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Tuesday, September 3, 2019 — 5A
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In the spirit of Welcome
Week,
Festifall
and
all
things post-Labor-Day, The
Michigan Daily Film section
has
written
a
collection
of
blurbs
celebrating
our
favorite
“Openings”
to
movies. Here’s to another year
of learning, changing, trying,
failing,
crying,
smiling,
passing,
movie-watching
and
(most
importantly)
a-best-picture-awarded-
to-a-film-that-surpasses-
the-low-bar-of-not-being-
problematic-at-best-and-
severly-discouraging-as-to-
the-current-state-of-the-
conversation-on-racial-
equality-in-America-at-
worst.
“Moonrise Kingdom”
The best opening movie
sequences
all
have
the
same type of premise. The
filmmaker must set the stage,
acclimate
their
audience
to the wit or severity or
drama or grief they’ll be
tasked with dealing with
and lay out the stakes of the
world they’ve built. Writer/
director
Damien
Chazelle
(“Whiplash”) calls this his
overture (even when he’s
not making a musical), his
chance to create a microcosm
of the drama that will soon
unfold onscreen.
Wes Anderson’s “Moonrise
Kingdom”
is
my
favorite
example of this. The writer/
director splits his movie’s
first five minutes into two
parts of the same whole: First,
beginning the movie with
a drawn out title sequence
to the music of Benjamin
Britten’s “A Young Person’s
Guide
to
the
Orchestra,”
meanwhile
sliding
his
camera
laterally
and
horizontally to capture the
impossibly rectangle vistas
of the family’s lighthouse
home, and second, giving
the audience a tour of the
imaginary island where most
of the movie takes place, the
tour guide, an affable Bob
Balaban, leading off with a
resounding “Welcome to the
Island of New Penzance.”
Anderson’s
opening
to
“Moonrise
Kingdom”
accomplishes
all
the
requirements of a Chazelle
movie overture. From the
very first shot, he bottles up
the atmosphere of the film
— picture-book, precocious
energy
—
and
gives
the
viewer a taste of what types
of conflicts are to come.
The unhappy household of
Suzy Bishop is scanned up
and down, left and right, as
a thunderous storm rages
outside. She’s seen holding a
box of letters from her secret
pen-pal, who she views as her
escape from the prison of her
parents. We pivot to a melody
of strings as Balaban walks
us around our home-for-
an-hour, framing with the
announcement of a terrible
storm the youthful love story
whose drama will only be
heightened by the arrival of
the inclement weather.
Since
the
break-in
sequence in “Bottle Rocket”
and the chapel day-dream in
“Rushmore” Anderson has
had a knack for setting his
movies off on the right foot.
Honorable mention, also, to
“The
Royal
Tenenbaum’s”
16 minutes of go-nowhere
narration that, despite being
complete,
blatant,
young-
adult-novel-chapter-one
exposition, feels absolutely
riveting.
— Stephen Satarino, Daily
Film Editor
“Scream”
Drew
Barrymore,
Jiffy
Pop and a landline. These
are primary ingredients of
the opening of “Scream,” and
they work together all too
well. The first 12 minutes of
Wes Craven’s 1996 slasher
satire compose one of the
most jarring scenes I can
recall from childhood and
one of the most intricate
horror sequences ever made.
There’s so much to revere
in both his camerawork and
sound design. There’s an
increasingly rapid pop of
kernels on the kitchen stove
(leading to their eventual
explosion as Barrymore is
evading
her
stalker);
the
gradual unnerving tilt of the
camera from shot to shot,
which
eventually
frames
Barrymore in the corner of
the screen, as if trapping her
there; the uncannily creepy
voicework of Roger Jackson
as Ghostface, quizzing his
victim on the history of
movie
serial
killers.
But
it’s that last part that I find
most interesting everytime I
rewatch the scene: The subtle
hints Craven lays even in
those first few minutes that
“Scream” will be a horror
movie
that
mocks
other
horror movies. It’s probably
the first great example of
the style, but certainly not
the last. Between “Cabin in
the Woods” and “Get Out”
and even 2019’s “Ready or
Not,” there’s no shortage of
current meta horror. But that
first scene is a microcosm
for everything that comes
later, not just in the movie,
but in the future of the entire
genre.
— Anish Tamhaney, Daily
Arts Write
To begin: Openings, pt. 1
STEPHEN SATARINO
Daily Film Editor
FILM NOTEBOOK
ANISH TAMHANEY
Daily Arts Writer
The first 12
minutes of
Craven’s 1996
slasher satire
compose one of
the most jarring
scenes ... and
one of the most
intricate horror
sequences ever
made
Anderson’s
opening to
“Moonrise
Kingdom”
accomplishes all
the requirements
of a Chazelle
movie overture
“If you send me 3 albums, I’ll
send you 3 albums.”
This is how I came across
Crushing by Julia Jacklin, the
most transformative album of
my summer.
Crushing was revealed to me
while I sat at a booth in UCLA’s
dining hall among globs of
angsty high schoolers in various
summer camps. A life-changing
friend I barely knew at the time
offered to drown out the sound
of pre-pubescents by listening
to music. In that dining hall
booth, Julia Jacklin hit me both
like a brick wall and a bag of
feathers, if that’s possible.
I didn’t fully acknowledge
Crushing as a probable act of
God until the lyrics of “Don’t
Know How To Keep Loving
You” popped out at me on
my commute to work. The
repetitiveness of “I wanna”
and “I want” throughout the
first verse, paired with the
steady two-line chorus and
the haunting descriptions of
falling out of love, described
the specificities of a plague I
thought could only infect me.
Jacklin softly and painfully
coos out: “What if I cleaned
up? What if I worked on my
skin? I could scrub until I am
red, hot, weak & thin.” This
specific sequence of words had
me hitting my steering wheel
continuously, screaming “oh
LORD this is it.”
After this moment, I was
launched into a “daydreaming
with
Julia
Jacklin
on
my
morning
commute”
phase.
Crushing is a steady album
that crescendos sparingly but
powerfully, so my car often felt
like an enormous, beautiful,
empty cruise ship that only
I resided in, rocking up and
down with the waves until the
occasional crushing, nervous
system-altering
swell
would
come along.
The commute to a nine-to-
five ended, but Jacklin never
did for me. She’s the release
of screaming in a parking lot,
creating the perfect amount
of
noise
around
abusive
relationships,
devastating
breakups,
feminism,
bodily
autonomy, losing and letting
go. She perfectly encases all of
these themes inside her lovely
alt-rock, Dolly Parton-esque
sound, and best of all: She’s
intimately tied to my life-
shattering best friend, who
physically came and went with
the summer.
So
what
I’m
listening
to on repeat is the angelic
voice of Julia Jacklin, who is
synonymous
with
summer,
my best friend, the movies we
watched and the fancy drinks
we had, my new outlook on
the female body, losing people
left and right and the glorious
taxation of relationships.
Synchronicity with Jacklin
SAMANTHA CANTIE
Daily Arts Writer
MUSIC NOTEBOOK: WHAT I’M LISTENING TO
WIKIMEDIA COMMONS
The commute
to a nine-to-five
ended, but Jacklin
never did for me