The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
Arts
Friday, February 9, 2018 — 5
“Hostiles” by Scott Cooper
is a paradoxically violent yet
aesthetically gorgeous take on a
Western classic. Captain Joseph
J. Blocker (Christian Bale, “The
Promise”), a seasoned military
leader with a history of killing
Native Americans, is ordered
to return a Cheyenne war chief
Yellow Hawk (Wes Studi, “Penny
Dreadful”) back to his ancestral
land after being a prisoner for
years. Blocker, who attempts to
deny the mission, is forced to
confront his prejudices towards
Native
Americans
when
it
becomes vital that he and Yellow
Hawk, whom he considered
his enemy, must band together
to
survive
the
path
home
against the shared antagonist
of the Comanches. This other
Native group, known for being
ruthless in their indiscriminate
slaughter,
including
other
Native Americans and Rosalie
Quaid’s (Rosamund Pike, “Gone
Girl”) husband and three young
daughters, which is how the
film begins. Within the first
five minutes, bloodshed quickly
ensues, a signal from Cooper that
“Hostiles” wouldn’t be pretty or
pacifist.
Set in 1892, the movie explores
the after-effects in an American
Western rural panorama. This
geographical
landscape
has
historically been wrought with
genocide, racism and ruled by
the ideology of Manifest Destiny,
which was attempted to justify
white expansionism during this
period. Despite being evidently
racist in past crusades against
Native Americans, Blocker is
treated with empathy from the
audience, and Bale’s wide range
of emotions in his performance
support
the
emotional
complexity of his character. Bale
recovers from prior lackluster
roles in his portrayal of Blocker: a
stern military man transformed
into
an
unwaveringly
loyal
friend to his comrades. Quaid
also merits empathy, after she
witnesses her family’s gruesome
murder first-hand.
From an audience standpoint,
it is impossible to side with
the Comanches, for they are
heartless, but Cooper could have
made a greater effort to frame
the Cheyennes as sensitive and
empathetic. Instead, they are
painted as completely secondary
to Blocker and his white soldiers.
The are depicted as “othered,”
only with a lesser degree of
savagery than the Comanches,
and their purpose is truly a
reference point by which the
whites can try to practice being
accepting and understanding.
Per
usual,
the
narrative,
though wavering at moments,
sides with the whites over the
Native Americans. Though the
message of overcoming racism
is necessary to fight the common
enemy, it didn’t go far enough.
Even though Blocker’s defense
of the Cheyennes in the end
of the film redeems him, what
does that say about us if we side
with a white soldier who has
participated in genocide and is
only converted in the end?
What Cooper’s film excels in is
its stunning cinematography of
the American Western frontier.
The
rolling
hills,
sunburnt
canyons and vast plains remind
us of the potential to explore our
own forgotten pioneer: a truly
American conviction. Moreover,
the way the tolls of war,
specifically PTSD and mental
illness, are finally acknowledged
in cinema is refreshing.
The
most
provocative
dialogue perhaps takes place
between Blocker’s right hand
man, Sargent Thomas Metz (Roy
Cochrane, “Black Mass”) and
Lieutenant Rudy Kidder (Jesse
Plemons, “The Post”) which
examines the way killing in war
creates emotional numbness and
how it becomes almost second
nature, a feeling that Kidder
fears. Had the film gone further
in the emotional tolls of war and
didn’t color the Native Americans
as “the other,” “Hostiles” would
have been a different film.
‘Hostiles’ isn’t pretty, but
the scenery is stunning
SOPHIA WHITE
Daily Arts Writer
WIKIMEDIA COMMONS
BOOKS
Zadie Smith writes essays
like a novelist. Best known for
her lauded novels like “White
Teeth” and “Swing Time,” the
British author channels this
sensibility into a compelling
range of subjects in her new
nonfiction
collection
“Feel
Free,”
from
contemporary
art to Harlem, her childhood
bathroom to Justin Bieber.
Smith’s
authoritative
yet
ambiguous
style
reminded
me of last year’s eclipse: You
could only see it clearly (and
safely) through just the right
filter, rather than staring at
it head-on (as our President
did). By taking a circuitous,
indirect and deeply personal
approach to her subject matter,
Smith
often
hits
essential
truths about human nature or
society. In doing so, she inverts
the
traditional
essayist’s
conventions.
Rather
than
addressing her subject directly
and her readers indirectly,
she does the opposite. Smith
arrives at the truth of her
subject matter in a roundabout
fashion, as skillfully as she
draws out universal feelings
and
experiences
from
the
everyday in her novels. But she
addresses us directly, striving
for an audience connection
that often involves telling us
to Google something, listen
to a certain song or look up
a YouTube video in order to
understand what she’s talking
about.
But all this talk of “truth”
makes
Smith
sound
stiff
or
philosophical
when,
actually, she’s pretty fun — an
entertaining, relatable voice
from across the pond. Like
Roxane Gay here in the States,
Smith deftly interweaves high
and lowbrow topics, often in
the same essay, shifting from
comedians to philosophers to
pop stars without rambling or
trying too hard. Her essays are
best when she has gotten very
excited about something — she
just read a thought-provoking
book or saw a movie she can’t
get out of her head — and
needs to talk about it, to work
through it. In trying to get to
the bottom of something she’s
come across, whether that’s
Key & Peele’s comedy, Jay-Z’s
music or an old photograph
her father took, Smith delves
deeper and deeper into the
wormhole of her fascination,
and we come out on the other
side with her, clutching some
gem of knowledge or insight.
In one of the last essays
in
the
collection
“Meet
Justin Bieber!” Smith finds
improbable,
somehow
inevitable
connections
between the famous singer and
the dead Jewish philosopher
Martin Buber. (Their names,
she points out, are not just
similar but derivatives of the
same
Germanic
surname).
Bieber and other celebrities
struggle to be truly known, she
says, because while they are
“known” to millions, it’s only in
the most superficial way: Even
when they “meet” people, it is
a shallow encounter, a selfie,
an autograph, an experience
already relegated to the past
tense. Buber, the philosopher,
criticized
these
superficial
encounters, emphasizing the
rarity and great effort involved
in truly meeting someone,
knowing them — something
that may happen only a few
times in a life.
In
“Feel
Free,”
Smith
seems to be trying to reach
Buber’s
ideal,
constantly
reaching
toward
a
deeper
understanding of her subject
and a richer connection with
her
readers.
Novelists
are
often intensely curious about
the human condition in all its
bounty and ugliness. In these
essays,
Smith
is
intensely
curious about everything she
comes across: What does it feel
like to be Justin Bieber, signing
thousands of autographs in a
packed Tokyo stadium? What
was it like to be Billie Holiday,
on stage in her prime, in her
decline? How is it to grow up
biracial in Detroit? On the
Upper West Side of New York?
In London in the ’80s, as Smith
herself did?
Smith
is
a
nuanced,
wonderful
observer
of
humanity in all its complexity,
and she often lands on key
insights about our present
time or political situation —
in her roundabout, indirect
way — in these essays. But
FILM REVIEW
“Hostiles”
Entertainment
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when
she
approaches
this
material
directly,
somehow
it
doesn’t
hold
the
same
unique charm or insight; she
winds up sounding a little
like every other “think piece”
writer without the layered,
labyrinthine originality of her
best work. For this reason,
a few of the book’s earliest
essays on topical issues like
Brexit, global warming and the
perils of social media fall flat
compared to her more textured
pieces. When the point of
her essay is to make a point,
it’s just not as interesting or
complex to read. These essays,
which represent only a handful
of Smith’s excellent collection,
read like remarkably eloquent
versions of conversations we’ve
all had before. Maybe I’m just
tired of reading about politics,
or so-called “think pieces,”
or both. In this overcrowded
space, even Smith occasionally
struggles to say something
wholly new.
It seems a waste to spend
time discussing a few so-so
essays. This isn’t a book to
read from page one, from start
to finish — there’s nothing
chronological about it. Rifle
through
the
pages
until
you find a perfect sentence
gleaming at you; it won’t take
long. After all, that’s how
Smith herself would do it.
We’re all just passing through,
unthinking, until we find an
idea that arrests us, consumes
us. Let Smith lead you down
her rabbit hole.
In new essay collection,
Zadie Smith finds truth
in philosophy and pop
By taking
a circuitous,
indirect and
deeply personal
approach to her
subject matter,
Smith often hits
essential truths
about human
nature or society
MERIN MCDIVITT
Daily Arts Writer
WAYPOINT ENTERTAINMENT
MUSIC ALBUM REVIEW
In
2013,
a
quiet
album
emerged, half-hidden and nearly
forgotten in the grainy synth
dystopia Kanye’s Yeezus and Daft
Punk’s Random Access Memories
would eventually create. Bathed
in cool shades of grey, the
soaring vocals and lush melodies
beckoned. Contemplative and
seductive, the songs lingered
just out of reach — dreams you
could only barely remember.
That album was Woman by
Rhye, the joint project of singer/
songwriter Mike Milosh and
producer Robin Hannibal. And
even after the album garnered
critical acclaim, Rhye continued
to remain frustratingly out of
the spotlight, discreetly slipping
from one location to the next as
they toured live, never anything
more than a hushed murmur
among public discourse.
Even among the shadows, a
lot can happen — and did happen
— in the five years after Woman
was first released. Milosh split
from not only his wife, Alexa
Nikolas, but also his original
producer, Hannibal. Within the
first week of the initial Rhye
tour, he failed to meet sale
expectations, went into debt and
spent the next year attempting
to recover. In order to ensure
Rhye still had a future, Milosh
played a total of 476 live shows.
For him, there was misfortune
and struggle within these past
five years, but there was also this
too: The experience of watching
various
sets
of
audience
members react to his music, the
visceral intimacy fostered by
each distinct venue.
Rhye’s latest release, Blood,
is based on these experiences,
on the harmony that can be
found in times of hardship.
There’s an unrestrained warmth
within these tracks, an allure
that hasn’t existed in any of
Rhye’s
previous
work.
The
album sparks with physicality;
each song is allowed to explore
its own space, both liberated
and encouraged by Milosh’s
delicate croon. Rhye’s dynamic
progression enables them to peel
back the glossy veneer that had
encased Woman, allowing Blood
to surface: carnal, emotive and
aching to be felt.
This album is primal. The
intricate beauty of a romantic
experience — the fluttering joy
of falling in love, the sweetly
slow build of lust — has no place
in Blood. Instead, there exists a
restless sort of hunger. The near-
tangible vibrations of overdrawn
guitar riffs in “Phoenix” climb
into your skin. The twisting
melodies of “Count To Five”
intertwine and creep across a
tremulous beat. “Sinful”’s initial
minimalism builds into a dense
fog of silky instrumentation and
gasps of “We’re not alone, you’re
my sinful.”
In many ways, Blood picks up
right where its predecessor left
off. The opening track, “Waste,”
with
its
gauzy
orchestral
serenade and Milosh’s breathy
“Oh, my love cave into this
space,” is reminiscent of older
songs “The Fall” and “One Of
Those Summer Days.” Rhye
still keeps its tempos slow,
dragging
periods
of
silence
out until the empty spaces
carry their own texture. The
songs still sometimes have a
tendency
to
meld
together,
woven into uniformity through
insubstantial
lyricism
and
barely-there
intonation,
constantly
threatening
to
disappear completely.
Yet, despite these flawed
similarities, Rhye’s sophomore
album is distinctly more enticing
than their debut. Songs are more
organic. Rough and pleading,
they speak to our most basic
emotions. The profound remorse
found in “Please” emits like a
quiet prayer. The juice of “Taste”
drips down the chin, sensuality
bursting like an overripe peach.
Whereas
Woman
was
structured grace, Blood is all raw
yearning — desperate to consume
the object of its fascination until
there is absolutely nothing left.
Rhye’s ‘Blood’ a raw return
SHIMA SADAGHIYANI
Daily Music Editor
Blood
Rhye
Loma Vista
Recordings
What Cooper’s
film excels in
is its stunning
cinematography
of the American
Western frontier
The intricate
beauty of
a romantic
experience — the
fluttering joy of
falling in love, the
sweetly slow build
of lust — has no
place in Blood