The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
Arts
Monday, October 28, 2019 — 5A
If there has been a name to know in architecture in
the last decade, it’s Zaha Hadid. Though she won the
Pritzker — the Pulitzer Prize for architecture — in
2004, her most significant works have only cropped
up in the last few years, even since her passing away in
2016.
Last Tuesday, Satoshi Ohashi, Director of Zaha
Hadid China, visited Taubman College’s spacious
commons to talk on the breadth of his firm’s work
worldwide, particularly in China. Ohashi himself is an
alumnus of Taubman, graduating in 1984. In ’87, he met
Hadid in her New York City apartment and was hired
to her firm soon after. At this point, the firm was more
of an atelier operation than an economy-shaping force.
The firm grew in the ’90s and shifted their
conceptualization process from oil painting to digital.
From the slides Ohashi showed of these early designs,
the firm’s vocabulary of movement and fluidity has
hardly changed in 30 years. Their influence has,
though.
The now over 400 person team of young designers,
computer scientists, civil engineers, product designers
and video editors serve to spectacularize the firm’s
work with a kind of self-promotion that certainly didn’t
exist three decades ago. Ohashi had several videos
prepared by the firm to run throughout — videos of
austere atria, terrific terraces and, above all, captivating
curves with thousands of people moving in time lapse
over high-octane electronic music.
There’s no doubt the firm is at the forefront of
architectural technology, but with the advent of such
tech and the overachieving millennials who made it out
of the firm’s vast applicant pool, they’ve overstepped
the bounds of architecture and have reached a scale of
production that is nothing less than irresponsible.
Without differentiation, Ohashi flipped from slides
of Zaha buildings to slides of Zaha furniture, Zaha
running wear, Zaha electric cars, Zaha jewelry. This
blurring of the distinction in design between these
fields isn’t what bothers me. Architects are designers,
and if there’s a will within the firm to use their influence
to pursue their curiosities, then so be it.
But architects are also directly responsible for
orchestrating the climate crisis we have at hand. On
top of every building created are on average hundreds
to thousands of sheets of paper, all kinds of plastic-
styrofoam composite models, and only after design do
you get to the real problem of construction (which as
an industry accounts for 23 percent of global carbon
emissions).
A necessary evil, maybe, but not in the development
of 3.5 million square foot tech complexes (the area of
60 football fields). These buildings are really quite
impressive until you boil them down into a compilation
of 20 others nearly the same. Visually, they looks like
eggs moving through water. Functionally, they’re all
integrated into transport networks, they all spur the
development of previously unoccupied neighborhoods
and they all host hundreds of companies that will also
produce, produce, produce.
We all play the capitalism game, no doubt, but this
is excess at the expense of us all. Hadid’s designs are at
their best the vanguard of design technology, at their
worst streamlined material towers. Next time you’re in
one (in about any major city), consider for yourself if its
cultural capital is worth its environmental expense.
Ohashi seemed at home back in Taubman, but the
work on show didn’t reflect what he was saying or the
attitudes of those in the crowd. Slight head-shaking
could be seen from particular staff and students
throughout. Though at first this may have been in awe
of the work — work a student can aspire to — it soon
became in disapproval.
Ohashi lecture highlights
the losses in architecture
BEN VASSAR
Daily Arts Writer
COMMUNITY CULTURE NOTEBOOK
We all play the
capitalism game,
no doubt, but this
is excess at the
expense of us all
FOOD COLUMN
Hailing from the East Coast and the diner
capital of the United States (New Jersey) I
was a little caught off guard when I arrived
at the University and all of the in-state
kids kept talking about “Coney Island.”
I
imagined
the
residential
Brooklyn
neighborhood,
which
is
swarmed
by
tourists and dotted with crowded beaches,
a ferris wheel
and
greasy
boardwalk
concessions.
It
wasn’t
too
special.
Eventually,
though,
I
realized that
the
Coney
Island I was
familiar with
wasn’t
the
same
Coney
Island
new
friends
and
classmates
spoke
of
with
such
affection.
Their
Coney
Island
wasn’t
an
amusement
park, though
it is a different sort of novelty in and of
itself.
The
Michigan
Coney
Island
is
a
restaurant. Rather, a genre of restaurant —
all similar in nature and menu items with
individual idiosyncrasies and quirks that
make them distinct. These eccentricities
are how citizens of Michigan select their
“favorite” Coney Island. There are apparent
loyalists to one chain, and once “you find
your Coney place” it’s game over. There’s
National Coney Island, Jackson Coney
Island, Abe’s Coney Island, Virginia Coney
Island, American Coney Island, Kerby
Koney Island, Leo’s Coney Island; to name
a few. The first one opened in 1914 in
Jackson, Michigan, and now these hot dog
kingdoms span the entire state. From what
I gathered from some research on the topic,
Coney Island has served a large purpose in
providing affordable, easy lunch options for
workers in the auto industry in the early-
mid 20th century. There are 500 Coney
Islands in and around Detroit alone.
The menu is standard from chain to
chain. The pinnacle is the “coney dog”
which is a hot dog in a steamed bun, topped
with chilli, diced raw onions and yellow
mustard. The dog has donned the nickname
of a “coney” and is essentially the state food
of Michigan. More staples are the “loose
hamburger,” which is essentially a sloppy
joe; loaded chili fries; a variety of different
Greek dishes (kebab, gyro, greek salad) and
typical American diner dishes like pancakes
and omelettes.
After more than three years at the
University of Michigan, I’ve heard countless
stories and love letters to these strange
establishments from in-state friends who
look back on their high school years with
fond, half-fuzzy memories of Coney Island.
I’ve heard so many reflections of winding
up in a booth at Coney Island, or hungover
desires to have a 10 a.m. coney dog or the
chicken finger pita awaiting my friends
come Thanksgiving. At some point, I
became intrigued.
Being that many of my own teenage
memories were made in the now-closed
Red Bank Diner or the still-standing,
luminescent and sticky Americana Diner
after a pitchy Saturday night high-school
production of The Little Mermaid, Coney
Island enticed me. I didn’t feel exactly
appetized by the idea of a hot dog on a
chipped white plate or pancakes drenched in
watery syrup, but I also felt some attraction
to the idea of seeing what it’s all about. So
when I finally had the opportunity present
itself, in the very early hours of a Sunday
morning in September in Birmingham,
Michigan, I took it.
We walked in, 2 a.m., under the influence
of many vodka laden beverages. The interior
of Leo’s is sort of a panopticon, and sort of a
rare form of ’70s hell. It’s as though whoever
designed the restaurant wanted everyone
to notice how much alcohol can affect
formerly well done makeup and blown out
hair to a point of near decrepit. The lighting
is bright fluorescent and burns your eyes
and reflects off of the shiny tables so that
all
you
can
bare to do is
sit. At two in
the morning,
everyone
in the place
is under 26
and
nobody
ages for the
30
minutes
they
spend
touching
shoulders in a
sweaty booth
eating
chili
with
friends
and
friends
of
friends
who all have
the spins. It’s
an
ethereal
experience.
The food at
Leo’s is a 0/10
in a culinary
way, but a 10/10 in serving its purpose: to be
as greasy and inexpensive and nonsensical
as possible.
As we waited for our order to be brought
to the table (I did not do the ordering for
sake of authenticity), the two Michigan
natives I was with swapped stories of times
they wound up in that very Leo’s Coney
Island. Leo’s was the place they came after
drinking vodka from water bottles at age
18 in someone’s basement, or to reconvene
and reminisce in the morning, soberly,
after a night out at age 20. It’s the place
they came with their lacrosse teams after
a big game they lost, where they stumbled,
haphazardly, arm in arm with their three
best friends on Christmas break after
freshman year of college as though nothing
has changed, a place they regarded as a
beacon of greasy hope after every night out,
and on every trip home.
We had the nachos supreme which, in
the moment, tasted pretty good, or I just
ignored how disgusting it is to put chili
and onions on top of tortilla chips and
proceed to eat them under hot, fluorescent
lights. We also had coney fries, with cheese,
which weren’t good but also weren’t bad,
and boasted the hidden delight of more
strangely thin chili. We finished the grand
buffet of approximately 3000 calories
with bacon cheddar potato skins and an
additional side of fries that were absolutely
pallid in color. The next morning I shivered
with every recall of the way the chili sat
atop those soggy tortilla chips.
I can not imagine eating at Leo’s Coney
Island sober, or at any time before 11
p.m. and after 5 a.m. But the meal was a
larger realization in the experience that
a restaurant can bring to diners — an
experience that sometimes has nothing
to do with the food. There’s an ambiance
there. There are memories ingrained in the
walls. There are stories of firsts, lasts, bests
and worsts. You remember who you ate
with, when and what and why even if you’ve
been 1000 times before because it’s distinct
and it’s a reminder of home, or of being 20
years old or perhaps it just reminds you
of Michigan. Leo’s Coney Island doesn’t
succeed for its hot dog or chicken finger
pita, though the menu covers pretty much
all the bases of quintessential drunk food
and I’d be lying if I said I wouldn’t eat it
again. It succeeds in its authenticity and its
integrity, in its desire to put up no facade.
It does not try to be anything it isn’t, even
if the air smells like meat and, for that, I’d
return.
Mythos and Coney Island:
I will most likely return
ELI RALLO
Daily Food Columnist
When most people think of adult animation, they
typically think of a raunchier version of children’s
cartoons — slapstick comedy with a dash of adult
themes. Now when people think of adult themes, they
typically imagine sex, drugs and alcohol — which isn’t
far from the truth — but these three elements alone
don’t encapsulate the real hardships adults go through
that people never talk about. “Bojack Horseman” has
been performing a balancing act of the two sides of
adulthood for its past five seasons, and now that it’s
coming to an end, I can’t help but wonder whether the
adult animation industry will ever be able to put out a
show as clever, consistent, hopeful and heartbreaking
again.
The final season is split up into two eight-part
installations, the second part coming out on Jan. 31. The
first installment picks up right where season five left off
about a year ago, with Bojack (Will Arnett, “Riviera”)
finally making a step toward change and admitting
himself into rehab. Princess Carolyn (Amy Sedaris, “At
Home with Amy Sedaris”) learns to balance work life
and motherhood, Mr. Peanutbutter (Paul F. Tompkins,
“Tangled: The Series”) learns how to cope with being a
bad dog, Todd (Aaron Paul, “El Camino: A Breaking Bad
Movie”) gets serious about taking on his ambitions and
Diane (Alison Brie, “GLOW”) embraces her new career
in investigative journalism. The characters underwent
the most development in season five, which is why it was
surprising to see that the show was coming to an end so
soon.
In many ways, season five was an opportunity for
the show to do new things with the new circumstances
that each character had to deal with, and at times, the
show’s abrupt end made some arcs in season six seem
like fan service (which isn’t necessarily a bad thing if
you’re a fan). After all, they had to tie up all the loose
ends in 16 half-hour episodes, which isn’t much time
considering all the time and effort the creators spent
developing a plot as complex as this. The only reason
why I may sound bitter about the decision to end this
show is because Aaron Paul, who voices Todd Chavez,
tweeted out something that made it seem a little like this
was Netflix’s fault. But that’s besides the point.
Throughout
the
past
few
seasons,
“Bojack
Horseman” has scattered in a few episodes here and
there where they focus on one character, and in this new
season they continue with this device. In a valid attempt
to wrap things up without rushing important plotlines,
some episodes, like the second episode of season six,
focus solely on characters like Princess Carolyn, who
the creators have done a thorough job of developing
since the start of the show. Like always, they never fail
to incorporate real issues gracefully into the plot. In this
particular episode, Princess Carolyn struggles to take
care of her newborn adopted baby whilst living under
the pressure of being a working mom who can do it all.
The episode features silhouettes of Princess Carolyn
taking care of tasks in the background along with
distracting noises of her completing these actions, so the
viewer can feel just as hectic and frazzled as she does.
They wrap up just enough loose ends and introduce
just enough conflict to set up the second part of the final
season, and it’s difficult to try and predict how the final
eight episodes will turn out. I for one, question everyday
whether it’s worth keeping Netflix around when they
keep increasing prices, cancelling good shows and
renewing garbage. There’s been too many “Bojack
Horseman”-quality shows tossed to the wind and at
this rate, I’m afraid we’ll be left with content like “The
Kissing Booth.” With all the new streaming services
coming out, Netflix’s reign might soon be over, and
after this show ends, I might not be so sad to see it go. So
watch out Netflix — I might just stop using my friend’s
account.
As ‘Bojack’ ends, so does
Netflix’s good television
SOPHIA YOON
Daily Arts Writer
NETFLIX
TV REVIEW
Bojack Horseman
Season Six
Netflix
Streaming Now
There are apparent
loyalists to one chain,
and once “you find
your Coney place,”
it’s game over
You remember who you ate with, when
and what and why, even if you’ve been
1000 times before because it’s distinct
and it’s a reminder of home, or of being
20 years old or perhaps it just reminds
you of Michigan