Monday .
April 10, 2006
arts.michigandaily.com
artspage@michigandaily.com

R TSe icligtn tii

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--I

It's all blog to me

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his is probably a profoundly
hypocritical topic to undertake
in a column (a classic pillar of
self-aggrandizing writing), but I'll just
come out and say it: There are too many
damn blogs.
For the uninitiated (or for perhaps the
few people older than 25 who read this
column ... Hi mom!), a blog is simply
an online journal where people can post
whatever they want, anytime. That's
it. No one is in charge of "publishing"
the content other than the person click-
ing the "publish" button on a desktop. I
would argue that blogging
is responsible for more
instantly weak writing by
inexperienced voices than
anything since confes-
sional, free-verse poetry's
transformation from appli-
cability to "woe is me!"
Yet so many blogs$
have proven their worth.
In the age of dangerously
corporate omni-media Ev
sites (CNN.com, BBC. McG)
com - even seemingly

Courtesy of
New Line
"Of course I
have a line
of perfume.
Life Is noth-
ing without
Spirit."

LATEST BANDERAS VEHICLE STUMBLES ON TOUCHY ISSUES

By Amanda Andrade
Daily Film Editor

It's killing Tina (Laura Benanti, TV's "Starved").
Every time the effortlessly charming dance instructor
Pierre Dulaine (the effortlessly
charming actor Antonio Ban-
deras, "The Legend of Zorro") Take the
callously runs his hand through Lead
her hair in a gesture of casual At the Showcase
intimacy, it kills her a little more. and Quality 16
This much we know, thanks New Line
to the improbably expository dia- _
logue of "Take the Lead," a film
that cheers as Pierre takes his ballroom dance steps from
the marble halls of cultural elitism to a crumbling school
in the Bronx. The domination complex he nourishes in
those interactions with his stoically pining secretary is
a sidenote - but an appropriate caption to a film so
epically inappropriate, outstandingly simplistic and yet
ultimately, persistently and against all better judgment,
so infectiously appealing.
True, Pierre doesn't mean any harm by it. He's the
kind of saint-like movie hero who darkly alludes to a

tempestuous past, only to dash off to rescue a hospital of
orphaned kittens, and maybe convert a drug-dealing thug
into a champion waltz competitor on the way. There's no
concept of doubt here. Pierre's singular vision - turning
these aimless inner-city teenagers into upstanding citi-
zens with a fondness for the foxtrot - is as inexorable
as it is unlikely, and human emotions like frustration and
impatience just don't enter into his picture.
And while even such a shallow characterization
might be easily overlooked if Pierre were another fear-
lessly idealistic poet, the film doesn't quite know how to
defend the importance of ballroom dancing in the lives
of its troubled heroes. Respect becomes the crux of the
issue. An unflappable Pierre tells the PTA that teach-
ing dance is teaching kids how to move, but that it also
teaches men how to handle women with respect, and
women how to respect themselves.
Of course, in this case, self-respect for women equates
to a tacit agreement to follow: The man, as Pierre so
firmly reminds us, always leads. Women may be sub-
missive, but they gain empowerment precisely through
the willingness with which they submit. Problematic for
a film titled "Take the Lead" (referring to the autonomy
and responsibility the dancing presumes to instill in the
kids) with the tagline "Never Follow." Instead of leading,
the film's women get speeches that could just as easily

justify keeping them in the kitchen as on the dancefloor.
But if the film is clumsily inept with its feminist
slant, it's so wildly misguided about race and class that
it almost becomes endearing. Take Caitlin (Lauren Col-
lins, TV's "Degrassi: The Next Generation"). Dressed in
cardigans and mary janes, she's sheltered and a hopeless
dancer. Pierre takes her to the Bronx where, in the pres-
ence of poor people and their crazy hip-hop lifestyle,
she transforms into a bold and adroit social player. At
the uptown-ball finale, one of Pierre's students scorns
the live orchestra, instead pumping his iPod over the
speaker system. In the richly clich6d tradition of, say,
"Sister Act 2: Back in the Habit," the students get down
while the white people look on appreciatively to marvel
at the fine cultural novelty before them.
Still, there's something to be said for the role that any
kind of positive attention can play as a tool for social out-
reach. There's something to be said for creative expres-
sion as a means of bridging cultural differences. There's
something to be said when a movie this technically well
made and enjoyably acted (particularly in a game of spot
the D-level stars - isn't that Yaya from "America's Next
Top Model?") is so eagerly and enthusiastically well
intentioned. It's only unfortunate that "Take the Lead,"
doesn't really know how to say anything without trip-
ping over its own two left feet.

A
A

enduring nytimes.com looks more and
more like Us Weekly), the blog was the
ultimate in citizen response. There were
facts too raw, reporting too bold and top-
ics too invisible for mainstream media
coverage. When blogging is done right,
it's the best direction new journalism can
take - unapologetic, independent voices
reporting on the overlooked.
The real problem is that any Joe could
also blog about how shitty his day was.
Or how sweet his new hook up buddy is.
Or how hard his life is and what piece of
pop treacle (I'm looking directly at Fall
Out Boy, Simple Plan and Coldplay) best
exemplifies his totally sucky day. This
most public and suddenly omnipresent of
mediums has a huge disparity between
the top tier and gutter.
For an example, here's something I
would blog about:
I went on spring break and sat next to
my mother on the plane. "The Family
Stone" Was the in-flight entertainment.
In between trying to split up the boxed-
up, compressed pieces of "chicken" flesh
in my meal, I found myself falling in
love with Rachel McAdams because she
rocked a Dinosaur Jr. T-shirt and an NPR
bag. She's my righteous New England
liberal Aphrodite. I want to sit around
with her listening to Public Enemy
records, drinking gin and making fun of
people in our discussion section.
Does anyone in their right mind need
to read this? Of course not. Is it pro-
foundly affecting? Shit no, and I'm totally

in love with McAdams. Does it add
anything to the world? No, and even I feel
filthy for writing it.
But who is likely to produce this
kind of blog?
Well, you and me, really.
For every Juan Cole and his master-
ful Informed Comment (www.juancole.
com) - an unapologetic, bold, informed
(excuse the pun) voice who, let's face it,
would face unnecessary obstacles pub-
lishing some of his blog in print - there
are a countless number of despondent
bourgeoisie kids trying to parse through
their adolescence with the
help of livejournal.com and
way too many "One Tree
Hill" DVDs. They write
everything from their day
down and call it, well, who
knows?
So I guess the problem isn't
the medium of the blog, but
who uses them.
I feel comfortable with this
N basic tenet: Young writers
RVEY need editors. The act of writ-
ing demands multiple sets of
eyes before a piece sees the light of day.
Not everything that's thought has to be
written. Not everything that is written is
useful or effective. Not everything in the
public spectrum is worth reading. The
process of writing, the craft of writing
- these have been flushed down the
drain of instant gratification: juvenile
blogs, Internet "creative writing" sites.
Our generation is forgetting about craft
and effort because the "publish" button is
hovering between iTunes and their AIM
conversations.
The best blogs have a focused subject
matter, an author who can speak with
authority, posts that hinge on factual
analysis and a basic grasp of style and
textual coherency.
If you are younger than 30, you most
likely have one of these skills. One. And
even that one skill only means you can
talk about Young Jeezy with some sem-
blance of authority, not so much detailed
psychoanalysis of your family.
The ultimate responsibility of the
blog falls on - you guessed it - the
person doing the blogging themselves.
My strongest feeling on young, untested
writers and personal blogs? Kids way
too young and way too green are mak-
ing things way too easy on themselves
with blogging. Why not try to write
for - oh, I don't know - your student
newspaper instead? Al
- Ev4n thinks Fall Out Boy is gr8!
E-mail him at evanbmcg@umich.edu.

6

I



WANT TO WRITE FOR
ARTS His SUMMER?
E-ML
w E TS K6
@UMICH.EJDU.

Clap Your Hands restore faith

By Kimberly Chou
Daily Arts Writer

Good news for those with exceed-
ingly nasal voices and indie rockstar pipe
dreams - there's hope for you.
Friday night at the
Blind Pig, the bullet-
sweating crowd was Clap Your
practically creaming Hands Say
its too-tight Levi's Yeah
over Clap Your Hands Friday
Say Yeah. One of the At the Blind Pig
biggest buzz bands of
the past year - laud-
ed by the nation's Pitchforks and Rolling
Stones alike - CYHSY also boasts pain-
fully nasal frontman Alec Ounsworth. Yet
those not impressed by his vocal talents
should have noted the faithful fans sing-
ing along to much of the band's set. Teen-
age scenesters as well as the post-grad sect
bopped and jumped, clapping their hands
to Ounsworth - with his rhinal vocals,
Roman nose and all. The sold-out crowd
provided 300-part harmonies, toning
down the singer's strident warbling.
The night was a textbook example of the

Clap Your Hands Say Yeah play at the Blind Pig last Friday night.

elevating effect of an enthusiastic crowd on
an already-quality show. Extended instru-
mental breaks led to audience improvisa-
tion - at one point, an ever-familiar bass
drum/snare pattern inspired a repeated
chorus of "Oh, Mickey, you're so fine."
Unless you came with the douchebag
mooning over the band and trying to
crowdsurf through the disgruntled mass
- or you were the douchebag himself
- the Blind Pig was quite the dance

Students,
Fly Cheaper
spring break, study abroad & more
Sample roundtrip Student Airfares from Detroit to:

party with CYHSY, supported by opener
The Brunettes, a pleasant Kiwi surprise
from the other side of the world. Though
it's damned near impossible to look sexy
playing clarinet, The Brunettes' female
lead and the rest of the group were a flirty,
energetic precursor to CYHSY.
As for the headliners themselves,
CYHSY opened with one of their bet-
ter-knowns, "Let the Cool Goddess Rust
Away," keeping the audience's attention
while easily moving through their cata-
logue. The almost-delicate, countryside
jaunt of "Blue Turning Gray" turned into a
barnstorming dancer as it segued into "Is
This Love?" with the latter's shimmering
runs of synth and keys.
Somewhere around the fourth or fifth
song, one might have noticed that the Pig
was decidedly steamy that night. And not
in a sexy way. Ounsworth's pajama top
boasted an impressive swathe of back
sweat by the end of the band's set, though
he refused to take off his knit ski cap,
keeping with the band's carefully molded
hobo-chic image.
Besides crowd favorites like "The Skin
of My Yellow Country Teeth," CYHSY
played a number of new songs. One
strangely ensnaring track - "Satan Said
Dance" - found the band members as
well as the crowd chanting "Satan! Satan!"
with an almost alarming fervor. Cute.

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