Content warnings: thalassophobia, claustrophobia.

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He awoke in a metal box.

A ringing in his ear, a drip with the hint of copper under his nose mixing with sweat. He was skinny, cold, and in his mid-40s. He knew he was Alan, but not much beyond that.

Alan’s mind was hazy. The mix of thoughts rushing like fast-moving rapids that he couldn’t parse, the hand to try to catch a fish of a thought. His breath quickened and his stomach did somersaults. He knew he just wanted to go home.

He fell to his hands and remembered water.

Scuba diving. The thought of the wide and seemingly endless expanse to explore. I remember the discovery dives. The first one in Hawaii. Wading underwater, the weightlessness was the first flirtation with cerulean space. The horizon being a black shade of unknown measure.

With his breath starting to calm, he was able to start focusing. The realization that the association of water must’ve had something to do with his current predicament.

Alan’s eyes adjusted to the lower light and he was able to make out a door. As he got closer, he recoiled at the sight of blood on the handle. He ventured forward, and could make out a dull hum behind the door, much like a refrigerator. He tried the handle slowly, but it wouldn’t budge past a quarter of the way.

I remember learning to dive with Arish. The first two sessions were about learning the skills in a pool setting. Learn to use the regulator, descend and ascend in water, clearing your mask. Learn to run through the checklist of checking your equipment and your buddy’s. How to assess the weights needed. How to double check your dive plan, the depth to descend to, how much time and air would be needed.

Alan checked the hinges of the door through the gaps between the door and the wall next to it. Noticed that this was one of those doors that opened towards him. No pushing against the metal door would do much good. Best shot would be to find something to try to break the handle.

I remember being reminded: a critical component of diving is avoiding the bends. Don’t rush straight up if you’ve been underwater past the safe limit of nitrogen buildup. Don’t rush straight up.

Looking around, Alan saw a small collection of novels, textbooks, and first aid on a bookshelf, a bed with a headrest composed of metal cylinders, and a small desk. Looks like he was imprisoned. His head throbbed.

And then the other critical element is not running out of air. Don’t breathe too fast.

He checked the desk drawers and saw wire, circuit boards, various electrical components (terminal blocks, ferrules), a screwdriver, and some pliers. His mind came up with ideas.

There was a panel next to the door. He tapped on it, and it beeped and said the words ‘SECTOR LOCKDOWN.’

He took the pliers and took to the panel, half expecting it to not do much. But to his surprise, it pried open without much resistance. So this wasn’t meant to keep me inside.

But then you can’t stop breathing to conserve air, because if you hold your breath and allow too much variation in depth, the pressure changes in the depth would be no good for your lungs. They’d collapse.

Alan’s hands went to the wire and the pliers. He suspected and felt a sense of relief when yes — this was a piece of cake, a very simple circuit to unlock the door. He wouldn’t even need the boards, just the pliers, some of the smaller components and his fingers.

So the next weekend, we went with our instructor and a small group to the lake to do a pilot dive. It was freezing but that’s what you get for learning in February. But we didn’t have much time, and we went later in the day for things to warm up.

The overloaded circuit failed open, and the door unlocked. He turned the handle and pulled the door open. The hum that he heard earlier was emitting from a small amber alarm right above his door.

I remember feeling a sense of cold regret as soon as I got in the water. It was so cold. I should’ve put on a hood but I was hoping I’d acclimate. The dark gray of the environment around me gave way to a quiet frigid blue.

Alan looked to find a map ahead, and touched the scratch marks on it. ‘THE’ — at the top of the map quickly caught his eye- THALASSA. Greek. Spirit of the Sea. Alan saw arrows marking what he thought to be the way out, and his anxiety rose again. He looked towards the way down and saw flickering lights and cracked walls. Maybe I shouldn’t be heading that way?

But I didn’t acclimate, and the further down we went, it just got colder and colder. The visibility was getting smaller as we got closer to the floor — the dirt and silt was shaken up. Activity from earlier divers in the morning.

When he turned the corner, he felt a lurch and his world shifted. For a second, his own drops of sweat floated. A screen next to him, cracked and read the words ‘GRAVITATIONAL [ ] COMPROMISED. RECOM[ ].’

He looked up, and he saw a large pathway heading towards a bulkhead door with a handwheel. He wasn’t meant to get through this.

And then suddenly, my mask flooded with water and I couldn’t see anything. I tried to blink but the darkness stung. I remembered my training and pressed on the top and breathed water through my nose to clear it.

He realized the panel gaps had just enough space to fit his finger tips. He tried climbing but his feet slipped. He peeled off his shoes, and tried again. He was just tall enough to reach the one above, and started climbing.

But I couldn’t see anything around me — it was dark, my visibility barely extended to my arms, and I couldn’t see anyone. My heart started to race. I tried feeling forward to see if Arish was next to me but I just grabbed soft black dirt. I looked around and it was just an enclosed tar cold hell around me.

Alan passed a window and saw a passageway with bodies. He looked up and he was more than halfway there to the bulkhead. Through the window he could see stars and the moonlight shining in. He heard shouts in the distance below him. He made out the words “Got out!” and he realized they were talking about him. And suddenly it made sense.

I screamed but past my mind, it was just soundless bubbles through my regulator. I was hyperventilating.

He reached the top. He heard sounds getting closer. Hollers below “He must’ve went this way!”

He had to push his feet against the other side of the bulkhead, and only had one free hand. But this was almost to freedom. The adrenaline rushed and gave his one arm strength to move the handwheel. As he did, alarms around him sounded and a voice repeated “Action not recommended.” He kept spinning the handwheel.

Don’t rush straight up! Save your breath! Don’t stop breathing! Don’t rush straight up! Save your breath! Don’t stop breathing!

A blue light emitted scan of his face, and a voice spoke in an artificial voice, “Captain override permitted.”

He went through the door and fell flat on his face. He was confused at why his world shifted again. His nose cracked and he saw stars. A small corridor. White lights, but it didn’t matter. He could feel the rush, he needed to get out of here. Out of this situation.

Dark water around me. I closed my eyes and yearned to be anywhere but here. I needed to get out of here. Out of this situation.

One handle between Alan and the outside.

Below, a group of people yelled “Alan!” Alan knew there wasn’t much time. Dazed and with the last of his strength, he put his hand on the handle. Almost at the surface. “Alan! Please stop!”

He turned the handle and pushed through. Free.

I pulled out the regulator from my mouth and closed my eyes. Anywhere but here. Anywhere but here. Felt cold water flood my mouth, but my eyes saw land, the boat, the sky around me.

With his last moments, Alan could see the hull of the ship buckle, as explosive decompression consumed the ship, the air sucked straight from the lungs of the still awake and still sleeping astronauts. Frostbite creeped up, crystallizing his blood, darkening his skin, leaving white wisps on the edges of his vision. His lungs were simultaneously burning from lack of air and filling with hardened ice of moisture. His vision was fading, but he could see the letters ‘THE ASTRAEA’ written in big blue letters on the ship. He realized, just as when he was younger, that he had panicked.

-Midnight Brook

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“The person is locked in a positive feedback loop: The more they fight against or flee from their own inner experience, the more of a problem it seems, and the more distressed they become” (Understanding the Causes and Remedies of Diver Panic, an article by Laura Walton on panic while scuba diving).

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Trigger Warning: Content warning for sexuality (in general), sexual assault (depicted in film), coercion (depicted in film and film industry), stalking (depicted in film), and violence (depicted in film)

Spoilers for ‘Perfect Blue,’ ‘The Substance,’ ‘The Shining’

I watched the 1997 animated psychological horror film ‘Perfect Blue,’ directed by Satoshi Kon, for the first time recently and had a tumultuous experience watching it — the film is built to unsettle and invite darker questions that make the viewer think about the wider context of films and the film industry.

Perfect Blue follows Mimarin (“Mima”) Kirigoe, a former pop singer who is trying to redefine her brand as she tries to break into the film industry. Unfortunately, she instead finds herself in a descending mental spiral — a combination of industry coercion and workplace pressures, isolation, and stalking. The scenes where Mima loses time, descends into paranoia, and struggles through the uncertainty of her identity, convey a sense of mental vertigo that the audience shares in. This is largely due to the editing, which does a good job of accelerating the feeling of shakiness and doubt centered on the unreliable perspective of the protagonist.

But the uneasiness that lingers long after the film ends, comes from scenes that deal with sexuality and nudity. ‘Perfect Blue’ uses “visceral visuals” and meta-narrative to convey the horror of the coercion and exploitative trauma that Mima experiences, how the industry furthers this exploitation and ignores the value of the individual, and how the audience / consumers contribute to this.

In this essay, I evaluate the nature of the aforementioned visceral visuals, particularly sexuality and nudity, and how they can be used to further thematic elements vs going too far / being gratuitous. I also evaluate how the use of visceral visuals is often associated with actor exploitation and coercion in the film industry due to power imbalances and a failing system. I also reflect on industry actions that can reduce harm, including the use of intimacy coordinators.

The medium of film and their limitations

For any creative endeavor, we first have to consider the “why” or “so what” behind the artwork. So let’s ask why might anyone make a film? Often, it’s because it’s shining a light on a perspective that is under-represented or it’s a new perspective altogether. The theme becomes the commentary or the critique on typical perspectives.

The methods that any creative medium can be used to “illustrate” the artists’ point depends on the limitations and toolkit available to that medium. For example, a painting just has “one frame.” A book has no visuals. A video-game has to balance and pace storytelling with its gameplay mechanics.

Films have intrinsic time limitations (typical runtime of 1.5–2 hours) and have to effectively represent a theme within that, while weaving through character development and well-paced story beats. Unlike books or video games, movies are also unique in that there’s an inherent separation between the observer and the observed — the fourth wall that disconnects the two parties that enables the suspension of disbelief.

Despite not sharing in the benefits of other mediums, when done well, movies lend to more succinct themes and relatable experiences.

However, films — being a collaborative endeavor, filled with many cast and crew — are also vulnerable to the dynamics and relationships between those involved.

So let me ask: Who is the artist for a film? As we discuss visceral visuals in depth — let’s carry this question in the back of our minds.

Reeling / Visceral feelings — Emotional shocks

Some common elements in the toolkit of a film include exposition (we’re often coming into a story in the middle of character lives, with context that provides a puzzle box), dialogue between characters (establishing the relationships and dynamics between characters), and visuals on screen.

Visuals — framing, lighting, objects, what’s shown, what’s not — can serve to provide context to the setting, the big and small of the world that the character lives in, but also, and more importantly, the way the characters see the world around them. This is their perception of reality — and their eyes become our eyes as we continue to suspend our reality to accept theirs.

So then, the most shocking of visuals, and the most difficult to utilize include violence, sexuality, and nudity. These often arouse some kind of strong / reeling / visceral feelings in the audience; discomfort, anger, sadness, etc.

To clarify, visceral visuals in themselves aren’t necessarily wrong — they allude to real aspects of the human experience, and art can utilize these visuals to drive forth meaning. For example, Alia Shawkat, who co-wrote and acted in the film, ‘Duck Butter,’ wanted to normalize nudity in non-sexual settings. Anna North writes about this, “Alia Shawkat’s said one of her goals is ‘reclaiming women’s bodies. We decide how we want to look, we decide when we feel sexy… it’s about us being able to tell those stories. I want to be able to have saggy boobs and be taking a shit on a toilet in a scene’” (North).

However, visceral visuals, by their very nature, can be harmful and distressing — it varies on how it lands for a viewer. So what’s the line between effective and excessive? What’s the value of even using them? These can be challenging questions, but ones that have to be reflected on and considered by the filmmakers, to prevent the visuals from bearing the risk of being meaningless, gratuitous, and/or harmful. With harm, there’s potential harm to the viewer (i.e. emotional distress), harm in representation (i.e. objectification), and harm in production (i.e. actors harmed in the making of) — and an unconsidered visual could cause harm to all three.

So how can these be used in film in a manner that’s thematically relevant or effective?

• to provoke / challenge: primarily tied to perceptions and the theme. Creates a barrier where audience perspective is focused on theme.
• to create sympathy and/or empathy: related to the story itself; primarily to drive sympathy and/or empathy for the character(s) in the situation. Breaks walls and pulls audience into thinking about the emotions of the characters on screen.
• to create shock; this also creates a barrier, but primarily commentary that speaks to the meta-narrative / relationship between the film-audience, rather than the theme of the story itself.

Note that even when films have some visceral visuals with thematic relevance, they can still veer off course at some other point in the film and fall into irresponsible territory.

From a production standpoint, not all visceral visuals are the same. Violence in film is typically (hopefully) fake. Even in cases of thrilling action, actors are often replaced by professional stunt actors, and there’s insurance and liability forces driving pressure to protect actors. So then why is this lacking in cases with sexuality and nudity? For example, CGI itself has come so far, and yet, it’s a rarity to be utilized in this context. Robert Eggers used CGI in ‘The Northman’ nude battle scenes to ensure safety (Vary). We need more of this. There’s a responsibility to not cause suffering in the pursuit of artistic vision — and there are ways to mitigate harm — creating safe sets, hiring intimacy coordinators, using technology, or barring all that, switching mediums altogether.

While on the topic, let’s define exploitation itself. Exploitation is any situation where there’s an imbalance of benefit returned for an act between parties/individuals. This is further problematic when there is a power imbalance / asymmetry.

Exploitation is not unique to the film industry, nor does it need to be in context of sexuality. Individuals wanting to pay the bills, desperate for a chance to compete, seeking a hope for better opportunities. Those are conditions that industries can take advantage of, to create a limited, time-constrained, choice-set for individuals, where decisions are locked to a lose-lose on an individual level.

This is not to say that some actors don’t have different boundaries than others. Some actors are genuinely consenting to scenes depicting sexuality / nudity with a different boundary level than others, and that’s okay. Every actor should have agency to make their own determination of what they’re comfortable with and where their boundaries are at at any given point. What’s critical is a system that doesn’t punish individuals with stricter boundaries or make them feel uncomfortable / placed in a situation where they don’t feel like they have a choice.

Comparing films

Let’s pause and let’s take a look at a few films that use these “visceral visuals,” to see how each have been utilized, evaluating each one based on 1. Thematic relevance / effectiveness and 2. noted positive / negative impact and treatment of actors on set.

1. ‘The Substance’ — thematically effective. Mixed experience for actors on set

‘The Substance,’ (2024) directed by Coralie Fargeat, shows nudity through various parts of the film. The film uses this to specifically to contrast the perception that Elisabeth has of her body at 50 vs 30. The scenes play out very similarly to paranoia horror — Elisabeth can’t stop her obsession of wrinkles, fat distribution, and perceived lack of firmness. When she uses the Substance to yield her 30-year old clone (“Sue”) and live through her eyes, it’s specifically in contrast to that — the lack of wrinkles, lines, and perceived firmness that she hyper-focuses on that she thinks makes her more attractive.

We see that these are based on expectations in the entertainment industry that Elisabeth’s been a part of — consumer, beneficiary, and victim — but that have molded her perception of attractiveness and what is valuable. These scenes are a visual foreboding of the addictive cycle that she eventually falls into, where she can’t stand her “real” body and the disassociation that she experiences as she uses the clone. She believes in the ageism that the industry has established as the norm, and is unable to acknowledge that she could be beautiful, even as someone from her nostalgic years considers her. In this way, the nudity is specifically designed to challenge the viewer to think about their perceptions of attractiveness and what matters, and contrast that with what the protagonist in the film thinks.

In doing so, the film highlights the theme and reinforces a barrier between the audience and the characters — from this point onwards (if not earlier), the film is theme-first. These scenes contribute to the sterile, emptiness of the world which increasingly carries a haze of uncanny valley — in Elisabeth’s world, everyone that she regards as noteworthy is vain and without any virtuous character. The internal and external are both horrific. The viewer can still sympathize with the character (and empathize with the struggles of the aging body, ephemeral qualities, and ageism that they experience), but recognize that there’s a separation.

As the film progresses into more body horror elements, these are shocking and have intention driven by Fargeat. “‘Being a woman is body horror,’” Fargeat adds. “The movie can be scary on many levels, but the first is about playing with the violence of what we do to our bodies.”” (Zemler). Body horror itself is a subgenre that pushes boundaries (using prosthetics) and provokes conversation regarding its themes — this is outside of the scope of this essay, but one worth exploring.

…

Coralie Fargeat had a specific intent for the nudity in mind and was very specific in storyboarding and discussing with the actors well before the scenes were shot — as Demi Moore (who played Elisabeth) discussed: “The 61-year-old actress shared … that everything was ‘really spelled out” to her ahead of filming the movie… explained “the level of vulnerability and rawness that was really required to tell the story… required a lot of sensitivity and a lot of conversation about what we were trying to accomplish.’” (Miller).

However, consideration could’ve been taken to ensure a safer environment for scenes with hyper-sexualized content. As Pullman writes, “a scene where… Sue, is wearing skimpy aerobics gear and leading a sexed-up dance class … was more challenging: ‘That specific kind of sexuality doesn’t lend itself to me… day of, I just got wasted first thing in the morning because I was like, I can’t do this in front of everybody,” [Margaret Qualley] says. A combination of weed and tequila provided Dutch courage’” (Pullman). Recall Alia Shawkat making her film ‘Duck Butter’ where she had agency and power (as a writer-actor) to make determinations on how to use nudity in her film. Did Margaret Qualley, as an individual actor, have the same agency on-set to raise concerns about the content and environment, or was she provided a limited set of lose-lose options — of which she resolved her distress through substance use?

Especially in a film critiquing the objectification and misogyny inherent in the entertainment industry, things often cited as harm-mitigating, like a closed set and intimacy coordinators, may have helped to lessen distress. In fact — a change in the visual medium altogether may have worked even better. This is one of those areas where animation to represent the themes may have been more successful, by simultaneously critiquing objectification without objectifying real actors in live-action.

2. ‘The Shining’ — thematically effective, abusive experience for actors on set

‘The Shining,’ (1980) directed by Stanley Kubrick, uses violence and disturbing visuals, combined with a terrifying performance by Jack Nicholson as Jack and a claustrophobic, expansive hotel setting, to elevate the terror that audience-members might feel. What adds to the distress is that the film plays on audience expectations. Of course, a “haunted house” is expected to have ghosts and evil lost spirits — such as the Grady twins haunting Danny. What is less expected is the total and irredeemable corruption of Jack, turning any expectations of him being a protector to his family, and making him the largest threat in the film. The violent scenes, where Jack kills Dick Halloran as part of his descent into villainy, is shocking for the audience, as we’re left with uncertainty on the ability of Wendy to protect herself and Danny. This challenges audience perceptions on “male heroes,” as well as providing further thematic commentary broken husband/father roles, alcohol abuse / addiction, and domestic violence in relationships.

Of course, who can forget the shocking river of blood that escapes the elevator in ‘The Shining?’ — while directly viscerally uncomfortable, this also is successful at both alluding to the dangers that lurk within the hotel, the role of the Overlook Hotel as a malevolent building itself with a “soul of its own” to haunt the occupants (not unlike the Hill House in Shirley Jackson’s novel), and introducing visual ambiguity of what might be real.

Lastly, the chilling menace of Jack chasing after his wife Wendy, axing through the bathroom door, and stalking his family through the hedge maze are also effective at simultaneously shocking the audience and creating increasing empathy for Wendy and Danny in their peril.

…

Unfortunately, the film has also been infamous in the noted abusive treatment of the actors at the hands of the director, Stanley Kubrick, especially Shelley Duvall, who portrayed Wendy on screen. “[Shelley Duvall] recounted the psychological and emotional torture she endured during the filming of The Shining. According to Duvall, the role was both emotionally and physically exhausting, requiring her to force her body into a constant state of panic to meet Kubrick’s exacting expectations for her character… Duvall ended up with a hoarse throat, raw, wounded hands and severe dehydration.” (Sur).

3. ‘Perfect Blue’ — thematically relevant, yet arguably excessive in its explicit depictions. Animated medium, absence of evidence on voice actors / animators’ experiences in 1990s

‘Perfect Blue,’ directed by Satoshi Kon, drives both empathy and shock in its depictions. The film is almost always edited and shot to convey Mima’s perspective, a deliberate choice to help the audience understand the cognitive dissonance, dissociation, and worsening mental state of Mima. In doing this, the film breaks the barriers of observer-observed, and the viewer feels tangled in the situation that Mima is in. She’s uncertain and struggles with dissonance… and so does the viewer. She loses grip on reality and what is “right” for her… and so does the viewer. These lead to pivotal, tension-filled moments in the film where both Mima and the audience are uncertain if she’s the person committing the murders in a break from reality — but that’s more of the fictional psychological thriller aspect of the film.

There’s the feeling of degradation and distress, as Mima acts in a simulated sexual assault scene for a TV show, on an unsafe open set, that’s in full view of leering male crew and producers. There’s a feeling of humiliation, in the scene where she’s exploited by a photographer that goes past boundaries with a magazine photoshoot, pressuring Mima to undress and photographs her in a nude state. For both of these situations, Mima was coerced or pressured into giving consent — as she’s constantly told from people in positions of power that saying no would negatively impact her life and career.

Elephant in the room — the explicit content in some of the scenes is excessive and disturbing. In spite of the animated medium, perhaps the same perspective and commentary could’ve been made without the extent of the explicit visuals. Satoshi Kon, the director, agreed (after the film’s release) that the content likely should’ve been toned down (Osmond).

The film’s themes and questions are incredibly relevant to this day.

• Have the people in power all around Mima taken advantage of an early-career female actor who’s trying to make it in the industry?
• Can Mima really provide consent if the implication — that the producers, directors, managers around her reinforce — is that saying no will lead to less opportunities; or is the consent that’s provided coerced?
• What is the problematic role of the “fans” and how their perspectives add to the distress that Mima experiences?
• Do any of the people around her care about her wellbeing?

These questions linger long after the film ends, and are applicable to the experiences of actors in the wider film and entertainment industry.

…

Recall our earlier question.

Who is the artist for a film?

Despite what any one individual, or “auteur” may claim, everyone involved plays the part of the artist. Consider what the point of a talented director even is, if the actors don’t show up to perform? What good is the actor’s performance, if the editing in production is incoherent? What good is the richness of the dialogue, if the sound and music don’t collaborate to elevate it to a cinematic standard? The point is this — there is no one artist in a film.

Unfortunately, the dynamics determining what’s OK on set seems to be largely dependent on who’s “calling the shots” — often, the director and/or producers. Who’s funding the production, the supply and demand of actors, and the perceived esteem of certain filmmakers, creates a power imbalance on and off set. This is concerning. As Kristy Guevara-Flanagan, a professor of film at UCLA and director of ‘Body Parts’ noted in her interview with PBS, “There’s so much power differential in Hollywood… women were feeling like they didn’t know how to navigate this… feeling pressure, and that they felt like they didn’t have a lot of options.” (Brown, Davenport, and Thoet).

‘Perfect Blue’ realizes this meta-narrative with shock and context — beyond the animated depictions, the film asks the viewer to think: every time there’s a film with sexual acts, every time there’s a magazine sexualizing the actors … did the actors have a choice? As Jessica Steinrock, an intimacy coordinator, notes, “There’s a lot of money involved, a lot of crunch time involved. And when we have power dynamics, we also have opportunities for [actors] to lose their ability to give consent.” (Brown, Davenport, and Thoet).

Responsible use of visceral visuals can be useful to further empathy for the characters, explore the themes, or ascribe meta-commentary to the film. However, gratuitous / improper use is not only detrimental to the theme and the audience, it can also be exploitative. The unfortunate reality has to be kept in mind as well, that even when there is artistic merit, individuals could still be harmed and exploited — and that’s a problem.

The auteurs, the machine, and the consumers

In the context of broader cinema, the thought of visceral visuals, especially sexuality and nudity, as being detrimental to both the people on screen and messaging to audience members is not new. This objectification continues to persist, however, and unfortunately progress continues to either stall or regress. As Professor Laura Mulvey (a noted feminist film theorist and professor of film studies at University of London) states, “Culturally, movie production followed rules of repetition and formula … these gender inequalities were inscribed into the visual style of cinema itself, and how its stories were structured” (Mulvey).

The thing to consider is the three pronged role of the wider-arching system that shifts blame. There’s the roles of the problematic filmmakers, and the machine they “answer to” — the film industry that prioritizes profits over the concerns of individuals, unless there’s a perceived dollar to be made.

The myth that “sex sells” in an effort to shift responsibility to the consumers is incredibly disappointing to read, especially as research has been conducted that proves otherwise. As researchers, published in the American Psychiatric Association journal, have noted, “perhaps sex and nudity never had any substantial economic or artistic benefits, but rather it was one of those self-perpetuating urban myths. Because contrary evidence is always weak and inconspicuous, such beliefs can never be contradicted outright.” (Cerridwen and Simonton).

Whatever consumer tolerance is perceived, is likely perpetuated by the filmmakers themselves. “the screen was transferred to a film’s spectators, playing to an assumed male visual pleasure. The film’s spectators, either male or female, couldn’t avoid a way of seeing that was produced by the language of film itself.” (Mulvey). The objectification is unconsciously reinforced and the normalization of “The way bodies are framed, and the way the camera moves, teaches us to look at women the way that patriarchy already does.” (Jackson). This objectification can further a standard that’s not consistent with reality at all, perpetuating harmful representations. As Anna North writes about the perspectives of actor Amber Tamblyn, “the industry essentially forces actresses to represent a false vision of womanhood to viewers — to “’represent, to all of you, bullshit.”’ (North).

While they may not hold the same power over a film and its content as the actual filmmakers (production, directing, or writing), consumers are not off the hook. For one, film critics, of which the majority are men (Lauzen), have been noted as lending preference to films that push the envelope in terms of explicit content. “Perhaps film critics tend to bestow the highest praise on films that seem unconventional, rebellious, or “edgy,” and sex, nudity…provide critics cues of what is avant-garde or breakthrough rather than mainstream” (Cerridwen and Simonton).

In addition, we as audience members have to take responsibility for the content we consume. Driving action, speaking up to ensure that the art that’s being shown on screen isn’t the product of people’s suffering, nor is normalizing a problematic or harmful representation (i.e. objectification) that perpetuates a system of suffering.

And so anytime a visceral visual is shown — regardless of the artistic merit, we need to ask, “are the actors being treated with care and decency? did they really have a choice in this?”, “what’s the message being told? Is this perpetuating a harmful standard / message?” and finally “who is this for?”

Evolving the industry — pushing the right envelope to create safer environments for individuals involved

Nothing is a catch-all, nor are these “stand-ins” for doing considered reflection of intent and maintaining a production that values individual actors as humans and artists, but there are some avenues that need more traction to improve the issue.

‘Intimacy coordinator’ is a profession that has been gaining traction since the mid-2010s. They help to create choreography for sexuality in scenes, while ensuring safe boundaries, advocating for actors, and providing expertise in intimate storytelling. (Brown, Davenport, and Thoet). In Variety, D’Alessandro reports on actor Florence Pugh comments, “[Pugh] credited intimacy coordinators with giving female actors more agency on set. She said, “It’s a bit stickier” being a woman during filming because “you can’t really be a problem because people will say that you’re a nightmare’” (D’Alessandro).

Intimacy coordinators seem like a good minimum standard to have on film sets — not just to maintain boundaries, but also to further reflection on the intent behind sexuality in a film. “Having an intimacy coordinator doesn’t just create a safer environment, Ms. Kusama said: It also makes for better, sexier art… ‘It demands that you take responsibility for your story with the actors, that you actually say, Yeah, we’re depicting sex and here’s what it needs to mean — i.e. it needs to mean something,’ she said” (Harlan). More meaningful scenes can lead to a better realization of the human experience through art. As reported on Pugh’s statements on good Intimacy Coordinators helping to further “‘understanding the dance of intimacy as opposed to just shooting a sex scene’” (D’Alessandro).

Unfortunately, intimacy coordinators are still woefully underutilized in the industry- only 11% of films in 2025 used an intimacy coordinator, and only 5.3% (the highest across genres) of Romance films did (Follows) [Note — it was difficult to find extensive data on this in the first place]. Further, the early stage of the role in the industry means less cohesive standards and differing quality to effectively protect those on-set. As reported on Pugh’s experiences, “There are good ones and bad ones” (D’Alessandro).

Still, SAG-AFTRA (actors union) has promoted the use of intimacy coordinators as an industry standard, and ratified union contracts to further validate the role (Kilkenny). On that topic, union standards and legal contracts (”nudity riders”) protecting actors can help to prevent boundary violations. Florence Pugh has been an actor who has advocated for explicitly defining intimacy boundaries and utilizing intimacy coordinators in contracts that the production is legally bound to (Theroux).

Other avenues include CGI, visual effects, and animation. As noted before, Robert Eggers utilized CGI in his film, ‘The Northsman,’ to maintain safety while still having the ‘visual’ of nudity in an action scene. A small number of other films have also used this, often tied to contractual agreements with actors. If these can be used to keep actors safe and fits within their boundaries of consent, this seems like a step in the right direction. Consider however, that CGI / animation could mitigate harmful impact on the on-screen actors, yet it’s important to broaden the consideration to all involved in the production, including voice-actors, animators, etc.

Also to note, unfortunately, is that without proper oversight and regulation, CGI / Animation could lead to further objectification and unconsented digital replicas and actor-likeness CGI use. We’ve seen technology outpacing regulation as well as unfettered use without consideration of individuals (‘The Flash’ using the likeness of deceased actors without their families’ consent). SAG-AFTRA has been working to negotiate agreements with production companies and studios. As part of their Interactive Media Agreements (IMA) with game companies, for example, “The IMA now requires “clear and conspicuous” writing that is either a separate document or a specifically signed rider. Under these rules, employers have to provide a “reasonably specific description” of the use of the Digital Replica.” (Smizer and Thomas) State laws (such as California and New York) have also mirrored the IMA to protect performers within their states. The hope is that this will progress to the wider entertainment industry and regions to protect individuals.

Sexuality is a key part of the human experience, and art is a creative interpretation of the human experience. But it’s dangerous to say that all film is “just” art and that the individuals involved in it don’t matter and that the content itself doesn’t matter. The reality is, given the collaborative nature, as well as the use of actors that don’t always have an equal power / agency relative to the other parties in the system, those involved have a responsibility to ask the right questions, and help to drive change. What’s important is creating a system where human dignity and value isn’t sacrificed for the pursuit of art, and also, that the intention of sexuality is considered so that objectification isn’t furthered.

Thank you for reading. If you want to follow my work, please subscribe to my Substack (https://substack.com/@midnightbrook).

— — —

Works Cited

Brown, Jeffrey, Anne Azzi Davenport, and Alison Thoet. “How Intimacy Coordinators Ensure Safety on Theater and Film Sets.” PBS NewsHour, 7 June 2023, www.pbs.org/newshour/show/how-intimacy-coordinators-ensure-safety-on-theater-and-film-sets

Cerridwen, A., & Simonton, D. K. (2009). Sex doesn’t sell — nor impress! Content, box office, critics, and awards in mainstream cinema. Psychology of Aesthetics, Creativity, and the Arts, 3(4), 200–210. https://doi.org/10.1037/a0016492

D’Alessandro, Anthony. “Florence Pugh Says She’s Had Good and Bad Intimacy Coordinators on Set.” Variety, 2025, variety.com/2025/film/news/florence-pugh-bad-intimacy-coordinator-set-awkward-1236573978/

Follows, Stephen. “How Many Films Employ an Intimacy Coordinator?” StephenFollows.com, 15 Jan. 2026, stephenfollows.com/p/how-many-films-employ-an-intimacy-coordinator

Harlan, Jennifer. “When Clothes Fly Off, This Intimacy Coordinator Steps In.” The New York Times, 2 Mar. 2023, www.nytimes.com/2023/03/02/business/intimacy-coordinator-sex-scenes-film-jessica-steinrock.html

Jackson, Lauren Michele. “The Invention of ‘the Male Gaze.’” The New Yorker, 14 July 2023, www.newyorker.com/books/second-read/the-invention-of-the-male-gaze

Kilkenny, Katie. “SAG-AFTRA Intimacy Coordinator Union Contract Ratified.” The Hollywood Reporter, 19 Dec. 2025, www.hollywoodreporter.com/business/business-news/sag-aftra-intimacy-coordinator-union-contract-ratified-1236455269

Lauzen, Martha M. Thumbs Down 2020: Film Critics and Gender, and Why It Matters. Center for the Study of Women in Television and Film, San Diego State University, 2020, womenintvfilm.sdsu.edu/wp-content/uploads/2020/08/2020-Thumbs-Down-Report.pdf.

Miller, Hayley. “Demi Moore’s Reaction to Doing a Full Nude Scene in The Substance.” SheKnows, 20 May 2024, www.sheknows.com/entertainment/articles/3027034/demi-moore-reaction-nude-scene-movie-the-substance/

Mulvey, Laura. “Freud, Hollywood and the Male Gaze.” The British Academy, 6 Sept. 2024, www.thebritishacademy.ac.uk/blog/freud-hollywood-and-the-male-gaze/

North, Anna. “’We Decide When We Feel Sexy’: Alia Shawkat and Others on Telling Their Own Stories in a Male-Dominated Industry.” Vox, 28 Oct. 2017, www.vox.com/2017/10/28/16562230/alia-shawkat-rose-mcgowan-womens-convention-hollywood-harassment

Osmond, Andrew. “Kon on Perfect Blue.”All the Anime, 27 Apr. 2019, blog.alltheanime.com/kon-on-perfect-blue/

Pullman, Laura. “Margaret Qualley: My Mum, Andie MacDowell, Has Never Judged Me.” The Times, 15 Sept. 2024, www.thetimes.com/life-style/celebrity/article/margaret-qualley-interview-mum-andie-macdowell-hphvktcrq

Smizer, Emma C., and Dorian Thomas. “Inside the New SAG-AFTRA Interactive Media Agreement: New Standards for AI and Digital Replicas.” Technology Law Updates, Frankfurt Kurnit Klein & Selz, 29 Jan. 2026, technologylaw.fkks.com/post/102mewu/inside-the-new-sag-aftra-interactive-media-agreement-new-standards-for-ai-and-di.

Sur, Debadrita. “Shelley Duvall’s Awful Experience While Shooting The Shining.” Far Out Magazine, faroutmagazine.co.uk/shelley-duvall-experience-stanley-kubrick-the-shining/. Accessed 30 Jan. 2026.

Theroux, Louis, host. “Florence Pugh Discusses Intimacy Coordinators, Jumping Off Buildings and Getting Into Character.” The Louis Theroux Podcast, episode 6, season 6, Spotify / Apple Podcasts, 11 Nov. 2025, open.spotify.com/episode/7mJTxjbNUfgxnob76j8aMQ

Vary, Adam B. “Robert Eggers on Making The Northman.” The Hollywood Reporter, 20 Apr. 2022, www.hollywoodreporter.com/movies/movie-news/robert-eggers-making-the-northman-1235132414/

Widdows, Heather. “Is ‘The Substance’ Really a Feminist Film?” Psychology Today. 4 Mar. 2025, www.psychologytoday.com/us/blog/perfect-me/202502/is-the-substance-really-a-feminist-film

Zemler, Emily. “Demi Moore and the Women of The Substance Draw Blood.”Los Angeles Times, 3 Sept. 2024, www.latimes.com/entertainment-arts/movies/story/2024-09-03/demi-moore-margaret-qualley-director-coralie-fargeat-the-substance-interview-fall-preview

Trigger Warnings: mental illness, estranged relationships, OCD tendencies, alcohol misuse.

The door closes gently behind me,

blocking out all but the faintest blades of sunlight peeking through the side windows. I stand here in this corridor, waiting for the last vestiges of my panic attack to fade away. I need to take a few in / out deep breaths. There we go, there we go, grounded to the present.

I see brown wood flooring, a table to the right of me, a staircase down the hall, a wall lamp, and taupe walls. My head starts to clear up once again, and I’m able to better take in the sights around me. A brown wooden entrance table with a single starry ashtray. It didn’t look like it had been used for smoking however; rather to hold the keys and trinkets of the owner of the house. No keys.

I step into the florescent lit kitchen, looking at the peeling daffodil wallpaper, and realize quite suddenly that my familiarity was an oversight. I don’t know where I am.Whose house is this?

I see a single pan on the stovetop. But no hints of any recent food cooked here. Was I alone in here? I check the refrigerator, and there’s expired milk, bread that’s in its bag but green, wilted vegetables, moldy cheese. Almost as if someone had left this house months ago without a second thought. Just up and left.

I glance at the shades. There’s no sunlight peeking through the shades in here. That’s odd, but maybe I’m just facing the side away from the light.

At least this room is well-lit, a comforting warm yellow lit by the chandelier. Ornate, but about the only thing in here that provides any rich relief. No pictures of any families atop any furniture to give me an indication of the abandoned residents. No, there’s just a single framed print on the wall behind a box TV in the living room.

A small boat in the middle of the water. The seas aren’t rough, but there’s just gray clouds. Small rays, vestiges really, of light dance on one side of the boat. The person sits, untouched by the light, head on the crossed arms on their knees. They face away from me, I have no sense of their face.

Time to go. I head to the door at the front and open the door, expecting the crisp October air and the heat of the sunshine. But it’s just empty static coldness. I walk through, and there’s no porch. My mind’s perplexed, like a magic trick was done without me knowing.

I’m in a bedroom. I look behind me, and what was the front walkway is now what I’d assume to be an upper level hallway. I can even see the glimpse of the staircase heading below.

I feel the anxiety bubbling up in my chest again. A warm knife in my ribcage. How’d I get here?

The lights aren’t on in here. I can see with the glint of some white-blue light from the outside through the curtains illuminating the bed and a bit of the surrounding. There’s a suitcase in the middle here, open, touching the bed. It’s my green suitcase, the one I take on trips. I need this.

I almost touch the clothes inside, until I notice the movement on the bed under the sheets. It’s small, a faint rustle really. Oh crap. I pull the sheets off, nothing. Momentary relief. Okay, now we just have to check between the mattress and boxframe. I pull up the mattress, and jump back, startled.

I start to breathe a bit heavier. I pull it up again, taking care to keep my feet as far away as possible, and take in the bedbugs and other insects, maybe fifty crawling underneath.

Oh no. I pull my suitcase away, swiftly.

Why’d I open this — I never do that. I always check first. I always check first.

I’m breathing with exclamation and exasperation.

I hear the faint crawls, and it makes me shiver and I can feel the nausea. It might as well be a foghorn. I pick carefully through my clothes, examining carefully to see if there’s any bugs. Is it better, or even worth it, to put the clothes aside, and first examine the suitcase itself? If there’s bedbugs in the corner, this is all a futile point. They would’ve laid their eggs in there anyways. I dump the clothes out, and start examining the lining inside the suitcase. Frustrated that I can’t see clearly enough, I pull out my phone for the flashlight, but it won’t turn on. I look around the bedroom to see if there’s anything, there’s a shard of a mirror that I can maybe use, I pull the suitcase closer to the window, yes that’s right, I can use the shard to reflect the faint light. I start looking closer at the lining, nothing. I sightline along each edge. Nothing. Okay how about the bottom, itself, I start with one corner, feeling the texture. Okay. nothing. I almost start my excursion of examining each article of clothing. Start with the underwear. But I realize that I need to head out.

Yes, wait, why am I even doing this?

The noise fades, it’s all but silent now. My face is still dripping with sweat. I check in the zippers of the suitcase, and find a key with a flat leather strap keychain in a diamond shape. Textured with the numbers 173. Maybe this is the house key. Why do I have this in my suitcase? I put it in the pocket of my gray jeans. I check to see if there’s anything else of value or memory for me. Nothing. I used to put trinkets, shot glasses, even flyers and guidenotes from my trips in these suitcases as an intention to put in my journal and look back on. I remember the Viewpoint Gardens, an elegant map.

I’ve been gripping the mirror shard too strongly, there’s blood dripping from my right palm. Terrific. There’s a bathroom in front of me. I walk over turn on the light and step in.

The mirror is blurry, like it hasn’t been wiped down for ages. I can’t make out my face, but I can see glimpses of other parts of me. I can see my small hands and thin wrists. I can see the green jacket I was wearing, and on my shirt beneath, the creases of my overweight — the lights flicker and turn red. I try glancing from different angles, but no matter what, I can’t see my face. The mirror just blurs any which way I look. I go to wash my hands but there’s no blood on them. I must’ve imagined it.

I head through the bedroom, and into the hallway outside. An urge to close the door behind me, I oblige, sneaking one final look at the lone bed and the wind blowing through the curtains. Oh it was open this whole time was it? No matter, I close it. Time to head out. I start walking down the stairs, just one floor really, and find that the floors aren’t wooden anymore at the bottom, they’re granite.

At the steps near the bottom, I see an inscription. Who wrote this?

Awake dreamer to see [scratched out]

Steps of hell

Suffocating [scratched out] to get through

Out and about

[Scratched out] will cleanse.

Is this a dream? I rub my eyes. Pinch myself. Yell.

There’s nothing. I’m not waking up. Even if this is a dream, I’m still stuck.

I look back. There’s just a gray stone wall. No way back now.

…

Things are getting warmer. It’s like I’m near a furnace room. I even hear the quiet rumblings of a boiler. But it’s nowhere to be seen. As a matter of fact, I’ve been walking down an increasingly narrow set of granite stairs. It was yellow-illuminated at first, but now, it’s a dimly lit so that I can only see a few steps at any given moment. As to the source of the light itself, no, I have no idea. I suppose I really am heading closer to Hell itself.

And at the end of Hell… there’s always a Devil in waiting.

Funny, I never really thought there would be much of a Hell after death. I was quite hoping it would just be an eternal solitude. Like a sleep without a dream, fading out and then nothing. Is nothing a lot like darkness?

I keep walking down.

The heat is rising. I take off my jacket and sling it over my shoulder. I remember when I started, it was like everything was fuzzy, and I felt like I was in a daze. And now, it’s a lot clearer. The walls next to me don’t have a Lynchian haze, no dreamy filters, no vignettes to add cinematic flair … no it’s just a warm pocked wall.

Suddenly I stub my toe on a lip in the floor. In pain, I drop my jacket. I bend down to pick up my jacket, and then slam my head into a ceiling that’s just appeared near the height of my stomach when I was standing. I’m seeing stars, and I drop to my knees.

Crawling forward, I finally get to an opening with some air passing through, and I drop through.

An open room with a lamp is what I can see. Thank god.

I feel for a chain, don’t find it. I search at the base, and find a cord, my fingers travel until I find the switch. I turn it on and a light illuminates the rest of the room. It’s empty.

By this time, I’m sweating. Speaking of time, I know that I don’t have a watch on me, and I’m realizing the mental vertigo associated with that uncertainty. I’m not even clear on if it’s day or night; I haven’t seen a window in so long. If I had to guess, it would’ve been at least half a day since I left the bathroom?

I search along the walls for anything to indicate an exit. The walls are warm to the touch, but when I knock, there’s a dull thud — no sense of hollowness that would indicate another room. There’s nothing. And now I’m starting to panic.

I’m thirsty. I’m hot. I can’t figure out where I am. I don’t know why I’m here.

I hyperventilate and collapse. I lay there, curled up. The threat of the unknown — there’s no one here, feels like it’s pulling me underwater.

On the floor, I’m able to see right under the table with the lamp, a glint of a bottle. Hope permeates the instinctual tip of my mental iceberg, and I crawl and stumble to it, there’s duct tape holding it in place. I pull the bottle out and flick off the metal cap to take a sip and —

I spit out the alcohol.

A clear liquid, a cruel irony.

I sit with my back against the table, bottle still in hand. Jacket by my side.

There’s nothing to do now. Just sit. Thoughts pool in my mind.

…

“You’re drunk.” [static] says bitterly. I open my eyes but there’s no one around, just me in this bathroom.

I look at myself in the drab mirror and chuckle — I can feel the amusement that the drink gives me; a mirth looseness. I can hear the tunes of some house song beyond the door, and can hear the muffled laughter and low conversations of various people talking.

I look down, and my mind takes a second to catch up. Eyelashes, mascara, various color palettes and shades. A capped lipstick, a metal sheen. Moisturizer. And a hand soap bottle. This looks familiar. Or well, rather, this situation seems familiar. Someone else’s apartment, not mine, not hers. A stranger’s.

[Static] gone by this point. I look up I feel the warm alcohol tinged breath radiating from deep within me.

Static in my brain covering my thoughts, crawling and editing while I try to narrate my own thoughts.

Yeah, [static] be gone by this point. My fault. I said things that you can’t take back while drunk. Every sip, every glass, every red plastic cup, every word, every misstep, a step farther apart.

And then I said more things about us that other people remembered while I was drunk. The bottle’s in my hand. I take a sip and the pain starts to fade. That’s what people do, right? Drink and talk and comisserate.

This helps me connect, right? Fit in, be charming, dance, not a care in the world? I take another sip. That’s right. That’s right. When we drink, I’m connected. One shot of vodka, and now there’s an energy. I can feel the music, the beats, the rhythm coursing through my veins! Yes! That’s right! They listened with intent! They laughed from the bottom of their stomachs!

I laugh! I laugh so hard, that they can probably hear me now, right outside. They can hear me. No wait, it’s fading.

I don’t want to dig deeper. Don’t make me do it. Please no.

There’s no stopping it.

Why am I so [static]?

I drop the bottle, it shatters. I throw up in the sink.

I laugh until I feel the tears flowing down. Maybe I can remember that this isn’t real. “Maybe I can convince myself.” I say to the absence.

My head aches so badly, and I’m in the memory again. “I need to get back to my apartment.” I go to wash my face, but no water comes out of the faucet. I take the towel behind me and wipe my face instead. God knows how many others have used it tonight.

The music is playing something by Depeche Mode. 80s synth pop? The door and the people behind it mute a lot of the music I can hear a few words “He knows where he’s taking me.”

I open the door and walk through. That’s… odd. I can still hear the people talking, but there’s no one there. The disco ball lights being the only light source create a carousel of vibrant colors around me and shower my face. There’s black light posters on the walls, all psychedelic themed. As I take a step forward, it clicks. The music and the people’s sounds are like a track interplaying together. And there it is, a record player. I take the record out, the music and the voices stop, and I break the record in half.

A black light poster — an all seeing eye around a hodgepodge of mushrooms and pyramids — catches my eye. Circling around the eye “Awaken” in groovy bubbled letters.

I close my eyes and sigh.

…

I blink open and I’m back in the room with the lampshade. I must’ve fallen asleep. The bottle is still in my hand, still nearly to the brim where it was before. I set it to the side. I’m okay. I haven’t sipped it.

I get up, head hurting — probably from the dehydration — and a landline phone (that I could’ve sworn wasn’t there before) on the table rings.

I pick it up, hold the receiver to my ear.

“Hello?”

…

A female voice — the first one I’ve heard in forever — answers, in a very bureaucratic ready-to-clock-out “Open the vent to the right of you. Go through to move forward.”

“Okay.” I hear a click.

I look to my right, and see the vent. There’s screws on the side of the cover of it, at each corner. I don’t have a screwdriver. I try unscrewing it with my fingers, but there’s no real grip on the head of the screw.

I pause. Might as well. I punch it. Pain fills my head, white flashes my eyes, and red envelopes my hands. I’m exhausted. I just want this to be over.

I punch again. A dent. My fingers shake.

I punch it once more and my hand goes through, but I feel the crack a few of my fingers. My hand shakes, but I grip the sides and pull, pulling out the vent cover. I set the bloody vent cover aside.

I squeeze myself through, head first. There’s no telling how far this vent goes. There’s no other way. Not that I can tell. I start crawling.

Arms in front of my head. At first, I’m able to be on my knees, and then as the space constrains, I’m only able to army crawl.

Then I’m inching forward with my hands outstretched in front of me.

…

Things get hotter and tighter. The metal feels like it’s actually burning me now, sizzling my sweat, but I can’t push myself back. I can’t push myself forward. I scream.

I’m stuck. Tears roll up my forehead as I realize suddenly that my time is limited. I’m upside down here. As if reality is adjusting to my realization, I can now feel the gravity shift in my body. Still stuck.

I try to roll forward.

In my claustrophobia, I realize there’s only one thing I can do.

Take a breath out, suck in my stomach, and try to go as far as I possibly can before I pass out.

I take a deep breath, let it out, suck my stomach in and move forward. It immediately feels like the wrong choice, but there’s no way back.

I pull forward, and keep trying to move forward. The sides of my vision are starting to darken, and my entire torso is burning in pain.

I pull forward and there’s an opening but I can’t breathe.

The last bit of strength and my chest and my stomach fits through. I breathe in the musky, hot air here and momentary relief washes over me.

I realize I’m at the top of a very big furnace room now. To go through, there’s barely a grip, and my legs are behind me, so I’m probably going to fall.

Better down than up.

I fall and hit the steel grated floor. I feel my head slam, my lip cut, and my knees bang. I’m conscious. Apart from my broken fingers, I’m okay. I’m alive.

I look up, and see a symmetrical row of boilers. Each one with a fire burning that illuminates a path forward. The burning sounds like low rumbling and whining.

And there’s a shadowed figure at the end.

A monster. A demon. The last one to confront and escape this hell.

I try to slowly come to my feet. No resistance from my body to do so; the aches have become a chronic feeling. Or so I think, until I take a step and my knee screams. I stumble, and limp forward towards the figure.

It seems so large — the only hope I have is to try and catch this thing by surprise.

As I make my way across the long pathway, I notice that the figure doesn’t even move. The noise of the grated floor with each step is unpleasant, but I figure the sounds of the boilers probably mask my steps.

Is the person even facing me? Is the person even alive? Is it a mannequin?

It’s my desperate hope to find someone else alive here.

…

I’m about 10 feet away, when I see the figure move. Relief. They reveal the boiler behind them, they push a button, and it’s louder but the glassed light illuminates them and their face. She’s still looking at the boiler, but it’s unmistakable who it is.

It’s my mother.

It’s …

“Mama.” My voice is raspy. She turns quickly, as if the words surprise her.

I croak, “Were you the one on the phone earlier?” She gives me a stare. Unblinking.

What else to say. I drop to my knees, despite the complaints of my right leg.

“I’m so tired.” She says nothing.

I stare at her. Expecting something.

“It’s been so long.” The words flow like water. I haven’t rehearsed this but I know what to say, as if it’s a script I’ve long memorized. “So long since I’ve felt [static].”

I know what I want to say, but it’s like a radio dial turns when I try to get through it. I try again.

“I just don’t feel [static] anymore. I’ve made so many mistakes. Pushed away so many [static]. They’re all just strangers now.”

She stares, blankly. No reaction.

“I’m just so [static]. So [static]. Please say something.”

I’m still on my knees, my voice cracks. I want to go to her, go to her for some comfort, but I can’t move. I’m too tired. My eyes barely water.

“I’m sorry mom! I’m so sorry. I’m sorry for not being there. I know I should’ve been [static] when you and dad [static].”

She turns away.

“Please mama please, I need you. I’m sorry.”

It’s all wrong. She’s heading away and it’ll pass and I’ll be stuck. I know it.

“I can’t be loved, can I?”

She looks back and starts to open her mouth. It would be the first living sound I would’ve heard in I can’t remember how long at this point.

Please. Please say anything.

She turns away more swiftly this time, heads to the white cracked splintering door that was illuminated. Every footstep she takes, it becomes more dilapidated. Crumbles beneath her feet. The metal grates rust.

“Please don’t go.” I don’t have the strength to follow her, but the truth is obvious — it’s not her at all. And I’m just desperate.

She opens the door, the darkness welcomes her, the color of ink envelopes her. She steps through and I can’t see where she’s headed, and her left foot is the last thing I see, before the door starts creaking closed.

I crawl along the rusted grated floor and I make myself stand up when I’m at the door. I feel brass characters on the door — it’s 173.

It’s locked. There’s a keyhole.

Momentary confusion, then as if automatically, I reach into my pocket and grip the key.

I know the other side won’t have her. There’s no comfort to be had.

I put the key into the keyhole and turn. It unlocks with no resistance and stays stuck in. There’s only one way to go.

It’s okay. It’s okay. Whatever it is, I’ll have to tolerate it.

…

I open the door and it’s dark save for a dim rectangular outline of white light in the middle of the room. My eyes adjust, and I see that it’s a dimunitive chair in front of a light source. It rocks forward and backward. It’s freezing in here.

I don’t know why, but the pit in my stomach grows. Actually I do know why, but I don’t want to say it.

It’s me. As an old person.

He’s gaunt. In front of a TV box. Like one of the ones from the 90s. It’s just showing static.

I always wondered how the wrinkles would affect my face. Last I remember, I saw faint lines on my forehead. Here, the lines cover my face like roads on a map. His eyes register mine, I notice they’re bloodshot. He recognizes me too, but there’s no ill will in his eyes. Just sadness.

He shivers. “I’m cold.” he says. I realize the voice that I thought was a woman previously was just my own, a bit higher pitch than what I thought my voice sounded like. He sounds … weak. Pathetic. Pitiful.

I feel sorry for him.

“Can you please get me a blanket?” his voice is raspy. I’m in pain, but I see a blanket nearby, more of a thick sheet, really than anything, but I figure it’s better than nothing.

I lay out the blanket on his frail body. His knees bend the same way, and despite the small chair, he looks even smaller. A protective instinct within me whispers I want to take care of him.

He’s not shivering anymore.

“Can you get me a glass of water please?” he says.

“Where?” I say.

“Just over there.” He points to the corner of the studio apartment I’m in. I limp over to the water jug on the kitchen table, and pour some water in a mug to the side of it. I’m thirsty too, but I feel a sense of urgency. I walk it over to him.

He takes a few sips in silence. Sets the mug down on the table next to the gray sofa he’s sitting on.

“It’s so dark in here.” he whispers.

“Where’s the light switch?” I ask.

“They turned the power off a while ago.” he says. “But open the curtains there.”

I feel sympathy.

I see the navy blue blackout curtains he’s talking about. I hesitate. I open it, and gray light from the outside comes through. Washes over me. Seeing the lawn, a lawn, I can’t express what that feels like.

“It’s okay you know.” his voice, a little louder, projecting a little more, says behind me.

“What is?” I say back, still looking outside. I see the road and a blue car passes by.

“All of it. It’ll pass. The good. The bad too, like everything else. And it’s okay.” he replies.

I turn. The living room is lit, the LED TV is playing some cartoon, and me, older me, looks a lot healthier. Ten years younger than he did when I entered the room.

“Do you want to stay here?” I ask.

“I’ll be heading out soon. Don’t worry about me.”

“Wait. What does this mean?”

He goes to say something, and then pauses. “Why don’t you take a shower first? We can talk after.”

…

He leads me to the bathroom, inside, a sparse but clean bathroom, a polka dotted shower curtain, and a neatly folded towel and change of clothes await. I look at myself in the mirror. Dirty, bloody. But alive. I’ve survived. For now.

“Take your time.” he says and smiles. Closes the door behind me.

Achingly, I strip and step into the shower. I hesitatingly turn the handle for the shower, expecting muddy water, but clear water passes through. I taste it, it’s not vodka. thankfully. Warm water streams down my head, my body, my legs, taking the dirt, the muck, the filth, and some of the pain with it. I clean myself. The exhaustion is still there, but this is still a relief. My cut lip is just swollen now. I drink the water with my hands.

I step out of the shower, pat myself dry with the clean towel, and put on the warm clothes. I look at myself in the mirror. Dark circles under my eyes still persist, so do the cuts and scratches. But the anxiety is less. And I feel cleaner.

I open the door, step outside. Into the outside.

The sunlight washes over me. I’m out of the house.

I step down the steps, walk past the lawn, take a right on the sidewalk. I walk briskly, hands in my pockets. I’m going home. I need to take care of myself now.

I glance back once more. I’m surprised. And then I keep moving forward.

— — — — —

Inspirations: House of Leaves (book), Jacob’s Ladder (film), Perfect Blue (film), Silent Hill 2 (video game), Alan Wake (video game)

— — — — —

Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed, please consider subscribing to my Substack (https://substack.com/@midnightbrook) for more horror short stories and analysis!

TW: mental health, anxieties, candid discussion of death and what comes before

This might be updated with more stuff as I find out more, either through life experiences or readings.

—

I’m terrified of death. The pit in my stomach, the sinking in my chest, the headaches, the tears, the countless hours in fetal position worrying about when, how, and where it may occur, who I might be around. I spent a whole therapy session last month teary-eyed and exhausted.

For context — I have some anxiety, overthinking, and worst-case scenario mindset that I’ve been working on through therapy sessions and journaling that have been helpful. Statistics are typically my friend in most of these cases when I research, especially in my mid-twenties. Still, every year that passes, new aches in places in my body I hadn’t known the years prior, news talking about some new disease, and life (more on this later), can sometimes leave me weary.

Is this you as well? Some podcasts that I’ve listened to — namely one with Matt Damon and Dax Shephard talking about fear of airplanes when they were my age, another with Taylor Tomlinson and Pete Holmes discussing the prospect of the fear of the unknown of the “after” — these all help to let me know that I’m know that I’m not alone.

I heard someone say recently that it’s not that they have a fear of heights, it’s the fear of dying by falling from a height that consumes them when they go onto a rooftop, and that got me to thinking, well, maybe I should dig under the surface here too.

So let’s break up my fear of death. Instead of the oversimplified catch-all of death, I’ll break it up into the three parts that I’ve had to deal with:

1. I fear an extended pain leading up to death
2. I fear what I’ll leave behind when I die
3. I fear what will happen afterwards

—

I fear an extended pain leading up to my death.

This is one I still deal with. Imagining the days and months and years that folks spend in pain leading up to the end is hard to deal with.

I’ve had family members that have battled with Alzheimer’s and dementia. I’m comforted in knowing that it’s a down the line future problem I may possibly have to deal with and not a present / near future one.

But more than that, I’m terrified of living in agony.

I remember a few months ago, I had a bat that got in my apartment in the afternoon that I let out. And two weeks passed by until I read on Reddit about bats being potential carriers of rabies — and that it’d be entirely possible that I wouldn’t be aware of a bite. I got my vaccinations and assurances from doctors and other medical professionals over the course of the next few weeks. But still…

Just in case you’re unaware — once a person shows clinical symptoms of rabies (i.e. when it’s not incubating up the nerve fibers in your body), it’s irreversible. There is no cure to this age old disease, only palliative management of some of the symptoms, and a vaccine that isn’t even provided to most folks in the U.S. as a precaution. As you might imagine, this is still a furious subject for me, but it pales in comparison to the nightmares that I’ve had of the symptoms.

In any case, the days leading up to the eventual inevitable death are grueling, torturous, and mentally debilitating. Unless you live in an area that would assist your suicide, which in most areas of the U.S., you don’t, you’re alive through the agony. I’m terrified, I’m petrified of this.

And yet, even besides rabies — so many individuals faced this circumstance with COVID-19 during the pandemic — on ventilators in the hospital — potentially unconscious and sick — but before that, suffering through the illnesses that made their throats and lungs feel like broken glass.

And what strikes me is just the thought that there is no takeaway, no lesson to be learned, no strength to emerge through the battle. There is simply the pain before the end. What a contrast to the normal “what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger,” aggressive optimism that is inherent in our contemporary society. Some things don’t make you stronger. All you can do is accept.

But I think part of my frustration has come through the fact that so many that I talked to have no concept of accepting — just minimizing or dismissing. When I bring up my anxieties, it’s considered at best boring, and at worst, a downer-topic. I feel like advice I’m provided is to manifest the “best case.”

“Suppose the branch were to fall on us, as we walked under the tree,” Piglet laments.

“Supposing it doesn’t.” Pooh replies.

But I’m unable to do that all the time.

I fear what I’ll leave behind in the wake of my death.

It’s not the mistakes that haunt me as much as the thought that I feel like I haven’t done anything or enough.

Sure I work and spend time with my friends and hobbies. On occasion I volunteer and vote.

But where has my craft led to lives saved? Where have I changed the way people think?

What the fuck is the point of my existence?

I’m responsible for myself — but that’s it. It occurs to me that I’m not supporting a family — as my parents did. I’m not supporting the education of kids.

All my life, I’ve lived for myself — but even that has been half baked. So much of my life, spent in a daze of the virtual illusions.

You see, I fear not leaving behind anything of substance. I know I won’t care when I’m not alive. I physically can’t reflect when I’m dead. But I care — I think now, and I am now.

I fear what will happen afterwards.

I have an atheistic perspective most of the time, so I imagine darkness … no rather, “just nothing.” An end to my consciousness, which I think is simply a construct of my senses + thoughts + experiences / a faulty memory database.

A nice long rest doesn’t seem too bad to me anymore.

I’m wistful that I won’t get to witness so many beautiful innovations, art, and the changing universe … and I likely won’t live long enough to see aliens and perhaps a civilization that’s cured major illnesses and has to deal with the ramifications of a society that has extended life past >100 years as the average (more on this in another article).

But, at the same time, there’s so many beautiful things I haven’t been able to witness before my birth… and I don’t feel as bad about them. And where there’s light, there’s darkness and hardship. I imagine that the new peaks of the future have even deeper and darker valleys.

*Sometimes, I like to imagine a more spiritual scenario, where the last beats of my mind construct a projection of paradise and time slows down and I live infinities within infinities in this place, as time becomes meaningless to me. But I figure that’s a pipe dream.

—

There were days where I’d lie in my bed, exhausted and afraid. The irony that I’d whittle away what remaining time I’ve had was not lost on me — and yet, in my bed I remained, not paralyzed but unmoving until the pain and anxieties subsided.

You know what’s helped me thus far with reconciling these fears?

Therapy. My therapist is not part of those that have made me feel minimized — and I truly am grateful.

But also surprisingly, when my fears were being minimized, while frustrating (as I mentioned earlier), were also helpful indicators that I wasn’t exactly seeing the world objectively. Statistics were also helpful.

Reading, exercising (to the point that I don’t think of anything else), videogames, a good discussion with people. Losing yourself in a world that is independent from the fears and anxieties of your own is remarkable.

Taoism has been helpful to stop comparing myself to external individuals so much. Self-acceptance, while a journey of its own, is likely part of acceptance of death?

I guess reflecting that I have new perspectives (even though they’re associated with the same fears). I don’t fear losing my job as much. I don’t fear having to restart as much. I don’t fear trying new adventures (even if I still feel anxious) as much. The meaning of being in my twenties means a lot more. Let me dive in a new place. Let me jump out of a new plane. Let me fall on the ground. Just as long as I can pick myself back up.

But sincerely, I’m looking forward to not being as scared anymore.

Space horror themed short story

I was born Cusari, in 2087. Those words may seem plain to you perhaps, but I’ve been saying it over and over again in my head.

I was born Cusari, in 2087. I was born, Cusari, in 2087. I was, born Cusari in 2087.

It sounds right. It sounds like it must be true. But every time I say it, there’s a hint of doubt in the back of my mind. Like maybe it’s the last time that I’ll say it and have the confidence that it’s actually my name and my birth year.

It was terrifying, waking in the silence, the darkness, of this place. It felt foreign, treacherous, and dangerous even when I awoke two hours ago and realized that I couldn’t remember.

The challenge with memory is that your identity — your experience that makes up most of what you consider *your* life — is made up of memories and your perceptions of those memories.

I could be someone’s partner, day after day after day. Share my thoughts with them, my passions and my fears. I could see them and let them see me. And then one day, something happens. And just like that, the surface of our relationship, tainted like oil on water. Try as I might, the memories would be seen only through the shade of the pain that ended the relationship. And it masks it, defines what the relationship would be remembered as. Maybe a deep blue with resentment. Maybe green with disconnection. Maybe red with rage.

I could see those colors in the back of my mind, very many of them, swirling in a soup.

And so, when you don’t have memories, or rather more accurately, you have an unknown measure of skills + knowledge of who you might’ve been along + a mind grasping at straws that may be genuine connections (or perhaps) not… paranoia sets in.

And the validity of that paranoia is only emphasized by the surrounding.

I could hear again, and see around me a bit more clearly.

Black tar oozing from the walls. Coils of some alloy haphazardly interconnected in unfriendly industrial methods. And the creaks and hisses and sizzles and scratches. Pipes (I hoped) groaned in the distance.

I wasn’t sure if it was mechanical or biological or both. And I didn’t know whether I was here in isolation and whether I should venture out.

Where would I even begin? I thought to myself. I looked back at the pod I was in. HYB-2510. And then “Cusari” hit my head. I was born Cusari, in 2087.

—

Part of the challenge that I’m realizing with this (hopefully) temporary memory loss, is I don’t even know what I’m supposed to remember.

Will there be connections that won’t be made, or corrupted upon revisiting?

I wouldn’t even know if I was missing something important. Is the lack of information analogous to a lack of truth? If you don’t have the right data points, the inference is thrown off.

A while later, it would remind me of those propaganda videos of Vale corp, the ones in the 2050s, the ones . I mean, warring corps did it all the time back then.

Around the years that Vale corp invaded the territory of AMG and the border skirmish and fight for natural resources, they went to a cyber war. Understand that neither of these territories were beautiful — the plans for a pristine crystalized sky haven were always “ten-year” plans away. Bureaucracy inevitably spills in when any org is big enough. And the war, that was always now.

The cyber war tactics were disparately documented prior to 2030s, but the real deal required surgical precision — the few times that government-led nations had tried to implement it prior, they were unsuccessful due to conflicting allegiances and brain drain.

But Vale corp, despite being objectively smaller than AMG, invested in cyber warfare over traditional military, although they did contract with an external mercenary firm.

The two pronged approach was 1. In-corp propaganda and 2. Opposition targeted propaganda.

In-corp was anything but simple in execution, but quite boring in theory — you limit what your team-members view, the information they intake, to control their beliefs. The trick is to not let them perceive it — there was this classic film from the early 2010s of cinema, called Inception — which founded the principle.

Opposition-targeted (Optar) was more fun, although the base was the same as In-Corp. Control the info, manage the conscious perception of control.

You control the narrative of your enemy’s people — sow distrust, cynicism and purposelessness, polarized targeted content, and most of all, the idea that this wasn’t going to end, no matter what.

The anti-hope. This too, shall not pass. Over the next hurdle, there’s another challenge, another bitter battle to fight, and it will sap your spirit even more. Because this time, they’ve learned a bit more about you, your personality, your psychology, and your fears.

They’ll use that to isolate you even more. The greatest fear known to humans is loneliness.

They made the team-members and all their families wonder what they were fighting for. It was all tied to creating a story off of a subset of facts, and feeding it to their in-group — to drive tribal, aggressive, and myopic mindset.

So where do you start? You start by splitting your target in half. Then you take that half, and you split it again, and then again, and again and again. Extremely slowly — like the mythical python. And you confuse them with the language of the “intelligentsia.”

And then the violence.

Over the course of five years, AMG tore itself apart. Vale Corp didn’t have to take many physical actions. The billboards of ten-year plans were smoked by the fires of the super-cities. Former responsive neighbors, became war criminals in how they treated each other. And the youth… they ceased to exist.

The territories of AMG would never have the pristine crystal sky havens again. For that matter, neither would the rest of Earth, not for long.
 — 
I awoke, even though I thought I was awake. Once again the daze. I realized I was lost in a trail of thought.

In the distance, I could hear a metallic droning. I hadn’t heard it before.