10 — Wednesday, November 4 , 2020
the b-side
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
THE B-SIDE: COMFORT
The reasons that we’re
still watching television
They put TVs in hospital rooms.
You don’t think twice about it while
you’re there, probably because
you’re
distracted
by
whatever
reason you’re there in the first place.
The wall-mounted, boxy television
set perches in the corner of a bare
room reeking of antiseptic and
bodily fluid. Sometimes it’s tuned
into a generic game show with a
host that tries his best to mimic a
more charismatic person. Or it plays
the kind of daytime soap opera that
exists only to be background noise
to drown out the silence between
the beeps of heart rate monitors and
IV drips.
It sits, and it watches. It sees you
hunched over in a plastic chair with
just enough padding to prevent
complaints. It sees you hunched
over and fighting back tears and the
bone-aching heaves that come with
desperation and grief. It sees you
propped up on pillows with a needle
in your arm and stickers on your
chest that leave a gooey residue that
won’t go away after three showers.
It sees you dazedly lifting up your
arm for the nurse to take your vital
signs in the middle of the night. It
sees a doctor point at a chart of a
pain scale from zero to ten with little
cartoon faces beneath the numbers
because they know you’re hurting
and demand you tell them just how
much.
There is a TV above you, and the
sound is off. You don’t always need
to hear it to know it’s there. It will
always be there, no matter how
many familiar faces and complete
strangers come and go. In fact, it’s
one of the few pieces of hospital
furniture that doesn’t come with
wheels for trips up and down the
wide, cavernous elevators. Of all the
things to bolt into the wall of a room
no one wants to be in, they chose a
TV. They put TVs in hospital rooms
because they know you need it.
If movies represent the spectacle
of show business, the magnitude of
blockbusters, the insane celebrity
of its stars, TV represents all things
small. A miniature version of the
silver screen, television arrived in
homes and quickly replaced the
radio as the hearth of the house.
Furniture was arranged around a
grainy black and white screen and
stayed there indefinitely. Instead
of intimate fireside chats with
President Roosevelt, Americans
of the early 1950s tuned in to
reassuring domestic sitcoms like
“Mary Kay and Johnny” and “I
Love Lucy.” As a formal update of
the radio, the TV had to prove itself
valuable in the lives of consumers.
Rather than opt for the theatrics
of cinema, television burrowed
its way into the daily routine
of the country and offered a
constant stream of content into the
home. News broadcasts, comedy
and variety shows and talent
competitions gave television a broad
range for appealing to every member
of the family. And at the time, there
was nothing more important than
protecting the American nuclear
family. The TV forced itself into the
home until it became a fixture so
permanent, no one could consider
it anything but essential. The
attachment that the American
public felt to the television laid the
foundation for an entire media
industry built upon an unspoken
trust between the consumer and the
consumed.
The images on the TV screen
reflected the desires of the people
who watched it. Light entertainment
about everyday American life has
remained a constant since the days
of “I Love Lucy,” partially because
the post-war “return to normalcy”
period never really ended. In the
1960s, audiences could flip between
the civil rights movement to “The
Andy Griffith Show” to the newest
casualties of Vietnam. With more
access to information, more viewers
demanded to see who they were,
who they wanted to be and how
their country fit into the same
rabbit-eared box that a family like
theirs could. The smaller scale of
the TV widened the scope of what
audiences saw as belonging to them.
The television gave the people
ownership of an entire medium. It
was built for them, targeted at them,
so fundamentally connected to their
lives that it created a new, more
intimate relationship with viewers.
That
intimacy
has
only
strengthened over time. Despite its
many technological competitors for
America’s attention, the television
still remains the center of our homes.
The couches still face the screen,
whether it’s playing Netflix or cable.
The advent of streaming services has
only increased its presence in pop
culture because now nearly every
program is available somewhere for
you to rewatch over and over again.
Unlike movies, TV shows have
hours of content to feed its audience;
you don’t have to stop watching. It
doesn’t have to end. It will always be
there, sitting patiently on its stand
in the center of your living room,
waiting for you to come home.
You lift the remote to your TV and
see the nurse call button just below
the volume adjuster. There’s nothing
on, but there’s always something on,
so you start scrolling through the
channels. You flip to “SpongeBob
SquarePants” and laugh at a stupid
starfish who lives under a rock. It’s
the funniest thing you’ve ever seen,
or at least it feels that way right
now. You flip to “The Office” and
realize you’d still rather be here
than at work where your boss makes
Michael Scott look like a genius. You
flip to “M.A.S.H.” because you want
to remember what it was like when
you were a child and could look up to
brave doctors with good hearts and
half as much paperwork as the ones
making their rounds to your room.
ANYA SOLLER
Daily Arts Writer
Read more online at
michigandaily.com
THE B-SIDE: COMFORT
Dancing in the moonlight
with strangers on campus
It is comforting to think that
despite
everything
that
has
changed, the twilight hours of my
college career arrive just as my first
taste of adulthood started three
years ago: with a dance.
Full-of-myself,
eager
and
incredibly naive, the person I was in
the fall of 2018 seems like a stranger
in some aspects. By the time the
move-in flurry of activity had boiled
down to a familiar routine, the fall
chill had already set in. At the time,
only seventeen, I felt untethered.
Adrift and far from home, I didn’t
know how to anchor myself back
to the Earth. I was an adult — but at
the same time, not really.
Suffice
to
say,
college
independence didn’t meld with my
teenage reality until months after
my official “arrival.” I always like
to say that college really started one
Wednesday evening in October.
It was freezing, but then again,
Michigan always is. It was freezing,
dark and nearing midnight, but
we didn’t care. No, buoyed by the
euphoria of a night spent swing
dancing in the warm, heated
ballrooms of the Michigan League,
the cold was more than tolerable.
My friend and I leaned against each
other, drunk on shared happiness.
Hours spent twirling and whirling
the night away left us on unsteady
feet. It was the happiest I had felt in
a long time.
We danced our way home, too.
Triple-stepping our way down
the Ingalls Mall avenue; spinning
around street lamps in imitation of
“Singing in the Rain”; dancing the
Charleston on the pavement, on the
grass, on the stone benches of the
Diag and down the steps of Hatcher
Library. In the way only a freshman
or graduating senior can, we even
dared to dance teasingly around the
block “M.” Now, my blood runs cold
just thinking about it.
Then, like a gratuitous Hallmark
movie, out of the darkness appears
a jogger. A shirtless jogger. A very
fit, good-looking, shirtless jogger.
A very fit, very good-looking,
shirtless and male jogger who,
against all reason and logic, stopped
breathlessly to ask:
“What dance is that? Do you
know how to do this?” Followed by
his awkward mime of a completely
unintelligible dance move.
Seized by the reckless daring
only abs and fairytale moonlight
can bring about, I boldly told him,
“Just dance it with me, then I’ll
know.”
That’s right — I danced with
the cute, shirtless jogger, under
the moonlight, at midnight, with
the Michigan “M” as my witness.
Then he thanked me, and jogged off
into the dark. I never did meet that
jogger again — Jogger-boy, if you’re
out there, call me.
Freshman year, you could say,
started with a bit of a bang, toasted
by a dance.
Junior year, unfortunately, has
had a distinct lack of attractive
joggers (let alone men) to break up
the monotony of quarantine. You
can’t have it all, I guess. Junior year
does, however, have one redeeming
quality: dancing.
When the walls of August
lockdown began to close in, I would
rescue myself by dancing; When
the paranoia of the pandemic set
in, or the fear of America’s political
future overwhelmed my mind,
I danced; And when my anxiety
loomed overhead with sleepless
nights, itchy skin, grinding teeth
and tight pain coiled in my chest, I
knew what would save me.
So, if you happened across a
strange girl dancing by herself
on campus, consider the mystery
solved. Like clockwork, when the
sun began to set, I set out to work.
Some nights, I would stake out a
spot by the UMMA; Others would
find me by the diag, or in the hidden
corners and pathways sequestered
around campus. Sometimes it was
visibility that I needed –– to affirm
to myself that I could still be seen,
heard, witnessed by someone.
Occasionally, it was simply me,
myself and the ‘20s crooning of Fats
Waller.
You might wonder why dancing
is so grounding for me. The simple
answer is that dance, like other
artforms, is driven by expression
— The hops, skips, spins and dips
of swing act as a conduit to channel
out the tension, anger and fear that
builds up.
The longer answer is memory.
My grandfather, a University alum
from the ‘50s, once swing danced
on this very campus. When I
dance on these same streets, there
is an undeniable connection and
sense of relief: The knowledge
that
someone
else
has
been
here before, experienced what I
have experienced and somehow
continued on buoys me from
pessimism and doubt.
Swing dancing, too, is special
in itself. From the ‘20s Big Band
of Tommy Dorsey and Benny
Goodman to the ‘50s crooners of
Sinatra and Dean Martin, swing is
old fashioned, like me. It’s an act of
indulgence in everything vintage,
from the songs, to the clothes and
even the dance-moves. More than
that, swing is fun. Some of the steps
have odd names (like “shin splints”
or the “Charleston”), the acrobatic
moves can feel circus-like and the
musicians can be just as humorous
as any comedian. It’s showbiz, baby.
Swing dancing, for me, is
comfort. Even if I do look like
a crazed cat-lady or ghost of
Christmas past dancing around
campus at night. I think, however,
that during unprecedented times
like these, we could all use some
time to let loose, to go out dancing.
Before I close the final chapter of
my Michigan years, I’d like to be
able to end the story with “and
everybody was dancing in the
moonlight.”
Daily Arts Writer Madeleine
Virginia Gannon can be reached at
mvmg@umich.edu.
MADELEINE VIRGINIA GANNON
Daily Arts Writer
THE B-SIDE: COMFORT
The B-Side:
Closing the Penguin Cafe
VIVIAN ISTOMIN
Daily Arts Writer
The only people I’ve shown
the Penguin Cafe Orchestra to
are Diana and Stephen.
Both had vastly different
reactions. Stephen has really
taken to it. I’m sure that Diana’s
forgotten about it by now. I
didn’t expect Stephen to become
so preoccupied with their final
studio album, Union Cafe. I only
played one song for him out of
its countless instrumentals, but
in just 10 days I’ll be teaching
him how to play “Silver Star of
Bologna” on piano.
I know he’s right. There’s just
something about their music
that also leaves me so at ease.
Currents of musical pacification
are what decorated my mid-
teenage years, after all.
* * *
It’s nice to call back to that
time.
Specifically
the
early
mornings
Diana
drove
me
to school down her chosen
dirt roads, trading traffic on
the paved route for an ever-
morphing collection of potholes
that thumped under our tires. A
slow hollow wind always pierced
our ears — something you only
ever hear in a passenger seat.
Maybe sounding from the tires.
Probably from the speed. On
top of that was whatever I was
making us listen to on our way.
Sometimes my face would grow
hot with embarrassment if it was
something particularly intense.
A song by Animal Collective.
A music video played off of
YouTube, added sound effects
still intact. She always had a
limit to what she would let me
play. A quick press of a button
would skip the song or turn the
volume down to negligible levels.
She’d make a facetious remark
as she continued to stare out at
the back of a car in front of us.
This was a quiet ritual. We were
both half-asleep. Even though
she had run that morning. Even
though she’d already had two
cups of coffee.
I had my eyes closed in the
darker months. There wasn’t
much to look at, with a stray
streetlamp or harsh headlight
blinding us from behind. I
wanted to grasp a couple last
moments of rest before the
day really began. The early
autumn months were different,
though. Rays from the rising
sun would pierce through a
deep, multicolored foliage. They
shined through the thick fog
that lamely hovered over the
soccer fields, on the huge grass
paths beneath electrical lines
that cut through a small patch
of forest. I would look out the
window and just sort of dream,
imagining
myself
following
those power lines all the way,
wherever they’d guide me.
A classic adolescent fantasy.
* * *
The Penguin Cafe Orchestra
has always been an instrumental
band. Their melodies give me
peace. They give Stephen peace.
Diana
never
skipped
their
music. “Cutting Branches For a
Temporary Structure” always
played unabated. We’d sit in
silence. Like Stephen and I do
now. I know she had work on her
mind, what was important for
that day, where she needed to be.
But it was a found harmonium,
a solitary piano that those
thoughts rested on.
No sleep aides in emptying a
mind. Formless. Thoughtless.
“Penguin Cafe Single” carried
me in my daydreams of escaping
into nature. It’s like being a
child, lifted to bed by large
arms after falling asleep on the
downstairs couch.
Thoughtless.
It’s nice to pass it on. Or maybe
just the new memories attaching
to a band that’s like a forgotten
friend. Maybe he’ll play “Vega” at
his wedding. Maybe when I see
her at the park again I’ll ask her
if she remembers “Perpetuum
Mobile”. All the sounds made by
a band that ended by the hand
of tragedy stay with me, tracing
small slivered visions of my mid-
youth. It’s easier to remember
now than ever.
I’m penning a story. It’s
personal and vulnerable and
slightly obtuse. All the good
makings. There’s so much safety
in the past. A seemingly concrete
set of events. On the page.
Trapped in ink. When a distant
past melds with the present,
however, that’s when the future
loses
its
fearsomeness.
My
indecipherable journal entry is
floating now. I wrote it all by
myself. Please don’t land.
Daily
Arts
Writer
Vivian
Istomin
can
be
reached
at
vivaust@umich.edu.
Read more online at
michigandaily.com
Usually, when I discuss the
movie “Coraline” with other
people,
vague
memories
of
childhood trauma and unease
creep into the conversation, as
countless children were given
nightmares by this delightfully
creepy children’s flick. And for
good reason: The premise of a
spider-lady threatening to sew
buttons into your eyes while
pretending to be your mother is
deeply unsettling. OK, the plot
is actually a bit more complex
than
that:
Eleven-year-
old Coraline Jones (Dakota
Fanning, “Once Upon a Time
in Hollywood”) and her family
move across the country where,
in her new home, Coraline
discovers an idyllic parallel
world occupied by her “Other
Mother.” Of course, I’m sure
most kids forgot about those
small details once the spider-
lady came out.
But
I
never
had
this
experience
with
“Coraline.”
“Coraline” has actually been a
source of comfort to me in the
past. It probably helped that I
watched it after the period of
my life when I was scared of
the dark, but there’s something
deeply charming about it that
captivated me on my first watch.
I
remember
having
a
particularly rough day during
my freshman year of high
school. I was at a point in my life
where my mental health was
finally starting to stabilize, but
for some odd reason, this day I
was on the verge of tears. I may
have been agonizing over some
social interaction, or maybe I
was just feeling insecure, but I
just couldn’t calm myself down.
The night dragged on as I began
to realize I needed to distract
myself, so I resolved to watch
a movie. I’d been meaning to
watch “Coraline” for a while,
but until that point, I never had
the time or the energy to do so.
Naturally, I decided that was as
good of a time as ever to finally
watch it.
As I sat onto my bedroom
floor, gently sipping my cup of
mint tea, I started streaming
the movie on my phone. It was
difficult not to immediately
be drawn in. In spite of being
stressed moments before, I soon
got lost in the world that director
Henry Sellick built, taking joy
in the oddities and wonders of
both the “Other” world and the
boring “real” world. The stop-
motion animation, with richly
realized colors and delicately
crafted
environments,
was
mesmerizing.
The
opening
shot
with
neighbor Mr. Bobinski (Ian
McShane,
“John
Wick”)
doing
handstands
on
the
roof of the washed-out Pink
Palace Apartments showed an
incredible attention to detail
and atmosphere. This becomes
even more apparent when the
real world is contrasted against
the Other world, with vibrant
and bright colors and none
of the “boringness” Coraline
hates so much. Every scene had
personality, and the smallest
details added to the overall
ambience of the film.
However,
none
of
this
compared to the charm of the
film’s writing and characters.
I can’t describe the emotions
I felt when I realized that
Coraline’s
two
80-year-old
neighbors,
Misses
Spink
(Jennifer Saunders, “Absolutely
Famous”)
and
Forcible
(Dawn French, “French and
Saunders”), were retired exotic
dancers, with credits such as
“King Leer” and “Julius Sees-
Her” to their names, but this
sort of unabashed playfulness
pervades
the
movie.
The
characters are at times so
bizarre,
so
eccentric,
that
suppressing a laugh proves
really difficult, and I definitely
needed a laugh when I first sat
down to watch “Coraline.”
By the time I had finished
the film I felt better. Having
finished my second cup of tea,
and a bit bleary-eyed, I finally
went to bed, but with a feeling of
warmth. The movie itself wasn’t
inherently heart-warming, but
the love and care put into it
certainly was. Since that night
in freshman year of high school,
“Coraline” has always held a
warm place in my heart. Now,
however, I take comfort in it
for a different reason. When I
watch it, I think of the people
who were in my life back then,
and of all the good memories
we had. I think of the day after
I first watched the film, when a
couple of my friends helped ease
my anxiety. I think of a warm
cup of tea, slowly emptying
as my anxieties are gradually
pushed away.
THE B-SIDE: COMFORT
Finding comfort in the
strangeness of ‘Coraline’
TATE LAFRENIER
Daily Arts Writer
I would look
out the window
and just sort
of dream,
imagining
myself
following
those power
lines all the
way, wherever
they’d guide me
Every scene
had personality,
and the
smallest
details added
to the overall
ambience of the
film