The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
Arts
Thursday, November 7, 2019 — 5

P O L I C Y T A L K S @ T H E F O R D S C H O O L

HARRY A. AND MARGARET D.TOWSLEY FOUNDATION LECTURE SERIES
Conversation on national
security, service, and policy

Free and open to the public.
Reception to follow.

Information: 734-615-7545 or
fspp-events@umich.edu

@fordschool #policytalks

Monday, November 11, 2019
4:00 - 5:20 pm

Gerald R. Ford School of Public Policy
Annenberg Auditorium, 1120 Weill Hall
735 S. State Street

LTG MICHAEL NAGATA

(USA, RET.)


LTG JAMES CLAPPER

(USAF, RET.)

U.S. REPRESENTATIVE
ELISSA SLOTKIN
MODERATOR:

JAVED ALI

STYLE COLUMN

Throughout 2019, there have been fairly
consistent reportings of what economists
call a “bull market,” meaning that consumer
spending habits, especially within the umbrella
of Fortune 500 companies, are indicative of a
“healthy” economy. It goes without saying, of
course, that there are questions to be raised
about who benefits from such conditions, off
of whose labor, what direction the money is
going and to what extent those assessments
are based off of mega-corporate valuations
that ultimately have little to no effect on the
average consumer. I’m not here to talk about
the goings on of the DOW with any shred of
authority on the matter — my idea of money
is more or less rooted in how many pairs of
indigo-dyed pants I can buy and random
Twitter GoFundMe pages I can donate to
without being restricted to a diet of fried
bread and Trader Joe’s instant oatmeal. I can,
however, reflect on my own experiences and
relate them to things I’ve been told to believe
and ways I’ve been taught to think. In a system
that heralds money as its god and grants
access to it through proximity to accepted
ways of being, it pays
to stop for a minute and
make sure you’re being
kind to yourself.
Despite what those
aforementioned reports
have to say, it certainly
feels as though retail is
in peril. At the very least,
it’s reached a saturation
point: there are multiple
covetable
sneaker
releases
every
week
now, and pairs that were
once nearly impossible
to get without a $50 bot
service or a “connect”
are
now
sitting
on
shelves multiple days
later.
Sell-through
at
huge
online
retailers
for
very
well-known
labels appears to be
slowing while size runs
and brand indexes are
growing
rapidly
in
depth, and it seems as
though everyone and
their mother is running a cosmetics company
backed by the deepest of pockets. It doesn’t
take an MBA to take note of a number of
markets that are self-multiplying right now,
and that both means that financial success
in those sectors will become more difficult
over time and that major corporations will
fail to adapt to their market and end up going
by the wasteside. The latter can be seen most
recently with Barneys New York, which could
very well be hosting an online fire sale by the
time this column hits print.
The same thing can be seen with beauty
bloggers, podcasters, models, influencers and
other people who engage with their audience
directly as an online media entity. Some of
them are the physical manifestation of an eye-
roll, making millions of dollars a year in ad
revenue for reasons unbeknownst to anyone.
Some of them are incredibly toxic outposts
that amplify their audience’s worst qualities.
Some of them are doing actual work, too, but
the vehicles that allowed all of them to exist in
the capacities that they do are the same ones

that have eroded the barrier between how we
conceive ourselves and the market we operate
within. As time goes on, identity is becoming
radicalized with respect to its financial
viability, and every personal expression can
feel like a bid for tangible worth.
This phenomenon can take on a special
weight for those of us that already don’t have
the easiest go of it. Queerness is often treated
as an umbrella term for the LGBTQIA+
community, and it certainly can function that
way in some contexts. But it also refers more
generally to those who, to put it plainly, are
denied access to capital gain. To be a person of
color, to be a woman, to lie anywhere outside
of the cis-heteronormative ideal, to live with
mental illness, to not be “able-bodied,” to be
born into poverty or to be born in an area
without the resources necessary to live a
healthy and fulfilling life, is to be queer in some
way or another. But it is also to enter a forced
and constant set of negotiations between self
and exterior. There’s a simultaneous back
and forth between authenticity and safety,
between different ideas of what success
means, what happiness means, what it means
to represent a community, not to mention the
never ending barrage of internalized feelings
of never being able to have done enough. To
have worked enough.
As someone who feels
most concerned about
fashion and “personal
style,” simply getting
out the door can feel
like a matter of life
and death. As a child, I
would melt into a small
pool of cortisol at the
news that the T-shirt I
had planned for the day
was not dry enough to
wear. To this day, my
answer to any version
of that ridiculous ice
breaker question “What
couple items would you
take to be deserted on
an island?” is a mobile
outlet
and
a
hand-
held steamer. I often
spend
more
money
than I make because
I feel that pressure to
be the absolute best
representation of myself
at all times. I feel that
need to treat the advantages I do have as some
kind of zero-sum investment in what queerness
can look like. That philosophy carries over
into my writing, into my schoolwork, and that
mindset is frankly untenable.
The other day, my therapist told me that
I need to “strive for mediocrity,” and that
idea really stuck with me. Not because I’ve
now decided to assimilate and coast on my
privilege, but because the idea that everything
needs to be perfectly executed is a truly cruel
one. It’s one that we inflict on ourselves, and
it’s one that we’re taught. For those of us that
can feel the threat of subjugation, of violence
and ostracization, that idea is only amplified.
It can be easy to start feeling the weight of a
community, but it’s important to remember
that its entirety isn’t squarely on anyone’s
back. Real, tangible value lies in taking a
second to breathe, in reminding yourself that
all anyone can do is go through their day doing
the best that they can. We’re told that the best
thing we can be is kind, but person that needs
it the most is often yourself.

Velveteen Dreams: Less
money, more mediocrity

SAM KREMKE
Daily Style Columnist

It is not impossible to adapt Shakespeare’s 400-year-
old plays for contemporary audiences. In fact, certain
films — “10 Things I Hate About You,” “West Side Story”
and Baz Luhrmann’s “Romeo and Juliet” included —
prove that it can be done exceptionally well, bringing
Shakespeare’s timeless plots back into our world with
style, creativity and intent.
“The King,” Netflix’s latest venture into historical
drama, unfortunately does not earn a spot alongside
these other films. Though it is true to its source material,
almost too true, and is generally impeccably shot and
acted, there is something missing. That something is
energy — the lack of it ultimately becoming its fatal
flaw. It is unfathomably boring, which is surprising
coming from source material that is jam-packed with
action, conflict and character development. I admire
anyone who can get through it in one sitting.
“The King” tells the more or less true story of
Henry V’s ascent to the English throne in the early
15th century following the death of his father. Henry,
referred to as Hal in the movie and played by Timothée
Chalamet (“Beautiful Boy”), is forced to abandon
his immature and womanizing lifestyle in order

to face the threat posed by the French army, led by
Robert Pattinson (“The Lighthouse”) as the Dauphin
of France. It is a classic monomyth, illustrating one
person’s transformation from a boy into a man.
Though Chalamet does his best to bring depth and

personality to Hal, one can’t help but feel as though the
character would have been better portrayed by an actor
who can better pull off the assertiveness and authority
that’s expected of a king. Perhaps my perceptions
of Chalamet as an actor have been muddled by my
understanding of him as a quintessential “soft boy,” but
I just don’t think he was all that convincing. And when
the portrayal of a character whose arc determines
the course of the entire film is less than excellent,
everything else within the film suffers as a result. It
is near impossible to feel invested in a movie when
you can’t bring yourself to care about the fate of its
protagonist.
The film does have one saving grace, and that is
Pattinson’s unabashedly ludicrous, wonderfully insane
joke of a performance that feels so out of place that it
becomes the best thing about the film. His accent,
which sounds like a mix of both Tommy Wiseau and
the most stereotypical French accent you could possibly
imagine, is absolutely fascinating to bear witness to,
and it, along with his equally bizarre dialogue, gives
us a much needed break from the film’s overbearing
seriousness. Pattinson’s hair, which channels the likes
of “Shrek 2”’s Prince Charming, tops off what is easily
one of the most memorable performances of this year.
It is a shame he didn’t get more screen time; I think my
overall opinion of the film would be much different if
he did.
“The King” is the kind of Shakespeare adaptation
I could see being shown in a high school English
classroom, and I don’t mean that as praise. It tells
the story of Henry V as written by Shakespeare well
enough, but without any elements of daring or risk-
taking that we know to be essential to the making
of a truly worthwhile and necessary adaptation. I
empathize with any students from the future who will
be forced to watch it. The film’s swift and inevitable
erasure from our collective memory should serve as
a lesson to Netflix that no amount of money and no
amount of star power can make up for a lack of passion.

Netflix’s ‘The King’ is the
worst kind of Shakespeare

ELISE GODFRYD
Daily Arts Writer

NETFLIX

FILM REVIEW

The King

Netflix

Remove Mary Poppins’s umbrella, set Jane
and Michael Banks on fire and you would have
the basic premise of Kevin Wilson’s “Nothing to
See Here.” After years of estrangement, Lillian
receives a desperate letter from her once-best
friend, Madison, asking her to take care of her
two stepchildren, Bessie and Roland, in the wake
of their mother’s abrupt death. Upon arrival to
Madison’s wealthy estate, Lillian learns that the
children she is now responsible for spontaneously
combust into flames when agitated — in the
following pages, she discovers that they like to
bite people, too. The ten-year old children, much
like Lillian herself, are social rejects — their
unfortunate bowl cuts and tendency to burst
into flames set
themselves
in
stark
contrast
to their peers.
Not that they
have a chance to
even meet other
children, given
that they are
confined to an
isolated house
their father had
made just for
them, one fitted
with a complete
sprinkler
system.
The
novel
follows
Lillian,
Bessie
and Roland as
they learn how
to trust each
other and break down the emotional barriers that
they have erected in response to past traumas.
Lillian’s working-class background situates
her as a commentator on the lavish lifestyles of
Madison and her husband, Jasper, providing
readers with a steady stream of sarcasm and wit.
It includes a healthy mix of humorous scenes,
including trips to the local library to steal books
about Dolly Parton and emotional reconciliations
typical of a feel-good movie. All that is missing is

a musical number.
But, even if this novel is an easy read, it is not a
wholly superficial one. It could have been written
very poorly, especially in regards to character
portrayal. It would have been easy for Wilson
to fall into the trap of typical binary character
depictions by painting Madison as an evil-rich
stepmother character, or Bessie and Roland as
gentle but misunderstood children who just want
their father’s love. But the characters that Wilson

presents to us are flawed, angry, spiteful and,
thus, much more human.
Nevertheless, certain events in “Nothing to See
Here” are settled in a way that is disappointingly
lighthearted, just a bit too easy and optimistic. The
ending is summed up neatly — it is predictable.
While Wilson does a good job building up
the plot to a certain point, he ultimately lets
the crescendo fall flat. The deeper issues
of confronting emotional manipulation and
damage are hinted at several times throughout
the novel, but they are packaged very abruptly,
even unrealistically, in the remaining few pages.
Though these problems are logistically solved,
there remains a dubious feeling of unresolve.
When I turned the last page, I didn’t feel
gutted — just mildly annoyed. There are flashes
of potentially compelling moments, but they
quickly fizzle out. If there is a way to describe
this novel, it would be to return to the Mary
Poppins comparison and catalog it as a Disney
movie in literary form. With a witty lead
character, a tinge of romance and just enough
altercations to make readers sweat but not cause
damage that can’t be resolved neatly at the
end, “Nothing to See Here” hints that there is
something to see here, but not too much.

Less than you’d think in
Wilson’s ‘Nothing to See’

JO CHANG
For The Daily

Nothing to See
Here

Kevin Wilson

Ecco

Oct. 29, 2019

BOOK REVIEW

HARPER COLLINS

I feel that need to treat
the advantages I do
have as some kind of
zero-sum investment
in what queerness
can look like. That
philosophy carries over
into my writing, into
my schoolwork, and
that mindset is frankly
untenable.