Sabastian Astley reviews the new Netflix coming of age series on teenage sexuality. 

Netflix’s Sex Education, created by Laurie Nunn, provides something many shows revolving around adolescence lack: an openness and honesty toward the sexual lives of teenagers. Between the diverse cast of characters and the pressing storylines introduced, the show certainly seems to be on its way towards teenage acclaim. But how well does it reflect the teenage zeitgeist of the modern day?

The show’s narrative threads are constructed around the overarching plot of the nerdy Otis’ (Asa Butterfield) unlikely team-up with outcast Maeve (Emma Mackley) to run an underground a sex therapy clinic at their school, all with the help of Otis’ sex therapist mother Jean (Gillian Anderson). We also follow the origin of Adam’s (Connor Swindells) bullying behaviour; Eric’s (Ncuti Gatwa) struggle to embrace his sexuality despite his religious family; Maeve’s difficulty supporting and creating a future for herself; and Jean’s difficulty of raising her son while maintaining her own identity.

Sex Education explores various themes that affect the modern teen, most notably sexual identity, societal pressures, sexual health, and relationships.  Eric and Adam’s relationship to one another showcases the complications of exploring one’s sexual identity; Adam’s sexual repression is subtly displayed through his behaviours and the way in which he treats Eric as opposed to the language he uses towards him. Societal pressures are explored through every character in the show, from Maeve’s attempts to balance her academic and home lives, to Jackson’s anxiety over the pressure his mother puts on him to swim competitively. This may be the most general of the themes throughout the entire show, but each individual character’s struggle with societal pressure feels unique. Viewers can identify and empathise with an individual character due to the broad exploration of this theme.

The issue of sexual health is explored through the sex therapy clinic’s day-to-day, including discussions of the importance of communication during sex and of asserting one’s individual preferences rather than acting according to their partner’s desires. Although the show is comedic in tone, these issues themselves are never trivialised. They are properly explored through sincere discussion with realistic resolutions that don’t feel oversimplified.

Relationships become the most complex of the themes explored, mostly revolving around the characters’ connections to their families. Maeve has a troubled relationship with her brother; Otis’ struggles to communicate with his mother about his own issues; Adam acts out as a cry for help to his parents; and Eric is disconnected from his father. The show approaches these topics with a sense of realism, and each situation plays out naturally; people let others down, and simple words exchanged can be devastating. When you watch these relationships in play, you feel a sense of familiarity, because these problems are universal and impossibly difficult to solve. Many of the relationship issues portrayed aren’t resolved. The show is sincere in its sadness, and its refusal to allow everything an ending hits incredibly close to home.

Every relationship between characters seems genuine: Butterfield and Anderson have fantastic chemistry as Jean and Otis, striking the balance between embarrassing parent and angsty teen while retaining a strong sense of parental guidance. Gatwa and Swindells portray a believable attraction between Eric and Adam, playing their characters beyond the stereotypical masculine man threatened by his own desires and the repressed, flamboyant gay man. However, Mackley gives the standout performance of the series; as Maeve, she displays a muted emotional palette to showcase the character’s difficulty in distancing herself from reality. In terms of aesthetic, the show’s timeless setting gives it a distinctive style that complements the its universality and helps to add some levity to more serious moments. The strong John Hughes influence is clear from the Americanised school setting, though the mostly ’80s soundtrack is peppered with some exceptional Ezra Furman tracks for a modern balance.

The show is not perfect of course; there are times where it suffers from generic plot points, such as the ‘will they, won’t they’ tension between Otis and Maeve. While this has been replicated many times throughout television history, such as in FRIENDS‘s iconic Ross and Rachel drama, it does allow both characters to develop individually. We see this in Maeve’s relationship to Jackson (Kedar Williams-Sterling) and in Otis’ exploration with Lily (Tanya Reynolds) and relationship with Ola (Patricia Allison). Additionally, some issues are presented briefly but lack further development beyond a mention, such as Otis’ difficulty with masturbation originating from a specific childhood memory – an exploration which only took five minutes at most.

Sex Education explores the teenage zeitgeist in a way that is unique and refreshing to see,  with an incredibly sad underlying tone once the narratives of each character are deconstructed. It’s very reminiscent of the successful, early-2000s teen drama Skins in that both series use daydream-like narratives as a device to deconstruct and develop each individual character as they face their own personal struggles in their sexuality or familial relationships.

Sex Education is available to stream on Netflix now. Check out the trailer below:

Sabastian Astley reviews Black Mirror’s intense and ambitious interactive special.

Black Mirror writer and show co-creator Charlie Brooker sees off the year with a bold and innovative new episode of the horror anthology. “Bandersnatch,” directed by David Slade, takes on an interactive format, merging a “choose your own adventure” structure with a disturbing commentary on the idea of free will.

Of course, this isn’t the first time Brooker has had the idea of toying around with experimental concepts for episodes. He envisioned a “nightmare mode” for the conclusion of Season 3’s “Playtest,” with alternate, fourth wall-breaking scenes. Ultimately, it was deemed too complicated an idea to execute. Fast forward a year, and Netflix had begun to experiment with interactive episodic content in children’s shows like Puss in Boots. Brooker and producer Annabel Jones were approached with the idea to trial the concept for an adult audience through Black Mirror. However, they weren’t convinced. “We thought it was gimmicky,” said Brooker in an interview with The Independent.

In an ironic twist, later that year, the narrative concept that would come to be “Bandersnatch” was created in the Black Mirror writer’s room, leaving Brooker to realise that the only way they could do this story would be through the very experimental format they had initially rejected. And thus, “Bandersnatch” was born.

The episode itself is immersed in interesting context: the company Tuckersoft within the episode was inspired by real-life Imagine Software, a short-lived Liverpudlian company of the early 1980s. Imagine Software actually developed and advertised a real game called Bandersnatch. (It was never released, and the company consequently went bankrupt shortly after). Additionally, the influences of Phillip K. Dick, George Orwell, and even Lewis Carroll are clear through the use of alternate timelines, parallel dimensions, government conspiracies, and the simplistic idea of “falling down the rabbit hole.”

But what is “Bandersnatch” actually about?

In the episode, we follow up-and-coming game developer Stefan Butler (Fionn Whitehead) as he attempts to adapt the epic choose-your-own-adventure book Bandersnatch into a game. After being invited to demo and then release his game with Tuckersoft, a prolific video game company known for producing famed developer Colin Ritman’s (Will Poulter) games, we follow – and choose – Stefan’s development both of the game and in his own life.

Because “Bandersnatch” is a unique piece of media, being an amalgamation of both full motion video game narration style and television, many of the pros and cons of both types of media flow into one another. The interactive format itself is an incredible step for Netflix into a potential smorgasbord of content, ranging from existing properties branching out into similar experimental pieces, to the launching of new properties specifically formed around the idea of interactivity. It helps that Brooker is able to form a convincing, meta narrative that helps the choose-your-own-adventure format feel natural; if the story were different, I believe it may have felt more forced and cliche in its approach to interactivity. Dating the actual narrative to the mid-’80s also seemed to help, given the rise of the choose-your-own-adventure fad at the time. It also gave a unique kitsch to the episode that was greatly appreciated, from the vintage aspect ratios that enhance flashbacks, to the vibrant colors emphasizing drug-induced hallucination sequences.

Throughout my play-through, I found myself surprised at the breadth of options and the length of certain paths. The effort that went into writing each path is clear, especially intentionally setting out to hit a dead end and restart the episode. It’s a sign of commitment to the experimental format the episode relies on.

In terms of entertainment, it’s one of Black Mirror‘s most intriguing concepts yet. The idea of being controlled is a common one – and not only in the sci-fi genre. However, Black Mirror heightens the idea through the viewer’s ability to directly interfere with Stefan’s life themselves, to the point where Stefan directly confronts the viewer multiple times throughout. The feelings the episode generates are similar to those director Michael Haneke affects in Funny Games; you feel confronted in your complicity in the character’s torture, yet you continue to play. You want to see how awful you can make Stefan’s life, even when he screams at you to stop. It’s compelling in its cruelty.

However, there is an extent to which “Bandersnatch” can be enjoyed. Because of the choose-your-own-adventure format, the narrative doesn’t feel complete; rather, you feel as though you get lost in a sense, having to mentally backtrack through the disjointed narrative. Although fun to toy around with, the interactivity is ultimately an emotional barrier to feeling fully invested in the episode, as you are constantly aware of your involvement. The episode makes no attempts to immerse you; it instead constantly informs you of the falseness of it all, down to the ending. Additionally, as with all choose-your-own-adventure stories, there is only an illusion of multiplicity. Humans pride themselves on feeling as though they’ve completed something, and many of the endings simply don’t provide this satisfaction. In truth, “Bandersnatch” only has two true endings. All other endings are meaningless, simply a moment to entertain you before propelling you back through the timeline.

Ultimately, “Bandersnatch” is a fantastic experiment in interactive content, and Black Mirror was a great platform for directing it toward an adult audience. Brooker has a clear idea that he sets out to execute in the episode, and for the most part it works. However, when the gimmick begins to wear off, when you realize some of the paths are nothing more than dead ends, and as tantalizing as those “1 trillion story combinations” sound, you realize there are ultimately only two paths you can take, and they’ve already been decided for you.

Black Mirror: Bandersnatch is currently available for viewing on Netflix. Check out the trailer below:

Sabastian Astley reviews the newest series of the timey wimey sci-fi show so far. 

The 11th series of the iconic BBC show Doctor Who is unique from that of its decennial predecessors, from the change of showrunner from Steven Moffatt to Chris Chibnall to the passing of the torch from composer Murray Gold to Segun Akinola . However, the most revolutionary change comes with the hiring of actress Jodie Whittaker, the 13th incarnation and also the first-ever female Doctor. These changes alone are enough to redefine the show completely. However, with the experimental three-companion structure that adds Bradley Walsh, Tosin Cole, and Mandip Gill as series regulars, as well as the upgrade in production design with Academy Award-winning VFX house DNEG, this new series can easily be seen as a “soft reboot” of the show.

Now halfway through the season, have these changes revitalized the show?

The Woman Who Fell To Earth (Written by Chris Chibnall)

This series opener sees the Doctor crash-land into Sheffield. She meets Yaz (Gill), Ryan (Cole), and Graham (Walsh), all of whom become entangled in the monstrous warrior Tzim-Sha’s hunt. The episode culminates in Tzim-Sha’s defeat, but at the cost of the life of Ryan’s nan and Graham’s wife, Grace.

The episode’s structure itself cleverly envelops us into the Doctor’s companions’ world, and it feels as though we follow them meeting the Doctor, rather than the Doctor meeting them. This is a welcome change to the Moffatt era, where companions felt more defined to a singular idea. These companions feel real, in large part due to Chibnall’s well-structured character development featuring Ryan’s dyspraxia and Graham’s struggle in playing the role of surrogate grandfather to Ryan. During the closing sequence, Walsh’s Graham creates a powerful resonance in portraying heartbreaking grief at the loss of Grace. In addition to the improvement in writing, the improvement of the production design is clear with Tzim-Sha, from his Predator-esque body armor to his teeth-covered face. The VFX during his hatching from a strange, onion-like egg proves the brilliance DNEG has to offer the show. A small but appreciated detail was the creative rebirth of the Sonic Screwdriver, which, in turn, provides us with some character development for a more hands-on Doctor and allows for a refreshing display of intelligence that follows the screenwriting rule of “show, don’t tell.”

Because the episode focuses more on the companions, however, Whittaker’s Doctor doesn’t shine through as much as she could; rather, we see flashes of 10, 11 and 12 throughout the episode without any further definitive characteristics of 13. The defeat of Tzim-Sha through the redirection of the DNA bombs seems more in line with the actions of Capaldi’s darker Doctor rather than with the exuberant and joyful Doctor Whittaker plays throughout the rest of the episode.

Ending on an incredibly unexpected cliffhanger leaving the four suddenly trapped in outer space with moments of life left, Chibnall crafts an incredibly human series opener. This refreshes the typical Moffatt “I Am The Doctor” approach, instead adopting a “We Are The Companions” style.

The Ghost Monument (Written by Chris Chibnall)

After being rescued, the Doctor and companions must assist Angstrom (Susan Lynch) and Epzo (Shaun Dooley), the finalists of the universe’s riskiest race, and reach the Ghost Monument on the planet Desolation. Their own survival is at risk and they must succeed in order to potentially make it home.

We finally witness the new intro sequence with this episode, and it is both incredibly creative and visually striking – easily the show’s best introduction sequence since its 2005 revival. With Segun Akinola’s composition, a combination of strings and bass draws the viewer into this unknown world, and it’s clear that the show has strengthened in some ways from this reshuffle. The cinematography of the episode is astounding, a strong example being the Cerebros one-shots, a cleverly-executed sequence design that would’ve otherwise felt forgettable. The landscape shots, filmed in South Africa, truly help the planet Desolation live up to its name, with barren deserts stretching beyond the scope of the frame to make survival seem hopeless. The writing of the main cast remains consistent, with Chibnall throwing in a few classic Doctor name-drops – “You never saw him [Pythagoras] with a hangover” – and mournful moments between Graham and Ryan which hit the appropriate emotional beats. Developing the sensitive issue of grief in the middle of an epic sci-fi adventure is no easy feat, but Chibnall manages it well. In contrast to the ‘Doctor lite’ criticism of the series opener, Whittaker now truly shines with her return to the TARDIS, packing a variety of emotions that emphasise the strong Doctor/TARDIS bond that Capaldi’s Doctor seemed to lack. The production design continues its streak of magnificence, especially with the new TARDIS; there are clear influences drawn from 10’s TARDIS and a more Classic Who console at the heart.

However, Chibnall falters in his writing as Ryan’s character seems flatter than in the series opener. He asks obvious questions, and his Call of Duty scene is an incredibly over-the-top and unnecessary comedic addition that feels like a step back for the character. Epzo, Angstrom, and the main villain of this episode, Ilin (Art Malik), all seem far too one-dimensional. Ilin is a rich overlord, and Epzo and Angstorm are hardened mercenary types driven by tragedy. All three are tropes often seen in sci-fi; Chibnall puts no original spin to these roles and the story plays out exactly how we expect it to. Additionally, all three individuals are supposedly “alien”; however, judging by their outfits alone, they wouldn’t be out of place on a high street in London. These three are a disappointment following the creative approach to otherworldly beings we saw with Tzim-Sha. Because of these one-dimensional characters, the Doctor and the trio therefore seem out of place due to their depth and development. Ultimately, it feels as though we are following two completely different stories with little connection to the other.

While continuing to develop many of the themes presented in the prior episode, Chibnall falters in his followup with a simplistic story that feels shallow. However, for the most part, this episode continues to show impressive production value and further develops the main cast of characters well.

Rosa (Written by Malorie Blackman & Chris Chibnall)

The crew accidentally lands in 1955 Montgomery, Alabama – the home of Rosa Parks and her iconic protest. After readings of artron energy appear, the Doctor begins an investigation. The crew uncovers a plot to prevent Rosa’s protest from occurring and must protect history itself.

“Rosa” is easily the juggernaut of this half of the series, and potentially the best episode of the entire run. The writing is incredible, and pulls no punches whatsoever. It’s likely co-writer Malorie Blackman was the driving force for this episode, building the world of the show while Chibnall maintains the main cast’s development. It feels as though the Doctor and her companions touch history rather than make it; Rosa acts fully of her own volition, with an immeasurable performance by Vinette Robinson. It’s difficult to put into words how true-to-life Robinson plays the figure, down to the smallest of gestures. She easily gives one of the best performances of a historical figure in Doctor Who history, rivaling Van Gogh to say the least. In terms of story, the narrative involves the Doctor and the trio much more and it feels as though they are a key element in driving the plot forward; this differs from the prior episode, in which they felt tacked on. The reintroduction of Time Agents through the villainous Krasko (Josh Bowman) was a terrific callback, showing Chibnall can confidently recall old characters other than the Dalek or Cyberman. Whittaker’s moments with Krasko allow for her confrontational and aggressive edge to show, displaying a brilliant mix of 10’s anger and 11’s restraint and channeling it into something entirely of her own incarnation.

Of course, the episode is not without its flaws. Krasko is very underdeveloped, a concurrent theme with Chibnall villains. “I’m a bad guy” is all we ever truly understand about him, save for a throwaway line about “you people” to Ryan about the origins for his villainous plot; this could imply anything from racially-motivated hatred to a general hatred of humanity in the Whoniverse. Additionally, Krasko’s disposal felt incredibly out of left field; Ryan’s shooting Krasko, propelling him into an unknown time while not outright killing him, is still an indirect (seemingly) murder by a companion. Yet, when Ryan tells the Doctor of this, she seems to just shrug it off. It feels incredibly out of line for a companion and a complete misunderstanding of the Doctor for her simple acceptance of the event. In relation to the companions, the episode seems to highlight the main problem of having a trio: a distinct lack of breathing room for the Doctor, undermining her character to solitary scenes between her and Krasko. Finally, the use of the song “Rise Up” by Andra Day was incredibly irritating, as it overwhelmed the ending and sucked all nuanced emotion out of the scene. (This recalls complaints about former composer Murray Gold’s music driving the emotion of the scene rather than the acting itself).

Easily the best episode of the season thus far, with an incredible approach to a sensitive topic through Vinette Robinson’s stunning portrayal, Doctor Who truly celebrates Rosa Parks as an individual.

Arachnids in the UK (Written by Chris Chibnall)

After finally returning to Sheffield, the Doctor and the trio find themselves investigating a mutant spider crisis, which seems to originate from the hotel Yaz’s mum, Najia (Shobna Gulati), works at, under the corporate capitalist Jack Robertson (Chris Noth).

This is a bad episode. Chibnall’s writing hits an incredible low point, as seen from the very opening. The awkwardly written encounter between Robertson and Frankie (Jaleh Alp) is another example of Chibnall’s plot-blocking. A far better sequence would have followed Najia’s perspective leading to the conversation in media res. Moving back to the gang momentarily, this is a clearly Yaz-centric episode, as we are introduced to her family. Her father, Hakim (Ravin J. Ganatra), is defined by one phrase: “conspiracy-obsessed.” A strong emphasis on familial development with Yaz would’ve been appreciated, but the “terrible pakora” banter is at least a nice touch, however fleeting it may be. The writing for almost everyone seems to have degraded, especially Ryan; without Graham at the character’s side, Chibnall seems unable to develop Ryan individually. His refusal to open his father’s letter until off-screen not only plot-blocks yet again, but also throws away a chance of a truly touching Ryan-centric moment showing the troublesome relationship between him and his father. Even the title “Arachnids in the UK” is a misstep in writing; the episode would’ve been better suited to “Spiders in Specific Locations,” if anything, as there are only three appearances by the titular creatures in the entire episode.

The episode’s pace is nearly nonexistent through the exposition-laden dialogue; Chibnall inverts the “show, don’t tell” idea he executed so well in the series opener. However, all of these issues are insignificant compared to one: Chris Noth’s Robertson. Possibly one of the worst Doctor Who villains ever, a cringe-inducing metaphoric depiction of Donald Trump beats you over the head with every single word of dialogue, from the gun-loving mania to the literal Fire and Fury name drop. Depictions of Trump became oversaturated two years ago, and to call this beating a dead horse would be a charitable understatement. Chibnall somehow manages to heighten the Trump metaphor to new levels of mediocre screenwriting through the blindingly obvious female empowerment sequence over the Trump-esque figure that seemed unnecessary and horribly clunky, especially with its position in the episode’s denouement. Because of this car crash of a political metaphor, the secondary villain, Jade McIntyre (Tanya Fear), seemingly gets off completely without condemnation or judgement. Her character is painfully undeveloped, a recurring theme with Chibnall’s writing by this point outside of the main cast. From ordering a pointless spider specimen to analyse its size despite having already had contact with one, to her role in the spider mutations as the negligent scientist who discarded this toxic waste along with the actual spider corpses themselves which she openly admits to, she is, if anything, more involved than Robertson and yet carries none of the guilt or blame.

There are a few, and I mean a few, positive points to say about this episode. The opening shot replicating the perspective of a spider is an appreciated cinematic touch, as is the truly spectacular and jaw-dropping time vortex sequence, which would’ve been impossible if not for the assistance of the brilliant DNEG. An honorable mention must also be made to the truly skin-crawling moment when Graham asks whether Ryan has checked the ceiling, at which point we are greeted by a monstrously large mother spider guaranteed to get hearts racing. Once more, Whittaker exceptionally channels one of the core elements of the Doctor: the loneliness that she carries with her. With every episode, her Doctor portrayal grows stronger and stronger. Another standout performance is of course Bradley Walsh’s Graham, who continues to devastate with his heartbreaking, grief-stricken portrayal, pushed even further with his all-too-brief ghostly visions of Grace.

This is easily the worst episode of the series thus far, and possibly one of the dullest of the entire revival. A horribly-structured and terribly-written attempt at a romp across Sheffield leaves little for praise other than in the performances of Whittaker and Walsh.

The Tsuranga Conundrum (Written by Chris Chibnall)

After being injured by a sonic mine, the Doctor and the trio awaken in a hospital ship, stranded four days from the TARDIS. When the ship suddenly comes under attack by an immortal creature hellbent on their destruction, they must work quickly to save themselves and the bizarre patients aboard.

Although a definite improvement in quality from the previous episode, Chibnall’s writing continues to be confusing from the outset. For example, why is the group unable to move if the mine is counting down? A simple explanation from the Doctor of the reason for their immobility would’ve sufficed. This confounding writing continues with the Doctor’s injured state upon their awakening on the Tsuranga, despite her regenerative abilities which should make it more likely for her heal faster than the others. What is the narrative purpose of her weakened physical state? Chibnall once more disappoints with his “alien” races; if the most alien thing Chibnall can conceive other than an alien warrior á la Predator is a male pregnancy, we need more individual writers. Both Astos (Brett Goldstein) and Mabli (Lois Chimimba) are “Chibnall Throwaways” – one-dimensional, simplistic characters simply designed to push the plot forward.

The introduction of General Cicero (Suzanne Packer) distracts from an already divided narrative between the Pting and the pregnant man. We cannot possibly get enough screen time to develop this triptych sufficiently, and as a result, the episode suffers greatly. The sinister and threatening tone of the episode is quickly eliminated with the team’s interaction with the Pting a mere 15 or 20 minutes into the episode. The episode could’ve benefited greatly from stronger tension-building followed by a confrontational meeting, juxtaposing the cutesy appearance of the Pting for a greater payoff. Furthermore, we don’t need to see the Pting fact file. The more we know, the less fearful we are of the creature, with the mention of a purely non-organic diet immediately placing the crew out of direct danger. Moving back to the pregnancy plot line, this is a clear shoehorn by Chibnall for some individual Ryan development, but it’s poorly executed. It would work if Ryan was scared of fatherhood himself, but in terms of a distanced father-son relationship, it misses the mark greatly.

However, it must be said that there is fantastic cinematography from the opening; the monolithic alien junkyard shows the production design has no intention of dipping in quality. Whittaker likewise shows this, bringing a vulnerability to her Doctor not often seen by other incarnations. A selfish side comes with this vulnerability, creating a surprising subversion of roles in which Astos the medical doctor becomes the voice of reason over the Doctor herself, however briefly. Her mini-monologues dedicated to imagination are a nice addition by Chibnall, giving us that unique Doctor flair without pausing the episode entirely like Moffatt’s writing often demanded. As well as this, the Pting plot line shows that Chibnall is clearly influenced by Alien, and Segun Akinola’s soundscape creates a cold and sinister atmosphere that brilliantly unsettles the viewer, furthering that Alien-esque approach. The Pting plot line rounds off with a surprisingly logical and intelligent ending through the Doctor’s removal of the Pting via an explosive snack from the ship’s system, an uncharacteristically well-written resolution from Chibnall.

‘The Tsuranga Conundrum’ is a masterclass in how to overcomplicate your episode, with Chibnall throwing too many balls in the air, which land at different moments to create a chaotic and confusing mess. There is clear potential in the simplistic Alien-influenced narrative, but it is sadly neglected. However, Whittaker’s Doctor explores emotional territory only seen in glimpses of previous incarnations.

In conclusion, Series 11 is tricky to navigate. With some serious highs and some dramatic lows, it seems difficult to predict how the series will ultimately be regarded once it has finished its run. There are some elements that have definitely benefited massively from this “soft reboot,” with the truly marvelous production design and the subtleties of Segun Akinola’s composition heightening the episodes greatly. Some elements still appear to be in a chaotic state of flux, though this may be due to the Chibnall-heavy writing this first half of the season has encountered. I fully believe Jodie Whittaker as the Doctor, and I grow excited to see what new elements she brings to her portrayal in the latter half of the season. I believe that her make-or-break would be in response to the loss of one or more of the companions – the Doctor is, after all, built on grief and loss. I’m certainly looking forward to fresh writers and seeing how the main cast is handled without Chibnall’s direct influence. However, I remain very optimistic about the second half of the series, which promises a bold portrayal of the Partition of India, depictions of gigantic companies like Amazon through “Kerblam,” and a final historical episode in the Jacobean era with James I.

Only time (and space) will tell, but I’m definitely looking forward to the rest of the ride.

Doctor Who airs every Sunday on BBC One at 6:30pm. Check out its trailer below:

Sabastian Astley examines the role of sex and misogyny in two classic horrors. 

The genre of horror has often been inseparable from the now-staple trope of teenagers having sex, with Friday the 13th (1980) and Prom Night (1980) to the parodist nature of Scream (1996) and The Final Girls (2015). While it is mostly used for no further meaning and instead as an easy activity to write characters into, there are two films in the sub-genre which transcend this simple use. Both John Carpenter’s Halloween (1978) and David Robert Mitchell’s It Follows (2014) explore sexuality in a metaphorical sense which is not immediately clear, with Halloween reflecting both an embrace and a rejection of the ‘Sexual Revolution’, while It Follows‘ titular monster is itself a misunderstood sexual metaphor.

To understand Halloween‘s sexuality, we must first look at the contextual backdrop within which it was produced. The ‘Sexual Revolution’ ended abruptly by the latter half of the 1970s, following through the blunt reality Vietnam’s failure alongside with the rise of Ronald Reagan, and his amalgamation of a rhetoric that was political in its motivation but religious in its metaphors. America’s subscription to Christianity was something that Reagan played off to an incredible response, and therefore inadvertently this idea of Christian values became the foundation of the American society throughout the Reagan era. These values include the traditional stigma against pre-martial sex, and the consequence of sin for indulging in the activity – Carpenter, albeit unintentionally, incorporates this rise of religious conservatism in America into Halloween itself; he does this through the diametric characters of Laurie and Michael.

Viewing Halloween through this lens of a rejection of the ‘Sexual Revolution’, Jamie Lee Curtis’ Laurie represents the ‘ideal’ or the stereotype for such a society – she’s educationally driven, uninterested in sexual matters to the point of embarrassment upon the mere discussion of potential romantic feelings. Her friends go so far as calling her behaviour as “prudish”, thereby highlighting this seemingly negative attitude toward purity by the fellow teenagers of Haddonfield. The polar opposite of this metaphoric purity is Michael; the physical manifestation of sin accompanying pre-martial sex, displayed through the serial killings of lust-driven teenagers originating in the murder of his own sister. Constantly lurking within the darkness, furthering this malicious intent and aura that he exudes throughout the film, Michael only appears directly before or after sexual acts enter the narrative, e.g. choking Annie immediately before her departure to her boyfriend’s house.

Laurie’s survival throughout the film can be attributed to her lack of sinful pre-martial lust, conforming to her conservative stereotype to the point of taking on a motherly role, protecting both terrified pre-teens Lindsay and Tommy from Michael. This continuous conservatism is both a fantastic parallel to the puritanical outrage toward the Sexual Revolution as well as a striking contrast to the more liberal attitudes her friends display, reflecting the hedonistic attitudes of the Baby Boomer generation and concluding in a gruesome fate at the hands of sin that is delivered through the vessel of Michael Myers.

Alternatively, Halloween can also be read as an embrace of the ‘Sexual Revolution’, exposing the dangers of sexual repression.

This reading depicts Michael as the epitome of sexual repression, as a result of an incestual obsession with his sister culminating in his forcing himself upon her in an incredibly violent yet simultaneously intimate act of penetration – stabbing. Michael’s murderous actions throughout the events of Halloween reflect a furthering of this repression – there are two types of murder committed: the phallic and disconnected (male), and the intimate and personal violence (female), seen through the murder of Lynda and Bob. Bob’s murder is over in a matter of seconds, impaled with the iconic kitchen knife with a lack of effort or even care from Michael. However, with Lynda’s murder there is visible emotional reaction from Michael through his trembling grip and the actual act of strangulation.

This idea of sexual repression also translates to Laurie, being sexually repressed herself through her conservatism. Ironically, this makes her the only individual in Haddonfield with the ability to face Michael, allowing herself a violent nature similar to Michael’s, being his ‘equal’ in a sense. While this idea of sexual repression could be simply explained through the intimacy between Michael and the multiple girls he murders throughout the movie, Michael specifically targets Laurie due to her triggering that same individual obsession. This explains his attempts to penetrate Laurie with the kitchen knife similar to his penetration of Judy, as an outlet for his sexual repression. The idea is developed through Michael’s seemingly supernatural immortality throughout the latter third of the film, despite being both stabbed in the neck and later eye by Laurie, an act that also breaks Michael’s obsession due to the disconnect between Judy’s ironic passivity through sexual activity and Laurie’s active violence through her sexual repression. Ultimately however, neither is able to kill the other – as stated before, they are one another’s ‘equal’.

Halloween‘s use of sexuality is difficult to fully plot metaphorically, at times subscribing to one notion and at other times to another. However, it’s clear that its approach toward sexuality is multi-fauceted, and albeit unintentionally, influenced by the Sexual Revolution.

It Follows similarly uses the idea of sexuality, once again having a dual metaphoric pathway, with the former being the idea of sexually transmitted disease.

The idea of the ‘demon’ only appears following the sexual encounter between Jay (Maika Monroe) and Hugh (Jake Weary), and its lingering presence and malicious aura throughout the film reflects the social stigma of being inflicted with a sexually transmitted disease, as well as the dangers certain diseases pose. However, this analysis of the use of sexuality of It Follows is mostly rejected, and this is on the basis of a further appreciation and analysis of the opening sequence, to which a conclusion is reached: It Follows is about a sexual survivor.

Jay is presented as the typical modern teenage girl with an idealised view of romance, to which she monologues towards Hugh about; she expects her encounter with him to be this postcardesque date of holding hands with a cute boy in a car. This imagery is shattered immediately by David Robert Marshall with a horrific reality – from Hugh’s use of chloroform and subsequent rape of Jay (in narrative context, to pass on the ‘demon’) to the constant paranoia and distrust Jay treats everyone with throughout the rest of the film, the allegory of surviving sexual assault becomes clear. Additionally, the inability for others to see the ‘demon’ reflects the inability of friends and family of a sexual assault survivor to understand their mental state, and this difficulty to understand transforms into a subconscious disgust toward the behaviour of the sexual assault survivor, in this case Jay’s hysteria.

Despite the ending offering an initial glimmer of hope, with Jay finally facing and overcoming this distrust and the ‘demon’ through the aid of Paul (Keir Gilchrist), David Robert Marshall reminds the viewer that this scar upon Jay’s life is permanent through the final shot of an ominous lurking figure behind the pair as they walk together holding hands. It’s a painfully truthful reminder that sexual assault can leave one with a plethora of life-long issues such as post-traumatic stress, as well as the paranoia that Jay goes through.

It Follows displays an incredibly complex telling of the story of the survival of a teenage woman following a sexual assault, decorated with the idea of the horror being the physical manifestation, when in actuality, the horror lies within the mental torture that Jay faces and may have to face for the rest of her life.

Both Halloween and It Follows transcend the stereotypical sexual tradition of their genre, achieving through the metaphorical significance placed upon sexuality within their respective narrative contexts. The two films show two strikingly different eras of sexuality, and their comparison only brings to attention the development of societal attitudes toward sex in the decades that separate the two. Carpenter’s Halloween reflects a view of sexuality forever trapped between eras, partially liberated by the significance of the Sexual Revolution that precipitated it, while simultaneously carrying the weight of the Sexual Revolution’s corpse upon it with the rise of Reaganism. David Robert Mitchell’s It Follows shows us that some horrors are sickeningly human; depressingly timeless in its subject matter, highlighting an all-too-realistic horror. The film contains a message that is only increasing in relevance with the rise of the #MeToo and #TimesUp movements.

True horror seems not to originate in the acts of masked murderers or demonic curses, but rather in the male mind.

Halloween was released in 1978 and It Follows was released in 2014. Halloween (2018), a direct sequel, is currently released in cinemas everywhere. Check out its trailer below: