Last week, Mickey Guyton made
history as the first Black woman
to perform solo at the Academy of
Country Music Awards. She sang
to an empty Grand Ole Opry house
where lights lined the pews instead
of people. The audience watching
from home was largely unfamiliar
with Guyton or her music — her
debut “Better Than You Left Me”
peaked at #34 on the Billboard
Country Airplay Chart in 2015, her
highest-charting single to date.
Nonetheless, Guyton made the most
of the moment. Her performance of
“What Are You Gonna Tell Her?”
unflinchingly addressed why it’s
taken so long to break the double-
layered race and gender barrier in
country music.
“What Are You Gonna Tell Her?”
is one of six songs on Guyton’s
latest EP Bridges, and it pulls no
punches. The piano ballad is a stark
contrast to the sparkly girl-power
anthems that are typically enlisted
to address inequality. Instead,
Guyton zeroes in on these anthems’
aftermath, asserting that the belief
that “dreams” and “hard work”
will be enough just isn’t the truth.
The topics she touches on include
racism and homophobia and reflect
the same harsh reality.
But Guyton doesn’t stop there —
the majority of Bridges addresses
social justice issues. Her current
single, “Heaven Down Here” was
written after Guyton watched the
video of George Floyd’s murder.
“Black Like Me,” which has gained
some traction on TikTok, was
written long before this summer’s
protests, but hadn’t had much
of a chance of being released. It
challenges what so many country
songs take for granted: Americans’
freedom. “If you think we live in the
land of the free you should try to be
Black like me,” Guyton contends on
the piano-driven track.
Even
Guyton’s
lighthearted
songs are meant to flip the script.
The playfully woozy “Rosé” finds
Guyton unabashedly singing the
praises of her drink of choice —
something that’s old hat for the
men of country music but far less
common in songs by women. “Salt”
is a twist on Carrie Underwood’s
“Cowboy Casanova.” This time
the girl in the “look-at-me dress”
is the “snake” and the star of the
slide-guitar-laden Wild West show
she’s been written into. Despite
these playful asides, Bridges is
overwhelmingly a call to action.
Contrary to many country artists’
responses to the social justice
movement, the title track asserts
that “We’re gonna need more than
prayers and wishes.”
In its own way, Apple Music
has attempted to rise to these
challenges Guyton points to in the
industry. The streaming platform
launched
the
“Apple
Music
Country” radio station this August
— simultaneously recognizing that
“radio is part of the fabric of country
music culture” and that the way
people listen to music is changing.
The station boasts five daily on-air
hosts, including a show by Black
country singer-songwriter Tiera.
It’s also home to shows curated
by a diverse array of artists.
BRELAND,
Willie
Jones
and
Rissi Palmer have all been tapped
to contribute. While terrestrial
radio has embraced the sounds
and stylings of hip hop for years
(hello Sam Hunt), it’s only been
considered
“country”
if
the
“inspiration” shows up in music
by white people (hello “Old Town
Road” controversy). “Apple Music
Country” is a step toward changing
that. By acknowledging country
music’s increasing diversity and
reaffirming Black artists’ place in
the genre, Apple Music is providing
opportunities for Black artists to
gain a foothold.
Again and again, the country
music industry at large has shirked
this same responsibility. While
plenty of listeners hadn’t heard from
Guyton’s perspective before “What
Are You Gonna Tell Her?” on the
ACMs, industry insiders have. In
fact, when Guyton debuted the song
in February to an auditorium full of
radio executives, she got a standing
ovation. But nothing changed — the
song wasn’t picked up by enough
radio stations to start charting.
Guyton has been signed to Capitol
Nashville since 2011 and was
nominated for an ACM in 2016, but
she still hasn’t been able to release a
full-length album.
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
Arts
12 — Wednesday, September 30, 2020
Controversial ‘Cuties’ isn’t
what Ted Cruz thinks it is
The backlash is bipartisan:
both Sen. Ted Cruz and Rep. Tulsi
Gabbard have called “Cuties”
child porn. Following the release
of the film’s trailer and (an ill-
conceived) poster, daily Netflix
cancellations surged 5x, and a
Change.org petition has over
750,000 signatures calling for “the
investigation of the parents, staff,
director and especially Netflix.”
Oh,
and
the
#CancelNetflix
hashtag was born.
What’s strange is that the
film community’s reaction was
overwhelmingly positive when
“Cuties” debuted at Sundance in
January. So, what went wrong?
Richard Brody of the New
Yorker states, “I doubt that the
scandal-mongers have actually
seen ‘Cuties,’ but some elements of
the film that weren’t presented in
the advertising would surely prove
irritating to them: it’s the story of a
girl’s outrage at, and defiance of, a
patriarchal order.” For starters,
this film, as a social critique, is
impossible to summarize in 94
seconds (the length of the trailer,
which is consequently the 44th
most disliked video on YouTube),
which means it is even more futile
to attempt to convey the thesis in a
single image. Even so, there were
less offensive possibilities for the
movie poster. Just as you don’t
understand Yorgos Lanthimos’s
“The Lobster” from a poster or
trailer, to presume to understand
“Cuties” from its trailer is unfair.
Even a review you read in The
Michigan Daily can’t tell the
whole story. But I will try to cut
through the noise and elucidate
the social implications of this
important film.
“Cuties” is a story about modern
girlhood in the age of Instagram,
TikTok and “WAP.” The film also
navigates the challenges faced
by immigrants to adapt to a new
culture without losing their roots.
It follows 11-year-old Ami (Faitha
Youssouf) as she desperately
tries to find independence from
her religious family through
friendship and community. Ami’s
first friends are four classmates
who are practicing to compete in
a dance competition. Before Ami
ingratiates herself, these four
girls bully her for her understated
outfits. Herself unable to dance,
Ami is unable to curry favor as a
troupe-mate, and finds that she
must dress like her new friends
to be accepted. This means
baring skin, which makes Ami
uncomfortable: She hides her
midriff with a hoodie when older
boys leer at the girls. Ultimately,
she chooses to sacrifice her own
comfort for the sake of popularity.
Ami’s
family
is
beyond
uncomfortable with midriffs and
tight skirts. Devoutly religious,
Ami’s mother and aunt make it
very clear that they think Ami
is dressing (in their words) like a
“whore.” The disapproval of her
family only fuels Ami’s drive for
independence and her desire to
learn how to dance like her friends.
Previously
only
the
troupe’s
filmographer, when the friend
group ousts one of their dancers
only days before the competition
try-outs, Ami volunteers to step
in. She’s been practicing and
“studying,” and even adds to
the routine by teaching her new
friends how to twerk.
Wait – isn’t Ami 11? And her
friends too? This is why Ted Cruz
is mad. There is a lot of twerking
in this film. There are very tight
outfits. And the camera doesn’t
hide any of it. This fact makes
“Cuties” very challenging to watch
at times. Director Maïmouna
Doucouré
(“Maman(s)”)
acknowledges the discomforting
nature of certain scenes, but
retorts by saying, “if one really
listens to 11-year-old girls, their
lives are uncomfortable.”
Ted Cruz’s anger and my
discomfort come from two places.
First, there is the very sound
belief that young girls should not
be sexualized in this way. And
Doucouré herself agrees. Her film
does not romanticize, but rather
documents, lived reality. Having
interviewed
over
a
hundred
Parisian
preteens,
Doucouré
reports that “they saw that the
sexier a woman is on Instagram
or TikTok, the more likes she gets.
They tried to imitate that sexuality
in the belief that it would make
them more popular.” But neither
this film, nor my review of it, is
a condemnation of social media.
Ted Cruz wouldn’t say it is, either.
I believe, and this is the second
source of discomfort, that this
film critically illuminates the
fetishization, objectification and
sexualization of women’s bodies
at any age. If Doucouré argues that
Ami twerks for popularity because
she saw it online — well, the
problem is not that Ami saw it, or
that Ami wants to be popular. The
problem is how our patriarchal
society evaluates women based on
sexual desirability.
The discomfort I felt while
watching this film was due to
the inappropriateness of young
girls behaving sexually. That
dissonance is legitimate, but when
I tried to investigate further what
I was feeling, I had to ask myself:
Why should wearing a tight skirt
equate to “behaving sexually?”
Our society has firmly linked a
woman’s body with her sexuality,
and subsequently with her worth
as a person. That is the problem.
If a woman of any age wishes to
wear certain clothing, it is not for
society to conflate her outfit with
her sexual availability, just as two
shirtless men playing catch in the
street are no more sexual objects
than they would be if they were
fully clothed.
But I can’t close without
clearly identifying and addressing
the cause of mass outrage: the
very
real,
not
suggested
or
euphemized,
sexualization
of
11-year-old
characters
(played
by 14-year-old girls). There are
plenty of examples of when the
on-screen depiction of something
socially
grotesque
conveys
a
powerful
message
about
its
depravity. Some directors like to
push the envelope (Gaspar Noe’s
“Irréverisble” comes to mind).
But this film walks a very fine
line, and seems not to know that
sometimes it is best to describe,
rather
than
depict,
certain
depravities. Doucouré defends
her directorial choices by assuring
viewers that “a trained counselor
was present on set” and that “the
project was even approved by
the French government’s child
protection authorities.” But, that’s
akin to saying a veterinarian was
present on the set of “Ben Hur.”
Harm done is harm done, even if
the “actors in the film had already
seen these types of dances and
more.” Many scenes are quite
exploitative, and there is really
no excuse for that. Monica Hesse
of the Washington Post wrote,
“Healthy adults won’t see the
characters as sex objects; they’ll
see them as children and they’ll
see the dancing as disturbing.” I
would reflect on this statement
by saying the reason “healthy”
adults will be disturbed is because
the children are portrayed as sex
objects. And that is not okay.
In short, Ted Cruz missed
Doucouré’s message. But when
it comes to the images on screen,
Cruz’s
criticism
has
merit.
“Cuties” illuminates real issues
in our society. Foremost, that
young girls have internalized
an
association
between
self-
worth and sexuality. Moreover,
this association is founded on
the
patriarchy’s
devaluation
of women and fetishization of
women’s bodies. These issues
must be addressed and resolved.
But the way to criticize the sexual
objectification of young girls is not
to take part in that exploitation.
I fear that this film may pave the
way for other directors to test
what is acceptable in the realm of
criticism-through-exhibition.
For those who want to read
more about this film, I highly
recommend the Washington Post
op-ed written by Doucouré, from
which I pulled some of the above
quotes.
Daily Arts Writer Ross London
can be reached at rhorg@umich.
edu.
ROSS LONDON
Daily Arts Writer
BAC FILMS
Novel-in-verse ‘Punching’
takes on the carceral state
Award-winning author Ibi Zoboi
and prison reform activist Yusef
Salaam of the Exonerated Five
joined forces to write their newly
released novel-in-verse “Punching
the Air.” In 1989, Yusef Salaam was
one of the five boys wrongfully
convicted in the “Central Park
Jogger” case, which forced them to
spend between seven and 13 years
in jail until they were exonerated
in 2002. Since being released, the
five have received a multimillion
dollar settlement from the city of
New York, and their story has been
documented in the 2012 film “The
Central Park Five” and the 2019
Netflix documentary series “When
They See Us.”
Zoboi writes that the wrongful
conviction of the Exonerated Five
awakened her and many others, “to
the injustices of their country and
of the world.” Having met Salaam
two years after he was released
from prison, Zoboi was a college
reporter anxious to investigate the
case and share Salaam’s story. Now,
nearly 20 years after their first
encounter, Zoboi brings Salaam’s
perspective to light once more.
In the novel, the fictional Amal
Shahid is a 16-year-old Black
Muslim poet and artist who is
convicted of a crime he didn’t
commit. Amal’s story begins in
the courtroom, where he awaits
his verdict. Though Amal’s story
is inspired by Salaam’s, it is not an
exact replica: “We decided that we
had to make Amal a 2020 version
of 1989 Yusef, and that is a boy who
is incredibly self-aware,” Zoboi
shared in an August interview
with NPR. Infused with Salaam’s
wisdom, perspective and even
some of the poetry he wrote while
incarcerated, Amal’s truth comes
to life on the page.
Amal’s life dramatically changes
after one intense night when he is
accused of assaulting a white boy.
When he is found guilty, he is sent
to a juvenile detention facility. An
echo of Salaam, Amal is simply a
boy who was in the wrong place
at the wrong time; all the while,
Amal is continuously referred to
as “the defendant” and portrayed
as a fully-grown man rather than
the young boy he is. We follow
Amal as he flashes between the
past and present, wondering what
his future will bring. His shifting
emotional
states
are
notably
interwoven with recurrent motifs
like stones, dust and butterflies,
striking accompaniments to the
verse that establishes an intimate
and emotional connection between
the reader and Amal.
Throughout the novel, Amal
transparently
expresses
his
experiences in jail, which mostly
confine him to his cell — four small
corners. Alone, Amal is trapped in
his own mind with his explosive
thoughts. To escape and to express
his anger and pain, Amal looks to
art and poetry as outlets. When
able, he attends poetry workshops
(rewards for good behavior) and
draws with broken crayons in his
free time — “I didn’t know that
/ I could hold this little / bit of
freedom in my hands.” In addition
to artistry bridging Amal and
Salaam, Amal too has the support
of his visiting family and friends,
who bring him letters and books.
They do not let Amal forget who he
is as he battles in a setting designed
to drain him of everything.
Through the use of verse, Zoboi
illuminates the power of art and
words that saves Amal from the
sinking despair and rage that
nearly swallow him whole, while
detailing the unjust systems that
have placed Amal in this position in
the first place. This chiefly includes
the judicial and prison systems in
America that disproportionately
fail and oppress Black people. One
motif Zoboi and Salaam use is blind
justice, invoking Lady Justice to
give voice to this truth: “because
where I come from / jail or death /
were the two options she handed to
us / because where he comes from
/ the American Dream / was the
one option she handed to them.”
This sentiment is reiterated by the
imbalanced structure of the verse,
calling to mind the tipping scales
Lady Justice holds.
LILLIAN PEARCE
Daily Arts Writer
HARPERCOLLINS PUBLISHERS
CAPITOL RECORDS NASHVILLE
The racial and gendered
barriers in country music
KATIE BEEKMAN
Daily Arts Writer
Read more online at
michigandaily.com
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michigandaily.com