The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
Arts
4 — Wednesday, October 20, 2021
“Keep reading a little longer, not totally against
your will.”
So goes the Booker Prize-shortlisted “No One
is Talking About This,” the debut novel from poet
and memoirist Patricia Lockwood.
I’ll cut to the chase: It’s a strange book. The form
is stuttering and disjointed. The jokes don’t always
land. The prose isn’t exactly prose. The fiction isn’t
exactly fiction. And still, the novel is a resounding
success. Lockwood captures the moment, vocal-
izing the boredom and sensory overload of social
media. It’s gonzo fiction — the strangeness of our
cyborg present, of lives half-lived on a screen, is
felt in the form and style of the novel.
In “the portal” — a platform analogous to Twit-
ter — a single voice is forming. People are starting
to sound too similar. They’re adopting a universal
language, quoting each other until an original
phrase is a delicacy, another snippet to co-opt.
Lockwood’s unnamed protagonist finds fame and
an online career after she posts, “Can a dog be
twins?”
The format of her post is picked up by others,
and countless variations spread through the por-
tal until the words no longer belong to her: “Your
slice of life cut its cord and multiplied among the
people, first nowhere and little and then every-
where and large. No one and everyone. Can a
_____ be twins.”
Why do writers so often ignore the existence
of cell phones in their novels? Why does every
transcription of text messages into prose feel so
awkward and out of touch? To quote Lockwood,
most attempts to describe the internet in fiction
have “the strong whiff of old white intellectuals
being weird about the blues, with possible boner
involvement.”
It’s a marvel, then, that Lockwood’s depiction
of our curt digital tone feels so natural and so
uncomfortably accurate: “(The internet) had also
once been the place where you sounded like your-
self. Gradually it had become the place where we
sounded like each other, through some erosion of
wind or water on a self not nearly as firm as stone.”
“The mind we were in was obsessive, per-
severant,” Lockwood writes of social media. A
prominent presence on Twitter, we’d expect her
to understand our current voice. But Lockwood’s
portrayal of social media isn’t just well-tuned, it’s
journalistic. The novel foregoes a stable plot for
the first hundred or so pages, jumping from one
topic to the next — an endless scroll of ellipted
paragraphs, linked only by their shared presence
on the page.
The effect is instant and familiar: the breeze
of half-watched TikToks, the grainy hike of a
long Twitter thread. Fifty pages sneak by before
you look up, before you remember the rest of the
world. And then you do look up:
“Despite everything, the world had not ended
yet. What was the reflex that made it catch itself?
What was the balance it regained?”
At the midpoint, the novel turns into a more
conventional story. The protagonist’s sister is
pregnant, and her child is born with a rare genetic
disorder. Her time is limited, and they know this.
They’ll lose her, and they know this.
The story to this point has been a stream of
shared consciousness, of infinite bullet points
from faceless usernames. Our main character was
an information junkie with an endless supply, but
her niece’s life cannot stretch so far: “All day long
she drank in information, but no one was telling
them the main thing. No one was telling them how
long they would have her, how long the open cloud
of her would last.”
This is the turn, “the portal, where the entirety
of human experience seemed to be represented,
and never the shining difference of that face, those
eyes, that hair.” Here’s the real story, the love felt in
human presence. What’s the value of limitless infor-
mation if it can be dismissed with a swipe of the
thumb? This is where Lockwood achieves some-
thing more than an experiment of craft, where the
oddity and success of the form rises above curiosity
and poignance. This is worth talking about.
“No One is Talking About This” will be labeled
as cultural critique, but I don’t think there’s such a
perverse intention to it. There’s only the honesty
of autofiction, of the first primary source from our
bleak and side-splitting bell jar. It just might win
the Booker Prize. And it just might deserve to.
I have a confession to make: I’m not
a fan of my birthday. Birthdays are just
an excuse for the 20-plus members of
my close-knit family to gather together.
As grateful as I am, the annual party
evokes memories of stares as I sit in the
middle of the circle, everyone gaug-
ing how appropriate my reaction is to
each gift — a nightmare scenario for
someone who hates being the center of
attention.
Despite my distaste for the annual
June 22 occasion, there will always
be at least one birthday I won’t forget.
It was that glorious summer of 2006,
when I received my first video game
console. I stared, mouth agape, at the
warped reflection of my small face in
the screen of my brand new ice blue
Nintendo DS Lite, not yet knowing how
much it would affect my life.
Though memories of my childhood
are dim, some of the brightest moments
I can remember from that year revolve
around “Pokémon Diamond.” Looking
back, I’m sure my father was annoyed
by my constant requests for help beat-
ing a game he had no clue how to play,
especially while we made the long drive
all the way from Michigan to Virginia.
The remake of “Pokémon Diamond”
releases in November, and I can’t
help but recall the kindness my father
showed instead of annoyance, and the
genuine interest my grandfather had in
the monsters that appeared from the
virtual grass.
Now that I’m a taxpaying adult, I
wonder what lengths my mother must
have gone to eventually get us a Wii a
few years later, when we could barely
afford three meals a day. I was nine
years old, extremely shy and struggling
to connect with my peers at school, but
my evenings were spent as the star of
the show, beating the high scores of
each of my mother’s friends in “Just
Dance.” My parents tell me that I was
quite the little charmer, offering juice
boxes to my father’s guests and stand-
ing on counters to change the song on
my mother’s speaker as she cooked for
everyone she knew. Of course, the cute-
ness never lasts, but even as I crawled
into a shell of fear and awkwardness as
I reached middle school, Nintendo was
by my side.
Throughout my pre-teen years I was
glued to my purple 3DS, playing the
“Professor Layton” series “Pokémon
X” and “Phoenix Wright: Ace Attor-
ney.” Ages 11 to 14 aren’t exactly the
most pleasant times of anyone’s life, but
those were the years I made my first
true best friend, thanks to a mutual
love of puzzle games. Sleepovers and
recess were spent solving mysteries,
debating which starter Pokémon to
pick and discussing favorite characters.
This friendship sparked a life-changing
realization: I am never the only one like
me. Sure, I wasn’t involved in sports or
church activities like my classmates,
but together my best friend and I could
be an unstoppable team in our digital
fantasy worlds.
Then, one day, my 3DS was gone.
Whether it was lost in one of my many
moves or at an airport I can’t remem-
ber, its absence commenced a nearly
decade-long split from gaming.
High school was extremely busy.
Between three bands, choir, drama
club, dual enrollment and attempting
to have a social life, I regularly expe-
rienced burnout. I was also lured into
a habit of constant social media use
that had negative
effects on both my
mental health and
time
management
skills. At the end of
the day, I thought I
didn’t have time for
gaming
anymore.
I
viewed
video
games as a part of
my childhood that I
had to sacrifice, and
none of my friends
were interested in
games
either,
so
I went with what
was popular. The
games I was able to
play were games I had seen online that
required little to no time commitment.
Two years into college, I was in the
best mental shape since childhood,
falling in love and learning to finally
take back my schedule. One of my boy-
friend’s biggest hobbies is gaming, and
we played “Undertale” together on
one of our first dates. He showed me
a trailer for “Animal Crossing: New
Horizons,” and I fell in love with how
adorable it looked. Next thing I knew,
I had the “Animal Crossing” special
edition Switch with a copy of the game
“The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the
Wild” and something from a familiar
franchise — “Pokémon: Sword.” I was
thoroughly sucked back into the world
of video games thanks to warm, nostal-
gic childhood memories.
It wasn’t exactly a quick descent. I
started with a few hours of “Animal
Crossing,” which turned into mul-
tiple hours a day thanks to quarantine.
“Breath of the Wild” didn’t click with
me at first, but my boyfriend encour-
aged me to keep playing. Now it’s one
of my favorite games of all time, and it
opened my eyes to whole new genres.
Of course, there was my first love,
“Pokémon,” which I became instantly
obsessed with and blasted through
before other games even had a chance
to enter my mind. As quarantine con-
tinued and the world became increas-
ingly virtual, I had the time and energy
to delve deeper into gaming.
I’ve branched out into nearly every
genre and every console; I earned my
first platinum trophies on my Play-
Station 5 and invested over 100 hours
in games like “Persona 5 Royal” and
“Breath of the Wild.” When I listen to
my boyfriend talk about his childhood
afternoons glued to his GameCube,
I think back on my own new experi-
ences with video games and feel closer
to him.
Over the past two years, I’ve learned
something valuable about hobbies. No
matter your level of interest, your expe-
rience or your amount of investment,
life can sometimes get in the way of
the things you love. I’ve encountered
this with my other hobbies, too; revis-
ing poetry is an endless process, and
embroidery takes a lot of patience.
However, if you love something, it’s
worth trying even when you think
you’ve reached an insurmountable
obstacle. Losing my 3DS was unfortu-
nate, but what kept me from gaming the
most was myself.
I turned 21 in June, this time with-
out the fanfare — just my boyfriend and
me watching a movie in our apartment.
When it was time for gifts, there was
a lot to be thankful for, but there was
one present I’ll never forget. When I
unwrapped a perfect little ice blue DS
Lite, complete with some of my favorite
games in-box, memories of the past 15
years filled my mind. I held it, noticing
how big my hands had gotten, how dif-
ferent the reflection of my face was in
the screen, and I found myself tearing
up.
I can’t imagine a future now without
gaming. It’s my biggest hobby and one
of my favorite ways to connect with
others. Four years ago, I never would
have guessed that I’d be writing about
games for The Michigan Daily. As
graduation approaches and the only
thing I’ve known for the past 16 years
comes to a close, I can finally see links
that have helped me along the way. I
started my school career with video
games being a big part of my life, and as
I earn my degree and this chapter ends,
I can happily say I never plan on letting
them go again.
All you need is love, and maybe a dose of
the Mersey Beatles, too. Live at The Ark,
Liverpool’s Mersey Beatles, a Beatles tribute
band, brought down the house with a two-
set performance of the Beatles’s number-
one hits. Referring to themselves as John,
Paul, George and Ringo, the Mersey Beatles
stayed true to their idols’ roots. The show was
part of their 2021-2022 world tour, including
appearances across the Midwest and South-
ern states.
What sets the Mersey Beatles apart from
other covers or tribute bands is their dedi-
cation to Beatles nostalgia. The concert was
structured by era. First, the rock n’ roll hits
of the ’50s were accompanied by buttoned
suits and Beatle-bob haircuts. The second set
opened with neon Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely
Hearts Club costumes (shoulder tassels
included), and the third paid tribute to John’s
’70s hair, George’s striped pants and Ringo’s
yellow ruffled blouse. Between meticulous
outfit changes, the band switched from
ensemble hits to more intimate, one-off solos,
including a memorable sing-along to “Here
Comes the Sun,” led by the Mersey Beatles’s
George Harrison.
The Ark is perfect for a cozy concert expe-
rience. Seating 400 with benches and tables
only a stone’s throw from the stage, Ann
Arbor’s beloved music club offers an ideal
concert experience: beer and popcorn, plush
seating and no raging crowds. More than
that, it’s one of those special spaces where
old-time music fans and Ann Arbor’s younger
crowd come together to share the live music
experience.
This writer may have been born after the
original Beatlemania, but even I know that
the Beatles shouldn’t be experienced sitting
down. By the time the lights dimmed and the
crowd quieted down, we were up and danc-
ing and twisting the night away.
Balancing beer in one hand, popcorn in the
other, the Arts writers of The Daily danced
through the first set. Nine 20-somethings in
a sea of imposing Beatles veterans, we danced
with the kind of wild abandon that only
emerges from a mix of embarrassment and
daring joy. Surveying an exuberant but still
seated audience, Paul called out, “Where are
our dancers?” Boldly we responded, “Over
here!” Jiving on a 2-by-4 corner of precious
real estate, tucked away — but not for long.
“Twist and Shout” and “I Saw Her Stand-
ing There” played back-to-back on the close-
out of the first set. We went wild. Slinking
across the room, never losing the beat, we
migrated to John and Ringo’s half of the
stage. One then two older couples stepped
up to join in our revelry. They put our dance
moves to shame while we furiously took
notes.
The night ended with a two-song encore,
the entire audience finally on their feet.
Euphoric from our blast to the past, the
motley dancing crew traded the twist for
college-style moshing — all to the finale of
“Get Back.” In the ringing applause, we gave
a salute to our fellow dancing partners. A
single, bold attempt was made to entice the
Mersey Beatles to sample the fine dining of
Fleetwood Diner. Maybe next time, George.
Make the Mersey Beatles your next live
show — and if you go, don’t be afraid to get
up and dance. While their tour will eventu-
ally take them back across the pond, here’s
to hoping they “get back to where you once
belonged” — on stage at The Ark in Ann
Arbor, Michigan.
Our first primary source — ‘No
One is Talking About This’
Reflections on an ice blue Nintendo DS Lite
The Mersey Beatles: Live at The Ark
Design by Maggie Weibe
This image is from the official Mersey Beatles website.
Design by Frances Ahrens
JULIAN WRAY
Daily Arts Writer
HARPER KLOTZ
Daily Arts Writer
MADELEINE VIRGINIA GANNON
Daily Arts Writer
The first installment of the Halloweentown
series premiered on Disney Channel on Oct.
17, 1998. I still had a month left before leaving
the comfort of my mother’s womb. On Oct. 12,
2001, “Halloweentown II: Kalabar’s Revenge”
premiered. At two-going-on-three, I had yet
to enter my Disney phase, and I was honestly
more preoccupied with my newfound sister-
hood thrust upon me six days prior. Fast for-
ward to 2004: On Oct. 8, “Halloweentown
High” premieres, and Lucas Grabeel (“High
School Musical”) is making a name for him-
self on the Disney circuit before his debut as
the beloved Ryan Evans. Meanwhile, I started
kindergarten.
Finally, “Return to Halloweentown” came,
and the surprising recast of our beloved
Marnie. While 7-year-old me might not have
understood the Hollywood politics behind
trading Kimberly J. Brown (“Bringing Down
the House”) for Sara Paxton (“Aquamarine”), I
was only happy to ignore the continuity issues
and, to this day, choose to believe that Marnie
dyed her hair and got some work done before
she went to college. After all, don’t we all
deserve a chance to reinvent ourselves in the
final film of our franchise?
What’s most surprising about “Hallow-
eentown,” outside of the skeleton casually
driving a taxi, is how ingrained it is into my
youth. Every year since my childhood infatu-
ation with Disney began (in 2006 with the
introduction of the beloved “Hannah Mon-
tana”), I have watched the “Halloweentown”
films with absolutely no hipster irony driving
my inevitable enjoyment of a Hauntoberfest
movie marathon.
It’s completely understandable why
“Halloweentown” has remained a staple in
the Disney Channel Original Movie Hal-
loween lineup. The franchise offers 5.5
total hours of runtime, with each film last-
ing a little under 80 minutes, and a litany of
Halloween-themed television events meant
to entice kids into watching cable television
instead of streaming the latest Hulu series.
Consider, maybe, playing a “Halloween-
town” film four days out of the week, lead-
ing up to a marathon of a new Halloween
episode of your favorite wacky sitcoms on
Friday. Or what about on Halloween itself:
All four movies playing in the background as
you and your friends put the final touches on
your group costume (all the BTS members,
complete with wigs and the best K-Pop mer-
chandise). Clearly, “Halloweentown” and its
sequels have and will continue to offer seri-
ous commercial value to Disney Channel,
propping up its status as one of the premiere
Halloween DCOMs.
The film’s financial promise, though,
is not the only reason we see it play every
year come October; the nostalgia of “Hal-
loweentown” only serves to enhance its
staying power. On a laptop’s screen, the
film is grainy, and the vintage hues create
a warmth that only the ’90s can invoke. As
a kid, I was entranced by the idea of ogres
and goblins and witches and warlocks and
adventure, and now? I long for the years
where my only worries were why I hadn’t
encountered any ghosts floating outside of
school, trying to get an important message
to me. “Halloweentown” also riffs on the
age-old belief that the barrier between the
mortal and whatever lies beyond is weakest
on Halloween. In the case of classic fami-
ly-friendly entertainment, this means All
Hallows’ Eve is the one night a year when
a portal between Halloweentown and the
mortal world opens and the Cromwell-Piper
children can see their witchy (in the most
literal sense of the word) grandma (Debbie
Reynolds, “Singin’ in the Rain”).
Once “Halloweentown” establishes Mar-
nie and her siblings as witches, the next three
films take on the ever-interesting question of
what happens when you give a 15-year-old girl
magical powers. Will she tell the cute boy from
school about her newfound identity in hopes
that he’ll notice her? Or broach the centuries-
long rift between the mortal world and the
human world by telling everyone to just be
friends? Or will she be the key to unlocking
a power that could destroy the world as we
know it? The answer to all these scenarios, of
course, is yes. “Halloweentown” showcases
Marnie as the kind of well-wishing, earnest
and just a little bit sassy main character that
Disney favors in all its creative endeavors. As
one of the quintessential Halloween films of
our generation, the Halloweentown franchise
offers the mid-October hug of fall nostalgia we
all need when the weather starts turning, mid-
terms are looming and Halloween costume
ideas are brewing.
Frights, Camera, Action: ‘Halloweentown’
EMMA CHANG
Daily Arts Writer