Intro to Film 2025 • Professor Gregory Zinman • Emory University

Author: Teresa Martinez Gonzalez

  • Animation in Demon Slayer: Kimetsu no Yaiba Infinity Castle

    Over break, I indulged in watching many films, with one of them being Demon Slayer: Kimetsu no Yaiba Infinity Castle. Having already read the manga, I was eager to see how the studio would translate such a deep arc into animation, especially since there had been so much discussion online about its production, given that it took Ufotable 3.5 years to complete the film. Needless to say, the animation lived up to the wait, and after seeing the scale of the animation, I now understand why the next part is projected for release in 2027.

    This made me curious about what truly goes into animating a film like this. I always assumed animation was a straightforward, digital, hand-drawn process. However, according to an article by Brandefy, Infinity Castle relies on a “seamless fusion of traditional 2D drawings and advanced 3D animation”. While many anime today incorporate CG, Ufotable has perfected a method where digital elements enhance movement rather than disrupt it. Their shots feature dynamic camera paths, detailed backgrounds, layered lighting, and fluid character motion that feel unified rather than separate.

    One of Ufotable’s most powerful techniques is “satsuei”, the Japanese term for compositing. This stage merges characters, effects, backgrounds, lighting, shadows, and camera movement into a single frame. Ufotable approaches compositing the way a live-action film crew approaches cinematography. They adjust lighting effects, atmospheric layers, and depth of field to create scenes that feel immersive and alive.

    This explains why film looked the way it did. The shifting architecture of the castle, the pace of the battle sequences, and the glowing breathing techniques are not just aesthetic choices. They are the result of months spent animating one scene, then refining it through digital layering until it feels alive. When the film moves through twisting hallways or throws characters through collapsing rooms, the animation isn’t just depicting motion, it’s essentially engineering it.

    Understanding this process made me appreciate the film even more. What seemed like a simple viewing experience is actually the outcome of years of technical labor. With that in mind, the wait for the next part feels justified.

    Source: https://brandefy.com/ufotable-anime-video-production-demon-slayer/

  • Sartre and 10 Things I Hate About You

    Recently, I watched 10 Things I Hate About You for the first time, and I couldn’t stop thinking about something we discussed in my philosophy class. I have always been curious about how different people make sense of life, and now that I know a bit of philosophy, I notice those ideas in films more than ever. One concept that stood out to me is Jean-Paul Sartre’s idea of bad faith.

    Sartre argues that people are not born with a fixed personality or purpose. He believes that existence precedes essence, which means we become who we are based on the choices we make, not because of something built into us from birth. Given this, Sartre thinks many people fall into bad faith. Bad faith happens when we accept labels, roles, and expectations from society instead of choosing our identities for ourselves. Sartre defines this as not just deception, but self-betrayal as you become a character in someone else’s script.

    After learning this, I realized that the idea of bad faith matches perfectly with Kat’s character in 10 Things I Hate About You. Kat refuses to be the kind of girl others expect her to be. She does not care about fitting in, she ignores typical dating rules, and she does not change her personality to make others comfortable. People think she is rude or strange, but Sartre would probably say she is the most authentic person in the film. She is choosing her own identity instead of borrowing one from the world around her. Her behavior is not an act for attention, it is her choosing to live truthfully, even when it costs her popularity/acceptance.

    This makes me think about Sartre’s claim more seriously. Is living under roles and expectations always a bad thing? Following social norms can make life easier. It helps you avoid judgment and blend in, and sometimes that feels like a comfortable life. But if you never express who you really are, then are you actually living your own life or just copying what others want you to be?

    I am still unsure about where I stand. Part of me understands why people choose comfort. Another part of me agrees with Sartre, who suggests that living authentically might be harder but also more meaningful. What I do know is that 10 Things I Hate About You illustrated Sartre’s philosophy in a straighforward way that I enjoyed.

  • Why did RRR become popular in Western culture?

    While looking into the history of RRR, I came across a Reddit post that caught my attention and intrigued me:

    The user, Fragrant-Strength482, discussed how the “over-the-top action, melodrama, and larger-than-life storytelling” is a norm in Indian cinema. From his point of view, he didn’t get why this film became the one everyone in the West suddenly cared about, especially when he thought there were other Indian films that were better. That got me thinking: why did RRR click with Western audiences?

    To me, RRR feels like a three-in-one package. It is part action film, part musical, and part bromance. I enjoyed the film because it never felt too serious. Even though it deals with a serious topic like colonialism, it still manages to have fun with itself. The film is loud, colorful, emotional, and dramatic, and somehow all of that works to deliver a message.

    New Lines Magazine dove deeper into understanding why the film resonates with American audiences. The article quoted Telugu film critic Hemanth Kumar C.R. who explained that, unlike many Marvel and DC heroes, who often seem tired or cynical, the characters in RRR are full of life and excitement. Their friendship is the heart of the movie, and the story jumps from action to romance to drama at a speed that surprises people who are not used to Indian filmmaking. That mix felt fresh and exciting for Western audiences who do not usually see movies done this way.

    Additionally, there were also outside factors. People Magazine discussed how, after the pandemic, viewers wanted movies that were fun and thrilling. RRR delivered exactly that. The movie was also easy to access on streaming platforms such as Netflix, which helped it spread quickly. This caused the film to gain popularity, given that someone would watch it, get hooked by one of the wild scenes, and immediately tell other people to check it out.

    Ultimately, RRR did not just stand out because it was different. It became popular because it reminded audiences that movies can be huge and energetic while still being emotional and enjoyable to watch.

    Sources:
    https://newlinesmag.com/spotlight/decoding-indian-film-rrrs-popularity-in-the-west/

    https://people.com/movies/rrr-movie-everything-to-know

  • The Wizard Lied

    Recently, I watched Wicked: For Good and enjoyed the film overall, but one scene in particular stayed with me that I wanted to discuss. *Spoiler warning* During the moment when Elphaba considers joining forces with the Wizard, she challenges him to reveal to the citizens of Oz that he is essentially a fraud with no real magical power. His response was that he could admit to lying, and no one would care.

    After our class discussions on ideology and similar matters, this line stood out because it touches on ideological saturation. When the Wizard says no one would care if he admitted to lying, he’s acknowledging that people’s loyalty is not tied to truth, but to a worldview he created. The lie is the ideology. The people have internalized it so completely that reality doesn’t matter anymore.

    To break it down, his statement exposes one of ideology’s effects. Ideology can make people emotionally invested in beliefs regardless of whether they are true. The citizens don’t follow the Wizard because he is honest, they follow him because the version of reality he provides gives them comfort. In short, that emotional security is more compelling than the facts.

    This made me wonder about ideology in the real world, specifically questioning whether people need ideology to get through life. I would argue yes. Ideology gives us frameworks that allow us to understand how the world works. But if ideology is needed, why do some argue that ideology traps individuals and prevents them from discovering truth?

    People argue that ideology traps individuals because once a belief system becomes familiar and emotionally comforting, it becomes difficult to see beyond it. Ideology doesn’t always present itself as an option among many. It often disguises itself as common sense or the way things naturally are. When that happens, people stop noticing that they are operating within a constructed worldview. The comfort and stability ideology provides can make questioning it feel dangerous or “disloyal.” As a result, individuals may mistake the ideology for absolute truth rather than recognizing it as one interpretation of reality. This is where the “trap” begins and why some argue ideology is restricting. Ideology gives meaning, but it can also narrow perception, limiting what people are willing to consider true.

    In short, ideology helps people navigate life, but it becomes restrictive when it makes one filter out anything that challenges it. It is not the existence of ideology that is the problem. The danger appears when ideology becomes invisible and unquestionable, because that is when it stops guiding people and starts defining them. This is presented in Wicked: for good, as the film overall asks its audience to question the stories they inherit rather than just accept them.

  • Did the Community Really Love Sal’s?

    Before watching Do the Right Thing, I assumed the film would give a clear sense of who was “right” and who was “wrong” in the neighborhood’s conflicts. Instead, Spike Lee presents a community full of contradictions, loyalties, tensions, and shifting emotions. One moment that especially challenged me was the neighborhood’s relationship with Sal’s Pizzeria. Residents of the community called it a beloved staple of the block early in the day, yet later destroyed it. That raised a question: Did the residents ever truly value Sal and his business, or were they being hypocritical when everything turned violent?

    Early in the film, multiple residents discuss their affection for Sal, recalling how they grew up eating there and how his shop has been a part of the block for years. The loyalty and “love” feel genuine, supported when Buggin’ Out tries to start a boycott, and people brush him off. If the community was so committed to Sal’s, then why does everything flip at the end? Why do the same people who defended him early in the day watch his business burn?

    The more I thought about it, the more it became clear that the film is not showing hypocrisy, but rather the difference between everyday relationships and the deeper realities of power. The neighborhood did appreciate Sal’s, however, the film reveals how personal fondness can only stretch so far when a much larger system of racism, disrespect, and inequality erupts into view.

    Sal may have been part of the community, but he was not of the community. That difference matters. His success relied on Black residents’ money and presence, yet he still controlled the space, the rules, and the images on the walls. The community accepted this dynamic most of the time because nothing “major” challenged it. However, when the conflict escalates with Radio Raheem, that balance collapses. Sal’s violent outburst exposes a truth that was always simmering, which is that his respect for the community had limits.

    So were they hypocritical? I don’t think the film wants us to see it that way. The earlier “love” for Sal and the later destruction of his pizzeria are not contradictions. Both are true, as the community could appreciate his years on the block, and still recognize that his business existed within a structure that didn’t value them in the same way they valued it. Lee argues that people can maintain surface-level harmony within unequal systems until something exposes the imbalance too clearly to ignore. When pushed to their limit, the residents act not out of personal betrayal but out of collective grief and rage.

    In the end, I think the film pushes us to question the conditions that make such explosions inevitable, and why people must often choose between personal relationships and collective survival.

  • Fashion Beyond Status

    In the film, Dorian Corey explained that in a ball, “you can be anything you want. You’re not really an executive, but you’re looking like an executive. And therefore you’re showing the straight world that I can be an executive. If I had the opportunity, I could be one. Because I can look like one.”

    Throughout Paris Is Burning (1990), the idea of complete replication, or “blending in,” is emphasized, with individuals receiving perfect scores when they completely embody the role they present in the ballroom. One of the main ideas in the film is how the ballroom community uses fashion and voguing to inhabit roles that society usually denies them. When participants walk in categories such as “Executive Realness” or “Town and Country”, they are not simply showing off clothing, they are performing access to power, wealth, and respectability. These performances revealed that fashion is never just about what someone wears, rather, it is about who has permission to appear legitimate while wearing it. Given this, at first, I believed drag was an act of imitation (a way to blend into a higher social class) with emphasis being placed on fashion’s power coming from the privilege of the wearer rather than creativity itself. However, throughout the film, my interpretation changed.

    In the film, a participant can look like a Wall Street executive, yet outside the ballroom, society still views them as poor and queer. Their outer fashion appears convincing, yet it does not grant the privilege attached to that image. This highlights the “normalized” idea that the value of fashion depends on who wears it and the access that person holds.

    What makes Paris Is Burning interesting is how this dynamic is transformed. Within the ballroom, fashion no longer depends on external validation. Fashion now becomes a language of self-definition and freedom. As Corey explains, “In the ballroom, you can be anything you want.” The act of performance turns fashion into something liberating rather than aspirational. Drag emerges as a form of expression that contradicts the belief that fashion requires social status to hold meaning. It demonstrates that confidence and creativity, not privilege, give style its significance.

    I explored this idea/theme further through reading a piece by The Criterion Collection titled “Paris Is Burning: The Fire This Time” written by Michelle Parkerson. Parkerson writes that the ballroom is “a world in which style becomes survival,” and within this space, self-presentation operates as a “radical act”. The balls create an alternate reality where individuals excluded from the hierarchy can redefine beauty, gender, and success. Fashion, detached from wealth or whiteness, becomes a language of resilience, artistry, and self-identification.

    The ballroom community and drag as an art show that fashion holds value when it becomes a tool of identity rather than a marker of privilege. Drag transforms clothing into language, movement into protest, and presentation into truth. Through performance, individuals claim visibility and power in a world that refuses to grant it. Fashion in this context no longer depends on wealth or position. It becomes an act of existence.

    Source: https://www.criterion.com/current/posts/6832-paris-is-burning-the-fire-this-time?srsltid=AfmBOornHPZpxL81P94ZA5YgxfPWpz2L8nkkNcF_IdYNO5G8XHxtyQJe

  • Narrative Form in Parasite

    When we watch a movie, we do more than just observe. We actively construct meaning by connecting events, predicting outcomes, and imagining what might exist beyond the frame. This makes storytelling in film an interactive process between the filmmaker and the viewer. This week’s readings on narrative form and narration emphasize that films create meaning not only through what they show but also through how and when information is revealed. Chapter 3 explains that narration is the method through which story and plot are presented to the viewer, shaping how the plot delivers the story moment by moment.


    It is defined that a film’s story represents the full chain of events in chronological order, while the plot is the filmmaker’s intentional arrangement of those events to control what we experience and when. After reading Chapter 3, I began to think about how films guide our understanding by controlling what we know and when we know it. I recently rewatched Bong Joon-ho’s Parasite (2019) and noticed how this dynamic structure is exemplified.


    As the readings explain, the story exists in our minds as a chain of events while the plot shapes how we experience it. Parasite’s story could be told straightforwardly as a poor family infiltrating a wealthy household. However, the plot of the film builds suspense by giving us information slowly through the eyes of the Kim family. Joon-hoo rearranges and reveals information in ways that control how we feel and what we know. Scenes are placed strategically to build curiosity and suspense. For example, at first, the Kim family’s plan seems clever and lighthearted. However, when the hidden basement is revealed, everything we thought we understood about the family’s actions changes. This rearranging of information keeps us engaged, encouraging us to connect causes and effects and to reinterpret what we have already seen.

    Techniques such as restricted narration and point-of-view (POV) shots deepen this process. The readings explain that narration determines whether we know more (unrestricted) or less (restricted) than the characters. Parasite relies mostly on restricted narration, as we often know only what the Kim family knows. The POV shot, as the readings describe, is a tool that allows us to see the world through a character’s eyes. Bong uses both of these to heighten tension and align us with the Kims’ limited perspective. For example, when Ki-taek peers out from hiding beneath the table, the camera mimics his restricted view, forcing us to imagine what lies just outside the frame. These moments emphasize that narration is not neutral, but rather it is constructed through selective framing and sound that guide how we process information.

    Narrative cinema is a collaboration between what the filmmaker shows and what the audience infers. Through its manipulation of story, plot, point-of-view, and other techniques, Parasite exemplifies that film is not something we simply watch, it is something we build meaning from.

  • Does Emotion Exist Only Because of Sound?

    Singin’ in the Rain brilliantly explores the power of sound in shaping emotion and storytelling. As I watched the film, I began to notice how much sound influences the way we feel, not just through dialogue or lyrics, but through rhythm and tone. It was not until the moments when sound became the film’s only guide that I realized how deeply it directs emotion. Even without clear words, I could sense what the characters were feeling. This raised the question: do emotions in film exist because of sound, or does sound simply amplify emotions that are already present?

    Early in the film, we see how sound “does the talking” during the premiere of Don and Lina’s silent film. With no dialogue, the emotions rely entirely on music. Every sound gives meaning to facial expressions and gestures, allowing viewers to interpret joy, tension, or embarrassment.

    Later in the film, during Don’s imagined sequence of his new musical ending, this relationship between sound and emotion becomes even clearer. In the “Broadway Melody” number, where Don dances with a woman dressed in green, there is no dialogue, only music. Yet through the tempo, harmonies, and overall sound, we understand everything the characters felt. The sound became their emotional language.

    These scenes reminded me of how sound alone can evoke feeling even outside of film. When I listen to songs in languages I do not understand, such as the French song “Je te laisserai des mots,” I can still sense the emotion behind them. The melody itself communicates love and nostalgia without needing translation. It shows that sound acts as a universal emotional bridge.

    Ultimately, Singin’ in the Rain suggests that while emotion does not exist only because of sound, sound gives emotion form and direction. It transforms silent images into experiences we can feel. Without sound, emotion might still exist, but it would lose one of its most powerful voices.

  • “Continuity is the only way”

    This week’s reading emphasized how editing shapes a film by manipulating the elements of time, space, and emotion through the arrangement of shots. Chapter 6 taught us the four relations that link one shot to the next (graphic, rhythmic, spatial, and temporal) and showed how these relations typically work to create continuity.

    Continuity is often treated as the “correct” outcome of editing. Breaks in continuity are usually labeled as mistakes because filmmakers are expected to maintain details and screen direction consistently so that the story feels seamless and believable. A film that is seamless is said to allow its viewers to follow the story and connect emotionally without distraction. This week’s feature, Douglas Sirk’s All That Heaven Allows, is a strong example of this system at work, using techniques like dissolves and fade-ins to maintain clarity and flow. While there are many examples of continuity, I wanted to explore the other techniques, such as the purpose of non-continuity, focusing on whether it could create the same emotional connection that continuity does.

    Although continuity rules mainstream cinema, many filmmakers decide to break continuity intentionally to serve meaning and express a certain mood. I came across this video by Thomas Flight, which explores how non-continuity can be as expressive as continuity itself.

    Flight argues that what looks like a “mistake” may actually highlight emotional intensity, realism, or psychological conflict. He explains how, in these moments, filmmakers sacrifice seamlessness to convey something more powerful.

    One example he mentions comes from The Bear. In a scene where Carmy is lost in the chaos of a high-pressure kitchen, the image suddenly cuts to a close-up of a small pilot flame, overlaid with the smiling face of his ex-girlfriend Claire. The shot disrupts continuity, but it visualizes Carmy’s inner turmoil. The flame embodies the heat and pressure of his career, while Claire represents the happiness he feels he has lost. This moment, brought by breaking continuity, deepens the audience’s understanding of his conflict more than a “seamless” edit could.

    (I included a screen recording of the scene since I could not find the clip on YouTube )

    My takeaway is that breaking continuity is not always an error, it is also a way for filmmakers to use editing to show emotions and guide the interpretation of a story. Therefore, the next time you spot a “mistake,” ask yourself if it was purposefully placed into the film to convey/explain a certain emotion.

  • The Visual Power of Mise-en-scene

    Even if you have never watched The Lion King (1994), given the image above, one could guess that the character depicted possesses evil qualities simply by analyzing the visual elements in this particular scene. This power lies in the technique of mise-en-scène: the visual orchestration of setting, lighting, costume, and performance (Bordwell 113).

    This week’s reading took a deep dive into exploring the technique of mise-en-scène. Mise-en-scène is introduced as the arrangement of everything that appears in the frame of a film, including elements such as setting, lighting, costume and makeup, and staging and performance. As discussed in Chapter 4, mise-en-scène represents the director’s control over the visual elements of a film and plays an important role in shaping how audiences perceive characters, themes, and tone.

    After reading, I found myself thinking about how mise-en-scène operates. The chapter emphasizes that mise-en-scène offers filmmakers four general areas of creative control: setting, costume and makeup, lighting, and staging/performance. These elements, when combined, allow directors to guide the viewer’s response and understanding of the story. For example, the reading discussed how lighting can influence the way a character is perceived. Casting shadows can create a sense of mystery, while bright lighting may convey warmth. Recently, I rewatched The Lion King (1994) and noticed how mise-en-scène is at play even in animated films. Take, for example, the following scene(s).

    In early scenes of the film, Pride Rock and the surrounding lands under Mufasa’s rule are depicted using a lively, earthy color palette, such as browns and lush greens. This use of color suggests prosperity and balance. However, when Scar takes over, the entire landscape becomes a desaturated monochromatic color design of grays and blacks. This dramatic shift in color and the use of monochromatic color designs is a clear example of how mise-en-scène is used to visually convey messages. Here, the audience is shown, through setting and color, that Scar’s rule is bad.

    In another scene, the filmmakers use the element of lighting to emphasize character transformation. When Mufasa’s spirit appears in the sky to speak to Simba, a beam of top lighting shines down on Simba, creating a “glow” that covers him. This moment uses top lighting to visually mark a turning point in Simba’s journey. Here, Simba begins to reclaim his rightful place as king, and the mise-en-scène enhances the storytelling.

    These examples helped me better understand how filmmakers use mise-en-scène to execute ideas and tones in a film. What I found interesting is how many of these visual elements operate on a subconscious level. Most viewers may not actively notice the shift in lighting during a film, but they still feel the significance of this choice. Personally, I know the first time I watched The Lion King (1194), I did not actively notice the mise-en-scène at play. This raises an important question for me: how much of mise-en-scène do viewers consciously register, and how much simply influences us emotionally in the background? Additionally, I also wonder if societal norms/cultural context affect how these visual elements are interpreted. For example, does the “halo glow effect” of top lighting rely on cultural/societal assumptions that may not be the same universally?

    Using Barbie (2023) as an example, I know that the use of bright, saturated colors was used to convey artificiality. In the Barbie (2023) movie, bright colors were used to give the set a toy-ish wonderland feel. However, viewing it from a different perspective, I wonder if the use of bright, saturated colors could be interpreted as something else, given that bright colors could be the “norm” for settings similar to that of Barbie (2023).

    Given this, I question how someone from a different cultural/societal background would interpret the same lighting and color design I picked up in The Lion King (1994)?

    Sources: Bordwell, David, et al. Film Art: An Introduction. 13th ed., McGraw-Hill, 2024.