JAMIE
BIRCOLL
T
here’s a very quick, subtle
contrast in “Mad Max:
Fury Road.” Throughout
the film, we witness the brain-
washed, blindly devoted War
Boys hurl
themselves at
danger with
the expecta-
tion of dying
a warrior’s
death. Just
before their
demise,
they all call
out to their
comrades,
“Witness
me!” and then give themselves
to Valhalla, as they believe. But
just before protagonist Imperator
Furiosa kills the megalomaniacal
despot Immortan Joe, she locks
eyes with him and growls not
“witness me,” but “remember me.”
Each time I’ve seen the film,
this line has stuck out to me —
remember me. On the one hand
it’s an unusual phrase to utter to
someone who is seconds away
from death and will thereafter
remember nothing. But on the
other, it’s a very poignant declara-
tion of defiance, power and legacy.
Something witnessed is fleeting,
offering only a few moments of
experience or emotion before van-
ishing. Something remembered
carries weight; to be remembered
is not to disappear.
Remembrance has been at the
back of my mind, because at the
end of this column I will, in all
likelihood, never write about film
again. It’s so strange to think that
some 60-odd articles linked on
a webpage will serve as the only
markers of all of my effort, my
time, my debates, my research,
all of my studying devoted to the
medium of film and all of its intri-
cacies. Some of those articles I like
a great deal; in others, I squirm
at my obvious shortcomings as a
writer and critic. But they are my
legacy as a film critic. Even more,
they are proof that I was a film
critic.
At the end of this page, I can
no longer call myself a film critic,
or even a writer. And despite my
frequent bouts with writer’s block
as of late, I cannot help but be
saddened by that realization, for I
know there’s more that I can say:
I never got to tell you how
“Lost in Translation” so master-
fully captures emotion through
a combination of image and
soundtrack, how the guitar fuzz
of My Bloody Valentine’s “Some-
times” mirrors the dreamy haze
of a late-night drive through
Tokyo. Nor was I able to write
about Jeff Nichols’s incred-
ible film “Take Shelter,” how
it thoughtfully and beautifully
meditates on mental illness, sac-
rifice and family while also serv-
ing as a modern parable of the
middle class American family liv-
ing in the wake of the economic
crisis of 2008. I never got my
geek on and went in-depth into
my love of “Star Wars” and how I
live by the words of Yoda: “Only
what you take with you.”
I didn’t have time to find the
release I’ve long sought by writ-
ing about my trips to the movie
theater with my dad as he battled
cancer in 2010. I couldn’t share
how movies gave me heroes like
Clint Eastwood and Harrison
Ford to look up to, and how I
grew stronger through them and
the spirit they embody on-screen.
Many of those articles are
saved on my computer, critical
skeletons dancing in the limbo of
Microsoft Office. I never found
the right words to complete those
thoughts, and I probably never
will. So I can only hope that my
body of work was enough.
I like to think it was. I like to
think that my readership includ-
ed more than my parents, their
Facebook friends, the Arts writ-
ers at The Michigan Daily and a
couple crass, easily irritable Stone
Temple Pilots fans. But in the
end, writing was an activity for
me and no one else. It was a pro-
cess to sort out my thoughts, to
challenge myself with new ways
of thinking about film, creativ-
ity, interpretation and criticism
itself. That it must end is, simply,
bittersweet.
As a result, I’ve thought a lot
about endings lately. How some
films have the perfect endings —
“The Usual Suspects,” “Field of
Dreams,” “Apocalypse Now,” to
name a few — and how others
simply don’t know when to end. I
think of the ending to “Lincoln,”
which effectively strips the film
of the subtlety imbued in its logi-
cal ending shot, a weary Lincoln
leaving the White House to meet
his wife at the Ford Theater, to
give us a “proper” Hollywood
biopic ending that martyrs the
man. An ending like that isn’t
actually an ending: it’s a gift-
wrapped manufacture that tries
to spell everything out for the
audience.
In a way I understand it,
this desire for a well-packaged,
digestible ending for audience
and director alike. It’s hard to
limit oneself, to willingly deprive
oneself of making that one final
point, the one that can tie it all
together and make it pretty. It’s
hard to know that to add more
risks detracting from the work as
a whole. It’s hard to simply walk
away.
But the proper ending can
really be the difference between
jumping out of your seat to beat
the rush of exiting moviegoers
and needing to wait for the lights
to come back on because you’re
just too moved to rise. It can be
the difference between good and
great — between witnessing and
remembering.
Which is why I leave it here:
no grand overarching statements,
no sentimental declarations, just
an ending. I simply hope someone
found my words worthwhile.
Witness me. Remember me. It’s
up to you.
Bircoll will be missed very
much. If you miss him already,
email him at jbircoll@umich.edu
Witness me,
remember me
M83 turns back
clock with ‘Junk’
Techno-indie group
channels ’80’s
television romance
By SAM ROSENBERG
Daily Arts Writer
As both a musician and
visual artist, M83 frontman
Anthony Gonzalez makes his
music sound as
though it could
be a movie or
TV soundtrack.
On
2011’s
acclaimed
double-album
Hurry Up, We’re
Dreaming,
Gonzalez
demonstrated
his
love
of
Terrence Malik and Werner
Herzog films by employing epic,
stadium-ready jams to create the
sensation of child-like wonder
and innocence. His band’s latest
record, Junk, draws inspiration
from 1980s sitcoms, particularly
“Punky Brewster” and “Who’s
the Boss”. And judging from
Junk’s wacky album cover,
Gonzalez shows that he isn’t
afraid to move M83 into new
directions.
Though slightly uneven in
its execution, Junk is M83’s
weirdest, most ambitious and
most experimental work to
date. Similar to how Daft Punk
revitalized ’70s culture on their
Grammy-winning
comeback
record
Random
Access
Memories, Gonzalez cherishes
the soul and spirit of the ‘80s
on Junk, transforming old-
fashioned rhythms into modern
pop songs. While appreciating
a simpler time on American
television, Junk also focuses on
darker themes of existentialism
and mortality. As Gonzalez
stated in a press release, the
album is about how everything
we create will become “space
junk,”
a
concept
Gonzalez
describes as both scary and
fascinating. Junk certainly has
a mystical, philosophical quality
to it, which only adds onto the
album’s daring scope.
Sonically, Junk doesn’t stray
very much from M83’s grandiose
electronic sound. There are
still flourishes of saxophone
solos,
dizzying
synthesizers
and electric guitar breakdowns,
but M83 goes a step further by
utilizing New Wave and dance-
pop influences. Though there
may not be a song on Junk as
massive
as
M83’s
excellent
“Midnight
City,”
there
are
several that come close. On the
shimmering opener “Do It, Try
It,” Gonzalez longs for love and
connection over a glittery, video-
game beat reminiscent of the
1982 sci-fi flick “Tron.” “Go!,”
the catchiest track off Junk, is
bolstered by Mai Lan’s breathy
voice and renowned musician
Steve Vai’s monumental guitar
solo.
The
album’s
longest
song, “Solitude,” is a chilling
meditation on the past backed
by an orchestral instrumental.
Beck provides a much needed
assistance on the spacey “Time
Wind,” a whirlwind of electric
rock in the vein of Tears for
Fears. The post-disco jingles
“Walkway Blues” and “Bibi the
Dog” each showcase Gonzalez’s
range, the former throbbing
with an atmospheric intensity
and the latter operating as a
fun, loose groove.
Junk succeeds in capturing
the
ethos
of
‘80s
music,
television and film, but it also
delves into the sentimental
and corny aspects of the three
mediums with mixed results.
The funky, string-heavy “Moon
Crystal,” for example, is both
captivating and confounding,
especially
since
it
sounds
exactly like a mix between
elevator muzak and a generic
’80s sitcom theme song. “For
the Kids” is a dreary, mawkish
slow jam that is fortunately
enhanced
by
the
beautiful
vocals
of
Norwegian
guest
Susanne
Sundfør.
Similarly,
“Atlantique Sud” suffers from
an
element
of
unflattering
schmaltz, but Gonzalez and
Lan’s
mesmerizing
French
duet saves it from becoming
too cloying. The two-minute
interlude “Tension” also starts
out with a syrupy guitar reverb,
until
Gonzalez
lays
down
some tantalizing synths and
transforms it into something
awe-inspiring.
Even with its overly romantic
tendencies towards the past,
Junk
remains
a
grounded
portrait of the importance and
magic of art and its ability to
last throughout generations.
It’s definitely not M83’s most
accomplished
record,
as
it
meanders between profound
and sappy. But despite Junk’s
imperfections,
Gonzalez’s
extraordinary
vision
shines
through in the end.
B+
Junk
M83
Mute
MUSIC REVIEW
Junk remains
a grounded
portrait.
‘Demolition’ portrays
midlife crisis in film
By DANIEL HENSEL
Daily Arts Writer
“Everything is a metaphor.”
A cut, a beat, then he repeats,
whispering
to
himself
—
“metaphor.”
This
was
not
the
first
time
during
the course of
“Demolition”
that
I
rolled
my eyes, and
it
certainly
wasn’t the last,
but it was perhaps the most
emblematic. The latest from
Canadian director Jean-Marc
Vallée
(“Wild”
and
“Dallas
Buyers Club”), “Demolition” is
a midlife crisis comedy-drama
burdened by its overly clear
metaphorical premise.
In
“Demolition,”
Davis
Mitchell
(Jake
Gyllenhaal,
“Nightcrawler”)
is
an
investment banker whose wife,
Julia (Heather Lind, “Mistress
America”) is tragically killed
in
a
car
accident.
While
Julia’s parents are devastated,
particularly
her
father
Phil
(Chris Cooper, “Adaptation.”),
Davis seems to be all right,
returning to work very soon
after. But as Phil recovers
from his grief, Davis seems
to descend into it. He writes
a letter to a vending machine
company
complaining
about
a stuck bag of M&M’s, which
quickly devolves into a series of
rambling confessionals about
his former life with Julia. The
customer service representative,
Karen Moreno (Naomi Watts,
“Birdman”), is a single mom who
smokes pot. Concerned about his
letters, she begins to develop a
non-romantic relationship with
Davis as she drifts away from
her boss, whom she is dating.
The
key
relationship
in
the film, though, is between
Davis and Karen’s son, Chris
(Judah Lewis, “Point Break”), a
rebellious tween who smokes,
yet
chides
his
mother
for
the same. Chris is stumbling
through adolescence and finding
his identity — Davis, whom
Chris initially despises, comes
to be his trusted confidant and
counsel. Together, they become
a team of demolishers. Davis
finds that the only way to fix
his life is to break everything
in it (except, of course, his car
and bedroom, because those
are the important possessions
for Davis. Can you read my
sarcasm?), which can either
happen by high-powered tools
or by careful deconstruction,
separating an object into all
of its parts. Davis finds joy in
the wreckage and pain. The
audience will not.
The screenplay by Bryan Sipe
(“The Choice”) is awkward and
clunky. In fact, it is like this
paragraph — there are sentences
with words in them that fit, but
— there are no more positive
attributes. More often than
not, the sentences do not work
together. Sipe uses the letters
as narration instead of using
dialogue. This is a cop-out. The
film is billed as a comedy-drama
but it is not funny. It is not very
dramatic either. The events in
the film are melodramatic, but
there is no emotion.
Vallée, in his prior two films,
both of which were major
Oscar contenders, established
a
visual
storytelling
style.
They
were
subjective,
in
which visions blended into the
screen, memories intruded on
scenes, and a story was told
by the sum of its parts. For
“Wild,” a film especially tied
to memory, this proved to be an
adept technique, albeit with a
side effect of confusion. Here,
though, Vallée loses his grip.
The impressionist blend, for
which Terrence Malick must be
an influence, fails to unite all
the moving parts of a needlessly
complex story. While the film
never drags (in fact, I was
surprised by little I was bored
by it), some transitions and
images feel jarring rather than
meaningful.
But whatever can be said
about Vallée’s visual style, he
is certainly an actor’s director.
In fact, “Dallas Buyers Club”
netted
two
acting
Oscars
and “Wild” earned two more
nominations.
Thankfully,
Vallée saved this film from
misery by assembling a terrific
cast, especially Cooper, one
of the finest actors living.
Watts and Gyllenhaal aren’t
doing their best work here;
their characters’ emotions are
infinitely complex and they
come close, but they never quite
reach the finish line.
The film is simply never
compelling. Rather than focus
on Davis’s inner turmoil, it
turns to his recovery. But light
is only valuable insofar as it
prevents
darkness;
without
understanding what Davis is
feeling, we can never know
why his acts of destruction,
and his compassion for Chris,
matter. Plus, because Davis’s
life is so seeped in privilege,
it’s impossible for us common
folk to find solace in his
decisions. Who among us can
cope with loss by destroying
all of our possessions and then,
presumably,
rebuying
them?
Vallée, it seems, wanted to
make a film that can fit into
midlife crisis film craze of the
mid-1990s
(think
“American
Beauty” or “Office Space”) but
his twenty-first century update
just doesn’t do anything new. Or
interesting.
C-
Demolition
Fox Searchlight
Michigan Theater
FILM REVIEW
WARNER BROS.
Get a load of this guy!
FILM COLUMN
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
Arts
Wednesday, April 13, 2016 — 5A