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