ACROSS
1 Muslim 
pilgrimage
5 Made docile
10 Valley with a 
Wine Train
14 Melville’s “Typee” 
sequel
15 Limber
16 Malicious
17 Bandit band
18 Jackrabbits, e.g.
19 Minimum __
20 *Niacin and 
riboflavin
23 7UP competitor 
since 1961
25 Harbinger
28 *Twenty 
Questions 
question
29 “I could be 
wrong”
33 Knocks firmly
34 Pseudonym
35 Part of LACMA
36 *Earth, Wind 
& Fire hit 
album whose 
title means 
“everything 
considered”
38 “Nothing to shout 
about”
39 Some llama 
herders
41 Nuclear reactor 
component
42 Ceylon, now
43 *Fighter pilot’s 
sensation
45 Kikkoman 
sauces
46 Medical lab 
specimen
47 *Bravura 
performance 
reaction, briefly
51 Copies
54 Pogo stick sound
55 Pac-12 team 
since 2011
59 Mule team beam
60 The way we 
word
61 Snapper rival
62 Baaing mas
63 Domingo, for one
64 Whack

DOWN
1 Ungenerous sort
2 Physicians’ gp.
3 Trevor’s 
predecessor on 
“The Daily Show”

4 Women’s 
sportswear
5 South Seas island
6 Striped quartz
7 Actress Sorvino
8 Grade sch. level
9 Lucie’s dad
10 Rather and 
Cronkite
11 Gardner of the 
silver screen
12 Sty denizen
13 Tavern offering
21 Vitality
22 Prestigious prize
23 They’re not 
selfish
24 The Supremes, 
e.g.
26 Captivates
27 What the ruthless 
show
28 Gets a present 
ready to present
29 Exodus 
sustenance
30 “That’s a shame”
31 Fashion initials
32 Giggle
34 Reactive criticism
36 Salt’s “Halt!”
37 “Hamilton” 
creator 
__-Manuel 
Miranda

40 Once-banned 
James Joyce 
novel
41 Weak excuses
43 __ snap
44 Mariner’s hazard
46 Winning 
exclamation aptly 
arranged and 
spelled by the 
standalone letters 
in the answers to 
starred clues

48 Adjoin
49 Bridge site
50 Primatologist 
Fossey
51 Pro vote
52 Comics punch 
sound
53 Scrape (out)
56 Little kid
57 Historical 
period
58 Cry out 
loud

By Ed Sessa
©2018 Tribune Content Agency, LLC
09/26/18

Los Angeles Times Daily Crossword Puzzle

Edited by Rich Norris and Joyce Nichols Lewis

09/26/18

ANSWER TO PREVIOUS PUZZLE:

Release Date: Wednesday, September 26, 2018

NETFLIX

‘Maniac’ doesn’t meet expectations

Filmmaker Cary Fukunaga 

was recently announced as the 
next director to helm the “Bond” 
franchise. A daring, creative 
artist with an incredible track 
record (including the acclaimed 
first season of “True Detective” 
and Sundance darling “Beasts of 
No Nation”), Fukunaga uses his 
artistic genius to great effect in 
Netflix’s “Maniac.” Despite a 
massive budget and star-studded 
cast, however, the series offers 
little of note.

“Maniac” 
takes 
place 
in 

futuristic 
New 
York, 
one 

where capitalism is taken to 
an untenable extreme. Owen 
Mulgrim 
(Jonah 
Hill, 
“The 

Lego Batman Movie”) is a rather 
depressed-looking heir of an 
industrialist family, forced to 
testify in the trial of one of his 
brothers while suffering from 
schizophrenic 
hallucinations. 

Meanwhile, Annie (Emma Stone, 

“Battle of the Sexes”) is a fellow 
New Yorker and the pair cross 
paths in a drug study conducted 
by a foreboding pharmaceutical 
company.

Not much else happens in 

the premiere. At the end of the 
episode, I still have no idea 
what the personalities of the 
characters are and 
the nature of the 
world they live in. 
Sure, 
everything 

is very pleasing to 
look at. This version 
of New York is dark 
and brooding (as almost every 
version of the future seems to be). 
The old computers contribute 
to a “vaporwave” atmosphere. 
The pharmaceutical company, 
headed by two Japanese doctors 
played 
by 
Sonoya 
Mizuno 

(“Crazy Rich Asians”) and Rome 
Kanda (“The Informant”), is 
sleek 
and 
minimalistic, 
the 

familiar intersection of analog 
and digital. The city is filled 
with services that make Uber 
and Doordash seem completely 
primitive; here, you’ll find people 

whose entire existences are 
dedicated to pestering you about 
products as well as services that 
provide replacement husbands 
for widows.

But beyond the pretty visuals, 

the pilot’s pacing is depressingly 
slow. 
Combined 
with 
the 

gloomy portrayal of the city, 

the 
40-minute 

running 
time 

feels more like 
an 
hour. 
The 

prologue 
wastes 

Justin 
Theroux 

(“The Leftovers”) 

with a dreary narration of dross 
about amoebas and the big bang. 
Unfortunately, Hill’s acting also 
contributes to the glacial pace. 
He stays on more or less the 
same note throughout the entire 
episode. He’s not emulating 
the stoic melancholy of Ryan 
Gosling in “Drive,” but rather a 
flat sadness, a single monotone 
expression glued onto his face. 
Even though Owen faces a series 
of 
disturbing 
hallucinations, 

including a recurring fictional 
brother who tells him to watch 

out for a “contact” who will 
help him in his quest to save the 
world, Hill’s acting never lets the 
viewer see beyond the surface of 
Owen’s psyche.

Meanwhile, Stone has little 

to do during the pilot beyond 
popping up here and there to 
encourage Owen’s delusions, but 
her acting is miles more vibrant 
and compelling. The few bright 
spots of the episode are taken 
up by the other characters, 
including Owen’s father Porter 
(Gabriel Byrne, “Hereditary”) 
and other members of the 
WASP-y, brash Milgrim clan.

Hopefully, “Maniac” speeds 

up 
and 
delves 
deeper 
into 

the 
inner 
workings 
of 
the 

pharmaceutical 
trial 
where 

Owen and Annie meet. The world 
the pilot sets up is intriguing in 
its own right, especially in its 
depictions of the gig economy on 
steroids, and there is potential 
to be explored. However, if the 
pilot’s issues are not resolved, 
there is little chance that the 
series develops into more than 
an utter borefest.

SAYAN GHOSH
Daily Arts Writer

‘Maniac’

Netflix

My summer column “Riding 

the New Wave” began with a bit 
of a tongue-in-cheek introduction 
alluding to the dry and predictable 
intro-to-film-study watchlist that a 
student would be given in any film 
school anywhere (probably, I didn’t 
actually do very much research on 
that part). I think any angst I had 
about those sorts of unsurprising 
required viewings came from a 
long-held belief that there should be 
room in the arts for a more nuanced 
discussion on what it means to 
view a “classic,” and what the goal 
of those 90-or-so minutes might be. 

Because a lot of the time, no 

matter how much of a pillar 
of cinema — no matter how 
influential, inspiring or affecting 
— the film may be, it just might be a 
bit boring, a slow watch in the eyes 
of the stimulation-seeking modern 
viewer. At that point the divide 
between those who watch for 
nothing more than entertainment, 
and those who think of themselves 
as champions of “high-art” begins 
to rear its ugly face. I think locking 
someone into one side of that divide 
is terrible, and the column was my 
attempt to begin to bridge the gap, 
diving into the New-Wave back-
catalogue to try and find a selection 
of films that might satiate those 
on both ends of the spectrum. A 
starting point for those who want 
to watch something with some 
historical weight but might not 
have the cinematic stamina to 
make it through “Roshomon.” 
(As an aside, I made a few name-
dropping remarks like this in 
the other bookend of this series 
that didn’t sit well with a reader. I 
think the criticism of my criticism 
of criticism pushed the column 
to be more review-like and semi-
academic, which wasn’t what I 
necessarily wanted on the outset. I 
had hoped to make it a little looser 
and more readable, but I guess 
receiving diminutive feedback is 
the price you pay).

Now, that was the goal, not 

necessarily the execution.

I think there are two central 

flaws to the premise I just laid 
out. One being that, though I 
tried my best, I am not immune 
to my own preference, meaning I 
just plain didn’t like some of the 
movies that I watched, no matter 
how cinematically important they 
proport to be. I think, had I brought 
along with me a team of similarly 
motivated writers into the depths of 
the New Wave, we together would 
have been able to compile a more 
diverse list of films that can both 
hang with the “Casablanca”s of the 
world and manage to entertain in 
their own right. Specifically looking 
back at the series, I think the genres 
that Godard operates in just don’t 
excite me like they might someone 
else, making my hot-“Breathless”-
takes worthless. 

The other central flaw was the 

lack of representation. I ended 
up watching around a dozen 
midcentury French films over the 
summer, which just isn’t enough to 
fully put a finger to the pulse of the 
movement. This issue would have 
had a similar solution, enlisting 
some other writers to watch and 
critique with me, but this was 
supposed to result in a column, so 
that just wasn’t going to happen. 
However, I don’t want to spend this 
entire conclusion on the pitfalls of 
“Riding the New Wave” — at some 
point I need to start talking about 
the films.

So, without further ado, let’s 

begin with this fated fun and 
educational 
French 
film 
list. 

Clocking in at number one (one 
through three really) is the work 
of director Eric Rhomer. Rhomer 
made a series of six films in the 
late ’60s and early ’70s called 
“Rhomer’s Six Moral Tales,” and 
I watched the later half of the 
sextet for the fifth installment in 
the series. I think Rhomer’s films 
might be the best starting point 
for anyone looking to dip their toes 
in the New Wave, because they 
are very recognizable character 
studies that deal with somewhat 
flawed and adrift protagonists. The 
interpersonal dramas he places on 
screen have a lot of familiar and 
accessible elements that don’t lose 
anything over time. They’re also 
just wonderfully shot and paced 
(I think “Claire’s Knee” might be 
a five star film), and watching one 
after another has a cool effect, since 
Rhomer reuses the same basic story 
beats in each one — all of the moral 
tales are, in some way, about a man 
who drifts away from a love, only to 
return in the end.

The work of the two Left-Bank 

group directors that I watched 
would probably slot next in line. 
The 
Left-Bank 
group 
was 
a 

collection of directors who were 
separate from the original “Cahiers 
du Cinema,” the filmmakers who 
all got their start as critics at the 
same magazine. I wrote more about 
the similarities and differences in 

the sixth article of this column. The 
Left-Bank films I watched, “Cleo 
from Five to Seven” and “Umbrellas 
of Cherbourg,” are fairly different, 
but they noticeably set themselves 
apart from the “Cahiers” films. 
“Cleo” and “Umbrellas” seem 
more attuned to sensitivity than 
the works of Godard and Truffuat, 
the two leading Cahiers. The Left-
Bank films deal with less violence 
and criminality and end up feeling 
a lot lighter in general.

It feels strange placing them 

so low on my personal totem pole, 
but I just don’t think “Breathless” 
and “Jules and Jim” really hold up. 
They’re movies that have plenty 
of worth if viewing them in a 
specifically academic setting, but 
for the purposes of this column, I 
don’t think they’re the way to go. 

I hope in some strange way 

my 
previous 
eight-thousand 

disembodied words on classic 
French film has guided you 
towards a life of well-rounded 
cinema taste and appreciation. I 
hope that I haven’t dissuaded you 
from enjoying Godard or hating 
Rhomer — as it turns out, creating 
a list of films that is supposed to 
work for everyone is something I 
can’t do, because I am not everyone. 
Nonetheless, there is so much 
more past this column to discover 
and explore, and I would feel 
accomplished if I had motivated 
you to continue in even the smallest 
of ways. 

Riding the New Wave: A conclusion

FILM NOTEBOOK

CRITERION

I love staircases

NO FILTER

Freshman year, I lived on the 

eighth floor of South Quad, in 
the room closest to the elevator. 
When I say closest to the elevator, 
I mean legitimately right by it. No 
drab hallway standing in between 
the elevator and my door. If I was 
taking big strides, I could get to 
my door in five steps and fewer 
seconds. I could open and close 
my door faster than the elevator 
could do. If my roommates were 
particularly 
quiet 
any 
given 

evening, I could hear many a 
muffled “GOING DOWN” while 
dozing off. We had no neighbors, 
or perhaps we had the most, as that 
elevator room hosted more people 
over those two semesters than any 
cramped double ever could.

The 
two 
elevators 
were, 

initially, my friends. They lifted a 
bin full of all my crap for move-in 
up more stories than I ever could, 
and quickly to boot. On long, 
raucous nights, they offered me a 
rectangular chamber of reflection 
before I unskillfully climbed then 
crashed into my bunk bed. They 
made the wait for pizza or wings or 
cookies a bit more bearable.

The left elevator was inclined 

to break down, however, and I 
grew to fear it. Leaving for class 
one day and seeing a repairman 
lying prone on the floor, flashlight 
in hand, with cries for rescue in 
the distance didn’t help, either. 
There was a rare chance for one 
or the other or both to be caked 
with vomit, random expelled 
libations and burritos from the 
night before. And what could be a 
meditative sanctuary when alone 
was transformed into a playground 
for social anxiety when flanked by 
people on all sides.

There isn’t any specific day 

when it started, but not too long 
into my college career I tried 
to take the stairs as much as 
possible. All eight flights of them. 
“It’s exercise,” I chastised my 
sluggish self. That usually got me 
up and climbing after eating too 
big a helping of vanilla soft serve 
with my signature Fruity Pebbles 
garnish, or halfway through days 
with long breaks between classes 
and short walks. Yet I still tried 
to opt for the stairs on exhausting 
days, days where I rode multiple 
buses and walked across multiple 
diags and sat endlessly in multiple 
classrooms.

Maybe it was the possibility 

of saying hello to fellow 8th 
Huber residents because the most 
convenient staircase gave me a 
considerably longer path to my 
room than the elevator. Maybe it 
was the thought of what I would 

cinematographically 
look 
like 

dancing up the stairs from a static, 
exterior lens, as the eight windows 
only afforded glimpses of my 
gallivanting. Maybe what kept 
me stair-stepping was the bliss 
of stomping along synchronously 
to the beat of Franz Ferdinand’s 
“Take Me Out.”

A lot of stairways on campus 

are targets of ire, but I think they 
deserve better. (Except for any 
set of stairs in Mason Hall, which 
are all congested and clammy and 
as dreadful as the Math 116 class 
I had in that silly building). A 
staircase presents its own special 
experience: Walking up to the 4th 
floor of the MLB is an odyssey 
of lighting and varying stair 
width, the many floors of Haven 
Hall have a certain medieval bell 
tower-esque whimsy to them, the 
twisting stairs tucked in the side of 
the Union (may she rest in peace) 
allow for an interior appreciation 
of its ivy-covered architecture, 
Hatcher’s dueling grand staircases 
brace you for the studious battle 
ahead. A ride on an elevator is 
fundamentally the same now as it 
was 160 years ago when Elisha Otis 
was still farting around.

Stairs work our minds as much 

as they work our bodies by giving us 
a steadfast stage for contemplation 
and expression. They have a 
greater ability to move than their 
mechanical rivals, despite being 
set in stone. They provide a lush 
canvas as an artistic medium, from 
their tangible aesthetic flourishes 
to their ability to frame in film. 
Take “Inception,” a film whose 
lauded special effects could easily 
visualize the impossible Penrose 
stairs but could only make a scene 
in an elevator exciting through 
the addition of zero gravity. M. C. 
Escher might have been less of a 
household name if he decided to 
sketch endless elevators.

I’m not advocating for some sort 

of crusade against elevators — “Cut 
the Cables of Oppression!” — all 
I’m saying is that staircases have 
been here before elevators and 
will probably be here after. Stairs 
still remain more practical and 
important and ask your local fire 
marshal if you’re not convinced. 
You could ride the same elevator 
for a lifetime and have only a tiny 
fraction of the distinct experiences 
walking up the stairs would grant 
you.

I could escape into the stairwell 

of that first dorm of mine and leave 
my mom a voicemail telling her 
how much I love her and appreciate 
her after watching “Lady Bird” 
and noticing my family and the 
McPhersons have the same cherry 
red “You are special today” plate. 
I don’t think I could’ve spit out 
the same sentiment on a quick, 
crowded elevator ride.

ROBERT MANSUETTI

Daily Arts Writer

STEPHEN SATARINO

Daily Arts Writer

TV REVIEW

6A — Wednesday, September 26, 2018
Arts
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com

