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