6 — Friday, February 15, 2019
Arts
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com

A few weeks ago, my friends
and I were hanging out and
the
conversation
devolved
into a wilderness survival
scenario. We all agreed; one
of them would survive for a
few weeks and one would end
up splitting from the group to
join another. My own fate was
unanimously decided in less
than five minutes: As soon as
my feet touched dirt, I would
just cease to exist.
Although I am Michigan
born-and-raised, the nature
streak that many girls have
growing up around this many
lakes
skipped
me
almost
completely. I credit this to
my parents, especially my
father (who needs a hair
dryer to survive). I have
never
been
camping,
am
very allergic to mosquitoes
and
would
probably
light
myself on fire if I tried to
cook outside. Needless to say,
I never dreamed of having
an outdoor life. I have made
some strides in embracing the
natural beauty of my state,
but it ends at a lack of indoor
plumbing or the inability to
plug in a microwave. Sure,
I love the dunes, but the
thought of returning to a
warm shower is just as sweet
as the sand between my toes
in the moment. I assumed
many girls were like this, or
that it was at least a 50/50
split between the population
of young women who loved
being
outside
and
those
who despised it. However,
according to the men of
Tinder, I was wrong.
The first time I downloaded
Tinder as a freshly-minted
student here at the University
of Michigan, I was shocked to
immediately find a peculiar
species of male Ann Arborite
running amok: the fish man.
I didn’t know this was such
a major demographic in the
online dating sphere, but boy,
was I in for a surprise. These
men
are
typically
white,
stocky, tall and absolutely
LOVE to fish (or at least their
online presence would say
so). Their names are things
like Brent, Logan, Trenton.
Their first profile photo is
characteristically an image
of them on a dock, holding

the prize of their time on the
water limply in one hand.
Each time I come across one

of these profiles, all I can ask
myself is whether these fish
know what they’ve gotten
themselves into. I look into
their dead, slimy eyes do they
know that their demise has
become a ploy to get some
20-year-old laid? The fish do
not respond, only hang in the
photos like deflated props
of masculinity. It is a sad, if
confusing end for our scaly
friends.
Beyond the fish themselves,
the mystery of the men behind
them has perplexed me since
that first foray into online
dating a year ago. They still
come up every time I lazily
swipe when I’m bored in
class, or trying to fall asleep
after watching a romcom.
This phenomenon alone has
cemented my suspicions that

love is dead, but leave it to
Netflix to change my mind,
if only for an hour. Whatever
the fish men’s deal is, it’s clear
to me that I am decidedly not
their target audience. But
who really is? What I imagine
is a girl dressed in all-pink
hunting
fatigues,
bearing
a hatchet in one hand and
another fish in her second.
Their respective fish eye each
other, and romance is reborn.
But that can’t be right. The
phenomenon requires deeper
thinking.
In my hypothetical musings
on the fish men, I realized
what they could truly be
playing
to:
The
primitive
need to be taken care of. See,
I have no interest in building
a life out in the wilderness (or
the suburbs, for that matter),
but I can understand that
many young women do. And
what a better consolation
for that dream than knowing
that
your
Tinder
match
can literally provide food
for a family? Hell, he could
probably build you a cabin
too. In this understanding, I
finally came to comprehend
the core of the fish men. They
must believe that displaying
their
catch,
however
disgusting in theory, shows
more than the fact that they
are willing to sit for hours on
top of an algae-ridden lake.
It is more than a display of
machismo; rather, a concrete
example of the traditional
male calling to build a home,
fish and all.
Now,
as
previously
established,
this
is
not
something I personally aspire
to. I’d rather live in a shoebox
apartment and subsist solely
on bodega chips than deal
with a home in the woods
and everything that comes
with it. However, my initial
confusion around the fish
men has slowly turned into
a muted reverence for their
cause. All they want is a nice
blonde lady to eat their fish, to
turn hot dogs over a campfire
and attend country music
festivals wearing matching
bandanas with them. I know
that I am not this girl. But for
now, I’ll let the fish men live.
Even if the fish can’t.

DAILY GENDER & MEDIA COLUMN

CLARA
SCOTT

Bait in the online ocean

Beyond the fish
themselves,
the mystery
of the men
behind them has
perplexed me
since that first
foray into online
dating a year
ago.

I was looking for an antidote.
With Valentine’s Day a week
out, I tried not to get my hopes
up. But I was searching for
a romance film that tasted
better: not the syrupy spoonful
of infeasibility, not the stale
sensation of overused formula,
not the acrid aftertaste of leftover
chauvinism. I’ve only collected
a few over the years — “Eternal
Sunshine of the Spotless Mind,”
“Blue Valentine” and “Up” come
to mind. (Fatalistic? I call them
frank. But I digress.)
When I encountered Paweł
Pawlikowski’s
“Cold
War,”
my hopes got
away from me.
Pawlikowski’s
2015
film
“Ida”
was
an
antidote
of
another
nature that I
desperately
needed at the
end of my first
year of college.
It came at a
time when I
felt ashamed
of the Catholic
Church to the
point
where
I was on the
verge of leaving but hesitated,
fearful of what would be left of
me if I abdicated that part of my
identity. “Ida” soothed me, told
me I could live with opposing
forces and curate takeaways
from both the secular and
religious influences in my life. If
anyone was going to convince me
with a romance, it would be the
man who convinced me of that.
Sadly, though, the romance in
“Cold War” leaves much to be
desired. The movie places it in
mid-twentieth century Poland
and France, between an aspiring
singer Zula (Johanna Kulig, “The
Innocents”) and music director
Wiktor (Tomasz Kot, “Gods”).
In strictly practical terms, they
probably shouldn’t be together,
and, by the end of the film, they
definitely shouldn’t. That leaves
an hour and a half to … what?
Bide our time? What happens
in the prodigal journey from
point A back to point A? A host
of
heteronormative
romance
tropes, that’s what happens.
Let’s identify some.
Exhibit
A:
Propelling
the
romance through the male gaze
The first time Zula auditions

in front of Wiktor, his love-
struck look slices through the
otherwise ordinary atmosphere
of
the
scene,
wonderfully
capturing the disarming effect
some people have on us. This
gaze cannot become a crutch.
It’s only charming a few times.
It cannot support the weight of
a budding romance, or justify
a sharp cut into a sex-scene, or
make us believe Wiktor loves
Zula.
I inadvertently put a friend
through this film, hoping it
would convince him to see
“Ida” (actually, it just became
more difficult to convince him
to watch a dark movie about a
nun — thank you, “Cold War”).
He
compared
one
of
the
most egregious
instances of this
gaze (across a
crowded room —
I’m not kidding)
to a Dos Equis
commercial
and
called
Wiktor
“the
most interesting
man in Poland.”
There
is
no
better way to
convey
this
unconvincing,
contrived
device.
Exhibit B: The
aggressive kiss
Once Zula and Wiktor are an
item, they spend much less of
their time staring at each other
and much more of it making
out. Neither tactic should be
used as a wholesale substitute
for character development or
dialogue. Yet both tactics are
used as such.
Exhibit
C:
High-Impact
Screenwriting/Low-Impact
Reception
In other words, schmaltz.
Lines alluding to staggering love
(“she is the woman of my life”)
without substance to prop up
these words. They fall flat.
Exhibit D: Wait, so what
happened to her husband?
Otherwise
known
as
the
romance
writers’
selective
amnesia, the main symptom of
which includes giving the lover-
protagonists an interloping lover
or spouse to mention to one
another in passing. Causes vary;
in “Cold War,” they range from
the need to justify a character’s
ability
to
leave
communist
Poland for France to the more
common desire to provoke envy.
No matter the cause, the loss of
the romance writer’s integrity is

the universal result. I lost track
of the non-character casualties
of this endemic in “Cold War.”
Exhibit E: He slaps her, and I
guess we’re supposed to chalk it
up to the historical period
I don’t want to brush over
violence against women. I don’t
want the setting to silently
justify it. It was never justified.
The list of other tropes that
sap the emotional impact of this
film go on, but I want to talk
about one of the few scenes in
“Cold War” that made me feel
something. Zula and Wiktor
venture to a club. “Rock around
the Clock” comes on and a
drunk Zula dances her heart
out, from partner to partner,
even mounting a countertop
(while Wiktor fixes her with
a very different gaze, tinged
with disgust). You’re probably
supposed to feel apprehensive
about the increasing turbulence
of their romance. I was smiling,
tapping my foot. The only feeling
I got from watching this movie
was accidental.
What I’m asking for, this
Valentine’s Day, is that we close
these exhibits. Until then, I hope
you’re lucky, unlike me, and
that you find one of those rare
romance films that does.

A ‘Cold War’ moratorium
on romance for your cold
post-Valentine’s Day feels

FILM REVIEW

AMAZON STUDIOS

AMAZON STUDIOS

What happens
in the prodigal
journey from
point A back
to point A?
A host of
heteronormative
romance tropes,
that’s what
happens. Let’s
identify some.

JULIANNA MORANO
Daily Arts Wrtier

‘Cold War’

Amazon Studios

State Theatre