The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
Arts
Wednesday, September 4, 2019 — 5A

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.

“The Sound of Music” 
“The Sound of Music” might be 
my favorite musical of all time. The 
film, released in 1965, was wildly 
successful, claiming the title of the 
world’s highest-grossing film for half 
a decade, and it’s not hard to see why. 
There’s just something about it — 
the music, the characters, or maybe 
even the story itself — that feels 
timeless and completely irresistible, 
and I think whatever magic it was 
that made “The Sound of Music” so 
popular is encapsulated in its very 

first minutes.
The opening scene of the movie 
is rather simple, capturing Julie 
Andrews (“Mary Poppins”) as Maria 
roaming the fields of Austria in song. 
It’s all we as viewers need to want 
to attach ourselves to the character 
for as long as we possibly can. In 
just these few moments, we discover 
that it’s impossible not to love her. 
She’s charming, fun, determined 
and completely true to herself — 
everything one could possibly ask for 
in a heroine. The song she sings, sweet 
yet sentimental, is elevated to a thing 
of brilliance thanks to Andrews’s 
voice. It’s hard to imagine that anyone 
else on Earth could make a line as 
trite as “my heart wants to sing every 
song it hears” sound as powerful and 
earnest as Julie Andrews does.
Though 
the 
landscape 
that 
surrounds 
Andrews 
is 
beautiful 
— so beautiful it’s almost hard to 
believe it’s a real place — it’s rendered 
trivial with Andrews’s presence. Her 
command of the camera is as natural, 
as obvious as our need to breathe. 
The scene, carried by one of cinema’s 
all-time greatest actresses, truly is a 
thing to behold.
— Elise Godfryd, Daily Arts Writer

“Back to the Future”
As a whole, I’ve long believed “Back 
to the Future” to be one of the most 
well written films of all time. Every 

line of dialogue sets up another, every 
off-handed joke becomes a central 
piece of the plot. The first scene of 
the film is among one of its finest in 
this regard. The first shot, a slow 
pan across a series of synchronized 
clocks instantly reels the audience 
in, 
simultaneously 
posing 
the 
question of why all of these clocks 
are synchronized while also clearly 
showing that time is what the movie is 
going to be about. A television brings 
us up to speed on stolen plutonium 
that we see in the laboratory moments 
after. By the time Marty McFly blows 
out the gigantic amplifiers a minute 
or two later and realizes he’s late 
for school, we already know exactly 
who this too-cool-for-school slacker 
is. The most ingenious part of this 
opening is when Doc calls Marty on 
the phone. In only about four lines of 
dialogue, we inherently understand 
the friendship between Doc and 
Marty, a friendship that eventually 
becomes the central and emotional 
core of the entire trilogy.
We never ask how a teenaged 
wannabe rock star became friends 
with a crazy inventor. It doesn’t 
matter. In less than four minutes, 
without 
even 
realizing 
it 
the 
audience has accepted a seemingly 
preposterous premise, “The Power 
of Love” begins to play and a perfect 
opening sequence is complete. 
— Ian Harris, Daily Arts Writer

To begin: Openings, part two

This piece is part of a September series 
about coming back to Ann Arbor for the 
fall. Writers share their experiences 
with culture over the summer, what they 
missed about Ann Arbor and what has 
changed in the city upon their return. 
Each year I expect everything to have 
changed completely when I return to 
Ann Arbor for the fall. Yet each year, 
as I merge off of highway I-94 with 
suitcases and school supplies in tow, my 
expectations are never met. The city has 
the same street signs, flashing red lights 
and corner stores as it did in months 
prior. Every fall I return to things just 
as I left them. 
My house is the same as it was when I 
left. I come home to a porch full of people 
talking with one another, laughing at 
a joke I’ve been absent for during my 
summer travels. I feel a bit distant from 
the closeness of the housemates who 
have stayed together during the warmer 
days of the year. Yet, they still greet me 
with their familiar smiles. Soon enough, 
it feels as though I’ve never left. 
When I walk into work to pick up this 
week’s schedule, my manager shakes my 
hand hello just as she shook it goodbye 
in May. We’re still serving the same 
special drinks. Even the moody old 
woman who always files complaints is 
there asking for a refund on what she 
ordered. Perhaps the only thing that’s 
different is the new coat of paint on the 
walls. But even that is pretty much the 
same shade of red, just a bit darker. 
My friends are also the same as they 
were before. We laugh at the same inside 
jokes that we always have. We still like 
to hang out at the same spots and eat in 
the same restaurants as we usually do. 
My friends look just as they did when 
we left school, only maybe a bit more 
tan. When I greet them they are alive 
with stories about the past four months, 
eagerly waiting to tell me everything 

I’ve missed while we’ve been apart. I 
want to tell them every single detail of 
 
my summer, too. When I try to relay my 
stories to them, I find myself growing 
frustrated. My words don’t seem to 
do my experiences justice. So much 
happened over the short period of time 
that we’ve been apart. The summer feels 
like a wonderful blur that’s left me a 
different person than I was before.
As Welcome Week wears on, I can 
sense my mind drifting away from the 
dreamy allure of May, June, July and 
August. Soon enough, it’s caught in the 
swing of university life. I feel myself 
shifting to the person I was before I left 
for the summer. I begin to doubt that 
I’ve even changed at all. To my friends, 
I worry, I probably seem exactly the 
same.
I want to feel comforted by the 
routine familiarity of my surroundings 
upon returning to school. Yet, my 
stomach is unsettled. Perhaps it’s 
because I somehow expected Ann 
Arbor to have changed just as much as 
I did over the past four months. Maybe 
these feelings are simply a result of the 
natural progression of getting older. I’m 
an upperclassman now. This is what it 
feels like to be confident in the city I’ve 
lived in for the past two years. This is 
how it feels to no longer want to impress 
those older and with more college 
experience than me. I should be happy 
with how smooth everything is going. 
Yet, what should feel comfortable just 
feels downright unsettling. 
When I was a freshman, I had wanted 
so badly to feel comfortable in Ann 
Arbor. But now, I can’t help but strive 
for some sort of obstacle to overcome. I 
turn off my cell phone and walk a route 
I never have before just to see if I can 
get lost. I know the campus like the 
back of my hand, though, and I get to 
my destination in no time at all. Maybe 
I should be grateful for the confidence 
that comes with familiarity. But it is 
only human nature to desire what we 
can’t have. And right now, all I want is 
to be uncomfortable.

Uncomfortable starts

COMMUNITY CULTURE NOTEBOOK

ALIX CURNOW
Daily Arts Writer

FILM NOTEBOOK

ELISE GODFRYD
Daily Arts Writer

Take any page from Oyinkan 
Braithwaite’s novel “My Sister, 
the Serial Killer,” and it’s clear 
that Korede, Braithwaite’s main 
character, has troubles with men. 
Her difficulties bleed through all 
two-hundred pages of the debut, 
in flashback and in her present 
storytelling. But thanks to — you 
guessed it — her serial killer of a 
sister, these men are 
frequently long-dead 
by the time Korede 
deals with them. And 
that’s only the start of 
her problems.
After 
a 
murder 
mystery made it onto 
last 
year’s 
Booker 
Longlist, 
it’s 
not 
surprising 
that 
an 
outwardly 
genre-
bending novel such 
as Braithwaite’s has 
made it onto 2019’s 
literary list. The story 
opens unabashedly as 
a thriller with Korede 
scrubbing blood from 
the caulking of a bathroom floor. 
The chapter is called “bleach.” 
It’s the third time that her sister, 
Ayoola, has murdered a man, and 
it’s the third time Korede’s helped 
her discard the body. Clinging 
to sibling loyalty, from the get-
go Korede appears unwilling to 
intervene in this pattern of crime. 
It’s intriguing, and it’s believable. 
The two continue forward — the 
Lagos police never terribly far 
behind 
— 
until 
Ayoola 
begins 
dating Tade, the embarrassingly 
oblivious doctor from Korede’s 
workplace whom she is also in 
love with. Quickly, “My Sister” 
evolves into a drama of sibling 
rivalry, 
disproportionate 
power 

and self-sacrifice with a seasoning 
of murder.
Most 
apparent 
— 
and 
disappointing — in “My Sister” 
is 
that 
Braithwaite’s 
writing 
never manages to escape a brisk, 
cataloguing thriller style. And the 
story unravels, passages are slowly 
reduced in length until readers 
are left with half-page chapters 
that serve as flashbacks — a page-
turner tactic that, perhaps lazily, 
functions to give half-glances into 
truth that keeps you reading. These 
blips, often ending in almost-

cliffhanger 
dialogue 
passages, 
push “My Sister” back into line 
with other thriller-esque novels. 
There’s nothing literarily fantastic 
about this type of prose. A pattern 
of 
Agatha 
Christie 
influence 
practically moves the pages for 
readers, and makes obvious that 
Braithwaite knows her characters 
and story. But it also makes “My 
Sister” an odd, too-comfortable 
choice for a Booker longlist.
What the debut does prove, 
however, 
is 
that 
Braithwaite 
will not be limited in her future 
storytelling. Kicking out calculated 
law 
sequences 
or 
gore-over-
character tactics the genre often 
beckons, the space is filled with 

well-developed relationships and 
intricate questions that Braithwaite 
leaves often unanswered. Korede 
and Ayoola’s bond is the most 
believable, with the two character’s 
motives particularly complex as 
Ayoola’s habits threaten to force 
the two into becoming opponents. 
Korede’s reliability becomes weaker 
through the novel, making the 
relationship but more convincing as 
this disconnect from reality chips 
away at the sisters’s bond.
What 
one 
would 
guess 
has 
attracted literature fanatics to the 
“My Sister, the Serial 
Killer” 
is 
almost 
surely 
Braithwaite’s 
ability 
to 
handle 
these 
relationships 
and mature themes 
within 
the 
thriller 
environment. 
Abuse 
as 
a 
theme 
slowly rises to the 
surface of the debut. 
Braithwaite holds her 
cards carefully here, 
thankfully 
reluctant 
to 
force 
symbolism 
or 
dramatization 
for 
the 
sake 
of 
moving 
her 
novel 
into a higher literary 
caliber. Rather, such themes exist 
peacefully alongside the serial-
killing fireworks of the novel. 
Korede’s situation becomes less 
about the thrill of the kill and more 
about the morality of each of the 
characters in their day-to-day lives. 
By the climax of the novel, readers 
are invested in much more than just 
the desire to know who Ayoola will 
kill next.
Do great novels have to be 
groundbreaking? Probably not. “My 
Sister” can be a sufficient piece of 
fiction without offering anything 
revolutionary. Still, with a stack 
of potential literary prizes, the 
debut feels like it has only brushed 
against its potential.

‘My Sister’ debuts with grace

BOOK REVIEW

JOHN DECKER
Daily Book Review Editor

My summer started with tragedy. 
It was May 12 to be exact, mere days 
after the flurry of finals and packing 
and goodbyes came to an end. I had one 
more goodbye to give, one I had been 
dreading for years yet simultaneously 
counting down the days to. May 12 — 
the day that “Veep” ended. 
Since 2012, I have been enamored 
with “Veep.” It was a show I started 
watching with my mother — before I 
realized it might be too raunchy for 
a tween — and one that I caught up 
with in my freshman year of college. 
It might just be one of the greatest 
shows of all time. In all of its humor, 
its topics and its beautifully developed 
and truly awful characters, “Veep” 
is the near-perfect TV show. I could 
fill pages with what the best quips 
are, the best missed jokes or most 
underappreciated character, but there 
is one aspect of the show that solidifies 
its title as best comedy, that carries 
the weight of “Veep” on their skirt 
suit-clad back. I mean, of course, the 
venomous Selina Meyer — commonly 
known as Julia Louis-Dreyfus. 
Summer 2019 was the summer of 
JLD. Following the conclusion of 
“Veep,” I went anywhere to get my 
fix. I watched and read all interviews 
or profiles of Louis-Dreyfus and the 
“Veep” cast, the best being an in-depth 
look at the shooting of the finale 
episode by Jen Chaney at Vulture. 
When I couldn’t find more interviews, 
I watched Louis-Dreyfus accept her 
many, well-deserved awards. In one 
speech, she brings up Tony Hale, 
who played Selina Meyer’s obsessive 
right-hand man Gary on “Veep.” Hale 
and Dreyfus say in character as she 
accepts the award, Hale whispering in 
her ear the people to thank much like 
Gary whispered in Selina Meyer’s ear 
the names and facts of ambassadors 
she was forced to meet with. 
Even with these interviews and 
speeches, without “Veep” I had nothing 
to I looked forward to watching. There 
was a brief, glorious detour to Phoebe 
Waller-Bridge’s incredible “Fleabag,” 
but after those two magnificent six-
episode seasons, I was back in my 
“Veep” gloom. And so, I did what any 
other desperate, lost person would do: 
I rewatched “Seinfeld.” 
It’s a standard line to say that 
women can’t be funny. It’s pretty 

much the central conflict of Amazon’s 
incredible 
period 
series 
“The 
Marvelous Mrs. Maisel.” Women can 
be pretty, helpful, maybe even smart 
if you don’t listen too closely. But one 
thing they can never be? Funny. Julia 
Louis-Dreyfus has been shattering 
this sexist misconception since 1989, 
when she was cast in “Seinfeld” 
because NBC executives demanded 
that Jerry Seinfeld and Larry David 
add a woman to the central cast. 
Thank you, NBC executives, for being 
just a smidge more progressive than 
Seinfeld and David, because this 
contractual condition introduced the 
world to Julia Louis-Dreyfus as Elaine 
Benes, and she’s been unstoppable 
ever since. 
“Seinfeld” was always a constant in 
my life — it’s my dad’s favorite show 
and the syndicated program I would 
watch every day when I was home 
sick from school. Some people really 
hate the show. Some people really 
love it. I’ve felt both ways towards the 
show, but my love for Elaine Benes 
is unstoppable. She’s neurotic, edgy, 
troublesome and has an enviable head 
of hair. Her often failed trysts with 
New York City’s men are addictive 
to watch unravel, and her tendency 
to shove her friends as a reaction to 
intense emotion is near-poetic. In 
“Seinfeld,” Dreyfus was a master 
of physical comedy. Her shoves and 
“the Elaine dance” because so iconic 
and well-known that “Broad City” 
stars Abbi Jacobson and Ilana Glazer 
composed a contemporary dance to 
honor them at Dreyfus’s Mark Twain 
Award ceremony. 
Watching “Seinfeld” as a successor 
to “Veep” leads to the realization 
that Elaine Benes and Selina Meyer 
aren’t really all that different. That 
doesn’t mean Dreyfus lacks depth 
and mobility with the characters she 
plays — quite the contrary. Elaine 
is an oddball New Yorker in a show 
about nothing. Selina is the president 
of the United States in a show about 
everything. But through Dreyfus the 
two epochal characters are one — 
in their stiff, awkward moments of 
physical comedy, in their inability 
to ever escape the incompetence 
of the men around them, in their 
misadventures and missteps. Elaine 
and Selina aren’t just funny women, 
they are women who are funny in 
the exact way women shouldn’t be: 
Improper, immoral, foulmouthed and 
graceless.

An ode to Julia Louis-
Dreyfus, just because

TV NOTEBOOK

SAMANTHA DELLA FERA
Senior Arts Editor

‘My Sister, the Serial 
Killer’ 

Oyinkan Braithwaite

Anchor Books

November 20, 2018

IAN HARRIS
Daily Arts Writer

Braithwaite holds her cards carefully here, thankfully reluctant to 
force symbolism or dramatization for the sake of moving her novel 
into a higher literary caliber

Every line of dialogue sets up another, every off-handed joke 
becomes a central piece of the plot

