C O M M E M O R AT I N G MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 16, 2019 University of Michigan Law School, 1225 Jeffries Hall 4:10–5:30 p.m. Sponsored by U-M Office of the Provost A CONVERSATION WITH U.S. REPRESENTATIVE JUSTIN AMASH 46000 Summit Parkway Canton, MI 48188 734-394-5460 www.summitonthepark.org · · · · One Edith Wharton’s second novel, “The House Of Mirth,” depicts a world that I knew almost nothing about before picking it up — the New York “fashionable” society of the late 19th century, a world that mirrors the European aristocracy in its social aesthetic but is made up of industrialists, real-estate magnates (like Wharton’s parents), Wall Street speculators. That every rich person in America is nouveau riche when compared to the European aristocracy means that participation in high society has more to do with taste, refinement, manners and other immaterial, vague qualities. It’s interesting that this is the social formation that accompanied a period of intense income inequality — in the Gilded Age, the very rich are mostly concerned with being better at being rich than their friends and acquaintances. Awaiting women in this world is a system of rigid control structured around marriage, and Wharton’s novel is a depiction of the viciousness of this system. Her protagonist, Lily Bart, was born into “fashion” but, being an orphan, doesn’t have the means to stay there without marrying a rich man. She is nearly thirty and is reaching the point where her youthful beauty is just beginning to fade — she starts to notice circles around her mouth and wrinkles on her forehead — but her problem is really more psychological. Having been raised in an environment saturated with opulence, she is hesitant to leave it, even as she finds its trappings intolerable. The beginning of the novel has her faced with the prospect of marrying Percy Gryce, a man so dull she nearly can’t stand spending several afternoons with him at a country house. She vacillates between feeling incapable of marrying Gryce and feeling like she needs to charm him, win him over, so she can at least avoid falling into the “dinginess” that surrounds her charmed circle. She is of two minds, on the one hand needing to stay in the presence of money at any cost to her mental life, and on the other hand fully aware of how ill-suited she is mentally for life among the leisure class. This aspect of the plot rests on what amount to vague judgements about social aesthetics — it’s possible that Wharton’s intended audience would have a good awareness of what Lily means in her subtle judgements of the habits of the wealthy. For a reader in the 21st century, what comes across most readily is the mutability of Lily’s judgements, her propensity to change her mind not just about her own role in this “social tapestry,” but about the entire nature of the thing itself. Lily’s simultaneous attraction and repulsion, not just from single men or situations, but to the entire situation of her life, expands the novel of manners into something resembling a psychodrama. Wharton is also very deliberate in creating a character who is entirely dependent on the money of these people to maintain her lifestyle, which is the only one she has ever known. Over and over again, Lily comes close to repudiating her cruel, petty friends before remembering that she also lives in terror of having to make a life for herself outside of this context. Usually she repudiates for just long enough to miss important chances — she spends an afternoon in the country with Lawrence Selden, a charming lawyer just outside the circle of “fashion,” and when she returns to the house finds that Percy Gryce has gotten upset and left. Money saturates the social system Wharton depicts — there’s a gift economy for “tips” on Wall Street, newly rich families try to display their wealth to each other in banquets and parties. Every act of consumption is conspicuous. This doesn’t mean that restrictive social codes no longer exist, though, it just means that they are overlaid with an intensely marketized logic. Money mixes with everything else. Lily falls into a debt in the first half of the book to an investor, Gus Trenor, which quickly turns into an implied sexual debt that Lily flees from in horror. Later, she receives a marriage offer from Simon Rosedale, a man she finds repellant, who says “I’m just giving you a plain business account of the consequences. You’re not very fond of me — yet — but you’re fond of luxury, and style, and amusement, and not having to worry about cash.” As time goes on Lily becomes more and more desperate, she finds this proposal more and more appealing, even as she shrinks from it. The cruelty of “The House Of Mirth” lies in its reduction of everything to value — every bit of social behavior, every signifying piece of clothing or jewelry has a vector that ties it to money. Wharton’s novel reveals, as Lily says, “the cords at the back of the social tapestry,” the identical image of society with all the material workings visible. Two There’s something about the structure of indecision that makes caricatures of the objects under consideration. Writing indecision, then, often requires stating the patently ridiculous. The titular character of Adelle Waldman’s 2013 novel “The Love Affairs Of Nathaniel P” is performing a kind of lower-stakes version of Lily Bart’s social weighing; instead of two distinct, relatively fixed systems, Nate is evaluating a string of women for compatibility, never quite being able to settle on what he actually wants from them. He is instead afloat in a sea of atomized social and sexual characteristics that never quite settle into preferences or opinions. Essentially, he is of two minds as well — one desiring company and one seeing himself as akin to Mailer and Roth, the mid-century writers who were able to view their sexual gratification as akin to the fulfilment of their intellectual wills, independent of romantic involvement. He has inherited a lot of misogyny from his ambient encounters with masculinity, represented by his friend Jason who frequently regales Nate about his softer side. Nate frequently finds himself judging women on Jason’s metric of one to 10 before stopping himself. But he does have a genuine tender streak that occasionally and unpredictably finds its way to the surface. This pendulousness makes his behavior in relationships strange and erratic. He is not a jerk; he is in fact sensitive when he wants to be, but is still capable of being unfeeling and even cruel. He entertains moments of “embarrassing tenderness” and refers to the feeling of having a girlfriend as having an “an alien presence” in his bed with him. He is unable to face these contradictions, because it seems like his mind is only capable of entertaining one set of feelings at a time. Nate’s emotions are always described with fluid words — affection comes over him in “a wave,” resentment “flows” through him. Nothing can be pinned down or reversed in a wave, it has to be followed. Nate is at the mercy of his emotions, wherever they may lead him. The novel occasionally feels like it simplifies everything in life to writing and sex, but in that I feel like it represents how a sizable contingent of people in the contemporary era of overwork and individualism think. As much as his social life is tied up in his work, he sees work as completely distinct from the rest of his life, and is prone to seeing anything else as a distraction. Nate has a hard time having a dignified relationship with anyone because he sees, essentially, a dignified relationship as compromising his working ideal. This does not stop him from pursuing relationships, though. He is unable to fully settle on this ideal, unable to fully commit to it. Maybe this tug-of-war settles on a synthesis in the way that Nate tends to value women. No one in this book seems particularly intellectually rigorous, instead drawing from a hodgepodge of reference points to make ad-hoc arguments over drinks for the fun of it. Similarly, Nate judges women based on a bewildering array of overlapping social cues and codes, some of which have to do with writing and some of which have to do with simple attractiveness. He judges women the way a bad book reviewer judges a book, succinctly and based on surface characteristics — he’s giving a recommendation, more or less. Diptych of value LITERATURE COLUMN EMILY YANG Daily Literature Columnist Read more at MichiganDaily.com Pitch shifting has been around for decades. It’s the process of raising or lowering a vocal pitch signal by a set interval. Essentially, it makes the original signal sound higher or lower in pitch, depending on how the artist implements it. Chuck Berry adopted vocal pitch shifting during his late career to make his voice sound younger. Kanye West has used it prominently when sampling to create his trademark “chipmunk soul” beats. Grindcore and death metal bands use it to drop their vocals deeper below the human register and raise them to be higher than a screaming banshee. A$AP Rocky uses it extensively on the introductions to many of his tracks. It’s a wildly dynamic effect that has uses across genres, but for some reason, few musicians within the singer-songwriter sphere have implemented it. That is, until (Sandy) Alex G started making waves. Alex G, who started as a bedroom musician recording tracks on his laptop with a shabby, decades old microphone, has become a veritable indie star, and he did it using vocal pitch shifting. He doesn’t overdo it, though. He only uses it when he thinks he needs it. Sometimes it’s for an entire song, sometimes it’s only on the verses and sometimes it’s just sprinkled in randomly. Alex G has gotten some pretty prominent placements because of it, too. He was the one playing guitar all over Frank Ocean’s Blonde and Endless. He’s worked with Oneohtrix Point Never, reimagining “Babylon” in a dazzling, yet somber, way. In fact, Alex G’s cover of “Babylon” has even more plays than the original. He has the ability to create haunting, magical moments using only his voice, and that’s a special thing to have. His newest release House of Sugar is most similar to a cute but slightly creepy old fairy tale. It’s both captivating and a little repelling at the same time. Beginning with “Walk Away,” each song takes listeners to another realm, one where time stands still as Alex G’s vocals and guitar wash over everything. “Walk Away” is like the gentlest vice grip, with plush pillows taking the place of clamps. The song is stifling, but in a comforting way. The use of downward pitch shifting on the lines, “(S)omeday I’m gonna walk away from you / Not today, not today / Not today, not today / Not today, not today,” is unsettling and claustrophobic, but in a way, it feels nostalgic, like a memory that can suddenly speak to you, subtly reminding you of an old misstep. “Walk Away” is the introductory track to an album dealing with addiction and dependence, and it’s a damn good one at that. It beautifully sets listeners up for songs like “Hope,” a tear-inducing remembrance of a friend who died from an overdose on fentanyl, and “Taking,” a choric aside about a woman discovering and caressing her potentially strung-out lover. Despite thematic similarities, Alex G continues to surprise sonically. “Bad Man” is similar to a country ballad, and on “Sugar,” he unleashes a droning, robtronic wall of sound, making it clear that Oneohtrix Point Never’s influence has rubbed off on him. The most striking thing about House of Sugar is its ability to strike a balance between the strange and the familiar. Alex G seamlessly incorporates altered and multi- tracked vocals with electronic keys and acoustic guitar. He’s so good at arranging his songs that the electronic flare doesn’t seem that odd next to the more standard acoustic guitar. It just makes sense. That weirdness is what makes Alex G who he is, and he’s never ashamed to let his goofiness shine. Luckily, this doesn’t detract from his music and its message. Instead, it adds accessibility, cutting the weight off some of the heavier tracks. House of Sugar is like a childhood fairy tale that slowly begins to reveal itself as you get older. At first, it seems sweet and innocent, but as you give it more time and thought, it begins to reveal its more sinister colors. In this case, it unveils the ravages of dependence and addiction in a truly sad way. But using pitch shifting and glittering instrumentals, the album appears saccharine and a bit silly. It is truly the culmination of Alex G’s career up to this point, perfectly capturing his essence as a musician and human being. House of Sugar is an album that deserves repeat listens, if not for its lyrical content, then for the sonic acrobatics it so often pulls. (Sandy) Alex G has already proven that he can do the whole singer-songwriter thing. But it’s the moments on House of Sugar when he lets his freak fly that make the album special. Moments like when he busts out the Springsteen impression on “SugarHouse - Live” or his mock-country accent on “Bad Man” are what make it hard not to fall in love with the man and the music. (Sandy) Alex G’s Grimm-est tale yet ALBUM REVIEW JIM WILSON Daily Arts Writer House of Sugar (Sandy) Alex G Domino Recording Company From an early age, we’ve been conditioned to see height not just as a genetic marker, but as a quality of identity. Growing up, we tracked our maturation with pencil marks on closet walls, in middle school we lined up in height order and beamed with pride upon reaching five feet and now as adults we still gossip over physical stature. Impossible to miss, height is naturally a feature considered in our first impressions of one another. While the intention behind Netflix’s latest release, “Tall Girl,” is more to offer a light- hearted romantic comedy than to make a commentary on society’s fixation with height, the film is deeper than it appears, provoking audiences to recall the value in embracing their own skin and standing tall. Jodi (Ava Michelle, “The Bold and the Beautiful”) is six foot one inch, a trait no one ever lets her forget. Despite support from her family and quirky best friend Dunkleman (Griffin Gluck, “Why Him?”), who is openly head over heels for Jodi, her insecurities weigh heavy. For Jodi, height is a curse, a bewitchment that singles her out and, even worse, makes the prospect of finding a dateable guy nearly impossible. Her luck seems to change however, when an uber tall, dreamboat foreign exchange student named Stig materializes out of the blue. Stig appears to be everything that Jodi has been longing for and more, but whether he is actually what she needs is another question entirely. As the title suggests, the film’s plot is relatively simplistic, illustrating the trials and tribulations of a girl struggling to fit in. However, through a balance of B-grade jokes and silly supporting characters, the film holds audience attention. Given that there aren’t many exciting twists and turns, both Dunkleman and Jodi’s sister Harper (Sabrina Carpenter, “Horns”), a slightly air-headed pageant girl, help pump the life blood to the movie. The two characters function as Jodi’s support network in different ways, and each has an eccentricity that skirts the line between entertaining and annoying. Despite its lack of mystery, “Tall Girl” does pull viewers in through the shared experience of being an “other.” Jodi’s tall stature is an obvious characteristic that sets her apart from the bunch. But other characters in the film are “weird” in less evident ways. Dunkleman for instance, carries around a crate of books instead of using a backpack. And Harper is the latest of late bloomer, still struggling to close the yearbook and move on from her pageant days. The point that director Nzingha Stewart aims to make is that we all have elements, on a varying spectrum of visibility, that make us outliers. As cheesy and overemphasized as this message is, for some odd reason, we don’t mind hearing it just one more time. “Tall Girl” embodies the phrase “‘what you see is what you get.’” There are no major shockers, and no defining moments, but there is development. Though not necessarily innovative or fresh, Jodi’s story is representative of the journey of self-acceptance that each and every person goes through. We might not all have been the “tall girl” in high school, but that doesn’t mean we don’t all have our own awkward oddities that we’ve had to learn to grow into. The ultimate goal of “Tall Girl” is not to leave viewers wide-eyed and mindblown, but rather to crack a few smiles and warm a few hearts. ‘Tall Girl’ is simple, but very sweet FILM REVIEW SAMANTHA NELSON Daily Arts Writer Tall Girl Netflix Wonderland Sound and Vision 6A — Monday, September 16, 2019 Arts The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com