Joker Close Viewing

Todd Phillips’ Joker

The concept of the human psyche is one of great ambiguity. Lying just outside of focal awareness, our subconscious is a flowing stream of intangible power and idle knowledge, in a ceaseless entanglement with its own creation. Swedish philosopher and physician Paracelsus was the first ascribed with the scientific mentioning of a subconscious level of thinking, to which he accredited a great deal of his successful work in toxicology. It wasn’t until centuries later, when an Austrian neurologist by the name of Sigmund Freud developed an in depth psychoanalytic theory on the complexities of this layer of the human psyche. Our subconscious goes far beyond the act of learning and obtaining information. It is not a storage facility, but rather a serpentine network of instinctually pre-programmed data that dictates the majority of our interactions with the world around us. Directed by Todd Phillips, the 2019 psychological thriller Joker explores this concept, bringing a new level of profound depth to the superhero genre, and divulging the mysteries and psychological intricacies of a longstanding fan favourite - ‘The Joker’. Through deconstructing the life and mind of this infamous supervillain, Phillips unpacks the arcane nature of the human psyche, and with the help of three key film aspects places emphasis on the effects which societal pressure puts on the enigma that is the human subconscious.

Social constructs are a feeble attempt to grasp an understanding of the unknowability of ourselves and the

world around us. However the true problem with social constructs, is that society paints these assumptions

(often based on minimal prior knowledge) as objective truth: what many of us perceive as reality is reliant on

theseshared preconceptions. Because of this, we create boxes. We create categories for a collective, and in

doing so reduce other individuals - and ourselves - to a definitive label, a set criteria, a set manual on how we

ought to behave and how others deserve to be treated based on the box they’ve been placed in. In the case of

Arthur Fleck, who was no more than a boy when the abuse of his stepfather forced him down a winding path of

life-long trauma and debilitating mental health issues, these constructs have formed a suffocating reality.

After being attacked for a lack of control over his laughing condition on the subway, Arthur murders

two men in self defense, and another in a loss of self-restraint. He soon finds himself shaken and alone

in a public bathroom. Leading up to this point, Arthur had been consistently met with a lack of compassion

and an abundance of ignorance for his mental health conditions. From the verbal and mental abuse of his

coworkers, to being physically assaulted by strangers on two separate occasions, the consequences of falling

outside of society’s ideal benchmark had taken its toll. One foot after the other, Arthur steps into a delicate

accompaniment of the melody that resides in his heart. His body cuts through the air with an unprecedented

grace, balletic gestures mimicking an almost fluidic sequence of motions. He has music deep within his soul.

This display of unchained self-expression is not initially a representation of an abrupt or spiralling loss of

control, nor is it a failure to contain his ongoing list of mental health issues - this is his subconscious fighting

to break free from the conforming identity that Arthur has strenuously moulded himself to for so long.

However as the story continues, the motif of Arthur’s dancing develops into a more sinister foreshadowing

of destructive behaviour, the final scene showing Arthur dancing down the hallway at Arkham State Hospital

after evidently murdering his psychiatrist. Through the of this simplistically rich motif, Phillips dissects the

inner workings of a man thrown into a world designed to tear him down, and a society hellbent on trapping

him in the confines of a labelled box. For the audience, this is a telling portrayal of how the pressures of

societal normality can affect the psyche. We put limitations on our subconscious for the comfort of

others - and when our subconscious feels trapped, it grows desperate to break free.

Sigmund Freud’s theory of psychoanalysis divides the human psyche into a tripartite model, each layer

pertaining to different levels of the conscious and unconscious mind. These three layers are the ego, the

superego, and the id. While the superego represents the database of learned knowledge which exists in our

conscious mind, the id represents our repressed instinctual urges and desires. The ego represents the perpetual

conflict between the two, or the contradiction between our knowledge of what is right and what we long for.

This concept of Freudian psychoanalysis is best understood when applied to one piece of literature in

particular: The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde. This tale depicts the life of Dr. Henry Jekyll, a man in

a constant struggle to maintain the dormancy of his alternate personality, Mr Edward Hyde. While Dr. Jekyll

was a prestigious and well-admired scientist, his alter ego Hyde was a manifestation of his worst impulses,

and a satisfier of his most rudimentarily innate desires - the id. Much like the superego and the id, whilst Hyde

and Jekyll are binary opposites, paradoxically, they are one in the same. This aspect of Freudian psychoanalysis

can also be applied to Arthur Fleck in Todd Phillips’ Joker, a purposeful combination of colour and lighting

in the scene following Arthur murdering the men in the subway working to characterise this idea of an

imbalance of power between the id and the superego. A flickering light illuminates the bathroom, a sickly pale

green washing over the decrepit stalls. An extensive degree of desaturation instils a sense of unease in the

audience, as the potency of this green hue overpowers all warmth. Immersed, Arthur continues to dance.

Embracing this imbalance, he welcomes chaos with open arms. The superego gives way to instability as

Joker moves into the flickering spotlight of this rundown Gotham bathroom, and Arthur reverts to his

default visceral state. Apathetic, impulsive, and perfectly devoid of morality, the id has silenced any surviving

slither of reason. Colour allows for visual representation of a transfer in power to be put forth to the audience

in this moment. An alike use of colour can be seen in David Fincher’s Fight Club. In this film, the director uses

desaturation and pale green hues to differentiate between the unnamed protagonist’s true self, and his neurotic

alter ego Tyler Durden. Through a similarly cunning use of green, Phillips and cinematographer Larry Sher

vividly illustrate Arthur’s acceptance of who he believes Gotham’s people have forced him to become in their

cruelty and limiting archetypes.

Paired with lighting, colour serves a second distinct purpose in the unveiling of Arthur’s descent into madness

throughout the film. Following a disheartening encounter with Thomas Wayne, we see Arthur alone in his

kitchen. The man he believed to be his father had rejected him without second thought, and the only woman

who had seemingly offered him love, nurture, and protection from his harsh reality was not the woman he had

dedicated his life to caring for. He stands over the counter in a trance-like state, looming shadows unfurling in

the deepest corners of the room as the malevolence that lurks in his subconscious once again fights to break

free from an exhausting face. The absence of light also draws attention to the sombre essence of the scene,

constructing a darker atmosphere and placing emphasis on Arthur’s declining mental state. Despite all he had

done, this atmosphere assists the audience in finding reason to sympathise with him for his ill-fated

circumstances. The dissonance between a warm orange glow emanating from the dreary Gotham streets and

the array of cool blue hues flooding the room around him reflects an inner struggle between Arthur and his

neurotic Joker persona; the conflict between the superego, encompassing Arthur’s remaining hope in society

and the knowledge of what is morally right, and the id; the embodiment of the most instinctual, primitive

strand of his subconscious, and his desire for violence and serving self-indulgent ‘justice’. With this use of

complementary colours and lighting, Phillips and Sher successfully establish a striking parallel between

Arthur and his environment, accentuating the symbiotic relationship between these two entities in the entirety

of its disharmonious nature.

Throughout Joker, director Todd Phillips uses the film aspects of colour, lighting and motifs skillfully to

delineate the deteriorating psyche of a man suffering from mental illness. Most importantly, however, Phillips

does well to separate Arthur from his conditions, and recognise him as an individual rather than defining him

by these pivotal traits. Elyn Saks is a professor of law, psychology and psychiatry at the University of Southern

California, and a woman living with chronic schizophrenia. In a powerful retelling of her story, Elyn delivered

this line in regards to the portrayal of those with mental illness in media - “Portray them sympathetically, and

portray them in all the richness and depth of their experience as people and not as diagnoses.” By creating

these alternative methods of understanding Arthur for the audience, most notable with a brilliant use of

complementary colours to reflect his subconscious battle, Phillips fabricates a story in which Arthur can bee

seen in a sympathetic light despite his flaws, as a man living with schizophrenia, rather than labelling him as

a schizophrenic. These details are not only crucial to understanding the entirety of Arthur’s narrative - they

also hold significance on a larger scale. The stigma which society has created around mental illness and

diverging from normative behaviour and ideals is exhausting for those who are unwillingly shoved into

these boxes. A study carried out by the World Health Organisation suggests that at minimum, 30% of those

with mental health issues will not seek help. This includes approximately 55% of those displaying signs of

a severe anxiety disorder, 56% of individuals with major depression, and around 50% of people who have

Bipolar Disorder. These shocking statistics outline exactly how these labels and the subliminal baggage

they encompass negatively impact our society. If anything is to be taken away from Arthur’s story, it’s this:

do not reduce yourself or others to a single word. It is a cheap and dwindling expression of your character.

Don’t be quick to define others with a label - the subconscious isn’t designed to be cornered.

Who are the Croods

Who are the Croods?

The 2013 family comedy, The Croods, follows a family of hominins and their journey of development as they navigate a new dangerous world. A number of cultural and biological aspects of the family indicate what species of hominin they are. Although they are capable of bipedal locomotion, they also knucklewalk. This suggests that they fall earlier on the hominin timeline. However, the Croods where partially developed clothing, jewelry, use shelter and begin using fire early on in the movie. These sings of cultural evolution indicate that despite being knucklewalkers, they are actually on the hominin timeline. They had straight, slender fingers which are suitable for precision grip rather than grasping branches, and their hallux is aligned with their other toes, allowing for greater balance when walking. When a new member of the group, Guy, suggests travelling to a distant mountain to escape danger, one of the children explains that the group had never travelled a large distance before - this indicates that the group may not have feet fully suitable for crossing long distances. In terms of their skulls, the Croods have prominent brow ridges, robust haws, and large incisors. Their teeth - canines included - are flat, and some of the family members have a diastema. They display a limited ability of in depth abstract thinking early in the film, however later on Grug begins drawing pictures of his family on the walls of a cave, which suggests the development of abstract thinking. Initially they don't use tools, aside from Guy who is seemingly more developed and uses controlled fire and hunting traps. With these cultural and biological factors in mind, it is likely that the Croods are a later Homo species - such as Homo Erectus or Homo Heidelbergensis, who lived 1.9 million to approximately 30,000 years ago. Although there are slight differences in biological features such as Homo Erectus having smaller teeth, a higher degree of prognathism and being fully bipedal, this species is the one which fits closest to the Croods due to their other biological features and the fact that these hominins were beginning to use fire. 

The History of Burials

The traditional custom of burying the deceased is a symbol of great love, respect and grief among modern human populations, and is a practice which dates back many hundreds of thousands of years (in some manner). Four burial sites in particular around the world are significant in regards to developing a timeline on hominins and the social behaviors of ritual and burial. The oldest of these four caves is the "Pit of Bones", located in Atapuerca, Spain. Dating back to 400,000 years ago, the Pit of Bones encompasses a 40ft drop followed by a long downwards slope. At the bottom of this slope, archaeologists found approximately 6,500 bone fragments, among which were the remains of 28 Denisovans. With these, they also found the remains of multiple carnivorous animals which could have accounted for the placement of the Denisovan bodies - however, these animal remains were on top of the Denisovan remains, indicating that the Denisovans had been there first. There were no signs of tools or artefacts being buried there, nor were the bodies placed in an intentional orderly fashion. Considering this and the fact that once they were in the cave there would be no possibility of climbing back out without advanced climbing equipment, it was concluded that this served more as a place to dispose of bodies, rather than a spiritual or symbolic burial place to grieve for the dead.

The second location is the "Rising Star Cave", located in South Africa and dating back to approximately 250,000 years ago. Looking at a diagram of the cave below it can be inferred that traveling to this burial site was no easy feat - the energy required to carry bodies to this location would have been substantial. No signs of flood damage which could have resulted in the bodies being carried to this location have been found, indicating that placing the bodies here was deliberate. This is further backed up by the fact that the 15 Homo Naledi remains found here had been placed over a period of time. The concept of using this continuous burial site despite the difficulty which was most certainly faced traveling to this location suggests the beginning of some form of deeper more abstract thinking in hominins. It suggests that hominins had developed the capacity to carry out tasks aside from those which provided a direct benefit to their physical health.

The third location is the Shanidar Cave - also known as the "Flower Burial Site". Located in Iraq, this burial site dated back to approximately 60,000-90,000 years ago. At this location, the remains of 10 Homo Neanderthals were found - a few of which consisted of skeletons which had been dusted with pollen. This was a significant discovery in terms of the development of rituals and burials among hominins, as it would appear that these Neanderthals had been buried with flowers, suggesting some from of symbolic sentiment and the development of a deeper level of thinking, and the capacity for abstract, original thoughts outside of immediate survival needs. However, the pollen found amongst these remains was disproven to be buried with the Neanderthals, as small tracks were later discovered in the ground within the burial site, proving that the pollen had been brought in by mice.

The final and most significant of the four burial sites is the Qafzeh Cave, located at the bottom of Mount Precipice south of Nazareth, in Iraq. The burial site at Qafzeh Cave dates back to approximately 92,000 years ago (during the mid-Paleolithic era), and the remains discovered here were of early Homo Sapiens. There are several points of interest which separate this burial site from the other three, and show evident signs of intentional burial of bodies. The first of these points is the fact that of the 15 individuals buried here, 6 of them had been laid down in a systematic and orderly fashion. This in itself suggested that the bodies had been placed intentionally and with care, indicating their burial was symbolic rather than purely for disposal. Secondly, artefacts were found alongside the bodies; tools, such as weapons, horns, and several other objects were excavated at this site. This serves as further evidence of intentional burial. The final and most interesting fact about the remains found at Qafzeh Cave is that the bones of the Homo Sapiens buried here has been painted with red ochre. Presumably, this is a ritual or tradition which held some form of symbolic meaning to the group of people these individuals belonged to, and suggested the existence of a hierarchy or status amongst their community. This once again provides evidence of the development of deeper abstract thinking in hominins.

Evolution of Stone Tools

The development of stone tools was a crucial aspect of cultural evolution which led to humans existing as they do today. The poster below shows how stone tools were improved by early hominin species over time (from Oldowan tools to upper paleolithic tools) through greater forethought and more complex methods, and how these developments in stone tool production benefited early hominin populations.

Mitochondrial DNA and Human Evolution

Upon testing the Mitochondrial DNA of 147 participants from around the world in 1987, scientific authors Rebecca Louise Cann, Mark Stoneking and Allan Charles Wilson came to the conclusion that all modern Homo Sapiens shared a common female ancestor - nicknamed 'Mitochondrial Eve'. They placed this early Homo Sapien ancestor as having lived in an African population between 100,000 to 200,000 years ago. Mitochondrial DNA is a form of DNA completely separate from nuclear DNA in chromosomes, and is found in eggs rather than sperm cells - this meaning it is passed down through matrilineage. This also means that Mitochondrial DNA is not involved in recombination, and remains predominantly unchanged as it is passed down from mother to daughter unless affected by mutation or undergoes change in a small but growing population. From the separation, purification and analysis of these DNA samples, and the studying of mutation patterns in participants dependent on their location in the world, these three authors inferred that not only was genetic variation more prominent within populations than between populations, but also that each non-African population has multiple Mitochondrial DNA lineages which diverge from one common Mitochondrial DNA gene pool originating in Africa (this supporting the 'Out of Africa' Model of hominin evolution).

Blade Runner 2049 Film Analysis

Humanity is mankind’s fundamental distinction. Our mortality and self-conscious state, our ability to feel and find reason, to create meaning, to change and to aspire. Our naturistic need to love and to be loved - most relevantly, the desperate need to hold on to love for dear life once we’ve found it - all which we refer to as ‘the human condition’. Decades after its introduction in the release of Blade Runner in 1982, a film considered beyond its years, the post-apocalyptic world of Blade Runner returned. Taking place in its titular time period, Blade Runner 2049 follows the story of main man Officer KD6-3.7, or simply K - except, his classification as a ‘man’ is still in question. Produced in a lab by entrepreneurial businessman Niander Wallace, K is a state-of-the-art Nexus-9 replicant, a bioengineered being working for the Los Angeles Police Department. Referred to as a ‘blade runner’, K has been assigned with the task of ‘retiring’ less obedient older model replicants. Directed by Denis Villeneuve, 2017 sci-fi thriller Blade Runner 2049 acts as a sequel to its original namesake in regards to plot, while still putting forth its own strikingly different ideas and a uniquely profound conceptualisation of the human experience.  With the strategic pairing and use of several key film aspects throughout the movie, Villeneuve accentuates one of humanity’s weakest links - the concept of grief, and our resulting inability to let go of the past.

Undoubtedly, the love a father has for his child is unmatched. It’s unconditional. Nevertheless, “Sometimes to love someone, you’ve got to be a stranger.” The delivery of this line breaks through silence with a staggering strength. With such simple words, the image of this hard shell of a man which once stood before our protagonist has been torn out from its roots. Hunted, Deckard was forced to leave the mother of his child long before birth. He never had the chance to love his daughter in the way that most fathers would dream to. Love is an elemental part of the spectrum of human emotions, and yet rarely can we fully understand it - rarely is it as easy as instinct. Loving someone doesn’t always mean being with them at every given chance, or even being remotely involved in their life. In this case, loving his family meant he would never get to see them, never get to hold them. It meant letting go of the ones he loved the most. Cruelly, this often necessary choice is also the hardest. Deckard’s words hang in the air long after they’ve left his mouth, the absence of music throughout the entirety of his conversation with K adding to the dialogue’s already intense nature. It conveys the depth of his words to the audience without need for elaboration or further context. For no more than a moment, we catch a glimpse of Deckard’s most vulnerable, genuine self - a man who experienced loss like no other. The silence shortly comes to  an end when Deckard leaves the room, leaving K alone to process all that had been said. A soft clink can be heard as he slips a coin into the jukebox at the far side of the bar, and a song begins to play. Slow in pace and accompanied by a progression of minor blues chords on the piano, Frank Sinatra begins to sing. A song titled ‘One for My Baby (And One More for the Road)’. Aside from the sorrowful tone and slow tempo which perfectly reflects the downhearted atmosphere of this scene, the story behind the song is also rather fitting. “But this torch I found, it’s gotta be drowned or it soon might explode… So make it one for my baby, and one more for the road.” Written and originally sung by Johnny Mercer, ‘One for My Baby’ was inspired by Mercer’s alleged long-standing affair with American actress Judy Garland. These particular lyrics resonate with the theme at hand, describing the writer’s love for a woman - love that he could no longer act upon. Much like Deckard, he had to let her go. Sometimes to love someone, you’ve got to be a stranger.

Each shelf is lined with the relics of Deckard’s past. Everything contained within the walls he surrounds himself with reminds him of better days. From the centuries-old antique paintings which lay disregarded on the floor, to the shelves upon shelves of books telling stories of years passed. A photograph of Rachael sits idly on Deckard’s desk in a frequently polished golden frame. A row of hand-carved wooden animals occupy the remaining space, a similar finish to the wooden horse which K carries in his pocket - the horse originally made by Deckard for his unborn daughter. The surface they rest upon seems to serve no ulterior purpose. The placement of each item (the mise en scène) encapsulates Deckard’s finest hours. Every trinket and memento is a reminder of all that he has lost - his past, a place he can’t leave and a dream he refuses to wake from. Each object of importance shares a pristine appearance, proof of their delicate and regular maintenance. Diegetic sound plays a role in the creation of this image; the clinking of glasses against an old countertop bar, the sound of metal against metal as a coin rolls into the jukebox, the flicking of buttons and the whirring of disks as they begin to spin and the music begins to play. The music itself, decades old. These sounds are all reminiscent of the past, unusual and almost out of place in their current futuristic time period. The complementary nature of this diegetic sound paired with the mise en scène of the sequence effectively emphasises this idea for the audience. It shows how the room itself reflects Deckard’s inner struggle to let go of the past, and how this makeshift home of his helps to preserve it, keeping the memory of his loved ones alive in the only way he can - for this is what we do to remind ourselves of the places people hold in our hearts. We mask our walls with photos of their smiles, we fill our shelves with items symbolic of inside references, their letters, books with their hidden messages contained within the pages. We do everything in our power to ensure their impact never fades from our lives. The original Blade Runner focused inherently on mortality, and replicants’ endless fight to extend their life spans. In his final moments, Nexus-6 replicant Roy Batty delivered this memorable speech. “I’ve seen things you people wouldn’t believe. Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion. I watched C-beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhauser Gate. All those moments will be lost in time, like tears in rain. Time to die.” Taking one last look back on his short life, he hopelessly tries to cling on to his final moments. Even the darkest of memories induce a sense of nostalgia, finding beauty within the chaos. It’s hard not to look back on even the most perilous of times with sentiment when the clock is running out - without the bad, you can never experience the good. Every breath Roy takes is an attempt to prevent the inevitable. Looking now at Deckard, we see their fight never ended. In truth, it only became more complicated, as it is no longer a fight to merely survive, but a fight to truly live: a struggle not only to delay death, but to hold on to all of life’s greatest beauties. 

As K confronts the man he believes to be his father, his face is tinted by the orange glow of Las Vegas’ radioactive ruins. The decrepit city lies just beyond vision, mounds of artefacts and graves of once grand architecture, having long ago succumbed to the wrath of time. The venue of an era’s fondest memories and greatest accomplishments, lost to the dust. An extreme scale of saturation adds a layer of unease to the scene, warm tones contrasting with deep blue eyes as a close-up shot of K captures a sense of sentiment otherwise lost - a conscious decision made by the director to draw attention to both characters’ innermost thoughts, making the audience feel as if they too were involved in the conversation. The familiar vacancy which often inhabited his eyes was now replaced with clear grief. At last K stood face-to-face with his creator. The man who gave him life, but didn’t care enough to stay and guide him through it. Jaw visibly clenched, K listens as Deckard explains his role in the grand scheme, and how the blackout prevented any attempt to find his child. “Did you want to?” A second close-up suggests K’s fear of the answer, his gaze piercing, the inner corners of his eyebrows raised. The shot places emphasis on the smallest indications of emotion, and comparatively, Deckard’s apparent apathy. Two halves of the same story converge, loss stemming from a common source and sculpted differently by each’s own struggles. Deckard may have lost the ones he loved, but the pain in K’s eyes was for something far more invaluable. He grieved for what he never had. This feeling isn’t one easily defined by a single word in the English language, or by any other for that matter. Para-nostalgia, anemoia, hiraeth... All terms which are similar, but not interchangeable. Despite a lack of definition, it isn’t uncommon. We often experience overwhelming nostalgia for that which we’ve never experienced - whether it be a time before our existence, a connection with someone we never had, a detail from our past which isn’t real or a moment we wish had gone differently. It’s another recurring example of the intricacy of human emotion - one so complex, words simply can’t describe it. K felt a sense of nostalgia, longing for memories he never experienced. His childhood, the love of his mother and father, happiness - things he simply never knew. And yet, he missed them. Comparing this scene to others throughout the film, an interesting conclusion can be drawn in regards to Villeneuve’s intended purpose of colour. For the majority of K’s on screen appearance, the surrounding setting is devoid of saturation. Take the scene in which K finds out his memories are real, for example. After leaving the facility, he is amidst light grey skies, treading through a blanket of pure white snow. During the scene where K fails his baseline test, he is enclosed in an all white room. He’s usually seen in monotonous white or monochrome settings. This is, until he travels to Vegas to meet his father. A brilliant orange glow is cast across the entirety of the city. The simulation on stage at the casino shows musicians dressed in bright shades of pink, blue, and every colour under the sun. This use of contrast in colour subtly suggests that in a sense, vibrancy had been brought into his life. When evidence suggested that K was human, he fed into this dream, relied on it, and found hope in it. It was a lesser than perfect narrative. Even still, believing in it was necessary. In this alternative to his story, he was no longer just another cog in the machine, but instead a man with direction. Letting go of this fantasy would be devastating - it would darken his world once more. After all, there’s no desire more human than the want to find purpose.

Through the use of a compelling combination of colour, close-up shots, mise en scene, diegetic sound,  dialogue and music, director Denis Villeneuve has created a scene rich with meaning and interpretation. His pairing of complementary film aspects, most notably music and dialogue, constructively works alongside the plot of Blade Runner 2049 to convey a prominent theme to the audience through the duration of the film - grief, and the inability to let go of the past. Villeneuve dissects the obscurity of the human condition throughout, directing the spotlight to the complex nature of the spectrum of human emotions, and, in doing so, further reinforcing the theme at hand. Letting go of the past is a primary aspect of life, and yet the hardest to accept. We have great lengths to cross in order to understand ourselves and the human race - the limited knowledge we have on our consciousness and emotions is verification of this. In a world full of such uncertainty, the importance of breaking down these mysteries grows increasingly critical. Without grasping an in-depth understanding of the self, there is no way we can hope to truly value all of life’s greatest wonders. There’s no way we can hope to fully appreciate every miniscule detail - before the clock runs out. Love and loss are two sides of the same coin: we can’t have one without risking the other. One thing can be said with certainty. “It’s better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all” - Alfred Lord Tennyson.

Practice Analysis