On Wed., March 14, Maize
Collective — in partnership with
Universal
Music
Group
and
Innovate Blue — hosted the first
of a series of three music business
panels titled “Industry Insight:
Songwriters, Producers and Studio
Musicians.” Held at the University
of Michigan Museum of Art’s
auditorium, the panel provided
aspiring Ann Arbor artists with tips
for success in the music business
and featured an array of musicians,
including Yungblud, a new signee to
Geffen Records and rising hip-hop
star, Evan Haywood, a musician
and multimedia artist based in
Ann Arbor, Kasan Belgrave, a Jazz
Studies sophomore concentrating
in clarinet and alto sax and DeNero
Montez, a Detroit native singer and
songwriter who has written for
Justin Bieber.
The panel, moderated by Veniece
Session of Ann Arbor’s Neutral
Zone,
addressed
songwriting
techniques,
royalties,
musical
influences and the overall daily life
of a career musician. Yungblud,
who performed a few hours later
at the Majestic Theatre in Detroit,
was given the most immediate
attention before leaving early for his
show. His charismatic persona and
unfiltered stream of consciousness
was enticing, providing an example
to the many aspiring musicians
in the crowd of a young and fresh
musician who successfully “made
it” in the music business while
maintaining
his
rambunctious
attitude. When asked by Session
— who herself has experience
working with independent artists
— if signing to a major label has
hindered his creative process,
Yungblud replied, “To be honest, I
figured out who I was before I got
signed. And, if you know that and
you deep down know who you are,
then how are they going to change
that? They signed you for a reason,
because they like you and like your
sound.”
Next, Session asked Montez
to elaborate on the songwriting
process. He offered an easy-
to-comprehend
explanation
of
songwriting and the business of
copyright, stressing the importance
of submitting your work to BMI
(Broadcast Music, Inc.) or ASCAP
(American Society of Composers,
Authors and Publishers) as well
as registering your lyrics with the
Library of Congress. Haywood also
interjected, advising the crowd to
always run paperwork by a lawyer
before signing, avoiding any chance
that you as a songwriter would lose
the rights to your masters.
Later, after Yungblud left for
his show and the panel grew more
intimate, the floor opened for
audience questions and the panel
was asked to speak on how they
remain original in their music while
having artists they admire. Belgrave
raised a point that was met with
nods of agreement from both the
panelists and the audience, saying,
“Automatically, we are subject to
music that comes before us so we
are automatically paying homage
to music before us. Music is always
moving, always evolving so I think
you have to hear things from the
past to create new sounds.”
The panel closed with Haywood
offering young musicians a word
of advice: “Keep making music,
keep putting it out in any way,” he
said. “No one will hear it at first
and eventually you’ll start getting
traction and building a fan base.
Those fans will stick with you if
you’re a nice person. Be kind and
open and caring. Support your
friends and make a community.
Then, when you get that success,
you will have friends holding you
up.”
The memory is a subjective
entity that is so personal and
biased that it often becomes
difficult to distinguish memories
from complete imaginations. The
idea of the intersection between
the memory and the imagination
is probed in the Austrian/German
film “The Impossible Picture”
by Sandra Wollner (“Viktor”).
The picture is constructed in
disconnected narrative fragments,
almost vignettes, of everyday life
in 1950s Vienna in a home where a
secret women’s circle emerges. The
title itself probably refers to the
way that it is not possible to ever
get the “full picture” of life, due to
this subjective nature of memory,
which beguiles the mind, making
memories themselves unreliable.
The
memory
is
not
the
only unreliable player in “The
Impossible Picture.” Its narrator
is unclear and switches, creating
an ominous and ambiguous tale
that makes it difficult for the
audience to understand whose
story is being told and who is
telling it. Characters talk in code,
obsess over death — especially
the children — and question their
existence. Formally, the home
video style, shot on 8mm film,
makes the characters seem close
to us. We get an intimate peek into
their lives, which are filled with
mystery and taboo. The home
video camera narrative produced
by this shaky-cam, grainy film
effect is joined by broken dialogue
that cuts in and out. Together,
these formal elements succeed in
inserting us into the space of the
private home, though Wollner
may have brought us too close.
Wollner doesn’t hold back in
displaying visceral and graphic
images on screen, from dead
animals to bloody innards and
queasy
subject-matter.
With
these aesthetics, Wollner creates
a creepy dissonance, especially
with the lack of a reliable narrator,
which causes the audience to
lack trust. Johanna, the possible
narrator, says herself, “Memory is
unreliable, it might as well be the
future.” These existential doubts
and questions were present on
the screen, but they were too
present. The film pushes almost
too far in the abstract that it
causes it to be hard to follow. A
classic experimental film that
leans maybe too far into the
experimental,
“An
Impossible
Picture” is an attempt to scrutinize
the span of the memory, but it leans
a bit too far toward the abstract for
any real conclusions to be drawn.
‘Those Who Come, Will
SOPHIA WHITE
Daily Arts Writer
The whole truth and nothing
but the truth. Honesty is the best
policy. The truth will set you free.
These
platitudes,
immediately
recognizable to any American,
emphasize just how much value
our society places on authenticity.
However, whether our actions
align with our perceptions of truth
is another story entirely. Much
of America’s history, especially
that regarding its treatment of
African-Americans, is built upon
lies,
deception
and
brutality.
Beneath a glossy exterior of
“purple mountain majesties” and
“amber waves of grain” there is rot,
a suppressed darkness and a dirty
and sickening reality that “America
the beautiful” is much uglier than
she is portrayed as being. Through
his
powerful
and
extremely
personalized documentary, “Did
You Wonder Who Fired the Gun?,”
Travis Wilkerson punctures the
underbelly of the 1940s American
South, exposing the blatant reality
of racial hatred and unjust violence
that lies beneath, remnants of
which permeate society today.
Wilkerson begins his work
with a clear objective: to unveil the
truth about his great grandfather,
S.E Branch, a white man guilty of
murdering Bill Spann, a Black man
in 1946 rural Ala.. Digging deep
into his family history, Wilkerson
travels
around
conducting
interviews with the few willing
relatives and townspeople he can
find in hopes of confirming his
great-grandfather’s
crimes
and
searching for scraps of knowledge
about Spann. With expert mixing
of color and black and white
sequences, use of sound and
incorporation
of
contemporary
racial content, Wilkerson creates
an impactful and haunting piece of
art that leaves audience members
reflecting long after the lights go
up. In one of the most intriguing
and creative segments of the film,
Wilkerson intersperses old, cheery
home videos of his grandparents
and
extended
family,
while
simultaneously voicing-over the
certificate of death that was filed
for Spann’s murder. The loving
family memories playing on screen
are representative of the attractive
surface level illusion of life in
America at the time. But beneath
this picture-perfect façade is the
truth, a murder that really did
happen, but went unacknowledged
because the man who lost his life
was Black.
The film’s perspective is unique
in that it uses the personal story
of Wilkerson’s grandfather as a
vehicle to unpack racism both
at the time and today. Dispersed
among
clips
unravelling
the
mystery
behind
Wilkerson’s
great-grandfather’s
crime
are
other segments reflecting on the
contemporary
racial
situation
in the United States. Sudden
interjections of solid, blindingly-
white screens serve as literal
“wake up calls,” jolting viewers
to attention. A rhythmic, African-
inspired beat begins to play, as the
names of African Americans —
Sandra Bland, Trayvon Martin and
Eric Garner to name a few — who
recently perished at the hand of
the law bounce across the screen,
followed by phrases reading, “Say
his name” and “Say her name.”
The words feel like calls to action,
sending chills down audience
members’ spines.
Perhaps most haunting however,
is the evidence, or lack thereof, that
Wilkerson collects on Bill Spann.
Aside from his certificate of death
and an unmarked grave stone,
Wilkerson finds next to nothing
on Spann. No family. No records.
Nothing. Spann’s existence was
buried along with him, discarded
by a society that found no value in
remembering him. The absence of
information that Wilkerson obtains
hints again at the theme of truth,
or rather its concealment, that
resurfaces consistently throughout
the film. Wilkerson connects the
disregard of Spann’s murder in the
’40s to the present day, suggesting
that society still turns a blind eye to
the reality of injustice and violence
inflicted upon African Americans.
Through the link he stresses
between present and past racial
climates,
Wilkerson
shatters
the false belief that America is
living in a post-racial society,
illustrating that our past has
in fact become our present. He
compels viewers to not only hear
what he has to say, but to listen.
Ears open, heart pounding and
blood boiling, audiences are filled
with frustration at the incredible
lengths that our nation has gone to
not only commit, but deceive itself
of the wrongs committed against
African Americans. The truth that
the United States has put off facing
is a bitter and shameful one. We
are a nation that fails to protect
and defend all of our citizens. We
have failed. But there is still time
for change, a change that can
only come when we all “Say their
names” together. Sandra Bland.
Trayvon Martin. Eric Garner. To
“Say their names” is to speak the
truth, and it is far past time to start
speaking it.
‘Did You Ever Wonder
Who Fired the Gun?’
SAMANTHA NELSON
Daily Arts Writer
Lifelong friends and directing
duo Takuya Dairiki and Takashi
Miura (“Fine as Usual”) travelled
to Ann Arbor from Japan — their
first time ever visiting the United
States — to compete in the Ann
Arbor Film Festival. In fact, I had
the pleasure of sitting next to them
at the screening. Both men had a
calm, quiet disposition about them,
undercut by a palpable excitement
to show off their work. Their film,
“Honane,” doesn’t feel like it was
made for me to see; in fact, it doesn’t
feel like it was made for anyone,
and that’s one of the greatest
compliments I could give this film.
The movie consists of a series
of phone calls between a man,
Taro, and his Uncle Hiro. Over the
phone, the two watch a collection
of home videos taken by Uncle
Hiro as he travels through the
Japanese countryside. The uncle
and nephew — played by Dairiki
and Miura and never actually
shown on camera — have a
rapport that is immediately
recognizable as the kind that
could only come from a decades-
old bond. In a post-screening
Q&A session, Dairiki and Miura
explained that when the two were
young they would wander through
their neighborhood and shoot
videos. Not videos of anything in
particular, just things they found
fascinating
or
important,
the
creation of art for its own sake
rather than for an audience. This
inspiration is evident throughout
the film, as it truly feels like it was
made solely for Taro and Uncle
Hiro — the audience is just a fly on
the wall.
Uncle Hiro in particular is a focal
point of the film. His camera is our
lens into this world, and as such we
are able to learn so much about his
character solely by what he chooses
to film. At times, we see the mind of
a man enthralled with minutiae:
tiny, condensed shots of the corner
of a refrigerator, or a notch in a
wooden handrail. At other times,
we see a kind of wistful loneliness:
neon signs for udon shops blinking
at night, or the mostly-empty
parking lot of a pachinko parlor. As
we watch these things he chooses
to film, we learn about what Hiro
finds beautiful. In some scenes,
Hiro’s footage is interlaced with
the sounds of someone playing
drums in the distance. He claims
that this is a drum-playing fairy
that lives in the woods near his
home. Watching Hiro’s videos and
listening to him explain his film
paints such an incredibly vivid
image of him, and by the end it feels
like he’s an old friend.
The experience of watching
“Honane” is like someone letting
you in on a well-kept secret, like an
existential conversation between
old friends in the middle of the
night, like driving with friends
through your hometown in the
summer. Watching Uncle Hiro’s
videos, one can’t help but to think
of the joy it is to feel connected to
someone they’ll never meet solely
through experiencing their art.
Dairiki and Miura’s film seems
more intent on communicating
these
fleeting,
undefinable
thoughts and feelings than it is on
telling a story; the result is one of
the most delightful indie films of
the year.
MAX MICHALSKY
Daily Arts Writer
‘Buddha.mov’
JACK BRANDON
Daily Film Editor
The description given in the
Ann Arbor Film Festival directory
for the experimental Spanish film
“RONCO RUMOR REMOTO /
ROUGH REMOTE RUMBLE” is
not very descriptive. It reads: “A
stone falls from a wall, rolls down
to the ground, and suddenly stops.
At that moment, a cloud with a
very similar shape passes over.”
There is no more. There won’t
be any more. There is nothing
more to say, at least from the
filmmakers.
The
74-minute,
dialogue-
less feature does more by saying
nothing at all; it is a film that
finds curiosity in fairly mundane
actions, without relying on any
pomp or circumstance
to create situations that
seem truly at odds with
normal expectations of
everyday life. “RONCO” follows
a man’s quest to recreate the
shape of a rock he found in an old
ruinous house out of the remnants
of a larger ruinous village. It
seems to deal thematically with
the presence of patterns in nature,
displaying on-screen the beauty
that comes in tandem with a
mathematically created universe.
Not unlike how a cluster of
neurons in the brain may resemble
a cluster of galaxies across the
universe, the fundamental pieces
of this film are fractals — smaller,
secular buds of some common
stem.
And it really is quite a beautiful
film, however trudging, slow,
boring, uneventful and quiet it
may seem. The black-and-white
cinematography
collapses
the
expansive
dessert
landscape
down upon itself, changing the
perception of scale and depth
within the shots. Because much of
the landscape is indistinguishable,
it becomes difficult to tell what is
being shown on screen; the long
dark striations start to look less
like the ridges carved in a glacial
valley, and more like shadows
formed by a small pile of dirt. The
camera work is excellent, probably
the most individually impressive
piece of the film.
There’s not much to say
about performances. The three
characters
portrayed
on
the
screen never share a word, they
hardly even interact. The largest
moment of expression between
any two of them comes at the
end, when the protagonist and
his companion share a moment
of great raucous laughter after
pushing a boulder down the side of
a small mountain. Their laughter
brings them to tears, and as the
moment begins to fade to memory,
so does the screen to black.
‘RONCO RUMOR
JACK BRANDON
Daily Film Editor
REMOTO’
‘The Impossible Picture’
Hear’
Language
extinction,
to
many
Americans,
is
often
something they read about at a
comfortable
distance.
There’s
a certain empathy that they’re
lacking for cultures that have
been erased by the colonialism,
whether it manifested as outright
subjugation or more insidiously
through structures like schools
or other government mandates.
Simon Plouffe’s “Those Who
Come,
Will
Hear,”
which
premiered at the Ann Arbor Film
Festival last week, finds speakers
of Inuit languages near death
in Quebec, and explores the
ways they have responded to the
powers that have eradicated their
ways of life.
Plouffe
profiles
multiple
cultures across the expanse of
Quebec, but his search is never
shallow. Instead of reducing
the speakers to their shared
plight, Plouffe looks at different
responses of each culture, some
more hopeful than others: the
public school system, in one
circumstance, that is reinstating
its native language and ensuring
that young people become literate,
the bingo radio program that is
broadcast in an indigenous tongue
and a moment between mother
and son as they attempt to recall
an old prayer from memory.
In its less direct moments,
“Those Who Come, Will Hear”
probes the connection between
land
and
livelihood.
Plouffe
occasionally abstracts shots of
nature, distorting the image and
overlaying ambient sounds and
monologues
from
indigenous
speakers, who are never named
individually.
Instead,
Plouffe
focuses on the pure sound of the
languages, on the intonation and
pitch. As a result, it seems as if the
land is speaking for all the voices
that have been silenced in the
past.
Despite its focus on a large-
scale social problem, “Those
Who Come, Will Hear” never
attempts to proselytize to its
audience.
Plouffe
does
not
introduce
anything
garish
or
confrontational:
statistics,
interviews with the government or
any outsiders to the communities
he
visits.
He
suggests
that
these places are self-sufficient
and unique, which colonialism
has always challenged. While
there are similarities that have
emerged between the cultures of
indigenous people and Europeans
JACK BRANDON
Daily Arts Writer
after years of cultural exchange,
Plouffe does not whitewash his
subjects. At one point, a father
and son discuss the naming
conventions of tails while the
father examines the carcass of an
otter at the dinner table.
The beauty and honesty of
“Those Who Come, Will Hear” is
so beguiling that it becomes easy
to forget the sadness and tension
that underpins the speakers’
situation.
Instead,
Plouffe
provides a view from the inside
out. For these speakers, there is
no use in brooding over the past.
Resilience and preservation are
not options — they’re promises.
Tuesday, March 27, 2018 — 5
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
‘Honane’