*Whiplash spoilers ahead*

On Tuesday, Sept. 24, I was lucky enough to catch a 10th anniversary reissue of Damien Chazelle’s 2014 film “Whiplash” at AMC Boston Common 19. The film centers around Andrew Neiman, an aspiring jazz drummer who falls under the mentorship of the notorious Terrence Fletcher. I was thrilled by this movie when I watched it for the first time this summer, so naturally I jumped at the chance to see it on the big screen. Of course, watching a movie on a laptop doesn’t even come close to the experience of seeing it in a theater, reclined in a plush chair with snacks in hand. I find this especially true of reissues, where most audience members are already fans of the film. This was certainly the case in my theater, in which I felt a strong sense of camaraderie and even community with the other patrons. We laughed at J.K. Simmons’ iconic “not quite my tempo” line, air-drummed along with Miles Teller, and simultaneously sat up in our seats as the film’s climax began, a palpable tension falling over the room.

It’s no secret that “Whiplash” is an absolutely fantastic film –– it received nearly a hundred accolades after its release, including three Academy Awards. Simmons took home the Oscar for Best Supporting Actor, a well-deserved nod to his terrific performance as Terence Fletcher. Seeing his performance on the silver screen emphasized how incredibly terrifying he was as Fletcher, a wickedly cruel music instructor who becomes an aberrant mentor to Andrew Neiman, Teller’s character. The film excels in its intense subversion of the typical mentor-protégé trope (think “Good Will Hunting,” “Karate Kid” or “Dead Poets Society”) into something spine-chilling rather than heartwarming. 

Upon this most recent rewatch, I was struck by what seemed to be almost body horror elements of the plot. The film’s central theme is obsession, and the lengths to which one will go to become “the greatest.” Fletcher is undoubtedly an abusive figure, but Neiman fervently abides by his methods out of a belief that under Fletcher’s guidance, he can unlock his potential as one of the greatest jazz drummers of all time. Unfortunately, this comes at the expense of Neiman’s mental and physical well-being. Some of the most memorable and visceral scenes include close-up shots of blood dripping onto the drums, pouring out of bandaged hands from hours of exertion. 

At one point, Fletcher pits Neiman and two other drummers against one another to see who can “earn” the role of core drummer in his band. To do this, he holds the drummers and the rest of the band in rehearsal for five hours, demanding that they play at an inhumanly fast tempo. I felt a deep sense of physical discomfort watching the musicians push themselves to the absolute limit, vying for Fletcher’s acceptance as he berates them. At the scene’s climax, Neiman plays frantically while sweating, spitting, bleeding and nearly crying as Fletcher chucks a cowbell at his head, screams profanities and hurls a drum across the room. When Fletcher finally cuts him off, he simply tells Neiman, “You earned the part,” before instructing the two other drummers to clean Neiman’s blood off the kit. 

Body horror is a subgenre of horror that features graphic depictions of the destruction or degeneration of the human body. It incites fear by presenting the body in an abject form, as something grotesque. I would not say that “Whiplash” crosses this boundary –– it’s certainly more of a dramatic thriller. However, certain elements of the film incite fear by presenting the body (specifically Andrew Neiman’s) in a way quite reminiscent of body horror. “Whiplash” highlights the body’s gradual decline towards borderline abjection for the sake of greatness. 

One of the most striking scenes occurs when Neiman gets in a car accident while rushing to a competition, which severely injures him. Instead of going to a hospital, Neiman crawls out from under the wreckage and staggers toward the concert hall, determined to keep his hard-earned spot in the band. It’s an extremely harrowing sight to behold, watching a barely conscious man force himself to perform out of absolute desperation for success –– a desperation which is reflected by the state of his body. He is bloody, stumbling, and can barely even hold his drumsticks. In this sense, his body becomes a horrific object, reflecting the state of his psyche under Fletcher. This event proves to be his breaking point, as the scene culminates with Neiman physically attacking Fletcher on stage and getting kicked out of his school. 

Though it may not fully fall under the genre of body horror, “Whiplash” is an incredible and enthralling movie that grabs your attention in its opening moments and doesn’t let go until the credits roll. If you’re a person who enjoys being on the edge of your seat but isn’t necessarily into horror, this is certainly the movie for you.

Contact the editors responsible for this story: Norah Catlin, Ivy Buck

The Vanderbilt family’s seemingly endless railroad fortune meant that no expense was spared (champagne alone blew $1 million of the budget), and guests were expected to do the same for their attire. Though costumes ranged from vaguely historical to grotesque to racially questionable, the common denominator was the unabashed spectacle of decadence. It’s crucial to keep the historical context of the Vanderbilt Ball in mind and view the Ball’s costumes with an air of critical appreciation, striking a balance between appreciating the intricate artisan work, painstaking craftsmanship and sheer beauty of these elaborate costumes while also being critical of the tone-deaf lavishness, exploitation and wealth inequality woven into the fibers of these garments. 

Alice Claypoole Vanderbilt as “Electric Light”

(José Maria Mora, Mrs. Cornelius Vanderbilt as ‘Electric Light’ at the Vanderbilt Ball, 1883. New-York Historical Society Library.)

Worn by Alva Vanderbilt’s sister-in-law Alice Vanderbilt, this costume was designed by leading couturier Charles Frederic Worth. It paid tribute to the marvel of the electric lightbulb while also referencing the iconic pose of New York’s Statue of Liberty. It was first displayed in Manhattan’s Madison Square Park in 1876. Gold thread and silver tinsel were painstakingly embroidered by hand onto yellow satin in a lightning pattern, and, most remarkably for the era, a battery was sewn into the dress in order to light up her handheld torch. 

Alva Vanderbilt, though triumphant in her victory over Caroline Astor, was outshined by her sister-in-law Alice’s Electric Light costume, which almost certainly threw a damper on her celebratory mood.

Kate Fearing Strong as “Cat”

(Mora (b. 1849). Miss Kate Fearing Strong (later Mrs. Arthur Welman). 1883. Museum of the City of New York. F2012.58.1460.)

Just “Cat” was Kate Fearing Strong’s costume. It was completed with what The New York Times reported as “a stiffened white cat’s skin” on her head, an overskirt made of white cats’ tails, and a bodice with rows of white cat heads. What’s on her neck? A midnight blue choker with a bell dangling from the center and inscribed with “Puss,” allegedly a reference to the wearer’s nickname. 

Unidentified woman as “Goose” 

(A woman dressed as a goose at the Vanderbilt Ball, 1883. New-York Historical Society Library.)

Continuing on the taxidermized-animal-as-headwear train, an unidentified woman came dressed as “Goose,” which quite aptly sums up the look. 

Alva Vanderbilt as “Venetian Princess”

(José Maria Mora, Mrs. William K. Vanderbilt (Alva Murray Smith) as a Venetian Princess at the Vanderbilt Ball, 1883. New-York Historical Society Library.)

The hostess herself came as a “Venetian Princess,” based on a painting by Alexandre Cabanel. Her contemporaries at The New York Times described her dress as having striking hues of brocade from “the deepest orange to the lightest canary” and a light blue satin train with gold embroidery and lined in “Roman red.”  Her lavish gown was bedecked in colored gems, making her look like a “superb peacock.” 

Other costumes included “Persian Princess,” “Egyptian Princess,” “G*psy Queen,” and Christopher Columbus (terrifying, indeed).  Party guests stumbled home as late as 4 a.m. the following morning with aching feet and powdered wigs askew.  

As a senior at Wellesley, I lacked the voice to articulate my intersecting traumas, a reality that others on campuses across the country continue to face, given the pangs of social justice work and the prevalence of domestic violence.

As I reflect on the 20th anniversary of the film that divided Wellesley, I remember the dark dorm room and the cold administrative offices where I suffered, and also the lessons that year taught me about the toll of anti-racism work. At Wellesley, I learned how to be a strong woman who would “make a difference in the world.” But I also learned that fighting injustice and breaking glass ceilings leaves open cuts and vulnerable wounds. 

An abusive boyfriend was one of two battles that defined my senior year. I also co-led ETHOS when campus tensions exploded over a racist casting call after “Mona Lisa Smile” filmmakers announced they wanted student extras who were “not too tall and not too tan.” Many Black students felt hurt and excluded, especially since “too tan” or Black women actually attended Wellesley during the 1950s time period reflected in the film. 

The film’s attempt to erase us from the history of our own college, and administrators’ initial indifference, was enraging. It also wrecked my mental health and grades. I sometimes say that Mona Lisa Smile stole my Latin Honors, robbing me of study time as I attended meeting after meeting with administrators to advocate for inclusion. The concessions – to allow some Black students to serve as extras and others to work as production assistants – were hard-fought gains that took the advocacy of many.

Yet, the tense negotiations of these concessions accelerated a breakdown between students and administration, ultimately leading to a semester of protest, the exposure of longstanding racial grievances on campus, and appearances by two controversial speakers – Amiri Baraka and Phyllis Schlafly – who deepened racial tensions.

My voice was strong in President Diana Chapman Walsh’s office in Green Hall when I spoke out to protect my classmates from Hollywood’s anti-blackness and systemic injustices, but it was weak in that dark dorm room when I needed to protect myself. 

With my soul crushed from the weight of anti-racism work each day, there was little inner strength left to protect myself at night. The campus battles left me drained, making me easy prey for a tormented lover waiting to strike. 

Oppressions are often interlocking. Colorism, anti-Blackness, race-based traumatic stress and racial violence can erode self-confidence, making one more susceptible to domestic violence. Because liberation is a form of prevention, recognizing and challenging intersectional traumas fosters healing.

The shame that I felt from being “too Black” for Hollywood and too outspoken for Wellesley was part of the reason that I felt unworthy of healthy love. And, knowing the harsher treatment that Black men faced with campus police and the criminal justice system at large was a barrier to seeking help. 

The only time my public life and private life collided was in that philosophy class as we began our daily meditations. Each time I closed my eyes, I felt exposed. Years later, I often joked that I failed my college meditation course, never explaining why. I had no plans of revisiting the practice of meditation until I stumbled across the “Beyoncé Meditation” on Peloton. The guide invited me to join her in a “space of unconditional love.” Watching the ceiling, I listened closer.

   “Remind yourself how far you have traveled to this moment. The challenges, the obstacles: honor them,” she said.

  With that invitation, I drifted back to my days at Wellesley, but this time, instead of seeing the dorm room dungeon or Green Hall showdowns, I saw my 20-year-old self-fidgeting in that philosophy classroom, eyes wide open, fighting to avoid darkness. Shifting back to the present, my eyes burst open, and two decades of unprocessed trauma puddled on my neck and chest.

  In that moment, I realized that what I had long seen as my college failure was actually my determination to survive. Keeping my eyes open during those college meditations years ago was my soul’s way of shielding itself from the painful flashbacks of the intersecting battles that plagued my senior year. 

  I saw my college self full of pain, longing for protection. I reached across time and soothed 20-year-old me. I told her that earning a C in philosophy didn’t ruin her chance at grad school. I told her that she was a survivor. Although I initially resented those meditation sessions in Professor Adrian Piper’s philosophy class, meditation has now become a space where I can privately process both the remains of the day and the remnants of old pain. A place where I can give that 20-year-old who faced the double burden of domestic violence and anti-Blackness the grace I deserve. A place where I can whisper: you’re worthy; you’re safe; beloved, at ease.

Cathryn Stout, Ph.D. is a class of 2003 alum and a scholar of American cultural history.

“House, M.D.” is an American medical drama that ran between 2004 and 2012. The show centers around the series’ main character, Dr. Gregory House (Hugh Laurie), a misanthropic medical genius with a dependence on pain medication, who leads his team of diagnosticians to unveil the causes of their patient of the week’s mysterious illnesses, before it’s too late. 

Dr. House’s favorite justification and catchphrase, “Everybody lies,”, is all he needs to explain why he treats his patients with a rude bedside manner and offensive disdain. He not only berates his patients, but his fellows under him as well. House always shoots down their suggestions and clashes with his team over providing the right hypothesis for his patient’s ailments. This also results in him fighting as well as flirting with his boss and the hospital administrator, Dr. Lisa Cuddy (Lisa Edelstein), who reminds him of the legal and medical consequences of his experiments in his quest to find the right answer before it is too late. However, this doesn’t mean she stops him; Without fail, Cuddy allows House to proceed with his medical malpractice and even enables his addiction to his pain medication. House possesses only one true friend, the head of Oncology, Dr. James Wilson (Robert Sean Leonard), who, for some unknown reason, sticks with House through every predicament he gets himself into. House was even the reason behind two of Wilson’s three divorces. 

House gets to do what he wants and gets out of whatever trouble he is in because, despite all sorts of drawbacks like being investigated for drug abuse and the infinite amount of legal suits he deals with, he is unfortunately always right. Every episode (minus those that don’t feature the usual procedural structure) ends with House having some random epiphany, usually a throwaway line, and suddenly, he’s “That’s So Raven” and figures out the solution, regardless of whether he has evidence to prove that his patient has that particular ailment. Despite everyone’s protests to his questionable methods of gaining information on his patients, such as instructing his team to break into patients’ houses, they always follow through either to prove that he was wrong (which he never is) or because they believe he has to be onto something if it’s one of their last options in order to save their patients.  

As we all know, there is no way this man would be practicing medicine in real life nor do his solutions make sense at times, even to people like myself who have no medical knowledge.  A single shot of cortisol suddenly allowed the previously paralyzed man to get up from his wheelchair and have a surprise miracle? Absolutely not. But, damn, if it doesn’t make for a really good ending to an episode. “House, M.D.” is a ridiculous show, with even more ridiculous solutions, and in hindsight, problematic dialogue and decisions, but it does have its moments, with sincere discussions about disabilities, drug addiction and chronic pain. There is also depth to some of House’s relationships, especially with Wilson and Cuddy doing their best to slap him on the wrist while also putting a comforting hand on House’s shoulder. These themes, coupled with the show’s enticing outlandishness, is enough to hook a person to binge watch House, M.D. for hours at a time. I definitely recommend watching this show if that’s right up your alley, giving it a 10 out 10 in malpractice suits. 

The titular first track on the EP is definitely not a great example of subtlety, with immediate mentions of penguins, puffles and waddles. It’s also not a particularly great song, I must admit. It seems like it’s trying to play on the idea of listening to a DJ, which makes sense considering it was played every 20 minutes during the Make Your Mark: Ultimate Jam event within the game. While, according to the Club Penguin fandom wiki, this song was number one in the iTunes music store, let’s just say that it can only go uphill from this track. “Anchors Aweigh” is definitely a song I probably obsessed over when I was a kid — it’s that Disney pop with a hint of rock (read: electric guitar) that I would have thought was the coolest thing in the world. And honestly, it’s a silly song about being a pirate, so it’s infinitely better than Cadence’s track. However, I completely forgot this song existed so it’s ultimately nothing special. 

Now, “Ghosts Just Wanna Dance” — I know for a fact that I could not get enough of this song. Disney had that era of dance-y Halloween music, and this song lived in my head rent-free. I could almost certainly still sing along to most of it, and I can forgive the overly synthetic autotuning they give Cadence because 1) it was 2012, and 2) the song is catchy. Also, this is one of those songs about how the monsters are actually completely chill because they just want to vibe, so please stop screaming because you’re really distracting from the dance music, thank you very much. There’s a weird little pseudo-rap segment in the middle which I always block out of my memory because I hate it, though. “Cool in the Cold” is a generic pop duet about the joys of playing outside in the winter/Club Penguin, which was a novelty because Los Angeles winter doesn’t really happen in the way the song describes. “Puffle Party (Gotta Have a Wingman)” is another rap-esque song so I’d rather pretend it doesn’t exist. And, as a final track, “Dubstep Puffle” by Dubstep Puffle (innovative, I know) is a basic dubstep song without vocals, so nothing special.

There isn’t much to say about these songs — I and everyone reading this (probably) is not the target audience, and the songs aren’t particularly meant to be deep. What I can say about the music is that I still kind of like “Ghosts Just Wanna Dance” and I would probably prefer “Cool in the Cold” to some of the modern pop music because I’m stuck in the past with some of my music taste. But this isn’t just about the music. I like to play keeping some of the songs in my Spotify library off as a bit, and it mostly is, but it’s also a bit of nostalgia I can actually enjoy. Club Penguin was a game I spent hours on, mastering the rhythm game and obsessing over the secret agency B-plot (as much as you can have a B-plot when there’s not really even an A-plot), and I think that can resonate with at least a few other people. Unless your favorite genre is 2012 Disney pop or you’re roughly 11-years-old, I don’t think this album is for you, and it isn’t meant to be. But I think you should give a song or two a listen if you played the game in the past — you might be surprised by the memories that come flooding back.

The English version of “Ponyo” was released in 2009, and while I normally prefer subtitled versions whenever possible, I admit that I mostly watch the dubbed version (thanks YouTube). In my defense, Betty White voices Yoshie, so is it all that bad? Plus, I think my grandmother would simply refuse to watch it unless it was in English or Spanish, so sometimes we need to make do. The film heartachingly centers unconditional childhood love, making up for any dub vs. sub preferences.

Everything starts when a little red fish with a human face swims away from home to sunbathe. She’s interrupted and stuck in a glass jar, dredged up by a boat fishing trawler in a scene reminiscent of “Finding Nemo.” Enter the other main character: Sōsuke, a five-year-old boy. He saves the fish and names her Ponyo, all the while her father, Fujimoto, frantically tries to find and save her from humanity. This is what drives the story; Ponyo wants to stay with Sōsuke as a human and will defy her father with every ounce of magic in her being to do so, accidentally causing an imbalance in nature and resurrecting marine life from the Late Devonian period.

Hidden in the plot are some serious themes, such as the impact of pollution. From the beginning, Miyazaki boldly shows trash littering the ocean floor and terrorizing marine life. Yet, every scene has a sense of beauty to it, from cans and bottles carefully drawn in colored pencil and poster paint to sludge viscerally flowing around Fujimoto. Even now, when climate change and caring for the environment are so prevalent, these scenes are intensely relatable, a reminder of humanity’s past (and current) transgressions against Earth.

Ponyo and Sōsuke remind us of the hope newer generations bring, problem-solving in the face of environmental adversity and persevering through the sheer love of others. While Ponyo is a weird ass mermaid, the story still holds the classic elements of a “Little Mermaid” retelling — her mother, Gran Mamare, also referred to as a Goddess of Mercy in the film, even decides that Sōsuke should undergo a test to prove his love at the risk of Ponyo turning into seafoam if he fails. But, this isn’t even the most striking aspect of the film.

I may be biased as a trans person, but one of the most impactful parts of the film is the trans allegories, intentional or not. To start with, Ponyo’s name changes partway through the film, which she gets into an argument with her father over. She transitions from her magic fish self into a human child. The test Sōsuke undergoes involves him, quite literally, loving Ponyo as she is, highlighted when Gran Mamare asks him if he loves Ponyo even though he is aware that she transitioned into a human. While I don’t think Miyazaki intended for there to be this idea, chosen families are a hit within the queer and trans communities for good reason. The idea of being loved by those who have witnessed changes in identity is the dream for many trans and queer individuals. That is where this film shines — the sheer acceptance and love displayed in various forms in “Ponyo” provide catharsis.

This opportunity for catharsis is the reason I encourage everyone to watch this movie, even if they’ve already watched it as a child. Whether you’re excited about analyzing the overtones of climate change and rising sea levels or want to watch a loving mother-child relationship, there is something for you to enjoy. And, even if you aren’t interested in any of this or the stunning art, you can at least take in the absurdity of some of the design choices (again, there’s a weird ass mermaid and a funky little wizard that feels like David Bowie and gender envy).