The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
Arts
Tuesday, February 13, 2018 — 5
During last year’s Oscars, I
can remember myself frozen
in my seat, awaiting the results
for best picture. Between a
texting battle with my mom —
a hopeless romantic rooting for
“La La Land” — I kept repeating
to myself “Please don’t let it
win.” When Barry Jenkins’s
“Moonlight”
actually
won
for Best Picture (minus the
momentary switched-envelope
screw up), I froze again, this
time with a smile on my face,
ecstatic for a win that I thought
was merited but not expected.
I had a similar feeling of being
stopped in time, unable to move,
after I watched Sean Baker’s
“The Florida Project.” I sat
there still in my seat, incapable
or processing what I had seen.
I was in awe and enamored.
Overwhelmed. And prior to
nominations, it appeared like
others felt the same way; Baker
won for Best Director at the
New York Film Critics Circle
Awards, which was a prelude to
Barry Jenkins’s eventual Oscar
triumph.
“The
Florida
Project”
should have been this year’s
“Moonlight.” The film traces
Moonee, an independent and
spunky 8-year-old resident of
Orlando’s Magic Castle, a cluster
of lilac project homes, as she
goes on adventures and learns
that life isn’t as magical as she
thought it was. Both films are
indeed quite similar — they tell
stories that are rarely told. They
both expose a pocket of hidden
America, specifically Fla., that
has escaped popular American
consciousness — whether it be
the poverty on the outskirts of
Disney World, or the struggle
of being Black and gay in an
underprivileged neighborhood.
They both confront ugly themes
beautifully,
with
masterful
cinematography that is unique
and stands out as their own kind
of character. Both directors find
ways to use color and nature and
give them symbolism while still
sticking to their urban, poverty-
Oscar Snubs: ‘The Florida
Project’ deserved better
SOPHIA WHITE
Daily Arts Writer
FILM NOTEBOOK
A24
DAILY FOOD COLUMN
I
will
henceforth
settle
the greatest dispute from my
childhood once and for all: Dad,
I love you, but Uncle Bobby is
a better cook. While I’m at it
— when it comes to meatballs,
his are better. I’m going to
throw Mom under the bus here,
because she agrees with me.
Bobby Rallo is the king of the
meatball — the messiah of the
coveted Italian side dish. And I
know it hurts to hear it, but the
man deserves some praise.
My uncle cooks with his
whole soul. It’s a beautiful and
understated way to cook, in a
world where commercial chefs
and big business dominate the
American food industry, taking
us away from the foundations
that our love for food stems
from. I think every foodie and
chef alike has an origin story
— a moment or a meal where
they knew their heart and their
hands were made for a kitchen.
When thinking of where my
love for good food and cooking
came from, I always start at my
base. I was born into a family
with a strong background in
Italian cooking — beginning
in the early 1900s in coastal
Sicily and growing all the way
to Red Bank, New Jersey. The
faces and times have changed
but the recipes have not. The
passion has not. When I was
little, my uncle owned a classic
Italian place called “Rallo’s.”
It has since closed, but if I
could name five of my favorite
places to eat in the world, it
may be number three (behind
II Vecchio Mulino in Sardinia,
Italy — get the bucatini — and
Le Bernadin in New York —
have anything, and make sure
you don’t have to take care of
the bill).
At Rallo’s, my uncle would
always be in the kitchen, which
is a rare place for a restaurateur
who normally mans the front
of the house or walks around
intimidatingly.
But
Bobby
Rallo’s heart is in the kitchen
and when he makes a kitchen
his, it’s something like magic.
I would burst through the
aluminum doors of Rallo’s
kitchen and he’d be behind the
grill — white t-shirt, stained
with a smear of oil and a splash
of fresh Jersey tomato sauce,
white apron — covered in pizza
flour and pork chop grease.
If you’re not willing to get
messy in the kitchen, then
cooking isn’t for you.
I’d sit on the counter and
he’d
break
off
chunks
of
parmigiano
reggiano
and
salami, prosciutto and sweet
little cherry tomatoes, handing
them to me as he flipped dough
and stirred sauce. A chunk of
soft Italian baguette with a
little olive oil and rosemary.
A traveling charcuterie, if you
will — one for a duo always
on the move. I would watch
while he cooked, and even
better, watch his face when
he’d break from the flame and
the daunting task of stuffing
ravioli to bring a plate to a
customer. If I had to describe
my Uncle Bobby, that’d be the
picture. Leaving the kitchen
to bring someone something
he made with his hands, and
watching their eyes and their
face as they take the first bite.
It’s a gratitude of sorts.
Our similar love for food,
spontaneity and the literature
of the 1960s make us quite the
pair. We always make the point
to go on some sort of lunch
endeavor every few weeks, and
our growing list of favorites
include boardwalk tacos and
nutella pizzas.
The
distance
between
suburban
New
Jersey
and
Mich. gives me a lot of things to
miss, but these lunch dates are
one of the things I miss most
(also his lending of worn copies
of Kerouac and spontaneous
donut deliveries). In perfect
Bobby fashion, he proposed
we
keep
the
lunch
dates
alive in an unconventional
albeit
charming
way.
The
proposition: I’d go to lunch
somewhere
in
Ann
Arbor
(with good company) and eat
something delicious, strange,
greasy, fattening, and I’d call
him afterwards, describe the
experience, and he’d cook the
very same meal from home, eat
it and then we’d talk about it.
This is one of the best ideas he’s
ever had, and not letting the
throngs of distance split apart
such an important part of who
I am blew up with potential.
A lunch date from 1,000
miles away.
The first place I chose was
somewhere I knew would spark
delicious conversation and fit
with the simple yet traditional
nature of my Uncle’s palate.
Monahan’s Seafood Market in
Kerrytown was the spot — and
my best friend was the company.
Monahan’s is one of the perfect
little quirks of the world,
situated
in
the
Kerrytown
markets in a sequestered yet
quaint corner. It has been in
business for nearly 40 years,
and is an understated yet
brilliant joy. I ordered the
fried fish sandwich — a pile of
fresh fried cod, sandwiched
between a perfectly soft roll,
accompanied
with
lettuce,
tomato, red onion and an
undefinable
yet
incredible
sauce. My sandwich experience
was wonderful. I split a side of
cajun fries with my best friend
and we talked about the fact
that we trekked through the
arctic tundra for a sandwich,
and we laughed a lot.
I called my uncle later
that day and he said he’d be
back to me with his sandwich
experience by that night. When
he called me on the phone, I
felt like I was looking at him
across the table of one of our
favorite
pizza
restaurants
from all the way over here in
Mich. Bobby made himself a
locally caught New Jersey fried
flounder sandwich between a
Balthazar roll (which he says
is the true magic ingredient
— crunchy on the outside, soft
on the inside), accompanied
with romaine lettuce, tomato,
Sicilian olive oil, red wine
vinegar and oregano. After we
talked logistics, there was a
pause in the conversation.
“It’s funny you chose a fish
sandwich,” he said with a
nostalgia I recognized, and I
knew it was time for one of the
stories of his that I cherish so
greatly.
“I am a curator of visual
nuggets from the past — a fried
fish sandwich is a big trigger
for these visual memories.”
My heart longed to have
him saying these words to me
from the bar of a sushi place
we frequent. But even over the
phone, I hung onto each word
he said. He began to unpack
the fish sandwich, like a door
to the past. It starts at Crabs
Claw Inn, a little shack type
place down the Jersey Shore
where Bobby took Antonio, a
European aristocrat he met
in
college.
Antonio
didn’t
appreciate
the
beauty
of
the
sandwich
and
greatly
misunderstood the power of a
good meal. It made for a good
laugh. The memory evolved into
eating a fish sandwich with my
father and drinking Polish beer
and laughing about something
ridiculous and getting thrown
out of the restaurant, but not
without the sandwiches in tow.
The final memory, hungover
at a highway side McDonald’s,
the spring of 1987 — eating a
McDonald’s filet-o-fish.
I laughed for a while at that
image, imagining the person
he was in college. Based on his
integrity and deep sense of self,
I doubt he was any different
back then. I also have many of
the books he read back then,
all annotated and stained with
various substances, perhaps
a splotch of Sicilian olive oil,
perhaps the grease of a fish
sandwich. A man with a heart of
absolute gold, an irreplaceable
sense of the things he loves and
a deep passion for lunch dates
and sandwiches on good bread.
“It’s what I grew up with —
it’s a particularly memorable
food for me. We grew up on
the beach. We’d catch fish and
clean it, like after surfing, and
we’d make fish sandwiches.”
A pause — for dramatic
effect perhaps, or to pick up his
two year old daughter, who is
sitting at his feet.
“I love my fish sandwich. But
not as much as I love my Eli.”
The 1,000 mile lunch date
ELI RALLO
Daily Food Columnist
I’m often skeptical of bands who
define themselves as “genreless”,
as Son Lux does on their website
— most who label themselves as
such have a strong
tendency to drift
into masturbatory
self-importance
in a paradoxical
pursuit
of
individuality.
However, in the
case
of
their
latest
album,
Brighter
Wounds,
“genreless”
happens to be an apt description.
The
album
is
ceaselessly
innovative
and
captivating,
each song an exploration of a
different genre and emotion.
The
album
shifts
seamlessly
from downtempo slow-burners
(“Labor”) to erratic, syncopated
trip-hop (“The Fool You Need”)
redolent of a more dramatic
and dynamic James Blake; the
progression is both surprising and
natural.
Despite the restrained run
time of 44 minutes, the album
feels grandiose and sprawling,
largely
due
to
both the variety of
instrumentation
on
display
and
the
experimental
structure of each
track. There is not a
boring or repetitive
track on the album,
although some are
prone to a little bit
of excess — I’m not
a big fan of “All Directions,” which
drifts too far into self-indulgence.
The singer, Ryan Lott, has a
voice that is technically proficient,
but tends to be a little overly-
theatrical, a certain pervasive,
wavering quality that threatens
to turn drama into melodrama
— it grows tiresome toward the
end of the album, but it never
overshadowed the positives of the
work.
The
highlights
include
“Aquatic,”
a
reserved
and
thoughtful song marked by a
gorgeous string motif, as well
as “Dream State,” a relentlessly-
pounding dream pop epic, possibly
their most satisfying attempt
at grandiosity across the whole
of Brighter Wounds. “Slowly” is
excellent as well, an atmospheric
groove with a stuttering rhythm
and a celestial edge.
I found the album to be slightly
challenging to listen to in one
sitting, not because it grew dull,
but because there was so much
going on in every track — however,
it was a rewarding challenge;
it has been a while since I’ve
enjoyed listening to a new album
this much. There is not a dull
moment during Brighter Wounds,
an album worth the time of any
music fan.
Son Lux experiment with
genre on sophomore effort
JONAH MENDELSON
Daily Arts Writer
ALBUM REVIEW
Brighter
Wounds
Son Lux
Ryan Lott Music
Ryan Lott Music
stricken and lets not forget,
humid, roots. Both let the films
speak for themselves without
excessive
plot
or
dialogue.
They treat issues of hardship,
addiction,
abuse
and
self
discovery, but they treat them
tenderly. Carefully.
Similarly, some would say
that this year’s nominations
for Best Picture have opened
up the diversity bracket, with
“Lady Bird” showing a nuanced
and imperfect mother-daughter
relationship
and
“Call
Me
By Your Name” delivering a
homosexual love story with
sensuality
and
purpose.
It
therefore feels a little bit off
that “The Florida Project” was
rendered absent in this category.
Actually, it was rendered absent
in most categories except Best
Actor for Willem Dafoe (“Justice
League”), whose nomination is
well-deserved. But that leaves
“The Florida Project” with a
total of one nomination, the
same amount of nominations as
“Boss Baby.”
To
say
that
Hollywood
isn’t
changing
wouldn’t
be
recognizing the obvious. But
it is definitely not changing
enough. It almost feels like
things got suddenly revisionist
after “Moonlight”’s win. But
it’s clear that Hollywood is still
cold to newcomers. “The Florida
Project”’s
cinematography
is
splendid. Baker himself has
proven to be an uncommon,
unorthodox
filmmaker
that
makes us see things we don’t ever
think about, without exploiting
them or chastising them —
we just observe. Brooklynn
Prince (“Robo-Dog: Airborne”)
exhibits maybe one of the best
child
performances
in
film
history. And yet, no nominations
in these categories. These stories
will undoubtedly continue to be
told by filmmakers who favor
passion over recognition, while
Hollywood still prefers the
sentimental fantasy of “Darkest
Hour” and “The Post.” But with
A24’s rapid ascent over the past
years, hopefully independent
films like “The Florida Project”
will gain the recognition they
deserve.
Hollywood
still prefers the
sentimental
fantasy of
“Darkest Hour”
and “The Post”
Making the case for movies tragically ignored by the Academy
When thinking
of where my love
for good food
and cooking
came from, I
always start at
my base. I was
born into a family
with a strong
background of
Italian cooking
I had a similar
feeling of being
stopped in time,
unable to move,
after I watched
“The Florida
Project”