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I was really impressed by the passages from Karl Marx, “Estranged Labour” p72:

“All these consequences are contained in the definition that theworker is related to the product of his labour as to an alien object.For on this premise it is clear that the more the worker spendshimself, the more powerful the alien objective world becomeswhich he creates over-against himself, the poorer he himself-hisinner world-becomes, the less belongs to him as his own. It is thesame in religion. The more man puts into God, the less he retainsin himself. The worker puts his life into the object; but now hislife no longer belongs to him but to the object. Hence, the greaterthis activity, the greater is the worker's lack of objects. Whatever the product of his labour is, he is not. Therefore the greater this product, the less is he himself. The alienation of the worker in his product means not only that his labour becomes an object, an external existence, but that it exists outside him, independently, as something alien to him, and that it becomes a power of its own confronting him; it means that the life which he has conferred on the object confronts him as something hostile and alien.”

Below is my interpretation and understanding:

Marx pointed out what workers pour their life force into products they created through labor, but actually these products did not belong to workers themselves. The harder the worker labors and the more products they create, the more they feel alienated from these products. This creates opposition between labor products and workers. The products no longer represent a part of their life but instead become an alien force that oppresses them. Although written years ago, the phenomenon he wrote still exists in modern life nowadays. For instance, the products workers create may be appropriated by capitalists, while the workers themselves could not enjoy the value they create. This will result in a feeling of exhaustion

And oppression at work, accelerated in modern society. Dating back to history, I think many strikes took place because of this imbalance workers felt. Marx’s words made me reflect that labor should be a means for ones to realize their self-worth, and that’s what we need to chase for in the future!

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‘Sorry to bother you’ (2018),by Boots Riley

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‘Sorry to bother you’ (2018),by Boots Riley

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Time: 00:12:00-00:14:00

Cassius's job as a telemarketer involves selling products or services over the phone, following a rigid script. This work is highly alienating, as it strips employees of their individuality and creativity, reducing them to mere cogs in a machine. The repetitive, impersonal nature of the job symbolizes the dehumanizing effects of capitalism, where workers are exploited and disconnected from the value of their labor.

A pivotal moment in the film occurs when Cassius discovers that using a "white voice" (a nasal tone) significantly boosts his sales performance. This "white voice" is not just a vocal technique but a metaphor for assimilation into dominant cultural norms. By adopting this voice, Cassius gains access to opportunities and success that are otherwise denied to him as a Black man.

This plot point critiques the racial and class dynamics of capitalist societies, where marginalized individuals often feel pressured to conform to white cultural standards to achieve success. The "white voice" represents the erasure of identity and the systemic barriers faced by people of color.

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Marx (estranged labor)-‘sorry to bother you’

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Marx (estranged labor)-‘sorry to bother you’

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‘Sorry to Bother You’ (2018) can be closely analyzed through the lens of Karl Marx's concept of ‘alienation’. Marx's theory of alienation describes how workers under capitalism become disconnected from their labor, the products of their labor, their own humanity, and each other. The film's portrayal of Cassius Green's telemarketing job vividly illustrates these four dimensions of alienation, offering a modern critique of capitalist systems. For instance, the screenshot in ‘Sorry to Bother You’ shows alienation of ‘species-beings’, reducing Cassius to a cog in a machine. This erasure of identity reflects alienation from his true human potential.

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Global capitalism, as depicted in this passage, is a system where economic activities transcend national boundaries, driven by the pursuit of profit and efficiency. The outsourcing of labor-intensive book production to Southeast Asia exemplifies how global capitalism leverages geographic disparities in labor costs to maximize profitability. This practice, while economically rational for corporations, often results in the exploitation of workers in developing countries who are paid significantly lower wages compared to their counterparts in developed nations. The passage subtly critiques this aspect of global capitalism by highlighting the intricate, hand-detailed work required for the pleated cover, which is only feasible due to the cheaper labor available overseas.

This remind me of the term we talked last week—alienation.

Firstly, the protagonist's confusion and powerlessness reflect her alienation in the work environment. As a visual studies major passionate about art, she must set aside her creative aspirations to focus on logistical tasks, highlighting how capitalism prioritizes economic needs over personal fulfillment, alienating workers from their passions.

Secondly, outsourcing labor-intensive tasks to Southeast Asia exemplifies workers' alienation from their creations. The intricate work on the pleated cover is done by workers disconnected from the product's artistic value, reducing them to cogs in a global machine with little recognition. This alienation is worsened by the geographic and cultural gap between producers and consumers.

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In the context of Severance, the term "fevered" refers to individuals who have been affected by a mysterious pandemic that turns them into semi-conscious, zombie-like beings. These individuals are not fully alive but continue to perform habitual actions, mimicking their past routines without true awareness or emotional engagement. The passage describes how the fevered operate on a primal level, driven by ingrained habits and rhythms rather than conscious thought or emotion.

The word "fevered" itself evokes a sense of illness and delirium, suggesting a state of heightened but disordered activity. This term captures the essence of these characters' condition: they are caught in a liminal state between life and death, driven by the remnants of their former selves but devoid of true vitality. The fevered's actions, such as playing familiar songs or arranging household items, are poignant reminders of their lost humanity, emphasizing the tragedy of their condition.

The description of the fevered also serves as a metaphor for the broader themes of the novel, such as the loss of individuality and the dehumanizing effects of modern society. The fevered's repetitive, mechanical behaviors reflect the monotony and alienation often associated with contemporary life, where people can become trapped in routines that strip away their sense of purpose and connection.

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Both scenarios highlight a loss of individuality and meaningful connection. The fevered’s nostalgic yet empty routines mirror the impersonal, scheduled maintenance of a digital service, emphasizing how modern life—whether through disease or technology—can strip away genuine human interaction and reduce existence to a series of automated, disconnected actions.

In page 28, the fevered are alienated from their humanity, performing repetitive, mechanical actions without emotional engagement, symbolizing a loss of individuality and connection to their true selves. Similarly, page 73’s maintenance notice represents a form of systemic alienation, where human interaction is replaced by automated processes and scheduled updates, emphasizing the impersonal nature of modern technology.

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These passages from Ling Ma’s Severance (2018) encapsulates the novel’s haunting blend of the mundane and the apocalyptic. The protagonist’s routine commute and office life are juxtaposed against the unsettling transformation of the sky, symbolizing the encroaching collapse of the world as she knows it. The yellowed sky, described as an “irregular jaundiced chartreuse,” serves as a powerful metaphor for decay and the fragility of normalcy, hinting at the beginning of the end.

The protagonist’s internal reflections reveal a deep sense of isolation and detachment. Her obsessive thoughts about hypothetical work scenarios, such as the Bible production details, highlight the absurdity of clinging to routine in the face of personal and global uncertainty. This fixation on trivialities underscores the human tendency to distract oneself from larger, more pressing issues, such as her unspoken pregnancy and the emotional distance from Jonathan.

The eerie emptiness of the office, described as “entombed” with cubicles like “silent sarcophagi,” mirrors the protagonist’s internal state. The lone beam of light from Blythe’s office suggests a fragile connection to reality, as if the world is holding on by a thread. This passage masterfully captures the tension between the ordinary and the extraordinary, illustrating how life persists even as the world unravels. Ma’s prose is both precise and evocative, drawing readers into a world that feels eerily familiar yet profoundly unsettling.

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This passage from Ling Ma’s Severance (2018) poignantly captures the tension between the routines of urban life and the collapse of the systems that sustain it. The narrator reflects on the rhythms of city living—commuting, working, consuming—and the ways these routines provide structure and meaning, even as they highlight the fragility of modern life. The description of the 56 Milwaukee bus and the familiar pleasures of downtown Chicago evoke a sense of nostalgia for a world that is slipping away, underscoring the novel’s themes of loss and adaptation.

The imagery of abandoned cars and a toppled crane vividly illustrates the breakdown of the city’s infrastructure, mirroring the protagonist’s internal struggle to navigate a world in disarray. The Nissan’s failure and the narrator’s decision to continue on foot symbolize the resilience required to move forward when the systems we rely on collapse. The juxtaposition of the bustling city life the narrator once knew with the desolate, frozen landscape they now traverse highlights the stark contrast between the past and the present.

Ma’s prose is both lyrical and haunting, drawing readers into the narrator’s world with its vivid descriptions and introspective tone. This passage serves as a powerful reminder of the ways in which we are shaped by our environments and the challenges of finding meaning and purpose in a world that is constantly changing. It encapsulates the novel’s exploration of routine, survival, and the human capacity to adapt in the face of uncertainty.

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These passages from Ling Ma’s Severance (2018) are interconnected, exploring the tension between routine and collapse. In the first, the protagonist clings to work routines amid an eerie, changing world, reflecting isolation and detachment. In the second, the narrator navigates a crumbling city, symbolizing the breakdown of urban systems. Both highlight resilience in the face of uncertainty, showing how individuals adapt when familiar structures fail. Ma’s prose captures the fragility of normalcy and the human struggle to find meaning in a disintegrating world.

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In these passages from Natasha Stagg's Surveys (2018), the narrator reflects on a complex interplay of power, money, and intimacy. The protagonist engages in a transactional relationship with Javier, where financial exchange becomes a central theme. The narrator's internal conflict is evident as she rationalizes her actions, finding comfort in the clarity that money provides—a stark contrast to the ambiguity of romantic relationships. The passage delves into themes of commodification and self-worth, as the protagonist equates her value with monetary gain. The use of pain medication to cope with her job further underscores the emotional detachment and desensitization that accompany her lifestyle. Stagg's narrative captures the protagonist's struggle with identity and the societal pressures that shape her choices, offering a poignant commentary on modern relationships and self-perception.

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the narrator explores the dynamics of online fame and the blurred lines between public and private life. The protagonist's relationship with a semi-famous individual, JIN, evolves through digital interaction, highlighting the performative nature of modern relationships. The use of a fake name initially allows the narrator to express herself freely, but as their combined fame grows, the boundaries between personal and public life dissolve. The passage reflects on the commodification of relationships in the digital age, where interactions are curated for public consumption and fame is amplified through social media. Stagg critiques the superficiality of online personas and the impact of public scrutiny on personal identity. The narrative underscores the tension between authenticity and performance, as the protagonist navigates the complexities of fame and connection in a hyper-connected world.

In the passage from Natasha Stagg's Surveys (2018), the narrator's decision to use a fake name initially serves as a protective mechanism, allowing her to engage in online interactions without the immediate burden of personal exposure. This anonymity provides her with a sense of freedom to express herself and explore her identity without the constraints of her real-life social circle. However, as her relationship with JIN gains public attention and their combined fame grows, the distinction between her online persona and her real identity becomes increasingly blurred.

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the narrator navigates themes of power, intimacy, and identity through transactional and digital relationships. With Javier, financial exchange highlights commodification and self-worth, while her use of pain medication reflects emotional detachment. With JIN, online fame blurs public and private life, as her fake name initially offers freedom but dissolves with growing attention. Both passages explore the tension between authenticity and performance, critiquing how societal pressures and digital personas shape modern relationships and self-perception.

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This passage captures a really raw and intimate moment between Kevin and Jim in a hospital room. The setting, with its pale green and cold white colors, feels kind of sterile and distant, which makes the warmth of their personal history stand out even more.

Stagg’s writing is simple but powerful, letting you feel all the emotions that aren’t being said out loud. The conversation between Kevin and Jim feels real—Jim’s worried, but Kevin tries to brush off the whole situation, even though it’s clear there’s more going on. Little details, like Jim’s skateboarding days and the hospital calling him as an emergency contact, give you a sense that these two have a deep, shared history.

This part of the story really shows how Stagg can dig into big ideas like identity and memory, and how even small, everyday moments can have a big impact. Kevin’s way of laughing off the accident, even though there’s clearly some tension underneath, feels so human—it’s like how we all try to make light of things when we’re uncomfortable. Overall, it’s a great example of how Stagg writes stories that feel genuine and packed with emotion.

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Natasha Stagg gives us a glimpse into a life that’s all about luxury but feels kind of empty. The main character is living this high-end lifestyle—hotels, mini-bar drinks, fancy malls—but there’s this underlying sense of being disconnected from it all. It’s like they’re going through the motions, but it doesn’t really mean much.

The way the character name-drops celebrities and talks about texting them feels a bit sad, like they’re trying to prove something or feel important. But it’s clear there’s a gap between their past—where chain restaurants and thrift stores were the norm—and this new, flashy world they’re in now. It’s like they’re caught between two different lives, not fully belonging to either.

The scene in the mall, where they’re just wandering through stores like Swarovski and Ralph Lauren without really caring, really drives home that feeling of being lost. Even the invite to Amanda for martinis seems like an attempt to fill a void, but it’s hard to shake the feeling that it’s all just surface-level stuff.

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Natasha Stagg’s Surveys explores themes of disconnection and authenticity, resonating with works like Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind and Lost in Translation. Both the hospital scene (p. 139) and the mall sequence (p. 153) reflect struggles with identity and superficiality. Songs like Beck’s “Everybody’s Gotta Learn Sometime” and Lorde’s “Liability” echo these themes, capturing the tension between fleeting connections and the search for meaning. Stagg’s narrative aligns with broader cultural reflections on modern alienation and the longing for genuine relationships.

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This passage perfectly captures the awkwardness and low-key absurdity of office life. Jack II’s “Jackrub” might have started as a joke, but now it’s just another daily annoyance that everyone has to deal with. The way people instinctively tilt away when they hear his voice is so relatable—everyone’s just trying to avoid unnecessary discomfort without making a big deal out of it. Pru’s dramatic “Jackrub!” warning is hilarious, almost like a survival tactic.

Then there’s Lizzie, who actually accepts a backrub, but only because she’s too distracted by her own financial disaster. Her miscalculation moment is so real—who hasn’t had a panic attack over money, convinced they messed up some basic math? And just when she’s being all serious about economizing, Pru casually shuts it down with “Except for the shoes.” Classic.

The whole passage nails that mix of workplace frustration, humor, and shared suffering. It’s funny, but also kind of depressing in a way that feels way too real.

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this part of Personal Days by Ed Park is low-key hilarious and super relatable if you’ve ever been stuck in a weird office or job. The way he describes Crime’s cubicle area is wild—like, it’s this chaotic mess with dusty monitors, random bike parts, and a wine bottle with a fake flower? It’s giving "abandoned storage room vibes," but also like, someone’s trying to make it artsy and failing miserably. You can totally picture it, and it’s both depressing and weirdly funny.

Then there’s the Sprout, this boss who’s trying way too hard to sound smart and important. He’s out here dropping random nautical phrases like “tighten the ship” and talking about the Titanic like it’s a motivational story. And don’t even get me started on him using words like “fungible” and “egregious” from his word-a-day email. Like, we get it, dude, you’re trying to sound smart, but it’s just cringe. The fact that the employees are betting on when he’ll start wearing an eye patch is the kind of petty office humor that makes this so real.

Overall, this passage nails the weird, awkward, and sometimes absurd vibe of office life. It’s like, you’re stuck in this boring, mundane environment, but there’s always that one person (or boss) who makes it weirdly entertaining. It’s giving “I hate this job, but at least it’s good material for memes.”

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Alienation in the workplace is often explored in movies like Office Space or The Office, where characters feel disconnected from their work and coworkers. In Office Space, the main character, Peter, is alienated by a monotonous job and oppressive management, leading to his rebellion. Similarly, The Office shows employees like Jim and Dwight navigating awkward interactions and petty office politics, highlighting their emotional distance from the work they do and the people they work with.

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This passage vividly contrasts the rigidity of labor under capitalism with the fluidity envisioned under communism. Marx critiques the capitalist division of labor, which confines individuals to static roles (e.g., hunter, fisherman) tied to survival, creating alienation. His communist alternative—where one can "hunt in the morning, fish in the afternoon, rear cattle in the evening, criticise after dinner"—emphasizes the abolition of forced specialization, allowing self-actualization through diverse, voluntary labor. This vision hinges on collective regulation of production, dismantling the "objective power" of alienated labor. While utopian in tone, Marx grounds it in a materialist critique of capitalism’s structural constraints, linking it to his broader revolutionary project. The passage encapsulates his belief that human freedom requires overthrowing the economic systems that fragment social activity.

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The Assistant (2019), dir. Kitty GreenTime Clap: 0:58:30

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The Assistant (2019), dir. Kitty GreenTime Clap: 0:58:30

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Sanario：The silent, lingering shot of Jane (Julia Garner) staring at her computer screen after deleting the damning email. The weight of complicity settles like dust.

Thoughts: Kitty Green’s The Assistant is a masterclass in cinematic restraint, weaponizing mundanity to expose systemic rot. The film’s power lies in what it doesn’t show: no raised voices, no explicit violence—just the quiet horror of Jane’s routine as she navigates the banal evil of her workplace. Garner’s performance is devastating in its subtlety; her slumped shoulders and swallowed protests speak louder than any monologue.

The film’s glacial pace and sterile framing (shoutout to the oppressive overhead lighting) mirror the dehumanizing grind of corporate complicity. It’s Office Space meets The Trial, but with fewer cathartic printer smashings. The real terror? By the end, you realize Jane’s story isn’t an exception—it’s the rule.

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From Marx’s Utopia to The Assistant’s Silent Oppression 

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From Marx’s Utopia to The Assistant’s Silent Oppression 

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Marx envisioned labor under communism as fluid and self-determined—hunting, critiquing, herding—all in a day’s unalienated work. But in The Assistant, labor is frozen in silent complicity. Jane’s hollow stare at her deleted email captures the crushing weight of capitalist routine, where work isn’t liberation but suffocation. The film’s sterile, muted horror—no outbursts, just swallowed protests—mirrors Marx’s critique of labor as a dehumanizing force. Unlike his revolutionary hope, The Assistant offers no escape, only the quiet dread of compliance. It’s Office Space without the rebellion, The Trial without the drama—just the dust settling on resignation.

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This passage vividly captures the central themes of Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol, particularly the stark contrast between Ebenezer Scrooge’s miserly indifference and the spirit of generosity associated with Christmas. Scrooge’s repeated, curt dismissal of his nephew’s cheerful greetings (“Good afternoon!”) underscores his isolation and rejection of human warmth. His nephew, despite Scrooge’s coldness, remains kind-hearted, embodying the Christmas spirit of forgiveness and goodwill.

The interaction with the portly gentlemen further highlights Scrooge’s moral detachment. When asked to donate to the poor, his callous response—“Are there no prisons?”—reflects his utilitarian, almost dehumanizing view of poverty. This moment is a powerful critique of societal indifference, a theme Dickens frequently explored. The gentlemen’s mention of “liberality” ironically contrasts with Scrooge’s rigidity, emphasizing his need for redemption.

The excerpt also employs foreshadowing (e.g., Marley’s death anniversary hinting at impending visits from spirits) and subtle humor (Scrooge’s sarcastic remark about his clerk’s “merry Christmas”). Dickens masterfully blends social criticism with narrative tension, setting the stage for Scrooge’s transformative journey.

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This passage captures a pivotal moment in Scrooge’s transformation, as the Ghost of Christmas Past forces him to confront his lonely childhood. The vivid description of the dilapidated schoolhouse—damp, mossy, and overrun with neglect—mirrors Scrooge’s emotional barrenness. His tears upon seeing his younger self, "a lonely boy reading near a feeble fire," reveal the vulnerability buried beneath his hardened exterior.

The sudden appearance of fantastical figures like Ali Baba and Valentine reflects Scrooge’s longing for escapism and connection, hinting at the imaginative joy he once possessed. His emotional outburst—laughing and crying—contrasts sharply with his earlier miserly persona, underscoring Dickens’ theme that redemption begins with reconnecting to one’s humanity. The scene’s sensory details (e.g., the "drip from the half-thawed water-spout") amplify its melancholic tone, making Scrooge’s awakening all the more poignant. This moment foreshadows his eventual rebirth, emphasizing that compassion stems from understanding one’s own suffering.

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Scrooge’s emotional reckoning mirrors themes in The Grinch (2000), where isolation melts into communal joy, or Inside Out (2015), where repressed memories spark transformation. Similarly, songs like "Fix You" by Coldplay capture the catharsis of confronting past pain. Both excerpts—like these modern works—highlight how vulnerability and nostalgia can dismantle emotional barriers, urging audiences to embrace empathy. Dickens’ timeless message resonates across mediums: redemption begins when we face our shadows and choose connection over solitude.

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On page 10, the narrator’s frustration with Bartleby reaches a critical moment when the scrivener first refuses to proofread a document with his now-iconic phrase: “I would prefer not to.” This quiet but firm rejection unsettles the lawyer, who expects obedience from his employees. What makes the scene so striking is Bartleby’s calm repetition of the phrase—he offers no argument, no defiance, just a polite but immovable refusal. The narrator, caught between annoyance and bewilderment, doesn’t know how to respond to such passive resistance. Unlike Turkey’s fiery outbursts or Nippers’ erratic moods, Bartleby’s resistance is eerily serene, making it all the more disruptive. This moment foreshadows the story’s deeper themes of alienation and the futility of forcing human will, as the lawyer’s attempts to reason with Bartleby only lead to greater absurdity. The power dynamic is flipped—the employer, who should have authority, is instead unnerved and even intimidated by his employee’s quiet, inexplicable defiance.

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A Christmas Carol, stave 5: “The End of It” P.63

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A Christmas Carol, stave 5: “The End of It” P.63

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In this joyful passage from Stave V of A Christmas Carol, Scrooge awakens transformed, overwhelmed with gratitude and relief. The tone shifts dramatically from the earlier gloom to one of exuberance and redemption. Dickens uses vivid imagery and repetition—such as “Past, Present, and Future” and “I am as light as a feather… as happy as an angel”—to emphasize Scrooge’s newfound spirit and emotional liberation. The mention of Marley and the spirits reinforces the supernatural journey that led to his enlightenment. Scrooge’s energetic movements and emotional outbursts, including laughter and tears, illustrate his rebirth. His joy at seeing familiar objects, like the bedpost and the saucepan, reflects a renewed appreciation for life’s simple things. Dickens effectively shows how true change comes from within, and this passage celebrates the triumph of compassion and second chances. Scrooge is no longer a miser but a man reborn—ready to embrace life and spread joy.

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Christmas Carol, stave 5 p.63- the Scrivener p.10

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Christmas Carol, stave 5 p.63- the Scrivener p.10

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The transformative joy of Scrooge’s awakening in A Christmas Carol—where his exuberant rebirth is marked by laughter, tears, and a newfound love for life—stands in stark contrast to Bartleby’s quiet, unsettling resistance in Bartleby, the Scrivener. Where Scrooge’s redemption is loud and animated, Bartleby’s defiance is eerily still, his repeated “I would prefer not to” acting like a haunting refrain in a song that refuses resolution. If Scrooge’s story mirrors the triumphant crescendo of a symphony, like Beethoven’s Ode to Joy, Bartleby’s resistance is more like the unresolved dissonance of Radiohead’s How to Disappear Completely—a quiet, looping refusal to conform that lingers long after the moment passes. Both scenes explore the power of personal will—Scrooge’s active embrace of change, Bartleby’s passive rejection of expectation—but where Dickens offers catharsis, Melville leaves us in uneasy silence, questioning who truly holds control when defiance takes the form of absolute inertia.

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On page 20, the narrator’s internal conflict reaches a peak as he attempts to dismiss Bartleby, only to be met with the same passive resistance: “I would prefer not to.” What’s striking here is the narrator’s mix of frustration and guilt. He tries to rationalize his actions, even leaving money for Bartleby, but Bartleby’s silence and immobility—compared to a “ruined temple’s last column”—highlight his tragic, almost ghostly presence. The narrator’s vanity in believing he’s handled the situation “masterly” contrasts sharply with his underlying pity, revealing his moral ambiguity.

This scene underscores the story’s central tension: societal expectations versus individual autonomy. Bartleby’s refusal to conform disrupts the narrator’s worldview, forcing him to confront his own complicity in systems of control. The imagery of ruin and isolation mirrors Bartleby’s psychological state, making his defiance both poignant and unsettling. Melville critiques capitalism’s dehumanization, but Bartleby’s quiet resistance also feels existential—a rejection of meaning itself. The narrator’s failed “solution” leaves us wondering: Is Bartleby a victim, a rebel, or something beyond comprehension?

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In this part of Coriolanus (Act 1, Scene 9), Martius (soon to be called Coriolanus) is showing this intense mix of pride, exhaustion, and loyalty. Cominius is trying to hype him up after his insane performance in battle, but Martius, instead of flexing, actually downplays it. He’s like, “Nah, don’t even talk about it” (lines 15–16), and instead brings up his mom, saying it hurts him more when she praises him because he’s just doing what he’s supposed to for his country (lines 17–20).

It’s a really telling moment because it shows that Martius isn’t just some bloodthirsty war machine — he’s super tied to duty and personal honor. It also hints at how much his mother’s opinion controls him, which is a huge theme later in the play. Like, he fights not just for Rome, but because he needs to live up to her expectations.

In short: Martius is basically the original "I’m doing it for my mom" guy, but in a tragic, very Shakespearean way.

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Both Bartleby’s passive resistance and Martius’s conflicted loyalty echo themes seen in Her (2013) and Whiplash (2014). Bartleby’s quiet existential refusal mirrors Theodore’s emotional detachment in Her and the haunting resignation of Radiohead’s "No Surprises." Meanwhile, Martius’s pride and burdened sense of duty parallel Andrew’s brutal self-sacrifice in Whiplash and Kanye West’s "Power," where ambition and expectation drive personal destruction beneath a surface of success and honor.