Meshes Of The Afternoon was one of my favorite things that we watched all semester, so I was curious to see what some of Maya Deren’s other work looks like. I decided to watch her 1944 short film, At Land, which did not disappoint.
There were a lot of similarities between At Land and Meshes Of The Afternoon. They both incorporate the ocean into their stories, At Land more so since she wakes up washed onto shore and is most shot at the beach, and there are multiple versions of Maya again. Instead of chasing a key like she was in Meshes Of The Afternoon, she was chasing the pawn of a chess set. The scene of the pawn falling down the cracks with water was just like the one of the key dropping down the stairs. I’m also not 100% sure if the music was part of the original film or if it was just added on by someone else, but the sound helped add to the suspense that I felt in both of her shorts that I’ve seen now too. You’re never totally sure what’s going to come next. There were also scenes in both films of a person walking or running away. The one scene that I was most curious about was when Maya came across two girls playing chess on the beach, and she ended up rubbing their hair and all of them were smiling (pretty sure she bit her lip in there at some point too). I know she was unhappy with her marriage in Meshes Of The Afternoon, so I was kind of curious what this part was saying. Another one of my favorite scenes was when she was crawling on the table and imagined moving the chess pieces at the end with her eyes – it was very Queen’s Gambit coded and I thought it was a very interesting moment. Overall, I really really liked it and I would highly recommend it to anyone else who enjoyed Meshes Of The Afternoon!
I recently watched the film The Diving Bell and the Butterfly both in its original language, French, and in English. The movie starts entirely from the perspective of the main character, Jean-Dominique Bauby, who has suffered a stroke and now finds himself disoriented and unable to move, but mentally as sharp as before. The camera captures the hospital surroundings as seen by a person with low/blurry vision, unable to move. There are extreme close-ups of the eyes and other physical parts of the onlookers as they occasionally come into his line of sight. This perspective creates the feeling of being locked in the body, separated from the world, unable to move or control the field of vision.
There is a recurring motif of eyes, eyesight, and dream-like visions. Later in the movie, he starts to communicate with the world, the only way he can communicate, as he discovers, by blinking an eye.
Bauby’s internal monologue adds psychological realism. Viewers can understand and feel compassion for his paralyzed state through the non-diegetic sound of his inner voice. Only viewers can hear his internal dialogue; other characters cannot. The heavy sounds of breathing that the main character makes create the illusion that you are very close to him.
Although Jean-Dominique Bauby is trapped in his body (as if in a diving bell), he is free to imagine and replay images from the past (his imagination is like a butterfly, hence the name of the movie). There is a sharp contrast between the immobility of the main character’s body and the liveliness of his mind that knows no constraints. The movie is extremely sad and, at the same time, liberating and powerful because it shows that even a person who can only use his imagination can still find a purpose in life as he dictates his memoir, one letter at a time, by blinking.
After watching RRR, I wanted to find something similar to watch during the pre-final week, and I ended up finding Avatar 1, which is similar to the RRR’s theme of revolution and resistance, but in someways different.
So it is set in 2154 on the moon Pandora, Avatar follows Jake Sully, a former Marine soldier set by the corporation (RDA) to help secure a rare mineral called unbotaium. Jake used a artifically designed Avatar body, infiltrates the Navi tribe, but eventually fall in love with Neytiri and the culture, and he had choose between the human corporation he serve or the world he loved. A very typical mode of the good beats the bad, but its political story behind is much more considerable.
(Like most Sci-Fi, high-tech enemy stuff always get beated)
THe director Cameron has admitted that the film is openly about imperialism, where technologically superior humans are tyring to uproot a native population for their precious resources and not care at all about the survival of the tribe. This echoed the European colonialism in the Americas and all the other empires. The RDA’s machines and ships are of the same role as the British cannons and rifles in RRR, a symbol of a system that only see the land, the people, the environment as accessible resources able to be turned into profit.
Stylistically, Avatar and RRR shared the use of large amounts of props. RRR has tigers, motorcycles, dance battles, guns, and large fights. Avatar has neon forests, floating mountains, air and ground combat, and all those high-tech machines and magical creatures. Both film use spectacle as it is realistic, and the CGI technology only make the battles look cooler. The final battle, where Pandora’s wildlife joins Navi against the human army, mirror the RRR’s final battle of Ram and Bheem (fire and water) against the British army. They both represent nature and people rising together against the empire and power.
Thematically, these two movies also rhyme. In RRR, Ram and Bheem are basically superman, the two basically killed a battalion of English soldiers with only arrows and spear. In Avatar, Jake’s body is also some kind of superman figure, where it allows him to connect with a new world that his human body cannot survive. Both film use physically strong heros as fantasy answers to a real historical question: what if the people are strong enough to fight back?
RRR is rooted on the Indian rebellion against the British in history, while Avatar abstractly framed the same event into a sci-fi story. The actual history and name are gone, but the main idea still exists, and the power difference still remains. This makes Avatar, the blue skinned epic story that turns anti imperial anger and grief into one gigantic battle, less specific but more universally applicable.
To me, it is interesting how we almost never looked at Chinese films. Chinese cinema emerged in the 1950s, which was during the founding of the People’s Republic of China in 1949s. Due to centralized government, film production also became centralized and was a tool for promoting socialist ideologies, collective values, and constructing new models of citizenship.
Hence, most films focused on the people’s collective lives, either throughout wars, factories, schools, houses, or a public place of gathering. With that said, the setting of these old Chinese films are mostly fixed among all scenes. I want to use a famous film called Golden Deer (Ke Na Dong, 1982) to demonstrate Chinese’s unique cinematography and mise-en-scene back then.
Above is the full movie available at YouTube, but unfortunately it does not contain English subtitles. I’ve searched on other Chinese native video platforms but they all lack English subtitles too.
The film follows Lu Jin, a young salesperson working in a state-run department store. At the beginning, Jin approaches her job with a somewhat indifferent attitude, reflecting remnants of pre-socialist individualism. Yet, as she encountered more customers from diverse backgrounds–workers, elders, mothers, disabled individuals–she confronts misunderstandings and confusions, and eventually reshaped her understanding in what it means to “serve the people,” which is the value that has been emphasized throughout China.
I want to talk about a specific, famous “candy-grabbing” scene from this movie (20:34-25:38 from the YouTube link pasted above). This excerpt is about Lu swiftly and tenderly scooping candy for a crowd of eager customers. 3 male customers wanted to test her abilities, so they ordered candies of each kind with different weights and asked them to be packaged separately (the context is that the line waiting to buy candies is long). To do this, Lu needs to grab candies onto the weights, package them, and charge. Yet, she is so fast that she is able to weight correctly in just one single grab.
As a Chinese, and after reviewing reviews of this scene, people all feel a certain way: that this movie carries such a unique, old-chinese vibe through its cinematography and mise-en-scene that it is almost impossible to replicate one today.
A major reason is the actresses’ accent. As the mandarin accent changes over time, what is considered a good accent today is quite different from the standard back then. Hence, just by hearing her words, the audience are able to feel a heavy, historical, nostalgic uniqueness that we were only able to hear in our elementary textbook’s passage recording. Apart from the sound (or say the actor), remember what I talked previously about the setting of the film taking primarily in one place. Older Chinese films loved to use a single setting filled with people (twenties or more, even almost to hundreds in extreme wide shots) walking around. This helps establish a socialist image.
If you observe closely from the film, you will also notice that most of the frames are medium or medium close ups, with each shot mainly stable and not moving. Instead of panning or tilting, zooms are actually used the most often to change the frame.
Another major difference from western concepts and movies is that the the film rarely uses low-key lighting. This is also related to culture as well. Films, as a propaganda tool, were aimed to tell people that the society they are living in is bright, hopeful, and optimistic. Hence, even where there were suspense, as long as it is a public space (where the people always are located), there would be a warm color scheme.
In sum, I just wanted to share that cultural values sometimes strongly influence media–the way it is produced, spread, and reviewed. It’s not that those filming techniques aren’t there, it’s just that with the cultural background, it would not make enough sense to use a certain camera angle, lighting, framing, and editing.
The suspense Spielberg shows in differs from other shark films. Viewers never see the shark until about two-thirds into the movie. However, the fear of the shark’s existence is conveyed through the predator’s point of view, the leitmotif of the shark, and spatial irony.
When viewers are shown the story through a character’s point of view in the film, we tend to identify with that character’s thoughts and emotions. When the characters are placed at a disadvantage, the audience empathizes with their frustration and joins them in their anger when they face injustice. However, in Jaws, the viewers cannot empathize with the shark’s thoughts or emotions. Whenever the shark’s POV is shown, and it sees the surface of the water, we are terrified that it might attack the person depicted. This is because we put ourselves in the shoes of the potential prey – humans. The viewers are only left with the fear of the shark’s uncontrollable instinct.
John Williams’ two-note theme turns sound into fear itself. The same music that appears before the shark’s appearance signals to the audience that the shark is coming. Hearing the sound becomes more terrifying than seeing the shark. The sound is made by only two notes (E-F, F-F#), but this is the fastest way for the audience to notice the shark’s presence. This non-diegetic sound is John Williams’ way of communicating with the viewers and hinting at the next scene.
Most horror movies heighten tension in dark, small spaces where you can’t escape. On the other hand, this film sets its terror in the vast openness of the ocean. Under the bright sun, the vast ocean looks endless, yet it becomes an open space where there’s no place to hide. Audiences feel exposed, left between viewing the safety of the surface and the unknown depths below. Spielberg uses the contrast between the surface and the underwater to amplify this suspense. The viewers always hear the laughter above the water, which provides warmth; however, when the camera shows underwater, the silence and shadow immediately heighten the tension. While the camera lets us gaze at the unreachable surface, the viewers remain trapped in this fear.
Jaws reminds the audience that fear doesn’t need to be seen, heard, or even real to hold us captive – it only needs to be imagined.
Upon rewatching Kubrick’s Full Metal Jacket, I thought back to our discussion about ideology, particularly during one famous scene. A Colonel asks the main character, Private Joker, “You write ‘Born to Kill’ on your helmet and you wear a peace button. What’s that supposed to be, some kind of sick joke?” A few lines later, Joker responds, “I think I was trying to suggest something about the duality of man, sir.” This particular scene has stuck with me ever since I first watched the film, but having now almost completed Film 101, I feel like I can view it through a new lens.
Before going into this scene, I think it is important to address a glaring ideological aspect to the film- simply the fact that it is a war film. War films, or the idea of the “anti-war film”, is a very debated topic. Many believe that there is no such thing as a true anti-war film, and I mostly agree with that- I remember reading an article about how they spike our adrenaline and excite us. For example, there is a claim that the first Top Gun film significantly increased navy recruitment (albeit I don’t know the truth behind that). The ideology of these action-packed and violent films may be an attempt to display to horror of war, but they often have the negative effect of creating an idealistic and heroic version of it instead. While I am not preaching to undermine all of the brave war heroes of the past, this is not what should be fed into the minds of impressionable teenagers. War is hell. In an article I read in a high school politics class about Vietnam, a veteran talked about war as paradoxical, indescribable, and the part that some war films are hesitant to show about the side they are painting as the “good” side: the vileness of human nature. This is what I believe should be shown in war films- and this is why I like Kubrick’s.
Now, back to talking about the scene in Full Metal Jacket. If any scene in film were to address a paradox of war, this may be the most direct. Private Joker brandishes a pin of a peace sign, originally an anti-war symbol, while wearing a helmet that says “Born to Kill”. How can someone be both anti and pro-war? Well, Joker answers that: “I think I was trying to suggest something about the duality of man, sir.” One of the largest faults of proclaimed anti-war films is in making things black-and-white. That’s not how life is, and that is certainly not how war is. No one side or person is “good” or “bad”, rather, we all have darkness and (most of us) empathy inside of us. Even Private Joker, the main character we are inclined to root for, has his moments in the film that make you hate him- after all, he is no hero, he is just a man who is a soldier in a war. I appreciate Kubrick’s acknowledgment of this in his war films.
If I am talking about Full Metal Jacket, I feel the need to also talk about my favorite war film: Kubrick’s Paths of Glory. This film is awful- not in how it’s made, of course, but because it is made so well. There is no happy ending for the characters, in fact (spoiler alert), three soldiers who are innocent (in terms of committing any war crimes) are executed at the hands of their own leaders because a top general did not want to admit his own faults. This is the reality of war! People suck! And for a moment, this is the only feeling the film leaves with you- until the final scene. There is a bar of random men shown, with a female German hostage brought out to sing. At first, the soldiers are catcalling her and finding humor in her fear and tears. However, as soon as she finally starts singing, the whole mood changes. The soldiers begin to grow solemn. And then they begin to cry. These soldiers have wives, mothers, sisters, and children that they have left behind, much like this girl. Beyond just acknowledging her humanity, they now feel sympathy for her. This is hope for humanity in the midst of all of its faults which have been shown throughout the film. This is an ideology that I resonate with.
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.
Tonight marks the last Cinematheque of the year, with the cult classic Monty Python and the Holy Grail (Gilliam and Jones, 1975). I’ve only seen this movie once before, in 6th grade. On re-watch, I found lots of fun tidbits I did not get on the first watch. Every scene is filled with iconic bits, from “‘It’s just a flesh wound” to the Holy Hand Grenade.
The entire movie is very clever, even more so when you realize that the film was working on a tight budget of around 400K. Most of the gags and jokes in the film originated because the filmmakers did not have enough money. For example, the film ends the way it does because there was not room in the budget for an epic battle scene.
During the opening credits, the subtitle bit was created because they did not have the money for a fancy title card.
On second watch, I was able to appreciate the fast-talking dialogue and slightly more subtle jokes. Overall, I highly enjoyed the final movie of the Emory Cinematheque.
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.
The film The Shack, directed by Stuart Hazeldine and based on William P. Young’s best-selling novel, explores how one man’s story of tragedy transforms into a journey of faith and spiritual restoration. The film tells the story of Mack Philips, a grieving father whose faith and sense of purpose collapse after the tragic loss of his young daughter, Missy. After Missy’s murder, Mack struggles with overwhelming guilt for not protecting her, as well as the inability to forgive her murderer. In The Shack, Hazeldine argues that refusing to forgive keeps individuals trapped in isolation, preventing them from experiencing emotional healing and building meaningful relationships. Through Mack’s spiritual and emotional journey, the film shows how guilt and resentment have distanced him from his own family and God, and how forgiveness allows him to reconnect with love and community.
The first stage of Mack’s transformation began when he realized that judging others, an act which belongs to God alone, contradicts God’s divine love for people. When the personified figure of “Wisdom” asked Mack how well he could distinguish good and evil, he was certain that he could. However, Mack stated that his father, who had abused his mother, deserved punishment. Then, he was shown a vision — a young boy being beaten by his own father. At that moment, Mack understood that the boy he had judged was actually his father as a child, and that his judgment had been wrong. He realized that a human judgment is often limited and often fails to grasp the whole story. “Wisdom” then deepened the lesson by asking Mack to decide which of his children should go to heaven and which should go to hell. Mack couldn’t make a decision and asked “Wisdom” to take him instead. Through this moment, Mack came to understand the nature of God’s unconditional and sacrificial love. He loves every person, even when they are sinful. God won’t be selective with His children, but rather will love each one equally. By realizing God’s love and realizing that judgment belongs to God alone, Mack takes his first step toward forgiveness, learning that love cannot coexist with condemnation.
Mack’s journey enters its second phase when he begins to see how his anger and guilt have pushed him away from others. His rage over Missy’s killer blinded him to the pain within his own family, including the trauma of his abusive father and Kate’s feelings of guilt, as well as to even God’s enduring love that continued to reach out to him. The anger he held onto dragged him down, preventing him from connecting with those around him. Mack’s wife, Nan, and his children needed him, but he was so lost in his own sadness that he was unable to help his family through their own suffering. God reveals to Mack that holding onto hatred isolates him from every meaningful relationship in his life. Through this realization, Mack learns that forgiveness isn’t about dismissing the evil, but about releasing the pain so that reconciliation can happen. God tells him that sin is its own punishment; therefore, neither God nor Mack should punish people for it. When Mack finally chooses to forgive Missy’s murderer, he starts to open his heart again — to the love of God, the love of a father, and the love that binds his family. After Mack’s spiritual journey, he was finally able to share his experience of meeting God with Nan and help Kate work through her guilt and sadness. Freed from the weight of the guilt, Mack was finally able to live each day with genuine joy, as forgiveness eventually paved the way for emotional and spiritual healing.
In The Shack, Hazeldine transforms a story of unbearable loss into a profound reflection of love, forgiveness, and faith. Mack’s journey reminds viewers that forgiveness not only frees one from hatred but also enables building stronger relationships with those around them. The film allows the audience to witness Mack’s inner struggle, allowing them to walk beside him through anger, grief, and, ultimately, forgiveness. The Shack traces Mack’s spiritual journey and growth through his week-long encounter with the Trinity, allowing viewers to realize how a genuine understanding of God’s love can reshape the way one lives and loves.
