I

t’s simplistic to boil any
TV series down to a one-
word theme, but “Orange

is the New Black” has always
had its mind on one concept
in particular: empathy. When
the
series
first

premiered, its first
season
gradually

showed
us
that

Piper
Chapman’s

view of Litchfield
Penitentiary
was skewed; our
initial perceptions
of
supporting

characters
came

from how Piper
viewed
them.

Suzanne, Taystee, Red — these
are all characters who originally
came across as one-dimensional
threats, but as their backstories
unfolded through flashbacks, we
came to realize that they were
more complex people than we
imagined.

If the first three seasons were

about humanizing the people we
tend to think of reductively, the
fourth season tested the limits of
that philosophy. Does watching
Healy struggle with his mother’s
mental illness really excuse the
multiple heinous acts he has
committed over the course of the
series? Does watching the young
prison guard Bayley hanging out
with his high school pals prove
to us that he’s blameless in the
murder of Poussey? What about
the new correctional officers,
whose traumatic experiences in
the Army lead them to ruthlessly
dehumanize and violate the
prisoners?

Emily Nussbaum wrote about

this phenomenon, about how the
fourth season’s “smartest move
was to interrogate empathy
rather than treating it as a cure-
all.” She notes that “Empathy
can be a bully’s demand: Feel
my pain,” that the value of
this challenging season of TV
lies in its refusal to pretend
every conflict can be solved
with compassion and open-
mindedness.

The last season of “Orange is

the New Black” aired in June,
shortly
after
now-President-

elect Donald Trump became
the presumptive nominee of
the Republican Party. It was far
enough along that Trump was
an obvious threat, but it already
seems like so long ago. It was
before many of the controversies
we think of now — a few
weeks before Trump praised
Saddam Hussein’s ability to kill
terrorists, four months before
The Washington Post released
the “Access Hollywood” tape,
four months before the series of
sexual misconduct allegations

came out. And the season was
written and filmed, of course,
much earlier. Filming began on
June 15, 2015, one day before
Trump formally launched his
campaign.

In the month

since the election,
Americans
—

particularly liberal
Americans
like

me, people who
sometimes
can’t

help but see Trump
supporters as an
undifferentiated
mass
of
racists,

homophobes
and

misogynists
—

have had to consider the limits
of empathy. The first day after
the election, my friends seemed
split; should we unapologetically
block our friends and family
on social media if they spewed
hateful rhetoric, or should we
engage with them?

I could, and can, see both

sides. Maybe the only way to
enact real change is by listening
and trying to understand each
other.
It’s
difficult,
though,

when we’re willing to have a
conversation but the other side
isn’t; is it only then acceptable to
reject their presence altogether
and wipe them from our Twitter
feeds? Besides, it’s really hard
to force yourself to confront
someone sometimes. What if I
don’t feel like getting in a long
conversation with some random
jackass I haven’t talked to since
middle school, especially when
I know he probably won’t budge
in his unconditional devotion to
a man I unequivocally despise?

In the last month, we’ve had

to question how we think about
empathy. There are countless
articles refusing to grant Trump
supporters respect for their
beliefs; one article by Vox’s
German Lopez asks the question
“Should
(racial
resentment)

be disqualifying for outreach
efforts?” Another, from MTV’s
Jamil Smith, notes that “We
shouldn’t make empathy such
an overriding priority in politics
… I just don’t feel for a white
Christian family man who may
be down on his luck if he’s voting
for white supremacy. That vote
is an explicit message that he
couldn’t give a damn about me.”

Jenji Kohan and her writers’

room can’t have known just how
relevant their exploration of
empathy would become in the
year and a half since production
began. But maybe they were
already thinking about similar
rhetoric
that
has
played

out in the recent past when
people demanded empathy for
perpetrators of violence. Maybe

they
consciously
amended

their “empathy for everyone”
creed to include stipulations for
unrelenting sadists and virulent
racists. Regardless, the show
will need to continue to grapple
with these issues in the coming
years — it’s renewed at least
through a seventh season. The
growing reticence to extend
empathy might require Kohan
to alter a significant part of her
show’s DNA, to push its message
even farther from its founding
philosophies.

In a society that’s increasingly

normalizing prejudice, liberals
will challenge every act of
empathy
directed
toward
a

malevolent voice. The “Orange”
writers’ choice to portray Bayley
as a generally unprejudiced,
innocent kid was immediately
met with controversy, partly
because in reality, many of
the acts of police brutality
and general violence against
Black people (those of Darren
Wilson, Daniel Pantaleo, George
Zimmerman, etc.) have clear
racial
connotations.
I
don’t

personally
agree
with
that

criticism — the show doesn’t
pretend its empathy is necessarily
justifiable, and that’s the point
— but the mere suggestion of
compassion for a perpetrator can
be unthinkable when the issue is
so emotionally charged.

But
this
doesn’t
end
at

“Orange is the New Black.” All
art will have to consider these
problems. Is it still enlightening
to show how the mind of a racist
works, or is it unfair to ask us
to empathize with a despicable
person when they won’t extend
us the same kindness? Is it
productive to analyze someone’s
deeply
ingrained,
potentially

harmful biases, or should we try
to minimize the threat they pose
by agreeing to discount their
opinions altogether?

These are difficult questions,

and I don’t have the answers.
I generally espouse a belief in
widespread empathy; it’s one
of the reasons “Orange is the
New Black” is one of, if not my
single favorite TV show on the
air. But it’s become clear that
compassion isn’t all it takes,
and in some cases, it might even
have unexpectedly destructive
consequences. In the next year,
and in the years after that, it’ll
be crucial how we respond to
these pressures, and one thing
is clear: artists are going to be
the first people who form our
impressions. The burden is on
us, and the stakes are high.

Rosenstock is learning how

to feel. To touch him, email

bdrosen@umich.edu.

The limits of
empathy in art

How ‘Orange is the New Black’ captures post-election anxieties

TV COLUMN

BEN

ROSENSTOCK

DISNEY

When your island chief dad brings home Mountain Dew.

In keeping with its tradition

of
spotlighting
diverse

ethnicities and sectors of the
world, Disney showcases the
vibrant culture and landscape
of ancient Polynesia in its new
animated feature
film
“Moana.”

Created by Ron
Clements
and

John Musker, the
brilliant
minds

behind
classics

such as “Aladdin”
and “The Little
Mermaid,”
“Moana”
proves

once
again

that Disney is a master of
storytelling.

The
film
tells
the
story

of Moana (newcomer Auli’i
Cravalho),
the
daughter
of

an island chief, who is torn
between
her
responsibility

toward her people, her love for
her island and her longing for
the sea. Realizing her destiny,
Moana embarks on a quest to
enlist the help of the demigod
Maui
(Dwayne
Johnson,

“Ballers”) and reverse a curse
of natural decay catalyzed by
his foolish actions. Lin Manuel
Miranda, Opetaia Foa’i and
Mark Mancina deliver original
and infectious music that blends
English
and
the
Tokelauan

language in lyrics and sound.

Disney masters the art of

world building with the island
of Motinui, Moana’s home. To
carry out this ambitious project,
the team of creators conducted
diligent research on the native
flora and fauna. In the film, the
island is abundant with native
plants and animals meshed
seamlessly into the landscape,
with vibrant colors and a diverse
and rich ocean life. When
watching the film, it’s difficult

to catch and fully appreciate the
scope of minute details involved,
but the inability to spot these
details lends to the success of the
film in constructing a natural
and believable landscape. The
creators
also
payed
careful

attention to the culture of the
native people, reconstructing
traditional garb, tools, body

art and textiles.
Traditional dance
and
language

are
incorporated

heavily into the
fabric of the film,
blending
the

world of ancient
Polynesia
with

the audience and
viewing culture of
the 21st century.

In
“Moana,”
mythology

moves from a tradition of one-
dimensional oral storytelling
to
a
fully
immersive
and

interactive landscape in which
there is no separation between
the
real
and
the
fictional.

Throughout the film, Moana
interacts with icons of the
stories she grew up hearing,
and these figures both aid and
inhibit her on her quest. The
film also integrates the ghosts
of her Polynesian ancestors,
who act as visual reminders of
the importance of voyaging in
Moana’s culture. Moreover, the
film emphasizes the dynamism
of nature. The demigod Maui
claims responsibility for the
tides, sun, breeze, palm trees
and the very island they inhabit,
emphasizing his integral role
in their world. The goddess
Te Fiti, whom Moana shares a
connection with, also serves
as the physical emblem of life
itself. Through its manipulation
of mythology, Disney weaves
ancient tradition, oral history
and nature into one dynamic
and
fluid
narrative.
This

reveals an audience desire for
stories that break away from

traditional,
one-dimensional

narratives in favor of stories
that challenge the boundaries of
time and space.

In regards to nature and

innovative
storytelling,
the

film’s only shortcoming lies
in its characterization of the
sea. In the film, the ocean is a
dynamic character, imbued with
personality and agency, playing
the role of Moana’s guide and
friend. However, as the most
expansive and powerful natural
force, the ocean in the film plays
a minimal role in comparison
to its full potential. While
the ocean’s consciousness is
imaginative and interesting, it
would have been amazing to see

its full power unleashed.

“Moana”
is
a
refreshing

break from classic tropes in
the lineage of Disney princess
movies. With the absence of a
male love interest, the film is
another success in providing
feminist cinematic role models,
especially in a tradition of
passive
female
heroines.

Additionally, Moana represents
the first woman of color to star
in a Disney movie without a love
interest. The film is interestingly
self-aware, commenting on its
own tropes yet simultaneously
reversing them. In one scene,
Maui comments that “If you
wear a dress, and have an animal
sidekick, then you’re a princess.”
Yet Moana, in character and the
film itself, is unlike any of its
Disney princess predecessors.

SYDNEY COHEN

Daily Arts Writer

Newest animated Disney venture
introduces latest feminist hero

‘Moana’ spotlights Hawaiian culture through fantastical narrative

A

“Moana”

Rave & Quality 16

Walt Disney

Studios

‘Moana’ is a

refreshing break

from classic

tropes.

FILM REVIEW

6A — Monday, December 5, 2016
Arts
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com