Behind the Glamour: A Marxist Look at Chief Daddy

 

EbonyLife’s Chief Daddy (2018) is a Nigerian comedy-drama that follows the chaotic aftermath of a billionaire's sudden death. Chief Beecroft, a man who had everything, wealth, businesses, properties, multiple families, and countless dependents, dies unexpectedly, leaving his large and complicated family fighting over who gets what. The movie is packed with dramatic outbursts, flashy parties, and expensive outfits, making it fun and chaotic on the surface. But when you dig deeper, you start to see that it also reflects how money, power, and social class work in real life. Using Marxist theory, we can explore how the film shows the struggle between the rich and the poor, and how money shapes people’s lives.

Marxist theory is all about how society is divided between people who have wealth (the bourgeoisie) and those who don’t (the proletariat). It looks at who controls the money and the work, and how this affects everything from relationships to opportunities. Marx believed that rich people stay rich not because they work the hardest, but because the system is designed to keep them at the top. When we watch Chief Daddy with this in mind, we start to see how the film mirrors these ideas, especially in how it portrays wealth, inheritance, and the working class.

Right away, it’s clear that Chief Daddy sees wealth as something you inherit, not something you earn. Chief Beecroft is rich, no doubt about it—but the film never really explains how he got his money. We don’t see him working hard or building his empire from scratch. We’re just told he was a successful businessman. That leaves out a big part of the story, what about the workers who helped him get there? What about the effort behind the scenes? In Marxist terms, this is typical of how the rich often benefit from the hard work of others, while taking all the credit.

Meanwhile, the people who work for Chief Daddy, his staff, are always around but barely noticed. They drive him, clean his house, cook his food, and take care of everything. Yet they hardly get a voice or a backstory. They’re just there to serve. This reflects how the working class is often ignored, even though they keep things running. Their labour is important, but the film doesn’t focus on their struggles or dreams. It’s all about the people who are already comfortable and connected to wealth.

The whole plot kicks off when Chief Daddy dies and everyone suddenly wants a piece of his money. His wives, kids, mistresses, and other dependents all show up to hear the will, each hoping they’ll be rewarded. What follows is a battle over inheritance, full of entitlement and desperation. But the film never really questions whether this system is fair. Instead, it turns the fight over money into comedy. In Marxist theory, inheritance is a big part of how the rich stay rich, it keeps wealth in the family and makes it harder for outsiders to break in. Chief Daddy doesn’t challenge that. It just plays into it.

Another big thing you’ll notice is how much the film glorifies wealth. From the huge houses to the designer clothes and expensive events, the movie constantly reminds us that these characters are rich. Even the funeral feels more like a fashion show than a time of mourning. Everything is about showing off. In Marxist terms, this is commodification, when even emotions and relationships are treated like products or performances. It’s not just about who’s grieving, it’s about who looks the best while doing it.

When it comes to class mobility, the idea that people can work their way up from poverty to wealth, the film doesn’t give us much hope. Almost all the characters fighting for a piece of Chief Daddy’s estate are already connected to him. They’re family, lovers, or close associates. The people who work for him? They stay in the background. They don’t suddenly become rich or move up the ladder. This suggests that if you weren’t born into money, or close to someone who has it, you don’t really have a chance. Hard work isn’t shown as the path to success. Connection is.

While the film does show some examples of economic inequality, it doesn’t dive into them deeply. We see characters asking for money for rent, school, and business support, but these situations are treated more like side plots or jokes than serious problems. Nobody stops to ask why so many people were dependent on one man for survival. Nobody questions how fair it is that one person had enough money to solve everyone’s problems, while others struggled to afford basics. The film shows the gap between rich and poor, but it doesn’t talk about how that gap could be closed.

After Chief Daddy dies, it seems like the perfect moment for the family to wake up and become more responsible. But that’s not what happens. Most of them continue to fight over the money, hoping they’ll still get lucky. When some are told to actually work to earn their share, they act shocked, as if it’s beneath them. This shows how even the idea of labour is treated as something negative or unnecessary if you’re used to luxury. In a system like this, people are trained to chase wealth, not understand the value of work or where money comes from.

Some of the characters are more grounded or less greedy than others, and that helps balance things out a bit. But the film still focuses more on personal choices than on the bigger system. Being “humble” or “kind” is seen as a character trait, not a way to challenge injustice. That means the film doesn’t really push for change—it just shows individual personalities within the same broken structure.

In the end, Chief Daddy is more than just a family comedy. When looked at through a Marxist lens, it becomes a reflection of how wealth and privilege work in real life. It shows how the rich stay in power through inheritance, how the working class is ignored, and how society often values money over effort. While the film could have used its story to question these problems, it mostly sticks to glam and laughs. Instead of challenging the status quo, it makes the drama of the rich entertaining to watch.

But even that says something important. Chief Daddy might not be trying to make a political statement, but it still shows us what kind of world we live in. A world where some people have everything, while others have to wait and hope for a piece. A world where wealth is celebrated, but the people who make it possible are forgotten. And maybe, the real question the film leaves us with isn’t “Who gets the money?” but “Why is the system built this way in the first place?”

The Obi Effect

 

Peter Obi’s campaign poster is not just a design, it’s a message. Everything about it, from the colours to the fonts, the layout, and even the symbols, works together to show the kind of leader he wants to be. The poster presents him as calm, honest, and ready to lead. It doesn’t try too hard or feel too flashy. Instead, it feels focused and respectful, which matches the image Obi has built: a serious, no-nonsense candidate who wants to do things differently.

 Starting with the colours. The main colours on the poster are green, white, and red, the same colours as the Labour Party and also colours found in the Nigerian flag. Green stands for growth, hope, and the future, while white usually means peace and honesty. Red is strong and bold, it grabs attention and shows passion. These colours are not just beautiful; they are chosen on purpose to make people feel something. When you look at the poster, you feel like Obi stands for peace, progress, and strength. The green bar at the bottom, where his name is written, connects him directly to the image of Nigeria itself. It makes it feel like he’s not just another politician, but someone who cares about the country deeply.

The font choice also plays a big role. “PETER OBI” is written in bold, clear letters using a simple font that’s easy to read. It’s not stylish or dramatic but it’s straight to the point. This makes him come across as serious and reliable. The focus on his name, in capital letters, shows that the campaign is about him more than the party. It’s personal. He’s not hiding behind party politics, he’s putting himself forward as a leader we can know and trust. The rest of the text is also clean, with no clutter, making it easy to take in all the information at a glance.

The picture of Peter Obi on the poster is also important. He’s shown from the shoulders up, wearing dark, neat clothes and glasses, with a soft, confident smile. His background is white, which helps him stand out. The photo makes him look smart, calm, and honest. It doesn’t feel staged or dramatic, it feels human. It gives off the feeling of someone who is approachable but also in control. The placement of the photo, right next to his name and slightly overlapping the green bar—helps tie the whole design together. It makes it feel like this isn’t just an ad, but a reflection of who he really is.

Now let’s talk about the symbols. At the top right, we see the Labour Party logo which is  a gear with a family inside it. That gear represents work, while the family shows that the party is focused on everyday Nigerians. Next to the logo is a fingerprint, which reminds people of voting, identity, and taking part in democracy. These two small images add a lot of meaning. They show that Obi is running for regular Nigerians, and that every vote matters. Together with the slogan and the year “2023,” the message is clear: this is a campaign for real change, built around the people.

The whole poster has a clean, balanced design. There’s no overcrowding, no loud graphics, and no unnecessary extras. Unlike many Nigerian political posters, it doesn’t include tribal clothes, regional language, or religious symbols. This is on purpose. Obi is trying to present himself as a national leader, not just someone from a certain part of the country. The message here is unity. He wants people from all over Nigeria—no matter their tribe, religion, or background, to feel like he represents them.

Looking at the whole design, it becomes clear that the poster is not just trying to promote a campaign. It’s trying to tell a story about Peter Obi as a person and as a leader. The design says he is honest, focused, and prepared. It says he’s not trying to impress with noise or drama. Instead, he wants people to trust him because of who he is and what he stands for. In a political space full of loud speeches and complicated promises, this poster feels simple but yet powerful.

Still, the poster isn’t just about simplicity. It’s also about smart branding. By putting Obi at the center of everything, his name, his face, his message, the campaign builds a personal connection with voters. People aren’t just voting for a party. They’re voting for Peter Obi, the man. And that kind of connection matters, especially in a country where trust in politicians is often very low.

In conclusion, Peter Obi’s campaign poster is well thought out and carefully made. It uses colour, layout, font, and symbols to share a clear and honest message. It tells us that Obi is serious, ready, and committed to a better Nigeria. The poster avoids the usual flashy style and instead focuses on real values—unity, transparency, and leadership. It speaks to both the eyes and the heart. And in doing so, it gives voters not just a name to support, but a leader to believe in.

One Protest, Many Truths: Understanding CNN's Lekki Report.

 

CNN’s investigative piece on the Lekki Tollgate shooting is carefully organized to expose state violence and push back against official silence. The report doesn’t just tell a story, it actually shows it, using satellite images to trace military movements, timed footage to document the timeline, and emotional eyewitness accounts to ground it all in lived experience. These elements work together to deliver a powerful message, that peaceful #EndSARS protesters were fired upon by the military, and the Nigerian government tried to bury the truth. The visuals are intense and heartbreaking, close-up pictures and videos of blood-stained clothing, scattered ID cards, and distressed voices crying out in fear. The background music is subdued and tense, heightening the emotional gravity. It’s clear CNN wants the audience to feel the injustice, to side with the protesters, and to see the incident as a deliberate act of repression that those in power hoped would never come to light.

For those who were on the ground during the protests, CNN’s report was more than just a documentary, it was a moment of truth. Many local #EndSARS protesters viewed it through what Stuart Hall calls a dominant reading. Having experienced the chaos firsthand, they recognized the footage as a confirmation of their truth. The satellite images aligned with what they saw in real time, and the emotional interviews echoed their own stories and trauma. To them, the report wasn’t speculative, it was evidence. It showed the world what they had been screaming for months,  that unarmed citizens were attacked by their own government. CNN’s investigation became a rallying point, a record of what happened, and a symbol of international support. For these viewers, the report hit exactly the way CNN intended, it was seen as honest, urgent, and long overdue.

However, not all Nigerians interpreted the report in exactly the same way. Many citizens, especially those who sympathize with the protests but weren’t directly involved, approached CNN’s investigation with a mix of agreement and skepticism. This is what Hall refers to as a negotiated reading. These viewers generally accepted that something terrible occurred at Lekki Tollgate and that the government’s response was far from transparent. But they also felt that CNN, as an international media outlet, might not have fully captured the real truth of Nigeria’s political issues. Some questioned whether the report leaned too much into intense and loud visuals or lacked the deeper social and economic context needed to understand the bigger picture. For this group, CNN’s message wasn’t completely rejected, but it was filtered through their own understanding of how foreign media sometimes oversimplifies Nigerian issues. They believed the truth of the violence, but they didn’t take the entire report at face value. 

On the other end of the line, the Nigerian government’s response to CNN’s report fell squarely into what Hall describes as an oppositional reading. Government officials and military spokespeople dismissed the report as biased, accusatory, and inaccurate. From their perspective, CNN wasn’t uncovering truth, it was spreading misinformation and pushing a political agenda. The images of gunfire, chaos, and bloodshed were dismissed as either staged, manipulated, or taken out of context. Instead of seeing the soldiers as aggressors, the government painted them as protectors who were maintaining order. They also suggested that some protesters were armed or instigating violence. This decoding was rooted in the government’s need to preserve authority and national image. From their standpoint, the report wasn’t just wrong, it was dangerous, an attack on Nigeria’s sovereignty by foreign media.

For many international viewers, especially in Western countries, CNN’s report was received as a trustworthy and compelling account of human rights abuse. With CNN’s global reputation and excellent storytelling style, most viewers saw the video as a credible example of government brutality. They likely accepted the narrative that peaceful protesters were harmed by the state and felt sympathy and outrage. This is a dominant reading. However, some international viewers may have taken a more negotiated stance. While still believing in the seriousness of the Lekki incident, they might have wanted more context about Nigeria’s political history or heard more directly from local voices. These viewers leaned toward a negotiated reading, they believed the core message but remained cautious about oversimplification or Western bias. Their reaction was a blend of agreement and critical thinking, shaped by awareness of how global media operates.

Stuart Hall’s encoding/decoding theory reminds us that meaning doesn’t stop once a message is produced, it changes based on how different people interpret it. CNN created a report clearly meant to expose government violence, supported by visuals, data, and personal testimony that encouraged viewers to side with the protesters. But how that message landed depended entirely on the viewer’s context. Protesters received it as confirmation and support. Average Nigerians understood its importance but balanced it with their own knowledge of the country. The government rejected it outright to protect its leadership. And international viewers largely accepted it, though some called for more depth and context.

In the end, the Lekki Tollgate report became more than just a news piece, it became a battleground of different meanings. Yes CNN set out to inform and expose, but the message took on different shapes depending on who was watching. That’s the core of Hall’s argument,  media is never neutral. It’s a site of power, where truth is negotiated, challenged, and sometimes resisted. The Lekki story wasn’t just about what happened that night, it’s about who gets to say what it meant. And as long as media exists, that struggle over meaning will continue because different audiences will always have different ideas. 

Eyes on Tiwa: Decoding the Beauty and Brains behind Koroba

 

Tiwa Savage’s Koroba music video is striking, not just for its vibrant visuals and catchy rhythm, but for the complex story it tells about being a Nigerian woman in today’s world. Beneath the glamorous scenes and confident lyrics lies a layered portrayal of femininity that invites serious reflection, especially through the lens of feminist film theory. One of the clearest ways to examine this is through Laura Mulvey’s concept of the male gaze. According to Mulvey, film often frames women not as full characters, but as visual objects made to please straight male viewers. In Koroba, this theory comes is true in the way Tiwa’s body is captured: the camera frequently zooms in on her curves, lingers on her hips and thighs, and isolates her body parts from her face. The results equals to an emphasis on sex appeal that prioritizes how desirable she looks over what she feels or thinks. Even in scenes where there’s an actual storyline, like the salon gossip session, the camera often returns to showing her body as the main attraction. It’s a reminder that, even when a woman is telling a story, the frame may still treat her as decoration.

This effect becomes even more apparent when we look at how the video moves. The camera doesn’t just record her dance steps, it moves in motion with the dance. There are slow-motion shots, close-ups of swaying hips, and calculated angles that turn her into a sensual spectacle. Again, these movements aren’t inherently wrong or shameful; Tiwa is performing, and performance is part of music videos. But the way the shots are edited—the rhythm, the lighting, the pace—leans heavily into a formula that’s all too common: woman as eye candy. The settings also play a role here. Whether she’s in a luxurious mansion, a smoky club, or a posh salon, she’s framed in environments that show luxury and sensuality. The message this sends is clear: Tiwa’s presence is visually indulgent, curated for pleasure. In this way, the video supports Mulvey’s idea that women in media are often positioned to be looked at rather than listened to.

But things get more interesting when we bring in bell hooks and her idea of the oppositional gaze. hooks invites Black women to look back and to challenge how they’re shown on screen and to claim their right to see and be seen differently. Through this lens, Koroba offers more than just glamorized objectification. A Black feminist viewer might watch Tiwa’s gaze into the camera and see not vulnerability, but power. Tiwa doesn’t shy away from being seen, she owns it. Her eye contact is steady, her expressions bold, almost playful. . This shifts the meaning of the video. Instead of being passively displayed, Tiwa becomes an active force in the performance. She uses the same tools which are beauty, style, movement—to control her image, not surrender it.

What this means is that the same images that might seem objectifying in one context can feel empowering in another. For a viewer influenced by hooks’ theory, Tiwa’s performance can be read as a reclaiming of her own body. Her dance, her clothes, even her posture—these aren’t just for show; they’re choices. She’s setting the terms of her visibility. A perfect example is the salon scene. When women gossip about her lifestyle and insinuate that she’s benefitting from a sugar daddy, she responds with sarcasm and confidence. That scene doesn’t just play for laughs—it critiques societal judgments about women who are financially successful and sexually autonomous. It turns the gossip back on itself. This ability to be both the topic and the storyteller—both the spectacle and the mind behind it—echoes hooks’ belief that Black women can challenge and reshape how they’re portrayed on screen.

Still, the tension between empowerment and commodification lingers. Tiwa’s confidence is real, and so is her control. But the music industry she operates in is global, patriarchal, and deeply capitalist. It profits from selling women’s bodies as fantasy. And Koroba, for all its strength and boldness, still plays into that system. The visuals—no matter how controlled—are polished for consumption. The glamour, the sex appeal, the close-ups—they sell an image that’s desirable and clickable. There’s nothing wrong with looking good or performing beauty, but it becomes complicated when that beauty becomes a product. In that sense, Tiwa is doing what many powerful women have done before her: using a system that objectifies them to build their own platform. It’s a balancing act, and it’s not without risk.

In the Nigerian context, this complexity hits harder. Tiwa Savage is more than a pop star; she’s a cultural figure navigating multiple expectations. She’s expected to be sexy but not “too much,” successful but not arrogant, modern but not un-Nigerian. The very gaze that celebrates her can also turn around and judge her. So while she asserts power in Koroba, she also walks a fine line. The music industry in Nigeria—like in many parts of the world—is still heavily male-dominated. For a woman like Tiwa to rise, she has to be savvy about how she presents herself. That means sometimes embracing the aesthetics that get attention, even if they reinforce stereotypes. A viewer aware of both Mulvey and hooks would understand this: Tiwa may be pushing back against the gaze, but she’s also surviving inside it.

In the end, analyzing Koroba through the lenses of Mulvey and hooks shows us how layered visual storytelling can be. Mulvey helps us see how the camera’s eye can turn a woman into an object, split up for desire. But hooks challenges us to look again, to see the woman who is looking back, controlling the narrative, and making choices. Tiwa Savage isn’t just being watched; she’s also watching. Her performance is fierce, funny, and full of tension. She gives us sex appeal and satire, vulnerability and power. It’s not clean or simple but that’s what makes it real. For Black women viewers, and especially Nigerian women, Koroba might reflect something deeply familiar: the daily work of being visible, desirable, respected, and in control—all at once. And in that mess of beauty, politics, and performance, Tiwa reminds us that owning your image is, in itself, a form of resistance.

 

Seen....but DEFINITELY not heard: The Male gaze theory

 

Laura Mulvey is a world-famous British feminist theorist who gave us the phrase "male gaze." It's basically the theory that many films, commercials, and media are made from a male point of view. It doesn't just mean that men are the main characters here—also that women are being shown in a way that caters to men. The camera lingers over their bodies, contemplates their beauty, and rarely ever grants them agency or power within the story. Women are objectified as opposed to being complete people with ideas and agency. Mulvey believed that even though we usually don't even realize it, we've been trained to look at media in this way—to enjoy women as passive objects and expect them to be there to "beautify" a scene, not drive it.

Using this model, I closely analyzed the Glo Christmas commercial titled "Feliz Navidad Nigeria! " The ad is supposed to be a colorful, vibrant Nigerian Christmas celebration, full of dancing, eating, and family fun. On the surface, it does appear to be warm and inviting, with lots of folks laughing, cooking, and exchanging presents.". But if you look at it from the male gaze theory of Mulvey, it's very clear that the women in the video, especially the Black women, exist primarily to be looked at instead of engaging. Their gazes are foregrounded, their clothes and bodies are filmed to be noticed, but they're not really saying much.

Using the TSC method (Theory, Scene, Comment), I’ll break down exactly how that happens in some key scenes. At the very start of the video, there’s a kitchen scene where food is being prepared. A woman stands off to the side, stirring a pot. She glances up and smiles softly. The camera doesn’t stay with her for long—it moves on quickly. She doesn’t say anything. She isn’t introduced. In fact, blink and you'll miss her entirely. But what this shot tells us is a lot. Mulvey's theory educates us that this kind of shot is standard—women are introduced into scenes so that they "feel" festive or festive, but they are not given any real meaning. This woman's smile adds to the feel of the holiday, but she doesn't do anything that has meaning to the story. She's in there for the scenery only. This is the kind of background presence that women are often relegated to decoration in the media.

She's there, but not really seen. Through the rest of the ad, there are more active shots—music, dancing, and colorful clothes. There's one where a young woman dances happily in traditional Nigerian dress. Her waist bounces with the rhythm, and the camera focuses on her motion. It's brief, but it's hard to miss the manner in which the camera zeros in on how her body moves. She never speaks. She doesn't even communicate with people. She's dancing, by herself, for the camera. This is where Mulvey's male gaze really does come through. The ad makes her into something pleasant to behold, rather than a full person. Her function is purely visual. She's not being spoken to, not telling her own story—she's standing there to be gazed at. Even in a holiday family advert, there's this underlying attitude of sexualizing her action.

It speaks volumes about how deeply the male gaze has taken hold in media, even when the content itself is intended to be wholesome. Afterwards there's a serene, cozy moment where women are decorating a Christmas tree together. They're all in tight blouses and brightly colored wrappers, smiling and draping tinsel in a warm radiance. The colors are nice. But still, no one says anything. They're clearly intended to depict happiness and closeness, but they do nothing more than that. Their movements, makeup, and clothing are clearly intended to be gratifying to the eyes, and that is where their purpose ends. This is where women are applied in media, as Mulvey explains—to add to the emotional atmosphere of a scene but not actually contribute anything to the richness. These women cannot occupy narrative space. They're utilized instead as beautiful ornaments.

Their smile and clothes sell the celebratory message of the ad, but their silence tells us that they're not actually leading it. One of the most compelling evidence of the male gaze in this ad is in the voiceover. We only hear one voice throughout the video, and that one voice is a man's. He speaks to us, saying, "Spread the unlimited joy," and when his voice is heard, we see different people—women, mostly—laughing, dancing, hugging, and decorating. And the women don't talk. We never get to hear them speak, describe to us what joy means to them, or share anything about themselves. This is perfectly in accordance with Mulvey's theory. The voice, the message, the control over the narrative—all belong to the man. The women are shown to be happy, but they're never allowed to become the authorities on what joy on their terms is. They're always on screen, but they have no agency in the narrative. They are felt, but not spoken.

It's another way in which the media keeps women in the background—shutting them up. There's also a pleasant scene when a man presents a gift to a woman. She looks surprised and overjoyed, and the camera catches her emotional reaction well. Her eyes light up, her smile broadens, and she looks thoroughly moved. It's a lovely moment, but once more, she doesn't speak. She simply receives. The man does—it gives. The woman reacts. Mulvey discusses how male gaze isn't just about what we gaze at, but whose turn it is to do something. The man is the one to do something in this scene. The woman's only job is to be lovely and admire. This emphasizes a quiet message: men do, women react. She only exists in relation to how she reacts to him.

This is a small thing, but it's symptomatic of a broader problem of how women are built within the media—emotional expressives, certainly, but never doing anything actively. Throughout the ad, this same phenomenon continues to occur. The women are always in formal attire, with softly lit lighting, and appearing in celebratory, emotional moments. But no woman is ever in control of anything. We never actually see a woman leading the celebration or directing others into the home. There is no point where a woman utters something sincere, or even utters a line of dialogue. Instead, the women smile, hug, dance, and decorate—silently. This reveals that, although very much a part of the visuals, they are not a part of the story. The Glo ad is attempting to be inclusive but continues to rely on outdated notions. The women are included, yes—but for their appearance first and foremost. Their presence is observed, not heard.

And they just exist to support and look lovely. Mulvey's theory of the male gaze reminds us still that representation is not just putting women in the shot. It's who they're presented with, what they're doing, and whether and when they get to tell their own tale. In the Feliz Navidad Nigeria ad, women are literally present everywhere—but they aren't talking. They aren't empowered. They're not constructed as complicated, powerful, or even all that individual. They exist to make the scene look nice, to contribute emotion to the equation—but not much else. Even in a bright, sunny commercial like this one, the male gaze is still operating behind the scenes.

It sets up who gets to speak, who gets to perform, and who gets to exist solely in order to look attractive. If we consider it for a moment, this ad—like so many others—reminds us how Mulvey's theory is still so important today. Because in ways that we may not even be aware, we've trained ourselves to see women there but powerless, smiling but silenced. And until advertisements such as this begin giving women not only face time, but voice, story, and role, the male gaze will continue to determine what we see—and how we see each other.

Decorated, Not Represented: An Oppositional Gaze at the Glo Christmas Ad

bell hooks was a powerful Black feminist scholar, cultural critic, and writer who used her voice to challenge how race, gender, and class are represented in media. One of her most important ideas is the Oppositional Gaze, a concept that encourages Black women—and others who are often misrepresented in film and media—to watch actively and critically. Instead of accepting what they see, hooks urges them to question it. The oppositional gaze is a way of refusing to passively accept images that leave out, distort, or silence people who look like us. It’s a rebellious way of watching: when Black women notice that media often erases or misuses them, their very act of watching and noticing becomes resistance.

Using this lens, I will critique the Glo holiday advertisement titled “Feliz Navidad Nigeria!” which celebrates Christmas in a colorful, music-filled Nigerian setting. While the ad looks inclusive on the surface, a deeper look reveals how Black women are used more for decoration than for representation. Through the TSC method (Theory – Scene – Comment), I will analyze key moments in the video and show how the ad falls short when it comes to meaningful inclusion, voice, and agency for Black women.

One of bell hooks’ main ideas is that Black women are often present in media, but only in the background. They are there physically, but their voices, emotions, and importance are ignored. This kind of “presence without power” is what she calls a form of invisibility—when you’re seen, but not really acknowledged. In the first few seconds of the Glo ad, we see people preparing food in what looks like a family kitchen. A Black woman is standing behind the group, stirring a pot and smiling. The camera moves past her quickly. She doesn’t speak, and we don’t see her clearly. This is a clear example of bell hooks’ idea. The woman is shown, but she doesn’t matter to the story. She’s not introduced. She has no lines. The camera doesn’t even focus on her. She’s there just to add a “festive feel” to the scene. This kind of invisibility is common in ads that want to look diverse but don’t actually center Black women in meaningful ways.

Another part of the oppositional gaze is about how the camera treats people—especially women. bell hooks argues that Black women are often filmed in ways that turn them into objects instead of full human beings. They are shown to please the eye, not to share their stories or personalities. Their beauty is highlighted, but their minds and voices are ignored. Later in the Glo ad, there’s a short clip of a teenage girl dancing in festive clothes. Her smile is bright, her look is carefully styled, and the music matches her movement. The camera pans across her quickly and then moves on to another scene. This moment looks cheerful on the surface, but it still follows the pattern hooks warns about. The girl is used like a visual ornament—something to add sparkle to the ad. We don’t know anything about her. She doesn’t speak or do anything important. Her body and smile are used for beauty, not for meaning. This is objectification. Instead of being treated like a full person, she’s reduced to how she looks in one moment.

bell hooks also talks about how real representation means giving people a voice. Just being seen is not enough—people need to speak, lead, and shape their own stories. Too often, Black women in media are silent. They may smile, laugh, or cry, but they don’t speak for themselves. This silence is another form of erasure. In the final part of the Glo ad, we hear a male narrator say, “Spread the unlimited joy.” As he speaks, we see women laughing and dancing. They are clearly a big part of the visuals—but none of them talk. None of them explain what the message means to them. Even though women are everywhere in this part of the ad, their silence is loud. The voice that carries the message—the only voice we hear—is male. This matches the kind of gender imbalance hooks points out. Women are there to support the mood, not to own the message. Once again, Black women are made quiet, used only to support the story instead of tell it.

hooks also criticizes how Black women are often shown in the same roles over and over again. One of the most common is the “nurturing mother” or the woman who is always happy and caring. While there’s nothing wrong with love and joy, these roles become a problem when they’re the only ones shown. They flatten real human experience into simple emotional images. In one part of the Glo ad, a Black woman hugs her children in a warm, glowing kitchen. The lighting is soft, and everything looks perfect. She smiles, and the moment is heartwarming. But again, this scene fits exactly into the pattern hooks warns about. The woman is shown only as a caregiver—gentle, loving, and smiling. We don’t hear her speak. We don’t see anything else about her life. Her job is just to comfort, to nurture. It’s a stereotype. Real women have more complex emotions, stories, and roles than this. But the ad keeps her in one safe, sweet box.

Finally, bell hooks talks about the importance of agency. This means that Black women should not just appear in media—they should act, speak, lead, and drive the story forward. True representation happens when they are placed at the center, not the edges. In the Glo ad, most of the active, leading roles are given to men. Men lead the dancing. A man delivers the voice-over. Even during gift-giving scenes, men are often shown in charge. The women in the ad are dancing, decorating, or smiling in the background. They are included, but they are not leading. hooks would say that this is another missed opportunity. Instead of placing Black women in positions of strength and leadership, the ad keeps them on the sidelines. They are involved, but not empowered. This reinforces the idea that men lead, and women follow—even in a celebration meant to show love and togetherness.

The Glo “Feliz Navidad Nigeria!” ad is bright, cheerful, and filled with music and togetherness. But when we view it through bell hooks’ Oppositional Gaze, we begin to see the cracks underneath the surface. Black women are included visually, but they are not truly seen. They are silent, background figures who smile, dance, and care—but are never allowed to lead, speak, or show deeper emotion. Their presence feels more decorative than powerful. hooks reminds us that watching critically is a form of resistance. The oppositional gaze means not accepting everything we see without question. It means noticing when we are being used for visuals but left out of the message. If Glo and other brands truly want to show inclusion, they must go beyond surface appearances. They must give Black women room to speak, lead, and be represented in full color—not just as smiles in the background.

Harlem Meets Gucci: A Stylish Tug Of War

 Harlem Meets Gucci: A Stylish Tug of War

A Stuart Hall Reading of Gucci x Dapper Dan: Negotiating Culture and Power

Stuart Hall was a Jamaican-born British cultural theorist who had a big impact on the area of cultural studies.  He came up with a lot of key concepts about media and communication, notably regarding how people understand and interpret messages from the media.  The Encoding/Decoding theory is one of his most important works. It shows how producers make media messages (encoding) and how audiences get them (decoding).  Hall says that viewers don't always take in messages the way the producer meant for them to.  They interpret things instead based on their own culture, background, and experiences.  He classified decoding into three categories: dominant/hegemonic, oppositional, and negotiated.  The negotiated interpretation, which is the main point of this article, is when an audience agrees with certain portions of the intended message but not all of them.

The audience doesn't fully agree with or disagree with the message in a negotiated reading.  They agree with some things but disagree or think critically about others.  This technique empowers viewers to be active thinkers, not just passive receivers.   It also shows how media is not all-powerful—people may oppose it, question it, and redefine its meaning.   With this in mind, we can interpret the Gucci × Dapper Dan collaborative video using Hall’s negotiated model.   The video, which shows behind-the-scenes footage of a photoshoot in Harlem for Gucci’s Autumn/Winter 2018–2019 collection, brings together luxury European fashion with African-American streetwear and culture.   It includes messages of cultural pride, redemption, and representation.   But at the same time, some of its themes raise problems about power, profit, and authenticity.   Through a negotiated interpretation, we might understand the video as both powerful and disturbing. 

 On the surface, the movie presents itself as a celebration of Harlem, Black culture, and a once-underground fashion designer, Dapper Dan.   The scenes depict fashionable models, colorful Harlem streets, and creative energy.   Dapper Dan, who was once reprimanded for wearing luxury brand trademarks, is now being accepted by Gucci itself.   Many viewers may appreciate this as a wonderful and long-overdue moment of acknowledgment.   The video sends a message that fashion is finally giving credit where it is due.   In this sense, the audience may read the message as one of inclusiveness and justice—a company that formerly looked down on street fashion is now raising one of its biggest voices.   This can be empowering for Black viewers and admirers of streetwear who have yearned to see someone like Dapper Dan honored by the high fashion world.

However, the observer may also question Gucci’s motivations.   Before their cooperation, the company was accused of stealing Dapper Dan’s designs without giving him credit.   This past cannot be disregarded, and so the audience might interpret the relationship not only as admiration, but also as strategic damage control.   From this perspective, Gucci’s move to work with Dapper Dan is not just a celebration of diversity but also an attempt to mend its reputation and avoid being “canceled.”   The bargained viewer recognizes the good in the relationship but also keeps cognizant of the business motivations underlying it.   They recognize the cultural significance but dispute the assumption that the partnership is totally real or innocent.   This is where the negotiated deciphering comes in—recognizing the empowerment but also detecting the corporate strategy behind it.

Another factor that permits a negotiated reading is the atmosphere and aesthetics of the shot.   By shooting in Harlem, Gucci is visually establishing itself within Black cultural territory.   The models are predominantly Black, the designs resemble street flair, and the atmosphere is confident and unapologetic.   All of this contributes to a message of belonging and cultural expression.   Viewers may like seeing a big fashion brand celebrate Harlem’s legacy in a positive way.   It can feel like a long-awaited moment of pride. 

However, viewers may also wonder if this representation is authentic or theatrical.   Harlem is being exploited as a backdrop for luxury branding, yet many of its citizens presumably cannot afford Gucci goods.   So while it looks like Gucci is celebrating Harlem, it may also be leveraging Harlem’s image to market its products to a richer, primarily non-Harlem audience. 

This leads to a bigger debate regarding access and power.   While Dapper Dan is praised and given a platform, Gucci remains the brand with the most control.   They have the final word in design, production, marketing, and revenues.   So although Dapper Dan is incorporated, he is still operating within Gucci’s system.   From a negotiated position, the spectator might enjoy the prominence and recognition provided to Dapper Dan, but they are also aware that the balance of power has not moved.   Gucci is still the main beneficiary.   This means that the purported “equality” in the collaboration may not be completely equal.   It is more like inclusion under circumstances, where Dapper Dan is permitted to shine only because it promotes the business. 

In addition, the negotiated spectator may dispute the timing of the collaboration.   Why now?   Dapper Dan has been doing this style since the 1980s.   Only after years of being ignored—and after social media anger over design theft—did Gucci seek out.   This cycle is prevalent in media and fashion industries, where underrepresented voices are often excluded until they become “cool” or “marketable.”   The spectator who decodes the message with a negotiated lens may see this not merely as a breakthrough but also as a deliberate response to pressure.   They applaud the recognition but do not forget the legacy of silence and marginalization.   In other words, the audience both accepts and challenges the message. 

Furthermore, there’s the matter of who gets to narrate the story.   The video was developed and distributed by Gucci.   That means the narrative is shaped by them—even if it features Dapper Dan.   While Dan speaks and gives some personal perspective, the primary message is still designed by the brand.   A negotiated viewer may love watching Dapper Dan finally reveal his truth, but they also know that his voice is still being filtered through a luxury name.   The story we see is the one Gucci enables us to see.   It may not be the complete picture. 

In conclusion, decoding the Gucci × Dapper Dan collaboration film through Stuart Hall’s negotiated model allows for a more comprehensive comprehension of its content.   The video honors Black culture, pays overdue recognition to a fashion pioneer, and creates compelling imagery of Harlem pride.   However, it also raises problems about authenticity, power imbalance, commercial motives, and the usage of cultural images.   A viewer with a negotiated perspective will embrace the favorable parts but remain critical of the brand’s objectives and control.   This approach challenges us to think deeper about the media we consume—to examine not only what is being broadcast, but why and for whom.   Stuart Hall’s thesis reminds us that we are not just viewers—we are interpreters, and our own experiences impact how we see the world around us.

Luxury on the Streets: Gucci, Harlem and Class Struggle

 

A heartwarming tale of fashion, culture, and second chances is told in the video "Gucci x Dapper Dan: Made in Harlem."  It appears to be a celebration of a man's tenacity and Harlem pride at first glance.  However, a Marxist perspective starts to reveal something different.  Not only is this a heartwarming tale, but it's also a well-thought-out marketing strategy by a major luxury firm that uses culture to promote luxury goods.  Culture is a component of the superstructure, according to Marxist theory.  Thus, it can be utilized to uphold the foundation of the economy, particularly capitalism.  Here, Gucci leverages Dapper Dan's narrative, Harlem culture, and the emotional impact of music and images to further legitimate its brand and increase its profits.  Despite its emphasis on fashion and togetherness, the film really turns hardship in real life into a commodity.

 The film highlights commodity fetishism as one of the most potent Marxist concepts.  This implies that the luxurious clothing with large designer labels is the main focus, and the work that went into creating it is obscured.  There are several stunning sights in the video, including the Gucci emblem, the streets of Harlem, and models in elegant jackets.  Stories from Dapper Dan's past are played, along with poignant background music.  The folks who actually sew or make the clothing, however, are never mentioned or shown.  Where were the workers in the factory?  The crew that does the production?  Who are the ones sewing the seams or cutting the fabrics?  According to Marx, capitalism conceals the labor that goes into producing products, so we value the item rather than the labor that went into making it.  This is precisely what occurs.  The workers are eliminated, but the clothing is designed to appear as power and pride symbols.  This allows the audience to simply appreciate the surface and forget about exploitation or class disparities.

 The video also discusses ideology, more especially false consciousness, which is another Marxist idea.  The video gives viewers the impression that Gucci and Dapper Dan's partnership is a symbol of advancement, equality, and inclusivity.  However, Marxist philosophy cautions us.  The mere appearance of inclusivity does not necessarily indicate a true shift in power.  The distribution, pricing, and brand are remain within Gucci's control.  Indeed, Dapper Dan has gained recognition in the fashion industry, but only on Gucci's terms.  How his tale is recounted and how Harlem is portrayed is up to the firm.  By doing this, the capitalist system is concealed while giving the appearance of empowerment.  Stories like these give people the impression that everyone can succeed if they put in enough effort and that the system is fair.  Despite the fact that Gucci is being sold through Harlem's culture, it ignores the realities of systemic racism, inequality, and the fact that the majority of residents will never be able to afford one.

 Reification, which occurs when individuals and groups are viewed more as objects or instruments than as complete human beings, is another theme in the video.  In the film, Harlem is transformed into a backdrop—a chic stage on which Gucci displays its latest fashions.  It presents the streets, buildings, and people in a clean, filtered manner, much to an Instagram image.  We don't see the actual problems Harlem has faced, such as unemployment, gentrification, poverty, and police brutality.  Rather, we witness elegantly attired models strolling past paintings and little shops with assurance.  Despite their beauty, the images deprive Harlem of its nuance and turn it into a trendy brand.  This is risky because it enables businesses to "borrow" culture without making investments in the actual lives of local residents.  By romanticizing Harlem, Gucci transforms it into a fashion statement while erasing the unpleasant, dirty aspects of its past.

Under the surface of the video, class conflict is also a major component of Marxist theory.  As a Black designer remixing their emblems, Dapper Dan's initial designs were turned down by high-end fashion houses.  He was forced to labor underground at the time, and litigation even forced him to close.  In an attempt to repair its reputation following a racial sweater scandal, Gucci turns back to Dapper Dan and extends an invitation to join their universe.  It appears to be justice on the surface.  In actuality, though, Gucci is the one who will decide how and when to welcome him.  This demonstrates how the affluent corporate elite and the working class or local designers have unequal authority.  Global control is still held by Gucci.  Using Dapper Dan's narrative as evidence that the system is effective is deceptive.  Instead of being the norm, his achievement is the exception.  That doesn't change the fact that most working-class and Black designers will never have the same opportunity as him.  Nothing changes in the system.

 Finally, we can uncover contradictions in the video through Marxist analysis.  As the epicenter of originality, style, and innovation, Harlem is portrayed.  It also demonstrates how Gucci, the epitome of high-end European fashion, is occupying that area.  Although the collaboration is supposed to be positive, there is a lot of tension in it.  The public is now being sold on Dapper Dan's previous unlawful usage of designer emblems as "luxury."  Now, the very thing for which he was punished is making money.  That is contradictory.  Another paradox is that the things being promoted are probably out of reach for the community being represented (Harlem).  The connection between Harlem and Gucci is meant to make the audience feel proud, but they are also maintained as customers rather than producers or owners.  Marxist theory instructs us to search for these gaps—places where the narrative doesn't line up—because they show us how the system functions in reality beneath all the branding.

 All things considered, the Gucci x Dapper Dan video is a creative and poignant piece of advertising that sells a product by utilizing high fashion, cultural pride, and personal experiences.  However, a Marxist perspective reveals that it goes beyond fashion and second chances.  Culture is taken by capitalism, cleaned up, and then sold back to us.  It uses ideology to give us the impression that the system is functioning while concealing labor and inequality.  The video demonstrates how humans can be reified into symbols, how culture can be used as a means of generating revenue, and how hardships can be transformed into narratives that enrich others.  It reminds us that under a capitalist system, the interests of the elite can still be served by something that appears to be beautiful or empowering.  Marxist analysis is crucial because it allows us to go past appearances and consider more difficult issues pertaining to truth, class, and power.