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