Seeing Beyond the Screen: A Critical Analysis of Lionheart through Feminist and Marxist Lenses

                                           

 A Critical Analysis of Genevieve Nnaji's The Lionheart

Introduction

The Lionheart, directed by Genevieve Nnaji, is more than just a family drama; it’s a rich, layered narrative about identity, cultural pride, resilience, and the complexities of navigating modern African society. This review applies four major theoretical frameworks—Formal Media Analysis, the Oppositional Gaze, the Male Gaze, and a Marxist Critique—to critically evaluate the film. Through these lenses, we gain a deeper understanding of how the film reflects social realities, subverts norms, and centers powerful storytelling around a female protagonist in a male-dominated society.

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Section A: Formal Media Analysis

Cinematography

The cinematography of The Lionheart plays a crucial role in telling its story. Shot by Michael E. K. Afolabi, the film uses vibrant colors, smooth camera movements, and picturesque scenery to emphasize both the beauty and diversity of Nigeria. Wide-angle shots capture the hustle of city life in Enugu, while intimate close-ups reflect emotional struggles, making the audience feel more connected to the characters.

The camera is intentional—close-ups during tense discussions create emotional intensity, while establishing shots of landscapes offer a visual pause, reminding viewers of the environment's role in shaping identity. These visual strategies not only enhance aesthetic appeal but also help highlight personal and cultural tension.

Mise en Scène

The mise en scène is carefully crafted to reflect themes of transition and dual identity. Costumes evolve with the protagonist, Adaeze, symbolizing her growth from a quiet businesswoman into a confident leader. Traditional attire is paired alongside modern business suits, highlighting the dual expectations placed on women in contemporary African society.

Set designs move fluidly from urban to rural, reflecting the interconnectedness of tradition and modernity. Symbolic props, such as the old family truck and digital corporate tools, reveal deeper meanings—struggles between legacy and innovation, and the challenge of preserving heritage in a rapidly changing world.

Sound Design

Sound in The Lionheart is immersive and meaningful. Kulanen Ikyo’s soundtrack incorporates traditional African instruments with contemporary arrangements, setting the tone for each scene. The audio never overpowers the dialogue, allowing emotional exchanges to resonate naturally.

Ambient sounds—honking cars, birds, market chatter—add realism to the setting. Quiet scenes are also used strategically. When dialogue stops, and all we hear is the surrounding silence, the emotional weight of the scene intensifies. These choices help bring the characters' inner lives closer to the audience.

Editing

Editor George Cragg uses both linear and non-linear techniques to maintain momentum and emotional depth. Continuity editing ensures smooth transitions between business meetings, family gatherings, and flashbacks. Quick cuts during conflicts build tension, while slow pacing in reflective scenes invites empathy and introspection.

Notably, the film’s structure includes flashbacks that explain the characters' motivations and struggles. These memories blend seamlessly with present-day events, allowing the viewer to piece together how past experiences shape present decisions. This layered narrative style keeps the viewer engaged and emotionally invested.

Performance

The acting in The Lionheart is outstanding. Genevieve Nnaji herself portrays Adaeze with both vulnerability and strength. Her character isn’t loud or overly dramatic; rather, her power lies in quiet resilience and calculated leadership. She represents the modern African woman—ambitious, empathetic, and capable of leading with both mind and heart.

Veteran actor Pete Edochie brings gravity to his role as Chief Ernest Obiagu. His interactions with Adaeze reflect traditional father-daughter dynamics while offering support for her growth. The supporting cast—including real-life workers and non-professional actors—enhances the film’s authenticity. Their raw performances reflect everyday struggles faced by ordinary people, helping the film resonate with a wide audience.

Narrative Structure

The non-linear narrative of The Lionheart enriches the storytelling. By moving between past and present, the film slowly unravels Adaeze’s journey, exposing the internal and external obstacles she faces as a woman trying to lead a major transport company in Nigeria.

Themes of love, sacrifice, family, and self-discovery are woven throughout. The film does not hand out answers; it allows the audience to experience the character's world and reflect on their own. This invites a more active viewer, who participates emotionally and intellectually in the narrative.

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Section B: Oppositional Gaze

bell hooks, in her concept of the Oppositional Gaze, encourages viewers—especially Black women—to challenge the dominant ways media portrays race and gender. The Lionheart does exactly that. It gives us a woman who is not objectified, not sidelined, and not reduced to stereotypes.

Instead of a damsel in distress or a side character, Adaeze is front and center. She faces patriarchal structures but responds with grace, intelligence, and tenacity. Nnaji doesn’t just tell a story—she invites viewers to reimagine what a woman in power looks like. Women of color watching this film can see themselves represented with complexity and dignity, which is revolutionary in a media space that often flattens their identities.

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Section C: Male Gaze

Laura Mulvey’s Male Gaze theory critiques the way women are often portrayed as passive subjects for male pleasure. The Lionheart offers a direct resistance to this. Adaeze isn’t filmed for the sake of visual appeal—she is filmed to show her purpose, conflict, and progression.

The camera never lingers unnecessarily on her body. Instead, it highlights her emotions, leadership, and interactions. The film doesn’t use her femininity to attract viewers—it uses her humanity. Also, the relationships among the female characters, including her friendship with her aunt and the respect from female coworkers, reflect a strong sense of female solidarity.

This directly opposes the notion that women exist to compete for male attention. Here, they collaborate and uplift one another. The result is a refreshing and empowering representation of women that defies the conventions of the male gaze.

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Section D: Marxist Critique

From a Marxist perspective, The Lionheart explores class struggle, economic inequality, and capitalist systems that restrict mobility. The Obiagu family's business represents generational wealth and legacy, while other characters struggle with poverty and lack of opportunity.

Adaeze’s leadership is not just a personal journey—it’s a commentary on the challenges faced by those born into working-class families who are trying to break into systems dominated by the elite. The film highlights the gap between the rich and poor through subplots involving underpaid drivers, company competition, and economic betrayal.

The message is clear: success in Nigeria often depends on power, connections, and male dominance. However, through Adaeze’s journey, we see how community, integrity, and persistence can also forge a path forward. Solidarity—not competition—is shown as the key to survival and change.

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Conclusion

In conclusion, The Lionheart is a nuanced and empowering film that showcases the complexities of gender, class, and culture in a modern African context. Genevieve Nnaji not only directs a compelling narrative but also redefines what leadership and femininity can look like on screen.

Through its cinematography, sound, mise en scène, editing, acting, and innovative storytelling, the film achieves artistic excellence. At the same time, theoretical perspectives such as the Oppositional Gaze, Male Gaze, and Marxist Critique reveal the deeper social and political meanings embedded in the narrative.

More than entertainment, The Lionheart is a cultural statement—a call to rethink traditional roles, challenge unjust systems, and amplify diverse voices. It deserves its place as one of the defining works of African cinema in the 21st century.

Power, Property, and Petty Fights: A Marxist Reading of Chief Daddy

 

Chief Daddy (2018), a film by EbonyLife Films now streaming on Netflix, is a humorous yet dramatic take on the life and legacy of a rich Nigerian patriarch. When he dies unexpectedly, his carefully hidden secrets begin to unravel, revealing tensions around wealth, greed, and social hierarchy. Set in bustling Lagos, the movie follows a mix of legitimate and secret heirs, as well as employees, all scrambling for a piece of the fortune. Beneath its jokes and dramatic twists, the film mirrors larger Nigerian societal issues, where money defines who people are, what power they have, and even how love is shown.

This analysis uses Marxist theory to examine how Chief Daddy presents wealth, labor, and the fight over inheritance. Regarding Karl Marx’s central ideas—like class conflict, commodification, exploitation, and false consciousness—the essay explores a key question: Does the film criticize privilege, or does it glamorize it? Through a close look at class dynamics, portrayal of workers, inheritance battles, upward mobility, and economic gaps, this critique explores whether the film simply reflects inequality or actively questions the capitalist system.

According to Marxist theory, societies are split into two main classes: the bourgeoisie (those who own capital and control production) and the proletariat (the working class). The movie introduces this divide early. Chief Felix Beecroft and his multiple wives represent upper-class luxury: grand homes, exotic vacations, fine wines. Meanwhile, cooks, drivers, and maids remain on the fringes—present but largely unheard—supporting the wealth with their labor while gaining little recognition or stability.

This imbalance is clear in moments where domestic staff are seen but not truly acknowledged. A maid serves drinks without being invited into the conversation. After Chief Daddy’s death, the staff express shock, yet they are left out of decision-making and family matters. Marx explains that elite power is upheld not just through money, but also through ideas and culture that normalize inequality. The film mirrors this by pushing working-class characters to the background while focusing on the emotional chaos of the rich.

Even when the staff show dissatisfaction, it’s tied to their dependence on money. Their pleas for a share of the wealth are less about fairness and more about survival, showing how deeply they are trapped in the system. This supports Marx’s view that class identity is rooted in one’s relationship to ownership and production—not individual personality or values.

At the center of the story is the battle for inheritance, which exposes the real basis of many relationships. Chief Daddy’s passing strips away pretense, showing that love, loyalty, and friendship are all tangled with financial expectations. Several wives seem more concerned about being included in the will than grieving. The children fight openly, some out of care, most out of greed.

For Marx, commodification is the process where human relationships are reduced to monetary terms. In this movie, inheritance turns family members into rivals. Toyin, the youngest wife, cries not from loss, but from fear of exclusion. The film makes it clear that emotions and relationships are filtered through money; genuine affection is nowhere to be found without wealth as a backdrop.

A standout moment comes when missing inheritance papers drive staff to bribery, suggesting that even those not traditionally seen as corrupt are drawn into capitalist behaviors. Everyone is out to gain something. Marx believed that capitalism shapes not just the economy but people’s minds and habits. In Chief Daddy, characters obsess over status symbols—cars, designer fashion, flashy events—celebrating wealth as an end in itself. The film illustrates this commodification, though whether it condemns it remains unclear.

Marx also argued that labor under capitalism is always exploitative: workers create value but receive only a small portion. Chief Daddy shows this through the clear line between staff and family. The domestic workers are constantly active but hold no power and receive little respect.

Take the driver, for example: he transports his employers without question. His work supports their luxury but gets him no real acknowledgment. A cleaner scrubs spotless floors while the heirs argue upstairs, yet her name is never spoken. This invisibility is the very form of exploitation Marx warned about: crucial labor is ignored both emotionally and financially.

In one scene, the staff patiently wait for leftovers after a lavish meal—a literal image of how workers are left with scraps while the wealthy feast. Marx described exploitation not just in money but in symbolism: over time, the poor begin to believe they deserve less. The film shows this by presenting no collective resistance from the staff. They don’t organize or demand rights—they act alone, mimicking the behavior of the rich. This scattered approach reflects how cultural systems discourage working-class unity.

Capitalism, Marx said, creates illusions of progress while keeping inequality firmly in place. In Chief Daddy, the only way to climb the ladder is by marrying into wealth or making shady business deals. No one gets ahead through talent or education. Rich kids are born into success, and workers stay at the bottom.

The film hints briefly at social mobility through Mary (or a similar character), a former maid who seemed to be close to Chief Daddy. But after his death, whatever promises he made die with him. That glimpse of hope disappears, proving Marx’s point: capitalism allows for isolated success stories, but overall, it preserves the gap between classes.

The class divide is clear when heirs argue inside a sleek, modern vault, while workers live in cramped, dorm-style quarters. Chief Daddy emphasizes that wealth is passed down, not earned. There are no systems in the film that push for fairness or help the poor move up. Though polished on the outside, the world it presents is rigid and exclusive at its core.

So, does the movie actually critique wealth, or does it just show it off? That’s the central Marxist question. Chief Daddy seems conflicted. Yes, it pokes fun at the excesses of the rich—drunk wives, ridiculous arguments, greedy lawyers. These exaggerations could be read as satire.

But the satire is shallow. The film doesn’t dig into why wealth is so concentrated or question the systems that keep it that way. The heirs are foolish, but by the end, they’re still rich and still in control.

There’s no real push for fairness, no unionizing, no clear message about changing the system. Even after pointing out injustice, the film ends with a big celebration: music, dancing, and a flashy family event. Audiences enjoy the spectacle, connect with the family drama, and may ignore the deeper inequalities. In Marxist terms, this is false consciousness: the film distracts viewers from real issues by inviting them to laugh along with the elite.

Seen through a Marxist lens, Chief Daddy showcases class struggles and the spoils of capitalism in a highly visual way. It makes class differences in Lagos visible, emphasizes the role of labor in maintaining luxury, and uses inheritance as a symbol of how wealth is kept in elite hands. But its critique is skin-deep. The film doesn’t offer any solutions—just more entertainment for the privileged.

Marxism teaches that inequality isn’t accidental—it’s reproduced through culture, politics, and beliefs. The film hints at these cracks: worried rich kids, exploited staff, absurd traditions. But in the end, it props the system up rather than tearing it down. It shows an unequal world, yes—but one that’s glossy, fun, and firmly unthreatened.

In Nigeria, where money often shapes politics, justice, and identity, the movie’s refusal to tackle economic privilege in depth is telling. The drama around the will gives laughs, but it avoids real questions about workers’ rights, upward movement, or justice.

To wrap up, Chief Daddy reveals class divides with flair, but avoids true critique. It mentions inequality without really confronting it. In the end, the film suggests that Nigeria’s wealthy—like those in the West—can enjoy inequality, as long as it’s wrapped in luxury and good vibes. Through Marx’s lens, it’s clear: the film flirts with resistance but ends up praising privilege in all its chaotic charm.

Tiwa Savage’s Koroba: More Than Just a Look—A Gaze Analysis

 Tiwa Savage’s Koroba is a bold, satirical music video that mixes vivid imagery with strong socio-political commentary. Yet, despite its feminist tones, the video raises layered questions about how Black Nigerian womanhood is portrayed—especially through Laura Mulvey’s male gaze and bell hooks’ oppositional gaze. This analysis examines how the camera’s portrayal of Tiwa’s body, setting, and performance reveals the ongoing clash between empowerment and commodification, particularly within a media space still shaped by patriarchal and capitalist structures.

In her essay Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema (1975), Laura Mulvey argues that in mainstream media, women are often displayed as visual pleasures for the male viewer, rather than active participants in the narrative. This objectification is maintained through camera techniques, fragmentation of the female form, and how women are positioned in the storyline.

In Koroba, the camera often captures Tiwa’s body in ways that isolate and spotlight sexualized areas (her hips, legs, cleavage), especially in dance scenes. Even though she’s clearly aware of being watched and performs with confidence, the slow-motion clips, tight framing, and low angles echo methods commonly used in objectifying portrayals.

For example, during the chorus, Tiwa moves in snug African prints as the camera zooms in on her waist and hips, often leaving her face out of the frame. This disconnect between her identity and her body supports Mulvey’s argument that women are frequently treated as “to-be-looked-at” rather than fully present subjects.

Tiwa’s clothing is stylish and culturally expressive but undeniably crafted to highlight sensuality. From backless outfits to high-slit skirts, there’s a dual intention: claiming power through self-representation, and attracting attention through sexual appeal. Her movements—fluid, intentional, and seductively rhythmic—can be seen as displays of agency. Yet, within the male gaze, those same motions risk being reduced to erotic performance.

The locations (luxurious homes, upscale markets, etc.) reflect status and affluence, suggesting power. But when paired with objectifying shots, the message becomes conflicted: is Tiwa asserting control, or being used as a symbol of high-value femininity meant to entice male desire?

In The Oppositional Gaze (1992), bell hooks introduces the concept of Black female spectatorship as an act of rebellion. For Black women, engaging critically with media and rejecting harmful depictions becomes a form of resistance. The oppositional gaze challenges both sexism and racism, especially in media shaped by male or Western frameworks.

While the male gaze may reduce Tiwa’s image to an object of desire, a Black feminist lens might see her choices as a way of reclaiming power. Her body isn’t being offered—it’s being wielded with purpose to critique corruption, call out double standards, and flaunt her freedom with defiance.

Where the male gaze may view Koroba as simply pleasurable, the oppositional gaze interprets it as sharp commentary. The lyric, “If I follow politician, you go hear am for paper / They go call am prostitution…” isn't just memorable—it exposes how Nigerian society polices and sexualizes women who seek wealth or autonomy outside patriarchal rules.

Tiwa’s provocative visuals aren’t accidental—they’re purposeful. She’s flipping the script on a system that hides behind moral values but thrives on exploitation. Her body, movement, and lyrics become tools of critique, not surrender. Her performance walks the line between self-empowerment (controlling her image, voicing political truths) and commodification (adhering to beauty and desirability standards for mass appeal). The oppositional gaze doesn’t resolve this contradiction—it leans into it and asks deeper questions:

· Can true freedom exist if empowerment must still appear sexy to be accepted?

· Can the gaze ever fully belong to her in a capitalist, male-dominated industry?

The oppositional gaze allows a viewer—especially a Black Nigerian woman—to say:

“She’s not just being sexual. She’s confronting a culture that profits from what it also condemns.”

Koroba is more than a music video; it’s a battleground of interpretations. Through the male gaze, Tiwa is presented as an object shaped for consumption. But through the oppositional gaze, she becomes layered—defying respectability, reclaiming her sexuality, and speaking back to systems that silence her.

The video doesn’t provide neat answers, and that’s what makes it powerful. It forces us to hold space for contradiction: Black Nigerian femininity can be both desired and defiant, both framed and self-possessed. Ultimately, it’s the viewer’s gaze that defines the takeaway.

Interpreting a Night of Violence: CNN’s #EndSARS Report Through Stuart Hall’s Theory

 

In October 2020, Nigeria experienced a landmark youth-driven protest against police brutality under the #EndSARS campaign. The movement took a devastating turn on the evening of October 20, when soldiers allegedly opened fire on peaceful protesters at the Lekki Toll Gate. CNN’s investigative video titled “How a Bloody Night of Bullets Quashed a Young Protest Movement” offers a detailed breakdown of the events using video clips, satellite images, and eyewitness testimonies. This review examines CNN’s report through Stuart Hall’s Encoding/Decoding framework, which explains how media messages are crafted (encoded) and how different audiences interpret (decode) them depending on their political, cultural, and ideological backgrounds.

Stuart Hall’s model (1980) stresses that audiences do not receive media content passively. Instead, creators “encode” messages with intended meanings, but viewers “decode” them based on personal experiences, which may result in Dominant, Negotiated, or Oppositional readings.

CNN’s report is encoded as an investigative piece centered on truth, proof, and holding power accountable. It includes Satellite data and timestamps showing military movement, Eyewitness footage and social media posts, Expert breakdowns of bullet casings AND Direct refutations of official government statements.

By combining these components, CNN constructs a strong narrative: peaceful #EndSARS demonstrators were shot at by armed forces, the Nigerian government attempted a cover-up, and the international community must demand accountability. Visually, the report drives this message home with slow, emotional music, close-up visuals of injured youths, and the chilling contrast of the national anthem playing amid gunfire. Both emotionally and factually, CNN codes the protesters as blameless and the authorities as violent and oppressive.

Many international viewers (especially in the West) are likely to give a dominant reading, accepting CNN’s version as reliable and truthful. These audiences view the protesters as victims and the Nigerian government as dishonest. This interpretation fits global themes around authoritarian regimes in developing nations and the urgency of defending youth movements and democracy. For such viewers, CNN represents the unheard, capturing abuse and demanding global action.

Some Nigerians, particularly those involved in the protests or who followed the news online, may offer a negotiated reading. They might agree with the general message but raise some concerns. While acknowledging that violence occurred, they may think not all details are fully accurate or believe CNN missed important context (like the deep-rooted distrust in both Nigerian media and government).

Others may feel CNN sensationalized the trauma for global attention or used it for clicks, a familiar criticism of how foreign outlets cover African tragedies. Nonetheless, these viewers usually still acknowledge the cruelty and support the youth-led protests, even if they are skeptical of foreign media’s intentions.

From the government’s perspective, CNN’s video might be interpreted through an oppositional lens. Officials initially dismissed reports of any shootings at Lekki, branding the footage “fake news” or a “slanted foreign agenda.” They may argue that CNN overstated its findings or presented facts unfairly, insisting that the military was deployed to maintain peace, not incite violence.

In their view, international media like CNN interfere in domestic matters and incite division. This kind of reading rejects CNN’s framing not due to lack of evidence, but due to underlying motives—protecting the country’s image, preserving authority, and avoiding blame.

Hall’s theory reminds us that media content doesn’t float in a neutral space. CNN’s portrayal of the #EndSARS shootings as a human rights violation directly conflicts with the Nigerian state’s framing of the event as either fake or necessary security action. The interpretation of what occurred on October 20, 2020, therefore, hinges not just on evidence, but on who is watching, their standpoint, and their beliefs. This creates what Hall described as a “discursive struggle.” Who controls the narrative? CNN has visuals and eyewitnesses, but governments have official channels and control of public messaging.

CNN’s “How a Bloody Night of Bullets Quashed a Young Protest Movement” stands as a strong example of how media encodes meaning to expose, inform, and provoke action. But as Hall’s model shows, no message is interpreted in one way. While many decode CNN’s story as a rightful call for justice, others—especially those with power at stake—reject or reinterpret it.

In the case of Lekki, the fight over the truth goes beyond the event itself; it’s also about memory, ownership of the story, and whether the message survives attempts to suppress it. This layered complexity supports Hall’s idea: media can send the message, but meaning is always made by the audience.

Beyond the Glitter: Unpacking Glo’s Christmas Ad through bell hooks’ Oppositional Gaze

 As I continue learning about feminist theory, I’ve become especially drawn to bell hooks and how she explores the connections between race, gender, capitalism, and media. For this essay, I decided to apply her ideas to the Glo Christmas advertisement titled “Feliz Navidad Nigeria!”—a bright, energetic commercial filled with dancing, music, fashion, and joyful celebration of Nigerian culture.

At first glance, the ad seems like a proud showcase of African identity. But bell hooks teaches us to look beyond what’s immediately visible. She often wrote about how Black culture is used in media to attract attention or sell products—while the real lives and struggles of the people behind that culture are left out. Using this lens, I tried to look beneath the surface of the ad to understand what’s really being represented—and what might be missing.

One of the first things I noticed was how the ad celebrates Nigerian culture through colorful visuals, traditional clothing, and synchronized dance. It feels vibrant and affirming. But hooks warns that companies often use cultural elements as a marketing tool—transforming culture into a backdrop rather than something meaningful or respected. In the Glo ad, culture becomes the setting for selling mobile data. While the visuals appear empowering, they can mask deeper issues of power and control. The people in the ad aren’t given a voice or a story—they’re just there to entertain.

The portrayal of women in the ad stood out to me too. They are confident, stylish, and full of energy. At first, this seemed like a strong, positive image. But again, hooks encourages us to ask deeper questions: Are these women shown as full individuals, or are they just symbols of beauty and joy? In the ad, the women don’t speak. They don’t engage in anything beyond performance. Their happiness is performative, created to please the viewer. hooks might call this a form of false empowerment—where women appear strong on the surface but are denied depth and complexity.

Another key idea from bell hooks is how class shapes representation. In the Glo ad, everything looks sleek, modern, and upper-class. The people are well-dressed, the setting is clean, and the atmosphere is carefree. But that’s not the everyday reality for many Nigerians, especially during the holidays. Economic hardship is a real issue—there are many people who can’t afford airtime or data. hooks reminds us that capitalism often masks inequality by selling dreams of joy and abundance. The phrase “Unlimited Joy” sounds appealing, but it’s really aimed at those who can afford it. The ad avoids the struggles of everyday life and presents a filtered version of Nigerian identity—one that’s polished and marketable.

Hooks also emphasizes that identity is shaped by many overlapping factors—race, gender, age, class, region, and more. But in the Glo ad, Nigerian culture is narrowed down to a single image: young, fashionable women dancing in perfect rhythm. It’s a neat, one-size-fits-all version of a much more complex and diverse reality.

Studying hooks helped me see how even a cheerful Christmas commercial can reflect deeper issues. The music and clothes may be authentic, but in the context of the ad, they’re used as tools for branding—not for telling real stories. According to hooks, when culture is used this way, it becomes a product. It’s no longer about honoring people or traditions—it’s about selling an experience. That kind of representation can feel exciting, but it doesn’t offer voice, history, or truth.

Watching Feliz Navidad Nigeria! through bell hooks’ oppositional gaze made me more aware of how media can both celebrate and flatten identity. Real empowerment goes beyond bright visuals—it means giving people space to speak, to be complex, and to be seen as more than just symbols of joy.

Looking Beyond the Glamour: A Feminist Reading of Glo’s Christmas Ad Through Laura Mulvey’s Lens

 As someone still learning how to apply feminist film theory, I decided to use Laura Mulvey’s concept of the male gaze to analyze Glo’s Christmas commercial, “Feliz Navidad Nigeria!” At first glance, the ad is filled with color, music, and celebration. But watching it through Mulvey’s perspective helped me notice things I had overlooked. In her well-known 1975 essay Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema, Mulvey argues that women in film are often presented not as full characters, but as objects of visual pleasure for the male viewer. While this ad doesn’t follow a typical storyline or feature a male protagonist, I realized that many of its visual elements still reflect what Mulvey calls the “to-be-looked-at-ness” of women. In this essay, I’ll explain how I saw that play out.

One of the first things that stood out to me was how the camera consistently centers women in the frame, drawing attention to their makeup, outfits, and body movements. There are plenty of slow-motion shots and glamorous close-ups that spotlight their appearance rather than their voices or personalities. This aligns with Mulvey’s idea that women in visual media are often styled to appeal to the viewer’s gaze—usually assumed to be male. Even though the ad is meant to feel festive and joyful, the way the women are filmed makes their beauty feel like a performance. They aren’t just part of the celebration—they are the spectacle. That’s why Mulvey argues that women are often positioned as objects of display rather than as active participants.

Even though the women in the ad are dancing and singing, they remain largely passive when it comes to meaning or message. They don’t speak, lead, or express any personal thoughts. Their main role seems to be adding beauty and excitement to the festive setting. This helped me understand another key point Mulvey makes: that men in film are usually active drivers of the narrative, while women are more passive. In the Glo ad, there aren’t any visible male characters, but the camera itself seems to adopt a controlling gaze—showing women in a way that emphasizes their physical form over their inner life. That taught me that the male gaze isn’t just about a man being present on screen—it’s also about how women are framed by the camera and what kind of visual choices are made.

The ad is undeniably polished and visually striking, with lots of glitter and bright colors. On the surface, it feels light and empowering. But as Mulvey might point out, the glamor can mask deeper issues. The women aren’t given real depth or agency—they’re mainly there to set a tone and sell a product. This made me realize that even “positive” or joyful representations of women can still fall into the trap of objectification if they don’t offer space for real expression or complexity.

As a student, this analysis made me ask a bigger question: what would it look like if the ad resisted the male gaze instead of reinforcing it? What if the women weren’t just beautiful and joyful, but also shown making decisions, expressing themselves, or interacting in ways that reflect real relationships and experiences? Mulvey writes about the need for new forms of cinema that let women express desire, act with purpose, and step outside the role of being simply looked at. That same idea can apply to advertising too. Representation isn’t just about who is shown—it’s about how they are shown, and why.

Using Laura Mulvey’s theory to view Glo’s ad helped me look past the surface glamour and understand how even commercials can reinforce subtle power dynamics through visual language. It reminded me that it’s important to think critically about the way women are framed in media—not just who appears on screen, but how they’re presented, and what that says about gender and power.

Reading Between the Lines: A Stuart Hall Analysis of the Gucci x Dapper Dan Campaign

 The behind-the-scenes advertisement for the Gucci x Dapper Dan Harlem Autumn/Winter 2018–19 collection presents a layered narrative that blends luxury fashion, Harlem culture, and a sense of creative partnership. At first glance, the video positions itself as a celebration of collaboration and cultural recognition, especially as it centers a Black designer who was once shut out of the high fashion world. Using Stuart Hall’s Encoding/Decoding model, we can break down how Gucci, as the encoder, sends out a dominant message of inclusion, progress, and mutual respect. However, through a negotiated reading, we can accept some of these surface-level meanings while also questioning the deeper power dynamics at play—particularly around cultural representation, branding, and control.

In the dominant-hegemonic position, the audience is meant to receive Gucci’s message just as it was encoded: a powerful fashion house is acknowledging Black creativity and giving it a global platform. The setting in Harlem, Dapper Dan’s presence, and the inclusion of Black models are meant to send a clear message of diversity and respect. But a negotiated reading recognizes both the good and the problematic. Yes, it’s significant that a major brand is finally working with a figure like Dapper Dan rather than punishing him for his earlier designs. However, this partnership also benefits Gucci just as much—if not more—than it does Harlem or Dapper Dan himself. The brand is able to use Harlem’s aesthetic and cultural richness as a marketing tool, tapping into an “urban” authenticity that appeals to elite consumers without fully engaging with the deeper socio-political context from which that culture emerged.

Hall reminds us that messages aren’t received in a vacuum—they are interpreted differently depending on the audience’s background and awareness. Through a negotiated lens, we can appreciate the visibility given to Black fashion while still questioning how much control and ownership Harlem actually retains in this narrative. The collaboration appears to elevate a previously excluded voice, but that voice is still operating within a system shaped by corporate priorities. Dapper Dan may now have his name on a Gucci sign, but the terms of the partnership are still decided by the global luxury brand. This isn’t a full shift of power—it’s a strategic inclusion designed to make Gucci appear more progressive and culturally aware.

Furthermore, the ad invites viewers to celebrate Harlem, but does so in a way that removes the complexity of its economic and racial history. The models, stylists, and local creatives involved in the shoot are visually present but largely silent. Their labor and lived experiences are aestheticized and packaged for a global audience, without giving them much say in the story being told. A negotiated reading allows us to admire the beauty and talent on display while also recognizing that what we’re seeing is still a highly curated, branded version of Harlem—not the real, everyday community. Hall’s theory helps us see that meaning is not fixed. The way viewers decode this video depends on their social position, level of media literacy, and awareness of the fashion industry’s history of exclusion and appropriation.

Finally, Hall's framework encourages us to consider how media texts like this ad aren’t just reflective of culture—they shape culture. While Gucci might genuinely intend to be more inclusive, the collaboration still takes place within a capitalist system that prioritizes profit. Representation is used as a branding tool, and cultural exchange becomes a form of commercial strategy. A negotiated reading accepts that this campaign is a step forward compared to past fashion industry practices, but it also questions how deep that change really goes. Is this true empowerment, or is it performance? Who really benefits? Who gets to tell the story—and who is left out?

In conclusion, the Gucci x Dapper Dan campaign is a perfect example of how media texts carry layered meanings. Through Stuart Hall’s Encoding/Decoding theory, and particularly through a negotiated reading, we can hold space for both appreciation and critique. Yes, it’s exciting to see a Harlem legend like Dapper Dan embraced by a brand as big as Gucci—but that celebration shouldn’t stop us from asking important questions about power, profit, and representation. In the end, media like this shows us not just what brands want us to see, but also how culture can be used, reshaped, and even repackaged for mass appeal.

Unpacking Capital Through Culture: A Marxist Critique of Gucci x Dapper Dan's Collaboration

Welcome a back to Darasspace! In today’s post, we’re breaking down the Gucci x Dapper Dan collab to see how fashion, culture, and capitalism all mix together. Stick around if you want to understand what’s really going on behind the glitz and glam.

Link To Video

The behind-the-scenes advertisement for the Gucci x Dapper Dan Harlem Autumn/Winter 2018–19 collection may, on the surface, appear to be a celebration of fashion and cultural recognition, but a Marxist analysis quickly reveals deeper contradictions beneath the glamor. The campaign, filmed in Harlem—the cultural heart of Black creativity in the U.S.—documents a partnership between a globally dominant luxury brand and a once-underground designer, Dapper Dan, who was previously excluded from institutional fashion due to racial and economic barriers. While the video promotes inclusivity, progress, and collaboration, it actually serves as a powerful example of capitalist exploitation. What seems like an empowering moment for Harlem and Black identity is instead a performance carefully orchestrated to appeal to luxury consumers. From a Marxist lens, this campaign represents the commodification of culture, the masking of class struggle, and the reproduction of capitalist ideology—where culture is used not for liberation, but for profit.

A key Marxist concept revealed in the campaign is reification—the transformation of social relations, cultural identity, and human labor into objects or commodities. Harlem itself becomes a backdrop, a product to be consumed visually by audiences far removed from its historical and social realities. The models, stylists, and community members featured are stripped of personal narrative and turned into images, serving a corporate brand’s aesthetic goals. The production process—normally hidden in capitalist systems—is partially shown in this "behind-the-scenes" footage, but even that glimpse is stylized, commercialized, and sanitized. The labor behind the fashion, whether physical or creative, becomes content rather than something valued in itself. Alienation, another core Marxist idea, is also present: workers are disconnected from the value of their labor. They contribute to a product they don’t own and likely cannot afford. The collaboration is not designed for Harlem residents, but for elite consumers seeking the illusion of urban authenticity. The value here, according to Marx, is not rooted in the labor or cultural history but is defined by what the wealthy are willing to pay. This highlights how capitalism distorts value, allowing the rich to assign worth to symbols and stories that do not belong to them, while the poor remain marginalized.

Dapper Dan’s shift from fashion outlaw to official Gucci partner symbolizes a larger capitalist process: the absorption of resistance into the system it once challenged. During the 1980s and 1990s, Dan was vilified and penalized for his unauthorized use of luxury brand symbols—a form of creative resistance and redefinition of fashion norms. Yet decades later, Gucci itself reproduced one of his signature designs without credit, and when backlash followed, the company responded by transforming the controversy into a marketing opportunity. Rather than addressing cultural theft, Gucci invited Dan into its structure, using his cultural capital to elevate their own brand image. From a Marxist viewpoint, this is not genuine reconciliation—it’s cultural appropriation wrapped in capitalist logic. A global brand absorbs the aesthetic of a marginalized community and repackages it as luxury, all while controlling distribution, narrative, and profit. The Harlem aesthetic, once born out of exclusion and ingenuity, is now rebranded as elite fashion, accessible only to the wealthy. This is a clear case of capitalism’s tendency to convert oppositional or grassroots culture into marketable goods, neutralizing its power and redistributing its value upwards.

While the campaign paints a picture of redemption and equality, it quietly reinforces the same capitalist ideologies that have long kept wealth and power concentrated at the top. The Harlem aesthetic—once a symbol of survival and defiance—is sanitized and commodified. Gucci presents the collaboration as a step toward inclusivity, but true structural change is absent. Marxist ideology critique reminds us that capitalist systems do not simply profit from material goods; they also manufacture ideas that make exploitation seem natural or even progressive. In this case, fashion becomes a medium through which power dynamics are concealed. The use of Harlem imagery gives the illusion of shared ownership and cultural elevation, but ownership still lies with the brand. Gucci shapes the story, defines the partnership, and controls how the culture is presented and monetized. Meanwhile, Harlem’s historical context—its struggles with poverty, systemic racism, and creative resistance—is quietly pushed aside. The spectacle of inclusion replaces the substance of justice.

Most telling is the video’s silence on the subject of labour. We see stylists adjusting garments, assistants moving lighting equipment, and local workers involved in production—yet none are given a voice or central role in the story. Their efforts are made invisible, reflecting capitalism’s tendency to separate the product from the people who produce it. In Marxist terms, the means of production—in this case, the fashion labour force—are completely owned and controlled by the brand. Even Dapper Dan, who is at the center of the campaign, functions within Gucci’s global structure. He may have recognition now, but not necessarily autonomy. This imbalance is especially stark given Harlem’s long history of economic disenfranchisement. The community’s creativity is mined and rebranded to generate wealth that largely flows out of the community. The visual richness of Harlem is used to enhance Gucci’s cultural credibility, while the working-class people of Harlem remain excluded from the economic benefits of the campaign. Their work, their history, and their aesthetic contributions are made into products that uphold the very class structures that keep them disempowered.

Ultimately, a Marxist reading of the Gucci x Dapper Dan collaboration asks us to go beyond surface-level aesthetics and storytelling. We are urged to question not just what is being shown, but what is being hidden: Who does the labor? Who controls the narrative? Who receives the profit? The answers expose an ongoing pattern where Black culture is commodified, labor is rendered invisible, and capital continues to flow to the elite. Until the means of cultural production and the profit it generates—are truly returned to the communities they emerge from, collaborations like this remain trapped within capitalist ideology. They offer representation without redistribution, and visibility without real voice or power. What is presented as cultural unity is, in reality, another form of exploitation—one where the rich benefit from the style and struggle of the poor while maintaining control. True progress would require shifting power and resources, not just borrowing aesthetics. As Marx would argue, no genuine liberation can occur under a system that thrives on inequality masked as inclusion.

Framing Ambition: How David Fincher’s Filmmaking Reveals the Emotional Depths of The Social Network

 David Fincher’s The Social Network is more than a biographical drama; it's a sharp, stylistic study of character and emotion. Through meticulous direction, Fincher shapes the viewer’s understanding of Mark Zuckerberg and those around him, not just through story, but through cinematic form. This review explores how Fincher’s technical choices, editing, pacing, mise-en-scène, blocking, and performance construct a layered portrait of power, isolation, and the psychology of ambition.

Fincher’s editing style in The Social Network is a window into the psychological state of its characters, particularly Mark Zuckerberg. The film’s rapid-fire pacing and Aaron Sorkin’s fast, overlapping dialogue create a sense of mental speed, Zuckerberg’s thoughts outpace those around him, and the editing mirrors this. Scenes cut quickly between past and present, from deposition rooms to flashbacks, forcing the viewer to experience time as Zuckerberg likely does: fragmented, fast-moving, and obsessively focused.

The use of cross-cutting between different lawsuits also blurs emotional continuity, reinforcing how detached Zuckerberg is from the emotional consequences of his actions. In moments where other characters feel betrayal or frustration, the editing refuses to linger; it moves on, just like Mark does. This creates a psychological rhythm: the film doesn’t just tell us what characters feel; it structures those feelings through the tempo of the cuts.

Fincher’s editing thus doesn’t simply serve the narrative; it becomes a tool for psychological storytelling. Pacing reveals personality. The speed isolates Mark from others emotionally, not just socially. It’s as if the film itself is thinking the way he does, fast, calculated, and unflinching.

Fincher uses mise-en-scène and blocking to visually emphasize the isolation of characters, especially Zuckerberg, throughout The Social Network. The film frequently places Zuckerberg physically apart from others within the frame, often at the edge, alone in a vast space, or separated by furniture or windows. For example, many scenes show Zuckerberg sitting alone at a computer or at a table with others, but distanced, reinforcing his emotional detachment and social isolation.

The color palette and lighting also support this feeling. Cool blues and muted tones dominate many interiors, creating a sterile and impersonal atmosphere. The sparse, clinical settings reflect Zuckerberg’s world as high-tech but emotionally cold.

Additionally, blocking between characters highlights power imbalances and emotional distance. In confrontational scenes, Zuckerberg often occupies a lower or more isolated position compared to others, visually underlining his outsider status despite his growing influence.

Through these careful visual choices, Fincher shapes our understanding of Zuckerberg not just as ambitious but as profoundly isolated. The mise-en-scène communicates loneliness without needing explicit dialogue, showing that even in a crowded room, Zuckerberg remains separate from those around him.

The performances in The Social Network are central to conveying the shifting power dynamics that drive the story. Jesse Eisenberg’s portrayal of Mark Zuckerberg is marked by a controlled, often cold delivery that reveals a character who wields power through intellect rather than charisma. His tight posture, minimal emotional expression, and rapid speech reflect a man who dominates through mental agility and social detachment.

In contrast, Andrew Garfield’s Eduardo Saverin offers a warmer, more expressive performance, highlighting vulnerability and the emotional cost of losing power. The tension between Zuckerberg’s calculated calm and Eduardo’s emotional outbursts underlines the clash of personalities and the struggle for control.

Fincher directs his actors to use subtle gestures and expressions to communicate unspoken power shifts, like Zuckerberg’s barely noticeable smirk after a verbal victory or Eduardo’s hesitant body language when marginalized. These performances turn legal battles and boardroom conflicts into personal dramas about dominance and defeat.

Ultimately, the film’s acting deepens our understanding of power as something psychological and relational, not just financial. It shows how control is exerted quietly through demeanour, speech, and presence, shaping our emotional response to the characters.

David Fincher’s The Social Network masterfully uses stylistic and technical choices to shape our understanding of character and emotion. Through sharp editing, deliberate mise-en-scène, and powerful performances, the film reveals the complex psychology behind ambition and the isolating effects of power. Fincher’s filmmaking invites viewers not just to witness a story about Facebook’s rise, but to feel the emotional tensions beneath its surface. The movie reminds us that behind every great success lies a web of human struggles and fractured relationships, an insight that remains strikingly relevant in today’s tech-driven world.

Reading Between the Lines of The Social Network: A Critical Take

 The Social Network (2010), directed by David Fincher, tells the story of Facebook’s creation and the complex relationships behind it. This film explores themes such as vision, power, gender roles, and the culture of technology start-ups. Through its narrative and cinematic style, it encodes these ideas in a way that invites audiences to think critically about the tech world’s influence on society. This review will use Stuart Hall’s encoding/decoding theory to analyse how the movie’s structure and performances communicate these messages. It will also examine how viewers might interpret the film differently based on their perspectives. Finally, the review will reflect on the movie’s relevance today and what it reveals about the human cost of digital success.

The Social Network encodes complex ideas about vision, power, gender, and tech culture through its carefully structured narrative and cinematic techniques. First, the film presents vision as a driving force behind innovation, showing Mark Zuckerberg’s relentless ambition to create something revolutionary. For example, the rapid pace of the screenplay and tight editing highlight Zuckerberg’s focus and urgency, portraying him as a visionary despite his social flaws. This suggests that technological progress often comes with personal sacrifice. Second, the film encodes power dynamics by exploring conflicts over control and ownership, especially between Zuckerberg and Eduardo Saverin. Their legal battles symbolize broader struggles within the tech industry about who truly holds influence. Additionally, gender is subtly encoded through the largely male-dominated environment of the tech world depicted in the film, reflecting real-world industry demographics and questioning the exclusion of women. Finally, The Social Network encodes the culture of Silicon Valley as competitive, cutthroat, and driven by innovation, but also marked by betrayal and moral ambiguity. These elements combine to deliver a nuanced critique of the tech start-up culture, encouraging audiences to reflect on the human costs behind major digital successes.

Viewers of The Social Network can interpret the film’s message in several ways, leading to dominant, negotiated, and oppositional readings. The dominant reading accepts the movie as a gripping and mostly accurate retelling of Facebook’s creation, portraying Mark Zuckerberg as a visionary whose ambition changed the world, even if his methods were questionable. From this perspective, the film feels like a tribute to innovation and the cost that comes with it. Personally, I found this view compelling but also a bit one-sided. A negotiated reading, which I think many might share, recognizes the film’s strong storytelling but questions the harsh portrayal of Zuckerberg and the omission of other voices, especially women in tech. This middle ground feels more realistic and invites us to think deeper about the people behind the headlines. Finally, an oppositional reading challenges the film for glamorizing a cutthroat culture and ignoring the serious ethical issues Facebook has raised. This view pushed me to reconsider how we celebrate tech success without fully facing its consequences. The fact that the film sparks such diverse reactions shows its power to make us think critically about technology and society.

The Social Network remains a powerful film that continues to resonate in today’s tech-driven world. Its portrayal of ambition, power struggles, and the darker side of innovation encourages viewers to reflect on the real cost of digital success. Personally, the film made me question how much we value progress over ethics and human connection. As technology becomes even more woven into our daily lives, The Social Network challenges us to think: At what point does innovation stop being just a breakthrough and start becoming a barrier to genuine human relationships? This question lingers long after the credits roll, reminding us to look beyond the screens and consider the impact of the digital world on our shared future.