6B — Thursday, December 5, 2019
Arts
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
While there’s no cut-and-dry definition of the best film of the
decade, some measures are better than others. For me, a decade-
defining movie must be more than technically, critically or
commercially successful. Many films from the 2010s met all of
these criteria, all competent, some more memorable than others.
After all, even the most holistic and unambiguous appreciation is no
guarantee that the product will persist in our collective conscious
for years to come.
So what makes the difference then? What sets apart the
momentarily
great from the
transcendent?
In
a
word,
dynamism. How
can
art,
film
or
otherwise,
define its time
unless it pulls
off a magic trick
of transforming
and
warping
right
before
our very eyes?
For a film to
say
something
meaningful
about its era is
one thing. To
still
have
an
incessant voice,
a
stamp
on
culture several
years
after
its release, is
another
thing
entirely.
With that broad metric in mind, there is a clear winner here.
It might not even be a close contest — the best movie of the
decade is David Fincher’s “The Social Network.” As both a wildly
entertaining tragedy of deteriorating friendships and a diagnosis on
the impending future of technological communication, “The Social
Network” perfectly straddles the line between watchability and
cultural dynamism in a way that no other film from the decade does.
Screenwriter Aaron Sorkin once admitted, “I’ve heard of
Facebook, in the same way I’ve heard of a carburetor. But if I opened
the hood of my car I wouldn’t know how to find it.” This information
is important; Sorkin explicitly distinguishes his story from reality.
Not once do the words “Based on a true story” appear across the
screen. Yet that fact is what makes the film so compelling as an
artifact of this decade. What Sorkin intended as a human drama
with Facebook in its periphery ultimately speaks for itself about
the woes, dangers and evils of the tech conglomerates that rule
our lives. In this way, “The Social Network” is an unintentionally
oracular statement more than it is a testament to Sorkin’s predictive
instincts.
“Gretchen, they’re best friends.”
The collaboration of Fincher and Sorkin is perplexing on its
surface — Sorkin is most concerned about the depth of his content
where Fincher prefers a focus on structure and tone. Sorkin’s
characters are snappy and shrewd where Fincher’s are idiosyncratic
and futile. And yet the marriage of their work manages not only to
retain the best qualities of both, but also adds synergy to them.
Fincher is notorious for being a rigid perfectionist, so Sorkin’s
esoteric, game-theoretic dialogue plays out with striking clarity.
“But you’re going to go through life thinking that girls don’t like you
because you are a nerd. And I want you to know, from the bottom of
my heart, that that won’t be true. It’ll be because you’re an asshole,”
Rooney Mara’s (“A Ghost Story”) Erica Albright hisses at the end of
the first scene. And the precision of those words stings.
Moreover, Fincher’s attention to immaculate set design and
tendency
toward
claustrophobically
immersive
camerawork
never falters. In particular, the Henley
Royal Regatta race is an adrenaline shot
of a scene, depicting the athletes as vivid,
imperfect figures amid blurry, dreamlike
scenery. While every other scene in the film
is essentially a conversation, Fincher never
misses an opportunity to let his characters’
violent undertones rudely shift the camera, or
their positions in the frame tell us something
new. It’s an easy movie to direct with obvious
choices.
But
Fincher’s direction
takes
more
than
enough
risks
to
impress.
“What sound is
he making? Is that
like a tsk?”
A
scrawny
college
student
with
a
backpack
and a hoodie is
sprinting
across
campus. He weaves
through
arches
and
alleyways,
a
shortcut
here,
a
sidestep
there.
His humility is present; several trios
of piano notes that seem to float and
hover in your ears. His rage is palpable
too — it’s a sinister, soul-shaking hum in
the background. Together, these sonic
textures communicate the tender darkness
of Mark Zuckerberg. I’ve studied to Trent
Reznor and Atticus Ross’s Oscar-winning
score more than I’ve studied to anything else. It is a thrumming
electronic abyss peppered with deeply comforting melodies. The
industrial-techno beat of “In Motion” is followed promptly by the
squeaking grittiness of “A Familiar
Taste.” Hopeful chords can exist,
if only for a fleeting moment, taken
over by dissonance. Our characters
chase their ambitions and only
falter when those ambitions incite
sour consequences. Dreams can
reach only so far, long enough
until that droning buzzy emptiness
subsumes all, until friendships are
only burdens.
While Reznor and Ross have
identified a style to their score
compositions, they are probably
better known for their work in
Nine Inch Nails. But what I find
most remarkable about the movie’s
score is how little of a departure
it actually is from the industrial
rock band. Reznor is no stranger to
writing depraved, lonely music. He
has an uncanny ability to affirm one
while dragging them further into
his dark orbit. And that quality is
precisely how he gives the score its
lasting edge. Sometimes, we are all
the kid behind the computer, fingers clacking furiously away into
the void.
“We don’t know what it is yet.”
“The Social Network” imagines the beginnings of Facebook as
a youthful, enterprising endeavor. “The Facebook is cool,” Justin
Timberlake’s (“Inside Llewyn Davis”) Sean Parker says. “You don’t
want to ruin it with ads because ads aren’t cool.” And for all the
things that the real life
Facebook has become since
the movie’s release, “cool”
and “ad-free” are certainly
not accurate descriptors.
In
Sorkin’s
optimistic
imagination, the company
was created by people who
didn’t understand what it
was. If anything, reality
has affirmed this narrative;
only
since
the
Brexit
vote and the Cambridge
Analytica scandal has the
world woken up to the
actual extent of political
and social power the site
has.
Actual
events
affect
how
we
rewatch
the
film, but interaction goes
both
ways.
Watching
Jesse
Eisenberg’s
(“The
Hummingbird
Project”)
real-life counterpart and
his blabbering testimony on
Capitol Hill is fascinating.
He carries all the high-
strung, geeky energy, but without the ease or the nonchalance of
the character. He in every way has become the worst version of a
lonesome coder who got dumped in a bar; more accurately, lonesome
coder with his tendrils in control of global communication. It doesn’t
matter that Facebook wasn’t started over a breakup at a Harvard
bar. Whether we like it or not, Jesse Eisenberg’s performance has
irreversibly shaped our perception of one of the biggest figures in
tech today.
***
What better way for this decade to end then for Sorkin himself to
pen a New York Times opinion lambasting Mark Zuckerberg? “The
Social Network”
is a movie that
has dramatically
changed
since
its
release.
Its
interaction
with
culture
is
a
conversation, not
a statement. How
its
impact
will
shift in the future
is impossible to
tell, so we need to
keep watching it.
But the actual
experience
of
watching it isn’t
boring, or a chore.
It’s a delightful
example
of
talented
craftspeople
working
at
the
peak
of
their
respective
potentials.
Our
need for communication will never end. And, unfortunately, the
deluge of creepy hacker tech figures might not either. “The Social
Network” is a half-open window into the kind of loneliness that
drives our desire to stay connected with each other.
Sorry! My Prada’s at the cleaners: “The Social Network”
ANISH TAMHANEY
Daily Arts Writer
Bro-country, a word that sends shivers down the spines of genre
traditionalists, brings smiles to the faces of millions of loyal listeners and
sounds like money to industry insiders. Coined in 2013 by Jody Rosen in
New York Magazine, he pins down the subgenre as being “music by and of
the tatted, gym-
toned,
party-
hearty American
white
dude.”
Whether
you
like it or not, this
character
(and
his
infatuation
with trucks, beer
and girls) defines
the past decade
of
mainstream
country
music.
Popular
but
polarizing,
it’s
worth
acknowledging
the best, or at
least the most
memorable,
bro-country
hits of the 2010s
— if not for
sentimentality’s
sake,
than
to
help us figure
out
where
mainstream
country music is
headed in 2020.
“Dirt Road Anthem” was recorded twice before it became the highest-
selling record by a solo male country artist, so it’s significant that its success
came with Jason Aldean. It was a glimpse into the future. In 2011, a rap-
influenced country song had never broken into the mainstream before, that is
until the mash-up was endorsed by Aldean, an already established artist. The
popularity of “Dirt Road Anthem” offered just an inkling of the potential that
its kind of sound and shallow themes might hold when given the opportunity
to reach a bigger audience. Soon enough, everyone was trying to rap about
“cornbread and biscuits.”
“Baby you a song / You make me wanna roll my windows down / and
cruise.” In the summer of 2013, with an added verse from Nelly, “Cruise”
by Florida Georgia Line was inescapable. And let’s be honest, the hook is
probably in your head right now. But what is it even about? Literally, it’s about
getting a girl to ride in your truck with you. But really, as the first country song
to ever go diamond, it’s about country songs not needing to be about anything.
That’s key. If the genre’s best-selling song was a heartfelt, acoustic story-song,
then that’s what country radio would have been playing the past few years.
But it wasn’t. Instead, we have hundreds of “long, tanned legs” copycats.
Later that year, Zac Brown infamously called this song “the worst song
(he’s) ever heard” and for good reason: “That’s My Kinda Night” by Luke
Bryan can sound painfully cringe-y. “Little Conway a little T-Pain / Might just
make it rain,” Bryan croons, which feels more like a threat than a welcome
suggestion. If that wasn’t bad enough, an auto-tuned voice echoes the “make
it rain” verse unironically. But as hard as it is to admit, I like it. I understand the
song’s appeal. It’s insanely catchy, and, for a young woman from the suburbs,
it’s fun to play pretend, to embody the swagger of a cocky, hypermasculine
bro, if only for three minutes.
“It’s gettin’ kinda cold in these painted on cut off jeans” Maddie & Tae
sigh on their refreshing first single, giving country listeners a much-needed
reality check. Even though
“Girl In a Country Song,”
released in 2014, is anti-
bro-country, it absolutely is
worth acknowledging as it
proves that bro-country’s
domination was met with
some pushback from fellow
artists. The song takes the
perspective of the one-
dimensional props used in
all of the songs mentioned
above, the girl, and finds out
that being the bro’s muse isn’t
as fun as they make it sound.
It’s chock full of references
to the songs it got played
alongside on the radio, but
twists their lyrics into funny
one-liners to prove a point.
“Can I put on some real
clothes now?” they wonder.
Although the song hit #1 and
got the duo plenty of interviews, bro-country continued answering no.
After bashing Bryan’s hip hop-infused country, Zac Brown decided to
give the style a try himself on his 2016 album Jekyll + Hyde. “Beautiful Drug”
is one of its standouts, exemplary of the way country can blend with EDM
relatively seamlessly. It’s a glossy, highly produced, extended metaphor with
a beat drop as irresistible as Brown finds his love interest. Because of Brown’s
initial resistance to this kind of genre-bending, the song’s existence also
demonstrates the overwhelming wave of experimentation country started
going through in the latter half of the decade, something that sprouted from
bro-country. If Zac Brown got on board, rest assured nearly everyone else in
mainstream country music did too.
Released in 2017, “Body Like a Back Road” is “Dirt Road Anthem” 2.0
which makes the genre’s dramatic evolution all the more evident. Unlike
Aldean, Sam Hunt is open about his rapping influences. Instead of real drums,
Hunt opts to rhyme against a snap track. And the narrative itself is different.
The singer no longer meets the girl on the dirt road — in Hunt’s version, her
agency has been cut down to the point that she is the dirt road. Hunt’s style
had already struck up a conversation about the boundaries of country music,
what’s borrowing and what’s appropriating, but ultimately the success of the
song pushes all of those questions aside. “Body Like a Back Road” and Hunt
himself suggest that anything can be country, so long as that’s what the artist
calls themself.
Throughout the past 10 years, country radio has been playing women
less
and
less,
bringing in sounds
and
artists
from
different
genres
more and more, and
finding new ways to
compare women to
inanimate objects.
But it wasn’t all bad.
As
Kacey
Musgraves
gets
recognized for her
instrumentally rich
and witty style and
traditional-leaning
and Luke Combs
starts to dominate
the
charts,
it’s
clear
that
the
genre is preparing
to
start
a
new
chapter. The 2010s
raised
questions
fundamental to the essence of what country music is. For better or for worse,
the next decade holds the answers.
Bikinis, Bud Lights and the brazen rise of bro-country
KATIE BEEKMAN
Daily Arts Writer
B-SIDE: MUSIC NOTEBOOK
B-SIDE: FILM NOTEBOOK
US AIR FORCE
SONY MOTION PICTURES / YOUTUBE
SONY MOTION PICTURES / YOUTUBE
As both a wildly entertaining
tragedy of deteriorating
frienships and a diagnosis
on the impending future of
technological communication,
“The Social Network” perfectly
straddles the line betwen
watchability and cultural
dynamism in a way that no other
film from the decade does.
The popularity of
“Dirt Road Anthem”
offered just an inkling
of the potential that
its kind of sound and
shallow themes might
hold when given the
opportunty to reach a
bigger audience. Soon
enough, everyone
was trying to rap
about “cornbread and
biscuits.”