Journal articles on the topic 'Gentle heroine'

The purpose of this study is to revealed the women image portrayed in selected Disney’s stories. There are several stories of Disney’s movie adaptation that are used as object in this research. There are Sleeping Beauty (Disney, 2014), Snow White (Brothers Grimm, 1812), Beauty and The Beast (Gabrielle-Suzanne Barbot, 1740), Cinderella (Giambattista Basile, 1634), Mulan (Guo Maoqian, 1992), and Brave (Disney, 2012). In addition, the aim of this research is also to identify the characteristics of female characters in selected Disney’s stories related to the Heroine and Princess attitude. This study used qualitative research; descriptive qualitative methods are used to analyze data. This study used three main concepts of semiotics theory by Roland Barthes, there are meaning of denotation, connotation, and myth. This study also applied feminism approach accordance to women attitude as heroine and princess. In this study, the researcher found some results. First, this study indicated the women image portrayed in Disney’s stories contains two images, they are women as heroine and princess. Women image as heroine is revealed in Beauty and the Beast, Mulan and Brave. Meanwhile, women as princess is portrayed in Sleeping Beauty, Snow White and Cinderella. Then, there are several characteristics found in Disney’s stories that represent the woman’s character as heroine and princess. They are from the feminism such as submissive, kind and gentle, domestic role, damsel in distress, emotional balance, craving for freedom (independent and brave), willing to sacrifice and has ability to stand up to the antagonist.

Background. Domestic cultural space is in urgent need of selfpreservation, and a renaissance of national self-identity of the Ukrainian cinema is connected with the state interest in this topic. There are the discussions around the attempts to revive the Ukrainian poetic cinema with its inherent mythological outlook erasing the boundaries between imaginary and real. It is logical, that the further development and studying of national cinema is impossible without revise of creative work of actors of the past; they were the bearers of poetic worldview, guided by folk traditions and customs. The tendency to the study of the forgotten names would help to bring back to their proper place the classics of Ukrainian cinematography. In the national scientific circles, there is an interest in the revival of forgotten names of cultural figures, and theater and filmmakers, in particular. Nevertheless, creativity of some Kharkiv actors, among them, Polina Kumanchenko and Lidia Krynytska, undeservedly deprived of attention in the scientific environment. The object of this research is the creativity of representatives of the Kharkiv acting school – Polina Kumanchenko and Lidiya Krynytska. The aim of the author is to study the performing manner of the actresses, to identify the peculiar facets of their playing, and, as a result, the certain traditions that are inherent the Kharkiv local artistic environment. The interpretation of the image of a mother in the performance of the mentioned actors is the subject of studying. Methods of analysis, synthesis, classification are the basis of this study and used for the scientific validity of the findings. We used the method of comparison in the considering of the mother images created by Kumanchenko and Krynytska. Research results. As the key in the cultural aspect, should be considered the fact that the image of the mother in Ukrainian mentality is iconic, associated with the image of the Earth, since the essence of both is the function of the “giver of life”, fertility. The worldview of Maria, the personage of P. Kumanchenko, is fixated on owning the land, because thanks to her, a person exists and continues his family. Like her ancestors, Maria is going to become a link in the further transfer of land to her descendants, passing to them the “genetic code” of love of Ukrainian peasants for the Earth. She is expecting a second child, and therefore, through her actions, she seeks to provide her children with stability, which is possible only with land. The actress focuses the attention of the viewer on expressive gestures, sudden movements to emphasize the active behavior of her heroine; at the same time, the extremely expressive regard of P. Kumanchenko, shown in close-up, convey the true thoughts and feelings of Maria, whose soul inhabits somewhere in her own, unreal world. In the first of the films of the trilogy by M. Makarenko (director) –“Human’s blood is not water”, – the actor’s decision of P. Kumanchenko presents a presentiment of happiness and stability that arises in her heroine’s soul against the background of her everyday suffering life – just like the Earth awaits spring blossoming after a long winter. Later we observe the changes that have occurred in the character of Maria along with her motherhood and confidence in the future. The actress gives her heroine a new external expressiveness: smooth movements, a gentle mysterious smile, elusive tenderness. The second part of the trilogy (“Dmytro Horytsvit”), presents P. Kumanchenko in a small episode. We see her in the light national costume, with tragic wringed hands, against the background of the burning home, where her child remained. The episode can be interpreted as an allegory: a mockery of fertile land devastated by fires, wars, destruction. However, just as a new cycle is needed for a ravaged Earth to bloom again, so for Maria the salvation of her daughter becomes the impetus for a new rebirth. The main idea of the film is embedded in this episode – the eternal pain of the Ukrainian land and its eternal revival. Based on the analysis of the role of Maria in the interpretation of P. Kumanchenko, we can talk about the embodiment in the mother image the idea of cyclicity of nature and life, coming from the ancient cults of the Earth. Thus, the influence of mythopoetics traced in the images created by the actresses, due to their symbolic similarity with the image of the mythological Mother Earth. In the film “Lymerivna” (directed by V. Lapoknysh) the image of a mother was created by actress L. Krynytska, which played Lymerykha – the mother of the main heroine. This is a passive woman, broken by life circumstances, who is going with the stream and is not able to deal with everyday problems. It would seem that both, Maria and Lymerykha, are united by a love for children and a desire to give them happiness. However, each of them has its own strategy of behavior. Unlike Maria, Lymerykha made tears the main tool on the way to her aim – to break the will of her daughter. It was her tears pushed Lymerykha’s daughter to a tragic death. The game of L. Krynitska outlines the “two-faced” path of the heroine’s behavior, reveals the “white” and “black” sides of her nature. That is, the actor’s task of L. Krynitska was to embody the image of a person with a “double bottom”. The manner of performing of this role may be partially explained by the etymology of the surname “Lymar”, which the heroine received when she got married. Lymar is a manufacturer, which make the harness for horses. Such a sign surname symbolizes her life – “horse harnessing”, a yoke that Lymerykha is afraid to throw off, because she does not know how to bear responsibility for her own destiny. There are also unifying links between the heroines of P. Kumanchenko and L. Krynytska: both manipulate by their motherhood. The cycles in the life events of both heroines are also clearly outlined. In Maria’s case, it is association with modifications in the state of the Earth due to natural changes in the seasons or terrible destructions, because of war or natural disasters. For Lymerykha, the cyclic existence is characterized, limited by the inability to overcome slavish psychology – to throw off the yoke, the “sword of Damocles,” which dominates her. In one of the scenes, the scenery symbolically emphasizes the essence of her being: a windmill, whose wings are constantly spinning. P. Kumanchenko and L. Krynytska are the Kharkiv actresses of the Drama Theater named after T. G. Shevchenko, and the influence of the actor’s system of his outstanding director Les Kurbas on the performing style of both cannot be overlooked. In the acting of the performers, the use of the “laws of Kurbas” is clearly traced: “the law of thrift”, “the law of fixation”, “the law of light-andshade”, etc. Conclusions. We analyzed both the differences and the unifying features in the interpretation of the image of the mother by Kharkov actresses. In the images created by P. Kumanchenko and L. Krynytska there is a relationship with the mythopoetic worldview. Тhanks to a number of artistic and meaningful associations, we can talk about the embodiment in the image of a woman-mother of the symbolic hypostases of Mother-Earth and the idea of the cyclical nature of life, which comes from ancient agricultural cults. The work with imaginary symbolism (a horse harness appears as a symbol of the enslavement of Women-Mother Earth) take place, as and a complete organics embodiment of the mythopoietic aspect inherent the Kharkiv acting school (Les Kurbas’s aesthetics) and, in general, the Ukrainian drama and cinema (A. Dovzhenko). A deeper analysis of various aspects of the performing work of Kharkiv actors, in particular, searching for the traditions in the actor’s game of Kharkovians, as well as more detailed studying of Les Kurbas’s methodological influence makes up the prospects of our study. The specifics of actor’s art of the Kharkiv school can serve as an example to follow in the training of actors and directors.

The ancient Greek novel introduced to the history of literature a new topos: the “complex of emotions.” This became a staple of storytelling and remains widely in use across a variety of genres to the present day. The Hellenistic Jewish text Joseph and Aseneth employs this topos in at least three passages, where it draws attention to the cognitive-emotional aspect of the heroine’s conversion. This is interesting for what it contributes to our understanding of the genre of Aseneth, but it also has social-historical implications. In particular, it supports the idea that Aseneth reflects concerns about Gentile partners in Jewish-Gentile marriages, that Gentile partners might convert out of expedience or that they might be less than fully committed to abandoning “idolatrous” attachments. The representations of deep, grievous, and complex emotions in Aseneth’s transformational turn from idolatry to monolatry, then, might play a psychagogic role for the Gentile reader interested in marrying a Jewish person.

Draupadi, the co-wife of the Pandava brothers, is an important character in the epic. She is known to have been the quintessence of beauty and femininity. Her life has largely been a plausible canvass of determination and a majestic display of integrity. She is often regarded as the first feminist voice who had raised concerns about women’s rights, wife’s rights and husband’s authority over the wife. Yet, there has been an enigmatic aspect to her character. The more one delves deeper into her character, the more one is confounded with Draupadi’s heroism. Her strength of character and unyielding will makes her a hero, more heroic and greater than the others. And hence, the paper tries to explore the heroic nature of Draupadi’s character- to unravel the ‘he’ in ‘her’.

Leitores de Camões têm observado que, para compor a matéria histórica de seu poema Os Lusíadas, o poeta se apega a uma suposta “verdade” que teria lido nas crônicas e ouvido na tradição oral. Os retratos da África e da Ásia que ele concebeu seriam fruto desse anseio pela “verdade” histórica. O presente artigo propõe, contrariamente, que Camões registrou uma verdade conveniente, atestada pelos interesses da nobreza da casa de Avis, compondo um retrato heroico da missão de Vasco da Gama, ao mesmo tempo em que omitiu práticas desumanas de seu projeto colonialista. Conhecendo de perto o jugo e a escravização dos povos africanos, o poeta ajustou a imagem da África e da Ásia à da figura do antagonista, evidenciando seu povo como gente inculta e inimiga da fé. Esse apagamento da história esconde o anseio de dominação sobre essa gente que se viu colonizada e escravizada nos séculos posteriores.

Monsters have always been a part of children fictional tales, representing the evil side of nature. They are the reason why heroes and heroines struggle to fight against, but at the same time they balance the whole realm, existing side by side with the heroes. There have been numerous children stories which depict the monsters as the villains, but they have rarely done so in portraying monsters as the wronged ones. In Holly Black’s Valiant (2005), the troll character named Ravus is presented as an outcast, a banished figure from his folk because of a misjudged rumor in his former kingdom. Unlike others who constantly challenge and trap humans, Ravus becomes a scholar who loves to explore his alchemy. He helps other outlaws to secure their well-being and health, even teaching Valerie the protagonist with her sword practicing, rescuing her whenever possible and eventually falling for her. The study highlights a new perspective on monstrous identity in a young adult book, making a counterpoint in presenting a fact that monsters can also be portrayed as very human and gentle instead of rude and dangerous.

Aims and MethodTo describe an enforced but gentle transition from prescribed intravenous methadone to oral methadone in 14 opiate-dependent patients. We examined their case notes looking for ease of transition, evidence of illicit drug use before and during the 6 months following transition and progress 3 years later.ResultsEight patients immediately stopped injecting, the remainder used intravenous heroin in addition to prescribed oral methadone for some months. There were no serious adverse events. Three years later, four patients had ceased opiate use altogether and six were maintained on oral methadone (five of these without illicit use). Two patients were prescribed oral methadone by their general practitioner and one was no longer in treatment.Clinical ImplicationsWe show that it is possible to alter the formulation of prescribed methadone without deterioration in clinical stability or losing patients from treatment. This is an important conclusion as it is presumed that one of the aims of treatment with intravenous methadone is to move patients away from injectable to oral use. Offering patients a transition period of 6 months and a choice of the process of transition may be helpful.

Kobna Holdbrook-Smith was a member of the repertory company formed by artistic director Nicolas Kent for the 2005–2006 African-American season at the Tricycle Theatre in north London. That company also included Jenny Jules, Joseph Marcell, Lucian Msamati, Carmen Munroe, and Nathan Osgood. In Walk Hard – Talk Loud by Abram Hill, a play originally produced in 1944 and set in New York in the late 1930s, Holdbrook-Smith played a young boxer who faces racism. In Lynn Nottage's contemporary satire Fabulation, he took on dual roles – the heroine's husband who absconds with her wealth, and the gentle ex-junkie who offers her love. And in August Wilson's Gem of the Ocean, set in Pittsburgh in 1904, his Citizen Barlow seeks purification from the 285-year-old spiritual adviser Aunt Ester and is taken on a symbolic rite of passage. The Ghanaian-born Holdbrook-Smith also appeared at the Tricycle in 2004–2005 in Mustapha Matura's Playboy of the West Indies. Terry Stoller, who teaches at Baruch College in New York City and is working on a book project about the Tricycle Theatre, spoke with Holdbrook-Smith in June 2006 in Covent Garden, London.

Using Anthony Trollope’s character Tom Tringle ofAyala’s Angel, I argue that in his portrayal of the hobbledehoy, Trollope is imposing on Victorian boys and young men a code of behavior every bit as restrictive and every bit as unnatural as the “suffer and be still” doctrine imposed on girls and young women. Using critical tools from the fields of Masculinity Studies and studies of literary character, I discuss Trollope’s portrayal of Tom Tringle as emblematic of the restrictions Victorian gender ideology placed on women. What emerges is a new dimension to Victorian gender studies. The admonition addressed to Victorian women of all ages and classes that they should “suffer and be still” in the face of any adversity is well known, and is often accompanied by the assumption that no similar restriction is placed on boys and men. In the world of Anthony Trollope’s novels, however, unlike that of many other Victorian novelists, women seldom need much taming, as obedience is a strong character trait in the majority of his heroines. His young men, on the other hand, tend to be far less morally evolved, and in Trollope’s love plots, if anyone has to undergo profound changes of character before being fit for marriage, it is usually the man. I argue that Trollope’s stern but gentle treatment of the misfit Tom provides further answers to the often debated question of Trollopes relative conservatism.

The idea of an era is most often formed after a certain time after its end. This is the case with the Biedermeier era, the significance, and features of which have been appreciated only 50 years after its formal end. The name “man of the Biedermeier era” contains a provocation. The name refers us to the wonderful cultural period – the Renaissance, which formed the idea of “Titan-like personalities” and the greatest achievements. The Biedermeier era is a period of calm and peaceful life after the Napoleonic wars with no particular heroism or scale. The main plot of the works of this period is the search for social balance and personal happiness. However, upon closer examination, one can understand that this modest stage in the history of culture gives rise to a new type of genius who can see “the great in the small” (Adalbert Stifter, 1805-1868). The influence of this concept on the development of German literature can hardly be overestimated. The article deals with the work of the classic Austrian author, artist, and thinker A. Stifter, who is well-known to the German-speaking reader due to the creation of the concept of “the gentle law” (“das sanfte Gesetz”). The Russian reader is less familiar with the classic Austrian writer. This is because some of the codes and hidden meanings of Stifter’s texts significantly differ from the ideas accepted in the Russian cultural world. The purpose of the study is to clarify some of them (the concepts of “happiness” and “gentle law”). The objectives of the research are determined by the need to give a brief description of the Biedermeier era in its national Austrian version and, in particular, in connection with A. Stifter’s work. A hypothesis is put forward about the polystylistic nature of Biedermeier aesthetics, which influences the formation of the literary process in the German-speaking space. The novelty of the study consists in an attempt to look at the significance of the Austrian classic from a Russian perspective. This determines the theoretical framework of the study, built on the methods of comparative studies and conceptual text analysis.

The politics of Italian national identity. Edited by Gino Bedani and Bruce Haddock. Cardiff: University of Wales Press, 2000. Pp. vii+296. ISBN 0-7083-1622-0. £40.00.Fascist modernities: Italy, 1922–1945. By Ruth Ben-Ghiat. Berkeley, University of California Press, 2001. Pp. x+317. ISBN 0-520-22363-2. £28.50.Le spie del regime. By Mauro Canali. Bologna: Il Mulino, 2004. Pp. 863. ISBN 88-15-09801-1. €70.00.I campi del Duce: l'internamento civile nell'Italia fascista (1940–1943). By Carlo Spartaco Capogreco. Turin: Einaudi, 2004. Pp. xi+319. ISBN 88-06-16781-2. €16.00.The American South and the Italian Mezzogiorno: essays in comparative history. Edited by Enrico Dal Lago and Rick Halpern. Houndmills: Palgrave Macmillan, 2002. Pp. 256. ISBN 0-333-73971-X. £28.50.Disastro! Disasters in Italy since 1860: culture, politics, society. Edited by John Dickie, John Foot, and Frank M. Snowden, Houndmills: Palgrave Macmillan, 2002. Pp. ix+342. ISBN 0-312-23960-2. £32.50.Remaking Italy in the twentieth century. By Roy Palmer Domenico. Lanham, MD: Rowman and Littlefield, 2002. Pp. xiv+181. ISBN 0-8476-9637-5. £16.95.Twentieth century Italy: a social history. By Jonathan Dunnage. Harlow: Pearson, 2002. Pp. xi+271. ISBN 0-582-29278-6. £16.99.Milan since the miracle: city, culture and identity. By John Foot. Oxford: Berg, 2001. Pp. xiv+240. ISBN 1-85973-550-9. £14.99.Squadristi: protagonisti e tecniche della violenza fascista, 1919–1922. By Mimmo Franzinelli. Milan: Mondadori, 2003. Pp. 464. ISBN 88-04-51233-4. €19.00.For love and country: the Italian Resistance. By Patrick Gallo. Lanham, MD: University Press of America, 2003. Pp. viii+362. ISBN 0-7618-2496-0. $55.00.The struggle for modernity: nationalism, futurism and Fascism. By Emilio Gentile. Westport, CT: Praeger, 2003. Pp. xix+203. ISBN 0-275-97692-0. $69.95.Italy and its discontents. By Paul Ginsborg. Harmondsworth: Allen Lane, 2001. Pp. xv+521. ISBN 0-713-99537-8. £25.00.Silvio Berlusconi: television, power and patrimony. By Paul Ginsborg. London: Verso, 2004. Pp. xvi+189. ISBN 1-84467-000-7. £16.00.Fascists. By Michael Mann. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004. Pp. x+429. ISBN 0-521-53855-6. £15.99.Mussolini: the last 600 days of Il Duce. By Ray Moseley. Dallas: Taylor Trade publishing, 2004. Pp. vii+432. ISBN 1-58979-095-2. $34.95.Lo stato fascista e la sua classe politica, 1922–1943. By Didier Musiedlak. Bologna: Il Mulino, 2001. Pp. 585. ISBN 88-15-09381-8. €32.00.Italy's social revolution: charity and welfare from Liberalism to Fascism. By Maria Sophia Quine. Houndmills: Palgrave Macmillan, 2002. Pp. xv+429. ISBN 0-333-63261-3. £55.00.La seduzione totalitaria: guerra, modernità, violenza politica (1914–1918). By Angelo Ventrone. Rome: Donzelli, 2003. Pp. xvi+288. ISBN 88-7989-840-X. €24.00.With its winning of an American Academy Award, the film Life is beautiful (1997), brought its director and leading actor, Roberto Benigni, global fame. Benigni's zaniness and self-mockery seemed to embody everything that has convinced foreigners that Italians are, above all, brava gente (nice people). Sometimes, this conclusion can have a supercilious air – niceness can easily be reduced to levity or fecklessness. In those university courses that seek to comprehend the terrible tragedies of twentieth-century Europe, Italians seldom play a leading role. German, Russian, Polish, Yugoslav, and even British and French history are each riven with death and disaster or, alternatively, with heroism and achievement. In such austere company, brava gente can seem out of place.

Margaret Atwood’s novel “The Handmaid’s Tale” seems to have been studied comprehensively and fundamentally. Aspects of the dystopian genre, its feminist and anti-religious orientation, and the novel’s connection with philosophical concepts of the 20th century have been studied in depth. In the poetics of the novel, researchers’ interest in the problems of intertextuality, the specifics of composition, etc., has never ceased. However, despite the variety of problems covered in these studies, in our opinion, a fundamental question about the significance of Margaret Atwood’s novel for the further development of the tradition of the dystopian genre has remained on the periphery of scholarly attention. Meanwhile, “The Handmaid’s Tale” can be regarded as a programmatic work that clearly identifies and elaborates the key genre principles of the postmodern dystopian novel, which have not yet been substantiated. Modern studies of the features of postmodern dystopia based on the material of various works of the 1990-2000s, as well as in modern findings, capture exactly those genre strategies that were embedded in M. Atwood’s novel. At the same time, researchers focus on the transformation of the mainly predominant aspects of dystopia in the era of postmodernism. Meanwhile, the changes that dystopia underwent in the last third of the 20th century are associated with the formation of the aesthetics of the genre of the postmodern novel, as evidenced by the publication of the novel “The Handmaid’s Tale”. In this regard, we consider it appropriate to study M. Atwood’s novel as a postmodern dystopian novel in the relationship between the content features of dystopia and the genre of the postmodern novel. The work aims to investigate the dystopian narrative presented in “The Handmaid’s Tale” in the context of the poetics of the postmodern novel genre. Achieving the stated goal involves the use of historicalliterary, philosophical-aesthetic, and hermeneutical research methods. In the context of the postmodern dystopian paradigm, the genre of dystopia is transformed significantly. Changes in the substantive aspects of the genre are associated with a reduction in the gap between dystopian and real time, the affirmation of a relatively optimistic tone, the lability of the dystopian world (which predetermines the conditionally metaphorical nature of the chronotope, the amorphousness of spatial and discrete time boundaries), and a shift in emphasis to the inner world of the character. The increased degree of anthropocentrism, which is characteristic of postmodern dystopia, determines the change in the nature of the protagonist’s rebellion against the totalitarian regime – the focus of social rebellion shifts to personal existential (the struggle to preserve one’s own identity), where it is not the result that is important, but its philosophical content. At the same time, dystopia also absorbs the features of the postmodern novel form and postmodern narrative strategy, mastering the techniques of intertextuality and rethinking the traditions of the past, irony and parody, playing with time and the author’s game with the reader. Moreover, the function of the author’s game strategy is not only to make the reader a co-author of the text but also to encourage him to make multiple interpretations. The multifaceted nature of the game draws the reader into the action and forces one to reflect on the windows of opportunity opening up in modern civilization, that is, to perceive the story of Gilead as more than just exciting storytelling. The game mode reveals the author’s ideological and content-based storytelling strategy – through intertext (as a combination of multi-level chronotopes and cultural texts), on the one hand, and through involvement in the experiences of Offred, on the other, to encourage/force the reader to experience the entire history of Christian civilization, presented in the dystopian heroine’s narrative.

“(…) las disputas por la democratización de las comunicaciones están indisolublemente ligadas a las luchas por la democratización de otras áreas de lo social y que son indisolubles del estado de las relaciones de fuerza en el proceso social global”. (Segura, 2018: 114) El sueño de todos los activistas sociales es lograr un resultado permanente en torno a sus demandas, aunque suene como las quimeras que describe Luis Ramiro Beltrán. En comunicación, existe un sin número de demandas, partiendo de tener voz e incidencia en la sociedad, en cómo lograr un ejercicio pleno del Derecho a la Comunicación, en importunar de modo permanente a los gobiernos, en ejercer nuestra libertad. De la resistencia a la incidencia, de la doctora argentina María Soledad Segura, permite un acercamiento a cómo se produce la visibilización de los movimientos sociales que han obtenido resultados, la presencia de la sociedad civil en la esfera pública ciudadana, la efectiva expresión de sus demandas en políticas públicas y la formulación de leyes destinadas a garantizar el ejercicio del derecho a la comunicación. Dicho sea de paso, este es un derecho humano, aunque pocas legislaciones en Latinoamérica así lo expresen. La autora se pregunta -entre otras cuestiones- quiénes son los que integran los movimientos sociales, cuáles son sus demandas, qué estrategias de incidencia utilizan y, lo más importante, cuáles son las condiciones para que la sociedad civil tenga impacto en el debate público, en las discusiones, implementación y control de las políticas públicas de comunicación. Argentina es, sin duda, un laboratorio de resistencia por parte de la sociedad civil e incidencia en políticas de comunicación en el período que cubre el libro (2001 – 2015). Al contrario de países como Brasil o Chile, cuyos gobiernos dictan en esa época tímidas y restrictivas leyes respecto a la comunicación, los movimientos sociales argentinos logran etapas de reflexión, de articulación de demandas y de unidad en las diferencias, demostrando que sí se puede incidir en las normas del Estado, y revelarse como actores con voz en el proceso de cambios estructurales. El libro expone cómo, en el gobierno de Cristina Kirchner, la presión de la sociedad civil se traduce en una cartilla de 21 puntos que es aprobada por el Congreso Nacional, donde se reconoce la comunicación como un derecho y un bien público. La autora describe el accionar de los distintos grupos comunitarios que participaron de este proceso, ahondando en sus modos de participación: no sólo a través de la articulación de demandas, sino que incluso en la presentación de proyectos de ley. Asimismo, documenta la presión de los grandes conglomerados mediáticos, concentrados como en toda América Latina - la que contribuye a detener procesos democráticos. Así, da cuenta de las dificultades y complejidades de la relación entre las organizaciones de la sociedad civil, el Estado y el inexorable mercado. La Ley N° 26.522, sancionada por el Congreso Nacional argentino en 2009, dispone la regulación del sistema de medios en todo el país y, en especial, limita la concentración medial en el país, todo ello resistido por los grupos dueños de diarios y estaciones de radio y televisión, cruzada que emprendió principalmente el Grupo Clarín y que retrasó la aplicación de la ley. Segura ahonda en el hecho de que la base de esta iniciativa legal fue la citada cartilla de 21 puntos, presentada por la Coalición por una Radiodifusión Democrática, integrada por sindicatos de prensa, organizaciones gremiales, radialistas, entre otros. La autora resalta aquí la participación o incidencia como la denomina, de la sociedad civil, que reclama la comunicación como un bien público fundamental e irrenunciable. Es en esta “resistencia e incidencia” que se logra que la ley reconozca a las emisoras comunitarias como “actores privados que tienen una finalidad social (…) gestionadas por organizaciones sociales de diverso tipo sin fines de lucro [cuya característica es] la participación de la comunidad”, logrando la reserva de un 33% del espectro para los servicios comunitarios de radio y televisión. Sin embargo, iniciado el gobierno del derechista Mauricio Macri (2015) se hizo todo lo posible por aniquilar la Ley Audiovisual de 2009, lo que se concreta en el decreto 267/2016 que crea un organismo regulador menos independiente y reduce o elimina límites legales a la concentración. A partir del activismo social en torno a la democratización de las comunicaciones, el libro de María Soledad Segura muestra cómo se ejerce la resistencia que, con la adecuada participación de activistas, gobiernos y actores políticos, puede traducirse en la incidencia que describe. Pero, la resistencia no es un proceso inocuo, sino que -como dice Ernesto Sábato- se presenta como un problema que podría ser incluso afectivo y de decisión para quienes asumen esta lucha: Creo que hay que resistir: este ha sido mi lema. Pero hoy, cuántas veces me he preguntado cómo encarnar esta palabra, cómo vivir la resistencia. Antes, cuando la vida era menos dura, yo hubiera entendido por resistir un acto heroico, como negarse a seguir embarcado en este tren que nos impulsa a la locura y el infortunio. ¿se les puede pedir a la gente del vértigo que se rebele? ¿Puede pedirse a los hombres y a las mujeres de mi país que se nieguen a pertenecer a este capitalismo salvaje si tienen que mantener a sus hijos, a sus padres? Si son responsables ¿cómo habrían de abandonar esa vida? (Sábato, E., 2004:154) Segura propone una interesante distinción entre los movimientos Alternativistas y Reformistas, que permite separar metodológicamente a aquellas organizaciones que plantean cambios radicales en situaciones de crisis y aquellas que se inclinan por la recomposición del aparato estatal. Y a la vez, entender los diferentes procesos en la época que estudia, vista además la complejidad del devenir de los gobiernos de ese entonces. La autora destaca que la actuación de ambas alternativas de organización no es necesariamente excluyente, sino que dadas ciertas circunstancias sociales ambas pueden complementarse y unirse en tono a demandas acordadas, postergando diferencias. El mejor ejemplo de estos mecanismos de colaboración temporal es la unidad que se dio entre El Foro Argentino de Radios Comunitarias (Farco) y la Coalición por una Radiodifusión Democrática. A la luz de esta incidencia colectiva, que señalamos en párrafos anteriores, logran que sus demandas sean parte relevante de la Ley de Medios de 2009. Cumplidos estos objetivos o metas, las organizaciones volvieron a su origen, a diferenciarse e incluso retomaron algunas rencillas. Destaca que no necesariamente existe una dicotomía entre Alternativistas y Reformistas, ya que la unión de ambas tendencias logró efectivamente incidir en los cambios; se plantea eso sí, que estos conceptos deben ser sometidos a escrutinio, principalmente por ser complementarios: [Los conceptos usados] nos permite sostener que las estrategias de comunicación alternativas no necesariamente se oponen a las reformistas. Por el contrario, las propuestas (…) constituyen (…) dos opciones complementarias diferenciadas por sus distintos niveles de pretensión de reforma de las reglas de juego del sistema comunicacional. (Segura, 2018: 113) De este modo, el libro propone una discusión sobre la ciudadanía, acercándose a los postulados de Balibar respecto a la ciudadanía activa, y la “democratización de la democracia”. Esto es: “una dimensión de ciudadanía reflexiva, relacionada con las luchas de su propia historia” (Balibar, 2013: 202), lo que perfectamente es aplicable a los proyectos de radios comunitarias, donde la reflexión encuentra espacio en diferentes modelos transformadores. Segura plantea que la resistencia e incidencia se da en un contexto de una ciudadanía activa, con liderazgos, propuestas y capacidad movilizadora. Por eso, es posible extrapolar al concepto de “insurrección” de Balibar (2013) que sitúa a la ciudadanía como un actor que se rebela, que es activa y desafiante, en la conquista de derechos incidiendo y conquistando los cambios: “Pero no podemos creer que hay un ‘justo medio’ entre la insurrección y la desdemocratización, o la degeneración de la política. La insurrección se llama ‘conquista de la democracia’ o ‘derecho a tener derechos’, pero siempre tiene por contenido la búsqueda (y el riesgo de la emancipación colectiva y de la potencia que les confiere a sus participantes, en contra del orden establecido que tiende a reprimir esta potencia”. (Balibar, 2013: 215) Así, la ciudadanía es una construcción que excede la definición de un conjunto de personas. Ciudadanía no es sinónimo de comunidad geográfica (áreas de coberturas) o de comunidades ideológicas (comunidades de pensamiento). Si, como plantea la autora hay incidencia y se producen los cambios, nos encontramos con una sociedad civil (la ciudadanía) que ejerce sus derechos en la incidencia en las leyes, a la vez que se moviliza incluso en las calles. Las organizaciones que han logrado incidir tienen su relato en una vinculación causal entre la acción colectiva (la movilización) y los resultados de los movimientos sociales. En este sentido, se complementa la participación en el debate público para la formulación de las leyes y la integración activa en las políticas estatales participativas. Los casos que plantea el libro destacan que la participación fortalece las capacidades institucionales tanto de la sociedad civil como del propio Estado. Esto siempre que haya un gobierno que tenga la voluntad de participar en estos cambios. Y es que democratizar las comunicaciones significa que se redefine y amplía la discusión pública. Y, asimismo, la disputa por la democratización de las comunicaciones está ligada a luchas por otras democratizaciones de la sociedad. De este modo, se confirmaría lo aseverado por la autora, en el sentido de que la incidencia ocurrirá cuando se produce un equilibrio en la siguiente triada: aceptabilidad de las propuestas demandadas, legitimidad de los actores sociales y oportunidad política. Las capacidades de incidencia de la sociedad civil en el ámbito de la comunicación representan un desafío para futuras investigaciones, dada la inestabilidad de las políticas públicas latinoamericanas sobre comunicación y la baja asociatividad de la sociedad civil en torno a esta temática en algunos países, como en Chile. Si bien el libro relata la situación en Argentina, el espacio social y político es extrapolable a las realidades de otros países de esta parte del continente, tanto en el reconocimiento de la producción de estos procesos, como en la carencia y desequilibrio entre las fuerzas de la ciudadanía activa y la presencia -activa o inactiva- del Estado y los actores políticos. Por ello, De la resistencia a la incidencia. Sociedad civil y derecho a la comunicación en la Argentina es un texto que desafía a ser leído no sólo por los radialistas comunitarios, sino por quienes desean comprender los procesos que ocurren en torno a la justa demanda por reconocer el derecho a la comunicación como un derecho humano.

Pearson, Kit. And Nothing But the Truth. Toronto: Harper Collins, 2012. Print. Victoria, B.C.-based and Governor General Award-winning author Kit Pearson delights yet again with her sequel to 2011’s The Whole Truth, which won the 2012 Canadian Library Association’s Book of the Year for Children Award and was previously reviewed in Deakin. Progressing three years since the first book in the ‘duology’, the year is now 1935, and our beloved heroine, Polly, almost thirteen years of age, is being made to move to Victoria to attend the same boarding school that her sister Maud excelled at and enjoyed so much. Polly would much rather spend the days with her doting grandmother, Noni, and exploring the wilds of Kingfisher Island with her sweet dog, Tarka, than attend St. Winifred’s School for Girls. Polly has her mind firmly set on not being a full time boarder and spending every weekend at home, to the detriment of her experience at St. Winifred’s as well as her ability to make friends at the school. Noni, however, understands the need for a strong education and encourages Polly to stay full time even though they will miss each other dearly. The draw of attending Special Art classes every Saturday is finally enough to convince a budding talent like Polly, in addition to the gentle encouragement from her trusted art teacher. A magical scene in which Polly meets and interacts with the famous Canadian painter Emily Carr is especially poignant. Polly’s older sister Maud, now a university student in Vancouver, continues to play a large role in the story as well as in Polly’s life. Polly struggles amidst the headmistress’s constant reminders of what an intelligent and faithful student her older sister was. Now a young woman, Maud is changing and no longer readily accepting the ideals that St. Winifred’s instilled in her. As Maud suddenly begins to distance herself from the family, Polly yet again finds herself in a dilemma that threatens to tear their family apart. The ending, including the wonderful afterword that is often lacking from young adult fiction yet so satisfying, is bittersweet as we say goodbye to characters we have grown to love. This book and its prequel would make a lovely gift set for a tween girl. Highly recommended: 4 out of 4 stars Reviewer: Debbie Feisst Debbie is a Public Services Librarian at the H.T. Coutts Education Library at the University of Alberta. When not renovating, she enjoys travel, fitness and young adult fiction.

Drawing on 147 news accounts and five policy documents on the heroin and opioid crisis in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania published between 2016 and 2018, our analysis highlights how media portrayals of opioid users as both tragic victims and public nuisance prompted a schizoid governmental response that draws on rhetorics of treatment and harm reduction to legitimate more punitive interventions. By describing how the state’s quasi-medical responsibilization strategy devolved to fold criminalization into its broader response, we argue the effort to wage a kinder/gentler war on overdose invests in familiar tropes of a recalcitrant drug user class that is a threat to public health. In doing so we provide a basis to critique how drug users are governed in this time of fiscal austerity, resource hoarding, and perpetual, continually evolving drug crises.

Seguindo a metodologia do processo de preparação do Sínodo da Amazônia, que dedicou um longo tempo à escuta dos povos da Região, em um primeiro momento, este artigo dá voz a três grandes clamores que vêm da Amazônia e de sua brava gente: o grito que vem das águas, o grito que vem da flora e da fauna e o grito dos povos da Amazônia. Em seguida, tendo presente o modo como o Evangelho chegou naquelas terras e a heroica resistência, sobretudo de indígenas, negros e mestiços, na defesa secular de suas culturas e religiões, se acena para um modelo de evangelização em clave decolonial, tanto em relação à ecologia como aos povos da Região.

Jorge Bertheau construyó su casa de ladrillo, en Escazú, hace 35 años. Estudió Arquitectura en México y, a su regreso, trabajó en el estudio de Rafael “Felo” García con quien entabló una profunda amistad. Más adelante, Edgar Brenes se unió a ellos y juntos gestaron la idea de fundar la Escuela de Arquitectura de la Universidad de Costa Rica (UCR), la que tuvo poco apoyo por parte de las autoridades universitarias. Con una beca ofrecida por Inglaterra, Jorge Bertheau y Felo García fueron a ese país a conocer programas de estudio. Más tarde se les unió Edgar Brenes. A su regreso, en 1971, se abrió la Escuela, con la consigna de “aprender a aprender”. La flamante Escuela tuvo detractores y seguidores. Entre estos últimos se destacó la figura del Ingeniero Walter Sagot. A la lucha por la supervivencia de la Escuela, Bertheau la califica como “el momento heroico” de la misma, que luego se diluyó con otra gente y otras ideas. Muchos profesores se acercaron, en sus inicios, con entusiasmo, para apoyar la misión de la Escuela y así se formaron, con éxito los primeros arquitectos costarricenses.

IntroductionThe horror film Hush (2016) has attracted attention since its release due to the uniqueness of its central character—a deaf–mute author who lives in a world of silence. Maddie Young (Kate Siegel) moves into a remote cabin in the woods to recover from a breakup and finish her new novel. Aside from a cat, she is alone in the house, only engaging with loved ones via online messaging or video chats during which she uses American Sign Language (ASL). Maddie cannot hear nor speak, so writing is her primary mode of creative expression, and a key source of information for the audience. This article explores both the presence and absence of text in Hush, examining how textual “captions” of various kinds are both provided and withheld at key moments. As an author, Maddie battles the limits of written language as she struggles with writer’s block. As a person, she fights the limits of silence and isolation as a brutal killer invades her retreat. Accordingly, this article examines how the interplay between silence, text, and sound invites viewers to identify with the heroine’s experience and ultimate triumph.Hush is best described as a slasher—a horror film in which a single (usually male) killer stalks and kills a series of victims with relentless determination (Clover, Men, Women). Slashers are about close, visceral killing—blood and the hard stab of the knife. With her big brown eyes and gentle presence, quiet, deaf Maddie is clearly framed as a lamb to slaughter in the opening scenes. Indeed, throughout Hush, Maddie’s lack of hearing is leveraged to increase suspense and horror. The classic pantomime cry of “He’s behind you!” is taken to dark extremes as the audience watches a nameless man (John Gallagher Jr.) stalk the writer in her isolated house. She is unable to hear him enter the building, unable to sense him looming behind her. Neither does she hear him killing her friend outside on the porch, banging her body loudly against the French doors.And yet, despite her vulnerability, she rises to the challenge. Fighting back against her attacker using a variety of multisensory strategies, Maddie assumes the role of the “Final Girl” in this narrative. As Carol Clover has explained, the Final Girl is a key trope of slasher films, forming part of their essential structure. While others in the film are killed, “she alone looks death in the face; but she alone also finds the strength either to stay the killer long enough to be rescued (ending A) or to kill him herself (ending B)” (Clover, Her Body, Himself). However, reviews and discussions of Hush typically frame Maddie as a Final Girl with a difference. Adding disability into the equation is seen as “revolutionising” the trope (Sheppard) and “updating the Final Girl theory” for a new age (Laird). Indeed, the film presents its Final Girl as simultaneously deaf and powerful—a twist that potentially challenges the dynamics of the slasher and representations of disability more generally.My Weakness, My StrengthThe opening sequence of Hush introduces Maddie’s deafness through the use of sound, silence, and text. Following an establishing shot sweeping over the dark forest and down to her solitary cottage, the film opens to warm domesticity. Close-ups of onion, eggs, and garlic being prepared are accompanied by clear, crisp sounds of crackling, bubbling, slicing, and frying. The camera zooms out to focus on Maddie, busy at her culinary tasks. All noises begin to fade. The camera focuses on Maddie’s ear as audio is eliminated, replaced by silence. As she continues to cook, the audience experiences her world—a world devoid of sound. These initial moments also highlight the importance of digital communication technologies. Maddie moves smoothly between devices, switching from laptop computer to iPhone while sharing instant messages with a friend. Close-ups of these on-screen conversations provide viewers with additional narrative information, operating as an alternate form of captioning from within the diegesis. Snippets of text from other sources are likewise shown in passing, such as the author’s blurb on the jacket of her previous novel. The camera lingers on this book, allowing viewers to read that Maddie suffered hearing loss and vocal paralysis after contracting bacterial meningitis at 13 years old. Traditional closed captioning or subtitles are thus avoided in favour of less intrusive forms of expositional text that are integrated within the plot.While hearing characters, such as her neighbour and sister, use SimCom (simultaneous communication or sign supported speech) to communicate with her, Maddie signs in silence. Because the filmmakers have elected not to provide captions for her signs in these moments, a—typically non-ASL speaking—hearing audience will inevitably experience disruptions in comprehension and Maddie’s conversations can therefore only be partially understood. This allows for an interesting role reversal for viewers. As Katherine A. Jankowski (32) points out, deaf and hard of hearing audiences have long expressed dissatisfaction with accessing the spoken word on television and film due to a lack of closed captioning. Despite the increasing technological ease of captioning digital media in the 21st century, this barrier to accessibility continues to be an ongoing issue (Ellis and Kent). The hearing community do not share this frustrating background—television programs that include ASL are captioned to ensure hearing viewers can follow the story (see for example Beth Haller’s article on Switched at Birth in this special issue). Hush therefore inverts this dynamic by presenting ASL without captions. Whereas silence is used to draw hearing viewers into Maddie’s experience, her periodic use of ASL pushes them out again. This creates a push–pull dynamic, whereby the hearing audience identify with Maddie and empathise with the losses associated with being deaf and mute, but also realise that, as a result, she has developed additional skills that are beyond their ken.It is worth noting at this point that Maddie is not the first Final Girl with a disability. In the 1967 thriller Wait until Dark, for instance, Audrey Hepburn plays Susy Hendrix, a blind woman trapped in her home by three crooks. Martin F. Norden suggests that this film represented a “step forward” in cinematic representations of disability because its heroine is not simply an innocent victim, but “tough, resilient, and resourceful in her fight against the criminals who have misrepresented themselves to her and have broken into her apartment” (228). Susy’s blindness, at first presented as a source of vulnerability and frustration, becomes her strength in the film’s climax. Bashing out all the lights in the apartment, she forces the men to fight on her terms, in darkness, where she holds the upper hand. In a classic example of Final Girl tenacity, Susy stabs the last of them to death before help arrives. Maddie likewise uses her disability as a tactical advantage. An enhanced sense of touch allows her to detect the killer when he sneaks up behind her as she feels the lightest flutter upon the hairs of her neck. She also wields a blaring fire alarm as a weapon, deafening and disorienting her attacker, causing him to drop his knife.The similarities between these films are not coincidental. During an interview, director Mike Flanagan (who co-wrote Hush with wife Siegel) stated that they were directly informed by Wait until Dark. When asked about the choice to make Maddie’s character deaf, he explained that “it kind of happened because Kate and I were out to dinner and we were talking about movies we liked. One of the ones that we stumbled on that we both really liked was Wait Until Dark” (cited in Thurman). In the earlier film, director Terence Young used darkness to blind the audience—at times the screen is completely black and viewers must listen carefully to work out what is happening. Likewise, Flanagan and Siegel use silence to effectively deafen the audience at crucial moments. The viewers are therefore forced to experience the action as the heroines do.You’re Gonna Die Screaming But You Won’t Be HeardHorror films often depend upon sound design for impact—the most mundane visuals can be made frightening by the addition of a particular noise, effect, or tune. Therefore, in the context of the slasher genre, one of the most unique aspects of Hush is the absence of the Final Girl’s vocalisation. A mute heroine is deprived of the most basic expressive tool in the horror handbook—a good scream. “What really won me over,” comments one reviewer, “was the fact that this particular ‘final girl’ isn’t physically able to whinge or scream when in pain–something that really isn’t the norm in slasher/home invasion movies” (Gorman). Yet silence also plays an important part in this genre, “when the wind stops or the footfalls cease, death is near” (Whittington 183). Indeed, Hush’s tagline is “silence can be killer.”The arrival of the killer triggers a deep kind of silence in this particular film, because alternative captions, text, and other communicative techniques (including ASL) cease to be used or useful when the man begins terrorising Maddie. This is not entirely surprising, as the abject failure of technology is a familiar trope in slasher films. As Clover explains, “the emotional terrain of the slasher film is pretechnological” (Her Body, Himself, 198). In Hush, however, the focus on text in this context is notable. There is a sense that written modes of communication are unreliable when it counts. The killer steals her phone, and cuts electricity and Internet access to the house. She attempts to use the neighbours’ Wi-Fi via her laptop, but does not know the password. Quick thinking Maddie even scrawls backwards messages on her windows, “WON’T TELL. DIDN’T SEE FACE,” she writes in lipstick, “BOYFRIEND COMING HOME.” In response, the killer simply removes his mask, “You’ve seen it now” he says. They both know there is no boyfriend. The written word has shifted from being central to Maddie’s life, to largely irrelevant. Text cannot save her. It is only by using other strategies (and senses) that Maddie empowers herself to survive.Maddie’s struggles to communicate and take control are integral to the film’s unfolding narrative, and co-writer Siegel notes this was a conscious theme: “A lot of this movie is … a metaphor for feeling unheard. It’s a movie about asserting yourself and of course as a female writer I brought a lot to that.” In their reflection on the limits of both verbal and written communication, the writers of Hush owe a debt to another source of inspiration—Joss Whedon’s Buffy the Vampire Slayer television series. Season four, episode ten, also called Hush, was first aired on 14 December 1999 and features a critically acclaimed storyline in which the characters all lose their ability to speak. Voices from all over Sunnydale are stolen by monstrous fairytale figures called The Gentlemen, who use the silence to cut fresh hearts from living victims. Their appearance is heralded by a morbid rhyme:Can’t even shout, can’t even cry The Gentlemen are coming by. Looking in windows, knocking on doors, They need to take seven and they might take yours. Can’t call to mom, can’t say a word, You’re gonna die screaming but you won’t be heard.The theme of being “unheard” is clearly felt in this episode. Buffy and co attempt a variety of methods to compensate for their lost voices, such as hanging message boards around their necks, using basic text-to-voice computer software, and drawing on overhead projector slides. These tools essentially provide the captions for a story unfolding in silence, as no subtitles are provided. As it turns out, in many ways the friends’ non-verbal communication is more effective than their spoken words. Patrick Shade argues that the episode:celebrates the limits and virtues of both the nonverbal and the verbal. … We tend to be most readily aware of verbal means … but “Hush” stresses that we are embodied creatures whose communication consists in more than the spoken word. It reminds us that we have multiple resources we regularly employ in communicating.In a similar way, the film Hush emphasises alternative modes of expression through the device of the mute Final Girl, who must use all of her sensory and intellectual resources to survive. The evening begins with Maddie at leisure, unable to decide how to end her fictional novel. By the finale she is clarity incarnate. She assesses each real-life scene proactively and “writes” the end of the film on her own terms, showing that there is only one way to survive the night—she must fight.Deaf GainIn his discussion of disability and cinema, Norden explains that the majority of films position disabled people as outsiders and “others” because “filmmakers photograph and edit their work to reflect an able-bodied point of view” (1). The very apparatus of mainstream film, he argues, is designed to embody able-bodied experiences and encourage audience identification with able-bodied characters. He argues this bias results in disabled characters positioned as “objects of spectacle” to be pitied, feared or scorned by viewers. In Hush, however, the audience is consistently encouraged to identify with Maddie. As she fights for her life in the final scenes, sound fades away and the camera assumes a first-person perspective. The man is above, choking her on the floor, and we look up at him through her eyes. As Maddie’s groping hand finds a corkscrew and jabs the spike into his neck, we watch his death through her eyes too. The film thus assists viewers to apprehend Maddie’s strength intimately, rather than framing her as a spectacle or distanced “other” to be pitied.Importantly, it is this very core of perceived vulnerability, yet ultimate strength, that gives Maddie the edge over her attacker in the end. In this way, Maddie’s disabilities are not solely represented as a space of limitation or difference, but a potential wellspring of power. Hence the film supports, to some degree, the move to seeing deafness as gain, rather than loss:Deafness has long been viewed as a hearing loss—an absence, a void, a lack. It is virtually impossible to think of deafness without thinking of loss. And yet Deaf people do not often consider their lives to be defined by loss. Rather, there is something present in the lives of Deaf people, something full and complete. (Bauman and Murray, 3)As Bauman and Murray explain, the shift from “hearing loss” to “deaf gain” involves focusing on what is advantageous and unique about the deaf experience. They use the example of the Swiss national snowboarding team, who hired a deaf coach to boost their performance. The coach noticed they were depending too much on sound and used earplugs to teach a multi-sensory approach, “the earplugs forced them to learn to depend on the feel of the snow beneath their boards [and] the snowboarder’s performance improved markedly” (6). This idea that removing sound strengthens other senses is a thread that runs throughout Hush. For example, it is the loss of hearing and speech that are credited with inspiring Maddie’s successful writing career and innovative literary “voice”.Lennard J. Davis warns that framing people as heroic or empowered as a result of their disabilities can feed counterproductive stereotypes and perpetuate oppressive systems. “Privileging the inherent powers of the deaf or the blind is a form of patronizing,” he argues, because it traps such individuals within the concept of innate difference (106). Disparities between able and disabled people are easier to justify when disabled characters are presented as intrinsically “special” or “noble,” as this suggests inevitable divergence, rather than structural inequality. While this is something to keep in mind, Hush skirts the issue by presenting Maddie as a flawed, realistic character. She does not possess superpowers; she makes mistakes and gets injured. In short, she is a fallible human using what resources she has to the best of her abilities. As such, she represents a holistic vision of a disabled heroine rather than an overly glorified stereotype.ConclusionHush is a film about the limits of text, the gaps where language is impossible or insufficient, and the struggle to be heard as a woman with disabilities. It is a film about the difficulties surrounding both verbal and written communication, and our dependence upon them. The absence of closed captions or subtitles, combined with the use of alternative “captioning”—in the form of instant messaging, for instance—grounds the narrative in lived space, rather than providing easy extra-textual solutions. It also poses a challenge to a hearing audience, to cross the border of “otherness” and identify with a deaf heroine.Returning to the discussion of the Final Girl characterisation, Clover argues that this is a gendered device combining both traditionally feminine and masculine characteristics. The fluidity of the Final Girl is constant, “even during that final struggle she is now weak and now strong, now flees the killer and now charges him, now stabs and is stabbed, now cries out in fear and now shouts in anger” (Her Body, Himself, 221). Men viewing slasher films identify with the Final Girl’s “masculine” traits, and in the process find themselves looking through the eyes of a woman. In using a deaf character, Hush suggests that an evolution of this dynamic might also occur along the dis/abled boundary line. Maddie is a powerful survivor who shifts between weak and strong, frightened and fierce, but also between disabled and able. This portrayal encourages the audience to identify with her empowered traits and in the process look through the eyes of a disabled woman. Therefore, while slashers—and horror films in general—are not traditionally associated with progressive representations of disabilities, this evolution of the Final Girl may provide a fruitful topic of both research and filmmaking in the future.ReferencesBauman, Dirksen, and Joseph J. Murray. “Reframing: From Hearing Loss to Deaf Gain.” Trans. Fallon Brizendine and Emily Schenker. Deaf Studies Digital Journal 1 (2009): 1–10. <http://dsdj.gallaudet.edu/assets/section/section2/entry19/DSDJ_entry19.pdf>.Clover, Carol J. Men, Women, and Chain Saws: Gender in the Modern Horror Film. New Jersey: Princeton UP, 1992.———. “Her Body, Himself: Gender in the Slasher Film.” Representations 20 (1987): 187–228.Davis, Lennard J. Enforcing Normalcy: Disability, Deafness, and the Body. London: Verso, 1995.Ellis, Katie, and Mike Kent. Disability and New Media. New York: Routledge, 2011.Gorman, H. “Hush: Film Review.” Scream Horror Magazine (2016) <http://www.screamhorrormag.com/hush-film-review/>.Jankowski, Katherine A. Deaf Empowerment: Emergence, Struggle, and Rhetoric. Washington: Gallaudet UP, 1997.Laird, E.E. “Updating the Final Girl Theory.” Medium (2016) <https://medium.com/@TheFilmJournal/updating-the-final-girl-theory-b37ec0b1acf4>.Norden, M.F. Cinema of Isolation: A History of Physical Disability in the Movies. New Jersey: Rutgers UP, 1994.Shade, Patrick. “Screaming to Be Heard: Community and Communication in ‘Hush’.” Slayage 6.1 (2006). <http://www.whedonstudies.tv/uploads/2/6/2/8/26288593/shade_slayage_6.1.pdf>.Sheppard, D. “Hush: Revolutionising the Final Girl.” Eyes on Screen (2016). <https://eyesonscreen.wordpress.com/2016/06/08/hush-revolutionising-the-final-girl/>.Thurman, T. “‘Hush’ Director Mike Flanagan and Actress Kate Siegel on Their New Thriller!” Interview. 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