How Does The Medium Is Not The Message Influence Film Theory?

I get excited every time someone wants to poke holes in big ideas — studying why the 'medium is the message' isn't the whole story is exactly that kind of delicious intellectual tinkering. If I were mapping a route for myself, I'd start in media and communication departments that explicitly teach media history, political economy, and cultural studies. Look at course lists from places like MIT Comparative Media Studies, Goldsmiths (U of London), USC Annenberg, and the University of Amsterdam — they often offer modules that emphasize context, content, and audience rather than technological determinism. For books, pair Marshall McLuhan's 'Understanding Media' with Raymond Williams's 'Television: Technology and Cultural Form' and James Carey's 'Communication as Culture' to get strong counterpoints. Add works by Stuart Hall, the Frankfurt School (Adorno/Horkheimer), and more recent writers in media sociology and science & technology studies (STS). Journals like 'Media, Culture & Society' and 'New Media & Society' publish critiques that explicitly reject simple medium-first claims. Method-wise, learn audience research, discourse analysis, political economy, and ethnography — those methods let you put content, power, and use front and center. If you're DIYing, take MOOCs on media theory, join ICA conferences, and pull syllabi from the universities above. I'm always rooting for people who want nuance over slogans — you'll find rich paths and plenty of debates to jump into.

Sometimes I get into these late-night arguments with friends over whether form dictates meaning, and that's where the phrase 'the medium is not the message' pops up for me. I like to flip McLuhan on its head: sure, the medium shapes possibilities — a close-up in film is a different kind of intimacy than a stage monologue — but directors who say the medium isn't the message are defending the idea that intention, performance, and context carry the real weight. I had one of those tiny epiphanies watching 'Blade Runner' after reading 'Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?' The cinematic noir mood, the soundtrack, and the rain-drenched visuals gave the film a life separate from the book's themes. The medium added flavor, but the message about memory and humanity lived in the choices: which scenes were kept, which emotions were emphasized. Directors who push back against medium-determinism want to remind us the story, the actors, and the political or personal lens matter more than saying the medium alone defines the meaning. It’s like arguing a guitar makes the song — it helps, but the melody still comes from the person playing it.

I’ve been thinking about this while nursing a cold and re-reading bits of my bookcase, and a few clear examples popped into my head. One is 'To Kill a Mockingbird' — the novel’s voice, moral complexity, and courtroom tension survive whether you read the prose, watch the 1962 film, or see it staged. The medium shifts the texture, but the heart of the story about empathy and injustice keeps beating. Another one that sticks with me is 'Pride and Prejudice'. I’ve devoured the original, binged modern retellings, and even laughed at a quirky web-series version. The witty social critique and the dance between Lizzy and Darcy isn’t owned by the paperback; it translates because the characters and their conflicts matter more than the exact medium. I also think of 'Frankenstein' — its frame narrative is clever, but the core anxieties about creation and responsibility carry across opera, film, and stage. To be clear, there are novels where the physical form shapes the meaning — 'House of Leaves' is famously inseparable from its typography — but plenty of other books prove that medium often dresses the message, rather than defining it. If you’re curious, try reading then watching an adaptation and ask which moments retain the same emotional weight for you — I do this on train rides and it’s a fun exercise.

Some days I sit with a dog-eared volume of 'Akira' and marvel at how the paper, the ink, and the rhythm of panels feel like part of the story itself. To me, saying 'the medium is not the message' can absolutely apply to manga, but only if you accept that manga is both container and performance. The content — characters, plot beats, themes — can travel across media, but how I perceived Kaneda's cityscape in print versus an animated adaptation was different because the medium framed my experience. When I read on a cramped commuter train, gutters and page turns set a heartbeat; when I read on a tablet, pinch-zooming changes how I linger on a face. Black-and-white linework leaves room for my imagination; color pages in a collected edition supply a different tone. The medium doesn't erase the message, but it colors, paces, and sometimes even alters it. So yes, the medium can be 'not the message' in the sense that, occasionally, the story's core survives translation across formats. But in practice, for manga storytelling, medium and message dance together — one rarely acts alone.

I still get a little giddy when I trace a debate thread in a library—there’s something about finding an old essay that takes apart a famous slogan. If you want essays that effectively argue 'the medium is not the message' as a critique of McLuhan, start with the longer, polemical voices that push back on technological determinism. Raymond Williams’ work, especially collected around his book 'Television: Technology and Cultural Form', consistently challenges the idea that medium alone drives social change; his tone is grounded and historicist, insisting content, institutions, and political economy matter. Neil Postman is another must-read: his book 'Amusing Ourselves to Death' reads like a series of essays arguing that form matters but content and purpose decisively shape how media affect us. Beyond those, look at Bolter and Grusin’s 'Remediation: Understanding New Media'—they don’t simply invert McLuhan, they complicate the relation between media and message by showing how media refashion one another and how content flows across forms. Walter Benjamin’s classic essay 'The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction' is older but often invoked in these discussions because it shows how technological reproduction alters meaning and ‘aura’—a useful counterbalance to a blunt medium-dominant thesis. Finally, scholars like Andrew Feenberg (see 'Transforming Technology') and Friedrich Kittler (notably in 'Gramophone, Film, Typewriter') give you deeper theoretical pushback or rethinking: one is critical of reductionist claims about technology, the other reframes media through material and technical systems rather than catchy maxims. If you want primary essays, check journal issues of 'New Literary History', 'Critical Inquiry', or 'Media, Culture & Society'—they often collect rigorous critiques that explicitly compare or reject McLuhan’s phrasing. I discovered most of these by following a bibliographic trail from one footnote to another; it’s a slow pleasure and always yields unexpected connections.

There are mornings when I wake up scrolling through a feed and I feel like the old slogan 'the medium is the message' gets flipped on its head. Back when that phrase was coined, people were trying to point out how the delivery system shapes meaning — and that's still true — but today I think writers need to treat the medium as one ingredient, not the whole recipe. In practice that means I write imagining three things at once: the platform’s quirks (short form vs long-form, autoplay vs text), the audience’s context (commuting, skimming between classes, reading at midnight), and the piece’s core impulse (what feeling or insight I want to leave behind). I often type a paragraph on my phone during a bus ride and then expand it on a laptop later; the piece changes, but the core idea keeps surviving the format shifts. That survival is the real message. So for me, the takeaway is pragmatic: craft work that can wear different outfits. Focus on clarity, emotional hooks, and modularity so your words can move across places without losing soul. It’s a small habit that’s made my writing feel more resilient and, surprisingly, more honest.

I get excited whenever this topic comes up — there’s something delicious about watching a neat slogan like 'the medium is the message' get stretched, probed, and sometimes politely shoved aside by smart people with microphones. If you want shows that go deep into why the medium isn’t everything, start with 'On the Media'. They consistently interrogate how institutions, business models, and content interact; episodes that interview scholars or platform critics will make you think more about power, profit, and human decisions rather than deterministic medium-centric narratives. If you like things a bit more narrative, '99% Invisible' and 'Radiolab' are great because they show how form and content co-create meaning. '99% Invisible' will break down design and infrastructure; 'Radiolab' will show you how storytelling choices (not just the channel) change the message. For explicit theoretical pushback, search for podcast interviews with scholars like danah boyd, Tarleton Gillespie, or Sherry Turkle — many mainstream shows have hosted them. Lastly, if you want an academic angle without the dry vibe, check 'New Books' segments focused on media, tech, and culture. Pair those listens with a quick read of 'The Shallows' by Nicholas Carr or 'Alone Together' by Sherry Turkle and you’ll have a rounded sense of why the message still matters.

On TV adaptations, I get excited and a little picky — because I’ve seen how a story blooms or withers when it moves into living rooms. The phrase 'the medium is not the message' flips the usual thinking: TV isn't just a neutral channel that automatically carries a book or comic intact. The format shapes pacing, character focus, and what details survive. When I watch an adaptation like 'The Expanse' or the way 'Watchmen' reshaped its source, I notice choices driven by what TV can do: slow-burn arcs, visual motifs that build over episodes, and music that colors emotion in ways prose cannot. Practically, that means creators decide what the 'message' of the source really is and then translate it through TV-specific tools — casting, framing, episode structure, and even the constraints of running time or network standards. Sometimes that leads to changes I adore (a subplot expanded into its own season), and sometimes it disappoints (cutting internal monologue that made a character special). I like thinking of adaptation as interpretation powered by medium-specific strengths and limits — not a betrayal, but a new creation that invites viewers to bring their own memories of the original along for the ride.