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Author: Diana Marin

Diana Marin is a creative content writer, founder, curator, and editor of The Uncanny Archive, art lover, poet, and social media enthusiast. She is a Literature and Film Graduate, with a Master’s degree in Film, Photography, and Media. She is never afraid to explore and embrace the multi-faceted nature of her mind, artistic potential, and of the world through interdisciplinary interests. Some of the themes she has researched and been inspired by throughout the years are the uncanny, memories, identity, dreams, the Unconscious mind, and channelling mental health disorders into art. Personal Website: dianamarin.com

Uncanny Reflections: Trauma, Femininity, and the Fractured Psyche in “Snow White: A Tale of Terror” (1997)

Posted on by Diana Marin

In Snow White: A Tale of Terror (1997), director Michael Cohn transforms the familiar fairytale into a psychologically charged dark fantasy / Gothic horror narrative, foregrounding the darker aspects, submerged traumas, and emotional undercurrents that are glossed over in conventional retellings . At the core of the film lies the fraught relationship between the heroine, Lilli, and her stepmother, Claudia — two women shaped by loss, power, and transformation. While Lilli embodies a kind of innocence, especially in contrast to Claudia’s escalating cruelty and descent into obsession and violence, their dynamic reflects a more complex psychological entanglement in which maternal desire, grief, and resentment intertwine. Both characters are caught in the emotional aftermath of maternal loss, societal expectation, and repressed desire. Their relationship evokes the Freudian uncanny — a confrontation with the familiar rendered strange — as Claudia projects her anxieties, unmet longings, and internalised failures onto Lilli. In doing so, the film reframes the fairytale conflict not as a simple moral opposition, but as a tragic unravelling of identity and intimacy under the weight of unresolved psychic disturbances. In this space, repressed fears and unspoken wounds surface, suggesting that the monstrous emerges from within the fractured self and the intimate bonds we rely on to define it, rather than from fantasy.

Claudia (Sigourney Weaver) is a complex maternal figure whose descent into madness is portrayed not as inherent wickedness but as a tragic unravelling shaped by trauma and societal expectations of femininity. Her transformation into the “evil stepmother” archetype is rooted in psychological rupture — namely the stillbirth of her child and the alienation from her stepdaughter Lilli. Claudia becomes a vessel for projections of female monstrosity, aligning with the notion of the “monstrous-feminine,” wherein female power is rendered as both seductive and abject. Claudia’s descent into sorcery reflects a deeper unravelling of the self.

The figure of Snow White (Lilli), traditionally symbolic of passive purity, is here reimagined as a psychologically complex adolescent who must negotiate her own identity through confrontation with death, desire, and symbolic rebirth. Her exile into the forest becomes a metaphor for a Jungian descent into the unconscious, where she encounters exiled male figures — replacing the seven dwarves with psychologically wounded outsiders — each embodying dislocated or fractured aspects of the self. The forest becomes a liminal, destabilising space of psychic confrontation, in which the boundaries between civilisation and savagery, ego and shadow, are blurred.

The mirror motif, central to the Snow White mythos, is recontextualised in Snow White: A Tale of Terror as more than a symbol of vanity or narcissism. Instead, it operates as a Lacanian symbol of the fractured self — an object that reflects not a coherent identity, but the illusion of wholeness that conceals the subject’s fundamental split. In Lacan’s mirror stage, the subject misrecognises themselves in the mirror image, forging an ego that is both alien to them and foundational to their sense of self. In Claudia’s obsessive relationship with the mirror, we see a dramatisation of this (mis)recognition: she gazes into it to anchor a self that is internally collapsing, rather than to simply affirm her beauty. Her descent into violence is a response to the disintegration of this illusion, as the mirror ceases to reflect mastery and instead reveals her fragmentation and despair.

By rejecting moral binaries, the film destabilises the fairytale’s traditional roles of innocent and evil, exposing the uncanny not as an external threat, but as something that emerges from within the home, the self, and the maternal body. Rather than being born from fantastical monsters, the terror here is generated from the intimate collapse of identity and relational roles. The domestic sphere — once associated with nurturing and safety — becomes the site of dread, echoing Freud’s theory of the uncanny as the return of the repressed within the familiar. The forest, often a symbolic space of transformation in fairy tales, takes on a heightened function as a liminal realm where societal structures unravel. It is a psychic landscape as much as a physical one, reflecting Lilli’s internal conflict and Claudia’s descent into monstrosity. Within this space, the dichotomies of civilisation and savagery, ego and shadow, dissolve, leaving characters suspended in a realm where their deepest fears and desires are no longer containable.

The film’s Gothic setting — replete with decaying interiors, flickering candlelight, and looming ancestral trauma — functions as an externalisation of Claudia’s deteriorating psyche. As she becomes increasingly unhinged, her reflection in the mirror becomes less a source of affirmation and more a site of psychic disintegration. In this way, the mirror functions both as a magical device and a Lacanian symbol of the fractured self, mediating Claudia’s descent into madness. The horror in A Tale of Terror stems less from supernatural spectacle than from the emotional claustrophobia of unresolved grief, maternal envy, and the suffocating weight of legacy. The film compels its viewers to confront the monstrous feminine not as a mythic trope, but as a psychological inevitability within a repressive patriarchal structure.

Ultimately, Snow White: A Tale of Terror resists the moral clarity of traditional fairy tales, offering instead a meditation on the psychological toll of repression and idealisation. Its terror arises through the uncanny terrors rooted in the familial and the familiar.

The Giallo Films You Shouldn’t Miss Out On

Posted on by Diana Marin

“Giallo” translates to “yellow” in Italian. The term refers to a specific genre of Italian cinema that was prevalent in the 1970s, typically featuring intricate mystery or whodunit narratives, psychological horror, nudity, lurid sexual scenes, meticulously staged murders, psychopathic characters, slick, gratuitous violence, and a certain arthouse elegance and sophistication in visual style. It stems from the yellow covers of mystery and crime thriller novels by authors such as Agatha Christie, Edgar Allan Poe, and Raymond Chandler, that were translated into Italian and published by Mondadori Press in the 1920s.

One aspect that makes Tenebrae (1982) a distinctive film within the giallo genre is its self-referential nature. During a stay at a Los Angeles hotel, Argento was plagued by chilling phone calls from a fervent admirer of his work. As disclosed in Argento’s memoir, “Fear”, the caller’s demeanour shifted dramatically, culminating in a sinister vow to murder Argento. This unsettling encounter constituted the catalyst for Tenebrae. Tenebrae follows American crime novelist Peter Neal, portrayed by Anthony Franciosa, who finds himself entangled in a murder investigation during a book tour in Rome, with the killings seemingly mirroring his literary creations. The film mirrors Argento’s experience, with Neal, akin to Argento, being a connoisseur of the giallo genre and facing backlash from critics. One critic deems Neal’s work as sadistic and misogynistic, paralleling Argento’s real-life critics. The critic seems to be simultaneously weirdly fascinated and repulsed by his work.

At the time of its premiere in 1982, Tenebrae was met with disdain in the UK, and, as a result, it was significantly edited and added to the ‘video nasty’ list. Currently, the film is hailed as one of the Italian horror director’s most masterful films, as well as an introspective, self-referential, and deconstructive exploration of Argento’s filmography, experiences with critics, and the conventions typical of Italian giallo films. Its underlying exploration of the nature and impact of violent media on its consumers, of misogyny, and giallo storytelling has led to a reevaluation by critics.

Tenebrae features the captivating visuals and overall cinematography by Luciano Tovoli and the typical atmosphere-enhancing soundtrack by Goblin. Contrary to its name, which in Latin translates to “darkness”, Tenebrae is characterised by its vivid and intense lighting, underscoring the idea that the darkness alluded to is in fact a metaphor for the unconscious forces residing within the human psyche. The Rome depicted in the film deviates from the traditionally idyllic and historic portrayal commonly seen in films – it is rendered as an indistinct, clean, modern urban landscape dominated by towering structures, vast, somewhat desolated areas, and a surreal, futuristic ambiance enriched by the haunting synth and electronic sounds from the progressive rock soundtrack by Argento’s favourite band, Goblin. The dreamlike, otherworldly atmosphere heightens the sense of unease and dread.

On a narrative level, the trauma is revealed through phantasmagoric flashback sequences that provide a backstory for the killer, revealing the traumatic events that shaped their psychological makeup and motivated their actions. These flashbacks delve into the character’s past, uncovering the roots of their violence and linking their murders to a desire for revenge or retribution. The character suppresses their desires and emotions, only for them to emerge in violent and destructive ways. This is reflective of the broader theme of the relationship between violence and sexuality, with the film suggesting that the suppression of sexual desire can lead to violent outbursts. The flashbacks delve into the character’s past, uncovering the roots of their violence and linking their murders to a desire for revenge or retribution. The use of surreal and disorienting imagery creates a sense of unreality, reflecting the way in which trauma can warp and distort our memories and perceptions. The dreamlike flashbacks can also be seen as a reflection of the film’s themes of voyeurism and the nature of cinema itself.

Tenebrae explores Argento’s familiar motifs, including the glamorisation of violence, Freudian thought, stylised voyeurism, deep-seated, trauma, murderous desires, duality, and the return of the repressed. Tenebrae also stands out as an entirely captivating, masterfully designed whodunit, featuring a plethora of surprising plot shifts that keep the viewer on edge. The narrative is dotted with deceptive and suspicious figures hiding behind their personas, all of whom have conceivable motives for homicide and an air of ambiguity in their movements, situations, and discourse that makes them seem culpable.

Suspiria (1977), a classic horror masterpiece by Dario Argento, is the first film of the Three Mothers trilogy by Argento, followed by Inferno (1980), and The Mother of Tears (2007). Arguably the most vividly coloured, aesthetically pleasing classic horror film, Suspiria unravels the complex psychological journey of its protagonist within a surreal and haunting narrative. It is generally considered to be Argento’s departure from the typical giallo roots of his films towards supernatural horror, although it encapsulates elements of both genres. The film follows a young American ballet dancer, Suzy Bannion, who finds herself in the midst of mysterious and sinister events after enrolling in a prestigious dance academy in Germany. Themes of isolation, paranoia, power, and the loss of innocence are intricately woven into the narrative, challenging the viewer’s perception of reality. Dark forces seek to dominate and consume, mirroring the way in which fear and evil can infiltrate and corrupt the human psyche.

Distinguished by its ingenious amalgamation of ghastly themes with a lush, hyper-saturated visual tableau, the film can be likened to a fever dream. The vibrant, psychedelic colour palette, dominated by deep reds and stark blues, creates an otherworldly atmosphere that is both arresting and disquieting – a sensory overload that reflects the inner turmoil and chaos that permeates the film’s narrative. This vivid visual style, characterised by its meticulous attention to detail and captivating use of colour, is symbolic, echoing the emotions and psychological states of the characters. The blood-red hues, for instance, are emblematic of the violence and terror that lurk within the walls of the dance academy, while the cool blues serve as a stark contrast, representing the false sense of security that the institution appears to offer.

The stunning, intricate set designs add to the dreamlike quality of the film, creating a world that blurs the line between fantasy and nightmare. The motifs of mirrors, shadows, and labyrinthine architecture heighten the sense of disorientation and fear, culminating in a film that is as much an exploration of its characters’ psyches as it is a visual and thematic triumph. The labyrinthine corridors and hidden chambers of the dance academy symbolise the complex and dark recesses of human consciousness.

The aesthetics of Suspiria are further accentuated by the hauntingly beautiful soundtrack composed by Argento’s favourite musical collaborators, the Italian progressive rock band, Goblin. The eerie, cult-like melodies contribute significantly to the film’s hypnotic surrealism, creating a sense of unease and anticipation that keeps the viewer on the edge of their seat. The music is an integral part of the film’s narrative, underscoring the tension and horror that unfolds onscreen.

Blood and Black Lace (1964) is a quintessential, early giallo by Mario Bava, combining arthouse elements and unnatural hues with exploitation and gore. In Blood and Black Lace, the plot—revolving around a mysterious killer targeting models at a high fashion house—serves as a backdrop to Mario Bava’s visually stunning and wonderfully designed set pieces. The narrative is an intricate web of deception, violence, and mystery, unfolding within an atmosphere of paranoia, suspense, and impending doom, with sexual undertones. As models are killed one after another, dark secrets and pasts are unveiled, reflecting the fragmented nature of human psychology. The gruesome murders – depicted through fetishistic images – represent a catalyst for the characters to confront their inner demons, peeling back the layers of their seemingly polished exterior to reveal the chaos and darkness that lies beneath.

The psychology behind the plot is deeply interwoven with themes of obsession, identity, corruption, and the pervasive nature of evil. The fashion house, with its glamorous facade, symbolises the layer of respectability and civility that often masks the basest human instincts. The killer, wearing a featureless mask stripping them of any humanising features, represents the anonymity of evil, an omnipresent force that can manifest in the most unexpected places and people. The models symbolise the dual nature of human identity, their outward beauty belying the ugliness of their secrets.

Bava employs his signature, exquisite style, utilising rich, saturated colours and dramatic lighting to create a dream-like atmosphere that reflects the distorted reality of the film’s narrative. The use of mirrors and reflections further emphasises the theme of duality, mirroring the dual nature of the characters and the world they inhabit. The film’s soundtrack, a haunting melody that perfectly encapsulates the tension and terror of the narrative, adds another layer to the psychological complexity of the film.

Your Vice is a Locked Room and Only I have the Key (1972), directed by Sergio Martino, blends elements of gothic horror, thriller, and mystery to create a distinct and captivating cinematic experience. The intriguing, unique title alludes to the 1969 giallo The Strange Vice of Mrs. Wardh, also directed by Martino, establishing an interconnected giallo universe.

The film revolves around the character of Oliviero, a failed writer who lives in a dilapidated mansion with his wife, Irina. The tension and resentment between the characters are palpable, with Oliviero’s abusive behavior towards Irina forming a significant part of the narrative. The plot thickens when a series of murders occurs, with the victims all being close to Oliviero, thus making him the prime suspect. The mystery deepens as the characters try to unravel the true identity of the murderer. A black cat named Satan acts as a symbolic representation of the characters’ psychological turmoil and moral corruption. Does this sound familiar to anyone? It was indeed, inspired by Poe’s short story, The Black Cat. You will also notice some other gothic influences in the visuals as well, as the film deviates from the urban giallo landscape.

Your Vice is a Locked Room and Only I Have the Key stands out for its psychological complexity and depth of characterisation. The film delves into the dark recesses of human nature, exploring themes of decadence, perversion, and the thin line between reality and madness. The characters are well-developed and multi-dimensional, adding a layer of depth to the narrative.

The film is also known for its striking visual aesthetics, with Martino employing a rich palette of colours, intricate camera movements, and sharp angles to create a surreal and unsettling atmosphere. The use of music, especially the haunting score, adds to the overall mood of the film, heightening the suspense and tension.

A Lizard in a Woman’s Skin (1971), directed by Lucio Fulci, is a psychological thriller that combines the giallo genre with surreal, hallucinogenic imagery. The narrative follows Carol Hammond, played by Florinda Bolkan, a woman who is plagued by vivid, sexually charged nightmares that seem to blur the line between reality and fantasy. As the story unfolds, Carol finds herself embroiled in a murder investigation after her dream seemingly comes to life.

The film explores themes of repressed sexuality, identity, and the subconscious mind. The title itself, A Lizard in a Woman’s Skin, alludes to the shedding of one’s outer layer to reveal their true nature, much like a lizard shedding its skin. This metaphor is reflective of Carol’s journey as she confronts her inner desires and suppressed emotions. The film significantly delves into the realm of psychoanalysis and the interpretation of dreams, reflecting Fulci’s engagement with Freudian theory. The character’s dreams unveil her “forbidden” fantasies and internal conflicts shaped by societal norms and familial expectations. The intersection of dreams and reality blurs as these nightmarish visions start permeating her waking life, ultimately leading to a distorted perception of reality. The psychological is intertwined with the mystical.

The use of psychedelic visuals and dream sequences sets A Lizard in a Woman’s Skin apart from other giallo films of the time. Fulci employs a range of visual effects, including split screens, slow motion, and distorted images, to create a surreal landscape that mirrors Carol’s mental state. These stylistic choices enhance the narrative, as well as immersing the audience in the protagonist’s psychological turmoil. The film’s score, composed by Ennio Morricone, enhances the film’s atmosphere, as the haunting melodies and discordant tones heighten the tension and contribute to the overall sense of unease.

Exploring the Psychology of “The Tales of Hoffmann” (1951): Love, Obsession, and Despair

Posted on by Diana Marin

The Tales of Hoffmann (1951) is a British Technicolor comic opera film written, produced, and directed by Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger. Adapted from Jacques Offenbach’s opera, the film is a visually striking exploration of the human psyche through the lens of operatic narrative. It presents three tragic love stories that function as fragmented reflections of the protagonist’s psyche. From a psychological standpoint, The Tales of Hoffmann also delves into the archetypes of the femme fatale, the obsessive lover, and the tragic hero. Hoffmann’s romantic obsessions are doomed by their nature as well as by his projections: each woman embodies an aspect of his psyche, representing an idealised, unattainable facet of his longing and different aspects of his desires and vulnerabilities.

His first love, Olympia, is a lifelike automaton, symbolising his naive infatuation with an illusion. Her mechanical nature represents his inability to separate fantasy from reality, reflecting his tendency to project his emotional needs onto a constructed image of perfection. The fact that Olympia is not real, but rather an object of artifice, signifies Hoffmann’s susceptibility to becoming entranced by superficial beauty, unable to confront the deeper complexities of true human connection.

The second woman, Giulietta, is a seductive courtesan whose charm leads Hoffmann into the trap of carnal temptation. Giulietta’s manipulation of Hoffmann is a metaphor for the destructive nature of indulgence and the loss of self-identity in the pursuit of physical pleasure. In the pivotal moment of their affair, Giulietta convinces Hoffmann to surrender his own reflection, symbolising the dangerous act of giving up one’s essence in exchange for fleeting gratification. Her presence exposes the psychological peril of prioritising external desires over internal authenticity, leaving Hoffmann more hollow and disconnected from his true self.

The final woman in Hoffmann’s tragic love trilogy is Antonia, a delicate singer whose passion for music ultimately leads to her downfall. Unlike the other two, Antonia’s love is rooted in a deeply emotional connection, but it is tainted by her frailty and the sinister forces that prey upon her vulnerability. Antonia’s talent becomes both her gift and her curse; it consumes her, manipulated by dark influences that push her toward self-destruction. Her fate reflects the psychological tension between personal ambition and the destructive toll of artistic passion, showing how Hoffmann’s love for her mirrors his own internal struggle with obsession and the fear of losing oneself to a singular, overpowering desire. Each of these women embodies an aspect of Hoffmann’s psyche, portraying the varying dangers of love and obsession and the emotional consequences of surrendering to illusions.

The film’s highly stylised aesthetic, with its theatrical sets and surreal colour palettes, externalises his internal conflicts, blurring the line between fantasy and reality. This deliberate artificiality emphasises how perception is shaped by the illusions we create for ourselves. Throughout the film, the poet’s obsession with love and his recurring disillusionments represent a psychological study of idealisation and the fragility of human desire. His inability to reconcile fantasy with reality creates a poignant tension, showcasing the psychological struggle between personal aspiration and the painful recognition of impermanence. The repetition of these patterns in Hoffmann’s relationships reflects a cyclical psychological process of hope, betrayal, and despair, inviting the viewer to reflect on the darker sides of romantic obsession.

The psychological complexity of The Tales of Hoffmann is further enhanced through its use of opera as a vehicle for heightened emotional expression. The operatic nature of the film allows characters to embody both psychological archetypes and emotional extremes, giving a voice to Hoffmann’s inner conflicts. In this heightened emotional landscape, the psychological torment of Hoffmann is portrayed through his actions as well as through his shifting perception of the women he encounters, reflecting his struggles with love and identity. His relationships are tragic, not because of the women themselves, but because of Hoffmann’s projection of his desires and flaws onto them. The film’s dreamlike sequences suggest that Hoffmann’s journey through these fantastical tales is a metaphorical exploration of the mind’s tendency to distort, idealise, and ultimately suffer through its own internalised struggles.

Fragmented Lives: The Emotional Landscape of “Oslo, August 31st”

Posted on by Diana Marin

Joachim Trier’s Oslo, August 31st is an unflinching exploration of depression, addiction, and the weight of past choices. The film follows Anders, a recovering drug addict, as he spends a day in Oslo, revisiting old haunts and encountering people from his past. The story is set within a 24-hour period, but its psychological depth extends far beyond its timeframe.

The film captures the bleakness of existential despair. Anders is physically present, but emotionally detached, as if watching his life from the outside. The psychological struggle is in the tension between his desire to reintegrate into society and the overpowering feeling that he’s irreversibly damaged. He’s haunted by past mistakes, and even as he moves through the city, the memories of his addiction and the relationships he has destroyed shadow his every interaction.

The film mirrors Anders’ internal turmoil through its visual and auditory design. The muted colour palette of the city underscores his emotional numbness, while the conversations he has with friends, who are now settled into their lives, highlight his sense of alienation. Every scene seems to pulse with a quiet, unspoken dread—a reflection of Anders’ own inability to articulate his emotional devastation.

Oslo, August 31st tackles themes of shame, hopelessness, and the paralysis that often comes with depression. Anders’ sense of failure and self-loathing is palpable, especially in moments of solitude when he’s left alone with his thoughts. His conversations reveal a longing for redemption, but also a deep scepticism that it is possible.

From Idyllic to Horrific: The Uncanny in Viy (1967)

Posted on by Diana Marin

Viy (1967), directed by Konstantin Ershov and Georgiy Kropachyov, is an engrossing adaptation of Nikolai Gogol’s eponymous horror novella. This Soviet-era cinematic gem reveals a tale of terror, folklore, and the uncanny in a rural place that becomes a liminal space of dread as the uncanny motif resurfaces through the dichotomous tension between the known and the unfamiliar, between the seemingly idyllic rural setting and the unsettling supernatural elements that inhabit it. The familiar shifts into something terrifying as the character of the witch, Pannochka, an embodiment and manifestation of the uncanny, oscillates in appearance, morphing from the archetypal fairytale figure of the crone into a beautiful, ghostly young woman who summons demons, vampires, and Viy, a horrifying creature.

Delving into the intersection of the familiar and the strange, the natural and the supernatural, the film’s disturbing visuals—like the summoning of demons, the witch’s flight, and the final ghastly revelation of Viy—juxtapose the mundane rural setting with the phantasmagoric. The uncanny is also present through the motif of repetition, the return of the repressed, the shift from the familiar to the alien, the tension between the two different states: idyllic bliss and the state of unsettling anxiety, unease, and ambiguity associated with supernatural occurrences.

The Uncanny Doubling and Spiritual Connection in “The Double Life of Véronique”

Posted on by Diana Marin

Engaging with psychoanalytic concepts such as the uncanny doubling and repetition, The Double Life of Véronique (1991), dir. by Krzysztof Kieslowski, approaches the connection between two women, Weronika and Véronique, whose lives mirror each other, being connected through faith, music, situations, objects, disease, and their similar relationships with their families.

The uncanny lies in the concept of an eerie repetition of events and the phenomenon of doubling, which is approached both through the elusive, uncanny presence of Weronika in Véronique’s life and through Alexandre’s marionettes, that double and haunt Véronique, symbolising the regressive drive towards an inorganic, inanimate state whilst being used in the exploration of the complex emotions of being duplicated.

After Véronique connects with Alexandre – the puppeteer, his clues evoke the uncanny presence of Weronika, exposing Véronique to her double. With his help, she also finds the photograph she took of Weronika – which represents a key, cathartic moment allowing her to be more understanding of her own elusive feelings of the uncanny and of loss due to her ineffable (soul) connection with Weronika. Véronique experiences a figurative rebirth, similar to the butterfly story that Alexandre creates.

The film is referred to by the director as a representation of “the luminous, the numinous and the ominous”. Moving away from the psychoanalytic framework, the film approaches the spiritual themes of transcendence, pure intuition, and the existence of the soul.

Krzysztof Kieślowski about the beautiful impact of the film:
“At a meeting just outside Paris, a 15-year-old girl came up to me and said that she’d been to see [The Double Life of] Véronique. She’d gone once, twice, three times and only wanted to say one thing really – that she realised that there is such a thing as a soul. She hadn’t known before, but now she knew that the soul does exist. There’s something very beautiful in that. It was worth making Véronique for that girl.”

Distorted Perceptions: The Avant-garde Silent Landscape of “A Page of Madness”

Posted on by Diana Marin

A Page of Madness (1926), dir. Teinosuke Kinugasa, is a mesmerising Japanese psychological avant-garde masterpiece exploring the oscillation between reality and fantasy through a distinctive, unsettling cinematic approach. The film was part of a broader context of Japanese avant-garde works created during Japan’s interwar period (1918-1941), when Japanese artistic expressions, as exemplified through poetry and other art forms, were influenced by European modernist and avant-garde art, exploring themes such as political repression, technology, and censorship through a mix of erotic, grotesque, and nonsensical depictions.

Set within the confining walls of a mental institution in Japan, the narrative primarily centres on a janitor haunted by the guilt of his past and struggling with acceptance whilst working to care for his institutionalised wife and grappling with his own emerging fantasies. Through a mixture of striking visuals, dream sequences, and silent storytelling, Kinugasa creates an unsettling cinematic experience that delves into themes of guilt, mental illness, and the fragility of human mind.

The film was also closely linked with the modernist literary group, shinkankakuha (New Perception school), as the screenplay was derived from consultations with several members of this group. One of the founders of the group, Riichi Yokomitsu, wrote “The phenomenon of perception for Shinkankakuha is, to put it briefly, the direct, intuitive sensation of a subjectivity that peels away the naturalised exterior aspects and leaps into the thing itself.”

Both Kinugasa’s films and the shinkankakuha focus on the concept of sense perception: A Page of Madness is characterised by its distinctive use of narrative and visual techniques, such as rapid montage sequences, multiple exposures, and lens distortions, as well as eerie painted sets and stylised lighting reminiscent of German Expressionism, to delve into the abnormal sensory experiences and perceptions of inmates in the asylum. The portrayal of mental illness reflects a tendency to transcend traditional, naturalistic depictions, in a way that also raised deep questions about societal perceptions of mental illness during the time.

Strangely Familiar Visual Narratives: An Exploration of the Interplay between Reality and Unreality in Contemporary Collage Art

Posted on by Diana Marin

Collage constitutes a dynamic medium where elements of the familiar are unsettlingly displaced into unfamiliar territories, offering a visceral exploration of the uncanny. Teetering between the comfort of recognition and the chilling thrill of the unexpected, the realm of contemporary collage art opens up a world of paradoxes, where the mundane is rendemasred extraordinary and the predictable unexpectedly disrupted. Among the artists shaping the narratives in this sphere in the virtual space, Angelica Paez, Colette Saint Yves, Sato Masahiro, Sara Shakeel, and Robin Isely each stand out with a distinct approach to this medium, employing their unique artistic vernacular to translate the ethereal, the uncanny, and the nostalgic into tangible, visual experiences. As we shall see, these contemporary collage artists, albeit divergent in their techniques and thematic focal points, share a predilection for the provocative interplay of reality and unreality.

Angelica Paez‘s surreal monochrome collages engage our perception in a ludic, nostalgia-infused dialogue of complex, dreamlike contradictions through the depiction of hypnotic scenes created by cutting out old papers, catalogues, and magazines collected from second hand markets. The eerie atmosphere of her work is achieved by incorporating familiar objects in strange ways in intimate settings, unveiling images embedded in the unconscious. These enigmatic scenes, often characterised by a cleverly conceived atmospheric eeriness, artfully compel the viewer in a way that simultaneously challenges and delights.

Paez’s strikingly enticing works echo her early love for collage-making, a practice she developed from a tender age with safety scissors and her mother’s discarded magazines. Today, her notable artistic skills, manifested in her ability to conjure complex, layered narratives, reveal a sophisticated metamorphosis of her childhood pastime, though her affinity for the tangible, tactile process remains undiminished. Her intricate compositions, often bearing the inscription “Houston, Texas”, hint at the subtle interplay between the origin of her eclectic materials and their ultimate reincarnation within her art, further accentuating the intimate dialogue between the past and the present, the mundane and the extraordinary that permeates her nostalgic oeuvre.

Colette Saint Yves is a photographer and collector of evocative imagery featuring film stars with enigmatic gazes, mysterious apparitions, celestial settings, and melancholic monochrome nature shot in analogue. The artist creates haunting, surreal collage art by interweaving a range of elements from photographs, films, and books to create dreamlike, at times unsettling scenes that intrigue. Her work also acts as a bridge that connects modern audiences to the vintage aesthetics and poignant emotiveness of silent cinema. Saint Yves’s distinctive methodology involves the meticulous collection and curation of varied visual artifacts – abandoned photographs, vintage postcards, enigmatic screencaps, and illustrations from time-worn, antiquated books. These become the eclectic building blocks of her captivating collages, providing a rich, layered, and textured backdrop for her surreal, dreamlike compositions.

Her evocative works usually exude a deep sense of melancholy, offset by the mysterious, irresistible allure of the subjects she artfully depicts, often incorporating elements from celestial bodies and the untamed natural world. The striking monochromatic tones frequently featured in her intriguing collages heighten the overall enigma and ethereal, otherworldly nature of her mesmerising compositions. Each intricate piece is an exploration into the depths of the subconscious, where evocative nostalgia and vivid fantasy intertwine, eliciting a memorable sense of intrigue and a poignant longing for an elusive era irrevocably lost to time.

Sato Masahiro, operating under the creative pseudonym Q-TA, is a distinguished collage artist residing in Tokyo. Q-TA’s works consist of an innovative fusion of ephemera from antiquated encyclopedias, exploiting both digital manipulation and traditional techniques. The blend of old and new characterises his strikingly surreal artistic style. Masterfully employing both digital and analog techniques, he invites the viewer into compellingly strange and aesthetically rich landscapes through a juxtaposition of elements into an improbable assembly generating dreamlike, surreal compositions. The ability to render the absurd into harmonious continuity forms the distinctive appeal of his body of work.

In one if his interviews, Q-TA mentioned his hopes for audiences to experience a mix of feelings reminiscent of childhood book reading—surprise, delight, and a nostalgic yearning. This child-centric approach is not merely aesthetic; it underscores his aspiration to convey an innovative perspective by bestowing upon his audience a glimpse into a child’s world, whilst situating children in these distinctive, surreal environments. Even though his works don’t carry explicit messages, they are embedded with fragmented keywords, adding layers of subtle commentary and sparking curiosity.

Imbued with a profound understanding of the interplay between human form and animalistic instinct, San Francisco-based digital artist Robin Isely eerily bridges diverse historical and aesthetic influences in his haunting, compelling collage work. His compositions, marked by an uncanny fusion of the sublime and the unsettling, draw from a broad palette of eras and stylistic movements – the grandeur of classical mythology, the intricate mysticism of the Gothic period, the allure of French New Wave cinema, and the visceral expressiveness of the tumultuous sixties.

Isely’s intriguing, surreal collage art, resonating with a dreamy and sometimes disconcerting quality, crafts immersive, eerie yet aesthetically pleasing visual narratives. Through a creative blend of vintage photographs, his work constructs uncanny, richly textured scenes that immerse spectators into a universe where reality and fantasy seamlessly intersect. The effect is an enchanting, eerie tableau that invites a journey into the labyrinth of the subconscious, stirring up nostalgia and discomfort in equal measure.

Recognised for her distinctive combination of traditional craft techniques and experimental practices, Jana Sojka is a self-taught mixed media artist creating haunting, evocative art which often features natural motifs, fragmented words, vintage textures, and self-portraits. Born in Poland and now based in Bristol, Sojka’s varied yet recognisable body of work reflects her life journey and her intimate connection with the world around her. Having begun her artistic journey through a fascination with photography, Sojka soon started to explore various mediums, incorporating collage, animation, and journaling into her creative process. The result is a distinctive, multifaceted oeuvre that bridges the gap between introspection and universal resonance, personal memories and shared narratives. One of the signature elements of Sojka’s work is her dedication to using traditional craft-based techniques and materials. Sourced from her family home, old ephemera play a central role in her collages and prints, grounding her creations in a tangible sense of history and continuity. She imbues these pieces with a nostalgic resonance that is both deeply personal and universally relatable.

Sojka’s work also displays a profound connection with nature, a theme that is often manifested in the presence of floral motifs and her exploration of natural light and shadows. Her nighttime escapades, as she calls them, led to a fascination with the interplay of darkness and light, an element she beautifully translates into her photographs and animations. Her artistic practice is guided by intuition and emotion, evident in her ‘always experimental’ approach. She believes in the importance of surrendering to creative impulses and the process of making art as an act of liberation. This philosophy permeates Sojka’s work, resulting in pieces that encapsulate the raw and authentic beauty of life. Within her oeuvre, Jana Sojka’s journals hold a special place. They are collections of thoughts, images, and ephemera, each telling a different story. They constitute both a documentation of her life and a channel for processing feelings, an intimate reflection of her journey that she occasionally shares with the world.

Sara Shakeel, the original crystal artist and a former dentist from Pakistan who found her artistic calling in the gleam and glitter of crystals, creates scintillating, bedazzled collage artworks. Through her striking, glamorous art, various aspects of the world are imbued with her signature magic. The magic is created by adding layers of crystals and glitter to subjects ranging from pop culture and artists, classical paintings and religious iconography, urban aesthetics, luxury brands, fashion, as well as tears and stretch marks promoting body positivity. Her artworks blend a sense of healing, empowerment, and joy with a unique aesthetic that draws the viewer into a universe studded with shimmering details. Shakeel uses her art as a medium of personal therapy, each creation reflecting a therapeutic journey that resonates with viewers and triggers a sense of shared healing.

Despite not having any formal training, Shakeel’s rise to fame, courtesy of social media platforms, has seen her distinct aesthetic reach over a million followers. Her first body of work, notably known as #glitterstretchmarks, challenges societal norms regarding body image. It reflects her stance towards body positivity, as she embellishes images of stretch marks with gold glitter and crystals, transmuting perceived imperfections into vibrant art. This theme, along with the artist’s penchant for incorporating celestial galaxies into her work, underscores her talent for finding and creating beauty and strength in the most unexpected places. What sets Shakeel’s work apart is not just her stunning technique but also the emotional depth and vivid storytelling that unfolds in each creation. Drawing inspiration from her surroundings, memories, and personal desires, she uses her pieces to communicate complex emotions through dazzlingly bright and captivating crystals.

Osmosis: an ambivalent, philosophical take on AI-facilitated romance

Posted on by Diana Marin

Osmosis (2019, TV, now on Netflix), created by Audrey Fouché, is a French sci-fi drama series with echoes of Black Mirror, albeit less nihilistic, and a tinge of Sense8, as it depicts telepathic encounters. It revolves around the frequently explored sci-fi concept of AI-facilitated romance, interwoven with corresponding existential, moral, and political concerns, as well as realistic coexisting anxieties. The revealing biological term from the title is also the name of the futuristic dating app which collects, uses, and monitors the brain data of the testers for the purpose of uniting them with their ideal romantic match for life. There are also parallel narratives accompanying this romance-centric plot line, featuring non-romantic characters whose lives are driven by different purposes, with motivations such as family or socio-political agendas.

The specifics of the Osmosis process include swallowing a pill delivering nanorobots into the brains of the volunteers, as a way of picking up thoughts, characteristics, responses, and so on. At the end of the process, the algorithm not only reveals the face of their Osmotic partner, but allows the tech team to further analyse brain information in real time to examine the hormone levels, impulses, and reactions of the participant. When both partners are implanted, their brains can connect from afar, allowing them to share an otherworldly connection and moments of ineffable exaltation. There is a moment in which Paul, the protagonist and pioneer of Osmosis, visualises and tries to capture the phenomenon in words, yet the cynical unknowing man listening to him can’t grasp the reality or extent of the experience, dismissing it as poetic embellishment for falling in love.

The unique connection is depicted through intertwining physical bodies floating in a dark virtual space. However, there is an element of subjectivity which makes us reluctant to take Paul’s symbolic descriptions as well as the consistency of Osmosis for granted. Whilst Paul seems to be infatuated with and devoted to the Osmosis process, describing it as otherworldly, if we consider his partner’s dissatisfaction and actions in the show (which I will not spoil too much) we could infer that she may not feel it with the same intensity. It could be that certain issues regarding scientific predictability and the controlling aspects of Osmosis represent a strong incentive for her actions, overriding the augmented Osmosis euphoria, as we never hear her describe the same remarkable experience, which makes you wonder- to what extent does the Osmosis experience vary based on brain chemistry? Is it comparable to a normal intimate encounter between infatuated lovers? Is it as varied as people’s capacity for and perception of love? Another aspect that is aligned with the view of subjectivity and inconsistency is the moment Paul starts saying Osmosis didn’t seem as strong/ intense at particular times. Not to mention Lucas, whose abnormal Osmosis experience was dismissed as the inevitable error of and exception to the test. Is Osmosis as reliable as Paul hopes?

Osmosis is a complex show in its dystopian-utopian ambiguity, especially when it comes to the reliance on advanced invasive technology in the pursuit of human desires, the trustworthiness of and control exerted by tech companies, as well as the idea of controlling and monitoring feelings and predicting love-related outcomes. Some characters vouch for the project, whilst others exhibit outright pessimism or express some moral and existential doubts- including the supporters of a competing app based on a different, less fatalistic ideology. This will probably echo the responses of the viewers as well, and the common concerns anyone will have on this topic- the oscillations between rejecting and embracing the potential impact of such advanced technology, seeing it as a threatening aspect of the bleak dark future ahead or as an enlightening step forward.

Another significant dimension of the series- a contemporary element among more futuristic concerns, is the complicated familial bond between the creators of Osmosis, Esther (Agathe Bonitzer) and Paul (Hugo Becker). Paul believes in Osmosis with an obsessive dedication, yet everyone around him seems to have other conflicting interests. His sister, Esther, the tech mastermind behind the project, explores the alternative, medical uses derived from Osmosis, such as using the technology to revive their comatose mother, which leads to a sinister family secret being revealed through memory reconstruction. Meanwhile, another character reconsiders their own ulterior motive for signing up for the app, whilst an important piece of the puzzle experiences a change of heart, threatening Paul’s beliefs and life. AI sentience may also make a short-lived appearance.

The show is mostly slow-paced, exuding arthouse vibes, and the characters, as well as the actors’ performances, have a polarising effect in terms of likeability. Esther is the highly intelligent, calculated component of Osmosis, with a background in AI and computational neuroscience – who is, however, perhaps ironically, quite detached from the actual experience and aims of the project. She is absent-minded and somewhat discourteous with people in her vicinity, intense yet emotionally detached from everything aside from being invested in and consumed by family events, doing questionable deeds for pure reasons. Meanwhile, her interest in romantic love is non-existent and replaced by her love for her brother and mother, her sexual encounters in Virtual Reality, and her conversations with the Osmosis-powering computer, the disembodied voice of Martin. Esther is self-contained, tense, rarely smiling, unwavering in her goals – the sterile, clinical room she is usually seen in being a reflection of her clinical self. On the other hand, her brother, Paul, is quite the opposite, expansive, prone to worrying, emotionally transparent, lively, with his constantly reinforced devotion to the Osmosis project and his passionate discourse on the sublimity of love, even whilst the connection which started everything shows signs of disintegrating. If there is one character that will definitely have a negative impact, that will be Ana, due to her poor decision-making, unassured, flimsily duplicitous manner and random last-minute changes of heart: some nonsensical (for her character) and some belated; she was essential in the delivery of the plot, but her character could have made a lot more sense.

Osmosis starts from a common sci-fi premise and popular tropes including AI matchmaking, tech threats, surveillance, AI sentience, and data corruption, exploring themes of alienation, soulmates, family ties, alternative sexual orientation, addictions, proceeding to delve into the humanity of the characters, into character flaws, into stories not going as planned, into reality rather than pessimistic apocalyptic nightmares or make-believe romantic ideals.

The OA: Visions of Afterlives

Posted on by Diana Marin

Netflix’s The OA, created by Brit Marling & Zal Batmanglij, is an intriguing, engrossing fantasy show centred around Prairie (played by Brit), a young vanishing woman who resurfaces 7 years after her bizarre disappearance, to the happiness and bewilderment of her adoptive parents. After her peculiar return, she refers to herself as the OA and focuses on her mission to save other captives. The OA enrols a group of school misfits and their teacher on a mystical mission, meeting them at night in an empty house in a cult-like gathering. The narrative of her unusual life and disappearance unfolds, a fragment per night, through her spellbinding storytelling. Starting from her fairy tale-like description of her Russian roots, her story features near-death experiences, travels within memories, dreams, and across parallel realities, celestial guardians, a scientist with an unrelenting obsession and thirst for knowledge, a group of special people trapped in a glass cage and bound by uncanny experiences, a soulmate connection, and transcendental ritualistic movements that open up invisible portals to different worlds.

The show takes us on an enchanting journey with striking surreal visuals, endearing characters, and evocative meditations on life, connection, identity, fear, entrapment, and freedom. Supernatural motifs are interlaced with sci-fi theories of parallel worlds, as the show stimulates our minds to contemplate the concept of multiple realities whilst grasping the design and nature of the complex OA world in rapture and being immersed into fantasy. The OA, born Nina Azarova, the daughter of a Russian oligarch, spends the first years of her childhood with her father in a lonely mansion on Russian land, where she is often plagued by vivid nightmares- some of which turn out to be premonitions. One of her foreshadowing dreams is that of being submerged in a huge aquarium, where her senses are heightened and she is drowning, unable to get out. In order to help get her rid of the nightmare, her father teaches her a lesson about bravery, taking her to a frozen lake where she submerges her body into the ice-cold water, to conquer her fear. Water is an evocative element in the story, connected to memories, dreams, and visions; it’s also a way through which parallel worlds echo each other. It evokes the fluidity of passing through worlds, through selves. Water also symbolises duality – creation and apocalypse, death and rebirth. This is relevant to the series- there are many striking scenes in which water is associated with the sinister, with something beautiful, as well as with the uncanny. Nina’s underwater dream prepares her for the traumatic turning point in her life, her near-death experience, that propels her into a celestial plane of existence. She awakens in a surreal diaphanous setting, where she meets the archetypal wise old woman for the first time- the one associated with choices, sacrifice, and cryptic discourses about the OA’s life trajectory. Nina wakes up blind and a series of events quickly follows- she is relocated to America, her father dies, she is adopted by the elderly couple. Many years later, unconvinced that her biological father is dead, Nina, now known as Prairie, spends her days playing the beautifully transfixing violin song from her childhood in a place where she thinks he might hear it, in hopes of a reunion. “The biggest mistake I made was thinking that if I cast a beautiful net I’d catch only beautiful things.”, she says. Instead of her father, another man is lured by her tune- her captor, Hap, whom she initially views as a father figure,as being “strong, smart, uncompromised”, following him blindly right into his trap. This marks the beginning of the experience that was going to re-shape her life.

Hap (Jason Isaacs), the mad scientist of the series, is initially obsessed with studying near-death experiences, seeking to revolutionise science- to pierce the deeper truth by examining paradigm-shifting phenomena through inhumane experiments. At first he exhibits a conscience and feelings of guilt, remorse, and attachment, as well as making rather hollow claims that he thinks of his captives as collaborators; however, his already faint moral compass dissipates by the end. He remains fond of the OA throughout the whole series, hoping that in the next world she will forget his horrible acts, but his nature never changes. As the OA repeatedly points out, his gruesome secret inevitably projects him into a life of loneliness, his version of power being built upon violence, imprisonment, and dread. He has one other scientist “friend” he can bring up the subject of his experiments to and, during their talk, Hap turns out to be more human compared to his cold-blooded conversation partner. The latter is psychopathically at peace with his ruthless macabre ways, saying “Here’s the terrible, beautiful truth. No one cares. There is no line between good and evil. There is only what a man can stand.” Their motivations also diverge: whereas his rival is driven by financial greed, Hap wants to figure out the truth for himself more than anything, “God, I want to taste the truth. I just wanna walk out of the dark.” In the second season, Hap’s interests evolve- he finds a grotesque method to build a map of the multiverse as a way to break limits and pick the destination of his future inter-dimensional travels rather than making risky leaps into the unknown.

The soul connection between the OA and her fellow inmate Homer is the most touching aspect of the series, holding the story together. They have been through a traumatic experience together for 7 years, confined within a glass prison with only some plants and a stream to touch and frequent encounters with death. When the OA/ Prairie arrives there, she is blind. He helps her acclimate, survive, and stay sane. When she describes her strange inter-dimensional excursions and unfathomable escape plan, giving him seemingly absurd instructions, he believes in her. They share their travels in death, their discoveries, and the arcane knowledge they gather from other dimensions. Both persevere in their mission and lift each other’s spirit. They dream of moving to another realm where they can finally be free and live together. Hap tries to pull them apart, by planting seeds of doubt about Homer and their plans- “You’ll always be the girl willing to risk everything for the chance to achieve something extraordinary. I know you, Prairie. He will never understand that about you.” Prairie remains unwavering in her beliefs and feelings. In the second season, however, their connection is challenged as Homer’s consciousness appears to be absent in the new world. His initial self has seemingly got lost somewhere along the way; actually, his consciousness is dormant within the mind of his alter ego, namely a psychiatry resident who became a big fan of “Hap” (Known as Dr Percy in the second world) after reading his book, “Quantum Psychotic”. The OA / Nina Azarova, now his patient, tries to reawaken his memories of their previous life together, whereas he sees her through a psychiatric lens, as a delusional individual with dissociative identity disorder. Eventually there are a couple of moments and gestures that act as a catalyst to revive Homer’s consciousness. Another inter-dimensional traveller that the OA crosses paths with, Elodie, mentions that Homer and the OA have a powerful bond that transcends multiple dimensions, but that their paths are doomed to be closely interlinked with Hap’s. Elodie suggests that a part of the OA- probably an unconscious part- wants to travel with Hap too. Hap might mirror a part of her shadow self, perhaps a thirst for knowledge and hunger for the extraordinary, or it might simply be that he is a reflection of her intense parallel life experience. An attempt to escape the echo of this cosmic family would shatter their identities and the OA’s connection with Homer, as it increases the risk of amnesia after their jump. “You could find yourself inside a life completely unrecognisable to you. Not to mention you and Homer might not even know yourselves in a dimension outside an echo.” In fact, the second season gets wrapped up by a glimpse into a metafictional third dimension where everything seems different and they are far away from the initial versions of themselves, thanks to Hap who somehow holds the reins of the jump for both of them. Knowing this, the OA urges Homer to come and find her in their new life and resurrect her memories, her “true self”.

The first season injects the idea of the unreliable delusional narrator towards the end, leaving us on a note of ambiguity, as there are no glimpses into another dimension beyond Prairie’s subjective recollections -contrary to our expectations throughout the show. The ending of this season might thus be perceived as anti-climactic. Although the journey is slow-paced, it works well as the OA (Original Angel) keeps you hypnotised like a modern ethereal Scheherazade. The second season- whilst still introducing the element of shared psychosis as it places the captives in a psychiatric clinic- is clearer about the nature of reality and the way it interprets the concept of multiverse in its world design. The second season is also more dynamic and dizzying, adding new layers of meaning, astral planes, and a variety of fantasy and sci-fi motifs to the story: the dream factory, where dreams are being recorded in order to detect patterns and collect premonitions, the haunted horror house re-interpreted within a sci-fi context, as a dangerous wormhole into parallel universes and timelines, the psychic, the mirror apparition, the spiritualist method of summoning someone from another dimension, the telepathic octopus, and the animist depiction of trees.

“Nina saw the whole world. But I saw underneath it.”

The second dimension is an alternative timeline in which Nina made a different choice during a key moment in her life, which propelled her to a completely different life path. She never got on the bus that crashed into water, which erased her previous thread of existence as she never went blind and regained her vision, never had a near-death experience; her other life being replaced with experiences that created another version of herself. This version has lived a luxurious, decadent, hedonistic existence with an abundance of privileges, money, drinks, earthly possessions, and boyfriends, away from hardship, and hasn’t acquired empirical experience of other worlds. She is a wealthy Russian heiress whose former partner runs a dream factory and created a VR game / puzzle for unethical crowdsourcing purposes, leading teenagers to a dangerous place in search of explanations for a peculiar phenomenon. When she finds out about what his project involves, they fight. Although the personalities and lives of Nina and Prairie are entirely different, they both gravitated towards the supernatural and the esoteric, to an enigmatic phenomenon, as parallel worlds leave echoes in others. When the OA enters her life, the discrepancy between the two of them is transparent; and the OA/Prairie doesn’t have access to Nina’s consciousness at first. When people travel to another world and inhabit a new body (with the same appearance), it seems they tend to either suppress the consciousness of their host (as most of the inter-dimensional travellers in the show do) or remain dormant if the consciousness of the body they entered does not seem to integrate the new consciousness. It’s not very clear why this happens – why Homer didn’t awaken from the beginning as his initial self and why the others did. The OA eventually frees Nina’s consciousness by facing her trauma- the moment that caused the split between the two parallel realities, generating the alternative timeline. It is implied that this process makes her integrate the consciousness of the other Nina and they merge into one.

Contemplative questions you might ask yourself:

The rules of inter-dimensional travels in the show are somewhat elusive and shifting. At first we are led to believe the characters have to become unconscious in order to travel somewhere else, but in the second season that doesn’t always seem to be necessary. How does that work and how does Elodie re-appear in the same timeline? What happened to her vessel? Why did the OA tell Homer to stay alive in that dimension to be able to jump?

On another note, when does Nina / Prairie (from the first dimension) become the OA? Has the OA been a dormant spirit within her; has it always been her fate? An entity/self, that she needed to unlock? In that case why has the other Nina not turned into the OA – as in another version of the OA at any point? Is it simply because she didn’t have a near-death experience, that would trigger that in her? Does the OA originate from that particular reality of season one, being exclusive to those specific circumstances, or are there other versions of the “birth” or awakening of the OA?

What would a process of merging consciousness be like? It’s an intricate, unfathomable concept. If you are like me and you’ve ever spent way too much time wondering what it would be like to expand beyond the limits of consciousness and see the world ‘through someone else’s eyes’ (mind), feel it through someone else’s senses, you probably contemplate the mechanism behind this merging and what it would entail, and realise it is problematic.

When the OA travels to the next dimension – if she didn’t succumb to amnesia, would she take Nina’s consciousness with her, since it is implied that by integrating with Nina she becomes, in some way, whole? That would mean that after a few trips into other dimensions, she would contain a collection of different layers of consciousness. Could she live in harmony under those conditions, reconciling the needs, feelings, and wishes of other versions of herself?

Some inspiring, evocative quotes giving a taste of the poetic discourse of the series:

“Captivity is a mentality. It’s a thing you carry with you.”

“Your book showed an openness to liminal thinking. To certain metaphysical secrets that could be glimpsed inside the pain of madness.”

“The process can sometimes help people to heal. Storytelling is cleansing. But I also wanna make sure that you control the narrative. And that you profit from it. The process of telling the story can somehow exorcise it.”

“I can tell you everything that I did wrong. I didn’t eat when I was hungry. Didn’t sleep when I was tired. Didn’t get warm when I was cold. It made me weak. But the biggest mistake I made was thinking that if I cast a beautiful net I’d catch only beautiful things.”

“The first time you fall asleep in prison, you forget. You wake up a free woman. And then you remember that you’re not. You lost your freedom many times before you finally believe it. Night slipped into day. Day into night. We were like the living dead. There’s nothing more isolating than not being able to feel time. To not feel the distance between hours, days.“

“I couldn’t feel pain. I couldn’t sense time. I couldn’t understand where I was. But I could see. The sudden rush of loss made me realise that for the second time in my life…I was dead.“

“You don’t wanna go there until your invisible self is more developed anyway. You know, your longings, the desires you don’t tell anyone about. You spend a lot of time on the visible you. It’s impressive. But she probably thinks the invisible you is missing.”

“I knew from the moment I woke up, that life was no longer the same. Khatun had fed me a mystery. I couldn’t understand it, but I could feel it inside me. A clue, a bomb, a Hail Mary. Oh, we’ve been going about this all wrong. We’ve been trying to get out. We have to try to get in. [into ourselves]”

“I’m telling you, when I swallowed that bird, I felt the whole thing flash through me in an instant. Like, a way to move through the world, through worlds. And if I don’t think about it, I know it. A self, like a…a me in there that doesn’t even belong to me and it wants to come out, it wants me to call it by name. But it’s…I feel like it’s waiting…To hear it in you, too. I don’t know, when I say it out loud, it all falls apart.”

“Are you a feminist?”
“I like symmetry. “

“I thought I was losing my mind.”
“You’re not. You’re just finding new rooms inside it. You’re just having trouble navigating the line between what’s real and what isn’t. Because you empathise so deeply with others. It’s your greatest strength…and your greatest weakness”

“There are all these dimensions, worlds, alternate realities, and they’re all right on top of each other. Every time you make a choice, a decision, it forks off into a new possibility. They’re all right here, but inaccessible. The NDEs were like a way to travel through them, but temporarily. We wanted choices, chances. The movements would allow us to travel to a dimension permanently. A new life…in a new world. To us, that was freedom.”

“What will it look like when we open the tunnel to the other dimensions?”
“All I know is that it would be invisible. The person leaving this dimension would experience a great acceleration of events, but no break in time-space. It’s like jumping into an invisible current that just carries you away to another realm, but we had to have all five movements and we had to do them with perfect feeling.“

“It’s not a game, it’s a puzzle. The designer wants the player to figure it out. It’s not a war…it’s a mystery. Ultimately, a puzzle is a conversation between the player and the maker. The puzzle maker is teaching you a new language. How to escape the limits of your own thinking and see things you didn’t know were there.”

“Cultures that have survived more loss, like harsh weather or earthquakes…they have more totems. Objects carry meaning in difficult times.”

“Well it’s not really a measure of mental health to be well-adjusted in a society that’s very sick. This dimension is crumbling to violence and pettiness and greed, and Steve is sensitive enough to feel it and he’s angry.”