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.