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Justified aggrievances have been raised of the sparse –or narrowly stereotyped depiction– of Asians in the entertainment media. While recently there’s been slow traction in seeing Asian faces in traditional filmic and televisual roles, Hollywood has been reluctant in portraying multi-dimensionally complex Asian characters. But with the accessibility of YouTube, content production has been much more democratized, allowing particularly Asian-American vloggers to present multi-faceted personas. YouTube allows Asian-American personalities to channel their aspirations, without the consent of the gatekeepers standing watching at the Hollywood studio system. In many ways, Asian-American vloggers are using YouTube as a Third Space. Rejecting traditional forms of media and tritely scripted clichés, they are finding an alternative space through YouTube in expressing the diverse complexion of Asian-American identities.

The "Blurred Lines" lawsuit has (pun definitely intended) blurred the lines of how copyright can and should be interpreted and enforced in the popular music world. Popular music of all kinds has for generations been predicated on iteration, from the transmutation of blues into rock and roll, vocal jazz into soul, and on and on. The precedent that a song can be marked as theft because of similar "feel" is one that may cross from a defense of intellectual property into one that has a chilling affect on creative extension of our shared musical heritage (particularly for up and coming musicians who have no resources to fight off a potential copyright claim). How is our culture defining these legal boundaries, and has this process become inherently unfair to those musical artists who are young (ie not in the baby boom generation that notoriously owns much in our copyrighted cultural landscape, since they came up alongside the new mechanical media that enabled mass-marketing of musical works), and without financial resources to defend against such suits? Was "Blurred Lines" genuinely too derivative of Marvin Gaye's work, or is this a case of judicial overreach?

With standardized digital audio production, much music under the "alternative" genre sounds conspicuously similar. Marrying this phenomena with the rise of Creative Class gentrification, and ultimately eclecticism without a sense of roots (see "Rust Belt Chic: The Cleveland Anthology" for more), has indie rock lost itself to indie cred?

Video games often rely on story-telling not only through playing the game itself, but from the use of cut-scenes. Many cut-scenes stay true to the visual style throughout the game, while others have 2-D animated shorts. Either way, video game cut-scenes serve a variety of purposes, from enhancing appreciation of the artistic design of the game (such as close-ups on individual characters), to taking away direct control of the action from the player. Looking at cut-scenes in successful (or not-so-successful) video games, what purpose does the cut scene serve? What are its most essential components to make it a successful addition to the game itself?
(Note: there are of course many examples of video games that have cut-scenes that “stay true to the visual style” as I mentioned—with 2-D animated shorts examples from Atlus’s Persona series comes to mind. That being said, this article may be better written by someone with a wider range of video game knowledge than myself.)

Institutional critique has long since been one of the driving forces in artistic and cultural development. Art responds to what confines it, the biggest culprit being institutional spaces (museums, blue chip galleries, etc). However, it's also clear to see the value in these places – they offer a mass public a chance to see historically significant art, they allow a chance for education and often engage a community. On the other hand, "alternative" gallery spaces (basement venues, "underground" collectives etc.) arguably provide artists more freedom in what kind of work gets put on display, but there are also drawbacks to this setting too in that it often only meets a niche audience. Weigh the pros and cons of the different ways in which art exists. What is most important in viewing art and putting it on display? What works, what doesn't and why? What should change? What shouldn't change?

Justice League will debut next November. The Justice League, also known as the Justice League of America, has been DC Comics most prominent super hero team for 56 years! Now, Superman, Batman, Wonder Woman, The Flash, Aquaman, and Cyborg will now join forces to fight the forces of evil and defend the innocent on the big screen.

However, there is one long time member of the Justice League that is missing…Green Lantern. Green Lantern is one of DC Comics "flagship" titles and has been a long time staple of the Justice League. So why no Green Lantern? Is it because the Green Lantern film from 2011 starring Ryan Reynolds bombed in the box office? Possibly.

But another reason may be the fact that DC Comics has been retooling and updating Green Lantern for decades, in order to make Green Lantern a more diverse character. As a result, there have been seven prominent versions of the ring wielding hero. Hal Jordan, who is Caucasian and was played by Reynolds in 2011, has been DC Comics definitive Lantern since 1960.

However, DC Comics has allowed minorities, such as John Stewart from the Justice League animated series, to take the ring for a time. A film focusing on the Green Lantern Corps is supposedly coming out in 2020, but Warner Bros has yet to reveal which Lantern will lead the Corps. Should DC Comics and Warner Bros remain faithful to the source material and fandom by giving Hal Jordan a second chance, or should they let a more diverse character become the definitive Green Lantern for their Cinematic Universe, and an entire generation of young super hero fans? This article would go into the histories of each major Green Lantern (Alan Scott, Hal Jordan, Guy Gardner, John Stewart, Kyle Rayner, Simon Baz, and Jessica Cruz) in order to see which Green Lantern should join the DC Comics Cinematic Universe.

Shortly after the 2016 presidential election, the London-based School of Life's prolific YouTube channel (founded by popular philosopher, Alain de Botton, in 2008) released a video titled "Why Socrates Hated Democracy," outlining how the founder of Western philosophy opposed the idea of putting too much political power in the hands of the unqualified masses. On inauguration day, they released "Why Hegel knew there would be days like these," reminding their viewership of the dialectical nature of history, thereby assuring that this current dark chapter is not the beginning of the apocalypse, but rather a necessary antithesis on the way to a balanced synthesis. A week later came "Thoreau and Civil Disobedience," recounting the all-too-familiar horrors of the Polk administration to highlight the democratic necessity of resistance to morally dubious political policy.

Discuss how this unofficial trilogy of videos (as well as any relevant inclusions that may follow, presumably over the next four years) resists the current state of American demagoguery. How do they contribute to the over-saturated pool of political discourse? Are they effective at breaking through the noise and conveying their messages? How has the [not-so-]subtle refraining from using Trump's name and face (aside from the occasional comic interlude video, such as "What America is Getting for Christmas," which is not treated with the same degree of seriousness as the others) aided in the potency of their rhetoric? In the climate of anti-intellectualism that many commentators have noted as being central to alt-right ideology, does the invocation of history's greatest thinkers do anything more than preaching to the choir, without making any significant impact in those in need of conversion? Can their presence on YouTube allow them more potential for change than what is available in old media? Does The School's firm lack of political neutrality in these videos impact the way we view the rest of their catalogue, most of which being entirely apolitical in nature?

It's essentially impossible to deny now that Pearl and Rose's relationship in Steven Universe wasn't romantic in at least some fashion. One of Steven Universe's best qualities is arguably it's queer representation. However, Pearl's relationship with Rose as we understand it is infinitely complex and intersects with their standing first as a Rose and a Pearl, as a leader and as a subordinate, and as near equals. I'm interested in the nature of their relationship (i.e. whether it was healthy or not or the extent of it) and it's lasting implications for Pearl's character. I'm also interested in how it compares to Pearl's relationship with characters like Amethyst and Steven especially. Basically, I think it would be interesting to explore how Pearl's relationship with Rose and it's healthy or unhealthy nature frames her current relationships in the show.

Oftentimes, particularly if a movie is an adaption from a longer novel, fans moan and complain about key details and scenes left out. Sometimes it is even released later that those scenes were filmed and subsequently cut to save time. "We'll watch a 6-hour movie that is an exact replica of the book," they say. But would we? And more importantly, would movie theaters play them? In the ever growing market for adaptations, it might be time to examine the pros and cons of making longer, more accurate films.

Does a film require narration to reveal a character's personality in a film? To what extent can visual details and dialogue override the necessity for a narrator? Director Terrence Malick specifically uses narration in his overall body of work (ex. Tree of Life and Knight Of Cups) in a unique and powerful way, but a movie such as Blade Runner (the original 1982 cut) featured narration that offered little insight that was not already obtained from the dialogue/visuals. What films use narration in a unique way that is integral to the film? What films implemented narration, but may not have required it? Offer a comparison between specific films, examining the extent to which narration contributes to each one.

There are probably thousands of comic books, with hundreds of heroes and villains. Surely, getting new iterations of Spiderman and Batman for the third time (for Spiderman, the third time in the last two decades, the last one being in 2014) isn't really necessary nor is it pushing the boundaries to new ideas. Why are we getting new iterations? Is it because the general population will only pay to see superheroes they know? But with the increasing superhero overdose, wouldn't studios make more money if there were new superheroes with new villains and new powers being put on the big screen?

In the wake of the massive success of "Deadpool," many other films (mostly superhero movies, a la "Logan") have decided to also jump into R-rated waters. Is this transition going to have an overall positive impact on the industry, or is it just a needless aping in an attempt to make lightning strike twice?

Invisible Man by Ralph Ellison has been called a "master text," a revolutionary work which changed the nature of African American literature in the 1950s. How did Invisible Man reach more than just African American literature? Where can you see its influence in later works – not only in literature, but painting, poetry, photography, etc?

Dev Patel, Aziz Ansari, Priyanka Chopra, Deepika Padukone: These are all actors of Indian origin who have played major roles in various television series and movies this past year. It would be interesting to analyze the reasons why this transition from stereotypical sidekicks to main characters has taken place.

How can the issue of cultural and linguist translation be tackled? Can it even be tackled at all? While a film may be able to translate the language, some cultural references are usually lost, especially when taking into consideration a unique language and culture like Japanese for example, and attempting to translate the language and culture relevance to an American audience. No easy feat.

Take a film like Miyazaki’s “My Neighbor Totoro” as an example – there’s something culturally amiss in the translation, so much so that more than one English version has been released since the original Japanese release in 1988.

There’s much room for exploration of what makes a film translation either good or bad, and this would make for an interesting project particularly if explored by bilingual folks who are fluent in both the linguistic and cultural nuances of the original film and its subtitled release.

F. Scott Fitzgerald lived a relatively hard life plagued by alcoholism and depression, yet was a powerful writer. Characters in his novels, such as Jay Gatsby from "The Great Gatsby" and Dick Diver from "Tender is the Night" seem to experience similar troubles. We know what Fitzgerald struggled with throughout his life; to what extent did he give his characters the same struggles? Was it a conscious decision, or a way of coping? In many cases the characters don't find peace, just as Fitzgerald didn't. How did Fitzgerald use his personal life, whether willingly or not, to influence his writing?

Reflect on how standardized tests are not preparing high school students for liberal arts courses in college. Liberal arts courses requires reading stamina, comprehension, and critical writing skills that are not taught in the classroom.

Film audiences love plots centered on time loops, time travel, body switching, and similar phenomena. From Groundhog Day to Freaky Friday, to the myriad of specials where a character wishes it were Christmas every day, we can't seem to get enough of this type of plot device. Why though, when we know by rights, these devices should be stale?

A few reasons come to mind. Perhaps it's because characters in a time loop or body switch are doing what we want to do–get another chance at doing something, or see how the other half lives. Perhaps it's because we want to reassure ourselves time is dependable and thus, these things could never happen. Of course, these are only two possible explanations.

Creative Nonfiction (CNF) has been one of the hottest and most expansive literary genres since the mid-90s, but many still fail to understand the concept of the genre. As a genre that tells truthful stories in an artful and engaging way, there can be roadblocks to the genre's validity when it comes to the use of creative liberty.

How has the mainstream introduction of CNF altered the way we read and trust our authors? How can CNF be directed within the periphery of the public mainstream in a way that credits the genre with more than just memoir? Additionally, how do we deal with the ethical dilemmas that creative liberties create within the genre?

YouTube has become one of the largest vlogging platforms online. Some of the biggest YouTube stars such as Casey Neistat have over 5 million subscribers and garner over 1 million views in just one day. After watching videos every day about someone's day to day life for months on end, how does one not feel like they personally know the vlogger, even consider them a friend? Is this mindset healthy?