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Arts
Friday, February 8, 2019 — 5
“Those goody-good people
who worked shitty jobs for bum
paychecks and took the subway
to work every day and worried
about their bills were dead. If we
wanted something, we just took
it. If anyone complained twice
they got hit so bad, believe me,
they never complained again.”
These
are
the
words
of
none other than Henry Hill,
one of the most fascinating
gangsters to ever live. He is
both a very real person and the
quietly ironic, flawed antihero
of
Martin
Scorsese’s
biopic
“Goodfellas.”
The
film
was
adapted, often verbatim, from
“Wiseguy,” Nicholas Pileggi’s
nonfictional chronicle of Hill’s
life, remaining largely true to
the
man’s
experiences.
I’ve
always
loved
crime
stories,
especially
those
about
the
intricate inner workings of a
sprawling organization or with
the charming wit of a film like
“Goodfellas.” But it wasn’t until
I read the film’s source material
that I started to question the
relationship between organized
crime and the importance of its
filmic parallels.
Surely,
the
two
are
not
mirrors of each other. But in the
case of “Goodfellas,” much of
the heart, shaky morality and
general tone remained identical
from the nonfiction book to the
dramatized movie. The thing
about organized crime in film,
however, is that there isn’t
simply one brand of it. For as
long as I’ve been watching crime
stories, I’ve noticed just how
eclectic they can be, a range of
different stories based on the
different
locales,
ideologies,
backgrounds and values. I want
to take a deeper look into the
differences among these stories
to more completely understand
what they say about our daring
and our flaws. This is the first
installment in a series where I’ll
examine several of the varieties
through which organized crime
manifests onto film.
The first lens I’ll glance
into is a cultural one. How
exactly
does
ethnicity
and
region
affect
the
structure,
process, and idiosyncrasies of
a criminal organization? It’s no
easy question to answer, so for
simplicity’s sake, we can narrow
our focus to three films.
To start with, “The Departed”
is probably the most iconic
Boston crime story, showcasing
a largely Irish mob. It is distinct
from its genre siblings in its
small town feel, ruminations
about identity in crime and
detachment from the narratives
that
govern
similar
stories.
Next, I’ll examine the pinnacle
of Italian crime sagas and the
modern standard for American
cinema, “The Godfather” series.
What these films do best in the
light of cultural meaning is to
construct a living, breathing
world where the complex and
hierarchical structure of the
mafia
exists
naturally
and
understandably to any audience.
Both “The Godfather” and “The
Departed” won the Academy
Award
for
Best
Picture
in
1973
and
2003
respectively,
but the equally iconic film
that
completes
this
unholy
triumvirate of modern American
crime stories was infamously
snubbed for the Oscar in 1991.
There’s no better example of
a film that combines these two
culturally disparate depictions
of
organized
crime
than
“Goodfellas,” with Hill himself
being half-Sicilian and half-
Irish. From there, the options
to explore are as numerous as
the term “organized crime” is
amorphous. There’s not just
one kind of crime, and there’s
certainly not just one kind of
crime story.
***
“The Departed,” at its essence,
is an exceptionally smart movie
about cops and criminals saying
incredibly inane things to each
other. Saturated with more than
its fair share of quotable one-
liners and snarky moments, the
movie is an equally intellectual
story of the police and the
mob sending traitors into each
other’s
organizations.
While
identity in “The Departed” can
play a crucial role in accruing
authority or hiding motivation,
a conflict of identity is also the
downfall of many of the film’s
characters. The result is a tense
and often muddled relationship
between the perpetrators and
the persecutors of crime.
Key to this dichotomy, as
stated throughout the film, is
the concept of being Irish. Vera
Farmiga plays a psychiatrist at
the Massachusetts State Police
Department and delves into this
cultural contradiction. At one
point, Matt Damon’s character,
Collin Sullivan, realizes the
struggle she faces, admitting to
her, “You’re up shit’s creek with a
client list full of Mick cops.” The
film continually reinforces the
Irish as having a tendency to veil
their emotions, tying this theme
to the conciliatory nature of the
criminal and police enterprises.
Not only do the Irish in the film
value reservation and stoicism
as a part of who they are, but
they
find
that
these
traits
become necessary for survival
in a underworld of shadows,
calculation and betrayal.
Another distinctly fascinating
feature of the film’s Irish mob is
that criminals are not singularly
concerned
with
power
or
hierarchy.
Of
course,
there
is a head to the organization,
Frank Costello, played by an
entertainingly overacting Jack
Nicholson. But other than him,
none of the other gangsters
care much about the control
they wield. They seem more
concerned with the money and
the sheer joy of recklessness.
During one conversation, Leo
DiCaprio’s Billy Costigan says
to Costello, “I probably could
be you. I know that much. But I
don’t wanna be you, Frank.”
On the other hand, the police
force is more akin to other
criminal organizations in film,
with a cutthroat structure and
a web of secrets. “Work hard
and you’ll rise fast with the
best possible position in the
department,” announces Alec
Baldwin’s Captain Ellerby, near
the film’s start. Those who
succeed
in
the
department,
such as Sullivan (the mole),
do so through deception and
less-than-legal
practices.
For
example, Sullivan impersonates
a convict’s lawyer to extract
information
from
him.
In
the
ambition
to
associate
cops with criminals, Martin
Scorsese actually portrays the
Massachusetts
State
Police
Department
to
a
mob-like
organization,
perhaps
even
more so than the mob itself. The
director’s fascination with moral
ambiguity is not unique to this
film, but might just display itself
most brazenly and effectively
here. The result is a brilliant
twist on the typical dynamics
of crime stories and a mockery
of
the
prescribed
identities
we
assign
to
government
institutions.
“The Departed” is all about
paradoxes.
The
paradox
of
Irish reservation and sculpting
identity,
the
paradox
of
committing
and
preventing
crimes, the paradox of deep
narrative complexity and the
curt dialogue of wise guys. It’s
an ordeal of oxymorons, but one
that manages to hold distinct
place in the canon of organized
crime films.
Undercover in film: A look
at crime in ‘The Departed’
ANISH TAMHANEY
Daily Arts Writer
FILM SERIES
WARNER BROS
WARNER BROS
Until now, each new Girlpool
album has signalled a momentous
stylistic change for the duo — the
strikingly sparse shouting-and-
strumming of their self-titled
EP gave way to an elegant and
idiosyncratic indie in 2015’s Before
The World Was Big, and rather
than settling into this style in the
manner of Frankie Cosmos and
Snail Mail, they toughened
and saturated their sound
in
2017’s
Powerplant.
Each
evolution
of
their
sound has felt deliberate,
their music retaining its
essential characteristics as
the duo gained confidence
and
explored
new
sonic
horizons. While this stylistic
restlessness
continues
—
Cleo Tucker recently said in
an interview for Document
Journal that he is “so over
rock music” — their newest
album What Chaos Is Imaginary is
less an upending than a synthesis
of the styles the band has surveyed
so far and a careful glance in a
new direction.
The new material is subtle,
like a filter on a photograph.
There are several songs on the
new album that would fit in on
Powerplant, and the newness is
mostly layered atop this solid
foundation. A few songs are
adorned with the incandescent
glow of an electric organ, there
are occasional experiments with
drum machines, the recording
and production style is generally
thicker and dreamier, a few
songs remind the less submerged
moments
in
Beach
House’s
discography. Possibly the most
striking moment on the album is
the title track, on which Harmony
Tividad’s voice hovers over a
sparse arrangement that is later
unexpectedly (but seamlessly)
joined by a string quartet. It
almost brings to mind Lana Del
Rey in its expansive sweep; it
made me feel as though Girlpool
were always destined for this
scale. That the following track,
“Hoax And The Shrine,” opens
with
an
unadorned
acoustic
guitar is a reminder of the band’s
scope — the album hangs together
improbably well considering the
eclecticism of its materials.
Between
the
recording
of
Powerplant and What Chaos Is
Imaginary, Cleo Tucker began
his
gender
transition,
which
included testosterone injections
that lowered his voice by about an
octave. Girlpool’s earliest music
was defined by the close proximity
of Tucker and Tividad’s voices,
which sang in close harmony
when not in unison to the point
of
sonic
indistinguishability.
While neither of them take the
role of “fronting” the group now,
they take turns taking the lead
instead of singing in unison. This
separateness mirrors the creative
process that the duo approached
for the album — Tividad
and Tucker were known to
have a tightly collaborative
creative process, but for this
album they lived separately
and wrote songs on their
own. Many of the songs on
this album can be found in
demo form on Tividad and
Tucker’s separate bandcamp
and soundcloud pages, but on
the album, the other member
of the duo usually joins in on
background vocals in a role
gently supportive rather than
enmeshed.
If Girlpool’s music is “about”
anything when considered as
a whole, it’s about navigating
a
burgeoning
adulthood
—
ambition, anxiety, love and its
nearby feelings, the constant
shifting of overlapping comfort
zones.
While
Girlpool
have
thoroughly matured as musicians,
the album still lives in the
yearning mental spaces of their
first releases, thoroughly elevated
and expanded.
Girlpool’s latest is stunning
ANTI- RECORDS
EMILY YANG
Daily Arts Wrtier
What Chaos is
Imaginary
Girlpool
ANTI- Records
ALBUM REVIEW
I was nearing the end of a
long overnight shift working
as an emergency department
scribe just outside of Ann
Arbor. It was a slow night,
having
only
seen
around
ten patients by halftime at 4
a.m., so I indulged myself by
studying for my upcoming
organic chemistry exam. My
eyes and I began the end-of-
shift descent into lethargy; I
began to move more slowly,
my computer screen seemed
fuzzier than before and I
started to inadvertently tune
out my periphery. I had a few
hours yet in my shift to get
through, but I had certainly
hit the wall. I meandered
over to the coffee machine
tucked in the corner of the
department and grabbed a
Styrofoam cup. The coffee
machine looked like it was
out of the ’90s, with all of its
once-white
now
yellowed,
and a red Folgers label that
had faded to burnt pink.
But one should never judge
a book by its cover, and in
that vein, one should not
predict the quality of coffee
based on the appearance of
its maker. I crunched the
“regular” button on the side
of the machine and watched
the dark liquid quickly fill
the cup. After staying my
hand for a few seconds to
allow it to cool, I took a sip of
the hospital coffee.
This
hospital
coffee
was rich. It was rich like
a Van Boven regular who
purchases items that aren’t
on clearance. It was rich like
someone who can buy a venti
and only drink a tall’s worth
of coffee. It was rich like a
new textbook, even though
the used copy was drastically
less expensive.
I am not certain if it was,
but this hospital coffee sure
tasted fresh. It was fresh
like syllabus week or an
untouched copy of The Daily.
It was fresh like seeing tour
groups at the University of
Michigan for the Class of
2023. It was fresh like a new
lab coat, instead of one that
had just been poorly washed
from last semester. These
are all things I’ve seen and/
or done before, like the
coffee I’ve consumed before,
but
there
is
undoubtedly
something
about
the
re-experiences thereof that
act as catalysts for dusty,
motivational bursts waiting
in my pituitary.
This hospital coffee was
rejuvenating. It was as if I
had spent a summer abroad,
in Paris or Rome or Madrid,
to find myself and finish my
language requirement. All of
my curiosities about the world
refreshed, with an entirely
new
set
of
experiences
under my belt. And though I
enjoyed said time abroad, I
told everyone that asked that
I was happy to return home
and get back into the regular
swing of things. But even
after returning home, I kept
wondering if maybe I didn’t
utilize
the
study
abroad
opportunity as well as I
should have. I mean, study
abroad is a great opportunity
that looks great on a resume,
but maybe I should have
chosen somewhere different?
Somewhere more applicable
for my major? Maybe it didn’t
matter anyway. I’ve only got
a couple of years left before
graduate school. I only had
a few hours before that shift
was up. This hospital coffee
had the same effect as a
study abroad program, only
without the debt.
This hospital coffee was
reassuring. It told me to
close my organic textbook
and reassured me that my
exam would turn out alright.
It reminded me that I could
sleep the following day. It
reminded me that no matter
when the next patient comes
in and no matter what they
present with, during that
shift or in the distant future,
the hospital coffee would
be there. I can’t be certain
as to whether it will mimic
this particular episode, but
I do know that that was one
phenomenal cup of coffee.
On not judging a coffee by
its cover: How I found the
best cup ever in a hospital
COMMUNITY CULTURE NOTEBOOK
ZACHARY M.S. WAARALA
Daily Arts Wrtier
This hospital
coffee was rich.
It was rich like
a Van Boven
regular who
purchases items
that aren’t on
clearance.