Introduction: Curiosity, hedonism and Polite Society

How far will you go to appease your hedonistic desires? What if it defies the laws of Polite Society? Yorgos Lanthimos’s cinematic exploration of human nature in his film Poor Things (2003) introduces you to this concept. It is imperative for one who wishes to abide by society’s rules not to challenge its ways. Despite this, humans are naturally curious and have a hidden desire to know and to become more than the status quo. Audiences are rarely thrust into media that embody human curiosity and the innovation that follows. In Poor Things (2023), Lanthimos invites his audience to see the embodiment of human curiosity, created by a man driven by innovation, who is then exposed to a world obsessed with power and control. Lanthimos’s invitation encourages the audience to think about the power of curiosity in a world obsessed with suppressing feminine agency in the guise of Polite Society, showing the world through the eyes of a woman born a woman but raised to become human first.

Emma Stone in Poor Things (2023), directed by Yorgos Lanthimos. Cinematography by Robbie Ryan. © Searchlight Pictures. Image courtesy of FILMGRAB.

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Hedonistic desire, plot and the rules of Polite Society

What can we say about Poor Things that has not been said before? Poor Things is a surrealist black comedy with elements of body horror that challenges the notion of a human’s hedonistic desire for freedom in a world full of repressive control. We follow Dr Godwin Baxter and his ‘mentally challenged’ daughter, Bella Baxter, as the former records the growth and development of his child, later revealed to be an experiment on the connection between the body and the mind; the brain of a live infant implanted into the body of her deceased mother. In her journey to discovery, Bella Baxter joins morally corrupt lawyer Duncan Wedderburn on a whirlwind adventure around the world. Together, they gratify their hedonistic desires, indulging in all the sex, cuisine and culture money could buy, that is, until Bella discovers empathy and throws all of Duncan Wedderburn’s money away. Homeless and penniless, Bella Baxter seeks work as a sex worker, which angers Duncan Wedderburn, as, unlike their previous indulgent, promiscuous lifestyle, the idea of becoming a sexual servant to others to generate income is against the rules of polite society. It is a hypocrisy that is so satisfying to watch, especially in the downfall of those obsessed with polite society’s restrictive regimes.

Emma Stone and Mark Ruffalo in Poor Things (2023), directed by Yorgos Lanthimos. Cinematography by Robbie Ryan. © Searchlight Pictures. Image courtesy of FILMGRAB.

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Even when surrounded by the restrictive regime of Polite Society, none can contain the intensity of human curiosity and one’s desire to experience life and all of its indulgences. The freedom of experience is often granted to those who hold the most power. In patriarchal societies, a woman’s role is often passive, supporting the active man. Her agency is often controlled by the man, in the guise of helping her in her role within polite society. As Agency and Power are interconnected, a woman’s controlled freedom aligns with the maintenance of a man’s power. However, power in itself is not a repressive force that weighs on society, but rather a means to empower those to believe they have agency. We see this in Bella Baxter’s world, as we follow her experience through childhood, adolescence, and adulthood, being raised not as a woman but as a human being. An adult with the brain of a baby is an oddity in itself, but a woman possessing independent thoughts uninfluenced by the norms of polite society?

Emma Stone and Willem Dafoe in Poor Things (2023), directed by Yorgos Lanthimos. Cinematography by Robbie Ryan. © Searchlight Pictures. Image courtesy of FILMGRAB.

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Body, autonomy and feminine agency

To understand Bella Baxter, one must consider what society did to her ‘mother’, Victoria Blessington. We see little of her backstory, but we see how, even in death, she is denied the human right to decency. As she is mutilated and used as Dr Godwin Baxter’s experiment, her dignity and identity as a woman are stripped away in the name of scientific discovery. Victoria has no freedom or agency to decide what she does with her body, which contrasts with Bella’s approach to her bodily autonomy, which she explores freely without considering the consequences. Emma Stone reflects this in an interview with The New York Daily News, “I think just in general the kind of societal things you grow up with around judgment of your body, judgment of other people, shame and all kinds of aspects of yourself. Restarting from scratch, that was a very inspiring part of Bella and a difficult thing to sort of strip away, but also extremely freeing.” Victoria never chooses to become a mother and dies before experiencing maternity. At the same time, Bella lives freely without the expectation of performance as a woman, having agency to explore the world and enrich herself sexually, intellectually and spiritually. In the words of Simone de Beauvoir, “One is not born a woman, but rather, becomes one.” Unlike Victoria, who experiences the nurture it takes to become a proper woman of Polite Society, Bella’s experience is the product of humanist intellectualism, which propels her to achieve a peak sense of feminine agency, one where she participates in society and contributes through her own unique skillset as a person rather than a woman, a wife, and/or a mother.

Emma Stone and Willem Dafoe in Poor Things (2023), directed by Yorgos Lanthimos. Cinematography by Robbie Ryan. © Searchlight Pictures. Image courtesy of FILMGRAB.

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The men around Bella: power, control and the 'Born Sexy Yesterday' trope

However, in the case of Bella Baxter, one must note the effects of human nature and the men who surround her in her discovery of true feminine agency. Lanthimos introduces us to four men who serve as different roles in a woman’s life: Dr Godwin Baxter as the Father, Max McCandles as the Caretaker, Duncan Wedderburn as the Lover and Alfie Blessington as the Husband. All the men in Bella’s life are obsessed with power and control, from Dr Godwin’s obsession of keeping her hidden so as not to expose her to the cruelties of polite society, to Max McCandles’ obsession with maintaining her honour and innocence, to Duncan Wedderburn’s obsession with controlling her as his personal sexual object and Alfie Blessington’s obsession with retaining Bella as his property, much like how Victoria Blessington used to be. Women are often dehumanized within their role in society, as their performative role relies on being the supporting cast rather than the main lead.

Gender norms expect women to be passive, submissive and lacking in self-determination and sexual autonomy. Even as she journeys toward feminine autonomy, Bella is taken advantage of by the men around her for her naivete. She is quite literally a child stuck in an adult’s body, yet embodies the cinematic trope coined by Pop Culture Detective: Born Sexy Yesterday. Women who are deemed noteworthy must be intriguing spectacles but also possess traits that appease the male gaze. The appeal of Bella is that she makes the men around her feel powerful; her naivety appeals to a man’s desire for male superiority, which in turn becomes the cause of their downfall. Dr Godwin loses his daughter to her desire for freedom, Duncan Wedderburn drives himself to madness from his failure to conquer his emotionally stunted conquest, and Bella turns Alfie Blessington into her pet as revenge for holding her hostage. Only Max, who supports Bella’s acceptance of her feminine agency, wins at the end, showing that the solution was not to obsess over power but to appreciate the agency that power brings.

Emma Stone and Mark Ruffalo in Poor Things (2023), directed by Yorgos Lanthimos. Cinematography by Robbie Ryan. © Searchlight Pictures. Image courtesy of FILMGRAB.

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Sexual agency, work and liberation

As Bella takes control of her own destiny, she reclaims the power she lost both as Victoria Blessington and Bella Baxter by becoming her own person in her pursuit of intellectualism. In her stint as a sex worker, she learns the strategic way women acquire power, using her sexuality to fund her pursuit of academia. Researchers suggest that sexual agency promotes and encourages liberation from external restrictions and fosters the exercise of free will and personal responsibility for one’s own behaviour. Bella sees her sex work as a means to encourage her journey to liberation, philosophically and literally, as it aids in her gaining freedom from the clutches of Duncan Wedderburn. Her return and subsequent discovery of her true origins may have led to a different outcome had she not experienced what she did. Bella grows as a person through her experiences, becoming more forgiving and understanding thanks to the freedom to explore the new world, a liberty not traditionally afforded to women in a patriarchal society. Through Bella, we learn that there is an emptiness to conformity and control, and true contentment lies in one’s own sense of discovery.

Emma plays a similar role in Bugonia, where her agency and identity are shaped by the ideological beliefs of a male conspiracy theorist — you can read the whole piece here: ‘Bugonia (2025): Corporations, Conspiracy Culture and the Chaos of Searching for Meaning’.

Emma Stone in Poor Things (2023), directed by Yorgos Lanthimos. Cinematography by Robbie Ryan. © Searchlight Pictures. Image courtesy of FILMGRAB.

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Conclusion: freedom, risk and the 'Poor Things' among us

Is Poor Things a modern, feminist, cinematic masterpiece? Absolutely not. But despite its flaws, audiences can explore captivity vs. freedom, nature vs. nurture, and the effects of rigid social standards on those not given the privilege of benefiting from them. Through Bella Baxter, we explore the true meaning of discovering freedom and feminine agency by considering aspects of human nature and its impact on society as a whole. Yorgos Lanthimos guides his audience on a fantastical journey of philosophical discovery, encouraging you to interpret Bella’s pilgrimage through a humanistic lens. By approaching freedom through a humanist lens, the audience can see the effects of Power and Humanity’s obsession with power on the most vulnerable people, those who are naive and easy to take advantage of. But at the same time, you are the product of your experiences, and you will never become truly free if you deprive yourself of life itself. Poor Things traces a journey of self-discovery, showing that the Poor Things in question are often those afraid to take risks.

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Works Cited

Balog, I. (2023). Claiming space: understanding female agency in contemporary advertising. Consumption Markets & Culture, 27(2), 114–132.

Butler, J. (1988). Performative Acts and Gender Constitution: An essay in Phenomenology and Feminist Theory. Theatre Journal, 40(4), 519.

De Beauvoir, S., & Parshley, H. M. (1949). The second sex.

Del Mar Sánchez-Fuentes, M., Hidalgo-Muñoz, A. R., Moyano, N., & Gómez-Berrocal, C. (2025). Sexual and Agency Norms: Effect on Young Women’s Self-Perception and Attitude toward Sexual Consent. Behavioral Sciences, 15(3), 250.

Lyons, A. (2024, March 28). 'Poor Things' defies the 'born sexy yesterday' trope. “Poor Things” Defies the “born Sexy Yesterday” Trope - the Post.

Pop Culture Detective. (2017, April 27). Born sexy yesterday [Video]. YouTube.

Wu, A. (2024, January 23). Poor Things: A cinematic masterpiece or a work of horror? The Justice.

Mustafa the Poet represents the complexity of diaspora identity, balancing his Sudanese heritage, Muslim faith, and experience of being Black in Canada. His unique blend of Sudanese music and folk poetry creates space for memory and belonging. Yet after his viral NPR Tiny Desk Concert, critics in Sudan questioned his authenticity, reigniting debate over who defines cultural representation in the diaspora.

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Diaspora voices in global music

Diaspora voices don’t just “add diversity” to global music; they rewrite what it means to belong and are taking charge of their own narrative in the face of modern globalisation. There are artists across the music industry who are using their art to turn private histories into public language. Take Riz Ahmed’s concept album The Long Goodbye, for example. The project reimagines a toxic breakup as Britain’s fraught relationship with its South Asian citizens, fusing rap, spoken word and theatre to stage the push-pull of home, hurt and hope.

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Meanwhile, M.I.A.’s song “Borders” placed migrant bodies at the centre of her lyrics and video, at a time when they’re scapegoated and clouded by negativity in Western media and politics. Closer to Mustafa’s register, UK rapper Little Simz threads Nigerian heritage into British rap, exploring her faith and the realities of the London streets in a way that makes hybridity sound like home for many Nigerian-British and diaspora populations in the UK.These artists are preserving inherited identities while transforming them through new contexts and audiences. In that sense, the “authenticity” debates around Mustafa’s Tiny Desk are part of a larger conversation about how diaspora music isn’t a mistranslation but a living dialect of culture.

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Who is Mustafa the Poet?

The debate raises challenging questions: when a diaspora artist shares their culture with the world, is imperfect but well-intentioned enough, or does it risk cultural misrepresentation? This tension sits at the heart of Mustafa’s work. Born in 1996 to Sudanese immigrant parents in Toronto’s Regent Park, Mustafa, widely known as Mustafa the Poet, grew up in one of Canada’s most historically marginalised neighbourhoods. He first gained attention as a teenager after performing a poem about gun violence at a local event that caught national media attention. By 2014, he was part of Prime Minister Justin Trudeau’s “Youth Advisory Council,” a sign of his early role as both artist and community voice. But even as he was celebrated for his political eloquence, Mustafa’s deeper project was always personal, giving poetic dignity to the lives of young Black Muslim men often depicted only through tragedy.

That mission shapes all his art. His debut album When Smoke Rises (2021) is a haunting folk-soul meditation on grief, written in memory of friends lost to gang and street violence. It uses sparse arrangements, mostly acoustic guitar and layered harmonies. In his follow-up, Dunya (2024), Mustafa extends that emotional and spiritual terrain, using the Arabic word dunya (meaning “the world” and often used in Islamic theology to describe humans’ temporary material life) as a philosophical reference. The record traces a journey between life in exile and balances sorrow with worship, faith, and yearning.

Debut album When Smoke Rises (2021).

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Mustafa’s faith, storytelling, and lyricism come together to hold space for trauma, resilience, and love. He often sings in a restrained, almost prayer-like tone. He weaves in traditional instruments such as the tambour (a five-string lyre from northern Sudan) and traditional drums into his acoustic palette, creating what he calls a “folk of the displaced.” These choices aren’t ornamental. They’re deliberate gestures of remembrance and preservation.

Yet his artistic decisions also carry the complicated weight of cultural representation in a Western/global context. Who gets to tell stories, and how much return to roots can or should be demanded? Mustafa’s Sudan is both inherited and imagined. It’s filtered through Toronto’s high-rises, and for some, this makes his art beautifully hybrid yet for others, it invites scrutiny about authenticity. But perhaps the power of Mustafa’s work lies precisely in that space between and in showing that diasporic identity is not a distortion of heritage, but one of its living, evolving forms.

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The Tiny Desk Performance

In September 2025, Mustafa performed at NPR’s Tiny Desk. The set included songs from Dunya and Stay Alive and he was joined by background vocalists from a choir of Sudanese women. His Tiny Desk concert is rich in symbolism and aesthetic choice: from his jalabiya (traditional Sudanese men’s clothing), and other objects celebrating Sudanese heritage.

Mustafa: Tiny Desk Concert, NPR Music (2025). Still from the performance. © NPR / YouTube.

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While many celebrated the performance for its emotional power and elegance, some Sudanese listeners expressed criticism. For some, elements felt forced and disingenuous. That the dancing, production, or presentation diverged from what they considered authentically Sudanese. Social media commentary says the performance felt awkward or that certain traditional Sudanese rhythms were missing.

@Sarah Jalal on TikTok: “They should’ve gotten someone who can perform a proper Zaghroota (a high pitched vocal trill performed by women at joyous occasions) that was painful to listen to.”

@mmm00761 on TikTok: “I hate to say this, but these guys are born outside of Sudan, they feel nostalgic. Whatever they are presenting here is not Sudanese art.”

The objections raise fundamental questions. What counts as “authentic”? Is authenticity about loyalty to tradition, or is it about truthful expression of one’s lived hybridity? If Mustafa never grew up in Sudan for long stretches, or did not train in traditional Sudanese musical schooling, does that disqualify him from representing Sudanese culture? Many would say no, but the debate reveals how much ownership people feel over their own cultural heritage.

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What Does “Authentic Sudanese Culture” Mean?

Is something “less real” if it’s adapted? When music is produced for global audiences, compromises in production values, arrangement styles, language choice etc are often made. Is adapted Sudanese culture “inauthentic” or simply evolving? Many young listeners in Sudan and the diaspora grow up with hybrid musical sensibilities and they may expect fusion, adaptation, experimentation. Who gets to speak for culture? There’s often an assumption that people inside Sudan (or in a more closely associated traditional setting) are the only legitimate voices. But diaspora artists do live with elements of the culture, shaped by family, religion and memory. They often carry those stories and translate them into new forms, reaching people who might never hear traditional forms.

Mustafa: Tiny Desk Concert, NPR Music (2025). Still from the performance. © NPR / YouTube.

Is visibility worth imperfect representation? Even if some feel that the representation isn’t perfect, there’s power in telling stories, raising visibility, and showing traditions that people outside the culture may not know. For non-Sudanese listeners, themes like faith and grief humanise and diversify global discourse about Sudan and its people. Mustafa’s case suggests that “perfect” authenticity is a high bar, perhaps even too high. The cost of silence or invisibility may be greater.

There are several positions to take in this discussion. Diaspora artists like Mustafa can act as cultural bridges. Their work can spark interest, connection and empathy. They can preserve memories, keep traditions alive in new contexts, encourage people in Sudan or in the diaspora to engage with their heritage in fresh ways. Though through doing so we must maintain humility and openness. Knowing there will be criticism, but using it as dialogue rather than being dismissive. Acknowledge that you’re interpreting not preserving.

On the flip side, we could only allow people in Sudan and in traditional settings to define themselves. Representation shouldn’t be monopolised by the diaspora. Making room for projects that amplify voices of Sudanese artists in Sudan, perhaps through a less filtered global stage.

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Memory, Faith, and Community in Mustafa the Poet’s Music

Work like Mustafa’s work already reflects many of these tensions. In Dunya, he draws on his travels to Sudan and Egypt. He talks about lineage and feeling responsibility to his ancestry. He also acknowledges discomfort and the gap between being in the diaspora and being “fully” seen or recognized as Sudani. He recognises that being visible involves misinterpretation, or held up as something that one didn’t ask to represent. (From interviews with The Face and Hyphen, Mustafa speaks about Arab Muslim spaces sometimes being dismissive of Black Muslim identity; also about the difficulty of balancing public expectation and private faith practices.)

Is it worth sharing diaspora culture globally even when it won’t be “perfect”? Because culture isn’t static. Identity isn’t monolithic. People in the diaspora, like Mustafa, are living hybrid identities; they deserve to tell their stories. These stories matter because they expand what people imagine “Sudanese music” or “Black Muslim art” or “folk” means.

Mustafa performing live with his band. Photo courtesy of the source.

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That said, I think we should listen to the critics, especially from people in Sudan, and let those critiques guide more responsible representation. If people feel misrepresented, it should open a dialogue exploring what authenticity is of value. And for listeners and critics: to ask not just, “Is this Sudanese?” but “How is this person's Sudanese-ness being lived, felt, remembered, reimagined?” We might realize that authenticity isn’t always exact replication, but faithfulness to memory, to emotional truth, and to carrying forward heritage in honest ways.

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Mustafa’s art reflects the beauty and brokenness of diaspora identity. Tiny Desk, like many high-visibility moments, exposes not only his musical gifts but also the complicated expectations placed on diaspora artists. Even when some feel the representation isn’t “authentic,” the very act of sharing, with all its imperfections, opens space for recognition, conversation and deeper understanding.