If you ask someone to name
the architectural centers of the
United States, they’ll probably
respond
with
Washington,
D.C., or some other signature
metropolis
like
Chicago.
Surprisingly, thanks to the
vision of a local leader, the small
Midwestern town of Columbus,
Ind., tops many lists as an
architectural icon. Scattered
throughout
Columbus
are
the Modernist works of Eero
Saarinen — designer of the
famous
Gateway
Arch
in
St. Louis, Missouri, and the
University’s School of Music
— as well as other significant
architects.
First-time
writer-director
Kogonada
features
these
buildings in his recent film,
“Columbus” — a breathtaking
arthouse drama that follows
the
intertwining
lives
of
Jin (John Cho, “Harold and
Kumar Go To White Castle”),
Casey (Haley Lu Richardson,
“The Edge of Seventeen”) and
the town of Columbus itself.
Eero Saarinen’s asymmetrical
church,
I.M.
Pei’s
Cleo
Rogers
Memorial
Library
and several design treasures
get
their
moment
in
the
spotlight.
Cinematographer
Elisha Christian (“Everything
Sucks!”)
incorporates
this
striking architecture in her
takes,
letting
monumental
features
like
Saarinen’s
192-foot spire on the North
Christian Church pop from the
background.
When Jin’s estranged father,
a
renowned
architectural
historian, falls into a sudden
coma, Jin finds himself stuck
in suburban Indiana. Korean
family values trap him in a state
of purgatory — drifting between
the hospital, his father’s inn
room and conversations with
Casey, a young girl with a wise
mind. Casey acts as Jin’s tour
guide, taking him to her favorite
architectural haunts. Against
the backdrop of “Columbus”’s
stunning
landscape,
the
two form a friendship and
attempt to answer the difficult
question: What do we owe our
parents?
Kogonada
aids
this
inquisition with the use of
mirrors
to
observe
their
interactions with the world.
Many of the buildings Casey
showcases to Jin feature glass
as the main medium, allowing
the camera to capture intimate
moments in reflections. When
Jin
reminisces
about
his
relationship with his father,
he is only shown through the
inn’s ornate mirror. Similarly,
when Casey speaks of the duty
she feels to her mother, she
appears in the car rearview
mirror. At one point, Kogonada
treats a window as a two-way
mirror, placing the audience
on the other side of the glass as
Casey silently explains why a
particular building moves her
so much.
The bond Casey feels with
her mother strongly contrasts
that of Jin and his father. Casey
finds nothing more fulfilling
than giving back to a parent
— a sacrifice Jin struggles to
reconcile with. In fact, Casey
opted out of college to remain in
Indiana and care for her mother,
a former addict. Kogonada uses
the polarity of their opinions
to further weave the concept
of mirrors into the film. The
two characters change in ways
that are reflections of one
another: As Jin resolves to stay
by his father’s bedside, Casey
finds the strength to leave her
mother’s home.
In addition, one of the final
scenes of the film itself is
a mirror of the first. Set in
Saarinen’s Miller House that
pulsates with natural light,
a sequence of events plays
out in a poignantly similar
fashion. “Columbus” opens on
Eleanor (Parker Posey, “Dazed
and
Confused”)
running
through the Miller House to
find her boss, Jin’s father. She
finds him contemplating the
manicured yard, surrounded
by an expanse of green trees.
When this excerpt repeats,
it is Casey looking for Jin,
eventually finding him in the
exact same place his father
stood. Through these reflected
scenes,
Kogonada
expresses
the complex nature of parent-
child relationships, a timeless
issue that surpasses cultural
and generational differences.
Like a cheeky hint of what
to pay attention to, a short
film by Kogonada precedes
the feature set to the words
of Sylvia Plath’s iconic poem,
“Mirror.” A series of movie
clips show women of various
ages interacting with mirrors,
displaying
the
meditative
and
captivating
power
of
architecture.
“Columbus”
carries this theme throughout
in its contemplative pacing
and cinematography, providing
insight to the answer of what
we owe our parents. Although
Kogonada
ultimately
leaves
this question unanswered, he
suggests there are revelations
to be found through examining
these two characters closely —
as if looking in a mirror.
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
Arts
Thursday, December 7, 2017 — 3B
When I walked up to the home,
I noticed a crack in the window
next the door on the right. It was
shaped like a semicircle, clear
among the seamless infinity
windows and elegant French
doors. Cox makes no mention
of how it got there, and does
not address it until a crew pulls
up and opens the door amid his
sentence. He apologizes and
walks over to attend to them as
they enter the home with their
equipment, quite nonchalant.
Cox had been talking about
furniture.
As with most of the homes
Wright designed, he included
plans for furniture, beds and
even
ceramic
dinnerware,
envisioning the home down to
the smallest details. The dining
room table had been owned by
the Palmers before, but the rest
required special construction,
and cups and plates sit out
perfectly arranged near the
dining table. The living room
was designed with the Steinway
Grand that Mary Palmer loved
in mind; her favorite tune was
apparently “Bless This House.”
But the piano has been removed,
and the living room does feel
a bit absent without it. Cox
informs me that the piano was
sold to Ben Folds, the popular
songwriter from North Carolina,
who was apparently acquainted
with Palmer.
The Palmer House was placed
on the market in August 2008, in
the midst of the Great Recession.
It was also just a month after
Mary Louise passed away, the
only daughter of the Palmers,
for reasons Cox will not discuss.
That left Adrian as the only
surviving member of the family;
but he is now a professor at a
college in Utah, and has little
reason to come back to Ann
Arbor. The home was listed for
a cool $1.5 million when it was
purchased by Jeffrey Schox.
Cox tells the story of Jeffrey’s
interest in the home. Jeffrey, an
avid runner while a student at the
University, grew infatuated with
the Palmer House as he passed it
on his routes around the Nichols
Arboretum. He was especially
intrigued by its strangely shaped
roof.
He
apparently
started
planning his runs specifically
to pass the home, and in the
process, fell in love with it, and
fell in love with Wright. Schox
wrote a letter to Adrian Palmer
once it was put on the market,
expressing
his
fascination
with the Palmer House and his
interest in purchasing it, and
outlined his plans to turn it into
a guest home. Palmer responded,
“My mother would be proud.”
Beyond removing the piano,
the new owners have largely
kept what once was. As we
walk around the home — with
Cox explaining in appreciation
the expanded ceilings in the
bedrooms, the hill in relation
to rooms, the use of space — I
notice the books that line the
narrow hallway to the study,
bearing titles like “500 Cups,”
“Treasures of Ancient” and
“Healing
Heart.”
There are
Sumi ink posters throughout
the home too, in the entryway,
in the kitchen, in the hallways.
This was all left from the
family, as Cox confirms, perhaps
tokens brought back by Mary
Palmer, an enthusiast of Eastern
Hemisphere travel. In the study
is a photograph of the builder of
the home, Erwin Niethammer,
which was also left by the
Palmers.
It’s almost like the design,
the construction and everyone
involved
in
both
became
residents of the home as easily
as the Palmers did. They must
have kept Wright in mind, for
example,
as
they
prepared
food in the kitchen: There are
no handles in there, as Wright
thought they would ruin its look.
Each drawer must be pulled open
by the bottom, so to open the
very top one, you must pull the
bottom four open first, lowest
to highest. Cox guesses that
Mary Palmer would have left
the drawers open for ease in her
daily life, and then quickly close
them as she saw guests arrive
in the driveway through the
kitchen windows. When I try to
open one of the upper cabinets,
I find it surprisingly tricky, and
it takes me at least four attempts
to open and close it successfully.
I can examine the little
designs in the kitchen now, the
same ones which ran parallel to
the stairway I ascended to the
entrance. It’s harder to make out
the exact design from outside,
but inside I can see now how
it sinks into the concrete. Cox
describes the image as a bird in
flight, the symbol of the Palmer
House — it keeps to the distaste
for perpendicular lines here,
and its aggressive attention to
triangles. This design is original
to the home, as Wright liked to
add a defining feature to each
of his residential works. When
the sun sets in the West over
the driveway, it shines through
these small designs, throwing
shapes of light all throughout
the house. Cox explains this
with competitive joy, like a tour
guide describing a University
tradition.
I let Cox attend to the cracked
window and the fixing crew, and
walked around the perimeter of
the home. Its size is continually
surprising; just when I thought
the structure ended, there’s
another offshoot, another little
detail I’ve missed. There’s the
occasional
triangular
bricks
in the ground for walking, and
a small, pleasing light fixture
that looks especially Japanese
in inspiration. You can almost
hear a stream babbling near,
though the stream that passed
by the home dried long ago.
The closest water source is the
Huron River, over a mile away.
The tranquility is astounding,
almost
shocking
given
the
locale, seeing as the drive passes
right
by
several
fraternity
houses, so many of which are
currently embroiled in some
pesky scandals surrounding a
few assorted felonies. Those
Victorian façades, which are
luxurious and imposing, seem
antithetical to Wright’s style.
There’s
such
an
ease
in
becoming abstract in this place.
The very physical and real home
that sits on this hill, through
which a family lived, married
and died, conjures up an almost
inexplicable emotional response.
That feeling sits somewhere
between the precision of its
geometry and the casual bend
of the trees above it. It works
because it feels natural and
unforced, as if every home should
look as if it glides past Saturn.
Despite the oversaturation of the
word “organic” when speaking
of Wright, it still comes to mind.
That word can feel empty when
applied to his works, given its
oversaturation. And yet, there is
probably no better descriptor to
capture the essence of what it’s
like to walk through, and to look
upon, one of his buildings.
The Palmer House is one of
the last in a line of hundreds
of residences he designed, and
though it maintains the thread
among his many works, it is,
as each other, unique. At this
point in his career, so close to
the end of his life, he pushed
experiments with form as far
as they could stretch. Take
the Solomon R. Guggenheim
Museum, for example, which
he designed at the same time
as the Palmer’s home. There,
he fixated on the circle; here,
he’s taking on the triangle.
Wright was showing a fixation
with specific shapes as themes,
as delineators of the story each
project was meant to tell. That
theme could shift with each
home to reflect the personality
of the land and the people who
were to live on it.
A movie of mirrors: Architecture in ‘Columbus’
Kogonada’s debut film explores the complexities of parent-child relationships through the lens of modernist architecture
MEGHAN CHOU
Daily Arts Writer
CEREN DAG/DAILY
SUNDANCE INSTITUTE