The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
Arts
Tuesday, April 2, 2019 — 5

Given my relatively vanilla 
cinematic taste to begin with, 
both the short film “Landscape 
of Absence” and feature film 
“<3” 
pushed 
my 
personal 
definition of art and proved a bit 
challenging to digest. Though 
I can’t say that either film left 
me wanting more, both exposed 
me to an unfamiliar genre and 
made for an interesting (to say 
the least) hour and a half.
“Landscape of Absence” can 
best be described as a thought-
provoking immersion into a 
compilation 
of 
dialogue-less 
moments of iconic women in 
cinema. 
The 
film 
expertly 
utilizes a split screen to parallel 
the 
facial 
expressions 
and 
movements of a woman in 
one screen to the similar 
expressions or movements 
of 
the 
woman 
in 
the 
other. 
For 
instance, 
we 
watch 
Sigourney 
Weaver 
looking surprised in one 
of the “Alien” films, while 
simultaneously 
observing 
Frances McDormand’s face 
plastered with an almost 
identical 
expression 
in 
“Fargo.” 
Despite 
these 
parallels, for the majority 
of the film, most of the clips 
are seemingly unrelated and 
we find ourselves unsure of 
the connections between the 
women shown.
The visual component is the 
most captivating part of the 
film, but sound is emphasized 
more 
subtly. 
Interspersed 
snippets 
of 
simple, 
yet 
un-contextualized phrases like 
“where are we” are thrown in, 
but there is no actual dialogue. 
In the final moments of the 
film, a black title screen finally 
reveals the common thread we 
have been searching for over 
the past 10 minutes, projecting 
the 
message 
that 
none 
of 
the scenes selected “feature 
protagonists 
communicating 

with each other.” This minimal 
use of speaking, both in the 
overhead audio and in the clips 
from within the various movies 
shown, leads to the overall, 
cleverly 
demonstrated 
point 
that females on screen are not 
given enough of a voice.
Though a relevant criticism 
of on-screen gender biases, I 
couldn’t help but feel bothered 
by the lack of actresses of color 
depicted. Of the approximate 
15 to 20 scenes with a white 
actress, there were no more 
than 
three 
with 
a 
Black 
actress. This illuminates the 
troubling 
reality 
that 
even 
within the noble cause of 
female representation, there is 

underrepresentation.
A complete change of pace 
from “Landscape of Absence,” 
if you couldn’t already infer 
from 
the 
title 
structure, 
“<3,” refuses to adhere to any 
form 
of 
convention. 
Boldly 
and explicitly exploring the 
intersection between the self, 
the digital world and drugs, 
this is a film that will make your 
eyes pop and your ears ring like 
you’re listening to a late 2000s 
Kesha hit.
Pill-popper, 
rapper 
and 
unfiltered millennial LNZ is 
like no other protagonist, if you 
can even call her a protagonist 
at all. She exists as more of a 
persona in a music video than 
anything else, swearing left 

and right in her electric, anger-
fueled raps and accompanied 
by a trio of three practically 
incapacitated 
and 
prop-like 
men, who are later revealed to 
be her intended assassins (if 
this sounds weird and doesn’t 
really 
make 
sense, 
that’s 
because it was and it really 
doesn’t). You could say that 
the plot of the film is for LNZ 
to confront who is trying to 
kill her, but that would give 
the misleading impression that 
this film follows any sort of 
direction at all.
LNZ’s purpose as a character 
is not for audiences to connect 
to 
or 
understand. 
She 
is 
messy, debilitated by pills and 
completely 
unreliable. 
But 
perhaps that is the point of the 
film, to show the psychological 
power of hard drugs through 
LNZ’s unhinged nature and 
inhuman behaviors.
She basically lives in two 
different 
worlds 
(literally, 
there are scenes with her 
flying around in a recliner in 
outer space). Though difficult 
to definitely conclude from the 
chaotic and drug-infused aura 
that hangs over the entirety of 
the movie, there are seemingly 
two types of scenes in the film. 
On the one, there are moments 
from LNZ’s perspective, shot 
through a first-person, shaky 
camera. Then there are scenes 
where the audience is watching 
LNZ as they would a character 
in a video game, noticing the 
three <3s in the corner of 
the screen that represent her 
“lives.” Both portrayals of LNZ 
shape her into more of a thing 
than a human being and feed 
into the overall digitized vibe 
that surrounds the film. 
It’s a mindbender in itself 
to try to distinguish how to 
feel after seeing this film. In 
the strangest way possible, 
the wide range of camera 

movements and perspectives, 
moody lighting and colors and 
interspersed animated elements 
somehow come together to 
create a final product that is 
undeniably artistic. That said, 
this film is a lot to take in 
one sitting. Ultimately, it’s an 
uncomfortable and borderline 
psychologically 
violating 
sensory overload that dumps 
a lot of drugs, heavy rap and 
obscenity into our laps and 
unfairly expects us to have a 
clue of what to do with it.

— Samantha Nelson, Daily 
Arts Writer

“Phantom 
Ride 
Phantom,” 
an 
experimental 
Austrian short film 
that 
preceded 
my 
feature presentation 
at 
the 
Ann 
Arbor 
Film Festival, was a 
flashing, 
pulsating 
collage 
of 
nature. 
Completely devoid of 
dialogue, characters 
or narrative, the short 
flipped 
endlessly 
between an initial image of 
railroad tracks and random 
woodlands 
with 
assaulting 
editing, a creepy synth score, 
and the obscure sound of a train 
trundling along its path. The 
experience was far more jarring 
than enjoyable, but there was 
something to be gained from 
the visceral interrogation into 
how humans control and are 
controlled by our environment. 
If “Phantom Ride Phantom” 
offers any clear takeaway, it’s 
that our manipulation of the 
natural world is inherently 
destructive to the environment, 
and ultimately, to ourselves.
After the pointed imagery 
of the short film faded, the 
documentary 
“Caballerango” 

began. 
The 
film, 
directed 
by 
Juan 
Pablo 
González 
(“Las Nubes”) examines the 
emotional state and daily life 
of a small rural Mexican town 
after a beloved horse wrangler, 
Nando, tragically takes his 
own life. While “Caballerango” 
moves slowly, surveying the 
man’s parents, siblings and 
coworkers, the film’s truth 
emerges profoundly toward its 
conclusion.
The 
simplicity 
of 
the 
camerawork, whether it be a 
long take of a farmer driving 
his pickup, a shot of two men 
eating that perfectly captures 
the shadows across their faces, 
or an entire scene from the 

windowsill of a kitchen, is 
an intimate exploration the 
nuances of daily life in this 
town with striking intimacy. 
The director often chooses 
to juxtapose people in their 
natural state against landscapes 
of remarkably golden fields and 
hills. Despite not keeping the 
camera directly on his subjects, 
González expertly telegraphs 
their energy, adoration and 
grief.
Some of the family members’ 
testimony 
was 
genuinely 
heartbreaking. The way that 
the Nando’s brother described 
his mother’s reaction to seeing 
her son’s suicide was not only a 
painfully detailed account, but 
one that made me feel as though 

I knew this family. For an 
instant, all of that grief seemed 
to swell in my mind with the 
same intensity as it appeared on 
the brother’s visage.
The discussion of the horse 
wrangler’s passing broadened 
to 
an 
understanding 
that 
death is simply a part of life 
for 
many 
members 
of 
the 
town. Death hangs over the 
film like a shadow, in images 
of chickens being slaughtered 
and prepared to eat, and in 
bleary, heatwaves that cross 
freshly harvested cornfields. 
The longer I watched, the more 
this insistence of mortality 
subsumed the film’s message.
And yet, González turned 
this 
dark 
quality 
into 
something 
beautiful. 
Beyond 
the tragedy at the 
film’s 
heart, 
the 
director ultimately 
depicts death not 
as an obstacle that 
must 
swallowed 
away, but instead 
a 
hallowed 
event 
through 
which 
one finds a sense 
of 
peace. 
This 
particular wisdom is etched 
upon 
nearly 
every 
face 
in the film, as a common 
understanding 
of 
the 
townspeople.
The themes of “Phantom” 
and 
“Caballerango” 
started 
to converge. They both speak 
powerful 
truths 
about 
the 
freedom and limits of human 
control, in a physical, survivalist 
sense, but in the context of 
personal relationships. While 
the choice to pair the two 
films together was initially 
unclear, their thematic and 
visual overlap is fascinating to 
consider.

— Anish Tamhaney, Daily 
Arts Writer

Ann Arbor Film Festival: Some shorts and features

VERENA LOOSER AND MELINA WEISSENBORN

FESTIVAL COVERAGE

Landscape of 
Absence & <3

The Michigan Theater

SIX PACK FILMS

Phantom Ride 
Phantom & 
Caballerango

The Michigan Theater

Let’s get it on: ‘You’re The 
Man’ reintroduces Gaye

MOTOWN

In preparation to write this 
review and at a loss for how 
to tackle the insurmountable 
legacy 
of 
Marvin 
Gaye, 
I 
did what anyone would do: I 
called my father. I called my 
father and I asked him, “What 
do you think about Marvin 
Gaye?” In response, he 
immediately sent me 
a Spotify link to the 
classic “Got To Give It 
Up (Part 1),” and told 
me: “This is the stuff. 
Be 
careful. 
It’s 
like 
mainlining heroin.”
Well, as much as 
it pains any child to 
admit it, my father’s 
not wrong. In fact, this 
may be the one and only 
exception where I have 
the guts to say, he’s 
really, really right.
Marvin Gaye’s music 
is a lot of things. He was 
(and still is) “The Prince 
of Motown,” a master of soul, 
R&B, with touches of jazz and 
the sing-song of the crooners, 
like Gaye’s idol Sam Cooke. His 
legacy has been formed by his 
battle with his inner demons, 

his revolutionary and socially 
conscious 
music 
and 
his 
confidence to break barriers, to 
break rules.
But to try and describe the 
depth of Gaye’s music-making 
through a list of things, of facts, 
would be a dishonor to his 
legacy. Words can’t (and won’t) 
ever properly capture the magic 
that is Marvin Gaye. To listen 
to Marvin Gaye’s music is to 

have what I can only describe 
as a spiritual awakening. 
However, 
even 
though 
words may be insufficient to 
capture the essence of Marvin 
Gaye’s music, this writer feels 

obligated to try. If only to 
entertain the possibility that 
the reader will see, hear and 
feel these words somewhere 
deep, go home and go listen to 
Marvin Gaye.
First and foremost, to listen 
to Marvin Gaye sing is the 
closest thing to true and pure 
happiness one can find on 
this Earth. Sure, there are a 
lot of good things in life: Cake 
is good. Love is good, 
too. Yeah, financial or 
social success is okay, 
I guess. But Marvin 
Gaye? Marvin Gaye is 
life itself. To listen to 
Marvin Gaye’s music 
is to be torn between 
sinking 
into 
bone-
deep 
relaxation 
or 
jumping up and dancing 
until your feet fall off 
and keep on dancing 
without you. To listen to 
Marvin Gaye is to face 
the agony of thinking, 
“Wait, there are people 
who walk this Earth 
who have never listened 
to Marvin Gaye?” and know the 
answer is yes.
Marvin Gaye’s posthumous 
album 
You’re 
The 
Man 
is 
all this and much more. In 
honor of what would’ve been 

Marvin Gaye’s 80th birthday, 
MOTOWN 
has 
released 
a 
compilation 
of 
what 
were 
considered to be “lost” songs. 
The album, at its inception, 
was meant to be a follow up to 
Gaye’s beloved album, What’s 
Going On, but was ultimately 
never released due to clashes 
with the label and lackluster 
reception 
of 
a 
preliminary 
release of the title song. Gaye 
was 
never 
afraid 
to 
push 
boundaries or showcase his 
vulnerabilities — the release of 
this album after all this time 
is a testament to Gaye’s legacy 
of deep, honest and emotional 
music-making.
The album features a few 
remixes by producer Salaam 
Remi — songs that are good, but 
with little to offer in alternative 
to the original versions. Then 
again, when it comes to Marvin 
Gaye, it’s nearly impossible to 
improve upon what is already a 

masterwork of musical genius. 
And overall, the album itself 
isn’t daring or shocking. There 
are no pretentious attempts 
by the label to pretend that 
You’re The Man is anything 
but what is it: Marvin Gaye. 
One should not sit down to 
this album expecting radical 
experimentation. Rather, the 
album is like warmly greeting 
an old friend who’s been gone 
far too long. For the long-time 
fan, it’s like feeling warm 
sunshine after a long, hard 
winter. For the newcomers, 
it’s a treasure-chest discovery 
of 
small 
proportions, 
with 
lasting impact. Once one has 
been 
introduced 
to 
Gaye’s 
brand of chill vibes and soulful 
optimism, it’s impossible to go 
back.
What is most striking about 
the album, however, is not 
the discovery of these hidden 
songs, nor the enjoyment of 

hearing dearly-missed friend, 
idol and artist sing once more. 
No, what is most striking about 
You’re The Man is how different 
it is from the music of today. 
When sitting outside on the 
streets of Ann Arbor, lavishing 
in the brief glimpse of spring 
and listening to Marvin Gaye, 
one word came to mind: happy. 
Because no matter how serious, 
insightful or vulnerable Gaye’s 
music can be, there is always 
a light, comforting touch in 
accompaniment. It is refreshing 
to listen to this timeless music 
made by a man who saw the 
world for what it was — good 
and bad — and sought to capture 
the vital truths of life within 
his music. In the monotony of 
modern music, and the crush 
of endless expectation and 
obligation, one impression still 
lingers: how wonderful it is to 
welcome Marvin Gaye home, if 
for the last time.

MADELEINE GANNON
Daily Arts Writer

You’re the Man

 Marvin Gaye

MOTOWN

ALBUM REVIEW