Issue 2

Hello again, Emblaze is back!

First off, thank you for coming back for the second issue of Emblaze. We may have changed a bit internally, but our commitment to this journal and to cultural criticism remains as strong as ever.

Last year, Issue One of Emblaze explored television, film, and music. Our authors examined how popular media reflects and reshapes the culture around us. That theme continues to pulse through this new issue. As we mentioned before, in our introduction to Issue One, our goal has never been to chase only the most abstruse or “academic” subjects. Two of our submissions illustrate this. One focuses on the harmful messages spread by a teen vampire show, and the other explores patriarchy as a form of vampirism in a nineteenth-century novel. That has always been the charm of Emblaze as we celebrate experimentation in the often rigid space of higher education. The works in this issue show how writing about popular media can yield perspectives that are transformative, insightful, and refreshingly human. You’ll find contributions that challenge conventions and uncover the cultural messages woven into the media we love. 

Unlike our first issue, which was produced through a full class dedicated to launching Emblaze, this issue came together through the dedication of a smaller volunteer team. Without the built-in structure of a course, Issue Two exists thanks to the commitment and collaboration of a small group of returning and new Emblaze editors. Every member of our editorial team carved out time from their own schedules to bring this collection to life. While that made our process slower, it also made the outcome more personal and an act of love for critical thought.

In our previous issue, we emphasized the importance of the humanities in a contemporary age that seems increasingly eager to undervalue them, especially as the current presidential administration continues cutting funding for arts and humanities programs. That message feels even more urgent now. With the rise of artificial intelligence, the value of genuine human creativity has never been clearer. Emblaze stands firmly for student artistry and authenticity. We do not endorse or allow the use of generative AI in any capacity.

Putting this issue together has been both rewarding and illuminating. We’ve seen how students (undergraduates and graduates) continue to push boundaries in both analysis and expression. To our readers, thank you for engaging with our authors’ work. Your curiosity and support help sustain what Emblaze strives to do in keeping the spark of critical and creative thinking alive.

We hope you enjoy reading Issue Two as much as we enjoyed building it!

Sincerely,

Lydia Polche, Liz Hickis, Aether Sickles, Isabella Retter, and Sophie Annett

By Elizabeth Hickis 

The hit television series Sex and the City had a six-season run, airing from 1998 to 2004. After the series ended, due to massive demand and popularity, two movies were then created in 2008 and 2010. There is even a 2021 spinoff show- And Just Like That…, that follows the characters (from the original series) through life in their fifties. The original show follows four single women in their thirties as they navigate love, life, and work in the never-sleeping city, New York. Carrie Bradshaw, the protagonist, is the author of a newspaper column on dating. Her column analyzes the experiences of herself and her friends–Miranda Hobbes, Charlotte York, and Samantha Jones–to reveal insights about dating life, thus helping the column’s female readers navigate the stressful atmosphere of being a single, heterosexual woman in a patriarchal society. And as the ongoing popularity of the show from the late 90s to 2025 suggests, the show itself functions in a similar manner, allowing its viewers to have a similar learning experience to the fictional women who read the column. 

While aspects of the show may be dated– it is 2025 now, we grew way out of the 90s– much of it remains true and relatable for viewers. In recent years, the show gained massive popularity again, especially in Gen Z social media spaces such as TikTok. This substantial resurgence of the 90s series brings up the question of why it is still relevant today. The ongoing popularity of the show suggests that even 21 years after the show’s final season, we have not achieved as much progress regarding gender equality as we may have thought. 

In this piece, I’ll argue that the show remains popular among Gen Z viewers because it creates relatable characters, it critiques misogyny (mostly seen within Carrie and Big’s relationship, but as well as the three other main women), and it gives viewers a sense of hope, primarily by dramatizing the power of female friendship.

One of the main reasons the show remains so popular among Gen Z viewers is because of its relatable characters. The most notable aspect of the show is the tropes that are in many ways, timeless. The main women each fall into various kinds of female tropes. While much of this can be considered stereotypical– it is. The show toys with common stereotypes and binaries to create characters that are caricatures of various kinds of women (each showcasing various still-relevant concepts of today’s society), albeit they are all rich, white, and heterosexual. Viewers can see pieces of themselves in each of the four main women, adding to the show’s unwavering popularity.

 Carrie, a polarizing character, is difficult to describe in simple terms. She is all over the place and often irrational in how she navigates her life. She is the most flawed character, but at times, the most relatable. Her biggest desire is to fall in love and sometimes that leads her to do things that are harmful to those who truly love her. We often see Carrie putting toxic relationships over her friends which leaves her to be considered selfish and self-serving. Miranda, her closest confidant, is the most pragmatic friend. She is sure of what she wants and full of logic. As a lawyer, Miranda often acts as Carrie’s voice of reason and attempts to rationalize how different men are either good or bad partners, basing her analysis on how they treat and respect women. Charlotte is a WASP (Wealthy Anglo Saxon Protestant) who lives in the Upper East Side and is a hopeless romantic. Her main goal in love and life is to find her “Prince Charming”. To her, love should be a fairytale (and also follow a traditional Christian route). She is the sweet and innocent friend of the bunch, but often times her fantasy clouds her judgment of reality. Because of her strict perspective on how relationships should be, she often passes pretentious judgment on her friends who don’t follow her dating standards. Samantha is the most progressive of the four. She is hypersexual and is uninterested in love. She believes men are for fun and pleasure, and that her friends are her true loves. Her character at the time of airing was the most unconventional; however, in 2025, she is adored and praised. Her promiscuity and ambivalence to men mark her as the strong and independent woman we know and love. Samantha consistently prioritizes the happiness of herself and her friends, and has a firm understanding of who she is. While the show is limited in its representation, many viewers even 20+ years later, can see parts of themselves in some, if not all of the women. 

Throughout the series, we see the women go through relationships with men who are uninterested, selfish, and misogynistic. The tropes and dating experiences we see are often dramatized and humorized, which is part of what makes this show so timeless. It is oddly entertaining to watch a show that depicts the real-life struggles women go through while poking fun at them as well. It allows viewers to see they are not alone and to feel more comfortable in their current stage of life. 

The show depicts the societal pressure placed upon women to get married and settle down as fast as possible, which translates to our current social climate as well. With the way dating has changed in recent years (arguably for the worse), many women are left distraught and discouraged, but this show helps alleviate the anxieties caused by these misogynistic expectations. With the surge of social media and online dating, human connection often gets lost behind a screen. It is harder to find a fulfilling relationship when apps such as Tinder promote dating vast amounts of people at once, while often judging potential partners off on a quick glance at a profile. TikTok user Brooke Justine posted, “Carrie Bradshaw was only 32 years old in season 1/ we have so many seasons ahead of us” (Justine 2024). Her video has garnered 467.6 thousand likes, with over one thousand comments of people agreeing with her, demonstrating how so many Gen Z viewers are also finding solace in the fact that we still have so much time to figure out who we are and what our place is in the world. According to the TV critic Noel Carroll, Carrie’s resilience in the dating world gives viewers a sense of hope. She writes, “Carrie’s great loves, in contrast to those of her friends, all go down in flames. Still, the program never despairs; it radiates that upbeat, “there’ll always be a tomorrow” point of view” (526). 

Throughout the series, the women date countless men, all of whom provide a unique glimpse into how misogyny affects dating. From flings that last a single episode to relationships that span throughout the series, there is an endless representation of how the patriarchy negatively affects dating for women. Most of this is depicted through men who objectify the women and manipulate them. The most notorious relationship that we see, however, is Carrie and her on-and-off relationship with John Preston. 

Carrie’s relationship with John, better known as Mr. Big (a wealthy, white businessman who never respects Carrie), exemplifies the toxic masculinity and microaggressions that women today still face. Carrie and Big’s relationship dramatizes what we would now call a “situationship”: a romantic connection between two people that lacks the commitment and stability of an established relationship. In a situationship, usually, one person wants a relationship while the other prefers to keep their options open, and it almost always ends with someone getting hurt. While he makes it clear throughout the series that he does not want to settle down with her, she makes it her priority to get him to one day hopefully commit. She often stands up her ever-loyal friends to spend time with him, knowing she may not hear from him again for weeks or even months. Despite her efforts, he keeps their fling private and ultimately never commits or values her nearly enough. He puts enough effort in to keep her around, but never enough to make her feel appreciated or comfortable in the relationship. 

During a period where the two were together, Mr. Big moved to Paris with absolutely no regard for her; he was not even planning on telling her. Temporarily, this ended things. Although he made it clear he never wanted to commit to Carrie, he gets married to a much younger and (in his eyes) “put-together” woman, Natasha during this break-up period. She is everything Carrie isn’t. She never asks Mr. Big to change himself for her, she never asks for anything at all. She takes what she gets, whereas Carrie endlessly fights for more– for what she deserves. Mr. Big, a character who demonstrates toxic masculinity, only settles down with Natasha because she is easy for him to control, but this marriage didn’t fix his issues, especially surrounding infidelity. He cheats on her with– you guessed it– Carrie. He never valued Carrie as a woman, and we see this in how he treated her, but he always kept her on his back burner. To him, she was good enough to keep around for 10+ years, though he would only be with her in fleeting periods of time, or in complete secrecy. He continued to disrespect, manipulate, and emotionally abuse her. His actions directly illustrate how men do not value women, nor do they see women as equals. Sena Christian, an independent journalist and adjunct professor at Sacramento City College, writes, “A patriarchal society, such as the United States, is one in which male

domination and female subordination are sustained through the oppression and mistreatment of women. It is a society in which women are understood primarily in terms of male use” (1). This is portrayed through Mr. Big’s consistent disrespect towards the women in his life. Carrie was used as a vessel for him to gain pleasure. He never regarded Carrie as his equal, and we see that both in how he mistreated her, and in turn how Carrie allowed herself to remain subordinate to him. 

Carrie and Mr. Big’s relationship is a prime example of the microaggressions women face on a daily basis, and this show remains popular and revered because these microaggressions still occur today. While it has been over 20 years since the show premiered, men still treat women the same way Big has treated Carrie. Still, women are used for their bodies and ignored for their emotional needs and desires. 

The show depicts the power of female friendships as one way that its main characters manage to survive and flourish within this patriarchal landscape. Carroll also writes, “The women are very close friends — steadfast and mutually supportive. They are funny and smart, and, of course, pretty and fashionable. But it is undoubtedly the warmth generated by their camaraderie that is the most attractive thing about them. It is hard not to admire the bond between these ladies” (537). Not only are the women themselves relatable, but their closeness to one another reinforces the beauty and power in female friendships. Charlotte famously says, “Don’t laugh at me, but, maybe we can be each other’s soulmates” which has been one of the most notable quotes of the series. Through the decades of failed relationships, marriages, loss, and grief, the women’s friendships never wavered. Each episode they meet at their go-to diner and debrief the current events of their lives, providing each other with endless support. Even through fights within themselves, they come back together even stronger. In watching the show, we see that they truly are each other’s soulmates and that is the most important thing to them. They ultimately do not need the men in their lives in order to succeed or find happiness so long as they have each other. 

In general, Carrie, Charlotte, Samantha, and Miranda are representative of the fact that women can be incredibly successful on their own in male-dominated careers, without the need of husbands. Through these characters, the show highlights the benefits and power women are able to find within each other, and with characters like Samantha, it embraces a woman’s right to sexual freedom without ridicule or shame– something that was previously only ever allotted to men. However, while much of this show can be seen as a positive representation of feminism, it also represents people of color and gay characters in harmful, stereotypical ways. 

The show reveals both the limitations and growth of our culture. While it represents how women are affected by the patriarchy in romance, the women depicted are all wealthy, white, and straight. This dictates both the audience demographic and the portrayal of these women. It also creates a disparity when representing other races and sexualities, as there is little to none in the series, and any representation (if at all) is harmful. As much as this show has been coveted by its initial viewers of the late 90s/ early 2000s and Gen Z, and there are great messages to take away from it, it still showcases harmful stigmas that further oppress various racial and sexual identities. 

While the show uplifts women, it particularly represents the experiences of white, successful, straight women and lacks representation and positive depictions of people that exist outside of their privilege. Many people of color are represented through harmful stereotypes. While there were not that many people of color to begin with, the few that were a part of the show were displayed in a way that exposed racial prejudices and harmful stigmas. Samantha, for example, was dating a black man, Chivon, whose sister was Adeena, a chef. At first Adeena got along well with Samantha, but she quickly became rude and even violent towards her because she didn’t want her brother to date a white woman. Even Samantha’s relationship was fetishizing the idea of dating a black man in general, through romanticizing the relationship and accentuating aspects of black culture. There are also instances of Carrie using African American Vernacular English, especially when talking about flashy gold jewelry she was adorned in during an episode, which she refers to as “ghetto gold” as opposed to jewelry she would typically wear on a day-to-day basis. 

Many of the faults of the original series, however, have been corrected in the series spinoff, And Just Like That…. The spin-off series not only focuses on the women in adulthood (all but Samantha), but it also explores social issues like gender identity and race. The cast of new characters is also diverse in race, sexuality, and gender. We see black, mixed-race, gay, and non-binary characters represented in a multitude of ways, not just the harmful stereotypes as seen in the original series. However, despite the progress the spinoff series has attempted to make, the show completely missed the mark and was massively disliked by viewers. And Just Like That… had some big shoes to fill following Sex and the City, and it failed to come close. The writing in the show was its biggest issue, coming across as rushed and lazy. While the earlier racist and homophobic elements of the initial series were fixed and the reboot showcased storylines exploring race, gender, and sexuality with a degree of respect, the writing failed to flesh out the experiences of the characters in these storylines. The show, in fact, included many plots that were never fully explored or concluded, such as the plotline surrounding the outcome of Miranda and her soon-to-be grandchild. There also seemed to be a disconnect with the characters of this season. So much so that it felt as if the writers of this series never even watched Sex and the City. Much of the show was simply not relatable. One example of this is Carrie dealing with the loss of her spouse. Mr. Big died of a heart attack in the first episode, and it felt like the grieving process was completely rushed. In fact, she went back to dating Aidan, her ex-boyfriend from the original series (who is now living in Virginia). Carrie has both said she regretted dating Mr. Big (anyone who watched the original series knows how unlike Carrie that is to say) and agreed to date Aidan via little to no contact for five years while he deals with family issues in Virginia– again, the old Carrie wouldn’t do this. The wealth in the show has also become a forefront of the characters and created a massive disconnect for its viewers. It is far more grand in this series than the previous. 

Although And Just Like That… became inclusive to various identities, it was not enough to make the show enjoyable or relatable for its viewers or to garner the same success as Sex and the City. The writers missed ample opportunities to delve deeper into real-life issues women in their 50s and 60s face– such as divorce or widowing (which were both merely touched upon) to focus on the women’s wealthy lifestyle and to cram as many plotlines in the show as possible. Viewers’ near-unanimous disappointment in the show resulted in it being cancelled abruptly at the end of its third season.

While the original series remains relatable and a comfort watch for some, it is crucial to recognize its shortcomings. The show depicts the struggles that straight, upper or upper-middle class white women face while attempting to date in a patriarchal society. The ongoing popularity of this sitcom from the late 1990s and early 2000s reveals that we have not fully achieved nearly as much progress in terms of gender equality as we may think. The ongoing relatability of this show speaks to the quiet ways misogyny still exists throughout society– especially within heterosexual relationships. However, despite the ways this show serves as a relatable comfort watch to some, it is important to note and question how it can potentially alienate other viewers through its racism and homophobia. When watching a show like Sex and the City, it is easy to get caught up in the glamour, humor, and the chic New York City lifestyle the women are a part of, but only some of its viewers will see themselves represented in the show. Sex and the City is still a crucial watch for many, as it calls out various kinds of misogyny that women have faced (and still do), and it also promotes the beauty and importance of female friendships. With that being said, it is imperative to note the ways society has progressed past the blatant depictions of racism and homophobia that are sprinkled throughout the show’s six-season run. While these issues were touched upon in And Just Like That.. the series failed to have the relatable touch that made Sex and the City a cult-favorite. 

Works Cited

Carroll, Noël. “Consuming Passion: ‘Sex and the City.’” Revue Internationale de Philosophie, vol. 64, no. 254 (4), 2010, pp. 525–46. JSTOR, http://www.jstor.org/stable/23960986. 

Christian, Sena. “Love in a Misogynistic Society.” Off Our Backs, vol. 34, no. 5/6, 2004, pp. 33–35. JSTOR, http://www.jstor.org/stable/20838078. 

Liz Hickis (she/her) graduated from SUNY Cortland in 2025, majoring in English. As an undergraduate, she was a co-founder of Emblaze and a member of Sigma Tau Delta, the English Honor Society. She is a managing editor for issues 1 and 2 of Emblaze and is looking forward to continuing writing and editing for the journal. Liz is currently pursuing a Master’s in English from SUNY Cortland. In her free time, she enjoys reading fiction, her favorite novelists being Elena Ferrante and Fyodor Dostoevsky, and writing literary and cultural criticism.

By Courtney Romano 

The most terrifying moment in the psychological horror film Hereditary is encapsulated in the moment when Annie (played by Toni Collette) seemingly transforms into her deceased daughter, Charlie. She sits in the car, grief weighing her down like an iron vest. Her breathing is slow, heavy, and almost mechanical, as if her body is no longer her own. Her face, once so expressive in its sorrow and rage, empties out like a hollowed shell, shifting into something that is no longer quite her, no longer quite human. It’s Charlie’s vacant, listless stare that replaces her features, the blank, eerie stillness of a person who is neither here nor there. And then, the sound, a single, sharp click from her tongue, unnatural in Annie’s mouth, too precise, too much like Charlie’s. 

The moment is brief, but it sinks into the gut like a slow-moving sickness. The body tenses instinctively, hairs rising on the arms, a shiver of unease running down the spine. It’s not just the horror of witnessing a transformation; it’s the deeper, more insidious fear of watching someone lose themselves completely. 

Few horror films in recent memory have left audiences as deeply unsettled as Hereditary, Ari Aster’s harrowing 2018 directorial debut. This chilling horror masterpiece is often praised for its exploration of grief and trauma, such as in Jess Joho’s “The real horror of ‘Hereditary’ is its realistic portrait of a family in grief”, and Emily St. James’s “Hereditary director Ari Aster on family trauma and researching that ending”. However, there’s another layer of horror at play, one that exists within the mind itself.

For those unfamiliar with the film, Hereditary follows the Graham family as they unravel after the death of their secretive grandmother, Ellen. Annie, the mother, is an artist who creates miniature dioramas, while her husband Steve works a typical office job. They have two children: Peter, a teenage boy struggling with anxiety and typical adolescent pressures, and Charlie, a young girl with a peculiar personality. The story begins with Annie mourning the death of her mother and is soon consumed by a series of increasingly terrifying events. These include Charlie’s tragic death, Peter’s supernatural possession, and Annie’s descent into a reality distorted by grief and mental instability. Strange rituals, inexplicable visions, and a cult-driven plot reveal themselves gradually, but the film’s true horror stems from the psychological disintegration of its characters, particularly Annie and Peter. 

The mind is supposed to be the one thing we can trust, but when it turns against us, when identity begins to unravel, when we can no longer separate ourselves from something else, there is no escape. This is the terror of Hereditary. It’s not a monster in the dark; it’s the feeling of looking in the mirror and seeing something unfamiliar, something wrong. 

Beneath its occult symbolism and supernatural terror, Hereditary can be read as a chilling portrait of schizophrenia, a disorder that blurs the line between reality and delusion, perception and paranoia. Annie’s gradual loss of control over her mind mirrors the disorientation and paranoia often associated with schizophrenia. The audience witnesses her reality shift subtly yet disturbingly: shadows appear where there should be none, figures loom in corners, and voices echo from unseen sources. 

Annie is just one of the characters in the film who suffers a mental breakdown that eerily parallels the symptoms of schizophrenia.

In fact, this horror repeats across scenes, not just in Annie’s transformation into Charlie but also in Peter’s breakdown at school. In one disturbing moment, Peter sees his reflection in a glass cabinet grin back at him while his own face remains frozen in fear. In another, he experiences sudden, uncontrollable seizures and hallucinatory episodes, emphasizing the terrifying instability of his perception. The disconnection between self and reflection, between perception and reality, mirrors the frightening instability of psychosis, leaving the viewer cold, numb, and deeply disturbed. 

The horror of losing oneself, of becoming unrecognizable, is not just a cinematic fear, it plays out in reality with devastating consequences. One such tragedy is the case of Jordan Neely, a thirty-year-old homeless African American man whose severe mental illness, including schizophrenia, was dismissed until it was too late. Neely, who was killed by another passenger on the subway, cried out for help in his final moments, yet his suffering was reduced to a nuisance rather than addressed with care, as reported by Reuters in “Former US Marine found not guilty in fatal New York subway choking.” 

The parallels between Neely’s abandonment and Annie’s transformation into Charlie expose a deeper societal failure. When people in crisis are seen as problems to be controlled rather than individuals in need of compassion, they are at risk of being lost completely, both to themselves and to society. Like Neely, Annie is not just experiencing pain, she’s being erased.

This erasure is not just a personal experience; it is a reflection of how mental illness is often neglected by society. When mental illness is left untreated, when suffering is dismissed, the person at the center of it can disappear entirely, not just in their own eyes but in the eyes of the world around them. 

In the aftermath of Neely’s death, public discourse largely focused on whether he was a threat, rather than on the fact that he was a man in crisis. His mental illness was reduced to a justification for force rather than a reason for intervention and care. His race was also a factor many pointed to, noting that Neely, a Black man with mental illness, was perceived as dangerous in ways a white person might not have been. This erasure of Neely’s humanity mirrors the loss of self that often accompanies severe mental illness, a theme that Hereditary captures with haunting accuracy. 

Just as Neely was seen as a danger rather than a person in need of help, Annie’s transformation into Charlie represents the way grief and mental illness can consume a person, stripping them of their identity. In both cases, there is a societal failure to recognize the suffering at the core of these experiences. Neely was not just a disturbance on the subway; he was a man abandoned by a system that should have protected him. Similarly, Annie’s unraveling is met with fear and alienation rather than understanding. Both Neely and Annie lose their sense of self, not just in the eyes of others, but within themselves, becoming unrecognizable as their pain wholly overtakes them. 

Neely’s story also reveals the systemic failures surrounding homelessness and mental illness in New York. Despite outreach efforts, he was left adrift, moving through shelters criticized for poor conditions and hospitals that provided no lasting care. His death highlighted a system that, in the words of New York City Mayor Eric Adams, repeatedly ignored problems until they ended in tragedy. As Adams said following Neely’s death, “Jordan Neely did not deserve to die. He was suffering from severe mental illness, but that was not the cause of his death. His death is a tragedy that never should have happened.” These failures show how deeply stigma and neglect run, not only in individuals’ perceptions but also in institutions meant to protect the most vulnerable. Neely cried out on that subway because he was desperate, because he had been abandoned by a system that saw him as a problem rather than a person. His suffering was real, but society chose to ignore it until it was too late. That same dismissal exists everywhere. The horror of Hereditary is not the ghosts or the supernatural, but the slow, creeping loss of control, the way Annie dissolves into something unrecognizable. 

Hereditary stands as a chilling reminder of the terror that exists not in the supernatural, but within the mind itself. The horror depicted in the film is not a distant, external force but a deeply personal unraveling of identity and reality, mirroring the devastating experiences of those living with mental illness. Like the real-world tragedies we have seen, such as the case of Jordan Neely, the film exposes not just the pain of losing oneself, but the societal failure to recognize and respond to that suffering. Too often, mental illness is dismissed, leaving those who battle it isolated, unheard, and unprotected. This indifference has real consequences. 

Works Cited

Alfonseca, Kiara, and Jason, Potere “Jordan Neely, Man Killed on NYC Subway, Chokehold Death.” ABC News, 21 Oct. 2024.

Hereditary. Directed by Ari Aster, A24, 2018.

Hereditary Annie’s Possessed by Charlie’s Spirit.” YouTube, uploaded by user “Hereditary Annie’s Possessed by Charlie’s spirit”, 19 June 2018, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Nk-u029EeEA

Joho, Jess. “The Real Horror of ‘Hereditary’ Is Its Realistic Portrait of a Family in Grief.” Mashable, 14 June. 2018.

Jones, Shannon. “Movie Analysis: Complete Breakdown of Hereditary (Part Two of Three)” Voice on the Right, 5 Apr. 2019.

Leston, Ryan. “Hereditary Ending Explained: All Hail Paimon.” Slash Film, 20 May 2022.

McDermid, Brendan. “Former US Marine Found Not Guilty in Fatal New York Subway Choking” Reuters, 9 Dec. 2024.

St. James, Emily. “Hereditary Director Ari Aster on Family Trauma and Researching That Ending” Vox, 14 June 2018.

Wilson, Michael, and Newman, Andy. “How Two Men’s Disparate Paths Crossed in a Killing on the F Train” The New York Times, 7 May 2023. 

By Riss Stone

I have always been captivated by vampire stories, imaginative stories that deal with old houses, tales of seduction, and mystery. When “Twilight” (2008) and “The Vampire Diaries” (2009) came out on DVD, I was glued to the TV at all times of the year. As I got older, I read stories where vampirism was more subtle than eyes turning red or skin glittering in the sunlight. Daphne Du Maurier’s 1938 novel Rebecca deals with vampirism in a more metaphorical sense, with the patriarchy being the vampire that infects all the characters, in turn causing them to “feed” off each other’s vulnerability to make a place for themselves in an oppressive patriarchal society. 

The novel follows an unnamed narrator through her sudden marriage to the wealthy widower Maxim De Winter who has more than a few secrets buried in the walls of his old estate Manderley. Constantly trapped in the shadow of Maxim’s late wife Rebecca, the narrator grapples with her sense of self identity as she tries to uncover Maxim’s secrets and establish herself as the one and only Mrs. De Winter. The narrator, Maxim, and Rebecca are all caught in a patriarchal system that they each use against each other to try and get what they want. Whether it is a title, an identity, or freedom, they all have something at stake and to lose. Du Maurier’s metaphorical vampire of the patriarchy introduces readers to a critical way of reading, not only modern vampire stories, but our modern media, looking into how patriarchy, gender roles, and social hierarchies corrupt people and spread like an infection from one person to another.  

This feeding begins with the estate of Manderley itself and its owner Maxim de Winter. For Maxim, Manderley is the pinnacle of masculine dominance and stately power, and he is determined to keep that power in his hold. He states that, “I told her [Rebecca] she could see her friends in London, but Manderley was mine” (308). Rebecca was a free-spirited woman who did what she wanted without care about how it affected others, yet she still captivated all who knew her. The reason Maxim has a problem with Rebecca is because she presents a threat to his reputation with her frequent escapades to London, and subsequently to Manderley. By him being so shaken up by her deviant nature, it is shown to the reader how “underneath the surface, Maxim has been an immature and incompetent boy all along, forced to become a father figure to protect his estate and his people” (Pons 77). His entire identity is tied to that place, as well as his sense of social standing and when he perceives a threat to his power as a patriarch, he is driven to madness and crime, shooting Rebecca and then drowning her by sinking her boat. He becomes desperate to cling onto the social expectations that hold him up in society. However, when Manderley is burned down, his perception of himself also turns to ashes, as he becomes an unknown gentleman and is forced into exile with the narrator. When his physical indicator of patriarchal power disappears, so does his emotional and social power.  

Additionally, the unnamed narrator (Mrs. De Winter as she is referred to by some characters) is also bitten and drained by the powers of patriarchy and social expectations. As a young woman with no money or prospects of her own, she is drawn to the dazzling exterior that  Maxim and Manderley present to her at the beginning of the story. She is lured to his mystery, but she cannot help but always feel the looming presence of Maxim’s late wife Rebecca. When she gets to Manderley, nothing feels like hers even though she has the title of Mrs. De Winter and she feels like an imposter. She reflects that, “[Rebecca] was in the house still…she was in that room in the west wing, she was in the library, in the morning room, in the gallery above the hall…Rebecca was still Mrs. de Winter” (du Maurier 261). The narrator is drained by being surrounded by reminders of Rebecca’s presence in the house and the expectations to live up to her prestige. Mrs. Danvers—one of the housekeepers—even uses the title of Mrs. De Winter to refer to both Rebecca and the narrator, holding the current Mrs. De Winter to the same standards as the late Mrs. De Winter. Lost in the madness of social expectations, the narrator becomes a “passionate female character” who, like many other strong-willed women in literature, “end up locked up in turrets, convents or prisons of sorts” (Horner 31) when they are unable to conform to the expectations imposed on them. Manderley is the container of her madness, continually feeding off her insecurities about living up to the person that she thinks everyone wants her to be, to inhabit an identity and social role that is not hers. This drains the narrator both physically and mentally, turning her into an empty, frail, and almost ghostly vessel for these social expectations to pass through.  

That said, the constant subjugation of her consciousness to this power structure makes her reliant on it; she becomes a vampire herself that feeds off the death of Rebecca. When it is revealed to her that Maxim killed Rebecca, the only concern she expresses is towards his reputation and the fact that he never loved Rebecca in the first place. She states how, “My heart was light like a feather floating in the air. He had never loved Rebecca” (du Maurier 307). Instead of being appalled by the knowledge of her husband being a murderer, the narrator is happy. She feels freed by the fact that Maxim had never loved Rebecca and hated her promiscuous personality. Maxim recounts how he believed that Rebecca weaponized her femininity to get what she wanted. Or, as English feminist critic and literary journalist Alison Light describes these dynamics,”Rebecca refused to obey the law whereby women exchange their bodies for social place. Moreover, by treating sex as a game, she exposed the ways in which femininity is powerfully over-determined” (15). What is at stake in her murder is the continuance and retention of male authority and power over women. Since denouncing Rebecca would allow the narrator to finally feel like Maxim’s wife, she takes joy in going along with Maxim’s cover up. By this, she takes part in his continued dragging of Rebecca’s name and identity, estranging her from the position of Mrs. de Winter so the narrator can feel more comfortable stepping into that position herself. What she fails to recognize is that no woman is safe from the violence against them by men and patriarchal power. By putting herself in a place of voluntary submission to Maxim, she is contributing to the systemic oppression of not only Rebecca, but also herself (even if she is not conscious of it). Her thirst for the title and prestige of “Mrs. de Winter” and desire to be with Maxim is greater than her sense of moral obligation to turn him in, corrupting her character to cover up Maxim’s unspeakable act of murder. Even Rebecca herself needed Manderley and the security that patriarchy provided. The only reason she was able to be wild in London and run slightly outside the boundaries of social conformity was because she had Manderley to come home to. Manderley promised a life of safety and luxury, enabling her to be free at certain moments, while ultimately falling back into the comfort and docility of being Maxim’s wife.  

Despite the oppressive patriarchal nature of the house and the social expectations it presents, everyone needs it to attach themselves to identity, luxury, and ultimately protection. Without Manderley, everyone loses their social prestige and sense of belonging in high class society. Maxim, the narrator, and Rebecca all are victims of  the patriarchal vampire of Manderley, infected with the power structure, yet reliant on it and doomed to take part in its cycle. The systemic nature of this hierarchy drives them to madness and crime when confronted with either external or internal deviations from those rules.  

We still see this in modern life and literary traditions in how expectations (be that social, personal, or political) drain and prey on all of us, making us vulnerable. Trends on social media are a perfect example of this. From fast fashion brands like Shein and Zara, to water bottles like Stanley and Owala, to “Clean Girl” make-up trends, certain brands and aesthetics have social associations and communities that surround them. The draw to consume often comes from a feeling of needing participate in order to be a part of these communities that have a lot of social media popularity. However, by participating in this mass consumer culture of buying into the next new fad every other month, you are included in communities, yet potentially at the expense of your own individuality (and bank account). From inherited estates to contemporary social media trends, people will go to extreme means in order to maintain wealth, power, and influence. 

One of the reasons why vampire traditions are still so interesting for readers is because of the tension, the drama, and the stakes. How fragile these situations are and how we can sometimes see ourselves in these characters through sympathy or anger. Whether it is the narrator, Rebecca, or Maxim, all these characters play a hand in the game of who gets to drain the most out of the other, a game hosted in the house of patriarchy that is also draining them. Additionally, we as readers feed off the suspense and the elements of deception, manipulation, and predation as we try to figure out who the mastermind is.  

Our literary traditions reflect our values, and literary vampires, be they literal or metaphorical, present a nuanced conversation about power, who it infects, and how we structure our relationships to one another. The human condition is complex and messy. By looking at and reviving literature of the past, we can reflect on our current social, economic, environmental, and political issues with a new perspective. Reading Rebecca allows us to dive deeper into critiques of gender expectations and inherited patriarchal norms, helping us to make sense of how our current world still centers around patriarchy and consumption through the means of technology. It is imperative that we break the cycle of vampirism in our society and look critically at those in power, as well as how and what we consume in this system.  

Works Cited 

Du Maurier, Daphne. Rebecca. Back Bay Books, 2003.  

Horner, Avril, and Sue Zlosnik, editors. Women and the Gothic : An Edinburgh Companion. Edinburgh University Press, 2016, doi:10.1515/9780748699131. 

Light, Alison. “‘Returning to Manderley’: Romance Fiction, Female Sexuality and Class.” Feminist Review, no. 16, 1984, pp. 7–25. JSTOR, https://doi.org/10.2307/1394954. Accessed 30 Mar. 2025. 

Pons, Auba Llompart. “Patriarchal Hauntings: Re-Reading Villainy and Gender in Daphne Du Maurier’s ‘Rebecca’ / Fantasmas Del Patriarcado: Una Relectura de La Villanía y El Género En ‘Rebecca’, de Daphne Du Maurier.” Atlantis, vol. 35, no. 1, 2013, pp. 69–83. JSTOR, http://www.jstor.org/stable/43486040. Accessed 20 Mar. 2025. 

By Sophie Annett

The musician Harry Styles’s performance in the recent film Don’t Worry Darling (2022) has raised interesting conversations about public figures transitioning between different entertainment industries. Don’t Worry Darling is a psychological thriller that follows the developments of the couple Alice and Jack, who exist in an almost utopian 1950s environment in a seemingly sunny California Valley. The society consists of men who go out to work and women who stay at home, cooking, cleaning, and fulfilling the typical tasks of a quintessential upper-middle-class white housewife. However, as the film develops, Alice begins to discover unsettling truths about their reality, which prompts further developments in Jack’s complex and mysterious persona. 

Once the film reached theaters, Styles’s performance as Jack was met with backlash from fans and critics alike. People said that Styles did not deserve this acting opportunity, and the role appeared to be merely handed to him because of his celebrity status and adoration. As a Harry Styles fan myself, I can appreciate him venturing over into the acting world; however, based on his performance in Don’t Worry Darling, I think he was better off dipping one toe into the water instead of diving in headfirst. This is especially evident since Styles’s portrayal was frequently overshadowed by his accomplished co-stars, his dominant musical career, and his limited acting experience, which ultimately undermined the impact of the character, Jack. 

According to many critics and audience members, Styles’s performance paled in comparison to those of his more seasoned co-stars, Florence Pugh and Chris Pine, whose main focus has always been acting. Pugh received much praise and approval for her performance. As Hannah-Rose Yee, an Australian Vogue writer and editor, writes, “Pugh is the real event…She is funny, she is bright, she is bold, and then, when the story starts collapsing around her, Pugh takes it in her hands and runs away with it…Pugh is a powerful and tactile performer; you can really feel her presence when she’s on screen.” Pugh’s powerful performance, in fact, led Jennifer Ong, a freelance author, to wonder if Pugh’s exceptional acting skills contributed to Styles appearing “out of his league.”  Styles’s character, Jack, is deeper than just a loving husband who’s passionate about his career; as the film progresses, a more manipulative and dark side unravels. However, when the film takes this more ominous turn, Styles fails to keep up with the sudden tone shifts from scene to scene, leading to Styles falling through the cracks compared to Pugh. This failure in comparison to his fellow co-stars was also evident when Styles was compared to Chris Pine, who played the antagonist, Frank. Pine delivered a refreshing and chilling performance, which only further overshadowed Styles’s acting. Ultimately, because Styles didn’t give a groundbreaking performance, the role came across as handed to him and not earned.

Critics argue that Styles’s portrayal of Jack was outshined not only by his co-stars but also by his own reputation. His musical career, with three solo albums, five albums with his previous band 1D, and a total of forty awards, sets high expectations for all of his life conquests, even when not prompted. Fans also have preconceived ideas about Styles, which leads to bigger expectations when it comes to all of his career adventures. Styles is known for putting on a show, especially when it comes to his live tour performances, where he sparkles in colorful outfits and prances across the stage. Now I don’t think fans or critics were expecting that from Styles’s performance in Don’t Worry Darling, but they at least wanted that level of energy and emotion in the role. Meg Watson, a cultural reporter, and Osman Faruqi, a cultural news editor, write, “I think Harry was way out of his depth. To me, his performance wasn’t laughably bad (and honestly, the accent was whatever) but he was clearly given a script that had all the best bits sucked out of it so he could cope, and it all came off as a bit wooden.” From a new album to seeking out a new venue, such as acting, he is expected to give his all. Styles’s fame is so vast and audience expectations are so high that he can’t harmlessly enter a new field of entertainment. He is unfairly met by negative reviews from haters even before they view the work at hand. Furthermore, his name alone brings in double the amount of media attention, causing even more judgment. 

Unlike professional actors who must work their way up from smaller indie films to larger blockbusters, Styles’s first leading role was in a major Hollywood film, which resulted in him being viewed as undeserving and receiving hate. To be fair, Styles did technically act before: who could forget his Oscar-worthy 25-minute performance as a sickly pop star in the children’s show iCarly (2012)?!  But that glimpse of his true thespian side was sadly underwhelming, as well. According to Michelle Ruiz, a contributing editor at Vogue, “Styles doesn’t seem particularly committed to a future as a thespian—annoying, surely, for actors who toil in Hollywood for years.” Ruiz brings up the larger issue of musicians turned actors landing these large roles over other, more acclaimed actors or potential stars because of the public attention that they bring to the film. Styles’s fame ensures he remains a sought-after figure in both music and film despite his underwhelming acting performance. This position of fame removes the pressure on Styles when it comes to performing as an actor because, either way, successful or not, he has another industry to fall back upon. While I don’t think singers should be turned away from acting in future movies and television shows,  I do agree that they should have to work their way up in the industry. Being placed into a huge role with no previous experience leads inexperienced actors such as Styles to ultimately look unfit for the role.

Love or hate Harry Styles, his performance as Jack in Don’t Worry Darling showed the poor transition of a well-known singer testing the waters in acting. His acting was overshadowed by his more talented co-stars and his renowned singing career, and his lack of theatrical experience was on full display. And while the film delves into some complex and twisted ideas, such as toxic masculinity, manufactured reality, the theft of agency, and many others, with a beginner actor trying to display those themes, the film fell short. In the future, I would love to see Styles play a lighthearted boy-next-door type in a television series or indie film, but he just doesn’t yet have the proper skills and years needed to fully encapsulate a complex character like Jack. I hope that this analysis of Styles’s acting will open up a much larger discussion about celebrity casting, expectations in Hollywood, and the challenges of transitioning between entertainment industries.

Works Cited

Ong, Jennifer. “What Are Critics Saying about Harry Styles and Florence Pugh’s Performances in Don’t Worry, Darling?” The Things, 18 Sept. 2022, www.thethings.com/is-dont-worry-darling-any-good-critic-reviews/. 

Ruiz, Michelle. “A Slightly Biased Review of Harry Styles’s Performance in ‘Don’t Worry Darling.’” Vogue, 23 Sept. 2022, www.vogue.com/article/harry-styles-performance-dont-worry-darling-review.

Watson, Meg, and Faruqi Osman. “Is Don’t Worry Darling Really as Bad as Everyone Says?” The Sydney Morning Herald,6 Oct. 2022, www.smh.com.au/culture/movies/is-don-t-worry-darling-really-as-bad-as-everyone-says-20221003-p5bmp1.html. 

Wilde, Olivia, director. Don’t Worry Darling. Warner Bros. Entertainment, 2022.​

Yee, Hannah Rose. “Here’s what ‘Don’t Worry Darling’ is actually like.” Vogue, Australia, 6 Sept. 2022,

Sophie Annett is an English and Women’s, Gender, and Sexualities Studies student at SUNY Cortland who is also pursuing a Master’s in English. Sophie has greatly enjoyed being a co-founder of Emblaze and has recently become a managing editor this fall. She has a love for all things outside, travel, reading, and expressing herself through writing. 

By Sebastian Barton

When The Vampire Diaries premiered in 2009, it caught the attention of die-hard vamp fans. It aired shortly after the Twilight saga, but unlike the sparkly, rock-hard vampires we see in that series, The Vampire Diaries goes back to original vampire lore, only more magically enhanced. Its mix of sexy vampires, witches, and werewolves invites viewers into a world of danger and desire, an escape from the problems off the screen. Yet beneath these supernatural characters are a range of real-life issues, such as traumatic experiences and struggles with mental health. While it’s good to have these issues represented, the show ultimately portrays them in dangerous ways. The Vampire Diaries has a problem with deflecting and dealing with mental health; it portrays the idea that love can heal deep emotional wounds. While we never see characters dealing with their issues by seeking professional help, we see them disappear from the show and return differently, ultimately giving the wrong message to viewers.

The Vampire Diaries is set in Mystic Falls, Virginia. It introduces us to 17-year-old Elena and her childhood friends Caroline, Bonnie, Tyler, and ex-boyfriend Matt, as well as her Aunt Jenna and little brother Jeremy. When the show starts, Elena has just entered her junior year of high school after her parents’ death. In a flashback scene, the viewer learns that Elena’s parents told her to stay in, and as an act of youthful defiance she disobeyed and attended the Falls end-of-year party. When they picked her up, a fatal car accident occurred on a bridge, and Elena woke up an orphan. After the event, Elena frequently visits her parents’ grave, and she writes in her diary as if she is talking to them. It’s at this point that viewers are introduced to one of the Salvatore Brothers, the drama that comes with them, and the supernatural, revealing hidden secrets and unresolved pain for those around and involved.

Throughout season 1, Elena and Jeremy both struggle with the grief of having lost their parents, but they deal with that grief in different ways. Elena attempts to cope with her parents’ death by constantly writing in her diary, which is not a bad thing, but doing it near their graves continually shows a sense of survivor’s guilt. Elena often relies on her connections with people but has a problem being there for them in return. She tries to be a pillar of strength for her family and friends by disguising her pain, writing in her diary, and putting on a happy face, but these coping mechanisms have some adverse effects. She often criticizes other people’s coping mechanisms from her younger brother to her closest friends. The first season and overall series shines in its depiction of complicated relationships, showing how support systems can help—and how toxic ones can deepen the pain of grief.

Differing from Elena’s methods, her younger brother Jeremy copes with grief by using substances such as marijuana and alcohol and distancing himself from Elena. On the first day back, the siblings had a confrontation in which Elena intervened and told Jeremy to do better. In response, Jeremy lashes out, subtly blaming her for their parents’ deaths, and rushes to the football field to smoke, trying to escape the pain he is feeling. The show does capture the youth of today accurately, showing that substance abuse in young children going through something is real, but it also negatively shows how he gets help. Rather than seeking professional help, Jeremy gets magically hypnotized by one of the Salvatore brothers. This action of taking away his choice promotes the idea that you can erase deep emotional wounds rather than getting professional help if your intentions are “good enough.” Elena prioritizes control over allowing him to develop emotionally, which is a problem with the show—denial of the true problem and avoidance of normal emotional and mental development. Although viewers can observe a variety of coping strategies through the characters, the show ultimately depicts more dysfunctional coping strategies than healthy ones.

When you consider that the show has a viewing audience of 12 to 34 year olds, specific messages, such as it’s okay to neglect your feelings, can harm this younger generation’s development. While The Vampire Diaries does a good job illustrating how everyone grows, develops, and copes differently, it highlights the negative methods more than the positive.

Another example in which the show fails to represent the importance of professional help (counselors, therapists, etc.) occurs with the character Caroline. Dealing with her sexual assault, Caroline confides in her friend Matt, and rather than seek help professionally, they seek solace in each other, which develops later into a toxic relationship. We see that Caroline’s self-worth takes a considerable toll, with her assaulter never getting prosecuted and her jumping into a relationship. However, we were never taken on a journey of her healing or emotional growth. Instead, the show brushed off those deep emotional wounds by covering them up with a new relationship, demonstrating the show’s problematic message that love can heal or erase your pain. This is also seen when another character Bonnie loses her grandma and disappears from the show for a small while.

The Vampire Diaries has many emotional and psychological twists and turns that draw an audience in. The show is phenomenal, and the actors fall seamlessly into their roles displaying their characters’ depths but not their fragile and damaged mental states. Such plot choices could misrepresent what true healing entails to a younger audience still developing grief and coping concepts. This is in contrast to shows like Sex Education, BoJack Horseman, and Euphoria where help and recovery are highlighted. The Vampire Diaries makes bad ways of coping look good by leaving out characters’ recovery journeys or leaving them to deal with their difficulties on their own. Regardless of the entertainment value, these depictions may nonetheless be damaging to a young audience, even when the show is fantasy.

Works Cited

The Vampire Diaries: The Complete First Season. Warner Bros., Warner Home Video, 2010.

“Vampire Diaries Delivers Largest Series Premiere Ratings Ever for the CW.” Seat42F, 11 Sept. 2009, https://seat42f.com/vampire-diaries-delivers-largest-series-premiere-ratings-ever-for-the-cw/. Accessed 19 May 2025.


Sebastian Barton received his degree from SUNY Cortland in 2025, with English as his major. He helped start Emblaze, a public criticism publication run by bright students, while he was a college student. He is currently an intern at Warner Brothers and CNN in Los Angeles, California.