Page 18 of Director's Cut

“We’re going to be sticking to the department-wide standard for a four-hundred-level class, which will be five short essay questions on a take-home midterm,” Maeve says.

“So no Scantron?” Ty asks.

“If we’re going to test them on key terms and plot beats, the course isn’t doing what it set out to do. Convenience for us shouldn’t ever trump what students get out of the class.” Maeve’s gaze flits up to me. “You have time for that, right?”

I had time to come here and be patronized, so…“When’s the midterm?”

“October seventh.”

So, five weeks from now. It’s somewhat of a relief that we’re still weeks away. “I’ll be there to grade every paper.” I punctuate my words with a wry smile.

Maeve cocks her head ever so slightly. “Have you graded subjective material before?”

No. “Yeah.”

“Let’s get to the essay questions,” Ty says. He looks to Maeve, a soft pleading expression. “By then, we’ll have had lectures on West Side Story through Chicago. Do we want to give them a theory question?”

“Might as well have one,” Maeve replies. “Start them off with a question that could help them navigate the rest of the exam. Let’s have them describe what diegesis is and how it informs the narrative in any of the films discussed in the first half of the semester.”

“Perfect.”

“From there, they can continue to reference diegesis, but the goal would be to encourage them to incorporate other structures and lenses.”

Maeve and Ty fall into a perfectly synched tennis volley of pedagogy. It’s not exactly like the conversation is in a language I don’t understand, but the rust isn’t brushing off as quickly as I would’ve liked. Right as I’m processing the real-world implications of one piece of their exchange, they’ve moved onto the next. The only real, real thing grounding me is Ty listing off the number of questions as they set them in stone. One, two, three—each number a burst of relief. I find myself tapping the underside of the table as they’re said out loud.

I can’t sit here like this. I have the skill set for this; they’re just using fancy words to come up with essay questions. I think back to Cory asking about how emotion informed the need for reality in a musical. What sort of question would she be excited to answer?

“What if we do one specifically for Rocky Horror?” I blurt out. “They can analyze the callbacks.”

While Ty’s eyes light up right away, Maeve rubs her chin.

“That could be—” Ty says.

“Would every callback work?” Maeve interrupts. The cutting tone of her voice softens as she turns to her TA. “Sorry, Ty.”

He shrugs, and Maeve goes on.

“Some of the callbacks are only one line of dialogue. Wouldn’t you want to encourage students to pick a bigger chunk to analyze? Would you give any guidelines to encourage robust analysis? We don’t need to see students arguing for two paragraphs that the live audience says ‘say it’ during ‘Sweet Transvestite’ just because Rocky is hot.”

What is she trying to say? If a student did that, then clearly they didn’t answer the question well. What is she even critiquing? “Sure, I guess we could spell that out in the question! But isn’t that implied?” There is so much more I could say about the richness of theme that can be derived from those callbacks, but I can’t keep my thoughts straight.

Maeve glances at Ty. “It’s also very specific. We’re prioritizing one movie.”

I’ve been inching out of Maeve’s space for the past half hour; it’s time to break that habit. I lean forward, maintain eye contact with her the way I do with difficult directors trying to intimidate me. I almost miss that dynamic; at least I know how to deal with those egos. “What’s wrong with that? We’ll have eight movies and only five questions, so there’s no need to be egalitarian about it. All you’d have to do is mention callbacks in class.”

Maeve raises her brows. “I’m going to do it?”

Why does she keep needling me? I hold my hands at my side, resisting the urge to slap them on the table and spill our drinks.

“Whatever, I will.” I exhale. “Again, I’m sorry about the syllabus and the first class, but I don’t know where you’ve gotten this impression that I’m not putting in the work. I’ve been showing up and teaching the lectures I’ve prepared each week. Who else would’ve been doing it?”

Maeve sucks on her teeth, as if whatever she wants to say is too embarrassing to be said out loud.

And, despite her really shitty reaction, that shame does crash over me.

My manager and her assistant. The same people who corresponded with Maeve at the beginning of the year.

I let the shame hit me, then float away. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Ty fidgeting. But I look back at Maeve, giving her the full force of my eye contact. “I promise you I’m doing the work.”

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