*Spoilers ahead!*

My 2026 New Year’s resolution is to read more books. While I love purchasing new ones, I decided that while home during winter break, I would gather the collection I had already bought but had never read and bring them back to McGill with me. One of those books was Emily Henry’s People We Meet on Vacation, and I rang in 2026 while reading the story. 

When I started the book, the movie had just been released on Netflix, which further compelled me to read it quickly. People We Meet on Vacation was a well-anticipated film by Henry’s fans, and reached 17.2 million viewers in its release weekend. News of the book’s movie adaptation was announced in 2022, a year after its publication, and audiences were given a trailer in July 2025 to much buzz. However, after reading the book and, directly after, watching the film adaptation, it’s clear to me that the mixed reviews of fans and critics met by the latter were warranted.

A quick summary of the plot for those who are unfamiliar: Poppy Wright and Alex Nilsen, polar opposites, meet at the University of Chicago and grow to become best friends. Each summer, they go on a trip together, travelling to places like Squamish and New Orleans, and grow even closer. Two years before the story’s main events, on a trip to Croatia, something happened that caused them to separate for 2 years only to reunite for one more trip, which the story’s events center around. Would this summer allow them to work things out? A classic storyline. It was an entertaining read that gave me a break from the theory I’d been reading for my classes. 

To begin with my positive impressions of the film version of People We Meet on Vacation, I think that it is visually pleasing. The various gorgeous vacation spots, the bright colors, and the casting all contributed to a visually easy watch. The storyline on its own was interesting, but its utter differences from the book are the basis of my criticism for the film as an adaptation.

As a reader, I have a few strong opinions about the book itself. I personally believed the tension and yearning between the best friends was frustrating because it was so obvious to me they were in love with each other throughout the entire book. It’s annoying to think about the romantic partners they didn’t ever feel “right” with. How their failed relationships weren’t the wake-up calls needed to realize they  wanted each other the whole time. While I know that’s the whole point of the romance novel, I found it hard to fully grasp the idea they had been holding out on each other  for so long despite all of their history, physical, and emotional affection.

There are multiple inconsistencies between the book and the film. From specificities like the university the main duo attend, and the location of their wedding; to larger things like how it was a work trip in the film rather than a non-sponsored trip in the book that brought Poppy and Alex back together, as well as the fact that Croatia was not mentioned in the film, these differences impact one’s perception of the storyline. To go more in depth, readers of Henry’s book would know that Croatia was where Poppy and Alex first kissed, which caused their relationship to fall apart, hence the reason why the story even exists. It’s the event they avoid discussing during the entire summer. To take that away and reduce the plot to the events that take place in Tuscany is to remove crucial contexts and serious plot points from the original narrative.

Another detail being criticised by fans is the fact that Alex’s tumultuous background was neglected in the film. If a viewer hadn’t read the book, they would never know that his mother passed away during childbirth, and that he had to raise his brothers by himself while his father mourned the loss. They would also never know that he got a vasectomy because of Poppy’s pregnancy scare. These are all important to understand Alex’s character and the depth of his and Poppy’s emotional connection.

Henry was inspired by When Harry Met Sally (1989). While I do see the connections between both narratives, I didn’t feel the same while watching People We Meet on Vacation as I do when watching When Harry Met Sally. With the latter, I was satisfied with the couple’s long-awaited happy ending; with the former, I simply felt irritated and a little disappointed. The endings of both films are predictable, but even knowing what is going to happen, the development in People We Meet on Vacation wasn’t strong enough to make me feel relieved about their reconciliation. Viewers of the movie can understand that Poppy and Alex’s relationship is strong, but they are not as privy to its complex development as those who read the book. To cushion the blow, some critics believe that the story is better suited as a miniseries, which would give ample space for the development of the storyline and all characters. Meanwhile, the two-hour-long movie feels rushed, especially in comparison to the book.

People We Meet on Vacation can be considered a classic in the contemporary novel universe, and I enjoyed reading it for the most part. But after watching an attempted film adaptation, my feelings about the entire storyline are more mixed than ever. This review is not to take away from people’s enjoyment of the film; a viewer with a penchant for rom-coms who had never read the book would love the movie’s classic friends-to-lovers storyline. However, if you choose to immerse yourself in the People We Meet on Vacation universe, I recommend either reading the book or watching the movie, but not both. While the endings are the same, there are so many inconsistencies that either strengthen or diminish the plot, so it’s best to choose one version of the story and enjoy it.

The post From Paper to Screen: People We Meet on Vacation appeared first on The McGill Daily.

Guillermo del Toro’s Frankenstein (2025) is the newest of many screen adaptations of Mary Shelley’s 1818 novel of the same name. Its star-studded cast, consisting of well-known actors like Oscar Isaac, Jacob Elordi, and Mia Goth, has lavished the film with much attention over the past few months, becoming a large hit in both theatres and on Netflix. Frankenstein is my favourite book, so suffice to say I had been looking forward to this movie since I had first heard about it. Before its release, I had been skeptical of the film particularly because of the casting, but decided to give it the benefit of the doubt. 

I was pleasantly surprised by Jacob Elordi’s performance, which was by far the best part of this film. He conveyed the innocence and vulnerability of the Creature even when barely uttering a single word. When he first comes to life, all the Creature can name is his creator,  Victor Frankenstein: the film’s titular character, played by Oscar Isaac, who complains about the Creature’s limited vocabulary. Elizabeth — Victor’s brother’s fiancée, played by Mia Goth — suggests that “for the time being that word means everything to [the Creature].” Elordi’s performance displays  just this, as his acting conveys the creature’s initial attachment to Victor through his facial expressions, bodily gestures, and his emotional utterances of that singular word. Later on, once Victor starts abusing the Creature, Elordi perfectly embodies how love and awe morphs into fear and distrust as he realizes that Victor doesn’t care for him. Throughout the film, Elordi successfully depicts the anger and sadness that the Creature feels towards his doomed existence and the man who gave him life. 

It is obviously unrealistic for adaptations to be entirely faithful to the source material and changes to the original story are inevitable. While I understand that, I wasn’t a huge fan of some of the changes made in this film. At times it felt like del Toro watered down the themes of revenge, grief, and the dangers of messing with uncontrollable forces from the original story. He also removed the complexities of Victor and the Creature. Instead of portraying them as morally grey, he turned them into one-note characters, with one representing good and the other evil. Victor is shown to be a typical ‘mad scientist’ who cares about nothing other than his experiment, rather than a young naïve man who, despite his flaws, cares deeply for his friends and family. Similarly, in the film, the Creature is not a murderous fiend who kills Victor’s loved ones, but an innocent, benevolent being. Meanwhile, in the novel, while the creature is innocent at the start of the novel, the trauma his mistreatment had inflicted upon him eventually drives him to vengeful murder, leading him to become as evil as Victor. His violence and anger is a product of the abuse he endures and the knowledge that he is destined to be feared and abandoned by everyone around him, including his own creator. As much as I adored seeing the Creature depicted as an intelligent being rather than a brainless monster, del Toro leaned too much into solely showing the Creature’s positive traits, consequently ridding him of the complexity which makes him such an interesting character. By depicting  him as innocent throughout the film, del Toro stripped away the most important part of the Creature’s development. 

One of the main things I have learned in every english and creative writing course that I have taken is that one should strive to show, not tell, so that the audience can interpret stories for themselves. Rather than trusting the viewers of this film to independently analyze its themes, del Toro hit them over the head with the original story’s themes. For instance, Victor accidentally shoots his brother, William, who tells Victor in his final moments that “[he is] the monster.” Though I agree that Victor is a monster of sorts, this scene broke the illusion that I was watching a film. I could no longer examine Victor’s character for myself because rather than allowing the viewer to analyze the scene in their own way as Shelley did in the novel, del Toro was directly telling the audience how we were supposed to feel about Victor. Though the film attempts to emulate Shelley’s work, it falls flat at times like these, when viewers are deprived of the chance to apply their own meaning to the scene, as del Toro’s intended meaning is thrust upon them. 

Another scene that reflects this sentiment is, when Victor, on his deathbed, reunites with the Creature  and they forgive each other. In the scene, Victor extends an olive branch by looking directly at the Creature and calling him “[his] son.” Though this was meant to be a vulnerable moment of reconciliation, it made me cringe in the theatre. Once again del Toro was explicitly shoving the story’s themes down his audiences’ throat without providing them the space to come to conclusions about it themselves. Victor and the Creature taking on a (very toxic and abusive) father/son relationship is apparent in the film, so having the characters explicitly make reference to it felt unrealistic and ultimately cheapened the moment. 

This abovementioned ending as a whole rubbed me the wrong way, because it deviated too much from the source material. While the purpose of an adaptation is to show a different side to a particular story, the ending of this film deviated too much from the story’s original message. For one, Shelley’s novel is a cautionary tale against playing God and attempting to manipulate forces beyond one’s control. Her story ends with Victor dying and the Creature running off after insinuating an imminent suicide attempt due to his self-hatred. As grim as the ending is, it is ultimately a realistic conclusion to a story filled with tragedy, murder, and grief and exemplifies why not all stories need a happy ending. Forced resolutions not only feel out of place, but, in cases such as this story, they risk undermining the rest of the plot’s build-up, events and desired atmosphere. 

Despite the many issues I had with this film, I do believe that it is still one of the most accurate screen adaptations of Shelley’s story due to the inclusion of characters such as Captain Robert Walton, who introduces us to Victor and is integral to the telling of his story. The film is also a good gateway to learning about the original story, as although it alters many details from the novel, it does retain the key concepts and supports Shelley’s vision, thereby allowing audiences to easily transition from the film to the novel without having to worry about being lost or confused. I encourage people to see this film if they’re interested in the world of Frankenstein and I hope that through this experience, they will be encouraged to read the novel and discover the origin of this famous and pertinent tale. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Except Metal Shop Masters has a key element that distinguishes it from all other such shows. Like the youngest child on Passover, let us ask: how is this show different from all other shows?

It’s bad, and I don’t say that lightly.

I am an avid reality competition show enjoyer, to the misery of my loved ones. I will watch literally any series that pits two or more strangers against each other. But I will not watch even one more episode of Metal Shop Masters.

Other art-as-competition shows on Netflix have raised the question of how to judge artistic creations in a fair, equitable way. Competitive glassblowing show Blown Away, also a Netflix Original, dances around the question, loosely defining art as something that looks nice, is meaningful, and is technically sophisticated enough to be more than a gift-shop collectible. Metal Shop Masters takes the bold way out by refusing to define anything at all.

Even the rules – those sacred instructions by which each contestant is fairly judged – aren’t clear to the contestants themselves. In the very first episode, not one but two metalworkers are forced to completely restart their projects well into the challenge’s hours-long runtime.

“Wait, what?” you might be asking, “Why? How?”

Unlike rags-to-riches shows like Great British Bake off or Glow Up, many of the contestants on Metal Shop Masters are established, respected metal artists. This is a must – metalworking can be extremely dangerous, and injuries on set are the last thing Netflix wants.

Prior to filming the first episode, each metalworker is given the same prompt and allowed to plan a design and fabricate their own pieces ahead of the show. The only rules, as the judges emphasize in the introduction, are no prefabricated pieces – you can only bring metal you shaped yourself – and no soldering ahead of time – you need to assemble your creation in the studio shop.

The first contestant who is forced to restart is a young, single mom handcrafting a set of working wings attached to a flowing metal dress. Her name is Rae Ripple, and she has accidentally broken one of the rules in the first round. As the judges wander from artist to artist grabbing soundbites – a tradition across Netflix competition shows – they notice an issue with her pieces. Many of the component parts had already been soldered together at home.

Pulling the contestant aside, both judges apprehensively explain, hours into the limited time of the challenge, that she will have to disconnect every single piece she has brought before re-soldering them together one by one. In the face of such a crushing setback, the contestant’s grit and determination are outstanding.

As the judges look on like troubled parents, the viewer can’t help but ask more questions. Questions like, “Hey guys, how did you let this happen?”

Each contestant’s metal pieces are stored in wooden crates decorated with their names. Did the producers not check all of the crates out beforehand? How did the judges only catch this mistake well into the challenge’s time limit? This can’t help but make the viewer wonder: how unclear were the original instructions the contestants received?

With the unfortunate contestant left to desperately unmake her best work, the exceptionally uncharismatic host tries to distract us from this bizarre and uncomfortable situation. But lightning has struck twice — another contestant’s metal components are flagged by the judges.

This contestant named Seven is a self-proclaimed “salvage” artist, using recycled materials to create beautiful art with less waste. “Great!” you say, “That’s a unique artistic strategy!”

But no. No, it’s not. Because the thing Seven, and everyone else on this cursed show, has forgotten about is that recycled materials are inherently prefabricated.

Because they broke the first and cardinal rule by virtue of simply doing the kind of art they are known for doing, Seven is forced to set aside almost all of their metal pieces. They are now working with scraps of scraps.

This is bad enough, but it gets worse!

The art they intended to make was a towering outstretched hand clenched in a fist, with a small compartment in its palm. Inside, Seven intended to place their intentions and reminders of their power and resilience as a Black person. After they are stripped of their primary materials for creating art, Seven still manages to create a smaller, sadder version of the powerful statement they intended with their original piece.

The panel of all-white judges solemnly acknowledges the meaning of their piece, and after an unceremonious round of judging, Seven becomes the first to leave the titular Metal Shop.

There is so much to question about this single moment. Seven is the second person to break a rule, but the only one whose style of artistic creation fundamentally opposed that rule in the first place. Why were they invited on the show, if the show’s rules forbid the use of prefabricated materials?

By eliminating them in the first episode, Metal Shop Masters overlooked the glaring inequities inherent in how they enforce and inform the rules of their own show. Seven got kicked off because they were unable to make something good enough out of the tiny scraps of their primary materials, which were — like the other contestants’ — presumably checked prior to filming.

Did Metal Shop Masters deliberately allow two contestants to keep illegal materials to heighten the drama of it all? Did they simply not think about the consequences of hitting a young single mother and the only Black queer person on the show with two spiked curveballs in the show’s first episode?Frankly, the world may never know. All that we’re left with is a sense that perhaps acknowledging artistic preferences, focusing on technical prowess, and highlighting the professional qualities that can define success and failure in the world of metalworking were just too difficult for Metal Shop Masters to tackle. Artificial, unfair tension should work just fine!

The post A Guided Tour Through Episode One of ‘Metal Shop Masters’ appeared first on The McGill Daily.

Bill is filmed doing the Nazi salute when punctuating the word “fascism” during an absurdism lecture – the students have begun filming following a few tame quips from the Professor regarding alcohol and marijuana. The moment feels overly convenient, written in to allow for Bill’s offence to be caught on camera. The plot point may be indicative of a lack of young voices in the writer’s room, who could have provided clarity about the real nature of current classroom environments where it’s unlikely that so many students would be filming such an initially minor event at once. Moreover, the accusation against Bill is “neither compellingly realistic […] nor outrageously parodic” – it’s something there just isn’t time for in a series that runs only three hours long.

This subplot does somewhat re-centre Ji-Yoon’s narrative: it highlights the burden on women, particularly on women of colour, to clean up the white man’s mess. However, it’s ultimately a distraction from the more compelling plot line of Yaz’s battle for tenure, which is constantly obstructed by the interests of donors and older men in the field. The Chair would have been a more compelling series had this subplot been given more time and attention, and it’s a real shame that this plot line is not followed in more depth given the all-too common nature of the story in the real world. Yaz’s story also feels derailed by Bill’s blunders, where student voices are delegitimized and portrayed as overly woke – a disappointing generalization when these are the same students fighting in support of Yaz’s battles with administration.

It’s worthwhile still to consider the merits of the show aside from this subplot. As always, Sandra Oh is a beacon in the cast, shining as the lead, and complemented well by the equally talented Nana Mensah in the role of Yaz. In commenting on their characters, Oh expressed the importance of the characters’ intertwining plot lines: “One of the things I’m very proud of about the show is that you’re seeing two women of colour, of different colours, actually really speaking.” This is definitely one aspect of the show that is highly successful: Yaz and Ji-Yoon’s experiences as women of colour in academia are platformed in a way that has perhaps never been done so deftly before.

The show serves as a relatable narrative to individuals whose own narratives are not often so well represented on screen, particularly in the fraught relationship between Ji-Yoon and her adoptive daughter, who has a great deal of struggle in her own identity. Moreover, the storyline does seek to empower, dealing with stories at the intersection of race, gender and class. As Oh notes, these intersections make this a crucial story to tell: “With all those plates spinning, millions of people and millions of women are doing the exact same thing 24/7.”

Ultimately, though, Bill’s subplot detracts from the focus on these stories. It feels like it’s pandering to “cancel culture critics who think white men are being forced to apologize for things they didn’t do,” and makes the show feel timid in its writing, not daring to dive into more serious conversations of on-campus life. The students are depicted as overly accusatory foolish young people, who know nothing about the accusations they claim and are oddly unclear in their requests for a resolution, which is a betrayal to the more serious plot lines in which these same students play a pivotal role. Though this is disappointing, the show is otherwise well-made, phenomenally acted, and full of potential in its dissection of outdated and discriminatory academic practices, giving viewers hope for more cutting plot lines and less lazy writing should it be renewed for a second season.

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Released on December 25 2020, Bridgerton is a series decked out in tulle and anxiety about finding a husband in Regency-era London before the end of the social season. Despite the endlessly bingeable gentry drama and schemes to attract suitors, Bridgerton lacks an understanding of consent and racial dynamics. These problems effectively taint the series’ escapist purpose, leaving viewers more troubled than entertained.

Bridgerton is based on an eight-book romance series by Julia Quinn, and it was written and created by Chris Van Dusen and produced by the iconic Shonda Rhimes. The series is a socialite drama filled with eligible bachelors and young ladies all vying for one thing: marriage. The first season focuses mainly on the first instalment of the book series, The Duke and I, which follows the tempestuous romance between the demure Daphne Bridgerton (Phoebe Dynevor) and the dark and stormy Duke of Hastings (Regé-Jean Page). 

As Lady Daphne navigates her second season in the ton (le bon ton was the colloquial name for British high society in late Regency-era London, translated to mean “good manners”), the dashing Duke returns from his years-long travels abroad after the death of his father. The Duke and Daphne’s chemistry is so magnetic that they crash into each other at a ball, and so the enemies-to-lovers tale begins. In a predictable turn of events, they couple up so that Daphne can attract jealous suitors with the charming Duke by her side, and so that he can keep young socialites and their clawing mothers at bay. 

The show is essentially eight hours of romance literature you could find at your local airport. There’s romance, there’s raunch, and just when you think Lady Daphne and the Duke of Hastings are headed for Splitsville, they return to each other, because of course love conquers all. In a time where all we do is wander around in our sweatpants, a couple of hours in this world of pomp and circumstance is a nice change of pace. Beyond the fact that Bridgerton is set in the late-seventeenth and early eighteenth century, the dancing, the schmoozing, and the being all-dolled-up-in-public feel unfamiliar to homebound viewers. 

But the series’ escapist world also raises concerns about consent and racial representation, which distracts viewers from the glitzy romance that the show tries so hard to focus on. One of Bridgerton’s standout features is that it includes a racially diverse cast within an aristocratic society, a social class that is historically hallmarked by white homogeneity. Yet, critics have accused the writers of Bridgerton of glossing over the rampant racism present in the time period it represents, and of only burdening its Black characters with an awareness of racism. 

The Duke of Hastings and his mentor, Lady Danbury, have several conversations referencing “us” versus “them,” and how they must conduct themselves in this new world. Meanwhile, the white characters of Bridgerton prance around looking for their ideal mates, without ever speaking about race. The presence of Black characters amid the upper echelons of London society is explained by the fact that the leader of the ton, Queen Charlotte, has recently decreed that Black people can now become members of the gentry. Bridgerton makes this attempt to sidestep the issue of race, and fails; the majority of villains in Bridgerton are Black, and white characters monopolize almost all the speaking roles. Though Bridgerton contorts itself as a colour-blind show, it’s hard to escape the fundamental truth that the society it parallels was created because of slavery and oppression. 

Equally disturbing is the attitude Bridgerton presents towards consent. Once the Duke and Daphne marry, the show mainly focuses on her lack of sexual education, as well as the Duke’s refusal to have children. The show goes even so far as to include a scene where Daphne sexually assaults the Duke. This act is effectively never resolved, and the couple lives happily ever after. Bridgerton’s final episodes cast a shadow over the entire season, complicating a series that tries so hard to provide viewers with a break from reality. Though the series presents itself as a light-weight fantasy, the way it contends with issues of race and consent never reaches any semblance of a conclusion. 

Despite the backlash, Netflix has announced that Bridgerton has been renewed for a second season, and production for the show will start this spring. The endless content factory whirrs away, the series only a cog in a machine meant to distract from the world around us. It seems Bridgerton doesn’t remove us from reality at all, instead gesturing clumsily toward systemic issues. The show can’t help but pop its own bubble of whirlwind romance and Regency-era finery.

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I’m a sucker for a female-centered coming of age comedy, especially one of the raunchier variety. In high school, I mined movies and TV shows for scenes where young women expressed their sexuality through self-pleasure; seeing these instances enacted on screen made me feel less guilty about what I was figuring out myself. Karen Maine’s semi-autobiographical indie comedy Yes, God, Yes is the answer to my teenage prayers. The film allows its protagonist to explore her sexuality in a refreshing and honest way, and its message is ultimately comforting: it’s okay to feel turned on. 

Set in the early 2000s, the film follows 16-year old Alice (Natalia Dyer) who attends a four-day religious retreat led by her Midwestern Catholic high school, in order to rehabilitate her social reputation. A rumour about Alice has begun to circulate; students are saying that she had sex with her classmate, and although she didn’t, she hasn’t not thought about doing it. To ease her private guilt about her impure impulses, Alice decides to go on this trip, where she is lectured by her peers and instructors on the sins of the flesh. 

It’s during one of these lectures that Alice’s retreat leader, Father Murphy (Timothy Simons), states that “Guys are like microwave ovens, and girls are like conventional ovens. Guys only need a few seconds like a microwave to get switched on. While ladies, they need to preheat for a while.” This metaphor will be referenced again when a boy berates Alice for giving him a boner during a makeout session (“You turned me on like a microwave!”). Throughout the film, Alice is blamed for the sexual deviance of the men around her, while also not allowed to have her own desires. Women are so often socialized to feel guilty about their sexuality, and are misunderstood by the institutions they’re entrenched in. A rarity in the world of provocative coming of age films, which so often focus on teenage boys’ sexual exploits, Yes, God, Yes doesn’t shy away from pointing out sexual double standards; we see Alice begin to understand that her male peers get away with the same actions she gets punished for. 

One notable aspect of the film is its minimal use of dialogue. Dyer’s performance is predominantly conveyed through her facial expressions; her emotive glances and stares relay both curiosity and naivete – Alice is eager to learn about sex, but is also ashamed that she thinks about it. The film’s focus on her gaze points to the constant state of surveillance that she and her peers find themselves in, as well as her frequent discoveries of her peers performing clandestine acts. In the film’s most intimate scene, Alice discovers the vibration setting on her Nokia cell phone in her retreat-allocated bedroom. She slowly places the phone in between her legs and starts masturbating, and the camera switches from a close up of her face to a shot of a large crucifix on the wall. Alice not only feels like she is being watched by her peers and instructors, but also by God – and as viewers of the film, we participate in that surveillance.

By the end of the retreat, Alice has an awakening of sorts, only not a spiritual one. With the help of the owner (Susan Blackwell) of a bar that she escapes to beyond the confines of the retreat, Alice understands that her desires and feelings are normal – she’s not a sinner, she’s just a teenager. With this newfound perspective, she returns home and masturbates to a steamy scene from Titanic without remorse. The film ends without a clear idea of what’s next for Alice, but it leaves her feeling more empowered and in control than she felt at the beginning of the story. Yes, God, Yes won’t relieve viewers of our awkward teenage memories, but it might make us feel less guilty about them.

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The Queen’s Gambit premiered on Friday October 23rd to universal acclaim – the series scores a rare 100% on Rotten Tomatoes, and it has been praised by Netflix audiences and the global chess community alike. The project is director Scott Frank’s second limited series at Netflix, and it adapts Walter Tevis’ novel of the same name. Much of the series’ success is due to Netflix’s investment in specialized consultants; chess experts Garry Kasparov and Bruce Pandolfini both worked on the show, and they helped create a depiction of chess that felt masterfully authentic. Kasparov, a child chess prodigy himself, imbued his personal experience and career trajectory into Beth’s journey, which gave more depth and nuance to her character. 

This sense of realism is also present in the series’ portrayal of addiction. The children at Beth’s orphanage are given one tranquilizer per day, and Beth learns to hoard and abuse the pills once she realizes they enhance her spatial reasoning. The viewer understands through a series of flashbacks to traumatic moments in Beth’s life that the tranquilizers help dull her sensitivities to the real world. The first episode, “Openings,” introduces Beth’s developing addiction, and the passing of legislation that removes her access to these pills. The seven hour-long episodes allow for a broad level of exposition, which creates a highly cinematic experience. 

The Queen’s Gambit follows Beth through different stages of her life, and Taylor-Joy brilliantly conveys the passing of time through her characterisation and changing physicality. In an interview with Netflix, the actress indicates that, “when [Beth] is fifteen, she waddles. She walks with flat feet, she fidgets a lot. She doesn’t have a lot of control over her facial expressions.” Taylor-Joy portrays Beth’s growing confidence in her skills by progressively altering her expression from beady-eyed to Beth’s final steely gaze. Her growth and character development is emphasized by the show’s excellent hair and makeup design, spearheaded by Daniel Parker. As Beth ages through the 1940s to the 1960s, her hair loosens up to reflect her increasing self-assuredness.

Despite its intimate depiction of Beth, the show falters in its characterization of certain secondary characters, most notably in Beth’s childhood friend Jolene (Moses Ingram). Jolene, who is Black, is relegated to the role of “best friend” – as critic Bethonie Butler writes in the Washington Post, “the show blunders when it comes to Beth’s childhood friend, whose backstory and character development are so limited that she seems to exist merely to make Beth’s life easier.” While the audience gets to see her succeed as a paralegal with hopes of going to law school, the series devotes little time to the exploration of Jolene’s backstory, even though she remains a significant presence in Beth’s life. This is disappointing, as Jolene is one of the show’s most compelling characters. 

Overall, The Queen’s Gambit is another excellent Netflix original, and it has rightfully become one of the streaming service’s most successful miniseries. Though not without its faults, Scott Frank’s accomplished exploration of chess, addiction and a woman’s coming-of-age experience is thoughtful and filled with complex characters and meticulous attention to detail. The series will undoubtedly appeal to a variety of viewers. 

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Currently, commercial radio and television face varying requirements in terms of playing Canadian content. 35 per cent of popular music content on commercial radio must be Canadian, while for television broadcasters the requirement is 55 per cent. New media outlets, however, put this system in question. When the CRTC recently requested access to Netflix’s information, it received a clear no, sparking a debate among Canadian cultural commentators. The question at the core of this dispute has been the ability of a government regulator to ensure a minimum level of Canadian content in Canada. But is this goal still valid in 2015 – does Canadian content even merit protection?

Canada’s Broadcasting Act sets out the CRTC’s mandate as “serv[ing] to safeguard, enrich and strengthen the cultural, political, social and economic fabric of Canada” while also “encourag[ing] the development of Canadian expression […] that reflects Canadian attitudes, opinions, ideas, values and artistic creativity.”

Although these goals might appear admirable at first glance, underneath the fluffy language, not much is actually being said. What are the Canadian “attitudes, opinions, [and] ideas” in question, and who gets to define them? Broad themes of being overly polite and non-confrontational, such as those depicted in Canadian ‘classics’ like Little Mosque On The Prairie undoubtedly look nice on screen, but in reality present little of the critical self-reflection that Canadian content in a democratic society should provide. When the Minister of Justice conflates terrorism with ‘culture,’ folksy sitcoms on Canadian diversity run threadbare.

It’s only sensible that Netflix should be obliged to give back to the society that it so readily profits from.

The best screen content coming out of Canada is often independent, usually avoiding stereotypical Canadian narratives to tell stories that run deeper. These narratives comes from outside of the large networks. Quebec is a hotbed for such successful, creative content: 19-2, 30 Vies or productions by Xavier Dolan, Denis Villeneuve, and Denys Arcand to name a few. These widespread films have gained critical acclaim in Canada and abroad for their evocative and critical portrayals of Canadians and Canadian life.

To say that English Canada lacks good filmmakers is nonsense: local films like My Winnipeg or short films like The Chaperone similarly shape our perceptions of what we think of as ‘Canadian.’ Rather, what’s clear is the lack of investment in local productions, as opposed to attempts at bland mainstream shows like the new CBC sitcom Schitt’s Creek.

The advent of the internet has, in many ways, been a huge help to local works, as new media provides more accessible avenues to produce and distribute content. When Netflix argued that it need not subject itself to CRTC oversight for online video broadcasting – as it did this past fall before a CRTC commission hearing – its words rang hollow. With millions of Canadians using Netflix, a company that doesn’t pay a dime in HST or GST or contribute to Canadian productions in any meaningful way, it is difficult to imagine that it is under no obligation to support local filmmakers and artists producing Canadian content. Online giants embody the same monopolistic qualities that the CRTC strives to regulate in terms of other service providers – it’s only sensible that Netflix should be obliged to give back to the society from which it so readily profits.

The best Canadian television content comes out of local directors and actors that receive little exposure on the larger media circuit run by the big networks. This is a mistake. One such example is Orphan Black, a sci-fi drama written, filmed, and produced in Toronto, as an example of high- quality television made in Canada and produced by BBC America.

The best Canadian television content comes out of local directors and actors that receive little exposure on the larger media circuit.

The investment in and development of shows like Orphan Black speaks to the quality of ‘made-in-Canada’ productions that the CRTC content restrictions indirectly facilitate. If they were to foster a space for Canadian productions, larger networks would gain this pool of talented filmmakers, directors, and producers to draw from. Protecting and supporting our local artists, screenwriters, and producers is a win-win situation, even for Netflix – the more quality content is produced, the more quality content Netflix has to distribute. Canadian networks may complain that they cannot afford to support locally-grown content in a competitive field of content providers, but the issue is a circular one: without exposure, Canadians are less likely to know what’s being created in their own backyards.

Ultimately, Netflix’s ability to provide Canadians with access to different media content is simply the next step in commercial broadcasting. The CRTC does not and should not constrain Netflix – this would be both overly restrictive and beyond the mandate of the CRTC itself, to facilitate, not control, Canadians’ access to online media. Rather, it’s the role of intermediaries like Netflix, Google, and large Canadian networks to invest in the type of local content that demarcates us in a globalized and intertwined world. These filmmakers’ stories provide alternative narratives; they show us parts of Canada that some of us might never otherwise know.

Individual Canadian viewers, of course, are the final arbitrators of what is considered worthy television to watch – American, Canadian, or the like. The protection of Canadian content should not constrain this selection process, but rather add to it with content that would not be generated otherwise. The current system needs to evolve to better capture the core of Canadian content – the local talent that is driving it forward. It’s seems only reasonable then, Netflix included, that we all do our part.

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