Barry Berkman (Bill Hader,
“Saturday Night Live”) is just
your
average
guy,
perhaps
worryingly
so.
Literally,
he ticks all the boxes. He’s
presumably middle-aged, lives
in the Midwest and is going
through a crisis of sorts. You
know, the typical daily onset of
existential dread and general
dissatisfaction
with,
well,
everything. Furthermore, his
past as a Marine continues to
play a role in his life, haunting
him in the process. To put it quite
frankly, his life simply sucks.
You can even probably guess his
occupation. Accountant? Tax
attorney? Disgruntled engineer?
Nope — hitman.
As he explains towards the
end of episode one of HBO’s
titular show, he was approached
by a close family friend, Monroe
Fuches (Stephen Root, “Get
Out”), to continue doing what
he was always good at doing:
killing people. To shake things
up a bit, Fuches assigns Barry to
travel to L.A. to carry out a job
for the (gulp) Chechen mob — a
group he calls one of the scariest
he’s ever worked with. Once in
L.A., he unwittingly walks into
an acting class while stalking
his prey, and like thousands
who flock to the city every year,
he develops a slow realization
that no, he doesn’t want to be a
hitman. He wants to be an actor.
Just
one
episode
in,
I
think that this show can be
summarized by one sentence:
Bill
Hader
is
an
all-star.
Channeling his inner Orson
Welles, he steps into the role
of executive producer, writer
and lead actor, but in a role
that feels strikingly different
from
what
we’ve
come
to
expect from him. He is tight-
lipped and convincingly plays a
man who is just sick of his life.
Rather than expressing his skill
in more flamboyant ways, his
acting as Barry is subtle and
understated. Killing for him is
just a job. There’s no glamour,
no excitement, nor the danger
one would expect from such a
profession. He doesn’t actually
relish any kills and takes a
nonchalant, passive view to his
job.
Compounding
everything,
he is completely alone, which
is why his life changes as he
finds a community in the group
of actors he meets. Taught by
the brilliant Gene Cousineau
(Henry
Winkler,
“Better
Late Than Never”), the group
consists
of
several
out-of-
towners who come to L.A. to
pursue their dreams. Most work
during the day as bartenders or
personal trainers rather than
hitmen, but Barry finds himself
drawn to them nonetheless,
regaining some sort of spark
in his humdrum life. Despite
this massive change, Hader’s
acting makes this surprisingly
believable.
Barry’s stonefaced, robotic
nature makes him quite an
effective
hitman,
but
it’s
not quite clear how he will
eventually open up to become
an actor, especially one that
Cousineau will come to respect.
Nonetheless, “Barry”’s mix of
violence and comedy already
prevalent in the season premiere
are encouraging and make this
show one to keep your eye on.
“Barry”
Series Premiere
Sundays @ 10:30
p.m.
HBO
‘Barry’ is Bill Hader at his
hilarious and lethal best
SAYAN GHOSH
Daily Arts Writer
TV REVIEW
HBO
I don’t know about you, but
I think political satire has lost
some of its edge. Maybe that’s
a reflection of the changing
times, or maybe the current
presidential
administration
has simply made it too easy.
Regardless, as iteration after
iteration of the dumb, tactless
attempts
at
commentary
brought to us by such offerings
as Showtime’s “Our Cartoon
President” manage to hold our
societal attention, one can’t
help but feel disappointed in
the state of modern satire.
That’s not to say the genre has
completely declined — Alec
Baldwin and co. of Saturday
Night Live remain as savvy as
ever — however it feels as if our
societal supply of fresh insights
on
the
American
political
landscape is dwindling.
Enter “The Death of Stalin,”
the latest release from writer
and director Armando Iannucci.
The film centers around the
Soviet Council of Ministers —
including appearances from the
likes of Steve Buscemi (“Leo”)
as Nikita Kruschev and Jeffrey
Tambor (“55 Steps”) as Georgy
Malenkov — as they frantically
try to make sense of the chaos
that follows the death of Soviet
dictator
Josef
Stalin.
The
world of “The Death of Stalin”
is one where the political
is inextricably tied to the
personal, where an impulsive
despot presides over a nation,
and where everything is taken
to the most extreme degree.
There’s no better illustration
of the type of world the film
occupies than in the opening
sequence, where Stalin requests
a recording of a concerto being
performed
in
Moscow,
but
there’s only one problem: The
performance has just ended.
Fearing
grim
consequences,
the employees of the concert
hall frantically scramble to get
the audience to return to their
seats and for the orchestra to
start over from the beginning.
It’s gut-bustingly hilarious, but
it’s also a grave reminder of
how the world quakes beneath
the boots of tyrants with every
action they make.
The film spends its entire
runtime performing this very
balancing act, never letting
the audience forget the gravity
of
its
own
ridiculousness,
while
simultaneously
never
letting itself stray too far from
its
absurdity.
Many
other
aspects of the film carry this
duplicitous nature, such as
how a film can offer biting
satire
of
American
politics
while being set in a different
country
during
a
different
time period. In some ways, this
dichotomy is crucial; the Soviet
Union and communism stand
as the supposed antitheses
to
Trumpist
Republicanism,
and yet one can’t help but
draw
parallels.
The
brash,
reactionary nature of Stalin’s
rule conjures images of the
reported culture of “fear and
intimidation” in the White
House today.
Despite
these
parallels,
Iannucci’s satire never feels
heavy handed. The film makes
no direct comparisons to the
Trump administration, or even
to American politics in general,
because that’s not quite the
point of the film. Iannucci isn’t
trying to say that Donald Trump
is a tyrant, or responsible for
anywhere near the level of
horror that Stalin inflicted upon
his people; rather, watching the
film is like looking in a funhouse
mirror at an absurd and vaguely
horrifying
image
in
which
we can’t help but see vestiges
of our reality. The film does
less to harpoon any specific
administration than it does to
draw attention to the insanity
of an entire branch of political
development,
one
centered
around despotism, fear and the
cult of personality.
Throughout
the
film’s
runtime,
this
omnipresent
sense of foreboding never fully
lets the audience go. As fits of
laughter turn to sickened gasps,
we are reminded again and
again of how shockingly human
— that is to say, how shockingly
cruel and illogical — governance
can be. Iannucci poses greater
questions concerning why and
how man seeks power, and
what it turns him into when he
obtains it. “The Death of Stalin”
toys with this dark streak in
human nature, as if playing
jump rope with it. It’s in this
way that Iannucci masterfully
paints a vivid — and often
uproariously funny — picture of
the insanity of despotism.
“The Death of
Stalin”
Michigan Theater
Quad Productions
‘The Death of Stalin’ is a
terrifyingly funny satire
MAX MICHALSKY
Daily Arts Writer
FILM REVIEW
eONE FILMS
I was fooled by “Leave it In
My Dreams,” the first single
off The Voidz’s sophomore
effort, Virtue. I thought this
was going to be a Strokes
album. The muted riffs and
sharp lyrics sound like an
Angles bonus track.
But this is not a Strokes
album, and it’s not exactly
an album either. Virtue feels,
instead, like a collection of
everything frontman Julian
Casablancas couldn’t do with
that
aforementioned
band.
It’s an outpouring of musical
frustration.
It’s a mess, one that isn’t
well served by determinations
of “good” or “bad.” Some
tracks excel, others confuse,
but Virtue isn’t the sum of its
unbalanced parts.
And
Casablancas
would
probably love that designation.
After his bonkers interview
with Vulture, we know he’s a
man whose steadfast ideologies
are all but completely removed
from reality. He’s easy to
confuse with a certain love
interest from a certain Best
Picture Nominee. Yes, that’s
right. L’Enfance Nue is older,
but in no way grown up.
And
the
Julian/Kyle
parallel has never been more
apparent than on Virtue. “I
was soon sent off to school /
Where the teachers gave me
poison / And I drank it like a
fool,” Casablancas sings on
“Think Before You Drink, ”
a track sonically reminiscent
of “I’ll Try Anything Once.”
He’s rightfully preoccupied
with the world’s suffering and
decay, but hasn’t yet grown out
of seeing himself at its center.
On “Lazy Boy” — a song
that lyrically could’ve been
written by that one band from
your high school (see previous
“Lady
Bird”
reference)
—
Casablancas sings: “Jackets
are the eyes to the soul,”
proving he can actually be
self reflective. Casablanca’s
rebranding
of
a
specific
downtown cool for the new
millennium
cemented
The
Strokes in the visual cultural
memory. He seems, here, to be
trying to reconcile his desire
for musical recognition and his
whole-hearted condemnation
of music the world deems
“popular.” It’s a true Catch-22
for Julian: Fame is for frauds
and obsolescence is for the
untalented.
For brief moments — “Leave
it in My Dreams” and “All
Wordz Are Made Up” — Virtue
sees The Voidz letting go,
leaning wholeheartedly into a
kind of joyful existentialism.
Nothing matters! Isn’t that
sort of fun? “No one will care
about this in 10 years,” he
sings on “All Wordz Are Made
Up,” in another moment of
Virtue
The Voidz
Cult Records
With new ‘Virtue’ Julian
Casablancas looks back
MADELEINE GAUDIN
Managing Arts Editor
self awareness. He seems to
understand the shelf life of
his specific celebrity brand,
and his precarious position
in
popular
culture.
But
these tracks lack the self-
lamentation found in other
corners of the album. They’re,
even
if
only
momentarily,
carefree in their nihilism.
Virtue is an operation in
nostalgia that tries to front as
forward thinking. Casablancas
got slammed for rewriting the
’70s with The Strokes. With
The Voidz, he’s moved his
musical homage a decade into
the future — mining the ’80s in
all their synth-filled, vocally
distorted glory. In that sense,
Virtue is progressive for an
artist obsessed with the past.
But it’s not progressive for
2018, not really.
Casablancas isn’t looking
into the future at all. In many
ways, Virtue feels like a last
ditch effort — one final shot to
get all the things in his head
into an album. In a move that
leans more towards a mixtape
than a cohesive album, The
Voidz bounce from art rock to
synth pop to a weird attempt
at metal (the aptly titled
“Pyramid of Bones”). It’s as
disjointed as it is unbalanced.
But,
as
we
know,
when
Casablancas is on, he’s on and
when he’s not, he’s so earnest
in his attempt that you can’t
help but applaud it.
For moments he feels jaded
in his surrender to middle age.
While his primary business
has always been nostalgia,
Casablancas
seems
to
be
looking back on his own life:
his youth, his angst, his glory.
And it’s hard to blame him,
The Strokes rocked. So we can
revel in this mess of an album
a little longer than most, cut
it’s chaos more slack than
we otherwise would. Virtue
is exactly what we knew
would happen when Julian
Casablancas had to finally
grow up.
There are very few things
I know to be absolute truths
but among them are these:
New York rock isn’t dead yet
and Julian Casablancas is no
longer it’s savior. And maybe
he never was.
CULT RECORDS
MUSIC REVIEW
‘The Death of
Stalin’ toys with
this dark streak
in human nature,
as if playing jump
rope with it
In many ways,
Virtue feels
like a last
ditch effort —
one final shot
to get all the
things in his
head into
an album
6A — Monday, April 2, 2018
Arts
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com