Lower field: bell-like peals of laughter, the faint aroma of grilled burger patties, and a snaking queue of students stretching around the perimeter of what looks like an outdoor party with an endless waitlist. Friends separated over the summer reunite with shrieks and hugs to the exhilarating soundtrack of musicians playing just steps away. It’s no surprise some McGill students, and the event itself, call Open Air Pub (OAP) the “Best Place on Earth”.

Since 1987, OAP’s legacy has resonated across generations of McGill students as the stage for golden memories. Ivan Zhang, one half of the Head Management duo for the most recent edition of OAP, tells us he found the first documented mention of OAP in the 1980 McGill Yearbook, which at the time was a gathering of engineers at Three Bares Park for Welcome Week 1980. Now organised by the Engineering Undergraduate Society (EUS), OAP has grown exponentially in scale, taking up half of McGill’s Lower Field and attracting thousands of McGill students, alumni, and their external plus- ones alike.

The COVID-19 pandemic halted OAP for a few years, which was enough to weaken the event’s influence and place in the collective McGill consciousness. “We saw a few years of not-great profitability and lower capacities post-COVID,” says Zhang. “Right after COVID, there was a bit of a lull where McGill students didn’t even know what OAP was, especially the new ones coming in.” Now, after some time and vested publicity efforts, it’s back and bigger than ever, renowned for its cheap (though warm) alcohol, good food, and overall vibrant ambience.

As one of the few large inter-cohort McGill social events, organizing OAP is, naturally, a massive endeavour. From supplying various food and beverage options to recruiting managers, bands, and artists to spray the iconic OAP stage graffiti, the 13-member team works tirelessly both on and off the ground to ensure the event runs smoothly. Most recently, the OAP team has implemented new environmental initiatives which have, according to Nicole Shen, OAP’s food manager, earned them a Gold certification from the McGill Sustainability Office. These developments include the introduction of new mats to protect the grass on Lower Field, the recycling of cans (rather than giving out plastic cups), and the use of propane rather than charcoal grills for food, among others.

Providing the soundtrack to this one-of-a-kind student festival are a variety of bands, singers and DJs. This year, OAP hosted 26 amazing acts. From soulful harmonies and acoustic covers to head-banging rock tunes and DJ sets, there was truly something for everyone. A few of the acts actually found their
start at McGill, despite the predominantly academic environment. DJ Clément Gabriel, who describes his music as “dark and euphoric,” learned how to mix in an hour before a party at his former fraternity. In addition, rock band Dollhouse recruited their bassist Sacha when drummer Emilio spotted him walking around with his bass at Activities Night last year.

In fact, the significance of OAP within the McGill community means that many performers had already attended the event from below the stage. Of course, this means that they are or were McGill students themselves, lovingly carving out time between tutorials and lectures to hone their craft. Still, the process of becoming an OAP act is complex and multilayered, with the OAP team having to sift through a substantial number of applications and music samples.

OAP has provided a platform for students to test the boundaries of expression and find their own unique voices. Experimental DJ trio Dance Engine describes OAP as “a really nice musician[‘s] playground” where they can showcase “what they really want to do” because of the “easy to win” receptiveness of McGill students to novel ideas and new music. Similarly, DJ Nina Baby closed this year’s OAP Boiler with “music that [she’s] rarely had the chance to play”, sharing her infectious electronic sound with the McGill masses.

OAP has even pushed new voices to the forefront. The common pursuit of a good time across all involved parties fuels OAP’s lively and accepting atmosphere. Compared to other festivals, the beauty of OAP is that the person on stage could also be your friend, which makes it all the more exciting. Acoustic folk duo Dave and Sarah (whose names are neither Dave nor Sarah) describe the sensation of performing at OAP as “not even comparable” to their previous gigs, not just because of OAP’s sheer scale but also because “everyone knew [them], which made it scarier but also so much fun.”

The added layer of thrill as a result of being surrounded by familiar company rings true not just for OAP’s performing artists, but for their patrons, who get to commemorate the end of summer (or winter, depending on when you go) by letting loose amidst a crowd of friendly faces. “As a student, I love that I get to hang out [at OAP] with my friends, and also play there as an artist,” house-inspired DJ Dante says. By playing for the community he is part of, he feels like he can stay true to the sound he loves. “You can kind of tell when you’re in the that the positive feeling people experience kind of rubs off on each other.”

Moreover, OAP’s relatively relaxed format extends music and performance not only to those who practice it professionally, but to anyone with love and respect for the craft. “We are engineers, but we have hobbies,” jokes Nella Craft, one of OAP’s music managers. As mentioned, many of the acts are McGill students or alumni from various faculties and disciplines.

GarageMDs, for instance, is a band made up of McGill medical students – not your usual candidates for a school band, given the rigour of their program. Moreover, Gianni, founding member of dream rock band Flying Dream, is a post-doctoral fellow in the McGill Faculty of Engineering. “Academia and research are fascinating, but they’re very rigid […] Music is more free, and you [have room to] explore.”

That being said, OAP’s free-flow is also calculated. As one of the main goals is to keep the audience entertained, the event’s management must curate cohesive sets throughout the event. Niney, a Montreal-based DJ, says he enjoys this aspect of the festival. “The goal is to bring it from zero to on the way to the tech house,” he shares, “so I had to get [the crowd] dancing, to sing songs they may or may not know.” Niney describes himself as an avid dancer, and changing up his style to get a crowd warmed up and grooving is one of his favourite things to do. OAP allows for this part of him to shine. “As a DJ, you can never have too many styles.”

However, music serves many more functions than just inducing hype in a crowd. It provides the soundtrack for our morning commutes and gym sessions, sets the mood at our local cafes and bars — it surrounds us, giving it immense and intrinsic power. Mica, a disco music DJ says, “Music exists in many forms in every aspect of my life. Study nights, kickin’ it with friends, football games, preparing food — no matter what I’m doing, there’s always a perfect soundtrack.” With the growth of streaming services and subsequent increased accessibility of music, it has become so integrated into our daily lives that we might not fully appreciate its special quality. Music has the capacity to influence our thoughts and emotions, not only stimulating our senses but acting as a mode of idiosyncratic expression.

This is no different amongst the performers of OAP, to whom music is a multi-functional tool that holds a special place in their hearts. When asked how music has enriched his life, Owen, founding member and lead guitarist of Montreal indie rock band Willy Nilly, joked, “My depression now has a musical twist to it,” referencing songwriting’s critical role in conveying his personal realities. Dollhouse’s genre-bending songs, composed and arranged by the entire group, also tackle a plethora of issues like mental health and activism, among others. “It’s just like, we hear you,” says Nikita, the band’s singer, “‘cause we all have our own kind of struggle. It translates into our music.”

And isn’t that what all this music and all this partying is about? It’s all to be heard, to be seen. While it might sound a little corny, the tunes and the booze and the (very good) corn on the cobs at OAP are all designed and calibrated for a specific purpose: connection. This is the crux of OAP, the secret sauce that makes it as celebrated and anticipated as it is by the McGill student body.

This sentiment was echoed by almost everyone we talked to about OAP’s impact and legacy. “In the back of my mind, OAP was a sort of dream,” contemplates Gabriel Jon, a folk and R&B singer and McGill Engineering student. “It was a big step towards my goal of not overthinking things too much and just going for things that I want to do.” Similarly, GarageMDs comments, “There’s something special about seeing your friends and classmates cheering you on, creating moments that remind you we’re all in this journey together […] that make this experience so meaningful.”

“Seeing the impact that [our performance] can have on people who come to the shows means the world to us,” relates The Howlin’ Gales, a country rock band from Toronto. In an increasingly divided world plagued by individualistic ideals, to be seen by your community and to have your voice not just heard but uplifted is perhaps what we all yearn for. The bond between a performer and their audience, therefore, is made all the more sacred, as the effort and love invested by a performer into their craft is rewarded by the energy they receive from their audience. “What I hope to gain is a deeper connection with that crowd, because they’re the true supporters, the ones who come alive no matter the circumstances,” puts Clément Gabriel.

Beyond this, there are also the little points of connection between patrons, which all OAP attendees can attest to. “It’s the one place where I’ll actually see all of my friends, who you can never really combine in one room all together at McGill,” explains Claire Levasseur, VP Services for the EUS. From chatting with strangers in the (more often than not) hours-long line to bumping into dear friends scattered across the field, the spatial configuration of OAP is one built for interaction. “I hope OAP is remembered like that, where you can meet new people from so many different types of programs, so many different places.”

And not just students! Karl, a security guard from OAP, recalls feeling heartened by the warmth students showed him in their brief interactions entering and exiting the venue. When checking McGill IDs, he recounts seeing a string of 6 people with the same birthday as him — Valentines’ Day, which he says is rare. “At events, people usually try to avoid talking to security,” he says, “but here, I get to interact with cool people, young people.”

Love it or hate it, OAP is a McGill cultural staple that is here to stay. While seemingly just a superficial student festival on the surface, OAP’s purpose is much deeper than that. As a critical facet of McGill culture, it weaves a golden tie between decades of McGill alumni all the way to the present, strengthening an already formidable bond that exists between us students. It promotes local and student artists, ensuring a steady stream of art in a world where creative is unfortunately deemed less productive and therefore less valuable. OAP also fosters inter-faculty and inter- cohort interaction and
connection, ensuring that people get the opportunity to form new bonds and strengthen old ones. “We take a lot of pride in being able to put OAP on and create a space that so many people can enjoy, that connects everybody,” expresses Josh Negenman, the other half of OAP’s head management duo.

So, OAP. You may or may not have attended, but you sure as hell have heard of it. In any case, it’s energetic and lively, with an atmosphere best described as electric – a buzz on your skin, a welcome high.

Is it really “The Best Place On Earth”? Nothing’s perfect, of course, but we’d say it comes pretty damn close.

The post Open Air Pub: Where Music Meets Community appeared first on The McGill Daily.

Binge-watching is defined by Merriam-Webster as, “watching multiple episodes of television in rapid succession.” The practice has become an increasingly common pastime in recent years, which is unsurprising given that every new show seems to be more addictive than the last.

However, this hasn’t always been the case. In fact, binge-watching is a relatively recent behavioural phenomenon — only seen commonly in the public since around 2013, when streaming services like Netflix boomed in popularity. Suddenly, people no longer needed to wait a week for the next episode or purchase individual box sets of DVDs, they could simply access them on these streaming sites packed with endless hours of entertainment. It was revolutionary for both the TV industry and its watchers. The COVID-19 pandemic only further increased streaming popularity, as people were suddenly stuck at home with ample amounts of time and fewer ways to spend it. According to the National Library of Medicine, over 70 per cent of television watchers today consider binge-watching as normal practice.

So, why do we do it? Why is it so easy to be pulled in for hours to a good show? Well, when we watch TV, it is usually for enjoyment. After a long day of classes or work, our brains crave a break, and television provides us with instant gratification. When we are doing something that we enjoy, our brains release a chemical called dopamine, which promotes pleasure and happiness. This dopamine release makes us feel good and creates a rush similar to that of a drug, but on a smaller scale. That feeling is addictive, and our brains will crave more dopamine in order to keep feeling pleasure; a craving which can often be satiated by watching another episode.

That said, there is more to binge-watching than solely the scientific aspect. The social nature of TV plays a huge role in why people feel the need to binge, a factor that has only been amplified by social media. When new seasons of popular shows come out, chatter on social media inevitably follows. For example, when the third season of The Summer I Turned Pretty began dropping weekly on Prime Video this summer, my Instagram and TikTok soon became flooded with funny or exciting reels related to the show. These videos quickly started online conversations and disputes such as whether people are “Team Jeremiah” or “Team Conrad,” and created a sense of investment in a show that viewers may or may not have even previously watched themselves. I suddenly felt compelled to catch up on the new season so I could understand what people were talking about, and found myself binging four episodes in one evening. Whether fueled by a fear of missing out or a fear of having the plot spoiled for them, people feel the need to catch up on new shows so they can be part of these conversations. However, we must recognize that these conversation never influenced us in the same way before we had access to social media 24/7.

Others use binge-watching to escape reality and transport themselves into a different world for as long as possible. The more time we spend with familiar TV characters, the more we begin to feel like we really know them. These characters start to feel like companions, and we become so invested in their stories that turning off the TV can make us feel lonely. Interestingly enough, binging doesn’t only come with feel-good shows either. Shows that cause more negative feelings like anxiety or fear are often just as addicting, as they produce the same sense of escapism, if not one that is even more intense. This behaviour can even feed on itself, with people watching more in order to soothe the stressful feelings that binging caused in the first place.

Now that we know why this behaviour occurs, it’s important to note the effects it might have on our bodies. While it is often used as a light-hearted term, binge-watching can be more serious than just a casual pastime. Similar to gambling, it can turn into a real behavioural addiction, which are accompanied by a lack of self-control, regret or guilt, and neglect of responsibilities. Additionally, avoiding real-life problems by watching hours of TV can lead to social isolation. This is associated with depression and feelings of loneliness or guilt when the episodes are over. In regard to physical health, it is unsurprising that binge-watching goes hand-in-hand with a sedentary lifestyle, which is one of the most harmful things we can do for our bodies. Sitting and watching television for four hours or more per day can over time increase the risk of cardiovascular disease by 50 per cent compared to those who sit for two hours or less. Inactive sitting might be linked to a 25 per cent higher BMI index in young adults, which can lead to various serious health problems. Finally, binge-watching negatively affects our sleep. After watching hours of TV, our brains struggle to fully shut down, leading to poorer sleep quality, increased fatigue, and insomnia.

These are all very serious mental and physical effects. That being said, it is also important to note that staying up one night and watching a season of your favourite show with friends is not the end of the world. These effects result from repeated behaviour over time, so it is best to be mindful but not to stress too much.

For the reasons above or even for their own benefit, not every show releases all episodes at once on streaming services. Some, like The Summer I Turned Pretty, still follow the classic weekly schedule release in order to combat binge-watching and create suspense leading up to each episode. Similarly, Love Island USA, which captured millions of eyes this summer, released one episode per day, multiple times per week. This method can be very successful as it keeps people engaged in new drama and conversation while giving them something to look forward to. Even the busiest viewers are more likely to set aside an hour a day for a new episode than to commit to watching five in a row.

At its best, binge-watching offers us copious amounts of entertainment, an escape from reality, and a connection to a larger community around the world. At its worst, it can allow us to slip into unhealthy habits that leave us guilty, tired, or isolated. The key is to enjoy our favourite shows in moderation. Whether that means watching one episode per day to unwind or prepping for the occasional weekend marathon, we can keep the joy of television alive without creating a bad habit. After all, television should enhance our lives, not replace them.

The post Just One More Episode appeared first on The McGill Daily.

From Sydney Sweeney’s jeans as a eugenics dog whistle to tradwife aesthetics permuted into “princess treatment,” media discourses have felt inescapable, a beast of their own. They model a new format of engagement that has become increasingly common online, and spell a clear trend towards conservative cultural dominance.

This “discourse” is not a conversation en masse or a mesh of individual interactions. Rather, it consists of two clashing self-contained dialogues — and conservatives are setting the terms.

These media blackouts — instances where it seems the whole of the internet is shouting about the same thing to no avail — have become a strategic tool of the right to dismiss and delegitimize liberal critique. This successfully spews further division and paints liberals as fragile and perpetually outraged, lessening the credibility of the “woke left” that can no longer unite around a cohesive political agenda, whereas the right can and does.

The result? Conservatives are winning the media discourse.

Take the response to the Sydney Sweeney American Eagle ad. The infamous ad features the white, blonde, blue-eyed actress posing in a pair of AE jeans and slowly drawling that “genes [“jeans”] are passed down from offspring to offspring…my genes are blue” as the camera zooms in to her blue eyes. Tagline “Sydney Sweeney has great genes” feels loaded when the wordplay hinges on Sweeney’s presentation of “desirable” white, blonde, blue- eyed genes.

Mass amounts of backlash circulated following its release, deeming it creepy at best and endorsing eugenics at worst. Then came the subsequent wave of reactions: a mass of comments, tweets, and posts saying people were reading too much into it, that American Eagle had just happened to pick a blonde, blue-eyed actress, that — the dreaded phrase — ”it’s not that deep.” That wave of dismissal fueled the discourse itself, and by insisting critics were overly sensitive, conservatives set the terms of debate and ensured the ad was replayed, argued over, and circulated even more widely.

Exploiting humankind’s instinct towards the extreme is no novelty for social media creators. As actions once considered progressive are increasingly normalized, the countercultural alternative is radical conservatism in order to amass likes and views. Cue the rise of tradwife content: TikTok user Courtney Joelle’s video, in which she describes refusing to even speak to a waiter before her husband arrives at the restaurant as “princess treatment,” has a whopping 8.2 million views at the time of writing.

The “moment” here is not the video itself, but the reactions that have caused videos such as these to rack up millions of views and countless comments. Viewers either condemn or praise the creator’s commitment to traditional values and femininity. Extreme conservatism paired with a spectacle driven algorithm is a recipe for engagement from hate-watchers and sympathizers alike. These seemingly random viral flare-ups are engineered to spark backlash, and the resulting liberal outrage becomes the fuel to boost conservative visibility and reach.

Amidst an atmosphere of outrage and radical extremes, conservative-coded imagery settles comfortably into the mainstream.

Audience engagement with each of the summer’s spectacles indicate a pendulum swing away from the 2020 cancel culture era of “woke censorship,” which pushed political correctness and positioned everyday people at the mercy of an internet mob. This was a time when it felt like the entire internet was against the same things, regardless of private, personal beliefs. Backlash was quickly quieted, and TikTok Trump supporters were no match for the crashing wave of the PC police. Framed as accountability, cancel culture instead stunted personal growth, pushing people into silence out of fear of misstepping and setting the stage for today’s post–cancel culture era.

Now, we’re seeing the opposite: no one is afraid to say anything. Emboldened by Trump’s unconventional approach to public speaking, a tone shift has taken place in American media that has been quickly exported worldwide. We are now in what some might describe as the post-cancel culture era.

Neither extreme is preferable, but it’s important to notice how the tide has turned. Outrage- driven discourse online has shifted from a cultural tool for progressives to being strategically weaponized by the right. “Ragebait” content and its subsequent “it’s not that deep” dismissals serve to delegitimize liberal voices and normalize conservative values in mainstream culture. If the summer’s talking points can teach us anything, it is to recognize the patterns that keep us trapped in outrage cycles and note who really benefits from them.

The post The Outrage Economy: Engineering Backlash appeared first on The McGill Daily.

This isn’t a typical Superman movie, as it doesn’t show his origin story, which I think all of us have heard one too many times. Instead, the film occurs three years after Clark Kent begins his double life. He is already Metropolis’ hero and is adored by the entire city, excluding Lex Luthor, who spends the entire movie orchestrating Superman’s downfall. Though we are immediately thrown into the midst of a fight, no context is needed to enjoy the scene, which, in my opinion, is a breath of fresh air.

Superhero movies have become increasingly difficult to understand on their own, with audiences required to have watched at least ten movies and two television series in order to understand new releases. As much as I adore the MCU and its many storylines, it has become chaotic in recent years, which is why this movie was so refreshing. It was a perfect standalone that introduced iconic characters without placing unrealistic expectations on theatre-goers. 

David Corenswet’s Superman steals the show throughout the entire film. Though Superman is not a character I’m very familiar with, by the time the credits rolled, I loved him. Corenswet’s brilliant performance introduced me to a character who is nothing but good. In a world where morally ambiguous superheroes are around every corner, it was surprising to see one who wanted to do what was best for everyone, and who didn’t pay mind to his self-interests. 

The rise of social media has led to a lack of empathy across the globe, with many people failing to feel any compassion for others. Hiding behind phone screens and berating others on the internet has become the norm for many people, and society has become so unaccustomed to basic human decency that we put others on a pedestal and praise them for even the smallest acts of kindness. Due to all of this, seeing someone prioritize others over themselves is not something I’m used to, which is why this film was so shocking.

Superman is devoted to the citizens of Metropolis and wants to do as much good as possible, no matter the cost. However, his greatest enemy, Lex Luthor—potrayed by Nicholas Hoult—is determined to bring him down for no good reason. Despite the many obstacles  Luthor throws at him, Superman is rarely discouraged and continues to fight for the greater good. 

This film is made even more unconventional by how they pay little attention to the title character’s superpowers, and instead focus on his human side. During one of the final scenes, Superman is face to face with Lex Luthor, who despises him simply because he’s from a different planet. In response to Luthor calling him an “alien,” Superman tells him that he is “as human as anyone.” Then he makes the most powerful declaration of the movie, which is that his humanity is his greatest strength. 

Unlike past portrayals of Superman, specifically Henry Cavill’s, this version of the iconic hero is given a prominent human side. Cavill’s Superman was depicted as a dark, brooding godlike figure who was destined to be humanity’s saviour. Corenswet’s Superman, on the other hand, is gentler and willing to help everyone, even those who harm him. He is not made out to be a god, but is instead portrayed as a human doing the best he can.

The message behind the movie is that superpowers are not required to make a difference, as our humanity is enough to transform us into the heroes we see on the big screen. As cliché or repetitive as that message may seem, it’s something we haven’t seen recently and it’s uplifting to audiences of any age. At a time when political tensions make headlines everyday and conflicts arise around the globe, hope is what people rely on to keep themselves going, which is why this film is so important. Not only does it show us a hero who firmly believes in doing as much good as possible, it also provides a sense of hope that we can save ourselves. No one on this planet is a superhero, but as this film has shown, our humanity is stronger than any superpower could ever be.

I walked out of the theatre feeling more hopeful than I have in years, and after further research on the matter, I know I’m not the only one who feels this way. While scrolling through reviews of the film on Letterboxd, I discovered that many other people felt the same as I did: inspired to be the best version of themselves after watching the movie. In a time when ‘nonchalance’ has become the norm and people believe that they don’t owe anyone anything, this film heads in the opposite direction by claiming that kindness is the only hope we have to make the world a better place.

The post Superman: A Celebration of Humanity over Heroism appeared first on The McGill Daily.

Fast forward twenty years, and each of those movies has topped the North American box office this summer.

You’re not wrong to think that big Hollywood blockbusters have become increasingly derivative of existing intellectual properties (IPs). Last year, all fifteen of the highest-grossing movies were either sequels, reboots, or adaptations. This year is looking to be more of the same, with more sequels like Zootopia 2, Five Nights at Freddy’s 2, and Avatar: Fire and Ash on the horizon. As movie studios continue to churn out sequels, reboots, “requels,” and adaptations, some fear that Hollywood’s creativity tap is beginning to run dry.

So what exactly is behind Hollywood’s obsession with recycling the same IPs over and over again?

After speaking to some of my cinephile friends and reading some editorials about this issue, I found that they tended to place the blame on moviegoers. Talking points ranged from patronizing to pretentious — how people are ignoring original releases, how declining attention spans are deterring us from focusing on new IPs, and since movies are ultimately a business, studios are simply investing in what they think people want to see: uninspired sequels and reboots.

However, none of these points are true. Many moviegoers have signalled to Hollywood that they are tired of being fed the same IPs year after year. Last year, audiences shunned lazily-made sequels like the The Crow remake and Joker: Folie à Deux. Earlier in 2025, social media users celebrated after Disney announced it would pause production on future live-action remakes. So, if consumers want to watch original movies, why are studios not greenlighting more of them?

Perhaps the key cause behind Hollywood’s creative brain drain is the COVID-19 pandemic. The film industry was decimated by lockdowns and the simultaneous rise of streaming services; it may never soar to pre-pandemic heights again. While theatre attendance has steadily risen since restrictions were lifted, it is still miles below late 2010s levels.

Hollywood needs to get people back into theatres again in order to survive. To do so, studios are relying on bankable, existing IPs to make a quick profit. In business sense, it just isn’t conducive right now for studios to gamble with new, untested ideas. In addition, with the layoff of many screenwriters since the pandemic, it has become more difficult and expensive for studios to conceive new IPs in the first place.

Coincidentally, movie studios have become notoriously bad at promoting new IPs. Consider two Pixar movies: the original Elio and the sequel Inside Out 2. Both were developed with roughly the same budget, released at the same time of year, and received similar reviews. The difference? Inside Out 2 made over 1.5 billion dollars at the box office, while Elio grossed a paltry 150 million.

Why did two similar movies yield such different results? Pixar promoted Inside Out 2 with a massive 55 million dollar PR campaign, consisting of several trailers, a widespread social media presence, and collaborations with brands such as Uber and Bubble Skincare.

Elio’s promotional campaign? Crickets. A friend of mine even joked that people who knew what Elio was only knew what it was because nobody knew what Elio was.

In defence of Hollywood, it is certainly harder to introduce new IPs to audiences in comparison to familiar ones. But with film budgets reaching record highs and social media making advertising easier than ever, it’s becoming harder to excuse studios for failing to promote their new IPs. Hollywood’s push to flood the box office with sequels and remakes may be doing well for studios, but the reduced focus on originality is also reshaping how cinema is still seen as an art form, and not in a good way.

Most people can agree that the art of filmmaking is supposed to be beautiful, inspiring, and above all else, original. Sequels and remakes, which happen to be the most popular movies nowadays, are inherently lacking in originality. Film committees have taken notice of this, and thus fewer high-grossing movies are being nominated for awards. This has led to two issues: award committees increasingly favouring mostly-unknown films derided by some as “Oscar bait,” and moviegoers growing disillusioned and indifferent toward the award process.

The fact that critics and audiences are polarized on what movies constitute art is concerning. Movies considered modern classics, like Parasite and There Will Be Blood, earned their reputations because their artistic appeal was universal. If this division continues, original cinema will be relegated to obscurity while low-quality sequels and remakes will continue to be screened in theatres. Thus, creative, innovative films that would have been praised as modern classics in previous years will be largely ignored. Meanwhile, audiences will have no choice but to keep watching an endless loop of derivative IP slop.

All in all, the market for original movies looks bleak right now, and the implications of that are dire. So, what can movie lovers do about this? Truthfully, there isn’t much we can do to block studios from greenlighting more derivative works, but we can let them know that we want the sequel madness to end and new IPs to come to theatres.

Word of mouth is our best weapon in this fight. Telling others about new, inspired movies creates the audience that Hollywood is struggling to attract. For example, through word of mouth and social media exposure, the Netflix original K-Pop Demon Hunters has become a pop culture phenomenon despite initially receiving little promotion from its distributor.

Additionally, Sinners, a novel horror movie released earlier this year, was a box office hit that swooned both audiences and critics alike. Its distributor, Warner Bros., was instrumental in helping the movie succeed. Unlike most studios, it invested heavily in promoting the movie across North America. Sinners’ success proves that although original blockbusters are becoming rarer, there are still bright spots that should give cinephiles hope.

Ultimately, a future where every popular movie is unoriginal is something we should all loathe. Rather, we should dream of having the privilege of watching great original movies in theatres, just like how people who grew up in the 2000s can now boast about the creative cult classics they once saw.

The post Where Did All the Original Movies Go? appeared first on The McGill Daily.

You didn’t have to spend the summer in Montreal to notice this latest fad. The average Instagram user or TikTok watcher has most likely become aware of the term after it blew up this past summer. However, we McGillians are lucky enough to go to school in Montreal. The “performative male” goes beyond the memes for us, as our city is full of them. We are cursed with living among the legends, getting to see them (or match with them on Hinge) up close and personally.

For those of you who have never seen one in the wild, or those of you offline enough this past summer to have missed the term altogether (props to you), a “performative male” is a newly defined male archetype, rooted specifically in their aesthetic signaling. This aesthetic consists of a moustache, a mullet, wearing workwear, drinking matcha, using exclusively string headphones (through which they listen to “Bags” by Clairo on repeat), always having a carabiner and a tote bag on hand, and having a pierced nose and painted nails. Despite its deep roots in aesthetics and taste, this surface level phenomenon has a deeper necessary quality.

Performative men pride themselves on being feminists and caring about women. From empathizing with and idolizing Clairo, indie pop singer known for her confessional lyrics, to an annotated copy of Feminism is for Everybody by bell hooks sitting on their side table, this is a crucial and key part of their identity. Winner of Montreal’s performative male contest, Shahzaib Sultan, even went on to say in his online acceptance speech: “Keep performing as long as you respect women, because this is all it’s about.”

Despite the term’s extreme popularity this summer and the great increase in performative men I’ve noticed walking around Montreal, the concept of the “performative male” is far from new or revolutionary. Judith Butler, one of the most prominent feminist philosophers, coined the term “Gender Performativity” in their renowned book, Gender Trouble (1990), and they famously expand upon this idea in their essay “Performative Acts and Gender Constitution: An Essay in Phenomenology and Feminist Theory” (1988). The premise of this theory is that one’s gender and associated gendered traits are in no way natural, but come from the “stylized repetition of acts” that we come to believe are innate. What she argues is that we are all actors who have forgotten we are on stage, who have performed in this play so many times that we believe it is our reality. Though Butler was imperative to the development of this foundational theory, they were not the first person to view gender this way. Simone de Beauvoir, renowned French existentialist philosopher and feminist thinker, famously wrote in her book The Second Sex (1949), “One is not born, but, rather, becomes a woman.”

A key part of gender performativity is that this performance has been happening since before we as individuals were born and will continue even alter we are gone. Butler states in Performative Acts and Gender
Constitution: “But neither do embodied selves pre-exist the cultural conventions which essentially signify bodies.” We never have and never will encounter a body or person that exists before society gives it a meaning. However, these gendered characters we perform, because they are a social construct, are susceptible to change, evolution and revolution. The prime example of this is the “performative male,” our latest subversive gender performance.

If gender is a performance, then the “performative male” is only the newest character in our play. Their “stylized repetition of acts” consists of ordering matcha, reading Sally Rooney in a public park, and manipulating their current situationship. Repeat. Their “stylization of the body” includes (but is not limited to) growing a moustache, putting on rings, and adorning their jorts. Repeat.

The “performative male”’s subversion of gender norms forms an essential part of their identity. For the first time, an allowance for the deviation from heteronormativity to represent the modern masculine. However, we must ask ourselves, how subversive is the “performative male” from the stereotypical masculine male persona we’ve known all these years?

To answer that question, I present you with another.

Why do we all pursue our performance of gender so devoutly? This may seem like an obvious question, but in the journalistic pursuit to analyze the “performative male” and his significance to our society, it is a crucial one. There are many philosophical, anthropological, and scientific reasons to justify why we feel a need to perform our gender, one of which being the pursuit of sex.

At the core of the “performative male” is the quest for romantic attention. Our society has curated an entire aesthetic based on this. The “performative male” performs feminist fluency and emotional intelligence as a tactic in love. Their greatest performance of all is that they care about women, and that is not a gender or a personality trait — it’s the commodification and appropriation of feminism. Most men appearing to read feminist literature in a café do so not in the name of understanding women and their struggles, but in that of impressing them. This is why the “performative male” is so sinister.

However, the fact that performative men pretend to care about women is not revolutionary — it’s in the name! What is so interesting is why we as a society are so obsessed with this latest performance. For the first time, men are not trying to play the role of the masculine hero, but are attempting to emulate what they think women want. Historically, men have held the power in deciding their partner, and women have had to bend to these powers. However, the “performative male” phenomenon shows that women are no longer at the whims of men’s sexual preferences. Men are dipping their toes into “feminist” traits for the first time not in pursuit of identity or liberation from toxic masculinity, but for romantic and sexual leverage. Despite their newfound social popularity and deviation from gender norms, this “new male” is not evolving masculinity. It is simply repackaging it with the hope of being more likely to get some play.

Nonetheless, for once, this performance is not a “phantasmic ideal of heterosexual identity” as Judith Butler once described. Modern men are dressing more diversely, exercising emotional intelligence, and entering the feminist sphere. Yes, it might just be a performance, and this is inadequate. That being said, they are consciously no longer emulating toxic masculine ideals. Culturally and socially, despite the jokes, this is a new, extremely important gendered act we have never seen before.

Simone de Beauvoir would not have imagined her books gallivanting through city streets in the tote bags of the twenty-something-year old men of 2025, and I’m not quite sure how it would make her feel. Would the disingenuity of it all dishearten her? Or would she be in awe at the mainstream way in which men are deviating from toxic masculinity? We’ll never know. What I do know is she would be turning in her grave if she knew we were falling for their vinyl collections and Hinge prompts about astrological compatibility – so this semester, keep your wits about you.

The post One Is Not Born, But, Rather, Becomes a Performative Male appeared first on The McGill Daily.

Similarly, U1 Political Science student Charlotte Gillogley, who joined the team at the start of the winter semester, credits that same collaborative spirit in K-RAVE along with her interest in K-pop as to why she joined the club’s Communications Team. “I had a friend who was an exec, and it seemed like a really good community,” she said. “I heard lots of funny stories about the different execs and how they were all super nice.”

On March 22, K-RAVE, McGill’s K-pop and Korean entertainment club, hosted their 6th annual showcase, Haute Kouture, at Le National. The event featured songs by artists like BTS, aespa, TWICE,
and Enhypen, and it was the product of a year-long effort by both dancers and executives. Dancers can additionally hold responsibilities as Performance Executives, who organize practice schedules, book studios, and send out song suggestion forms, or as Dance Leaders, who lead performances, distribute parts equally among dancers, and provide feedback.

According to U3 Science and Pharmacology student Emilie Jarman, whose roles include VP Performance and dance leader, responsibilities for dancers ramp up over the course of the school year. In fall, dancers are expected to work on one cover posted to YouTube and practice roughly 2-4 hours a week, while in winter, showcase preparation can require up to 10 hours. Jarman performed in songs “Shhh!” by Viviz, “Dangerous” by BOYNEXTDOOR, “Strategy” by TWICE, and a BTS Medley, and was a dance leader for the latter two. She led the “Strategy” team by herself due to her expertise in performing girl-group styles of dance, and co-led the Medley with Annie Nguyen, Christine Wu, and
Sien Pei. Preparation for the medley began well before the school year started, with a four-hour-long call to decide which songs to include.

K-Pop incorporates a variety of genres into its production, and thus, the setlist for the showcase featured a range of dance styles. Alongside dancing in the Street Woman Fighter Medley and “Igloo” by Kiss of Life, Lock was especially excited to perform the Throwback Girl Group Medley under the leadership of her friend Frida Hou, and challenged herself by learning to dance in heels. “For the Girl Group Medley, every time they put the suggestion sheet out since I joined the club, I had put it in there,” she said. “The challenge came in when we started thinking about unified performance and when we all threw a pair of heels on […] Heels completely change the way you dance, but we all managed that really well.”

While leading her team, Jarman strived to establish a feeling of community as much as she emphasized practice, in order to help dancers feel welcome to voice their thoughts. Although she had not practiced with many of the dancers before the semester, she ultimately led them to success in creating a strong team dynamic. “Each week, each group gets closer and closer. Everyone gets more comfortable talking to each other or sharing corrections,” she said. “[Knowing] how people think or communicate is what gets the group to have good chemistry so that you can have a good performance.”

Although dancers perform in different songs and some may never be in an act together, it does not stop them from fostering a sense of community with one another. On the day of the showcase, Lock recalled how Tini Liu made the effort to talk to all of the other dancers and snap a memory with each of them with a digital camera. “During the showcase, she was going around with this digital camera, asking everyone to take a picture with her, and I thought that was so sweet,” she said. “Before, I hadn’t gotten the opportunity to meet her cause I wasn’t practising at the same time as her, and I thought it was a great way to talk to people and get those memories.” The cooperative effort extends from the dance practice rooms at the Fieldhouse to Leacock, where executives attend weekly meetings on Wednesdays. Although executives are divided into teams to carry out different tasks, they often collaborate with one another. The Communications team, for example, worked with Production to create content for the showcase’s sponsors and collaborated with Graphics for Social Media promotion. On the day of the showcase, while dancers practiced on stage, Gillogley and the rest of the Communications team ran around backstage to create a plethora of content to advertise the showcase on TikTok and Instagram. “It was a very fun bonding moment, especially as a new exec,” she said. “No one would judge someone for their idea. It was a very supportive environment, and I think we had a lot of fun making videos together.”

According to Lock, K-RAVE became her family when she was new to university. Over the years, she noticed that the audition pool has increased since she applied to become a dancer, and is overjoyed that more people are interested in joining the club. “K-RAVE is a great opportunity to have a built-in community when you’re coming to a new place,” she said. “I have this really great group of people that I get to hang out with every Saturday when we go to practice, and maybe grab a coffee after.” Jarman, who graduates at the end of the semester, said she will look back at her three years in K-RAVE with fond memories, thankful for the friendships formed, the confidence she developed, and the passion for dance it fostered. “K-RAVE has made my university experience […] Participating in K-RAVE has given me a lot of opportunities to be able to go out of my comfort zone and talk to new people and express how I feel,” she said. “I just hope the club continues to grow and that it continues to be a space for people to come together and destress from school or life while doing what makes them happy.”

The post K-RAVE’s K-pop Kraze appeared first on The McGill Daily.

Lensky is a classically trained musician finding his sound and his footing in Montreal’s indie music scene. He has released two singles, “Tomatoes” and “Valentine’s Day,” and is looking forward to more live performances in Montreal, Ottawa, and Toronto. I sat down with Lensky to discuss his inspirations, his goals, and his advice for emerging artists.

Catey Fifield for The McGill Daily (MD): Tell me about yourself.

Lensky (L): My name is Lensky and I’m a Montreal-based musician — I’m a singer and songwriter, and I also play the piano. I studied classical music at the Royal Conservatory in Toronto, and I recently moved to Montreal, where I’ve released my first two singles and started gigging. 

MD: And what about your day job?

L: I work for an AI consultancy that advises executive leadership teams on how to implement and embrace AI in their organizations. And then I have another side job where I work as an editorial writer for a dance radio station in Chicago — I write for them and do interviews for them and some festival coverage as well.

MD: How would you describe the music you’re making, and what is your motivation in making it?

L: I think my music falls into the adult contemporary genre, which is such a huge umbrella term. But I struggle with defining it because the contemporary pop landscape is very specific, and I don’t think my music necessarily falls into that – there are folk elements and jazz elements and blues elements, too.

As for my motivation, I like to joke that the purest motivation to make music is to get laid. And that’s definitely true, though I think “getting laid” can mean a lot more than just the obvious. Maybe it’s validation you seek. Maybe it’s about engaging with the self in order to express your emotions and ideas. I also think, to be frank, that I write music so that I can do more shows. That’s my bread and butter, that’s when I feel like I’m in my element.

MD: How does your classical training inform your understanding of music and the way you produce it?

L: The name “Lensky” comes from Tchaikovsky’s opera Eugene Ongein, which is based on a Pushkin novel. So there’s that immediate association to the classical space. I chose that name because I really don’t want to lose sight of classical music and its influence on my artistry. It was really important to me, for example, to play live as much as possible when we recorded “Valentine’s Day.” You can make music in this very insular way where everyone goes into the studio and records separately, but that feels restrictive to me. I love the idea that you can capture a “live energy,” almost like gospel music, when everyone plays together.

MD: Can you tell me a bit more about your songwriting process? What inspired the singles “Tomatoes” and “Valentine’s Day”?

L: The songwriting process is ever evolving. “Tomatoes” and “Valentine’s Day” were some of the first songs I ever wrote, and both were inspired by a relationship I was in that I wasn’t getting the most out of. It was a challenging time for me because it was one of my first interactions with love, and an interaction that left me feeling deeply wounded – whatever beautiful things came out of it.

It’s been a few years since I wrote both songs, and it’s funny because as they’ve developed a life of their own, the association to heartbreak has lessened. I actually moved to Serbia for a year and a half after writing them, and almost forgot about them. It wasn’t until I got back to Canada that one of my friends in Toronto, Zoe Kertes, encouraged me to get serious about recording music and produced “Tomatoes.” And then “Valentine’s Day” was produced here in Montreal, at McGill’s MMR (Music Multimedia Room), with Chris Kengard. That was such a blessing – the McGill studios and equipment are really nice, and Chris is just so talented.

MD: How did you find your bandmates, and how did you know that they were a good fit?

L: It’s such a classic story. I met our guitarist, Thomas Harries, through a friend of a friend of a neighbour of a friend, and then he brought in the rest of the band. My bandmates are all super talented, they all study jazz at Concordia, and they’re equally happy to do a Kate Bush cover or learn one of my originals. 

MD: Why is Montreal a good place for new artists to find their footing? What challenges do emerging artists face here?

L: When I got back from Europe, I wanted to settle in Montreal because I knew that, as a Canadian artist, this was the place to be. When you’re in the developmental stage, it’s really convenient that there are so many venues — I live in the Mile End and there are probably twenty venues around me. And the community is just great — very welcoming, very diverse.

I think that, for emerging artists, the biggest challenges are figuring out what to do and having the audacity to do it. You ask yourself, Where do I go? How do I find people to play with? The first official gig I played in Montreal was actually for a friend’s museum fundraiser in Saint-Henri, and I’ve learned that you just have to be okay with experiences that might be uncomfortable or untraditional. But, really, I can’t think of a city that’s more accessible for music in Canada.

MD: What are your goals for the next year? The next five years?

L: I basically have an album written. I’d like to get back in the studio and keep recording — I just want to have more available for people to find online. Really, though, my goal is just to play live. I believe in artists cutting their teeth, and I think one of the detracting features of the current music business is that you can achieve a certain level of success without ever having set foot on a stage.

In five years, I don’t know. I just want to be really good — that’s so important to me. I’m learning guitar, I’m taking vocal lessons again, and I’m trying to solidify my skillset. Hopefully there’s an album out by 2030 — maybe there’ll even be two. Who knows?

The post Experiments in Classical and Contemporary Sound appeared first on The McGill Daily.

The event was hosted by Marlyne, who is also the founder of Sweet Like Honey—an organisation specifically created for QTBIPOC in Montreal who relate to the lesbian or sapphic experience. As a performer herself, Marlyne wanted to create a safe space for other sapphic performers to dance freely. Through Sweet Like Honey, she hosts various lesbian and sapphic strip club nights for these dancers. Marlyne helped to recruit many of the performers for this Burlesque Night, relying on her network of dancers (whom she affectionately refers to as her “Honeybees”).

Each and every one of the performers put on a show to remember. Salty Margarita, the founder of Latino Burlesque, kicked things off with a fabulously flamboyant dance to upbeat Latin music. Drag king Alastair S!N kept energy high throughout his performance, dancing to powerful beats and engaging the audience effortlessly. He was followed by Queen Macondo, who put on one of the campiest and most entertaining shows of the night involving an elaborate tea-pouring ritual. 

There wasn’t a single moment throughout the night when the audience wasn’t cheering on the dancers. A short break followed the first round of performances, during which I was able to ask the event organisers to speak about the importance of planning events like these.

“Working at QM, we’re able to provide a platform for queer people, especially for those within the community who are often excluded or attacked in other spaces,” said Valeria Munoz, who also serves as Events Coordinator for Queer McGill. “We’re always trying to reaffirm our commitment to creating safe spaces for all the intersections that exist within queer identities […] especially trying to create and preserve queer joy whenever we can.”

The emphasis on queer joy was deeply felt in every part of the event. As the performances continued, “galactic goddess” Cosmic Creme took to the stage in a white wedding dress complete with a bouquet of flowers which were tossed into the crowd. Queef Latina went next, taking things up a notch with another campy show to get the audience excited. Award-winning drag queen Genesis Loren did some more crowdwork, walking through the rows of audience members, finishing off with a classy dance number onstage. 

For the final surprise, Marlyne herself took to the stage under her persona Carmen Mayhem — truly ending things off with a bang! 

The night was filled with applause, laughter, raucous cheering, and unabashed queer joy. It was more than just another burlesque show; it was a celebration of queer artistry and performance, dedicated to highlighting the voices that are often sidelined. 

“Sex workers and burlesque artists have always been at the frontlines of LGBTQ+ activism,” said Marlyne, during her final speech of the night. “Too many times they get pushed to the perimeters […] but for us they’re at the forefront.”

The post Celebrating QTBIPOC Burlesque Performers appeared first on The McGill Daily.

Within the broad scheme of history, women have only recently liberated themselves from the demands of virtue, subservience, and piety. Women have carved out their place in the working world; the factory workers of the Industrial Revolution, the nurses of the World Wars, the typists and secretaries of the 1950s, and the blazoned and blazer-ed businesswomen of the 1980s have opened the horizon for women to work in any field of their choice — theoretically.

In the domestic cult, the kitchen is societally prescribed as the “women’s domain.” However, the restaurant industry has traditionally been a heavily masculinized, male-dominated sphere, à la Anthony Bourdain’s Kitchen Confidential. Take, for example, the alpha-male figure of Head Chef-cum-bully embodied by Gordon Ramsay or the toxic testosterone-laced pressure of commercial kitchens seen in FX’s The Bear. While women make up 52% of the overall restaurant workforce, they only occupy 30% of executive roles. In 2022, out of the 2,286 Michelin-starred restaurants, only 6% were female-led. 

There has always been a tension of theory in women making a career off the “domestic” arts — turning something that has historically limited women into a means of profit and, for some, fame. A revived wave of discourse surrounding the idea of a “career homemaker” has risen following the release of Ina Garten’s memoir, Martha Stewart’s documentary, and, most recently, Meghan Sussex’s Netflix series. Sussex’s show was met with reviews divided between praising her pure appeal to making moments of joy and rolling their eyes at her out-of-touch, inauthentic demonstrations of “useless information” (harvesting honey, arranging flowers, or making jam) in an $8 million home. Whether her series and affiliated brand As Ever are indeed a “Montecito ego trip” intended purely to line the ex-royal coffers, the show’s essential nature as a capitalist venture profiting off the work many women do unacknowledged remains.

The discourse has reversed: progressive feminism has slated women working in the kitchen — particularly when their toils benefit their family — as categorically regressive. Social media has had a heyday with the idea of “tradwives,” (“traditional wives” that ascribe to the heteronormative cult of domesticity, often linked to conservative politics and anti-feminist rhetoric) so much so that it feels like being a woman interested in cooking and baking (especially doing so for others) is almost taboo. Female content creators like Nara Smith and Hannah Neeleman, who made their names off making food from scratch for their small army of children, continually dodge accusations of tradwifery. Others — notably, those without children, like Meredith Hayden — are praised for their culinary genius and business savvy. Male content creators who make food for their families, however, are praised as “empowering” for defying gender norms. Regardless of whether Smith’s and Neeleman’s videos actually contain subliminal messages of conservative politics, the accusation hinges on the idea of women demonstrating a domestic lifestyle of tranquillity and family, wiped clean of any sign of distress or toil.

A pattern thus emerges: women are reclaiming cooking as a form of joy and a source of self-affirming power. The media then attempts to skew it as either a play for profit or political propaganda. We arrive at an impasse. How can women stand in the kitchen without standing for a cause? It hinges on the motivating force behind her work: is she cooking for passion? As a display of love and care? Or as a career? 

Ultimately, women shouldn’t need to defend their motivations or explicate their politics for the gratification of the media. Cooking is unique in its ability to act as a form of power, joy, respite, and resistance, depending on who wields the knife. As long as she steps into the kitchen voluntarily, cooking can mean anything she chooses.

The post Let Her Cook: The Paradox of Women in the Kitchen appeared first on The McGill Daily.

Claire Saffitz is a true modern paragon in the culinary industry. While she is known internationally as the former senior food editor of Bon Appétit, creator of the fan-favourite Gourmet Makes YouTube videos, and author of myriad superb recipes, Saffitz’s roots trace back through to our very own Montreal. Saffitz earned her undergraduate degree at Harvard University before venturing north to McGill, where she studied early modern French culinary history, earning her master’s in history in 2013. Saffitz made her name working in Bon Appétit’s test kitchen during its golden years in the mid-2010s. After departing Condé Nast in 2020, Saffitz proved her strength as a fundamental tastemaker in the food world, moving on to create viral content for New York Times Cooking, launching her own YouTube Channel, and writing two New York Times-bestselling cookbooks, Dessert Person and What’s For Dessert. Given that Saffitz is my personal culinary hero, I had the incredible honour of interviewing her, garnering insight into her remarkable career thus far and the state of the food industry.

Luxe Palmer for The McGill Daily (MD): You’ve done so much in your career, from studying culinary arts in Paris and early modern cookbooks at McGill, to becoming an internet personality with Bon Appétit, New York Times Cooking, and Dessert Person, to writing two outstanding cookbooks, and now to homesteading in Hudson Valley and producing your own YouTube channel. Are there any highlights of your journey thus far, and/ or anything that stands out about this particular moment in your career?

Claire Saffitz (CS): There have been many wonderful highlights, including winning the IACP Julia Child First Cookbook Award for Dessert Person, as well as filming a croissant recipe video for New York Times Cooking that has become their most viewed video ever. Another milestone was gaining one million subscribers to my YouTube channel. At this moment, I am a new mom and trying to figure out how to balance work with my family and time with my baby. This definitely feels like a new chapter.

MD: In interviews, you have said that you love structure, routine, and details (we get along famously in that respect). How have you balanced that work ethic with the instability and unpredictability of freelance work?

CS: I have been pretty much nonstop writing a cookbook in some form or another since 2018, and running my YouTube since 2020. I therefore have lots of control over my own schedule and can plan how I want to divide my time. It can be hard to impose a structure on myself, and I do not think [that] I have it perfectly figured out yet. At the same time, the freedom and flexibility is a huge gift.

MD: You have cited Julia Child as one of your top culinary inspirations (rightly so); do you have any other women muses or icons pertaining to cooking and/or life in general?

CS: I am a big admirer of Ruth Reichl and Martha Stewart and the career paths they carved.

MD: There is a tension within the culinary industry often faced by women in the field. In the historical concept of the domestic realm, the kitchen was societally prescribed as the “women’s sphere.” However, the restaurant industry has traditionally been a heavily masculinized, male-dominated sphere, à la Kitchen Confidential. As a highly renowned luminary in today’s food world, how have you navigated these gender dichotomies in the industry?

CS: I bristle against the ways that the restaurant industry has traditionally tolerated — and even celebrated — male chefs (and some female ones) who lead their kitchens through anger and intimation. I knew I never wanted to be a part of that culture, so I didn’t pursue a career in restaurant kitchens (there were other reasons as well). Food media is actually pretty female-dominated, so I had a lot of women who I felt I could look to for guidance.

MD: One of my particular passions is how food acts as a love language, connecting people across time, place, cultures, and generations. How does your childhood, family history and/or ancestry play into your food and tastes?

CS: Big question! Too big for this space, but I grew up in a household with parents who loved to cook and loved to eat, and who valued food. I grew up understanding that eating is a source of pleasure, which pointed me in the direction of my current career path.

MD: Speaking to your status as a McGill alumnus and your Master’s in culinary history, what are your thoughts on navigating the boundaries between respecting and breaking tradition? Do considerations of culinary tradition, from the strict rules of Parisian pastry technique to the deeper histories behind classic recipes and methods, factor into your personal recipe development practices?

CS: I am respectful of tradition, and generally believe in the idea that the classics are classic for a reason. I don’t try to reinvent the wheel. I like to work with familiar and tried-and-true flavour combinations. Technique is important to me, and I don’t do a lot of “hacks.” I like to try to make things as they’re supposed to be made, but ideally in a streamlined way.

MD: Do you have any advice for college students cooking? Is there a recipe you think everyone should have in their toolbelt – a go-to crowd-pleaser or a technique that will set up a home cook for success?

CS: My best cooking advice is to make a recipe multiple times – it’s easy to always try a new recipe once and then move on, but there is so much understanding to be gained from making one over and over again. That’s how to learn what happens when, for example, you change an ingredient (or even a brand of the same ingredient), or use a different piece of cookware, etc. It’s how you learn the cause-and-effects and nuances of cooking. I think learning to cook pasta, an omelet, a basic vinaigrette, and maybe roasting a chicken are all great starting points.

MD: What’s for Dessert has a distinct retro visual aesthetic, alongside recipes that hark back to mid-century cooking, like icebox cakes, cherries jubilee, Eton mess, and multiple soufflé iterations. I’ve definitely noticed a recent trend toward vintage food and flavours (i.e. The Corner Store in NYC, a resurgence in Americana diners, and the nostalgia of shrimp cocktails or Girl Scout cookies). What attracts you to that era of cuisine? What other culinary trends or themes do you have your eye on?

CS: Nostalgia is a powerful thing, especially when it comes to food. I could spend my time trying to invent a brand new dish, but I’d rather riff on familiar dishes and flavour combinations because they can be so fun and transporting to both make and eat. It’s fun discovering old dishes and making them feel new again. I don’t see it so much as a trend for me personally, though mid-century food has seemed to be big since the pandemic. People definitely seek out the familiar as a form of comfort.

MD: From my own perspective, the culinary industry is a bit unusual in its different methods of entry and criteria for experience: you can work your way up a restaurant brigade, or start as a beat reporter (not even necessarily for a food publication), or attempt the terrifyingly unreliable medium of freelance work. Social media has recently opened a new door to the food world, with content creators like Justine Doiron and Meredith Hayden making substantial careers from their Internet success. How has the process of entering the culinary work field changed since you first began? What advice might you give to someone looking to join its ranks?

CS: There are so many entry points to the industry, and I entered in a more traditional way through food media. I am glad that there is less gate-keeping now with social media, and I encourage people to start in whatever way is most practical for them. But in any context, it’s important to develop the core skill set first – so that means developing a voice and writing skills if you want to be a food writer, and cooking skills and experience if you want to be a recipe developer or cook.

MD: Lastly, and more generally, what excites you right now? What are you looking forward to?

CS: I am very excited about my next book project, which includes lots of savoury cooking. It’s so much fun to develop these recipes and cook for myself and my family at the same time. There’s more of a sense of instant gratification and authenticity, since I am developing recipes I love and actually cook often.

The post The (Gourmet) Making of Claire Saffitz appeared first on The McGill Daily.

The World of Severance 

Created by Dan Erickson and directed by Ben Stiller, Severance introduces viewers to Lumon Industries, an unsettling and cryptic corporation offering employees a radical solution to work-life balance. Through a procedure known as “severance,” workers undergo a surgical intervention that creates two distinct versions of themselves: an “Innie,” who exists only in the office, and an “Outie,” who knows nothing about their work life. This concept struck a nerve in an era where remote work has blurred the boundaries between personal and professional spheres, especially resonating in post-lockdown culture.

Severance thrives on its stellar cast. Adam Scott’s haunted Mark seeks solace on Lumon’s severed floor, while Patricia Arquette’s eerie Cobel, John Turturro’s tragic Irving, and Christopher Walken’s poignant Burt add multiple layers of emotional depth. With valuable performances from Britt Lower and Zach Cherry, the ensemble makes you root for their characters as they navigate Lumon’s uncanny workplace.

Subliminal Visual Storytelling 

Stiller’s direction heightens the series’ tension through precise framing, sterile design, and disorienting angles, reinforcing Lumon’s claustrophobic, dreamlike feel. The show’s striking visual identity — on par with its cast — brands Lumon as a villain through its distinct colour palette. The typography, logo, and corporate design subtly convey meaning through subliminal visuals rather than explicit dialogue. Division and duality permeate every shot, mirroring both the literal severance and Mark’s internal conflict.

The sterile white hallways, minimalist office decor, and retro-inspired technology create an aesthetic that feels suspended in time — both futuristic and deeply nostalgic. Beyond visual symbols, production set designer Jeremy Hindle likens the mysterious, secluded office to a playground, carrying forward the idea that the severed employees are being raised like “little children.” Hindle worked closely with set decorator Andrew Baseman to grasp the threatening atmosphere of Lumon’s aesthetic. As he explains, “the managers are raising them in this work environment,” one that is evocative of mid-century American office designs by Dieter Rams, Marc Newson, or Ricardo Fasanello, with accessories that seem to outlive their time. Each element is thought through to spark the audience’s recognition of the object while twisting it enough to render it unfamiliar. Hindle notes, “We made a computer that, if it ever came out in the real world, no one would believe them. We recognize some aspects of it, and some not at all.” With both a touchscreen and a trackball, the computer’s contradictions are meant to baffle and amuse, for it to eventually “look like a toy,” Baseman adds. It creates the alluring “nostalgic novelty” of the series, weaving past familiarity into an uncanny future.

The Return of Weekly Episode Releases

Severance’s impact has been amplified by its weekly episode release schedule. At a time when binge-watching dominates the streaming landscape, Severance‘s deliberate slow-burn storytelling has reminded audiences of the unique power of anticipation. Like iconic series such as Lost (2004) or Breaking Bad (2008), Severance thrives on weekly discussions, theories, and social media buzz, allowing viewers to digest each twist and revelation without quickly moving forward.

This return to weekly scheduling has fostered a communal experience reminiscent of appointment television in the late ‘90s and early 2000s. Viewers gather online to analyze plot points, dissect clues, and debate the show’s layered mysteries. The result is a heightened sense of engagement that binge-watching often bypasses. By ‘forcing’ viewers to wait, Severance leverages suspense as a powerful storytelling tool, extending its cultural impact far beyond the confines of each episode.

The Cultural Impact of Severance 

Beyond its visual attraction and release strategies, Severance speaks to broader social anxieties, depicting corporate control, identity fragmentation, and emotional detachment. Its mirroring of contemporary struggles such as burnout, workplace surveillance, and the desire for escapism is evocative of the audience’s routine. As viewers grapple with these themes in their own lives, Severance offers a chilling yet oddly cathartic reflection on the costs of separating our professional and personal selves.

Thus, by blending sharp commentary with captivating storytelling, Severance has secured its place not just as a critical darling but as a cultural touchstone. As Apple TV+ continues to expand its presence, Severance stands as a powerful reminder that great television thrives on patience, intrigue, and the conversations that happen in between.

Apple TV+’s Growing Influence 

Severance’s success is emblematic of Apple TV+’s strategic rise in the competitive streaming landscape. Since its launch in 2019, Apple TV+ has carved out a niche by focusing on prestige and story-driven content rather than sheer quantity. While Netflix and Amazon Prime continue to dominate in terms of volume, Apple TV+ has steadily built a reputation for high-quality originals that resonate with critics and audiences alike.

Shows like The Morning Show, Ted Lasso, Shrinking, and Slow Horses have all earned critical acclaim, solidifying Apple TV+ as a serious contender. The platform’s emphasis on storytelling over content saturation has allowed it to cultivate a curated library of standout series. Recently, Apple TV+’s growing presence has been further cemented by major award nominations such as the BAFTAs or the Critics Choice Awards, even recording 72 Emmy Award nominations in 2024, becoming the best-ever Emmy showing in history. To date, Apple Original films, documentaries, and series have earned 515 wins and 2,308 award nominations.

With Severance, Apple TV+ has tapped into a cultural zeitgeist, proving that meticulous storytelling can still thrive in an era defined by instant gratification. The show’s success highlights the platform’s ability to produce thought-provoking content that lingers long after the credits roll.

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Cappuccino ($4.00): For a student café, Gerts offers a surprisingly mature and thoughtful cappuccino. The espresso used is the Kittel Signature Blend, a crowd-pleasing medium roast that still retains its intrigue and complexity. The tasting notes identify “milk chocolate, peanut butter, [and] red fruit,” all of which are in attendance. Many basic, one-note espresso blends cite these three notes as a catch-all, parading around as something more interesting than actuality. Kittel does the profile justice, with each note clearly picked out and presented harmoniously. The espresso’s bright start gives way to a powdery chocolate, rooted in a roasty but not burnt or bitter note (you won’t find any “Charbucks” here). There is a slight floral note that appears as a whisper at the end of the sip, evocative of the “red fruit” noted in the blend description. You can distinctly pick up the woody peanut butter as it cools, landing in the middle of the palette. As far as the actual crafting of the cappuccino goes, I tip my hat to the baristas. The classic (and deceptively tricky) latte art was the cherry (literally) on top of a beautifully creamy and well-executed microfoam.

Lavender London Fog ($5.75): Recommended by Hamoda, the lavender London fog puts a springtime twist on the warming drink. The eponymous lavender syrup brings out the distinctive floral notes in the Earl Grey tea without being too cloying or sweet. I have encountered lavender-flavoured items that taste like biting into a Lush bath bomb; this is not the case. The black tea perfectly balances the lavender, while the milk cuts out any bitterness.

Walnut Brownie ($4.00): Gerts doesn’t try to reinvent the wheel; their rendition of the brownie is humble, executed with care and attention to detail. The large slice is generously encrusted with walnuts, both on top and embedded within — you truly get your money’s worth. That being said, if you don’t definitively enjoy walnuts, you may be displeased at how prominent the flavour is. The brownie isn’t overly rich or sweet, which allows the flavour of the chocolate and walnuts to shine. The slice is perfectly moist, striking a balance between a more structured, cakelike crumb and a fudgy, denser brownie. It pairs wonderfully with the coffee, to no one’s surprise.

Gerts Café holds no pretensions of being a postmodern fourth-wave indie coffee house, nor does it fall to the wayside of cheap drip coffee and baked-from-frozen pastries. Their menu has succeeded in catering to a wide array of palettes and taste preferences without losing intrigue and complexity of flavours. Gerts has pulled an impressive feat in curating a cozy, picture-perfect atmosphere and providing high-quality goods at a startlingly affordable price point.

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However, the last few years have been witness to the emergence of sustainable fashion weeks, extolling eco-friendly practices, promoting sustainability in the sector, and attempting to be more sustainable themselves. For example, the London Fashion Week, in collaboration with the Copenhagen Fashion Week (CPHFW), developed a sustainability requirements framework for participating brands. For Cecilie Thorsmark, CEO of the CPHFW, Fashion Week may “drive positive change within the industry.” Indeed, fashion weeks have long surpassed their role as simple commercial venues. As the major communication events for the whole fashion sector, they have become “highly symbolic public spectacles” reaching a large audience, and thus a platform for activism and political expression. In light of this, Vivienne Westwood advocated for environmental causes through their Homo Loquax runway show at the London Fashion Week of 2019.

On the other hand, these “sustainable” fashion shows seem awfully similar to everything done before. They remain first and foremost a business and an investment that brands make. The New York Fashion Week, rising in attendance in the past few years, saw the cost of running a fashion show explode, with numbers going from the $300,000 spent by Willy Chavarria to $400,000 by Collina Strada.

This brings to mind the danger of greenwashing, a term first coined by Jay Westerveld in 1986 that describes when brands make exaggerated or misleading claims about how environmentally friendly their products or services are. In fact, some think the efforts brands make are, at best, superficial. These accusations may be well-informed: only a few weeks ago, the Danish Consumer Council and Tanja Gotthardsen, an anti-greenwashing expert, filed a complaint against the Copenhagen Fashion Week concerning their sustainability framework. They describe the standards set as abysmally low and not always respected, violating Danish sustainability laws on many points. To this point, Tanja Gotthardsen says, “It made me question whether the requirements were being enforced at all!” Despite the sustainability leadership role the CPHFW seemed to aspire to, sustainability requirements have been used more as a promotional asset for years than as a genuine endeavour.

Sustainable fashion itself also leads to many controversies. With a project to put vintage and upcycling back to the front of the stage, Gabriela Hearst, an ethical fashion designer from Uruguay, put up on this year’s Paris Fashion Week runway a mink coat made from repurposed pythons skins and schappe (leftover fiber from silk cocoons processing). This fuelled the eternal debate between the use of real fur – deemed unethical and cruel – as opposed to the use of synthetic fur, which is highly polluting and impossible to recycle.

Despite this rather grim portrait, there are glimmers of hope within the fashion industry. Some brands, like Stella McCartney, have adopted eco-friendly practices at every stage of production and seem to understand sustainability more and more as a conviction instead of a marketing opportunity. The brand, created in 2001, always incorporated a sustainable and ethical policy.

If traditional fashion weeks have been accused of greenwashing, the emergence of numerous new fashion weeks is not so alarming. These new fashion weeks appear far from western fashion centers, bringing to light not only much-needed ideals but also alternate visions of the fashion industry as a whole. In August 2024, the Costa Rica Fashion Week highlighted eco-friendly fashion through the designer Mauricio Alpizar and his clothes made from acacia fibers. In November 2024, the Sao Paulo Fashion Week revolved around the idea of “slow fashion.” In Nigeria, the Lagos Fashion Week focused on designers from underserved areas and sustainability, with 20 per cent of all products of the fashion shows being recycled or locally sourced.

This testifies to a larger embrace of sustainability in Africa, with Fashion Weeks in Accra, South Africa, or Kenya with the Tribal Chic Nairobi. The African fashion industry does not only follow trends coming from the fashion capitals of London, Paris, or New York, but also creates new trends, giving hope for the rise of new visions of fashion that better respect the environment. This not only improves sustainability in fashion in general, but also reinstates cultural diversity in Fashion and the creative power of Africa, Asia and South America as on par with Europe and North America.

From São Paulo to Lagos, these fashion weeks are enhancing diversity in the fashion world and setting the example for the necessary revolution that the rest of the industry needs to undergo.

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Now in its third season, The White Lotus has taken viewers from the pristine beaches of Hawaii (Season 1) to the dramatic Sicilian coastline (Season 2), and now to the lush landscapes of Thailand (Season 3). The latest season began airing on February 16, 2025, with new episodes releasing every Sunday at 9 PM (ET/PT) on HBO. Currently, the series is at Episode 5, with the next installment set to drop on March 23. This season will run for a total of eight episodes, continuing its tradition of intrigue, satire, and biting social commentary.

At first glance, The White Lotus is structured like a classic whodunit. Each season opens with a body, then rewinds to the events leading up to the inevitable demise. But where traditional murder mysteries focus on the crime itself, creator Mike White uses the structure as a backdrop for something far more sinister: the slow, inevitable unraveling of the ultra-privileged.

The show lays bare the absurdity of extreme wealth: not just in its excess, but in how its characters navigate the world. Their entitlement, transactional relationships, and petty betrayals are on full display, wrapped in a glossy vacation package. Unlike Succession, which invites audiences to revel in the messiness of the rich, The White Lotus asks us to laugh at them, cringe with them, and recognize the emptiness behind their curated lifestyles.

Part of what makes The White Lotus so watchable is its visual appeal. The sprawling resorts, the infinity pools, the effortless linen ensembles. It’s aspirational, even as it satirizes the very people who can afford it. Shows that explore wealth with a critical eye (Triangle of Sadness, The Menu, and others) have been gaining traction, and The White Lotus fits neatly into this cultural moment, where audiences are both fascinated by and repulsed by extreme privilege.

Yet, the show isn’t just about money. It’s also about power. And in The White Lotus, power is a closed loop. The wealthy stumble, they scheme, they self-destruct, but they rarely suffer any real consequences. The resort staff, the locals, the ones who exist outside the bubble of privilege? They’re the ones left picking up the pieces. It’s a brutal, but effective, reminder that no matter how much drama unfolds, the system remains intact.

Tourism serves as the show’s most biting critique. Season 1 explores tensions between wealthy tourists and Hawaiian locals. Season 2 layers in European colonial history, using Sicily’s grand architecture as a backdrop for modern exploitation. Now, with Season 3 set in Thailand, the show delves into Western tourism’s impact on local cultures, highlighting the unseen costs of luxury travel.

It challenges viewers to think: What are these vacations really about? Escape? Reinvention? Or just another indulgence that leaves locals to deal with the aftermath?

A major factor in The White Lotus’s success is its ability to blend established talent with breakout stars. Season 3 has drawn special attention with the acting debut of Lisa from BLACKPINK, a landmark moment for K-pop fans. The Thai-set season has also introduced new A-list talent, reinforcing the show’s ability to generate buzz both in Hollywood and internationally.

Meanwhile, Season 2, set in Italy, remains a fan favorite, with many considering it the best season so far. A significant reason? Theo James. His performance as the effortlessly charming, yet deeply toxic, Cameron had audiences both fascinated and (let’s be honest) thirsting for more. His role, along with the season’s layered exploration of relationships and power dynamics, solidified its reputation as The White Lotus at its peak.

Beyond wealth, The White Lotus masterfully unpacks relationships — romantic, familial, and otherwise. Whether it’s a Gen Z heiress debating social justice with her parents in Season 1, or a betrayed wife plotting revenge in Season 2, the show revels in exposing manipulation, delusion, and shifting power dynamics.

It also skewers gender and sexual politics. The men — ranging from rich boomers to insecure finance bros — wield power in both overt and insidious ways. Meanwhile, the women — some cunning, some naive, some desperately trying to outmaneuver the game — struggle within cycles of expectation. The White Lotus offers no easy answers, but it does make one thing clear: even in paradise, power imbalances remain, and no one escapes unscathed.

In the end, The White Lotus is more than just a beautifully shot, impeccably acted prestige drama. It’s a conversation starter. It forces audiences to confront uncomfortable truths about class, privilege, and the fantasies we buy into about happiness and morality. And yet, somehow, it remains wildly entertaining.As Season 3 continues, one thing is certain: We’ll keep watching, analyzing, and debating every twist, character arc, and ridiculously lavish hotel suite. Because in The White Lotus, the only thing more intoxicating than wealth is the mess it leaves behind.

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