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The air is cold and dry. We yawn, stretch tired limbs, and squint crusty–lidded eyes into the bleak sunlight as we trudge down Locust Walk to our 8:30 a.m. classes. It's another day we won’t touch grass or see green. Each week is an endless rotation of Pret coffee, Van Pelt, and classes we can’t stay awake for. It’s February at Penn.
It’s been three years since we last saw the inside of the Lumon office building, and, according to Mr. Milchick, the newly–promoted head of the severed floor, it’s been five months since Mark S., Helly R., Irving B., and Dylan G. have, too.
It’s not hyperbole to say that David Lynch changed my life. There are those precious few artists whose work hits you at precisely the right moment in your life that forever alter its course. Through the perfect combination of circumstance and substance, they literally expand your field of view. They show you what art can be, and immediately your life is never the same. David Lynch did that for me and for so many others.
When you think of a superhero movie, you are probably thinking of bright supersuits and dramatic action scenes with even more dramatic villains. In today’s Marvel Cinematic Universe, you probably think of snarky one–liners, less saturation than you would traditionally imagine, and a balancing act between gritty darkness and fun action. Perhaps after all this time, the movies and television shows sort of blur together with some standing out but most falling into a tapestry of mediocrity. We have been long overdue for a show that takes a new angle on a classic story.
I’m going to be honest, I almost fell for it too. Big Ridley Scott Haters almost got me.
In 2015, I entered Gershwin Theatre to see the musical Wicked. I was left captivated by the catchy music and the enthusiastic dances. Nine years after my first introduction to the Broadway show, I returned to one of my favorite musicals … in movie form.
Content warning: This article contains mentions of rape and sexual harassment that can be disturbing and/or triggering for some readers.
I was raised in a typical suburban, Jewish family. Hebrew school once a week, Shabbat dinners Friday night, never setting foot in a synagogue if it wasn’t a high holiday, the usual. That fact isn’t usually that relevant to the movies I write about, but this week it is.
In late fall, the two of us got on the train to our hometown—New York. As arts and culture reporters, and as 18–year residents of the greatest city in the world (sorry, Philadelphia), we were hungry to sink our teeth into the best the New York Film Festival had to offer. Official press badges in hand and pencils poised for note–taking, we filtered into Lincoln Center, and found ourselves watching a series of stories about what it means to retain identity during the rise of far–right influence.
I sat in the Cinemark University City Penn 6 with my boyfriend waiting for our 9:40 p.m. screening of The Wild Robot to start. Our only other option this late was Smile 2, but we weren’t in the mood for anything too heavy. Our middling expectations for The Wild Robot were set by a decent 30–second teaser and the vague knowledge that Kit Connor (the heartthrob from Heartstopper) would be doing an American accent. We went into the film essentially blind, seeking mere childlike wonder and excitement.
The cozy, home–like atmosphere of Kelly Writers House, reminiscent of idealized 1950s movie living rooms, provided the perfect setting for a visit from one of the most outstanding creative media executives of the 21st century, Rob Sharenow. He serves as the president of programming for A+E Networks, overseeing all creative development and production for their brands. A writer, artist, cultural explorer, and businessman, Sharenow came to share his insights on failure and success in the entertainment industry. “Speaking about failures is a way to see things holistically,” he emphasized early in the evening, setting the tone for what became the event’s unofficial motto.
As I was relaxing in my dorm room and scrolling on Netflix at the beginning of the month, the warm orange hues and retro font of the Woman of the Hour banner caught my attention. Despite not being a big fan of psychological thriller movies, I’ve always loved reading psychological thriller novels. Endless nights of turning pages, afraid to go to sleep. The pages’ words infiltrated my brain and created paranoia that can only be described as a sinking feeling. I was filled with curiosity surrounding the film and clicked play.
Every fall, the air becomes crisp and the leaves turn from green to shades of red and yellow. Pumpkin and apple pie spices begin to waft through homes, and chunky sweaters start to appear on individuals walking down Locust Walk. During the fall, many gather under their warm, fuzzy blankets and turn on Netflix to reunite with characters of a small town in Connecticut. What show are they watching? Gilmore Girls.
Sexuality: society loves to package it, police it, profit off it, and then pretend it’s too taboo to talk about.
Korean horror cinema is a beautiful sickness. It contains that slow, creeping dread that nestles in your bones, a shadow that won’t leave even after you turn on the lights. It doesn’t just haunt; it stains, sinking under the skin, warping everything familiar into something chillingly wrong.
Who is Mavis Beacon?
Dystopian novels captivated us in the 2010s. Books like Divergent, The Maze Runner, and, of course, The Hunger Games, seemed to whisper warnings about the state of our world. There’s a reason why this genre resonates. Dystopian stories aren’t just about bleak futures—they eerily predict and amplify our anxieties about the world to come. As issues in our society shift and intensify, these narratives grow too, evolving to reflect the fears of each new generation.
How many actresses need their own Cinderella story before the narrative becomes overdone? At this point, everyone and their mother has seen a Cinderella adaptation; and as clever as some of these filmmakers think they are, their homages to Grimm’s fable are never really all that subtle (although many aren’t trying to be, and that’s okay, too). Cinderella’s plight represents the all but futile idea that you can achieve the American dream entirely separately from the system that makes it so difficult; a golden individual who maintains a fiercely humble set of morals yet still in the end attains all of the benefits enjoyed by the top percentile of a capitalist society. Throw a storybook romance in there too and how could it not be alluring?
I still remember when Lil Uzi Vert first dropped Eternal Atake. It was the week before COVID–19 lockdowns, and I was a freshman in high school walking to my world history class when suddenly, everybody went rabid. The outer–space, alien–themed album had been delayed, hyped up, and mourned over for nearly two years before it was finally released with zero warning. As a student in the Philadelphia school district, a part of Uzi’s hometown, it’s safe to say that it was all anyone could talk about or listen to that day.
The familiar old Cinemark seats and nachos with Diet Coke, backtracked by endless trailers for movies we’ll probably forget about by the time they release in a year or two. But, we’ve been waiting for the Joker sequel ever since the first whispers about it emerged back in 2019. Surely, you remember the debates on social media about who would make a better Harley Quinn: Margot Robbie or Lady Gaga.
Solutions by The State News