'Snowpiercer' is a little bit more experimental, I think, and

Hear the words of Marco Beltrami, the composer whose art gives breath to story: “Snowpiercer is a little bit more experimental, I think, and crafted for a slightly different audience. The Giver is more about teen angst.” Though he speaks as a maker of music, his words carry wisdom far beyond melody, for he distinguishes between two currents of storytelling: one that challenges the mind with strange forms and visions, and one that touches the heart with the restless cries of youth. Both are necessary, both are powerful, and both illuminate the many ways in which human beings hunger for meaning.

Consider Snowpiercer, a tale set upon a train that circles endlessly through a frozen world. It is experimental, daring in its structure, symbolic in its nature. It does not merely tell a story but provokes the mind, asking questions of class, survival, and destiny. It is the art of challenge, art that makes us uncomfortable, art that demands we think. To encounter such a work is to be like a wanderer entering a strange land, where familiar signs are absent and one must learn anew the ways of the world. This is the gift of the experimental: it shakes us from slumber.

In contrast stands The Giver, a tale that speaks of controlled societies and hidden memories, yet is rooted in the cry of the young soul. It is, as Beltrami says, about teen angst—that fire of adolescence when one feels the ache of being misunderstood, the yearning for freedom, the suspicion that the world’s order is false. In this, it joins the long tradition of youth literature, of works that give voice to the turmoil of growing minds and restless hearts. It reminds us that the path from childhood to adulthood is not smooth but jagged, filled with both rebellion and discovery.

This distinction between experimental storytelling and the portrayal of teen angst is as old as art itself. The Greek tragedians, like Aeschylus, experimented with form and chorus to speak of fate and gods, while Euripides often gave voice to the young, the outcast, and the anguished—those who felt themselves trapped by the world around them. Each path had its audience, yet both were necessary. For the soul needs both the challenge of the mind and the echo of its own inner struggles.

Consider also the tale of Franz Kafka. His works, like The Trial and The Metamorphosis, were profoundly experimental, bending the very rules of storytelling. Many found them perplexing, but others discovered in them new ways of seeing human existence. At the same time, think of J.D. Salinger’s The Catcher in the Rye, a book of pure teen angst, capturing the confusion and alienation of youth. Both bodies of work endure, not because one is greater, but because each speaks to a different need of the human heart.

The lesson, then, is that no single form of art can contain the whole truth. Some stories stretch the imagination, teaching us to see in new ways; others hold a mirror to the heart, teaching us to feel with honesty. To dismiss the experimental as too strange is to close the door to growth; to scorn teen angst as too trivial is to forget the battles of the young, battles that shape the adults they will become. Both forms are sacred, both serve their purpose.

Therefore, let us act with wisdom. When we encounter art that confuses us, let us not turn away, but ask: what new vision is being offered? And when we see the trembling voice of youth in stories of longing and rebellion, let us not dismiss it, but honor it as the cry of life becoming itself. For in the balance of these two—mind challenged and heart reflected—humanity finds its fullest expression. As Beltrami has shown, Snowpiercer and The Giver are different, yet each is a vital part of the great tapestry of storytelling.