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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Massimadi reflects us, 

Massimadi unites us,

Massimadi, it’s you, it’s us, 

Massimadi is family, 

Massimadi changes lives.

…

The following interview has been edited for clarity and brevity.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The following interview has been shortened and edited for clarity. 

Eliana Freelund for The McGill Daily (MD): Could you introduce yourself to our readers? What kind of art do you like to create? What inspires you about a multimedia approach?

Soleil Launière (SL): My name is Soleil Launière and I’m a multidisciplinary artist. I’m always traveling (verser) between forms of art. For me, doing that is a form of decolonization – in the sense that prior to colonization the arts were not usually separated into distinct forms. Music was not only music, theatre was not only theatre. We mixed forms of art. It was ritualistic. 

It was all part of the culture to mix those forms of art, and for me, that’s what I like to do the most. When I enter a space of creation I find that it’s like performing rituals – different forms of rituals, whether they be healing rituals or something else – that I usually need to live. I prefer to do art this way, to mix art forms. It’s a part of me, it’s a part of my culture.

MD: Would you say that this ritualistic approach gets rid of the idea of an endpoint? Do you think of your art as something cyclical?

SL: My art is always moving, it’s always cyclical. I don’t ever want to conform to one way or another. I believe there’s no certain way of doing things.

MD: Is there anything in particular that inspires you to create? Do you notice any recurring themes in your art?

SL: Oh, there’s a lot. Recently my work has been surrounding multi-generational subjects. I like to centre my art around the Earth as well. Nature is vast – it’s always a part of what I do.

Because I gave birth not that long ago, I think that that’s also a subject that’s really close to me – that really inspires me. I’ve been digging deep into the subject of childbirth and trying to see what it means to me, how it lives in my body, but also how it reflects on society. I like the idea of a subject that travels from one form into another. 

Right now I’m really stuck on water as a theme. Water is part of the birth journey – it’s also a part of the healing journey. I feel I need something softer, more healing these days. My subjects were a lot harsher previously. I did a lot of performances about multi-generational trauma and things like that, but now I feel like I want to talk more about multi-generational healing. What my grandparents have passed on to me is not only their trauma, but also their healing. I want to focus my work on that idea more.

MD: Could you tell us a bit about your performance today? What is the significance of the water imagery? How are you choosing to represent it?

SL: Water speaks to me a lot because of the healing parts of it, how it connects to everything. It’s tied to life itself, just like all the elements. We wouldn’t live without them. Water, especially clean water, is extremely important in our lives.

I think that’s with everything that’s been happening in the world, I wasn’t sure how I wanted to approach this performance. There’s so much frustration, because of course there’s frustration, but I didn’t feel like being in that, or playing that role. I’m tired of being frustrated. I wanted to heal. I wanted to clean. I wanted to bring something cleansing to this space, and to myself as well. I felt like that was needed. 

I went for something that obviously represents what’s happening, but uses a different approach. I use a soundscape in my performance that includes the sounds of protests. I also have the voice of my child playing in the background, representing a kind of complicated freedom. Although she’s an Indigenous woman, and history has not made it easy for her, she’s here and she lives. 

I’m also going to put a white sheet up and continue to water it throughout the performance, as I water plants, as a way of symbolically keeping the dead alive.

MD: How can we learn more about you? Are there any upcoming performances we can look forward to?
SL: There are a lot of things coming up. I won Francouvertes this past spring, so musically there will be a lot happening in and around Montreal. There are shows coming up, as well as a tour, which will be a mix of performance art and music. You can check out the dates on Nikamowin, which is a really nice platform with Indigenous musicians. I also have a show in October with my baby in it. It’s a performance art piece that will be performed with three generations together.

The post Growth, Healing, and the Cyclical Nature of Art appeared first on The McGill Daily.

Garvey’s extensive political work led to him to found the United Negro Improvement Association (UNIA), which by the early 1920s included over 700 branches in 38 American states. On 13 February, I made my way to Montreal’s very own UNIA branch to see When Big Man Talk, an art exhibition hosted by the Jamaica Association Arts Centre (JAM Arts Centre) to celebrate the legacy and spirit of Marcus Garvey’s work.

Established in 1919, the UNIA Hall on Notre-Dame Street West is still alive and thriving over 100 years later. Walking through the second set of doors, I was greeted by a warm, cozy room lined with rows and rows of easels displaying the eye-catching, emotive artwork of the exhibition’s four featured artists. I immediately felt myself captivated by the artists’ masterful use of mixed media, bold paints, and dynamic photography. I could have spent hours gazing at these pieces, which each took unique artistic liberties to translate Marcus Garvey’s message into our present and future worlds. 

Garfield Morgan’s work used a multimedia approach, using creative, unconventional materials to add a layer of dimension to his portraits. A didactic to the left of his exhibit listed gift wrap, a repurposed dress, African wax fabric, acrylic, oil paint, plaster, and repurposed plastic among some of the materials used. The exhibition program describes Morgan’s work as “resembling that of Jamaican master Daniel Heartman and the imagination of an Everald Brown.” I was particularly enchanted by Morgan’s striking use of contrast and silhouettes. One of my favourites was titled “Meditation (Echoes of a culture past, present and future)” which captures the serene, yet somber side profile of a young Black man in repose. 

The paintings by Anthony McLennon also included portraits: one was of his grandmother smiling gently, eyes glimmering, and another was of himself holding a wine glass while gazing back at the viewer. On When Big Man Talk’s program, McLennon is described as displaying “an uncanny ability to intricately render portraits, animals, and landscapes with accuracy and depth.” These skills were showcased masterfully in his painting “Can A Caged Bird Sing?” where a beach landscape forms the background for a row of crows, one of which is perched in a cage. His paintings depicting scenes from everyday life stirred even greater emotion. A piece titled “Just a Regular Day” portrays passengers traveling on a bus, including a Black man in the foreground looking down at his phone with a white “X” across his mouth. In an interview for the Daily, exhibit curator and director of the JAM Arts Centre Pat Dillon Moore said that this painting “speaks to how invisible a visible and audible minority can be.”

Daniel Saintiche’s photography was absolutely mesmerizing; the depth of movement, texture, and colour that he fits inside a single image make the contents jump to life before your very eyes. Saintiche’s didactic described his photographs as a window into “Montreal’s Black Community life in the 70s.” Scenes from Carnival showing music festivals, parades, and joyous celebrations were the main focus of the exhibit. The text in his section noted that “the carnival arts at one time boasted over 150,000 predominantly Black people on St. Catherine Street to Lafontaine Park. This was a huge financial contribution to Montreal’s coffers when every hotel room was booked.” Pat Dillon Moore pointed to one photograph in particular, where two women during Carnival in the 1970s are captured laughing with their arms around each other as they made their way down St. Catherine Street. It was truly amazing to experience how Saintliche’s skills allowed for this joyous occasion to transcend both the boundaries of time and space, pulling the viewer into a single storied moment in history. The exhibition program describes his talents best: Saintliche’s “journey is a tapestry woven with resilience, passion for the arts, and an unwavering dedication to capturing the essence of Montreal’s Black community.”

The other historical photographs in the exhibition were truly special to behold. Momentous instances of Black history in Montreal adorned the walls, tables, and complementary slideshow, detailing the rich contributions of Black visionaries in this city. A photograph of Bob Marley performing in Côtes-de-Neiges captures his first visit to the city, while a still from the 1968 Black Writers Congress – held at McGill University – featured Stokely Carmichael at the front and centre. Another image in the back of the exhibition showed Leroy Butcher and Muhammed Ali walking through Dorval airport. Viewing these photographs alongside the work from the contemporary artists beautifully wove together the threads of the exhibit’s thematic material, creating an impactful, fully fleshed-out experience that upholds Marcus Garvey’s message of lifting up Black excellence worldwide. 

The final piece of this exhibit takes this message to another dimension entirely. Quentin VerCetty centres Garvey’s goal of Black interconnectedness in his virtual exhibition experience Inside Garvey Yard. A free viewing experience for all, www.insidegarveyyard.com allows visitors to interact with a virtual Marcus Garvey museum from anywhere in the world. Viewers can answer questions and collect Black Star Line tokens to “reawaken the spirit of Garvey and hear his special message.” Pat Dillon Moore explained that VerCetty’s work “creates a space that speaks to Marcus Garvey’s time in Canada in a way that an intergenerational family – a grandmother and a grandchild – can both participate in. The grandchild can maneuver the joystick, while the grandparent or parent could speak to them about Garvey’s history.”  

The words of Pat Dillon Moore describe the impact of When Big Man Talk best: “I think the larger purpose behind When Big Man Talk is to put history and context behind our presence. And it’s no accident that we did it during Black History Month. In a sense, we are giving you the history within Black History Month. And there’s a lot of history that is hidden as time goes on. However, it’s about making the ties of yesterday to today. And prior to many of the movers and shakers, both men and women, there was a huge, impactful man by the name of Marcus Garvey, who from 1917 through the late 1930s, was here in Canada to improve the lives of Black people wherever in the world they were. And I think that’s important, to break the narrative that Black people, number one, just migrated here and that we take. No, we build. And the association that Garvey built, the UNIA, where we are now, is alive and thriving – and so is his legacy when it comes to improving the lives of Black people.” 

You can see an abbreviated version of When Big Man Talk on 24 February at the Oscar Peterson Concert Hall. To support the four featured artists – Garfield Morgan, Anthony McLennon, Daniel Saintiche, and Quentin Vercetty – you can keep up with their work at www.garfieldmorgan.org, @tony_mendez_3219 and @keepgrowingq on Instagram.

The post When Big Man Talk Lets Marcus Garvey’s Words Sing appeared first on The McGill Daily.

If we were asked to describe what makes the 21st century stand out from other time periods, many of us would think of the same thing: rapid change. Constant advancements in science, medicine, technology, and communication have forever altered the way we engage with the world around us. With the advent of the internet, we now have access to a seemingly endless sea of information spanning centuries, from across all corners of the globe – all through a portal of glass small enough to carry in your pocket. When it comes to the dissemination of information, it’s safe to say that the boundaries of time and space have never been more blurry. 

With so much dramatic change happening at such breakneck speed, catching up with the information whirlwind of the day can be a dizzying task. A haze of anxiety seems to perpetually permeate the air, as we hold our breath in anticipation of what new, sensational story we will be bombarded with next. Despite the sense that the world is progressing at an overwhelming rate, this feeling isn’t unique; if you look back to Victorian views of a changing world, you’ll find a near mirror perception. 

On December 1, McGill’s Rare Books and Special Collections (ROAAr) will host the opening of Detecting an Anxious Gaze: The Victorian World in Flux. Curated by the students of Professor Nathalie Cooke’s graduate course “Enter the Detective,” this exhibition invites the viewer to step into the shoes of everyday Victorians as they “navigated the thrill and trepidation of rapid change.” You just might find that these shoes fit a bit snug.

Just as we find ourselves on a rollercoaster of “disruptive change” today, the Victorian period saw a plethora of societal twists and turns. The exhibition didactic explains: “Victorians witnessed vast societal shifts, scientific and technological advances, colonial expansion, and accelerating speeds of transportation, communication and dissemination of information.” Divided into ten installations, Detecting an Anxious Gaze: The Victorian World in Flux tells a story of extreme growth and development – as well as the unforeseen fears that arise as a result. Much like our modern world, Victorian media outlets were fascinated with crime. The rise of daily publications combined with increasingly overcrowded cities created a recipe for the perfect, sensationalized headline. Thefts, gang activity, and grisly murder cases flooded the pages of Victorian newspapers, leaving readers feeling simultaneously horrified and intrigued. This conflicting phenomenon may seem all too familiar. The rise in popularity of true crime media today, such as with Sarah Koenig’s podcast Serial, and fiction like the legal drama How to Get Away with Murder, shows a striking parallel between 21st century and Victorian worldviews. 

When examining how the Victorians attempted to “assuage social anxiety” over a growing interest in crime, we can see even more similarities to our own world. Just as the 2000s saw the popularity of police-driven media like Law & Order and CSI, Victorian media became dominated by detective stories. PhD student Olga Tsygankova explores this relationship between crime and clues in the media, and the rise of the iconic detective Sherlock Holmes in her installation “Can You See What They See?” Through various newspaper clippings, illustrations, and excerpts from Arthur Conan Doyle’s text the viewer is invited to put on their deerstalker cap and trace the evidence as it first appears in The Morning Chronicle and The Strand Magazine.  

While most of the installations provide lighthearted, thought-provoking insight into a Victorian worldview, others delve into darker topics; PhD student Katelyn Jones’ “Frightening Faces: Paranoia and Physiognomy in Victorian Criminology” explores how physiognomy was weaponized to “diagnose criminality.” Her display shows the disturbing progression from the introduction of Charles Darwin’s seminal text, to the dehumanization of criminals through the “research” of 19th century criminologists. This exhibit is made all the more disturbing when taking into account that this practice hasn’t completely been abandoned. According to Safiya Noble, author of the 2018 book Algorithms of Oppression: How Search Engines Reinforce Racism, artificial intelligence used by criminologists today often lies upon a foundation of racist and discriminatory algorithms. While not as overt as in the Victorian era, our treatment of those deemed criminals today is still underpinned by oppressive ideology – all under the guise of “science.” 

Master’s student Aamna Rashid’s installation similarly reminds the viewer to be critical of the images they encounter, with a specific focus on images depicting victims of colonization. “Anxieties of Imperialism: Representing India in Punch and the Oudh Punch” compares illustrations from the satirical British magazine Punch to those from the Urdu periodical Oudh Punch. The stark differences in each publications’ depictions of events hit even harder when read alongside the accompanying didactics. Rashid explains that the 1857 Punch illustration, “The British Lion’s Vengeance on the Bengal Tiger,” was created in direct response to the 1857 Sepoy Rebellion, as a means of showcasing British anger and aggression. This installation reminds the viewer to always question whose viewpoint is being shown, and for what reasons – a message that is as pertinent in today’s political climate as ever before. 

For more information on Detecting an Anxious Gaze: The Victorian World in Flux, visit ROAAr’s events webpage. A vernissage will take place on December 1 at 12pm, on the fourth floor of McLennan library. Light Victorian-era snacks will be provided!

The post A World in Flux appeared first on The McGill Daily.

Filled to the brim with sensational satire and whimsical wit, this interpretation of Wilde’s text was truly a joy to behold. Celeste Gunnel-Joyce and Maite Kramarz gave captivating lead performances as Algernon and Jack. As they bantered and battled with one another, the audience hung onto their every word in anticipation of what playful quip would pass through their lips next. Every aspect of the sets, blocking, and acting choices was meticulously chosen, coming together to create a cohesive story that was truly a labour of love. Even the power outage that hit Morrice Hall that night humorously worked in the play’s favour, striking just as Act I ended and coming back on right before intermission. 

I will never forget the experience of shining our smartphone flashlights on the actors during that second act. As part of a majority-queer audience, watching a queer production of a historically queer-coded play, I could feel in that moment the heart of this take on The Importance of Being Earnest. TNC’s adaptation is a celebration of the queer roots of theatre. Its joyful, collaborative spirit is a breath of fresh air in a world of serious, overly-earnest media. 

I sat down with the director, Carmen Mancuso, on behalf of The McGill Daily to discuss more about the production. The following interview has been shortened and edited for clarity. 

Eliana Freelund for The McGill Daily (MD): Why choose to put on The Importance of Being Earnest? Why is this play relevant now?

Carmen Mancuso (CM): First and foremost, it’s just such a funny show. The social satire transcends the time it was written in. It’s a perfect example of a work that was written during a very socially conservative time when none of the freedoms we enjoy today could ever have been imagined. It’s well known that during the premier in 1895 Oscar Wilde was publicly confronted by the father of the man he was seeing at the time, which led to a libel trial and his eventual imprisonment. Continuing to put on this play is a way of honouring both him, and the progress we’ve made. 

MD: What was the thought process behind creating a lesbian retelling of the play?

CM: This time around, reading the dialogue in the play, I found myself thinking “Wow, this just sounds so butch, this sounds so gay.” The way Wilde creates these dandy-ish men lends perfectly to a modern, lesbian reading. This got us thinking, “What if we restaged this play with all women, and without having them do drag? What if we really embraced, and leaned into that angle?” Going from there, it seemed a natural progression to change the time period, since our vision didn’t seem to suit the 1890s anymore. We landed on doing a 1920s, very gay, Importance of Being Earnest.

MD: How did you go about changing the location and time period? 

CM: It’s all due to our costume, set, and prop designers – Tea Anderson, Léa-Mirana Metz, and Ilesh Thomas. They worked really hard to visually, spiritually, and artistically recreate the time period, and not lean into the gaudy, flashy stereotypes we see in so much of our media today. A lot of research was done into what exactly the gay and lesbian subculture looked like at the time, and then using that visual language to aid in how we portrayed the characters. 

MD: One of the standouts of this production is its truly joyful tone. In the playbill, you explain that “the goal was to make something entertaining, something towards modern queer audiences without the traditional misery-centered narratives that often overwhelm queer stories.” How did you achieve this feeling, and why is it so important for this particular retelling?

CM: We ultimately wanted to create something for all the gay theatre kids out there. Something that is unapologetically happy, silly, and entertaining. This is a play where no one dies. The saddest people get is over eating muffins. We wanted to do something fun, in a queer way – which unfortunately doesn’t always exist in modern media. It was also important for us to do this with something that is a fundamental part of “the canon.” In many ways, The Importance of Being Earnest is the archetypical university production – it’s been done so many times, even as recently as 2017 here at McGill. We wanted to take something from the canon and twist it in a little way that would just completely reframe it, while still keeping the original elements of the script. I’m so proud of what we ended up with, and I really hope that all our hard work came across!

The last week of shows for The Importance of Being Earnest will take place from November 22 to 24 at 7pm at Morrice Hall. Pay-what-you-can tickets can be purchased on Eventbrite. For more information, visit Tuesday Night Café Theatre’s Facebook and Instagram pages. 

The post A Love Letter to Queer Theatre Kids appeared first on The McGill Daily.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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According to Tarshia L. Stanley, Dean of the School of Humanities, Arts and Sciences at St. Catherine University, much of the appeal of Butler’s novels stems from her approach to worldbuilding. Butler grounds her faraway science fiction worlds in our current lived reality. She takes a deep systemic problem that is often overlooked and follows it to its logical extreme. Stanley argues that “she’[s] been trying to tell us that if we do not make changes, this is what’s going to happen. She constantly [gives] that message: ‘this is the logical conclusion if we keep treading down this path.’” Butler’s novels frequently act as cautionary tales that warn us against allowing latent systemic issues to grow and eventually fester. In Parable of the Sower, this issue is environmental racism.

Environmental Racism Today

What exactly is environmental racism? Civil rights leader Benjamin Chavis coined the term in 1982 following an eruption of protests in North Carolina that same year. Several nonviolent protests had been organized by the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People (NAACP) in response to the local government’s decision to dispose of 40,000 cubic yards of soil laced with carcinogenic chemicals in the Black farming community of Warren County. Pushback from police was extreme, and over 500 arrests were made, including of Chavis himself. Chavis subsequently defined environmental racism as “racial discrimination in environmental policy-making, the enforcement of regulations and laws, the deliberate targeting of communities of colour for toxic waste facilities, the official sanctioning of the life-threatening presence of poisons and pollutants in our communities, and the history of excluding people of colour from leadership of the ecology movements.”

Although the term was coined over 40 years ago, environmental racism still exists today. Polluted air and water has disproportionately affected Black communities for decades – and it only seems to be getting worse. According to a 2017 study by the Clean Air Task Force, “Fumes Across the Fence Line,” Black Americans “are exposed to 38 per cent more polluted air” than white Americans, and are “75 per cent more likely to live in communities that border a plant or factory.” In a shocking 2021 study from Science Advances, it was found that Black Americans are exposed to more air pollution than white Americans from every possible source: industry and agriculture, emissions from vehicles, residential sources, and even some restaurants. And as of 2021, Black Americans are roughly four times more likely to die from pollution exposure than white Americans.

Exposure to polluted air wildly escalated health problems in Black communities during the pandemic. According to research from Duke and Stanford University, from the start of the pandemic in 2019 through July 2020, over half of all in-hospital deaths from COVID-19 were Black and Latino patients. In addition, it was found that Black patients were far more likely to need ventilation than white patients. According to Robert D. Bullard, a professor at Texas Southern University and the author of Dumping in Dixie: Race, Class and Environmental Quality, the culprit here is none other than environmental racism. “If your Zip code is buried with garbage, chemical plants, pollution,” he argues, “you’ll find there are more people that are sick, more diabetes and heart disease.”

Environmental Racism in Canada

Environmental racism is not unique to the United States. Although Canada has made attempts in recent years to become a leader in climate action, not all of its promises have been fruitful, as detailed in the Daily’s article “Justin Trudeau’s Pseudo-Environmentalist Agenda.” There have even been attempts to address environmental racism directly, but not much progress has been made. The National Strategy Respecting Environmental Racism and Environmental Justice Act, or Bill C-230, was first presented to the House of Commons in June 2021. It proposed “a requirement for the federal minister of environment and climate change to examine the link between race, socio-economic status and environmental risk, and develop a national strategy to prevent environmental racism and advance environmental justice.” The bill had support from four out of five parties in Parliament but never came to a final vote. Attempts have been made to bring Bill C-230 back to Parliament, but as of 2023, the bill still remains at a standstill.

In the end, legislation such as Bill C-230 is a response to historic wrongs. To look forward, we must first look at our past. The legacy of environmental racism today ultimately stands on the shoulders of historic segregation and institutional oppression. Although laws explicitly decreeing segregation were never passed in Canada, separating communities on the basis of race persisted well into the 20th century. The provinces of Ontario and Nova Scotia had segregated schools for almost a century; the last segregated school in Nova Scotia was closed in 1983. The Maritime provinces commonly had designated areas for white and non-white people. In 1946, Canadian civil rights activist Viola Desmond made headlines when she was arrested for refusing to sit in the section of a Nova Scotia movie theatre designated for Black audience members. These practices produced effects that would be felt for many generations, and they have lasting effects today when it comes to environmental racism.

The effects of redlining – what Cornell Law School defines as “the systemic denial of services such as mortgages, insurance loans, and other financial services to residents of certain areas, based on their race or ethnicity” – persist today. In the U.S. and in Canada, redlining has resulted in majority-Black communities being historically relegated to “less-desirable” areas. In 2016, the Neighbourhood Change Research Partnership (NCRP) conducted an analysis of Black rental and homeownership concentration in Toronto and found that “Black communities are largely concentrated to the city’s suburban ends, to the west in Etobicoke and to the east in Scarborough. By contrast, Black people only represent 2% of the homeowners in the city’s downtown core.” These neighbourhoods then become first in the running when local governments must decide where to dispose of toxic waste. Additionally, a 2007 report from York University found that in Toronto, predominantly racialized neighbourhoods were much more impacted by pollution caused by soil contamination, industrial land use, and waste sites than were white neighbourhoods. This practice leads to a vicious cycle in which “less-desirable” areas are essentially created by white-majority governments and imposed on Black communities. And once an area is considered “less-desirable,” it is almost impossible to recover.

Perhaps the most notorious and disturbing instance of environmental racism in Canada is the story of Africville. Africville was a majority-Black community located in Halifax, Nova Scotia, that existed from the 1800s until its destruction in the 1960s. The town was originally composed of formerly enslaved peoples and their descendents as well as Black refugees from the War of 1812. The Canadian Museum for Human Rights describes Africville as a “self-sufficient […] thriving, close-knit community.” Yet for the entirety of its existence, the City of Halifax refused to provide Africville with such basic necessities as clean water, sewage systems, and garbage disposal, despite the fact that Africville residents were required to pay taxes to the local government. Conditions in Africville only worsened throughout the early 20th century. The City of Halifax began to place “undesirable services” in the community, including “a fertilizer plant, slaughterhouses, and human waste ‘disposal pits.’” In the 1950s, a massive garbage dump was placed in the community after white residents of Halifax refused to allow it to be located in their neighbourhoods on account of “public health concerns.”

Environmental racism also exists right here in Montreal. According to the David Suzuki Foundation (DSF), Montreal North “has the fourth highest percentage of people identifying as members of a visible minority” of all the city’s boroughs and experiences some of the most extreme environmental challenges. The DSF’s Albert Lalonde reports that Montreal North’s Adélard-Desrosiers Elementary School has the highest poverty rate of all the elementary schools in Quebec and is “bordered on two sides by two underground oil pipelines.” It was reported back in 2017 that these pipelines pose a direct threat to safe drinking water for the entirety of Montreal North, yet no efforts have been made to remedy the situation since then. Albert Lalonde asserts that “Montreal North is living under environmental risks that would likely not be tolerated by the public and institutions if they were experienced elsewhere.” Dalila Awada, a prominent Quebecois anti-racist activist, adds to Lalonde’s claim, arguing that “it’s racism […] because when the risks of pipelines on human health and the environment affect devalued, dehumanized populations, they are tolerated.”

Conclusion

Clearly, Octavia Butler’s Parable of the Sower is not a piece of science fiction rooted in groundless speculation. Its predictions on how environmental racism might progress into the 2020s are eerily relevant to our world today. Butler’s novel raises the same question that drives many of her other stories; if we continue this, then what? However, unlike her other works, the foundation of environmental racism upon which Parable’s dystopia stands is not so far removed from our own world today.

Environmental racism is an incredibly insidious form of oppression; it places restrictions on simply existing in your own body. The effects of pollution alone are devastating. In recent years, studies from the Environmental Protection Agency (EPA) have drawn a concrete connection between air pollution and a whole host of heart and lung diseases. And as we all know by now, any preexisting heart or lung condition that impairs breathing in any way greatly increases one’s risk of becoming very sick or even dying from COVID-19. In response to a similar study done by Environmental Science and Technology Letters, Professor Robert D. Bullard said: “This groundbreaking study builds on the solid empirical evidence that systemic racism is killing and making people of color sick, it’s just that simple.”

Breathing is synonymous with being human – with being alive. By selecting which communities should or should not have access to clean air, we are actively dehumanizing one another. And, unfortunately, Black communities bear the brunt of this dehumanization. Although the plea “I can’t breathe” has become emblematic of the Black Lives Matter movement, Benjamin Chavis adds that it “echoes generations of environmental activists of colour.” At 73, Chavis recalls that this cry was also made by the North Carolina protestors fighting against the toxic waste dump back in 1982. “There were public outcries of ‘We can’t breathe’ and ‘I can’t breathe’ by African American environmental justice protesters in Warren County.”

Today’s parallels to Parable are horrifying. We must continue to fight for a better future and honour the memory of Octavia Butler by not succumbing to her fears for the 2020s. Consider supporting the following organizations fighting against environmental racism in Canada: Ecojustice Canada, Environmental Defense Canada (EDF), and MiningWatch Canada. We have the power to create change. As Octavia Butler says in Parable of the Sower, “All that you touch You Change. All that you Change Changes you. The only lasting truth is Change.”

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This interview has been shortened and edited for clarity.

Frida Sofía Morales Mora and Eliana Freelund for The McGill Daily (MD): What exactly are the goals of the McGill Classics Play? How did this whole thing start?

E. Weiser (EW): The McGill Classics play was started by Professor Lynn Kozak back in 2011 with the goal of integrating theatre back into classics. Theatre was a huge part of classical literary tradition, so this was a way to revitalize that. It’s also our goal to make the plays we put on accessible to a general public which might not have as much knowledge about these stories.

Audrey Michel (AM): We’ve also seen a bit of a shift in the past two years in how the McGill Classics Play operates. We’re encouraged to put our own creative spin on these stories rather than just directly translate what’s on the page to the stage. You can definitely see this with our play this year – it’s very different from the original text!

MD: What was the reasoning behind choosing this particular story? Why is Homer’s Odyssey still relevant in 2023?

AM: As E. mentions in our program, we are both haunted by Odysseus. We wanted to give space for many different areas of interpretation. This all came as a response to a very personal reckoning with the text.

EW: The themes of the Odyssey come back again and again in popular culture. Odysseus’s archetype as the wily trickster, the clever man who can escape from any situation – this trope comes back all the time. It’s the same thing with the idea of the Odyssean voyage home. These themes are ongoing and are constantly being reinterpreted in modern media.

MD: The form of this particular play is very unique and comedic! What made you choose a gameshow format? Why Ithacan Idol?

EW: We have a policy that everyone who wants to get involved in the McGill Classics Play can get involved. This usually means that we have to be pretty strategic in how we structure things, though, in order to make sure that everyone gets the chance to shine. So, we just thought, why not go camp?

AM: The concept of the game show is actually not irrelevant to the Odyssey. It goes straight back to the ancient tradition of presenting these stories during events such as festivals, where everyone puts their own twist on a given story and competes against one another to determine who has the best version.

EW: And in a way the contestants in our play are recreating the contest of the bow in the Odyssey, where the competitors compete to see who can get Penelope’s attention.

MD: In your program you define the ancient Greek term polytropos – to have many (poly-) manners or ways (-tropos). How is this concept relevant to your play?

AM: That term is basically an encapsulation of why we are haunted by Odysseus. It comes from the first line of the Odyssey: “Tell me, Muse, about the polytropos man.” It calls into question the idea of identity itself. In the text, this refers to Odysseus’s identity as a husband, as a father, and as a former soldier. This also applies on a metaliterary level: Is Odysseus a criminal? Is he a refugee? Is he someone we should sympathize with? There are just so many layers and so many variables.

MD: When we saw the play, both of us agreed that the Polyphemus scene depicting colonial violence was both incredibly moving and very difficult to watch. Can you explain the thought process behind writing this scene?

EW: When you think of this scene more simply, it’s basically this: someone rolls off onto your island, eats your shit, attacks you, and then  leaves. The thing is, in the Odyssey we get the version told by Odysseus, where Polyphemus is not painted in a good light simply because he doesn’t understand Greek customs and traditions. Polyphemus is othered – he is one-eyed, he doesn’t speak “proper” Greek, he isn’t familiar with Greek hospitality customs (xenia). According to Odysseus’s version of the story, that gives him permission to invade Polyphemus’s home. This is the part in the Odyssey, especially from a modern perspective, where you see the biggest pitfall of the hero. Because he is not a hero in this scene; he is just a colonizer.

AM: It’s important to recognize that colonization was going on during antiquity. Of course it looked very different, but it’s important that we talk about this now, especially because these narratives were used to justify later colonization. During this time, people were trying to define what it meant to be Greek. And to Odysseus, it seems that to be Greek is to not be what he would have considered “barbarian.” The tension in this scene is essentially, “you don’t look like us, you don’t respect my customs, you don’t speak like us.” 

EW: The part in our play where Polyphemus is holding his lamb and laments to the audience is taken directly from the text. So you have this painting of him as a devastated farmer who just lost his pet. And then you cut to Odysseus boasting over the fact that he’s just taken Polyphemus’ most prized lamb.

AM: In a way, it’s just twisting what he’s really known for the most – his trickster nature – and turning it into cruelty.

MD: How did the actors portraying Odysseus and Polyphemus feel when acting out this scene? It must have been very difficult emotionally. 

Thea S. (TS): Portraying Polyphemus required a lot of vulnerability on my part. As a Lebanese person, as a person of colour, as a person whose country is constantly affected by external forces, this scene really helped me rethink the struggles my country has to deal with. Here it’s a different framing: there are different characters, different forces, but the elements are still there. The part where Polyphemus gets scared and asks “who are you?” and “what did you say your name was?” really affected me. He gets defensive; he tries to defend himself. Peoples who have been colonized are often depicted as weaker, and the narrative is often that they were colonized because they were unable to fight back. I think it’s important to remember that that’s an unfair way to perceive these events in history. Nothing about colonization should ever be justified. This narrative of the weaker versus the stronger – it’s not real. It’s an illusion created by the oppressors. 

Gabrielle Gaston (GG): I had a difficult time acting in this scene in a different way. I’m playing a colonizer; I’m playing a villain. And at the same time I am fully aware of my positionality in this scene – as a white person, as a settler. I’m aware of the power dynamics that are in place, not only the privilege that I have in my day to day life in Canada, but also the power dynamics in the scene. I’m not only older than Thea, but I am a white person, and she is a person of colour. I know that she is in a more vulnerable state here, and there are a lot of really intense moments in that scene. I really wanted to make sure that we established a relationship of trust while working on the play together so that she could be as comfortable as possible. I wanted her to be able to tell me when something was too much. The most important thing to me was that she would feel safe.

MD: We are currently in the middle of Black History Month. Was there a conscious decision to put on the play during this month? How is the content of the play relevant to Black history?

GG: Although it wasn’t a conscious decision to put on the play during Black History Month, I think that the content is very much relevant to Black history. The way that E. and Audrey wrote and directed the play, specifically with the scene depicting colonial violence, speaks to the ongoing effects of colonization. In a play that is so campy, we were told that that scene had to be completely sober. It was very important for us to convey the weight of that scene – this is not something that’s over; it’s something that is still going on. Antiquity is effectively the foundation of Western civilization. It’s important to note that these traditions carry on, even though, as Audrey said, colonization looked different back then. These stories, these traditions, these narratives – they’ve shaped so much of Western culture. The transatlantic slave trade, the colonization of the African continent – these things have been catastrophically traumatic on a generational level. And whether or not Odysseus really existed, the idea of him – the idea of this OG colonizer figure in Odysseus has persisted throughout Western culture. The themes of domination and colonization in the Odyssey still exist to this day – and their effects can still be felt among Black people and on the African continent. I think it’s important to shift the narrative of how stories of colonization are told, to a place where the white person isn’t the hero. 

EW: Classics have historically been used to justify white supremacy. It’s incredibly important to not perpetuate that narrative. We don’t need another Odysseus-the-hero narrative – it was time to tell a different story.

TS: The medium of storytelling is really powerful. For the liberation of the oppressed, it is vital to keep the stories of the victims alive. It’s important for the truth to be heard – it’s necessary for justice, and it’s necessary for healing to start.

MD: The play remains open-ended as to who exactly Odysseus was. What does Odysseus mean to each of you?

EW: For me, Odysseus is all of these interpretations at once. You can’t distill the connotations his name has down to a single source.

AM: I think Odysseus is a question about who I want to be. His story about wandering, looking for home, looking for belonging – it resonates with all of us. But this story also asks us, what are you going to do in that situation? How do you want to be remembered, how are you going to treat people?

GG: To me, Odysseus is more of a concept than a real person. He’s kind of transcended being a real man because of the many ways he’s been interpreted and how they build off of each other. 

TS: I think Odysseus is very much a multi-faceted character. As Gab said, he really is more of a concept than a person. There are so many perspectives on his character, but I think it’s important not to get lost in one or two interpretations. Instead, we should look at every aspect of him in a way that leaves room for critical thinking and for nuance. 

If you are interested in being a part of McGill Classics Play, proposals for its 2024 production are currently being held. For further information, contact lynn.kozak@mcgill.ca.

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What do we picture when we think of the 1960s? Most likely mini skirts, gogo boots, and beehives. The 1970s? Probably bell-bottom jeans, wavy hair, and fur-lined statement coats. Every decade of the 20th century can be defined by its distinctive clothing movements. Just think of how often decade-themed events are held at schools, clubs, parties, and more. Do you see someone wearing a leotard and neon eyeshadow? One could reasonably guess they’re emulating the 1980s. Low-rise jeans and a bedazzled T-shirt? Definitely the 2000s. This pattern in fashion history raises the question, how will the fashion of our current decade be remembered in those to come?

With more access to inspiration than ever before, it seems that the fashion of the 2020s is open to endless possibilities – whether to its benefit or to its detriment. Up through the early 2010s, most people engaged with the fashion of the day via magazines and by emulating the cultural icons of the time. Issues of Vogue or Cosmopolitan would grace our shelves only a few times a year, typically in line with the four seasons. People would view actors, musicians, and political figures in movies, music videos, or televised events that could often only be experienced in the moment. Today, however, we can revisit almost anything at the click of a button. Interested in the latest awards show attire? It was uploaded online only seconds after the cameras started rolling. What was that singer wearing in that one music video again? A simple YouTube search allows you to replay that memory forever. We no longer have to go out of our way to seek artistic inspiration; it floods our senses at every moment. 

This change is both helpful and harmful. On the one hand, the movement from magazines to the internet is helping to even the playing field for fashion by smoothing out the barriers between classes. As the Atlantic article “Fashion’s Racism and Classism are Finally out of Style” explains, “the tight control of fashion’s most powerful and influential brands makes it difficult for people outside the well-pedigreed white elite to enter the industry at all, let alone influence how it conceives of luxury.” The fashion industry has too long championed the exclusivity of the wealthy, the white, and the thin. The equalizing nature of the internet pushes against these imposed boundaries. Anyone with access to an internet browser can view almost any fashion website they wish. Whether they want to make a purchase or simply to draw inspiration, the opportunity to view designs from high-end retailers and fast-fashion knocks is available to everyone. 

On the other hand, the unlimited nature of the internet can also invoke overwhelming feelings. With so much inspiration bombarding our screens at every moment, it can become difficult to find or maintain any sense of individuality. We can see this effect reflected in the fashion trends of the early 2020s. The low-rise jeans of the 2000s, groovy prints of the ’60s, and statement coats of the ’70s have all had a comeback. Even pieces from previous centuries, such as corsets and ballet skirts, have been incorporated into mainstream fashion. In 2023, most clothing inspiration seems to veer into an amorphous amalgamation of all the previous fashion trends ever conceived. This endless realm of possibility can result in incredibly creative artistic expression. We have the opportunity to push against and deconstruct the man-made boundaries of fashion. However, this sublime influx of inspiration can also wreak havoc on both mental health and the environment. 

Short-form content such as TikTok only adds to the already overwhelming amount of inspiration the internet can provide us. TikTok’s format allows for unique pieces to rapidly blow up, spurring fast-fashion companies to mass produce their take on the trend. Yet just as fast as one item comes into fashion, another phases out. According to an article from Screenshot, “there are five stages to a trend cycle: the introduction, the rise, the peak, the decline, and eventually, the obsolescence.” Using this model, it is clear that trend cycles are shorter than ever before. It took skinny jeans about ten years to fall out of fashion. Windbreakers survived for nearly 20 years through the ’80s and ’90s. That viral House of Sunny green dress seen everywhere on TikTok? It only lasted a few months. This groovy green dress perfectly exemplifies the microtrend phenomenon; in an interview with NPR, fashion researcher Mandy Lee defines microtrends as “singular pieces of clothing rather than genres or aesthetics that reach peak and obsolescence very, very quickly.” These days, the average lifespan of a microtrend is a meagre three to five months. 

The ramifications of microtrends go beyond an overwhelming “for you page.” Tom Crisp, who teaches a sustainable fashion course at the University of Falmouth, claims that rapid trend cycles affect our mental well-being and lead to excess consumerism. “The trends prey on our insecurities about the way we look and feel,” he says, “encouraging us to consume more in order to stay on trend.” The combination of bottomless clothing inspiration and short form content seems to create an insatiable need to always display the newest fashion trend. Needless to say, this rise in consumer culture is extremely detrimental not only to our digital but our physical environment. To meet the impossibly quick demand for microtrends, many fast-fashion companies cut corners when producing their clothing. Instead of durable fabrics, cheaper materials derived from fossil-fuels are often used as substitutes. The poor-quality dyes used to create the trendy, vivid colours of TikTok pollute the water sources surrounding the factories where they’re used. All this for the item to inevitably go out of fashion in a few months and likely end up in a landfill.

How do we combat these effects? Cassandra Ditmer, a sustainable stylist based in Los Angeles, argues that we should attempt to practice mindful consumerism: “If you find an item and can immediately think of at least three ways to wear it with existing items you own, then that’s a good sign. If you are feeling the urge to buy additional items just to make the one new one work, that’s not as good of a sign.” In other words, we don’t have to completely eliminate the potential joys of fashion trends from our lives. Instead, we need to develop a deeper awareness of ourselves as consumers so as to not participate in excess consumption. Don’t base your spending habits solely on what’s trending online; purchase what makes you truly happy. If you’re interested in shopping more sustainably in and around Montreal, check out the Daily’s article “A Second Chance.”

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Guillermo del Toro’s 2022 Pinocchio turns this moral on its head. The opening scenes revealing the idyllic Italian countryside are marred by uniformed Podestà roaming the streets. Swooping aerial shots of antique buildings and ancient Roman ruins are peppered with propaganda posters. This adaptation of Pinocchio does not take place in a distant, faraway land of fairy tales; it is grounded in the chilling reality of fascist Italy in the 1930s and ’40s. Del Toro’s decision to anchor Pinocchio in this setting changes the message and tone of the entire story. For how can we celebrate the original moral of obedience in a world defined by authoritarianism? 

Del Toro casts a shroud of doubt over the tradition of rewarding “good” children and punishing “bad” children. His Pinocchio behaves much in the same way as his Disney and literary counterpart: boisterously handling Gepetto’s belongings, running away from school, and prioritizing fun and play over obeying the will of adults. Traditional iterations of this story frame Pinocchio’s actions as reprehensible and his selfish, childlike urges as something that he must overcome. Del Toro’s tale paints Pinocchio in a different light: in an interview with the BBC, del Toro stated, “I really wanted to make a disobedient Pinocchio, and make disobedience a virtue.”

In a world under the influence of surveillance, violence, and compulsory loyalty, Pinocchio’s naïvety provides a breath of fresh air. Del Toro highlights this positive take on Pinocchio’s “flaws” through juxtaposition with the Podestà’s son, Candlewick. The two boys are set up as foils of one another, as Candlewick desperately attempts to become the perfect, obedient Italian soldier at every turn, while Pinocchio marches to the beat of his own drum and only follows the rules he deems most appealing. If the moral of Carlo Collodi’s original tale were applied to the pair, one would assume that Candlewick, the obedient boy, should be rewarded, while Pinocchio, the naughty boy, should be punished. Yet in one of Pinocchio’s most heartbreaking scenes, the fates of the boys are reversed. Despite his tireless adherence to the rules, Candlewick wins the approval of neither his father nor his nation, and dies a pointless death in an Allied air strike. Pinocchio survives. 

What did del Toro intend with this storyline? In his BBC interview, del Toro speaks on his goal to celebrate Pinocchio’s childish nature: “I wanted everybody to change but him. As the movie progresses, the cricket learns from Pinocchio, and Pinocchio learns very little from the cricket. I was being contrarian in a way, but it was more truthful to what I felt as a kid. I felt all this domestication was daunting and scary.” 

Perhaps the most disturbing representation of such domestication is Pinocchio’s forced indoctrination into fascism. After the puppetmaster Count Volpe learns of Pinocchio’s desire to be seen as a “good” boy by Gepetto, he forces Pinocchio to perform skits propagandizing Mussolini’s regime. Volpe and the Podestà both interpret the rigid indestructability of Pinocchio’s wooden frame as emblematic of Italy’s nationalist persona. When the Podestà recruits Pinocchio into the military, it is with the assumption that he will be the perfect soldier. No matter how many times Pinocchio is killed in battle, his wooden body will always reanimate.

Although the adults of del Toro’s world attempt to morph Pinocchio’s inner self into one that mirrors the ideology they have imposed on his outer self, Pinocchio’s rebellious spirit cannot be broken. Instead, del Toro frames the pressure to acquiesce to the wishes of adults as a stifling, oppressive force. In this Pinocchio, the concept of obedience is magnified to a national scale to the point where it is made equivalent to the mindless cruelty of fascism. This theme is not isolated in del Toro’s repertoire. His other two most critically acclaimed works, Pan’s Labyrinth (2006) and The Shape of Water (2017) both feature main characters defined by their childlike innocence whose free spirits are stifled at the hands of fascist forces.  

Del Toro’s films frequently grapple with what it means to be truly alive. In Pinocchio, he equates being alive with being childlike. Pinocchio is not granted life because he rejects disobedience but because he embraces it. The stop-motion medium of the film adds to this idea that life begins where rules lose their power. The impossible movements of the puppets, the sheer breadth of their expressions, and the exaggerated lines of their character designs create a world that resembles our own – but with a fantastical twist. Viewers are encouraged to strip away their ideas of the rules and laws that govern our world and instead immerse themselves in a setting as boundless and disobedient as Pinocchio himself. 

In an interview with Polygon, del Toro explains, “The first idea I had when I was a kid was to do it in stop-motion, because I thought that way, the humans and [Pinocchio] exist in the same world. The most difficult element of design to solve in a Pinocchio movie is that Pinocchio and the humans need to feel like they belong in the same universe, and of course, the stop-motion solves everything.” This choice of medium requires that all the puppets, even the ones representing humans, be given life by the animators. The very making of the film mirrors the journey of the wooden boy himself. As a result, del Toro creates a world that visually equalizes all the characters, thereby drawing attention to the personal qualities that set Pinocchio apart rather than his physical differences. One of the most heart-wrenching scenes occurs when Pinocchio compares himself to the wooden crucifix that adorns the town church. Pinocchio gazes into the eyes of the audiences both inside and outside the film and asks, “He’s made of wood, too. Why does everyone like him, not me?”

The crux of del Toro’s Pinocchio centres on the question of whether or not it is always right to teach children obedience. Carlo Collodi’s original tale and Walt Disney’s famous adaptation both indicate that this is the case. Good, obedient children are rewarded while bad, disobedient children are punished. The very transformation of Pinocchio from a wooden puppet to a real boy hinges on this moral. By positioning the story of Pinocchio in the midst of fascist Italy, however, del Toro pushes the concept of obedience to its extreme. In this version, Pinocchio cannot achieve life by following the rules and being a good boy. In del Toro’s story, to be curious about the world, to play without abandon, and to indulge in childish desires is to be truly alive. That is what makes a “real” boy.

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The score and soundtrack by returning composer Ludwig Göransson ambitiously aim to cover the music of two distinct regions: Sub-Saharan Africa and the Yucatán Peninsula. In an article published by Marvel entitled “‘Black Panther: Wakanda Forever’ Music From and Inspired By Soundtrack Launches Globally on November 4,” it is made clear that Göransson’s vision for the film required extensive research. More than 2,500 hours of score and soundtrack were recorded over six studios, five countries, and three continents. Both Coogler and Göransson made the conscious decision to centralize the sounds of Wakanda and Talokan in the sonic traditions of Nigeria and the Yucatán Peninsula, respectively. In order to create a score and soundtrack that were as authentic and respectful as possible, Göransson immersed himself in the music of the Mayan Classical Period (200–900 AD) by working alongside music archaeologist Alejandro Rojas. Additionally, Nigerian singer and producer Tems was consulted to help oversee the production of the recording studio Göransson established in Lagos. 

So, how does the music of Sub-Saharan Africa and Mesoamerica manifest in the final film? Rhythm, instrumentation, and language are key. As establishing shots of Wakanda sweep across the screen, the first track “Nyana Wam,” features stunning vocals from Senegalese performer Baaba Maal. This song thrusts the audience into the brilliant world of African polyrhythm, with a special focus on tuned percussion. Unlike Western classical music, which centres mainly around harmonic structure, the traditional music of Sub-Saharan Africa is composed around rhythm. The layering of multiple rhythmic lines on top of one another is referred to as polyrhythm, an incredibly important and distinct feature of music from this part of the world. “Nyama Wam,” along with several other melodic motifs that Göransson peppers throughout the film, exemplifies
 polyrhythm beautifully. 

The complexity and nuance inherent in polyrhythmic structure are enhanced by the use of tuned percussion in Black Panther: Wakanda Forever. Sub-Saharan African music frequently features drums that produce different pitches when struck in different locations. One example of such an instrument is the Udu drum. Native to the Igbo people of Nigeria, the Udu is a drum traditionally fashioned from clay with a hole in the center that allows the player to create an array of different tones depending on where they strike the vessel. Göransson includes the Udu in several instrumental scores throughout the film as well as in the titular track “Wakanda Forever.” 

The  variety of artists who lent their voices to the soundtrack also aids in creating a rich, expressive sound. South African singer-songwriter and poet Busiswa provides powerful staccato vocalizations on the track “We Know What You Whisper” that make up the leitmotif for the Dora Milaje Warriors. This song, along with most of the other tracks written to represent Wakanda, is in Xhosa, a tonal Bantu language of South Africa. However, Göransson and Coogler incorporated a multitude of other languages into the soundtrack, especially when representing the Talokan nation. As their underwater city is revealed to the audience, the track “Laayli’ kuxa’ano’one” accompanies the establishing shots. This song is both rapped and sung entirely in Yucatec Maya by Adn Maya Colectivo, Pat Boy, Yaalen K’uj, and All Mayan Winik. 

Additionally, Mayan aerophones, or instruments that produce sound via air vibrating through a chamber, feature prominently on this track. In an interview with Variety, Göransson explains his process of experimenting with “hundreds of ancient instruments” during his research in Mexico City. He took special interest in the materials used by the Mayans to create their instruments, such as clay for flute-adjacent aerophones or turtle shells for percussion. The choice to place the Yucatec Maya language and instrumentation at the forefront of tracks such as “Laayli’ kuxa’ano’one” highlights the strength of the Talokan people, as outlined in the film, to revel and thrive in their culture despite outside colonial forces who would have them assimilate. 

Why is the music of Black Panther: Wakanda Forever so revolutionary? Unfortunately, respectful and faithful musical adaptations of non-European cultures tend to be the exception, not the norm. For instance, in Walt Disney’s 2003 film Brother Bear, the crux of the story occurs when the main character Kenai must take the form of a bear. A choral piece laden with haunting harmonies and powerful drum beats entitled “Transformation” accompanies this emotional sequence. The track is touching, emotive, and at first glance appears to fit the visuals and context of the story quite well. So what seems to be the problem?

Brother Bear aims to ground itself in Iñupiat traditions, folklore, and imagery. Yet neither the score nor the soundtrack features music native to the region where the film takes place. To add insult to injury, the track “Transformation,” which plays during the most important scene of the entire narrative, has absolutely nothing to do with Iñupiat music. Written by Brother Bear’s composer Phil Collins, “Transformation” was created in the style of Bulgarian choral folk music and performed for the film by the Bulgarian Women’s Choir. In a 2003 interview with the Oklahoman, Collins claimed that “We had to keep the music ethnic, as we did with Tarzan […] and unfortunately Native American instruments don’t sound that great. The drums are small.” He added that his team, “opened up every part of the world excluding Africa and we took things from everywhere, hence the Bulgarian Woman.”

Unfortunately, this mode of thinking exemplifies how many creators in the film industry have long approached music from marginalized cultures. Composers often rely upon simple instrumentation substitutes or unconventional harmonies to portray the music of non-Western cultures in the hopes that most audiences won’t know the difference. This practice can result in subconsciously alienating and burying the music of marginalized peoples even further, while at the same time perpetuating the overbearing dominance Western classical music has had over the film industry. 

Black Panther: Wakanda Forever asks us to step outside these parameters and fully immerse ourselves in the wonderful music of Sub-Saharan Africa and the Yucatán Peninsula. By placing the rhythms, instrumentation, and languages of these regions at the front and centre of the film, Göransson and Coogler give weight and importance to the musical traditions in which they originate. This choice grounds these fictional Marvel nations in reality and elevates the music of their real-world counterparts to a worldwide scale. Music is an integral part of any nation’s culture, history, and legacy. As long as there have been humans, there has been music. It is important that we represent the music of non-Western cultures with reverence and accuracy and that we work toward removing the filter of Western classical music that has too long obscured these wonderful sonic traditions.

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