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

