The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
Arts
Wednesday, October 2, 2019 — 5A

The sprawling gray highways will attempt 
to convince you that the most direct route 
is the best one. These concrete trails are 
hypnotic, tiring, blending into each other. 
You think you’re making progress, getting 
closer. But somehow you’re still so far away. 
You keep driving. This is how they get you. 
Please don’t fall for it.
Roads seem like they’ll lead you anywhere. 
You can take I-94 eastbound from Chicago 
to Canada. Detroit has roads spitting off 
directly in every direction. Roads named 
after the towns they pass through. Roads 
named after people. Roads to turn you back 
around.
“I’ll be taking any beauty I see / And I’ll 
try to give it to ya.” So shouts Max Kerman 
on the titular track of Arkells’ 2011 album, 
Michigan Left. These lovely Canadians from 
Hamilton may have written a song about 
Detroit, but these words don’t lead me there. 
Not yet, at least.
To make a left turn, you have to go right. 
Then you make a u-turn at a median. This 
is the Michigan Left. It’s Detroit’s own 
special concrete conundrum. It takes a little 
longer. It’s not a direct route. It’s managed 
to infuriate Michigan consistently since one 
popped up in 1960. (It’s universally despised, 
I promise.) But we’ve gotten really good at it. 
I don’t mean that we’ve gotten good only at 
taking Michigan Lefts. I mean we’ve gotten 
good at taking the long way home.
The Midwest is slow. Our towns are small. 
Most of it is covered by trees. A good chunk 
of it borders Canada. The chunk that doesn’t 
is surrounded by golden walls of corn. This is 
all to say, we have a lot of time on our hands. 
A good thing, too, because it’ll take you seven 
hours to get from Detroit to Marquette. But 

even if you take the most direct route there 
— I-75, to M-123, to M-28 — what will you 
pass through? Through Flint and around 
Saginaw. Though Grayling and Wolverine. 
That’s all before you crest the Mighty Mac 
over the Straits of Mackinac. If miss any of 
it, all you’ve seen is distant white pine and 
worn highway.
Wherever you go, you may make a 
Michigan Left or ten. Stopping to get gas, 
being robbed of your sense of direction or 
chasing a bear through the woods in your 
Jeep because you want to hang out with him 
(highly discouraged, leave bears alone — I 
had fun, the bear did not). Without these 
things, a journey isn’t a journey at all. It’s 
you, stuck in a box for hours while the world 
revolves past you. Just because you arrive 
somewhere doesn’t mean how you got there 
didn’t matter. That time’s lost if it’s not 
cherished.
There’s a combined total of over 425 miles 
of Michigan Lefts stretching across each of 
these pleasant peninsulas. Their purpose 
is safety. But their function is humility. 
Taking a Michigan Left isn’t an impediment. 
It’s an opportunity to slow down, to ease 
the highway’s beating on your temples and 
patience. Every Michigan Left and diversion 
is the prospect to take in the beauty of a 
Michigan that’s sprawled out in front of you.
We are all going somewhere. There’s a trail 
we’ve each been following. Maybe you need 
to go see your father because he really does 
love you, even if he has trouble showing it. 
Maybe you need to meet up for coffee with a 
friend who’s a little more like a stranger now. 
Maybe you’re trying to remember how to love 
someone who’s hurt you. Maybe you’re just 
trying to get better. Wherever you’re going, 
you’ll get there. I only hope you’ll remember 
your Michigan Lefts. Take all the beauty you 
see and try to give it to yourself — for real 
this time. Please remember to take the long 
way home.

Michigan Lefts, or taking
some beauty for yourself

MAXWELL SCHWARZ
Daily Midwestern Columnist

MIDWESTERN COLUMN

If “Judy” doesn’t rocket Renée Zellweger 
(“Bridget Jones’s Diary”) to the top of the Oscar 
shortlist, there’s no point in even holding the 
ceremony. Her performance as Judy Garland 
is a triumph and the towering foundation 
upon which the movie rests. It’s no simple 
impersonation or prosthetic guise. Zellweger’s 
work is a marvel of research, empathy and 
bravery. This is the performance of the year, 
one worth all the hype surrounding it.
Though now considered a screen legend for 
her role as Dorothy in “The Wizard of Oz,” 
Garland and her career were in trouble in 1968, 
when “Judy” begins. Garland and her young 
kids are living in hotel rooms as she plays any 
venue that will take her — Garland’s unreliable 
reputation has blacklisted her in Hollywood. 
Substance abuse is also evident; there’s a 
particularly cutting moment when Garland’s 
daughter begs her not to “go to sleep” as she 
takes pills after a show. When Garland’s 
ex-husband, played by Rufus Sewell (“The Man 
in The High Castle”), takes her to court for 
custody of their children, she goes to London 
to perform dinner theatre so she can pay her 
debts.
While intriguing, the plot isn’t what makes 
the movie so phenomenal. It’s who personifies 
it. Zellweger elevates every scene she’s in with 
her unbelievable dedication and craft. She fully 
inhabits Judy Garland in a way few actors ever 
do. From the accent to the physicality to the 
classic contralto, she nails it. Her Garland is 
arresting, and never lets the viewer go until the 
final cut to black. It is a character both iconic 
and sympathetic, both exalting and tragic.
The cinematography is bracingly intimate and 
perfectly captures the polarities of Garland’s 
life, from sunny Hollywood parties to a cold 
bathroom floor after a bender. Most recent 
musical biopics like “Bohemian Rhapsody” 
and “Rocketman” have been nostalgia trips, 
glossing over issues or complications in favor of 
sparkling musical numbers and heartwarming 
epiphanies. While “Judy” sublimely channels 
Judy Garland’s beauty and talent, it never shies 
away from what made her so complex.

The nostalgia, mostly present in the lavish 
costumes, 
music 
and 
production 
design, 
never overshadows the complicated reality 
of Zellweger’s life. “Judy” veers away from 
mythologizing, presenting the star’s troubles 
with brutal, unflinching honesty. Garland 
was an icon, but also suffered from severe 
psychological issues. Exploring this idea, the 
film ingeniously blends together moments 
from Garland’s past during the production of 
“The Wizard of Oz,” with the main story. These 
flashbacks aren’t a gimmick — they carry 
vital narrative weight. Throughout, Garland’s 
childhood traumas parallel their consequences 
in her later years, to crushing effect.
Because Zellweger’s Garland is so utterly 
fantastic, the other characters can’t help but 
be dimmed by her gigantic star. Certain plot 
threads, especially concerning Garland’s final 
husband, played by Finn Wittrock (“American 
Horror Story”), either fall flat or end without 
resolution. Michael Gambon (“Harry Potter 
and the Prisoner of Azkaban”) appears, but the 
legendary actor never has much to do. A plotline 
with two gay fans who take Garland in for a 
night does tread the line with sentimentality, 
seeming a little too sweet, but is tied up in a way 
that doesn’t threaten the realism of the main 
story. None of this really matters, though —not 
when Zellweger is on screen. Judy Garland was 
a star for the ages, and Zellweger has given her 
an immortalization to match.

‘Judy’ is simply phenomenal

ANDREW WARRICK
For the Daily

Judy

Michigan Theater, Ann Arbor 20 IMAX

LD Entertainment

OIL OF EVERY PEARL’S UN-INSIDES is an 
audioscape odyssey. Whether it’s the oppressive, 
raunchy noise of “Ponyboy” or the syrupy, electric 
buildup of “Is It Cold In The Water?,” SOPHIE 
weaves a unique sound on OIL drawn from so 
many different ideas that it nearly renders her 
music labelless. Nebulous titles like “avant-garde” 
or “experimental” don’t do justice to the respect 
SOPHIE pays to art pop, glitch, industrial and 
ambient music. Fans of any or all of the above can 
find beauty in how they culminate in OIL.
OIL doesn’t hesitate to draw out raw emotion. 
It begins with a call for vulnerability on “It’s Okay 
To Cry.” SOPHIE’s heartfelt whispers speak to the 
soul. She introduces a motif she carries throughout 
the album, a ‘world inside.’ The concept climaxes 
on “Whole New World/Pretend World,” a nine-

minute monster of a finale that evolves and 
deepens with every passing minute. On this track 
she builds the world inside, but she chases that gap 
between physical expression and inner being all 
across OIL, like on “Infatuation” and especially 
“Immaterial.”
“Immaterial” is a powerhouse pop cut embedded 
in a project full of eccentric industrial compositions 
and swanky ambient soundscapes, but it’s no less 
evocative. The lyrics are provoking: A meditation 
on the relationship between physicality and 
identity, SOPHIE challenges her listeners to 
contemplate divorcing the two. Cowriter Cecile 
Believe sings with visceral emotion, “I was just a 
lonely girl / In the eyes of my inner child … I don’t 
even have to explain / Just leave me alone now.”
The lyrics speak to a criticism levied at SOPHIE 
earlier in her career, encapsulated by a 2014 article 
in The Fader that argued she was intentionally 
obscuring a male identity and appropriating 
femininity in her artistry. SOPHIE would later 
come out as transgender. The position she takes on 
“Immaterial” is reminiscent of a groundbreaking 
essay published on Medium challenging the 
idea that the only real transwoman is an out 
transwoman. The song’s ultimate declaration? 
SOPHIE owes her listeners nothing. It’s a 
message that resonates.
“Faceshopping” is a similar exploration 
of personal expression and invention. The 
percussion screeches and sputters, clanks 
and clatters, drilling and drumming and 
whirring and humming a cacophony of facial 
construction. Over two minutes are spent 
manufacturing, the tools voiced in a low 
rumble: “Artificial bloom / Hydroponic skin / 
Chemical release.” Then the beat switches and 
for a moment, all the faceshopping culminates 
in dazzling brilliance, twinkling keys and a 
stunning falsetto. Only 45 seconds later it’s 
gone, the shimmer of radiance is scrapped, the 
factory returns. The face is back in the shop.
A 
theme 
of 
formed 
and 
constructed 
expression draws an interesting parallel to 
SOPHIE’s production style. It might be more 
accurate to call her a sound designer than a 
record producer. For much of her production, 
the gloss and polish isn’t made of instrumental 
samples, but literally built from waveforms. 
OIL is in-your-face artificial, and expertly 

sculpted to sound like it. She embraces her style 
on the ambient track “Pretending,” building an 
awe-inspiring and ear-embracing resonance full 
of richness and lucidity. Sandwiched between 
the spine-chilling synths of “Not Okay” and the 
bubblegum pop of “Immaterial,” SOPHIE throws 
in twist after twist for listeners on OIL.
Records 
composed 
at 
such 
a 
high 

calibre don’t come around often — OIL is 
positioned to be inspiring the producers of the next 
decade. SOPHIE is glitzy, SOPHIE is glamorous, 
and her masterpiece OIL OF EVERY PEARL’S 
UN-INSIDES 
is 
consistently 
unpredictable, 
organically artificial. It’s a landmark in music 
production and it’s heart-heavy with agony and 
ecstasy.

What I’m Listening To: ‘OIL’ is an audioscape odyssey

DYLAN YONO
Daily Arts Writer

MUSIC: WHAT I’M LISTENING TO

FUTURE CLASSIC

The lyrics speak to a criticism levied at SOPHIE 
earlier in her career, encapsulated by a 2014 article 
in The Fader that argued she was intentionally 
obscuring a male identity and appropriating 
femininity in her artistry

Every Michigan Left and diversion is the 
prospect to take in the beauty of a Michigan 
that’s sprawled out in front of you

FILM REVIEW

A meditation on the 
relationship between 
physicality and identity, 
SOPHIE challenges her 
listeners to contemplate 
divorcing the two

Garland was 
an icon, but 
also suffered 
from severe 
psychological issues