Shadows in the Fog: Tracing the Trauma of the Tyrones in a Modern World

This blog is assigned by Ms. Megha Trivedi on a comprehensive analysis of Eugene O'Neill's 'Long Day's Journey into Night' with contemporary lenses. 

I. Introduction: The Haunted House of American Drama

To understand the fractured soul of the American family, one must eventually knock on the door of the Monte Cristo Cottage in New London, Connecticut. It is here, in the fictionalized living room of James Tyrone, that Eugene O'Neill staged his magnum opus, Long Day’s Journey into Night. This is not merely a play; it is an exorcism. Written in 1941, deep in the twilight of O'Neill's life, the manuscript was so painful that he locked it in a vault, demanding it remain unpublished until twenty-five years after his death. He could not bear for the world to see the naked, trembling ghosts of his parents and brother while his generation still walked the earth.

When it was finally released in 1956, three years after his death, it shattered the theatrical world, earning O'Neill a posthumous Pulitzer Prize and redefining the genre of tragedy. Unlike the tragedies of ancient Greece, which dealt with fallen kings and angry gods, O'Neill’s tragedy dealt with something far more terrifying: the breakfast table. It explored the slow, grinding attrition of a family that loves each other too much to leave, but hurts each other too deeply to heal.

The Unity of Time and The Fog

The play adheres violently to the Aristotelian unity of time. The entire narrative arc is compressed into a single day—August 1912—beginning at 8:30 AM in the bright, deceptive sunshine of morning and spiraling inexorably into the dark, whiskey-soaked abyss of midnight. This structure is crucial. It creates a pressure-cooker environment where there is no escape. The characters cannot leave the stage; they cannot leave the house; they cannot leave their past.

Surrounding this house is the play’s most vital character: the Fog. Throughout the day, the fog rolls in from the harbor, thickening as the hours pass. For Mary Tyrone, the morphine-addicted matriarch, the fog is a comfort—a "white curtain" that hides her from the judging eyes of the world and allows her to regress into her girlhood dreams. For the men—James, Jamie, and Edmund—the fog is a blinding, suffocating force that traps them in their own failure. It symbolizes the family’s inability to see the truth, or perhaps, their refusal to acknowledge the reality standing right in front of them.

The Dramatis Personae: A Quartet of Doom

The Tyrone family is a masterpiece of psychological complexity, each representing a different facet of human suffering:

• James Tyrone: The patriarch, a matinee idol who sold his soul for commercial success. He is haunted by the specter of the "poorhouse," a trauma from his impoverished Irish childhood that has turned him into a miser. He possesses the land, the money, and the house, but he cannot buy peace.
• Mary Tyrone: The emotional center of the play. A woman who lost her faith and her way, drifting into the numbness of morphine to escape the guilt of a dead child (Eugene) and the loneliness of a life spent in cheap hotels. She is a ghost haunting her own life.
• Jamie Tyrone: The elder son, a cynical reflection of his father. At 33, he is a wasted talent, masking his self-loathing with alcohol and brothels. He loves his younger brother, yet subconsciously wants to destroy him to validate his own failure.
• Edmund Tyrone: The younger son and O'Neill’s stand-in. A poet and dreamer who is diagnosed with tuberculosis (consumption) during the play. He is the mirror that forces the family to look at itself.

II. Analytical Response to Core Questions

Q1) Communication Gaps: The Noise of Silence

How are communication gaps within the Tyrone family similar to or different from those in a modern family shown in a film, web series, TV serial, or real-life situation? Explain with examples.

In Long Day’s Journey into Night, the tragedy is not that the family members do not speak to each other; it is that they speak incessantly without ever truly communicating. This dynamic is best described by the psychological concept of the "Double Bind"—a situation where a person receives contradictory messages, ensuring that no matter how they respond, they are wrong.

The Tyrone Dynamic: Denial and Deflection

The communication gap in the Tyrone household is maintained through a complex system of denial. The "gap" is the vast, unspoken space occupied by Mary’s addiction and Edmund’s illness. The family dances around these topics with exhausting verbal agility.

Consider the breakfast scene. The men watch Mary with hawk-like intensity, looking for signs of withdrawal or relapse. When Mary asks why they are staring, they immediately deflect: "We aren't staring! You look beautiful! You've gained weight!" They use language to mask reality, gaslighting Mary into believing everything is fine, while simultaneously signaling their distrust. This creates a "High-Context" communication failure, where every sentence is loaded with thirty years of unspoken resentment. When they do break the silence, it is usually to blame. James blames Mary’s addiction on her weak will; Mary blames her addiction on James’s cheapness. They communicate to wound, not to heal.

Modern Comparison: Kapoor & Sons (Film) and Succession (Series)

To understand this in a contemporary framework, we can examine the dysfunctional dynamics in the film Kapoor & Sons (2016) and the HBO series Succession. These narratives mirror the Tyrones' struggle but filter it through the lens of modern modernity.

Similarity: The "Open Secret" and The Dinner Table Battlefield
In Kapoor & Sons, the Kapoor family operates on the exact same frequency of "open secrets" as the Tyrones. Just as the Tyrones pretend Mary is not going upstairs to shoot morphine, the Kapoors pretend that the parents’ marriage is stable and that the elder son, Rahul, is the perfect child. In both narratives, the "communication gap" is a structural necessity; if they were to speak the truth, the family unit would dissolve.

Both works utilize the dining table as the arena of conflict. In O'Neill’s play, the lunch scene is excruciating because of the silence and the clinking of cutlery against the backdrop of suspicion. In Kapoor & Sons, the climactic dinner scene explodes when the plumbing leaks—a metaphor for the secrets they can no longer contain. The similarity lies in the "Performance of Family": both the Tyrones and the Kapoors are performing the role of a happy family for themselves, terrified of what will happen when the curtain falls.

Difference: Strategic vs. Reactive Silence
However, a key difference emerges when we look at a show like Succession. In the Tyrone family, the communication breakdown is emotional and reactive; they hurt each other because they are in pain. Jamie attacks Edmund ("I wanted you to fail") and immediately recoils in shame. In a modern corporate-family narrative like Succession, communication gaps are weaponized strategically. The Roys withhold information to gain power, whereas the Tyrones withhold information to preserve a delusion.

The Technological Chasm
Furthermore, modern real-life scenarios introduce a variable O'Neill never contended with: Technology. The Tyrones are physically trapped in a single room, forcing them to confront the "gap." In a modern family, a member uncomfortable with a mother’s addiction or a father’s anger would retreat into a smartphone. The "gap" today is often filled with digital noise—scrolling, texting, streaming—creating a "Low-Context" environment where family members are physically present but emotionally entirely elsewhere. The Tyrones drowned their silence in whiskey; modern families drown theirs in Wi-Fi.

Q2) Addiction and Emotional Neglect

Addiction and emotional neglect play a major role in the Tyrone family. How are these issues represented in a modern family narrative, and what changes (if any) do you notice in society’s response to them?

Eugene O'Neill was decades ahead of his time in his depiction of addiction. While the society of 1912 viewed addiction as a moral failing—a lack of character or willpower—O'Neill portrayed it as a disease of the soul, inextricably linked to emotional neglect and trauma.

The Cycle of Enabling in the Tyrone Household

In the play, the addiction is not merely Mary’s problem; it is the family’s ecosystem. The Tyrone men are classic "enablers." James provides the money that buys the morphine. Jamie and Edmund pretend not to notice Mary’s erratic behavior because they are terrified of the confrontation. This creates a "Codependent" loop. Mary uses drugs to escape the loneliness caused by James’s constant traveling and stinginess; James drinks to escape the guilt of causing Mary’s addiction; the sons drink to escape the misery of the house.

The root cause, however, is emotional neglect. Mary constantly laments her "lost home." She has never had a proper home because James, driven by his fear of poverty, dragged the family through cheap hotels and dressing rooms. This rootlessness left Mary isolated, and when she suffered the trauma of a difficult birth (Edmund) and the death of a child (Eugene), she was given morphine instead of love or therapy. The "cure" became the curse.

Modern Representation: Beautiful Boy and Euphoria

When we compare this to modern narratives like the film Beautiful Boy (2018) or the series Euphoria, we see a distinct shift in how society frames the addict, yet a heartbreaking similarity in how the family suffers.

From Sin to Sickness: The Societal Shift
In Long Day’s Journey into Night, James Tyrone screams at Mary, "If you had any willpower!" He views her addiction as a sin to be hidden from the neighbors. This was the "Moral Model" of addiction. In contrast, Beautiful Boy depicts the "Medical Model." The father, David Sheff, does not hide his son’s crystal meth addiction; he actively seeks brain scans, reads scientific literature, and sends him to top-tier rehabilitation centers. Society has shifted from shaming the addict to trying to "hack" the cure.

The Persistence of Helplessness
Despite this shift in knowledge, the emotional landscape remains identical. The scene in Beautiful Boy where the father sits in a diner, realizing he cannot save his son despite all his money and love, mirrors the scene where James Tyrone sits drinking in the dark, realizing his wealth cannot cure Mary. The tragedy of the "Relapse" is timeless. Whether it is Mary descending the stairs with her wedding gown or a modern teenager relapsing after rehab, the devastation to the family trust is the same.

The New Neglect
Furthermore, modern narratives highlight a new form of emotional neglect. In O'Neill’s time, neglect was born of necessity and poverty trauma. In modern shows like Euphoria, neglect is often depicted as a byproduct of hyper-capitalism and narcissism. Parents are physically present but psychologically absent, pursuing careers or their own lives, leaving children to find solace in substances. The "Spare Room" where Mary shoots morphine has been replaced by the "Locked Bedroom" of the modern teenager, but the isolation is exactly the same.

Q3) Generational Conflicts: The Depression Mentality vs. Modern Nihilism

Examine generational conflicts in the Tyrone family and compare it with parent–child conflict in a contemporary family.

The war between James Tyrone and his sons is a clash of civilizations. It is the friction between a generation that built the world from nothing and a generation that finds that world uninhabitable.

The Tyrone Conflict: Scarcity vs. Privilege

James Tyrone is the embodiment of the Immigrant Dream. Abandoned by his father at age 10, he worked in a machine shop to survive. This trauma rewired his brain: he equates money with survival. Even though he is now wealthy, he cannot stop "economizing." He unscrews lightbulbs to save pennies, buys second-hand cars, and most tragically, hired a cheap "quack" doctor to treat Mary, which led to her addiction.

Jamie and Edmund, conversely, represent the "Lost Generation." They have grown up with the privilege James provided, yet they despise him for it. They view his thriftiness not as a survival mechanism, but as tyranny. James looks at Edmund and sees a lazy ingrate who "doesn't know the value of a dollar." Edmund looks at James and sees a man who values dollars more than human life. It is the clash between Trauma-Informed Pragmatism and Intellectual Idealism.

Contemporary Comparison: Boomers vs. Gen Z/Millennials

This dynamic is startlingly relevant to the "Ok Boomer" conflicts of the 2020s. The arguments in the Tyrone living room could easily be transposed to a modern Thanksgiving dinner.

Economic Trauma vs. Economic Anxiety
James Tyrone represents the modern "Boomer" figure who worked hard, bought property cheaply, and cannot understand why the younger generation struggles. When James yells about the electric bill, it parallels modern arguments about "avocado toast" or "lattes." The older generation views financial struggle as a lack of discipline.

Edmund, facing a fatal diagnosis of tuberculosis, represents the modern youth facing climate change or economic instability. Edmund’s nihilism—his reading of Nietzsche and Schopenhauer—is a defense mechanism against a world that feels doomed. This mirrors the "Doom Spending" or "Quiet Quitting" of modern generations who feel the traditional path (Work Hard = Success) is broken. Edmund isn't lazy; he is disillusioned.

Intergenerational Trauma
The most profound insight, however, is the concept of Intergenerational Trauma. We now understand that James behaves this way because he was traumatized as a child. His "stinginess" is a scar. In the play, the sons only see the villain. In a modern family, equipped with the language of therapy and psychology, there is a better chance of understanding. A modern Edmund might realize, "Dad isn't cheap because he hates me; he is cheap because he is terrified of being poor again." O'Neill grants the audience this insight, but tragically, the characters only find it when they are too drunk to act on it.

III. Conclusion: The Long Journey Home

Long Day’s Journey into Night is not merely a play about a dysfunctional family in 1912; it is a mirror reflecting the eternal struggle of the human condition. It suggests that the family is the first country we ever inhabit, and for many of us, it is a war zone.

Through the lens of Communication Gaps, we see that the Tyrones' "mutual accusations" and avoidance create a fog that no amount of talking can clear. They teach us that silence is dangerous, but the wrong words can be deadly. The comparison with Kapoor & Sons reveals that even in modern times, families still hide behind "open secrets" to maintain a facade of normalcy, only to have the truth burst forth when the pressure becomes unbearable.

In examining Addiction and Neglect, we find that while society has shifted from a moral model to a medical one, the "emotional trauma" of loving an addict remains unchanged. The Tyrones' inability to confront their "diseased body" mirrors the struggles of countless modern families who find themselves helpless against the tide of opioids or mental illness.

Finally, the Generational Conflict highlights the timeless war between a parent's trauma and a child's confusion. James Tyrone’s stinginess is not just greed; it is a scar from the past. By viewing this through the modern lens of "intergenerational trauma," we can see the Tyrones not as villains, but as victims of their own history.

O'Neill leaves us with no easy answers. The play ends in silence, with Mary lost in her drug-induced past, clutching her wedding dress—a symbol of the innocence that can never be recovered. But in analyzing their pain, we perhaps learn how to better navigate our own. We learn that to survive the "fog," we must do what the Tyrones could not: we must forgive the past, and we must learn to speak the truth before the night sets in.

References 

Bloom, Harold, ed. Eugene O'Neill's Long Day's Journey into Night. Infobase Publishing, 2009.

Bogard, Travis. Contour in Time: The Plays of Eugene O'Neill. Oxford University Press, 1988.

Carpenter, Frederic I. Eugene O'Neill. Twayne Publishers, 1979.

Manheim, Michael. The Cambridge Companion to Eugene O'Neill. Cambridge University Press, 1998.

Sheaffer, Louis. O'Neill: Son and Artist. Little, Brown and Company, 1973.

Berlin, Normand. "The Tyrones' Long Journey." Modern Drama, vol. 39, no. 3, 1996.

Eisen, Kurt. The Inner Strength of Opposites. University of Georgia Press, 1994.

Mate, Gabor. In the Realm of Hungry Ghosts: Close Encounters with Addiction. North Atlantic Books, 2010.

Wolynn, Mark. It Didn't Start with You: How Inherited Family Trauma Shapes Who We Are and How to End the Cycle. Viking, 2016.

O'Neill, Eugene. Long Day's Journey into Night. Yale University Press, 2002.

Gelb, Arthur. O'Neill: Life with Monte Cristo. Applause Books, 2000.

Batra, Shakun (Director). Kapoor & Sons. Dharma Productions, 2016.

Turkle, Sherry. Alone Together: Why We Expect More from Technology and Less from Each Other. Basic Books, 2011.

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The Eternal Present: Deconstructing Time, Gender, and Truth in Virginia Woolf’s Orlando

This blog is assigned by Ms. Prakruti Bhatt on Virginia Woolf’s modernist novel ‘Orlando: A Biography’.

Introduction

In 1928, Virginia Woolf published a book that she described in her diary as a "writer's holiday"—a frolic, a joke, a diversion from her more serious work. That book was Orlando: A Biography. Yet, nearly a century later, this "joke" stands as one of the most profound explorations of human identity in the English canon.

Dedicated to her lover, the aristocratic poet Vita Sackville-West, the novel traces the life of a young Elizabethan nobleman who lives for over three hundred years, mysteriously changing sex from male to female halfway through, yet barely aging a day. To treat Orlando merely as a fantasy is to miss its point. It is a razor-sharp critique of the conventions of biography, a modernist experiment in the "Stream of Consciousness," and a radical sociological argument that gender is a performance rather than a biological prison.

In this blog post, we will explore these core questions. We will dissect Woolf’s manipulation of narrative time, unpack the revolutionary concept of "The New Biography," and analyze her startling thesis that the differences between men and women are products of social practice, not nature.

1. The River of the Mind: "Stream of Consciousness" in Orlando

To understand how Woolf constructs Orlando, one must first grapple with the primary tool in her modernist kit: Stream of Consciousness.

Defining the Technique

Stream of Consciousness is a narrative device that attempts to capture the multitudinous thoughts and feelings which pass through the mind. Unlike traditional Victorian realism, which focuses on external actions (what a character does, says, or sees), stream of consciousness dives into the internal. It mimics the non-linear, chaotic flow of the human mind.

"Time" in the Mind vs. "Time" on the Clock

Woolf employs stream of consciousness in Orlando specifically to challenge our understanding of time. The novel proposes that humans exist in two simultaneous time zones:

• Clock Time: The external, linear progression of seconds, minutes, and years.
• Mind Time: The internal, fluid experience of existence where a single moment can feel like an eternity.

"An hour, once it lodges in the queer element of the human spirit, may be stretched to fifty or a hundred times its clock length; on the other hand, an hour may be accurately represented on the timepiece of the mind by one second."

2. Granite and Rainbow: The Context of "The New Biography"

To fully appreciate the satire in Orlando, we must understand the literary movement it was born from and simultaneously critiqued: The New Biography.

Woolf’s Revolution

In her 1927 essay titled "The New Biography," Woolf argued for a different approach. She famously wrote that a biographer’s task is to fuse two opposing elements: the Granite of truth (facts) and the Rainbow of personality (soul). Orlando is the ultimate execution of this theory.

Feature	Traditional Biography	Orlando / The New Biography
Subject	Great Men, Politicians, Military Leaders.	A fluid, poetic individual (based on Vita Sackville-West).
Focus	External actions, dates, and public achievements.	Internal thoughts, "The Oak Tree" poem, love affairs.
Tone	Serious, moralizing, objective.	Playful, satirical, subjective.
Structure	Linear (Birth to Death).	Cyclical and Spiraling (300 years of "Life").
Truth	"Granite" – Fact-based accuracy.	"Rainbow" – Emotional and artistic truth.

The narrator frequently complains that when Orlando is thinking or writing, "there is nothing for the biographer to say." This is Woolf’s joke: the most important parts of life (thinking, creating, loving) are the parts that traditional history leaves out.

3. Clothes Change, The Self Remains: Gender in Orlando

The most famous plot point of the novel is Orlando’s transformation. In Constantinople, during his time as an Ambassador, Orlando falls into a trance. When he wakes, he is a woman.

"He stretched himself. He rose. He stood upright in complete nakedness before us, and while the trumpets pealed Truth! Truth! Truth! we have no choice left but confess—he was a woman."

This section addresses the assignment question: How do men and women experience the world differently, and is this biology or social practice?

The Thesis: "Different Sex, Same Person"

Woolf is explicit about her stance. The change in sex changes nothing about Orlando’s internal identity. She writes:

"The change of sex, though it altered their future, did nothing whatever to alter their identity... His memory—but in future we must, for convention's sake, say 'her' for 'his'—her memory then, went back through all the events of her past life without encountering any obstacle."

The Role of Social Practice (and Clothing)

If the mind is the same, why does the female Orlando act differently? Woolf attributes this entirely to Social Practice, symbolized primarily through Clothing.

When Orlando returns to England in the 18th century, she is forced to wear the heavy crinolines and corsets of the era. Woolf describes the physical sensation of the dress changing Orlando’s behavior: As a man, Orlando could ride and run. As a woman, the dress physically hampers her. She realizes that as a man, she was free to think only of her own desires; as a woman, she is forced to think about how she is perceived.

"Thus, there is much to support the view that it is clothes that wear us and not we them; we may make them take the mould of arm or breast, but they mould our hearts, our brains, our tongues to their liking."

Conclusion on Gender

Woolf concludes that "man" and "woman" are roles we play to survive. However, the ideal state is Androgyny. In the final chapters, Orlando and her husband Shelmerdine understand each other because they acknowledge the duality in each other. For Woolf, the fully realized human is one who transcends the binary.

4. Visualizing Orlando: An AI Multimedia Experiment

To bring Woolf’s descriptions to life, I utilized an AI image generator to visualize Orlando. I selected Chapter 4 as my focal point—the transitional chapter where Orlando is sailing back to England on board The Enamoured Lady, wearing female clothes for the first time while retaining her masculine memories.

The Prompt Used:
"A cinematic, high-resolution oil painting in the style of John Singer Sargent. A portrait of an androgynous 18th-century noblewoman standing on the wooden deck of a sailing ship. She is wearing a heavy, elaborate teal velvet gown with lace trimmings. Her face is striking and handsome rather than pretty, with a strong jawline. One hand rests on the hilt of a sword hidden in the folds of her dress. The background is a misty, grey English seascape."

Created by ChatGPT 

Created by Gemini Nano Banana pro

Conclusion

Virginia Woolf’s Orlando is a novel that refuses to sit still. It runs like a stream, defying the dams of historical dates and biological determinism. Through the use of stream of consciousness, Woolf allows us to experience the "long life" of the mind. Through her satire of The New Biography, she teaches us that truth is found not in facts, but in the "rainbow" of personality. And through Orlando’s transformation, she dismantles the walls between genders, arguing that while social practice and clothes may shape our behavior, the soul remains androgynous and free.

Writing this blog post and visualizing Orlando through AI has clarified that Woolf was writing science fiction of the soul. In 2024, as we constantly rewrite our own digital biographies, Orlando remains our contemporary—a guide to living authentically in a fluctuating world.

References

Woolf, Virginia. Orlando: A Biography. Hogarth Press, 1928.

Woolf, Virginia. "The New Biography." New York Herald Tribune, 1927.

Woolf, Virginia. A Room of One's Own. Hogarth Press, 1929.

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Absurdity, Angst, and the Search for Meaning: The Core of Existentialism

This Blog is a part of flipped learning activity assigned by Prof. Dr. Dilip Barad on existentialism with the help of various resources provided by him on his blog.

Introduction

Existentialism arises from a sustained philosophical concern with the problem of human meaning in a world no longer secured by religious, metaphysical, or moral absolutes. Its intellectual foundations are often traced to Søren Kierkegaard, whose emphasis on subjectivity, anxiety, and individual commitment challenged systematic philosophy, and to Friedrich Nietzsche, whose critique of traditional values and proclamation of the “death of God” exposed the fragility of inherited meanings. In the twentieth century, existentialism finds its most explicit articulation in the works of Jean-Paul Sartre, Martin Heidegger, and Albert Camus. Sartre’s claim that existence precedes essence rejects any predetermined human nature and places freedom and responsibility at the center of human life, while Heidegger’s analysis of being foregrounds finitude, temporality, and authenticity as fundamental conditions of existence. Camus, through his reflections on the absurd, examines the tension between humanity’s persistent search for meaning and the indifference of the universe, ultimately rejecting nihilism in favor of conscious revolt. Across these diverse formulations, existentialism converges on a shared insistence: that individuals must confront freedom, anxiety, and mortality directly, and assume responsibility for creating meaning in an uncertain and groundless world.

Video 1: What is Existentialism?

The concept of belief in God and its connection to the philosophy of existentialism stimulates my thinking, as Camus saw it as philosophical suicide and asserts human individuality in any given situation. All the major figures of existentialism explore human struggles in the absurdity of life. I think that the idea of believing in the existence of God just because one cannot stand tall to face the challenges that life offers is nothing more than an emotional solace.

Expanding on this, the video helps clarify why this "emotional solace" is problematic for existentialists. It acts as a barrier to true freedom. If we rely on a pre-written divine script, we avoid the terrifying weight of the "Triangle of Existentialism": Existence, Freedom, and Responsibility. By removing the safety net of divine purpose, we are forced to acknowledge that we are the sole authors of our lives. This realization brings "angst," but it is also the only path to authenticity. To exist without excuses means we cannot blame God or fate for our actions; we are condemned to be free, and that responsibility, while heavy, is what makes human life significant.

Video 2: The Myth of Sisyphus (The Absurd Reasoning)

The meaning in and of life itself has always been an integral question among human civilization. Albert Camus's modern philosophical essay "The Myth of Sisyphus" discusses the cause of suicide and asserts in the very first sentence that it is the absurdity of life that leads to suicidal thoughts. If an individual fails to arrive at any reasonable conclusion, there are two approaches—death or hope. Camus offers a rather hopeful solution to a monotonous and absurd life in the modern world, stating at the end of the essay, "One must imagine Sisyphus happy." I think this is an appropriate approach to human despair and surrender.

This conclusion is powerful because it redefines what "victory" looks like. Sisyphus is punished with useless labor—pushing a rock up a hill only to watch it roll back down—which mirrors the repetitive nature of modern human existence. We study, work, and struggle, often without a guaranteed final reward. However, by imagining Sisyphus happy, we are not denying the rock's weight; we are denying the rock's power to crush our spirit. His happiness is his rebellion. It suggests that meaning is not found in the outcome of our labor, which is often futile, but in the struggle itself. The act of pushing becomes the meaning, making us masters of our own days.

Video 3: The Myth of Sisyphus (Philosophical Suicide)

Albert Camus thinks that when an individual fails to be or live in a state of absurdity, he either ends up losing all hope for a happy life, or he commits what Camus calls "philosophical suicide" by neglecting the very existence of the absurd. What I find interesting here is that, unlike Kierkegaard, who finds a solution to the absurd in faith, existentialists assert that there's no solution to the absurd but only negation. Now it becomes easier to comprehend the last line of "The Myth of Sisyphus," because what it provides us with is not a solution but a mere negation.

This concept of "negation" is crucial to distinguish from despair. When Camus speaks of "philosophical suicide," he refers to the "leap of faith"—the moment reason abandons itself to believe in something unprovable to feel safe. By refusing this leap, the existentialist remains in the uncomfortable, fragile space of the Absurd. This seems difficult, but I see it as a form of extreme honesty. It is a refusal to lie to oneself about the nature of the world. By maintaining this "negation," we keep our eyes open. We accept the world's silence and our own desire for meaning, and we choose to live in that tension without trying to resolve it artificially with false hope.

Video 4: Dadaism, Nihilism, and Existentialism

The Dada movement emerged after the First World War and was a reaction against it. I think the outburst of this movement in all kinds of art, which aimed to create a more rational and thoughtful society, is against the civilization that produced war, violence, and mass destruction. Dada exposes the shallowness of current systems that do not promote reason and truth. I think it paved the way for the later, more revolutionary and existential movements to follow. Dadaism replaced nationalism with humanism. I can notice a striking change in the treatment of the subject of war as it started exploring the condition of an individual rather than the interest of a nation. War poetry is a glaring example of this shift in literature.

The connection between Dadaism and Existentialism is fascinating because one functions as the demolition crew and the other as the architect. Dadaism had to come first to dismantle the old "rational" values—nationalism, duty, and cultural authority—that led to the senseless slaughter of WWI. It created a "blank slate" by showing that these old values were empty. Existentialism then stepped into this void. Once Dada had cleared the ground of false meanings, Existentialism asked, "Okay, now that we know the old ways are broken, how do we build a life?" Dadaism’s chaotic rejection of systems allowed Existentialism to center the focus back on the naked, singular human experience.

Video 5: Existentialism - A Gloomy Philosophy?

Existentialism presents us with existential questions that are often difficult to answer, which may explain why people consider it a gloomy philosophy. This philosophy poses questions that uncover human emotions such as anxiety, despair, confusion, and absurdity, and that may be the reason people think it ultimately leads to nihilism and narcissism. It challenges our deep-rooted belief system that we were hitherto following, and it makes us uneasy to think of any other way rather than stick to it. But I think that it is, to some extent, a gloomy and uncheerful philosophy.

However, while it admits to gloom, it is not a philosophy of defeat. I would argue that its "uncheerful" nature is actually a form of optimistic toughness. It is like a doctor giving a harsh but necessary diagnosis: we must know we are sick (full of angst and without inherent purpose) before we can truly live. If we ignore the gloom, we live in "bad faith," pretending everything is fine. By confronting the gloom—the anxiety of choice and the certainty of death—we wake up. The philosophy might strip away our comfortable illusions, but in doing so, it hands us back the dignity of being fully awake and alive in the real world.

Video 6: Existentialism and Nihilism

Camus seems to have been providing us two contrary points of view to look at the situation of Sisyphus: either to imagine him happy or to rebel against that absurdity of life. It would be a "philosophical suicide" if we imagine Sisyphus happy, and rebellion against God is almost unthinkable. The choice between these two options makes life absurd and meaningless.

However, upon deeper reflection, I realize that Camus actually argues that imagining Sisyphus happy is the opposite of philosophical suicide—it is his ultimate victory. Philosophical suicide would be if Sisyphus stopped pushing the rock and started praying for a future life, or if he gave up in despair. That would be an escape. But by finding happiness in the struggle, Sisyphus revolts against his punishment. He embraces his fate, and by doing so, he rises above it. The absurdity doesn't vanish, but it no longer defeats him. This nuances my understanding: the true rebellion is not fighting God directly, but simply refusing to be miserable in a meaningless world.

Video 7: Let Us Introduce Existentialism Again!

This video offers a concise yet insightful introduction to existentialism, effectively navigating a philosophy often perceived as difficult to define. It highlights that existentialism isn't a rigid system but a philosophical movement deeply concerned with "The Human Condition". The core of this concern lies in grappling with fundamental questions like "Why am I here?" and "How should I live my life?", without the comfort of pre-made, absolute answers from religious or philosophical systems. A key takeaway is the existentialist rejection of definitive answers, emphasizing instead the individual's burden and freedom to create meaning. The video powerfully elaborates on "existence precedes essence", a concept championed by Jean-Paul Sartre, which posits that humans are not born with a predetermined purpose but forge their own essence through their choices. This directly contrasts with traditional views, like Aristotle's essence or a divinely imposed one. Finally, the video crucially distinguishes existentialism from nihilism. While both reject objective meaning, existentialists, unlike nihilists, champion the human capacity to create personal, subjective meaning. Nietzsche's idea of "becoming who you are" perfectly encapsulates this active pursuit of self-created virtue and purpose, underscoring the difficult yet liberating journey existentialism advocates. It's a call to face life's inherent confusions head-on, taking control of one's narrative rather than conforming.

This distinction between Existentialism and Nihilism is perhaps the most important takeaway. It is easy to look at the "death of God" or the lack of objective morality and slide into the belief that "nothing matters." That is nihilism. Existentialism takes that same starting point but moves in a completely different direction: because nothing matters objectively, everything matters subjectively. If the universe doesn't care, it means I am completely free to care about what I choose. This shifts the focus from a "loss" of meaning to a "creation" of meaning. We are not discovering a path hidden in the bushes; we are hacking a path through a jungle where none existed before.

Video 8: Explain Like I'm Five (Nietzsche)

This video, while aiming to simplify complex philosophical concepts for a young audience, offers an interesting case study in pedagogical approaches to abstract ideas. The hosts' use of relatable scenarios, such as questioning parental rules and the concept of "good boy/girl" behavior, effectively grounds existentialism and Nietzsche's Übermensch in children's lived experiences. However, the simplification, particularly concerning the Übermensch as merely "someone who could do whatever he wants", risks misrepresenting Nietzsche's nuanced philosophy, which emphasizes self-overcoming and creating one's values, not pure hedonism or anarchy. Academically, the video highlights the challenge of translating dense philosophical thought into accessible language without losing critical fidelity. While the "explain like I'm five" premise is inherently reductive, a more balanced introduction might hint at the moral responsibilities inherent in radical freedom. For me, this video serves as a reminder of the delicate balance between clarity and accuracy when disseminating complex ideas, emphasizing that while simplification can engage, it must be carefully managed to avoid oversimplification or misinterpretation.

Video 9: Why I Like Existentialism (Eric Dodson)

Eric Dodson's personal take on existentialism in this video resonates deeply with what I understand as the philosophy's most impactful aspects. He masterfully portrays existentialism not as a purely academic pursuit, but as a practical guide for a more meaningful existence. When he speaks of its "intellectual side" appealing to the mind and a "deeper and more subtle side" appealing to the heart and soul, I find this perfectly encapsulates the essence of "existence precedes essence" - that our lived experience and emotional engagement are paramount to defining who we are. For me, Dodson's emphasis on existentialism's "staggering honesty" about life's absurdities and suffering is where its true power for growth lies. The idea that "suffering is not actually our enemy... sometimes it's our greatest friend and ally" is a profound shift in perspective. It challenges us to embrace difficult experiences, seeing them as catalysts for wisdom and deeper understanding. This honesty fosters immense resilience, as one learns to confront discomfort rather than evade it. Furthermore, I believe existentialism, as Dodson articulates, truly helps individuals grow by encouraging radical freedom and responsibility. His appreciation for its "rebellious way of thinking" and the call to "see how free you can really be" are pivotal. It encourages shedding limiting beliefs and actively participating in life, rather than being a mere spectator. This ultimately empowers us to create our own meaning, leading to what Dodson describes as a "more intensified and more amplified sense of its further horizons and possibilities".

Video 10: Let Us Sum Up (Essentialism vs. Existentialism)

I found this video to be a really insightful exploration of existentialism, especially in how it positioned the philosophy against essentialism. The way the video introduced essentialism right at the start, explaining it as the belief that everything has a predetermined "essence" or purpose before it even exists, was incredibly effective. For instance, the analogy of the knife how it needs a blade to truly be a knife, regardless of its handle-made the concept of essential properties so clear. It helped me grasp how this classical view suggests humans might also have an inherent purpose from birth. By laying out this traditional perspective, the video created a perfect backdrop to understand the radical shift that existentialism represents. The contrast between these two ideas, particularly with the existentialist mantra that "existence precedes essence", highlighted the core difference without me having to struggle with abstract definitions. It made the leap from a divinely ordained purpose to a self- created one much more comprehensible.

The Video I liked Personally 

Among the many videos I have reflected upon concerning existentialism, I find myself most aligned with the views expressed in the third video, despite its brevity. The concepts of 'philosophical suicide,' inevitable absurdity, and 'leap' are the ones that have drawn my attention to more complicated yet necessary ideas. We find existentialism relevant to our lives, but we fail to put these values into practice due to societal pressure. Existentialist ideas significantly differ from the values and rules of the society in which we live. When this clash of ideas occurs, we choose what is easy, not what we think is right for us. An absurd man knows there is no place for hope. He recognizes that 'seeking what is true is not seeking what is desirable.' His reasoning should remain faithful to the evidence that aroused it, the absurd itself. Taking the 'leap' (philosophical suicide) is the easy way out. The truly dangerous and challenging path is 'being able to remain on that disinterest in the subtle instant that precedes the leap.' One may not find meaning in one's life, but one needs to embrace the absurdity of life without abandoning one's own established visions of and approach to life. This procedure requires a delicate balance between acceptance and defiance, recognizing the chaos while still striving for personal authenticity. Ultimately, it is in this tension that one discovers the richness of human experience, navigating through both the absurd and the profound.

Learning Outcomes

Has your comprehension of Existentialist philosophy improved?

This flipped learning activity considerably improved my comprehension of existential philosophy. I came to know about other existentialists apart from Nietzsche and Camus. The concept of philosophical suicide, the nature of the absurd, Aristotle's concept of essentialism, and the very essence of what existentialism truly advocates for proved to be new and interesting. Apart from existentialism, I gained some impactful insights on dadaism, nihilism, and narcissism as well.

Do you feel more confident discussing or writing about it?

This activity exposed me to various aspects of existential philosophy, including its background, core concepts from major existential philosophers, and its relation to contemporary movements, which has increased my confidence in writing and discussing existentialism. I can answer questions based on existentialism with more knowledge and clarity than this activity bought. 

Has this exercise brought clarity to any previously unclear concepts?

Previously I was unable to distinguish clearly between various movements and philosophies that emerged in the 20th century, such as Dadaism, nihilism, and existentialism, and this exercise cleared that distinction for me. This activity brought clarity and assurance in understanding many theories proposed by existentialists such as Camus, Sartre, and Kierkegaard. This activity cleared my previous concepts and introduced some new ones to me as well.

Thought Provoking Questions

Do existentialist thinkers deny the possibility of a final solution to the problem of the absurd? 

Is imagining Sisyphus happy a true victory over the absurd, or merely another form of emotional solace?

If I am the sole architect of my values, does my radical freedom risk collapsing into destructive chaos?

How can I remain faithful to my truth when the world constantly demands I surrender my authenticity?

Is my creation of meaning a genuine revolt, or just a disguise to mask the world’s indifference?

References

• Barad, Dilip. “Existentialism: Video Resources.” Dilip Barad | Teacher Blog, 19 Sept. 2016, blog.dilipbarad.com/2016/09/existentialism-video-resources.html.
• Dostoevsky, Fyodor. Crime and Punishment. Translated by Constance Garnett, Project Gutenberg, 28 Mar. 2006, www.gutenberg.org/files/2554/2554-h/2554-h.htm.
• Dostoevsky, Fyodor. Notes from the Underground. Translated by Constance Garnett, Project Gutenberg, 1 July 1996, www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/600. Project Gutenberg eBook #600.
• Dostoevsky, Fyodor. The Brothers Karamazov. Translated by Constance Garnett, Project Gutenberg, 12 Feb. 2009, www.gutenberg.org/files/28054/old/28054-pdf.pdf. Project Gutenberg eBook #28054.
• Gallagher, Shaun, et al. “Existentialism (Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy).” Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy, 6 January 2023, https://plato.stanford.edu/entries/existentialism/. Accessed 23 January 2026.

The Green Light in 3D: A Comprehensive Critical Analysis of Baz Luhrmann's The Great Gatsby

This blog is assigned by Prof. Dr. Dilip Barad. It's aim is to study and reflect upon the novel and its film adaptation. Here is the link to his worksheet. 

Introduction

F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby, published in 1925, stands as the quintessential literary portrait of the "Roaring Twenties." Written during an era of unprecedented economic prosperity and cultural upheaval, the novel serves as a piercing critique of the American Dream. Fitzgerald captures the spirit of a nation intoxicated by wealth, jazz, and illegal liquor, yet simultaneously hollowed out by moral decay and social stratification. Through the eyes of Nick Carraway, a bond salesman from the Midwest, the reader is introduced to Jay Gatsby, a mysterious millionaire whose obsessive pursuit of the golden girl, Daisy Buchanan, becomes a tragic symbol of the corruptibility of the American ideal. The novel is celebrated not just for its plot, but for its lyrical prose—a "writerly" text where the language itself evokes the shimmering, ephemeral nature of the dreams it describes. It is a story about the past, about the relentless passage of time, and the futility of trying to repeat it.

In 2013, Australian auteur Baz Luhrmann took on the daunting task of adapting this sacred text for a modern, global audience. Known for his "Red Curtain" trilogy (*Strictly Ballroom*, *Romeo + Juliet*, *Moulin Rouge!*), Luhrmann approached The Great Gatsby not with the quiet reverence of a traditional period piece, but with the explosive energy of a 3D spectacle. Released in the wake of the 2008 global financial crisis, Luhrmann’s adaptation reinterprets the story through a lens of excess that mirrors the anxieties of the 21st century. By infusing the 1920s setting with contemporary hip-hop, frenetic editing, and hyper-saturated visuals, Luhrmann attempts to bridge the temporal gap between Fitzgerald’s Jazz Age and the millennial generation. His film is an audacious experiment in "intersemiotic translation," aiming to replicate the feeling of the novel's cultural impact rather than merely transcribing its events. This blog post offers a critical analysis of this adaptation, examining how it negotiates the tension between fidelity to the source text and the demands of a visual, cinematic medium.

Part I: The Frame Narrative and the "Writerly" Text

The Sanitarium Device: Pathologizing the Narrator

One of the most striking deviations in Luhrmann’s film is the restructuring of the frame narrative. In the novel, Nick Carraway narrates from an unspecified location in the Midwest, looking back on his time in New York with a mixture of nostalgia and revulsion. He writes to process his "father’s advice" and his own moral development. Luhrmann, however, places Nick (played by Tobey Maguire) in a sanitarium, diagnosed with "morbid alcoholism," writing his memoir as a form of therapy prescribed by a doctor.

This addition serves a functional purpose for the medium of film: it "literalizes" the act of writing. In cinema, an internal monologue can often feel detached or literary; by giving Nick a physical reason to speak (therapy) and to write (healing), Luhrmann creates a "cause and effect" dynamic that drives the narrative forward. We watch the book being written in real-time, transforming the text from a static object into an active creation.

However, this device also fundamentally alters Nick’s character. In the book, Nick is a "guide, a pathfinder, an original settler", a man who claims to be "one of the few honest people that I have ever known". His disillusionment is presented as a philosophical realization about the hollowness of the upper class. By placing him in a sanitarium, the film risks pathologizing this disillusionment. His critique of the Buchanans and the East Egg crowd is no longer just a moral judgment; it becomes the symptom of a mental breakdown. While this underscores the traumatic impact of Gatsby’s death, it perhaps reduces Nick’s reliability. Is the "Gatsby" we see the real man, or the projection of a broken mind trying to reconstruct a hero? This framing device effectively externalizes Nick's internal monologue but does so at the cost of his agency as a moral arbiter.

The "Cinematic Poem": Floating Words and Noble Literalism

Luhrmann is acutely aware of the power of Fitzgerald’s prose. To preserve the "writerly" nature of the text within a visual medium, he employs a technique where words physically float on the screen. Phrases like "The Valley of Ashes" or descriptions of Gatsby’s smile materialize like smoke or dust, superimposing the literary text onto the cinematic image. Luhrmann describes this as "poetic glue" or a "cinematic poem".

This technique is a double-edged sword. On one hand, it bridges the gap between literature and film, acknowledging that the language is as important as the plot. It ensures that iconic lines are not just heard in voiceover but seen, reinforcing their poetic weight. For instance, when the description of the Valley of Ashes floats across the screen, it emphasizes the desolation and the "powdery air" in a tactile way.

On the other hand, critics have argued this creates a "noble literalism" or a "quotational quality". It constantly reminds the viewer that they are watching an adaptation, breaking the immersion of the diegetic reality. Instead of simply experiencing the story, the audience is forced to "read" the film. It can create a distance, turning the film into a museum exhibit of the novel rather than a living, breathing entity. While visually arresting, this technique sometimes traps the film in its own reverence, prioritizing the aesthetic of the words over the emotional reality of the scene.

Part II: Adaptation Theory and the Question of Fidelity

Hutcheon’s "Knowing" vs. "Unknowing" Audience

Linda Hutcheon’s theory of adaptation defines the process as "repetition without replication," positing that an adaptation must function for both a "knowing audience" (those familiar with the source text) and an "unknowing audience" (those experiencing the story for the first time). Luhrmann’s film navigates this duality with varying degrees of success, most notably in its handling of the ending.

The film entirely omits the character of Henry Gatz, Gatsby’s father, and the subsequent funeral procession. In the novel, the arrival of Henry Gatz is a pivotal moment of pathos. It grounds the myth of Jay Gatsby in the humble reality of James Gatz. Seeing the father’s pride in his son’s "attainment" highlights the tragedy of Gatsby’s isolation—despite his fame, no one but his father and Nick (and the Owl-eyed man) attends his funeral.

For the "unknowing" audience, the omission of Gatz streamlines the narrative. It focuses the emotional climax entirely on the relationship between Nick and Gatsby, and the betrayal by Daisy. It simplifies the story into a tragic romance and a tale of lost friendship. However, for the "knowing" audience, this omission alters the fundamental understanding of Gatsby’s character. Without Henry Gatz, Gatsby remains a cipher, a spectral figure who seemingly sprang from nothing. The social critique—that Gatsby was a real man used and discarded by the careless rich—is softened. The film shifts from a critique of the American class system to a more intimate, albeit less sociologically complex, melodrama.

Alain Badiou and the "Truth Event"

Using the philosophical framework of Alain Badiou, scholar U. Vooght argues that an adaptation can be faithful not to the literal text, but to the "Truth Event"—the radical rupture or energy that the work represents. Luhrmann’s controversial soundtrack is the perfect case study for this theory.

In 1925, Jazz was not the polite background music we consider it today; it was dangerous, sexual, and rebellious. It was the "devil’s music." To use 1920s Jazz in a 2013 film would render it quaint and historical, failing to convey the visceral shock it originally carried. Luhrmann claims he used hip-hop (Jay-Z, Kanye West, Beyoncé) to make the viewer feel the same "cultural rupture" that Jazz caused in the 1920s.

By anachronistically blending the Jazz Age with the Hip-Hop Age, Luhrmann remains faithful to the energy of the novel (the Truth Event) while betraying its historical specificity. This is an act of "intersemiotic translation". The soundtrack functions to translate the experience of the party—the excess, the danger, the modernity—into a language that a contemporary audience understands viscerally. In this sense, the anachronism is a deeper form of fidelity, preserving the novel's spirit of "Newness" and cultural rebellion.

Part III: Characterization and Performance

Gatsby: The Romantic Hero vs. The Criminal

The novel reveals Gatsby’s criminality through a slow accumulation of rumors and awkward phone calls. The revelation that his fortune is built on bootlegging and bond fraud is a "foul dust" that trails his dreams. Luhrmann’s film, however, softens Gatsby’s criminal edge to position him more firmly as a "romantic figure".

Leonardo DiCaprio’s Gatsby is charismatic, vulnerable, and endlessly hopeful. The film deletes or reframes scenes that explicitly link him to darker crimes, such as the bond fraud mentioned in the book’s later chapters. By minimizing the specific nature of his crimes, the film frames Gatsby more as a victim of circumstance than a man who actively corrupted himself for a dream. The "Red Curtain" style—the fireworks, the sweeping camera moves, the heroic music—overwhelms the critique of his "corrupted dream". We are swept up in the romance of his obsession, forgetting that the means to his end were morally bankrupt. The film prioritizes the tragedy of his love over the tragedy of his morality.

Reconstructing Daisy Buchanan

Daisy Buchanan is one of literature’s most polarizing figures—often viewed as "careless," shallow, and ultimately responsible for Gatsby’s demise. The film faces the challenge of making Gatsby’s obsession with her plausible for a 21st-century audience. If she is too unlikeable, the audience cannot invest in the romance.

Luhrmann attempts to reconstruct Daisy (Carey Mulligan) by emphasizing her victimization. The film cuts specific scenes from the novel that demonstrate her coldness, such as her lack of maternal instinct toward her child. In the book, the child is a prop to Daisy; in the film, the child is barely a presence, removing a key indicator of her superficiality. The film also amplifies Tom’s villainy, making Daisy appear more trapped and fearful. While this makes her more sympathetic, it arguably strips her of agency. In the novel, Daisy’s decision to stay with Tom is a calculated choice of class safety over risky love. In the film, it feels more like the reaction of a frightened animal. By softening her edges, the film maintains Gatsby as the active romantic hero and Daisy as the passive object of desire, simplifying the complex gender and class dynamics Fitzgerald explored.

Part IV: Visual Style and Socio-Political Context

The "Red Curtain" Style: Critique or Celebration?

Luhrmann’s signature "Red Curtain" style is defined by theatricality, heightened artifice, and a conscious rejection of naturalism. In The Great Gatsby, this manifests in the dizzying party scenes, characterized by "vortex" camera movements, rapid editing, and the use of 3D technology.

The intent is to critique the "orgiastic" wealth of the 1920s—to show the "carnival of money" in all its grotesque glory. However, the medium often works against the message. The immersive nature of 3D and the sheer beauty of the visuals inadvertently celebrate the consumerism Fitzgerald was critiquing. The audience is invited to enjoy the party, to marvel at the costumes and the champagne, just as the guests did. We become tourists in the excess. Instead of feeling the hollowness of the spectacle, we are seduced by it. The film becomes a product of the very "culture industry" it seeks to satire, blurring the line between a critique of wealth and a celebration of it.

Contextualizing the American Dream: Post-2008

The film’s release in 2013, following the 2008 global financial crisis, adds a layer of socio-political resonance. Luhrmann has stated that the story is relevant because of the "moral rubberiness" of Wall Street.

In this context, the film’s depiction of the "Green Light" and the "Valley of Ashes" reflects a post-2008 cynicism. The Valley of Ashes is not just industrial waste; it represents the foreclosure of the working class, the "99%" left behind by the excesses of the "1%." The Green Light, conversely, represents a dream that was always built on a bubble—unattainable, corrupt, and destined to burst. K. Perdikaki argues that film adaptations act as an interface for "cultural transformation". Luhrmann’s film emphasizes the impossibility of the dream. The green light recedes not just because of the passage of time, but because the economic game is rigged. The visual contrast between the golden warmth of Gatsby’s mansion and the grey, gritty reality of the Ashes serves as a stark visual metaphor for the economic disparity of the post-crisis era.

Part V: Creative Response - The Plaza Hotel Scene

Scriptwriter Decision: The Plaza Hotel Confrontation

Scenario: You are the scriptwriter tasked with adapting the "Plaza Hotel" confrontation scene.

Decision: Keep the film's addition of Gatsby losing his temper and nearly striking Tom.

Justification:

Adapting a literary masterpiece requires balancing fidelity to the text with fidelity to the medium. In the novel, the confrontation at the Plaza is a psychological chess match. Gatsby’s composure slips only slightly; Fitzgerald writes that he "looked as if he had killed a man", but he never physically lashes out. The tension is internal, driven by dialogue and subtext.

However, film is a medium of externalized emotion. For the dramatic arc of the film to peak, the internal tension must manifest visually. Luhrmann’s Gatsby is a pressure cooker of repressed desire, class anxiety, and carefully constructed lies. Throughout the film, we see him maintaining this perfect façade. For the "Truth Event" of his downfall to be felt by a viewing audience, that façade must shatter visibly.

By having Gatsby lose his temper and nearly strike Tom, the film provides a necessary visual climax. It prioritizes dramatic tension (fidelity to the medium) over character consistency (fidelity to the book). This outburst confirms Tom’s accusations of Gatsby being a "common swindler" and terrifies Daisy, driving her back to the safety of Tom. It is the moment the "Great" Gatsby dissolves, leaving only James Gatz, the desperate boy from North Dakota. While it deviates from the subtle psychological dismantling of the book, it provides the visceral, emotional turning point required for a cinematic blockbuster. It signals to the audience, in no uncertain terms, that the dream is dead.

Conclusion

Baz Luhrmann’s The Great Gatsby is a dazzling, flawed, and undeniably powerful adaptation. It is a film that wears its heart—and its artifice—on its sleeve. By reframing the narrative through the sanitarium, using hip-hop to evoke the Jazz Age, and employing a hyper-stylized visual language, Luhrmann creates a version of Gatsby that speaks the language of the 21st century.

Does it succeed as an adaptation? If fidelity is measured by strict adherence to the text, perhaps not. The nuances of Nick’s morality, the depth of Gatsby’s criminality, and the starkness of the social critique are often submerged under the weight of the spectacle. However, if adaptation is viewed as "repetition without replication," as Hutcheon suggests, then the film is a triumph. It captures the feeling of Fitzgerald’s world—the manic energy, the blinding hope, and the inevitable crash. It translates the "unutterable depression" of the novel into a visual feast that leaves the viewer exhausted and entranced. In the end, Luhrmann’s film, like Gatsby himself, believes in the green light, the orgastic future. It beats on, a boat against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past, trying to recreate a masterpiece for a new generation.

References

Barad, Dilip. (2026). Worksheet: Critical Analysis of Baz Luhrmann's The Great Gatsby (2013). 10.13140/RG.2.2.10969.38244.

Fitzgerald, F. Scott. The Great Gatsby. New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1925.

Hutcheon, Linda. A Theory of Adaptation. New York: Routledge, 2006.

Luhrmann, Baz, director. The Great Gatsby. Warner Bros. Pictures, 2013.

Perdikaki, K. “Film adaptation as the interface between creative translation and cultural transformation.” The Journal of Specialised Translation, vol. 29, 2018.

Vooght, U. “The Great Gatsby meets Alain Badiou: The Truth Event in Adaptation.” Adaptation Studies Review, 2023.

Shantih in the Rubble: How Indian Philosophy Unlocks T.S. Eliot’s The Waste Land

This blog is written as a task assigned by Prof. Dr. Dilip Barad on finding research papers on 'The Waste Land' and its connection to Indian knowledge system and Upanishadic references.

Introduction

When T.S. Eliot published The Waste Land in 1922, it landed like a bombshell on the literary world, appearing to mirror the shattered psyche of a Europe devastated by World War I with its dissonant "heap of broken images." For decades, Western critics read the poem primarily as a nihilistic cry of despair from a "lost generation" wandering through a spiritual void. But what if The Waste Land wasn't just a diagnosis of doom, but actually contained a hidden cure? Recent scholarship suggests that we have been reading the poem with only one eye open, missing the profound influence of Eliot’s formal education in Indian philosophy at Harvard. Eliot was not merely a casual tourist in Eastern thought; he studied Sanskrit and Pali under renowned scholars like Charles Lanman and James Woods, immersing himself in the Vedas, the Upanishads, and the Yoga Sutras of Patanjali. He once confessed that these studies left him in a "state of enlightened mystification". This blog explores how three major currents of Indian thought—Buddhism, Yoga, and the Upanishads—provide the "missing keys" to unlocking the poem. By synthesizing insights from recent academic papers, we can see how Eliot used these ancient systems to construct a path out of the modern wilderness.

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I. The Misunderstanding: Beyond "Nothingness"

To understand Eliot’s use of Indian philosophy, we first have to clear up a century-old misunderstanding. In the early 20th century, many Western intellectuals, including Nietzsche, viewed Buddhism with suspicion. They saw it as "nihilistic"—a "cult of nothingness" that worshipped the annihilation of the self. They feared that the goal of Nirvana was simply to cease to exist, which to the Western mind seemed like a "nameless danger". However, as scholar Thomas Michael LeCarner argues in his paper T. S. Eliot, Dharma Bum: Buddhist Lessons in The Waste Land, Eliot knew better. Having read the original texts, Eliot understood that the Buddhist concept of Sunyata (emptiness) was not a negative void. Instead, it was a state of freedom—a liberation from the "thirst" (craving) that binds us to suffering.

LeCarner suggests that Eliot used the poem to subvert this Western fear. The "waste land" of the poem is not the result of believing in nothing; it is the result of clinging to the material world. The despair in the poem comes from Samsara—the endless, painful cycle of birth, death, and rebirth driven by desire. This gives us a radically new reading of the poem’s famous opening lines:

"April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land..."

Why is spring cruel? Because in the cycle of Samsara, rebirth is not a joy; it is a return to suffering. The "breeding" of lilacs is the painful re-emergence of life into a world of craving. The roots that "clutch" and the branches that grow out of "stony rubbish" represent our desperate, painful clinging to existence. Eliot is showing us a world trapped on the "wheel of life," where "memory and desire" keep us bound to the past and future, preventing us from finding peace in the present.

II. The Diagnosis: The World on Fire

If Samsara is the setting, what is the specific sickness of the modern age? Eliot identifies it in the poem’s central section, "The Fire Sermon." This title is a direct reference to one of the Buddha's most famous sermons, in which he preached to the priests of the fire-cult that "everything is burning." The Buddha taught that the eyes, ears, and mind are "burning" with the fires of lust, hatred, and delusion. LeCarner points out that Eliot places this sermon at the very heart of the poem to show that modern society’s problem is an uncontrolled "thirst" for sensation.

We see this "burning" depicted not as passion, but as a terrible, mechanical apathy. The most chilling scene in the poem involves a typist and a "young man carbuncular." Their sexual encounter is devoid of love or even lust; it is merely a transaction.

"He assaults at once;
Exploring hands encounter no defense;
His vanity requires no response,
And makes a welcome of indifference."

After he leaves, the typist’s only thought is, "Well now that's done: and I'm glad it's over." LeCarner argues this is the ultimate irony of Samsara: our burning desire leads not to satisfaction, but to indifference. The characters are "burning" with craving, yet they feel nothing. They are the "walking dead" flowing over London Bridge, unaware that they are trapped in a hell of their own making. By presenting this desolation, Eliot is not being a nihilist; he is acting as a diagnostician. He is showing us that a life fueled by ego and desire inevitably turns into a waste land.

III. The Cure: A Yogic Journey

So, we have the diagnosis. What is the cure?

This is where the Upanishads and the Yoga Sutras come into play. In his fascinating study "Each in his Prison Thinking of the Key", Dr. Parth Joshi argues that The Waste Land is structured like a Yogic journey. He suggests that the poem’s progression mirrors the path laid out by Patanjali in the Yoga Sutras, moving from distraction to discipline, and finally to liberation.

1. Quieting the Mind

Patanjali defines Yoga as chitta-vritti-nirodhah—the cessation of the fluctuations of the mind. Dr. Joshi notes that in Yoga philosophy, "memory" and "desire" are two of the primary obstacles (vritti) that keep the mind in chaos. When Eliot writes of "mixing / Memory and desire" in the opening lines, he is describing a mind in a state of agitation, unable to focus. The "heap of broken images" is a perfect metaphor for a consciousness that has not yet achieved the "one-pointedness" of Yoga. The characters are trapped in their own mental noise, unable to find the silence necessary for salvation.

2. Purification (Death by Water)

One of the most debated sections of the poem is "Death by Water," a short lyric about Phlebas the Phoenician, who drowns and forgets "the profit and loss." Western critics often see this as a tragic death. However, viewed through an Indian lens, this "death" is a necessary purification. Dr. Joshi argues that this section represents the Yogic concept of Kaivalya—emancipation through detachment. Phlebas’s death is the death of the ego. He forgets "profit and loss"—the dualities of the material world that haunt the merchant class. As LeCarner also notes, the water that kills him also cleanses him; he undergoes a "sea-change / Into something rich and strange". In the Eastern tradition, you must "die" to your worldly self before you can be reborn spiritually. Phlebas is not a victim; he is an initiate.

3. The Myth of Rain

Most students of Eliot are taught about the "Fisher King," the wounded monarch whose sickness makes the land infertile. But Dr. Joshi introduces a compelling alternative myth from the Indian tradition that Eliot would have encountered in his studies: the legend of Rishyashringa. Found in the Mahabharata and Ramayana, Rishyashringa was a young sage who had never seen a woman and lived in perfect chastity. When the Kingdom of Anga suffered a terrible drought, it was prophesied that only a man of perfect purity could bring the rain. The king sent courtesans to seduce the sage and bring him to the city. When Rishyashringa arrived, the heavens opened, and the rain fell.

Dr. Joshi points out that this myth perfectly parallels the poem’s themes. The "waste land" needs rain (spiritual renewal). The solution in the Indian myth is not a quest for a cup (the Grail), but the arrival of a figure of ascetic discipline. This reinforces the poem’s ultimate turn toward the virtues of self-restraint (Damyata) as the key to ending the drought.

IV. The Thunder Speaks: Datta, Dayadhvam, Damyata

The poem culminates in Part V, "What the Thunder Said," which takes us directly to the Brihadaranyaka Upanishad. Here, Eliot stops hinting and starts quoting. In the Upanishadic fable, the Creator speaks through the thunder with the syllable "Da," which is interpreted by three different groups: men, demons, and gods. Eliot adopts this structure to offer a threefold path out of the Waste Land.

1. Datta (Give): The first command is Datta: to give. But give what? Eliot writes: "The awful daring of a moment's surrender / Which an age of prudence can never retract." Raj Kishor Singh, in his article on the Bodhisattva in the poem, interprets this as the "perfection of giving" (Dana) found in Mahayana Buddhism. It is not just charity; it is the surrender of the self. In a modern world defined by "prudence" and self-preservation, the only way to break the cycle of isolation is a radical act of generosity—giving oneself over to a higher purpose.

2. Dayadhvam (Sympathize): The second command is Dayadhvam: to have compassion. Eliot captures the failure of this virtue in the lines: "We think of the key, each in his prison / Thinking of the key." We are locked in the prison of our own egos. As Singh notes, the Bodhisattva ideal is defined by Dayadhvam—the refusal to enter Nirvana until all other beings are saved. To "sympathize" is to realize that our suffering is shared. The "waste land" is a solitary confinement cell; compassion is the key that turns in the lock.

3. Damyata (Control): The final command is Damyata: to control. This brings us back to Yoga. Eliot uses the beautiful image of a boat responding to a skilled hand: "The boat responded / Gaily, to the hand expert with sail and oar." Dr. Joshi explains that this represents the "controlling hand" of the conscious Self. In a world of chaos, true freedom comes from discipline (Damyata). When the mind is controlled (as in Yoga), the sea becomes calm, and the heart beats in obedience to reality. This is not repression; it is mastery.

V. Shantih: The Peace That Passeth Understanding

The poem ends with a line that has puzzled readers for a century: "Shantih shantih shantih."

Eliot’s own footnote famously translates this as "The Peace which passeth understanding," borrowing a phrase from the Bible. But why did he keep the Sanskrit?

Dr. Joshi argues that Eliot knew "Peace" was a "feeble translation." In the Vedic tradition, Shantih is repeated three times to pacify three specific types of suffering (Trividha Dukha):

• Adhi-Bhautika: Suffering caused by the external world (other people, war, animals).
• Adhi-Daivika: Suffering caused by supernatural or unseen forces (fate, gods, natural disasters).
• Adhyatmika: Suffering caused by one’s own body and mind (illness, anxiety, ignorance).

By ending the poem with this mantra, Eliot is doing something profoundly spiritual. He is not just finishing a poem; he is performing a ritual. He acknowledges that the "waste land" is ravaged by all three types of pain—the war (external), the spiritual drought (supernatural), and the neurosis of modern life (internal). The English language, broken and exhausted by the war, had no word strong enough to heal these wounds. So, Eliot reached back three thousand years to the Upanishads.

The ending is not a collapse into gibberish, as some critics thought. It is a benediction. It is a suggestion that the only way to survive the wreckage of modernity is to find that transcendent, unshakeable peace—Shantih—that exists beyond the cycles of desire and memory.

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Conclusion: Fragments Shored Against Ruins

T.S. Eliot famously wrote near the end of the poem: "These fragments I have shored against my ruins." For a long time, we thought these fragments were just pieces of broken culture. But looking through the lens of Indian philosophy, we can see them as building blocks for a new way of living.

The Waste Land is a journey that begins in the suffering of Samsara, diagnosed by the Buddha’s Fire Sermon, and ends with the Yogic discipline of the Upanishads. It moves from the "cruel" rebirth of April to the disciplined peace of the Himalayas.

As we navigate our own 21st-century waste land—filled with digital isolation, environmental anxiety, and the "burning" of constant consumption—Eliot’s "Dharma" lessons are more relevant than ever. The poem challenges us to ask: Can we surrender (Datta)? Can we sympathize (Dayadhvam)? Can we take control of our own minds (Damyata)?

If we can, we might just find the rain we have been waiting for.

Shantih. Shantih. Shantih.

References

• Eliot, T. S. The Waste Land. Faber and Faber, 1969.
• Joshi, P. (2024). “Each in his Prison Thinking of the Key”: A Compoetical Study of the Indian Connection to "The Waste Land". South Florida Journal of Development, 5(8), e04216.
• LeCarner, T. M. (2009). T. S. Eliot, Dharma Bum: Buddhist Lessons in The Waste Land. Philosophy and Literature, vol. 33 no. 2, 402-416.