From a distance, it sounds like a street party. Outside one of Hollywood’s oldest studios, people are cheering. A speaker blares Stevie Wonder’s “Living for the City.” Passing cars toot appreciative horns. 

Up close, it becomes apparent this isn’t a party. It’s a picket line. When screenwriters across America went on strike on Tuesday, they started marshaling outside entertainment headquarters such as Amazon’s film and television division here at Culver Studios. The upbeat protesters, wearing sunglasses and “Writers Guild of America” T-shirts, chant “union power” while parading around the colonial-style building where “Gone with the Wind” was filmed. These writers claim that studios are turning their profession into a gig economy consisting of short-term jobs with low pay and even uncompensated work. As one striker’s sign puts it, “Hey Amazon, free delivery is your job, not ours!” 

“What’s happening right now is just abject disrespect of writers,” says K.C. Scott, a scribe on the Apple TV+ show “Physical,” whose boombox is playing Bob Marley & The Wailers’ “Get Up, Stand Up.” “When I was starting my career, someone said, ‘You go to New York as a writer if you want respect. You go to LA if you want money.’ And, right now, we’re not getting either.”

The first writers’ strike in 15 years followed a breakdown in talks between the Writers Guild of America (WGA) and The Alliance of Motion Picture and Television Producers (AMPTP). The standoff revolves around financial compensation and job security in an era when streaming has reshaped Hollywood. In a document released Thursday, the AMPTP disputed the accuracy of WGA’s “gig economy” claims and also touted a proposed contract that includes “the highest first-year increase offered to the WGA in more than 25 years.” 

The negotiations come down to an all-too-familiar dispute in Hollywood: How much are writers worth? For studios, the answer may be a financial calculation. For writers, that question isn’t just a monetary one. It’s also a matter of feeling seen and valued.

“Writers are seen as the essential cog in the wheel,” says Dominic Patten, senior editor at Deadline Hollywood, an industry news publication. “But I think that what’s happened in recent years, it’s more systematic and institutional. … We’ve seen a change, especially with the advent of streaming, in the way that the entire system works.”

The last time writers went on strike was for 100 days that spanned 2007 and 2008. The toll on California’s economy is estimated to have been $2.1 billion. 

Stephen Humphries/The Christian Science Monitor

Britt Matt and K.C. Scott stand outside Amazon Studios in Culver City, California, on May 3. Mr. Scott believes that Hollywood undervalues its writers.

Fragmented audiences, fragmented pay?

Back then, audiences were already fragmenting as entertainment options expanded, but mainstream media was still relatively ... mainstream. Successful movie script writers could expect bonanza paydays in an era in which studios released major competing films every weekend. Established writers on a network or cable TV show could make a good living over the course of a 22-episode season. If a series was reincarnated on DVD or TV syndication, there were additional residual payments. 

Today, three of the TV writers picketing outside Culver Studios say that was something of a golden era. 

“It was just 10 years ago that we were all entry-level writers and we got a job that could sustain us for that year, even on a show that got canceled,” says Eli Bauman, a writer for award shows such as the Emmys, standing alongside his wife, Joanna Calo (“The Bear”), and their longtime friend Raphael Bob-Waksberg (“Bojack Horseman”).

In 2007, streaming was barely a twinkling pixel in the eye of big tech companies. Apple had only just unveiled the iPhone. Netflix, a mail-delivery DVD service, had only just launched video. Amazon’s focus was selling Kindles and fresh groceries, on demand.

Then in 2013, Netflix televised a revolution by erecting “House of Cards,” its first original show. 

Within a decade, the company pioneered a process of more creative destruction than an episode of “Squid Game.” In the race to maximize content, streaming competitors have acquired and consolidated vaults such as MGM, and even whole studios such as 20th Century Fox. The shift to streaming has boosted the number of new Hollywood productions. Last year, a record 599 original scripted shows aired in the United States. The beneficiaries of that boom aren’t just stockholders, but also the production crew workers such as casting agents, set designers, hair-and-makeup artists, electricians, cinematographers, VFX artists, and even the assistants tasked with fetching kombucha lattes for the directors.

But writers say they’ve been short-changed by the new business model. For starters, on streaming shows, a season typically only consists of eight to 10 episodes.

“It’s a paradox because you would think with so many more shows, there’d be more jobs for writers,” says Jessica Sharzer, a screen captain at the WGA, in a phone interview. “The writers’ rooms literally shrunk. So they used to have, let’s say … 10 writers in them, now they have six.”

Most concerning, Ms. Sharzer says, is a widespread phenomenon dubbed “mini rooms.” If a production entity likes a pilot script, it may give a showrunner a minimal budget to hire two or three additional writers to develop the show. If the show doesn’t end up in development, it’s not a big loss for the company. But the writers take the brunt of the risk. The minimum pay they earn, around $5,000 a week, needs to stretch to payments to agents, lawyers, and the taxman. There’s no guarantee the scribe will be hired for the show or even credited for their work. The short-term hires may never set foot on set, a crucial step to becoming a showrunner. 

“They’re also not getting the same level of growth and opportunities that they once did in that older model where you could grow as a writer, starting in the trenches, so to speak,” says Brian Welk, a senior business reporter for IndieWire, a film industry site. “So maybe that’s why they’re feeling disrespected.”

Studios push back on “gig economy” claim

Thursday, the AMPTP stipulated that it had offered to improve the pay structures and minimum rates for such development rooms. Moreover, the trade association pushed back against WGA language that compares writers to freelancers in a gig economy.

“Most television writers are employed on a weekly or episodic basis, with a guarantee of a specified number of weeks or episodes,” the negotiating body for studios and streaming companies wrote in its four-page document. “It’s not uncommon for writers to be guaranteed ‘all episodes produced.’”

It added that television writers enjoy health care, parental leave, and pension benefits “that are far superior to what many full-time employees receive for working an entire year.” 

Other impasses in contract negotiations are over residual payments for streaming shows, script fees for staff writers, and the WGA’s insistence upon a mandatory minimum number of staff writers per show as well as guarantees of the length of employment. Deadline Hollywood recently wrote that AMPTP President Carol Lombardini “is widely seen as a tough but fair negotiator” who is keen to keep production costs from ballooning. 

But during the discussions, former WGA West president Patric Verrone perceived a lack of respect.

Stephen Humphries/The Christian Science Monitor

Patric Verrone, former president of the Writers Guild of America West, says the resolve of writers is stronger than during the 2007 strike.

“That may have been one of the differences between this negotiation and the others I’ve been involved in,” says Mr. Verrone, eyes squinting in the modest shade of his WGA cap. “There was a different atmosphere.”

The “Futurama” writer speculates that may stem from the change in the composition of AMPTP since the arrival of Netflix, Amazon, and Apple. But as much as writers may crave esteem, he says it won’t put bread on the table.

“As long as I’ve been in the Guild leadership, it’s become much more evident that we can get all the respect that they’re willing to dole out, but they will only make the ... financial deal that we need, that we demand, if we can show power and leverage.”

The question becomes which side will blink first.

“In many ways, the timing for the writers couldn’t be worse as far as coming to the negotiating table,” says script consultant Tom Nunan, a former TV executive and producer of the Oscar-winning film “Crash.” “The media companies themselves are going through this terrible reckoning. After years of overspending and explosive growth, they’re now in what seems to be an unending period of contraction.”

Some believe that the studios and streaming companies, which have been laying off thousands of employees, are in a position of strength in this strike. In fact, they may even have reasons to welcome the disruption to production. 

“The studios think that eventually enough writers will realize that they’re having trouble paying their rent or their mortgage and demand their leadership go back to the negotiating table,” says Mr. Patten from Deadline. “And the studios, of course, can start canceling some deals after 30 days go by. ... They can save some money on the books.”

The wider cost of the strike could be disastrous for an economic sector that’s still woozy from the punch of the pandemic. Yet many unions, including local Teamsters, International Alliance of Theatrical Stage Employees, the Screen Actors Guild – American Federation of Television and Radio Artists, and the Directors Guild of America – which begins its own contract negotiations with AMPTP next week – have expressed their solidarity to the WGA. Outside Culver Studios, virtually every passing car honks its horn to show support. 

Standing next to the hedges near the mansion where Rhett Butler wooed Scarlett O’Hara, Mr. Bauman, Ms. Calo, and Mr. Bob-Waksberg say that the strike has a resonance that goes beyond New York or Los Angeles.

“I do think that’s something that anyone in America can kind of understand, especially as we all are kind of finding ourselves in a gig economy to some extent,” says Mr. Bauman, the Emmys writer. “All we’re asking for is some version of sustainability and stability and respect.”

Editor’s note: This article has been updated to correct the spelling of Tom Nunan’s last name. 

Mehmet Guzel/AP/File

Protesters outside an Istanbul courthouse in 2020, when seven journalists were on trial for revealing state secrets in reports on the funeral of an intelligence officer killed in Libya.

It was 6:30 one morning last October when Kurdish journalist Servin Rozerin went to work in the office of Mezopotamya press agency in Ankara, Turkey. Scarcely had she arrived when police burst through the door, pushed her against the wall, took her phone and laptop, and held her for nine hours while they confiscated all of the files and equipment in the newsroom, Ms. Rozerin says.

The police eventually released the young woman, but the incident has had lasting effects. “I was really scared because I was a woman on my own with so many armed men,” she says. “They treated me like an enemy. Even to this day, I’m afraid that they could take me again.”

But she continues to report and write in the hope that the upcoming May 14 elections will bring a change in leadership after President Recep Tayyip Erdoğan’s two-decade hold on power. 

“I really want this government to go. If after these elections, they are not gone, there is going to be nothing called journalism in Turkey. This government has too much power, and they are using it against us,” Ms. Rozerin says on a phone call from the southeastern city of Diyarbakir, where she’s covering the election campaign. 

In the run-up to the elections, the global press watchdog Reporters Without Borders ranked Turkey 165th out of 180 nations in its 2023 World Press Freedom Index, describing the situation as “very bad.” Opposition parties, six of which are grouped in an electoral alliance, have vowed to allow more press freedoms than Mr. Erdoğan and his ruling party have over the past decade.

Legitimate criticism or disinformation?

It was not always thus. In the first decade of Mr. Erdoğan’s rule, the Turkish media flourished. But since the uprising against Mr. Erdoğan during the Gezi protests in 2013 and a foiled coup in 2016, most press outlets have become government mouthpieces; 90% of national media are now in the hands of government supporters, according to a Reporters Without Borders survey.

Those that have remained independent are constantly harassed by the authorities, incurring fines, suffering detentions, and going in and out of court, says Oliver Money-Kyrle, head of European advocacy for the Vienna-based International Press Institute (IPI). The group closely monitors Turkey’s media.

Mr. Money-Kyrle says the good news is that the number of jailed journalists has dropped in the last four years from 120 to 47, but journalists are kept on a judicial leash.

“There are dozens and dozens of trials going on, cases are postponed, journalists are trapped (in the court system) even if they will be found innocent,” he says.

The government passed a disinformation law last year, but rights defenders say it is another way for the authorities to censor and fine the media, and to jail journalists.

Broadcasters are regularly fined if journalists or guests on their shows criticize the government. The Radio and Television Supreme Council (RTUK) recently fined the opposition Halk TV for airing a claim by an opposition party adviser that people on ventilators in the city of Iskunderun had died in the aftermath of the Feb. 6 earthquake because generators did not work.

Emrah Gurel/AP

A man is detained during Labor Day celebrations in Istanbul. Journalists trying to film demonstrators being forced into police vans were pushed back or detained.

The allegation was judged “contrary to the principle of impartiality” by the RTUK.

“According to the RTUK, if you stand by the leadership you are unbiased; if you stand against it you are violating unbiasedness,” tweeted Ilhan Tasci, an RTUK member who belongs to the main opposition party.

Many independent journalists fired from their jobs now have YouTube channels with significant followings, but the government can shut down their online platforms. Freedom House, a human rights watchdog, notes in its recent “Election Vulnerability Index” that “thousands of websites are blocked in Turkey, including many independent media. This technical censorship hinders voters’ ability to assess accurate and diverse sources of information ahead of the vote” on May 14.

“Harassment of journalists and online activists is rampant in Turkey, limiting free expression,” the report finds.

Fahrettin Altun, Turkey’s communications director, insists that the government is only trying to curb disinformation that threatens national security, not censoring the media, as he told a National Press Club event in Washington last month.

That is not the view of many journalists. “For the past 14 years we have practiced more and more self censorship,” says one reporter who has worked for many years in mainstream government media and who asked to remain anonymous.

“I was censored many times, there were times when my news was not published, or I had problems after it was published,” she recalls. And the Turkish political scene has grown so polarized that “sometimes I think we spend more time and energy trying to stand between the poles [government and opposition] than doing journalism,” she adds.

Kurdish reporters special targets

Mr. Money-Kyrle of the IPI says that if Mr. Erdoğan wins again on May 14, it will get harder for Turkish journalists to work. But if the opposition wins, he says he has hopes that the censorship system that has throttled the independent media will end, and that violence against members of the press will be reduced.

The IPI reports physical assaults on 72 journalists in the last year, many of them Kurdish reporters accused of sympathy for the Kurdish Workers’ Party (PKK), an outlawed guerrilla group fighting for expanded Kurdish self-governance in eastern and southeastern Turkey.

In the last two weeks, police have raided homes at dawn and detained actors, lawyers, and journalists in Diyarbakir, a base for Kurdish media. Among the more than a dozen arrested are Ms. Rozerin’s boss and two colleagues. The government claims that Kurdish media have ties to the PKK, but has yet to bring formal charges against many of them.

Ceylan Akça, a Kurdish parliamentary candidate for the Green Left Party in Diyarbakir, says attacks against Kurdish journalists have been common since the 1990s when they were disappeared, tortured, and killed during government crackdowns on the PKK.

Though such extreme violence against reporters has subsided, it has not disappeared, says Ms. Akça.

Even the foreign press is at the mercy of the Turkish government, although the hundreds of foreign reporters based in Turkey face minimal censorship compared with their Turkish colleagues.

Shadi Turk, a Syrian journalist who worked as an assistant to foreign journalists in Turkey and Syria, says that two years ago he was recruited by Turkish intelligence to spy on them.

“They wanted phone numbers, contacts, published stories, opinions of journalists and whether they were spreading propaganda against Turkey,” he says in a telephone interview from the Philippines, where he has fled. “I didn’t give them anything that wasn’t already public,” Mr. Turk says. 

Intelligence agents threatened that if he did not comply, he and his family would be deported to Syria, where they would have been in danger because they oppose the Syrian regime, Mr. Turk says. His Turkish residency was blocked for five years after he escaped, and he is seeking asylum in a Western country.

“My story shows the low level of press freedom in Turkey,” he says.

Despite Turkish journalists’ struggles, they continue to publish and broadcast, changing their platforms’ names when they are banned, or opening new media outlets.

“There are deeply talented and courageous journalists still doing the work,” says the IPI’s Mr. Money-Kyrle, “because of a long tradition of journalism in the country, and a strong appetite for information from the public.”

Takehiko Kambayashi

Ishikawa Kazuo (left), who has spent 60 years trying to clear his name as a convicted murderer, thanks hundreds of supporters at a rally in Tokyo, Oct. 28, 2022. Advocates say his case lays bare deep issues in Japan’s criminal justice system.

It’s been nearly 60 years since Ishikawa Kazuo was sentenced to death for the rape and murder of a high school girl in his hometown of Sayama, Japan. He’s maintained his innocence throughout the decades, and soon, he may get a rare chance to prove it.

By the end of this year, Japan’s court is expected to decide whether or not to grant the octogenarian a retrial.

“We have entered the final stretch,” he told a crowd of supporters at a Sayama rally earlier this year, bowing deeply and vowing to clear his name. 

Advocates say his case lays bare deep issues in Japan’s criminal justice system, which boasts a 99.9% conviction rate and relies heavily on confessions. Lack of research makes it difficult to know how many innocent people are found guilty in Japan courts, but one lawyer estimates the country produces as many as 1,500 wrongful convictions annually – more than the United States, according to popular figures. The Tokyo-based Association of Victims of Wrongful Convictions is in contact with at least 25 prisoners who claim to be victims of wrongful conviction, and there are dozens more who’ve been released or acquitted.

Many are seeking justice by calling for legal reform and greater accountability from the state. But experts say the bigger challenge will be changing the culture surrounding crime in Japan – one that prioritizes fast arrests and convictions, demonizes offenders, and places immense trust in police and prosecutors.

“You assume one is guilty even before a trial takes place,” says Harada Masaharu, whose younger brother was murdered in the 1980s. He now leads Ocean, an association advocating for dialogue between crime victims and offenders. This case-closed mentality is “likely to create wrongful convictions,” he says, which rob crime victims of justice, too. 

“Families of victims really want to know why our loved ones had to be killed,” he adds, “but we are left uninformed.”

False confessions

The Samaya case is not the first to shine a spotlight on Japan’s criminal justice shortfalls.

In 2019, the system came under international scrutiny when ousted Nissan chairman Carlos Ghosn dramatically escaped the country after a total of 130 days in detention, saying he was fleeing “injustice and political persecution.” 

Kiyoshi Ota/AP/File

Members of the legal team for Carlos Ghosn gather at the Tokyo District Court on Jan. 8, 2019, for a hearing during the former Nissan chairman's prolonged detention. Mr. Ghosn later fled the country.

And in March, Japan’s court ordered a retrial of Hakamada Iwao, considered the world’s longest-serving death row inmate, after nearly half a century of incarceration. 

Next up is Mr. Ishikawa, his supporters say.

His saga began in May 1963, when local teenager Nakata Yoshie went missing from their small city north of Tokyo. Dozens of police officers failed to capture a suspect who showed up to collect her ransom during a sting operation. The incident, which came just a month after police fumbled a similar kidnap-for-ransom case in Tokyo, prompted public outcry.

Under enormous pressure to arrest a culprit, the Saitama Prefectural Police focused their search on the city’s burakumin community, descendants of feudal-era outcasts who still face discrimination. They arrested Mr. Ishikawa, an illiterate construction worker, and after weeks of interrogation without lawyers, Mr. Ishikawa says police manipulated him into a confession by threatening to arrest his brother and promising a short sentence. But after pleading guilty to murder, the 25-year-old was sentenced to hang. 

The high court later commuted the sentence to life in prison, and in 1994, he was released on parole. 

“Mr. Ishikawa was falsely arrested before I was born,” says Aoki Keiko, who spent 20 years behind bars for the alleged murder of her 11-year-old daughter and now leads the Association of Victims of Wrongful Convictions. “He has not been acquitted yet. The system has been so wrong for so long.”

Even today, there are cases of police targeting vulnerable communities, such as non-Japanese and working poor, in an effort to make a swift arrest following a crime. And cases routinely hinge on confessions, says Ms. Aoki, despite research showing that false confessions are not only common, but also relatively easy to induce. 

She recalls how two male police officers showered her with abusive language during a prolonged interrogation back in 1995. The questioning lasted for 33 days, and by the end, Ms. Aoki was worn out. Police said her partner had already confessed. She did the same. 

It was 2016 when she and her former partner were acquitted during a retrial, and she is currently seeking damages from the government.

Miyake Katsuhisa, a journalist and author who has covered wrongful convictions for many years, describes these sorts of interrogations as “psychological torture” meant to “create a result quickly.” Still, he says most Japanese support the police and fail to see the dark side of the 99.9% conviction rate.

Kyodo News/AP

Hakamada Iwao answers reporters' questions after a walk in Hamamatsu, Japan, March 13, 2023. Tokyo’s high court ordered a retrial for the former boxer, who has been on death row for nearly six decades after a murder conviction lawyers say was based on forced confession and fabricated evidence.

Presumption of guilt and partial evidence

One factor that contributes to these attitudes is that major media, which have long been criticized for their collusive relationship with authority figures, rarely investigate cases independently, only reporting the information they get from police and prosecutors. Another is the intense social stigma around criminal activity.

Many experts also point out that the high conviction rate is in large part a result of Japan’s low indictment rate – in other words, prosecutors only move forward with cases they are sure they can win. Japan’s Ministry of Justice alludes to this while explaining that 99.9% figure.

“In order to avoid imposing an undue burden on innocent people for being involved in a trial, prosecutors, in practice, bring indictments only if there is a high probability of obtaining a conviction based on adequate evidence,” the website states.

Yet critics say that judges and defense don’t get to see that evidence. Unlike the United States, Japan does not have a pretrial discovery process that allows defendants access to prosecutorial evidence.

“Police and prosecutors spend taxpayers’ money to collect evidence,” says Kyoto-based lawyer Kamoshida Yumi. “However, prosecutors present only incriminating evidence to a court, while hiding other pieces of evidence that could point away from the accused.”

Because of this implicit trust in prosecutors’ judgment, Ms. Kamoshida says, some judges hand down guilty verdicts without careful consideration of the defense, who are effectively “presumed guilty.” It’s also very difficult to get a retrial – Mr. Ishikawa has been denied twice – and even in the rare case that a person is exonerated, Ms. Aoki says prosecutors and police are not held accountable. 

“They never apologize for their failures, never reflect on them and never look into them,” she says. “They are desperate to save face and save the system.” 

The victims association and the Japan Federation of Bar Associations, along with other experts and advocates, are pressing to reform Japan’s retrial law, which has not been revised in its 74 years of existence. They want to prohibit prosecutors from filing an appeal, which they argue delays trials and adds undue pressure on the accused and their defense, and to ensure all evidence is disclosed before the initial trial.

In the case of Mr. Ishikawa, the disclosure of more than 250 pieces of evidence – revealed slowly over the past 14 years – could be a game-changer. 

Indeed, public pressure has led to a trickle of evidence, including undisclosed interrogation tapes and a new handwriting sample, which supporters say prove Mr. Ishikawa could not have authored the ransom note as police asserted in the 1963 trial.

“The new evidence will certainly demonstrate my innocence,” he says.

Editor’s note: This story has been updated to correct Ishikawa Kazuo’s age at the time of his conviction, and the police department leading the investigation. 

My childhood was filled with radioactive spider bites and blue beasts who studied biology. Excluding the Saturday mornings where my mom dragged my brother and me to choir practice, we were glued to the TV, which was full of animated stories about time travel and superhumans.

Even with that upbringing, the first “Guardians of the Galaxy” movie was too abstract for me.

Certainly, it wasn’t an issue of unique, or perhaps niche, content. I simply wondered if Marvel’s commitment to the Guardians on the silver screen made sense after the successful debuts of their name brands – Iron Man, Captain America, The Avengers.

What I interpreted as a risk for the comic book giant paid off profoundly – not just in terms of box office revenue, but in what it meant to tell a fuller story of Marvel’s universe.

“Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 3,” which opens this weekend, is the quintessential Marvel payoff. Where “Avengers: Endgame” was a sendoff for Chris Evans’ interpretation of Captain America and Robert Downey Jr.’s Iron Man, this installment of “Guardians” wraps up the chronicles of its weird, plucky cast. 

The story mostly centers around the anthropomorphic, cybernetically enhanced Rocket Raccoon, voiced by Bradley Cooper. In what has become an unofficial Guardians tradition, due to their battles with the likes of Thanos, the team takes on yet another purple-palette baddie, the High Evolutionary, a being hellbent on creating the perfect civilization. Rocket’s soft, yet sorrowful eyes and furry exterior have always belied his horrific past. The movie’s venture into that trauma is not for those who are sensitive to animals being harmed – and is not kid-friendly, to put it mildly. 

Marvel-Disney/AP

"Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 3" explores the backstory of Rocket Raccoon, voiced by Bradley Cooper.

The 150-minute film does capture the team’s journey in a way that shows Marvel’s adeptness at putting a bow on a series, yet I find this benediction to be profoundly different.

The Guardians’ series opened the door for more abstract Marvel properties to hit movies and streaming services – characters such as Shang-Chi and Ms. Marvel. Their successes are a byproduct of the largely successful space stories of Rocket, Star-Lord (played by Chris Pratt), and the crew. It’s easier to sell a superhero movie with a household name, but when Marvel struck gold with the Guardians, to put it in comic book terms, it opened up a nexus of infinite possibilities.

For critics of Marvel’s Phase Four, that might seem like a bit of an oxymoron. Some people believed Marvel lost its way after The Avengers’ two-part epic, which wrapped up arguably Marvel’s most successful string of movies, including “Captain America: Civil War,” “Black Panther,” “Spider-Man: Far From Home.” The Eternals movie was largely seen as a dud, and streaming series such as “Hawkeye,” even with that main character’s Avengers roots, were underwhelming. 

Still, I would contend that Marvel’s choice to branch out beyond the familiar strengthens its brand, both in terms of storytelling and in terms of diversity. It is shortsighted to view critique of properties such as “The Marvels” and “She-Hulk” through the lens of periodically sexist comment sections, and perhaps fanboys (and fangirls) will heed the words of late Marvel creator and icon Stan Lee:

“I have always included minority characters in my stories, often as heroes,” the late Mr. Lee was remembered as saying. “We live in a diverse society – in fact, a diverse world, and we must learn to live in peace and with respect for each other.”

Marvel has never been afraid to ask this existential question: What if? Further, it has never been afraid to act on that question in terms of its presentations. “Guardians of the Galaxy” and director James Gunn are evidence of that, which should give DC Comics fans some encouragement, since Mr. Gunn will produce a slate of movies for Marvel’s “rival.”

Mr. Lee, Mr. Gunn, and comic book storytellers share this profound understanding – the investment’s the thing. Getting folks to buy into abstract concepts makes the payoff that much sweeter. It’s a metaphor for life that celebrates sweet spontaneity.

“I don’t analyze things too closely. I find the more you analyze, the more you get away from spontaneity. I have only one rule: I just want to write a story that would interest me – that’s the only criterion I have,” Mr. Lee said. “Am I eager to see how it ends? If these characters really existed, would I want to see what happens to them? ... If I like something, there are bound to be millions of people who like it, too.”

The Guardians’ randomness highlights the things that are most commonly desired – the familial, the romantic, the heroic. The pursuit of those things doesn’t just happen throughout the galaxy. They are all too familiar to us Earthlings.

Ken Makin is the host of the “Makin’ a Difference” podcast. 

AP

Britain's King Charles III (center) is flanked by Commonwealth heads of government in London, May 5.

 British coronations unfold in symbols and choreography dating back a thousand years. But the crowning of Charles III tomorrow holds something new – a multihued recitation of Christianity’s most sacred prayer led not just by the head of the Anglican Church, but by Jewish, Muslim, Buddhist, Sikh, and Hindu clerics as well.

This unique moment of worship – congregants will be invited to speak the Lord’s Prayer in any language – reflects the new king’s view of his realm as “a community of communities.” Yet a deeper symbolism is hard to ignore. A monarchy that once spread its language and power around the globe is having to adapt to a world shaping its own narratives of dignity and equality.

One place where that change is evident is just across the English Channel, where an Algerian film opened this week in a dozen theaters in Paris. Called “The Last Queen,” it tells the story of a woman who saves Algiers from foreign invasion in the 16th century. Historians debate whether the story, which has floated through Algerian lore for hundreds of years, is true. But for audiences, the film’s depiction of Algerian society is what counts.

“In the movies, our country is still viewed mainly in the context of colonization and the years of terrorism,” Adila Bendimerad, an Algerian actor who stars in the film and co-directed it, told Le Monde. “Algerians living in France, French people of Algerian origin, French people, people from elsewhere: Everyone has been moved by this story and this Algeria that they were not aware of.”

The film points to the uses of history at a time when many societies are rethinking their legacies under colonial rule. For many African societies, that means moving beyond a mentality of victimhood and exploitation. In her new book on African childhood, for example, Sarah Duff, a South African anthropologist, challenges stereotypes about how Africans view themselves.

“Thinking historically is important for showing us that the present was never inevitable: that there were and are alternative ways of addressing challenges, alternative choices, and alternative ways of understanding our societies,” she said in an interview at Colby University.

A new exhibit by the Pakistani artist Misha Japanwala in New York has a similar goal. A collection of castings of hands and the female form, it challenges the sense of shame and invisibility that women in Islamic societies endure. “When so much of our existence has been subject to a campaign of disappearance, this collection is a present day, physical reminder that our lives and our stories are part of the fabric of our people, and will continue to be so even hundreds of years from now,” she told The New York Times.

A world of many voices, Charles has acknowledged, “has led me to understand that the Sovereign has an additional duty – less formally recognized but to be no less diligently discharged. It is the duty to protect ... the space for faith itself and its practice through the religions, cultures, traditions, and beliefs to which our hearts and minds direct us as individuals.” A monarchy that once spread its language across the globe is refitting itself for a world shaped by the voices of others.