The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
Arts
Tuesday, October 8, 2019 — 5

’Tis the season for atonement, folks. If you have 
been a dedicated reader of this here column, which 
I am certain you are, you will know that I am a 
big fan of apologizing. I apologize for everything, 
from taking up space to Jeffrey Epstein. Maybe it’s 
my midwestern upbringing or my Jewish guilt or 
my genitals, but I am always apologizing for one 
thing or another. I apologize for men who make 
me feel uncomfortable. I apologize for making 
myself vulnerable. I apologize for being too loud, 
too goofy, too honest, too much. As women we are 
taught to say sorry before we know what we are 
apologizing for. We are trained from a young age 
that our existence is a burden, that our presence 
is annoying, that our words aren’t heard. But I am 
tired of saying sorry into the void. 
When I wrote a similar listicle to this one last 
year, in honor of Yom Kippur, it came from a place 
of hope that this year I wouldn’t second guess 
myself, I wouldn’t apologize when I didn’t need 
to, I wouldn’t say sorry for who I am. Ultimately, 
I think I failed my New Year’s resolution, because 
I am right where I was one year ago. I am writing 
with the same false confidence in the same coffee 
shop (Comet Coffee) at the same table (the one 
on the right closest to the counter), drinking the 
same drink (an oat milk latte), wearing the same 
T-shirt (a vintage tee featuring the season two cast 
of SNL), listening to the same songs (something by 
Mitski), thinking about the same damn things (I 
really need to stop biting my nails this year, I mean 
it). Some things never change. 
Sure, there are some apologies I really should 
make, like to my landlord for tearing out a chunk of 
my drywall trying to hang a “Frances Ha” poster 
and when I told you I couldn’t hang out because 
I was busy but actually I was just rewatching 
“Fleabag” for the seventh time. Still, I have made a 
tradition of taking the time and ink of The Daily to 
let everyone know what I won’t be atoning for this 
year. So here it is folks, my day of anti-atonement, 
my soliloquy of non-sorries, my listicle of laments, 
what I will not be atoning for this year: 
I will not atone for boasting my 500+ LinkedIn 
connections. It’s an accomplishment whether it 
gets me a job or not. 
I will not atone for writing listicles in replace 
of prose for my Daily Humor Column. It’s punchy 
and fun and I like it. 
I will not atone for paying actual, physical 
money to see the “Downton Abbey” movie when 

I could have just rewatched the show for free 
on PBS. It was the most calming movie-going 
experience I have ever had and the plumber was 
hot. 
I will not atone for going to career fair without a 
folder. Who even knew that was a thing? 
I will not atone for using mouthwash in my bed 
when I am too lazy to get up and brush my teeth.
I will not atone for listening to podcasts at the 
gym. 
I will not atone for telling people I am 5’7” when 
I am actually a tall 5’6”.
I will not atone for grinding my own coffee 
beans. It’s pretentious but it tastes better, OKAY?
I will not atone for my loud watch. I know it 
ticks and tocks, it’s a goddamn watch, Brenda. 
I will not atone for using a strand of my own 
hair to pick food out of my teeth when I don’t have 
floss on hand. Ask anyone with long hair, they do 
it too.
I will not atone for my Pinterest boards, of 
which there are many. 
I will not atone for using Google Maps to get 
home from the MLB. I have no sense of direction. 
I will not atone for not knowing what I’m doing 
after graduation. I have time to figure it out, Aunt 
Judy!
I will not atone for announcing when I go to 
the gym — “I’m going to the gym, everyone,” “If 
you need me, I’ll be at the gym,” “Just going to my 
happy place, the gym, I’m going to the GYM,” — 
because people should know that I am svelte and 
fit and swole. 
I will not atone for calling my mom between 
five and 15 times a day. She is a joy to talk to and 
I walk a lot.
I will not atone for wearing the same leggings 
I wore yesterday just inside out. It’s clean enough 
and I haven’t done laundry yet this month. 
I will not atone for listening to the “Succession” 
theme on repeat, it’s a banger. 
I will not atone for my Glossier addiction. I 
am just trying to be the Bratz-doll “Euphoria” 
influencer I know I can be. 
I will not atone for calling dress pants “slacks.”
I will not atone for dying my hair blonde and 
telling people it’s natural. Maybe she’s born 
with it, maybe it’s none of your business. 
There it is, dear reader, another year’s worth 
of not sorries, another 365 days of beg your 
pardons, 525,600 more minutes of excuse 
you. Let’s hope this year is one filled with less 
regret and more release, less apologizing 
and more actualizing, less concern and more 
confidence. 

I (still) am not sorry

BECKY PORTMAN
Daily Humor Columnist

HUMOR COLUMN

“Joker,” directed by Todd Phillips (“The Hangover”) follows 
an alternative origin story for the infamous DC Comics villain 
as he transforms from a downtrodden stand-up comedian to his 
more familiar persona, Gotham’s most vengeful maniac. 
The Joker (or Arthur Fleck, as we first meet him) is played 
by Joaquin Phoenix (“Her”) in another Joaquin Phoenix 
performance. In other words, he takes character acting to 
its extreme, presenting the villain with a dark electricity, 
a fierceness that hadn’t previously been captured by other 
renditions of the Joker. As in any of his roles, Phoenix goes all in 
here and totally carries the film. 
Unfortunately, despite Phoenix’s genuinely impressive 
dedication to the character, the narrative is dry and unnecessary. 
The concept of a Joker origin story could be compelling, though 
his usual role as the ideological counterpart to Batman’s rigid 
morality is entirely absent. Instead, what Phillips delivers is a 
hollow, static product of aggressive and threatened fantasies. 
There is no transition of ideas, no intellectual momentum — 
only a lonely man beaten by all of society to the point of bloody 
retaliation against the culprits. And according to Phillips, we are 
all to blame.
Many of the film’s early scenes that shame, embarrass and 
bludgeon Arthur plead for empathy from the audience. And 
admittedly, they work. In particular, Arthur has a condition that 
causes him to laugh in uncontrollable, random spasms. When 
these occur in public, he is physically unable to explain himself 
and is coldly demeaned by those around him. He even has a tiny 
laminated note explaining this tendency, and seeing the card’s 
grimy, creased edges is a reminder of how frequently he must 
have to pull it out on a given day. 
Phillips makes overt, breathless attempts at political 
commentary with regard to Arthur’s lack of agency in Gotham. 
The healthcare system is weak and unresponsive, a trash strike 
has left mounds and mounds of garbage bags littered on the 
streets and the working class is immobile on the economic 

ladder. The real problems with the movie arise when Phillips 
uses these political issues to justify the violence that the Joker 
commits. Of course, this endorsement is not overt, but when we 
spend such long and intimate stretches with a man like Arthur, 
the filmmakers clearly want the audience to understand his 
motivations. 
If one examines his anarchic ambitions for what they are — 
the euphoric dreams of a murderer made a fool by the system 
one too many times — “Joker” might not even be interesting 
enough to merit the discourse it has created. Many times 
during the movie I was reminded of another messianic symbol 
of masculinity and working class revolution: Tyler Durden 
from “Fight Club.” The important contrast between Durden 
and Fleck, though, is the depth to their madness. Where I 
think Durden intentionally becomes becomes self-parody, as 
conforming and soulless as the world he hates, Fleck falls into 
this trap without knowing it. 
Many audience members in my theater evidently fell into the 
gleeful gravity of the Joker too, laughing hysterically at some of 
his carnage. Phillips even placed a few jokes into Fleck’s killing 
spree, which were more cringey than anything else. 
Recently, the director received backlash for complaining 
about the difficulty of making comedy amid “woke culture,” and 
the more I reflect on “Joker,” the more it feels like a self-portrait. 
Toward the end of the film, a cackling Joker is asked what he 
thinks is so funny. “You wouldn’t understand,” he replies raspily. 
Maybe for Phillips (and those in my screening who laughed so 
frequently) there is something cathartic about watching Arthur 
Fleck wreak havoc on a society that refuses to understand him, 
even when his bloodshed is portrayed with such irresponsible 
glee. But I guess I wouldn’t understand. And I’m OK with that.

We really didn’t need ‘Joker’

ANISH TAMHANEY
Daily Arts Writer

When is empathy evil? Appreciating others’ 
experiences carves out the space for solidarity in 
which people with privilege take action. But imagining 
others’ experiences implies the possibility of 
understanding their trauma. “Stepping into the shoes 
of others” requires one to assume they know what 
trauma is happening and how others would react.
People’s pain is often situated across boundaries 
of race and class. To empathize across those lines, 
one must squint to make out a fuzzy image of what is 
happening to others. They must further distort their 
own experience, alter their assumption of how the 
victims should react. On top of this, advocacy through 
publicizing others’ trauma can erase and paper over 
the reality of others’ experiences. 
But then, what’s the alternative? Not empathizing 
whatsoever means victims’ stories aren’t heard. Could 
literature help create a more innocuous empathy? 
Chigozie Obioma’s “An Orchestra of Minorities” 
gracefully sheds light on how class and race affect the 
effability of another’s pain. At heart, it’s a charming 
love story. Chinonso is a Nigerian peasant farmer who 
meets Ndali, an upper-class woman. Obioma shows 
his mastery of class-based symbolism right off the 
bat: The two meet as Chinonso saves the upper-class 
woman from an attempted suicide. 
Despite their differences in status, the two fall in 
love after a chance meeting following the incident. 
Naturally, Ndali’s upper-class family disapproves of 
their relationship, and the novel focuses on Chinonso’s 
attempts to win the affection of her family. 

Here, the author begins to hint towards his mastery 
of remixing classic English stories (“Romeo and Juliet,” 
in this case) with tales of contemporary race and class. 
Chinonso’s journey to redefine his ascribed status is 
defined by humiliation at every turn. In a particularly 
difficult chapter, he’s made to valet a party that Ndali’s 
brother invited him to. 
Eventually, though, Chinonso makes a journey 
to Cyprus to obtain an education and better match 
Ndali’s class (she plans to become a pharmacist). If 
the story in Nigeria highlights his class identity, his 
time in Cyprus showcases his racial identity. Obioma 
shows how Africans must continuously be aware of 
their ethnicity, with people confusing him with Black 

celebrities or asking to touch his hair.
The story is explained through the narration of 
Chinonso’s “guardian spirit” or “chi.” This spirit must 
recount and justify his actions in a “trial” to Nigerian 
Igbo deities. Through his narrator’s omniscience and 
bias toward the protagonist, Obioma subtly parodies 
and pokes fun at usual Western storytelling. The 
trial is also a brilliant symbol for society’s judgment of 
Chinonso while showing the shortcomings of empathy. 
This is reflected in the plot, as even Chinonso’s love, 
Ndali, doesn’t truly understand his struggles.
Obioma offers a page spread of complex charts, 
graphs and lists at the start of the book to help explain 
the Igbo Cosmology. Heaven is broken down into 
domains, and the composition of man is conveniently 
summed up in a venn diagram. Both the universe and 
the process of reincarnation share their chart: The life 
cycle circulates the Earth and Spirit worlds.
Although initially intimidating, the spread’s 
significance becomes apparent over the course of 
the novel. This is less to do with appeasing Western 
Promethean impulses to box and map the Igbo 
Cosmology conveniently and more to help the reader 
navigate the book and its contents. The Cosmology is 
overwhelming at first like Chinosmo is overwhelmed 
in Cyprus. 
But, as with any novel, this empathy crafted by 
Obioma has shortcomings. A privileged reader can 
simply close the book. Chinosmo is trapped in his 
situation. 
Throughout the novel, Obioma masterfully 
balances the reader’s empathy and their realization of 
the fruitlessness of the relating. The story’s similarity 
to “The Odyssey” and “Romeo and Juliet” allows the 
narrative to be tangible and understood for Western 
audiences. Obioma’s brilliant prose and descriptions 
reinforce this. 
Still, the deities’ trial reminds the Western reader of 
their inevitable shortcomings of real understanding. 
The meta-commentary of the trial does a great job of 
making readers acutely aware that Obioma sees them 
as an agent in this story.
Moreover, the fragility of pure empathy is reflected 
in the story: Throughout the story, Chinonso finds it 
difficult to communicate his situation to Ndali fully. 
This is most apparent through their correspondences 
while Obioma is in Cyprus and at the story’s conclusion. 
This empathy compels readers, giving them a glimpse 
of a (well done) perspective they haven’t experienced.
As a whole, Obioma’s book showcases the complex 
interactions involved in empathy. Communicating 
one’s genuine experience is difficult even to omniscient 
deities or the ones people love the most. It must be even 
more complicated between people one has never met. 
The book’s prose, groundbreaking commentary 
and experimental narration style more than earn its 
place in the 2019 Booker Prize Shortlist. Whether or 
not it takes the prize, “An Orchestra of Minorities” is 
a gripping read. The book leaves a lasting effect on the 
reader’s perception of how race and class affect every 
aspect of one’s lives — even something as pure as love. 

Class and narrative in 
‘Orchestra of Minorities’

LUKAS TAYLOR
For The Daily

BOOK REVIEW

By the time the Power Center’s lights had dimmed for 
the final performance of Grupo Corpo’s weekend stay in 
Ann Arbor, I had long settled into the comforts of being 
an audience member. The shimmering curtain, red fold-
down seats and whirring small-talk of everyone around 
me had helped to wind down my busy Sunday afternoon. 
When the curtain lifted, the stage remained quiet. The 
first dancer came flying downward from the air above the 
stage floor. The move was an intelligent tactic on behalf 
of choreographer Rodrigo Pederneiras — it grabbed my 
expectations and threw them out the window (or perhaps 
more accurately, into the wings). In doing so, Pederneiras 
woke up my drowsy Sunday-afternoon brain and asked 
for my attention in the following two-act performance. 
Unfortunately, the show failed to be this engaging 
throughout. The Brazilian modern dance group 
performed two 45-minute works — “Bach” and “Gira” 
— which were touted by the University Musical Society’s 
preview as “wildly different.” Contradictingly, I noticed a 
lot of similarities. 
Grupo Corpo’s dancers are inspiringly powerful, but 
this power comes to a fault. The performers use every 
ounce of themselves. They whack their leg extensions 
into the air and actively push their bodies into the ground 
when landing a jump. They dance with an energy that 
tinkers on the edge of losing control (sometimes, it looked 
like they actually had). Their necks jolt back toward 
their spines with abandon and their arms disregard 
the anatomical limitations of a shoulder joint. Their 
willingness for power dismissed my want to respect the 
fragility of a human form. 
In the beginning, this was exceptionally satisfying. I 
was entranced by the freedom engendered in their lack of 
fear. After a while, though, the novelty wore off. I longed 
for more subtlety but only saw their rote power increase 

by every spin, whirl, jump and jolt. 
“Bach,” set to music by Marco Antônio Guimarães 
inspired by the style of J.S. Bach, relied heavily on the 
power and dynamism of its score. Throughout, the 
sounds of organ and strings pierced the refined air of the 
theatre. The remnants of Bach’s well renowned melodies 
were certainly detectable, but this music was designed 
to make a thoroughly modern impression. To match this 
drama, a set of long poles lowered from the ceiling and the 
dancers sifted through the new architecture by hanging 
and swinging from above while action continued onstage 
below. This dimension provided a new sense of space, but 
over time the performance came to depend on the poles 
too heavily. As they became less new, I shifted back to the 
unchanging energy of the dancing and realized there was 
little left to maintain my initial excitement. 
On the surface, “Gira” did appear different. Both men 
and women wore long white skirts that swirled alongside 
their jumps. The supple fabric added a new layer of grace 
to especially rigid movements. Based on the spirits of an 
ancient religion, the dancers remained on the side and 
back of the stage while they were not moving, cocooned 
away in black seats with individual overhanging curtains. 
Their presence made for a sense of community but was 
also mysteriously reminiscent of death. Much like the 
poles in Bach, this paradox catalyzed my engagement. 
Also like “Bach,” however, the theme grew old before the 
end of the work. 
As the final curtain lowered I blinked in disbelief 
at the performers’ stamina but was left bored by the 
ongoing applause. I was ready to get out of the theatre. 
The evening had slathered an even level of force across 
the stage but failed to reach the subtlety required to fill 
the nooks and crannies hidden deep below. I couldn’t 
find the specificity that I latch onto in a live performance, 
and as I meandered home and slouched onto my couch I 
could already feel the dance’s memory floating away, lost 
among the sea of indistinguishable jolts, kicks, spins and 
undulations.

Grupo Corpo challenges the
line between force and craft

ZOE PHILLIPS
For The Daily

COMMUNITY CULTURE REVIEW

GRUPO CORPO

An Orchestra of 

Minorities

Chigozie Obioma

Little, Brown and Company

Jan. 18, 2019

FILM REVIEW

WARNER BROS

Joker

State Theater

Warner Bros. Pictures

