Arts
Wednesday, September 30, 2020 — 13 
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com

“extremely online” to my friends, 
they usually agree — they too 
love memes and spend hours on 
Twitter.

gets messy. It usually turns into 
some form of me reciting my own 
version of Bane’s quote from “The 
Dark Knight Rises”: “You merely 
adopted the internet; I was born in 
it, molded by it.”

Like all great horror movies, 

“Antebellum” is barely fiction. 

In modern classics like “Get 

Out,” 
“The 
Babadook” 
and 

“Antebellum,” the fantasy comes 
not when the monsters show their 
ugly faces, but when they are 
vanquished.

Even at its most outlandish, the 

terror in “Antebellum” is not only 
plausible, but already happening. 
More than that — it is woven into 
the fabric of American society 
itself. “Antebellum” dives headfirst 
into the roiling open wound of 
American slavery and shows how, 
while its horrors may never be 
defeated, they still must be fought, 
tooth and nail. 

The film follows two characters 

played 
by 
Janelle 
Monáe 

(“Moonlight”), modern-day author 
and activist Veronica Henley, as 
well as Eden, a woman enslaved on 
a pre-Civil War plantation. In the 
film’s searing narrative, these two 
lives are revealed to be shockingly 
intertwined. 

With 
a 
powerhouse 

performance by Monáe, a visual 
brilliance that comes along once 
in a blood-red moon and twists to 
make you leap from their seat and 
clutch your hair, “Antebellum” is 
the best horror film of 2020. It’s 
also one of its most important 
movies, period. 

Without spoiling one of the most 

bone-shattering twists in horror 
since “The Sixth Sense,” the film 
draws colorful, shuddering cords 
between the hell of antebellum 
slavery and the modern era. It 

does so with a realistic, inquisitive 
and unflinching eye to befit 
the topics that it grapples with. 
Simultaneously, 
it’s 
absolutely 

chilling. Who knew that a movie 
which utters “intersectionality” 
could take your breath away?

Why, though, has “Antebellum” 

been so panned? Wouldn’t a 
“great” horror movie have more 
than a 29% on the Tomatometer? 
It deserves far better, but the 
cinematic 
establishment 
never 

takes horror easily. 

One critic called it too pedantic, 

more interested in making a “Big 
Point” than trying for any artistic 
merit. Another lamented that the 
film “is not subtle about what it is 
saying and what it is doing.” These 
have been common talking points 
for 
horror-bashers 
throughout 

cinematic history.

When “The Exorcist” shows a 

girl sexually assaulting her own 
mother, it is being too “indelicate” 
for the cinematic establishment, 
too obvious in its symbolism and 
too embarrassingly proletariat in 
its smarmy subject matter. When 
“Antebellum” has Janelle Monáe, 
one of the most iconic and lauded 
Black icons of the modern era, face 
off against a Confederate general, 
it is deemed too “simple ... lazily 
reminding us of the cruelty of 
America’s past.”

Is “Alien”’s invocation of violent 

misogyny “pedantic”? Are the 
brutal treatises of mental illness in 
“Hereditary” and “Midsommar” 
“pedantic”? 
What 
about 
the 

exploration of hysteria in “Invasion 
of The Body Snatchers” and “Night 
of The Living Dead”? “Gojira” isn’t 
shy about symbolizing nuclear 
trauma. Look into that giant 

lizard’s ravaged face and call him 
“pedantic.” I dare you. 

Maybe horror has always been 

“pedantic.” Maybe it has always 
made stomach-churning, blood-
soaked “big points.” Maybe it has 
always depicted the inexplicable 
with little qualms to expose the 
real social wounds that lurk behind 
the rubber suits and plastic teeth. 

Yet by doing so, horror forces 

viewers to grapple with the 
ungrappleable 
in 
a 
medium 

without limits. The sheer creativity 
of great horror can unpack taboo 
topics before the mainstream 
even deigns to turn its head. No 
other movie could pierce the 
cyclonic political climate of 2020 
like “Antebellum” and offer such a 
sweeping, necessary catharsis. 

“Antebellum” 
drips 
with 

cinematic 
talent. 
Its 
use 
of 

color is incredible, contrasting 
oversaturated reds, yellows and 
greens with the grime and sulfuric 
gaslight of the antebellum era to 
show how an ancient, systemic 
horror lurks behind the saccharine 
flash of modern life. It also builds 
to a revenge-fueled climax that 
rivals the genre’s best. Sigoruney 
Weaver’s (“Alien”) Ellen Ripley 
has a modern sister in Monáe’s 
Veronica Henley. 

It’s past time horror was taken 

seriously, 
because, 
in 
recent 

memory, has the world ever been so 
horrible? Racist terror haunts the 
headlines every single day. Movies 
must hit it head on, and why should 
horror movies be excluded? Genre 
shouldn’t determine a film’s value 
— quality should.

Daily 
Arts 
Writer 
Andrew 

Warrick 
can 
be 
reached 
at 

warricka@umich.edu.

Ann Arbor comedians find 
creative ways to perform

Movie theaters: Closed.
Music festivals: Canceled. 
Broadway: Dark.
Comedy clubs: Still figuring it 

out. Well, at least the comedians 
are.

Over the past few months, live 

performance venues across the 
world have taken a back seat in 
the interest of public health. In 
the state of Michigan, there have 
been virtually no changes in hopes 
of reopening local entertainment 
hotspots. 
Since 
Governor 

Whitmer’s first executive order of 
the pandemic, Ann Arbor Comedy 
Showcase, Ann Arbor’s premier 
comedy establishment, has had 
its doors locked. Its website, 
practically untouched since mid-
March, serves as an eerie reminder 
of how abruptly American life 
changed. Atop the site’s masthead, 
an ironically cruel business slogan: 
“Laughter is the best medicine … 
come get the cure!” 

With the largest source for 

stand-up in Ann Arbor closed 
for 
live 
shows, 
many 
local 

comedians have found themselves 
in a bewildering months-long 
limbo. Andrew Yang, a master of 
ceremonies for the showcase, lives 
in Milford, and has been doing 
stand-up in Ann Arbor for close to 
five years. 

“[The 
showcase] 
is 
doing 

Facebook live shows,” Yang said in 

an interview with The Michigan 
Daily. “There’s no audience. It’s 
just the comics that are there on 
stage and then they broadcast it on 
Facebook.” 

Typically, the showcase hosts 

a traditional open mic every 
Wednesday 
night, 
but 
now, 

comedians like Yang are searching 
for creative ways to pivot their 
comedy in the COVID-19 era. 

“I know the comics are trying to 

adapt. A lot of us are trying to put 
on outdoor shows. There’s some 
venues that are open, where comics 
have to wear masks — there’s 
others that are unregulated, but 
those are shows I wouldn’t have 
done in the first place,” Yang said. 
“Basically with being indoors and 
performing, I’d feel unsafe.”

Yang’s concerns regarding the 

overall safety of live performances 
appear 
to 
be 
a 
common 

sentiment 
shared 
throughout 

Ann Arbor’s comedy collective. 
As a community, the Ann Arbor 
comedy scene reflects some of the 
best that the Midwest has to offer. 
As a hub, Ann Arbor comedians 
come from all over — with large 
shares from Detroit, Toledo and 
Chicago. 

However, 
comedy 
venues 

around 
the 
country 
are 

traditionally dark, claustrophobic 
and makeshift. Comedian Demetri 
Martin once joked that “the best 
rooms for comedy are the rooms 
that would be the worst in a fire.” 
A mixture of traveling comedians 
sharing 
cramped 
spaces 
and 

unsanitized microphones would 
easily signal some COVID red 
flags. So understandably, some 
comics have backed off from the 
spotlight.

“Some 
people 
have 
been 

quitting,” said Jacob Barr, a senior 
at Eastern Michigan and regular 
performer for the showcase. “For 
people at my level, it’s like an 
internship where I make some 
money doing it, but not enough to 
only do comedy. But the real issue 
is for the people right above me 
who are on the cusp on being able 
to do comedy as a career. I’ve had 
multiple who just started getting 
their bodies into the water, and 
then the pandemic hits and they 
have to go back to their day job.” 

Typically, a comedy club will 

split a fraction of the money 
from tickets sold at the door with 
performers, and other income is 
supplemented by selling food and 
beverage. With no live crowds, or 
even significantly reduced crowds, 
that income dramatically lessens. 
Barr confesses, “It’s been really 
discouraging for a lot of comedians 
I know to not be able to do what 
they love.”

The 
Ann 
Arbor 
comedy 

showcase has made no public 
statements 
about 
when 
they 

plan to fully reopen, or to reopen 
in a limited capacity. However, 
ongoing 
conversations 
suggest 

that Ann Arbor Comedy Showcase 
plans to reopen their doors as soon 
as possible. 

“The showcase can sit three-

hundred 
people,” 
Barr 
says, 

“They’re remodeling the front 
lobby, so they clearly have plans 
to stay open.” The showcase 
relocated to its present location 
at 212 S. Fourth Ave in 2014, and 
had already been under significant 
exterior renovations for the past 
year. 

Brady Keene, a junior at Wayne 

State University and recurring 
comic for the showcase, told 
The 
Daily 
he 
had 
thoughts 

about the possibility for outdoor 
performances 
before 
winter 

weather sets in. “I also thought 
about doing a Zoom show, and 
donating the proceeds to charity.” 
The challenge of outdoor and 
Zoom-related 
performances, 

many comedians admit, is the 
degree to which intimacy and 
volume 
can 
translate 
jokes 

effectively 
to 
their 
audience. 

In particular, TV critics have 

highlighted 
late-night 
comedy 

shows’ challenges to fully resonate 
their jokes with the absence of a 
live audience. But in an era when 
health rightfully takes precedence 
over humor, Keene is hopeful this 
will only be a bump in the road.

“Especially 
in 
comedy,” 

Keene said, “any tragic thing 
that happens, over time, turns 
funny. I have a stand-up bit about 
the Salem witch trials. Was it 
funny back then? Absolutely not. 
But now? You can turn it into 
something hilarious. So I’m very 
excited to hear all the takes about 
the ignorant people once we get 
back to regular work.”

As comics from all ranges of 

experience clamor to return to 
clubs, comedians like Andrew 
Yang and Jacob Barr are already 
working to put on an outdoor 
show at Bløm Meadworks while 
maintaining Washtenaw County 

safety guidelines. 

“We’re already sold out for this 

Friday, and we’re expecting about 
25 people outside,” Yang said. “All 
the comics will be really rusty, and 
it will take a while for people to 
feel comfortable.”

While 
the 
pandemic 
will 

have certainly made it harder 
to workshop jokes and create a 
solid stand-up routine, the love 
for the craft still exists for many 
Michigan comics. “I would love 
to do terrible open mics and bomb 
constantly if it meant I could do 
comedy the same as before,” Barr 
said. For many Ann Arbor comics, 
they can’t wait to return to “the 
best club in Michigan.” 

Andrew Yang and Logan Barr 

currently perform at the Bløm 
Comedy Night in Ann Arbor. 

Daily Arts Writer Maxwell 

Barnes 
can 
be 
reached 
at 

mxwell@umich.edu.

MAXWELL BARNES

Daily Arts Columnist

PIXABAY

I found my own answer 
to John Cusack’s question

In the opening scene of the 

2000 film “High Fidelity,” John 
Cusack’s Rob Gordon says in 
a close-up shot to the camera, 
“What came first, the music or 
the misery?” He elaborates on 
this rhetorical: “Nobody worries 
about kids listening to thousands, 
literally 
thousands 
of 
songs 

about heartbreak, rejection, pain, 
misery and loss. Did I listen to pop 
music because I was miserable? 
Or was I miserable because I 
listened to pop music?” 

I watched “High Fidelity” 

in the front row of a darkened 
basement 
classroom 
at 
my 

previous college, allowing myself 
to be swept away by the movie’s 
wit and charm. I witnessed 
hilarious music snobs and friends 
of Rob, Barry and Dick capture 
the 
experience 
of 
browsing 

record stores on Saturdays.

While the movie sat stored in 

my filing cabinet of art inspiration, 
the movie’s opening lines recently 
jumped back to the front of my 
consciousness. Studying in my 
childhood bedroom brought me 
back to who I used to be and how 
depression became a part of my 
daily routine, an extra baggage 
to haul along, something I was 
unprepared to carry with me. 
I reentered a middle and high 
school frame of mind. I made 
a Spotify playlist of Paramore, 
Fall Out Boy, My Chemical 
Romance and Weezer. I began 
reading “Wuthering Heights,” an 
infamously polarizing Victorian 
novel of two people driven apart 
by passion and misunderstanding 
that results in tragedy and loss. 

The classic had been glaring at 
me from its lofty perch on my 
bookshelf since high school. And, 
as any English major knows, 
there’s an acute guilt when it 
comes to not having read a classic. 
So, with Rob Gordon’s question in 
mind, I gave in to my misery and 
embraced the emo.

As someone with depression, 

I’ve been told to listen to uplifting 
music and read inspiring self-help 
books or memoirs. I’ve been told 
to watch movies with hopeful 
endings. I’ve been told to drink 
chamomile tea before bed. I’ve 
been told to conjure happier 
thoughts. And yet, none of these 
antidotes have cured me.

Heading to Goodwill this 

weekend, my friends and I 
listened to music and I brought up 
the question of which came first: 
the music or the misery? The 
consensus from this collection 
of 
pandemic-weary, 
(some) 

mentally ill Gen Z students was 
that misery arrived first. Then, 
came the tendency to consume 
more morose art. I found my 
experiences 
matched 
this 

conclusion: We acquire art that 
understands, or even matches, 
our current emotional turmoil. 

Sometimes these supposedly 

uplifting books or movies do 
help. While I read Brené Brown’s 
“Daring Greatly” and can attest 
to its powerful mindshift changes 
and advice, I can’t quote Brené 
Brown. But, I know the lyrics 
to The Smiths and Car Seat 
Headrest songs that made me 
feel less alone. Maybe Brown’s 
words helped for a few weeks 
after reading the book, but those 
lyrics seized my soul and shook 
me into a realization that others 
have felt this way and still found a 

way to forge something beautiful 
out of it.

In another scene from “High 

Fidelity,” Rob tells his friend that 
he’s arranging his records not 
chronologically or alphabetically, 
but autobiographically. I’ve found 
similar experiences with my own 
misery period of music and books.

Emily Dickinson’s collected 

poems whispered aloud in my 
childhood bedroom, a gift from 
my brother for my eighteenth 
birthday. 
Her 
sweeping 

existential queries in light of 
observing a frog croak cradled me 
during a particularly debilitating 
bout of depression — a general 
inability to find reason to brush 
my teeth, clean the dishes or feel 
the sun on my skin again.

Car Seat Headrest’s 2016 Teens 

of Denial was my soundtrack 
for riding the bus on a weary 
afternoon after class, watching 
the light filter in through the 
fingerprint-smudged 
windows 

freshman year of college. In 2018, 
“Catcher in the Rye’s” Holden 
Caulfield accompanied me on 
a break from school during a 
challenging winter. I walked 
with Catherine and Heathcliff 
through the rainy moors and 
muddy paths when the pandemic 
brought me home from Michigan. 
However typical, it’s no wonder 
young adults gravitate towards 
the somber. Especially during a 
pandemic where particular life 
events or experiences have been 
snatched away, we wallow. Even 
before this unprecedented global 
health crisis, Gen Z has wrestled 
with declining rates of mental 
health. 

NINA MOLINA
Daily Arts Writer

BUENA VISTA PICTURES

LIONSGATE

‘Antebellum’ is searing, 
gutsy American horror

ANDREW WARRICK

Daily Arts Writer

Read more online at 

michigandaily.com

