Disney rarely puts out unsuccessful movies; almost 
all of their films please fans and maintain box-office 
success. Often, the movies do well in the box office 
because fans can expect to enjoy a Disney film, but 
that doesn’t mean that all the films are necessarily 
amazing. Most Disney films fall somewhere in 
a neutral middle ground — not bad, not great. 
“Maleficent: Mistress of Evil,” directed by Joachim 
Rønning (“Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Men Tell 
No Tales), fits perfectly in this 
category. Overall, the film’s 
not a bad watch, especially 
with kids who would love the 
fairytale aspects and the special 
effects, but it’s still a film with a 
lot of issues, especially in how 
the plot unfolds.
“Mistress of Evil” picks 
up five years after its 2014 
predecessor, 
“Maleficent.” 
Aurora, played by Elle Fanning 
(“Super 8”), who now rules over the Moors as their 
wide-eyed, barefoot, fairy-like queen, accepts a 
marriage proposal from Prince Philip (Harris 
Dickinson, “Trust”). Their union has the potential 
to link their respective kingdoms, the Moors and 
Ulstead, but Philip’s mother, Queen Ingrith (Michelle 
Pfeiffer, “Batman Returns”), has other plans. The 
premise of the plot, though a little derivative with its 
fairytale aspects and evil mother-in-law, is tolerable. 
Despite the plot not being unique, the film has some 
really high points. Where the movie succeeds is in its 
stellar understanding and explanation of two major 
characters and their bond: Maleficent (Angelina 
Jolie, “Mr. and Mrs. Smith”) and Aurora. The two 
talented actresses do a fabulous job of making their 
relationship seem real; little details like Aurora 
being the only one who was able to calm Maleficent 
down, Maleficent practicing how to smile to avoid 
make a bad impression on Philip’s parents and their 
nicknaming of each other (Godmother and Beastie), 
all contributed to a believable mother-daughter-like 
relationship. Disney’s attention to detail makes for 
wonderful world-building.
However, the amount of plot holes in the movie 

make it difficult to follow and frustrating to watch. 
One of the most confusing parts of the movie is 
understanding the motive that Queen Ingrith had 
for wanting to hurt Maleficent personally. Ingrith’s 
grudge against the fae kingdom in general makes 
some sense after hearing her backstory (though told 
too late, in the last 45 minutes of the film), but the 
feelings of resentment and hatred that she harbors 
against Maleficent alone seem unfounded and 
unbelievable.
The other plot hole, this one even harder to ignore, 
is the reveal of an underground society of Maleficent-
like creatures. We get very little background on them 

as a group, just that they were driven into hiding 
by humans. We miss out on learning the extent of 
their history, and more importantly, why Maleficent 
doesn’t know they exist when she seems to play 
such an important role in their hierarchy. With the 
addition of these creatures in the movie, it feels like 
too much was going on at once, with not enough 
detail or time spent on anything. 
“Mistress of Evil” is a nice escape from 
midterm stress and 40-degree October weather 
in Michigan, but not a must-see. It’s one of those 
trademarked Disney movies that you know you’ll 
enjoy and you know will have a ‘happily ever after,’ 
but not necessarily worth spending ticket money 
on. In a world of Disney live-action remakes and 
in the era of sequels, “Maleficent: Mistress of 
Evil” falls exactly where you would expect it to. It 
doesn’t have the nostalgia of the original cartoon 
“Sleeping Beauty” nor the novelty of the 2014 film 
— the live-action remake that started the trend. 
It feels obvious that they dragged out a sequel to 
make money, and while it wasn’t an unenjoyable 
film, it didn’t feel necessary. I think it’s safe to say 
that this probably won’t be a trilogy, and that’s OK.

The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
Arts
Tuesday, October 22, 2019 — 5

Colette Fellous’s “This Tilting World” takes place 
at the shoreline of a nameless sea. There, its narrator 
reflects on the 2015 Sousse mass shootings that had 
occurred just a day before, the lives and deaths of 
various men in her life and the many places she has 
called home. The novel’s slimness tricks readers into 
believing they are in for a quick and simple read; I felt 
slightly betrayed when I realized (just a few pages in) 
that I had been made a fool. “This Tilting World” is 
dense. The winding passages are devoid of quotation 
marks and steeped in poetics, which effectively has 
the effect of making me feel as though my body was 
being hit with wave after wave of text, struggling to 
stay alive and afloat.
“This Tilting World” is filled with descriptions of 
the people, marketplaces, foods and smells of Tunisia, 
France and other places the narrator has lived and 
loved in. The novel is described as being “a love letter 
to (the narrator’s) homeland,” but it is arguably also a 
love letter to her father, literature and her life itself, 
which she is reflecting on in response to the massacre 
that had unfolded the previous day, and the death of 
her friend Alain. Once I reached the end of the novel, 
I understood how Fellous combines these elements 

to paint a portrait of the burden of responsibility and 
guilt of being a child of expatriates, one who is also 
without a country she can firmly claim as “home.” 
The narrator has inherited the trauma of exile from 
her parents; it has become “(her) wound now.” 
“...I felt like an orphan even when my parents 
surrounded me with the best they could provide… 
this is what I’ve done all my life: cradle (my father), 
cradle them both in their innocence and sweetness, 
and even cradle what I call the country … Tunisia or 

the long-past memories of my parents? I don’t know. I 
held them up so they would not collapse.” 
This is one of those books that lack a cohesive 
plot structure. This writing style, however, is the 
novel’s downfall. Without the aid of the back cover, 
it is hard to understand what “This Tilting World” is 
even about. Minimal plot structure can be liberating 
if done right, but Fellous’s writing is suffocating. 
I initially attributed it to the fact that the novel is 
translated from French. I attempted to slow down and 
savor the prose, thinking that perhaps I was rushing 
too much and it would be more comprehensible if I 
tiptoed my way through the landmine of poetics. I 
soon realized, though, that there was no escaping the 
convoluted nature of the text. I discovered that the 
most effective way for me to read the novel was to 
skim it slightly, or at least not dwell too long on every 
sentence. But there were undeniably several gems, 
including this image-heavy moment of reflection: 
“So many images in a few seconds. With each sip 
the throbbing of even more invisible hearts joins 
me, moments of a life, reflections of light on a face, 
the scars of hours, culled from the past or perhaps 
still unknown, thousands of sparks dissolved in my 
every breath. Hearts in thrall drawing together. 
Geraniums, pink and white carnations, the unfurling 
leaves of bougainvillea, odd fragments of broken 
pots, pieces of colored glass…” 
The way that Fellous writes feels 
as though she is a poet attempting 
to pummel a very long poem into 
submission 
through 
the 
rigid 
structure of a fiction novel. Pummel 
romantically, of course. Fallous’s 
writing style is refined, but too 
flowery for my taste. I felt minimal 
connection to any of the characters, 
even the narrator herself. While there 
are several segments of the text that 
are undeniably beautiful, they are 
too far and few between to fully appreciate, and 
wrapped in a complicated snarl of text that made 
my eyes glaze over. 
“This Tilting World” is certainly not an easy 
read. See, the thing about love letters is that they 
are meant for one person in particular. The letter 
that “This Tilting World” offers is carefully crafted, 
laced with beautiful prose, but, unfortunately, 
intended for the select few who enjoy murky plot 
structures and poetry-prose hybrids.

The confusing beauty of
Fellous’s ‘Tilting World’

SABRIYA IMAMI
For The Daily

BOOK REVIEW

‘Mistress of Evil’ is lacking

JO CHANG
For The Daily

When I first volunteered to write about METAL 
GALAXY, I didn’t know what I was getting into. I had 
a vague memory of BABYMETAL as a band with some 
sort of gimmick. My editor said it was right up my alley, 
which upon first listening to “Chocolate,” I understood 
that to mean BABYMETAL was in line with my taste 
for weird and unique. Later I would remember where 
I first heard the band: My JPop-superfan cousins were 
showing me videos of them performing on YouTube 
back in 2012. BABYMETAL might be kind of a meme, 
but their staying power is beyond any gimmick.
Somewhere at the intersection of anime and Death 
Grips, BABYMETAL has amassed an enormous 
international following for their hardcore-cute JPop-
metal fusion. Its members, Su-Metal and Moa-Metal, 
are pulled straight from the Japanese idol industry, 
which reflects in the band’s focus on performance 
and theatrics. The core members sing and dance 
and scream at their shows, while a group of backing 
musicians (called Kami Band) provide the heavy metal 
instrumentation.
The band’s idol industry roots are crystal clear in their 
sound. Something to get comfortable with to properly 
enjoy this record is that most of the music sounds 
like it was concocted by record company executives 
spitballing ideas at a round table meeting. For “Shanti 
Shanti Shanti,” the men in suits said, “BABYMETAL, 
but make it ‘Aladdin.’” For “OH! Majinai,” they said 
the same, but fantasy-renaissance. This is a natural 
extension of how the band came to be in the first place 
— somebody said “Baby, but make it metal,” and now 
here we are.
While BABYMETAL’s existence is itself a left hook, 
the tracklist on METAL GALAXY rolls out surprise 
punch after surprise punch. The guests are unexpected 
and brilliant. Japanese music legend Tak Matsumoto 
plays guitar on “DA DA DANCE.” Tim Henson and 
Scott LePage of Polyphia fame help compose “Brand 
New Day.” Thai rapper F.Hero spits a verse on “PA PA 
YA!!” Sweden has multiple footprints on the album: 
Joakim Brodén, vocalist of Swedish power metal band 
Sabaton, singing and screaming on “OH! Majinai,” and 
Alissa White-Gluz, vocalist of Swedish death metal 

band Arch Enemy, growling on “Distortion.” Despite 
these features, nothing can eclipse the bizarre power of 
young women singing over aggressive heavy metal, so 
every track remains distinctly BABYMETAL.
Other than the novel JPop-metal mix, it’s hard to 
pinpoint what is distinctly BABYMETAL; they skillfully 
juggle so many different sounds in their music. “Da Da 
Dance” manages to smuggle a bit of electropop into 
the album. “Arkadia” oozes with Dragonforce energy. 
While “Elevator Girl,” “Shanti Shanti Shanti” and 
“OH! Majinai” are clearly contrived to have a certain 
aesthetic (just like everything about BABYMETAL), it 
all still kinda bangs.
All the global fame that BABYMETAL capitalizes on 
with their international sounds, however, complicates 
the issue of Western influence on Asian media. The 

current media talk about American studios altering their 
content to get through Chinese censorship makes me 
wonder how much Asian media producers are coloring 
their material to be Western-friendly. “Elevator Girl,” 
sung entirely in English, is a clear appeal to a Western 
audience. I can’t speak to the songwriting on the rest of 
METAL GALAXY — I can’t understand it — but based 
on the lyrics to “Elevator Girl,” I think I prefer to keep 
things a mystery. And yet, the track has been integral to 
the band’s international promotion, coinciding with the 
announcement of their most recent world tour.
For the purpose of providing tracks to perform 
live, METAL GALAXY is a great addition to 
BABYMETAL. While the band has an enormously 
talented support system — the backing band’s 
instrumentation is often skillful and flashy, and 
the guests are highly accomplished — the joy of 
BABYMETAL is in their music videos and live 
performances. More than anything else, listening 
to METAL GALAXY has had me on the lookout for 
BABYMETAL’s next stop in Detroit.

New BABYMETAL is a trip

DYLAN YONO
Daily Arts Writer

I’ve only been in love once, and it was 
with the back of a stranger’s head on the two 
train. I was listening to Frankie Cosmos and 
had just spilled cold brew on my sundress, 
so it was ripe to happen. I looked up from 
my New York Times Crossword app and my 
eyes met his cervical vertebrae; it was magic. 
His head wasn’t perfectly round, like maybe 
he was dropped a few times as a baby. I was 
intrigued. He had just gotten a haircut, I could 
tell because his neck was still slightly red. He 
wore a suit that was just a little wrinkled, as if 
to say I am employed but I don’t own an iron. 
His socks were “Firefly” themed — the show, 
not the bug. He listened to his music or podcast 
(probably podcast) on wired headphones, not 
AirPods, a rare sighting in New York City or 
Ann Arbor nowadays.
His posture looked like he had been touched 
by scoliosis or hit a growth spurt late in high 
school. He wasn’t popular in high school but 
he wasn’t unpopular. His friend group was 
solid and he still keeps in touch with some of 
them, they catch up every time he comes home 
for Thanksgiving at the diner they used to 
frequent. He probably went to a good college, 
maybe one in the Ivy League, but not Harvard 
or Yale, one of the underrated ones like Brown 
or Cornell. He probably studied English or 
history or political science or my favorite, 
philosophy. There was a time where I only 
dated philosophy majors, not because I love 
philosophy but because I love guys who think 
they’re smarter than me and then proving 
them wrong. But he wasn’t like that, he was 
considerate, he calls his mom once a week, he 
has a little sister he cares madly about but not 
in a weird way.
His family had a golden retriever named 
Florence but she died in a tragic car accident 
when he was eight years old. His dad ran her 
over in the family Jeep but they never told 
him that. His parents replaced Florence with 
a beagle named Harry but it wasn’t the same. 
He played soccer in elementary school and he 

was really good. When people asked him what 
he wanted to be when he grew up he said a 
professional soccer player and people kind of 
believed him because he was so confident. He 
still has that air of confidence, the certainty 
of a child telling someone what they want to 
be when they grow up. When all the other 
boys on the team hit their growth spurts in 
seventh grade, he was still the same size. 
He didn’t hit puberty till age 15. His soccer 
dreams faded, but he had new hobbies, new 
passions. He loved playing street hockey with 
his buddies and flying small planes above his 
neighborhood. He had a highschool girlfriend. 
She was controlling and paranoid. He lost his 
virginity to her when he was 17 in the back of 
the family Jeep, the one that killed his dog.
He plays golf with his dad on the weekends 
and helps his mom in the garden. He has a 
collection of thimbles from everywhere he 
has traveled. He loved to travel so he studied 
abroad in Spain. He fell in love with a girl he 
met in Cartagena named Anna. They had a 
short-lived courtship and a tearful goodbye at 
the end of the semester. She sends him nudes 
sometimes. His name was Ethan or Adam or 
Josh or Nathan or Peter, definitely not Jason. 
His eyes were blue or brown, definitely not 
green. I didn’t know anything about him apart 
from the back of his head but I felt like I knew 
him.
His face was a mystery but I could see it 
clearly in my head. He had strong features 
with a softness to them. He had braces when 
he was young but he doesn’t wear his retainer 
so his teeth have shifted a bit, adding some 
imperfection to his perfected pearly whites. 
His jawline was sharp enough to cut marble. 
He was a suburban James Dean, a Jewish 
Marlon Brando, the long lost Franco brother. 
He was perfect.
It was rush hour, people shuffled in and out 
but he stayed right where he was, trying to 
figure out the Casper-mattress advertisement 
riddles. We got off at the same stop downtown 
and I walked behind him for a little while 
hoping to catch a glimpse of his face, to see if 
he was everything I imagined he was. He left 
the station before I could even see it.

Becky Portman: Modern
love is a look on the subway

BECKY PORTMAN
Humor Columnist

HUMOR COLUMN

METAL GALAXY

BABYMETAL

Babymetal Records

This Tilting World

Colette Fellous

Two Lines Press

Sept. 10, 2019

WIKIMEDIA COMMONS

MUSIC REVIEW

FILM REVIEW

WALT DISNEY STUDIOS MOTION PICTURES

Maleficent: 

Mistress of Evil

Ann Arbor 20 + IMAX

Walt Disney Pictures

