Content warning: brief mentions of fictional violence

I will preface this article with a disclaimer: I’m not a horror movie fan. I haven’t seen Obsession or The Shining or almost any other horror movie you could name. I don’t usually enjoy them. I do, however, like video games, and all of my self-granted authority to write on the recent Resident Evil movie adaptation — Resident Evil (2026), directed by Zach Cregger — comes from the fact that I have played the games and enjoyed them very much.

Cregger is a rising star in the horror cinema world, with previous hits like Barbarians (2022) and Weapons (2025) arriving to commercial and critical acclaim (from what I understand of the plot, “Resident Evil” would have been a good title for Weapons, but that’s just my opinion). But even with his experience, it was a risk for Cregger to take on adapting the Resident Evil games for the big screen, as no previous Resident Evil film adaptation had ever seen commercial or critical success among the game’s fanbase or wider audience.

The Resident Evil game franchise, developed by the company Capcom in 1996 is a survival-horror game franchise from Japan. It was originally named “Biohazard” in Japanese; that trademark wasn’t available in the US and the English name came from a company-wide naming contest. The classic game series largely follows the stories of various survivors of an out-of-control biological weapon developed by the shadowy Umbrella Corporation. Protagonists fight mutated and virus-infected organisms in post-urban environments ranging from police stations to ruined cities to supposedly abandoned mansions — all with limited resources (most crucially, ammunition). Cregger’s movie sidesteps a lot of the wider game lore and doesn’t follow the storyline of any one game, opting instead to amalgamate elements from different games across the series. The movie focuses on what’s at the very core of the franchise: the gory, science-gone-rogue body horror that defined its essential style and gave rise to the survival horror genre. This has allowed the Resident Evil movie to remain relatively accessible to the wider public while giving a nod to the game’s fanbase — a rarely-achieved balance.

Cregger’s risk has paid off. Resident Evil premiered in Los Angeles on September 15 and was released to the general public on September 18. At the time of writing, it has grossed $216 million globally through the box office alone, with opening weekend pulling in $108 million worldwide against the film’s $75 million production budget. It’s the first Resident Evil movie to cross the $100 million threshold domestically. The film was equally successful among critics and viewers, earning a 96 per cent score on Rotten Tomatoes, making it the highest rated video-game-turned-movie adaptation ever. It garnered critical praise for the actors’ performances, its faithfulness to in-game elements, and its use of the fear factor.

The film kicks off with an opening shot of the main character from behind, invoking the perspective of a third-person video game. The audience is introduced to Bryan (Austin Abrams), a meek courier who delivers organs to hospitals. Bryan is contracted for double pay to deliver a high-priority package to the isolated Raccoon City, a task he uses to avoid a difficult conversation with his pregnant girlfriend. On his way into the city, however, he is waylaid by aggressive mutated beings… and so the nightmare begins.

Bryan isn’t an actual character in any of the games, but the fact that he is just an ordinary person makes him feel similar to most of the Resident Evil protagonists. Instead of featuring larger-than-life heroic characters, multiple games in the franchise, such as Resident Evil: Biohazard and Resident Evil: Village put the player into the position of regular people thrust into horrific scenarios. One of the major recurring characters across the game series, Leon S. Kennedy, starts out as a police rookie before becoming trained as a skilled federal agent.

The movie itself plays out much like a video game, and players of the franchise will catch several easter eggs. A scene in which Bryan explores rooms in a farmhouse is reminiscent of the Baker property in Resident Evil: Biohazard, and the overall feeling of the exploration mechanics occur in all of the games. His painstaking accumulation of bullets is a task all players are familiar with, and the inclusion of a
room with a typewriter is a nod to one of the old game save mechanisms in the original Resident Evil games. Other details include Bryan’s green courier box (resembling the healing kits in the games) and the voice message he records for his girlfriend (making reference to similar messages players can recover from deceased characters in the game’s environment).

Cinematographically, the film is also shot to mimic the feeling of playing the video games. The camera is often angled towards what Bryan is looking at through over-the-shoulder third-person shots, or creating tension through first-person perspectives (a fair amount of Resident Evil gamers play in VR; a friend of mine who tried it said he couldn’t bring himself to open the doors in the game). The soundtrack features ominous pulsing tones that reflect the unsettling scenes and environments, suggesting stress to the audience and intensifying the atmosphere of danger. The jumpscares, ever present in any horror media, are effective and well- executed. The movie is also unapologetic in its depiction of survival. Bryan is forced to make harrowing choices in his quest to deliver the package, including blowing the head off of a mutated child to defend his own life. As the movie goes on, Bryan faces progressively stronger and more dangerous enemies, and at one point exclaims, “I only use guns in video games… it’s confusing in real life!”

Abrams is phenomenal in his role. He embodies an appropriate level of sheer terror at his situation, mixed with disgust, disbelief, and an occasional comedic relief that brings much needed levity to the film. His facial expressions are particularly relatable and funny, especially when he displays shock at having done something ludicrous or encountering a new monster. The real stars of the movie, in a way, are the monsters: morbidly obese sewer dwellers, acid spewers, and otherwise mutated creatures. Some of the monsters are recognizable from the Resident Evil game titles, but most are new creations by creature-design legend Shane Mahan and his company Legacy Effects. Inspired by past game installments, they’re skilfully designed to inspire terror through their behaviour, movements, and most critically appearances, amping up the core body-horror element of Resident Evil to the maximum.

Thematically, the film’s main message is about how delaying change will only worsen the bill when it comes time to pay. But I didn’t go to a Resident Evil movie for its moral messaging, and I doubt anyone else did either. The movie isn’t meant as an analysis of community like Weapons is — here, narrative depth isn’t the point. Instead, the blend of action and progression with game-reminiscent cinematography produces a devoted love letter to one of the greatest game franchises of all time. In my opinion, the strongest meaning lies in the film’s title. What makes Resident Evil truly terrifying is that the title implies that what you’re dealing with isn’t some far-off threat, or abstract eldritch horror or magic. Titles like The Last of Us are bleak, while The Walking Dead gets straight to the point but sounds kind of funny, and It is ominous. The name makes it known that the threat is inside your house, so to speak, and emerging from the mundane, which raises the scare factor exponentially.

While avoiding spoilers, the conclusion of the movie — although paced alarmingly quickly to the point of feeling rushed — I found to be appropriate considering Bryan’s character and the elements of the games that Cregger chose to focus on. Of course, you’ll have to go and watch it yourself to form your own opinion on it. It also leaves the door open for a sequel, though no statements on that have been made. I personally think that ending the series with this most recent movie wouldn’t be a bad decision, but if other directors choose to follow in Cregger’s footsteps, some good could definitely come of it. The only way to find out is to keep playing.

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As Dr. Frank-N-Furter in The Rocky Horror Picture Show, Curry embodied a flamboyant, gender nonconforming character who defied conventional ideas of sexuality, masculinity, and self- respect. The film’s enduring cult following and its famous participatory midnight screenings have transformed it into more than a purely cinematic phenomenon: it has become a space where audiences continue to experiment with identity, celebrate their differences, and find community.

Parton’s influence, meanwhile, demonstrates how a mainstream icon can foster acceptance for the socially outcast through a different kind of cultural power. Rooted in country music and Southern traditions, she has time and time again chosen to use her wide-reaching appeal and gift for storytelling to bring LGBTQ+ experiences into the broader public consciousness. From writing and recording the original song “Travelin’ Thru” for Transamerica, a film centred around the exploration of transgender identity, to her unwavering public support for LGBTQ+ rights, Parton showed repeatedly throughout her career that compassion need not be constrained by such arbitrary divisions as who one is capable to love.

These two public personalities reveal how utilizing their massive cultural influence with deliberation can create transformational possibilities for people who rarely got to see themselves reflected with dignity in mainstream culture. Curry’s theatrical defiance makes space for experimentation, transformation, and the joy of refusing conventional labels; while Parton’s warmth, humour, and generosity demonstrate the power of extending that space through empathy and public advocacy. Neither legacy can be reduced to a single character, song, or statement — instead their significance lies in the ways their work continues to give audiences permission to envision lives and realities beyond any external expectation.

Tim Curry: The Power of Being Unapologetic

Few performances have become as inseparable from queer cultural history as Tim Curry’s in The Rocky Horror Picture Show. With glittering eyeshadow, towering platform heels, fishnet stockings, and an unapologetic appetite for pleasure, Curry transformed an unconventional sci-fi musical into a celebration of sexual liberation. Decades later, audiences still gather in theatres worldwide to recreate its scenes and sing along to its musical numbers. For LGBTQ+ audiences, Frank-N-Furter represented something rarely afforded to queer characters in mainstream entertainment: the leisure of extravagance. Curry’s legacy extends beyond a memorable performance — through Frank-N-Furter, he helped bring alternative expressions of gender and sexuality into the spotlight which challenged social norms. Adapted from Richard O’Brien’s 1973 stage musical, The Rocky Horror Picture Show follows wholesome American sweethearts Brad and Janet, whose encounter with the inhabitants of a mysterious mansion upends their conventional understanding of sexuality and desire.

At the centre of their surreal experience is Frank-N-Furter, a flamboyant scientist from the planet Transsexual whose androgynous appearance and uninhibited behaviour disrupt the couple’s carefully ordered world. The risk of taking on such a role was considerable. Frank-N-Furter required a bold performance, that of someone utterly unaffected by society’s traditional expectations of masculinity. Curry, however, was drawn to the challenge. Reflecting on the role, he explained being attracted to risk: “I would choose risky over anything. That’s the best way to be.” Although Brad and Janet technically occupy the roles of the protagonists, Frank-N-Furter commands the screen from the moment he first appears. His entrance and the ensuing performance of “Sweet Transvestite” establish a character who refuses to be diminished by convention. Curry plays him with a magnetic combination of theatricality, sensuality, humour, and a sense of danger making Frank-N-Furter simultaneously seductive and menacing. He does not merely challenge the rules — he makes breaking them look irresistible.

At the time of the film’s release, and for a few of the decades that followed, LGBTQ+ people were frequently relegated to limited or stereotypical portrayals in mainstream entertainment. The 1970s saw queer characters that would more often than not serve to provide comic relief, tragic storylines, or cautionary tales. Frank-N-Furter offered a striking alternative: a character whose gender expression and sexuality were central to the story, rather than details to be concealed. Through its camp aesthetics and exaggerated performances, Rocky Horror’s gleeful parody of existing sci-fi and horror conventions challenged audiences to reconsider the boundaries between masculinity and femininity; normalcy and deviance. Its irreverence managed to make challenging the tropes of the genre entertaining without stripping them of meaning.

Yet Frank-N-Furter is no straightforward hero. His story does not culminate in a celebration of any moral virtue, nor does his gender expression map neatly onto any single established LGBTQ+ identity. But that complexity is part of what makes Curry’s performance so compelling. Queer characters need not to be flawless in order to deserve representation. Allowing gender nonconforming characters to be morally ambiguous — even outright villainous — challenges the expectation that marginalized people must demonstrate some sort of exceptional goodness to justify their place on the silver screen. Frank-N-Furter’s outsize, monstrous exuberance can be read as a reflection of the historical association between queerness and deviance, but it can also be understood as a source of power. Rather than seeking acceptance by becoming “respectable,” Frank only ever takes pleasure in his
own excesses. His character invites audiences to consider whether being an outsider might be something more than a cause for shame. The film’s mantra, “Don’t dream it, be it,” distills that philosophy into a simple invitation: stop treating self- expression as an impossible fantasy…and begin embracing the person you want to become.

One of the most remarkable aspects of The Rocky Horror Picture Show, however, is the unique showgoing tradition that has developed around it. Screenings of Rocky Horror are rarely passive experiences: spectators often arrive in corsets, feather boas, leather jackets, formal gowns, and whatever else allows them to participate in the spectacle. They shout familiar lines, dance along, and watch live performers reenact the same scenes before the big screen. These gatherings have transformed a cult film into a living theatrical experience. For LGBTQ+ viewers, they can offer an opportunity to experiment with appearance and identity in an environment where unconventional self-expression is part of the celebration. O’Brien, the creator of Rocky Horror, has acknowledged the production’s impact on conversations about gender and sexuality. In an interview with The Guardian, he reflected on how the work had helped people feel less isolated, expressing gratitude for its wider social impact. More than five decades after its stage debut, Rocky Horror continues to demonstrate how a performance can challenge the most stringent of cultural expectations.

To reduce Curry’s career to a single role, however, would be to overlook the extraordinary range of his work. His performances demonstrate a particular gift for combining theatrical extravagance with mischievous humour. In Clue (1985), he cultivated an impeccable sense of comedic timing to the absurd and intrigue-driven murder mystery. As Pennywise in the 1990 television adaptation of Stephen King’s It, he brought to life a deeply unsettling villain whose lurking menace became unforgettable. He has also appeared as the Lord of Darkness in Legend, Long John Silver in Muppet Treasure Island, and the concierge in Home Alone 2: Lost in New York. Across these performances, Curry added a fantastical feeling of glee to characters who disrupt ordinary life, always making room for the strange, the excessive, and the unexpected. That same sensibility is what connects his broader career to the spirit of Rocky Horror: a willingness to find delight in what convention tells us to reject.

The world has changed considerably since The Rocky Horror Picture Show first reached audiences: LGBTQ+ representation in film has expanded, and conversations about gender identity and sexuality have become considerably more visible. Yet acceptance remains uneven across social and cultural fields, and the freedom for people to express themselves freely cannot be taken for granted. The film remains meaningful because it celebrates the refusal to be confined by expectations: Frank-N-Furter is excessive, and impossible to contain. He does not ask permission to occupy space — he simply arrives and commands all attention. Curry was the one who brought the character to life, with a performance that was as mischievous as it was subversive. His portrayal helped turn what could’ve been a merely provocative stage creation into an enduring cultural icon, inspiring generations to question the boundaries around gender, sexuality, and self-expression. Yet what makes Curry’s performance so enduring is not simply that it challenged conventional ideas of gender and sexuality, but that it made defying those expectations look liberating. To me, that is part of what makes his legacy so meaningful to queer audiences.

Dolly Parton: A Voice for Belonging

Dolly Parton occupies an unusual place in North American pop culture. A country music superstar known for her rhinestone-studded outfits, towering blonde wigs, and unmistakable voice, she has long appealed to audiences even far outside her genre. Among her most devoted fans are disproportionately many LGBTQ+ people, for whom the meaning of her work extends beyond her music. Parton’s appeal to queer audiences begins with her public persona: her exaggerated femininity and ‘camp’ have made her a favourite among drag performers, who frequently recreate her signature looks. Parton has largely embraced these impersonations — in her appearance on the cover of Out magazine in 1997, she acknowledged her established place in the queer culture.

However, the connection goes deeper than rhinestones and wigs. Parton has spoken about being judged for her appearance and background, experiences that according to her have informed her empathy for groups who are treated as outsiders. Her 1971 song, “Coat of Many Colors,” recounts how children mocked her for wearing a coat sewn by her mother from scraps of fabric. Rather than presenting the coat as a source of shame, Parton celebrated the love behind it. For LGBTQ+ listeners, the song’s emotional logic can resonate with the experiences of bullying and rejection all too common in their childhoods. Parton has connected her appeal to queer audiences with her own experiences of feeling different, allowing listeners to find personal meaning in a story that was not explicitly written about queer identity. Others of her songs have acquired similar significance through reinterpretation — “Jolene,” with its intense focus on another woman’s beauty, has inspired numerous queer readings into its lyrics. Meanwhile her 1991 song “Family” more directly acknowledges differences that can occur among one’s relatives, including sexual orientation, while affirming that familial belonging should not be contingent on any sort of conformity on the part of the individual.

When Parton made her transition from country music into film and television, it only expanded her cultural reach into the queer community. Her move to Los Angeles brought her into partnership with Sandy Gallin, an influential talent manager who was openly gay. Their professional relationship helped expand her career into mainstream entertainment, including major film roles. Her 1980 debut role in
9 to 5, in which she stars alongside Jane Fonda and Lily Tomlin, follows three women confronting workplace sexism and an exploitative boss, contributing to her appeal among audiences — often queer ones — drawn to narratives of resistance. In 2005, she wrote and performed “Travelin’ Thru” for Transamerica, a film about a transgender woman travelling across the United States. The song received an Academy Award nomination, and Parton performed it at the 2006 Oscars, bringing a story centred on the transgender experience to one of the entertainment industry’s most visible stages. She also explored queer family relationships in her 2019 Netflix anthology series, Dolly Parton’s Heartstrings. One episode follows a gay couple navigating family secrets and rejection around a New Year’s Eve wedding. Its recognition from the Gay & Lesbian Alliance Against Defamation (GLAAD) highlighted the value of incorporating LGBTQ+ relationships into mainstream storytelling. Above all, these projects demonstrate how Parton translated her cultural influence into opportunities to underline queer narratives, placing stories that might otherwise have remained at the margins before much wider audiences.

Her support for the queer community became particularly evident during the HIV/AIDS epidemic in the 1980s, when gay men were faced with widespread stigma, discrimination, and public rejection. Her production company, Sandollar Productions, co-produced Common Threads: Stories from the Quilt, the landmark 1989 documentary about the NAMES Project AIDS Memorial Quilt. Her book editor, Elissa Altman, has also revealed that Parton privately covered the medical costs of a staff member’s gender transition in the 1990s. Her advocacy continued for decades: she spoke up in support of same-sex marriage in 2009 and voiced support for transgender people amid Tennessee’s passing of Bill 1, which banned gender-affirming medical care for minors as of July 1, 2023. Across the decades, her support for the LGBTQ+ community took on many different forms from public awareness campaigns to personal assistance. Her activism takes place within a broader philanthropic mission: in 1995, Parton established the Imagination Library, which distributes free books to young children in honour of her father who never learned to read. Following the devastating wildfires in Tennessee in 2016, she provided financial assistance to families who had lost their homes, as well as later contributing to COVID-19 vaccine research. It is clear that, for this star, compassion extended beyond words and into meaningful projects that directly affected people’s lives.

Parton’s relationship with LGBTQ+ audiences is particularly significant in the American South. For some, she represents a connection to the music, humour, and cultural traditions of home without requiring them to accept the prejudice that can accompany those traditions. Her influence has surfaced in legal debates over queer expression: in a ruling striking down a Texas law restricting drag performances, federal judge David Hittner cited Parton as an example of a mainstream entertainer whose flamboyant clothing and suggestive performances could potentially be restricted under an overly broad interpretation of the law. His reference illustrated the difficulty of regulating drag without also raising questions about artistic expression in mainstream entertainment. This example is particularly fitting for an artist whose public image has long played with the boundaries of femininity and theatrical exaggeration. Parton’s appearance is not merely decorative; it has become part of a cultural language that drag performers can reinterpret and that queer audiences can claim for themselves.

Parton’s significance lies in her ability to challenge prejudice without distancing herself from the culture that made her famous. Her career demonstrates that advocating for LGBTQ+ acceptance does not have to mean abandoning one’s roots. Through songs that invite reinterpretation, films that foreground LGBTQ+ experiences, and advocacy spanning the HIV/AIDS epidemic to contemporary debates over transgender rights, Parton has made queer acceptance part of a broader cultural conversation. The rhinestones and wigs may make Parton instantly recognizable, but her enduring influence comes from what she has accomplished with her visibility for those who lack a voice. For LGBTQ+ audiences in particular, her legacy continues to represent the possibility of making compassion a principle that transcends differences in identity, background, or belief. Though the impact of both Curry and Parton’s lives and careers will eventually belong to history, their art continues to invite new generations to dream boldly, express themselves with freedom, and build communities where difference is celebrated. Between Tim Curry’s theatrical defiance and Dolly Parton’s enduring compassion, these two cultural icons have helped generations of LGBTQ+ people embrace their identities, find community, and live unapologetically.

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On December 7, 2025, Crick opened for DeMarco at MTELUS. While such a gig is a remarkable achievement, the significance of this feat seemed to be lost on much of the crowd. Crick noted that while performing his opening set, “the crowd seem[ed] to talk a lot over us,” a distraction which he contrasted with his band’s “very quiet, chill music.”

Crick’s musical language consists of buttery piano licks, introspective lyrics, and measured pacing. He makes music perfect for curling up with a book in one hand and a cup of tea in the other. While he doesn’t exactly make moshing music, one would still expect a greater level of respect from the audience, especially from DeMarco’s fans of lo-fi music. Crick even remarked, “[The crowd talking over us did] make me want to write music that people want to dance to.” Nevertheless, his authenticity ultimately shines through, finally settling on the fact that “[he] still want[s] to write chill music.”

This self-assurance has followed Crick throughout his musical career. Crick grew up in Coledale, a small coastal village in Australia’s New South Wales. “When you grow up in a small town,” Crick muses, “everything seems so much grander… you work hard and dream big.” Eventually, those big dreams became reality for Crick. The singer-songwriter had his first taste of musical success right after graduating high school in 2012, when he toured with Australian pop-rock artist, Kirin J. Callinan, as a backing keyboardist and bassist. While on tour, Crick met DeMarco, and the two eventually became close friends after multiple run-ins at stops in the US and Australia. While Crick would send his recordings to DeMarco expecting nothing in return, DeMarco would offer to mix these recordings in his own studio, polishing them for Crick’s sophomore album, Live… In New York City, released in early 2021.

Crick wrote the cozy pop piano album as an ode to day- to-day life in the city, while he trained as a piano repair apprentice. In fact, he recorded the album using the very piano he dragged off the street and repaired himself. In signature Crick style, he mixed it on an vintage eight-track tape player, not owning a computer at the time. Despite being a major milestone in his career, being that this was his first album released under ‘Mac’s Record Label,’ Crick remained humble when discussing the project. “I hadn’t really ever sung — no one in my family knew I [could]. I kind of just recorded the album to see if I could do it.”

Crick’s stripped-back style followed him into Droplet, his most recent project: a mellow album filled with 27 short, delicate piano grooves and instrumentals. Despite its playfulness and dreamy melodies, audiences weren’t as supportive. The album received a 58/100 rating by audiences on Album of the Year, whereas Live… In New York City received a 77/100. He released it while riding the wave of fame that came with signing with Mac and his successful 2023 complete album release, Sweet Dreamin’, so audiences seemed to have been expecting more. Crick described how “It got some weird reviews because people expected it to be Tex’s new album, but to me, this is a fun little soundtrack I did on the side, all recorded on one keyboard. It’s all very simple and raw.”

Just like any other art piece, music is another form of self-expression. Through deliberate technical choices in instrumentation and structure, the artist is able to communicate what they want to express at that moment — a feeling, a thought, an idea. There are no boundaries to what the right kind of music can or should look like: artists can produce atmospheric vocal albums like Live… in New York City or they can also create fun and playful instrumental projects like Droplet.

Crick’s experimentation with the role music plays as an artistic vehicle has incurred less-than-savoury reactions, via critics and audience reactions on tour alike. Yet, many forget that pieces such as these can serve a purpose outside of just instant gratification. Crick hopes that his music can serve as a source of comfort to listeners above all else: “[When listening to my music,] I hope listeners can relax and forget about the stress in their lives. Just enjoy the music.”

Crick’s work reminds us that an artist’s ability to remain authentic in the face of criticism or apathy is of the utmost importance. His musical quirks are precisely what makes him so charming. It’s this timeless quality that comes about because he’s “really terrible at keeping in touch with new music,” that is actually a strength of his rather than a weakness.

Perhaps the audio clips of the bustle of the streets of Manhattan and the clinking of glasses at a classic New York bar featured in Live… In New York City aren’t designed for a live audience performance, but they immerse you in a moment and feeling that you can’t escape while listening. So while Crick’s stripped-back production may sound unpolished to the general public, its raw flair is precisely what makes his work so fresh in a music scene saturated with ultra-polished production.

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The 25th Annual McGill Powwow was held by the McGill Office of Indigenous Initiatives and John Abbott College at the McGill MacDonald Campus on Friday, September 18. For McGill students on the downtown campus, the day started out grey and cold, the feeble rays of September sunlight blocked by the tall downtown buildings. However, on the Macdonald campus, summer was still in full swing; the powwow took place on Watson Field, where the surrounding trees allowed the sun to shine down on spectators in full. This joyful reminder of summer weather was the perfect preface to the powwow.

In the middle of Watson Field, a white tent reflecting the sunlight served as the centre for activities. Spectators and participants alike lined the perimeter of the tent standing or sitting on the grass and in chairs. Among the spectators were students, various members of the community, local vendors, and dancers.

The powwow was kicked off by the Grand Entry, a traditional opening ceremony, which began with all the dancers entering from the eastern corner of the tent to pay symbolic respect to the Eastern Door. The Kanien’kehá:ka (Ga-niyen-ge-HAA-ga) or Mohawk people, are the Keepers of the Eastern Door due to their traditional eastern territory spanning over parts of Quebec, Vermont, and New York. The dancers moved around the tent in a counter-clockwise circle, as per Mohawk tradition, led by four flag-bearers, including Tom Dearhouse. He carried the Hiawatha Belt Flag, a deep purple banner set with five interconnected white shapes after a wampum belt design representing the five nations of the Haudenosaunee (Hoh-DEE-noh-SHOH-nee) or Iroquois Confederacy. Carried alongside it was the modern version of the Mohawk Warrior Flag designed for the Rotisken’rakéhte (Mohawk Warrior Society), an LGBTQ2S+ flag, and a POW/MIA flag honouring veterans. All four flags were hoisted on two centre poles under the tent. To conclude the ceremony, several different prayers were said and songs were sung.

Following the Grand Entry, participants and spectators settled into the tent for the rest of the day. One side of the tent was allocated to the emcee’s table along with four drum circles, each comprising between five to ten men around a large drum. Throughout the competitions, the different drum circles alternated synchronized performances while singing. The host drum was Black Bear, co-hosted by Spiritwolf Singers, and accompanied by Ottawa River and Eagle River Singers. The different drum groups were there to accompany the different dances during the day. The host drum is the drum group that is responsible for playing during the important events, such as the Grand Entry.

Ahead of the anticipated competition dances, the emcees of the event — Lance Delisle, in English, and Marie-Céline Charron, in French — opened the floor of the tent to all present for an inter-tribal dance. A large group of schoolchildren on a field trip made up the majority of the dance, following the lead dancers in a simple movement pattern where they hopped twice on each foot to the beat of the drums.

The competitions themselves were short, but there were 12 categories in total that were divided by type of dance, gender, and age. The categories for men included Traditional, which encompasses traditional sharptight movements emulating battle-like dancing steps; Fancy, which is a non-traditional dance with more elaborate dramatic movements dance moves and regalia; and Grass, which is meant to mimic the movement of grass in both the regalis and the steps. Women have a similar Traditional category with sharptight steps; the Jingle category, which uses dresses with metal cones hanging from the ress to add more auditory and visual elements; and finally, Fancy Shawl, which is meant to emulate a butterfly through the use of the dancer’s shawls as they dance to a fast beat.

Each category began with around three to ten dancers spread out in the tent as the three judges went to each corner to observe. Once the drum went off, the dancers gave their all. For about one minute, the dancers moved all around the tent, keeping time, and showing off their tricks to the judges until the drum stopped, at which point the dancers held their finishing pose. This cycle continued about three to four times per category. After the dancing was done, the performers lined up in front of the judges.

Once it was time for the Men’s Traditional category, Dearhouse— 63 years old, stepped into the circle with two other dancers. He discussed how he had chosen his regalia to honor his Ojibwe heritage and its traditional teachings. His outfit incorporated the four colours traditionally used by Ojibwe people to represent the cardinal directions: red, black, white, and yellow. Dearhouse also mentioned incorporating the concept of following the sun into his outfit. In Ojibwe culture, the sun is thought of as an elder brother. This idea resonated with Dearhous, as an elder brother himself, and as someone who has many responsibilities as a social worker and an educator of traditional teachings. Dearwood’s regalia consisted of a bustle headpiece made of deer and porcupine, as well as bells around his legs to help him dance in time.

After the competitions ended, a short break was taken to allow dancers to rest and gave the audience the opportunity to look around at the vendors. Observers were able to browse a series of stalls set up outside of the tent that featured Indigenous craftsmakers, McGill associations, Indigenous organizations, and food.

After the break, the performances continued with the Hoop Dance. Hoop Dancing originated in the 1930s, and involves a performer who uses hoops to create shapes to tell a story. In this particular performance, the dancer recreated the motions and shapes of birds using the hoops. This was the only non-competitive performance in the powwow, so the emcees put out a rug and encouraged people to leave tips.

The powwow concluded with the announcement of the winners for each category and the closing ceremony. The 25th Annual McGill Powwow was a beautiful event that celebrated and fostered a place for learning more about Indigenous culture. Instead of looking through the colonial lens of a textbook, take the time to go to a powwow and see for yourself what some aspects of Indigenous culture looks like. To attend, check out the McGill Annual Powwow or stay up to date with the Office of Indigenous Initiatives.

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Jahn recently published an opinion piece in The Globe and Mail, entitled: “Universities should stop treating AI as a cheating problem.” She cites a 2026 study from the Higher Education Policy Institute at Oxford, which found that 94 per cent of UK undergraduate students use generative AI to aid with school work. Moreover, KPMG Canada found last fall that 73 per cent of students in Canada now rely on generative AI for schoolwork, an increase from 52 per cent two years ago. Of the Canadian students surveyed by KPMG, 45 per cent say their first instinct is to use AI when drafting written assignments, a practice of which 48 per cent attribute to the decline in their critical thinking skills.

Academic institutions have begun providing widespread access to specific generative AI models, which Jahn described as a more coordinated approach. For example, McGill’s Max Bell School of Public Policy provides all students and faculty with access to Claude Pro. However, as Jahn wrote in her article, “[Claude Pro] is a subscription and a training program. It is not a rethink of what a degree is for.” Moreover, certain Canadian professors, for example Jonathan Malloy (Carleton) and Daniel Silver (UofT), have partially opted for assignments that require and engage with AI. Malloy and Silver have similar approaches, essentially having students use AI to produce papers or assignments and then analyze AI’s response.

When asked if she had noticed the impacts of AI on syllabi this year, Jahn acknowledged McGill’s more proactive approach this fall. However, she also stressed the absence of an up-to-date, consistent AI policy across McGill and other post- secondary institutions. Additionally, she noted a move away from take-home papers and a pivot towards in-class assessments. This is echoed in a key piece of feedback from the Max Bell Center’s cohort last year: students need to monitor their use of AI.

This summer, the Max Bell School administration, including but not limited to Director Jennifer Welsh and Associate Director Manuel Balán, presented their faculty with a framework for professors to use when drafting AI policies in syllabi. The framework provided faculty with concrete categories and language, so that these policies (no matter the professors’ individual stances on AI) can all be slightly more cohesive.

Jahn breaks down AI regulation into three possibilities. Option one is an AI-free environment with measures like in-class evaluations and digital locking softwares. Option two is a hybrid model in which students aren’t technically allowed to use AI but have no parameters in place unlike the digital locking software in option one. The school is looking to avoid his as the model as this is what Jahn describes as the “least effective.” Option three is freedom for students to use AI. What is essential is not mixing the models, but using them in tandem, as, according to The Globe and Mail, “the mass lecture model has been failing students long before ChatGPT arrived.” Though this is a newly mplemented framework, the results of which we have yet to see at the Max Bell Center, Jahn notes that professors have greatly appreciated the guidance and structure provided by the Centre thus far. When asked about different approaches to AI use across McGill’s faculties and programs, Jahn emphasized how each program has a distinct disciplinary culture and, therefore, fundamentally different modes of evaluation, with some more challenged by AI than others. The Faculty of Arts in particular, with their heavy reliance on the take-home essay, has been targeted; however, not all arts classes are equally affected because there is no unified approach to regulating AI use. When asked about this, Jahn’s response was clear: “This is ultimately where universities and professors need to step in and clarify the rules.”

Moreover, Jahn was able to tell us more about an AI policy initiative specifically highlighting Canadian students’ voices. This past spring, the Centre for Media Technology and Democracy gave voice to young Canadians on AI policy at Gen(Z)AI: Canada’s Youth Assembly on Artificial Intelligence. Over eight months, thousands of youth crafted policy recommendations concerning AI regulations in Canada and presented them in parliament. I asked Jahn what surprised her most about the responses from post-secondary participants of Gen(Z)AI. Without hesitation, she described the manner in which post-secondary Gen Z students balance hope with realism, as seen in Gen(Z)AI’s role as “the democratic voice of [a generation that has] the most to gain or lose, speaking clearly and in their own name.” According to Jahn, Gen Z cannot afford to not think about AI in the same way other generations do.

Ultimately, what Jahn drove home most was that higher-level administration needs to be specific about the main skills they’re trying to instill in their students. “The fundamental question AI is pushing on us is ‘what are the real skills and learning outcomes we are working towards and how do we…[allow] our students to explore them?’” For Jahn and McGill faculty, exploring looks like moving toward AI-safe examinations. However, this elicits another question of how students can explore newly acquired knowledge if not through cognitive exercise, research, and the process of writing. Jahn has emphasized both in her article and speaking with the Daily the necessity for McGill to formulate a comprehensive AI policy. As we begin to see the impacts of AI usage on Canadian post-secondary students and their syllabi, the Max Bell School of Public Policy has been taking initiative, creating a framework for professors to tackle the troubling waters of AI use.

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Content warning: death, violence

September 13 marks twenty years since the 2006 shooting at the Dawson College CEGEP, where one student was killed and 19 others were injured. Two decades later, families and survivors are citing the anniversary to argue that Canada’s legal approach to gun control remains unresolved.

In an open letter, families of survivors and victims called upon the federal government to act on three commitments: completing the ban and removing assault-style firearms, closing the large- capacity magazine loopholes, and strengthening the oversight of handgun exemptions. Their demands ensued decades after major shootings in Quebec triggered debates over firearm regulations. Debates that have been reignited by thousands demonstrating against federal firearm restrictions in Quebec City earlier this year.

The gun control debate precedes the Dawson tragedy. A debate that came to the forefront nationally after the 1989 École Polytechnique massacre where 14 women were killed in a misogynist attack. In its aftermath, the Coalition for Gun Control was formed. In 1995, the federal government adopted Bill C-68 which established the Firearms Act and expanded requirements surrounding licensing and registration.

By the time the Dawson shooting took place eleven years later, Canada already had a significantly broader federal firearm regulation. However, the attack renewed questions about what kinds of firearms could legally circulate in the country and whether further restrictions were necessary.

In 2023, the federal government made the handgun freeze permanent. Under the measure, new handgun registration certificates cannot be issued to individuals. This prevents most new purchases, sales, and transfers, while allowing people who previously owned handguns to retain them. The legislation also expanded the Criminal Code’s definition of prohibited firearms and introduced additional measures related to illegally manufactured firearms and licences in cases involving domestic violence.

Quebec also maintains firearm regulations of its own. Since 2018, the province has operated the Quebec Firearms Registration Service (SIAF). Most firearm owners in Quebec are required to register their firearms with the provincial system, in addition to meeting federal licensing requirements. Prohibited and restricted firearms, however, are registered federally rather than through the SIAF. The distinction means that what is often described broadly as “Quebec gun law” is actually a combination of provincial and federal regulations.

One of the largest ongoing disputes concerns assault-style firearms. The Assault-Style Firearms Compensation Program was created to compensate eligible owners who surrender prohibited firearms. Owners who did not participate must dispose of or permanently deactivate affected firearms by October 30 of this year.

For gun control advocates, the removal of these firearms is one of the commitments that remains incomplete. For opponents of the program, however, it has become a symbol of what they view as unfair restrictions on legal firearm owners.

Moreover, this disagreement came into public view on February 28, when several thousand protesters from Quebec and the rest of Canada gathered outside the National Assembly in Quebec City to oppose the federal program. At the demonstration, Sophie Béland, the provincial director of the Canadian Coalition for Firearm Rights, argued that the program unfairly targets legal firearm owners who are not involved in crime. Other participants described themselves as hunters and sport shooters concerned about losing legally acquired property.

PolySeSouvient, a gun- control advocacy group formed by survivors and families affected by the École Polytechnique massacre, criticized the movement opposing the removal program. The advocacy group argued that the firearms covered by the ban had been prohibited for public safety reasons.

The February protest also raised another question about the shifting discourse of firearm politics in Quebec. Some arguments made around the demonstration emphasized owning firearms for self- defence. This framing is particularly associated with gun politics in the United States, where firearm ownership is constitutionally protected. La Presse investigative journalist, Tristan Péloquin, argued that American political discourse surrounding firearms has increasingly influenced Canadian gun owners, particularly on the idea of possessing firearms for personal protection. This does not necessarily mean that Quebec’s gun regulations are becoming comparable to that of the United States; however, the language used to defend gun ownership in Quebec may be starting to change.

Twenty years after Dawson, the anniversary arrives in the middle of an ongoing debate. This debate that has shifted as Canada and Quebec have introduced layers of firearm regulation that did not exist at the time of earlier mass shootings, while the federal government continues to determine how some of the newest restrictions will be implemented.

For the families and survivors of the Dawson College shooting, September 13 is not only a day of remembrance but also a time to make distinctions between the passing of legislation and its implementations. This renewed distinction places the question facing governments in the present, twenty years later: not only regarding how much gun control policy has changed since 2006, but how much of it remains unresolved.

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The book has an interesting concept, as it addresses the harsh reality of living with a terminal illness. Noah is diagnosed with Huntington’s disease as a young adult, and his diagnosis catalyzes much of the conflict in the novel as it causes him to push AJ away. While I appreciated the author’s attempt at portraying life with a terminal illness, I felt as though it was only employed superficially as a roadblock to the protagonists’ romance instead of as something essential to Noah’s character.

Rather than portray the difficulties of navigating a relationship while dealing with a terminal illness, the book uses Noah’s diagnosis to pit the protagonists against each other as they disagree about what his medical course of action should be. Noah’s uncertain future is a point of contention between him and AJ for almost the entire novel. While that conflict is understandable and realistic, it never truly gets resolved until the end of the story. The book details their on-again, off-again romance fueled by their opposing beliefs on Noah’s future. However, the story would have been much more compelling had the two protagonists navigated the conflict together, rather than let it tear them apart for thirteen years. After a while, their arguments became repetitive, causing me to lose interest in their relationship. It also felt as though neither of them grew emotionally over the course of the story, and instead remained trapped in the same mindsets they had when they first met. This lack of character and relational development left so much unfulfilled potential for mutual growth and understanding of one another. Hence, the story as a whole fell flat for me.

Moreover, despite AJ and Noah’s bond surviving thirteen years of uncertainty, their situation is not one that should be romanticized. They meet when AJ is in high school, do some improv together, and kiss once before Noah leaves town. AJ is then hung up on him for the rest of the novel—even when she is engaged to another man, and would rather watch Noah, who has become a famous actor, attend the Oscars on television than plan her wedding with her fiancé.

Second chance romances are nothing new, present in beloved romance films such as The Notebook and used to show an unbreakable love between two characters. However, this novel presents AJ and Noah’s bond as something that AJ cannot seem to escape from, even after a decade. While some may find that romantic, I certainly didn’t, and I spent most of the book hoping that AJ would finally get over Noah and move on with her life. Their relationship seemed to hold AJ hostage emotionally, never truly benefiting either character until the end of the novel.

While the romance in itself is undesirable, the book’s main problem is its writing. The first section of the novel follows AJ in the third person during the summer before her last year of high school. The writing, while meant to reflect the mind of a teenager, is at times downright cringeworthy. When AJ first encounters Noah at her job at a video rental store, she describes him as being “so big, he made the DVD case look like baseball cards” (page 12) — an unrealistic and frankly ridiculous line, which is a perfect way to summarize the writing in this novel. Noah can be stripped down to a tall, brooding type while AJ is the quirky loner who pines after him. These tropes have been overdone for decades, so to see them in such a new work — especially one that has received numerous good reviews — is strange and worrisome.

Not only did the juvenile, shallow writing provide an unpleasant reading experience, but it demonstrated the amount of effort that the author put into the development of the protagonists’ bond. On page 33, AJ describes Noah’s eyes as “not ugly” when they change colour in the sun. The lack of effort put into this line irritated me so much that I had to close the book and take a deep breath. Though cliché, this line could have depicted the intimate act of a character observing the small details about a loved one that most people might not notice. However, in this case, the author does not even bother to choose a single compelling adjective to end the sentence with, instead providing us with a useless statement that lacks substance and meaning.

There was potential for Brodie to create a powerful story about navigating romantic relationships in the face of terminal illnesses and the hardships that come along with them. As much as I wanted to love this book, I was disappointed multiple times: first by the poor writing style and then by the weak narrative. Rather than depicting how love can conquer all, this novel showed how no story can conquer a mediocre composition.

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Anya Kasuri, TVM President and Post-Credits Editor-in-Chief, attended the event dressed in a sparkling gown and touted the magazine’s sole physical copy. The magazine, which she co-founded alongside TVM’s graphics coordinator, Sascha Siddiqui, encourages authors to thoughtfully analyze their favourite films. Kasuri is in her third year, studying International Development with a double minor in Political Science and World Cinemas.

In an interview with The McGill Daily, Kasuri says, “Film is the medium that influences our everyday character and aspirations.” Not only does it influence you, it allows you to understand yourself: “Critiquing film is a social activity, an intellectual engagement, and at its core, is a self-assessment of your values and beliefs…the meaning you derive from it can be really telling of your character too. ”

Her favourite part of the magazine is the graphics: “[Unlike writing, graphics] provide visuals to cinema…to perfectly complement the [article’s] argument. Sascha [Siddiqui], our graphics coordinator, did an incredible job bridging the gap … When I saw the final [magazine] it was her creativity that grounded the writing back to its roots — an appreciation of cinema.”

“Films should always be critically analyzed this way. I feel like that’s a value that I’ve derived from my film classes, particularly with Professor Ara Osterweil,” she replied when asked about the vision behind the magazine. “The process of watching and experiencing a film is not only viewing it, then going home and going to sleep. It’s about watching it with your friends, watching other people, reacting, [and] hearing everyone’s reactions in the crowd. Afterward, [the experience is about] discussing it as you understand it — because when you come out of a movie, you’re not going to know exactly what you have to say; it’s not a fully fleshed-out thought. When you spend time discussing it, you learn more about it.”

The key difference, for Kasuri, between short- and long-form analysis lies in its depth: “[Long-form analysis] offers full fledged evaluations of films’ formal elements: cinematography, mise en scene, visual tone, colour palette, acting, narrative — being able to evaluate that in a longer form analysis lets you see each film individually…and its directors’ vision apart from one another because you get into the depths of each films’ elements’ meaning[s].” To conclude: “It’s a better, more engaging, intellectual, and educational alternative to short-form media.”

However, she notes that many people forget the core of analysis: what the film wants to be. “A lot of people misjudge pieces of media by applying the same expectations to all [of them]. It’s important to judge a film based on what it’s striving to be…they all have different standards of their visual language, their pacing, their acting, their sets,” said Kasuri.

I encountered Elena Degas at a bar table next to the DJ booth, listening intently to the live band. As TVM’s music composer, she wanted to “provide insight from a musical perspective.” Writing to the Daily, she highlighted how the score was integral to the story: “Sinners was by far the film that impacted me most from the last year, and I felt that it was special in the way that the score/music was so integral to the story and the conversations that were happening around the film.”

Degas got her start in film scoring when she watched Euphoria in 2019. The music was what made her love the show; she found that it could tell a poignant story on its own.

Her favourite part of the article she wrote for Post-Credits was her analysis of the use of blues at the centre of Sinners. It gives the viewer insight into the film’s characters and their struggles. Especially the song “Pick Poor Robin Clean,” demonstrates the turn from oppressed to oppressor in Remmick, an Irishman. It opens up a “space for a larger conversation about the history of predominately Black genres of music and how they’ve evolved and continue to live on today.”

From her article: “It is immediately following [the surreal montage] scene when the people in the juke joint are faced with the vampires, who dauntingly perform an upbeat, folk-inspired rendition of ‘Pick Poor Robin Clean’ for the group.” The song is “a blues song that [embodies] someone trying to survive by picking apart and taking everything they can from a dead robin.”

For Degas, “this jolly folk rendition exemplifies the white vampires’ inability to engage empathetically and thoughtfully with the community they are attempting to infiltrate, and recalls a common pattern in genres such as blues and jazz, in which white musicians have historically appropriated and overshadowed Black artists.” Remmick’s positionality is especially striking because of his Irish heritage and experience with colonialism. His desire to completely consume the music is shaped by a selfish desire to preserve it the way he was unable to with his own heritage. However, in doing so, he reproduces colonial violence, with music becoming a tangible symbol of culture.

TVM has allowed Degas to explore her passion for the soundscape of a movie: “Film is now one of the main cornerstones of my life, I have found a huge love for making music for films at TVM, and have found a great community of other film-lovers here; I now plan on attending film school next year for sound design in hopes of a career in film audio/music!”

McGill’s distinct lack of a creative arts programme is no secret. However, student initiatives like Post-Credits Magazine are working to allow student film lovers to think critically about the art they are passionate about.

TVM will be hosting its largest event of the year, FOKUS Film Festival on Thursday, March 26 at Cinema Du Parc. For more information, visit TVM at tvmtelevision.com or @tvm.television on Instagram.

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In 2026, Deloitte predicts that women will make up less than 30 per cent of the global technology workforce, given that they are consistently underrepresented in academic programs in science, technology, engineering, and mathematics (STEM). What is more, women make up only 25 per cent of tech positions on a global scale, as reported by Forbes and the National Center for Women and Information Technology. 

Girls Who Code confronts gender disparity in STEM by making the field inclusive and accessible for women and gender-diverse people. With an eye towards breaking gender barriers, the organization offers computer science lessons and mentorship for elementary and high school students across Montreal. It also runs hackathons for university students, networking events, and workshops. 

The Daily spoke with Girls Who Code executives Jenna Cacchione and Virginia Ceccatelli, U3 students studying Computer Science and Economics at McGill. We talked about the creative side to coding, imposter syndrome, and why young girls and gender-diverse students belong in the computer science field.

This interview has been edited for clarity and conciseness.

Enid Kohler for The McGill Daily (MD): How did you get involved in Girls Who Code, and why? 

Virginia Ceccatelli (VC): I was never really exposed to coding in high school. It wasn’t really a subject that was taught, and I always thought it was scary as a field and very masculine. When I started my studies in International Relations in university, I got a bit of exposure to Python and R and had so much fun with it, so I transferred into Computer Science. I want to give girls the opportunity to get into coding and see that it’s a creative process as well. 

Jenna Cacchione (JC): Similar to Virginia, I did my first year in [another program, Economics,] and then I switched into Computer Science. My high school didn’t have anything computer related…Had I had a program like this, maybe I would have switched into CS a little bit earlier. I really just wanted to give back [by giving] other girls that same opportunity. 

VC: CS really is like learning a language. Like any language, the more you speak it and the earlier you’re exposed to it, it’s so much easier to pick it up. 

MD: That’s a really good comparison. For those who aren’t familiar with your organization, can you pitch Girls Who Code in a few sentences? 

VC: [Girls Who Code] a way to make coding fun and creative, and to change the narrative that [coding] is anything relegated to the masculine sphere. We give back to young girls [by seeing] them learn every week. It’s really rewarding.

JC: [Coding] can be really daunting. Sometimes I look at my computer screen and I’m like, ‘oh my God, what am I even doing?’ For younger girls especially, it can be super intimidating, especially since it’s a male-dominated field. I hope our facilitators can act as big sisters to our students. 

MD: Why is it important that young girls and gender-diverse students have access to program like Girls Who Code? 

VC: In general, the CS field is massively male-dominated. Most role models in the industry are guys. So for us, it’s really to show girls that they can do it; it’s not that hard. For guys, this message is something they might have been told growing up, and for girls, it’s not necessarily the narrative. 

MD: You mentioned that the Computer Science space is predominantly male-dominated. In your own professional and/or academic experiences, what kind of patterns have you observed in terms of female representation and inclusivity? 

VC: I’m not working in the field yet, but through research projects, I’ve found that you have to prove yourself more. If you’re in a room that has seven guys and two girls, the two girls have to prove that they know what they’re talking about, that they can actually do everything that everyone else can. I feel like there’s this constant voice that’s second guessing my abilities as a girl coder. 

JC: I have to agree. I also find imposter syndrome is very much there. Exactly what you said, if you’re sitting at a table with a bunch of men, and you’re the only two girls, I sometimes feel like, ‘I don’t belong here.’It’s a mental challenge. Like, ‘no, I’ve put in the work. I do belong here. 

MD: On that note, what do you hope students will take away from the program beyond practical coding skills? 

JC: I hope that students realize that it’s okay to ask for help. Sometimes you do need guidance. I had tons of [it], and I was very lucky to have had mentors who were part of Girls Who Code. I hope that [these girls are] able to ask for help and possibly find a mentor later on in their academic career. 

MD: Do you have a favorite memory of your work with Girls Who Code? 

VC: In my year of being a facilitator for Girls Who Code, I taught at the same high school and a lot of the girls stayed the entire year. In the beginning, they were shy about asking questions, but it was really nice to see them gradually gain so much confidence. 

JC: I like the fact that our whole executive team is going through the same thing: we’re all looking for internships, we’re all studying pretty much the same classes. It’s nice to have that community. 

MD: The theme of this column is “good people doing good things.” In the context of your work with Girls Who Code, what does being a “good person” mean to you?

JC: To me, being a good person means giving back and helping younger girls. Acknowledging that I didn’t have the guidance or knowledge that I do now, and then giving it to the next person. 

VC: Instead of resenting the system and having to stretch myself to catch up to get to where I am now, I can give these girls what I wish I had. Being a good person also means sticking together as girls and by helping girls realize that they can do it if they want to. There’s nothing stopping them. 

Learn more about Girls Who Code and opportunities to get involved on Instagram, @girlswhocodemcgill, or through their website, girlswhocode. ssmu.ca

End note: If you know good people doing good things who you would like to see featured in this column, email news@mcgilldaily.com

The post Rewriting the Code: McGill Students Break Barriers in Computer Science appeared first on The McGill Daily.

Play is critical for children’s physical and mental well-being, but not every child has the same access to recreational athletics and community socialization. Founded in 2000, Right to Play is an international non-profit organization that seeks to protect, educate, and empower children in disadvantaged communities through the power of play. Since its foundation, it has reached millions of children in Africa, Asia, and North America, namely, Canada; with the aim of harnessing play to support youth enduring conflict, disease, and poverty.

Since 2006, students have been the official university representatives of the Right to Play organization at McGill. They volunteer in local Montreal schools to promote inclusive and accessible play, fundraise for the international organization, and run community events like toy and food drives for underprivileged communities in the city. The Daily spoke with Co-President and U3 Biology and Math student Jack Gill about Right to Play. We spoke about his involvement in the club, the importance of play and physical activity, and why curiosity should be encouraged in youth.

This interview has been edited for clarity and conciseness.

Enid Kohler for the McGill Daily (MD): I’m curious about your own involvement with Right to Play. How and why did you get involved?

Jack Gill (JG): I’m on the varsity swim team at McGill, so I’ve been swimming most of my life. We train almost every day, sometimes twice a day. So sports and being active have been a really important part of my life. It’s allowed me to develop a sense of community, make tons of friends, and build my confidence in and out of the water. I wanted to encourage that in other kids. I started volunteering in winter 2025. I worked in a class with students who have learning disabilities and autism, to encourage more inclusive play. It was really fun to build connections with these kids and slowly see throughout the semester how they got more comfortable and open with us.

MD: How would you pitch Right to Play to a first year student at Activities Night?

JG: Right to Play is not just a club we founded here. It’s a broader international organization. Their whole goal is to empower kids through play to overcome adversity, especially less privileged kids. In Canada, the branch focuses more on [BIPOC such as] African communities who might not have … access to [the] resources that we do, as well as Indigenous communities who similarly don’t have the same resources or access. Our chapter takes from that. We have a lot of events where we fundraise in order to support local schools and youth groups, as well as give back to the broader Right to Play organization. We also volunteer in schools to encourage active lifestyles and fun activities.

MD: Why is it important for kids to have play in their lives?

JG: A lot of children we volunteer with don’t necessarily have access to play. For those with learning disabilities, their parents try to protect them a lot and they don’t necessarily let them do the things other children would do. It doesn’t necessarily give them the opportunity to learn and be curious. Being able to encourage that and let them try things and maybe fail and letting them explore is really meaningful to me.

MD: Do you have a favourite memory of your work with Right to Play?

JG: At one of our schools where we volunteer, we go sledding on this little hill in the winter. One of the kids at the beginning wasn’t able to get up on his own. We would encourage him to get up, but we’d end up having to help him. But later, near the end of the semester, he was able to start getting up by himself with all of us cheering around and encouraging him. It was just so nice when he was able to stand up by himself and show [that] he was fully independent. And now he’s able to do that all the time. His parents might have just always helped him and would never have let him learn to do it by himself. That was probably my favourite moment.

MD: What do you hope kids will take away from Right to Play programming into university and beyond?

JG: I think just life skills, like being able to be independent and do things on your own and interact with other people. Also a sense of community as well as teamwork and the idea of an active lifestyle. With this generation we’re kind of leaning away from that with technology, but it’s so important.

MD: The theme of this column is “good people doing good things.” In the context of your work with Right to Play McGill, what does being a “good person” mean to you?

JG: I think what it means to be a good person is to be able to listen to people and kids and let them guide you. One of the big things I like with volunteering is not necessarily forcing kids to do things but guiding them and helping them choose their own path.

To learn more about Right to Play and opportunities to get involved, visit @rtpmcgill on Instagram.

End note: If you know good people doing good things who you would like to see featured in this column, email news@mcgilldaily.com

The post The Power of Play appeared first on The McGill Daily.

In class over the past few months, we have examined the backlash modern artists received for going against the grain — the “grain” being the expectations set by the Art Academy, the Salon where they would show their work, their audience, and, of course, critics. Modern artists like Manet, who portrayed purely modern scenes without conforming to the “grain,” provoked viewership fury. French critic of the time, Émile Zola, argued in an essay titled “Édouard Manet”, originally published in 1867, that public outrage simply reveals how tightly audiences cling to expectations of what art ought to resemble. The public, up until this point, had maintained neoclassical values in art: to flatter, narrate, and moralize. Manet refused all three of those familiar imperatives by producing art that felt uncomfortable and bluntly new — a choice that is now heavily applauded. True art, a point Zola returns to time and time again, does not come from a desire to conform to norms or follow the “grain” but from individual temperament and personal vision. 

Nearly two centuries later and across the Atlantic, my girlfriends and I visited the Cineplex on Rue Sainte Catherine to watch Emerald Fennell’s 2026 “Galentines” adaptation of “Wuthering Heights”. The reaction to the film was generally varied. Some praised it, while lovers of the novel jumped to Twitter and Reddit to vent their anger over yet another inaccurate adaptation. To give credit to these bibliophiles, Fennell abandons many of the themes that make this story so impactful by portraying a narrative based on her initial impression of the book as a 14-year-old girl. In depicting this youthful interpretation, Fennell centres the film around a glorified toxic romance between Catherine and Heathcliff. Frustrated viewers were appalled at Fennell’s tone-deafness in foregrounding obsessive love while sidestepping and softening the harsher themes of the novel, particularly those pertaining to Heathcliff’s racial marginalization and the systemic class violence in the setting. 

In reading tweets alleging the film’s negligence, just as I did in December when choosing my winter semester electives, I turned to modern art history. Two hundred years apart, both Manet and Fennell have something in common: they’ve both committed to their personal visions and rejected traditional expectations. Manet counters aesthetic norms and produces art that depicts the tensions of modern life in a way that is truthful to himself. Similarly, Fennell abandons the expectation that adaptations be reflective of their source material to create a film rooted in her own experience, a decision Zola might have applauded. Whether or not you enjoy or even “agree with” either of these artist’s work, they both made the choice to commit to their personal truths and abandon external expectations. In practicing artistic autonomy, they choose their own temperament as an anchor in their work. 

If these two artists are correct and individual temperament is the “True North” of art, it leads us to question: are there traditions or expectations that artists must uphold, or is personal vision all that truly matters? Between these contexts, “tradition” is understood very differently. For Manet, “traditions” are expectations set by the Art Academy surrounding what defines academically valid (and objectively good) art. For Fennell, “tradition” underlines the source material from which she draws her film: Emily Brontë’s Wuthering Heights. Both these artists abandon tradition in their works, making audiences question: where is the line drawn between artistic autonomy and deviations from tradition? 

In deviating from tradition, one can question the difference between innovation and avoidance. 

If artists do have a responsibility to uphold a certain tradition, both Manet and Fennell have failed to do so. Yet we celebrate Manet as a transformative turning point in modern art history. Why? In my opinion, it is because Manet’s work denies the comfort of ignorance and bluntly presents his audiences with uncomfortable social realities, forcing them to analyze their own lives through his work. In contrast, Fennell’s Wuthering Heights does exactly the opposite. While she also deviates from “tradition”, she does so by refusing to inherit the uncomfortable and darker themes of the novel. She allows her audiences to find comfort in the avoidance of difficult themes surrounding the intersection of violence, race, and class. If Manet makes audiences question how closely art should adhere to academic standards, Fennell forces them to question how much personal vision we are willing to accept in interpretations of classic narratives. 

In some cases, we respond well to moving away from tradition when artists depict their personal visions because it feels honest and revealing, confronting you with art rooted in social reality. This is what Manet did in pulling at the seams of academic art to reveal true modern life. On the other side of the coin, moving away from tradition can feel dishonest if viewers don’t feel it is rooted in these social truths — the very social truths that made Emily Brontë’s novel so impactful in the first place. 

Now, as I wrap up this article in my student apartment a few streets from campus, I have to conclude that this argument is somewhat of an open-ended question. I think that is because there is no universal line that separates avoidance from innovation in art. That line is unstable by design, and artists have always toed it by pushing their own personal vision forward while balancing a respect for tradition. Perhaps this tension is what produces great art. That being said, in my art history class, we are still marveling at Manet’s impact on the evolution of modern art two centuries later. But as I left the Cineplex on Sainte Catherine after seeing Fennell’s Wuthering Heights, I got the impression that this particular adaptation might not make it onto the syllabus of a film class in another two hundred years. 

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The line between performance and identity has become increasingly blurred in music. Be it EsDeeKid’s carefully hidden persona or Gorillaz’s quarter-century of lore, artists now construct themselves as deliberately as they write songs. Every physical action and digital trace carries a magnitude of importance. Optics are king, and a misstep could spell the end of an artist’s career.

Singer-songwriter Phil Elverum, talking to the Daily from his home studio in Anacortes, Washington, USA, has noticed this modern obsession with a carefully crafted image. “I think it’s an expression of what’s happening in the culture at large,” he says, gesturing for emphasis. “Everyone on social media is always performing for their followers, so everyone is used to putting on a face and presenting themselves in an idealized way.”

The goal of “perfect” performance is not restricted to social media or mainstream artists. “I think that it’s even finding expression in independent music,” Elverum adds. 

Performing as The Microphones and Mount Eerie, Elverum leans into lo-fi production, recording many songs with analog tape recorders and sparse acoustic arrangements. From hellish sound collages to delicate love stories, his music exudes vulnerability. The result is an intimate sonic landscape listeners can immerse themselves in.

Having released more than 40 records since the 1990s, with standouts like The Glow Pt. 2 shaping the independent scene, Elverum is no stranger to the pressures of presentation. Like many public figures, he holds his actions in high regard — but rather than chasing flawlessness, he actively avoids it. “People forgot that human touch is so important,” says Elverum, who is known for manning his own merchandise booth when on tour. 

Still, his goal of showcasing imperfection is most evident in his music. “My mind was formed in the era where sloppiness and imperfection were important to feature prominently,” Elverum says. His musical identity is shaped by Seattle’s grunge scene, which he describes as “raw and imperfect.” That era of music was not burdened by today’s technology, a development which tends to eliminate the mistakes and human touch that make recording music so special in the first place. 

Hence, the contrast between Elverum’s sound and the majority of today’s new music is evident. 

“I’m weirded out by how clean everything sounds. Also, people’s singing is so pretty.” He laughs, flashing a wide grin. “What’s up with that?”

Our algorithm-driven world is relentless in its crusade to force individuals into fixed boxes. Whether it’s new technology or the latest viral trends, the pressure to conform to social pressures seems unavoidable. In this day and age, a student showing up to class in skinny jeans would likely face judgement from classmates — even though the opposite might have been true ten years ago. Elverum faces a similar dilemma. Instead of skinny jeans in a room of straight-cut or bootleg denim, he arrives at a technically faultless musical landscape armed with uneven vocals and untamed instrumentals.

How has he resisted the expectations of conformity from the music industry, remaining aligned with his north star of imperfection? “I’ve just been careful to maintain my own weird little corner off to the side [and] to not really participate in the music industry as a whole in a way that feels like it’s beyond me,” Elverum explains.

His independence, facilitated through his own label P.W. Elverum & Sun, allows him to release and sell his work on his own terms. 

“I don’t work with other labels, I’m small, so I’m free and liberated to just do whatever I want. Also, I don’t really follow music very well, so I don’t even know what the expectations would be… I know how to do one thing, and that’s just what I do. If I were to try to do something that would be well-received or cool, it would be embarrassing and it would not work.”

The authenticity with which Elverum pursues his craft is poignant. Despite the talent and influence he has accumulated, he has not abandoned his ethos of imperfection for a path that almost certainly would have brought more commercial and financial success. 

At his essence, Elverum is an artist, and while he may continue to ponder the mysteries of human existence through his music, one thing he does not question is the importance of making art. “My ideal is to be engaged with some kind of art practice. Whatever it is, if it’s music or something else, I don’t know,” Elverum says.

“That’s who I am. That’s who I want to be. That’s the life I want to live, until I die.”

The post Phil Elverum on the Power of Imperfection appeared first on The McGill Daily.

The following interview has been edited for clarity and conciseness.

Justin Friedberg for The McGill Daily (MD): How did you guys get involved with the Classics Play? What was the development process like for Antigone?

Madelyn Mackintosh (MM): We were taking [History and Classical Studies Associate Professor] Lynn Kozak’s Greek myth class together last year (romantic). I wanted to direct again and we were in class when Lynn said they were looking for a director. I had heard of the Classics Play and the Greek myth class was interesting. I also knew I’d be working with Lynn, who runs the Classics Play and is lovely and wonderful. I was drawn to Antigone given the geopolitical context of the time (late February of last year, when Trump had just been inaugurated). So I asked Adam Zanin if he would do a raw translation of the Ancient Greek text, which he did over the summer, and Caroline if she would help with the writing.

A big part of the division of labor between Caroline and I was how to structure the show as a contemporary play as opposed to the original Sophoclean text. That restructuring element was me. I come from a politics background and Caroline comes from a writing background. A lot of the show is an ethical debate between the characters, so I can do that, I can speak and write like a politician effectively. But when it comes to the storytelling pieces, that is where I needed Caroline very desperately. 

Caroline Little (CL): You had a dream, I made it real. 

MD: During that writing process, how did you approach adapting the play for a contemporary audience?

MM: We joke that they had just invented theatre. There’s a lot of distance between what you would expect from a play today and how they did it. Some of that is cultural. In Ancient Greece, you weren’t allowed to show death on stage. We wanted to reintegrate some elements of the story that were recounted off stage. The original text is similar to myth. There’ll be gods introduced in the story but they assume you know the context and they aren’t explored further. There are several characters that I think are underused — Antigone’s sister is a great example of this. In the original text, she acts as a foil to Antigone in the first third of the show and then vanishes. 

CL: Now she ends the show on a massive monologue that I felt guilty writing.

MM: Also, this is a hefty show. I hope it feels like we’re depicting a tangible form of tyranny. It’s one thing to play a maniacally evil character like a Disney villain — it’s another to play somebody who’s evil in a way that you can look in the news and see is hurting people right now.

CL: We were really looking to create an evil that people would understand. 

MM: Stephen Miller was the biggest influence for Creon’s voice. I don’t know that I hate anyone more than Miller. Part of the rationale for that is he’s not dumb. He’s an intelligent form of evil who can articulate why he hates immigrants, people of color, and gay people. It was important to me that Creon felt like a real person with realistic motivations and traits and some softness or humanity in places. 

CL: I think it’s a lot worse when villains have humanity. It’s easier to hate people who don’t seem like you at all. This show operates along the gray area. 

MM: In staging the show, I wanted the audience to feel like the citizenry of Thebes. If you saw this injustice, what would you do? Would you speak up? Would you tell what you think is the truth, even if it required sacrifice?

MD: Speaking of staging, why set the play in the 1920s?

CL: We were influenced by the Weimar era in Germany, a time of rapid progressivism. Germany was pro gay and trans. Marlene Dietrich, who inspired Antigone’s costuming, was openly bisexual and operated in gay clubs. You wouldn’t think that came right before World War II. Unfortunately, I think we’re seeing a lot of that now from the 2010s into the 2020s: an explosion of progressivism and then a rapid decline back into alt-right thinking. 

MM: A big part of the show, in my view, is about cycles of tyranny and violence and how cruelty begets more cruelty. I’m fascinated by the notion that we can give this almost 2,500 years old text the aesthetics of the early 1900s and some of the language of today and it still makes sense. Asking people to think about that lineage of tyranny was part of the goal. Another important thing to me about the show is I think Antigone is driven by love. It sometimes sounds silly or cringey, but I think empathy is the strongest antidote we have to the form of tyranny that we see on the rise today. I don’t think it is a coincidence that this was the show that came out of a writing partnership with the person I’ve been dating for three years. I think it allowed some of the love that the characters share for one another to be expressed in the text more clearly. 

CL: Yeah, and it also meant that you could be a lot more honest with me than most writing partners. 

MD: Why is the Classics Play important? 

CL: It’s important these texts aren’t studied in a vacuum. These stories are still relevant. When you study them in a library or conference, you forget that people wrote and performed them, that it touched them in a certain way. I think it’s important that these shows continue to be staged and it’s great work that Lynn is doing to make sure that happens. It’s really important to hear something. You can’t know if a poem is working until you’ve said it out loud, and I think it’s the same with theatre as well. 

Antigone ran from February 4-7, 2026 in the Grand Hall of Montreal’s Le 9e.

The post Adapting Antigone: A Discussion with the Director and Writers appeared first on The McGill Daily.

The play follows the young and newly-engaged Natasha (Claire Latella, U1) and her cousin Sonya (Miranda De Luca, U3) as they arrive in Moscow while Natasha awaits the return of her fiancé from the war. In the meantime, Natasha is seduced by the charming but married Anatole (Frank Willer, U1), and is subsequently carried into a world of scandal and societal ruin. Her last hope lies with Pierre (Sam Snyder, U4), a lonely outsider who finds love and compassion for the lost Natasha. Natasha’s search for love and finding her way in the world is reminiscent of the period of self-discovery of many university students. This makes it possible to recognize yourself in Natasha, even though she is living in a different moment in history.

The show’s immersive qualities are what really made it special, especially for the select audience members who were chosen to experience dance sequences on stage with the cast. Even those sitting in the balcony were included in the performance, with the actors running and dancing up the stairs. The musical made use of every possible part of the theatre, and seeing actors singing and dancing just a few seats away in the aisles of the balcony made the experience feel immersive. This also ensured that every single audience member was in on the fun.

While the show is full of exciting and celebratory moments, there are also beautiful, somber passages. Natasha’s solo, “No One Else,” was made especially captivating because of Claire’s remarkable vocal performance. The cast’s all-around professionalism drew you in from start to finish. Not to be ignored, the incredibly talented band played center stage for the entire show with almost no break.

For audience members familiar with Tolstoy’s War and Peace, they will recognize that the passage adapted for this musical takes place in a privileged society about to be brutally interrupted by the Napoleonic invasion of Russia. There is an underlying sense of tension and impending change. AUTS’s interpretation of Natasha, Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 was not only a ray of warm sunlight during a cold winter day, but also a piece of art that prompted audience members to reflect on their own lives as well as the world around them.

The Daily sat down with some members of the cast and creative team to discuss the production further. I had the pleasure of interviewing Milan Mivill- Dechene (MMD), the musical’s director and choreographer; Leila Khelouiati (LK), the props designer; Sam Snyder (SS), who played Pierre; and Claire Latella (CL), who played Natasha. The following interview has been shortened and edited for clarity and conciseness.

Sophia Pinzari for The McGill Daily (MD): How was it adapting a recently-made Broadway show? What did you change or keep the same from the original production?

MMD: There are really cool elements that have come to be associated with the show, like the immersive qualities and actors that are running around the entire space. It was exciting to think about different ways we could challenge staging conventions and embody the experience that Dave Malloy had when he was at a club in Russia, and there were people running and dancing around him, eating pierogi. What was exciting for me was getting to do the show with a group of younger people. Natasha and Sonya are arriving in high society Moscow, like how we arrive at university with all these high aspirations. Throughout it, we drink and party; but we can also lose ourselves, find ourselves, and grow in different ways.

MD: As one of the production members, are the props and set true to the era, or a more modernized vision? How did you go about finding the props that you need?

LK: Milan’s vision was a blend of modern and period, so it was hard to find stuff that mashed the two together. One aspect is the envelopes. Obviously, paper is very white. For older times, you need more aged-looking paper, so it’s all been tea-dyed to make it look vintage. I mostly source my props from Amazon because it’s quick, but I did go to different McGill theatre groups and the Seagull Center for Performing Arts, which had this amazing warehouse of props where I got to hang out and find some things.

MD: What was your process in finding your characters?

CL: [Natasha has been] a bit of a dream role of mine, so getting to come up with my own take on [her character] has been exciting. It’s also been fun working with the other actors, seeing their interpretations, and working out our ideas of the characters and their relationships with each other together. We get to make our own version of the show, which is really fun.

SS: I have to agree, the cool thing about Comet is it really does feel like an ensemble piece because everybody is singing all the time and is constantly on stage helping create the story… so it’s been interesting to find where your interpretation of your character fits within the ensemble. It can be easy to gravitate towards simple answers for why characters are doing things, so looking at it from a wider angle has been interesting.

MD: How has doing the musical here at school added to your experience at McGill? And how is it managing to prepare for performances while also being full-time university students?

CL: Specifically, this year, I can’t imagine not having done this show. It’s obviously been a big-time commitment, but one that I had zero regrets about. It’s a process that makes the year for me, and I don’t know what I’m going to do in February [when the musical is over]. When I have a day full of classes and then rehearsal, that’s what I look forward to. I can’t imagine McGill without it.

SS: This is my third year with AUTS, and it’s made my university career for sure. It’s unique. I’ve had the immense privilege of doing other shows on campus, but with something like AUTS, the process is so long from September through to February, so it’s been really fulfilling to be able to stick with the character and show and to be able to refine and refine. In terms of time and pressure…what a fun problem to have.

MD: Even though the show is set in 1812 Russia, what message do you think the show has for today’s world, especially for the students who will be watching it?

MMD: There are a lot of parallels between the present moment we’re living in and back then, especially in terms of political unrest. Right after the show ends, the book keeps going, and Napoleon’s invasion happens, everything crumbles, and the city is burned. So we have this tension between this really lavish lifestyle that these characters are living and everything that’s about to crumble. It begs the question of how we are spending our time and living our days. I think the way we approached this is the image of the broken time machine — we have these two time periods happening simultaneously, but the more modern elements allow us to jump into these moments with the characters easily.

SS: The source material has major themes of young love and finding purpose, and I think everyone watching will have some sort of point of connection to what they’re seeing on stage. I think most university students can lament a failed situationship or a terrible breakup, or a confusing time in their lives where they weren’t sure what they wanted to be.

AUTS ran six sold-out showings of their production of Natasha, Pierre & The Great Comet of 1812 from January 26-31 2026.

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The most recent addition to Rian Johnson’s Knives Out franchise, Wake Up Dead Man, shows Daniel Craig reprising his role as detective Benoit Blanc, who visits a neo-Gothic church where this film’s victim, Monsignor Wicks (Josh Brolin), was murdered. Like the two previous films, we are presented with an ensemble of characters who were close to the victim and were present at the time of his death. The ensemble consists of Father Jud (Josh O’Connor) as well as a small group of Wicks’ devoted supporters who remain by his side despite his extremist behaviour and off-putting nature.

Let’s begin with the positives. Films — especially murder mysteries — are only as strong as their characters. I believe that this film created two characters who were well-rounded; namely, Father Jud and Benoit Blanc.

Father Jud especially is a convincing suspect the entire duration of the film: a boxer turned priest who turned to religion after accidentally killing a man. He comes to the church to revitalize it, yet he immediately distrusts Wicks. The two men don’t get along, as Wicks leads aggressive church services that effectively scare away new parishioners. Father Jud recognizes Wicks’ flaws, as well as the church’s flaws, and is dedicated to changing how things are run, even if it means making an enemy of Wicks. When Jud is accused of murdering Wicks, he still does everything he can to help those around him. In one scene, he puts the investigation on hold to talk to a distressed woman, Louise (Bridget Everett), whose mother is dying. Rather than focus on clearing his name, Jud instead spends hours talking to Louise and praying for her mother. Despite his own troubles, Jud remains a caring man dedicated to being there for the people around him. He represents the ideal hospitality of the church, accepting everyone who walks through its doors and doing his best to remain patient despite the obstacles being thrown at him.

Similarly, Benoit Blanc was also given room to thrive, as shown through his relationship with religion that develops over the course of the film. At first, he cannot understand the benefits of a religion that has a history of exclusionary practices. As the film moves forward and Benoit works alongside Jud, he begins to understand why people turn to faith in difficult times. He is present for Jud’s conversation with Louise and becomes aware of how benevolent the members of the church can be to those in need. By the end of the film he is a believer: not in God, but in Father Jud and his caring nature.

Despite the film’s success in its development of characters such as Father Jud and Benoit, it is not as successful in its characterization of the rest of the ensemble. Potential suspects are not fully fleshed out , namely Vera (Kerry Washington) and Lee (Andrew Scott). The film spends so much time and energy on the protagonists that it cast aside many of its side characters, despite the fact that they too were suspects in the crime at hand and played by various famous actors.

Namely, Vera’s storyline is never properly handled or developed, even though she was one of the few who ended up speaking out against Wicks, condemning his harmful treatment of others. Despite the gravity of this, her rebellion does not go any further, and she is never convincingly portrayed as a possible suspect. Instead, after her brief moment of defiance, she retreats into herself and is shown alone in a dark room, smoking a cigarette. Vera sitting practically motionless in this scene seems indicative of how the writers seemed to give up on her character. Rather than playing an active role in the remainder of the story, she is left in the dark, with no other purpose but to stare off into the distance. She should have been given a more meaningful conclusion, or at least a more potent contribution to the events of the narrative. While she does receive fifteen minutes of relevance when condemning Wicks, her fall from the spotlight lasts the entire second half of the film.

Lee is another character whose story was ill-conceived from the start, with his role somehow even less significant than Vera’s. Viewers are told he is a failing author who is writing his comeback novel, which is basically the only thing we learn about him throughout the entire film. Every other time he is on screen, he either contributes very little to the plot or is doing unhinged and inexplicable things, like building a moat around his house. He is not close to Wicks, nor is he given any motive that would lead him to commit the murder. In short, he does not advance the narrative in any way and is not necessary to the story.

It seems like this film created more characters than needed and did not spend enough time developing equally significant character arcs for all of them. They simply threw together an ensemble for the sake of the plot without fleshing out many of the characters into the story. The murder mystery aspect of the film was not very compelling, since half of the suspects seemed to have no clear motive and their potential guilt was seemingly disregarded by the screenwriters themselves. As much as I adored this film, it could have either spent more time developing the characters or gotten rid of some of them altogether, therefore providing the audience with more convincing suspects and a balanced story.

The post Wake Up Dead Man’s Failure at Bringing Its Characters to Life appeared first on The McGill Daily.