I read Philip Pullman’s His Dark Materials trilogy when I was ten years old. My parents don’t write or speak English well, but they made sure that I could by bringing me to the public library whenever they had time off from work — which was very little. Pullman’s work, in this sense, made me feel the wonder of possibility in its purest form: Like Lyra Silvertongue (Dafne Keen), I had to navigate a world which didn’t make the slightest bit of sense. His books, however, taught me that if I just tried, maybe I could make it work. Above all, the trilogy has always been about the beauty of found families — in this day and age, our chosen alliances are more important than ever. Later on in the series, Roger Parslow (Lewin Lloyd) tells Lyra that she is an orphan too, and that perhaps all they have is each other. While the newly adapted television series of Pullman’s trilogy, co-produced by HBO and BBC, noticeably struggles with pacing and the glaring absence of key plot points, it does an excellent job at honing in on the complexity of familial relations, and how found families remain crucial to our survival in the age of political violence.Continue reading “‘His Dark Materials’ is a Worthy Series Adaptation of Philip Pullman's Trilogy”
Usually, in this industry, it’s every man for himself, and it’s almost always a man telling you your ass is too fat at the same time he’s trying to grope it. And having a woman in charge instead of that Sackballs guy? This is as good as it gets.
While there have been many shows about show business, GLOW is one of the few series that doesn’t treat its women as disposable, as plot devices, or eye candy for problematic men. At first glance, the show appears as if it’s geared to cater to the male fantasy, but GLOW is so much more than that. GLOW, for the most part is devoid of the male gaze, and allows its women to be imperfect. It demonstrates the complicated relationship between a woman’s body and her trajectory in life, and how men in entertainment (and beyond) try to take ownership of that. Over the course of its three seasons, GLOW has allowed its women to thrive, and take charge of their bodies and careers- both on screen and off. Although GLOW takes place in the eighties, not much has changed in regards to the body policing of the ambitious woman.
Since 2005, YouTube has been the haven for creative individuals to express themselves and bypass the industry gatekeepers. A blessing an a curse to the general public, the platform has spawned legions of careers for singers and makeup gurus, comedians and “influencers” of god knows what. For the millennial generation, can you remember what life was like before the age of sharing everything on camera? Before now, what did we have to share our creativity and parts of our lives with our community? For some, that medium was public access television. In its heyday, public access TV was a breeding ground for original, and unconventional entertainment in a golden age of sitcoms and teen soap operas.
Back in the nineties, Ruthie Marantz had her own public access show in Manhattan. Her show, Rainbow Ruthie and the Color Kids gained a cult following during its run. Ruthie’s allure was that she was just a young girl having fun and speaking her mind, something not so common during the time. In various episodes, Ruthie is seen interacting with people on the streets of New York City, and occasionally running into celebrities at events, such as the Spice Girls.
This is a largely spoiler free review.
Nothing about Santa Clarita Diet is supposed to work out logically on television. It is absolutely ludicrous, absurd, and simply downright unbelievable. A woman turns into a cannibal and is worshipped as the messenger of God. Organs grow their own legs and murder people. Somewhere along the way in this season, we have ancient knights fitting in perfectly in a white, suburban, and soccer-mom-dominated neighbourhood. We have characters questioning the point of existence, as if that even matters when cannibals are accepted as the de facto state of affairs in the show. However, not only does Santa Clarita Diet manage to find a coherent logic amidst the chaos, it also shows us that the comedic medium does not need to thrive on bigotry in order to question what it means to live in a world so horribly broken. Continue reading “‘Santa Clarita Diet’ Season Three Perfects The Genre of Comedy”
When scrolling through Netflix’s recent catalogue, it’s gratifying to see a lot of content focusing on under-represented minorities, especially in genres that are commonly concentrated on white, straight stories of privilege. While some, such as Pose and Everything Sucks!, manage to establish effective narratives of inclusion, others, such as Insatiable, fail miserably and feed into dangerous prejudice. It’s a relief that Special – the world’s first dramedy series about a young gay man with cerebral palsy – is not only respectful towards its subject, but also conscious of other struggles surrounding him.
If you follow me on Twitter, then you’re probably familiar with my weekly “THE GOOD PLACE [Sad Reaction Image]” tweet formula that pops up on Thursday nights. I started the show during the summer of 2018 and devoured the first two seasons in less than three days, which is extremely uncharacteristic of my uncultured-with-television self. I knew from the first few episodes, however, that The Good Place was no ordinary network sitcom. It’s been dubbed by many of its creators as the “smartest, dumbest show on TV”, which perfectly describes the show’s juggling of complex interrogations of morality, deep character studies, humane themes of life and death, emotional trauma, and self-improvement, all while maintaining a Spongebob-Esque absurdist but genuine sense of humor. It’s such a personal show to me that seemed to come at the right time. The first two seasons are masterfully written, and it would not be inappropriate to study the story beats and structure in a screenwriting class as the perfect model of set-up, pay-off, character development and everything in-between.
So of course, Season Three of The Good Place had a lot to live up to. Our starting point takes off where Season Two ended; an arrangement with the Judge (Maya Rudolph) had been made to give our rag-tag group a second chance to prove themselves as “better people” by preventing their deaths back on Earth. Michael (Ted Danson) and Janet (D’Arcy Carden), fully understanding of the gang’s positive group dynamic, decide to meddle further and reunite the humans together via a study on near-death experiences led by Chidi in Australia. I emphasize that this is only the starting point of the season – as you already might know, The Good Place is no stranger to the tradition of gigantic plot twists.
Riverdale’s greatest weakness is also its greatest strength. It compellingly criticises the culture which produced it, but this scrutiny reveals the show’s own inadequacies. Archie, played by KJ Apa, has an incredibly cliché arc in the first few episodes. Veronica calls out his struggle of balancing his passion as a musician and obligation as a football player as a tired dichotomy, something which they, as young people woke to the system, should actively resist, and seek greater depth in their lives. Despite blatantly criticising its own genre Riverdale got a lot of content out of that so-called tired dichotomy.
Riverdale, it seems, wishes to have its woke cake and eat it too.