The Hunger Games movies were sometimes good, actually
By: Mikaela Collins
I know it’s not cool to love The Hunger Games movies anymore, but when I think about good sound design, I often think about the cornucopia scene from the first film. It’s a bloodbath where weaker characters are desperately scrambling for supplies and weapons from the stockpile, while the stronger tributes pick them off as they come. At the beginning of the scene there are 24 tributes — at the end, only 12 remain, and the action is visceral: hacking, slashing, screaming, gurgling. But we don’t hear any of it.
The in-world sounds are completely muted except for those that come from the Capitol’s machinery, and all we get is the ringing, painful tone of the buzzer, a metronome, and a frantic violin that matches Katniss’s heartbeat until she escapes into the cover of the woods. There, the score continues, mingled with the sound of rustling leaves and heavy breathing, and gradually fades. Not only does it set the pace of the scene and put us in Katniss’s head, but it heightens the surrealism of a bunch of kids killing each other in the woods for entertainment — when the Hunger Games franchise remembered that it was supposed to be critiquing the Capitol, not copying it. (Capitol-themed eyeshadow palette and absurdly expensive Target clothing line, I’m looking at you). It actually did so in some interesting ways, especially in the first movie.
Where has all the candy gone?
By: Chandy Dancey
I thought that when Halloween rolled around there would be plenty of discounted candy for the older folk who want a deal, but never have I been so disappointed. Not only was leftover candy hard to find amidst all the Christmas-themed merchandise, but there was basically nothing left at several stores I went to. (I’m talking only one to two bags of second-rate candy.) I was even wandering the aisles with other customers who were also looking for the discount candy to no avail. Maybe stores have calculated precisely how much stock they need to run out on Halloween? Maybe families came earlier and wiped most of the stores out? Regardless, my disappointment is immeasurable. All I ask on All Hallows’ Eve is to stay inside with movies, loved ones, and discounted piles of candy, and yet the grocery stores deny me this simple joy. The corporate chain keeps churning, and I probably won’t be able to find any discount goodies after Christmas either.
If you say Burton three times, a white dude will appear
By: Darien Johnsen
This All Hallows’ Eve I engaged in an age-old tradition — one that I’ve participated in since my first Halloween of memory: watching Beetlejuice on Halloween night. But this year it held a sour aftertaste, and it wasn’t from all the vodka slimes I was drinking, either.
The dilemma I have is Tim Burton’s racism. With Black Lives Matter in full swing this year, both internalized and overt forms of racism are being called out. But, for Burton it doesn’t seem to be as simple as owning up to problematic behaviour and striving, daily, to overcome it. If you haven’t noticed, Burton’s movies are white as hell. He’s lacked diversity throughout his entire career of a dozen films in the past three decades — and he doesn’t think it’s a problem, at all. In fact, Burton told editor and journalist Rachel Simon that, regarding race, “Things either call for things, or they don’t.”
Wait, what? Burton may get to call the shots on set, but he doesn’t get to call the shots on what is racist and what isn’t, especially as a cisgender white dude with an ark-sized amount of privilege. Two of every kind, dude, please.
Don’t get me wrong, this hurts. Tim Burton was a comfort blanket to me growing up, and his movies still please the heck out of my cis-white-girl-Johnny-Depp-loving eyes, but what hurts more is the amount of racism in the world. Accountability counts, especially in matters of this magnitude. You don’t just get to sweep people of colour under the rug because they’re not your aesthetic. Burton, bye.
We’ll take a cuppa kindness, yet
By: Adrian Rain
It’s been hard to celebrate this year. As I ate ice cream and dropped spooky WebMs into a group chat filled with other tired, old millennials on Halloween night, I realized that I didn’t celebrate a single holiday in 2020. It was a sad thought, but then a second realization washed over me: I don’t celebrate anything no matter how good or bad the year is.
It was 1 a.m., and the sound of firecrackers ricocheting off the pavement echoed under the light of the full moon. That existential dread seeped in through the cracks. Am I boring? Am I lazy? When was the last time I celebrated anything that wasn’t in a begrudging, dragged-along kind of way?
Maybe I’m just not good at holidays? A certain memory haunts me: My girlfriend and I entering a Valentine’s Day event together in the beloved 2008 Korean MMO game Aion: The Tower of Eternity. A pro gamer move, to be sure.
And then it hit me! The one holiday that has always brought me joy and relief: New Year’s Eve. While other holidays require subscription to some religion, the purchase of crazy amounts of disposable plastics, the physical presence of a potentially dysfunctional or abusive family, or the veneration of dishonoured historical figures, New Year’s Eve stands above them all.
New Year’s Eve ranks S on the tierlist in my heart. You get to stay up late, eat cake, and daydream about the future. You make big promises to yourself because you feel like you can really keep them this time. There’s just so much hope inspired in a person when that countdown reaches the last 10 seconds. I wish we could fast forward through the next two months. And I know 2021 isn’t going to fix this mess, but “for auld lang syne” let me dream.
(Rain Neeposh/The Cascade)
Chandy is a biology major/chemistry minor who's been a staff writer, Arts editor, and Managing Editor at The Cascade. She began writing in elementary school when she produced Tamagotchi fanfiction to show her peers at school -- she now lives in fear that this may have been her creative peak.
Darien Johnsen is a UFV alumni who obtained her Bachelor of Arts degree with double extended minors in Global Development Studies and Sociology in 2020. She started writing for The Cascade in 2018, taking on the role of features editor shortly after. She’s passionate about justice, sustainable development, and education.
