage to Gordon’s goofy movie. But as in Reservoir Dogs, Tarantino doesn’t just gesture, he dramatizes, folding an authoritative geekdom into the action of Death Proof. In the set-up to Death Proof’s notorious car crash scene, Julia is on the phone, instructing one of her fellow deejays to play “Hold Tight!” (1966) by Dave Dee, Dozy, Beaky, Mick & Tich. Don’t recognize the names? “For your information,” Julia snorts, Pete Townsend briefly considered abandoning the Who, and he thought about joining the now-obscure beat band, to make it “Dave Dee, Dozy, Beaky, Mick, Tich & Pete. And if you ask me, he should have.”

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It’s among the most gruesomely violent sequences in Tarantino’s films (which do not run short on graphic bloodshed), and Julia receives its most spectacular punishment. Those legs and that rump, upon which the camera has lavished so much attention, are torn apart. Her right leg flips, flies and slaps the pavement, a hunk of suddenly flaccid meat. Again, Tarantino proves himself an adept arranger of image, sign and significance. Want to accuse him of fetishizing Julia’s legs? He’ll materialize the move, reducing the limb to a manipulable fragment, and he’ll invest the moment with all of the intrinsic violence of the fetish. He’ll even do you one better — he’ll make that violence visible. Want to watch? You better buckle up and hold tight.

Hold on a second. “Hold Tight”? The soundtrack has passed over from intertextual in-joke to cruel punchline. It doesn’t help that the song is so much fun, and that it’s fun watching the girls groove along to it, just before Stuntman Mike (Kurt Russell) obliterates them, again and again and again. The awful insistence of the repetition is another set-up, establishing the film’s narrative logic: the repeated pattern and libidinal charge-and-release of Stuntman Mike’s vehicular predations. It is, indeed, “a sex thing,” as Sheriff Earl McGraw (Michael Parks) informs us in his cartoonish, redneck lawman’s drawl. Soon the sexually charged repetitions pile up: see Abernathy’s (Rosario Dawson) feet hanging out of Kim’s (Tracie Thom) 1972 Mustang, in a visual echo of Arlene’s, and of Julia’s. Then listen to Lee (Mary Elizabeth Winstead) belt out some of Smith’s cover of “Baby It’s You” (1969), which we most recently heard 44 minutes before, as Julia danced ecstatically by the Texas Chili Bar’s jukebox. Then watch Abernathy as she sees Stuntman Mike’s tricked-out ’71 Nova, a vibrating hunk of metallic machismo — just like Arlene saw it, idling menacingly back in Austin, with another snatch of “Baby It’s You” wisping through that moment’s portent.

For a certain kind of viewer, the Nova’s low-slung, growling charms are hard to resist, as is the sleazy snarl of Willy DeVille’s “It’s So Easy” (1980; and we might note that Jack Nitzsche produced a couple of Mink DeVille’s early records, connecting another couple strands in the web) on the Nova’s car stereo. Those prospective pleasures raise the question of just who the film is for. That may seem obvious: the same folks — dudes, mostly — who find pleasure in exploitation movies like Vanishing Point (1971), Satan’s Sadists (1969) or The Big Doll House (1971). But there are a few other things to account for, like how Death Proof repeatedly passes the Bechdel Test, and how long those scenes of conversation among women go on, and on. Most notable is the eight-minute diner scene, a single take featuring Abernathy, Kim, Lee and Zoë (Zoë Bell, doing a cinematic rendition of her fabulous self, an instance of stunt casting that literalizes the “stunt” part). Among other things, the women discuss their careers in film, the merits of gun ownership and Kim and Zoë’s love of (you guessed it) car chase movies like Vanishing Point. One could read that as a liberatory move, a suggestion that cinema of all kinds is open to all comers. All that’s required is a willingness to watch. But watching the diner scene becomes increasing claustrophobic. The camera circles the women’s table incessantly, and on the periphery of the shot, sitting at the diner’s counter, is Stuntman Mike. The circling becomes predatory, the threat seems pervasive.

If you’ve seen the film, you know how that plays out: Zoë and Kim play “ship’s mast” on a white 1970 Dodge Challenger (the Vanishing Point car); Stuntman Mike shows up and terrorizes them mercilessly; but then Abernathy, Zoë and Kim chase him down and beat the living shit out of him, likely fatally. In another sharply conceived cinematic maneuver, Tarantino executes a climactic sequence that inverts the diner scene: the women surround Stuntman Mike, abject and pleading, and punch and kick him as he bounces from one of them to another. The camera zips from vantage to vantage within the circle, deliriously tracking the action. All the jump cuts intensify the violence, and they provide another contrast to the diner’s scene’s silky, unbroken shot. The sounds and the impact of the blows verge on slapstick, and our identification with the women makes it a giddily gross good time.

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So, an inversion seeks to undo repetition. Certainly, Stuntman Mike’s intent to repeat the car-crash-kill-thrill is undone, and predator becomes prey. But, as is inevitable with Tarantino’s cinema, there are complications, other echoes and patterns to suss out. For instance: as the women stride toward the wrecked Nova, while Stuntman Mike pathetically wails, the camera zooms in on their asses. Bad asses? Nice asses? What’s the right nomenclature? To make sure we can put the shot together with Julia’s first appearance in the film, Abernathy has hiked up her skirt, revealing a lot of leg. Repetition reasserts itself. In an exacerbating circumstance, Harvey Weinstein’s grubby fingerprints are smeared onto the film. Rodriguez’s Troublemaker Studios is credited with production of Grindhouse, but Dimension Films, a Weinstein Brothers company, handled distribution.

When the film cuts to its end titles, we hear April March’s “Chick Habit” (1995), with its spot-on lyric: “Hang up the chick habit / Hang it up, daddy / Or you’ll never get another fix.” And so on. Even here, where the girl-power vibe feels strongest (cue Abernathy burying a bootheel in Stuntman Mike’s face), there are echoes, patterns. Note how the striding bassline of “Chick Habit” strongly recalls the pulse beating through Nitzsche’s “The Last Race.” Note that March’s song is a cover, of “Laisse tomber les filles,” originally recorded by yé-yé girl France Gall. The song was penned by Serge Gainsbourg, pop provocateur and notorious womanizer. The two collaborated again, releasing “Les Sucettes,” a tune about a teeny-bopper who really likes sucking on lollipops, when Gall was barely 18; the accompanying scandal nearly torpedoed her career. Gall refused to ever sing another song by Gainsbourg, and disavowed her hits.

Again, that’s all deeply embedded, somewhere in the film’s complicated play of pop irony and double-entendre and the sudden explosions of delight and disgust that intermittently reveal and conceal. Again, you’d have to know your pop history really well to catch up with the complications, and Death Proof moves so fast that there’s always another reference or allusion demanding your attention as the cars growl and the blood spurts. Too many signs to track, too many signals to decipher — that’s the postmodern. But perhaps we have become too glib, assuming that all signs are somehow equivalent. Death Proof insists otherwise. Much has been made of the film’s strange relation to digital filmmaking, of the sort that Rodriguez has made a career out of. Part of Grindhouse’s shtick is its goofball applications of CGI, all the scratches and skips and flaws that the filmmakers lovingly applied. They are digital effects, masquerading as damaged celluloid. Tarantino cut back against that grain, filming as much of the car chase’s maniacal stuntwork in meatspace as he safely could. Purposeful practical filmmaking, for a digitally enhanced cinematic experience, attempting to mimic the ways real film interacts with the physical environment and its manifold histories. Is that clever, or just more cultural clutter?

Amid all the clutter that crowds the characters onscreen, and their conversations in the film’s field of sound, it can be easy to lose track of the distinctions between appearances and the traces of the real bodies that worked to bring Death Proof to life. Which is why Tarantino’s inclusion of Bell is so crucial. She provides another inversion: Instead of masking her individual presence, doing stunts for other actresses in their clothes and hair (for Lucy Lawless in Xena: Warrior Princess, or for Uma Thurman in Tarantino’s Kill Bill films), Bell is herself, doing what she does best, projecting the technical elements of filmmaking — usually meant to bleed seamlessly into illusion — right onto the surface of the screen. And instead of allowing one group of girls to slip into a repeated pattern, bodies easily exchanged for other bodies, Bell’s presence and its implicit insistence on her particularity (who else can move like she does?) breaks up the superficial logic of cinema’s market for the feminine. She disrupts its chick habit. There’s only one woman like her.

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Jonathan Shaw

#music for films #chick habit #jonathan shaw #dusted magazine #death proof #quentin tarantino #reservoir dogs #grindhouse #Dave Dee Dozy Beaky Mick & Tich

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nclkafilms · 4 years

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The brutality and desperation of war

Throughout history of cinema, war has been one of the most common topics and one of the most used backdrops to tell stories. So when a new war film comes along and it feels like something you have never seen before, it will certainly get a lot of attention. ‘1917’ by Sam Mendes is that film! Not only does it take place during the first world war (a commonly overseen war in more recent cinematic history), but it also takes the daring cinematic choice to film and edit the film as if it is one single take. That alone makes it interesting, but it is the sheer quality of the filmmaking, the acting, the score and the cinematography that turns this little story in to an exceptional film that simply demands to be seen in the cinema!

The story IS small and extremely simple. Two young british soldiers are given a task of extreme importance and with deadly possibilities, when they are asked to cross the - apparently deserted - German frontline and the dangerous no-man’s land to reach another British battalion to give them an important order from the general. An imminent attack must be stopped to prevent the involved troops (including the older brother of one of our protagonists) from falling into a German ambush. They have until dawn. In its core the story is simple and with the film’s one-take vision, this simplicity becomes one of its main assets. Here we do not have a lot of extra side stories to give the (extreme amount of) British acting super stars’ supporting roles more screen time. We do not have long montages showing the consequences of the war. No the supporting roles are reduced to mere cameos as these people would be in the soldiers’ mission, and the consequences of war are shown as a natural and organic part of the surroundings as our two main characters make their way through the different war zones. And the camera never loses these two soldiers out of sight - we are with them through it all.

These two soldiers who truly are the only fully fleshed characters of our story are portrayed with impressive amount of nuance and details by young duo Dean-Charles Chapman (of ‘Game of Thrones’), 22, and George McKay (of ‘Captain Fantastic’), 27. I remember when I first read of the film and it was described as “Sam Mendes WWI film starring Colin Firth, Mark Strong and Benedict Cumberbatch”. While these three huge British actors are still here, they are in no way carrying this film - their cameos are strong, make no mistake, and the same can be said about a brilliant Andrew Scott (delivering a few, rare laughs) and a touching Richard Madden - but this film belongs to Chapman and McKay.

Chapman sends off some young Di Caprio vibes here in both looks and acting ability as he infuses his young Lance Corporal Blake with a vulnerable mix of naive empathy and goal-oriented focus. Opposite him, McKay is the main star of the film as the slightly older and more haunted, Lance Corporal Schofield, who is mostly drawn into this mission by coincidence. It is simply awe-inspiring to witness the character development McKay manages to portray without the camera ever letting him out of sight or cutting away (the film has only one (!) visible cut). You feel his desperation, his isolation, his traumas that are still evolving and his forceful devotion to the life that is now the only he can truly be in. In one specifically touching scene, he opens up about the true feelings of going home from the war on leave. McKay delivers this scene with such a presence and delicate delivery that your view on his character is changed instantly. A very strong performance that sadly seem to be ignored in any awards context in an exceptionally crowded year for male leads.

Another reason for this lack of acknowledgement of Chapman and McKay in awards season might also be the fact that ‘1917’ more than anything has left people stunned by its crafts. And it has to be said, that - while regrettable - this is very understandable. The meticulous planning that Sam Mendes and cinematography mastermind, Roger Deakins, have had to put into every single shot is astounding. Not only does it demand extreme precision to shoot a film as ‘one-take’ but to do it while creating hauntingly beautiful and yet naturalistic imagery is simply cinematic beauty of the highest order. The film is in no way focused on making as many aesthetically beautiful shots as possible (although an early crossing of a no-man’s land water hole, a flare illuminated city of ruins and a final shot of relief are absolutely stunning), but every shot is filled with details that I cannot wait to discover even more of on my next viewing. Roger Deakins is a cinematography legend and he seems destined to win every single cinematography award of the season after which he - obviously - can send a much deserved ‘thank you’ to editor Lee Smith for putting it all seamlessly together.

It is, however, not only visually that the film simply demands to be seen in the cinema. The sound mixing and editing is brilliant too and follows suit with the naturalistic visuals. Every gunshot, every explosion and every scene of absolute silence feel real; here are now over-the-top, enhanced sound effects. Another brick in the construction of an extremely intense and nerve-racking experience that is rounded off by a brilliant and fittingly subtle score by Thomas Newman. Admittedly, it does have a few classic, suspenseful orchestrations (especially towards the end), but its true strength is that it also allows itself to be subtle and quiet when it needs to be. People who have seen the first full length trailer, will be happy to find that its beautiful rendition of the song ‘Wayfaring Stranger’ is also found in the film in a very fine scene.

With ‘1917’ Sam Mendes has made an original film that, despite the fact that it probably features every single war film cliché out there (but hey, war in itself is pretty cliché, right?), manages to grab you from the very first second before tying you to your chair for two hours before the credits allow you to finally breath again and take your first handful of popcorn. It shows the brutality and desperation of war, while it ironically manages to show vast nuances of warfare through its simplicity. Every soldier (and every dead body) that the camera slowly and objectively pans over have their own stories to tell, and that is thought-provoking to dwell on once you have left the cinema having witnessed just two of these stories. The film feels almost nihilistic at times with its disregard of every empathetic move or gesture until a spark of hope and life is given by the warm light of a fire just when the story seems as bleak as possible.

As such the film of course is a tightly planned construction and it does require a certain suspension of disbelief, but isn’t that part of what film can do? If you just suspend your disbelief for a couple of hours you can be told stories, given experiences and presented to ideas deeply founded in reality. I, for one, think so and as such this film is a surprising masterpiece for me. With its intense simplicity, groundbreaking use of “one-take” techniques and gorgeous visuals, nerve-racking sound design, beautifully composed score and profoundly moving acting, ‘1917’ is Sam Mendes showing us every single reason why films should still be enjoyed in the cinema. He does that while telling a gripping story of a reality that will forever be embedded in our history all the while it sadly still is the reality for far too many people across the globe. A cinematic triumph!

5/5

#Academy Awards 2020 #Oscars 2020 #Film Review #Movie Review #1917 #Sam Mendes #George McKay #Dean-Charles Chapman #Colin Firth #benedict cumberbatch #Mark Strong #Andrew Scott #Richard Madden #Roger Deakins

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dweemeister · 4 years

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The Haunting (1963)

Why do people like being scared? I am not one to answer this question, but even a non-thrill seeker like myself can appreciate a decent fright. For centuries, humans have been imparting to others stories of haunted places, ghastly monsters, the occult. That storytelling tradition has long endured and, of course, it would someday touch cinema. As film matures as a medium, there are certain films that produce experiences that are uniquely cinematic, unconstrained by older mediums. One of those movies is The Haunting – released by Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer (MGM) and directed by Robert Wise in between his work on West Side Story (1961) and The Sound of Music (1965). Though the film may no longer be scary to those expecting machete-wielding murderers and torture-happy mannequins, The Haunting boasts a suffocating eeriness in what initially appears to be just another haunted house film. Its disturbing visuals break it from its source material’s (Shirley Jackson’s novel The Haunting of Hill House) prose, embedding itself into the imaginations of its viewers. No less significantly, The Haunting is a striking validation of the beauty and necessity of black-and-white film – it is impossible to imagine it as a color film.

In the prologue, Dr. John Markway (Richard Johnson) introduces our primary setting before telling of its violent history:

…Hill House had stood for ninety years and might stand for ninety more. Silence lay steadily against the wood and stone of Hill House, and whatever walked there… walked alone.

Dr. Markway is an anthropologist with research interests in the paranormal. To determine whether or not Hill House is haunted, he invites six individuals with extrasensory perception (ESP) or past history with paranormal events. Only two of those invitees arrive at this Massachusetts mansion: Eleanor (Julie Harris; whose character is often called “Nell”) and Theodora (Claire Bloom; whose character, heavily coded as queer, is often called “Theo”). Heir-to-the-house apparent Luke Sanderson (Russ Tamblyn) is also here. Following the opening narration, The Haunting shifts its perspective from Dr. Markway to Nell. What the four main characters find at Hill House is an estate with off-center perspectives; numerous rooms and ceilings without right angles; stylistically-clashing art and furnishings; and isolation from humanity (the house is far from the next town and is staffed by two individuals, who leave before sunset).

This is barely a spoiler, but let it be clear that Hill House is indeed haunted. What happens is no ruse, and there is no living being orchestrating the abnormalities that occur. Much is left to the viewer’s imagination – neither discovered by the characters nor explained by the filmmaking. Whatever lurks down the hall or the floor above is beyond any explanation The Haunting provides. Davis Boulton’s cinematography provides few comforts. Boulton, whose career was defined by still photography and not cinematic work, liberally employs low-angled shots and film noir-influenced chiaroscuro to highlight the house’s unusual structure and to intensify the contrasts between lit and unlit areas. Color film would make Hill House seem too inviting, too sunny, too earthly. Viewers may notice some spatial distortions along the left and right-hand side of the frame during scenes within Hill House. The effect is caused by the fact that Wise and Boulton used a technically unready 30mm wide-angle Panavision lens to shoot this film. But Wise and Boulton lean into their imperfect lens by keeping the camera moving as characters move, in addition to the unsettling Dutch angles and unusual tracking shots in the film’s second half. The widescreen Panavision format appears to be ill-suited for haunted house films, when a filmmaker may want the audience to feel as trapped as the characters. But in this exceptional case, it (perhaps unintentionally) benefits Hill House’s quietly spooky atmosphere.

Production designer Elliot Scott (1958’s Tom Thumb, 1989’s Who Framed Roger Rabbit) and set decorator John Jarvis (1953’s Knights of the Round Table, 1972’s Sleuth) have crafted a frightening set to accompany with Boulton’s cinematography. Hill House’s exterior were shot on the grounds of Ettington Park in Warwickshire, England; the interiors housing Scott and Jarvis’ work were shot at MGM-British Studios near London. The dark wood-paneled walls; the heaving large doors; dearth of right-angled corners; the creepily-placed and sad-eyed statues, limited light sources (a motley assortment of candles, gas lights, and electricity); and excessive dark-wooded furniture contribute to the house’s oppressive dread. In daylight, these rooms appear curious, eccentric. By night, the environment of the house is – at best – unnerving. The two most terrifying interior scenes during The Haunting involve interactions with the set itself. The first instance occurs in stillness, with a view of a bas relief bedroom wall. The second features a door moving in ways impossible.

The Haunting merges the paranormal and the psychological to the point where the two become indistinguishable. That may alienate some viewers, but it will certainly keep one on tenterhooks. This merger of the paranormal and psychological is mostly thanks to Julie Harris as Nell. We are not given Nell’s entire biography. Yet, the viewer can surmise that she has lived a sheltered life. Nell claims that her trip to Hill House is an opportunity for adventure, a departure from a homebound existence where she mostly spent caring for her late, bedridden mother. Harris also expresses her character’s noticeable sexual repression and need for nurture – no other actor in this film is doing as much (or as brilliantly) as she is. Nell’s tendencies and desires are sometimes articulated aggressively, without tact and consideration for the feelings of others. She can be downright loathsome as her grip on reality crumbles, with no apologies to give after a horrible remark. As Nell, Harris pushes hard against the audience’s desire to find a relatable, sympathetic central character – and thus makes the viewer question about which scenes presented from her viewpoint might be believed (days after watching this film, I am still having difficulty grappling with Nell’s unreliable perceptions).

In 114 minutes, Nell’s relationships with Theo and Dr. Markway (not so much the smarmy Luke) become more turbulent. We sense that Nell has had little interaction with people outside her household. For what might be the first time in her life, she finds comfort in both Theo and Dr. Markway. But her frustration with her family life is never far behind. Her idealization of human connection beyond the family sees her lash out at the slightest violation of said idealization. There is some mutual attraction between Nell and Theo, but the former cannot bring about herself to say anything (Nell also ineptly flirts with Dr. Markway, who thinks nothing of these advances). On occasion via voiceover, Nell reveals her inner thoughts. This is a clumsy device when first utilized, but as the film progresses, it accentuates Nell’s madness. Her thoughts become incomprehensible, contradictory, hypocritical, and divorced from observable reality.

The use of sound in The Haunting is deeply strategic. I can not write much on this without revealing much of what makes this film scary. But on multiple occasions throughout, there are wonderfully-timed sound effects – some as soft as a whisper; others as loud as thunder – that will jolt the audience from its sense of complacency and safety. Wise’s sense of timing in this regard originates from his work as director on The Curse of the Cat People (1944), the sequel to Jacques Tourneur’s Cat People (1942). Both those films shared a producer in RKO’s Val Lewton, a low-budget horror specialist. Both those films innovated the “Lewton bus” – the gradual buildup of tension, culminating in abrupt aural and/or visual terror. The Lewton bus is the progenitor of the modern jumpscare, which became de rigueur sometime in the late 1970s or early ‘80s. Compared to modern horror films, let’s just say that this Lewton bus does not mind taking its time to pull up to the station – the influence of Cat People and The Curse of the Cat People on this film is unmistakable. Through its use of its own versions of Lewton buses, The Haunting twists the terror into its viewers’ stomachs slowly, agonizingly.

English composer Humphrey Searle’s soundtrack has never been released commercially. Searle, an expert of serial music (a form of contemporary music; in brief, it is a reaction against atonalism through a form of fixed-order chromaticism), composes an uncharacteristic tonal score here. Yet, it is just barely tonal. The score mostly disappears after the opening few minutes, but it is colored by high string tremolos and runs, foreboding brass triplets, and tinny bells that are a valuable contribution the sound mix. It flirts with atonalism, but there is always some melodic sense to this score. Searle’s score is unorthodox without being experimental for its time. There appears to be no sign of motifs in Searle’s score, but the horror genre tends to resist such musical construction anyways.

Upon release, audiences and critics did not know what to make of The Haunting. Most detractors were hostile to its plot (or lack thereof). In the years since, the film has been reevaluated on how Hill House itself is a character – shrouded in the darkness, its worst secrets unknowable. Robert Wise, the cast, and the numerous technicians working on this film all contribute to one of the greatest, most spine-tingling haunted house films ever made. The paucity of its special effects and dependence on a superb acting ensemble – Julie Harris especially – have shielded The Haunting from aging.

The house or whatever is haunting it is the star of this film. It is actively searching to kill. It does so biding its time, wearing down the psychological defenses of those who, seeking excitement or a deathly fright, dare spend a night within its walls. One will see how quickly such barriers, created over a lifetime of traumas and broken dreams, can be breached. In the moody shadows that could never be created on color film, therein lies the suggestion – functionally similar to, but artistically dissimilar from Jackson’s original novel – of something sinister, calculating, and cold.

My rating: 9.5/10

^ Based on my personal imdb rating. Half-points are always rounded down. My interpretation of that ratings system can be found in the “Ratings system” page on my blog (as of July 1, 2020, tumblr is not permitting certain posts with links to appear on tag pages, so I cannot provide the URL).

For more of my reviews tagged “My Movie Odyssey”, check out the tag of the same name on my blog.

#The Haunting #Robert Wise #Julie Harris #Claire Bloom #Richard Johnson #Russ Tamblyn #Fay Compton #Rosalie Crutchley #Lois Maxwell #Valentine Dyall #Shirley Jackson #Nelson Gidding #Davis Boulton #Ernest Walter #Humphrey Searle #Elliot Scott #John Jarvis #TCM #My Movie Odyssey

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rockislandadultreads · 4 years

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Check out these history books from our bottom shelf! All these titles need some love, so check them out today!

Summaries and Ratings from goodreads.com

Conquistador: Hernán Cortés, King Montezuma, and the Last Stand of the Aztecs by Buddy Levy

4.19/5 stars

It was a moment unique in human history, the face-to-face meeting between two men from civilizations a world apart. Only one would survive the encounter. In 1519, Hernán Cortés arrived on the shores of Mexico with a roughshod crew of adventurers and the intent to expand the Spanish empire. Along the way, this brash and roguish conquistador schemed to convert the native inhabitants to Catholicism and carry off a fortune in gold. That he saw nothing paradoxical in his intentions is one of the most remarkable—and tragic—aspects of this unforgettable story of conquest.

In Tenochtitlán, the famed City of Dreams, Cortés met his Aztec counterpart, Montezuma: king, divinity, ruler of fifteen million people, and commander of the most powerful military machine in the Americas. Yet in less than two years, Cortés defeated the entire Aztec nation in one of the most astonishing military campaigns ever waged. Sometimes outnumbered in battle thousands-to-one, Cortés repeatedly beat seemingly impossible odds. Buddy Levy meticulously researches the mix of cunning, courage, brutality, superstition, and finally disease that enabled Cortés and his men to survive.

Conquistador is the story of a lost kingdom—a complex and sophisticated civilization where floating gardens, immense wealth, and reverence for art stood side by side with bloodstained temples and gruesome rites of human sacrifice. It’s the story of Montezuma—proud, spiritual, enigmatic, and doomed to misunderstand the stranger he thought a god. Epic in scope, as entertaining as it is enlightening, Conquistador is history at its most riveting.

The Story of Tibet: Conversations with the Dalai Lama by Thomas Laird

4.18/5 stars

The Story of Tibet is a work of monumental importance, a fascinating journey through the land and history of Tibet, with His Holiness the Fourteenth Dalai Lama as guide. Over the course of three years, journalist Thomas Laird spent more than sixty hours with His Holiness the Dalai Lama in candid, one-on-one interviews that covered His Holiness’s beliefs on history, science, reincarnation, and his lifelong study of Buddhism. Traveling across great distances to offer vivid descriptions of Tibet’s greatest monasteries, Laird brings his meetings with His Holiness to life in a rich and vibrant historical narrative that outlines the essence of thousands of years of civilization, myth, and spirituality. His Holiness introduces us to Tibet’s greatest yogis and meditation masters, and explains how the institution of the Dalai Lama was founded. Embedded throughout this journey is His Holiness’s lessons on the larger roles religion and spirituality have played in Tibet’s story, reflecting the Dalai Lama’s belief that history should be examined not only conventionally but holistically. The Story of Tibet is His Holiness’s personal look at his country’s past as well as a summation of his life’s work as both spiritual and temporal leader of the Tibetan people.

Country of My Skull: Guilt, Sorrow, and the Limits of Forgiveness in the New South Africa by Antjie Krog

4.09/5 stars

Ever since Nelson Mandela dramatically walked out of prison in 1990 after twenty-seven years behind bars, South Africa has been undergoing a radical transformation. In one of the most miraculous events of the century, the oppressive system of apartheid was dismantled. Repressive laws mandating separation of the races were thrown out. The country, which had been carved into a crazy quilt that reserved the most prosperous areas for whites and the most desolate and backward for blacks, was reunited. The dreaded and dangerous security force, which for years had systematically tortured, spied upon, and harassed people of color and their white supporters, was dismantled. But how could this country--one of spectacular beauty and promise--come to terms with its ugly past? How could its people, whom the oppressive white government had pitted against one another, live side by side as friends and neighbors?

To begin the healing process, Nelson Mandela created the Truth and Reconciliation Commission, headed by the renowned cleric Archbishop Desmond Tutu. Established in 1995, the commission faced the awesome task of hearing the testimony of the victims of apartheid as well as the oppressors. Amnesty was granted to those who offered a full confession of any crimes associated with apartheid. Since the commission began its work, it has been the central player in a drama that has riveted the country. In this book, Antjie Krog, a South African journalist and poet who has covered the work of the commission, recounts the drama, the horrors, the wrenching personal stories of the victims and their families. Through the testimonies of victims of abuse and violence, from the appearance of Winnie Mandela to former South African president P. W. Botha's extraordinary courthouse press conference, this award-winning poet leads us on an amazing journey.

Highway to Hell: Dispatches from a Mercenary in Iraq by John Geddes

3.62/5 stars

Present-day Iraq: a crucible of torture, chemical warfare and Islamic terrorism, and straddling over it all the mighty US Army and its allies; but there's another western army in Iraq that dwarfs the British contingent and is second only in size to the US Army itself.

It's a disparate and anarchic multi-national force of men gathered from twenty or more countries numbering some 30,000. It's a mercenary army of men and a few women with guns for hire earning an average of $1,000 dollars a day. They are in Iraq to provide security for the businessmen, surveyors, building contractors, oil experts, aid workers and, of course, the TV crews who have flocked to the country to pick over the carcass of Saddam's regime and help the country re-build.

Not since the days when the East India Company used soldiers of fortune to depose fabulously wealthy Maharajas and conquer India for Great Britain, and mercenaries fought George Washington's Continental Army for King George, has such a large and lethal independent fighting force been assembled. Once upon a time such men were called freelances, mercenaries, soldiers of fortune or dogs of war, but today they go under a different name: private military contractors. There's a far more fundamental sea change, too, as women have joined their ranks in significant numbers for the first time, bringing a new and interesting dynamic into the equation.

In Iraq today the majority of their number are men who come from 'real deal' Special Forces units or former soldiers from regular units and regiments; all of them know what they're about and rub shoulders together more or less comfortably with at least a shared understanding of basic military requirements.

One such man is John Geddes, ex-SAS warrant officer and veteran of a fistful of hard wars who became a member of the private army in Iraq for the eighteen months immediately following George W. Bush's declaration of the end of hostilities in early May 2003. Now, for the first time, John Geddes will reveal the inside story of this extraordinary private army and the private war they are still fighting with the insurgents in Iraq.

Please Enjoy Your Happiness by Paul Brinkley-Rogers

3.56/5 stars

Please Enjoy Your Happiness is a beautifully written coming-of-age memoir based on the English author's summer-long love affair with a remarkable older Japanese woman.

Whilst serving as a seaman at the age of nineteen, Brinkley-Rogers met Kaji Yukiko, a sophisticated, highly intellectual Japanese woman, who was on the run from her vicious gangster boyfriend, a member of Japan's brutal crime syndicate the yakuza. Trying to create a perfect experience of purity, she took him under her wing, sharing their love of poetry, cinema and music and many an afternoon at the Mozart Café.

Brinkley-Rogers, now in his seventies, re-reads Yukiko's letters and finally recognizes her as the love of his life, receiving at last the gifts she tried to bestow on him. Reaching across time and continents, Brinkley-Rogers shows us how to reclaim a lost love, inviting us all to celebrate those loves of our lives that never do end.

A Thousand Hills: Rwanda's Rebirth and the Man Who Dreamed It by Stephen Kinzer

4.19/5 stars

A Thousand Hills: Rwanda's Rebirth and the Man Who Dreamed It is the story of Paul Kagame, a refugee who, after a generation of exile, found his way home. Learn about President Kagame, who strives to make Rwanda the first middle-income country in Africa, in a single generation. In this adventurous tale, learn about Kagame's early fascination with Che Guevara and James Bond, his years as an intelligence agent, his training in Cuba and the United States, the way he built his secret rebel army, his bloody rebellion, and his outsized ambitions for Rwanda.

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scifigeneration · 4 years

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How our screen stories of the future went from flying cars to a darker version of now

by Aaron Burton

Years and Years begins with the re-election of Trump in the US, and the election of unconventional populist Four Star Party in the UK. BBC/HBO

Fans of Ridley Scott’s 1982 masterpiece Blade Runner returned to cinemas for an unusual milestone: history catching up with science fiction.

Blade Runner opens in Los Angeles, in November 2019. Furnaces burst flames into the perennial night and endless rain. Flying cars zoom by. The antihero film-noir detective, Deckard (Harrison Ford) has seen too much, drinks too much, and misses his mother between “retiring replicants”.

As in “Back to the Future day”, (October 21, 2015), which marked Marty McFly’s journey into the future in the 1989 film, the Blade Runner screenings came with a flurry of discussion about what the filmmakers got right and wrong. Environmental collapse, yes. But where are our flying cars?

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So: what now that the future is here?

Our current versions of near future stories - namely the television series Black Mirror (now on Netflix) and SBS’s Years and Years - explore more extreme versions of the present.

Charlie Brooker’s Black Mirror is an anthology of standalone episodes, produced between 2011 and 2019, each set in a slightly different, undated, near future.

Years and Years, written by Russell T. Davies, bravely spans 2019 to 2034 with each episode leaping forward a few years through striking montages of fictional news events: the collapse of the European Union, the US leaving the United Nations, catastrophic flooding, mass migration, widespread homelessness.

We are in a very familiar world. The “near” is depicted in a realistic way through identifiable locations, documentary-style visuals, news footage, and lifelike dialogue.

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Technology: good and bad

Back in the real world, the future in the 21st century is unfolding in the palm of our hands. Elections are won and lost on social media, Sydney is covered in smoke. The rate at which technology is altering our lives is rivalled only by the rate we’re transforming our planet.

These shows explore these rates of change. In a 2016 episode of Black Mirror, “Nosedive”, every interpersonal interaction becomes a transaction: an extreme version of Uber Ratings with China’s Social Credit System.

Lacie (Bryce Dallas Howard) is an ambitious young professional excited by the opportunities higher ratings open up, such as discounts on luxury apartments, but being pleasant to her barista and workmates only gets her so far. So begins a perilous spiral of trying too hard to be liked, echoing the personality-as-product phenomenon of social media influencers around the world.

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The standalone episode format of Black Mirror means it can be challenging to develop empathy for characters, consequently the interest often rests on the single concept or final twist. The episode “Striking Vipers” explores the possibility of extra-marital love between best mates in Virtual Reality; “Hang the DJ” envisions dating apps as an authoritarian apparatus.

Most episodes are neatly wrapped up for viewers to escape to for pure entertainment – but also to escape from each dystopian possibility.

In Years and Years, we follow one Mancunian family over 19 years. The series opens with Trump re-elected for a second term. In the UK, the unconventional populist Four Star Party, led by straight-speaking Vivienne Rook (Emma Thompson), rides to success on the back of social instability.

Sci-fi concepts are introduced early on so we can explore their evolution and implications. In the first episode, teenager Bethany declares herself “trans”. As progressive parents, Stephen and Celeste immediately comfort their child, who they presume is transsexual.

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Bethany shrugs, “I’m not transsexual … I’m transhuman”. A concept not lost on Blade Runner fans who may be aware of transhumanist gatherings in Los Angeles in the 1980s, transhumanism is premised on the idea that humans have breached evolutionary constraints through science and technology. Biology is a restriction to the possibility of eternal life.

Disgust and dismay ensue from parents unable to comprehend why their child wants to rid her flesh and live forever as data. Through the course of the series we see how Bethany’s transhuman ambitions influence her personal relationships, health, career trajectory, and political activism.

It even starts to feel normal.

Years and Years delicately resists portraying a dystopia, allowing room for technology to demonstrate a positive influence on society. “Señor”, the ubiquitous virtual assistant, connects the Lyons family whenever they wish. Like Alexa or Siri, Señor is always at hand to answer questions – but more importantly, facilitates an intimacy that could easily be lost to technological isolation.

In 2029, grandmother Muriel digs up the dusty digital assistant Señor because she misses its company. By now, virtual assistants are embedded into the walls and omnipresent digital cloud but the Luddite grandmother resists.

“I like having something to look at, I’m not talking to the walls like Shirley Valentine,” she says.

It’s moments like these that remind us of our agency over technology and hint at its revolutionary potential to connect us all.

Lessons for the present

While classics like Blade Runner looked to the future to ignite our technological desires, near-future fiction reveals how new technologies are injected into our lives with little choice as to whether we should adopt them and little thought to their long-term appropriateness and sustainability.

These shows ask us to be critical of what might seem like minor developments in technology and politics. In an age of rapidly changing political landscapes and the climate catastrophe, it can feel like we are approaching the final frontier. In creating stories set in the near, instead of the far, future, science fiction provides valuable lessons for the present.

In other words: the choices we fail to stand up for in the near-future may prevent us from having a distant future at all.

About The Author:

Aaron Burton is a Lecturer in Media Arts at the University of Wollongong

This article is republished from our content partners over at The Conversation.

#science fiction #futurism #futuristic #dystopian sci-fi #utopian sci-fi #sci-fi television

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warehouse13pod · 5 years

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Show Notes 107 "Implosion"

Evil is afoot, Agents.

As always, you can click on this link or by clicking play on the embedded player below to listen to this week’s episode while reading the show notes.

Also, don’t forget that you can support us on Patreon!

This week's Writer Appreciation Corner focuses on Bob Goodman, a true asset to the Warehouse 13 writing staff. We love Bob Goodman and even featured a quote from his io9 article in our "Bonus 01 - Podcast 13 Season 1 Trailer,” linked here and embedded below.

You can follow him on Twitter as @b0bg00dman.

The episode starts with Pete imitating a dubbed Japanese samurai movie. This week's episode dealt a lot with a lot of ~heavy themes~ related to Japan and WWII, and interestingly those themes tie directly into the media history of samurai cinema. Pete was almost certainly imitating the action-packed samurai cinema films that were popular after WWII. And, in fact, most samurai cinema was set during the Tokugawa/Edo Period--exactly when the Honjō Masamune was crafted. You can find a list of some seminal works of Samurai Cinema from The Criterion Collection.

It's interesting that the episode focused on a Masamune being given as a gift to a US president after WWII, because a Masamune was actually given to President Harry S. Truman after WWII and currently resides in the Harry S. Truman Presidential Library and Museum. That's a pretty direct allegory to a sword being given to Woodrow Wilson and residing in the Woodrow Wilson Museum of Peace.

Incidentally, there is no actual Woodrow Wilson Museum of Peace, but there is a Woodrow Wilson Presidential Library and Museum, and it is (at least partially) a house!

And since the episode got to the Honjō Masamune pretty quickly and led to an early introduction of our expert in the podcast, let's give her the same treatment here in the show notes! We are so grateful and honored to have had the highly illuminating Dr. Nyri Bakkalian as our Artifact Expert this week. She shed so much light onto a subject that I have just…no other knowledge of whatsoever. It was fascinating to hear all she had to say about the Honjō Masamune and about Japanese swords post WWII more broadly. You can find her on Twitter as @riversidewings, check out her blog, or support her on her Patreon for more information.

Dr. Nyri Bakkalian shared a cringe-worthy story of someone who stripped a samurai sword to the tang. If you know nothing about swords (like me) then you probably didn't know what a tang was--or that there are so many more parts of a blade than the hilt, tsuba, and that long stabby bit. For my fellow sword novices, here's some info on the anatomy of a sword. Here's some information specifically on Japanese swords. And here's some information specifically on tsubas and other Japanese sword mountings.

But guess what?!

Dr. Bakkalian was kind enough to give us even more information after Miranda's interview. She sent us a link to a Japanese resource that discusses the real Honjō Masamune--and that even includes a diagram of the sword itself. Dr. Bakkalian added that "the sword was appraised many times, but it was designated a National Treasure of Japan in 1939, so we're fortunate that we at least have a paper trail if not the blade itself."

While I don't know much about swords, I do know a bit about kitchen knives. And what I know about kitchen knives ties in--very slightly--with the history of swords. Specifically, the layering technique of forging Japanese steel blades. Here's a bit more information on how Japanese kitchen knives are made and how that ties into the history of sword-making in Japan. Not that anyone asked, but I'm a big fan of my hybrid knife set that has a Japanese steel blade but a piece of thick metal that extends all the way down through the hilt like a German blade. The knives have a nice thin, sharp edge like a Japanese blade but a comfortingly weighty, solid handle that makes me feel more in control as I cook. I've included pictures of them, because I love them and this is the closest I can come to being useful about anything related to blades.

This episode dealt a lot with the frustration that can come from poor communication between friends and coworkers. This is something that Artie struggles with a lot. Here is an interesting blog post for any managers or team leaders out there looking to foster better communication in their workplace.

In the stakeout scene in the parking lot of the Japanese Embassy, Pete makes a joke about how the goggles make him look like Kermit the Frog. I couldn't find a pic or gif of him in the goggles, but here's a pic of Kermit.

As we get further into the series of Warehouse 13, we're starting to encounter more and more artifacts per episode, which means that we may not have experts on to discuss every single artifact that an episode references or features. That said, we love this fan wiki as a resource to look into the artifacts that don't get as much airtime on Warehouse 13 or on our podcast.

In this episode, we don't spend a lot of time on it, but Artie uses a 14th Century Firework called an "Ice Flower" that mesmerizes onlookers by triggering a feedback loop in their optic nerve. You can find out more about mesmerism in our show notes for 103 "Magnetism." The fan wiki points out that the firework resembles a type of firework known as a Catherine wheel firework. Here's some more information about the history of fireworks.

In the hotel room with Artie, Pete, and Myka, Myka demands that Artie tell them exactly what the sword does. We learn that the sword turns the bearer invisible but splitting light in half. The bending and manipulation of light to essentially mimic invisibility is actually a thing that scientists are researching. There are lots of techniques they try, and you can learn more about them here.

In this same scene, we got another great detail from the brilliant art department on this show. As Artie is explaining the history of the Honjō Masamune, he pulls out a Japanese handscroll. Japanese illustrated handscrolls are a beautiful and intricate form of visual storytelling media and you can read more about them here. Personally, I learned about them from the video lecture series from Sunday at the Met entitled "Storytelling in Japanese Art." You can click the previous link or click play on the embedded video below to watch that lecture series.

You can find more lectures about art and history from The Metropolitan Museum of art on the museum's website or more directly, from its YouTube channel. I've found some truly amazing information there.

We made a reference to Kluger getting "dusted" (RIP Kluger). That was, you guessed it, a Buffy the Vampire Slayer reference.

Miranda referenced using the Oxford English Dictionary to look up the origin of the word "kabosh." The OED, as it is affectionately called is an amazing resource at whom's alter Miranda and I both worship. It's so much more than a dictionary. It gives the history and first use of every word you can imagine.

You can gain access to it with your library card number, so please: support your local library. Go and sign up for a card, so you can access this awesome resource.

Now that you have a library card (I'm assuming you dropped whatever you were doing to go support your local library and get a library card), you can now check out the books where the phrase "to put a kabosh on" were first used. The first was Sketches by Boz by Charles Dickens and the second was The Wheels of Chance by H.G. Wells.

It is taking literally everything in my power not to post a spoilery gif of H.G. wells right now, but I'm committed to keeping major plot developments out of the show notes until we discuss them on the podcast, so instead here's a picture of me right now trying not to spoil things.

We also discuss how Artie's file said he was suspected of espionage but was actually arrested for treason. Small fact check, but espionage and treason are different crimes.

Outside the Wilson Museum, Pete and Myka have one of their patented heart-to-heart and Myka unintentionally reveals--much to Pete's delight--that she is a fan of Star Trek: The Original Series. Specifically, she and Pete discuss the trope of "red shirts."

We talked about how the orange vs. purple Tesla reminded us of lightsabers in Star Wars and Priori Incantatem in Harry Potter.

Miranda gave a Mini-Actor Spotlight on the actor who portrays Mrs. Frederic's bodyguard, Jung-Yul Kim.

Meanwhile, our main Actor Spotlight of the week focused on James MacPherson himself, Roger Rees. His IMDB is incredibly impressive, but his credits extend far beyond his work on the big and small screen.

Miranda recognized him from his turn as Lord John Marbury in The West Wing.

We also gave a shout out to Rees' husband, Rick Elice, an accomplished writer and actor in his own right. Sadly, Roger Rees passed from brain cancer in 2015. He was a powerful and talented actor who left an enduring mark on Warehouse 13. Rest in Pease, sir.

We referenced this hilarious scene with Pete and Myka's gesture-based discussion about needing to shoot unsuspecting Secret Service Agents with the Tesla...

…and how it reminded us of Spike knocking over the "Welcome to Sunnydale" sign every time he entered and left town in Buffy the Vampire Slayer. (Another reference #TakeAShot)

We also take a moment to appreciate the importance of Leena to the Warehouse. She's great, and we want everyone to remember that she's great.

We also talk about how Artie's unwillingness to address the source of his closed-off nature ends up putting Pete and Myka in danger and making Myka very upset. She says that Artie needs to address his emotions instead of allowing his emotional scars to hurt those around him. Miranda and I support mental wellness and therapy. Please see our show notes for 103 Magnetism for a list of crisis resources.

The episode ended with a couple of quotes from the Talmud. You can learn more about Jewish Sacred Texts here. I haven't personally used this resource so I can't very translations or commentary or anything, but we always link to books we reference in the podcast--so, if you want, you can read the Talmud online here.

That's all for this week.

See you next time, Agents.

#wh13 #warehouse13 #Warehouse 13 #107 Implosion #podcast 13 #pc13 #podcast13 #roger rees #buffy the vampire slayer #btvs #james macpherson #bob goodman #daniel dickinson #Dr. Nyri Bakkalian #communication #talmud #jumblr

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cinema-tv-etc · 2 years

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Here's looking at you, kid: A lot of happy accidents went into making 'Casablanca' a classic

The secret of 'Casablanca' is its lead characters—Rick (Humphrey Bogart) and Ilsa (Ingrid Bergman). Everyone in the audience can recognize them—perhaps even identify with them.

Sandipan Deb November 28, 2021

Casablanca' came out in the early 1940s. At the time, no one at Warner Brothers thought they were making something special. (Illustration by Suneesh K.)

Often, when at a loss about what film to watch to while away an evening, I turn to Casablanca. And marvel at how one of the most beloved movies of all time could be created through pure chance.

Released in 1942, Casablanca is a regular on various “100 greatest films” lists. It is one of the first 25 films the US National Film Registry selected in 1989 for preservation at government expense. It was nominated for eight Oscars and won three—best film, best director and best screenplay.

Some lines of its dialogue (“Round up the usual suspects”, “I think this is the beginning of a beautiful relationship”) are so embedded in the popular consciousness that most people don’t even know where they originated. In the 1970s and 1980s, it was estimated that every day of the year, some TV channel or the other in America was broadcasting the film.

Yet, it seems to be a totally accidental masterpiece. The studio, Warner Brothers, treated it as just one of the three dozen films it was producing that year. Director Michael Curtiz was not the producer’s first choice. The Hungarian-born Curtiz was less than fluent in English and often had to use pantomime to tell his actors what he wanted them to do. For the last scene in Casablanca, when the set designer delivered a “poodle” he had asked for, it was discovered that he had meant a “puddle” of water on the floor.

The script was being written even as the film was being shot and chits of paper with hastily-composed dialogue were rushed every day to the sets. Apparently, till almost the very last day of shooting, no one was sure how the film should end—whether Humphrey Bogart’s Rick would sacrifice his love for Ilsa, played by Ingrid Bergman, for a higher cause, or the two would live happily ever after. Some critics believe that this confusion about the fate of her character gave Bergman’s acting an added authenticity.

The most famous line of dialogue from the film—“Play it again, Sam”—is the most enduring misquote in cinema history. No one actually says this in Casablanca. Ilsa requests: “Play it once, Sam” and Rick demands: “You played it for her, you can play it for me.”

Also read: Spirited Traveller: Here's looking at Casablanca

Another line, “Here’s looking at you, kid”, a cultural milestone, was not in the script. This was something Bogart would tell Bergman while teaching her poker during breaks in the shooting, and when the scene was being filmed, he casually substituted the original line “Here’s good luck to you, kid” with his own words. Curtiz possibly did not even notice.

The story is set in the Moroccan city of Casablanca in December 1941. World War II rages and the city is ruled by the Nazi-puppet Vichy government of France. It is a den of intrigue, peopled by spies, traitors, Nazis and assorted sleazeballs trying to make a quick buck. Rick Blaine, a cynical American (“I stick my neck out for nobody”), runs a nightclub.

He is stunned when his former lover Ilsa arrives at his bar with her husband, anti-Nazi resistance leader Victor Laszlo (“Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine…”). We realize that Rick’s cynicism stems from his belief that Ilsa deserted him. The Nazis are on to Laszlo and his only hope of survival is an impossible-to-get “letter of transit” which will allow him to board a flight to Portugal and freedom.

Rick has two transit letters in his possession and thus holds the power of life and death over Laszlo. But he is resentful and bitter and refuses to help. Then he learns that Ilsa did truly love him and they were separated by a cruel twist of destiny.

Rick decides to use the permits and escape with Ilsa. Then, as the late critic Roger Ebert described it, “in a sustained sequence that combines suspense, romance and comedy as they have rarely been brought together on the screen, he contrives a situation in which Ilsa and Laszlo escape together, while he and his friend the police chief get away with murder”. Rick is redeemed by his heroic renunciation and as he and the police chief walk away into the fog, they leave behind in the hearts of viewers a warm glow that has not dimmed in eight decades.

As far as style goes, there is nothing particularly distinctive about Casablanca. It is competent Hollywood workmanship, no different from hundreds of films churned out by the studios during that period. But it moves along at a breathless pace. Even the actors seem to speak their lines faster than usual—maybe it was the English-challenged Curtiz’s way to speed up the action.

Casablanca’s secret is its lead characters. Everyone in the audience can recognize them—perhaps even identify with them. The tragic hero driven into a tough cynical shell, the pure-hearted woman, the cheerfully corrupt policeman who rediscovers his pride—they are archetypes, but presented with a pared-to-the-bone economy, from the scalpel-sharp dialogues to the not-one-extra-second editing. One can watch the film a dozen times and it never loses its edgy emotional power.

Nobody planned this; no one approached their work on Casablanca as anything special. The film was made in a great hurry and while the writers scrambled to figure out the story, Curtiz simply focused on shooting whatever scene they handed him for the day.

Out of this chaos emerged great cinema. The gods of chance and lucky breaks had pulled off a true miracle.

https://www.moneycontrol.com/news/trends/entertainment/heres-looking-at-you-kid-happy-accidents-made-casablanca-what-it-is-7770281.html

#Casablanca #Cine Fav

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architectnews · 3 years

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Coburg piazza at former Pentridge Prison

Pentridge Prison Piazza, Coburg Building by ASPECT Studios, Victoria Landscape Architecture Photos

Coburg piazza, Melbourne

27 Mar 2021

Coburg piazza at former Pentridge Prison in Melbourne

Architects: ASPECT Studios

Location: former Pentridge Prison, Coburg Quarter, Melbourne, Victoria, Australia

Wayfinding signage – delivered by ASPECT Studios

New beginnings for the former Pentridge Prison with new public Piazza

The former Pentridge Prison in the northern suburb of Coburg has undertaken a transformation, turning a decommissioned landmark of controversial history into a new residential and retail precinct.

Pentridge Main Piazza: Dianna Snape_ASPECT Studios

“ASPECT Studios is dedicated to transforming brownfield sites in our inner cities into thriving new communities, that also protect and value their past lives and the deep histories of places and people,” said Kirsten Bauer, Landscape Architect and Director of ASPECT Studios.

The prison operated for almost 150 years before officially closing in 1997, and during that time was the main remand centre for the Melbourne metropolitan area.

Pentridge main entrance: Dianna Snape_ASPECT Studios

Pentridge’s long serving role as a prison housing some of Australia’s most infamous criminals infused the site with challenging narratives, making it essential to have an innovative approach to interpretation and a considered response to the emotional and traumatic place it holds in many hearts and minds.

ASPECT Studios collaborated with NH Architecture on the original master plan that gained approval from Heritage Victoria and have subsequently completed the main part of the development of ‘Pentridge Coburg’ alongside Sue Hodges Productions (SHP) and PTA Landscapes, allowing the opportunity to build on the history of Pentridge as well as being part of its future.

Main Piazza seating:

The depth of the site’s cultural significance guided its redevelopment, where considered design elements recognise the history entrenched at Pentridge. The monumental size and classical style of the nineteenth century buildings contribute to their architectural significance making it vital to acknowledge the importance of the sites past whilst making room for new beginnings.

Water play sculpture:

ASPECT Studios sought to find a balance between the significant and dark history of the site, its heritage fabric and the need to create a new contemporary square that was welcoming for the community.

Positioned in the heart of the precinct in what used to be the parade ground or mustering yard, the new Central Piazza sits between the heritage protected bluestone buildings, and next to the new retail centre and cinema designed by architects the Buchan Group.

The spatial arrangement of the Central Piazza reflects the area that was once used as a prisoner parade and assembly ground, and the entry and arrival sequence from Champ Street has been reflected in the ceremonial entrance to the Piazza.

Children playing in the Piazza Dianna Snape_ASPECT Studios

Core to representing this arrangement, the marking of the historic mustering lines of the prisoners in the yard are embedded into the Piazza through simple concrete lines and crosses marking each prisoner, a piece of the interpretive approach developed between ASPECT Studios and SHP.

Large quantities of hand carved bluestone blocks were extracted by the prisoners themselves to build the buildings and walls from the adjacent former quarry that is now Coburg Lake. These blocks are reused to create seats, edges and a water play sculpture. In this way honouring the labour and craft of the individual and a connection back to the geology that has marked this site so dramatically.

Reused bluestone elements ; Ceremonial entrance to Main Piazza: left: Dianna Snape_ASPECT Studios

Connections into the walled enclosures were identified and delicately stitched back into the surrounding environment through the reuse of materials forming an intricate bond with the former prison lines. Additional elements interpretation of the stories and mementos of prison life are subtly infused throughout the site, accessible to all, an invitation to a deeper exploration to access the past. These stories are also infused into the wayfinding signage, also delivered by ASPECT Studios’ specialist inhouse wayfinding and signage team.

Pentridge is now in the early stage of a revitalised chapter, and by altering the perspective from a neglected traumatic space to one of Melbourne’s cultural assets, the site lives on to see a new era where there is much to learn and reflect on.

Mustering lines of the prisoners embedded through concrete lines and crosses: Simon Batchelder_ASPECT Studios

The Piazza supports the redevelopment plan of a renewed lease of life for the heritage listed building and grounds by incorporating the use of rescued materials from the original site ensuring the prolific stories hosted by the space are not lost or forgotten.

This recent development adds almost 6,500m2 of public open space to Coburg and will allow the Piazza to grow into a viable outdoor venue for art or cultural activities, entertainment, and as a lively hub for residents, locals and visitors to enjoy.

Coburg piazza at former Pentridge Prison Building in Melbourne images / information received 260321

Urquhart St, Coburg VIC 3058, Australia – pentridgeprison.com.au

Location: Urquhart St, Coburg VIC 3058 Australia

Melbourne, Victoria, Australia

3 Feb 2016

Building at former Pentridge Prison

Coburg Brewing Co, former Pentridge Prison, Coburg Quarter, Melbourne Architects: Technē One of Coburg’s most historically significant sites, the old heritage-listed laundry and D Division at the former Pentridge Prison: image courtesy of architects practice Coburg Brewing Co former Pentridge Prison

Architecture in Melbourne

Melbourne Architecture Designs – chronological list

Melbourne Architecture News

Melbourne Architecture Tours

Melbourne Architect – design studio listings

Website: Coburg Quarter Melbourne

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Comments / photos for the Coburg piazza at former Pentridge Prison Melbourne Architecture page welcome

Website: Coburg Quarter

The post Coburg piazza at former Pentridge Prison appeared first on e-architect.

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dweemeister · 4 years

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Woodstock (1970)

In mid-August 1969, the Woodstock Music & Art Fair, subtitled, “An Aquarian Exposition: 3 Days of Peace & Music”. Organized by a collection of American concert promoters and record producers inspired by the 1967 Monterey Pop Festival along California’s Central Coast, the intent behind the festival was to tap into the decade’s countercultural movement in the United States – a movement that loosely included the Civil Rights Movement, opposition to American involvement in the Vietnam War, sexual liberation, casual psychotropic drug use, and feminism. When described by those who professed to believe in these things, jumbled, incoherent answers or descriptions are usually the norm. Nevertheless, Woodstock (or “Woodstock Festival”, as I am not going to type the full name for the rest of this write-up) has become embedded into American history as a melting pot for these beliefs and behaviors. The soundtrack to Woodstock is principally rock and roll and folk music, but also contains elements of the blues, jazz, and more.

Woodstock, however, might have become a passing fancy if not for the official documentary film of the same name directed by Michael Wadleigh. The film, approved by Warner Bros.’ divided executives (the studio was going through some of the worst creative doldrums in its history and was nearing bankruptcy), is a magnificent example of observational cinema and encapsulates what it was like to have been in in Bethel, New York (the group that organized the concert was entitled “Woodstock Ventures”, and they never had the intention of locating the festival at nearby Woodstock, New York) for the duration of the festival. With a shoestring budget, at least five camera crews working throughout the day and into the night and early morning, editors, and other crewmembers pulled from the New York City area, Wadleigh set about to capture as close to an experiential totality of Woodstock as he could. Released in March 1970 (seven months after the festival began), the film – a rare documentary that became popular nationwide – brought Woodstock to all those not in attendance. Woodstock holds up, even for those born long after Jimi Hendrix closed the show.

Wadleigh’s film covers Woodstock from the hours of preparation on Max Yasgur’s sprawling farm before the first performances until the last performance. Woodstock is divided almost equally between the live musical performances and the attendees (through interview or capturing them in a spontaneous moment of musical appreciation, drug use, skinny dipping, and even one instance of outdoor sex obscured by long grass). To a lesser but not insignificant extent, Wadleigh’s crew also features the residents of the nearby towns and the polarized reaction they have to the hundreds of thousands that have suddenly appeared in their business and front yards. With an expected maximum attendance of 200,000, around double that amount appeared for the festival – overwhelming the local populace and the organizers.

There are six credited editors for Woodstock: Wadleigh, Martin Scorsese, Stan Warnow (1979′s Hair), Yeu-Bun Yee (1972′s The Unholy Rollers and 1978′s The Last Waltz) , Jere Huggins (1982′s Cat People and 1992′s The Last of the Mohicans), and Thelma Schoonmaker. Two of those names, aside for Wadleigh, stand out: Scorsese and Schoonmaker. In 1970, Martin Scorsese had just graduated from New York University with an M.F.A. and released his first feature, Who’s That Knocking On My Door in 1967. Thelma Schoonmaker – already Scorsese’s principal editor after the first editor on Who’s That Knocking On My Door had completed a poor first edit of the film – was less certain in the direction of her career. Schoonmaker, who had graduated from Cornell with the intention of going into international diplomacy, received her film education by editing films from European classics in order to show on American network television. Meeting Scorsese in a six-week filmmaking course at NYU, Schoonmaker struck up a friendship and working partnership with Scorsese that has included Raging Bull (1980), The Age of Innocence (1993), and The Irishman (2019).

youtube

After the festival’s conclusion, Wadleigh and his editors flew to Los Angeles to edit the 120 miles of film footage that they had shot with the audio soundtrack that had been recorded separately. To decrease the time spent on reviewing the footage, Wadleigh employed a West German editing machine that could allow the editors to view three strips of film at a time. The machine led the editors to frame Woodstock in a splitscreen format: for much of the film, Woodstock’s frames are split in half or in thirds. Though the effect had been used by other filmmakers in the 1960s, Woodstock employs it most emphatically. The provided example includes an excerpt from Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young’s debut performance of “Suite: Judy Blue Eyes”, showing how the splitscreen highlights the melding of multiple voices into this one song. But the technique is most often employed in juxtaposing the attendees of Woodstock with their fellow attendees. Looks of limitless wonder, stoned indifference, and musical appreciation mark the faces of those looking towards the stage, to the camera, to something faraway. The technique’s genius appears when used to convey irony: how Woodstock was a source of inspiration and joy for some, generational befuddlement and consternation in others.

Taking this splitscreen along with the approach to the film’s editing, Woodstock feels as complete a film – one could say experience – as possible, faithful to the Aquarian spirit coursing through American youth during a specific time.

For the festival itself, the editors take extensive liberties with the timeline. Richie Havens indeed opens the festival, and Jimi Hendrix closes. In between, the filmmakers jumble the likes of Crosby, Stills & Nash; Joan Baez; The Who; Arlo Guthrie; Jefferson Airplane; Santana; and Janis Joplin so that it appears to be in chronological order. All these performances contribute to the 224-minute director’s cut runtime (this is the version that this review is based on; the original theatrical cut ran 185 minutes and the first cut of the film ran over six hours). Thus, one’s tolerance for this musical documentary behemoth is dependent on one’s knowledge and appreciation of late 1960s rock and folk. Having been exposed to much of this music over the years, one can’t help but think Woodstock will be a fatiguing experience for some younger viewers.

The organizers of the Woodstock festival only recouped their financial losses from the festival through the release of the film – the concert promoters retained the exclusive live recording rights to the festival and received a cut of Woodstock’s box office gross. It is difficult to imagine how much of a media sensation a music festival can be – one where the young and old have at least cursory knowledge of what it is. Woodstock, at least in the United States, was Warner Bros.’ highest-grossing film of the year and the fifth-highest grosser in the nation in 1970. Behind 20th Century Fox’s M*A*S*H (1970) and Patton (1970), Woodstock’s success is unfathomable today, even if one could construct a documentary that could appeal across generations.

However future generations feel about the music of the late 1960s, Woodstock has been deemed a significant cultural document according to the United States’ Library of Congress. Inducted into the Library of Congress’ National Film Registry in 1996, the film will be accessible for them to see what – through their music and imagery and speech – a generation believed it could achieve. These days, those beliefs exist through the art they have imprinted on American culture, if, as some might believe, nothing more.

My rating: 10/10

^ Based on my personal imdb rating. Woodstock is the one hundred and fifty-third feature-length or short film I have rated a ten on imdb.

#Woodstock #Woodstock Festival #Michael Wadleigh #Martin Scorsese #Thelma Schoonmaker #Bob Maurice #TCM #My Movie Odyssey

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aion-rsa · 4 years

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The Haunting of Bly Manor: Mike Flanagan Discusses Standout Eighth Episode

https://ift.tt/eA8V8J

The following contains spoilers for The Haunting of Bly Manor.

When developing Netflix’s 2018 horror hit The Haunting of Hill House, writer/director Mike Flanagan always intended to film an episode that flashed back to the history of the titular house and spent time with all the former inhabitants before the Crain family arrived. Unfortunately, things didn’t work out.

“We didn’t get to do it,” Flanagan says. “We’d written it, we’d cast it, we’d scheduled it. It got excised before we could shoot it as we struggled to try to get the season done on time and on budget. That was the thing that we sacrificed on the altar of good behavior.”

Turns out that sacrifice on the altar of good behavior would bless Flanagan’s Hill House followup, The Haunting of Bly Manor, with an opportunity to pull off the very same concept in a new context. The Haunting of Bly Manor episode 8, “The Romance of Certain Old Clothes” is a sprawling origin story, shot in gorgeous black and white. It tells the tale of the two rich sisters, Perdita (Katie Parker, who played the “flapper ghost” in Hill House) and Viola (Kate Siegel who is Flanagan’s wife and frequent creative collaborator) who are charged with keeping the estate afloat after the death of their father.

To that end, Viola marries the rich Arthur Lloyd but then she is struck with a lingering illness. Perdita eventually “mercy” kills her increasingly sick and increasingly cranky sister, which turns Viola into the powerful ghostly shade that will one day be known as The Lady of the Lake, whose gravity holds dominion over Bly Manor. Set as the penultimate episode of the season, “The Romance of Certain Old Ghosts” represents a brief pause in the action for some exposition, but is done so in a highly stylized way.

“That episode’s my favorite this season,” Flanagan says. “The idea that we could actually go back and tell the story of the haunting itself, and of the ghosts, so that they weren’t so hard to connect to our protagonists, that was really exciting. It also seemed like such a great opportunity for Kate and for Katie, both of whom we couldn’t find overarching series regular roles for in the story as it was structured.”

Like the rest of The Haunting of Bly Manor, episode eight was inspired by the work of Gothic horror writer Henry James. While this season borrows from novella The Turn of the Screw and short story “The Jolly Corner,” “The Romance of Old Ghosts” borrows much of its plot from a James yarn of the same name.

“Other than having, I think, the best title of any short ghost story I’ve ever heard, (it has) the seeds of so many things that have become embedded in contemporary horror. You read the story as it is, and you can see the inspirations for The Ring and for The Grudge,” Flanagan says.

Both the television and short story versions of “The Romance of Certain Old Clothes” feature the shocking moment in which one sister enacts ghostly revenge on the other, though the names and roles of the sisters are switched. In the Bly Manor version, it is Violet who makes Arthur promise to lock away her treasured clothing in a chest and to save it for when their daughter comes of age. When Perdita decides to open the chest for herself it leads to the biggest jump scare of both iterations.

“It’s so beautifully described in the book that they find the poor woman splayed out in front of the trunk with this frozen expression of horror on her face, and the bruises of the fingers around her neck from the ghost that strangled her,” Flanagan says.

“That is more aggressive and vicious than anything else Henry James ever wrote about a ghost. Most of his ghosts are incredibly polite, and they just kind of are like, ‘Oh, hello.’ But to me, it really shows how some of the ideas Henry James first put out there have caught on either consciously or subconsciously over the years, and have continued to inform the genre. That story was always going to be one of the crown jewels of the season.”

Though Flanagan began as and remains primarily a director of horror films, with The Haunting franchise he has proven he has a strong handle on what makes episodic storytelling on television work as well. The standout nature of “The Romance of Old Clothes” is reminiscent of Hill House’s episode 6 “Two Storms,” the experimental lynchpin of that season which features long tracking shots and deftly moves between two timeframes. According to the director, it was important for Bly Manor to have a standalone episode that matched the energy and import of “Two Storms.” But doing so came along with a new set of challenges.

“It was one of those episodes, much like episode six in season one, that we were preparing for and building up to the entire time,” Flanagan says. “We shot it last. We had finished our ‘A’ story and made it all the way to the end. And then we had to redress everything – the interior of the house, the exterior of the house. We got rid of all the electric light fixtures, put in all the candle sconces, completely changed everything over. (Then we) got to finish the experience of making the season with this beautiful standalone, truly Gothic romantic black and white period piece.”

Though Flanagan oversees all aspects of Bly Manor as showrunner, he directed only the first episode this time around rather than directing all installments like on Hill House. He describes the experience of directing 10 episodes of Hill House as so intense that he came out of it “a shell of (himself)”, having lost 40 pounds. Several directors take over the reigns for Bly Manor and it’s Belgian director Axelle Carolyn (Soulmate) who handles duties on episode 8.

“Axelle Carolyn is a student of classic black and white horror cinema, and came to it with so many exciting ideas of how she wanted to tell it,” Flanagan says. “Everybody was always looking at episode eight as our chance to do what we love the most and what made us want to do The Haunting at all, which is to look back at Robert Wise and Jack Clayton and those incredibly influential movies from the early ’60s. They were done so perfectly, they’ve rendered it pointless to try to do a faithful feature adaptation of these texts.”

The Haunting of Bly Manor is certainly no stranger to interesting adaptation choices and horror homages. Inspiration from Flanagan’s horror influences and Henry James’s classic texts are readily evident across the entirety of the season. “The Romance of Certain Old Clothes” is just arguably where they all come together the most effectively. And if nothing else, episode eight is where ghosts of The Haunting world finally get the origin story they so richly deserve.

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The Haunting of Bly Manor is available to stream on Netflix now.

The post The Haunting of Bly Manor: Mike Flanagan Discusses Standout Eighth Episode appeared first on Den of Geek.

from Den of Geek https://ift.tt/36YtuIL

#aion-rsa #Den of Geek

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bk-lostintranslation · 4 years

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ESSAY: "Mad, Bad, & Dangerous to Know"- Narratives of Female Killers in Law & Media

The accepted roles of women continue to be those of nurturers, and idealized conceptions of womanhood remain tied to vulnerability, gentleness and self-sacrifice. Consequently, the element of female violence becomes doubly jarring.

X-Posted to Aletheia

In both reality and virtuality, the phenomenon of the 'female killer' is imbued with the illicit charisma of transgression. History is woven with literary and cinematic portrayals of women who kill, their personas mythologized until they have become staples in the popular imagination. Biblical archetypes such as Lilith, Salome and Jezebel are steeped in evocative subtext of the predacious, pre-patriarchal feminine entity. Similarly, the tautological relationship between the femme fatale and the film noir genre has long since been established, with the femme serving almost as a repository of everything irresistibly devious, yet simultaneously aberrant to the prescribed roles of her gender. Indeed, when perusing any account of female murderers, from fictive to real-life, there is an implicit sense that violence is the realm of the masculine. Women who traverse into this sphere, therefore, are aberrations – not just at the societal but the biological level. Although 'femininity' is an ever-evolving concept, it remains entrenched in patriarchal presuppositions. The accepted roles of women continue to be those of nurturers, and idealized conceptions of womanhood remain tied to vulnerability, gentleness and self-sacrifice. Consequently, the element of female violence becomes doubly jarring. It challenges society to reassess its established standards of sex/gender, exposing the deeply-embedded binarizations and prejudices still in play.

In order to rationalize the seemingly arbitrary behaviors of female murderers, two stock narratives are often employed by law, media and fiction. Known predominantly as the "mad/bad" dichotomy, this construction can be traced as far back as Lombroso and Ferrerro's seminal criminological work, The Female Offender. Intended to explain non-stereotypical female crimes, such as homicide and filicide, Lombroso first delineates the essence of "normal womanhood" – a paragon of passivity, guided by pure maternal instinct and utterly devoid of sexual desire. Women who depart from this definition are "closer to [men]... than to the normal woman," yet the masculinization does not elevate them shoulder-to-shoulder with their male counterparts. Rather, the criminal woman is a hybridized sub-species closer to children and animals. Firstly, as a creature of "undeveloped intelligence," she is riven by irresistible impulses and ungovernable emotions, thus susceptible to "Crimes of Passion/Mad Frenzy." Secondly, she exhibits a "diabolical" cruelty that far exceeds that of the male criminal, owing to a biological predisposition wherein her "evil tendencies are more numerous and varied than men's" (31-183). As Lombroso sums up,

"...in women, as in children, the moral sense is inferior... That which differentiates woman from the child is maternity and compassion; thanks to these, she has no fondness for evil for evil's sake (unlike the child, who will torture animals and so on.) Instead... she develops a taste for evil only under exceptional circumstances, as for example when she is impelled by an outside force or has a perverse character (80).

While such gendered contradistinctions have long since fallen into disfavor in criminological research, the "mad frenzy" versus "diabolical" categories continue to determine how female violence is portrayed in both media and legal discourse. Described by Brickey and Comack as a "master status template," these trajectories of 'mad' or 'bad' either victimize or pathologize female offenders, displacing the focus off the crime and onto the woman's inability to fit into predesigned boxes of normality, and more significantly, femininity (167). For instance, in the 'mad' polarity, the woman's agency is diminished in favor of painting her as a victim: "depressed," "traumatized," "deranged," and ultimately at the mercy of her emotions. It glosses over the killer's responsibility as an equal citizen under the law, falling back on archaic feminine tropes of passivity and helplessness that serve only to reinforce gender stereotypes. Granted, while mental illness can and has been a valid defense against culpability, it proves problematic when it reduces women who kill to Lombrosian roles of primitive infantalism. They are not dynamic actors in their own right, but tragic casualties of female physiology gone awry. On the 'bad' end of the spectrum, female killers are subsequently masculinized as per Lombroso's model, then stripped of all 'womanly' attributes, i.e. morality, kindness, delicacy. The language employed by media, literature and law alike tends to vilify them as deviants, beyond redemption or reform – and thus beyond the realm of humanity (Cranford 1426).

Both these approaches prove detrimental for a number of reasons. First, they force attention away from treating female offenders as nuanced singularities whose motivations are fluid and complex. Second, an outsized focus on their perceived biological or psychological failings does not offer a broader understanding of criminogenic behaviors at a macro-structural level. Indeed, it can be argued that such simplistic typologies as 'Victim' or 'Monster' serve only to highlight and feed harmful gender stereotypes, reducing these women to grotesque spectacles of 'Otherness' based on their deviance from the discursive framework of femininity.

To be sure, women who kill are statistically rare. Data compiled by the Federal Bureau of Investigation from 2003-2012 revealed that males carried out the lion's share of homicides at 88% ("Ten Year Arrest Trends by Sex"). When filtered through the designative lens of serial murder, i.e. "…a series of three or more killings… having common characteristics such as to suggest the reasonable possibility that the crimes were committed by the same actor," the number of female offenders dwindles further ("Serial Murder" 7). In his work, Female Serial Killers: How and Why Women Become Monsters, Peter Vronsky remarks that only one in almost every six serial killers in the USA is a woman (3-5). Studies conducted in the early 1990s also revealed that men were six to seven times likelier to kill others – strangers or relatives – than women (D'Orbán 560-571; Kellermann et al. 1-5). Similarly, Harrison and others found substantial effect sizes between both genders, in addition to marked sex differences in their modi operandi, i.e. males conforming to a "hunter" strategy of stalking and killing, while women resort to "gatherer" behaviors by targeting victims in their direct milieu for profit-based motives (295-306).

While these findings might explain the tenacious constructions of femininity – and subsequent 'deviance' – that still cling to the overall subject of female killers, they do not excuse them. Indeed, it can be argued that popular media portrayals of women who kill further fuel these stereotypes. News, infotainment and cinema alike employ a highly effective formula whose pivotal components are simplification, sex, violence and graphic imagery (Jewkes 43-60). Female killers cannot fully satisfy this sensationalist criterion except as caricatures. Otherwise, as highly complex and richly variegated individuals, their existence would prove to be a messy fissure within the neat constructions of gender and power dynamics – a status quo that the media arguably serves to reaffirm and maintain (Kirby 165-178).

It is unsurprising, then, that a marked dichotomy can be observed in the portrayals of male versus female killers. As previously noted, male serial killers are believed to exhibit "hunting" behaviors, with their crimes seen as the evolutionary offshoot of "unconscious drives" (Harrison 304-6). Applying this hypothesis under the aegis of patriarchy, men who kill subsequently become distortions of the masculine ideal: the quintessential hunter. The nature of their crimes is at once instrumental and agentic; their actions are rooted in destructive hypermasculinity – but masculinity all the same. Their actions are shocking, but in their own way they serve as paradigms of nonconformity. They have broken free from the artificial constraints of society, rejecting the very source that dares to judge them. Certainly, for Lombroso, the male killer was often coupled with genius, and his deviance linked to retrograde evolution, wherein his sloughing-off of societal norms, and ultimately sanity, was a biological reaction to being excessively endowed with high intellect. For Lombroso, while female killers were a biological anomaly, the males were often a trailblazing nexus between exceptionality and atavistic brutality – "creators of new forms of crime, inventors of evil" (74). In their book, The Murder Mystique: Female Killers and Popular Culture, Laurie Nalepa and Richard Pfefferman remark that:

Murderers are not heroes. But killing— whether motivated by passion, greed, thrills, madness, ideals, or desperation— is an extraordinary act; not an honorable one, to be sure, but undeniably extraordinary. And extraordinary acts— even depraved ones— tend to have the effect of elevating the perpetrator to iconic cultural status (4).

It is unsurprising, then, that the media deifies such individuals by capitalizing on their very notoriety. They are bestowed catchy yet edgy nicknames such as Boston Strangler, Skid Row Slasher, Night Stalker, etc. Their exploits receive exuberant, stylized coverage, while their actions are profiled and dissected to the point where they eclipse needful attention to their victims. History recalls with a horrified yet titillated clarity the names of Jeffrey Dahmer, Charles Manson, Ted Bundy and Richard Ramirez. However, their victims are seldom so fervently immortalized. The implication is that these killers are superstars within their own sensationalist dramas, whereas their victims function as mere props to drive the narrative forward. As Lisa Downing notes in her book, The Subject of Murder: Gender, Exceptionality, and the Modern Killer, "...a pervasive idea obtains in modern culture that there is something intrinsically different, unique, and exceptional about those subjects who kill. Like artists and geniuses, murderers are considered special ... individual agents" (1).

Cinema, too, reinforces the phenomenon by lending male killers, both real and fictional, a disreputable mystique – often elevating them to the status of cult fixtures. Examples of this trend include the critically-acclaimed American Psycho, which juxtaposes orgiastic violence with careless misogyny, but is nonetheless lauded as a masterpiece of urban self-satire, as well as the fast-paced psychedelia of Natural Born Killers, where chaotic murder-sprees are translated as thrilling acts of rebellion and self-expression against a hypocritical society. Similarly, the mythic Hannibal Lector, in Jonathan Demme's Silence of the Lambs, is portrayed as a ruthless strategist whose skills, while undoubtedly evil, can also be harnessed for good because of their collective desirability. Lector the killer may be abhorrent and ghoulish; however, Lector the man holds something of an esoteric appeal. His very transgressions serve to glamorize him as a shadowy figure of fascination and reverence (Roy 61-92).

The cinematic emphasis on male killers as paradigms of intelligence and charisma doesn't extend to pure fiction. Recent docufilms such as Joe Berlinger's Extremely Wicked, Shockingly Evil and Vile – which focuses on the exploits of real-life serial killer Ted Bundy, as played by the photogenically clean-cut Zac Effron – further underscore the tendency to glamorize male killers. As Anne Cohen notes, far from throwing a necessary spotlight on Bundy's victims, the film reduces them to irrelevant footnotes against a fawning narrative of Bundy's private life, as served up from the POV of his then-girlfriend Elizabeth Kendall. While the film's original intent may be to illustrate how Bundy's boy-next-door glibness could successfully fool his intimate circle, it arguably overshoots the mark by romanticizing Bundy to the extent that the audience becomes just as infatuated with him as Elizabeth. As Cohen states, "There's only so many times we can watch Ted’s tender acceptance of [Elizabeth] as a single mother, his devotion to her daughter Molly, his thoughtful gestures — cooking breakfast, playing in the snow, wearing a lame birthday hat — before we… start to feel enamored" (1). The subsequent backlash after the biopic's premiere, coupled with the perverse flurry of online admiration it rekindled for Bundy, is a classic case of the film's message becoming lost in translation (Millard 1). It also serves as a potent reminder that framing, whether intentional or accidental, allows male killers to invariably maintain the pedestal of cultural obsessions. As critic Richard Lawson puts it,

It’s indeed a wicked bit of casting. In addition to his heinous crimes, Bundy was famed for being disarmingly good-looking and charming. But he certainly wasn’t an Efron-level sun-god—so Efron’s presence in the movie lends the proceedings an extra otherworldliness, heightening the insidious appeal of American serial-killer lore to something almost pornographic (1).

Ultimately, whether biopic or fiction, these films swim through similar undercurrents: within a patriarchal framework, the male killer is a magnetic symbol of human impulse. A dark reflection of reality, certainly – but not, as is the case with female killers, a deflection of it. In contrast, paradigmatic examples of female killers as Lombrosian aberrations exist abundantly in film. Cinematic classics such as Basic Instinct and Fatal Attraction both feature psychopathic female leads, their much-vaunted sex appeal serving as a sinister smokescreen for their more bloodthirsty agendas. Underpinning their sanguinary appetites however, is the implicit strain of 'deviance' that first lures in, then terrorizes, their hapless victims. In Basic Instinct, Sharon Stone's neo-noir femme fatale Catherine Tramell is portrayed as a bisexual, hard-partying thrill-seeker who indulges solely in her own mordant whims. Every facet of her character serves to scandalize the audience – a framing that calls to attention the more docile, morally acceptable standards of femininity, as well as their ubiquity and pervasiveness within society.

However, for all Tramell's seductive dynamism, it is arguable whether hers is an empowering or feminist icon. Her body serves too blatantly as an erotic spectacle for male fantasy, effectively displacing her more human complexities (if they exist at all.) While Berlinger's Extremely Wicked offsets Bundy's erotic charge with a trickster's charm, and humanized nuances of emotion, Tramell's character remains a succubic enigma from start to finish. If anything, she appears to function as a two-pronged warning for male viewers. Firstly, that uncontrolled, untamed and non-heteronormative female sexuality is intrinsically rooted in criminality (Davies and Smith, 105-107). Secondly, that independent and sexually-dominant women are only palatable when their characters are flattened into pornographic caricatures (Meyers 300). In her book, The Dominance of the Male Gaze in Hollywood Films, Isabelle Fol remarks that the film "... appeals in particular to men to avoid deviant women and settle for a homely girl in order to evade the castration threat" (69).

This fact is seemingly underscored by the film's ultimate, ambiguous scene, where Stone and Douglas' characters are locked in a voracious embrace in bed. A foreboding, Hitchcock-esque refrain rises to crescendo and the camera pans down to reveal an ice-pick – Tramell's weapon of choice – concealed beneath the bed. It is through this scene that Tramell's inherent irredeemability asserts itself most explicitly. Granted, she eludes the fate inevitable to a majority of Hollywood vamps – death as fitting punishment for rejecting the traditional roles of womanhood. However, by no means has she been 'cured' by the hero's love. If anything, the scene highlights her perpetual threat as the castrator. The moment the male protagonist fails to satisfy her, she will dispose of him with brutal efficiency before moving on to her next victim. In that sense, she is the 'bad' female killer par excellence, her perceived deviance serving only to reaffirm the status quo rather than dismantle it.

Similarly, Fatal Attraction follows a well-known cinematic formula. A flawed but sympathetic hero – Michael Douglas' philandering Dan Gallagher – is beguiled, bedded then ultimately betrayed by the volatile femme fatale, who refuses to be relegated to an inconsequential fling and instead seeks to invade every sphere of his life, with the intent of eclipsing the very bedrock of patriarchal stability: the nuclear family. In doing so, the femme becomes, by her very nature, deviant – and must be quashed for the threat of chaos she represents. Certainly, the film goes to great lengths to paint Glen Close's character – the seductive and mysterious Alex Forest – as an unstable force who upends the hero's life with escalating levels of terror. An outspoken career woman, Forest also serves as the perfect foil for Gallager's more docile wife Beth – a whore/madonna dualism that is nearly as prevalent in cinema and literature as the mad/bad dichotomy.

Of course, where the latter is concerned, Forest is emphatically depicted as 'mad.' Her behavior is increasingly irrational and demanding, ranging from plaintive entreaties to Dan to return to her, to obsessively calling him at work and at home, to playing on his sense of guilt by announcing she is pregnant with his child, to throwing acid at his car, to killing and boiling his daughter's pet rabbit, to ultimately attacking his wife Beth in her bathroom. The film's penultimate scene, where she is shot dead by Beth after a frantic, bloody struggle with Dan, is represented as both triumphant and wholly justified. The survival of the male hero, as well as the continued sanctity of the family, is contingent on the demonization of the 'Other Woman' – and on her violent expulsion from the narrative. The film's final, lingering shot of the Gallaghers' family portrait acts as a sanctimonious reminder of who the audience is meant to cheer for, from beginning to end. In her book, International Relations Theory: A Critical Introduction, Cynthia Weber notes that,

...Fatal Attraction is far from a gender-neutral tale. It is the tale of one man's reaction to unbounded feminine emotion (the film's symbolic equivalent for feminism) which he views as excessive and unbalanced. And his reaction is a reasonable one ... because it is grounded in Dan's (and many viewers') respect for traditional family. ... Alex has a very different story to tell about her affair with Dan, one that the film works hard to de-legitimize (96).

Taken individually, the narratives of these films – rooted in facile, frivolous fantasy – hardly seem to warrant academic scrutiny. However, central to their criticism is the idea of reflection theory, which purports that mass media is a prism through which core cultural values shine through, combining misinformation and mythology into a seamless real-life spectrum (Tuchman et al. 150-174). That the media bears a cumulative, subliminal impact on its viewers goes without saying. However, so prevalent is its influence on how we perceive gender-traits that we also fail to question the ubiquitous, ultimately harmful constructions concerning women and deviance at both judicial and psychological levels (Gilbert 1271–1300). In their work, Judge, Lawyer, Victim, Thief, renowned criminologists Nicole Hahn Rafter and Elizabeth Anne Stanko remark that one-dimensional portrayals of women in media not only feed damaging cultural assumptions, but also contribute to countless "controlling images" in the sphere of criminal justice. Pigeonholed into tidy categories such as "woman as the pawn of biology," "woman as passive and weak," "woman as impulsive and nonanalytic," "woman as impressionable and in need of protection," "the active woman as masculine," and the "criminal woman as purely evil," these images saturate legal literature and obstruct worthwhile theoretical discourse. More to the point, they lead to sentencing outcomes where impartial justice often takes the backseat to parochial presumptions (1-6).

While it is tempting to succumb to the notion that sentencing guidelines in criminal law are based on airtight logic and objective fact, discretion—and its arguable corollary of discrimination—remains pivotal in shaping legal policy. The law is neither impartial nor inviolate, but as weighed by normative baggage and sociocultural discursivity as any other man-made construct. As Tara Smith remarks, "Law's meaning is not objective, and law's authority is not objective. The "objective" on its view, simply is: that which certain people would say that it is" (159). With that in mind, the actors in court (judge, jury, prosecution, defense) can sometimes play roles that are as rooted in confirmation-bias through the prism of storytelling as they are in factualism. Typologies such as 'mad/bad' can serve as legal polemics against non-stereotypical female crimes, creating blurred lines between lived events and textual constructions as truth. More importantly, the evidence itself can go beyond context-specifity, not standing alone so much as being subject to common-sense fallacies of personal interpretation. As Bernard Jackson remarks,

...triers of fact [i.e. judges, or, in some countries, the jury] reach their decisions on the basis of two judgements; first an assessment is made of the plausibility of the prosecution's account of what happened and why, and next it is considered whether this narrative account can be anchored by way of evidence to common-sense beliefs which are generally accepted as true most of the time (10).

Two particularly notorious cases of female killers, which illustrate the simplistic narratives employed by law and media, are those of Aileen Wournos and Andrea Yates. In each instance, the women committed crimes of a similarly egregious magnitude. However, swayed by a rash of emotive media coverage, where one woman's perceived fragility was poignantly spotlighted while the other was emblazoned as a remorseless outcast, both women received opposite – and in the eyes of the public, apposite – sentences. Aileen Wuornos, for example, was fallaciously touted as the first 'postmodern' female serial killer – a gender-averted Ted Bundy. Working as a smalltime prostitute in Daytona Beach, Florida, Wuornos was charged with the murder of seven male 'Johns' between 1989 and 1990. In each case, the victims were shot at point blank range with Wuornos' .22 pistol. During her prolonged and extraordinarily-publicized trial, Wuornos' rationale for killing the men would vary. Initially, she claimed to have committed the murders in self-defense, as the men either had or were about to rape her. Later on, her accounts took on a darker, more mercenary tinge, with her motives rooted in theft and revenge. After ten years on death row, she was ultimately executed by lethal injection in 2002. So mesmerizingly grotesque was Wuornos' misfit persona – at least as it was painted by the media – that her murder-spree served as inspiration for the Oscar-winning film Monster, a title that seems at once apt and ironic.

On the other hand, Andrea Yates was a housewife in Houston, Texas, who was charged in 2001 with committing filicide on her five children by drowning them in the bathtub. Yates was suffering from post-partum psychosis which, coupled with extreme religious values, led her to believe she was under the influence of Satan, and that by killing her children, she was saving them from hell. Having called 911 shortly after her crime, then confessing once the police arrived, she was convicted of capital murder. Her case was at once highly publicized and polarized, with many condemning her actions while others sought to neutralize her culpability by focusing on her mental illness. The media, in particular, seized upon the latter aspect to portray Yates as a beleaguered and misguided woman whose crimes were merely a distorted translation of mother-love. Initially pronounced guilty, she was nonetheless spared the death penalty, and sentenced to life in prison with the possibility of parole. In 2005, the verdict was overturned based on the erroneous testimony of an expert psychiatric witness. In her retrial the following year, Yates was found not guilty by reason of insanity, and committed to North Texas State Hospital (Williams 1). She currently continues to receive medical treatment at Kerrville State Hospital ("Where in Andrea Yates now?" 1)

From an objective standpoint, it could be argued that Yates' crimes were diametrically opposed to Wuornos' on the murder spectrum. The latter had no intimate connection to her victims. They were adult strangers – albeit ones who reportedly sought to harm her. Yates victims, on the other hand, all but epitomized stark, jarring helplessness: five children ranging from seven years to six months old. During their court trials, both the women's histories of mental illness were presented as mitigating factors. Yet the outcomes of both cases were vastly different – owing, at least in part, to the different ways in which deviance and agency were conflated, then used to either repudiate or amplify each killer's crimes based on Lombrosian-style archetypes (Nalepa et al 137). As mentioned previously, Lombroso, one of the earliest proponents of pathologizing female criminals, believed that women were by default amoral, with their redeeming feature being their maternal instincts. Devoid of this quality, the masculinized criminal female was ten times deadlier than the male, and inherently irredeemable (183). Despite the outdatedness of this paradigm, a thorough examination of the semantic fields forged by media and law reveals its disturbing prevalence during both Yates and Wuornos' trials. Each woman's description, peppered with loaded language and equivocal statements, served almost as implicit invitations to the jury and bystanders alike to mold the story into the most suitable configuration by filling in its gaps.

In Andrea Yates' case, the media seized upon her status as a housewife, former nurse and high school valedictorian to symbolically separate her from the flagitious nature of her crime. In an illustration of insidious agency-denial, the focus was afforded to the underlying excuses behind her crime, as opposed to her actions themselves. Articles from the NY and LA Times, utilizing statements such as, "Andrea Yates was incapable of determining her actions were wrong... she was ... driven by delusions that they were going to hell and she must save them" as well as "a simple, unremarkable Christian woman. She wore neat spectacles and had streaming hair ... the Yates were an attractive family," all promulgated notions of helplessness and desperation, while also imparting Yates's crime an aura of impossibility (Stack 25; "Killings Put Dark Side of Mom’s Life in Light" 20). This was a sweet, submissive, God-fearing homemaker whose entire life revolved around her family. Her actions were a mysterious, once-in-a-lifetime tragedy, springing from utterly alien internal forces.

Yates' status as a mother – a role that is so often pedestalized and mythologized – was further spotlighted to render her somehow pristine: a murderer, yet morally inviolate because the filicide occurred while she was under extreme duress. Her defense attorney went so far as to state that, "jurors…should pity a woman who was so tormented by mental illness that she killed her children out of a sense of 'Mother knows best'" (Weatherby et al 7). Whether intentional or accidental, the discursive outcome allowed for the construction of an utterly 'mad' woman – paranoid, pitiful, but most importantly passive – thus decimating the challenges Yates might pose to our conceptions of both femininity and motherhood. In her paper Women Who Kill Their Children, Jayne Huckerby went so far as to state that Yates, as a white, middle-class suburban mother, served as a "poster girl" for the romanticized cult of motherhood. Her actions, albeit deviant, were seen as an isolated incident rather than symptomatic of any greater systemic ills. Moreover, affixing her with the 'mad' label – thus focusing solely on her medical malady – allowed her case to be elevated to a political cause. Interest groups such as NOW vehemently advocated against Yates' execution, citing her depression, schizophrenia and hallucinations as excuses. The phrase mental 'state' was used repeatedly during Yates' trial – with clear connotations of its temporal and disjunctive nature. Yates, judicial and media discourse seemed to imply, was not the killer. Her mental illness was. This combinatorial tactic of medicalization and politicization garnered Yates extraordinary support – and quite likely owed to the lenience of her sentence (140-170).

To be sure, Yates' postpartum illness was not a fictional spin – but a legitimate diagnosis that affects women in everyday life. A Brown University study cited about 200 cases of maternal filicide in the US per year, from the 1970s to the early 2000s. It also suggested that psychiatric or medical disorders that lead to a reduction in serotonin levels heighten the risk of filicide (Mariano 1-8). In the US, both antenatal to postnatal depression continue to be debated as mitigating circumstances for murder (Carmickle, L., et al. 579-576). However, in other countries, the close ties of birth and its attendant biological changes to mental illness have been legally acknowledged. Nations including Brazil, Germany, Italy, Japan, Turkey, New Zealand and the Philippines have some form of "infanticide laws," allowing for leniency in cases of postpartum-linked mental illness (Friedman et al. 139).

In Andrea Yates' case, it could be argued that her declining mental health did not arise in a vacuum. Indeed, the highlights of Yates' psychiatric history, even prior to her children's' murder, reveal a woman beset by proverbial psychological demons. In 1999, following the birth of her fourth son, Yates was already suffering from severe depression, and struggling with a feeling that "Satan wanted her to kill her children." That same year, she attempted suicide by overdosing on medication, reportedly in a misguided attempt to protect her family from herself. She was subsequently hospitalized for psychiatric care, only to be discharged and then make a second suicide attempt five weeks later. by cutting her throat She was eventually diagnosed with Major Depressive Episode with psychotic features. After few months' treatment via outpatient appointments, Yates dropped out on the claim that she was "feeling better." Also, despite the warnings from her treating psychiatrist about the recurrence of postpartum depression, she and her husband decided to have another child. Following the birth, Yates went on to be hospitalized thrice more for psychiatric treatment. Her last unsuccessful suicide attempt involved her filling the bathtub, with the vague explanation that, "I might need it" (Resnick 147-148).

Leading up to the mass-murder of her children, Yates continued to display psychotic symptoms, including the belief that the television commercials were casting aspersions on her parenting, that there were cameras monitoring her childcare, that a van on the street was surveilling her house – and finally, that Satan was "literally within her." Convinced that her bad mothering was to blame for her children's' poor development, she fixated on the biblical verse from Luke 17:2, "It would be better for him if a millstone were hung around his neck and he were thrown in the sea than that he should cause one of the little ones to stumble." Ultimately, on June 20, 2001, Yates would wait until her husband left for work, then proceed to drown her five children in the bathtub. When the police arrived, Yates stated that she expected to be arrested and executed – thereby allowing Satan to be killed along with her. Of her children, she would say, "They had to die to be saved" (Resnick 150).

While Yates' actions shocked the collective public conscience, they also garnered an intense outpouring of sympathy. Partly, it was because, as Skip Hollandsworth remarked, "Yates came with no baggage." From her ordinary appearance to her uncheckered background, Yates had the makings of an All-American mother, who "read Bible stories to her five children... constructed Indian costumes for them from grocery sacks...[and] gave them homemade valentines on Valentine’s Day with personalized coupons promising them free hugs and other treats" (1). Her daily routines were familiar, her struggles relatable. It was easy to cast her as a stand-in for other suburban mothers, with her decision to murder her children serving to darkly mirror their own worst fears. As Newsweek's Anna Quindlen noted, "Every mother I’ve asked about the Yates case has the same reaction. She’s appalled; she’s aghast. And then she gets this look. And the look says that at some forbidden level she understands" (1). Ultimately, Yates' status as a suburban housewife allowed her to occupy the pedestal of the Everywoman. The predominant narrative, as imbricated by the law and media, was that of someone unstable, delusional, overwhelmed – yet undeniably feminine. Through her, the more negative extremes of womanhood had been allowed unfortunate expression, a fact that served to render her less culpable rather than more (Phillips, et al 4).

In direct contrast, Aileen Wuornos' narrative was afforded little opportunity for feminization, much less humanization. Rather, her status as a prostitute and lesbian was immediately seized upon by the law and media – then highlighted with pejorative, condemnatory rhetoric. Capitalizing on the strong stigma attached to prostitution, in conjunction with Wuornos' gruff, belligerent, decidedly un-feminine manner, the dominant 'bad woman' narrative was invoked. Central to the trial and its accompanying media coverage was the sense of Wuornos' inherent 'unfitness' – on both a gendered and societal scale. Caroline Picart remarks that, "Wournos, even if given the title of being America’s first female serial killer, in comparison with heterosexual male serial killers, was not generally perceived as a skilled serial killer but, rather, as being a woman who did not know how to be a real woman" (3). In point of fact, Wuornos' designation as the 'first' female serial killer was an embellishment: there are other women who would have just as readily fit the mold of the serial killer. However, prior to Wuornos' arrest, women who killed were stereotypically shrouded behind a ladylike mystique, their modi operandi veering from arsenic and cool calculation, as with Anna Maria Zwanziger, to maternal instincts warped by insanity, as with Brenda Drayton, to Angels of Mercy whose nurturing demeanor hid a crueler edge, such as Beverley Allitt.

Wuornos, conversely, did not fit into any of the conventional molds of wife, widow, mother, nurse or daughter. If anything, she subverted the very conception of prostitutes as disposable victims, prowling along the same highways where numberless streetwalkers met their end. More to the point, her sexual preferences and choice of work marked her as a hostile threat to society – and more specifically to patriarchal stability. When interviewed by the TV show Dateline, she attempted to justify her killings by reminding audiences of the extreme dangers of prostitution. However, she failed to grasp that delving into the gory minutiae of such a socially-reviled profession did her defense no favors. In prostitutes, society too often finds convenient scapegoats. Shunned as breeders of contagion and social ills, they are reduced to receptacles for everything heteronormative family-life pretends to disavow. Yet their role as the integral underbelly of society also necessitates their invisibility – and, by extension, disposability – in order to preserve the immaculate image of the nuclear family. With that in mind, perhaps it is at once ironic and unsurprising that Dateline's co-anchor Jane Pauley states, "This is a story of unnatural violence. The roles are reversed. Most serial killers kill prostitutes" (Hart 142).

The media, of course, ruthlessly weaponized Wuornos' 'outsider' against her. Her checkered history was touted as proof of her immorality, with news coverage running the gamut from mean-spirited to sensationalist. The NY Times was quick to point out that "Ms. Wuornos served a year in prison in 1982-83 for armed robbery…she also faced charges of vehicle theft and grand larceny," "She was a prostitute part of the time," "residents can now rest easy," "Ms. Wuornos was ‘a killer who robs rather than a robber who kills" (Smothers 16). Meanwhile, the LA Times ran an interview with police officers stating that, "We believe she pretty much meets the guidelines of a serial killer" ("Transient Woman Accused in Florida Serial Killings" 40). Every aspect of Wuornos' life was vilified and picked apart, the better to construct the image of an unnatural creature. Even descriptions of her physical appearance underscored the extremes to which the media tried to demonize her. A 2002 article at the Palm Beach Post describes her as "a haggard-looking drinker and heavy smoker…her weathered face has a cold, dead stare that morphs into a wildeyed laugh" (Wells 5). By so assiduously focusing on Wuornos' negative traits, the media sought to render her as unrelatable, and ultimately undeserving of human sympathy. However, at the crux of her deviance was not the violent nature of her crimes, but how far she had strayed from the boundaries of traditional femininity. Wuornos – caricatured as a monster of sheer lunatic aggression, wanton sadism and unmitigated cruelty – was not a 'real' woman. As Jeffner Allen notes in her work, Lesbian Philosophy: Explorations, "Violence is defended as the right to limit life and take life that is exercised by men... A woman, by definition, is not violent, and if violent, a female is not a woman" (22-30).

Similar to Andrea Yates, Wuornos grappled with mental illness. During her trial, both the defense and prosecution employed psychologists who testified that she suffered from Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD), in addition to symptoms of posttraumatic stress. First used by analyst Adolph Stern in 1938, BPD describes patients who are at the border between neurotic and psychotic. Individuals with BPD may suffer from patterns of instability in mood, jobs, relationships and self-image. The diagnosis is applied predominantly to survivors of sexual abuse. (Giannangelo 19). In Aileen Wuornos' case, her experiences of sexual abuse from childhood to adulthood, her violent and unstable years as a transient, in addition to her ninth-grade education level and mental disabilities, were well-documented. However, the prosecution minimized these factors during the trial, insisting that they were not "substantial" and in no way impaired Wuornos' capacity as an instigator of violence. As the district attorney claimed in his closing statement, "Aileen Wuornos at the time of the killing knew right from wrong."

This focus on individual action is by itself hardly noteworthy, if not for the courts' further descriptions of Wuornos as "primitive" and "damaged" – a subhuman designation at odds with the portrait of the controlled and calculating serial killer (Sarat 75-77). In Wuornos, the courts attempted to reconcile two seemingly-contradictory, yet equivalent extremes of 'badness' – the Lombrosian archetype of the atavistic female, a primal degenerate driven by a cruel thirst for sex and bloodshed, and the paradoxical essence of 'evil' as it applies to the feminine shadow, with an ice-tipped propensity for malice and manipulation. Yet, where the male killer wears both these discrepant masks of wildness and wit with a dynamic ease, embodying within himself a transcendental self-mastery beyond moral codes, homicidal females such as Wuornos find their narratives consistently entrenched in gendered morality. Even when afforded agency for their own crimes, their humanity (three-dimensional, flawed, self-directed) is downplayed in favor of a wholesale monstrosity. Their true crime is not taking a human life. Rather, it is straying, with eyes wide open, beyond the province of womanhood. As Ashley Wells remarks,

What’s fascinating about Aileen is how little her own mental illness played into her trial and the media hoopla surrounding it... There was no narrative in place for female serial killers the way there was for male ones. So instead of focusing on her mental illness or her horrific childhood, the way we might for a male serial killer now that we have so many to choose from, the media latched onto the fact that Wuornos was a prostitute and a lesbian, some sort of unholy alliance of the two types of women it only knew how to deal with in the broadest possible stereotypes (1).

It goes without saying that criminologists have embraced a broad spectrum of theoretical perspectives, from sociological, philosophical and psychoanalytic, the better to explicate the disturbing relationship between law/media and homicidal women. Predominant among them is Labeling Theory, which can be traced back to Frank Tannenbaum's 1938 work Crime and the Community. Chiefly focused on self-identity, Labeling Theory purports that deviant behavior – both singular and recurrent – is predicated on external categorizations, i.e. the self-fulfilling prophecy of stereotypes. Social categorizations function in pernicious ways, wherein people will subconsciously or deliberately begin altering their behavior to conform to the labels they are placed within.

In the case of Andrea Yates, Labeling Theory asserted itself on multiple levels. First, it was present in the defense constructed by Yates' lawyers, who cleaved tenaciously to the idea that she was a loving mother whose crime – while terrible – was episodic, and fueled by depression. The media too, seized this narrative and ran with it: the poignant image of Yates as a mother who had, quite literally, loved her children to death. Lastly, the insidious strength of labeling manifested itself through the personality of Yates herself. Her terror of failing to conform to the image of a perfect mother, by damning her children to Hell, led her to a shocking act of filicide. Rosenblatt and Greenland note, “it is the very attempt to fulfill her culturally defined role as wife and mother in our society which is often at the source of much of her violence” (180). Certainly, everything about Yates corresponded with the cultural view of women as emotional, flighty and easily led astray. Even her classification as 'mad' came to be viewed with the more sympathetic connotations of the word. Ultimately, it was that exculpatory label that framed the way Yates was perceived – by the courts and public alike (Weatherby et al 3).

Skip Hollandsworth, as previously noted, drove home Yates' appeal as the Everywoman, due to her lack of "baggage" (1). Ironically, the coverage of Yates' case was laden with it. The LA Times, for instance, noted that in the first four weeks of Yates' trial, "more than 1, 150 articles" were devoted to dissecting her morality versus her mental health (Gamiz 3). Early public opinion was sharply polarized, with some comparing her to the vindictive modern-day Medea of Greek mythology, while others condemned, not Yates herself, but her husband, her psychiatrist, her neighbors, and even the societal constructions of motherhood at large for allowing the rigors of childcare to overshadow Yates' clinical emergency. Ultimately, both arguments allotted focus, not to Yates' crime, but to how inextricably it was fused to both sympathetic and censorious conceptions of motherhood. During the early parts of the trial, for instance, the prosecution clung to the scheming Medea narrative, claiming that she had deliberately faked her postpartum issues, in order to coerce her husband into buying her a house (the family lived in a schoolbus before moving to a house in Clear Lake, Houston.) Meanwhile, the defense, and the mainstream media, veered toward the Madonna archetype, wherein Yates' mental collapse sprang from trying to attain the impossible ideal of the perfect mother. In either case, the disparate opinions were not an ideological 'split' so much as two sides of the same coin: the saturation of gender in "neutral categories of criminality and intent" (Hyman 193-208).

Unsurprisingly, while Labeling Theory offers an opportunity to examine its impacts on female filicidal perpetrators within criminological discourse, male perpetrators receive very different socio-legal epithets. As the Yates case makes apparent, both law and media doggedly adhere to the exaltation of certain social characteristics, (white, female, attractive, middle-class). In order to exculpate the offender, most, if not all, these boxes must be checked. Filicidal men, however, cannot readily satisfy this criterion. Cases similar to Yates', such as that of Adair Garcia in 2002, highlight the lopsided nature of both media coverage and legal sentencing. Like Yates, Garcia was suffering from mental illness, and mistakenly gripped by the delusion that by killing himself and his children, they would be "going to be a better place, a painless place." After putting his six children to bed, he disconnected the smoke detector and phone at his home, then lit the charcoal in the barbecue grill, and placed it in the hallway. By the next morning, five of his children had died, although Garcia and his eldest daughter, who was nine at the time, survived. Despite the defense's arguments that Garcia had sunk into a deep depression after his wife left him, and was "unable to think straight," he was found guilty of the five counts of first-degree murder and one of attempted murder, then sentenced to life without parole (Wang 1).

Despite the similarities in both Yates' and Garcia's cases, there was a striking divergence in the media coverage. Compared to the widespread scrutiny garnered by the Yates' family, a paltry 77 articles were devoted to the Garcia case (Gamiz 3). This fact that did not go unnoticed by The Globe and the Mail's Doug Saunders. "The distinction," he wrote, "lies deep in human psychology. When fathers kill their offspring, it is viewed as a serious crime; when mothers do it, it is seen as a deep sickness, one that garners both sympathy and profound horror" (1). Subsequent disparities would also be observed in the tone of media articles, with Garcia pegged as "twisted" and seeking "revenge" on his spouse, whereas Yates would categorically be described as a "Houston mother," with news articles posing headlines such as "What drives a mom to kill?" and "Andrea Yates 'still grieves for her children'" (Adams 1; Landau 1; "Twisted Dad…" 1). The contrasting narratives are a grim reminder that violence, even from filicidal fathers, is perceived as biological hardwiring, and somehow emblematic of men as a gender. As Hollandsworth remarks, "Men who go mad do not interest us. But women who go mad are haunting" (1).

Ultimately, it was this feminized conflation of madness with victimhood that diffused Yates' responsibility as a murderer. By clinging to labels that separated her from her crime, and yet sought to "preserve [her] femininity, fidelity and commitment to motherhood," her agency as an individual with complexity and self-determination was utterly disregarded (Hyman 208). Nancy Taylor Porter, in her book, Violent Women in Contemporary Theatres: Staging Resistance, describes Yates as a "cipher" (297). In both literature and cinema, "ciphers" are characters who bear similarities to the writer – "attitudes, traumas, even life events" (Boyd 1). However, in Yates' case, her cipher status rendered her not polysemantic, but faceless. Beyond simply a woman who "lost herself," she was someone who appeared to have never been found: she seemingly had no personal desires to dissect or decode. ("She was always trying to be such a good girl," her mother would remark in a Newsweek interview. "Always thinking of other people, never of herself.”) In Yates, both the courts and media constructed a figure that was less a person than personae. She was an empty vessel waiting to be filled with the most socially-appropriate label, and made significant through said label (Hollandsworth 1).

Ironically, this same vein of reductionism in the media's stance led to Aileen Wuornos' widespread condemnation, and later execution. While Labeling Theory is certainly influential in examining the coverage and outcome of her trial, more fitting still is the theory of Double Deviance, developed by a number of contemporary feminist criminologists. (Heidensohn 102; Chesney-Lind 115; Berrington & Honkatukia 50-72). According to Double Deviance theory, women who commit crimes are punished twice as harshly – owing to the fact that they have transgressed not only criminal law but procreative norms. Certainly, this element of condemnation can be observed in Wuornos' journalistic treatment. Whereas Andrea Yates was afforded the protective barrier of respectability (a former nurse, a mother, a suburban housewife), Wuornos, as a prostitute and a lesbian, was regarded as depraved in mind, body and moral fiber. Hers were crimes not just against her victims – but against her gender itself. The harsh – almost dyslogistic – language used by media both addresses and feeds her status as a pariah. Certainly, one might argue that 'first female serial killer' would not be such a shocking designation if women weren't so intrinsically linked to passivity. For a taboo to be broken, it is essential to recognize the unwritten rules that preside over our existence; the intangible myths that are enforced as reality through tradition and repetition. Similarly, femininity, softness, or mercy would not be sacrosanct for society if they were not also concepts that were fragile and vulnerable to violation. With that in mind, a woman transgressing laws, either man-made and 'natural', is perceived as openly more agentic – therefore deviant – than the woman who simply disavows those same boundaries.

It comes as no surprise, then, that Wuornos received such widespread censure. Granted, the nature of her crimes was brutal. But that very brutality – so masculinized and deliberate – was what shocked the public and jurors alike. Not only were a majority of her victims found stripped naked and riddled in close-range gunshot wounds, but Wuornos also divested them of their wallets and other valuable possessions, in addition to stealing their cars. How could the public reconcile these predatory actions with a woman – the so-called weaker sex – unless she was somehow quintessentially evil? When Wuornos' profession, sexual orientation, and poverty were brought to light, it seemed only to exacerbate her guilt. This wasn't a 'normal' woman – the scope of normality here being limited to the white, heterosexual, middle-class population – but an anomaly.

An article from the Washington Post illustrates the tenuous position that Wuornos – brash, foul-mouthed, stridently unrepentant – occupied in society: "Women do this kind of thing? Poison, yes, and the occasional queenly beheading, but can women be serial murderers like Jeffrey Dahmer or Ted Bundy? Spiderwoman! Avenging angel!" (Allen 1) Although the appellations bear a tinge of humor, they also serve to emphasize the essential absurdity of a homicidal woman. Such an individual becomes an incongruous breach within the fabric of our dominant cultural framework. More to the point, she is a blot on the pristine mythology of the perfect woman. This is precisely what makes the heinousness of her offense so blatant, and her stigmatization that much harsher (Phillips, et al 10).

To be sure, Wuornos was not alone in being pathologized and pigeonholed as a grotesque aberration of womanhood. Similar judicial and media language was used in the case of Myra Hindley, an English serial killer who, alongside her partner, Ian Brady, raped and killed five children between 1963 and 1965. Although both were eventually apprehended, tried, and found guilty, he of three counts of murder and she of two, the subsequent media attention surrounding the couple was noteworthy for the gendered lens of exceptionality versus abnormality that came into play. Although equally agentic in terms of planning and implementing the sexual assaults, Hindley would be dubbed "The Most Evil Woman in Britain," an incendiary label that far exceeded, and outlasted, the public's condemnation of her male counterpart, Brady (Cummins 115). Further legal and press discourse would reduce the pair to a heteronormative microcosm of gender roles, with Brady serving as the cunning mastermind, while Hindley served as the obedient helpmate. However, this stereotypical slant, far from minimizing her responsibility as a killer, horrified the public, precisely because Hindley was a member of the supposed fairer sex. In an article for the Independent, Geraldine Bedell wrote: "Higher standards are expected of women when it comes to the care of children: Myra betrayed her sex and exploited her sex so that children could be sexually assaulted, tortured and killed" (1).

Similar disparities would arise during the trial, with Brady's attitude toward children being only cursorily examined, while Hindley was lengthily and harshly grilled for her absence of maternal instinct toward her victims, ("The screams of a little girl of ten… Did you put your hands over your ears…?... Or get the child out of the room and see that she was treated as a woman should treat a female child, or any other child…?") Comparable to Wuornos, the crux of the issue was less that Hindley had failed by the moral standards of society, but by the social constructions of femininity. Also like Wuornos, everything from her appearance (“the Medusa face of Hindley, under the melon puff-ball of hair") to her sexuality ("longstanding and passionate affairs with other prisoners… she had them all eating out of her hand") were fair game for vilification. Her face would be emblazoned across newspapers and magazines as an icon of evil, comparable to the "image of Medusa" (Birch 32), and similarly mythologized as a one-dimensional symbol of monstrousness (Birch 51; Goodman 159-224; Jones 163; Stanley n.p). In contrast, her partner-in-crime, Brady, would slip through the cracks of collective societal memory, meeting the prosaic fate of living and dying in prison. Helena Kennedy, who once represented Hindley, notes,

We feel differently about a woman doing something consciously cruel because of our expectations of women as the nurturing sex. The adage is that women who commit crime are mad, bad or sad. The bad may be few in number, but once given the label there is no forgiving. It defies explanation that someone, especially a woman, stood by and allowed torture to take place, but it is important to remember that women did it in the concentration camps, and evidence is emerging that women are doing it in Syria and Iraq with Islamic State. Terror is a man, but wickedness is a woman (1).

Jaques Derrida, citing Montaigne, has famously stated, "There is more ado to interpret interpretations than to interpret things" (278). This certainly applies to the mandate of womanhood in legal discourse, and the pernicious effects it exerts on sentencing outcomes. Jaques Lacan, one of the most influential psychoanalysts of the twentieth century, has gone further by emphasizing the role of language in social and gendered regulation. That the proliferation of stereotypes has been absorbed into the fabric of language goes without saying. But more intriguing is Lacan's theory that the very bedrock of linguistics is the system of binary opposites: male/female, good/evil, self/other (Bertens 44). This proves problematic when the subject of homicidal women arises. Aggression is, by and large, considered an essential component of masculinity. Therefore murders committed by men, across the varied spectrum of violence, are easily equated with maleness. More perverse still – as the celebrity status of Ted Bundy or Charles Manson testifies – they are often lauded as exceptionalities, a type of Nietzschean superman beyond mundane moral codes (Waller 7). Conversely, female killers disrupt the very workings of cultural codes, due to their incompatibility with gender roles. Their discursive constructions by law and media are therefore intended to either squeeze them into a narrow, comprehensibly feminine niche (the 'mad' woman) – or to viciously excise them from the social script (the 'bad' woman). As Helen Birch remarks in her work, Moving Targets: Women, Murder and Representation, "... we do not have a language to represent female killing, and [cases like these disrupt] the very terms which hold gender in place (61)."

The solution, then, as Derrida puts it, might be to deconstruct the overriding 'mad/bad' narratives as they apply to homicidal females. Only through unraveling these binary systems is it possible to expose the interstitial spaces where these women exist as multifaceted beings with depth, nuance and agency. There is, by and large, no static or singular explanation for why women kill. Their motives and methods are an evolving, organic bricolage that is shaped by family, education, economics, religion and a host of other institutional configurations (Yardley et al 1-26). By superficializing each individual case study – thus treating the women's proclivities as either anomalies or generalities – we are in fact sacrificing knowledge at both the macro and micro level. What is essential, instead, is to look beyond social paradigms, and comprehend that guilt/innocence is in truth merely an effect of how it is interpreted, framed, and eventually typified in order to perpetuate and protect dominant mythologies. True, breaking free from the security of labels might place us in the disquieting position of owning our own ambiguous natures. However, it may also challenge us to examine women as hyper-specific (individual) and sometimes self-contradictory beings – and to further apply that ambiguity to homicidal women. To successfully do so is to confront aspects of human nature – and criminogenic behavior – that would otherwise be invisible beneath the shadow of institutionally-generated abstractions. Dichotomizing female killers as 'Victim' or 'Monster,' on the other hand, serves only to perpetuate harmful gender stereotypes, reducing such women to grotesque spectacles of 'Otherness' based on their deviance from the discursive framework of femininity.

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