Andrei Tarkovsky’s fifth (and final movie as a citizen of the Soviet Union), Stalker (1979), follows the story of three men, referred to only as the Writer, the Professor, and their guide, the titular Stalker, as they navigate a forbidden area called the Zone. Hidden in this unnatural setting lies a secret place guarded by checkpoints and surrounded by traps; a room where one is given their innermost desire. 

Stalker is an existential film about man’s search for meaning amidst the noise and chaos of the world. It is also a film about the beauty and horror of the world itself, full of wide, contrasting shots of decaying industrial structures and natural landscapes full of green grass and flowing water. In each case, Nature has broken down man’s impressive architecture, depicted in deteriorating walls and torn metal, as if each detail of the environment bears a mystery in the debris scattered about by some unknown catastrophe.

The Stalker is himself obsessed with his mission of taking others to the miraculous room and giving them the opportunity to have their greatest wishes fulfilled, but he has never entered the threshold of the room itself. This journey is for others, yet he yearns to take one that would change the world into the Zone. Like John the Baptist of the Christian New Testament, the cross is not his to bear. He is only making the way for someone better, that is, one that is truly worthy: a Savior.

But the journey in the Zone reveals the true nature of the Writer and the Scientist, both superficial and vain in their materialism (and fueled by ulterior motives). The Stalker slowly loses hope that humanity can improve the world, his doubt reflected his gaunt face and haunted expression. He is tormented by the failure of his past and unable to comprehend the meaning behind himself and the Zone, each one stripping away at his crumbling faith little by little. Like the greatest of existentialists, the Stalker is looking for hope among the hopeless.

Jean-Paul Sartre (echoing Heidegger) used the terms dread and anguish to describe an essential state that, while unpleasant, is the first step towards an appreciation of freedom and authenticity (Tarkovsky’s Stalker...). This sense of hopelessness can be seen in both The Writer and The Scientist, though their motives for navigating the Zone (i.e.- seeking freedom) are vastly different. The Writer, a poet without a muse (audience), seeks to reclaim a sense of purpose despite personal and material wealth. The Scientist, however, secretly plans to plant a bomb at the uncanny site, fearing what may happen if the secrets of the Zone fall into the wrong hands. The Scientist, in the words of the Stalker seeks to destroy what he believes will be either humanity’s redemption or greatest temptation: hope.

The Stalker, having glimpsed but never reaching freedom for himself, is driven not only by a sense of failure, but bound by a sense of duty (Botz-Bornstein et al). Near the end of the film, the Stalker’s wife addresses the audience (breaking the fourth wall with profound effect). Looking directly into the camera, the at once a devoted, yet lonely woman, speaks of her husband’s physical and mental absence like a widow, describing him as a holy fool (that is, one so devoted to an individual calling that they inadvertently doom themselves to failure). Like Camus’ vision of Sisyphus, the fool carries their burdens both for and despite the gods. Cursed by their sense of duty, yet transformed by it, they exist in a foreign place that is familiar yet hidden. A Zone.

And it is in this Zone, this metaphorical mental battleground full of puzzles and secrets, that the Stalker finds his happiness: a tiny speck of hope for something better (Pourtova 779). The three men return from the Zone, its threshold left unused and untouched by any. The Stalker returns home and retires to his bed, riddled with existential angst and despair, crying out for understanding and peace, repeating the words It isn’t enough (evoking visions of the madman Nietzsche’s deathbed). Despite his torment and mental anguish, he clings to some small piece of curiosity, though some may call it hope.

The film concludes with the Stalker’s disabled daughter, Monkey, using telekinetic powers, no doubt caused by her father’s time in the Zone. Though it remains hidden from him, the change he so desperately wants and the freedom he desires lies in the very place he paradoxically abandons in search of it: home. This is the tragedy of the Stalker, and no doubt often of man itself.

Tarkovsky’s Stalker is an existential cinematic experience depicting man’s struggle for freedom and salvation. It is an analogy of man’s struggle for meaning in a meaningless world, with the Zone acting as a reflection of each character’s mind (each full of secret desires, regrets, and horror). Yet it is also a metaphor for hope. The Stalker continues to take others into the danger of the Zone in the hopes that he will find the key to happiness yet never dares to reach for that key himself. Like Sisyphus, one must imagine the Stalker happy, as he creates his own meaning in the face of a stark reality he refuses to accept. This is where he finds his freedom, his hope, and, ultimately, peace.

Works Cited:

• Andrei Tarkovsky as an Existentialist Cinematic ..., https://www.highonfilms.com/andrei-tarkovsky-existentialist-cinematic-philosopher/.

• Botz-Bornstein, Thorsten. “Realism, Dream, and ‘Strangeness’ in Andrei Tarkovsky.” Film- Philosophy, vol. 8, no. 3, 2004, doi:10.3366/film.2004.0028.

• Pourtova, E. (2017). Andrei Tarkovsky: stalker of the unconscious. Journal of Analytical Psychology, 62(5), 778–786. https://doi.org/10.1111/1468-5922.12365

• Tarkovsky, Andrei. Stalker. Janus Films, 1979.

• Tarkovsky's Stalker: existentialism and mental health, https://www.thelancet.com/journals/lanpsy/article/PIIS2215-0366(19)30474-2/fulltext.

In the United States, today is the Super Bowl: the annual sporting event which generates over $500 million in revenue annually through $7 million ad slots and halftime shows, exceeding $13 million in total costs. All profits aside, the Super Bowl is also a damning metaphor for the transformation of desire into spectacle under the cover of capitalism. 

French philosopher Jean-François Lyotard’s controversial yet often misunderstood postmodern philosophy may offer a distinct lens to investigate at this phenomenon. This can specifically be seen in his critique of grand narratives. According to Lyotard, universal ideologies, such as Marxism or Enlightenment progress, have collapsed, and have been replaced by competing micro-narratives. The Super Bowl is a perfect metaphor for this shift, substituting collective political goals with hyper-individualized consumption, such as luxury box seats marketed as “communal experiences” despite their exclusivity. Prioritizing performance over cultural authenticity mirrors Lyotard’s claims that capitalism reduces even communal traditions to pure engines of profit. 

Lyotard’s concept of the ‘libidinal economy,’ or economies driven by libidinal 'energies' or 'intensities' that flow through all structures (including the human body and social events), refers to the distribution and arrangement of desire and identification, and the complex relationship between sexuality and the unconscious, further hints at capitalism’s reliance on raw, often irrational desire rather than ideological coercion. The Super Bowl’s halftime spectacles and limited-edition merchandise channel collective longing into commodified experiences, sustaining the system through emotional intensity. This “cathexis of desire” as Lyotard calls it, reflects his view that capitalism thrives by diverting human energy into consumptive acts, where anticipation of purchases (such as planning Super Bowl parties) often outweighs satisfaction from ownership. Yet this system breeds an interesting paradox: while capitalism frames consumer choice as self-expression, it also homogenizes identity. For example, organic food purchases, marketed as acts of individuality, mask structural inequities (exploitative labor practices or premium pricing) that excludes marginalized groups. Lyotard’s skepticism of universal progress narratives illustrates how such “choices” often reinforce systemic inequality, as dissent becomes co-opted. This can be clearly seen in corporate greenwashing campaigns strategically advertised during the Super Bowl. Yet, the Super Bowl is anything but green, and the overall costs are steep. Environmentally speaking, individual Super Bowl stadiums generate up to forty tons of waste per game, in a sobering reminder of capitalism’s blatant neglect towards sustainability. Exploitation-wise, luxury goods, produced en masse for the big event, are often riddled with labor and human rights abuses. Such byproducts of capitalism are hidden behind brightly colored, mass produced products and experiences that, while entertaining, do little to add to the consumer’s quality of life.

Lyotard dismissed universal justice narratives, clarifying society’s tolerance for such inequities when presented as localized issues rather than systemic failures. Resistance, therefore, lies in the “little narratives” that challenge capitalist logic without claiming universal solutions. Worker cooperatives like Evergreen redefine corporate hierarchies, while Patagonia’s “Don’t Buy This Jacket” Super Bowl ad subverts consumption: even as its irony (boosting sales despite anti-consumerist messaging) underscores Lyotard’s warning that critique reinforces the overall system. 

The Super Bowl, in its gratuitous displays of excess, serves as a stark metaphor for capitalism's inherent contradictions, highlighting human creativity and technological prowess while simultaneously revealing the system's inherent capacity for alienation and inequality. The hyperreality it constructs, while offering a seductive escape from the trials and tribulations of life in a capitalist system, ultimately reinforces the existing power structures. The challenge of navigating this landscape lies in harnessing our collective desires and creativity towards more equitable ends.

The emergence of alternative economic models and the resulting shifts in consumer consciousness may offer a temporary sense of hope, but, without a fundamental reimagining of our economic systems (and social values), such efforts risk being consumed by the relentless logic of capital accumulation. The Super Bowl ultimately stands as a shining monument to capitalism's innate ability to commodify every aspect of human experience, from sport to social justice: a reminder that true liberation cannot be found in the shallow waters of hyperreality but in genuine social and economic transformation.

References:

1. Environmental Protection Agency. (2024). Textiles: Material-Specific Data. EPA.

2. Evergreen Cooperatives. (2025). About Us. Evergreen Cooperatives.

3. First Insight. (2024). Gen Z Shopping Behaviors Support Sustainability. First Insight.

4. IKEA. (2020). IKEA launches furniture buy-back and resale program. IKEA.

5. International Labour Organization. (2024). World Employment and Social Outlook. ILO.

6. Knox, S. (2025). Late-stage capitalism has made the Super Bowl too expensive even for the millionaires. Deadspin.

7. Lyotard, J.F. (1984). The Postmodern Condition: A Report on Knowledge. University of Minnesota Press.

8. Lyotard, J.F. (1993). Libidinal Economy. Indiana University Press.

9. Lyotard, J.F. (1988). The Differend: Phrases in Dispute. University of Minnesota Press.

10. Nielsen. (2024). Super Bowl LVII Draws Nearly 115 Million Viewers. Nielsen.

11. Patagonia. (2011). Don't Buy This Jacket - Black Friday and the New York Times. Patagonia.

12. Santino, J. (2016). The Super Bowl: America's Holiday. Sport in American History.

13. Waste Management. (2024). Sustainability Report. Waste Management, Inc.

14. World Economic Forum. (2024). The State of Fashion: 2024. McKinsey & Company.

The spoken word has always been a challenge for me. Social phobias and anxiety transform my speech into something clumsy and stilted, especially in public settings, where every word feels like it is under scrutiny. During these occasions, I worry that my words do not come across with the authority or intention I mean to convey; that my performance- because that’s what speech often feels like- is lacking in the eyes of those who hear it. My voice shakes and falters, betraying the very confidence I try so hard to project. I wonder if people see through me if they notice the cracks in my composure. At the doubt that seeps through.

For me, the written word is preferable, but no less faulty. Writing offers the luxury of revision: the ability to write and rewrite thoughts until they feel polished, but even this process has its flaws. Memories can be misremembered or forgotten altogether, leaving gaps that imagination eagerly fills. Fiction becomes reality as I unconsciously embellish details to make sense of events or to soften their edges. The written word may feel more deliberate than speech, but it is no less susceptible to distortion.

We are all unreliable narrators of our own stories. We erase what is hurtful, damning, or inconvenient. We rewrite roles for ourselves, recasting our most villainous pursuits as confused or misguided, wholly ignoring our intentions or, worse yet, the consequences of our actions. We are like actors playing the heroes in narratives that are often anything but heroic. And while we may not be the monsters we believe ourselves to be, we must admit that some are among us.

French philosopher Jacques Derrida’s famous assertion that “there is nothing outside the text” (French: Il n’y a pas de hors-texte) gives an interesting lens to examine this struggle between communication and self-perception. Where many suggest this statement suggests a world confined entirely within language, that is, where nothing exists beyond words, Derrida’s meaning remains notoriously misunderstood. What he is saying is that all experience, whether spoken, written, or otherwise, is always mediated through interpretation. In this way, the text is not limited to writing and includes all forms of signification and meaning.

This parallels my personal experience with spoken and written communication. If everything is an interpretation, my words, no matter how carefully I chosen, are subject to constant reinterpretation by others (and myself over time). Speech and writing are not pure channels for thought, but are shaped by context, history, and the biases of both speaker and listener. Derrida’s thoughts on the impossibility of fully capturing or controlling meaning both frustrates and liberates me.

Whenever I write or speak, I am constructing a version of myself, a text, that will be read differently depending on who is reading and under what circumstances. This applies even to myself: my own understanding will inevitably change over time. This endless process of interpretation echoes Derrida’s most popular concept known as deconstruction, the process of revealing hidden assumptions and contradictions within texts, recognizing in the process that no single interpretation can claim absolute authority.

Part of my struggle may lie in the significance I place on the idea of authenticity. I want my words, spoken and written, to reflect who I am. Yet, defining my self feels like an impossible task. Am I the anxiety ridden performer stumbling over my words in public, or am I the careful writer who crafts each sentence with an exacting precision? 

Perhaps I am both. Or neither, depending on the moment in time.

Derrida reminds us that authenticity is a construct shaped by language and interpretation. If there is no fixed meaning outside the text, then there may also be no fixed self; only a series of narratives we create and recreate as we navigate the world. This does not reduce the importance of seeking honesty in communication but invites us instead to embrace the fluidity of identity and meaning.

What I have learned from my struggles with communication is that perfection is something neither attainable nor necessary. The beauty of words, whether spoken or written, does not lie in their impeccability, but in their ability to connect us with others. Even the clumsiest of words can carry meaning. Even the most imperfect stories can reveal certain truths.

I may never fully speak or write with ease or without doubt, I am learning to find grace in my imperfections. While my words may falter, fail, or fall short of what I want to express, they are mine. 

 Perhaps that is enough.

Reference:

1. Derrida, J. (1967). Of grammatology (G. C. Spivak, Trans.). Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press. 

“One of the recurring philosophical questions is: 'Does a falling tree in the forest make a sound when there is no one to hear?' Which says something about the nature of philosophers, because there is always someone in a forest. It may only be a badger, wondering what that cracking noise was, or a squirrel a bit puzzled by all the scenery going upwards, but someone.”

-Terry Pratchett, Small Gods

The movement known as humanism began in 14th century Italy with Francesco Petrarch (1304-1374), who promoted the study of a curriculum based on ethics, grammar, and poetry, effectively laying the groundwork for an educational archetype that emphasized the vast importance of civic virtue and human dignity and civic virtue. By the 15th century, humanism had spread throughout Europe as an attempt to reconcile classical ideas with Christian teachings, emphasizing moral philosophy over abstract theology. The movement would inspire the Renaissance artists, such as Donatello and Michelangelo, to embrace humanist principles; particularly the belief that art could promote not only the individual but the whole of society. 

The 18th century, however, signified a drastic turning point in humanist thinking, as the Enlightenment thinkers expanded beyond classical revival to embrace scientific rationality and political reform. Philosophers such as Baruch Spinoza, Jean-Jacques Rousseau, and Thomas Paine, would begin to redefine divinity as a totality of nature, framing human rights as something inherent and universal. Ludwig Feuerbach and Karl Marx would begin to criticize traditional institutions, arguing that religion alienated humans from their true potential, as Charles Darwin would present a naturalistic explanation for human existence, eschewing theological claims of divine creation. Such critiques would lay the foundational origins for secular humanism, which effectively prioritized empirical evidence and ethical autonomy over religious dogma.

The 20th century would see a rise in institutionalized humanism, which sought to place the responsibility of leading an ethical life of personal fulfillment over supernaturalism. Advocates called for compassion, global cooperation, reason, and compassion, as they addressed contemporary issues like environmental sustainability and civil rights. 1941 would see the founding of the American Humanist Association, which championed secular governance and science while adapting to the rising challenges of modernity. 

Over time, humanism has adapted to address the changing needs of its time, promoting the honorable core tenets of empathy, reason, and the pursuit of knowledge. Grounded in human potential, it is an attempt to transcend divisions and embody the Renaissance idea of excellence in service to the common good. However, I posit there is an inherent danger present in the movement that I believe complicates the legacy of the Humanist movement, one grounded in oppressive structures that render it inadequate and dangerous in addressing contemporary challenges. 

Environmental proponents (myself included) look to indict humanism for legitimizing ecological exploitation though its anthropocentric worldview. Anthropocentrism, or the belief that humans are the most valuable creatures on the planet, can be seen at the root of global crises like biodiversity loss and climate change, Experts argue that humanism creates a definite schism between humans and nature, repurposing the Earth’s ecosystems as a resource to be used and commodified instead of nurtured. It is humanism’s narrative of mastery and progress, I argue, that accelerates our current environmental collapse. 

Humanism’s ethical focus on human flourishing, while well intended, fundamentally ignores nonhuman interests, perpetuating a dominant mentality that nature exists solely to serve our human needs. This undermines the idea of biodiversity conservation and reinforces our destructive and unsustainable consumption patterns. Even social appeals for environmental stewardship hide the innate belief in human exceptionalism, placing it over the importance of environmental humility. Furthermore, secular theorists echo concerns over the legacy of humanism, framing it as a Eurocentric project that masks imperial violence while legitimizing hierarchies under the guise of enlightenment.

I am not, however, advocating the religious criticism of humanism, which condemns the movement for eroding moral absolutes, making it a scapegoat for moral relativism, free sexuality, and the disintegration of traditional family values. Rather, like Foucault, I am rejecting the idea of a fixed human nature, and advocate instead for a critical ontology that seeks to reinvent subjectivity beyond Enlightenment constraints, echoing Nietzsche’s charge to overcome the human by embracing creativity and multiplicity over rationalist dogma. 

 This proposition rests on the following arguments.

1. Human agency is an illusion shaped by ideological/ material forces beyond our control. 

2. Anthropocentrism creates environmental exploitation which jeopardizes the stability of the planet.

3. Universalist claims hide exclusionary practices that fundamentally reinforce capitalist, colonial, and patriarchal systems.

4. The category of ‘human’ fails to account for posthuman realities.

This final point is derived from Jacques Derrida’s later work, The Animal That Therefore I Am, where he not only critiqued humanism, but dismantled the epistemological foundations of anthropocentrism, revealing its contingency and violence. In our Anthropocene, this deconstruction is an ethical necessity, forcing us recognize nonhuman agency and redistribute our responsibilities to reimagine humanity as part of the ecological network, instead of placing ourselves above it. Derrida is offering a path beyond humanism’s innate exceptionalism towards an ethics of shared vulnerability and care.

To be clear, I am not arguing against humanism’s ethical aspirations but am seeking to challenge its foundational assumptions. Perhaps the task is to recreate humanism in such a way that human and nonhuman humans coexist under the umbrella term ‘animals?’ No matter what form humanism takes, if we are to live sustainably, humankind must learn to reclaim its rightful place within nature, instead of claiming mastery over it.

References:

• https://www.britannica.com/topic/humanism

• https://www.bop.gov/foia/docs/humanism_manual.pdf

• Derrida, Jacques. The Animal That Therefore I Am. Translated by David Wills, Fordham University Press, 2008.

• https://thehumanist.com/commentary/humanism-and-history-a-brief-look-at-our-resolutions-and-social-justice-issues/

• https://www.worldhistory.org/Renaissance_Humanism/

• https://www.worldhistory.org/timeline/Renaissance_Humanism/

• Nietzsche, Friedrich. Human, All Too Human: A Book for Free Spirits. Translated by R. J. Hollingdale, Cambridge University Press, 1996.

• Pratchett, T. (1992). Small Gods. HarperTorch.