The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
Arts
Wednesday, April 3, 2019 — 5A
About 20 minutes past the intended start time, we still stood
outside the Michigan Theater’s screening room in claustrophobic
gridlock. I realized I had no idea what I had gotten myself into.
Welcome to the Ann Arbor Film Festival’s ‘Films in Competition
9: Animation.’
My editors and fellow film writers warned me, an AAFF first-
timer, these films would be weird. Fourteen animated shorts and
countless emotions, all derivatives of discomfort, later, I don’t
know if “weird” is the right word.
They kicked off the competition with a 1975 animated short,
“Quasi at the Quackadero.” Anthropomorphic ducks go to an
amusement park, the one named Anita repeatedly croons the
name “Quasi” in a bone-chilling way, and I can’t tell you much
more than that because I think I’ve blocked it out.
I learned two things. First, this festival attracts a crowd. I’m
talking an eventual 30-minute delay to the start-time, due to the
monumental task of getting everyone into the theater. I’m talking
energy: The AAFF title sequence began, and someone clapped
along to the moderately catchy backing tune. Someone shouted,
“Oh, Quasi!” Oh, Quasi. I did not laugh once. My reaction was
fight or flight. As I registered laughter around me, I came to a
second understanding: This festival attracts a subcommunity, one
I am not a part of, and don’t plan on joining. It felt like one of those
scenarios where you’re sitting among a group of friends, closer to
each other than you are to them. They’re laughing at something
and you only vaguely understand it, let alone find it funny, so you
experience this discomfort — equal parts pain and longing — not
so much for inclusion but for the vexation to cease.
As my level of discomfort became unbearable, I began to coach
myself through it. Yes, a few of the shorts were so thoroughly,
unproductively disturbing, that I had to go to my happy place. I
think “Hedge” did the most damage: Child leashes, squadrons
of women kissing each other nonstop, and again, I can’t tell you
much more than that because I’ve blocked it out.
I wasn’t the only one who reacted this way. During one of
several films that should have come with a warning for those
with photosensitivity (but didn’t), consisting of a stream of
flashing shapes, I glanced over, and my fellow moviegoer’s face
encapsulated everything I now try to render in words. Her mouth
was slightly open: Shock. It was shaped in a partial smirk: Slight
bemusement, or the facial version of Where am I? Her eyes were
wide: What am I looking at?
When I realized I had over an hour of this ahead of me still,
I attempted a change in mindset. To try and find it funny, too.
Resign to the absurdity. Stop expecting art to have a purpose and
seek pleasure alone.
It didn’t work. I still saw text used profusely and always for
the purpose of propagandistic, stale messages. I saw half-
assed, hypocritical criticisms of human dependence on religion,
technology and other familiar targets. Underneath it all, I saw
a troubling idleness that shrugged and said, yes, this is enough.
Flash some shocking graphics, prop up the images with recycled
critiques, pepper it with opaque, self-indulgent tidbits and you’ve
got yourself a work of art. What about the audience? What do we
have to gain from that?
There was one, fleeting moment of reprieve in the competition:
“Sun Zoom Spark.” Containing some of the most stunning
graphics of the night, the film alternated between images of
industrialized and untainted geography, appearing like blotted
graphite compositions. A poetic, mesmerizing voiceover stitched
the scenes together, providing compelling commentary on
our changing notion of mistakes in a world with the CTRL + z
function. At times, the speech felt stilted, but I’ll take preachy
over pointless any day. At least the former is direct and aware
of the communicative potential of art, rather than smugly self-
content.
Granted, I did experience some version of the subcommunity I
spoke about. Leaving the theater with my friends, we debriefed on
our almost synonymous experience of the shorts as a bad omen of
a direction artists are moving in. We had the same questions for
each other: What was that? What was that for?
And I’m still not convinced that weird is the right word. I’d say
puzzling at best, dispiriting at worst.
For ‘Animation,’ weird doesn’t feel like the right word
ANN ARBOR FILM FESTIVAL COVERAGE
JULIANNA MORANO
Daily Arts Writer
I’m going to put the following
very
plainly:
The
music
of
Liverpool group Her’s is fuzzy
dream pop, pleasant and dynamic.
They released their latest studio
album, Invitation to Her’s, last
summer. On Mar. 27, 2019, while
touring to support the album,
both members of the group were
killed in a traffic accident. The
band was driving through the
desert of Arizona around 1 a.m.
on the way from Phoenix to Santa
Ana when a truck driving the
wrong way down the highway
hit them head-on. All parties
perished in the crash. The bodies
were unidentifiable. Everything
in the car was lost to fire.
It’s a cliche at this point for an
artist to die a tragic death, only to
finally gain the appreciation they
sought after they have passed.
This is not the case for Her’s. It
is unlikely that they will gain
posthumous fame in the manner
of Van Gogh. More likely, they
will slowly fade into obscurity.
Many who stumble upon their
music won’t even know they have
passed. To their fans, it is an
unspeakable tragedy. To most of
the world, it is meaningless.
Her’s second-to-last Instagram
post features them posing in the
diner from Twin Peaks. In the
comments, they promise a fan
that they will return to Phoenix
for another show. Their social
media pages have now become
a jarring, unplanned memorial
to the dead that once occupied
them, unfulfilled dreams and
shattered plans, once-innocent
posts now a depressing reminder
that the good times can’t last.
It’s not just Her’s. Facebook
and
Instagram
are
digital
graveyards; millions of users
have perished since they created
their
accounts.
They
aren’t
quite memorials — memorials
are
planned,
crafted.
More
accurately, they are snapshots,
their profiles eternally frozen in
time the moment before tragedy
struck.
The implication of this for the
legacy of the artist is drastic. So
much of the legend of a musician
comes
from
the
mystery
surrounding their lives, but the
wall
between
the
cultivated
output of an artist and their
personal lives has been eroded,
for better or for worse. It’s no
wonder we’ve seen artists like Jai
Paul (and, initially, The Weeknd)
who react to this new form of
public scrutiny by embracing
anonymity.
The Exploding Hearts, a turn-
of-the-century power pop band,
suffered a similar fate as Her’s.
They crashed outside Eugene,
Oregon while on tour when the
driver fell asleep at the wheel —
only the guitarist was spared.
This was before the Internet
became omnipresent, so they
live on solely (in a broad sense)
through the one album they
released.
For a lot of people, myself
included, music is a way to escape
into another world, akin to sports
or reality television. The stakes
seem lower, fake somehow, but
sometimes
it
becomes
clear
that
the
walls
keeping
our
distractions separate from the
pain and mundanity of our day-
to-day lives are thin. At any
moment, a few seconds of chaos
could bring them crashing down.
All it takes is a mistake in traffic.
Her’s: Death in a digital age
MUSIC NOTEBOOK
JONAH MENDELSON
Daily Arts Writer
When
“Get
Out”
hit
theaters two years ago, people
were pretty confused: Why is
the guy from “Key and Peele”
making a scary movie? What
does a comedian know about
horror? After I saw “Us”
last weekend, I started to
contemplate how a comedic
mind could leap over to the
dark side. The film — as
unsettling and horrifying as
it was — provoked moments of
chuckles from the audience.
I couldn’t help but wonder
(cue
Carrie
Bradshaw’s
contemplative
pose)
what
is the connection between
horror and humor?
I
immediately
thought
of Mel Brooks. In my mind,
horror and humor had one
place and one place only,
in
Mel
Brooks’s
“Young
Frankenstein.” The monster
made the film “scary,” but
overall the film is a comedy.
Brooks and the late Gene
Wilder
sprinkled
horror
tropes throughout the film
by
mocking
them,
from
dance
numbers
to
Frau
Blucher (neigh!). Yet, Brooks
and Wilder’s parody of old
monster horror is just that,
a parody. The same goes for
“Scary Movie,” “Shaun of
the Dead” etc. So where does
horror and humor lie for
Jordan Peele? Has comedy
influenced his horror? What
about vice versa? Are they
connected at all? Did he have
a midlife crisis and realize
comedy was dead? How did
this sketch comedian turn
into a master of fear? And
most
importantly,
is
the
continental breakfast sketch
a spiritual prequel to “Get
Out”?
For answers, I turned to the
true master of horror himself,
Stephen King. King does a
good job at explaining the
overlap of humor and horror
in a 1993 CBS interview. “It’s
a childish thing the way that
humor is the two (humor and
horror) closely allied,” he
explained, “They both elicit
— when they work to their
best — a vocal reaction in the
audience.” According to King,
there is a connection between
horror and humor because
they both create some sort of
eruption within us, one of fear
or amusement, respectively.
Personally, I can’t stand
being
scared.
In
fact,
I
actively do things to avoid
being scared. I will not enter
my bathroom if the shower
curtain is closed because
there is a 1000 percent chance
someone is in there, trying
to
kill
me.
Additionally,
I
distrust
any
mirrored
medicine cabinet, because I
know for a fact when I open the
cabinet no one is behind me,
but when I close that cabinet
there will be a murderer and I
will not be prepared. I detest
surprises so much that when I
was thrown a surprise party I
cried because I thought I was
getting kidnapped and I never
fully recovered. Obviously, if
you like being scared you’re
probably not OK, but I get it
if you follow Stephen King’s
logic. The same way I like to
be amused by comedy and
elicit a vocal reaction, also
known as laughter, you may
like to get the shit scared
out of you to elicit a vocal
reaction AKA bloodcurdling
screams — if you’re into that
kind of thing.
In
an
interview
with
Cinemablend back in 2017,
Eric Eisenberg asked Jordan
Peele about the relationship
between comedy and horror.
“They’re two sides of the
same coin,” Peele said, “Any
really successful or great
horror movie, you go and see
an audience there’s going to
be laughter from nervousness.
They’re both about building
the tension and releasing in
some way.” For Peele’s horror,
it’s all about building tension.
Look at “Us” and “Get Out,”
they build in tension, making
the
audience
physically
uncomfortable and nervous.
I swear, after I saw “Us,” I
didn’t have any fingernails,
meaning I bit them all off
from the anxiety the movie
caused me.
Similarly, look at humor
from
the
perspective
of
tension. Comedy asks the
same questions as horror,
just with a lighter take. The
building tension in comedy
is the setup, a question to
be answered, a premise to
explore; the answer is the
punchline. Like in horror, the
question begs the audience
to
wonder,
what’s
going
to happen? The changing
answers in both genres elicit
different
reactions
in
us
based on how those answers
make us feel. They keep us on
the edge of our seats with fear
or leaning back in stitches.
I started thinking about
what
makes
things
scary
versus funny. If the setup is
a question and the answer is
the punchline is the answer,
what is the horror equivalent?
And what makes something
scary instead of funny? If
building
tension
creates
questions, then the answer
has to be the thing that elicits
our reactions. For example, in
“The Shining” the question
is, what is in room 237? If the
answer was a walrus with
a British accent instead of
a rotting corpse, does that
make it funny? What if in
the SNL digital short “D***
in a Box” Andy Samberg and
Justin Timberlake revealed
that the thing inside the
box was a hungry poisonous
tarantula? Is that scary? If a
family identical to your own
showed up in your driveway
but the only difference was
that they all wore bowties, is
that still scary?
All this tension makes me
think of the 2014 “Key and
Peele” short titled “Aerobics
Meltdown.” The sketch is
an old video from the 1987
Jazz Fit Championship. The
video opens with a line of
text that reads: “Everything
you are about to see is true.”
A line of spandex-clad women
with big hair stretch as two
male
dancers,
Flash
and
Lighting, played by Peele
and Key respectively, enter
in
similarly
shiny
purple
costumes. All is well in this
aerobics video until the video
cuts into behind the scenes
footage that displays itself
more clearly. The news is
given to Lighting through
various cue cards that his
wife and daughter have been
hospitalized from a hit and
run. Between pieces of bad
news, cards are interlaced
to remind Lighting to “Keep
dancing.” Lighting’s face falls
as he continues to dance. The
tension builds as the director
asks if Lighting would know
anyone
that
might
want
to hurt him or his family.
The recognition comes to
Lighting as he looks over
to his competitor and Flash
gives him a sadistic wink.
The clip ends with Lighting
strangling
Flash
and
the
video cutting out. But the
reason I bring this sketch
up is it is a perfect example
of the building tension that
Peele loves to utilize in both
his humor and horror. This
sketch, albeit dark, provokes
a shocked kind of laughter
that can only be attributed to
the genius tension-building of
Jordan Peele.
I think the answer to
the
horror
and
humor
conundrum
lies
in
the
answers themselves. If the
answer makes us laugh, it’s
comedy. If the answer makes
us shit our pants, odds are it’s
a horror film (or you need to
get your bowels checked).
BECKY
PORTMAN
DAILY HUMOR COLUMN
Musings on the harmony
between horror & humor
Films in Competition
9: Animation
The Michigan Theatre
In the next week, the Book Review
will be featuring works from Willow
Books, an imprint of the Detroit-
based small publisher Aquarius
Press. Aquarius was co-founded in
1999 by author and professor Randall
Horton and Heather Buchanan,
its current owner, a University of
Michigan-Dearborn
alum and former Poet-in-
Residence at the Detroit
Public Library. In 2007,
Aquarius Press launched
Willow Books, a project
“to develop, publish and
promote writers of color”
that quickly became its
flagship imprint. Willow
Books
publishes
over
40 single-title authors
a year and uplifts writers through
an impressive network of funds and
resources. Writers were recently
recognized at Willow Books’s annual
LitFest readings, which took place in
Portland, Oregon on Mar. 30.
“Don’t let your heritage be
past tense.” It’s a warning and
a plea, the title of the last poem
in Sokunthary Svay’s “Apsara in
New York,” a collection of poems
in which Svay does just that: Fight
to keep her culture a part of her
present while exploring her roots
and their intersection with her life
as an immigrant living in the Bronx
on an intimate and moving level.
Svay and her family came to the
U.S. as refugees from the Khmer
Rouge regime, which held power
in Cambodia from 1975 to 1979. The
regime, guided by its communist
philosophy, sought to turn the
country
into
a
self-sufficient
agrarian
society.
People
were
forced into the countryside to work
as laborers on farms, where many
died from starvation or overwork.
By the time the regime was
overthrown by the Vietnamese
in 1979, it was responsible for the
deaths of just under two million
people.
Central to many of the poems
is, as Svay puts it, the Khmer
American communities’ struggle
with the dark legacy of the Khmer
Rouge. Poems about the genocide
and its aftermath are interspersed
among those detailing Svay’s life
in the Bronx, giving readers the
distinct feeling that while the lives
of the Khmers continue on, they are
never really free of the aftermath of
the regime.
The crossroads of Svay’s identity
as a Khmer and American are
reflected in the title of the work. An
“apsara” is a female celestial figure
in Buddhist and Hindu religions,
something that is placed among
food vendors, one dollar pizza and
the 2 Line in “An Apsara in New
York.” Svay’s poetry depicts her
experiences in a startlingly vivid
and emotional way. It is easy to feel
her annoyance at being repeatedly
mistaken as Chinese and her
pain from the loss of her brother,
who readers know is dead but not
exactly how or why. Svay is a gifted
writer who transports readers
from the Bronx to Cambodia with
ease.
A highlight of the collection is
the focus on Svay’s relationship
with her mother. As her
mother’s only surviving
child, the two share
a special bond which
Svay
communicates
flawlessly. In “Mother’s
Call,”
the
strong
personality
of
her
mother and the dry,
witty
humor
Svay
employs
throughout
her
poetry
are
fully showcased. The “Mother
Monologue” poems also provide a
more serious but touching insight
into the relationship between
the two women as they grapple
with issues like money problems
and marriage. Svay portrays the
personalities of herself and her
mother in such a realistic way they
feel familiar and known just a few
pages into the collection.
Svay, a singer herself, reveals her
love of music through poems like
“Diction” and “Music Doesn’t Put
Food On the Table,” as well as her
mother’s occasional exasperation
with that love.
‘Apsara’ a beautiful tribute
BOOK REVIEW
SOPHIE WAZLOWSKI
Daily Arts Writer
Apsara in New
York
Sokunthary Svay
Willow Books
2017
Read more at
MichiganDaily.com