2B — Thursday, February 25, 2016
the b-side
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
My
digital
footprint
expanded as I moved from
90-pound
“Doctor
Who”
fanatics to a 30-year-old nerd
sitting at home building a brand
off of the blind devotion of
13-year-old kids.
And I was one of those
13-year-olds. I couldn’t help it
— the community made me feel
superior. Looking back, it may
have been the first time I felt a
sense of culture and belonging.
Never before had I been a part of
such an expansive community
of shared interests. I never
commented on a video and I
never attended any gatherings,
but somehow I still felt a part of
a larger movement, and that’s
what made it special. I was a
small part of a community that
mattered.
It’s too bad though that it
took me. Young and easily
manipulated, I adapted aspects
of these clever entrepreneurs’
personalities
and
opinions,
proudly
declaring
myself
a
nerd because a 35-year-old man
told me I was “awesome.” And
maybe, just maybe, I was right to
be full of awe as I stared at these
great figures looming before
me. Gazing up at their carefully
cultivated backdrops, wardrobes
and makeup, I laughed as they
divulged dark secrets, instructed
how to make the perfect cup of
tea and reacted to a reaction of
a reaction video of a cat. I knew
them, and though they didn’t
know me, that didn’t matter — I
was still a part of a community
that cared.
I never commented on a
video and I never attended a
gathering, and that made all the
difference. Because when the
realization of this toxic culture
began to dawn on me, I was
able to escape with a shred of
dignity. As I scrolled through
comment sections of videos,
I would stop and stare at the
Arial font that scrawled either
love letters or death threats.
Disagreement
and
conflict
guaranteedly spiraled out of
control under each video as I
watched my heroes, astonished,
react to the backlash against
their carefully scripted words.
Words are words, but on the
Internet, especially YouTube,
they
become
battle
cries,
tabloid magazine headlines and
national crises in a matter of
seconds. I watched helplessly as
videos were torn apart because
a well-meaning girl stumbled
over her words for a split
second and lost half of her fans.
I watched, seething, as a loud-
mouthed boy encouraged hatred
and spats within his audience
because their fierce beliefs were
their own problem and they
should know better than to take
him seriously.
This deniability and failure to
take responsibility was rampant
in
these
videos.
From
Ben
Cook to Alex Day to even poor
Dan Howell, all I began to see
were young boys in tight pants
claiming it was the viewer’s fault
for taking their words seriously.
It was the 10-year-old girl’s fault
for thinking her hero was serious
when he said fat girls couldn’t be
superheroes.
And then came the sexual
assaults. Lack of accountability
couldn’t have been more evident
when the stories came out back
to back about how these glorified
celebrities had taken advantage
of young girls and boys who
trusted them, idolized them,
would do anything for them. How
these 20-somethings with their
inflated egos took advantage of
children because a video that got
a million views made them feel
justified in doing so.
Not all the YouTubers I
watched
and
romanticized
were criminals, but like any
community, it is defined by the
few mistakes, not the many “My
Morning Routine” tags. There
are, of course, the shining
figures that rise above the
grime and filth, but even they
still hold unfathomable power
that no young adult sitting in
their bedroom with a camera
should have.
My
education
in
the
scandalous,
nerdy
and
unprecedented was completed
by YouTube. I learned most
swear words, entered a dark
phase defined by time travel
and realized what true human
incompetence looked like. I
feel obliged to thank it for my
introduction
to
far-fetched
worlds and ideas, but nothing
more than obliged. There is a
perpetual pit in my stomach
when I think of the pedestal
on which I once placed these
average individuals.
The pedestal came crashing
down my freshman year of
high school, and I narrowly
escaped gasping for air. Now,
in retrospect, all I want back
is the 99 cents I spent on each
of these monstrosities’ music
singles. Sadly though, youthful
naivety has its cost and mine
was heavily invested in the
repeated failed attempts to get
a tone-deaf teen to number one.
My iTunes library is scarred by
their poppy, overly produced
tracks and maybe that’s why
I find myself dependent on
Spotify these days, immediately
X-ing out of iTunes when it
dares to show its face.
“YouTube’s mission is to
provide fast and easy video
access and the ability to share
videos frequently,” it says on
their homepage. And that’s
exactly what it achieves. It is
a platform for creativity and
innovation in a digital age. It is
a platform for talent and humor
to be shared and advertised.
It is a platform for abuse and
manipulation. Careers can be
made or destroyed over the
course of one YouTube video,
and a life can hang in the balance
of one YouTube comment. It is
concurrently a collaborative,
multi-platform video database
of innovation and a cesspool
for toxic behavior. It’s up to
the owners, the users and
the viewers to find a balance
between the two.
As I scroll through the pages
of my old YouTube stars, I can’t
help but wonder after the book
deals, short films and viral
video clips, what remains of
the person behind the camera.
What inspires them, drives
them to turn on that camera
every day and address the
adoring eyes of strangers that
hang on their every word? And
above all, what is life after
YouTube? Do they just cease to
exist? And did we ever find out
where the hell Matt is?
I have nothing against the use
of YouTube as a place to exhibit
one’s talent and skill, but it’s
the cult followings that arise
from the especially talented
or vivacious that unsettle me.
There’s an air of entitlement
and
anonymity
surrounding
all partakers in the YouTube
community; individuals on both
sides of the screen develop the
idea that they deserve views and
videos, while maintaining the
presence of half a person. The
people we see on screen are as
authentic as editing tools allow
them to be — a hollowed out
projection of fame. But 11-year-
old girls don’t know what editing
software or authenticity is; all
they know is the cute, sardonic
boy on screen makes them
laugh when he makes fun of
“Twilight.”
YOUTUBE
From Page 1B
By ERIKA SHEVCHEK
Daily Arts Writer
While the world awaits
the 88th Annual Oscars this
Sunday, nostalgia crept up on
me the other night as I thought
about the first time I watched
the Oscars.
It was February 29th 2004,
and I sat on the couch with my
dad. Being seven years old and
raised by a film and television
producer, I felt that a career
in the film business would be
appropriate. Before I learned
cursive or multiplication, I was
planning my profession.
That night had been
confusing for me. I hadn’t seen
any of the movies, but I was
in awe of the celebrities: their
beauty, their glamour, their
success. I watched Ben Stiller
and Owen Wilson present
their hilarious introduction
for the Short Film category
and Charlize Theron win for
Best Actress as she joyfully
cried (as a majority of the
Oscar winners do.) Despite my
fuzzy, intangible memory, I
would never forget watching
the category for Best Original
Screenplay: Sofia Coppola won
her first ever Oscar award.
I sat wide-eyed and giddy
when I witnessed this, though
it was nothing ground-
breaking. But what I saw in my
mind changed my motives and
paved the way. Looking over
at my dad I said, “Dad, I want
to be like her. I want to win for
Best Original Screenplay.” My
dad smiled and told me I could
do anything I put my mind to,
and I soon found out that he
was definitely right.
In the third grade, my class
and I made a “life” chart, in
which each student had to
write about their interests —
including what they wanted
to be when they grow up.
The other nine year olds had
similar passions ranging from
“I want to be a doctor,” or
“the president,” etc. Then I
presented mine.
“Erika, what do you want
to be when you grow up?” my
teacher asked.
I showed the class my chart
with a poorly drawn picture of
camera and a typewriter.
“A screenwriter, and
probably a director,” I
answered. Nothing but blank
stares greeted me.
Fifth grade came along, and
we were learning fractions.
While the other students took
notes that would eventually
lead them to be engineers or
mathematicians, I was writing
a 98-page screenplay about
pirates. In other words, I was
slowly but surely failing math.
Meeting with my fifth grade
math teacher, she asked me
why I was struggling with
fractions. I was embarrassed,
but I was also an innocent
fifth grader who didn’t want
to lie to my teacher. Ashamed
and trembling, I opened my
math notebook and showed her
pages filled with indentations
and words that were the
beginnings of an amateur,
handwritten screenplay. My
teacher wasn’t all that upset —
in fact, she smiled.
Since then, I have realized
I should just do what I am
good at. Clearly fractions
were an essential compound
to elementary education.
However, I was more
passionate writing about
pirates fighting each other.
I’ve learned from Sofia
Coppola that even if you are
a young neophyte, success is
achievable, yet unmeasurable.
I’ve learned that it’s OK to not
follow the norm and to say
that my dream is to win an
Oscar award. I’ve learned that
if I never watched the 2004
Oscars, I don’t think I would
have chosen to study a liberal
arts major or a career path as
a writer.
So here, I indirectly thank
the Oscars for not only
entertaining me for 13 years,
but for also introducing me
to the art of writing and film.
This week, I’m sure to dig up
my old screenplays, although
they are so far from being
finished. And just maybe,
I will make it by the 100th
anniversary of the Oscars.
Meet your 2030 Best
Screenplay winner
FILM NOTEBOOK
By MADELEINE GAUDIN
Daily Arts Writer
You would be hard pressed to
find someone with an Internet
connection that hasn’t heard that
something is up with the Oscars.
They’re white. Really, really
white. The source and extent of
the underrepresentation has been
debated in think pieces from the
New York Times to whatever “The
Odyssey Online” is.
The Oscars disproportion-
ately favor white actors. That’s
not really up for debate. But why
are the Oscars the center of this
conversation? Other award shows
(namely the SAG Awards) award
the actors of color that the Oscars
snub. People are making movies
about women and people of color,
and the American public is paying
to see them. Hollywood itself is
pretty white, but not to the same
extent as the 2016 Oscar nomi-
nees.
So, the question isn’t are the
Oscars whitewashed, the question
is do the Oscars even matter any-
more? Do award shows accurately
reflect the culture of American
moviegoers, or is the Academy
detached enough from the box
office to render itself insignifi-
cant?
There is an intense desire for
representation in movies, and
that has been made clear with
the box office successes of movies
like “Straight Outta Compton”
and “Creed.” “The Force Awak-
ens,” far and away the highest
grossing movie of the year, was
led by Daisy Ridley (a woman!)
and John Boyega (a Black actor!).
Diversity exists onscreen. Movies
can make money even when they
aren’t about white men. But what
separates these movies from their
Oscar-nominated peers is their
failure to live up to a certain old-
fashioned ideal of quality. They’re
popular; they’re entertaining;
they’re easy to watch. Therefore,
they can’t be anything more than
entertainment. They can’t be art.
Studios make a movie like “The
Force Awakens” for very different
reason than they make a movie
like “Carol.” Both are great mov-
ies. “Carol” was made, more or
less, to be placed on the podium
alongside the other Oscar-nomi-
nated movies. “Carol” was made
because it’s sad and it’s beautiful
and the Academy eats that up.
“The Force Awakens” was made to
make money, and lots of it. It was
made to entertain and engross
the public. It was made to inspire
the sales of merchandise. “The
Force Awakens” and most of the
racially diverse big studio movies
of 2015 were made because they
make money. They weren’t made
to be “prestige pieces.” They
weren’t made to be art.
Oscar nominations can be box
office pushes for low-grossing
movies. They steer movie snobs
(like myself) toward films prom-
ised to be the crème de la crème.
The Academy loves heavy period
pieces, family dramas and any-
thing with a lone male hero who
survives against all odds. Like the
American public, the Academy
likes to see itself in movies (see:
“Birdman” or “The Artist”). The
problem here is that, unlike the
American public, the Academy is
overwhelmingly white and male.
The makeup of the Academy
clearly does not represent the
American public, but perhaps
it doesn’t want to. Perhaps, the
Academy exists to represent Hol-
lywood. Demographically, the
Academy represents the makeup
of the writers, directors and pro-
ducers who make Oscar-winning
movies. White men decide movies
made by white men are the height
of cinema. If the movies nomi-
nated for Oscars have a diversity
problem, the people that made
them have an even bigger one.
So why do people still care
about the Oscars? Isn’t it enough
that studios are making more and
more movies with women and
actors of color?
The Oscars do matter. Not
because a golden statue can actu-
ally decide the “best” movie,
actor, director, etc. of the year.
Not because it matters if any one
film or performance is better
than another. The Oscars matter
because they represent movie-
making on a larger scale. They
stand as a symbol for what it
means for a movie to be great,
what it means for a movie to
transcend commercial success
and become something worth
remembering.
So go ahead and get mad at the
Oscars, but stay mad on February
29. Stay mad on June 29 when
the few diverse summer block-
busters are heralded as the end
of underrepresentation in Hol-
lywood. Stay mad on November
29th when studios roll out their
next slew of whitewashed Oscar
hopefuls.
I’ll be watching the Oscars next
Sunday. They’re going to be tense
and they’re going to be awkward,
but I’m hopeful that that ten-
sion and awkwardness will push
moviemakers in the right direc-
tion. Normally I wouldn’t argue
that award shows matter, but this
year they do. Because this year
they hold the potential to become
more than just Hollywood patting
itself on the back. This year the
Oscars have the potential to be the
springboard for real, necessary
social change.
The all-white Oscars
T
he
starving
artist:
one who sacrifices a
comfortable
lifestyle
to
invest
their
limited
resources
towards
their art.
This
could
be
anyone:
visual art-
ists, liter-
ary artists,
musicians,
actors. People who trade mate-
rial comfort for a life devoted to
their art.
This idea has got me thinking:
How many artists or potential
artists are out there who simply
don’t create? Because they can’t.
Because life with its stresses and
burdens, has deprived them of the
ability to design and shape art.
Or maybe life just deprived
them of the incentive. I think
there are plenty of people who
have the talent, but have lost the
motivation to share it.
On the flip side, how many
people are out there who can-
not fathom giving up their art?
Though by pursuing it, they may
be signing off on a life of minimal
income and minimal luxury, they
cannot give it up.
The idea of the “starving artist”
dates back to the mid-19th cen-
tury, when Henri Murger wrote
a book titled: “Scenes de La Vie
de Boheme” that discussed the
lives of a group of French artists
he lived among. Bohemians and
their artistry became famous —
people wanted to dress like them
and behave like them. In many
ways, the life of an artist is still
romanticized. But it isn’t neces-
sarily respected.
Last year in one of my semi-
nars, one of our discussions led
people to admit why they were
studying their respective major.
I remember one student bluntly
admitted he was studying busi-
ness simply because he had no
other choice. “My mom said it’s
this, or I’m coming home and
U of M is no longer in the pic-
ture.” I’m not entirely sure he has
dreams of becoming an artist,
and the life of business has led
him astray. However, I do think
there is something he loves more
than what he is setting himself
up to do for the remainder of his
life. And for that, I think this
problem is a relevant one.
The notion of the starving art-
ist highlights the divide between
a life of limitations and a life of
practicality. We are all set on this
career-oriented way of thinking
that drives us to see an appeal —
and maybe even develop an obses-
sion — toward a life with security
and purpose. As a result, we are
left with this thought: art can’t get
us there. Or at least, the chances
of “making it” are low.
For those who choose to dis-
miss these worries and follow
their art, they often face judg-
ment, which results in two very
different reactions. They either
1) reevaluate their art or 2) are
even more encouraged to pur-
sue it, after seeing others’ doubt.
Many become really fired up
when someone questions some-
thing they love. Others take it as
an indication that a life of security
awaits them elsewhere and the
best choice is to go find it.
Of course, there are artists who
make it big. They are successful.
They are admirable. They are
the musicians who sell millions
of albums, but admit their music
started in their bedroom with an
old guitar. Or the New York Times
Bestsellers, who heard “NO” from
so many publishers, until that one,
wonderful “yes.” For the artists
who aren’t sure whether or not
it’s worth going on, they look to
those who made it and they think,
“They did it and so can I.” There
it is. The life of the starving artist
can’t die out — too many have sus-
tained their hope because of these
examples.
So, do the people who show us
the ideal product of our art fuel
us? Or are we hindered by the
people who question it?
Starving artists are every-
where. But I’d say there is an
incredibly greater number of
people who have given up and
succumbed to the pressures of
society because someone con-
vinced them that a life of stability
is found elsewhere.
To you people out there who
have lost the motivation to share
your art — you should know that
there are many of us in the world
just starving to see it.
Kadian is hungry for
creativity. To feed her, email
bkadian@umich.edu.
COMMUNITY CULTURE COLUMN
The starving artist
BAILEY
KADIAN
THE WEINSTEIN COMPANY
Don’t you just hate when there’s a line at Starbucks?
FILM NOTEBOOK
I was one of
those 13-year-
olds.