Jessica Jones and the Mechanics of “Post-Series Depression”

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Image from afterellen.com

Warning: The following content contains spoilers.

While I should have been studying for exams, I finally gave in to the hype and watched the first episode of Jessica Jones… and then the second episode, quickly followed by the third. Several days later, I found myself finishing the entire first season and dealing with that strange post-series depression; the kind of ache that arises only after you know you have finished a great show.

I know I’m late to the party since Jessica Jones aired on Netflix in November 2015, but this empty, void-like feeling after finishing this great show has got me thinking—why do we feel this way only when we have finished something that we really enjoy? After mulling over this for quite some time, I decided to do what I always do when I do not know the answer to something: write about it. I have decided that the answer to this question lies within Jessica Jones itself, or more specifically, its treatment of human psychology.

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Image from screenrant.com

For those of you who haven’t seen the show, Jessica Jones is a Netflix series produced by Marvel that follows the titular character’s quest to stop a mind-controlling psychopath named Kilgrave. Kilgrave himself is fixated on Jessica, and will stop at nothing to possess her. The show is one of the few television programs that accurately depicts a psychologically-tormented protagonist with an equally psychologically-complex villain. Characters on both sides of the good/evil spectrum suffer from mental illness. This is one of the reasons that Jessica Jones is so complex and compelling—it shows that people with mental illness are neither inherently bad nor good. Illness has no direct causal effect on a person’s morality, and thus we must examine the other, deeper reasons behind a character’s actions.

Everything about Jessica Jones is phenomenal, except for one glaring aspect that I find myself somewhat troubled with: Kilgrave’s death. There were so many interesting avenues to develop—Kilgrave was obsessed with gaining power and in one of his last scenes, his father warned him that the serum to expand his abilities might kill him. It was the perfect set-up for his death: in trying to develop his powers, his quest to become more powerful would end up killing him. Jessica’s ethical conundrum of having to kill someone would be avoided because Kilgrave’s own mad desire for control would do it for her.

So imagine my disappointment when Kilgrave falls for Jessica’s trap and gets himself killed in what felt like the most anti-climactic death in the entire series. I was so upset at this seeming cop-out of an ending. I ranted to all my friends about it, wrote this angry blog post about it… until I started thinking about why I was really so distraught by Kilgrave’s death.

I missed him.

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Image from screenrant.com

I missed Kilgrave, the psychopathic, mind-controlling, cold-blooded murderer who rapes women and makes people commit suicide with his voice alone—but let me explain. I did not miss the unspeakable acts that Kilgrave committed. Rather, I missed Tennant’s chilling yet incredibly entertaining performance of him. I missed seeing what Kilgrave was up to next, and guessing at how he was going to carry out his next grand plan. Most of all, I lamented the potential to explore the possibilities of Kilgrave’s powers as a villain.

It is here that we come back to that empty feeling, that “post-series depression” we all get when we finish a great show. I would like to examine the effects of post-series depression first through the series’ most captivating (albeit disturbing) character, Kilgrave. He is a textbook psychopath, cunning and manipulative with an aura of superficial charm, and a complete lack of guilt for the atrocious acts he has committed. He does not see people as individuals, but rather as tools for his entertainment; characters in a play of which he is the director. We see this in the way he treats and imagines Jessica—although he claims to love her, he has no problem in trying to kill both her and the people she loves. What Kilgrave loves about Jessica is his ability to control her, to possess her, and it is this control that Kilgrave misses about Jessica when she is gone.

On a less extreme level, we miss our shows in the same manner. We miss our everyday interactions with them, seeing the characters we love, and the degree of control in what we choose to watch and when. Once the show finishes, we do our best to find other shows similar to the one we have just finished, but it is never really quite the same. Kilgrave’s character demonstrates the darker implications of this emptiness, since he tries to replace Jessica with Hope Schlottman (with the hope of filling the void), but this ultimately fails. Kilgrave’s behaviour demonstrates that possessiveness towards the things we love is not by any means the kind of relationship we should strive for.

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Image from rollingstone.com

Jessica is the offered solution to this problem in the show. Although she suffers from depression and PTSD, she does not let these illnesses define her, nor is she isolated by them. On the contrary, Jessica has people she cares about and people who care about her. Despite her repeated attempts to “not give a shit,” she finds herself caring about people anyway, and in the end she chooses to accept these friendships rather than reject them.

It is worth noting that all of Jessica’s plans to defeat Kilgrave fail, and it is not until she starts including her friends in her plans that they start making progress. She includes her best friend, Trish, in her plan to take down Kilgrave. In addition, the very last scene shows Malcolm, one of Jessica’s allies, answering Jessica’s phone at her apartment, and viewers are left with the hopeful assumption that Jessica and Malcolm are to run Alias Investigations together.

Maybe the right way to love our shows is not to find another one to replace them with, nor to let post-series depression keep us from discovering new things, but to share our experiences with the people we care about. Having a good relationship with art means having a good relationship with people; we should want to share the things we love with others, not keep them exclusively to ourselves. It’s the reason we always want our friends to watch the same shows that we do, so that we can talk about the shows with them and have a shared experience. In a way, it is like we are keeping our experience of the show alive in our everyday conversations so that, technically, a show is never really over if we keep talking about it—and that, I think, is a comforting thought.

-Contributed by Carine Lee

Swamp Things and Singing True: a Review of the comic Bayou

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Image from lovelaughterinsanity.com

If you’re going to build a world with words, look at Jeremy Love’s comic book series Bayou for inspiration—you can’t go wrong. What began as a web comic is now printed in two beautiful volumes that you need to read. Southern swamps have never looked so beautiful.

I have to warn you though, Bayou is not what I would call easy reading. It will make you think in ways that might not be familiar in your standard, comic-reading experience.

For one thing, Bayou is building on African-American folklore, such as the stories of Brer Rabbit, Brer Bear, and Tar Baby, among others. Their stories come together in a beautiful and horrifying mix of history and fantasy. The world beyond the swamp is a kind of pre-Abolition wonderland, where the characters of slave folklore live under the Bossman’s thumb and try to get by one way or another.

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Image from vulture.com

It does help to have at least a touch of knowledge about these African-American folk tales when reading Bayou, just as it helps to be acquainted with Greek or Norse mythology when reading other comics.

It also helps to have some knowledge of the Blues. Bayou embraces what I have seen other comics merely touch on: song lyrics included in the comic’s panels. You see, our cast of character includes several rambling musicians and singers. The enchantingly beautiful and somewhat deceitful songstress Tar Baby is the mother of the comic’s protagonist, Lee Wagstaff. Brer Rabbit and Bayou come out of their swamp-side world to sing the blues in a Southern speakeasy, and it all goes to hell when the local levee breaks and a flood takes them all. But come hell or high water, these characters get to speak and sing in their own voices. The past and present overlap in Love’s storytelling, and songs ease the transition between them. Similar to how Disney movies use songs in a montage to mark the passage of time—only Bayou never turns away from real-world darkness.

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Image from webcomicoverlook.wordpress.com

Nearly every character in Bayou speaks in a dialect. This includes the Southern accent, and specifically period-consistent African-American slang. It’s easy to pick up as you go along, and what isn’t totally clear becomes clear with usage (such as when one woman calls another a “heiffer” in a barroom spat). It also includes multiple uses of the N-word, with asterisks for the following letters. It’s a jarring reminder of the history of hate and oppression. You can never forget that slavery is in the characters’ recent past—but why should you? Little Lee may be free, but we first meet her as she swims in the swamp to retrieve the body of a boy her own age. Young Billy Glass lies dead in the bayou because local white men lynched him.

This ain’t Carroll’s kind of wonderland.

Bayou is full of love and hate, cowardice and bravery, sinners and saints. Even the characters that are anthropomorphic animals are beautifully and tragically human. You’ll see the best and the worst of the characters in this comic, but all of them are truly people—even if many of them don’t recognize it.

-Contributed by Miranda Whittaker

Jessica Jones: Feminist Noir

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In my line of work, you gotta know when to walk away. But some cases just won’t let you go…”

Jessica Jones, Marvel’s second outing with Netflix following Daredevil, arrived on November 20 at 3am EST. Needless to say, an hour later I had finished the pilot, and a day later, I dried my eyes as the credits rolled on episode thirteen.

There is a lot to unpack here. Jessica (Krysten Ritter) is the culmination of almost a century of noir detective stories. She’s a hard-boiled, keen, alcoholic sleuth, giving monologues about cases over the sounds of smooth jazz and a glass of whiskey in the dead of night in New York City. Even the opening lines, “New York may be the city that never sleeps, but it sure sleeps around,” would have felt at home in such films as The Maltese Falcon or, indeed, City that Never Sleeps. But this is more than a classic detective story.

For one, Jessica has superpowers. She’s super strong, a little bit fast, and can fly (badly, or as she calls it, “controlled falling”. This works to the advantage of the show’s budget). Jessica isn’t showy with these powers—she isn’t dressing up in a costume and beating up thugs, but she isn’t really hiding either. She uses these gifts when the situation calls for them, and that’s it.

But her powers are of secondary importance to the show. What is given the real emphasis is her relationship with her adopted sister Trish (Rachel Taylor), love interest and fellow defender-to-be Luke Cage (Mike Colter), and her neighbour and friend Malcolm (Eka Darville). Each of these relationships are nuanced and interesting, particularly the chemistry between Jessica and Luke. It has the benefit of neither one ever really being in a true position of power over the other; it fluctuates as needed. You know, like it would with real people.

However, it might not be her friends, but rather her enemy that this show will be remembered for. Kilgrave (Doctor Who’s David Tennant, looking like he’s having the time of his life), is the most terrifying villain Marvel has ever given us, topping Daredevil’s Kingpin and leaving Loki whining in the dust. The fact that Kilgrave is so compelling and frightening, coupled with how magnificently David Tennant plays him, is essential, considering almost the entire show is focused on the villain’s story.

From episode one onwards, Jessica is almost entirely focused on finding and stopping Kilgrave (with the occasionally side step to set up Luke Cage’s story).

With Jessica Jones, we get the first conflict between hero and villain that is truly a personal fight since Loki in the first Thor movie.

Before she was a P.I., Jessica was kidnapped and held against her will by Kilgrave. The show doesn’t say for how long, but it is implied that it lasted for months. Kilgrave has his own power: mind control. People are forced to do whatever he asks. He forced Jessica to be with him, just as he forces others to commit acts of violence or even murder or suicide if he feels like it.

Jessica escaped from Kilgrave, and this is how we meet her in the show. She is a survivor of rape and abuse, of having her agency stripped away from her, and of having her mind and body violated. Jessica suffers from PTSD because of her time with Kilgrave, and more than anything, this struggle is what the show is about.

Kilgrave is used to force a discussion on serious issues. Through his evil, the show explores the issues of consent, agency, and male entitlement. What might be most genuinely upsetting about his character is that Kilgrave doesn’t think that he’s done anything wrong. He takes no responsibility for the things he makes other people do.

Kilgrave, who repeatedly forces people to kill, genuinely believes that he didn’t kill anybody—they did it themselves. When, in episode eight, he is directly confronted by Jessica about her rape, his first reaction is to say, “I hate that word,” and claim that it wasn’t rape.

In fact, after everything he put her through, Kilgrave really believes that he loves Jessica and that he can make her love him back. He believes he’s done nothing wrong. One of the most unsettling moments is where he attempts to be considerate, telling her: “You were the first thing, excuse me, person, I ever wanted that walked away from me.” It’s terrifying, because you really know how proud of himself he is for that tiny consideration, even while threatening to kill a building full of people if Jessica doesn’t do what he says.

Kilgrave is the embodiment of a type of misogynist that has long gone unchecked in society. A man likes or is attracted to a woman, so she must reciprocate this attraction. Kilgrave wants Jessica, and so in his mind she has to want him back. It’s this unnerving sense of entitlement that carries the character and his understanding of the world, and it is terrifying.

Jessica Jones rejects that this is a normal or a forgivable way of thinking. Instead, it puts it front and center as evil, and on the way it creates the most terrifying on-screen presence since Heath Ledger’s Joker. When Jessica finally wins the day, you have to cheer just a little, because this battle was so personal, and her victory is completely earned.

Which is good, because Jessica focuses on almost nothing else. While the supporting cast is strong, and several secondary characters have their own plotlines, none of them manage to compete with the interest in the main story. This is unfortunate, because not every episode can be centered on the main villain. Jessica spends several episodes hunting Kilgrave without him ever appearing.

The only secondary character with a satisfying arc is Luke Cage. Apart from this also turning out to be about Kilgrave, and being defined by his relationship to Jessica, this sets up Luke’s own Netflix series for next year.

Jessica is an amazing character, and she’s put sharply on-screen. It’s just a pity that in thirteen episodes, Kilgrave is the only real case she focuses on, and everything else falls to the wayside. It would have been nice to see her take on some more P.I. work, to stop the show from focusing almost entirely on Kilgrave.

But that is one complaint in a sea of compliments. If you haven’t seen Jessica Jones yet, go and do so. You’re in for a wild ride.

-Contributed by Ben Ghan

OHANA Means Quality Film-Making

The recent addition of Lilo & Stitch to (Canadian) Netflix answers the call of a generation.

As we enter the latter half of the 2010s, our cultural shift toward a celebration of the strange and alternative has exploded exponentially thanks to the age of the internet. The social outcasts, the quiet intellectuals, and the eccentrics suddenly find themselves idolized as ideals for our generation. The marginalized now find themselves more and more a part of the accepted mainstream as the demand for media to represent alternative lifestyles, minorities, and realistic characters grows.

Recently, animated films have risen to the occasion in this respect, responding to our collective desire to see more than just the typical boy-girl love story. For instance, the Frozen craze has shown us that people are tired of the Disney princess formula, and the movie has been widely celebrated as the quintessential depiction of sisterly love above romantic relationships.

What people seem to have forgotten, however, is that Disney already produced the perfect film for our generation’s needs over a decade ago. Thankfully, the benevolent overlords over at Netflix have decreed a second coming of Lilo & Stitch, which is just what we need.

We remember the adorable alien and that catchy “Hawaiian Roller Coaster Ride” song, but it’s really the characters and the weird, special bond they form that have us hastily wiping away tears because WE’RE ADULTS DAMNIT and a children’s film shouldn’t be making us feel so much. So, here for your reading pleasure, a definitive post detailing how the return of Lilo & Stitch is the answer to what we’ve been yearning for in our modern media.

Preach Love Not (Necessarily) Romance 

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If we can praise any film for its depiction of non-romantic love, Nani and Lilo’s sisterly bond is high up on the list of excellent portrayals. While the sisters in Frozen show their love for each other through sacrifice, their entire relationship is based on their isolation from each other, and they don’t share much screen time. The bond between Nani and Lilo is shown subtly: through their intimate knowledge of the other’s habits and the similarities in their behaviour. The sisters’ struggle is to stay together, through the good times and the bad. They have fun together, annoy each other, fight, and make up; and although the relationship is dysfunctional in many ways, it’s made clear through the small tender moments that they truly care for one another.

In fact, the overarching theme of the film is the importance of family, and how finding a place where you are loved and accepted can mold you into the best version of yourself. Both Lilo and Stitch are outcasts yearning to feel wanted, and they are able to find belonging by opening their hearts to one another.

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Well-Rounded Female Characters

Nani deserves all the praise in the world for being both a sister and a mother, while dealing with all of the eccentricities of her strange yet lovable sibling. Though she has her limits, she is consistently shown to be understanding, and truly does her best to make ends meet. She rejects romantic relationships in order to dedicate herself to her family, but this is not the be-all-end-all of decisions in the film. This affirmation that romantic relationships are not the primary goal of female existence is a small detail that highlights the much larger positive message of this movie. Even better is the fact that it’s not made out to be a major conflict. Nani simply states that she is too busy to date (we’ll talk about how fantastic David is in an upcoming installment).

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Lilo is basically cooler than you’ll ever be. She has a non-conformative view of beauty and body types, fantastic taste in music, and she embraces the strange and the unusual with open arms. Although she is rejected by her peers, Lilo unabashedly retains her unique outlook on life, and doesn’t stop trying to be accepted for who she is. Her perseverance and optimism is incredibly admirable and we should all aspire to be just as outspoken and imaginative–the world would be a much better place for it.

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In the vein of fantastic female characters, the Grand Council-WOMAN of the Galactic Federation definitely deserves a mention. She’s imposing and tough but also fair, and she recognizes her own errors. She also seems to have a sense of humour. Young (and young at heart) girls always deserve more female role models to admire, and if a lady can hold the highest political position in the galaxy, a female president doesn’t seem so impossible, now does it?

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Check out Part Two of this blog post here!