edwin-wks
मार्च 2008 को शामिल हुए
नई प्रोफ़ाइल में आपका स्वागत है
हमारे अपडेट अभी भी डेवलप हो रहे हैं. हालांकि प्रोफ़ाइलका पिछला संस्करण अब उपलब्ध नहीं है, हम सक्रिय रूप से सुधारों पर काम कर रहे हैं, और कुछ अनुपलब्ध सुविधाएं जल्द ही वापस आ जाएंगी! उनकी वापसी के लिए हमारे साथ बने रहें। इस बीच, रेटिंग विश्लेषण अभी भी हमारे iOS और Android ऐप्स पर उपलब्ध है, जो प्रोफ़ाइल पेज पर पाया जाता है. वर्ष और शैली के अनुसार अपने रेटिंग वितरण (ओं) को देखने के लिए, कृपया हमारा नया हेल्प गाइड देखें.
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समीक्षाएं114
edwin-wksकी रेटिंग
Ever wondered what the world might look like if it were populated mostly by people with ADHD? The rise and fall of American Apparel may offer some clues. "I was born overcharged," said the brand's notorious founder, Dov Charney - a man who exuded the energy of someone perpetually overstimulated, like he'd just done a line and sprinted into a business meeting.
American Apparel began with a refreshingly noble vision: locally made basics, radical transparency, and a willingness to give wildly inexperienced young people a shot. It was a kind of DIY utopia: idealistic, frenetic, and exhilarating. In many ways, it mirrored the moral impulses often seen in people with ADHD: a reflexive sense of justice, inclusivity, and anti-establishment zeal.
But utopias built on dopamine rarely endure. When the 2008 financial crisis hit, the cracks became chasms. Charney's manic ambition, once mistaken for brilliance, revealed its darker underside: grandiosity, volatility, and a spectacular lack of impulse control. The company's house of mirrors collapsed under the weight of lawsuits, scandals, and financial mismanagement. Charney was ousted, but the damage had already been done.
What we saw in American Apparel wasn't simply ADHD left unchecked - it was ADHD laced with a potent dose of narcissism. Charney, born to Jewish parents and likely misunderstood or overcorrected for his childhood hyperactivity, seems to have developed narcissistic defences that grew more brittle and maladaptive with age.
This is a tragically familiar arc for many neurodivergent children: shamed for their differences, they often internalise confusion, guilt, or fragmented identities that manifest in adulthood as superficial charm and overreaching confidence, domination disguised as vision, and a one-way ticket towards inevitable self-destruction.
While several former employees speak candidly about their time at the company, the documentary skims the surface of their experiences. We're left with snapshots of pain, but little space to understand how they saw themselves within the cultural hurricane Charney whipped up. There is emotional residue, but little insight. The growth in ADHD understanding and awareness came too late for Charney and those of his employees who saw themselves reflected in him.
American Apparel began with a refreshingly noble vision: locally made basics, radical transparency, and a willingness to give wildly inexperienced young people a shot. It was a kind of DIY utopia: idealistic, frenetic, and exhilarating. In many ways, it mirrored the moral impulses often seen in people with ADHD: a reflexive sense of justice, inclusivity, and anti-establishment zeal.
But utopias built on dopamine rarely endure. When the 2008 financial crisis hit, the cracks became chasms. Charney's manic ambition, once mistaken for brilliance, revealed its darker underside: grandiosity, volatility, and a spectacular lack of impulse control. The company's house of mirrors collapsed under the weight of lawsuits, scandals, and financial mismanagement. Charney was ousted, but the damage had already been done.
What we saw in American Apparel wasn't simply ADHD left unchecked - it was ADHD laced with a potent dose of narcissism. Charney, born to Jewish parents and likely misunderstood or overcorrected for his childhood hyperactivity, seems to have developed narcissistic defences that grew more brittle and maladaptive with age.
This is a tragically familiar arc for many neurodivergent children: shamed for their differences, they often internalise confusion, guilt, or fragmented identities that manifest in adulthood as superficial charm and overreaching confidence, domination disguised as vision, and a one-way ticket towards inevitable self-destruction.
While several former employees speak candidly about their time at the company, the documentary skims the surface of their experiences. We're left with snapshots of pain, but little space to understand how they saw themselves within the cultural hurricane Charney whipped up. There is emotional residue, but little insight. The growth in ADHD understanding and awareness came too late for Charney and those of his employees who saw themselves reflected in him.
It is striking that what the wealthy residents of Kensington and Chelsea deemed derelict - the Grenfell Tower, considered an eyesore threatening the value of their multi-million-pound homes - would come to symbolise a far more tragic dereliction of duty: the failure to protect the lives of its own residents.
In what proved to be a fateful and fatal cost-cutting decision, the council opted to save just £5,000 by replacing the recommended fire-retardant zinc cladding with combustible aluminium composite material (ACM). The cost? Seventy-two lives lost, and countless more irrevocably altered - through grief, PTSD, and guilt borne by survivors, first responders, and even the emergency call operators who repeated the doomed "stay put" advice.
This documentary seeks to answer the question that still haunts the public: who is responsible? The supplier knew the material posed fire risks, yet continued selling it in countries with lax building codes, including the UK. There had been numerous international precedents of ACM-fueled fires. In most, casualties were avoided. A 2014 fire in a Melbourne high-rise, for example, involved 400 residents and resulted in zero deaths - thanks to swift evacuation procedures.
The warnings were there. After a 2009 fire in London claimed six lives, a coroner urged reforms to fire safety legislation. The British government ignored them. One senior official is even alleged to have said, "Show me the bodies."
This film offers a definitive and devastating examination of the Grenfell disaster, interwoven with harrowing testimonies from survivors and first responders. In the end, the tragedy stands as a damning indictment of a system warped by corporate greed, corner-cutting, and governmental neglect. Because really - what else could it be?
In what proved to be a fateful and fatal cost-cutting decision, the council opted to save just £5,000 by replacing the recommended fire-retardant zinc cladding with combustible aluminium composite material (ACM). The cost? Seventy-two lives lost, and countless more irrevocably altered - through grief, PTSD, and guilt borne by survivors, first responders, and even the emergency call operators who repeated the doomed "stay put" advice.
This documentary seeks to answer the question that still haunts the public: who is responsible? The supplier knew the material posed fire risks, yet continued selling it in countries with lax building codes, including the UK. There had been numerous international precedents of ACM-fueled fires. In most, casualties were avoided. A 2014 fire in a Melbourne high-rise, for example, involved 400 residents and resulted in zero deaths - thanks to swift evacuation procedures.
The warnings were there. After a 2009 fire in London claimed six lives, a coroner urged reforms to fire safety legislation. The British government ignored them. One senior official is even alleged to have said, "Show me the bodies."
This film offers a definitive and devastating examination of the Grenfell disaster, interwoven with harrowing testimonies from survivors and first responders. In the end, the tragedy stands as a damning indictment of a system warped by corporate greed, corner-cutting, and governmental neglect. Because really - what else could it be?
The archetype of the stand-up comedian is often rooted in pain - someone who has learnt to use humour as a coping mechanism and turned it into a career. Audiences connect with this emotional honesty cloaked in laughter, and comedians are frequently described as quick-witted, neurotic, frenetic, insightful, acerbic, and sardonic. In recent years, mental health has become a recurring theme in stand-up, with many performers openly discussing their trauma and psychological struggles on stage.
So, when I saw the premise of Group Therapy, I expected something more than a comedy showcase. I hoped for a space where prominent comedians could drop the performance and speak vulnerably about the pain behind their humour. I imagined something closer to a real therapeutic setting, perhaps guided by a trained clinician like Dr Orna Guralnik (Couples Therapy).
Instead, we got Neil Patrick Harris as host - not a therapist - facilitating what felt more like a daytime talk show than a group therapy session. The presence of a live audience, seated behind the comedians, only heightened the sense of performance over authenticity. Rather than witnessing raw self-reflection, we were treated to a curated version of vulnerability, still framed for entertainment.
That said, there were some striking moments. When Harris gently challenged London Hughes on her rapid-fire delivery - meant to pre-empt negative reactions - I saw a glimmer of what this show could have been. Through her story, we learn that her brash stage persona masks deep-seated self-esteem issues. Gary Gulman shared his experience with electroconvulsive therapy after decades of treatment-resistant depression. Tig Notaro opened up about profound personal losses. Atsuko Okatsuka, shaped by her migrant background and a mother with schizophrenia, described finding belonging in comedy. Both Mike Birbiglia and Nicole Byer disclosed their ADHD diagnoses.
These moments offered insight, but the show ultimately lacked depth. I didn't come away with any meaningful understanding of how these individuals navigate difficult emotions offstage - only that most remain in long-term individual therapy. Notaro and Birbiglia have each seen the same therapist for decades. That's an important takeaway, but also a missed opportunity. For many, individual therapy is inaccessible. Group therapy exists precisely to provide a more affordable and communal alternative - yet this show failed to demonstrate its power: mutual support, shared insight, and healing through connection.
P. S. It's no surprise to me, as a therapist, that neurodivergence is common in the comedy world. Many people with ADHD - often alongside autism - gravitate toward dynamic, unpredictable careers like stand-up. ADHD is also associated with higher rates of anxiety, depression, and substance use. These challenges, compounded by society's limited understanding of neurodivergence, are deeply woven into the stories comedians tell. I only wish Group Therapy had created space to explore those stories with more care, honesty, and therapeutic intention.
So, when I saw the premise of Group Therapy, I expected something more than a comedy showcase. I hoped for a space where prominent comedians could drop the performance and speak vulnerably about the pain behind their humour. I imagined something closer to a real therapeutic setting, perhaps guided by a trained clinician like Dr Orna Guralnik (Couples Therapy).
Instead, we got Neil Patrick Harris as host - not a therapist - facilitating what felt more like a daytime talk show than a group therapy session. The presence of a live audience, seated behind the comedians, only heightened the sense of performance over authenticity. Rather than witnessing raw self-reflection, we were treated to a curated version of vulnerability, still framed for entertainment.
That said, there were some striking moments. When Harris gently challenged London Hughes on her rapid-fire delivery - meant to pre-empt negative reactions - I saw a glimmer of what this show could have been. Through her story, we learn that her brash stage persona masks deep-seated self-esteem issues. Gary Gulman shared his experience with electroconvulsive therapy after decades of treatment-resistant depression. Tig Notaro opened up about profound personal losses. Atsuko Okatsuka, shaped by her migrant background and a mother with schizophrenia, described finding belonging in comedy. Both Mike Birbiglia and Nicole Byer disclosed their ADHD diagnoses.
These moments offered insight, but the show ultimately lacked depth. I didn't come away with any meaningful understanding of how these individuals navigate difficult emotions offstage - only that most remain in long-term individual therapy. Notaro and Birbiglia have each seen the same therapist for decades. That's an important takeaway, but also a missed opportunity. For many, individual therapy is inaccessible. Group therapy exists precisely to provide a more affordable and communal alternative - yet this show failed to demonstrate its power: mutual support, shared insight, and healing through connection.
P. S. It's no surprise to me, as a therapist, that neurodivergence is common in the comedy world. Many people with ADHD - often alongside autism - gravitate toward dynamic, unpredictable careers like stand-up. ADHD is also associated with higher rates of anxiety, depression, and substance use. These challenges, compounded by society's limited understanding of neurodivergence, are deeply woven into the stories comedians tell. I only wish Group Therapy had created space to explore those stories with more care, honesty, and therapeutic intention.