#like its crucial to her character arc that there is an outside viewer there watching her life crumble and doing nothing abt it

[rrover]

some day i'll ramble abt. minerva so y'all can know what her deal is but she is so. aaugh abbbghggbh augh

[liliaeth]

Fix it’s for Teen Wolf

I can think of a few things that would have made Teen Wolf better.

1.  I wanted more focus on Scott’s emotional response to what happened to him.  I don’t mind that Scott isn’t the type who complains about getting hurt. The problem for me was that the show rarely dealt with the consequences of Scott’s pain, and thus to the casual viewer often made it look like he simply didn’t mind, that being hurt didn’t bother him at all. Or worse, that nothing all that bad had happened in the first place.

 Doing this undermined many of the hallucination scenes.  For example, in Season 2’s Party Guessed, we get hallucinations for Stiles, Jackson, and Allison which give us a view into psychology, letting us know their issues without spelling them out.  For Scott, we got Allison making out with kanima Jackson.   Compared to the others, it felt shallow and confusing.  The writers couldn’t even bother to give us dialog.  He received the same treatment in Season 5, when they read the book designed to trigger their memories about the Dread Doctors. Stiles gets yet another scene about his dead mother who has been crucial to his story since Season 1.  Lydia sees her grandmother and her connection to both Lydia’s powers and Eichen House, as well as foreshadowing her treatment at the hands of Valack.   Malia about her Mom and sister’s death at the hands of the Desert Wolf, which is her entire arc.  And Scott?  He gets a nightmare about a dog that was never mentioned before and would not be mentioned after.

 2. I wanted more focus on Scott’s trauma in general. In Season 1, Scott was repeatedly mentally and physically violated by Peter, terrorized and abused by Derek, and hunted by the Argents, and it was taken as a given.   Even the recaps at the beginning episodes in other seasons barely show any of that.  For example, Gerard attacking Scott in clear view at the hospital, stabbing him, and threatening his mother, never appeared in any of the recaps, even in episodes where it would have been important to remind the viewers about it.

While the show had no issue showing us over and over again how Stiles or Derek or Isaac or Allison or any white character really was hurt, they did not focus on the pain Scott was put through, and thus let the viewers conclude that those events didn’t matter.

The show literally had Scott try and kill himself, twice in less than two days, first in Frayed, by refusing to let himself heal, and then again in Motel California, yet neither of those suicide attempts are mentioned even once afterwards. And this while it would have been a good call back in s5b, when Scott is once again not letting himself heal after Theo killed him. and yet again, no mention whatsoever.

 3. I wanted more consequences for certain characters.   I liked that Scott and to a lesser extent Derek were confronted with the consequences of their actions. When they screwed up, they got called out on it. When they did something wrong, it wasn’t excused.  Then they made up for it.

In contrast, certain characters, especially Stiles, got to do whatever they wanted and it was either dismissed as funny or used to make them look sympathetic.  Stiles got to be mean and cruel, and the narrative still treated him as if he were the best friend ever.  He got to assault people, hurt them, and it was treated as if somehow he was the victim. 

For example, I would have liked Stiles a lot better, if when he tortured Scott with lacrosse balls, punishing him for who-knows-what, if someone else had called him out on it or if Scott had got to defend himself, instead of just taking it because Stiles was angry.  Scott allowing Stiles to hurt him to maintain their friendship was a pattern between them, just as much as Scott taking responsibility for things that aren’t his fault.  He keeps on doing it over the course of the show, but it would have been nice if the show at the very least had made it clear that that didn’t make Stiles behavior acceptable.

Just like I wish that Peter had actually faced consequences for his actions – and/or shown some kind of true remorse for his misdeeds--instead of the others just letting him hang around after all the horrible things he’d done or reduce it pettiness.

 4. I would have liked more time spent on Melissa and the McCall family in general, especially on Melissa’s initial reaction to Scott being a werewolf. In the show, they barely spent two minutes total on Melissa’s reaction to finding out her son has been turned into a werewolf.  By the end of s6b, she was barely even behaving like a mother anymore. Even to the point where we don’t even get a conversation between her and Chris about his attacks on her son before the two of them start dating.  Now don’t get me wrong, I liked Chris and Melissa in a relationship, but it was missed opportunity to humanize both her and Scott that they didn’t bother to show her finding out about that and her reaction to it.

Instead we got the whole horror reaction, of her being horrified at seeing her son’s other face, the reaction that any LGBT kid fears when they come out to their parent. Which could have been a great metaphor, especially if they had then made it clear that Scott was bisexual.

 5. I would have liked more focus on Boyd.   The production time spent on Isaac and Erica, while Boyd’s arc was treated as almost an afterthought. We barely even got any hint on his past, in the episode before they killed him off.    They started out with Boyd as the one who wanted to be like Scott, and then never explained it.  Why not focus more on that, and their relationship?

(similar complaints go about Mason, and how little we knew about Mason, outside of him being Liam’s friend. Like... what was his relationship like with his parents? What is Mason interested in, what does he want to do with his life... how did he deal with the after effects of the Beast...

 6. I would have liked more focus on Alan Deaton. The show had such huge potential with this character’s backstory, not just with the Hales but as an emissary in general.  There was this whole mythology about druids that they barely even delved into.

To not even start on how little we knew about his personal life? Why did he and his sister have different last names? What was their relationship like?

Does he have any romantic relationships? Friendships, relationships in general?

Or how about more time spent on his role as a father figure to Scott, we got so few crumbs of their relationship when we should have gotten so much more

 7. I would have liked more focus on Scott and Theo’s interaction in Season 6.   I get that in 6a, they had Scott primarily focused on getting Stiles back, but I’ll never understand why they then didn’t use 6b, to deal with the fact that Theo had tried to murder Scott and was trying to make it up to him and the pack for what he’d done to Scott and the others.

I don’t mind Theo interacting with Liam.  Those scenes were great, but they should have at least one scene with Scott and Theo dealing with the issues between them.  For Theo’s sake, as much as Scott’s.

 8. I would have liked a complete rework of Season 6A in its entirety.  If you’re going to focus a season on an actor who isn’t available, then you have to make it about his impact on the others. Show us what difference this character made, by showing us the effects of his absence, rather than just try and make it about a romantic ship. (I’ve written a post about this already in greater detail, so limiting it to that, but seriously, that season was such a huge wasted opportunity.)

 9.  Actual character growth for Stiles. For a character who had as much screentime as Stiles did, it’s shocking just how little character growth Stiles had over the course of the entire show. This contrasts in a really bad way, when you look at how much every single other character grew and changed over the course of the show.

Just look at the last four episodes of 5b, to give an example. After almost an entire season of watching Stiles at his worst, focusing on emotional scene after emotional scene with him, he suddenly got relegated to comic relief. Why? Because they didn’t want Stiles to grow, because unless he grew, there was no way for him to go but down. If Stiles had taken responsibility for his actions, then they’d have had to admit that he did wrong in the first place. And they couldn’t have that happen.

 10. And last but not least. More moments of the kids being kids. Even if it’s just proms and beach parties. Moments where we see the characters spend time together, when they aren’t trying to stop some bad guy. Where we can see them be friends, hang out with kids their own age. Even just to remind the audience just how young these children are. And where the viewers along with the characters can rest in between the horror, because doing so makes the horror hit far more strongly in contrast to the light.

 11. Also, a better lighting budget, pretty please Davies, were a few more light bulbs that much to ask for?

[itsclydebitches]

Voyager. Now that’s a kettle of fish. Obviously watch/enjoy whatever you wish, but I do recommend also checking out SFDebris’ reviews of the episodes (he’s the rwde of Voyager). He is a lot smarter and more eloquent than me.

Putting these two asks together since my thoughts on both are all jumbled! 

Now, I want to emphasize that I’ve only watched the first 16 episodes (Season One + Season 2 premiere), so idk if Voyager is going to go seriously downhill later on, but right now I do really like it. And not in a, “Lol yeah compared to the other crap on it’s good, I guess” way, but in a completely honest, “It has its flaws, but is overall a solid, compelling show with lovable characters” way. Out of curiosity I watched SFDebris’ review of “Phage,” though I’m afraid I didn’t agree with it. The only part were I was like, “Yeah okay” was pointing out that they had the Doctor using a keypad when he supposedly wasn’t solid, but that’s precisely the sort of continuity error that, in an otherwise strong show, I’m willing to shrug off. For all the major points, it sounds like SFDebris is concerned primarily with the show he wants Voyager to be, rather than the show Voyager actually is. Which I know sounds familiar--I’ve heard that criticism leveled at my own work: “You just want RWBY to be a totally different show”--but the difference is that Voyager is a part of an established franchise, following three other TV shows, an animated series, and a collection of films. It’s not an original show (like RWBY) that can take itself in any direction the story may need/claim to want (again, RWBY). It has a brand and those established characteristics seem to be bumping up against SFDebris’ critiques: 

Hating Neelix as a character - You’re supposed to hate him. Or at least find him frustrating (I don’t personally hate him) because that’s what all the characters are grappling with too. From Tuvok forced to have an awkward conversation while Neelix is in the bath to Janeway dealing with him taking over her dining room, Neelix’s conflict revolves around how others learn to accept him. Star Trek as a franchise is about “Infinite diversity in infinite combinations.” Voyager begins with the problem of how the trained Federation officers are supposed to work with the more violent Maquis. Difference doesn’t just create “Wow, you’re so amazing!” reactions, it also includes frustration, disagreement, and outright hostility. Creating an outsider character with a kind heart but incredibly overbearing personality is a great way to test the other characters’ convictions. Do they actually care about all life in the universe? Or do they only care about life when they personally find it palatable? Having Neelix around is a great reminder for them--and the viewer--that just because someone annoys you at times doesn’t mean they’re any less worthy of love, respect, and companionship. It also doesn’t mean they don’t have something to offer: he keeps the crew fed even if his cooking is horrible, he provides information about this area of space even if he sometimes gets it wrong, we roll our eyes at the “Morale Officer” stuff, but Neelix does provide much needed perspective for characters like Tuvok. If Neelix made fewer mistakes, stopped bugging the crew, became a “cooler” character for the audience to root for rather than be frustrated by... a lot of the point of his character would be lost. 

Frustration about discoveries not carrying over to the next episode - AKA, the crew finds inanely powerful, alien tech and then (presumably) never uses it again. This would indeed be a big problem in a serialized story (like RWBY) but Voyager maintains much of Star Trek’s original, episodic nature. Though we have continuity in the form of them inching towards home and evolving as characters, the world still resets to a certain point at the end of each episode. This is what allows Star Trek to explore so many different questions and have so many different adventures. If you demand that serialized continuity--this character needs to have an arc to deal with this traumatic experience, the crew has to follow the thread they just discovered, our Doctor needs to do something with the new tech they just found--then you lose the variety that Star Trek is known for. Instead of a new story each week (or, occasionally, across two weeks) you’ve got a single story spanning months. Neither form is better or worse than the other, it’s absolutely a preference, but there’s a very specific, structural, intentional reason why the characters “forget” about the things they’ve discovered and, at times, experienced. Unlike Ozpin forgetting that he has a nuke in his cane for seven volumes, or Ruby forgetting to use her eyes at crucial points, Star Trek deliberately sets things aside to ensure there’s room for new ideas and questions next episode. 

Janeway doesn’t kill the Vidiians to get Neelix his lungs back - No Starfleet captain would. At least, not during this period of Star Trek. Sisko has development in that regard (making morally gray choices), but that’s built into the heart of the show from the start: he’s on a station, not a starship, that is jointly run by the Federation and the Bajorans, and built by the Cardassians. The rules of the Federation always had a tenuous hold there and Sisko as a character always pushed the boundary of the Federations expectations (Q: “Picard never hit me!”) Janeway, in contrast, is 100% a Federation captain and, more importantly, has explicitly told her crew that they will be operating as a Federation vessel, despite being so far from home. That’s the conflict between the officers and the Maquis. That’s why Tuvok accepts the alien tech in “Prime Factors,” recognizing that Janeway can’t. That’s why Seska is a compelling antagonist, pressuring the crew to abandon their ideals for survival. The series (or at least that first season) revolves around questions about identity and whether they’re willing to give that identity up now that they’re out from under the Federation’s thumb. Overwhelmingly, they choose not to... which would make murdering the Vidiian a complete 180 for her character. We’re not necessarily supposed to agree with Janeway’s choice, we’re supposed to acknowledge that murdering another sentient being is not some simple choice to make, especially when you’re a leader devoted to a certain set of ideals. We’re supposed to recognize the challenges here (many of which SFDebris doesn’t acknowledge) like how you’re supposed to keep a prisoner for the next 75 years when you’re already struggling to feed and take care of the crew you have, or the fact that they claim to take organs from dead bodies and this was a rare time when they couldn’t. (It’s only in “Faces” that we learn this is complete BS and they actively kidnap people to work as slaves and then be harvested.) The frustration that Janeway doesn’t act here stems from wanting her to be a character who is, fundamentally, not a Star Trek captain. 

Granted, I only watched one review, but that’s what the whole thing felt like: wanting a series that’s not Star Trek. Something without a token, challenging character, without hand-wavy science, that’s more serialized, and doesn’t adhere to a “do no harm” code. (I just started “Initiations” and Chakotay asks a vessel to stand down three times, while actively being attacked, before finally retaliating and then he tries to reestablish communications and then he warns them about their engine and then he beams them aboard his shuttle. That’s what Star Trek (usually) is: that idealized love of life, even when that life is actively hostile). And like, that’s obviously fine! As you say, Flawartist, “watch/enjoy whatever you wish,” but just based on this one review I wonder if SFDebris just wants something other than Star Trek. 

I think one of the reasons why I feel passionately about this (beyond my love of context and recognizing when shows are actively trying to accomplish something specific) is that I went through this with DS9. For years I heard about how horrible the show was. It’s trash. It’s a mess. It’s not TNG, so don’t even bother. Or, if you do, be prepared for disappointment. There was this whole, strong rhetoric about how silly it all is--Star Trek is, by default, silly, so supposedly only the Shakespeare loving, archeology obsessed captain is sophisticated enough to save it--and then... I found nothing of the sort. I mean yeah, obviously Star Trek is silly as hell (that’s part of its charm), but DS9 was also a complex, nuanced look into everything from personal agency to the threat of genocide. There’s so much wonderful storytelling there... little of which made it into my cultural understanding of DS9. And now I’m seeing the same thing with Voyager. When I did some quick googling I was bombarded by articles saying how bad it is and now I have an ask comparing it to a show I don’t think has even a quarter of the heart the Star Trek franchise does. Which is is not AT ALL meant as a knock against you, anon. I’m just fascinated by this cultural summary of Star Trek: TOS is ridiculous but fun if you’re willing to ignore large swaths of it, TNG is a masterpiece and that’s that, DS9 is bad, Voyager is bad, and to be frank I haven’t heard much of anything about Enterprise. It’s weird! Because I watch these shows and I’m like, “Holy shit there’s so much good storytelling here.” Is it perfect? Not on your life, but it’s trying in a way that I can really appreciate. It’s Star Trek and Star Trek (at least at the time) meant something pretty specific. Criticisms about divisive characters or idealized forgiveness feel like walking out of a Fast and Furious film and going, “There was too much driving and silly combat. Why didn’t they just fix the situation in this easy way?” Because then we wouldn’t have a film about lots of driving and silly combat! If you make all the characters palatable, make Janeway harder, extend the impact of all the discoveries, remove the ridiculous science that doesn’t make any sense... then you don’t have Star Trek anymore. 

[howdoyousayghibli]

A Soapy Sub-Plot Diminishes the Otherwise Brilliant From Up on Poppy Hill

In his excellent series, Movies with Mikey, Mikey Neumann asks a question about Jurassic Park II: Can one stupid scene ruin a great movie? When that little girl defeats a previously terrifying velociraptor with “gymnastics,” it undermines their power to scare the audience and spotlights a character the audience already doesn’t like. But does that erase any and all good qualities the rest of the movie has?

This question is terribly relevant to From Up on Poppy Hill, a 2011 film directed by Gorō Miyazaki. The son of Hayao Miyazaki, Gorō also directed the disappointing Tales from Earthsea. In Poppy Hill, he appears to have learned some lessons from his previous experience; the movie is enjoyable, moving, and packed with some of Studio Ghibli’s best dialogue yet. 

This brings us back to Mikey’s question: Can the inclusion of a subplot that is in poor taste, hackneyed, and unnecessary ruin an otherwise fantastic film? Let’s just say this review’s going to have a hefty Spoiler Zone.

There’s plenty to talk about before we get there, though. Set in1963, Poppy Hill tells the story of two teenagers, Umi and Shun. Umi is uber-responsible, essentially running a boarding house for her Grandmother while also studiously attending school and keeping an eye on her younger sister. She doesn’t have much choice in the matter; her father died while serving  in WWII, and her mother is studying in America.

Shun has a more normal home life, but is deeply involved in “the Latin Quarter,” a massive, old, and dilapidated building that houses innumerable school clubs (all of which are apparently boys-only). The major plot thread of the movie concerns attempts by, you know, Big Business or whoever to demolish the Latin Quarter and build a shiny new facility in its place. The facility would still be for the students, so it’s not a matter of losing their place; it’s a matter of losing the historical building itself.

While Umi’s extreme competence and selflessness endear her to the viewer, the Latin Quarter steals the show whenever the characters visit. I always think it’s bogus and pretentious when people speak of a city or location as “another character, really,” but they’d probably say it about the quirky clubhouse. I’d still disagree, though. The Latin Quarter is such a fun locale because of the many well-written actual characters inside it. The lavish details of the building itself don’t hurt, of course, but it’s really the clubs themselves that bring it to life.

A big part of that comes from some of the best, let’s call it, “background dialogue” of any movie I’ve seen. Neither Umi nor Shun are particularly funny, but the large cast of unnamed Latin Quarter club members are consistently hilarious throughout the movie. At the risk of doing the original screenwriters a discredit, I’m tempted to lay some of this success at the feet of Kathleen Kennedy and Frank Marshall, who oversaw the production of the U.S. dub. Both also worked on the dubs for Ponyo and Arrietty, were also excellently localized. Whoever deserves the credit, the movie is much richer for it.

Now, I’ve said that Umi and Shun aren’t especially funny, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t compelling. Just like the club members who populate the Latin Quarter, the protagonists are endearing because they both feel like they have lives outside of this movie. In different ways, Umi and Shun are both competent and passionate people, avoiding the “waiting for the plot to start” feeling that comes from less fully realized characters. Umi in particular has a moving emotional arc, made all the more powerful by how much of her growth, while inspired by those around her, seemed to come from decisions she made on her own. 

Clearly, there’s a lot to love about From Up on Poppy Hill. The fly in the ointment shows up as Umi and Shun grow closer. It’s only natural that the movie would introduce some form of conflict into the story of their relationship, but the chosen form of that conflict leaves a bad taste in your mouth. It’s something of a twist and happens a good bit into the movie, so I’ll only discuss it directly in the Spoiler Zone, but the long and short of it is that it was a poor choice, it doesn’t give our protagonists anything interesting to do, and it took me about 10 seconds to think of an alternative that would involve minimal differences to the rest of the story.

You may recall that Gorō’s previous directorial effort, Tales From Earthsea, showed some promise but was ultimately weighed down by its failures. You may wonder if Poppy Hill is in a similar situation; fortunately, although the Bad Subplot does detract from the movie, the ratio of good to bad here is wildly better than in Earthsea. This time around, the strengths outweigh the blunders, and I recommend it to any Ghibli fans — I just wish the recommendation didn’t have to come with an asterisk. 

Up Next:

It’s The Wind Rises! It’s currently Hayao Miyazaki’s most recent film (no release date for How Do You Live? yet) and I’m very excited for it. 

Stray Notes:

Maybe my favorite of the many great background lines in the clubhouse: “How can we make archaeology cool again?” “We can’t.”

woooaaaah floor potato storage

Ghibli knows how to cut away from a joke (and not dwell on it)

Wow they’re really hitting the old vs new thing hard

Artist girl is an enormous mood

Lil Umi and her flags OH NO

Urinal conversation huh

“It’s like a cheap melodrama” YEAH KINDA MY MAN

Ah yes, rice goop 

Giant Philosophy Man is great

Chairman guy has a great voice

That explosion was magnificently animated

Spoiler Zone

So, Umi and Shun are growing closer and like 5 seconds from making out when they discover that Umi’s late father is also Shun’s birth father, who gave him to Shun’s adoptive parents when he was still just a baby. They’re actually brother and sister! Who doesn’t love a good incest subplot?

Besides being soapy and gross, it just doesn’t make for a good story. It’s an automatic shutdown; you can’t even root for them to “overcome” this obstacle and still end up together, because … incest. While you could say there’s something to watching them learn to interact with each other non-romantically, it just kind of torpedoes their part of the movie for a bit. 

I say for a bit, because of course this subplot is resolved the only way it possibly could be: Oops, they actually aren’t brother and sister! Herein lies the other part of the problem — the resolution has nothing to do with the efforts of Umi and Shun. Like I said, it doesn’t really work to have them trying to “solve” this problem, so they’re simply informed at the end of Act 3 that Umi’s dad took baby Shun from another dude, who died, and gave him to Shun’s birth parents. 

Action is artificially injected into this story by having the not-so-star-crossed pair race across town so they can meet a sailor who knew their parents before his ship leaves. While I understand that they’d want to meet this man, they both seemingly know all the important bits — i.e., that they aren’t related — before they talk to him, which makes the sense of urgency feel very forced. I say “seemingly” because for reasons unknown, we only see Umi learn this crucial information. We never see Shun learn it, and we never see the two of them talk about it. Presumably, what should’ve been a climactic moment happened off-screen.

All the narrative problems aside, it’s also just gross whenever the scripts ties itself into knots to make incest a concern. It was bad in Speaker for the Dead, it was bad in the trailer for that stupid theme park show, it’s bad in every other comedy anime, and it’s bad here. 

I can only assume that this was their way of having the relationship reflect the theme of the past affecting the present? But they could’ve just as easily introduced conflict through a revelation that Umi’s dad was somehow responsible for the death of Shun’s dad: it makes the past a barrier between them, puts them in a place to work at not letting the past actions of others affect their future, AND at no point does anyone have to say, “wait, don’t worry, it’s actually not incest!” Wins all around!

[nichester]

Review: Extraordinary You

Media Type: Korean drama

Genre: Satire, Horror, High school rom com, sageuk (yes it is all of these genres just roll with it)

Summary: A typical high school girl starts experiencing memory loss, and feeling out of control of her actions. As it turns out, she’s not a typical high schooler, but a character in a manhwa--and not even the main character! Will she be able to change the story, or will she be trapped in the role the writer assigned her forever?

Why you might care: You love meta jokes, stories about stories, debating the concept of free will and predestination, and love conquering all

Why you might not care: You like a show to be what it says on the package, and would be disappointed by a high school rom com that took a sharp turn into existential crisis. You’re tortured by ambiguous endings.

Trope Bingo! Reincarnation/past lovers (it counts!), love triangles, love conquers all, high school romance

If you liked ___: If you’ve already watched and loved this show, and are trawling the tag trying to fill the void, I recommend watching the first season (better as a stand-alone season!) of Westworld, another show that tackles these same questions.

~Spoilers and overall thoughts under the cut~

This was by far tumblr’s favorite drama of 2019, and for good reason! I also loved it, and have very few criticisms, as well as some points where I think the drama went above and beyond all my expectations.

Plot:  The plot was engaging, high stakes, and excellently paced throughout the whole drama (I felt it sagged a little as it entered the final third, but that resolved again by the end of the show to finish on a really tense pair of episodes!). The writers didn’t sit on new plot developments until they wore them out, but instead kept the drama moving, while still giving the time and space for us to see the characters react to the plot (a crucial element that is often neglected when people try to write a fast-paced story!). The ending left a lot unexplained, but it felt like open-ended questions rather than plot holes, and I have no doubt the writers knew exactly where they were going from the beginning.

Central character(s): Eun Dan Oh is wonderful! Very much the main character, she holds this whole crazy story together with her incredible and varied performance. By turns funny, earnest, frustrated, devastated, optimistic, frightened, and head-over-heels in love, she feels as real as you or me. The actress is charming and charismatic, and I can’t imagine someone watching this drama and not falling in love with her. More importantly, Eun Dan Oh is a central character in the eyes of the plot. She drives the changes in the story, and the other characters revolve around her and her indomitable will. All of them are changed by her, and all of them are better people for it. Her own character arc is more subtle, since she doesn’t really change her opinions or beliefs much from the first few episodes (at least once she becomes aware of her set up). Instead, her journey is about finding the strength and courage to stay true to herself despite the increasingly painful barriers that she encounters on her way to self-actualization. The writers and actress together did a fantastic job with a character who is easily one of the best parts of this drama.

Romance: Here is where I felt the story was the weakest. This is personal taste, since I think it worked very well for most people, but I never fell in love with Haru the way so many other people on tumblr did. (This is NOT to say I thought she should have ended up with Baek Kyung--for obvious reasons that would have been Bad). It’s just that Haru had too little defining his personality and identity outside of Dan Oh for me to latch on to him--I cared about what happened to him exclusively because I loved Dan Oh, and she cared about what happened to him. For a romance to work really well for me, I need both characters to be fully developed people with outside interests and personality, and for a lot of reasons that made sense in-universe, Haru was not. However I was a big fan of the way the romance intersected with the other themes in the story, and I thought the writers did an excellent job integrating it that way.

Side characters/side plots:  I loved so many characters in this story, and almost all of them were engaging enough to carry a show on their own! I’ve seen the idea of a second season focused more on some of the other characters, and I would be over the moon about that. Do Hwa, Joo Da, Baek Kyung, and the Dried Squid Fairy had stories that were as poignant and engaging as those of the mains, and they had their own arcs which were executed with skill and grace despite their more limited screen time. One thing I would have liked to see more of would have been interaction between the secondary characters and Eun Dan Oh, which tended to fall away once the romance really got going. It’s a testament to how great the actors were that I missed seeing their friendship so much!

Integration of secondary roles with protagonist’s story: This is a point where I feel that if a drama can’t succeed, it should cut the stories entirely. This show in particular does a really good job making its side plots not only engaging, but crucial to illuminating the themes of the story. Joo Da and Do Hwa’s story contrasts with Eun Dan Ho and Haru’s, and both of them are contrasted with the Dried Squid Fairy, as we see different people react to impossible situations.  Their plot lines are carried throughout the whole show, and are concluded in ways that enhance the climax of the protagonist’s story. The drama would feel incomplete without these elements, which is far more than could be said for most drama subplots!

Tone: Now we come to my favorite and most elusive element of a show. If the show doesn’t hit the right notes for me here, I often just can’t love it no matter how good other elements are. On the flip side, I have watched some real messes just because I can’t resist a show with a strong sense of atmosphere and tone (Hong Sisters I’m looking at you)! Here is a place that Extraordinary You faced considerable challenges and pulls it off effortlessly. They needed to balance the light-hearted comedic moments with the darker, genuinely horrifying underbelly of the world they had created. To add even more complexity to the situation, they needed to communicate the different layers of story to the viewers visually and tonally. (One element I’ve commented on which was a real stroke of genius was changing the lighting in the “stage” to be darker and colder than the lighting in the “shadow,” communicating to viewers which type of scene they’re watching, but also conveying the themes of the show by making the scenes where the characters are puppets more tense than the ones where they are free to be themselves.) Simply put, Extraordinary You excels at tone. It is a masterclass in visual direction and balance, and never dropped the ball in this area, no matter how dark the show got.

Theme: A lot has been said and written about Extraordinary You’s themes, so I’m not going to try to cover everything (especially now so long after the show aired!). What I found so impressive about Extraordinary You was the way in which the acting, characters, subplots, and directorial choices served to explore and enrich the themes of identity, memory, and free will that are discussed in such depth and complexity in this show. Importantly (to me) they didn’t end the show on a hopeless note, despite the hopeless situation they had created. None of the issues are handwaved away, but the message that I got was that love was worth the struggle. Even if there’s no guarantee or even possibility of a happy ending, it’s still worth it to try. I love a show about the importance of love, in all its difficulties and complexity. It was clear from the first few episodes that the writers and PD came into this with something to say, and they executed beautifully. If you have any interest in these themes, (and somehow missed this show in all of the overwhelming hype for it) please check this out! You will not be disappointed.

[jaywrites101]

Jay Reviews: Captain Marvel

Higher, Further, Faster. Emotions are a weakness, or are they? Today at JayWrites101 we're looking into the cinematic adventure that is Captian Marvel. Critics everywhere are pitching in on this one, giving it reviews ranging between Masterpiece and Disaster with very little room for leeway. How accurate are those reviews? Let's find out together.

The purpose of this review is not to promote, nor offend. We're here to break down The Good, The Bad, and The Strange to find out what makes this movie so unique.

Spoilers ahead.

Medium: Movie Genre: Superhero, action, drama Premise: A superpowered woman with amnesia must find out the truth of who she is so she can stop an interstellar war from destroying her homeworld.

My, that's such a simple premise, isn't it? Boy, the context of this premise changes dramatically. Our Protagonist, Vers, starts off as a Kree soldier fighting to protect Halla from the Skrulls, big green aliens with the power to shape-shift into anyone. As more information is revealed, she ends as Carol Danvers (not to be confused with Karra Danvers, DC's Supergirl) a human pilot who absorbed a fraction of power from an infinity stone whose mission is to protect Earth from the Kree as they try to use her to take over the galaxy.

It's funny how the entire plot reverses itself completely, but the basic premise never changed.

Plot: We start off learning about Vers, as she and her team gears up to rescue a spy whose cover has been blown. The mission turns into a complete fiasco when the spy turns out to be a Skrull in disguise. Vers is captured and "interrogated" using some kind of mind-reading technology. Thing is, she's remembering stuff she couldn't possibly have remembered. Things like getting chewed out for crashing a go-kart, or falling while doing a military course. Vers manages to escape her captors and flee to Earth. After contacting her team, she joins forces with Nick Fury, an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. who's thinking about putting together a task force to protect the Earth from major threats. Not a bad idea, that.

Together they investigate the fragments of memory that Vers recalled from her capture, all while being chased relentlessly by Skrull agents who also made it to Earth. Vers eventually finds a friend who knows the truth and learns that she is, in fact, Carol Dan-vers, a human. Before this revelation has time to sink in, the Skrull offer a flag of truce. They reveal that they're not a military force, just a few survivors trying to hide from the Kree who hunt them relentlessly. As proof, they offer Carol a recording of the incident that robbed her of her memories where it's shown unarguably that her teammates, the Kree, deliberately captured her to find the Tesseract, a device that holds an Infinity Stone, and accidentally gave Carol her powers when she tried to destroy a device that used that energy.

In the end, Carol and her new friends are captured by the Kree and Carol realizes the device she believed was giving her power, was actually suppressing her powers. She destroys the device and becomes Captian Marvel, a superbeing whose massively undefined powers include energy blasts from her hands and flight. Powers that allow her to tear through a Kree spaceship like it was tissue paper. If you've watched Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 1. then you know these things are no joke, but Carol destroys one in three seconds flat by flying through it.

Bad guys leave, Carol takes the surviving Skrull to a new planet on the opposite side of the galaxy and Nick Fury begins his Avengers Initiative. Fast forward to the Present and Carol returns in the end-credit scene to a very confused Captain America and demands to know what happened to Fury.

This was one heavy plot. I cut a lot out of it and it still took me thirty minutes to give a summary that wouldn't leave you more confused than you began. You wouldn't think this movie was so plot-dense until you have to try to explain it.

The Good: I just broke down the plot, but what's great about Captain Marvel is that this plot is engaging. I had to go to the bathroom about a third of the way through the movie, but I didn't once consider actually leaving because every second of this movie was filled with something.

I've heard it said before that a good plot structure is "X happened because of Y and causes Z." There are precious few films that encapsulate that principle into the core of it's being better than Captain Marvel. And the nods to future films and plot points were fun to discover as well.

Another thing worth noting is how much of the story is conveyed nonverbally. They spend a lot of effort to say as much as they can, using as little dialogue as possible. This helps the viewer to remember plot details better since they're not just passively listening, but it also means that removing attention away from the screen can cause you to miss things crucial to understanding what's going on. I'm leaving this in The Good because Captain Marvel used this feature well. It's always nice to see a visual medium like film use visual storytelling to great effect instead of having someone constantly dumping exposition all the time.

As a subset of the above, lack of exposition in a movie that is a plot-heavy as this one is always worth noting as praiseworthy.

The use of humor to break up the heavier scenes was a relief, and it often came when I least expected it. Real early in the movie there was this scene where "Vers" was escaping the Skrull's and one of them does this growl at her and she growls back! It was such an absurd little moment of humanity and character that I lost it. And almost anything with that cat! I swear, how they made that monster scratching out Nick Furry's eye out into something hilarious, I'll never know! But they did, and all those little moments made this movie shine.

Real briefly, I'd like to address a common complaint I've heard against this movie, Carol's lack of character. These people are full of fluff. Is that it? Can I just leave it here? Do I really have to explain this? Yes?? *sigh* Okay.

The idea that Carol lacks character is born from her "reserved" personality type. Now, I'm not calling anyone sexist! But this is a personality type that is very often shown in Men ™ , and it doesn't even raise an eyebrow. But to any dude who actually is sexist, and refuses to look at anything other than how large Brie Larson's chest is outside of her superhero suit, this personality type can easily be swapped out with a piece of cardboard and they wouldn't notice.

Now, guys have been pulling off this “kind of quiet, but kind, but I'll seriously kick your ass if you mess with me,” attitude in film for ages. And quite a few even have had success with it. (I'm thinking Resse from Person of Interest, a show that is definitely getting its own review someday.) But it's exceedingly rare for a woman in film to have this personality type.

It's not uncommon in reality, however. And I, personally, like this touch of realism.

The few moments where Carol allowed herself to laugh felt warm and genuine. All her interactions with her niece were heartwarming. Again, some very important people, some of whom I even respect, say that the side characters never got a chance to shine, and Carol never got a chance to have a character arc.

But again, they're full of fluff. If anything, expressing emotion was Carol's character arc. By beating up the man in her life that insists that she never feel emotion, Carol shows that her emotions are her strengths and she does not at all have to prove herself to anyone.

Why?

Because she kept getting back up.

This is a powerful message to tell anyone. Not just women. We heard a variant of the same message in the Dark Knight trilogy. But in this one, it's even more satisfying because the people who kept knocking her down were cheating to begin with.

Now, I'm not going to say that this message was transferred across the eight sexes evenly. I have no doubt that women felt this message more acutely than men. This specific message was made for women. Duh. But there's only one reason why any man could come out of this film feeling attacked.

They saw themselves in Yon-Rogg.

I'm just saying, if you related to the one male character that got attacked in this movie, you prolly need to be offended. Just a little. It's not going to kill you to take a hard look at yourself, even if you eventually discover that you have, in fact, been an ass at some point in your life.

Congratulations. Welcome to the human race. Now, move on.

Before we take our own advice and move on, I'd like to address one more thing Captain Marvel did exceptionally well: The sound design.

This movie sounded wonderful, from the effects to the actual factual background music. Most notably in the third act. There was a point where a character said "The music is a nice touch" and I agreed completely. A lot of these films use similar or recycled music to amp up "the moment" but this movie... well, they didn't turn it up to eleven, but the got it up to ten.

They had music with lyrics, and that's more than 70% of movies these days. Thumbs up.

The Bad: Remember how I said I loved how engaging this plot was? It's still a freakishly dense plot! This whole thing was so tightly edited there was very little time to just unpack the things that happened. Often, you had to try and unpack the thing that just happened while actually doing the next thing.

This helps the movie be engaging. But it hamstrings it when it comes to actually following what’s happening. There is just no way to condense this movie. I've left out tons of stuff just because I have to stop typing this thing eventually!

The Strange: This part of the review is dedicated to the bizarre. To elements or ideas that seem half done, or just really questionable. Not usually bad enough to be constituted as a plot hole, these things are... just... things.

So, for example, the Kree team. What were their names? How many of them were there in the first place?

Don't know? Me neither, and I took notes when I watched this film. I remember Minn-Erva, the sniper, and Yon-Rogg the main villain. And if I'm honest, I actually forgot their names and had to look it up. I didn't even know their group was called "Starforce," until I discovered it looking for the correct way to spell their names.

This is not the best way to set up your main bad guys. Especially if your audience is supposed to care about them at all for any reason.

And while we're at it, the antagonist himself, Yon-Rogg, could do with a little bit extra development too. We don't really know much about him except that he thinks emotions are weaknesses in a fight, and that Carol using her full power is cheating.

We don't really know anything else about him, so there's no real sense of betrayal when Carol turns on him. The "evil all along" trope works best when it's a character you've been with the whole story who's secretly had a plan the whole time. It works because you, the audience, feels betrayed too. Here... it just kinda happened. And, depending on how cynical you are, you probably even saw it coming.

It's like they were going for a sucker punch but aimed it at your forearm; doesn't really hurt, and does little to actually surprise us.

Strongest Scene: When making the strongest scene, I don't mean I look for the scenes with the most meaning packed into them. If I did, the climax or the Intro of a story would win every time. No, what I look for in a strong scene is pure storytelling. How is it shot, who is in it, how does it connect with the rest of the story, and how much does it say.

For Captain Marvel, my subjective vote goes to the bar scene between Nick Fury and "Vers." Even though they've technically met already, the two are really seeing each other for the first time. Nick, newly awakened to the idea of aliens, and Vers, finally respecting Nick's skills as a competent agent despite his comparative backwater setting.

Nick realizes he's in about a mile over his head, and Vers realizes she can't work alone.

They have a nice discussion about their past and aliens, complete with its own little humorous jabs, and there's a very real sense that these two are full partners afterward that carries all along the rest of the movie.

Weakest Scene: As much as it saddens me to say this, I'm going to have to put the introduction to the movie here.

Don't get me wrong, it does a fully competent job of setting up Vers and her amnesia. But we don't get a good sense of anyone else in Halla. To me, it's the things we don't see that really spoil this intro. We don't see any of Carol's friends, and the one guy we do see is in a bit of a mentor position. We don't see how people in this world live, and because of that, we don't get to know if the people of Halla are happy, or miserable. And while this does little for the plot of this movie, it would've done marvels at giving the villains characterization or justifications.

Coulda, shoulda, woulda; didn't.

Luckily, I can gladly say that every other scene in this movie was made stronger than this one.

Conclusion: Captain Marvel is an excellent story from start to finish. Anyone who tells you otherwise is stuffed so full of fluff you can call them Whinee the Poo. And yes, that is my way of saying they're full of crap. 

There's a stigma around female characters that they're almost all considered Mary Sue's, and that being a Mary Sue is the WORST CRIME EVER!! But I never got that from Carol. Mostly because at every opportunity instead of powering her way through her problems, she had to cave and struggle and even fall.

And then she got back up.

[eth-an]

Modern Love and Broken Promises: Romance in Edward Yang’s Cinema

Around halfway through the runtime of Edward Yang’s 2000 film Yi Yi, the audience is given a portrait of a pitiful man reaching one of his lowest points. A-Di, brother-in-law to the film’s protagonist NJ, is shown lying half-naked on a mattress in his ex-girlfriend’s apartment, portly and slothful, engrossed in a porno playing on the television at the foot of the bed. As Yun-Yun turns off the bedside lamp and the space goes dark, the scene recedes with nothing but the reflection of the TV’s glare on A-Di’s glasses and the moaning of porn stars reverberating around the room. A-Di attempts to ask his ex- for help with his money troubles; she ignores him, leaving him talking to himself. In Edward Yang’s oeuvre, characters are often left conversing with themselves, hearing the echoes of their own voices, constantly talking past the ghost of their partner rather than meeting them on an intimate common ground. As Franz Kafka wrote in a correspondence to his lover at the turn of the twentieth century: “writing letters is actually an intercourse with ghosts” (230). Edward Yang, a key player in Taiwan’s New Cinema at the end of the century, then could be said to extend Kafka’s formulation to match the new material technologies present in a globalizing city. While Kafka remarks on the letter and its inability to consummate a human connection, Yang replaces ink and notepads with more timely motifs: the TV screen, the fax machine, the tape recorder, the film studio, the business card. As A-Di lies with his limbs sprawled out, made agog by the material on the cassette tape, the television screen erodes the boundary between private intimacy and public spectacle. Critic James Tweedie has commented, “the television exists at the threshold between those two social spheres” (14), making the divide between the personal and public more porous than ever before. While giving the illusion of connecting A-Di to a richer outside world, we can see how the television only serves to further alienate him from Yun-Yun; from an active, embodied experience of his own sexuality; and from the conversation he halfheartedly prolongs. Yang’s films then are instructional in understanding how modern media technologies have turned the traditional triumphant romance narrative into an “intercourse with ghosts”—perpetually frustrated, mired with failure, and unconsummated. While this may seem like a cynical indictment of modern love, I hope to show through an analysis of Yang’s films Yi Yi and A Brighter Summer Day that Yang’s characteristic melancholia opens up new potentials for making meaning out of romance in an era of increasing fragmentation. As Fatty deftly comments before his murderous rampage at the end of Yi Yi, “we live three times as long since man invented movies” (1:51:18). Yang’s films live up to this charge, offering their audience three times the intricacy through their characters’ ultra-mediated relationships.

One of the most compelling romantic arcs in these two films is the rekindling of the long-lost flame between NJ and his first love, Sherry. Although NJ and Sherry are both married when they come across each other unexpectedly in the gaudy lobby of some Taipei hotel, circumstances give them a chance to temporarily forget their spouses and reconnect. However, their new intimacy is spurious. Rather than offering either of them closure from the thirty years since their last meeting, their connection is mediated through shadows and fleeting impressions. At first, their reconnection is facilitated by nothing more than the exchange of flimsy business cards. Sherry hands off one of her cards—a symbol of the professional success she has found since moving to America—to NJ, who does not reciprocate the gesture. This scene marks their relationship at its most obviously superficial, but as the story progresses and their interactions become more and more frequent, their reliance on flimsy forms of mediation persists. NJ misses several calls of Sherry’s, only to dial her number and pour his heart out on her answering machine. Technology, rather than making the world a globalized paradise, then offers NJ and Sherry little more than the ability to talk to strangers they used to know. Yang then problematizes the supposed forward march of global communication, showing how it causes NJ and Sherry to miss each other’s messages just as often as it lands on the mark. The context and location of their phone calls also plays a crucial role here. Walter Benjamin has commented on the “sanctuary” (171) of private living spaces in opposition to its “complement” (154) of the office workspace, but in Yang’s film this dichotomy is collapsed as well: Sherry and NJ are only afforded the opportunity to speak to each other in the context of a business trip, NJ always reaches out to Sherry through his office’s phones, and the details about meeting up with Sherry at a Japanese hotel are routed through NJ’s secretary. The office phone, just like the television screen, then refigures private intimacy as one more piece of a larger global loneliness.

Even once NJ and Sherry end up meeting each other in person, the damage has been done so that they are seemingly doomed to speak past each other. NJ meets Sherry along with Ota in the lobby of yet another hotel, and they briefly converse in English, a language which none of them grew up speaking. No matter how technically proficient they are in speaking this foreign language to each other, this adds yet another level of mediation to their conversation. Throughout the trip, NJ and Sherry go on walks together, each monologuing their discontents from their long-gone relationship to the air around them, as if the other was not even present to comment. “I wouldn’t know how to live on!” Sherry yells, to no reply (1:53:03). She later breaks into tears and screams at NJ in his hotel room, only to realize that she has missed the mark and that her yelling was out of turn, directed at a vision of their relationship that no longer exists, or perhaps never existed in the first place. In these scenes, Yang represents their lost young love not as a monument worth rebuilding, as might be the case in a more traditional romance film, but the crosshatching of faulty memories and miscommunications underwritten by modern technologies. In a 2000 interview conducted between Edward Yang and the magazine Cineaste, Yang comments that his stories try to deal with “the universality of being human” (Sklar 6). While it is difficult to pin down a specific meaning from such a broad and totalizing claim, surely the increasing “connectedness” of the world under globalization is one such universal feature of being human at the turn of the millennia. While many take this connectedness as an a priori feature of modern life, Yang remains critical of those media and communication practices that ambiguate meaning in our relationships. In a concrete way, the trains and planes that connect Taiwan, the U.S. and Japan—the modern transportation that brings Sherry and NJ physically closer together—only serves to ultimately push them further apart. Focusing again on the boundary between the personal and the outside world, Yang shows a shot of Sherry’s reflection in a train’s window: her face is contemptuous as NJ sleeps, unaware next to her.

In addition to those features of globalization like mass-communication and transportation, Yang builds in a reflexive critique of the proliferation of video as well. The porno that A-Di watches is likely a specific reference to the increasing production of Taiwanese porn films at the end of the 1980s, which made up over half the country’s video output at that time (Zhang 242). Likewise, Taiwanese news media makes up an important expository narrative device at the end of Yi Yi, when Ting-Ting learns of Fatty’s unfortunate demise by watching the television hanging in the police station. The seriousness of the situation is brought down into an almost humorous register by the TV program, which illustrates exaggerated CGI visuals of the way the crime may have occurred. While the viewer is able to experience some much-needed comic relief from this scene, a certain darkness underlies its motivation. Ting-Ting, who is as personally acquainted with the situation as anyone could be, learns of the attack the same way as the rest of the public. The boundary between personal and public is collapsed, and her formerly innocent crush on Fatty is plagued with the same failure the other relationships in the film suffer. If critic James Tweedie is to be taken literally in his claim that CGI animation is “staging in its purest and least encumbered form, without the limitations imposed by photography” (15-16), then the news media’s recreation of an animated murder is nothing less than pure spectacle, absent of substance. In terms of Ting-Ting’s own romantic arc, this form of media represents an emptying out of meaning from an incredibly impactful event: though her former lover is going to jail for life, she can (almost) safely feel that it is some distant event happening to another person, in another time. Fatty becomes just as much of a ghost by the end of the film as the lost romance between NJ and Sherry, and no trace of him remains save the hand-shaped blood stains on the front of their apartment complex.

While this emptying out of meaning is the most common effect of modern media technologies in Yang’s films, this does not necessarily make Yang a pessimist in the face of globalizing technology. Yang himself, who attended “the newest and hottest program” for engineering at the University of Florida in the 70s, could hardly be accused of rejecting the adoption of modern technology (Sklar 8). Instead, his films try to explore these technologies’ effects on human life and romantic relationships, rather than tackling their broader structural, societal causes. Yang himself claims that he attempts to portray the events of his films as “neutrally as possible” so that his audience can make any moral judgements for themselves (Sklar 6). This neutral exploration is perhaps best exhibited in his 1991 epic work A Brighter Summer Day, which masterfully portrays the young love and hate between two Taiwanese teens, named Xiao Si’r and Ming, in the dangerous Taipei streets of the early 1960s. Si’r and Ming’s initial introduction is made wholly possible by a chance encounter at a film studio, without which they would not have forged a bond of friendship. One day, as Ming and Si’r are wandering outside their school grounds to spy on the production of a film in the cavernous building next door, they are caught trespassing by the film director. The director, so taken with Ming’s beauty and fitness for the lead role, asks her to come by the next day for a camera test, so that she might take over the position from the previous actress. In many ways, this occurrence is the genesis of Si’r and Ming’s romantic relationship, which grows more fruitful as they pass each other in the halls of the night school.

In one of the film’s most beautiful scenes, the camera cuts to Ming’s face, covered in tears. Yang does not give this scene any prior context. The preceding scene features Ming in a hospital overhearing her caretaker haggle with the doctor about her mother’s medical expenses. As the camera cuts to Ming’s crying face, the viewer expects that she might be crying about her mother’s asthma attacks, or possibly about her boyfriend’s disappearance. Then, a disembodied voice simply asks: “Are you thinking about something sad? Can you tell me about it? Maybe you don’t know where to start” (1:07:58). Soon after these questions are posed to Ming, the camera broadens out, and Yang’s audience sees that Ming was crying during her camera test in the film studio. On the one hand, Ming’s performance could be cynically read as yet another of Yang’s demonstrations of the falsity of meaning in cinema. Although Yang’s audience is initially led to believe that Ming is crying due to some tragedy in her life, it soon becomes clear that she is simply acting. Like so many other instances in Yi Yi, the personal affective labor of Ming is then appropriated by a objectifying public medium, in this case the film camera. However, a more reparative reading of this scene offers a new understanding of how the boundary between personal and public can be recast in spite of modern media. Although the director’s assistant asks Ming to reveal her personal thoughts that cause her tears, she refrains from giving the audience insight into her most intimate thoughts and feelings. Ming’s obstinacy shows that there is still a final frontier of the personal that cannot be captured in written letters, animation, 35mm film, or phone calls. This boundary is preserved in this scene, and Ming refuses to become another ghost for the audience to empty out and recreate to their own liking.

This also becomes evident in Ming’s romantic relationship with Xiao Si’r. The sound stage of the film studio is also the literal stage for the beginning of their romance, and Yang shows how the stage can possess both of these meanings without compromising these characters’ intimacy. When the studio’s cameras are off and the lights are dimmed, Ming and Si’r share their fears and hopes. Ming calls Si’r “honorable” and says that it will get him in trouble (1:00:59). Ming does not leave Si’r with an overly picturesque view of herself, and willfully tells him about other men who flirt with her. In a world that could easily subsume Ming into empty spectacle, she remains an strong example of how intimate and open communication can continue to exist. Ming discovers a modern love that is able to work within both the public and the private without letting one destroy the other through their collapse. She is flexible in finding love not necessarily in a single monogamous heterosexual relationship, but variously works with and against the contingencies of her life in Taipei to maintain and consummate connection with others. When her lover Honey is tragically murdered, she finds generative dialogues with Si’r reconstituting to her self, and this allows her to find a stability in modern love where other characters fail.

Ming does not give herself over as a passive subject to modern love, chasing after Honey’s ghost (in this case, his ghost would be literal), but instead finds a way to move forward and make new meanings in life. In A Brighter Summer Day, Yang offers several other notable features of modern romance that employ a similar ethos, each making meaning in spite of the collapse between public and personal brought about by new media and globalization. The popularity of Elvis’s music among the Taipei gangsters in the film is one such example. Although the gangsters do not speak fluent English, and can only sing Elvis’s songs through phonetic transliterations, they still find deep personal meaning in this global phenom. Although it may seem campy to a contemporary viewer when a Taiwanese child with greased back hair and a white tee starts singing songs by the “King of Rock,” the teens in the movie take this mass-media sensation and make it re-signify in their own community. Even though the film’s title, “a brighter summer day” is a misheard lyric meant to be “a brighter sunny day,” this hardly seems to matter as it makes meaning for these characters personally. The divide between a public, globally recognized rock star, and the individual, personal (mis-)interpretation of that music is then shown to be a generative process that nevertheless allows for new bonds to be made and new relationships to be formed. In Yi Yi, while Ota and NJ sit together in a parked car, they commiserate with each other and agree that music has a unique ability to bond people across time and place. In A Brighter Summer Day, music is another valuable site for modern love to make meaning, as teen lovers lean against each other’s shoulders on the dance floor.

In both A Brighter Summer Day and Yi Yi, romance seems to be perpetually, invariably in the throes of failure. NJ and Sherry, Ming and Si’r, Ting-Ting and Fatty, even A-Di and Yun-Yun: these films offer no shortage of romances ending in spectacular violence or dissipating in dispassionate indifference. As such, it is hard to see how Edward Yang could ever be seen as a romantic filmmaker in the conventional generic sense, or an optimist when it comes to new, modern modes of connection. However, I argue that this unashamed willingness to deal with failure on its own terms is just one of Yang’s many virtues. As critic Jack Halberstam has said, “failure involves the acceptance of the finite, the embrace of the absurd” (187). In addition, “failure allows us to escape the punishing norms that discipline behavior” in modern society (3). Under the strictures of NJ’s soul-sucking office job, or the angry disciplinarians at Si’r’s night school, or even the covertly violent interrogation practices of the Taiwanese nationalist government, perhaps failure is a viable alternative that ought to be explored. Yang’s romances do not usually offer a happy ending, but their exploration of love does offer something else: an alternative to the rigid and confining norms of modern life that threaten to empty us out and turn us into ghosts.

Works Cited

Benjamin, Walter. Reflections: Essays, Aphorisms, Autobiographical Writing. Schocken Books, 1986.

Halberstam, Jack. The Queer Art of Failure. Duke University Press, 2011.

Kafka, Franz. Letters to Milena. Schocken Books, 2015.

Sklar, Robert, and Edward Yang. “The Engineer of Modern Perplexity: An Interview with Edward Yang.” Cinéaste, vol. 26, no. 1, 2000, pp. 6–8. JSTOR, www.jstor.org/stable/41689311.

Tweedie, James. “Edward Yang and Taiwan’s Age of Auteurs.” Oxford Handbooks Online, 2013, doi:10.1093/oxfordhb/9780199765607.013.0023.

Yang, Edward, director. A Brighter Summer Day. The Criterion Collection, 2016.

Yang, Edward, director. Yi Yi. The Criterion Collection, 1999.

Zhang, Yingjin. Chinese National Cinema. Routledge, 2010.