Letting Stories Breathe: Dan Amernick on Storytelling, TV, and Cultural Memory

14 January 202614 January 2026akaraduman1 Leave a comment

Interviewer: Arzu Karaduman Interview Guest: Dan Amernick

Dr. Dan Amernick is a Senior Professional Lecturer of Media Arts, teaching
Screenwriting for Film & Television and Advanced Screenwriting for Film & Television. Prior to teaching, Amernick worked for a number of years in the entertainment industry, notably on the writing staff of the CBS sitcom The Nanny.

Your career bridges both the professional entertainment industry and academic teaching. Could you describe the pivotal moments that led you from writing for a major networks sitcom like The Nanny to pursuing a doctoral degreeand ultimately teaching screenwriting and media arts?

There wasn’t like a tipping point. There was more of a series of events. Once the show went off the air, then I was doing different types of non-sitcom writing, which was fine because it paid the bills. I was working at SoapCity, doing all the writing, the soap opera features, interviews, and episode recaps. It was great, but I really wasn’t a soap person. The Nanny went off the air in 1999, and I continued working in the soap world until about 2009. And at the time I was already thinking that I wanted to do something with teaching. But, around 2008 or 2009, I was so against the idea of going back to college. I just couldn’t imagine doing it at my age. And at that time, my goals were still different. I was still thinking “Oh, I’ll teach creative writing to third graders,” because that was the age when I had this really good third grade teacher, and I wanted to kind of pay it forward. At some point, though, I started thinking bigger. I started to think college level. And I was cold-calling places, and they told me I needed a master’s. At the time, my arrogant self thought: “Oh, who needs a master’s!” And of course, after going through the process, I did say “I do, and even a Phd!”.

At this point, I was in Vegas working at a job that was not paying well. It was interactive training videos. I was in my early 40s. I knew if I didn’t take the risk and go back to school, then I would just be going from one sort of unfulfilling freelance contract writing gig to the next. And so that was really that kind of pivotal moment. I wanted to teach, so I thought “I’m going to have to go full throttle and go back to school”. After that first year
of the media studies master’s program at Syracuse, the Newhouse School, I thought it was all starting to come together, and next I know I was getting a PhD in mass comm. So that’s the evolution, definitely a combination of career, different priorities, growing older, not wanting to be hustling for writing gigs.

Initially, I hoped to teach TV history and topics that excite my mentor, advisor and friend, Dr. Robert Thompson –I have to name-check Bob obviously. But it turned out my research portfolio was very different than the research of the people who do critical cultural studies. And so it’s made much more sense –when things opened up– to teach screenwriting and media writing classes instead.

Working on the writing staff of The Nanny placed you within a successful network television environment. What lessons about narrative structure, creative collaboration, and television production did you take from that era? And what do you see as the value of practitioner-scholars within media studies today?

It was just a great era because it was still broadcast TV, and there were still these mass audiences during the network run of The Nanny. We were really lucky. There’s all this creative collaboration. Even as production assistants, once they knew we wanted to write, after we’d been there for a year, my brother and I, they were letting us sit in. They were really good about that in general, respecting everybody’s talent,
wanting to bring people up and promote from within; they were really excellent at that. And I think I have to thank them for that.

We were allowed to pitch story ideas early on, with support from people like Fran Drescher, her then-husband Peter Marc Jacobson, and co-creators Robert Sternin and Prudence Fraser. We also had support from writers and producers like Diane Wilk, Frank Lombardi, and early supporter Janis Hirsch. They all read our sample portfolios, which was part of the creative collaboration. The mentorship was important—they saw potential in people, not just us, but others who wanted to direct or learn about camera work. Everyone got a chance.

When we got our first assignment, the writers provided just the right amount of mentorship. We worked through the story, scene by scene, learning why certain changes were needed. We went through multiple drafts before the script was tabled. It was a process of learning how to structure a script, understanding when a scene needs a stronger punchline or a different type of laugh, or when to end on a blow. It was also a lesson in collaboration. The writers’ room was key to that. Even when we were done with our production assistant jobs, they let us sit in on the room and pitch jokes. It was like auditing a class at night. I always say this wistfully because I understand that this type of writers’ room, as we knew it, is disappearing for various production reasons; that writers room was a real hot bed of collaboration. That kind of multi-cam, live-audience broadcast show, like The Nanny, is becoming less common, especially with the rise of streaming.

Back then we were learning even in our day-to-day tasks. I remember schlepping as a phone page/production assistant and analyzing scripts. We’d take home drafts that changed daily and evaluate what stayed and what didn’t work. For example, a joke that got a laugh in a Monday run-through might not make it to the final version. I think anybody who, if you logged in as much sitcom watching as I did as a child, would know there is an innate sense of the story, of the commercial breaks, the rising action, the act breaks, and the conflict, and people bring that to their screen experiences. Looking back at the whole process now, I remember in one episode there was a scene where a joke run went on for probably a page and a half, but they condensed it to one strong joke. Well, I certainly didn’t bring that to my life as a teacher, the idea of not repeating the same joke over and over; but I learned that from The Nanny.

To not forget your second part question, I think both practitioners and those with a theoretical background bring so much to the table. When I was in grad school, they recognized the value of the practitioner-scholar. And the current leadership at where I’m working definitely has made a point of seeing the practitioner and the scholar that I am. There is no substitute for what we have learned in that writer’s room in those years; working with that particular group of people was the ultimate masterclass. And without that experience, I would not have been able to offer what I’m offering in the classroom.

Sitcom writing often balances formulaic expectations with creative invention. How do you think narrative innovation happens within highly structured formats like network television? Can constraints of genre or industry conventions actually foster creative risk-taking?

Historically, the constraints have forced a certain creativity. That’s not to say that the creative freedom of other formats isn’t great. Going back to what you could or couldn’t do or say on television, writers, in sitcoms especially, would come up with, clever workarounds. The one example that comes to mind automatically is Seinfeld’s “The Contest,” right? A whole episode about that particular topic, which they never mention by name, because of the network standards and practices, they had to come up with clever workarounds. It was within sort of our expectations of what you can get away with on a network television at that time, how they were sort of breaking the boundaries while but being so subtle about it. On the flip side of that is the two-part Maude abortion episode in 1972 where they don’t they don’t mention abortion by name, but we know that the character of Maude Findlay, played by the late Beatrice Arthur, is pregnant and does not want to carry the baby to term. So our expectations, generic genre what have you, have always been disrupted; sitcoms in the 70s started blurring the lines between comedy and drama. Think MAS*H, think All in the Family, think Norman Lear! And then in the 80s dramas like Hill Street Blues and St. Elsewhere start to blur the line between the serious drama and comedy. They bring comedic moments on these life-or-death scenarios, and then The Sopranos and Breaking Bad. Both of those shows were outside of the panopticon of network television, and so they were given those freedoms, but I think there’s something to be said for that.

Make no mistake; those constraints can be challenging and creatively stifling. To my knowledge, we never had to deal with really ridiculous notes. But historically, there’re these network executives and all these stories. There’s a book of notes from network executives called A Martian Wouldn’t Say That: Memos TV Execs Wish They Hadn’t Written. Because you’re dealing with this specific set of guidelines, you come up with ways to subvert it. I think that’s been historically true. And now that’s, you know, just the norm: the sort of subversion of expectations.

How do you see contemporary television, especially in the era of streaming, relating back to the broadcast sitcom structures you experienced earlier in your career? As someone who teaches screenwriting, how do you approach the transformation of practical industry knowledge into structured classroom pedagogy? Are there particular frameworks or case studies you find most effective in guiding students to professional-level scripts?

There’s still this sort of throughline: the delivery system has changed in terms of the contemporary landscape. But the contemporary television has revamped some of the earlier structures. For example, on The Nanny, we were working with the classic two-act structure, multicamera show filmed in front of a live studio audience. And in terms of contemporary television, that earlier structure, I think, has largely gone away. You don’t see multi-cam sitcoms with live audience, with the exception of some of the reboots. But the two-act structure also gave way to a three-act structure modeled more closely on the three-act screenplay paradigm. But even that three-act structure gave way to this sort of four-act structure, which is pretty much the networks squeezing in extra commercial breaks in there to make a little extra money. At the end of the day, though, the basic narrative structure has remained, and I don’t want to say “static” because with streaming there’s more experimentation; they’re not building to a commercial break; they’re not forcing the same sort of pronounced act break. What we did, and how we did it back then, is very different than what’s going on today. But at the same time, it’s still helpful pedagogically to teach the students the three-act screenplay paradigm and show them how these three acts are broken down into sequences: the setup, the confrontation, and the resolution.

If you want to think of that two-act sitcom structure, take the first two acts in the typical three-act structure, the set up establishing the characters and their needs, and the confrontation. Usually in the middle of act two would be a midpoint, where not only is the character’s dream denied, but now they go in a whole other direction because their dramatic need is even more jeopardized, or their need has been upended. The two-act sitcom then continues into a second act of more rising action before that highest point of the climax and a final resolution. Later on, a sitcom condensed that larger real estate of the Hollywood three-act structure and modeled similarly timed act breaks. In the more contemporary four-act structure, they just cut the middle of act three to add that extra commercial break, which in many cases interrupted continuity rather than help sustain it.

When you think about Hollywood and the three-act structure, each act essentially has a beginning, middle and end, so you can break a three-act screenplay down into nine plot points or sequences. You can show students Star Wars and break it down into sequences, and then they’ll understand how a season of streaming series works. For example, each episode of a nine-episode series, like Stranger Things, is one sequence of the whole. So the season becomes an extended screenplay in many ways. Once they understand this basic structure, they can think about what the entire season they want to write looks like.

It’s a good way to show them the foundational structure, even though contemporary shows tend to be more complex with non-linear storytelling, jumping back and forth. To fully understand their film and TV vocabulary, they need to see both classic and contemporary examples. For example, to better understand Parks and Rec, 30 Rock, or Abbott Elementary, they need to watch the original Mary Tyler Moore Show pilot for character development. If they want to understand Pluribus, they should look at what influenced Vince Gilligan, like Twilight Zone or even the philosophy of the original Star Trek—he’s obviously well-read and influenced by classic TV that he pays homage to. Without that context, they’ll watch Pluribus and only compare it to Netflix’s Black Mirror, missing the broader storytelling influences. Expanding their vocabulary is key. They might resent me for it, but once they understand the references, like in WandaVision, they know they see the connections thanks to what is taught in class.

Your research interests include television history and popular culture. For example, you have spoken publicly about your long-standing interest in the Muppets. What draws you to Henson’s creative philosophy, and how do you understand the Muppets’ cultural legacy within the broader history of American media? In what ways do
Henson’s world-building practices — his fusion of puppetry, humor, and emotional sincerity — inform your perspective on storytelling, character creation, or the pedagogical approaches you bring into your screenwriting courses?

I’ll start with the chronological answer, then move to the emotional one. Being of a certain age, I was the ideal target audience for all things Muppet. I was a first-generation Sesame Street viewer, born in the same year the show came on. So, I formed an early emotional bond with Sesame Street Muppet characters. By the time I was too old to watch a show aimed at preschoolers, The Muppet Show came on, which felt like a natural progression.

But on a deeper emotional level, I realized why I connected with the Henson philosophy and the Muppet characters as I got older. They were all eccentric non-conformists, marching to the beat of their own drum. Sometimes literally. These characters, Fozzie Bear, Kermit, Gonzo, Miss Piggy, had relatable needs each with unique emotional needs baked into them. For anyone growing up with a need for creative expression but no platform for it, these characters resonated deeply.

Jim Henson’s philosophy, that we all have something to offer and that it’s okay to be weird and different, was powerful. Growing up in the 70s, when everyone seemed to be wanting to fit in and conform to the norm, it was very appealing to see characters who just wanted to perform and express themselves. Fozzie Bear, for example, is not a good comedian, but he needs approval, undeterred by the two hecklers, Statler and Waldorf.
He just keeps trying! That perseverance and willingness to fail and keep going was incredibly appealing. In the classroom, I try to instill that same sense of individuality and encourage students to think not just about the words on the page but about what they bring and their unique experiences. It’s about embracing their creativity and individuality in the work they produce. I often end my advanced class with a quote attributed to Jim Henson: “Take what you’ve got and fly with it.” I think it’s just great advice!

Students really connect with that, especially when they’re exploring characters and stories about finding themselves, like in many of the shows and films they love. I can see how the Muppets, with their unique blend of individuality and perseverance, are very much in line with 70s culture and its focus on nostalgia and pastiche. But that’s a whole other conversation!

Your recent podcast conversation offered a nuanced reading of Saturday Night Live’s transformation. Prior to the podcast, you published on Saturday Night Live’s “lost seasons” and archival visibility. How did that project shift your understanding of media preservation, institutional memory, and cultural value? In what ways might this perspective be relevant to current debates about digital media and platform ephemerality? And perhaps, through another angle, what does SNL’s trajectory reveal about the changing dynamics of risk, innovation, and political discourse within American broadcast comedy?

One of my friends and colleagues from Newhouse, Dr. Charisse L’Pree, has a regular podcast on SNL. During the 50th anniversary celebration, they invited me to discuss how the show had evolved, which ties into an area I was particularly interested in. I think “the lost seasons project” really informed my understanding of the archive. It was an archival defense, and that’s where I had to define it through Derrida. It wasn’t
easy, but it was key to the project. The idea of who controls the archive has, by extension, control over the historical narrative is central. The two ideas, that is archiving and the lost seasons, went hand in hand.
That project became a way to challenge the narrative around those years of SNL, particularly from 1980 to 1985, which were often dismissed. The general historical narrative, for example, has been that after Lorne Michaels left in 1980 and Jean Doumanian briefly took over, followed by Dick Ebersol, the show was inferior. How do you follow the well-earned mythology surrounding the original cast? The myth was that these seasons were nothing more than an inferior imitation of SNL, and that Lorne Michaels’ return in 1985 saved the show.

That narrative was perpetuated by how the episodes from that period were archived. Many of those episodes are either missing or heavily edited, even in places like Peacock. They’ve shown up in syndication, but they’re not there in their entirety. The 80s episodes are often cut down to about 20 minutes, so you don’t have the chance to really get the full picture. Aside from occasional clips of Eddie Murphy, the breakout star
of that time, you don’t see much of those seasons. I think this downplays the contributions of those seasons. The general theme that went on was that the show became dumber and apolitical. And my argument was maybe there was more than they were given credit for.

In the most general sense, we talk about media ephemerality. Students mock me when I pull out a DVD; I might as well be pulling out a Betamax. But you want this, because your favorite show can just get pulled from circulation, which is what’s been happening for various reasons. Sometimes it’s about agendas, or cost-cutting, but things are disappearing from the archive. Look at what’s been going on with HBO Max, the streaming service for Warner Bros., a legacy studio, which should house the Warner Bros. Looney Tunes cartoons, some of the most iconic animated characters alongside Disney’s. You’d think HBO Max would be a natural home for those cartoons, but under Zaslav they were pulled for cost-cutting reasons. So now you can’t even watch a classic Bugs Bunny cartoon on HBO Max.

That’s just one example, but it speaks to a larger issue of how streaming as this rotating library has become the ultimate ephemeral entity, because they might be permanently out of stock or taken away because of rights clearances, which really reinforces the importance of having physical access to original materials. Sometimes that means owning the physical media, DVDs or whatever format, because streaming has made
media completely ephemeral.

For researchers too, there’s always this sense of incompleteness. If the entirety of a series isn’t available, it really affects the work. When I did my analysis of The Muppet Show, it was hindered because only three seasons were available on DVD. I randomized episodes from those, but some had to be disqualified because of music clearance issues, and even then the episodes themselves were incomplete.

Ideally, you want archives to be as complete as possible, for consumption, yes, but especially for research. There are things that are out of our control, like when they erased all those old episodes of The Tonight Show. With Saturday Night Live, for example, the materials exist; it’s just a matter of access. They’re there, but it would be great to have full availability so we can do real analysis. There’s probably no better show to analyze the latter 20 th century pop culture than Saturday Night Live. The music, the political satire, the mood of the country; you can see shifts over time, especially as it becomes more political during the Reagan and
Bush years. It all comes back to the same point: preserving the archive as much as possible.

Given the widespread popularity and critical success of many current television series, are you ever struck by audience reactions to shows that, from a screenwriting standpoint, you find less compelling or even structurally weak? I’m thinking in particular of the kinds of heated debates that unfold among scholars and TV/film enthusiasts across social media platforms. For example, recently I have seen many similar discussions on Pluribus; however, being a scholar of film aesthetics and sound, I don’t think I bring the same critical attention to storytelling that you do.

I come at it from a few different perspectives: as a former TV writer, a screenwriting professor, and just a regular viewer. My issue isn’t that the writing itself is weaker. That’s not what bothers me. The hill I die on is how the streaming season structure has changed storytelling. When I was working in TV, we did 24 or 26 episodes a season. Over time that number kept shrinking, and now the streaming norm is eight to ten episodes, sometimes followed by a couple of years of disappearance. Writers and producers are doing good work within that framework, but shorter seasons and dropping everything at once don’t always let stories breathe.

The counter-argument is that longer broadcast seasons meant more misses than hits, and that’s fair. But they also gave shows time. Sitcoms especially needed room to find their voice. Many shows we’re still talking about decades later needed that runway. Take The Golden Girls: as strong as it was out of the gate, you can still see them figuring out rhythm, relationships, and voice in those early episodes. That’s what I think is missing
now.

To their credit, some streamers are adjusting. Netflix realized that dumping everything at once kills the cultural conversation, so they split the final season of Stranger Things. Apple TV has been smart about weekly releases. Shows like Pluribus benefited from that because they stayed part of the conversation longer. And Pluribus in particular became a kind of Rorschach test; Stuart Hall would be smiling! It’s a dream case study.
Honestly, every humanities professor should probably send Vince Gilligan a thank-you basket, because it’s endless material for philosophy and sociology classes. What’s exciting is that people are engaging with a show intellectually. That doesn’t happen often anymore.

That tension between intention and audience reception isn’t new. When All in the Family aired, teachers requested study guides to use it in classrooms. At the same time, you had Archie Bunker for President T-shirts, which was first ironic, but then worn unironically. People would come up to Carroll O’Connor, a lifelong Democrat, and tell him, ‘You’re the man.’ They were emotionally identifying with Archie and missing the point. As one writer noted, those mugs and T-shirts kept selling long after teachers stopped asking for study guides. That tug-of-war never goes away.

I think Pluribus sustains that tension better than most. Like Severance, it is driven by ideas rather than aesthetics. There’s less danger of what happened with Succession, whose viewers missed the critique of moral bankruptcy of the filthy rich and instead focused on lifestyle fantasy. That’s not a knock on the creators; it’s about reception. When I watched the pilot of Pluribus, I immediately read it through my own experience,
being the lone liberal in a family that’s gone conservative. But at the same time, I’m realizing an anti-vaxxer is probably seeing this as a metaphor for their worldview, and a right winger is seeing this as a metaphor for the dangers of communism. It taps into philosophical ideas such as “Paradise without free will is just a pretty prison” and homages to that false-paradise idea in The Twilight Zone’s ‘A Nice Place to Visit’. And
also, maybe that’s my TV-nut brain, but Koumba Diabaté surrounded by models felt very much like Harry Mudd surrounded by beautiful androids in his second appearance on Star Trek (“I, Mudd”). Those references deepen the show and open it up to multiple readings. Everyone sees their own message reflected back. You see that online, too; people saying the hive mind -the joining- doesn’t sound so bad. That’s what makes it
such an effective utopia/dystopia.

That ties back to something else I took from Pluribus: the idea of groupthink. The constant use of ‘we,’ the chanting ‘Carol, please,’ felt like an allegory for the meme/the hashtag culture. Whether intentional or not, it’s a perfect image of contemporary culture, where ideas circulate endlessly and become consensus before anyone stops to question them. And that’s exactly why the show invites this kind of layered, sustained analysis. The challenge now is season two. That’s the downside of the streaming landscape; long gaps risk losing the cultural conversation. Look at Wednesday. Too much time passed, and people just forgot about it.

Looking ahead, what emerging questions in screenwriting, television history, or media arts are you thinking about in your research, teaching, or even in daily conversations? And finally, just remembering the recent two strikes of the Writers and the Actors Guilds in the US, I would like to ask how you think AI is going to affect the
industry, from screenwriting to production and post-production processes?

The emerging question now is artificial intelligence: what it’s going to do, and where it’s going to leave us. And that’s tough. I don’t want to be alarmist or paranoid, but without guardrails, I understand why people are genuinely worried. There are serious implications: people being put out of work, craftsmanship being slowly
replaced. Those concerns aren’t abstract; they’re real.

When it comes to teaching screenwriting, this is what makes the moment so challenging. Sometimes I feel a bit like Howard Beale at the end of Network, not the ‘I’m mad as hell’ speech, but that quieter moment after he’s won, when he realizes the system has already moved on, and the individual no longer seems to matter. Because how do I stand in front of students and talk about the value of the individual voice when
the landscape has been so radically disrupted?

Even without AI, opportunities have been shrinking. The old origin stories with the right place, right time, getting a foot in the door through production assistant work and slowly moving up those paths are far less accessible now. Students today are going to need even more luck than we had. And that’s hard to say out loud.

So when you’re teaching screenwriting now, you’re not just teaching craft. You’re also making a case for the value of human creativity, the individual voice, and the individual perspective. And you also have to be honest: the odds have gotten harder. Shorter seasons mean fewer scripts, smaller writing staffs, fewer jobs. Sitcoms, in particular, are at a disadvantage in the streaming landscape. A ten-episode half-hour season can be blown through in a night or two, whereas hour-long dramas at least linger longer in the culture.

The takeaway I keep coming back to is that students have to do this for the love of it. The money isn’t guaranteed the way it once was. The opportunities are in flux. That means people are going to have to find ways to tell stories on their own terms—through smaller, more personal, handmade projects. People have access now to tools and mini- studios we never had. They may not reach Game of Thrones–level audiences, but that can’t be the only metric.

What matters is continuing to tell stories. That’s the part AI can’t replace. There will always be audiences who consume whatever is put in front of them, but there will also always be people who can tell the difference. Just like when you read a student paper and immediately know whether a human mind is really there, audiences will recognize authentic voice and intention. That’s the value we’re fighting to preserve.

The Anatomy of Sound and Image in Contemporary Media: A Conceptual Journey with Arzu Karaduman in the Footsteps of Chion

2 December 20252 December 2025Gökhan Çolak Leave a comment

Interview Series: Beyond Synchrony: Dialogues on New Media and Sensory Aesthetics

1. Within the framework of your academic trajectory and theoretical orientation, what were the main intellectual or aesthetic motivations that led you to focus on moments in which synchronization breaks down? Could you explain how this interest emerged and what kind of shift it created in your research path?

My focus on asynchrony emerged from a moment of analytical failure. One evening at Georgia Tech, I was watching Nuri Bilge Ceylan’s Once Upon a Time in Anatolia with friends from the Turkish Student Organization who organized the screening. Midway through a dialogue scene, something happened that stopped me cold: the characters’ voices continued, but their lips no longer moved. I remember physically turning to scan the faces of my friends sitting next to me, curious to see whether anyone else was as startled as I was. The shock of the moment of my realization that I witnessed a genuinely new technique of cinematic audiovisual asynchrony compelled me to consult with my cohort as well as my professors in the Moving Image Studies program at Georgia State University. I knew this new technique was not an instance of internal monologue, not acousmatic voice, not a voice-over, not an ellipsis; none of the established categories in film sound theory applied. Out of my fascination with this technique emerged the concept of the “cryptic voice,” a voice that is simultaneously present and absent, uttered and withheld, audible yet refusing to align with the moving lips of its speaker. One of my most exciting publications is the forthcoming chapter in the Oxford Handbook of Media and Vocality, because it will introduce this foundational term more fully with an extended analysis of the dialogue scene in Once Upon a Time in Anatolia as well as another scene in Ceylan’s Three Monkeys.

The cryptic voice became the conceptual spark that redirected my research toward identifying and naming the new sound-image relations as they emerge in contemporary cinema. This shift eventually led to my broader methodological framework, anasonicity, which examines what I describe as spectral, barely audible, or structurally “unsyncable” sounds in contemporary global cinemas. My project “Sounding Anew: Anasonicity in Contemporary Global Cinemas” revisits existing film sound terminology and proposes “anasonicity” as a new methodological approach designed to address emerging sound techniques that transform conditions of audibility and inaudibility in contemporary cinematic experiences. Taken together, these sounds radically disrupt synchronization and require new modes of listening, while the films that deploy them unsettle linear temporality by rendering the sounds of past, present, and future indistinguishable within their narrative worlds.

I call “Sounding Anew” the sonic counterpart of Akira Lippit’s Atomic Light (Shadow Optics). The conceptual seed for anasonicity –or asonority, as I use the terms interchangeably– was planted in Lippit’s formulation of avisuality, his term for the paradox of what is visual yet invisible, an impossible type of visuality that emerges with the birth of cinema, the X-ray, and psychoanalysis in 1895. Lippit’s insight is that by the late twentieth century, the image itself had begun to exceed the limits of visibility. Anasonicity takes up that provocation on the terrain of sound. If avisuality charts the limits of seeing, anasonicity attends to a parallel shift in our experience of hearing that happens a hundred years later: sounds that slip between the audible and the inaudible, voices that fall out of synchronization in completely new ways, sounds that refuse to anchor themselves in time. Attending to the contemporary anasonic nature of cinema then, I name the emerging sonic techniques that trouble what we think sound is supposed to do in cinema, and, by doing so, ask us to critically attend to such moments that demand a new ear and a new thinking.

2. Your work appears to resonate with Michel Chion’s approach to the sound–image relationship. How has Chion’s theoretical framework shaped your scholarly orientation, and in what ways do you expand, reinterpret, or challenge the conceptual space he opened?

Michel Chion remains foundational for thinking about cinematic sound: his attention to the phenomenology of listening created the conceptual template many of us have inherited. While serious scholarly engagement with sound and sound–image relations began in earnest with the 1980 Cinema/Sound special issue of Yale French Studies under Rick Altman’s editorship, it was Chion’s Audio-Vision that became truly indispensable to the evolution of film sound studies. Since the 1980s, the field has expanded and transformed, but Chion’s framework endures as one of its most generative intellectual anchors.

I was particularly impressed by Chion’s capacity to generate incisive terminology in Audio-Vision, especially his formulation of the acousmêtre, which offered a model for how conceptual precision can illuminate phenomena that had long remained elusive. Among all the formal elements of cinema, sound is notoriously difficult to analyze, and Chion’s work demonstrates a rare patience, rigor, and passion for close listening.

Chion visited Atlanta to give a talk at Emory in 2017. Having encountered the cryptic voice in Once Upon a Time in Anatolia, I carried my bewilderment directly to him. After his lecture, I approached him to recount the dialogue scene and to ask what he made of the voice emerging from unmoving lips. He knew the film well and immediately remembered the scene, and yet his response, “It’s just the ambience!” sounded unexpectedly dismissive and was invaluable precisely because it exposed the limits of our established vocabulary. My aim is not to overturn Chion’s legacy but to expand and complexify the conceptual field by naming new audiovisual phenomena that contemporary cinema is producing. In this sense, I see terms such as anasonicity, cryptic voice, echoing sonic flashback, and muted image as the next theoretical steps after Chion: concepts that build on his groundwork but are calibrated for an emerging audiovisual landscape and explained through deep philosophical engagements.

3. The original English terms you have developed to describe moments in which synchronization slips, breaks, or is intentionally disrupted offer a significant contribution to the literature. How does your process of conceptual creation unfold? What theoretical, aesthetic, or phenomenological criteria guide the emergence of a new term?

A new term never precedes the phenomenon; it arises only when a film insists on it. My process is grounded in close listening —what I call a gesture of “listening through,” borrowing from Derrida’s method of “reading through” texts against themselves— and in allowing films to challenge the limits of the theoretical lexicon we already possess. This careful act of listening through these films involves returning to a scene again and again, hearing it anew each time, in repetitions that arrive with difference and produce something new each time. After all, many of the sounds I study are barely audible, and some of the techniques I name appear only fleetingly in most films rather than in extended sequences like the example in Once Upon a Time in Anatolia. So an attentive ear is the key to the process.

Sometimes colleagues and friends help direct my attention to certain films. After my first presentation on the “echoing sonic flashback” in The Revenant (Alejandro González Iñárritu, 2015) at the Sinefilozofi Symposium in 2022, Dr. Serdar Öztürk mentioned a brief but striking use of the cryptic voice in Pelin Esmer’s Something Useful (2017), which I am presenting on at this year’s symposium. I am equally grateful to Jordan Chrietzberg, who recommended The Zone of Interest (Jonathan Glazer, 2023); to Jazmine Hudson, who pointed me toward Sinners (Ryan Coogler, 2025); and to Cameron Kunzelman, who suggested Memoria (Apichatpong Weerasethakul, 2021). These recommendations become invitations to texts that demand to be listened to with care. I am currently extending my research on what I term The Anasonic Zone of Interest, have begun developing a piece on Sinners, and still await the opportunity to encounter Memoria, whose limited circulation has made it particularly difficult to find.

To clarify the process of conceptual creation, I could list three simultaneous criteria that guide the emergence of terminology:
• Phenomenological precision: What exactly is being heard? At what level of perception: audible, barely audible, spectral, remembered, virtual?
• Narrative function: How does the sound alter temporality, embodiment, relations to memory, or the ethical space between characters?
• Theoretical necessity: Can existing terminology account for the phenomenon? If not, what new concept is required, and what conceptual gap does it fill?

I call these subcategories of anasonic sounds “impossible,” because their functions stretch the boundaries of audiovisual asynchrony as defined in established film sound scholarship. Cryptic voice, for instance, emerged from recognizing a voice that is spoken, heard by other characters, and fully audible—yet unaccompanied by lip movement. Echoing sonic flashback, which I explore through Park Chan-wook’s Lady Vengeance in my recent chapter for Derrida and Film Studies, names a distinctive form of aural flashback that operates like an echo, where past sounds reverberate closely following the present sounds like an echo. The muted image (bridge), which I introduce in a forthcoming 2027 article for a Derrida Today special issue on Anatomy of a Fall (Justine Triet, 2023), describes an impossible form of synchronization between images and sounds across two scenes, creating an impossible match that dislocates spatial or temporal continuity.

In each case, I am identifying an impossible doubleness: sounds that are both present and absent, synchronous and asynchronous, grounded or embodied and spectral. I guess my genuine curiosity drives the will to coin new terms each time I notice a mismatch between sound and image in contemporary films. Ultimately, conceptual creation begins with listening to what cinema is doing—and inventing terminology only when existing language can no longer describe its operations.

4. In contemporary cinema and television, the sound–image relationship is increasingly heterogeneous, fragmented, and often deliberately detached. How do you interpret this trend in relation to the broader transformation of contemporary narrative structures? What does this growing separation reveal about the perceptual habits of today’s audiences?

Contemporary audiovisual storytelling has moved further from classical notions of linearity, audiovisual unity, and strict synchronization, even in realist films or TV dramas. Rather than treating the soundtrack as a stable accompaniment to the image, or simply as its subordinate, many contemporary films mobilize sound as an autonomous and sometimes unpredictable force, which I find exhilarating. This fragmentation or destabilization reflects a broader transformation in contemporary narrative structures; stories increasingly unfold not as single temporal continuums but as intertwined temporal planes: memory, anticipation, dream, trauma, regret, and potentiality. For instance, my work on “crystal sounds” in contemporary global cinema and television traces multiple instances of these destabilizing sonic formations, even in otherwise completely disparate texts such as Barry Jenkins’s Moonlight and HBO’s Westworld. And I am certain there are further cases that similarly stray from conventional sound–image coherences.

New forms of asynchrony, in this context, become a perceptual challenge even in the already fragmented and contemporary narratives. These texts ask audiences to feel before they identify, to listen before they decode, and, to borrow from my own method, to “listen through,” again and attentively. Their refusal of easy comprehension is not unwarranted; I think they resist disposability. These works gain their ontological power from their radical sonic, audiovisual, and narrative experimentations. They force us to return to certain scenes repeatedly, to be able to engage with them at the philosophical level they operate.

Contemporary viewers are accustomed to media environments where multiple temporalities and sources coexist; streaming interfaces, multi-screen displays, algorithmic feeds inundate our everyday realities. Their perceptual habits have become layered, fragmented, and non-linear. Cinema is responding in kind, producing radical forms of asynchrony that not only resonate with these habits but also challenge the audiences further by demanding deep philosophical engagements.

Many of the films I study enact what Derrida calls différance, a temporal and spatial deferral, or what Deleuze theorizes as the “crystal,” an indiscernibility between the actual and the virtual. In this sense, the separation of sound from image is not fragmentation for its own sake. It is a mode of attunement to contemporary subjectivity, a way of making perceptible the disjunctions, overlays, and spectral echoes that define our media-saturated lives. And it is often precisely this radical rethinking of audiovisual relations that allows these films to do philosophy.

The digital media ecosystem—including streaming platforms, social media videos, and multi-screen environments—introduces new technical and aesthetic challenges to sound–image synchronization. How do you think these environments reshape the audiovisual relationship? Do you see these synchronization shifts evolving from technical glitches into deliberate aesthetic strategies?

Yes, what once appeared as “errors” or “glitches” are now being absorbed as expressive strategies. Digital media environments including streaming platforms, TikTok videos, algorithmically compressed sound files, autoplay transitions, and skip functions normalize the experience of rupture, elision, and discontinuity. Cinema has responded by formalizing these experiences: asynchronous editing, displaced soundtracks, spectral voices, or echoes of the past that intrude on present time. For example, the echoing sonic flashback or the cryptic voice are not accidents of mishandling but deliberate manipulations that express heterogeneity of time through memory, trauma, displacement, or temporal paralysis.

Of course, tight synchronization between image and sound and the accompanying expectations of temporal continuity and linear narrative progression remain the norm if we consider the thousands of films produced globally each year. However, the shift from analog to digital has introduced new aesthetic sensibilities and technical possibilities that continue to reshape what filmmakers can do with the soundtrack. For example, Mark Kerins was one of the first scholars to trace a level of sonic complexity to the creative potential of surround-sound multichannel formats. Others have similarly noted the increasing indistinction between sound effects and music in contemporary digital sound design, where layers of sonic material can be manipulated with extraordinary precision.

Digital tools have made it possible to craft soundtracks that are denser, richer, and more structurally complex. As a result, synchronicity is no longer the default formal expectation but merely one option among many. Digital media and digital culture defined by compression artifacts, algorithmic modulation, nonlinear temporality, and platform-specific listening habits have fundamentally transformed the conditions of auditory perception. In my scholarship, I see that cinema has responded the transformed conditions of audibility by experimenting with the dramatic and philosophical possibilities of what I call “unsyncability”. Conversely, and perhaps more intriguingly, we can argue that cinema has anticipated and even instructed the audiovisual logics of emerging technologies and those who design them. For instance, I claim that the technique of the muted image that foregrounds voice as media in the impossible synchronization between the voice and a pair of foreign lips reappears today in the artificial synthesis of prosthetic voices and faces in deepfakes and AI-generated content of our current media ecology.

Publishing all your work and terminology in English makes your concepts more visible in international scholarship. How does this linguistic choice influence your theoretical framework? In what ways does producing terminology in English shape the nature or boundaries of your conceptual work?

To be completely honest with you, I have never pursued scholarly work in any language other than English. I attended Zonguldak Atatürk Anatolian High School, where nearly all courses were taught in English. My B.A. in American Culture and Literature and my M.A. in Media and Visual Studies at Bilkent University continued this trajectory, as English was the institutional language of instruction. As a result, my intellectual formation, reading habits, writing practices, and theoretical vocabulary have all been shaped entirely in English.

At the same time, English is the primary language of global academic discourse in Film and Sound Studies, and developing my terminology in English ensures that the concepts circulate widely beyond national contexts. I see scholars writing in languages other than English like German, Portuguese, or Finnish citing my published works. I am not sure that publishing these concepts first in Turkish would have enabled that kind of international reach.

English also imposes a productive rigor. It demands conceptual precision: a new term must justify itself etymologically, analytically, and philosophically. This pressure toward clarity ultimately strengthens the concepts. For example, asonority could not have existed merely as a convenient linguistic parallel to Lippit’s avisuality, that is an elegant analogy invented in the final sentences of a 16-hour comprehensive exam. That day at GSU, I simply coined it without knowing what it meant or how to fully theorize it, and I finished my exam with a long list of questions in the space allocated for answers. Asonority/anasonicity had to accrue methodological and analytical clarity, enough to withstand the scrutiny of my dissertation committee: Angelo Restivo, Alessandra Raengo, Calvin H. Thomas, and especially Akira Lippit as my outside reader. I am deeply grateful for their patience, which allowed the concept to mature into the methodological framework it finally evolved into. In short, English, despite being my second language, has been a conceptual and philosophical playground for me throughout my entire academic life.

Looking toward the future of your research, what new theoretical questions are you pursuing within the study of sound–image relations? Are there particular themes or conceptual directions you plan to deepen in your upcoming work?

My current trajectory continues to expand the conceptual umbrella of anasonicity. At present, I am in conversation with Palgrave regarding my first book project, which will likely take the form of a short pivot, given that I have already published several peer-reviewed articles and chapters that have divided the larger project into smaller, thematically coherent components. I am also working on an article titled “Au revoir to voix: Muted Images in Anatomy of a Fall,” which introduces the term muted image as a technique that produces an impossible synchronization by pairing the visuals of one scene with the soundtrack of another. To my knowledge, the first use of this technique appears in Park Chan-wook’s Lady Vengeance (2005) and later at the climax of Justine Triet’s Anatomy of a Fall (2023).

A second term I am developing is the “meta-burden of representation,” which I use to analyze the self-reflexive structure of Cord Jefferson’s American Fiction. Here, Jefferson responds to the long-discussed “burden of representation” placed on artists from marginalized communities, yet does so within a work that becomes, through its very critique, burdened by the same representational expectations. This concept expands existing theories of race and representation by foregrounding the recursive, self-conscious pressures placed on creative labor itself.
Concurrently, I am pursuing a chapter for Bloomsbury’s The Music Video Industry: Interviews, Close Looks, and Takes, in which I examine the expanded terrain of the music video through an interview-based study of The Seasons, a large-scale audiovisual collaboration between composer Sebastian Currier and filmmaker Paweł Wojtasik. Among the questions I will bring to the artists first and then elaborate upon analytically in the second part are: How might we understand the lineage between expanded cinema as presented in concert halls (where films are screened with live accompaniment) and in museums (as installation-based, multi-format objects) and the contemporary music video? And, conversely, do music videos or experimental films with a music-video logic—Álvarez’s Now!, Conner’s Cosmic Ray and A Movie, Anger’s Scorpio Rising, Workman’s Precious Images, Devo’s Mongoloid—inform The Seasons’ approach to structure, rhythm, and montage?

Finally, although my published scholarship has thus far been exclusively in English, I intend to return to Turkish cinema with sustained attention. I have long been drawn to the sonic textures of New Turkish Cinema (mid-1990s to the present). Therefore, my next major project will be a second monograph on the sounds of this cinematic movement, exploring how the oeuvres of Reha Erdem, Pelin Esmer, Nuri Bilge Ceylan, Emin Alper, and Tayfun Pirselimoğlu respond sonically—as much as thematically—to the country’s evolving political landscape. This project will allow me to bring my conceptual framework into dialogue with the cinematic traditions that shaped my sensibilities, potentially in a bilingual format.

Across these endeavors, the guiding question remains constant:
What new forms of listening does contemporary media demand, and what new vocabulary must we devise to account for them?

From Travel Writing to Local News: A Professional Journey with Hailey Fulmer

13 August 2025Gökhan Çolak Leave a comment

Interview Series: Creative Writing Adventures of Young Journalists

Academic Journey

What motivated you the most to pursue a graduate degree in journalism at NYU?

I was motivated to pursue a graduate degree in journalism at NYU because of my passion for storytelling. I wanted to pursue a career where I could have a platform to write and showcase my work, but more importantly, I wanted to make a difference with my voice. I enjoy providing others the opportunity to share their stories and the value they bring.

I graduated with my Bachelor’s degree in English at Mount St. Mary’s University in May of 2024. I spent the first month of that summer job searching; however, I felt like something was missing. Many of my family and friends encouraged me to become a teacher; however, I knew it wasn’t for me. I felt very lost in my future career at first, because I knew I loved to write, but unfortunately, an oversaturated job market was not in my favor. I pursued an English degree because I wanted to pursue writing, and I was not willing to give that up.

With further discussion with family and friends, the idea of pursuing my master’s had been thrown around, but I didn’t know exactly what I wanted to do yet. I decided to set up a virtual meeting with one of my career counselors for further guidance. He encouraged me to apply to NYU’s AJO (American Journalism Online). With only about a month until the deadline, I applied and was accepted. I never thought that this was the path I was going to take, but everything about the program– the community, support system, and the academic growth– I wouldn’t trade it for the world.

Creative Background & Journalism

How do you think your background in creative editing and theater has influenced your approach to news writing?

I enjoy creating visual scenes that appeal to a reader’s eye, and I believe that creative writing and theater have helped me express a range of emotions in my reporting. In theater, I enjoyed acting out and studying scenes that express vulnerable emotions. During my undergrad, I wasa part of a play called The Wolves, which was about a group of high school soccer players experiencing young adulthood and navigating their issues. I played the goalie, a character who is a perfectionist and suffers from anxiety attacks. In one scene, I was on stage alone, and my character had a moment of breaking down. It was just me on the stage, and I had to capture the intense emotions– hyperventilating, crying, screaming, and anger. With creative writing, you create different emotions and images, but in the form of writing. Even if I am writing a hard news story, you need to be able to garner a reader’s attention, so having the ability to carry heavyemotions in your writing is important.

Travel Writing Inspiration

How did your study abroad experience in Dublin shape your interest in travel writing? Could you share a standout memory from your time there?

For one, studying abroad is probably one of the best experiences you could ever have in your young adulthood. No matter what you are studying, it really opens your mind, and it not only helps shape your academic and career goals, but you also gain so much personal growth. I decided to do it in my fall senior year, which is not typically ideal, but before I started my college journey, I told myself that I would do it, and it was then or never. While I was there, my professor assigned us assignments that catered to Irish culture– we not only wrote, but we also read a lot of travel writing. One of the stories, “Europe Through an Open Door” by Rick Steves, is a travel book that encourages travelers to experience what is beyond typical tourist destinations. This story opened my mindto focus on destinations that are underappreciated. So, when I would write, I made sure to find experiences that were as unique as possible.

I would sit alone in a small, quiet pub away from the city and learn some of its history. My friends and I did a ‘staycation’ in a small town called Sligo. Our Airbnb was in the middle of nowhere, and we had to walk almost an hour to get to town. We wanted to go to a small Irish pub down the road, which was difficult to get to since taxis rarely came out where we were. Finally, when our taxi driver pulled up to our Airbnb, he laughed when we told him we were going to ‘Ellen’s Pub’. It made sense when we arrived; it looked like a shack-like building. We ended up chatting with some locals, and a small Irish band gave us an intimate concert in the backroom– it was dark, and it felt as if I was sitting around a campfire listening to classic Irish tunes. Moments like those give you opportunities to write about personal and engaging experiences.

The connections that you can make while exploring another country create memories you will never forget, eager to write down quickly in your journal, which will later turninto a developed narrative.

Storytelling Approach

When covering topics like the job market, do you prioritize human stories or data in your reporting? What advantages do you find in your approach?

Covering topics like the job market, I tend to prioritize human stories rather than reporting. I mostly do this because these types of stories are personal to me, and I think people’s stories are more raw instead of throwing a reader a bunch of data to read. Not that a lot of data is bad, but for me, I enjoy focusing on the story aspect because those emotions from real people get reactions from other people. When you get reactions from other people, they are more inclined to advocate what you are advocating for, and then you know you have made a difference. I actually just had a job interview, and one of my stories that talks about the job market caught the hiring manager’s eye. He referenced it, which made me feel really good because it’s like, if a hiring manager brought up one of my stories I wrote about the decline of the job market, then I clearly made some kind of difference.

I also enjoy telling the stories of others because it amplifies their voice and makes them feel seen and heard. I have recently interviewed a lot of political figures in my area, and they talked about how they feel about the current political environment. They shared where they came from, their journey to how they got towhere they are today and what has inspired them in their careers. Being given a platform to share these stories is very rewarding.

AI and News Production

How do you evaluate the impact of artificial intelligence (e.g., Google Gemini) on news production processes, particularly in stories like Marc Robin and Fulton Theater?

I evaluate a lot of this impact by asking myself how we can use it, without getting rid of the human aspect of the craft. Although many of us disagree with artificial intelligence, it stillcontinues to evolve, so we may eventually reach a point where it’s difficult to avoid it. When I interviewed Marc Robin, the current artistic director of Fulton Theater, he talked about how they started to incorporate the Google Gemini with grant research, so it really speeds up thatprocess and leaves more room for creative development on the theater’s end, which I think is great.

If we can use it separately to leave room to further develop the craft of journalism, then journalists can further elevate their stories. In my interview with Robin, he expressed hisconcerns over the overuse of AI. Artificial intelligence is not able to mimic human emotion, so similarly to theater, as journalists, you are expressing the emotions of other people.

There are many ethical boundaries along with AI, but there is so much practical use to it. I think many people, especially in this industry, may be opposed to it. But, I would say in my program, I have learned a lot about its practical use, and I have found myself utilizing it as a research tool.

Local Journalism & Audience Connection

In focusing on local and specific news like election security in Pennsylvania, what do you think is the most effective way to build an emotional connection with your readers?

I focus a lot of my coverage on policies and issues that are important to communities in Pennsylvania. I want readers to be able to feel how much the story is rooted in their community— specifically Pennsylvania as a swing state, there is a lot at stake with elections. Right now, there are specific areas that are seeing a lot more blue especially after the No Kings Day protest.

I see the passion in the people that I talk to, and I translate that passion into a story. A lot of the local politicians I talk to have families, and they see a lot of issues that directly impact their children and their experiences, so translating that in my reporting carries a lot of weight. For
me, the most effective way I have found to build this emotional connection is to talk to local people who are passionate about specific issues and get their story out there. I also incorporate the “what’s next” aspect of the story, basically what could happen if a certain outcome would occur with a policy or election. It develops a connection for readers because these issues may directly impact them personally.

Political Coverage Insights

What were some key findings from your work on campaign ads during the 2024 election cycle? What do you pay attention to when reporting on such content?

Many of my key findings were based on how meaningless the ads were, despite Pennsylvania being a swing state. I paid a lot of attention to how much each candidate was spending on political ads. Despite the increased expenditures from previous elections, people didn’t seem to care for it. I think this comes from people already deep into their beliefs and wanting to see more action. People that I talked to rather see the money being spent on more beneficial projects. It’s important to pay attention to what people actually care about, because you see a lot of things that politicians say or advertise things, but there may be little action on their end. You have to really pay attention to what people actually care about when reporting crucial moments in an election season.

Future Perspectives

Are there new areas you plan to focus on in your journalism career? For example, digital journalism, data journalism, or freelance work?

My goal one day is to get into investigatihtve journalism. I really want to invest my time in underrepresented communities. A dream of mine is to go into film and produce a documentary to cover the work I do. Kiki Mordi’s work as an investigative journalist has been really inspiring to me. She produced a BBC documentary called Sex for Grades exposing lecturers in Ghana and Nigeria that were sexually harassing their students. In the documentary she also shared her own experience of sexual abuse and harassment.

She experienced a lot of misogynistic attacks, which says how much the media can try to silence your work. I look up to her because despite attacks online, she pushed through the people that tried to discredit her. For me, I want to think about the community that I am doing this work for and how they are impacted because it’ll always remind me how much change you can really bring with your work.

Crafting Stories with Data: Lizzie Walsh’s Journey in Climate and Health Journalism

27 July 202527 July 2025Gökhan Çolak Leave a comment

Interview Series: Narrating for the Public Good: Journalism, Data, and Responsibility

I. From Advertising to Journalism: A Story of Transformation

How do you think your five years as a copywriter in the healthcare sector have shaped your writing style and journalistic language today?

Most of my copywriting job was combing through clinical trial data of new pharmaceutical drugs and turning those facts into something that made sense to doctors and consumers. It was a tricky task to balance the desires of the client, who obviously wanted their drug to sell, and making sure my data visualizations and summaries met all these different regulatory standards. But at the end of the day, once you figure out a way to “tell the story”, you just tell it over and over: copy and paste it into a banner ad, a doctor’s office pamphlet, a video script. That story only changes when you get new clinical trial data or start working on something completely new.

After five years of working on different drugs and with different data, I got better at writing about facts in a compelling and clear way. It helped me learn how to visualize the story that the numbers tell, which I do a lot of in my reporting today. And though working with pharmaceutical clients is different from working with editors, it helped me get used to writing feedback. Those clients didn’t care about ripping apart my copy and hurting my feelings, so I developed a pretty thick skin when it comes to editing.

Working with FDA bureaucracy gave you a behind-the-scenes look at the system. Which aspects of the system did you gain the most insight into, and how do these experiences reflect in your journalism?

I talk about this a lot to anyone who will listen: our for-profit healthcare system is so broken in so many ways. There are so many players in the healthcare world: you’ve got the pharma companies looking to make money and beat out the competitor drug, doctors trying to make the right decision for their patient in a crowded drug landscape, and the patient, but you’ve also got a whole host of other intermediary players all trying to accomplish a slightly different thing. And usually that thing isn’t just trying to keep people healthy at a reasonable cost to the patient.

I think what I took away from “seeing behind the curtain” of American healthcare is that so many parts of the system are needlessly complicated, and most of those complications come from each player trying to get the most money out of a drug sale. The distributors, private insurance companies, pharmacy benefit managers—they all want a little piece of it for themselves. I got fed up with the whole thing, and wanted to use my writing and data analysis skills for something that’s useful to real people. I try to pair the hard facts with real human experiences, because those stories so often get lost along the way in our for-profit healthcare system.

We think you play a kind of “translator” role when presenting scientific data to the public. How would you define this role?

In the advertising world, we were called “creatives”, which I always thought was kind of funny. Because 90% of that job was about being factual and clear and following the rules your client gives you. But journalism lends itself to actual creativity: original concepts and new ways of looking at a problem, critical data analysis, writing and rewriting and rewriting again to create the best version of the story you’re trying to tell. In science and health journalism, that story often starts with jargon-filled research papers or trade publication press releases. It’s more than just finding the right synonym or defining a scientific term (which you actually don’t want to do too much, or you’ll put the reader to sleep), it’s about choosing the information that’s most important.

Authors hire translators to publish their books in other languages, but those translators do so much more than just replacing words with other words. You have to balance meaning, tone, and style, all while preserving the original intent of the writer.

II. Data, Health, and Narrative: Intersections in Journalism

We see you use tools like GitHub and Python and work in data-driven journalism. How do technical tools contribute to your storytelling?

I’m still pretty new to Python and coding languages, but so far I’ve really found these tools help me synthesize and make sense of information, which is always step one. Then I figure out how to present it in a really clear, compelling way to readers.

I recently worked on an investigation of lead in drinking water tap samples across New York City, and I created a website that lets the reader type in their address and see if their apartment has lead pipes or is served by a contaminated water tank. I could have directed them to a complicated map or listed out the locations of all the dirty water tanks in the city, but giving readers a simple interactive to play with is a better way to get people engaged with the story and see why it’s meaningful to them.

What strategies do you use to make complex topics like health and climate more accessible?

I think it’s a combination of things: pulling out the main takeaways that make it relatable and pertinent to the lay-reader, and driving home “the point”, whatever that may be. “Here’s what you need to know, here’s why it matters, and here’s what might happen next.” Writing simply is important for these kinds of stories.
There’s also something to be said for rhythm and pacing in a story, because you’ve got to think about the reader’s experience. When are they going to get bored? How can I cut out the fluff and keep the story moving? Those are all helpful strategies when writing about data and research. A really simple way of doing this is alternating short and long sentences. I think journalists can learn from writers like Shakespeare, Toni Morrison, or Cormac McCarthy, who clearly thought a lot about rhythm and cadence in their work. You might not be writing high literature, but you can still try to make the writing sing.

III. Alternative Narrative Forms and Future Vision

What is the role of alternative media in highlighting critical issues like public health, sustainability, and climate change?

I associate alternative media with original voices and people who refute cultural norms. Right now we’re seeing a lot of corporate influence in newsrooms, which has always been the case to some degree, but in this really polarized political and cultural climate I think more people are aware of it. Independent, alternative outlets can circumvent the status quo and bring attention to stories that big legacy newspapers with corporate interests might not want to.

In this context, how do you define “alternative media,” and where do you place your own work within this framework?

I’m not sure I place myself in the alternative media landscape, because I’m a fairly new journalist and am still learning the basics of the structural craft. I’m not sure I really fit anywhere at the moment.

I will say that, as a data fellow and reporting intern at the digital nonprofit newsroom The City, and it’s been really wonderful to see how a smaller newsroom functions. We get to pitch stories that need to be told, research and talk to people, run copy through our editors, and publish the pieces shortly thereafter. I think the small, scrappy, nonprofit outfit is an alternative to the larger, corporate newsrooms, and I think the reporting process at The City prioritizes the reporter and the people the reporter is writing about. The problem is we don’t have as many resources as, say, The New York Times, which I think is probably the case for a lot of alternative or nonprofit media. But having more money doesn’t necessarily mean you’re doing better work. I could go deeper into the ways I’ve seen that reality bear out… but I’d rather not incriminate myself to future employers.

The takeaway? We need more funding for smaller, nonprofit newsrooms, because those are the places doing important work. Local news is so, so important. Maybe that’s an alternative-enough stance. We’ve seen so many local news outlets disappear after losing funding, and it’s really detrimental for the journalism industry and the people it serves.

Is there a publication you dream of working with in the future? For example, would you like to work at Scientific American?

I’d love to work at Scientific American! Their pieces got me hooked on science journalism, so that would definitely be a dream job. I also love the work that STAT and ProPublica do. I have to say, though, working full-time at The City would also be a dream job. I’m just an intern, but my editors are really wonderful, smart people doing really important work.

What are your thoughts on the importance of journalism that carries public responsibility today? In an era where data-driven content production is widespread, how do you think journalism’s role in serving the public good should be redefined?

Data can help cut through the noise. We’re swamped by media in all different forms these days, and it’s hard to know what to pay attention to. Data tells a real story–it’s not just the experience of one person or group, but about what’s been happening to many people over time.

Of course, you need the human element in there, but that’s just data too, if you think about it. News is data. That TikTok video about the new Korean skin serum is data. The trick is making sense of it, and that’s a journalist’s job. We’ve got to make sense of it, question our own sense-making, and when it’s ready, share it with readers who get to make sense of it too.

CINEMA AESTHETICS IN THE ANTHROPOCENE: AN INTERVIEW WITH JENNIFER FAY

18 July 2025Gökhan Çolak Leave a comment

Interview Series: Climate Crisis in Cinema: Rewriting the Planet’s Story Through Visual Narratives

Gertrude Conaway Vanderbilt Professor of Cinema & Media Arts Professor of English | German, Russian, and East European Studies Vanderbilt University

Cinema and the Anthropocene

In Inhospitable World, you explore how cinema functions not only as a medium of representation but also as a site of environmental struggle and aesthetic refusal. How do you think cinema—especially narrative cinema—responds to the epistemological and material challenges of the Anthropocene?

Narrative cinema, as opposed to documentary, responds to the Anthropocene in a few different ways. And, of course, much depends on how the Anthropocene is defined as a political and environmental crises, historical phenomenon, and/ or cultural logic. I’ve been interested in narrative films that thematize anthropogenic weather and pointedly artificial environments, on one hand, and others that bring to the fore, as a matter of design, massive infrastructure projects such as mega-dams, highways, big agriculture (to name a few) that have altered, profoundly and at a planetary level, the surface of the earth and the movement of water, animals, and people. There are contemporary narrative films that respond to the Anthropocene thematically by taking up plots about climate change. But there are others that can be more interesting to study that set fictional stories against backdrops in which the forces of the Anthropocene are on display, but not at the forefront of the story.

And we can also study fiction films made in studios, long before the Anthropocene was discovered, that thematize weather and atmosphere as designed or artificially produced rather than naturally given. Sometimes this is obvious in the plotting or a matter of knowing production history. This idea of artificial or anthropogenic weather, “nature,” and world have always been at the center of narrative films where the need to control and reproduce environmental conditions is paramount to efficient production, perhaps especially when, in the film, the effect is supposed to look contingent and natural. In this way, we can see designed environments (including calamitous weather) as an aesthetic practice of cinema that is connected to the cultural forces and impacts that give rise to Anthropocene conditions.

The term “inhospitability” that you foreground resonates with the unlivable conditions of both planetary ecosystems and cinematic spaces. How does this notion help us understand the aesthetic or ethical function of discomfort in environmental film?

Inhospitality is meant to describe a few things. First, it refers to the world of the Anthropocene that is increasingly unlivable to most Holocene life. I focus on the 20 th century and period of the Great Acceleration in which the explosive rise of consumer capitalism and visions of a “good life” in the mostly white western world destroy the environmental conditions on which all life on the planet are predicated. Cinema is complicit with this culture of accumulation.

Historically Hollywood films have advertised images of “the good life” to spectators all over the world to imitate, and cinema is, for the most part, a resource-intensive entertainment in all phases of production, distribution, and exhibition, whether as celluloid projected in the theater or as streaming content. But this also an artform that sheds light on the climate catastrophe. The world we see projected on screen represents and may mirror the one we inhabit. Thus, cinema offers a way of viewing our world at a remove from which we may contemplate the relationship between a pattern of life and the natural resources or petrochemicals that give rise to it.

Second, hospitality speaks to the ethical relationship between guests and hosts, of who welcomes whom. Inhospitality gestures to a refusal of these terms, and not only between people. Hospitality between people presumes that the earth is a home to the lifeforms that have evolved here. The earth’s hospitality is no longer assured. Finally, I am interested in the world of the film and the image. What does it mean to take up residence in an image? Are there forms of environmentally-minded cinema that refuse that invitation? Other films may welcome us to an image where we may not find a place for living in the world.

How might film’s aesthetic choices—such as composition, sound, duration—contribute to either revealing or concealing ecological fragility?

Cinema is an aesthetic arrangement of material that viewers may not otherwise perceive or take the time to notice in the real world, and this goes for a range of phenomena people, animals, places, and environments. Cinema allows us to take another look and have a second or third thought about the things we see and hear; a film may give us a view on the world that exceeds or defamiliarizes human perception and attention. I am among scholars interested in so-called slow cinema, Tsai Ming-liang, Jia Zhang-ke, Kelly Reichart, to name just three directors with environmental attunements and a penchant for long takes that give us time to become absorbed in an image and its sounds and also to become curious about what is beyond the frame. At the same time, cinema may also keep the world and its crises from view. It all depends on who is conceiving of the film, controlling the camera, and making decisions about what film-goers get to see.

Genres and Forms

There is often a tension between mainstream cinema’s spectacular tendencies and its capacity to provoke ecological awareness. Do you believe that popular genres (sci-fi, disaster, thriller) are capable of engaging critically with the Anthropocene—or does this role fall more effectively to experimental or documentary forms?

Big-budget mainstream films may not take the political risks of documentary and experimental films, and so it makes sense to look beyond the cineplex for meaningful work about our climate crisis. But this is also where film criticism intervenes to consider how even seemingly apolitical or banal genre films are saying something worthy of attention. For example, I find the totally banal Geostorm to be kind of interesting as a post-apocalyptic film. The scenario is that the planet’s entire climate system has collapsed and is now regulated through satellites. When we encounter this post- apocalyptic world, however, it is exactly like the pre-apocalyptic world that brought about the catastrophe in the first place; i.e. the current world. Nothing has changed (not that any character remarks on this fact). And, thus, this silly genre film says something about climate catastrophe, a fantasy of geo-engineering, and a desire to maintain the unsustainable the status quo.

Are there particular films, auteurs, or cinematic practices that you believe manage to narrate environmental precarity without reducing it to cliché or moralism?

There are genres that I think of as having an environmental sensitivity if not sensibility. For example, film noir and its attraction to built environments, bad air, and desiccated urban spaces has deep connections to naturalism and pessimism in ways that show how urban worlds built for human life become unlivable for these characters who rarely survive the film. These are low-budget movies, often shot on location, and feature characters who want but who cannot achieve the “good life” of consumer capitalism that is underwriting the Great Acceleration.

How do genre conventions affect how we conceptualize ecological time, space, and agency?

The film historian and theorist Karl Schoonover is currently writing about auteurs like Max Ophüls and Douglas Sirk in terms of their attention to soot and waste (Ophüls) and the byproducts of petroleum—from plastic to make-up—that are everywhere in the mise- en-scene (Sirk). Another film scholar, Nadine Chan, researches the history of colonial cinema in Malayasia. Chan focuses on the relationship between colonial extraction and the educational films made for colonial subjects whose labor is being extracted along with the colony’s raw materials. Cinema both archives this process and participates in the colonial economy. Finally Brian Jacobson’s recent book The Cinema of Extractions considers how the form of early cinema, especially, is parallel to the raw materials and infrastructures on which cinema relies. If there are many early films about trains, to take just one example, it is because trains carry the materials needed for cinema.

Temporality, Scale, and Representation

The Anthropocene demands that we think across scales—geological, planetary, human. What role can cinema play in making “deep time” and slow violence perceptible to audiences who are accustomed to fast-paced storytelling?

No one film or even group of films alone can tackle a crisis that is so totalizing, planetary, and yet uneven in its signs and stresses. One challenge of representing the Anthropocene is that it is not reducible to a singular event so much as a “step change” in socio-economic activity that accumulates in impact and changes quickly in geological- scale time, but slowly in terms of human perception. Films that have attempted explicitly to illustrate the Anthropocene concept or thesis – such as The Anthropocene: The Human Epoch (2018) or Erde (2019)—can be a bit mystifying to viewers not already familiar with the nomenclature. The visual evidence is not always clear in its illustration. But these films do provide a kind of snapshot of resource extraction and resource depletion, the kinds of human labor and modes of living occurring all over the world that have reshaped the planet and changed its chemistry, with attention to those who suffer most to sustain a way of life in the wealthy global North. The films show us the uneven distribution of wealth and risk, and they move between the scales of satellite images of earth down to the microscopic. The scales of space find a rejoinder in strategies of representing deep time through stratigraphic layers of rock or ice. But the data that geologists use to make the case for a new epoch are not always the most compelling material for films (even if the evidence they produce can be breathtaking). There is also the threat of producing a generalized humanity as opposed to a particularized history of exploitation, racialized capitalism, and the uneven impacts of global warming. As numerous historians and anthropologist tell us, there is nothing inevitable about the way our climate culture has developed, and this is also a danger.

In what ways might film temporality challenge anthropocentric or progress-based narrative structures?

As a geological term, the Anthropocene is also a projection into a deep future. It is a concept that concerns not only the place of human history in the context of Earth’s 4.5 billion-year existence; it is also about the trace that human culture will have left on the planet millions and billions of years from now. The very question should have us consider the long legacy of modern industrial culture. What will be nested in the geological strata to announce that people once roamed this earth? Likely not the meaningful archives of literatures, laws, art, film, and history, but plastics, nuclear materials, and so-called “techno-fossils” discarded by wealthy nations in pursuit of an unsustainable, resource intensive, quality of life and an equally destructive and toxic property of war. A few geologists have proposed that the fallout from nuclear testing has already left a distinct mark all over the planet that could be the most distinct trace of the Anthropocene, since many of the radioactive materials are not “naturally” of this Earth. What is likely to remain in the geological record are not the artifacts we hold dear, but the refuse that capitalist culture discards along with the weapons that destroy us all. In its arresting opening scenes, Wall-E (2008) gives us one version of this future: a planet with abundant trash minus humans and all signs of natural life. How does a robot sort the significance of these remains? This will be the task of alien archeologists who visit our planet the deep future.

What dangers exist in making climate stories overly personal (e.g., through individual heroes or family dramas) or too abstract (e.g., anonymous data, satellite imagery)? Can cinema cultivate a collective emotional register—one that resists neoliberal optimism but still affirms the urgency of ecological care?

What ethical obligations arise when filmmakers attempt to visualize planetary scale processes or speculative environmental futures?

It is a challenge to keep all of these data points in mind and hard not to feel utterly full of despair. So, it is important to find important stories of resistance and scenarios of world repair. We learn that our current state of disastrous ecology is not a natural progression of human life on earth, but a consequence of colonial land-grabs and the capitalist bid to turn the earth and many of its people into raw material and profitable commercial resources.
Darwin’s Nightmare (2004) explores the ecology of Lake Victoria and the disastrous commercial cultivation of invasive species of Nile Perch in its waters. The trade in perch has led to a neo-colonial economy and massive extinction events in the world’s second largest fresh-water lake. Bacurau (2019) turns the table on who or what counts as an invasive species.
Still Life (2006) and This is Not a Burial, It’s a Resurrection (2019) are movies of quiet but powerful protest against state-sponsored mega-dam constructions that force the relocation of everyone in the floodplain and submerge entire cultures under the devastating waters of “development.”
There is no way to completely reverse the course of modern industry and rapacious capitalism, but we may glimpse visions of repair. Honeyland (2019) is one such vision where taking only what you need in moderation is the difference between life and death, not only of bee colonies, but of all life on the planet. If Hollywood once projected an image of the good life based on American style consumer capitalism, cinema can now show us a different way of living, a new version of “the good” in light of our entangled and differently endangered lives.

Narrative Language and Ethics

Do you think cinema must cultivate a new narrative grammar in the Anthropocene—one that goes beyond individual agency or resolution?

Cinema, like the Anthropocene by some accounts, is a product of the industrial revolution. The medium’s radical possibilities with regard to space and time are already attuned to the epochal rupture of the Anthropocene. Indeed, I think cinema is one of the best archives of the Anthropocene because it is so fully implicated in the industrial, cultural, racial, and colonial practices that have laid waste to the planet. It is also a medium that can, as I write above, shows us a vision and version of the world without us.
How might cinematic ethics be redefined to account for nonhuman entanglements, multispecies justice, or posthuman subjectivity?
While much of narrative cinema revolves around people and their psychology, cinema has long been celebrated as an optical medium that, like photography, flattens the ontology between humans, animals, and things, and that may allow us to see a world outside of our ideas and feelings for it. This is a theme in much classical film theory that cinema is a non-human if not post-human artform. By this I do not mean that the cinematic image is neutral. But this possibility for cinema means that it is possible to decenter or even eliminate altogether the human in the frame. There are few films—outside of nature documentaries and experimental films-that do this. But one way to think of film’s role with regard to multi-species justice is to simple look at other creatures, take in their mysteries, their separateness from us, on one hand, and our entanglement with them, on the other.

What risks do filmmakers face when trying to “represent” ecological devastation? Is there a line between visualizing collapse and aestheticizing it?

There is a risk in representing climate change that we see in more mainstream climate fiction and eco-disaster movies, such as The Day after Tomorrow (2004, dir. Roland Emmerich), The Road (2009, dir. John Hillcoat), and the Mad Max franchise. These are movies that frighten or distress us with the future loss of a familiar world and homey habitat: a projected future without nature. Rather than push us to reorder the status quo, they threaten with scenarios of its withdrawal. Rather than opening a portal to a new, and hopefully more just world, such dystopic projections want us to want things as they are, to prevent the current world from changing or disappearing. These films make us worry more about the big storm or unnamed event that wipes out the contemporary world. Some eco-disaster movies may even prevent us from seeing that the current state of the world – our giant coastal cities, monocrop agriculture, fossil-fueled mobility – is itself the environmental catastrophe.

Emotions and Audiences

Climate narratives often rely on affect—fear, hope, grief—to mobilize audiences. In your view, what role should emotion play in ecological cinema?

E. Anne Kaplan has written about how climate disaster movies can prompt a form of pre- traumatic stress. These are symptoms viewers suffer not from the violent past, but, proleptically, from the future as it is envisioned on film. In immersive and alarming detail, these eco-disaster movies confront us with a version of a future human subject in motivate viewers to prevent that future ecological collapse, they also keep the emergency in the present from view. As I write above, the petro-cultures and habits of global North consumerism (these are shorthand terms for larger and historically longer phenomena) are the catastrophes.
An alternative to this narrative tendency may be found (to provide just one example) in the films of Tsai Ming-liang, a master auteur for the Anthropocene, and not only because he features inclement weather, failing infrastructure, and epidemiological emergencies in his films (I have written about Tsai’s work in the edited collection What is Film Good For?). Tsai’s queer narrative arcs and long-take slow cinema reveal characters living in a post-apocalyptic world of the present. The catastrophe has arrived, and its effects are already felt, especially by those living on the economic and social margins of Taipei and Kuala Lumpur. Lingering with these people who hardly speak—they convey themselves by the way they walk, gesture, cough, eat—we come to care for them and the conditions that render their world unlivable. Rather that mourn the loss of the world to come, his films may bid us to pause and to consider leaving behind all that was already unwelcoming to these characters, a world we should not want to preserve or carry with us beyond the catastrophes of our current moment.

I think long form documentary, for those with the patience to watch it, can be such a powerful re-set. One film I especially admire is Frederick Wiseman’s Zoo (1993). Today we are in the midst of what several researchers label the Sixth Mass Extinction. Half of the species on Earth are experiencing rapid population declines as a result of human activities, or what one 2023 study in Biological Reviews calls “Anthropocene defaunation.” Zoos and national parks are the few places designated for animal welfare and species management. Wiseman’s observational documentary takes place in the Miami Zoo, celebrated for its new, more natural habitats and limited use of cages. We learn about complex care for animals, the artifice of their surroundings, and the curious ways that wild, domestic, and feral animals are labeled and handled. As an enclosure separated from the rest of the city or the natural world, the zoo resembles a theme park and a film studio. It is as if each species of animal has its own fake backdrop. Wiseman takes us behind the scenes of this institution, which is the last refuge for many species. I find this film deeply sad and, at the same time, so frank about the conditions of animals and humans living in a second nature. It made me curious about scenarios of re-wilding, on one hand, and the ways that nature, animals, and people are partitioned and, in many ways, lonely.

Open Knowledge and Digital Witnessing: A Conversation with Molly Stark Dean on Journalism, Representation, and Media Futures

9 June 20259 June 2025Gökhan Çolak Leave a comment

1. Entering Journalism and Professional Experience

How did you first get involved in journalism?

My high school in Vermont was a student news bureau.

Was there a pivotal moment that inspired you to pursue this path?

I used to watch the local news with my dad every evening.

Having worked at outlets such as Fox News, CBS News, Reuters, and CoinDesk, how have these different experiences shaped your perspective on journalistic practices?

These different experiences showed me how universal newsrooms can be: same shit; sifferent newsroom.

2. Digital Media and Storytelling

In your view, how have digital platforms transformed the way we tell stories in journalism?

Every new method of storytelling gets journalism closer to telling the truth: from oral communication to TV news and digital platforms.

What do you think is the most critical element for a story to be impactful in a digital environment?

Know who you are speaking to and decide the audience you wish to engage.

3. Education and the New Generation of Journalists

You teach a course titled “Journalism and the Machine” at The New School. What core issues or themes do you focus on in that course?

I focus on technology and its influence on the journalism industry.

What skills or competencies do you find most important to instill in emerging journalists today?

Storytelling: it’s more important than learning any emerging journalism technology.

4. Women Journalists and Representation

Could you share more about your work with the Women Do News project?

I promote digital gender equality by writing Wikipedia articles for women journalists.

How would you describe the key challenges women journalists face in terms of visibility in digital spaces?

Digital gender inequality stems from a systematic devaluing of women in all industries.

5. Wikimedia Activism

What kind of content do you produce through your collaboration with Wikimedia NYC, and what kind of impact do you aim to achieve?

My journalism career helped me identify key news influencers to speak on panels at Wikimedia events.

How does open access to knowledge intersect with journalism today?

Journalism is the underlying source code of the open knowledge movement. One is not possible without the other.

6. Ethics and Editorial Principles

Have you encountered ethical dilemmas while working in different newsrooms? If so, how did you approach them?

Yes, I don’t approve of any work done without a livable wage and healthcare; it is a herculean task to find such work in newsrooms.

How do you prioritize ethical principles when developing content strategies?

A content strategy is most effective when it is developed with clear ethical principles outlined beforehand.

7. Future of Journalism

What are your thoughts on the growing impact of AI and algorithms in journalism?

Journalism pivoted to other tech hype in the past: AI is just the current tech obsession.

How do you envision journalism evolving in the next decade?

Human storytelling is the future.

An Interview with Silvia Garcia on Art, Media, and Community: A Conversation on Digital Transformation

26 April 2025Gökhan Çolak Leave a comment

Cultura Inquieta Content Manager Silvia Garcia

THE EVOLUTION OF DIGITAL ART AND THE ROLE OF CULTURA INQUIETA

What has been the most impactful transformation you’ve witnessed in the development of Cultura Inquieta as a digital platform for culture and art?

Seeing how Cultura Inquieta has become a community—growing larger and more emotionally connected—has been the most impactful transformation.
We don’t just share art, we share sensitivity, conversations, doubts, beauty, and critical thinking. We’ve learned to listen as much as we publish, and that has allowed the platform to evolve with a soul of its own.

How has the way people connect with art changed through digital platforms?

The connection is now more immediate. People don’t just consume art—they comment on it, reinterpret it, and share it as part of their identity. It’s become more democratic, more everyday… and also more emotional.
There’s a lot of information, a lot of stimuli, but also more opportunities to be creative, to make and share the beauty around us with the rest of the world.

AESTHETICS AND NARRATIVE IN CONTENT CREATION

What aesthetic and narrative elements do you prioritize when creating content for Cultura Inquieta?

Emotion—always. The first thing we look for is something that stirs us. Aesthetically, we value whatever has soul: it can be minimalist or baroque, but it must speak.
Narratively, we prioritize the beauty of simplicity, poetry, and honesty. We care about substance, but also about how we tell the story—above all, it must have humanity.

ALGORITMS VS. CREATIVITY

How do you think algorithms affect creativity and originality in digital media?

They’re a double-edged sword. On one hand, they can amplify what we do and connect valuable content with more people. But they also sometimes push us to repeat formulas, to play the game of “what works.”

The key is not to lose our center. At Cultura Inquieta, we ask ourselves: Does this add something? Does it make sense for us to tell this? If the answer is yes, we trust it will find its way, even if the algorithm doesn’t bless it right away.

COMMUNITY ENGAGEMENT AND DIGITAL STRATEGY

What strategies do you use to keep the audience engagement alive and meaningful at Cultura Inquieta?

We talk. We ask questions. We listen. We make those on the other side feel involved. Sometimes it’s with an open question, sometimes with a story we know resonates with all of us.
Our commitment is born out of respect: we don’t treat the community as a passive audience, but as a chorus of voices with whom we build something together.
And we also leave room for silence—where reflection often takes root.

THE FUTURE OF DIGITAL ART

What trends or directions do you think will shape the future of digital art?

I see art becoming increasingly hybrid, sensory, and participatory. Artificial intelligence, immersive environments, augmented reality… they’re going to change how art is created and experienced.
But I also believe the future lies in reclaiming emotion, even in the digital realm: works that challenge us, that make us feel human amidst the code.

PERSONAL CREATIVITY AND SOURCES OF INSPIRATION

What inspires your own creative process? Are there digital platforms, artists, or themes that especially influence you?

I’m inspired by whatever makes me pause. A photograph I can’t stop looking at for no clear reason. A sentence that sticks in my chest.
I draw a lot from everyday life: from the silences in a conversation, from the way someone talks about what they love.
I’m also inspired by artists who cross disciplines—people who write through music, who paint through words.
Digitally, I like platforms that care for both visuals and text equally, like It’s Nice That or Another Magazine. But above all, I’m inspired by the Cultura Inquieta community: what they share, what they comment, what moves them.

ART AND SOCIAL TRANSFORMATION

How do you see Cultura Inquieta’s role in contributing to cultural or social transformation through the public visibility of art?

Cultura Inquieta is a loudspeaker for beauty, but also for justice. We believe art is not only about contemplation—it can also be a form of resistance, of protest, of embrace.
Our mission is to shine a light on stories that matter, on artists who give voice to the unspoken.
If we can get someone to look at the world with a little more empathy after reading or watching us… then we’re already transforming something.

A Bilingual Journey of Visual Narrative: Interview with Leila Sofia Medina on Documentary, Journalism and Representation

24 April 2025Gökhan Çolak Leave a comment

Is bilingual journalism for you merely a method of communication, or is it also a matter of identity and representation?

Bilingual journalism is deeply tied to my identity. As an Ecuadorian video journalist living in New York, being bilingual allows me to tell stories that often go unheard—stories of people who navigate two languages and two cultures. It’s not just about translating words; it’s about representing lived experiences and ensuring that our communities are accurately portrayed, while also highlighting narratives that are often overlooked.

What role does language play in visual storytelling? How do you develop methods to transcend linguistic boundaries?

Language is essential when connecting with the people you’re interviewing—it helps you understand them better and even relate to their story. But visual storytelling allows us to go beyond words; it becomes a universal language. The power of video lies in showing a story in a way that allows viewers to connect with characters, even if they don’t speak the same language.

What kind of connection do you draw between bilingual journalism and documentary filmmaking?

For me, the two are inseparable and work hand in hand. Documentary gives me the space to explore stories in depth, while bilingual journalism lets me represent my community. Both require trust, empathy, and immersion in the context of the story, as well as connecting with the people involved.

Creating multilingual content requires more than just a technical skill. What kind of ethical or cultural responsibility do you believe it entails?

Regardless of language, I believe it’s essential to stay true to what your sources are saying and to their lived realities. When translating, writing, or editing, I always ask myself: Am I keeping the context intact? Could this harm the person or community involved? Am I portraying them fairly? That ethical responsibility is always present.

When telling stories in different languages, is it more important to remain faithful to the spirit of the language or to universal narrative structures?

I don’t believe there’s a single universal narrative structure. There are many ways to tell a story, and as a storyteller, you need to understand your subject to determine how best to tell it. Every story, character, and context is different. So rather than forcing a formula, I prioritize preserving the spirit and authenticity of the story.

How do you manage the processes of translation and subtitling in your multilingual projects?

If the project is in Spanish, I usually do the translation and subtitling myself. I try to maintain the richness of the language, knowing that some expressions may not directly translate. When working in other languages, it’s important to collaborate with someone who understands the language and can provide an accurate, culturally aware translation.

How does this linguistic diversity affect the global circulation of your stories?

Being bilingual is definitely an advantage—it allows me to collaborate with a wider range of publications and outlets and to shape stories for different audiences. It’s also helped me understand how to tailor storytelling styles based on whom the viewer is.

For you, is documentary filmmaking a transmission of reality or a form of creative reconstruction?

I think it’s both. It’s a transmission of reality, but with your vision as the filmmaker. Documentaries allow for creativity and deeper emotional connection while staying rooted in truth. As long as you’re honest with the facts and the people involved, you can bring in creative elements to strengthen the story—otherwise, it becomes fiction.

When choosing your subjects, do you look for a personal connection, or are you more guided by societal needs?

You need to feel connected to a story to tell it well—not necessarily on a personal level, but emotionally and intellectually. That connection helps you invest the time and care the story deserves. At the same time, I also ask myself: Why this story? Why now? What impact can it have? That’s where societal relevance comes in.

What are some of the most difficult ethical dilemmas you’ve faced during fieldwork?

One challenge is deciding whether to include moments of vulnerability—moments that might make a story more powerful but could leave someone feeling exposed. I ask myself: Is this adding something meaningful, or is it just emotional drama? Another dilemma is knowing when to protect someone’s identity and making sure they understand what it means to be on camera or have their name shared.

Compared to classical cinematic language, how would you define the unique expressive power of documentary?

Documentary is cinema—there’s no doubt about it. It might be less polished sometimes, but the goal is the same: to tell a compelling story that connects with audiences. The difference is that documentary is grounded in real life. There’s room for imperfection, but that doesn’t make it any less powerful or cinematic.

Among your projects so far, which story has impacted you the most, and why?

Two projects stand out. One is a short documentary I made about migrant families from Ecuador who journeyed to New York. It opened my eyes to the reality so many face—not just the struggle to arrive, but the continuous challenges they face even after getting here.

The second is a school documentary I did about a local drag artist in Astoria. It explored themes of family, grief, and chosen community. It helped me discover a world full of resilience and passion, and I learned so much from this artist and their journey.

What themes tend to stand out in your documentaries—such as migration, identity, or social struggles?

I’m drawn to stories about identity, gender, and migration—especially within the Latin community. I find power in stories of people who are finding or rebuilding themselves. Those narratives are deeply human and universally resonant.

What is your process of developing a project—from the moment you first conceive the idea to the final edit?

It varies depending on the project. For short stories, I usually start with a question or something I’m curious about. I research, identify potential sources, and start interviewing. After filming, editing is my favorite part—it’s where everything comes together, like solving a puzzle. For me, it’s the moment where the heart of the story really takes shape.

How has your experience at CNN en Español contributed to your independent projects?

It was my first real experience in journalism, and I see it as my school. It taught me how to structure a story, how to shape it in a way that connects with people. I covered stories from many different communities, which made me even more passionate about storytelling. That experience definitely pushed me toward pursuing documentary filmmaking more seriously.

“Reporting on the World: Ana María Betancourt on Journalism, Social Issues, and the Future of Media”

21 April 2025Gökhan Çolak Leave a comment

Starting Your Journalism Career and Sources of Inspiration

What experiences or events in your life had the greatest impact on your decision to start a career in journalism? What motivated you the most when you decided to pursue this field?

I loved writing and I wanted to have a job that allowed me to write as much as I could. But also at that time I was in high school and my History professor asked us to start being aware of the news because Colombia was living a historic moment: the State was going to sign the peace agreement with one of the oldest guerrillas of our country.

I wanted to be a reporter of peace and that somehow encouraged me to pursue my career in journalism.

During your time at Javeriana University studying Social Communication and Literature, what were the most important academic or personal lessons that shaped your journalism career?

Well in the university I started to actually feel disappointed about journalism. I felt journalism in Colombia was struggling, most outlets were financed by large corporations with a lot of political interests. And I saw little to no space to do journalism in a creative way.

So I started to see myself writing fiction and poetry. But I knew I wouldn’t make a living with just my creative writing because I wasn’t still prepared to publish my literary work. However, literature for sure opened my horizons and made me ask myself questions about the form and how the aesthetic part of writing can also be challenged in journalism.

Work on Social Issues and Its Impact

How did your personal passion for critical societal issues such as climate change, health, and gender inequality develop? How did working on these issues affect your career as a journalist?

I think it developed at a very early stage and it was because of two things: my older sister and my high school. My sister was studying Environmental Engineering and wanted to focus her studies in the social part of the environment. She planted a seed of multiple questions in my brain and since that moment I started to care a lot about climate change and the environment. It is also because I come from a country that is mega-biodiverse and I have always loved the nature that surrounded me.

My high school had a class of gender and literature where I started to be more aware about gender inequality and social justice. So when I started my studies in the university, I already had in me an objective of contributing to social justice in whatever I chose to work on in my life. Then, I guess that my studies also guided me through that path, I read a lot of gender, reception, literary and communications theory, as well as philosophy.

What methods have you used to make an impact with your stories on these topics? Particularly in gender equality, what were the biggest challenges you faced when covering such sensitive issues?

I started covering gender as a freelance in a small digital outlet and I tried to talk about topics that I did not see anywhere else at the moment: life feminist motherhood or menstrual disorders. But later, when I worked at Mutante I learn about the power of engagement journalism and how this method can actually amplify the impact of journalistic stories, because they are being useful and interpellating a particular type of person who was seeking for that information.

Now, if we talk about challenges, I would say that finding sources and accessing information. A lot of people experienced the topics I was covering, but they did not want to talk and it is because of social stigmas. Then large corporations, like fertility clinics, like to stay on the safe side, so they rather answer in a polite but incomplete way than respond to your questions.

International Experience and Your Journalism Perspective

How did your experience with the United Nations Environment Programme and the Colombian Consulate in New York transform your approach to journalism? What kind of global perspective did these international platforms offer you?

These experiences changed my approach in journalism significantly. The Consulate helped me connect with the Colombian immigrant community and the needs they had. I was not very aware of the way the community is living and the geopolitical relations behind massive immigration.

Then, UNEP was a place to understand international treaties, public hearings and the international environmental agenda. It helped me to see climate change in a global way, meaning that it showed me the relations of power behind greenhouse gas emissions, food waste and renewable energies. It wasn’t only UNEP as an institution, but the people who were there. Most people were from the Global North and had that kind of approach to the climate emergency, but the Global South has a knowledge that has not been appreciated but is essential for the survival of humanity.

While studying in New York, how did interacting with different cultures shape your understanding of journalism? How do you compare your experiences with the media landscape in Colombia to the global perspective you gained?

In NYC I’ve been covering particularly Latinx communities, and that means I am very exposed to multiple cultures, because Latinxs are not a monolith. So I’ve connected with Peruvians, Mexicans, Hondurans, Venezuelans, Ecuadorians, and of course Colombians. This has showed me that we are very similar, but our national histories are different and that crafts our paths heterogeneously. I see how Latinx people are all classified in the same box, but our culture and life experiences are utterly different. However, there is for sure something that unites us: our region has suffered oppression and colonialism even later than we started being “free nations”.

This approach contrasted with the media landscape in Colombia because in Colombia we mostly cover the national context, and when we cover the international it usually is from the same few countries that call our attention.

Cortazar once said that for him, living in France wasn’t a way to be apart from Argentina, it was actually a tool allowing him to see his country as a whole with perspective and distance. And I feel very much like that.

Digital Media and the Future of Journalism

How do the innovative approaches brought by working in digital media shape the evolution of journalism? What do you think about the impact of digital transformation on media content and audience engagement?

The innovative approaches brought by digital media have fundamentally reshaped journalism, not just in how stories are told, but in how communities are included in the storytelling process. Jeff Jarvis, in A Journalism of Belief and Belonging, argues that journalism’s role isn’t just to inform, but to “build bridges among communities” and “make strangers less strange.” That belief has been central to my work as a journalist who constantly thinks in engagement as an essential part of this craft.

Digital transformation has also allowed journalism to build trust in new ways. When we treat engagement not as a strategy to reach more people, but as a practice to foster community, we deepen the public’s relationship with journalism.

Did your experience at Mutante contribute to establishing your expertise in digital media? What are your thoughts on the impact of digital platforms on the future of journalism?

Digital transformation has opened up new ways to move beyond one-way communication and instead create dynamic, participatory spaces for dialogue. At Mutante I experienced firsthand how digital tools can be used not only to distribute content, but to actively listen to communities and co-create journalism with them. We built our editorial agenda around the real informational needs of our audience, using digital platforms to host conversation communities—safe spaces where people affected by issues like fatphobia or gender inequality could connect, share experiences, and help shape coverage.

This shift has had a profound impact on media content and audience engagement. Stories are no longer just produced for people—they’re created with them. Content becomes more relevant, empathetic, and actionable when it emerges from the lived experiences of the communities it aims to serve. For example, through engagement strategies like newsletters with high open rates, explainer content, and social media conversations, we were able to make complex topics like climate displacement or mental health more accessible and urgent.

Challenges and Opportunities as a Female Journalist

What have been the biggest challenges you’ve faced as a female journalist? How have you overcome these challenges, and how have they influenced your journalism practice?

One of the biggest challenges I’ve faced as a female journalist is navigating the intersection of economic precarity, immigration status, and gendered expectations—especially as a Latina, immigrant woman working in the U.S.

Feminist journalism isn’t just about telling stories—it’s about interrogating the systems that shape people’s lives. At La Papaya, a feminist publication I co-founded, and later at Mutante, I embraced a kind of reporting rooted in radical care, tenderness, and community.

These challenges didn’t just shape what I report on—they shaped how I report. I learned to approach journalism as a tool for both inquiry and empowerment, one that must offer not only critique but pathways for action. At Mutante, this meant pairing investigative stories with community dialogues and support networks. In New York, it’s meant spotlighting immigrant communities through stories that resist reduction to labor or struggle—showing instead how they build joy, resilience, and systems of mutual support.

Ultimately, the challenges I’ve faced have taught me that journalism must make space for both vulnerability and resistance. They’ve pushed me to tell stories that go beyond exposing injustice to also enable hope, healing, and transformation.

What are your thoughts on how women are represented in the media? What steps should be taken within the industry to make more women visible in journalism?

Women are often represented in the media through narrow, stereotypical lenses—either as victims or as exceptional figures who’ve “overcome” adversity, rarely with the full complexity of their identities, contributions, and struggles. This lack of nuance not only flattens our stories, but reinforces systems that make women—especially immigrants, and working-class women—invisible unless their pain is deemed newsworthy.

As a feminist journalist, I believe the problem isn’t just who tells the story, but who gets to be seen as a source of knowledge and power. At outlets like La Papaya and Mutante, I worked to challenge those dynamics by co-creating journalism with women who are usually excluded from traditional narratives—whether they were survivors of obstetric violence, informal workers, or community leaders.

To make more women visible in journalism, the industry needs to go beyond diversifying newsrooms. It needs to value and invest in alternative storytelling methods that center care, collaboration, and community engagement. That includes hiring more women—especially women from marginalized backgrounds—not just as reporters, but as editors, decision-makers, and strategists. It also means rethinking what we consider “newsworthy,” and creating space for stories rooted in lived experience, emotion, and collective knowledge.

Vision for the Future and Career Goals

How do you plan to shape your journalism career in the future? Are there specific projects you’d like to be involved in, and what kind of societal changes do you hope to contribute to through these projects?

I plan to shape my journalism career around the core belief that information is a tool for dignity and transformation—especially for those who have historically been excluded from mainstream narratives. My goal is to create journalism that starts by asking communities what they need, and that turns information into a pathway toward action and justice.

One project I hope to develop is a bilingual, hyperlocal resource hub for Latinx and immigrant communities in New York. Resources exist in the U.S.—like free clinics, subsidized food markets, and language classes— but information about them is fragmented, inaccessible, or simply not reaching the people who need it most.

More broadly, I want to be part of initiatives that challenge dominant narratives about Latinx and immigrant communities—stories that move beyond deficit framing and instead highlight resilience, contributions, and systems of mutual aid. Through community engagement, investigative reporting, and narrative storytelling, I hope to contribute to a media landscape that empowers rather than marginalizes, and that pushes for policies rooted in equity and care.

How do you think the experiences you’ve gained in journalism have transformed into a service to society? What is your personal mission in journalism in both the short and long term?

My experiences in journalism have taught me that storytelling is not just a profession—it’s a public service. From reporting on reproductive justice in Colombia to covering immigrant canners and nostalgia-driven plays in Queens, my work has always aimed to dignify lives often ignored by mainstream media. These stories are not just content—they are windows into systems, tools for empowerment, and sometimes, lifelines.

Living in New York as a Latina immigrant radically reshaped my understanding of identity, visibility, and structural inequality. For the first time, I saw myself racialized—as just another “Hispanic” or “Latina”—in a system that often treats our communities as statistics rather than individuals. This shift fueled a deeper commitment to what Eduardo Galeano called los nadie—the nobodies who don’t appear in history books, who are denied voice, name, and presence. My journalism now strives to rewrite that narrative.

In the short term, my mission is to continue building journalism that centers community needs, provides practical resources, and opens space for dialogue and participation. In the long term, I want to contribute to transforming newsrooms—structurally and culturally—so that they truly reflect the diversity of the people they serve. That includes advocating for more Latinx journalists in leadership roles, creating mentorship pipelines, and championing forms of storytelling that embrace care, complexity, and co-creation.

“The Evolution of Journalism: Digitalization, Writing, and Artificial Intelligence with Genevieve Hartnett”

10 April 202516 April 2025Gökhan Çolak Leave a comment

Journalism in the Digital Age

In your opinion, what is one of the biggest transformations of the journalism profession in the digital age?

I’m still relatively new to the business of news, but I would say the expectation of coming right out of school and landing up immediately on a masthead. Freelance reporting has become such a large part of getting your foot in the door at certain publications It also allows you a freedom to go after stories you might not always get to at a large news organization. It makes a career trajectory sometimes feel less certain, but also allows for more independence in the media landscape.

How do you evaluate the impact of social media on news consumption? What are its advantages and disadvantages compared to traditional journalism?

I used to be more cynical about the fact that a large portion of people get their news from social media. However, after seeing the work of people like Bisan Owda and Motaz Azaiza and their on the ground and award winning reporting from Gaza, I’ve realized how much citizen journalism can not only inform but also tap into communities in a way that traditional media may not always be able to. Even if their coverage is not in traditional news media outlets, they show a tenacity and kindness to the communities they report on that inspires me as an early career journalist.

Readers’ trust in news sources has been shaken. How can we rebuild the credibility of journalism in the digital age?

I think so much of the reason reader’s trust in news sources has been shaken is because there is still a lot of mystery to the business of journalism and how we actually do our jobs. I’ve learned so much about investigative journalism through reading She Said by Meghan Twohey and Jodi Kantor on how they broke the Harvey Weinstein story at The New York Times and really getting a look into their reporting process. I think transparency into our journeys with certain stories can really help build trust and relatability with the public.

Also, so many people feel that journalism and journalists only exist in cities, and really only in the biggest cities at that. So many incredible leaders are working to bring quality journalism to rural and local areas where reporters are going out of their way to reach forgotten communities. I think these publications and initiatives in news deserts can help demystify the work of journalists, and maybe even bring more people with different perspectives to the profession!

What do you think about the impact of algorithms and personalized news feeds on journalism?

I mainly think that algorithmic bias is just something that more people need to be aware of and how it’s affecting the ways we communicate with one another. The amount of times I hear someone give a hot take they think no one has heard before, meanwhile it’s verbatim from something that was in the latest episode of Subway Takes! These algorithms really can make you feel like we’re all living the same existence, being fed the same content. I think encouraging a healthy dose of skepticism about why you are being shown a certain video is something we should be teaching more of.

Journalism, Writing and Artificial Intelligence

How do you interpret the impact of artificial intelligence on the news production and content creation process in journalism?

I feel like most journalists I speak to are still relatively skeptical about relying too heavily on AI – not only for its intelligence impact, but also of that on the environment. That being said, it is being more heavily integrated into all aspects of our business, from hiring to even processing data for stories. Everyone is able to draw their own line, but for me, I always want my creativity to lead the way in my writing process.

What do you think about the use of artificial intelligence-supported tools (ChatGPT, automatic news writing software, etc.) in journalism?

I try to look at AI as a tool that you learn how to use in order to not get left behind. What that often looks like for me is using Otter or Descript to transcribe interviews, or sometimes entering a story I wrote into Chat GPT to help with making a concise pitch to a publication by pulling out the main ideas. Still, I don’t think it has the capability to truly replace journalists, as so much of our work is connecting with people on a human level.

What do you think about the ethical dimensions of AI-supported content? How should the boundary between artificial intelligence writing and human journalism be protected?

While I think that AI can be a tool that we use to make some of the organization process of writing easier, I am wary about ever letting it actually write stories or content for us. It may be able to imitate styles of famous writers or publications, but I don’t think it can ever substitute for intellectual curiosity that is required in human journalism. In my masters program, we’ve learned about AI and how to use it for certain projects, but we still have strict rules about using it to write entire stories. I think news organizations ought to have similar guidelines, and many already do.

Do you think artificial intelligence is a tool that makes journalists’ jobs easier, or is it a threat that changes the nature of the profession?

I think we as journalists need to learn how to use it as a tool so that it doesn’t change the nature of our profession. Sorry if that’s a cop out 🙂 In one of our classes, a friend and I drafted an AI tool called ManiFFFest (the three f’s are For the Freelance Frontier) that would help freelancers figure out where to pitch a story they were working on. The idea was to have the app do the work of pitching, emailing follow ups, etc while you get back to focusing on writing and reporting. Obviously it’s a big dream, but I think AI tools for journalists need to have the real people in mind from their inception.

The Future of Journalism and Writing

What are the biggest challenges for young people who want to be journalists and writers today?

I think one of the layover effects of algorithms and the isolation forced by the Covid-19 pandemic is that it can be harder to develop a unique voice. Weirdly, I think you learn more about what you actually think and your own opinions when you’re in a group with others, discussing ideas and how your opinions may differ. Developing a real sense of community with other writers or creatives is one of the best ways to find your own perspective, which is so critical to stand out in a crowded field.

How will journalism develop in the future? What skills should the new generation of journalists have?

I think in order to survive, journalism needs to embrace diversity in its hiring and perspectives that it promotes. We are in a political climate where tools that fueled segregation are being implemented disturbingly fast. As an industry we need to be prepared to protect the many gains that we have made in being more inclusive of different voices. As a member of the new generation of journalists, I’m trying to develop my skills in adapting to periods of crisis and uncertainty. To me, this means building up your own skills outside of a traditional job and potentially creating your own avenues to success.

How do you evaluate the rise of independent journalism and alternative media platforms?

I’m really curious to see how Substacks from established journalists may totally shift the media landscape in the next five to ten years. What may have started as ways for writers to express their own opinions have become some of the leaders on breaking details from stories that news organizations may not be reporting. Will these Substacks become mini news rooms of their own, breaking news before others can get to it?

I’m also interested to see what happens in the podcast space next. Audio journalism is one of my major interests as I think it can tell stories and engage more listeners in editorial content than ever before. After their crucial influence on the 2024 Presidential election, I’m curious to see if podcasts become even more prominent in delivering news or potentially dwindle from over exposure.

In your opinion, what will be the most important technological developments that shape the future of journalism and writing?

If there is anything that AI could do to really be a net positive in the future, it would be some kind of tool to assist with media literacy, especially for young people. The cutting of funds to the arts and humanities really worries me in terms of the long term effects it will have on dissemination of information and encouragement of creativity. If we teach skills to people at a young age on how to think more critically not just about what they see on the news, but also asking them what they thought of the movie they watched or the song they just listened to, already we are developing smarter individuals who might go on to give new perspectives to the media landscape.