6 — Tuesday, March 13, 2018
Arts
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
ACROSS
1 Kind of guitar
5 Foul-smelling
10 Bouillabaisse,
e.g.
14 Where the Jazz
play
15 Dodge
16 Weighty book
17 Signed up, as to
vote
19 Military group
20 113-gram
sandwich, more
or less
22 Sleeping woe
23 Like Oberlin
College since it
opened in 1833
24 About 1.8 meters
deep
31 Watch pocket
34 Approaches
35 Mall unit
36 Word after New
or teen
38 Hidden drug
supply
40 Big gulp
41 Insurance case
43 TV ex-military
group led by
Hannibal Smith
45 Mario Bros.
console
46 37.9-liter topper,
roughly
49 Fatty liver spread
50 Hybrid pack
animals
54 Proceed another
1.6 kilometers or
so
59 Christmas tree
topper’s topper
60 Double-checked
before cutting
61 Congregation’s
“I agree!”
62 Geometry
calculations
63 Track
assignment
64 Arnaz with two
stars on the
Hollywood Walk
of Fame
65 Toy truck brand
66 Old Russian
leader
DOWN
1 Traditional
Islamic garment
2 Thoroughly
delighted in
3 Cosmologist
Carl
4 Counties across
the pond
5 Lavish party
6 At any time
7 Firewood
protector
8 Logical
beginning?
9 Subtract
10 They often have
class
11 Softened, as
rhetoric
12 Kuwaiti leader
13 Rainy
18 Wood finish
21 We, to one who
says “oui”
25 Ballot markings
26 Deadly
27 Muse for Shelley
28 German
industrial city
29 Cleveland’s lake
30 Govt. agency
rules
31 Something
known to be true
32 Eye rudely
33 Tall, skinny sorts
37 Tubular pasta
39 “So there!”
42 Course with
squares and
cubes
44 What babies
create, and vice
versa?
47 Eye rudely
48 Ruckus
51 Turkish coins
52 Kagan of the
Supreme Court
53 Meal where the
10 Plagues of
Egypt are recalled
54 Mario Bros., for
one
55 Architect Saarinen
56 Magneto’s
enemies
57 Hardwood prized
for outdoor
furniture
58 Tabula __
59 Owned
By Rich Proulx
©2018 Tribune Content Agency, LLC
03/13/18
03/13/18
ANSWER TO PREVIOUS PUZZLE:
RELEASE DATE– Tuesday, March 13, 2018
Los Angeles Times Daily Crossword Puzzle
Edited by Rich Norris and Joyce Nichols Lewis
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HAPPY
TUESDAY!
BOOK NOTEBOOK
I wanted this article to
be about the power of books
to heal. I wanted to talk
decisively about how novels,
poems and essays can direct
collective and personal anger,
supply comfort and provide
an
instructive
array
of
resonant experiences. In the
past three weeks, though, the
usually profound and reliable
competence of words has felt
radically insufficient.
I’ve always relied on other
people’s writing to navigate
my own emotions, and so of
course I’ve looked to books
to help me understand the
struggle between hope and
disillusionment that has been
sweeping the country since the
shooting at Marjory Stoneman
Douglas High School on Feb.
14th. I have found no books
that even come close to crafting
some sort of framework for my
grief, no poems that contain
an alchemical recipe to turn
my despair into power. The
only thing I know for sure is
this: Young people should not
be dying in their classrooms
because politicians refuse to
pass sensible gun control laws.
Last week, I reread “Love in
a Time of Cholera” by Gabriel
García Márquez.
“She was lost in her longing
to
understand,”
Marquez
writes. I think I, too, am lost in
my longing to understand.
Like
so
many
students
I know, I am scared. The
Parkland shooting seems like
it was both yesterday and a
lifetime ago. There is a constant
barrage of new details about
the events of that day and the
days that followed, horrifying
aftershocks
whose
impacts
are lessened not because some
suffering is any less worthy
of empathy, but because my
ability to process my own and
others’ grief is diminished
from
constant
emotional
exertion.
I read a story last week about
a woman whose son survived
the Parkland massacre and
whose
daughter
survived
the 2006 Platte Canyon High
School shooting. That such
tragedy — and also luck, if it can
even be called that — should
strike twice in the same family
is unimaginable. I want a book
that will tell me what to do
with the anger and frustration
I have from reading stories like
the Randolph family’s. What
does it mean when even the
insights of my favorite authors
feel insufficient?
There are not any books that
could possibly tell me exactly
how
to
tackle
everything
that
needs
to
change
in
America, nor even any about
how to address the specific
yet incredibly intersectional
injustice of gun violence. I
was looking for comprehensive
guides; I will never find that.
Instead, I think the best I can
hope for is clarity through
description, reflections not of
my grief but rather of my quest
to understand why I can’t find
what I need. “I need a book
about how I’m supposed to live
now,” writes Paulo Bacigalupi
in “The Water Knife.” That’s
what
I
was
looking
for:
A
roadmap
of
uncharted
territory, a chronicle of this
bizarre place we have found
ourselves. Instead I’ll have to
make it up as I go along, as we
all do.
What I’ve come understand
is this: When words are not
enough, that is exactly when
we need them most. Even when
they fall short, they still try —
and so we try, too. To give up
on language, to allow sorrow
to rob poetry of its beauty, or
even to rely solely on stories
and forget to act: This would
be to let evil win. I look to
Tim O’Brien’s “The Things
They Carried” for the best
meditations on the Sisyphean
task of reckoning with violence.
“You feel wonder and awe at
the setting of the sun,” O’Brien
says, “and you are filled with
a hard, aching love for how
the world could be and always
should be, but now is not.”
“The
oceans
surge,
but
the boat / is up on blocks. /
There’s no America to sail to /
anymore.” — Amit Majmudar
“One says slow, the other
stop. / Joy and sorrow always
run like parallel lines.” — Didi
Jackson
“When I was silenced / when
did it first seem pointless to
describe that sound.” — Louise
Glück
“Our brief crossing is best
spent attending to all that we
see: honoring what we find
noble, denouncing what we
cannot abide, recognizing that
we are inseparably connected
to all of it, including what is
not yet upon us, including what
is already gone.” — Kathryn
Schulz
“And a terrible new ache /
rolled over in my chest, / like in
a room where the drapes / have
been swept back.” — Tracy K.
Smith
We could never fix this
country
with
books
alone.
Instead, we must harness that
aching love for the world as
we wish it was. We must stand
witness to the gut-wrenching
disregard for the well-being
of those among us who are
most vulnerable. We must fight
with the perspicacity bestowed
upon us by the best writers,
marching forward into the
future with a hope that is as
specific and inexhaustible as
memory.
At a loss for words: When
literature fails to console
There are not
any books that
could possibly tell
me exactly how to
tackle everything
that needs to
change in America
MIRIAM FRANCISCO
Daily Arts Writer
“It’s so nice to not be at a bar.”
Midway
through
Snail
Mail’s
set,
lead
singer/
guitarist Lindsey Jordan took
a moment to appreciate the
beautiful space of the Museum
of Contemporary Art Detroit
(MOCAD), the venue where
she — alongside Ought and
Fred Thomas — performed at
on Mar. 8th. While the space
did feature a fully stocked bar,
it was far from a dive — soft
yellow
incandescents
hung
staggered from the ceiling, wall
flags displayed messages like
“A HORROR MOVIE CALLED
WESTERN
CIVILIZATION”
and the stage was backed by
a glass paneled garage door
for those passing on the street
to peer through. The venue
itself wasn’t huge, but the
room felt big and spacious,
enough for groups of people to
cluster either near the bar or in
different locations in front of
the stage.
Regardless
of
MOCAD’s
unique intricacies, Snail Mail,
who preceded Ought, put on an
absolutely stellar performance.
Aged only 18 and already set
to perform at Coachella this
year, Jordan and company have
been turning heads since 2017.
The band’s brand of indie punk
is magnetic and bareboned;
watching Jordan play guitar —
stunning control and precision
already
evident
at
such
a
young age — is mesmerizing.
According to her interview with
Pitchfork from a year ago, she
has been playing since she was
five-years-old and one of her
guitar teachers, Mary Timony
of the band Helium, said, “The
first time she played me songs
she was writing, I was totally
blown away. There is this real
timelessness
and
maturity
and depth in her music.” The
sentiment absolutely translates
in their live performance.
During and in between songs,
Jordan cast mischievous smiles
at her bandmates, fully aware of
their penchant for captivation
— from my spot in the crowd,
everyone was nearly silent for
Snail Mail’s entire performance
except for raucous applause.
They
surprisingly
slipped
their
hit
song
“Thinning”
into the middle of their set,
eliciting resonance from the
crowd that echoed Jordan’s
tight, honest lyricism. “Dirt”
lilted over the crowd, swaying
guitar
rhythms
exited
the
speakers and enraptured the
listeners. Jordan’s voice has
a nuanced depth, creating a
sense of resignation and self-
understanding in her music.
To Ought’s misfortune, about
half the crowd left after Snail
Mail’s set (possibly due to how
late the show was running on
a Thursday night). Yet, the
post-punk group’s music still
cast a spell over the rest who
remained. In performance and
on record, the band comes off
like a hybrid between DIIV
and Parquet Courts, wielding
deep, repetitive basslines and
dissonant guitar melodies to
split a chasm in the atmosphere
of the room, only to have that
space filled with cavernous and
staccato vocal deliveries from
frontman Tim Darcy. On their
new wave tinged 2018 release
Room Inside the World, Ought
sprinkles a little more melody
and pop into their tried-and-
true songwriting, getting into
a more digestible groove with
“These 3 Things.” However,
they didn’t shy from their roots,
returning to their 2014 debut
album More Than Any Other
Day with the sparsely delivered
“Habit.”
If there’s anything to take
away from the show, it’s that
2018 may be the year of indie
rock (especially for women).
Between stellar releases from
Ought, Camp Cope and Soccer
Mommy, the year has already
been off to a fantastic start
for the genre — hopefully
even further improved with
the addition of new music
from Snail Mail. And if last
Thursday’s
show
is
any
indication, Snail Mail may just
be the year’s biggest breakout
artist.
Ought, Snail Mail & Fred
Thomas rock at MOCAD
DOMINIC POLSINELLI
Senior Arts Editor
CONCERT REVIEW
DOMINIC POLSINELLI / DAILY
If
you’re
looking
for
a
riveting,
suspense-building
espionage film, “Red Sparrow”
is not that. If you’re looking
for a film with
unnecessary
ultra
violence
and gore with
a
disorganized
plot, then look to
“Red Sparrow.”
“Red
Sparrow”
probably aimed to be something
akin to the Bond films, but
the
ultimate
presentation
was more of a disappointing,
melodramatic “ugly step-sister”
to a legitimate spy movie.
When ballerina Dominika
Egorova (Jennifer Lawrence,
“Mother!”) suffers a career-
crushing injury, she is forced to
enlist in her sleazy, sycophantic
uncle’s (Matthias Schoenaerts,
“A Bigger Splash”) world of
Russian intelligence in order
to financially provide for her
sick mother. She eventually
sacrifices her body to the
state, as she is sent to become
a Sparrow in “whore school,”
where
the
women
become
highly
trained
in
sexual
coercion
and
seduction.
Dominika passes her training
and is released to become close
with a CIA member, Nate Mash
(Joel
Edgerton,
“Bright”),
but
her
situation
becomes
complicated upon contact.
Just when things start to
potentially become a little more
compelling
when
Dominika
enters her Sparrow training,
a training that is supposed
to be taxing on the body and
the mind, she is released.
Being a Sparrow is supposed
to be the most
highly
selective
form of Russian
intelligence,
but
there aren’t enough
scenes
to
prove
how
strenuous
the
training
is.
We don’t believe it. The only
exposition we have from this
moment is Lawrence’s nude
body,
which,
coupled
with
violence, is used too liberally
and sloppily throughout the
film. Violence can be effective
and
powerful
when
used
deliberately in cinema, and
when
violent
moments
are
intended to evoke suspense and
drama. When used carefully,
the result is more grounded and
causes true fear. When violence
is
overused,
like
in
“Red
Sparrow,” the movie becomes
about gore and tricks and loses
any element of reality. It begins
to devolve into a gimmick. And
more importantly, it creates a
truly
unpleasant
experience
for the audience with no real
redeeming moments. At times,
it even seemed like the film had
fully transformed into an SNL
satire of a spy movie.
Besides the overuse of gore,
Lawrence’s performance was
not terrible, but it was not
praiseworthy. The version of
Lawrence we saw in “Silver
Linings Playbook,” a performer
with nuance and heart, has been
absent in her recent films. This
could partly be out of her control
and attributed to types of roles
she has been getting. But for
now, we are wishing for a return
to the old Lawrence. With “Red
Sparrow”’s lackluster reception
and especially “Mother!”’s box
office flop, hopefully Lawrence’s
next project will return her
to a more prized reputation.
But with her inconsistent and
embarrassing Russian accent in
“Red Sparrow” it is difficult to
predict where the quality of her
future projects is heading.
Dominika’s
femme
fatale
persona proves to outsmart
her male counterparts, and
despite her power deriving
from sex, she knows how to
trick and beguile to rise to the
top. “Red Sparrow” could have
made a stronger commentary
on female power, but instead,
it was too tempted by showing
silly violence and tricks that
detracted from the core of
the story. It also could have
explored
the
detrimental
effects of blindly following a
rigid state that has no remorse
for its citizens, nor did it expose
the intricate and complicated
nature
of
espionage.
“Red
Sparrow” had potential, maybe,
with a stacked cast like that, but
it fell short.
‘Red Sparrow’ is a dull stab
SOPHIA WHITE
Daily Arts Writer
“Red Sparrow”
20th Cetury Fox
Quality 16, Rave
Cinemas Ann Arbor
FILM REVIEW