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”

