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Arts
Tuesday, February 18, 2020 — 5
One of the many pleasures
of Andrea Lawlor’s 2017 novel
“Paul Takes The Form Of A
Mortal Girl” is the realization I
came to that this novel is more
or less unreadable by a straight
person.
It’s
saturated
with
vivid, unsparing depictions of
not only gay sex but also the
ecosystem that surrounds it —
glances and recognitions and
guesswork, a whole network of
affiliations and signifiers that I
doubt anyone at all uninitiated
would be able to wade through
without frustration. I even have
some queer friends who tried to
read this book and couldn’t get
past what one called Lawlor’s
“vulgar” style. The expectation
that
we
can
(and,
more
dubiously,
should)
untether
queer community from the act
of fucking is understandable,
but an occasional reminder of
the particular (maybe banal)
site of queerness restores some
revolutionary
potential
to
the thing. There’s something
lovely, anyway, about feeling
at home in a book that your
straight friends would likely
throw across the room before
too long, to be thrilled by
recognition and curiosity that
feels particular.
That being said, gayness is
a lot more legible in the book
than transness per se, despite
the fact that Lawlor has become
known as a member of a trans
fiction-writing vanguard along
writers like Jordy Rosenberg,
Imogen Binnie and Casey Plett.
That this imagined community
is more of a listicle than a
reality shouldn’t be that much
of a surprise. “Trans literature”
as a category was probably
destined to be problematized
out of existence before it could
ever really come into its own.
Transness
was
always
too
multiple and mutable to ever
coalesce into a canon or even
really a section of a bookshelf.
It’s easy to see how one might
think of this book as trans.
Lawlor’s titular anti-hero is
a shapeshifter whose powers
seem to mostly exist in the
realm of human possibility:
He can change himself into
a woman and can become a
more masculine man, adding
and shedding muscle and fat
in various places like picking
out an outfit. This can easily
be read, if you only look at the
blurb, as a liberatory allegory of
transness, Paul’s abilities easily
packaged into a metaphor for
genderbending.
Lawlor doesn’t seem to see
it that way, though: They said
in an interview that Paul isn’t
trans. What they have said about
the book — that they started
the book as a way to talk about
“picking up people in bars,”
that the book is a sort of time
capsule of the ‘90s — seems to
indicate that their goals aren’t
to make a trans vanguard book,
or at least not a straightforward
one. This is apparent to anyone
who has read more than the
first ten pages. The opening
fanfare, which involves Paul
changing into his girl alter-
ego Polly and getting picked up
by a punk rocker dyke, moves
quickly into a sequence of Paul
in boy-mode hooking up with
a
bearded
Visiting
Writer.
Paul’s mores, though decidedly
omnivorous, seem to rely on a
sort of balance (“Paul wanted to
fuck someone tonight, after the
business with the rock star”).
The fluidity is from night to
night, not moment to moment:
Paul is, generally, either a
gay man or a lesbian woman.
Lawlor’s game is something
other than a straightforward
valediction of gender fluidity
as we understand it today.
Their
interest
seems
like it has more to do with
exploration, with knowledge,
with covering as much ground
as possible within the scope of
the novel. That being said, it’s
worth pointing out that the
novel doesn’t really resemble
any of the standard types —
it’s not a hero’s journey or a
bildungsroman. Lawlor said in
an interview that they found
some
difficulty
in
writing
Paul’s story with a conventional
three-act structure, one that
would involve him “learning a
lesson.” They write: “I ended
up doubling down on a more
episodic structure because I
realized my reluctance had
to do with my understanding
of how people change, how
I’ve changed — really slowly,
recursively, making the same
mistakes over and over.” As the
poet Brian Blanchfield pointed
out in his excellent review in
Bookforum, Paul’s story has
more to do with the picaresque
than with the bildungsroman,
especially in that picaresque
is a genre that calls for a
certain kind of personality
—
adaptable,
adventurous,
forceful, wily — as well as an
episodic approach to plot. He is
able to read people’s affiliations
and
types
based
on
little
signifiers, and is also capable
of applying the same scrutiny
on himself. Paul is all of these
things, an endlessly curious
and savvy reader of people who
is never content to stay in one
place. His travels place him in
dispirate places — Boystown
in Chicago, rural lesbianism
in Michigan and in off-season
Provincetown, the “various”
atmosphere of androgynous,
utopic San Francisco. Lawlor is,
like Paul, interested in covering
a lot of ground, finding things
out. Sex is one way of learning
about people; so are long-term
relationships and parties and
friendships. The shapeshifting
could, in the end, just be
Lawlor’s way of showing us
what else exists, giving Paul
access both to leather bars and
to the famously transphobic
Michigan
Womyn’s
Music
Festival. Paul isn’t transgender,
he’s multiple.
If you’ll allow me a bit of an
overread — reading this book
as a bona fide transsexual
was
interesting
because
it
reminded me that I know of
more than one trans person
(usually
transmasculine)
who refers to themselves as a
shapeshifter. Based on several
choices they could make, they
could convincingly pass as one
or the other gender. For those
of us who are slightly gender-
ambivalent anyway, this is an
appealing choice if you can
pull it off, and it’s usually less
difficult than one might think.
Trans people, like Robin says,
are “like everybody else, only
more so.” We know better
than anyone else that the line
between genders is thinner
than you might think, and a
lot is possible with a certain
attention to detail. In my case,
sometimes I wonder what it
would be like to have been
predisposed to another path.
My curiosity has never really
metabolized into desire, but I’m
not ruling it out.
Like everybody else, except more so: On Andrea Lawlor
EMILY YANG
Daily Literature Columnist
SEARCHLIGHT PICTURES
A “loomi” is the Oman word for
a sun-dried lime: a Middle Eastern
spice that is used as a souring agent.
It is quite small — about the size of
a key lime with black, pebbly skin
— yet looming and distinct in flavor
without being overbearing. While
originating from Oman, loomi limes
are used throughout the Middle
East. You will find some loomi
limes providing bright but subdued
acidity in Persian stews and soups,
a rounded sweetness to many Iraqi
meat stuffings and a voluptous funk
to many Arabic fish dishes.
While Loomi Cafe may not
always use its eponymous spice
within its rotating menu, the flavors
often present in the food are as
playful as a loomi lime — titillating
spices play behind a foreground of
(usually citric) acidity.
Loomi Cafe is situated in a
small diner-like space across from
Monahan’s Fish Market inside the
Kerrytown Market & Shops. Long
time residents of the neighborhood
may recall that Loomi Cafe now
stands in the space formerly
occupied by Kosmo’s Bop Shop,
which has since moved to a new
location next to Fleetwood Diner.
Unlike its predecessor, Loomi Cafe
defies an ethnographic label on the
theme of food that might be served;
A Peruvian pork or a Hyderabadi
chicken dish presented one day may
very well be replaced by a Nashville
hot cauliflower dish a few days later.
You’ll find comfort and perhaps
a sense of relief when you learn that
all of these entrees have something
in common: Every entree is always
served with your choice of fresh
in-house pita bread, roasted (well,
griddled) potatoes or white rice.
Each choice of starch has its own
unique, tantalizing voice. The pita
bread sings in its toasty, sweet
and near charred aroma, amidst
its chewy texture backing track.
The potatoes shatter with their
glass-like crust yielding into wet
but fluffy interiors. The rice is a
most agreeable “fluffy bunny”
companion to Loomi’s entrees —
you lean toward the rice on the days
you crave a subdued, yet fuller meal
(probably on a rainy or snowy day).
If
you
find
the
generous
portion sizes of Loomi’s entrees
challenging, and perhaps would
only like to consume a small amount
of food, consider Loomi’s pupusas:
a griddled, puck-like Salvadorean
snack made out of ground corn
oozing with delicious fillings. An
analogue of the Korean bindaetteok,
it resembles an amalgamation of
a tortilla and a Hot Pocket. The
pupusas at Loomi’s provide a
satisfying toasted crisp exterior
that explodes with the hot, often
fatty, juices hiding within. While
the pork and cheese pupusa served
last year contained juicy chunks of
pork with intermittent salty globs
of cheese, the current chicken and
beans pupusa served recently shows
a more delicate, fluffier interior. A
good pupusa is always handmade
to order; the pat-pat-pat of the cook
preparing your pupusa comforts
you as you settle in at the counter,
salivating in anticipation.
After multiple visits, you find
clarity in the theme and vision
among Loomi’s food. Each starch
option (whether pita, potato, rice or
masa) is like an Avenger: It possesses
its own delicious superpowers and
characteristics uniquely catered
to different palates. Loomi Cafe,
therefore, is the Avenger’s Tower:
all forms of starches assemble at the
counter to save your day.
Loomi Cafe is located at 407 N 5th
Ave, Ann Arbor, MI 48104.
Loomi Cafe, or the Rise
of the Avengers of Starch
PENNY LAM/DAILY
BRENDON CHO
Daily Food Columnist
RESTAURANT REVIEW
RESTAURANT REVIEW
Going into “Downhill,” I was
most intrigued not by the fact
that it is a remake of a popular
foreign film, or that it stars top-
tier talents like Julia Louis-
Dreyfus (“Veep”) and Will Ferrell
(“Anchorman”). When I saw the
trailer, the first thing I said was,
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen a
movie about skiing before.”
The premise of “Downhill” is
simple enough: a family on a ski
trip in the Alps is threatened by
an apparent avalanche. The main
source of tension, however, is the
priorities between husband Pete
(Ferrell) and wife Billie (Louis-
Dreyfus) Staunton. As a cloud
of snow approaches, Billie grabs
Finn (Julian Grey, “Godless”) and
Emerson (Ammon Jacob Ford,
“Seal Team”), their two kids.
Pete, on the other hand, grabs his
phone and runs away. This split-
second fight-or-flight decision
settles into a rift that sends the
family into disarray.
Despite never having met
before
joining
the
project,
Louis-Dreyfus and Ferrell are
convincing as a couple. Pete and
Billie feel very real as a married
couple that has been together for
so long that they have fallen into
a rhythm. In one scene, they sit
on the hotel bed eating french
fries. In another, they brush their
teeth in front of the sink, ducking
and weaving around each other
with perfect timing. But after the
near-miss with the avalanche,
and after Pete refuses to admit
his cowardice, they lose their
rhythm.
Watching the conflict play
out on the stunning background
of the Alps is surreal. My family
has gone skiing every year since I
was four, so many of the “family
ski trip” aspects felt true to me,
whether it’s one sibling dive
bombing down the mountain
while the other takes his time
or a family game of Uno in front
of the fireplace. But this is what
gives “Downhill” its footing: it is
a movie that is real and relatable,
both in its comedy and its conflict.
The film is a remake of the
Swedish film “Force Majeure,”
a dark comedy that won critical
acclaim and fan support back
in 2014. “Downhill” was five
years in the making, after “Force
Majeure” director Ruben Östlund
encouraged creating an American
version of the film. As a result,
this version in much lighter,
finding comic relief during tense
sequences via certain characters:
Charlotte (Miranda Otto, “The
Chilling Adventures of Sabrina”),
a woman at the ski resort with
a shameless tendency for blunt
and shocking declarations, and
Zach
(Zach
Woods,
“Silicon
Valley”), Pete’s work friend who
is hilariously bad at handling
awkward
situations,
are
particularly funny, as well as a
brusque member of ski patrol
played by Kristofer Hivju (“Game
of Thrones”), a Norwegian actor
who also appeared in “Force
Majeure.” Still, there is something
that seems to have been lost
in translation, something that
makes “Downhill” feel like it’s
missing a beat.
Despite the comic relief and
the acting backgrounds of its
main
actors,
“Downhill”
is
not purely comedic. Ferrell’s
tendency
to
play
absurd
characters is thinly veiled by
his portrayal of Pete, who finds
himself struggling to reconcile
his current place in life with what
he really wants. Louis-Dreyfus’s
tangible emotions hold the film
together, whether they are a
well-crafted facial expression
or the cracks in her voice as she
explains the avalanche event to
Zach and his girlfriend Rosie
(Zoë Chao, “Strangers”). These
performances,
particularly
Louis-Dreyfus’,
turn
this
married couple into a pair of
characters that are flawed and
relatable.
Downhill
The State Theatre
Searchlight Pictures
KARI ANDERSON
Daily Arts Writer
‘Downhill’ never summits
FILM REVIEW
DAILY LITERATURE COLUMN
For those of us who are slightly
gender-ambivalent anyway, this is
an appealing choice if you can pull it
off, and it’s usually less difficult than
one might think. Trans people, like
Robin says, are “like everybody else,
only more so.” We know better than
anyone else that the line between
genders is thinner than you might
think, and a lot is possible with a
certain attention to detail.
Read more online at
michigandaily.com
While Loomi Cafe
may not always
use its eponymous
spice within its
rotating menu,
the flavors often
present in the food
are as playful as a
loomi lime