Come for the viral demon carousel horse, and stay for the heart-wrenchingly beautiful love story. We Live in Time (2024) knits together the stories of Almut, a flourishing restaurateur, and Tobias, a drifting divorced Weetabix salesman. Their meet-crash (the first in romantic dramedy history, perhaps?) leads to a decade-long saga of enduring love that persists through both the monotony and the drama that life contains. The story is woven in a nonlinear fashion, apropos of the title itself. The film frames the macrocosms and microcosms of time found in ordinary life with heartbreaking grace and intimacy. Life-defining events – career milestones, birth, and death – are boiled down to the small moments that make them up. We experience the long minutes of waiting and false alarms in childbirth, the long minutes of waiting and difficult conversations in death. The film’s magic lies in the little scenes within Almut and Tobias’ life. While the chaotic birth scene in the petrol station was an equally horrific and a beautiful testimony of the goodwill of humanity, it is eclipsed by the quietly touching scene in the bathtub during Almut’s labour, in which she and Tobias share a comically large pack of Jaffa Cakes that sit atop Almut’s pregnant belly. The instant is delicate, intimate, and ordinary; we view these characters in their real lives, intruding on their shared moment. Interludes such as this place the most importance on the smallest memories in one’s life. Time is shown in all different sizes, from Tobias’ stopwatch counting labour contractions to the looming countdown at the biennial chef championship, the Bocuse d’Or. Time  intrudes into everyday conversations:

“Whether we like it or not, the clock is ticking.”

“What’s the rush?”

“Because I’m worried there’s a very distinct and real possibility that I am about to fall in love with you.”

Love is seen in its most desperate and revelatory moments; in its simplicity, served alongside eggs at breakfast; and in carefully choreographed and well-placed scenes of intimacy. 

In the hands of another production, Almut could have easily fallen into the Manic Pixie Dream Girl trap, dancing into Tobias’ doldrum life with her funky hair, spectacular omelets, casual bisexuality, and resolutely independent charm. Florence Pugh obstinately refuses that categorization, bringing incredible life and depth to the character. Almut is not defined by her relationship with Tobias – she has a deep history, defined goals, and is marked by her ambition and drive. Pugh grounds Almut’s headstrong spirit, however, allowing her equal moments of vulnerability and strength. The film’s central question of quality over quantity of time is most apparent in Almut’s recurrent battle with ovarian cancer, which she must face while attempting to balance her family and her career as a chef. Though she views her invitation to the Bocuse d’Or as the pinnacle of her culinary career, Almut’s competitiveness is backed not by selfish aims of obtaining money and fame, but by the desperate desire to leave behind a legacy that her daughter can be proud to claim. 

It is, I believe, objectively impossible for Andrew Garfield to be anything less than the most charming and lovable character in any film he stars in, with We Live in Time being no exception. Tobias joins a long line of Endearingly Nerdy and Bashful Boys who Wear Glasses (joined by Neil Perry, Milo James Thatch, and, of course, Peter Parker). Divorced, living with his father, and working at Weetabix, Tobias meets Almut when he needs her most (as the story always goes). While Almut is defined by her career, Tobias is defined by his unabashed love. He goes all-in on the relationship, accidentally scaring Almut with questions about raising children far too early. As Tobias and Almut fall in love with each other, the audience cannot help but fall equally in love with the two of them. 

Pugh and Garfield, as usual, wholly embody their characters in their signature modes of perfection. Pugh lends an earnestness and profound passion to Almut. Their shared love of food, particularly in how it creates connection and community, is a running theme throughout the film. Garfield embodies Tobias’ earnest love and devotion in an unobtrusive, yet firmly present manner, allowing Pugh to shine without getting lost in her shadow. However, at times, the characters felt slightly formulaic, with their traits and flaws feeling more like stock checklists for the audience to count on their fingers: 

Tobias: 

1. Is organized, devoted to his lists, and most thoroughly a Virgo (he and I are twin souls in this sense). 
2. Has anger management issues and occasional violent bursts of passion.
3. Prioritizes family over career ambitions.
4. Wears glasses (this is a defining character trait of his). 

Almut: 

1. Cooks (quite well).
2. Fights against feeling tied down or limited.
3. Defines her life success by her career achievements.
4. Has cool hair.

The film’s culminating tension falls into the standard trope of frustrating miscommunication and concealment. Almut attempts to hide her participation in the Bocuse d’Or, the stress of which may interfere with her chemotherapy treatment. Tobias cannot fathom her prioritization of her career over their family. The discord between their ideas of a “successful life” leads to one of Tobias’ characteristic outbursts of anger and a dramatic fight that seems to be a requirement for all romance movies. The film avoids overbearing melodrama, however, offering quick resolution and a patched relationship that makes the ending all the more heartbreakingly tragic.

While the film is not as revolutionary and wheel-reinventing as, say, Aftersun (2022), it derives its charm and power from its ordinariness. The emotions evoked feel familiar, delivered in a frame of warm colour and comfort. The events witnessed (except, perhaps, the international cooking competition and the incredible speed at which Tobias healed after being run over by a car) are both joyfully and painfully common. Though a more dramatic and gut-punching sequence could have aided in the final impact of the film, the ending is quietly devastating: as Almut gracefully skates away from her family, the agony is felt in what is unsaid. The audience is nonetheless banded together in their grief, sharing sobs as the soundtrack plays to the rolling credits.

The Daily gives We Live in Time 4.25 out of 5 stars.

The post A Love Letter to Time appeared first on The McGill Daily.

The Substance, the visceral and stomach-churning body horror film written and directed by French filmmaker Coralie Fargeat, has been described by its star Demi Moore as “The Picture of Dorian Gray meets Death Becomes Her.” It tells the story of aging Hollywood actress Elizabeth Sparkle (Demi Moore) who gets fired on her 50h birthday for someone “newer,” and is offered a black market drug that turns her into a younger, more beautiful version of herself. In the preface to the aforementioned Oscar Wilde novel, he writes, “When critics disagree, the artist is in accord with himself.” And Fargeat’s no-holds-barred approach to body horror – loaded with criticism of Hollywood’s ageism and beauty standards – is exactly how she dreamed it, regardless of whether or not audiences are ready for it. 

The main point of criticism viewers have for The Substance – aside from those who don’t really understand what “body horror” actually means and that it is, in fact, gross – is that the messaging is too relentless. But based on Fargeat’s meticulous script that includes  “as much detail as possible,” this is exactly the point. Every single aspect of the film, overt and subtle, had something to say about ageism and beauty standards in Hollywood, from the cinematography, to the casting, to the specific ways body horror was used. In doing so, Fargeat gives Hollywood a taste of its own medicine. 

 Immediately after watching The Substance, my first thought about Coralie Fargeat was, “this woman knows her film theory.” Unsurprisingly, she attended La Fémis, one of the most prestigious cinema schools in France. Fargeat’s facetious filmmaking challenges the way women have historically been represented in narrative cinema. Her use of fragmentation with the character of Sue (Margaret Qualley), the “younger, hotter” version of Elizabeth, is a direct reference to ideas about representing women first theorized in the 70s by Laura Mulvey. Mulvey argues that fragmented shots of the female body (eyes, boobs, butt, feet, lips, etc.) freeze “the flow of action for erotic contemplation” and present the female body as “mere verisimilitude,” embodying the possessive desire caused by castration anxiety from the male viewer. 

With Sue, Fargeat takes this history of Hollywood attempting to possess the female body by lingering on it, fragmenting it, and deconstructing it, rendering it completely absurd. In a scene where Sue is shooting an episode of her workout show, excessive zoom-ins, slow-mo, replays, and a grid of the shot showing her lips saying “Sue” a million times over garnered laughter from the audience – both genuine and uncomfortable. But it’s just a hyperbolic version of what cinema has been for over a century. The use of nudity serves a similar purpose: Qualley poses nude, lingers, and contemplates her own eroticism. Moore’s nudity is far less stylized: she is lying on the floor or leaning over the sink, unfragmented, unglamourous. 

There is only one male character in the entire film: Dennis Quaid’s scummy studio executive. The rigidity he represents is made all the more real by his constant proximity to the camera. He often enters from a distance and approaches the camera as if invading it. The use of a fisheye lens makes him even more confrontational of a presence. Quaid is also shot flatly and symmetrically, emphasizing the shallowness of his character. The “in-your-faceness” of the film is made literal by the cinematography – it is not a dialogue-heavy movie. It is all completely thought-out and audiences fall right into Fargeat’s well-trained hands whether they like it or not. 

Between films like Poor Things, Drive Away Dolls, and Kinds of Kindness, Margaret Qualley has enjoyed a year as the thriller genre’s new muse. Demi Moore, however, while unanimously popular in the 80s and 90s, hasn’t been in the spotlight for some time. In this way, both of these were stunt castings. Demi Moore was once the highest paid actress in the world, but her career waned immensely in the 2000s and 2010s, both because of her stepping aside to raise her three daughters and the scrutiny the media placed her under. “She’s been put through the media wringer throughout her 40-year career,” writes Richard Lyndon for Vanity Fair, “scrutinized and speculated about and cast aside.” 

In the late 90s and early 2000s, the rise of tabloid culture, beauty and plastic surgery fads, and the inception of the internet, caused a phenomenon of popular actresses either being cast away from the spotlight or getting procedures to look younger. Other actresses popular during the 80s and 90s who suffered immensely because of drastically changing and increasingly harsh media reception include Courtney Cox and Meg Ryan, whose plastic surgeries were moreso the result of external pressure than autonomous decisions, and were criticized heavily. 

However, actresses who have aged naturally are treated no better, Demi Moore included. Other actresses like Geena Davis and Glenn Close have struggled immensely with  getting roles since hitting 50. Moore falls more into this category, as does Elizabeth: her boss fires her exactly on her 50th birthday, sending her a syntactically devastating note on a bouquet of flowers: “you WERE great!,” in contrast with Sue’s congratulatory “you ARE great!” No woman is spared from agism in Hollywood. Fargeat, therefore, does not spare patriarchal Hollywood overlords for a second in The Substance. 

Messaging in The Substance is rivalled in explicitness only by the positively unhinged body horror. Many claimed The Substance to be one of the grossest movies they’ve ever seen, but there was no better genre choice in my eyes to convey Fargeat’s message. Aging, in its simplest terms, is getting nearer to death, a physical transformation that transgresses inside and outside, alive and dead. This is called abjection, a tenet of literary criticism theorized by feminist cultural philosopher Julia Kristeva, and is the subconscious recognition of one’s own mortality brought about by the transgression between the inside and outside of the body, the self and the other. 

Women’s bodies are no stranger to inside-outside transgression and are far more subject to abjection. Between menstruation, childbirth, penetrative sex, birth control, menopause, and all the other daily horrors we experience, we come face to face with the limits of our corporeality on the regular – more than men will ever have to. As Sue becomes more and more abusive of the Substance, she becomes more and more abject. A nightmare sequence shows her back opening up to spill out all her organs, she has to pull a whole chicken wing out of her belly button during rehearsal for her show, and at the end, when she attempts to take full control and not switch back with Elizabeth, her teeth and ears begin to fall off. 

When Sue decides to use the single-use Substance to create yet another version of herself, she turns into the horrifying conglomeration of blood and body parts “Mostro Elisasue.” The elements of her body that transgress inside and outside are extremely purposeful. At one point, an orifice from the monster (an ear? A mouth? Something else perhaps?) opens, producing a lone untethered breast. Here, Fargeat takes a part of Sue that was once for erotic contemplation and renders it a tool for disgust. Aging, despite being a privilege, can still be physically arduous. The idea of trying to counter aging is just as gruesome: the injection of the Substance, including all the needles and stitches, are the parts of real anti-aging procedures we don’t see, and that we only judge the results of.   

Every detail of The Substance being considered “too in your face” by audiences isn’t just missing Fargeat not taking herself too seriously, it’s also missing the irony. The “in-your face-ness” of everything on the internet – every post on social media, every pop culture trend, the mere concept of “influencers,” is all about how to be more beautiful, how to look younger, and buy all these products. But when Fargeat uses that exact same method of saturating the screen with all this visual pathos – this time to comment on the horror of ageism and beauty standards – that’s when something being too overt is criticized.  

The Substance itself is a metaphor for these trends that we see everywhere: Ozempic, trending surgeries like BBLs, buccal fat removal, eye lifts – it’s all body horror. It’s all injections, removals of flesh, the splicing off of excess, putting it elsewhere, things entering our bloodstreams. Aging, too, is bodily decay. One, however, is natural, a privilege even, and is only treated as such when it happens to men. Fargeat’s film may be outlandish, but in this case, as in many, the more impossible and hyperbolic the scenario, the clearer the picture it paints of the body horror women undergo every second, whether at the hands of time or of the world around us.

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It was clear that the opening of this festival struck a chord with a variety of attendees. The audience hung onto every word as Massimadi staff, event organizers, and sponsors gave heartfelt speeches encapsulating the importance of their work. One organizer ended their speech with inspiring words of gratitude: “Thank you for allowing people to breathe, to be able to shout through the works that their life matters, that their existence matters, that their feelings matter, that their dreams matter and that their culture can be a means of expressing their personality.” The opening words spoken at the festival drove home the message of what it means to have the courage to persist.

Massimadi ultimately strives to celebrate the achievements of the LGBTQ+ African community at large. Described by its founders as “Canada’s premier festival celebrating LGBTQ+ Afro cinema and arts,” the Massimadi Festival positions queer African excellence front and centre. Film, music, and the visual arts all come together during this festival to weave complex, multi-faceted stories of strength and persistence across a diverse emotional spectrum. Their website describes their mission statement as aiming to “encourage and highlight the cultural contribution of Afro LGBTQ+ artists by promoting the arts through multidisciplinary events.”

The festival’s origins lie in the 2002 project Arc-en-ciel d’Afrique, which aimed to provide members of African and Caribbean communities with health and social services. Over the next 17 years, this organization would work alongside the first World Outgames in Montreal, lead awareness campaigns for queer Afro- Caribbean rights in Quebec, and foster relationships with the International Gay and Lesbian Human Rights Commission. Arc-en-ciel d’Afrique persists through the Massamadi Foundation today, using “art and culture to combat discrimination while encouraging and highlighting the cultural contributions of Afro LGBTQ+ artists.” The Massamadi Festival creates a space for visibility, using the elements of creative expression inherent in visual art to shine a light on the stories of queer African artists.

As President Laurent Lafontant explains, “Our suffering transforms into beauty in creation, allowing the community to transcend and overcome its traumas.” The newest iteration of the Massimadi Festival faces these words head on. Celebrating 16 editions since its beginnings in 2009, the fall 2024 festival’s title tells all: Renaissance et Résilience (Rebirth and Resilience). After hearing the heart-warming speeches from

Massimadi’s founders and sponsors, these themes of rebirth and resilience stood out all the more. President Laurent Lafontant, general manager Naomie Caron, and communications manager Chiara Guimond, among many others, all spoke beautifully about what Massamadi means to them, as well as the legacy of the foundation going forward.

2024 marks the first year that a $1,000 prize will be given to the top- scoring film presented during the festival. This reward could not be more well-deserved, as all 15 films selected to screen at Massimadi this year merit both critical and financial recognition. Films such as M.H. Murray’s I Don’t Know Who You Are (2023), Merle Grimm’s Clashing Differences (2023), and Simisolaoluwa Akande’s The Archive: Queer Nigerians (2023) each take a touching, beautifully varied approach to the theme of rebirth and resilience. One of the films that stood out to me the most was the hauntingly beautiful Drift (2023), directed by Anthony Chen.

Screened on the opening night of the festival, Drift follows Jacqueline (Cynthia Erivo), a young Liberian woman living on the beach of a Greek island. The traumas of her violent past cyclically plague her, trapping Jacqueline in an echo chamber of horrors until she begins to bond with tour guide Callie (Alia Shawkat). The film opens with a pair of footprints – implied to be Jacqueline’s – in the sand slowly being lapped away by waves, and ends with Jacqueline swimming in the sea, looking back at the camera with a newfound sense of strength. Massimadi’s themes of rebirth and resilience feature prominently in this work, making it the perfect choice to open the 16th edition of the festival. The tone of this year’s selection of films is best captured by the short poem featured in the “about” section of the foundation’s website:

Massimadi reflects us, 

Massimadi unites us,

Massimadi, it’s you, it’s us, 

Massimadi is family, 

Massimadi changes lives.

…

The following interview has been edited for clarity and brevity.

Naomie Caron, spoke with The McGill Daily on October 24, describing the process of planning the film festival, as well as the struggles and obstacles they have faced throughout the years. As a non-profit, the Massimadi Foundation staffs individuals passionate about accelerating its mission forward. The group arrived at their theme Renaissance et Résilience (Rebirth and Resilience) by first asking the question, “Where are we at as a society?” We learned more about Naomie’s experiences working with Massimadi, as well as the thought process behind the creation and organization of this year’s festival.

Eliana Freelund for The McGill Daily (MD): The theme this year was about visibility and recovering, rebirth and renewal. I noticed that a lot with the film that was presented last night, Drift, and it was really beautiful. Sena and I were both really touched by that film. I was wondering how you planned the theme for this year, and if there was any thought process behind this theme in particular. How did you arrive at the art you chose to represent it?

Naomie Caron (NC): We’re trying to see as a society, where are we at? With the Black Lives Matter Movement a few years ago, we were at a time where people needed to communicate their pain, suffering, and trauma — to fully let it out. We wanted people to tell the world what was happening. So of course, when everyone does that, it becomes a mess. There’s a lot of tension. People are simply letting things out without gauging the impact of their words. And so we thought it was important now to guide our community towards a better future, towards a healing process that allows you to see the light at the end of the tunnel.

I think Drift really is one of those films that conveys this sentiment. You see the protagonist Jacqueline – she’s torn, she doesn’t want to communicate, she’s isolated. But as soon as she opens up and lets someone else into her world, we can already see this shift. We only tap into this idea at the last second when she’s swimming. To me, this scene represents the metaphor of rebirth. She jumps into the ocean, and stays underwater for a long time. We see her breaths beneath the surface, and finally, she comes up. I have tears just thinking about it. She comes out, finds her friend, and just smiles. And you just think, everything’s going to get better. We want to help people move on from their pain and pursue a healing journey.

MD: The recurring water imagery in Drift was impactful. Were there any other metaphors or visual cues that you felt really encapsulated the theme this time around, maybe in any of the other works you chose?

NC: I think Drift was a great choice for an opening because there’s not a lot of words – it’s mostly imagery. But the other films are a little bit more tense. We have themes of vengeance that appear in the other movies. We’re also playing with the anti-hero, shifting from portraying the victim to showing those in positions of power. Meanwhile we are also questioning, is it a good thing to revert to vengeance? Through this, we’re tapping into another avenue for healing. Among the films this year, our main focus is on storytelling, and less on imagery.

Sena Ho for The McGill Daily (MD): What do you hope to achieve by giving visibility to these filmmakers through the festival?

NC: Well, the main point of our foundation is to fight against discrimination, racism and homophobia. By showcasing all these stories of different people in our community, it helps others understand our struggles. We fight against discrimination in these communities that we are serving, by displaying empathy to the public. In order to do this, we illuminate these stories and highlight the different artists. So the general public has more of an intimate relationship with individuals from these communities and can see that they’re people just like everyone else.

MD: I would also love to ask how would you and your team perceive the success of your objectives and what have been some major wins, obstacles, or struggles that you’ve experienced over the years?

NC: I think for any nonprofit, it is really hard to secure funding, especially with the politics that are happening, and have been happening, for the past few years. This year, the federal government and provincial government are not giving us much. They are cutting funding a lot in culture and the humanities in general. At the end of the day, we are affected by that.

I think we have to adjust to government guidelines when determining what our aims are for the year. They are focusing more on ways to support the Black community, or support the LGBTQ+ community. It is always about finding the balance and focusing our energies on guiding different projects into what the government is supporting that year. But that always happens: having to find funding with limited resources.

We have also had a big shift in our staff. There has been a lot of burnout in the organization. I’m not only referencing mine, but in non-profit organizations in general, there tends to be a lot of burnout. People are working a lot because they are passionate. But also because the subjects we deal with address the lives of people who undergo extreme hardship. There’s trauma. There are a lot of mental health issues. So these are the many reasons. All of these elements have helped us, but it’s part of the journey.

MD: How can students or people living in Montreal get involved with the Massimadi Foundation? How can we do more? How can we increase visibility?

NC: I think it’s to just keep doing what you’re doing: coming to the events, talking about them, sharing on social media. If you want to do volunteer work, too, that’s always welcome. I think that just sharing and talking about these events goes a long way. In the past we’ve done a lot of collaboration with Concordia. We have also done workshops. There are so many things. Eventually, we could do projects and display them to class panels with the students on certain topics.

The projection for today has already started. The Massimadi Festival is at the Cinema Public, and there’s a panel after on sexual health, because the subject of the movie I Don’t Know Who You Are is a movie about a Black male who gets sexually assaulted. It’s a subject we often don’t talk about. A lot of times, when discussing sexual aggression, we visualize a vulnerable female. This type of sexual aggression is not discussed as widely. And unfortunately, the hero of the story contracts AIDS. So we’re also going to have a panel on AIDS after the one on sexual health. Tomorrow, we’re going to project the movie Clashing Differences, and we’re going to also have a panel on that. Getting involved is really about just coming to those events and collaborating in the panels and conversations.

If you’d like to get involved with the Massimadi Foundation, follow their website at www.massimadi.ca to keep up with upcoming events. Consider making a donation or volunteering if you are able to, and make sure to watch the films showcased in this year’s festival.

The post Massimadi 2024: Rebirth and Resilience appeared first on The McGill Daily.

The internet’s sapphic community has cast Love Lies Bleeding in a largely positive light, entranced by the film’s adrenaline-inducing body horror and eroticism. As a proponent of all things lesbian, I wanted to love the film as much as the internet was telling me to. I wanted to fall head first into the Kristen Stewart fandom and to deep dive into Glass’s euphoric use of 1980s pop culture. But I just couldn’t: not for the full film at least.

Love Lies Bleeding’s cinematic landscape and cast performances create a compelling direction for the story. As an A24 film, the arthouse aesthetic is undoubtedly alluring. The film takes place in the liminal setting of a New Mexican desert town filled with criminals, psychopaths, and gym buffs. Lou (Kristen Stewart) works as a gym manager and falls for Jackie (Katy M. O’Brian), a bodybuilder passing through town on her way to pursue her dreams in Las Vegas. The characters themselves are equally compelling, with mysterious, largely covert backstories and hot-headed temperaments, ramming through any obstacle or challenge in their way.

The first third of Love Lies Bleeding has high potential. However, I found the latter two thirds to be too reliant on genre conventions that only distract from any concrete plot or meaning. After Jackie temporarily moves in with Lou, the film strays from their relationship to Lou’s family lore – a complex web of crime and deceit held together by her ringleader father. As a result of this narrative shift, the women’s budding character development is flattened, and any explanation for their actions or inner motivations is lost. It seems that all we will ever find out about Jackie is that she’s an avid bodybuilder. Furthermore, Lou and Jackie’s relationship gets sidelined and commandeered by men until the film’s confusing final moments, when Jackie turns into a giant to pin down Lou’s father once and for all.

Despite receiving praise for subverting the “male gaze,” the film seems to do just the opposite, falling into the same fetishistic trap that plagues so many other WLW films. The six single men who sat in front of me at the Cineplex Forum’s Friday night screening only reinforced my initial impression: this film may have been written about queer women, but it was not a film made for them.

Love Lies Bleeding displays women’s bodies without establishing necessary empathy between the characters and the viewer. A quick search on the voyeuristic qualities of the film led me to find numerous news articles about men who had been arrested in the last week for lewd behaviour while viewing Love Lies Bleeding in theatres. Remarkably, these articles haven’t really been acknowledged on TikTok or other social media platforms. The behaviour of these male viewers, and how quickly it has been ignored, says a lot about the politics of lesbian representation and moviegoing.

While this doesn’t seem like any fault of the film inherently, I was surprised by how quick people were to praise its representation and to remark upon how amazing Lou and Jackie’s relationship was when the couple spent the majority of the film either trying to kill each other or having sex. It felt almost performative, like the sex scenes were only put in to appease the viewer and substitute an actual foundation for the characters’ relationship.

The release of this film was an unfortunate reminder that lesbian films have not been able to escape objectification and fetishization by men unless they explicitly critique patriarchal and heteronormative expectations (I would argue the recent queer film Bottoms was more effective at achieving this). But of course, not every lesbian film should be expected to offer some sort of critique in order to be taken seriously. While it’s important that both characters survive and presumably stay together, to emphasize such an ending feels like commending the bare minimum of a film that leaves other elements of queer representation unexplored. All this to say, Love Lies Bleeding is an entertaining experience from an intriguing filmmaker with an obvious body-horror speciality. I am curious to see more of these elements in whatever Rose Glass decides to create next.

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“P.I.M.P” by 50 Cent is having an unprecedented resurgence in pop culture. An immensely talented and adorable dog won an award at Cannes, has his own Wikipedia page, and attended the Oscars. A dreamy, French, silver fox lawyer has taken the internet by storm. These unforeseen events can be attributed to Justine Triet’s Anatomy of a Fall, which has arguably been the film that has kept the most momentum post awards season (albeit largely thanks to North America always being late to the hype of international films). It also did not walk away empty handed, winning the Academy Award for Best Original Screenplay, and deservedly so – the film offers a completely fresh take on the legal drama that only a female director could conceive.

Anatomy of a Fall is the story of Sandra (Sandra Hüller), an author living in a secluded town in the French Alps, whose husband Samuel (Samuel Theis) mysteriously falls to his death from the attic and is found by their visually-impaired son Daniel (Milo Machado-Graner). Sandra is suspected for her husband’s murder, for which she undergoes a tense and emotional trial. What makes the film so different from the standard courtroom drama, however, is that Sandra’s legal interrogation reflects the kind of suspicion and blame that women (especially bisexual women, like Sandra), are met with every single day. Through flashbacks and domestic scenes outside the courtroom where we see Sandra in her most intimate moments, the film explores how trust is something bisexual women are hardly ever afforded under any circumstances.

Perhaps the most subversive and surprising element of Anatomy of a Fall comes right at the end; Sandra is acquitted, but we never find out exactly how Samuel died. This perplexing conclusion, though, is not the first time the film withholds information or disguises the fact that the audience, who is usually granted more omniscience than characters, knows just about as much as they do. In a pivotal scene, an argument between the couple the day before Samuel’s death – recorded by her husband without her knowledge or consent – is used against Sandra in court. As it begins playing in the court, and we see it transcribed on the screen, the scene transitions into a flashback of the row itself, presumably from Sandra’s point of view. Just before the climax of the fight, Triet throws the viewer back into the courtroom, where sounds of glass breaking and other aural indications of violence fill the silence. Although Sandra provides the court with an explanation of violence, we never actually see it.

The only character one could argue knows more than us is Sandra herself; we never actually see her actions the day of Samuel’s death on screen – we only have her verbal testimony. Despite being a defendant under scrutiny from just about everyone else in the film, she has the most agency over what both the characters and the audience know. The fact that a woman has agency over what the truth of the scenario is, and that it never comes out, shows Triet’s brilliant message that objective truth and patriarchy go hand in hand. “It’s not reality, it’s our voices. That’s true, but it’s not who we are,” argues Sandra. Women are constantly having their voices used against them by men in the search for objective right or wrong, true or false, innocence or guilt. Having a woman control the entire scope of the narrative obstructs the audience and the other characters from seeing the truth “objectively,” and the patriarchal satisfaction of finding a woman guilty, as is typical of the legal system, is thrown out the window.

It isn’t a coincidence then that the prosecutor is a man while the defendant, the primary witness (her son), her son’s court monitor Marge, and the judge are all either women or, in the case of Daniel, a disabled boy. As someone who does not embody the perfect patriarchal ideal of masculinity, Daniel is aligned with the women in the courtroom against the infuriating prosecutor. The women have control over the information and the outcome, yet it is a man who delivers the final argument for what he believes to be the truth. The prosecutor attempts to incite, provoke and goad Sandra through chastising and frankly sexist interrogation tactics. But Sandra remains resolute, having likely experienced similar accusations from her husband Samuel, and from countless other men for as long as she can remember.

An eye-roll-worthy but salient moment of the trial comes when the prosecutor spotlights Sandra’s infidelity with women and her identity as bisexual, implying that her sexual orientation makes her inherently promiscuous and untrustworthy. Sandra is unbelievably calm and collected in the face of this preposterous claim, but her sexuality as a point of contention for men is a very important aspect of the film. These kinds of accusations are all too familiar to bisexual women, both demeaning them and propping up the straight white man as the epitome of the healthy partner. This part of the trial shows the depressing truth that even the emotional fragility and instability of men will be taken more seriously than a calm and composed woman. If anything, Sandra’s coolness during the trial is completely in line with her character, because as a bisexual woman, she’s been on trial her entire life.

So how did a film with such strong queer themes, a woman who is morally ambiguous, no shocking reveal, and very few adult male characters become an awards season darling? For lack of a better term, Justine Triet has played high-brow cinema’s game, but by her rules. The Academy is no stranger to the courtroom drama, but usually deals with them in a very conventional way. Acclaimed courtroom dramas are usually male-dominated, where the hero is either a defendant who has been wrongly convicted, or a conflicted lawyer trying to do the right thing. None of these tropes appear in Anatomy of a Fall. The film instead allows our biases towards or against Sandra to be purely emotional because we don’t know the truth – an approach seemingly contradictory to the genre itself. Its discursive elements shine through their subtlety, and all the details of the case become a means through which Sandra’s husband’s life, not just his death, are easily blamed on her for being a bisexual woman.

There were so many films by women this year pertinent to feminist issues that were neglected by major awards ceremonies; Priscilla was absent from the Oscars, and of course all hope was shattered for Barbie. And although queer representation was fantastic in the indie/comedy genres, there wasn’t a ton that had the level of prestige (or pretentiousness) demanded by the Academy. But thanks to its unprecedented approach to the courtroom drama and perfect amount of subtle criticism, Anatomy of a Fall triumphed, and gave us a bisexual, feminine masterpiece in a legal drama’s clothing.

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The play introduces three generations of gravediggers to its audience: the oldest of the trio, Solomon, is played to perfection by Christian Paul as the wisecracking, quirky uncle. His fellow digger Abdul is the most cynical of the three, yet Chance Jones expresses subtle nuances in his performance that elevate his character beyond his apparent pessimism. Abdul and Solomon take on the responsibility of introducing teenaged newbie Bai, played by Jahlani Gilbert-Knorren, to the intricacies of gravedigging. The developing dynamic among the trio gracefully balances humour with moments of heartfelt connection to create a deep bond beyond just family or friendship. What follows is a story of reconciling dreams with reality and of learning how to maintain hope in a world where everything seems determined to dash it down – a world where everything is destined for the grave. 

As director Pulga Muchochoma explains in the program, “Diggers is about self-questioning our position in society in times of struggle.” The pandemic that serves as the backdrop for the play is left intentionally vague, so as to reflect a sense of timelessness. The gravediggers’ work is never ending, and continues “through seasonal flooding, ebola outbreak, and […] political upheaval.” Even though the play’s setting is situated in the specific context of Sierra Leone’s history, the narrative strikes a universal chord with the audience, especially in light of the COVID-19 pandemic. As the events unfold, the viewer is made to contend with their own role in relation to essential workers, regardless of which country they are in. Diggers makes us think twice about the things we take for granted in contemporary society, and perhaps even leads us to question how we can do better. 

Warona Setshwaelo  – who plays Sheila, a member of the town council – precisely portrays the complexity of grappling with personal loss while owing a responsibility to one’s community. The chemistry between Sheila and Abdul lends itself to explosive arguments between the two, highlighting both sides of a fraught situation: Abdul claims that Sheila does not do enough to sway the town council into adequately supporting  the gravediggers, while Sheila maintains  that she is only able to do so much as one woman dealing with tragedy both inside and outside of work. Neither are satisfied with the other’s answers, nor have the will to argue any further: they are caught in a deadlock. Diggers never shies away from having tough conversations, even when they may be hard to digest. 

The play’s use of music and choreography draws the audience in even further.  Diggers incorporates  song and dance into dream sequences, adding a surrealist quality that helps to foreground the characters’ genuine nature. This musicality familiarizes the audience with the gravediggers in a more intimate way than plain dialogue, allowing us to fully step into their world. It also provides a much-needed release in tension from the play’s more serious moments, giving us a chance to share laughter and song with those onstage. These surrealist breaks from the linear narrative trip up the viewer, making them question what they are seeing and how to respond to it. This approach reinforces Diggers’ overall aim in leading its audience to introspection. 

In its final notes, Diggers moves towards an ending which promises tears and heartache amidst an ever-resilient hope for change. Solomon, Abdul, and Bai’s story ends with a promise from the town council that seems to point towards a brighter future. As I watched the curtain close, and the house lights slowly begin to illuminate  the theatre, I had a feeling that there might just be some brightness for the rest of us, too.

For more information on Diggers, visit their event page on the Segal Centre for Performing Arts’ website. To support future Black Theatre Workshop productions, you can volunteer, donate, or attend events at www.blacktheatreworkshop.ca.

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Let’s start with some of the positives, which are unfortunately also laced with negatives. Although Killers of the Flower Moon does not live up to how Indigenous people should be represented in film, it did give us an outstanding performance by Lily Gladstone. Not relying on the fact that her work will be automatically  praised like her co-stars Leonardo Dicaprio and Robert DeNiro, Gladstone gave a layered performance that earned her a Best Actress nomination, making her the first Native American woman to do so. A win for her would be historic, and would hopefully create a space for more Native women in mainstream cinema – a space where they can tell their own stories, rather than having white male directors like Martin Scorsese dictate the narrative. 

Best Supporting Actress is probably the best major category overall, in terms of both inclusivity and merit. Da’Vine Joy Randolph is the heavy favourite to win the award for her part in The Holdovers, and deservedly so. She was a highlight in this funny and heartwarming film, rounding out a successful year for her overall, with her return to Hulu’s Only Murders in the Building, and being arguably the only good thing about Abel Tesfaye (a.k.a. The Weeknd) and Sam Levinson’s exploitative dumpster fire show that was The Idol. The rest of the category includes gems like America Ferrera for Barbie and Danielle Brooks for The Color Purple, making the nominees mostly women of colour, all of whom have been nominated for their work in musicals or comedies, genres which are often overlooked by the Oscars.  

The Best Director category, on the other hand, was met by most with face palms. An opportunity to include more than one female director, as well as directors of colour, was practically spoonfed to the Academy, yet they still didn’t bite. The most talked about snub has been Greta Gerwig for Barbie, a film that also saw its lead Margot Robbie omitted from the Best Actress category. Many have dismissed the sexism of this slight with the logic that Gerwig was omitted because the Oscars generally do not take blockbuster comedies very seriously. While this is true, a film that did as well as Barbie would have a far greater chance of being considered were it directed by a man, and were it not aimed at female audiences. Just look at Poor Things, which was considered a comedy by the Golden Globes and also saw its director nominated at the Oscars.  

Alas, this is not where the double standard ends. Many have pointed out that Gerwig will profit even if she wins in other categories, like Best Picture, hoping that the film “pulls an Argo” by taking  this award as compensation. But if that’s the case, why were Christopher Nolan, Martin Scorsese, and Yorgos Lanthimos nominated for Best Picture when their films monopolized the other categories as well? While Gerwig is perhaps the most salient example, the directing category overall committed several egregious oversights in a year where diverse filmmakers proliferated. 

Past Lives is probably the film that got the most royally screwed over this year, in Best Director and several other categories. Lord knows how long it’s been since a directorial debut was as revered as this one from Celine Song, who easily could have joined Justine Triet in the Best Director category. In addition to creating an incredible artistic achievement, Song was also able to tell a semi-autobiographical story about moving from Korea to Canada and pursuing the arts, representing the shared experience of many Asian-American immigrants while maintaining a deeply intimate tone. The authentically beautiful star-crossed lovers story also saw an outstanding performance by Greta Lee, whose absence from Best Actress is nothing short of a travesty. 

With these snubs, it feels as though the Academy is almost riding the wave of its Asian representation from last year with Everything Everywhere All at Once and its record-breaking cleanup. The 2022 film took home almost all the major categories, including Best Editing, Best Director, Best Supporting Actor and Actress, Best Actress, and Best Picture. The fact that Everything Everywhere was transgressive in both its themes and storytelling, managing to paint a deeply complex picture of intergenerational trauma among Asian immigrant families (like Past Lives), actually gave us a lot of hope for the Academy’s ability to recognize such stories. Unfortunately, with the absence of Song’s masterpiece from most major categories, it now feels like a one-off. 

Certain incredibly deserving female-directed films were nowhere to be found at all. While not as Oscar bait-y as some anticipated, Emerald Fennell’s Saltburn featured some deeply original screenwriting on behalf of the director, and gave us an outlandishly disturbing performance from Barry Keoghan that easily could have been nominated. Yet the Oscar robberies this year extend to films that would typically be very well-received, such as the dramatic biopic. Sofia Coppola’s Priscilla featured an intimately told story that underlined the issues of Elvis Presley’s treatment of Priscilla Presley, without erasing Priscilla’s subjectivity or turning her into a polemical figure. Priscilla also features breathtaking costuming and set design, and two tour-de-force performances by Cailee Spaeny and Jacob Elordi. Yet this was still not enough to appease the overwhelmingly white, male selection committee. For a deep dive into the film, you can read my review of it for the Daily published in November. 

I could go on and on about my plights with the Oscar nominations this year. Where was Charles Melton in Best Supporting Actor for May December? Why was Hirokazu Kore-eda’s Monster not nominated for Best International Feature? Why wasn’t The Boy and the Heron nominated in more categories outside of Best Animated Feature? The Academy has become an expert at crushing the hopes of film lovers who wish to see themselves and their stories celebrated at the most esteemed levels of cinema. Outrage, however, can facilitate change. Even if they still have a long way to go, the diversity of the selection committee has greatly expanded since 2014 when the average age of the members was 63, while 76 percent were men and 94 percent were white. While most of the known 2024 releases so far are set to be sequels and remakes, the diverse storytelling that began in 2022 and blossomed in 2023 will hopefully continue its momentum, and eventually break through the Academy’s pretentious, normative barriers. 

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Humanist Vampire Seeking Consenting Suicidal Person – directed by Ariane Louis-Seize 

Imagine Taika Waititi’s 2014 fantasy comedy What We Do in the Shadows meets a coming-of-age story about depression and the pressure to conform to familial expectations among young women. This is Humanist Vampire Seeking Consenting Suicidal Person, which probably wins the award for best title of the year. Shot and set in Montreal, the film follows young vampire Sasha (Sara Montpetit), whose empathy and inability to watch others suffer makes her incapable of feeding on human flesh. When she meets the suicidal teen Paul (Félix-Antoine Bénard), who she promises to kill and eat, their pact inspires hilarious escapades and is complicated by the bond that is forged between the two. 

Although Anatomy of a Fall is the French language title that has gained the most awards season hype, Quebecoise director Ariane Louis-Seize’s strikingly original film should not be overlooked. Humanist Vampire is so deeply compassionate and endearing, and is such a welcome depiction of how depression, especially amongst women, while onerous and debilitating, can allow for a greater capacity for empathy. This silver lining is at the incredibly big heart of the film, which  is accompanied by a playful score and bitingly funny dialogue (no pun intended). Unwaveringly charming in spite of all the blood, Humanist Vampire shows 2023’s triumph in female direction at the local level. 

Past Lives – directed by Celine Song 

The fact that this  film is  Celine Song’s directorial debut both terrifies and excites me. Its emotional warfare in the form of unrealized lifetime love destroyed me, but wow, did it hurt so good. Past Lives tells the story of childhood sweethearts Nora (Greta Lee) and Hae-Sung (Teo Yoo), who lose touch when Nora’s family immigrates to Toronto from South Korea. They connect sporadically over the next 24 years, but by the time Hae-Sung is finally able to visit her, she is already married to someone else. 

This romantic drama is somewhat of a modern rendition of the star-crossed lovers tale, but its fusion of this format with themes of the diasporic vs. indigenous Korean experience – semi-autobiographical of Song’s own upbringing – are what make it stand on its own. It is not just Hae-Sung and Nora’s distance, timing, and career paths that divide them, but also how they experience their culture. In one scene, Nora tells Hae-Sung that since emigrating, she only ever speaks Korean to her mother. Later in the film, Nora explains to  her husband that Hae-Sung’s distinct “Koreanness” makes her feel both alienated from and connected to her culture at the same time. The film’s stylistic understatedness and temporally expansive narrative only amplify its emotional blows to create one of the greatest debut films not just for a Korean-Canadian female director, but for any director in general. 

Barbie – directed by Greta Gerwig 

It would be ridiculous to recap 2023’s women in film without including the bedazzled, pink, cinematic leviathan that was Barbie. Greta Gerwig’s latest film is a stark contrast from her previous two dramas, but her masterful storytelling brings this doll extravaganza to life in a way that is both layered and enthralling. Millions flooded theatres dressed head-to-toe in pink to watch Barbie (Margot Robbie) and a hapless Ken (Ryan Gosling) embark on an adventure from Barbie Land to the real world to find out why Barbie has been experiencing “malfunctions” like flat feet and cellulite.  

Barbie in and of itself was undeniably delightful, but what made it truly extraordinary was that it reached so far beyond the narrative world it created. Rarely do we see certifiable “blockbusters” of this kind: so self-aware, so funny, so socially engaged, so pink, so feminine. The fantastical world it built reached out of the screen and into the hearts of audiences – an engagement that could not have come at a better time. It not only brought people into theatres amid the SAG-AFTRA strike, but revived going to the theatre as an all-around event. Barbie set all kinds of records at the box office, becoming Warner Brothers’ highest grossing film ever, the highest grossing film ever by a female director, and the biggest film of 2023 worldwide, proving that female directors don’t have to sacrifice their femininity and creative integrity to dominate the cinematic market. 

Saltburn – directed by Emerald Fennell 

Whether you’ve been pining for a new Emerald Fennell flick since Promising Young Woman, or you heard “Murder on the Dancefloor” on TikTok and wanted to see what all the hype was about, Saltburn was most likely on your radar towards the end of 2023. When Oliver (Barry Keoghan) meets the affluent Felix (Jacob Elordi) at Oxford in 2007, they become close friends, prompting Felix to invite Oliver to Saltburn, his rich family’s extravagant, baroque estate. Upon Oliver’s arrival, things become incredibly sexual, tense, uncertain, and downright disturbing. 

Like Gerwig, Fennell’s sophomore feature is narratively quite distant from her first, but maintains her signature psychological tone and banger soundtrack. She uses these mechanisms to create a depiction of how class is not just about division, and that for some, there is truly never enough wealth. Fennell uses Oliver’s creepy behaviour to represent how relentless economic and social climbing can be, as he parasitically infiltrates Felix’s loaded family. This economic invasion is largely depicted through mind games and sex, which make the film as juicy as it is poignant. While the internet-ification of the film risks reducing it to a mere TikTok sound, its online presence has exposed many to a level of subversive media they may not have encountered previously. For a more in-depth look at Saltburn’s symbolism, check out the Daily’s review by Evelyn Logan. Along with Barbie, Saltburn showed that female filmmakers not only dominated cinematic culture in 2023, but also the world of the internet. 

Bottoms  – directed by Emma Seligman 

The unhinged teen sex comedy is back and gayer than ever, all thanks to Emma Seligman. Finally liberating us from the years of painfully out of touch, forcefully Gen Z-ified Netflix teen flicks, Seligman, along with star and co-writer Rachel Sennott, revive the most enjoyable aspects of the R-rated teen sex romp with a refreshing, queer perspective. “Ugly, untalented gay nerds” Josie (Ayo Edeberi) and PJ (Sennott), in the hopes of  getting closer to pretty girls Isobel (Havana Rose Liu) and Brittany (Kaia Gerber), start a “self-defence” fight club at their school to stand up to tyrannical football players. 

Because the film’s queerness and femininity aren’t used as rhetorical devices and are allowed to just exist as the chaotic plot unfolds, its identity politics paradoxically become much more digestible. Josie and PJ’s identities and status as outcasts goes beyond them being gay, making it a part of their identity, but not their entire identity. This allows Bottoms to go all out in its violence, obscenity, and hilarity – something female-directed films aren’t often allowed to do. With the most side-splitting lines you’ve ever heard being doled out by the minute, Seligman’s flick proves that women, specifically queer women, are here to spearhead a new, inclusive era of the teen comedy without losing an ounce of the absurdity that makes the genre so adored. If you’d like a closer look at how Bottoms revamps the vulgar, teen comedy genre, you can read my film review for the Daily published last September.   

Five films are not nearly enough to encapsulate just how prolific female directors were last year, but these picks are certainly some of the best overall, across all films. Even if major award ceremonies have given us little hope in terms of their ability to actually acknowledge these critical and commercial standouts, the flow of female-directed film and television gained a momentum this year that shows no signs of decelerating. More female-directed content is already being anticipated for 2024; Canadian director Molly McGlynn’s coming of age film Fitting In is set to be released in February, while Lulu Wang (The Farewell) has a new series called Expats coming soon that’s already gained lots of buzz and critical attention. Keep an eye out for female-directed film and television; buy tickets, talk about it, engage with it – you will most definitely encounter a perspective you haven’t seen yet.

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One of the highlights of Saltburn is its complex characters. Oliver (Barry Keoghan), the main character, is initially presented as an earnest university student that is very bright but has few friends. Every single character in the movie plays a supporting role in Oliver’s story, and through his lens they are exposed for who they truly are. However, this lens also blinds us as to who Oliver truly is. The only character to see Oliver’s true self is his first friend at university, Michael (Ewan Mitchell). Michael’s presence in the film is extremely fleeting, but his final word to Oliver, “boot-licker,” is the first accurate characterization of Oliver that the audience receives. Through their brief friendship, the two seemingly bond over their status as social pariahs, and although it is later revealed that Michael’s negative opinion of Oliver was correct, because the audience sees everything through Oliver’s point of view, Michael initially comes across as bitter and petty.

The first member of the wealthy Catton family that Oliver encounters is Farleigh (Archie Madekwe). Even his name seems like he’s overcompensating for the grand lifestyle that he longs to be a part of. Farleigh enters the film late, unprepared, and with stray glitter on his cheeks to the tutorial that he shares with Oliver. This scene sets up everything you need to know about his character: he has a flippant attitude towards life, parties regularly, and faces no consequences at school because of his mother’s social status. The professor blatantly favors Farleigh solely because of who he is connected to, and not due to his actual work (which he fails to do). To put it bluntly, Farleigh’s status does all the work for him so he doesn’t have to.

Oliver’s next Catton family interaction is with Felix (Jacob Elordi). Felix is also shown to be someone who doesn’t care about academics, largely due to his obscene wealth. In one scene, Felix both literally and metaphorically uses Oliver to get to where he needs to go. He takes Oliver’s bicycle, and assumes that Oliver will go the extra mile to help him further, even after Oliver has already offered his only means of transportation. Although Felix doesn’t seem to take advantage of Oliver overtly, he does establish a hierarchy between the two of them. This introductory scene begs the question: does Felix know the effect that he has on people?

I think one of the most well-concealed parts of Saltburn is Felix and Farleigh’s similarities. Throughout the film it is clear that they are set up to foil one another, as Farleigh wields his privilege as a weapon and Felix’s belief that his wealth “didn’t matter” ending up to be the greatest blunder of them all.

Felix desperately wanted to be a hero and save Oliver. For example, he never tells Oliver that he needs a suit for dinners at Saltburn, just so he can swoop in and help. Felix’s dangling of the carrot of wealth in front of Oliver’s face for the summer was just as selfish and rude as Farleigh’s treatment of Oliver. With all of his wealth and status, Felix could do something meaningful in the lives of the friends that he invites over to his sprawling mansion. Instead he gives them a taste, sends them on their way, and is able to feel better about his obscene wealth.

Even in his death, Felix is made out to be this beautiful, tragic martyr. Felix is masqueraded around the entire movie as a faultless victim, an angel in fact, while he does things like meddle with Oliver’s life and condescendingly “help” him. In comparison, Farleigh does similarly meddlesome things, such as snooping on Oliver and Venetia (Alison Oliver)’s rendezvous. But because he is depicted in the movie as a devious and petty guy he doesn’t get the same benefit of the doubt that Felix does. What makes Farleigh’s behavior so deplorable to the audience is that instead of embracing Oliver, as he understands what it’s like not to fully belong with the family, he’s the most rude to him. Unfortunately, his act does not get him anywhere with the family.

Saltburn doesn’t only rely on characterization to tell its complex story. The film is riddled with symbolism that begins to reveal the nature of Oliver’s plot long before the movie itself gives him away. In fact, the very first shot of the film suggests that Oliver is perpetrating something sinister at the Saltburn estate. The film opens on a shot of a family crest. The camera captures the crest on a cigarette holder then pans to Oliver’s hand holding a cigarette. This is a glaring example of foreshadowing that I completely missed on my first watch.

Later in the film, it is revealed that in Felix’s family, when someone dies they write their name on a stone and throw that stone into the water. As the boys get closer, Felix decides to do this for Oliver’s dad. However when thrown, the stone never hits the water. In fact, the camera reveals that it fell among a pile of trash and vomit. This is not only overt symbolism that Oliver is full of lies, but also that Oliver’s dad is not actually dead.

In the very first scene inside the Saltburn estate, on the chandelier hangs a strip of fly paper riddled with dead bugs. This figuratively displays that behind such a rich and opulent facade, the family is not so much better off than the rest of us. The fly paper serves to cheapen the scene, but also represents the presence of death. Once Felix dies, the shots in the movie are asymmetrical. It seems as though with his death, the family is placed into a disjointed state of overwhelming grief. While talking about his death is initially largely forbidden, all characters are extremely affected by it.

Saltburn’s story is one that is ridiculously complex; it can’t even be fully understood with even two watches. This film covers the intersection of the wealthy and privileged with the rest of the population. Saltburn’s release seems to coincide with increasing discourse on the wealth gap as billionaires like Elon Musk and Jeff Bezos seem to operate in a different stratosphere than the rest of us. In a sense, Saltburn is allowing all of us to exact our revenge on the people who are born into unfair advantages. Right before the final credits roll, as Oliver dances around the house, sans clothes and full of abandon, do we dance along with him for the successful toppling of the undeserving rich, or do we hum “Murder on the Dancefloor” to ourselves?

The post What You Missed In Saltburn appeared first on The McGill Daily.

Farewell My Concubine epitomizes the historical epic: it chronicles the lives of two young Beijing Opera stars — Douzi (Leslie Cheung) and Shitou (Zhang Fengyi) through their highs and lows during the most tumultuous decades in modern Chinese history. We follow them from their scrappy beginnings training under a ruthless troupe master, to their eventual ascension as two highly respected masters of their craft; they also assume new stage names, Chen Dieyi and Duan Xiaolou. Conflict ensues as their life-long friendship and partnership is tried by Xiaolou’s new fiancée, Juxian (Gong Li), just as the political strife from the Sino-Japanese War and Cultural Revolution quickly spell the end of their art form as they know it.

In early October, tickets for a local screening of Farewell My Concubine sold out in a matter of days. In a conversation with Cinema Moderne’s head of programming, Benjamin Pelletier, he said that this is partially due to the admittedly compact nature of their auditorium, but this response also indicates a thriving Montreal audience hungry for more Chinese and Asian film screenings. “The Chinese diaspora are really excited about this,” he said, “I’m really thrilled about that.”

While presenting a few of the film’s screenings, it became apparent to Pelletier that most of the ticket-goers were already very familiar with it, with many having watched the film several times before. It’s clear that for many, Chen’s work has already ascended to “classic” status.

Farewell My Concubine is, incidentally, also a staple in queer Chinese cinema. Dieyi is unabashedly in love and devoted to Xiaolou, which is what drives much of the film’s interpersonal drama. He is played by Leslie Cheung, one of the only openly queer celebrities in 90s Chinese pop culture, who was also one of the most prominent Cantopop and film icons of his generation. For queer viewers in China and in the Chinese diaspora, Farewell My Concubine evokes the treasured experience of seeing themselves represented in a mainstream Chinese movie as a deeply sympathetic, though tragic, hero figure.

 A new uncut 4K restoration of Farewell My Concubine is currently showing in select screenings at Cinema Moderne. 

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The Rocky Horror Picture Show (1975) 

It feels wrong to start this list with anything other than Rocky Horror. The movie-musical follows prudish couple Brad and Janet, who stumble into the mansion of mad scientist Dr. Frank N. Furter. From there, things get incredibly freaky in every sense. Perhaps one of the most essential queer films of all time, it continues to be at the centre of LGBTQ+ cultural discourse. Its fluid, sexy, and liberated depiction of gender and sexuality was far ahead of its time, and is still a common talking point in discussions of queer visual culture. 

Rocky Horror is the epitome of camp with its absurd and colourful sets, over-the-top makeup and costumes, and legendary musical numbers. It blurs the boundaries between scary and beautiful, especially through the character of Frank N. Furter (played by a corset-clad Tim Curry). But what makes it so special are the theatrical screenings. Independent cinemas usually screen the film around Halloween, and viewers dress up, have a “V” for virgin written on them if they’ve never seen the film, and interject the dialogue with “slut” and “asshole” when appropriate. Montreal’s Cinéma Imperial held a themed Halloween ball for the film just last week. But even if you watch at home, The Rocky Horror Picture Show is truly a one-of-a-kind filmic experience for queer audiences and Halloween lovers in general. 

Elvira: Mistress of the Dark (1988)

Although not an explicitly queer film in its content, few films have become quite as endlessly referenced among LGBTQ+ moviegoers as Elvira. Based on the character from the TV series Elvira’s Movie Macabre, it follows Cassandra Peterson as Elvira who goes to a small, puritanical town in Massachusetts to collect an inheritance, but immediately sticks out like a sore thumb. Her massive hair, slinky dress, gravity-defying cleavage, and bold sexuality are all foreign to her new community. This reaction doesn’t damper her spirit; instead, she quickly transforms her surroundings.  

Few characters have such campy wardrobes and sexual openness as Elvira, making her an icon to queer viewers despite not being a queer character. Cassandra Peterson, however, is queer herself and is in a long-term relationship with a woman. The film’s hilarious, dirty dialogue also makes it very fun to quote, and is often featured in queer media like Rupaul’s Drag Race. Peterson herself even went on the show as Elvira to guest judge in 2012 and 2019. So, even if the film alone isn’t explicitly “queer,” it perfectly represents the sexuality, campiness, and scariness celebrated by the queer world. 

Jennifer’s Body (2009)

Potentially my personal favourite movie of all time and the origin story for many bisexual women, Jennifer’s Body has recently experienced a renaissance and risen to cult classic status. It is the story of Anita “Needy” Lesnicki and her best friend Jennifer who, after a sacrifice gone wrong, becomes a boy-eating demon. Themes of compulsory heterosexuality, the ambiguity of female sexuality, and violence against women underscore a riveting and bloody teen flick that, had it not been marketed to young horny boys, should have been an instant classic upon its release. 

Written by Diablo Cody (Juno) and directed by Karyn Kusama, the all-female directorial team clearly understands the complicated dynamics and latent queer desire of young female friendships. The explicit communication of these themes adds another layer to  the film’s action, creativity, humour, and cartoonish gore. Like Elvira, it is also endlessly quotable, and Megan Fox’s delivery as Jennifer is campy teen horror perfection. In my eyes a perfect film, Jennifer’s Body is a must-watch queer girl horror movie. 

Black Swan (2010)

Unlike the campier selections here, Black Swan is a haunting psychological thriller directed by Darren Aronofsky at his finest. When ballerina Nina is selected to play both the black and white swan in Swan Lake, she becomes so hellbent on perfection that her body and mind begin falling apart. She becomes paranoid about her rival Lily, and the tension between the two escalates to something that is beyond merely professional. Nina’s psychological hallucinations gradually build throughout the film, revealing her desire for Lily. Through Aronofsky’s cryptic filmmaking, we are as unable to tell what is real and what is fake as Nina is. 

Nina’s paranoia manifests in a disturbingly visceral manner. She has visions of  her nails bleeding and falling off, and wings sprouting from scars on her back as she literally becomes the swan queen. Similar mirages occur with Lily; after an intense love scene between the two, Nina wakes the next day to find that it was another hallucination. Like Jennifer, Nina’s queerness is subliminal, and can only be seen through the horror of what is likely a schizophrenic episode. With Tchaikovsky’s musical masterpiece underscoring Natalie Portman’s Oscar-winning performance as Nina, Black Swan is a thrilling, terrifying, and captivating account of queer and perfectionist desire. 

Bodies Bodies Bodies (2021) 

The most recent entry on this list, Bodies Bodies Bodies is a satiric horror-comedy that ridicules the oblivion of privileged young people through the use of violence, murder, and chaos. When a group of rich influencer twenty-somethings camp out in a mansion during a hurricane, one gets their throat slit during a murder mystery game. The rest of the group then violently turns against one another as they try to find the killer among them. We watch as their logic slowly deteriorates, with personal plights influencing accusations. 

Sophie (played by nonbinary actor Amandla Stenberg) and Bee, the main lesbian couple in the film, are already together when the film starts. This casual representation means that there is no tedious queer relationship trauma to be dealt with. And (spoiler alert), their survival throughout the film topples the trope of swiftly killing off gay characters. Bodies instead dedicates its social commentary to the hilarious ignorance of the characters, who all feign socio-political awareness despite living in a bubble of privilege. Their shallowness is hysterically conveyed in their line delivery, making Bodies not only a definitive queer horror movie, but a quintessentially Gen Z one too. 

Of course, what defines “queer horror” is not objective or finite, but these films provide an excellent first foray into an important sub-genre. The conventions of the horror aesthetic have long been synonymous with queer culture, which is why it is so crucial that when queer folks appear in horror films, they are justly represented. Engaging with queer horror films, in turn, encourages proper representation of the LGBTQ+ demographic in the genre. This gives queer artists and stories the freedom to be scary not because of trauma and homophobia, but because of the gore, camp, and excitement that queer horror fans truly love.

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There are no typically stylish, mean, popular kids in Sex Education’s fourth season – but there is still a group of students who “rule the school.” This is the first crack in Cavendish’ facade of perfection. For how can a utopia have any kind of hierarchy? When you imagine an ideal school, you would probably picture everyone on a level playing field, which at first glance, Cavendish seems to embody. However, all this falls apart once we meet the group of students self-proclaimed “the Coven.” Abbi (Anthony Lexa), Roman (Felix Mufti), and Aisha (Alexandra James) are very picky about who they invite into their friend group despite loudly promoting inclusivity in their school and community-related efforts. Moordale’s formerly stereotypically popular Ruby (Mimi Keene) clearly wants to become friends with the Coven. But her previous actions comes back to haunt her as the group throws her previous exclusionary behavior back in her face, making an active effort to exclude her in their social activities. These are not exactly the actions you’d expect from a group so dedicated to “inclusivity.”

Another of Cavendish’s purported values is openness to everyone’s opinion, demonstrated by the symbolic podium placed in the school’s foyer that is always available for students to voice their ideas. However, there does not seem to be any system in place to take note of or actually implement what students have to say; it is as though speeches are forgotten as soon as students step off the stage. It is not clear how student government or elections work, but it is implied that only those in the Coven can vote on and adopt important campus decisions. Although Cavendish claims to be a democratic student-led campus, the reality is that only a fraction of its students’ thoughts are actually being taken into consideration.

The friendly and overly optimistic environment that welcomes us at Cavendish can also be read as toxic positivity. It is not realistic or healthy to be happy all the time, despite whatever utopian ideals full of rainbows and sunshine might tell us. The “no negative talk” rule enforced by Abbi throughout the season prevents the friend group from discussing important feelings and issues, and ultimately (and unsurprisingly) leads to resentment and argument. Toxic positivity is one of the issues the characters directly address by the end of the season, as they come to realize that Cavendish College can never realistically be a utopia, but only a work-in-progress.

Another utopian aspect of the campus is its full, unquestionable acceptance of queer students. But this level of progress brings our attention to another marginalized group at Cavendish who do not experience the same acceptance. Disability rights are highlighted this season, rights which have only recently begun to be considered as widely as queer rights have. Although Cavendish seems amazing on so many fronts, one of its biggest flaws is its accessibility issues. It seems unrealistic that in this utopian setting, the only way for people with mobility issues to access floors other than the ground level is a faulty elevator, given the school’s seemingly excess funds. While the foyer boasts of comfortable seating, the classrooms still use typical chair-desk combinations in one size only, which poses problems for disabled people. In addition, despite the school’s generous use of technology in all other departments, there are no tools or aids in place for people who are deaf or hard-of-hearing. These accessibility issues are one of the only problems openly acknowledged by the students, who stage a protest to get the elevator fixed and replaced. Protests are part of revolution, and revolution is required to create change; we must break the system in place before rebuilding a new, utopian one. This protest, therefore, is another indication of a rejection of Cavendish’s utopian narrative. By protesting, the students are acknowledging that their school is not perfect yet, but they are trying their best to make it so.

There are many reminders that Cavendish College is a green campus; everyone bikes to school, they have a strict compost and recycling system, they don’t use paper, etc. These actions make their own school a less polluted space but will not do much to help the global climate crisis. After all, a utopia cannot survive independent of the world around it. Corporations have historically encouraged individuals to pursue greener actions to help fight climate change, while they continue emitting tons of greenhouse gas emissions every year. The fact that Cavendish promotes small green actions without acknowledging the systemic causes of climate catastrophe shows that the campus is not a utopia, but rather a world of climate change denial and inaction.

This is not to say that individuals should not create change in their own lives and commit to a healthier lifestyle. But it is important to remember to be critical when an institution, like Sex Education’s Cavendish College, calls themselves “inclusive, diverse, and ecologically responsible.” It is harmful to promote a safe space while glossing over underlying issues; to work towards creating a utopia, we must acknowledge and fix problems, not ignore them. The most realistic part of Cavendish, in my opinion, is that young people are aware of and find solutions for systemic discrimination and disrespect. The only truly utopian part of Cavendish is that young people are actually listened to, and their ideas are fully implemented to create a place where they actually want to be. To me, this kind of world is the true utopia.

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The film is centred around gay best friends Josie (Ayo Edebiri) and PJ (Rachel Sennott), create a “self-defence” fight club in an effort to attract the interest of popular girls Isabel (Havana Rose Liu) and Brittany (Kaia Gerber). The club, in turn, becomes a safe space for all the girls in school. The film breathes new life into the gory teen comedy genre in a way that is both simplistic and subversive. It is hilariously self-aware of its themes like identity and typical high school movie structure, relishing in its absurdity rather than forcing discourse. And as a theatrical release, the film could not come at a more crucial time. Not only does it rejuvenate this genre; it shows that young people and artists are not dependent on streaming services — the central perpetrators of the SAG-AFTRA strike — for innovative and provocative content. 

What makes Bottoms so deeply refreshing is its satirical relationship to genre and identity politics – it’s able to make poignant commentary through genius humour. From the jump, Josie and PJ are allowed to just exist in their queerness without the film needing to include some dramatic “coming out” backstory. Nor does it adhere to the one-gay-protagonist-per-film rule, or input unnatural verbal cues that scream “remember: they’re gay!” When the film does reference direct identity categories, it does so in a way that is side-splittingly satirical. In a scene between Josie and fellow club member Annie, Josie delivers the line: “I know you’re a Black republican but you’re the smartest girl in the club.” 

Although Bottoms does include discursive dialogue, it does so sparingly and with great impact. Such is the case near the end of the film, after the horny motives of the club are revealed. Josie is left on the outs with PJ and Isabel and seeks the advice of her older lesbian neighbour, Rhodes (Punkie Johnson), who tells her something along the lines of “when I was in high school you couldn’t be gay. Now you can, nobody cares, but you can’t also be untalented.” This point underscores the very soul of the film, which is that sexual identity today is only a small fragment of the disastrous high school experience, echoing the feelings of all the “ugly, untalented gays” like PJ and Josie. 

Bottoms is just as sharp in its self-referentiality when acknowledging genre conventions. At one point, PJ directly confronts the absurd trope of classes only lasting the span of one scene (“why is the bell ringing? We just sat down.”) The film also toys with the jock archetype through its main antagonist, Jeff (Nicholas Galitzine). His monumentally absurd ignorance – most palpable when he lip syncs “Total Eclipse of the Heart,” blissfully unaware that his house is being egged – relentlessly spoofs the hyper-masculine, narcissistic  way that jock characters are usually portrayed.  

Bottoms lets its social criticism speak for itself,  allowing the film to pack itself to the brim with cutting one-liners, original sight gags and gory slapstick. It is easy to tell that Seligman and her star and co-writer Sennott have been jotting down quips for and writing the film since college, as the script never once misses an opportunity to go for the joke. In the very first scene Sennott and Edebiri exhibit their ludicrously funny chemistry, concocting a horrible yet entertaining plan to get the attention of Brittany and Isabel. By prioritizing the comedic aspects of the film, Seligman and Sennott do something queer, female-led teen comedies are never allowed to do: ditch the sentimentality for pure, uncensored, youthful madness, all without glazing over important themes. 

We have Seligman to thank for the final product of Bottoms achieving all its gruesome glory, because she refused to take no for an answer from producers. Seligman said that it took multiple pitches to get the film picked up, as production companies kept asking her to make it either less violent, less gay, or less sexual. Thankfully, smaller companies like Brownstone and Orion, who did pick up the film, are willing to take risks and support the ambitious work of younger, marginalized artists like Emma Seligman, who share the lived experiences of their characters and intended audience. 

Bottoms being a theatrical release also sets it apart from the content of major streaming services. It firstly is a nod to the origins of the teen sex comedy, which gained popularity in the 2000s with movies like Superbad. But it maintains great authenticity in comparison to the faux-progressive, nostalgia-porn teen films by streaming services like Netflix. Not all of their teen content is bad, but much of it is very clearly an attempt at discursive cinema that is rendered shallow and incomplete by its recycled subject matter and aesthetics. Just look at the Kissing Booth or the To All the Boys franchises. 

Relationships between content and distribution are incredibly important amid the SAG-AFTRA strike. Independent, theatrical distributors are more inclined to release meaningful, personal projects like Bottoms than streaming services. Viewers who appreciate their representation and connect with these works can support it through ticket sales, unlike the unfair compensation creators get from streaming services. These pay cuts also disproportionately impact marginalized filmmakers like Emma Seligman, who is a queer Jewish woman. Although production companies and theatre chains aren’t saints either, going to cinemas and supporting the work of independent filmmakers is an excellent way of supporting artists during the strike. Most importantly, it acknowledges the will of the viewer; young people are not as reliant on titan streaming services as they think we are. We care about good cinema that represents us in our current moment, which for many of us means seeing other weird, unhinged gays try to figure out who they are. And to them, and to anyone else who needs to laugh harder than they ever have, Bottoms is essential viewing.  

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A previous version of this article featured an illustration which was not properly credited to its original artists. The Daily regrets this mistake.

To say that the release of Disney’s 2023 live-action remake of The Little Mermaid has been smooth sailing could not be farther from the truth. The film has been infamously bathed in criticism since its very conception. Most notably, the loudest and most egregious backlash came from racist bigots on the internet who used their platforms to throw a fit over the casting of Halle Bailey, a young Black woman, as Ariel. Sites such as Rotten Tomatoes and IMDB were even subject to droves of review bombs that affected the reputation of the film for weeks. This tidal wave of hatred was truly horrific to watch unfold. It felt like we were taking not a step forward but a dive backward in history with how vitriolic and downright stupid these responses were. 

Mermaids, like Tolkien’s elves or Marvel’s superheroes, are not real. They exist in fantastical made-up worlds and can look, act, or sound however we want them to. And with such a long history of anti-Black discrimination and oppression latent in every corner of Western media (looking at you Disney!), isn’t it the bare minimum for Black actors to get more casting opportunities in Hollywood? But empathy and common sense never had anything to do with this hateful response. This backlash was just another instance of many where unaddressed, carefully repressed racism bubbles to the surface. 

At first glance, it might seem like this outrageous public response is the only aspect of The Little Mermaid (2023) that harbours such latent anti-Black sentiment. Unfortunately, because of Disney’s decision to make the story “more realistic,” the film itself has been built on a foundation of crudely sanitized imperialism, slavery, and colonization.

When The Little Mermaid became available on Disney+ on September 6, 2023, I got the chance to see the film for the first time. I knew that like all of Disney’s live-action remakes, it would be a shadow of its original animated counterpart. Nevertheless, I was excited for a night of bright, colourful visuals and jaw-dropping vocals from Halle Bailey. But the movie left me with a bad taste in my mouth – Disney’s choice to make this fairy tale as realistic as possible produced an extreme case of historical revisionism. 

The above-water scenes largely take place on a fictional island governed by Prince Eric and his adoptive mother. Although the location is kept ambiguous, it is clear that Disney intended for this island to be somewhere in the Caribbean: most of the secondary characters speak with Jamaican or Trinidadian accents, aquaculture features prominently, fruit stands burst with ripe bananas and mangos, and street musicians jam out to calypso classics on steelpan drums. Disney most likely chose this location in keeping with Samuel E. Wright’s 1989 performance as Sebastian the crab in the original animated film. We can also see Disney’s attempt to adhere to a rough time period. The clothing and architectural designs suggest that the film takes place in the mid-to-late 1800s, which was probably a nod to Hans Christian Andersen. On the surface, these choices might appear harmless. So what exactly is the problem here?

If you dive deeper into history, you’ll find that the 1800s Caribbean political scene was no fairy tale, especially for Black inhabitants. The slave trade brought unimaginable suffering to these nations, the legacy of which persists to this day. For example, Haiti has spent 122 years forcibly paying slaveholders and their descendants in France the equivalent of $30 billion USD today in order to “compensate” for France’s decreased income following Haiti’s abolition of slavery in 1793. With a story set in a place with such a painful relationship to colonization, how do you tell a whimsical love story between a white, British prince and a Black princess in a respectful way? Definitely not the way Disney did it.

I never expected The Little Mermaid (2023) to segue into an all-out history lesson on the horrors of African slavery in the Caribbean. Despite that, I was pretty shocked at how they handled the positionality of the Black characters. During Ariel and Prince Eric’s slapstick carriage-riding scene, the camera turns to focus on various merchants and farmers as they go about their day. In a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it moment, you can see the rippling rows of sugarcane that line the carriage pathway. This small detail actually says a lot; in the 1800s the Caribbean was exploited by the colonies almost exclusively for sugar. You can’t open a history textbook on slavery in the Caribbean without encountering pages and pages on the brutality of the sugar plantations. To have Black actors stand against this backdrop while smiling and waving at a white, British prince reads as very tone-deaf to me. This scene has the potential to feed into the happy slave narrative present in some of Disney’s older films, The Song of the South (1946) and Dumbo (1941). 

These instances of historical revisionism essentially sanitize and erase the evils of slavery. In another scene, Lashana, a Black maid played by Martina Laird, gives Ariel a bath while a white maid looks on. Although this contrast may not have been intentional, I couldn’t help but notice that this is the only scene of a character performing physical labour in service of another person, and it is performed by a Black actor while a white actor stands at a distance. Marcus Ryder, prominent activist and head of external consultancies at the Lenny Henry Centre for Media Diversity, wrote in a blog post entitled Disney’s The Little Mermaid, Caribbean Slavery, and Telling the Truth to Children about his experience watching the film with his six-year-old son. He writes: “the total erasure and rewriting of one of the most painful and important parts of African diasporic history, is borderline dangerous, especially when it is consumed unquestioningly by children.”

I would also like to critique Disney’s “update” to Prince Eric’s character. The Little Mermaid (2023) tries to create a parallel between Ariel’s desire to explore land and Eric’s desire to explore the ocean. However, the choice of location and time period once again complicates a seemingly innocent change. In a scene where Ariel admires Eric’s “treasures” from around the world, several objects are displayed from nations that have historically been victims of colonization. An oud, vāhana elephant, and Buddha statue are just some of the objects that adorn Eric’s study. And yet, Disney attempts to pass this off as a harmless hobby akin to Ariel’s underwater collection. 

Prince Eric is played by Jonah Hauer-King, a white British man. This gives Eric’s “voyages” on which he seemingly collected these objects an insidious tone. When Eric describes these trips to his mother as an opportunity for “cultural exchange” you can’t help but get the feeling that the film is trying to excuse, or Disney-ify, British imperialism. He directly mentions having traveled to Brazil, Venezuela, and Colombia – all nations that were subject to colonization. All of a sudden his new song “Wild, Uncharted Waters” feels off. Eric states explicitly throughout the film that he wants to put uncharted waters onto maps. But this begs the question, uncharted for whom? 

By framing this exploration storyline from a sanitized European point of view, Disney effectively creates a world where imperialism and colonization either aren’t considered wrong, or flat-out don’t exist. I think that Marcus Ryder explains the effects of historical revisionism in The Little Mermaid (2023) best: “I do not think we do our children any favours by pretending that slavery didn’t exist. For me Disney’s preference to try and wish the inconvenient truth away says more about the adult creatives than it does about children’s ability to work through it.” It’s not that this film had to do a deep dive into the legacy of slavery and colonization in the Caribbean. But washing away the past will only lead to ripples in the future.

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First in line is the Venice International Film Festival, which opens on Wednesday, August 30. It will, for the most part, be unaffected by the strike. SAG-AFTRA is an American labour union, which means international actors are not affected by its protest. Actors who worked on independent films are also exempt from the injunction. Alberto Barbera, the festival’s artistic director, has stated that despite losing their opening film, Luca Guadagnito’s Challengers, the impact of the strike has been “quite modest.” Their planned lineup, which will run until September 9, remains unchanged despite the absence of Hollywood actors. Ava DuVernay’s Origin, an adaptation of Caste: The Origins of Our Discontents, Bradley Cooper’s Maestro, a biographical drama about American composer Leonard Bernstein, and Sofia Coppola’s Priscilla, based on the 1985 memoir Elvis and Me by Priscilla Presley, will be among the films competing for the Golden Lion, the festival’s top prize.

The Telluride Film Festival (TFF) will take place concurrently, starting on Thursday, August 31. Since it operates on a much smaller scale, it too should not be greatly affected by the disputes. TFF only reveals their programming at the very last minute, once their attendees have gathered on the western flank of the San Juan Mountains, making it impossible to know if their lineup was disrupted by the ongoing negotiations. What’s more, the festival is not intended to be a competition, but rather a celebration of cinema. This means no prizes are awarded, no press conferences are held, and no sit-down talks are organized. In other words, Telluride is a place where celebrities can lay low and blend in with the crowd. They could technically show up to screenings as fans, however it is unlikely they would risk being identified as strike-breakers. The festival, which will close on September 4, has become an important touchstone of the fall circuit thanks to its quirkiness. Many acclaimed filmmakers have premiered their work in Telluride, including Ang Lee (Brokeback Mountain, in 2005), Barry Jenkins (Moonlight, in 2016) and Greta Gerwig (Lady Bird, in 2017).

This leaves us with the Toronto International Film Festival (TIFF), which will take place after Venice and Telluride close, starting Thursday, September 7. The festival, which prides itself on being an event put on for the public, has been associated with big American premiers in past years. Roaming the streets of downtown Toronto to rub shoulders with A-listers is a big part of the TIFF experience, one which movie lovers will have to do without this year. The festival did manage to secure Hayao Miyazaki’s hit animated feature The Boy and the Heron for its opening night. They have also announced that Hong Kong actor Andy Lau will be in attendance for a moderated conversation, as will ​​writer-director Pedro Almodóvar. Set to premiere are Craig Gillespie’s Dumb Money, a comedy-drama film about the 2021 GameStop short squeeze, Justine Triet’s Anatomy of a Fall, which won this year’s Palme d’Or at Cannes, and Hitman, Richard Linklater’s new film starring Glen Powell. 

While film festivals are not all about pageantry, red carpets and celebrity appearances are a huge part of their appeal. Photo calls generate lots of excitement and remain an essential promotional tool for studios. The absence of actors from the festival circuit – no matter their level of fame – will certainly reduce media coverage, and in turn, lower cinema attendance. If the strikes are still ongoing during these high-profile events, the potential loss in revenue could put additional pressure on the WGA, the SAG-AFTRA, and the AMPTP to come to an agreement quickly. Although the settlement of labour disputes involves complex and strenuous negotiations, one can only hope that the spotlight cast on these festivals will amplify the need for a quick and equitable resolution. 

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