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Grief and bereavement are commonplace in clinical practice but have become a more pervasive issue because of the coronavirus 2019 pandemic. Consequently, the need for investigations, learning, and education about complicated grief and prolonged grief have been highlighted. Meanwhile, film-based teaching resources concerning grief care have been employed to complement curricula in medical education.
To explore how the grieving experience can be better communicated and mitigated, and explain how a film-based resource can be applied to improve the understanding of this issue.
We reviewed and analyzed the meaning and cause of complicated, prolonged, disenfranchised grief, as well as related experiences (e.g., survivor guilt) featured in selected films. We discussed the interpretation of these films with medical students and faculty, based on a previously described approach .
We recaptured the roles of empathic communications and resilience skills in grief care. They bring a sense of coherence (SOC) or meaning to life by prompting the sharing of grief experiences, helping to reconstruct and contextualize a person’s loss, and assuaging feelings of worthlessness and hopelessness. Incidentally, recent studies have suggested that complicated and prolonged grief involves alterations in brain functioning of the reward system.
This film-based approach utilizes vicarious experiences to better understand grief management. It allows the learner to more easily recognize that SOC, flexible situation-adjusted empathy, and the sharing of resources for improved communication to promote self-care are essential for patients, their families, as well as psychiatrists themselves.  Sondheimer, A. The life stories of children and adolescents. Acad Psychiatry. 2000:24(4):214–24.
This chapter examines contemporary and emerging developments in the literatures of the Civil War and Reconstruction. It argues that two particular genres have recently taken root: stories about people previously overlooked by mainstream accounts of the era; and stories that approach the Civil War and Reconstruction as a source of philosophical meaning. The chapter explores the major iterations of these burgeoning genres and documents their ongoing evolution in texts such as George Saunders’s Lincoln in the Bardo, Kasi Lemmons’s Harriet, Gary Ross’s Free State of Jones, and James McBride’s The Good Lord Bird.
The trial run of civil defence and the gas mask in September 1938 yielded several important lessons for the government. One was that it urgently needed to solve the absence of anti-gas protection for infants and toddlers, which it did by the time Britain entered the Second World War in September 1939. Until the outbreak of war, it continued to encounter resistance to these measures, and when war broke out, some conscientious objectors used their refusal to accept their gas masks as a sign of their commitment to oppose all war. As for the majority who accepted the mask as the gift of a benevolent state, the issue became whether or not they would follow instructions to carry them whenever they left their homes. The government soon came to see gas mask carrying not only as a mark of good morale, but also as indicating whether or not someone was being a good wartime citizen, willing to follow instructions in order to keep the entire civilian population safe. Mass Observation delegated respondents to survey who carried their masks, and they recorded these efforts as mapping onto attitudes towards the war effort. When the worst of the Battle of Britain had subsided with a decrease in devastating aerial attacks by April 1941, the government launched a concerted campaign, using posters, film, and staged gas mask drills to encourage the population to remember that “Hitler Will Give No Warning,” so everyone had to accept the obligation always to have a gas mask at the ready. Carrying and caring for the gas mask became a sign that you accepted your duty to participate in the war effort.
While rarely at the center of debates around censorship in the United States, horror narratives have been profoundly shaped by pressures to constrain their provocative and shocking nature. This chapter explores the history of censorship efforts by government agencies, media companies, and public organizations and the impact they have had on horror across all forms of media. Tracing these efforts across various media, including literature, comic books, motion pictures, radio, and television, this chapter details the various entities that have tried to constrain the horror genre and the ways horror has adapted to these changing conditions. Throughout this historical period, regulatory efforts have consistently sought to limit shocking imagery and as well as restrict the evocation of feelings of shock and horror. Examining this regulatory history gives insights into the dynamic and evolving public dialogue about the limits of social acceptance and how much transgression society can accept.
Chapter 1 compares two contemporary Argentine novels that deal with Nazism in allegorical ways. Patricio Pron’s El comienzo de la primavera establishes a dialogue between the German and Argentine post-dictatorship contexts. In doing so, Pron highlights the inevitable insufficiency of justice in relation to dictatorship crimes, or that which Brett Levinson calls ‘radical injustice’. The novel’s melancholic register and parallels between two distinct historical moments lend themselves to an examination with reference to Walter Benjamin’s theory of allegory. In Wakolda, Lucía Puenzo examines the activities of Josef Mengele in Argentina but, contrary to Pron, rejects parallels with events related to the dictatorship or post-dictatorship. Instead, she foregrounds the foundational reliance of the Argentine nation on forms of ‘immunization’ (Esposito) and ‘necropolitics’ (Mbembe): the exploitative labour of a racialized mass that are rhetorically and materially excluded from the benefits of being ‘Argentine’ in both the past and the present.
When the famously nationalistic Japanese author Hyakuta Naoki published his best-selling novel A Man Called Pirate (Kaizoku to yobareta otoko) in 2012, which subsequently became both a manga and a major film, he renewed interest in the midcentury oil baron Idemitsu Sazō, using him as the model for the novel's lead character. Hyakuta claims to have aimed to inspire the country, reeling from decades of slow growth as well as the 2011 tsunami and nuclear disaster, by featuring a visionary Japanese leader motivated primarily by love for his employees and his country. This article traces the efforts across these media to render Idemitsu as a credible character, particularly in dealing with his real-life family as well as his “family” of employees. It argues that the partial disappearance of the “real” Idemitsu in these versions of Hyakuta's novel allowed the production of a more believable one—made believable in part because of the essential Japanese values that he ostensibly represents, even as the constraints on these representations hint at fissures and tensions in contemporary political use of biographical fiction and film.
Don DeLillo's work is known for addressing certain topics in depth; among these are television and consumerism. Most articles focus their attention on White Noise; however, if one reads pretty much any work by DeLillo, mass media – newspapers, radio, television, film, the internet, in addition to the mass consumption and information overload that comes with them – will be present either as a major thematic concern or a steady, omniscient buzz in the background. For the handful of texts in which it is not, particularly those of the twenty-first century, their characters often retreat to almost uninhabited and occasionally downright inhospitable settings, making the near absence of technology all the more palpable. Written before the release of The Silence (2020), this chapter demonstrates how DeLillo’s body of work – from Americana (1970) to Zero K (2016) – documents how mass media since the mid-twentieth century has helped shape individual identity, culture, and history in the USA, as well as anticipating some of the dangers mass media man poses to contemporary society.
Don DeLillo’s novelistic imagination has been inspired by and intertwined with film. This chapter discusses the roles of film across many of DeLillo's novels, but also examines DeLillo's filmic approach to literature and narrative.
Julia Kristeva, who coined the term “intertextuality,” argues that because “any text is the absorption and transformation of another … poetic language is read as at least double.” DeLillo’s entire oeuvre is a lesson in dialogue, as his novels talk to each other, replaying critical themes and motifs; they converse with the culture. While the forms of his novels have spanned a panoply of genres, they focus on similar themes: fear of death, the dangers of consumerism and mass media, the vagaries of language and communication, the attraction of transcendence and the salvation of the ordinary, the tensions between the individual and the crowd, terrorists and artists, words and images, mind and body. A catalogue so extensive requires a conversation with philosophy, science, technology, religion, art, politics, literature, historiography, film, music, and finance, to name a few subjects. The noisy cacophony of intertextuality is both unsettling and productive, offering a permeability in the text that invites readers to participate in the creation of meaning and reminds us that history is constructed and ripe for reconsideration.
This chapter provides an overview of the application of competition law to workers in New Zealand. The chapter starts with a brief historical background to the relevant legislation regulating labour and competition, and then summarises the key provisions of the Commerce Act that apply to workers. It then specifically explores the application of competition law to collective action by independent contractors, focusing on the unusual legal position of film workers. New Zealand law in this area is currently in a state of transition. While the literature and case law is less developed than in other jurisdictions, there is draft legislation and a number of law reform proposals currently being considered by the Government. The chapter provides a brief survey of the proposed Screen Industry Workers Bill and the relevant law reform proposals being considered.
Lagos has undergone a cultural transformation in the last decade. Driven by its vast youth population, its creative industries, from art and design to music, film and fashion, are booming. Vogue magazine hails the city as West Africa’s cultural capital, and Nigeria’s music and entertainment industries stand to be its greatest export. And for this young generation of creatives, the Global North no longer resonates as the key tastemaker. As citizens of a boundless world they blend heritage with Western influences but remain deeply rooted in their African culture and express a growing confidence and pride in Africa and African identity.
Britten’s two early operas, Peter Grimes and The Rape of Lucretia, were collaborations with two very different librettists. Both were poets, but the first, Montagu Slater, was also a communist, a practised journalist, novelist, editor, and critic, a decade older than Britten, and he brought considerable scenario, playwriting, and theatrical experience to the project; the second, Ronald Duncan, also a playwright, was an anti-democratic pacifist, convinced of the power of poetic expression and of his value as a poet; he was more willing than Slater to adapt to Britten’s demands, but still had very decided ideas of his own. Britten abandoned Slater after Peter Grimes, despite its success, and The Rape of Lucretia proved the only opera he would write with Duncan. This essay provides a detailed biographical and critical outline of each writer’s work up to their collaboration with Britten, showing how their approaches to writing a libretto differed, what they contributed, and why Britten moved on to other writers for his subsequent operatic work.
The mid-1920s to the 1950s witnessed the uneasy imbrication of the rural, the peasantry, and women as symbols and subjects of the nation in the era of anti colonial and socialist movements in both India and China. This essay examines this rural/peasant/woman nexus within conflicting representations of the peasant woman as embodiment of the nation's past, present and future, to map a range of connected global political-aesthetic imaginations of Indian and Chinese nationhood. A close analysis of the convergence of three texts – Pearl Buck's novel, The Good Earth (1931), Katherine Mayo's polemic, Mother India (1927), and Indian director Mehboob Khan's re-staging and transformation of both in his 1957 film, Mother India – opens up to a wider set of entangled Indian and Chinese co-texts within an expanded space of global aesthetic circulation. Together, these texts reveal a contested history of representations of the rural, the peasantry, and women in projections of Indian and Chinese national becoming that, in the end, cannot be easily recuperated or consolidated within singular nation-state narratives.
Within contemporary Western gay communities, Alexander the Great is often championed as a hero and an inspirational figure – the ultimate high-status homosexual. This chapter explores the various ways in which he has been visualised within the gay community and its wider – more closeted – community. The chapter explores his literary image in the novels of Mary Renault, in stage musicals and pornography and in mainstream Hollywood cinema. The darker, anti-gay, reading of Alexander is also explored in the context of right-wing nationalism and the military.
In the defamatory stories about Raúl, storytellers relate an extravagant catalog of cruel “pranks” to which elites supposedly subjected Raúl for their own sadistic entertainment. In addition to satisfying audiences’ thirst for voyeuristic violence against a Black man, these scenes – full of lurid nudity, homosocial sexuality, and near-death experiences – cast him as hapless and devoid of will. Contemporaneous sources (1916–30) do show a marked degradation in visual and textual representations of Raúl – he becomes less “bat” or mysterious creature of the night, and more blood-sucking parasite, ridiculous clown, or punching-bag. I trace Raúl’s reduction to caricature to the 1916 comic strip “The Adventures of El Negro Raúl,” a hugely popular weekly publication in which a bumbling, hapless, and mistreated Raúl, rendered in blackface style, is the main character. Many more such portrayals would follow. Generations of storytellers who later recounted Raúl’s life, skipping over everything that made him extraordinary, looked at these sources and took them as evidence of the idea that Raúl was, in fact, a sorry buffoon. But they get the causation backward. It was the fanciful stories of degradation told in these texts and images that caused Raúl’s fame to sour, to become infamy. And the defamatory stories writers and artists told about Raúl narrowed his choices, forcing him to step into a complicated relationship with the young men of the city’s elite that often involved mistreatment (if not quite the sensational “pranks” related in later stories). The tenuous balancing act of Black celebrity, always challenging, became especially difficult to pull off after 1916, as a newly threatening form of blackness burst onto the national stage with momentous shifts in national politics – the election of the first president through universal male suffrage. The removal of an entrenched aristocracy from power, and the rise of “masses” considered “black” in their barbarism (if not their actual ancestry), made Raúl’s character – Black in both the racial and class senses of the word – a scapegoat and a useful object lesson in how not to be Argentine. Raúl’s alluring visibility morphed into punitive and risible hypervisibility, fed by broader social and cultural narratives – suspicion of panhandlers and vagrants during the economic depression, the maligning of social climbers in the era’s tangos, or an obsession with fallen celebrities in the sensationalist press – but especially by racial stories about specifically Black celebrities who soared too high and were destined to die in abject misery and oblivion.
Drawing on data from well-known actors in popular films and TV shows, this reference guide surveys the representation of accent in North American film and TV over eight decades. It analyzes the speech of 180 film and television performances from the 1930s to today, looking at how that speech has changed; how it reflects the regional backgrounds, gender, and ethnic ancestry of the actors; and how phonetic variation and change in the 'real world' have been both portrayed in, and possibly influenced by, film and television speech. It also clearly explains the technical concepts necessary for understanding the phonetic analysis of accents. Providing new insights into the role of language in the expression of North American cultural identity, this is essential reading for researchers and advanced students in linguistics, film, television and media studies, and North American studies, as well as the larger community interested in film and television.
Between 1900 and 1914, British cinema went through a boom period. Film exhibition began to move out of church halls and music halls into new, purpose-built theatrical venues, while a generation of British producers and directors began to build and consolidate Britain’s film industry. This chapter gives an account of the challenge posed to literature, and the resources created for it, by the increasing popularity, the spectacular novelty, and the technical impressiveness of this early cinema. It shows how the emerging institutions of early British film culture – its studios, its theatrical venues, its accompanying film criticism and popular press – contributed to a new cultural landscape in which literature and cinema, in their reciprocal shaping, engendered a powerful set of ideas about the nature of cultural modernity.
Ingmar Bergman's The Magic Flute is a film that not only represents a performance of Mozart's opera but also reflects on the experience it generates in the theatrical audience. The opera becomes the means through which Bergman explores the magic of theatrical illusion by displaying the artifice behind it. I examine the film's take on the representation of theatrical illusion from two perspectives. First, with reference to the famous sequence of the overture, I demonstrate the crucial role of the audience's imaginative engagement. Second, I zero in on Bergman's role as omniscient director who not only uncovers the artificiality of the theatrical source but also plays tricks with the film audience. Yet our observing the ‘constructed naturalness’ of the magic flute and Papageno or the theatricality of the Queen of the Night's performance does not hinder the film's ability to engage us. Rather, witnessing the workings of illusion strengthens its grip on us.
This chapter argues that, while Shakespeare was deployed in World War II Britain for propaganda purposes, references to the playwright or his works also exposed rifts or contradictions within the national culture he was called upon to embody. It focuses on three major media in which Shakespeare was performed, adapted, or appropriated: the theater, the radio, and the cinema. Whereas state intervention fostered the performance of Shakespearean drama throughout the nation, the BBC underwent dramatic changes that meant that, while Britain’s national poet remained central to its mission, he was also associated with an elitist model of broadcasting whose hegemony was overturned during the war years. As for film, wartime Shakespearean appropriations show that the playwright could trouble propaganda imperatives as well as support them. In sum, while Shakespeare was a cornerstone of British wartime nationalism, he additionally served as a register of cultural, regional, and social difference.
This chapter considers how, in six successful Shakespeare films, exclusively cinematic formal methods of depicting battle serve to interpret and transform the plays’ perspectives on warfare. Special emphasis is placed on the concept (and deployment) of dialectical montage first developed by Sergei Eisenstein in his seminal 1929 essay, “The Dramaturgy of Film Form.” Though Eisenstein’s relatively rigid theory of montage has been endlessly appropriated, expanded and, at times, openly rejected by filmmakers and scholars alike, it remains ground zero for realist cinematic treatments of warfare and a key of sorts for deciphering individual filmmakers’ ideological orientations to their subject matter. The chapter argues that even the least overtly political film adaptations of Shakespeare’s plays tend to reveal a certain preoccupation with the ethical, ideological, and, of course, hermeneutic implications of representing battle scenes in a medium that all but demands their representation.