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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