The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
Friday, October 20, 2017 — 5A
Arts

ALFAMA

‘Barrage’ premiered at Chicago Film Festival this week

COMMUNITY CULTURE REVIEW
Douglas Trevor christens 
latest ‘Wonders’ at Literati

“The music of a short story 

… is made up of cymbals and 
screams and the metal of a 
DC-10, twisting and crashing 
into the cold, dead earth. No 
survivors, friends. No one makes 
it out alive.”

No one at Literati on Tuesday 

night took Douglas Trevor’s 
death 
omen 
seriously. 
Or 

maybe they did. Either way, the 
bookstore’s second-floor was 
packed with readers (filling 
every seat and every place to 
stand) excited for the release 
of “The Book of Wonders,” 
the newest collection of short 
stories by Trevor, a professor of 
English and Creative Writing. 

The smells and sips of coffee 

brewing at the cafe (tempting 
for a coffee lover despite the 
dangers of drinking caffeine 
at 7 p.m.) delighted noses and 
tongues 
of 
attendees; 
ears 

and eyes were treated with a 
vibrant reading of the first half 
of Trevor’s story “The Novelist 
and the Short Story Teller.”

It follows Thom, a short-

story writer of experimental 
fiction for obscure journals, and 
Ellen, a novelist of a work titled 
“Hand Job,” who both attend 
the “Upstart Conference in the 
Hills” for writers. While Ellen 
presents herself to the crowd 
with endearing words and a 
wave, it is the ominous Thom 
who claims that short stories are 
death music with “no survivors.”

“The 
book’s 
really 
about 

exploring the ways that people 
at different junctures in their 
lives try to get through difficult 
times and … the ridiculous, 
and in some ways, the not-so-
ridiculous ways that we try 
to connect with other people 
and reinvent ourselves,” said 

Trevor in an interview with The 
Michigan Daily. At the same 
time, the stories that comprise 
“The Book of Wonders” include 
moments of goofiness that are 
intended to amuse readers.

In this way, Trevor’s reading 

at Literati proved to be the 
proper way to inaugurate his 
new work. The humor in his 
reading was well-received with 
laughter from the audience, as 
would be expected in response 

to Trevor reciting in a deep 
voice and with a low stare, “‘I 
love the circle jerk in Hand 
Job.’” 
And 
to 
release 
this 

collection — one that endeavors 
to show how human connection 
manifests itself, even in the 
most obscure of circumstances 
— in a communal setting where 
his 
potential 
readers 
could 

react and connect to the story 
together seemed perfectly in 
line with the book’s intentions. 
Together, the audience could see 
Thom’s attempt at conversation 
with Ellen about hand jobs as 
more than a humorous detail: It 
is an attempt to connect.

“Short stories are constituted 

as much by what isn’t in them 

as opposed to what is,” Trevor 
said. That being the case, the 
excitement and the challenge 
of writing a short story is “that 
you give your reader a glimpse 
... into the given circumstances 
surrounding a given person, and 
the reader can connect with that 
person even if they only know 
that person over the course of a 
few pages.”

Trevor is practiced in the 

literary 
challenge 
of 
short 

stories. He is a celebrated 
author who has won awards 
for his previous collection of 
short stories, “The Thin Tear 
in the Fabric of Space,” and 
for his novel, “Girls I Know.” 
Additionally, he has published 
stories 
in 
multiple 
literary 

journals. Trevor is also the 
Director of the Helen Zell 
Writers program, whose mission, 
as stated on the program’s 
website, — “to embody and value 
those practices that speak to 
the importance of empathy and 
compassion” — Trevor applies in 
his own writing.

“Literary endeavor is one of 

the most important means by 
which we try to foster empathy 
in other people and remind 
people of the importance of 
different perspectives,” Trevor 
said. All of the eyebrow-raising 
and laugh-inducing stories in 
“The Book of Wonders” — one in 
which an isolated librarian seeks 
to satisfy his intense longing to 
feel the sensation of butterfly 
wings by touching a young girl’s 
eyelids, and another in which a 
lonely CPA invites a mysterious 
animal control man to live in her 
bed for days — are applications 
of literature as a tool to show 
how people connect.

“The Book of Wonders” is now 

available in stores and available 
for anyone who wishes to read 
and connect to these accounts of 
various wondrous happenings.

University professor read from his new collection this past Tuesday

ALEX SUPPAN
Daily Arts Writer

Opening the Chamber of 
Secrets in our own stalls

Almost exactly one year ago, I 

spent a Saturday visiting all the 
girls’ bathrooms on campus to 
document the graffiti in them. 
I was writing an essay for a 
journalism / memoir writing 
class, and had been thinking 
about women’s spaces on campus 
after spending the summer doing 
research on the history of women 
at U-M. I had also been mulling 
over how the girl’s bathroom 
feels like an unusually influential 
place in girl’s lives — at least, it 
has been in my and all my friends’ 
lives. It has been both a place of 
exclusion and inclusion, of mental 
breakdowns and fun wild nights, a 
strange kind of solidarity.

A lot of what I saw scribbled on 

stall walls was sweet: Messages 
of hope, funny anecdotes, quotes, 
even several political dialogues 
— one stall was literally covered 
in 
discussions 
of 
privilege, 

appropriation and the current 
political 
climate 
on 
campus. 

Somehow, the inspirational quotes 
scrawled in Sharpie on the inside 
doors of these bathroom stalls 
felt more intimate, despite their 
technically public nature, than, 
say, chalked inspiration on the 
Diag. By the end of the afternoon, I 
was excited; I felt like I understood 
the graffiti lexicon of the ladies’ 
room, and could definitely write 
an essay about it.

On my way out of Angell 

Hall, I decided to check one 
final bathroom. In the last stall I 
looked into, under the toilet paper 
dispenser — so you could only 
see it if you were sitting down or 
bending over deliberately to look 
— I saw something etched into the 
wall, and underlined:

“Campus rapists.”
Underneath it, there was a 

single name, almost too faint to 
read. This bathroom looked like it 
hadn’t been painted in years; there 
was no way of knowing how long 
ago someone had decided to pull 

out her keys and warn other girls 
in what might have been the only 
way she felt like she could.

I went home and took a long 

shower after that.

I’ve been thinking a lot about 

that etched name recently, as 
Harvey Weinstein’s name joins 
those of the past few years: Bill 
Cosby. 
Casey 
Affleck. 
Roger 

Ailes… the list, as we all know 
and choose to forget, goes on, 
and on and on. I’ve been trying 
to think about something new 
to say about rich and powerful 
men getting away with sexual 

assault in this industry. But there 
isn’t anything new to say. It’s all 
already been said, and reworded, 
and retweeted, and turned into a 
hashtag and a think piece, and said 
again.

As per usual, people have 

combed through the media of 
the last decade looking for hints, 
suggestions, clues to prove that 
Weinstein’s 
behavior 
wasn’t 

unknown. In one video going viral, 
an interviewer asks Courtney 
Love for advice she would give to 
a young girl moving to Hollywood. 
There’s a flash of recognition in 
Love’s eyes; looking away from the 
camera, she says, “I’ll get libeled if 
I say it,” almost to herself. Then, 
making a decision, she leans into 
the camera and wryly remarks, “If 
Harvey Weinstein invites you to a 
private party in the Four Seasons, 
don’t go.” That was from 2005.

I could write about what a 

retrospective combing through 
clues by the media looks like 
to survivors of assault who are 
used to not being believed — 
even those whose stories have 
been 
corroborated 
time 
and 

again. I could write about all 
of the different hashtag trends 
that have been borne of this 
story — #womenboycottTwitter, 
#WOCaffirmation, and #metoo 
— 
and 
all 
of 
the 
inherent 

contradictions or problems with 
them. I could write about how 
exhausting it is to keep hearing 
simplistic debates over separating 
the art from the artist (although 
calling Weinstein an artist would 
be a bit of a stretch — and besides, 
I’ve already done that).

As much as all of those thoughts 

are swirling around in my head — 
as I sit scrolling through Facebook, 
watching as #metoo appears on 
the profiles of well over half of my 
women friends from high school 
or college — I keep thinking about 
how Courtney Love struggled 
in front of a camera between 
that simultaneously public and 
private 
warning, 
ultimately 

choosing to risk it. About how we 
are constantly having to wrestle 
with ourselves in situations like 
this, negotiating between private 
whispered warnings and public 
shouts. Because the stuff in the 
middle — the obligatory self-aware 
Billy Cosby jokes at award shows, 
the semi-ironically given statistics 
on late night TV, the hashtags 
that get us banned from Twitter 
— none of it ever seems to make a 
difference. And more often than 
not, in this struggle to choose to go 
big or go home, going big doesn’t 
make much of a difference either.

I can’t help but keep thinking 

about that faintly etched name on 
that bathroom wall. That chamber 
of secrets, if you will.

A couple weeks ago, I checked 

that stall again, to see if it was still 
there. It had been painted over.

My third day at the Chicago 

International Film Festival began 
with “Barrage,” a film from 
Luxembourg and the country’s 
submission for the Oscar for Best 
Foreign Language Film. Written 
and directed by Laura Schroeder 
in her feature length debut, 
“Barrage” tells a rather common 
story 
with 
flair. 
Schroeder’s 

film revolves around the trio of 
women — a mother, a daughter 
and 
the 
daughter’s 
daughter. 

The matriarch, Elisabeth (the 
legendary 
Isabelle 
Huppert, 

“Things to Come”), has raised 
her 
granddaughter 
(Themis 

Pauwels, “Suite Française”) since 
her daughter, Catherine (Lolita 
Chammah, 
“Anton 
Tchékhov 

1890,” 
and 
Huppert’s 
own 

daughter), skipped town. When 
the estranged Catherine returns, 
what was something of a cohesive 
relationship between grandmother 
and granddaughter disintegrates. 
Catherine all but abducts Alba, 
taking her to her own apartment 
and to a countryside home that 
stayed in the family.

The idea of a mother returning 

to plead for a new role in her child’s 
life isn’t terribly new — last year’s 
“Krisha,” for instance, was a 
fantastic horror riff on the concept, 
and Meryl Streep’s Oscar-winning 
turn in “Kramer vs. Kramer” 
helped establish her career — but 
Schroeder’s screenplay draws its 

characters rather vividly. This 
is no doubt due to the very real 
mother-daughter 
relationship 

between Chammah and Huppert. 
It’s awfully hard to hold one’s own 
against Huppert, but if there’s 
anyone who could attempt it, 
it’s her own daughter. Pauwels 
delivers a great performance as 
well: even at her young age, the 
film treats her with respect as an 
equal participant in the weekend’s 
events, not as a pawn in a fight 
between mother and daughter. 
The film’s boxy aspect ratio 
splendidly frames the lush green 
forestry, set against a dreary, gray 
sky, that drapes much of the film 
when Catherine and Alba retreat 
to the countryside home. At two 
hours, though, it can feel rather 
over-extended, and the needle 

drops that dot the film’s runtime 
don’t land quite as powerfully as 
they should.

Schroeder was present after the 

screening for a Q&A. I asked her 
what role, if any, improvisation 
played in the making of the film. 
“I didn’t have much time for 
[improvisation] because you have 
your crew and you have your 
schedule, too,” she said. “It’s very 
much prepared.” But even within 
these confines, she acknowledges 
that often the film demands 
some on-the-spot changes, when 
her actresses propose a new 
interpretation or, specifically in the 
film’s case, if the weather doesn’t 
cooperate. “I like it, the way it 
comes out in the film now, you 
know, but the weather conditions 
weren’t at all as I intended them to 
be.” 

—

“God’s Own Country,” a love 

story between a British farmer’s 
son and his father’s Romanian 
hired hand, tells a familiar story 
in a new context. It’s “Brokeback 
Mountain” by way of British social 
realism, in a wonderful feature 
debut by Francis Lee. Johnny, the 
restless Brit, feels trapped at home 
on the family farm; he goes into 
town and heavily drinks each night, 
violently expunging his body of 
the alcohol-spiked shame in ritual 
cacophony in the early hours of the 
morning. Along comes Gheorghie, 
bearded and quiet and often in a 
knit sweater, who takes up some 
of the farm work after Johnny’s 
father (Ian Hart, “Harry Potter 
and the Sorcerer’s Stone”) remains 
incapacitated 
after 
a 
stroke. 

At first antagonistic — Johnny 
calls Gheorghie a gypsy — their 
relationship develops over a stretch 
of days spent alone in cabin set up 
for birthing goats (or lambs, I’m no 
expert). They become intimate and 
the moments they share together 
brim with energy.

Where “Brokeback Mountain” 

and Lee’s film diverge, aside from 
the British countryside, is how the 
protagonists’ sexuality is treated 
by the film’s world. Simply put, 
no one cares; no one is mocked or 
denigrated for being gay. And it’s so, 
so refreshing. Johnny has sex with 

other men and it feels unremarkable 
and, more importantly, normalized. 
When Gheorghie comes along, their 
intimacy is stylized and filmed 
with an artistic flourish, not with 
removed 
voyeurism, 
but 
with 

aroused participation. It’s sensual, 
and it’s about time.

At just short of two hours, “God’s 

Own Country” can drag a bit, 
especially since its style, like other 
young British directors, is very 
bare in its felicity to realism (as an 
example, see Andrew Haigh’s 2011 

queer romantic drama “Weekend” 
or 
William 
Oldroyd’s 
“Lady 

Macbeth” from this summer). The 
film also includes, but does not 
address in any meaningful way, 
some degree of ethnic animosity 
from Johnny to Gheorghie when 
they first meet, which pretty 
quickly dissolves as their romance 
develops. But on balance, “God’s 
Own Country” is a splendid 
romantic tale that one can only 
hope serves as a harbinger for queer 
love stories to come.

—

“Princess Cyd,” the latest film 

from Chicago-based filmmaker 
Stephen Cone (“Henry Gamble’s 
Birthday Party”), is, according to 
the writer and director, his “love 
letter” to the city. Unsurprisingly, 
then, it played well before the 
Chicago crowd (which included 
many crew members and the first 
gathering of the four main actors). 
Cyd (Jessie Pinnick, “Shameless”), 
a high school student, comes to 
Chicago in the summer to look at 
colleges. She stays at the childhood 
house 
of 
her 
mother, 
where 

Miranda Ruth (Rebecca Spence, 
“Easy”), Cyd’s aunt and a relatively 
successful novelist, lives. Cyd, like 
many teenagers, is interested in 
sex and love. Miranda, a bookish 
academic, is interested in other 
pleasures. The two have a strange 
relationship, not having seen each 
other for several years.

It’s 
delightful. 
The 
weaves 

that unspool over the film’s brisk 
96 minutes aren’t particularly 
unpredictable — Cyd starts to 
appreciate 
her 
aunt’s 
writing 

(and values), and Miranda starts 
to think of herself more sexually 
— but the on-screen between the 
pair feels so real because of how 
unique the relationship between 
aunt and niece is. They’re both 
caught off-guard by how little 
they know about each other. When 
Cyd confesses, or rather asks 
discreetly about, her attraction for 
another girl, Miranda’s response 
is inquisitive and friendly, like a 
supportive parent, but she also 
deftly maintains her ground in the 
liminal space between close peer 
and loving guardian. Many will be 
quick to praise Pinnick, which is 
fair, as Cyd is delightful, but the real 
star-making performance here is 
Spence, who has such a mastery of 
using the camera to her advantage. 
Cone’s cast is suffused with 
excellent Chicago theater actors, 
but Spence is the best of the bunch.

Unlike 
Cone’s 
other 
films, 

“Princess Cyd” doesn’t wade too 
deeply in the waters of dissecting 
white Christian culture; religion 
is discussed a bit, but it isn’t one of 
the film’s central currents. But even 
without his usual subject, Cone’s 
film is deeply humanist. He adores 
his characters and it’s contagious.

GENDER & MEDIA COLUMN

Exploring the writing on the inside and what’s done on the outside

At Chicago International 
Film Festival, Day 3: ‘Cyd,’ 
‘Barrage,’ and ‘God’s Own’

DANIEL HENSEL

Daily Film Editor

“God’s Own 

Country”

Picturehouse 
Entertainment

October 25, 

2017

“Princess Cyd”

Wolfe Releasing

November 3, 

2017

“Barrage”

Alfama Films

October 13, 

2017

SOPHIA 

KAUFMAN

It endeavors to 

show how human 

connection 

manifests itself, 

even in the 

most obscure of 
circumstances

FILM FESTIVAL COVERAGE

