Welcome to Auteur, a newsletter that dives deep into the world of film and asks: What can we, as brand builders, learn from this? Published every other week, each edition takes a film of our guest’s choosing, and extracts the creative lessons.
Film is one the richest mediums we have for understanding how narrative, aesthetics, and language can be woven together to move an audience, and this is an ambition that lies at the heart of what we do as designers, marketers, and strategists.
Thank you for joining us. Auteur is written and curated by Thursday—a strategic design studio based in the architectural city of Winchester. We work globally with the ethos that being different isn’t enough—what truly matters is being interesting.
This week’s guest is Rafael Oliveira.
“I’m a multidisciplinary Creative Director with a sharp instinct for brand building, design, and narrative. Over the past decade, I’ve been leading Creative at Tracksmith, transforming it into a cultural force and reshaping the running industry through design, storytelling, and a distinct point of view.”
More about Rafael here.
Introducing Gummo (1997).
The film opens and Harmony Korine mercilessly plunks us into the middle of a small, tornado-stricken town in Ohio. A breathy, pre-teen Dear Diary-style voice then taunts us with an explicit retelling of the aftermath: “People’s legs and neck bones were sticking out. Oliver found a leg on his roof.” Less than ten minutes in, I was unnerved enough that I had to pause the film and type ‘Gummo’ into my search engine to check what I was watching.
I didn’t want to be there—in this withering town, so full of pain—but I imagine Korine was completely uninterested in his viewers’ desires. It’s almost as if he, like the narrative voice in the film, was teasing me, asking: Can you handle the truth? And my instinctive answer was: No!
Alas, I had to push on. I had a newsletter to write. Rafael reflects on the film’s ability to surface unvarnished truths, and why beneath the grotesque scenes, lies a feeling of tenderness:
“Gummo feels like the cinematic equivalent of found footage in a shoebox at the back of a thrift store. It’s not a film in the traditional sense, but a raw, unvarnished portrait of American subculture, equal parts grotesque and poetic.
I find Harmony Korine’s uncompromising meditation on place, identity, and the beauty that can exist within the mundane, a perfect example of brutal honesty. There’s something deeply resonant in the film, as it dares to speak in its own voice, unafraid of discomfort, contradictions, or imperfection. It’s proof that authenticity doesn’t come from universal appeal. It comes instead from specificity, truth, and a willingness to inhabit the margins.
In a culture obsessed with control and narrative, Gummo feels like a contemplative act of surrender. And in that surrender, it finds something oddly transcendent.”
This is not an easy watch. It’s a controversial cult film, bursting at the seams with drugs, violence, racism, and abuse of all kinds. The original NY Times review called it ‘the worst film of the year’. But the most enduring lessons are often found in places that we’re too afraid to look. And, this is the beauty of handing over the film choice to our guests. Let’s get into it.
The Big Idea: Straight, no chaser.
Every great film—like every great brand—is anchored by a defining concept or conversation it can own. Here, I explore a central idea from the film, and play with how it could translate into a brand context.
“Life is beautiful. Really, it is. Full of beauty and illusions. Life is great. Without it, you'd be dead.”
The edgy reality of poverty-stricken American youth is laid bare in Gummo. Through choppy, handheld montages, Korine is plainly presenting how abrasive life on the fringes of society can be. Whilst I would use words like ‘disconcerting’ and ‘overwhelming’, that’s my interpretation of activities that are otherwise portrayed as mundane from the perspective of the characters.
Anarchistic and set to a heavy metal soundtrack, Korine goes in the exact opposite direction of stories that appeal to our sensibilities. There’s no hero, or 3-part structure, nor is there a resolution. The entire film exists at the point of climax, or less than a stone’s throw from it, leaving you unsure if you want to keep watching, but equally unable to tear your eyes away.
In doing so, he’s creating a conversation around truth, and the need for it exist (and be received) without editing, padding or curation. To steal a phrase from Theolonious Monk’s sixth studio album, he’s arguing that the truth should be delivered Straight, No Chaser.
Why it Works: There’s something intoxicating about someone who dares to step away from social niceties, and say (or show) things as they are. It takes guts and is incredibly risky, which heightens its appeal for us, as spectators. If Gummo were a brand it would be known for liberating hard truths, regardless of how they might be perceived. Archetypally, I’m seeing a part-Sage, part-Rebel brand that has a sort of subversive authority. A punk National Geographic, but focused on people.
What Gummo (1997) teaches us about brand.
Lesson 1: The truth is powerful, indulgence is not.
There’s no denying Gummo’s brutal honesty was brave and often touching—but the output of the truth-telling was a film, made for public consumption, and that cannot be removed from the equation. Whilst Korine maintains it was not his intention, as a viewer, the film felt exploitative and overindulgent.
Regardless of whether I am right, the lesson for brands is in my reaction: How much of what you’re sharing is powerful, and how much could register as indulgent? This is subjective, sure. But it’s safe to say that your audience cares less, and has far less context for your work than you do. As a result, scepticism is a natural response.
Whilst great art does not hedge or water itself down to appease the expectations of its audience—that’s exactly what kills creative conviction—I’d argue great brands do not have the same luxury. You’re in conversation with your customers.
Insight: Truth doesn’t mean saying or showing everything. Be careful not to fall into the trap of over-explaining your mission or polishing your tone until it sounds like everyone else. Instead, interrogate your message. Ask: What do we really believe about this product/sector/moment? What do we refuse to edit out, even if controversial? What can we defend?
Lesson 2: If it’s over-engineered, it’s forgettable.
At 23, Korine’s youth gave him both access and proximity to the realities he was portraying. The process itself made room for truth: many of the scenes were improvised. Most of the cast were locals. A lot of the shoot process was not tightly controlled. Even one of the film’s most bizarre motifs—streaky bacon taped to the wall—was inspired by a woman whose home they scouted.
Korine’s focus was getting out of the way, so the real, hard-to-forget story could unfold. The result is a film that blurs documentary and fiction—at times, it has the same hard-to-watch quality as someone revealing too much of themselves on reality TV. There are scenes I’ll never forget. Not because they were masterfully orchestrated, but because they weren’t. They just happened, without ceremony.
Insight: This isn’t about sacrificing aesthetics, but more about remembering that your customer see hundreds of similar-looking products and services every week. Ask how you are interrupting or interfering with the brilliance of your product or service coming through with red-tape, a bloated process, or preconceived idea of what a polished brand looks and feels like.
Lesson 3: Side stories add meaning.
One of the most striking things about Gummo is that it barely has a main character.
Instead, it feels like a patchwork of tiny, often fragmented moments—glimpses of people, places, and experiences that together create a larger picture. There’s no tidy narrative arc or clear hero, just raw vignettes that linger and accumulate meaning over time.
It’s these smaller, sometimes overlooked stories that build the emotional texture of the film and make it feel alive and authentic.
Insight: When you’re facing a product launch, a social post, or an internal update, ask yourself: What’s the small story here? What little moment, detail, or insight that can bring this to life? You don’t always have to take it back to the big overarching mission statement or manifesto. Individual stories add layers of meaning.
Closing Thoughts
Gummo isn’t a film to be celebrated wholesale, but it’s unforgettable because of its unwavering commitment to resisting dilution and simply being what it is. In a world where brands are increasingly converging into sameness, let this serve as a reminder: If you’d like to be remembered, reconnect deeply with the specific truth and unique value of your business. Sharpen the ‘point’ of your messaging, and you’ll be more able to penetrate the noise.
Thank you for reading, and I’d love to hear if and how this made you consider your brand-building efforts a little differently.
Until next time,
Shopé