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GABRIELE D'ANNUNZIO - Pleasure: a review 🩷

Gabriele D’Annunzio’s Pleasure eschews conventional plot mechanics in favor of an immersive exploration of aestheticism and existential yearning. The narrative revolves around Andrea Sperelli, whose life is less a linear story than a cyclical dance of desire, disillusionment, and self-delusion. Rather than progressing through clear events, the novel unfolds as a series of interwoven moods and symbolic encounters that mirror his internal turbulence.

Andrea is less a man than a prism, reflecting art, poetry, and women as shifting lights. He lives for sensation, composing his life like a sonnet—even as it dissolves under the weight of his vanity. D’Annunzio’s prose mirrors this obsession: ornate, sensuous, and deliberately excessive, blurring the line between Andrea’s psyche and the reader’s perception. The language is florid yet precise, drawing us into a world where artifice is both shield and prison.

The narrative thrives on poetic richness, elevating the mundane into the sublime with painterly precision. Each sentence flows with rhythmic cadence, immersing us in the decadence of early 20th-century Italian aristocracy. Yet beneath the marble polish, D’Annunzio whispers a question: Is a life of beauty enough?

Pleasure is not a comforting book but a mirror polished with perfume and regret. Its ending lingers, inevitable yet poignant, like a fading sunset that dazzles even as it promises darkness.

Ultimately, Pleasure challenges the reader to consider whether a life lived as an elaborate performance focused on external beauty and sensory gratification can satisfy the deeper human need for authenticity and meaning. Through its nuanced narrative techniques and its plot that favors psychological complexity over traditional progression, the novel becomes a richly layered meditation on vanity, desire, and the fragility of the human condition

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And then one winter night beneath the streetlight's glow, You’ll feel a hollow tug, but won’t quite know. You’ll wander through the lanes, the silence thick, Not sure what’s lost, or why it makes you sick.

Like a ghost in motion, chasing dreams gone cold, Haunted by a place you’ll never hold. And when your steps grow sharp with rising doubt, You’ll turn back home, frustration spilling out.

You’ll pass the gate with shoulders weighed and low, And glance beside where grandma’s daisies grow. And there it strikes, a truth too sharp to live— Your heart will break, for there’s no one left to give.

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Rediscovering Film Noir + courtroom drama recommendations!! (my picks)

Every two months or so, my family takes a trip to my dad’s rural hometown—a bright, lush village right by the Khulna-Bagerhat freeway. It’s a lovely getaway: not too riverside, not too coastal, not too woodsy, and not too remote. At night, you can hear the giant Yamaha trucks blaring their horns down the nearby highway, while the calls of crickets and frogs speckle the cold evening air.

In the "old days," before the Liberation War, my grandparents would keep guard against foxes, said to steal babies and young kids left on the porch. And in the days older than that—before the Partition—it was jackals, wolves, or even worse (the British). :)

Now, however, the house, surrounded by large court lights installed by my father, leaves little room for fear of wild animals. Instead, a more timeless threat keeps our gates barred and fences spiked: robbers.

The fear was not without warrant. This very house was robbed not too many years ago. When I was seven years old, my grandmother woke up to four men armed with machetes tying her up and gagging her. They left with almost all the gold my mother had left in the house and around $1,000 in cash.

Eleven years later, in the room just adjacent to that one, I sit in the living room. The air is cold and foggy, as it is every night, and today, cicadas join the choir of insects and amphibians outside. It’s been five years since I’ve watched cable television. The only channel that ever really interested me was Cartoon Network, which I lie listening to, eyes half-closed. That is, until they started playing The Tom and Jerry Show—the 2014 series, not the 1975 one. The episode airing was a film noir take, with Jerry and Tom solving a crime together. The mood of the show was surprisingly, deeply comforting to me, matching the dark atmosphere of my own setting.

Upon watching, I started to realize just how often the film noir genre is parodied and referenced in modern media—yet I couldn’t remember the last film noir movie I’d seen. And so began my quest to watch as many film noirs as I could during this short break from school. Here are some of my recommendations:

The Letter (1940, William Wyler)

Bette Davis fires six bullets into her lover in the opening scene, and the rest of the film asks: was it self-defense, or something darker? Wyler wraps colonial Malaysia in suffocating heat—every ceiling fan seems to stir up more lies, every close-up of Davis’s calculated face hints at depths of manipulation. It's based on a short story and play by W. Somerset Maugham. (which I will be reading) :). I'd describe this movie as a "whydunnit" instead of a "whodunnit" . Whiich I love. The courtroom scenes crackle, but the real masterpiece is the moonlit walk where Davis confronts her victim’s widow (Gale Sondergaard, radiating quiet fury). When that final shot comes, it doesn’t feel like justice—just the inevitable collapse of a house built on secrets.

City That Never Sleeps (Republic, 1952)

A lesser-known gem that pours Chicago’s neon-soaked underbelly straight onto the screen. Gig Young plays a cop drowning in regrets, caught between his wife, his mistress, and a shady lawyer who knows too much. The gimmick? A philosophical mime (yes, really) serves as the city’s ghostly narrator, watching the drama unfold like a one-man Greek chorus. The real star is the location work—real dive bars, real El trains rattling overhead, real desperation clinging to every frame. By dawn, you’ll feel as exhausted as the characters, and just as haunted. Also, I'm kind of salty that CHICAGO is the city that never sleeps and not nyc like?? ( I had certain expectations going in)

Angels with Dirty Faces (1938, Michael Curtiz)

GOD I LOVE THIS ONE. Part gangster flick, part social commentary, all Cagney at his most magnetic. He plays Rocky Sullivan, a hoodlum who returns to his old neighborhood and becomes a twisted role model for the Dead End Kids. The famous ending—where Rocky’s final walk might be an act of cowardice or redemption—still sparks debate and I think I'll need to rewatch to truly frame my personal take. Curtiz shoots the slums with grim affection, contrasting cramped fire escapes with the stained-glass grandeur of the local church. When Bogart (as a sleazy lawyer) hisses, “You’ll never be a success until you learn to delegate,” it’s the whole capitalist nightmare distilled into one line and it breaks my heart in a way where I totally agree

Tomorrow Is Another Day (Warner Bros., 1951)

A B-noir with an aching heart. Steve Cochran plays an ex-con who thinks he’s killed a man, fleeing with a dime-a-dance girl (a terrific Ruth Roman) across an America that’s equal parts promise and threat. Their scenes in cheap motels and roadside diners thrum with tenderness—you believe these two damaged people might actually find something like happiness. It's also deeply drenched in Americana, which brings me a third-culture kid always on the road to home a deep sense of comfort. But this is noir, so the past comes calling in the form of a dogged cop and a twist that’ll leave you breathless. The final shot, with a train whistle screaming in the distance, suggests both escape and endless circling back.

Other films I hope to be reviewing on my substack! Act of Violence (MGM, 1949) The Big Sleep (1946, Howard Hawks) Shadow of a Doubt (1943, Alfred Hitchcock)

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Reimagining Feminist Discourse: The virgin Mary, Femininity, and Liberation Beyond Traditional Constructs - Introductory notes

The enduring suffering experienced by women throughout history culminated in a fierce resistance against the oppressive structures of male-dominated society and the Catholic Church, as depicted in literary works such as "The Second Sex" by Simone de Beauvoir, "The Laugh of Medusa" by Helene Cixous, and "Body Against Body" and "Divine Women." These authors shared a common goal of seeking liberation from patriarchal norms, including the exploration of sexuality beyond traditional confines like marriage. They sought to redefine women's identities beyond conventional roles of wife, mother, or nun, with a particular emphasis on reimagining female deity as a point of reference. This collective struggle signalled a strong message to men that women demanded to be viewed differently from the traditional "Angel of the house," rejecting the victimisation imposed by patriarchal societies and striving to assert their own agency.

In the recent decades of the postmodern era, a significant shift occurred within feminism, particularly in Western societies, where not all women aligned with the resistance against male dominance and the Catholic Church. This divergence led to a recognition that the feminist movement is not singular but rather comprises various feminist perspectives, hence the term "feminisms."

In the contemporary postmodern context, feminism serves not only as a social movement aimed at rectifying injustices faced by women but also as a theoretical framework for analysing gender discrimination, reclaiming women's intellectual contributions, contemplating the essence of female subjectivity, and envisioning a society where "sexual difference" is valued. Within the diverse landscape of feminism, two prominent currents stand out: Radical feminism and “New feminism”.

As feminism evolved, embracing diverse perspectives and frameworks, it intersected with critical examinations of religious beliefs and cultural norms. This transition marks a broader exploration of gender dynamics beyond the traditional feminist discourse. Emerging from the postmodern era's intellectual ferment, a critical reevaluation of Christian beliefs, particularly regarding the veneration of Mary, the mother of Jesus, emerged. This reexamination, spurred by figures like Ludwig Feuerbach and echoed in the existentialist philosophies of Friedrich Nietzsche, challenged conventional interpretations of Mary's significance. These discussions not only engaged with the symbolic role of Mary but also questioned how her representation perpetuates or challenges patriarchal structures within the Catholic Church and broader society. Thus, the feminist discourse expands beyond the confines of patriarchal resistance to encompass nuanced critiques of religious iconography and theological interpretations, shaping contemporary understandings of female subjectivity and empowerment.

The emergence of secular materialist culture in Germany around 1800 brought forth a critical view on the influence of Christian beliefs on Western thought, particularly questioning the veneration of Mary, the mother of Jesus, by the Catholic Church. Ludwig Feuerbach, a German philosopher, laid the groundwork for atheist-materialist Western thought in his work "The Essence of Christianity" (1854). In this context, Feuerbach's perspective on the Virgin Mary, as expressed in Umberto Eco's "History of Philosophy," highlights the symbolic significance of Mary as a representation of purity and love untouched by instinctual or sexual connotations.

Feuerbach's ideas paved the way for atheist materialist thought, later echoed by Friedrich Nietzsche's nihilism and existentialism, which radical feminism drew upon. The values of virginity and chastity, often misunderstood in secular society, find acceptance in a transcendental view of life, where Mary becomes a subject of diverse interpretations by feminist movements. Some argue that the cult of Mary perpetuates patriarchal structures and justifies the subordination of women, including the blame placed on female sexuality by the Church.

For Catholics, Mary serves as a bridge between the material and spiritual realms, enabling the realisation of God's plan for salvation encompassing both the physical and spiritual aspects of humanity. Byzantine iconography, such as the mosaic in St. Savior in Cora, Istanbul, illustrates Mary as the vessel containing the infinite within the finite, symbolising the theological truth of her connection to the divine.

In exploring the theme of women's dignity with a transcendental perspective, there has been emphasis on the need for a female trinity as a model for women's subjectivity and empowerment. Some works advocate for Mary as a symbol of female autonomy and a bridge between cultures through her spiritual essence and symbolic independence. Mary's role as a woman faithful to herself and her ability to maintain intimacy while engaging with others reflect this vision of female freedom and empowerment.

Amoung Catholics Mary is considered a liberator for women due to various reasons . One key aspect is how theologians and scholars have reinterpreted Mary's character to empower women. A symbol of independence, strength, and solidarity for women. It explores how Mary's representation as a mediator between the human and the divine offers women a source of inspiration and empowerment. Additionally, the document suggests that redefining Mary's image can help challenge traditional gender roles and stereotypes, ultimately leading to the liberation of women from societal constraints. Overall, Mary is seen as a figure who embodies qualities that can inspire women to seek independence, equality, and fulfilment.

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Mishima a life in four chapters: My review is mid but the movie isnt WATCH IT

I've always been a sucker for color as a narrative tool. The use of color originally drew me to this film. Witnessing different focal colors employed in various chapters of Mishima's life, each symbolizing different themes, deeply intrigued me. The visual storytelling through color captivated my attention from the start.

However, upon viewing the film, I found there to be much more to explore. Beyond the initial attraction of color, the depth of storytelling and character portrayal demanded closer examination. The layers of Mishima's persona and the complexities of his life added depth to the viewing experience.

Mishima is depicted as a person who is impossible to judge effectively—a complicated individual with multifaceted dimensions. In response, the film refrains from passing judgment; instead, it simply showcases him in all his glory, faults, and feats in a pragmatic yet artistic manner. By presenting Mishima without bias, the film allows viewers to form their own interpretations.

The movie does not make the mistake of using life as political commentary but rather offers commentary on the very things Mishima himself was concerned with: beauty, honor, and the pursuit of ideals. By focusing on these themes, the film stays true to Mishima's own philosophies and concerns.

The realistic grounding of this movie is rooted in the screenplay writing and the skill of the actors involved. Additionally, the artistry lies within the stunning costume and set design, which transport viewers into Mishima's world with authenticity and detail. These elements contribute to the immersive experience of the film.

There's a lot to be said about the cinematography and blocking of the film. However, I am not an expert on this and refuse to embarrass myself by discussing it. Instead, I'd like to focus on what I can speak of: the set design and writing, which play crucial roles in shaping the film's overall impact and resonance with the audience.

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Madea: an observation into contemporary misinterpretation

It’s safe to say that Euripides’ Medea isn’t necessarily my first choice for leisurely reading. However, seeing that I needed to brush up on my classical reading and tempted by (what seemed to be) a short page count. I gave what little time I had to this tragedy. One thing Classicists won’t admit to is doing intensive reading prior to actually even touching their text.

Looking into the background of their writers, the historical context of the text, character analysis are all standard practice, but what makes Greek tragedy particularly unique is the fact that theatre was not a product of a tortured poet or introspective writer, but rather the product of a generous commission from the senate, so-and-so’s.

Further, unlike post-Abrahamic narratives, the stories are never aspirational, they’re never relatable, they’re only lessons, or questions. The Greek protagonist is meant to fail, and the audience will learn and avoid the reasons behind it.

So the lens in which the text has to be assessed is completely unlike the contemporary ones available today.

Prior to reading the play itself, I was shocked to find a lot of analysis regarding Medea as a feminist figure who had gone too far with her emotions and thus displayed barbarism. I think this interpretation is wrong since it fails to take into account any context of tragedy, and is rather an analysis that would only make sense if the text was contemporary.

Medea's portrayal in Euripides' play reflects greek society, where women's roles were heavily constrained by patriarchal norms. One of the most important background pieces of information about Madea is that she is a Sorceress, simply put a witch. The portrayal of the witch archetype in history serves one purpose; to condemn the figure of the powerful woman by punishing and stigmatizing her, through a fear-driven reflection of the patriarchy's fear.

When assessing the character of Madea it's important to take into account the context in which the play was written and ultimately meant to be received in. Medea challenges Greek norms to some extent by asserting her agency and refusing to conform to traditional expectations. It's these very actions that cause her to be punished by her society. Her character arc ultimately aligns with Greek stereotypes about women as emotional and irrational, contrary to feminist goals of dismantling such stereotypes and empowering women as autonomous individuals.

She serves as a cautionary tale, demonstrating the consequences of women who dare to wield power outside the confines of societal expectations. Despite her intelligence and assertiveness, Medea's ultimate fate is one of tragedy and condemnation. Her defiance of patriarchal norms leads to her being portrayed as barbaric and monstrous, particularly through her extreme act of infanticide. This reinforces the notion that women who challenge the status quo are dangerous and must be suppressed.

While Medea initially appears to subvert traditional gender roles and embody feminist ideals by rejecting the submissive wife archetype, her ultimate portrayal in the play undermines any feminist interpretation. Instead of celebrating her agency, the narrative punishes her for daring to defy societal expectations, sending a clear message to readers that women like Medea, with traits such as hers, are inherently villainous and deserving of condemnation

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And why does it shock you when I cover my fishnets to pray,

as though god isn’t meant to save the worst of us

as though even the best of us weren’t born naked, vulgar

As though I don’t know you’re just the same

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To all the Jane’s that came before me Austen, Eyre, Russel my heart lies with Birkin

Most of you won’t know Jane the way I know Jane.

Most of you won’t know what it’s like to be called half-boy half-girl your entire life (and not really mind it for the second half).

Most of you won’t understand what makes insouciance so attractive.

Most of you aren’t crooked toothed muses, with messy hair and a god-awful foreign accents that delight the locals around you.

Most of you won’t know what it’s like to be compared to a Cranach, to realise that while most men won’t hold you up, the louvre would on it’s walls, framed in gold. 

Most of you won’t know what’s it like to feel like you don’t belong in Chelsea, not London not Paris not really anywhere but in Gainsbourg’s work.

Most of you won’t know what it’s like to have strangers in shock that the woman walking beside you is really your mother.

Most of you won’t know Jane, not the way I know Jane, not the way Jane knows me.

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Rumi wrote to God,

I write to You

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 takato Yamamoto

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thomsen, carl christian - After the Ball

Carl Christian Thomsen 1847-1912 Denemarken

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