The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
Arts
Wednesday, September 11, 2019 — 5A
More than 25 years after the
release of their debut album Enter the
Wu-Tang: 36 Chambers, the Staten
Island hip-hop group Wu-Tang Clan
still occupies a prominent place in
the genre’s (and popular culture’s)
collective memory.
Backed by RZA’s
diverse,
lo-fi
production,
the
original members
of
the
Wu-Tang
Clan helped create
the
dark,
gritty
sound that would
influence
many
East Coast records
in
the
coming
years.
The Hulu miniseries “Wu-Tang:
An American Saga,” produced by RZA
himself and Alex Tse (whose writing
credits
include
“Watchmen”
and
“Superfly”), explores the lives of the
rappers around the time of the group’s
inception, in and around backdrops
such as Staten Island’s Stapleton
Projects, stylized in the group’s music
as the chaotic, dangerous Shaolin.
The narrative centers around RZA
(Ashton
Sanders,
“Moonlight”),
introduced by his real name Bobby
Diggs. Disillusioned by the crime and
violence surrounding him, his friends
and family, he attempts to withdraw
into his passion for music, bolstered by
an eclectic taste in everything from old
soul records to kung-fu films.
Even for those familiar with the
Wu-Tang Clan and its rather extensive
mythology, the series can be difficult
to track. While some characters
such as Russel Jones (T.J. Atoms,
“Orange is the New Black”), eventually
the
infamous
Ol’
Dirty
Bastard,
are
instantly
recognizable,
other
members of the Clan are much less so,
complicated by the fact that there is also
a wide set of supporting characters.
RZA is the most sympathetic of the
bunch, torn between the necessity to
support his family by participating in
the low-level street hustle like many of
his friends are and the desire to escape
it all through music.
The other founding members of
the clan are no less precociously
talented in their own abilities, but are
portrayed as much more cynical about
the prospects of using hip-hop as an
out from the reality of their lives. RZA
is in many ways the main protagonist
of the story simply because of his
stubborn ambition and vision — since
uniting the Wu-Tang Clan involved
reaching across several types of
dividing lines, mostly drawn up by the
loosely organized
crime rings the
members
were
involved in.
“Wu-Tang:
An
American
Saga”
is
much
less
“Bohemian
Rhapsody”
and
much more “The
Wire,” with the
first few episodes
chugging
along
at a rather slow pace. This pacing does
make it easier to eventually decipher
the webs of alliances between the
characters, but perhaps is not the
simplistic biopic many fans were
probably
expecting.
Ultimately,
“Wu-Tang: An American Saga” is
less about the music of the Wu-Tang
Clan and more of a step back from the
legend, letting the world know just how
difficult and impressive the group’s
meteoric rise was in every aspect, from
financial to logistical to personal.
‘Wu-Tang’ is an American saga
WARNER BROS. PICTURES
TV REVIEW
“With
the
whole
world
crumbling, we pick this time to
fall in love.”
So
says
Ingrid
Bergman
(“Gaslight”)
as
Ilsa
in
“Casablanca,”
Michael
Curtiz’s
1942 masterpiece of American
cinema. Thanks to Ann Arbor’s
Michigan Theater, I’ve had the
good fortune of seeing the film at
the theater’s Historic Auditorium
twice during my time as a student
here. It’s hard not to think about
history when you step inside the
venue, built in 1928. The decor
makes you feel as though you’ve
left the 21st century and entered
the days of Old Hollywood, when
everything
cinema
would
one
day become was ahead. For all I
know, Ann Arborites in the 1940s
probably saw “Casablanca” for the
first time in the same exact place
I did.
The
world
has
undoubtedly
gone through some major changes
since 1942. Although we may not
be in the middle of a major world
war like our protagonists Rick
(Humphrey Bogart, “The Maltese
Falcon”) and Ilsa, humans in
2019 carry the weight of our
own unique set of challenges —
climate
destruction,
economic
inequality,
overpopulation,
the
list goes on. Our attitudes about
social justice have also changed
tremendously, admittedly making
certain aspects of “Casablanca”
difficult to stomach, particularly
its
treatment
of
women
and
Sam
(Dooley
Wilson,
“Stormy
Weather”),
a
black
musician
at
Rick’s
nightclub.
In
many
respects, “Casablanca” is very
much of its time, for better or for
worse.
Yet, there’s something about the
movie that separates it from the
conventions of its era, accounting
for
its
popularity
worldwide,
across all age groups. Its central
story, that of Rick and Ilsa’s
complicated, whirlwind romance,
feels timeless and widely relevant,
despite the World War II-specific
politics and culture it’s steeped
in. As Sam sings time and time
again throughout the film, “It’s
still the same old story, a fight
for love and glory.” “Casablanca”
tells a universal tale, one of
love and death and war and the
things we sacrifice for what we
know to be important. It poses
genuinely
thought-provoking
questions
about
responsibility
and patriotism that are as old as
time itself. What do we owe to
the greater good? What must we
sacrifice for what’s right? Did
Rick make the right decision in
forcing Ilsa to get on that plane,
even though it may have cost him
his last chance at a great love? Or
was this decision simply the best
way he knew to express his love
for her?
As
I
asked
myself
these
questions
while
watching
the
movie, I found myself wondering
about the people I was watching
it with. How many had seen
“Casablanca” before? Why did
they decide to come tonight?
What were their relationships to
the movie? Was anyone here even
alive during World War II?
That final question is the one
that sticks with me the most.
Before we know it, there will
be no one left to remember what
life was truly like then. Yet, it’s
still a comfort to know that, in a
world that’s constantly changing
and where people are constantly
dying, there are some things that
will never die, like “Casablanca”
itself, and the memory of the
way Ingrid Bergman looks at
Humphrey Bogart in that final
scene. “Casablanca” has stood and
will continue to stand the test of
time, to serve as a testament to
what we valued, how we loved
and the things we were willing to
do for each other. In that sense,
“Casablanca” is immortal.
As time goes by, ‘Casablanca’
remains a classic for the ages
FILM NOTEBOOK
ELISE GODFRYD
Daily Arts Writer
When I find a song to share with my mom,
I always wait until it’s the two of us in the car.
It would be difficult to trace how many of our
shared obsessions began with this exact scene,
but I imagine the fugitivity of the moment and
ourselves on the road — minds and bodies alike
— are somehow linked.
It’s something to do with not having to
watch her face if I don’t want to, which is
something to do with fear of finding disinterest
in it, which is something to do with how
absurdly high stakes these transactions feel
to me. It doesn’t make me feel like I’m in the
crosshairs; instead, it calls my understanding
of the person sitting beside me into question.
A folk cover of a Nirvana song played
between those seats, as did my mom’s first
contemporary hip-hop record, as did the song
that initiated our (neverending) Solange phase.
Once, on a night drive during my new wave
spurt, I queued a sequence that started with
The Replacements’ “I Will Dare,” probably
included a Cars song I thought she might be
able to pretend wasn’t the Cars (Dad loves,
Mom hates), definitely included Echo & the
Bunnymen and concluded with Iggy Pop. She
told me she hadn’t listened to those songs since
she was around my age, commuting to college
at U-M Dearborn.
Those
moments,
identifying,
then
translating across a synapse I hadn’t detected,
are the ones I wait for. The ones that
compensate for the face she made when, say, I
tried to convince her Bob Dylan could sing.
***
I don’t know if I should be writing about
this. I wasn’t there to see how it began: with the
artful labor of creating a mixtape. I’ve never
had a cassette slipped into my hands, never
consulted someone’s carefully printed, cryptic
title to gather a hint as to what I might hear.
I’ve come of age in the days of Spotify and
other digital streaming services. I don’t tend
to look at the past in a way that lends itself to
longing, so I quickly adapted to an increasingly
intangible experience with music. Even after
admiring box after box of vinyl, I rarely make
purchases at the record stores I visit, and I
don’t miss the choreography of extracting a
CD without leaving fingerprints on it. Does
that mean that I have no taste of that old-school
magic?
I don’t think so. I think when I pull up the
Spotify playlist I commissioned from a friend
after hearing his favorite Kendrick Lamar
song by chance and finally admitting that I
had neglected a revolutionary genre for too
long, I know something of its charms. I don’t
think that because the songs on the digital
counterpart of a mixtape were easier to compile
that less attention and care were devoted to the
act of compiling them. I don’t think that kind of
transaction will ever depreciate if music is still
part of it.
***
I’ve begun to confuse the absence of a
person with the absence of their music. I’ve
begun to confuse the presence of a person
with the sound of their music. I’ll give you an
example: It’s not when I visit the house where
my Pa once lived that I perceive his absence
most clearly. That might proceed in part from
my Nana’s refusal to move anywhere else and
curator-like preservation of the home they
once shared. Regardless, it’s when I listen to a
song and think, I know exactly who would love
this song, and that person is him, and the music
sharing comes to a sad, jolting halt that I know
what it means for him to be gone.
It got worse when my Grandma Laura died.
Unlike my Pa’s heart attack, her death was
anticipated, slowly, painfully ambled toward.
At one point, she gathered her grandchildren
around her chair and presented us with paper
butterflies, glued to adjustable clips so that we
could attach it to something. It was supposed
to be her way of being with us, even as her
mobility slipped away. I cried in the bathroom:
Because of what it meant, I both wanted and
didn’t want it in the most severe way.
Six years after her death, in the process
of moving in and out of college dorms, I lost
the butterfly. One of the most fragile, most
important belongings I have ever had, and ever
will have. Telling my mom was much more
shameful, much more distressing than any
Catholic sacrament I had ever been forced to
participate in. How could my grandmother
ever be present if I lost the object in which she
vested that presence?
I don’t know, but I can tell you that I turned
to music.
“Paper Butterfly,” I titled it. The caption
adds, “favorite songs of and songs inspired
by the favorite songs of my grandma, Laura
Leigh Schmidt (1948-2012).” It’s a playlist on
Spotify, with a foundation of Paul Simon and
Queen (her favorites), a few songs of special
significance interspersed (Elton John’s “Your
Song”: the song my mom told me my uncle
and Grandma Laura danced to at his wedding)
and, of course, songs I wish I could play for her.
Yusuf’s “If You Want to Sing Out, Sing Out.”
Paul Simon’s not the only one with the voice
of an angel. Grace Potter & The Nocturnals’s
“Stars.” I can’t look at the stars / They make me
wonder where you are. Aretha Franklin’s “You
Make Me Feel Like a Natural Woman.” Tell me
what that feels like.
That’s more than translating across a
synapse. It’s the letter I’ll never send because
I can’t. It’s a language for grief, a less painful
iteration of the imagined conversation,
where at least the silence, still impervious, is
disturbed.
***
So I’m confessing once and for all: I’m your
Spotify stalker.
I can’t tell you how many essays and sorrows
and long nights your playlists and inadvertent
recommendations have gotten me through, so
what I should say next is thank you.
Thank you for luring me into the worlds of
dream pop and contemporary R&B, worlds
I’m not sure I could have found the entrance to
without you.
Thank you for dismantling the concept of
“guilty pleasure,” for listening publicly, so I can
also listen publicly to songs I worshipped in
ninth grade, when I need them to remind me
of what that time felt like.
And no, I’m not proud of this one, but
thank you for showing me you’re alive when
sometimes I wonder. When I haven’t heard
from you in a few days, sometimes I stakeout
the “Friend Activity” sidebar. Then I’ll see your
name and your song and the speaker with the
arcs representing sound, and I exhale. You’re
okay. It’s post-punk, so you’re probably not
happy. But the music is on, so you are alright. In
adequate hands, for now.
***
I’ve used playlists as the language of my
grief, so, naturally, I’ve also used them to try
to make legible fleeting, off-mark feelings that
could have thickened into something like love.
“Could have” because I should preface this
with another confession, that I forgot how the
story goes. It was the same promising, blinding
boy-meets-girl, followed by the same violation
of boundaries, the levying of power dynamics,
for which boy expresses guilt and girl comforts
boy. (Who comforts girl?)
But between points A and B of course,
there was music. There were songs that said,
I’m trying to figure out my feelings for you.
There were careful recommendations that
said, You might understand this, even though
no one else has. The songs added up in our
minds and told us what we wanted to believe
about one another. For me, that was that I
found a man who wasn’t just luring me in with
feigned respect for boundaries and limits,
who wouldn’t take advantage. (I was wrong.)
For him, it seemed something more like I was
the antidote to some part of himself, with
involuntary powers of healing. (He was wrong,
too.)
These
song
statements
and
misrepresentations were housed in Spotify’s
collaborative playlist function. We had two
of them; especially in the beginning, I would
contemplate my contribution obsessively. I
tried to calculate all the ways it could misfire,
both in terms of whether he would actually
like it and whether it would say what I wanted
it to say. And I would wait for his response
song, check the playlists obsessively, listen the
moment he added something.
One day, close to the end, at a time where I
was somewhere between wanting to see him
often and feeling like I was supposed to want
to see him often, I was walking to work. It
was cold and I’d forgotten the earmuffs he’d
once complimented. To make matters worse,
my hair was pulled back, so the wind gnawed
mercilessly at both ears. I inserted an earbud in
each, numbness still blossoming, and queued
the most recent songs he added to one of the
playlists.
One was about finding a reason to live in
another person, which he had promised I
wasn’t, that he wouldn’t let one person be
that, but the song still had warmth. Another
was about a couple’s atypical, wonderfully
awkward track to falling in love. I felt a flood
of warmth, starting with my ears. His songs
playing in them, their lyrics I figured might as
well be his words, warmed me from the inside
out, swirled around my head, dizzying, almost
fashioning a pair of earmuffs out of thin air and
a few well-sung notes.
After the boundary violation, I grew
resentful of his music. I didn’t look forward to
adding songs to our playlists anymore; when
I did, it was perfunctory and begrudging.
I shuddered when I saw him listening to a
song I’d recommended or whenever his name
displayed on my “Friend Activity” (“friend,”
the word I questioned). When I realized how
not only permissible but also how simple
it would be to escape this dimension of his
lingering, it was ridiculously liberating. How
unburdening it was to unfollow the playlists,
to delete the one I made for him and lastly to
unfollow him.
It’s unnerving how still, when I listen to a
song by an artist he liked and I once liked, it
carries a new weight of having been part of a
trust I developed with someone but deeply
regret. Maybe it’s that we surrender pieces
of ourselves to our songs, the transaction, the
dialogue that they are. We must because the
associations between a person and their music
is wonderful sometimes, unbearable other
times and always incontrovertible.
A love letter from your
grateful Spotify stalker
FROM THE VAULT: NEW MEDIA NOTEBOOK
JULIANNA MORANO
Daily Arts Writer
SAYAN GHOSH
Daily Arts Writer
Wu-Tang: An American Saga
Series Premiere
Hulu
Wednesdays
Read more at
MichiganDaily.com
With the whole
world crumbling, we
pick this time to fall
in love
Yet, there’s
something about
the movie that
separates it from
the conventions of
its era, accounting
for its popularity
worldwide, across
all age groups