3 — Wednesday, April 13, 2022 // The Statement

PHOTOS BY LILA TURNER/DAILY
PAGE LAYOUT BY SARAH CHUNG
Lookout mom, I’m a pirate now

My mother has been bugging me lately 

about finding an activity to get my blood 
pumping and my endorphins flowing. 
She says it will be “good for my mental 
health” and will “help me sleep better” 
or whatever. She works as a full-time 
nurse and part-time teaching Zumba 
and Group Fight at four different gyms 
— of course she would say that. 

My sister echoes this philosophy. 

She was pulled up to varsity soccer as 
a freshman and works out all the time. 
They both have been on an indoor rock 
climbing kick this month, and the last 
time I visited home, they were so excited 
to flex their new and improved biceps. 
Of course they want me to exercise. 
They do it every day of the week.

But I, on the other hand, am what 

you might call the couch potato of the 
family. The “indoors enthusiast” if you 
want to be a little nicer about it. When 
my family invites me to go climbing 
with them, my typical response is “I 
don’t want to get sweaty today.” 

Here at school, when my friends are 

arm wrestling, I like to volunteer for a 

match purely to demonstrate just how 
swiftly my arm is felled (I lose quite 
immediately). When I attempt one 
single pushup, my body sinks from the 
isosceles triangle position to that of a 
gravity stretch, and no amount of 
effort from my pasty, noodle-
like limbs will push the ground 
away. I can do a pullup, though. 
If I jump. 

It’s not that I don’t 

believe there are 

benefits 

to my being more 
physically 
active, 
it’s 

just that I typically can 
think of a zillion other 
activities 
I 
would 

rather 
engage 

in: a new book, 
practicing 
the 

piano, baking 
a 
beloved 

recipe. 

Running feels good sometimes, I’ll 
admit, but it’s better in theory than it 
is in practice. The energy it takes to 
change into the proper clothes and get 
out the door is greater than the energy 
it takes to not do any of that. 

The annoyances don’t stop at just 

getting ready and leaving the house. 
If I listen 
to 
a 

song 

that’s 

slower than the tempo at 

which my feet are hitting the 
ground, then that’ll be super 

annoying. And I’ll have to take 

a shower after I get all sweaty, I hate 
getting sweaty, and then there’s the 

matter of carrying my phone to play 
music on in the first place. The cost of 

running music is a solid rectangle 

thudding 
against 
your 
leg 

with every step. Have fun 

with side cramps and 

monotony! I’m going 
to go make cookies. 

My 
sophomore 

year of high school, I 

had to look my doctor in the eye and tell 
her that I averaged zero hours of physical 
activity a week, including walking. A 
bit embarrassing, but 100% true. I am 
delighted to report, however, that I am 
writing this with sore leg muscles and 
a small bruise on my right shoulder, 
because your friendly neighborhood 
hermit went sword-fighting. 

My breath heaves in and out, in and 

out as the point is called and the duel 
takes a pause. I had forgotten what it 
was to feel my lungs rapidly expand like 
a parachute and deflate like a balloon. 
My body runs like a decently oiled 
machine, propelling life-giving oxygen 
from the shoulder-width spread of my 
feet to the fingertips holding the hilt 
of my epee. With a twirl of the sword 
and a return to position, I’ve recovered 
enough to spring back in the fray.

For those of you who don’t know, 

there’s a competitive fencing club on 
the University of Michigan’s campus. 

BY DANIELLE CANAN, 
STATEMENT CORRESPONDENT

Read more at 
MichiganDaily.com

Accidentally Wes Anderson, 
On purpose

BY OSCAR NOLLETTE-PATULSKI, 
STATEMENT COLUMNIST 

It’s winter, and it’s cold, so I resolve to make 

some hot chocolate. I’m alone in my house’s nor-
mally bustling kitchen. My socks glide me across 
the floor to the pantry, and I grab cocoa mix and 
slide back to grab a mug. As I open the cabinet, 
a thought strikes me: what if this sock-skating 
scene was a Wes Anderson film? 

I close the cabinet, and when I touch my fin-

gers to open it again, the imaginary camera starts 
rolling. Action! This time, I swing both doors 
open with calculated velocity, and my left and 
right limbs mirror each other precisely. I pause, 
and my hand confidently grabs a mug with some 
French words on it, placing it squarely on the 
counter in a continuous motion. I let the por-
celain plunk resonate in my ears and the room, 
before taking soldier steps to the cylindrical tin of 
cocoa mix.

I let my eyes become the camera — I arch my 

head over the golden container so that its sym-
metrical geometry can be in the foreground 
of the shot. I twist off the lid with gusto, and 
straighten my arm to its fullest extent to set it 
back down. I take out the measuring spoon, and 
mechanically rotate my wrist to scoop, and again 
to spill the powder into the mug. My eyes watch 
the brown powder softly clump at the bottom. I 
repeat this action, and then lift my arm up to be 
perpendicular with my torso to pour milk into 
the cup.

I pick up the mug, place it into the microwave, 

extend a single finger to press the “2” button — a 
detail shot — and then the machine whirs to life. 
I stare at the digital countdown clock intently as 
it descends 1:59 to 1:58 to 1:57, because this might 
mean something important later on. I walk away 
from the microwave and sit down, with my 
elbows forming a right angle between my fore-
arm and the rest of my limb. Cut. Scene!

***

The most recent Wes Anderson movie, “The 

French Dispatch” (2021), profiles a European 
outpost of a fictional midwestern newspaper, the 
Liberty, Kansas Evening Sun, and the various 
articles the reporters write out of their fictional 
French town, Ennui-sur-Blasé. The movie pres-
ents three vignettes, all concerning different top-
ics and magazine sections (art, protest and food) 
that are played out for viewers as its respective 
reporter narrates. 

I watched this movie a few days before my 

dramatic hot cocoa making scene, where I felt 
compelled to mimic the shots and movements of 
the characters I saw in the theater. 

For those unfamiliar, Anderson is a director 

and screenplay writer who is widely recognized 
for his visual and narrative cinematic fingerprint. 
Distinctive aspects of his films include their sat-
isfying color palettes, symmetrical shots (often 
overhead), long panoramas across a scene and 

profile shots in the center of the visual. 

The visual satisfaction this style achieves 

has become popular enough to the point where 
Anderson’s name has become synonymous with 
his style, morphing from a proper noun into a 
descriptive adjective: “This train station is so Wes 
Anderson!”

A few days after my kitchen interpretation of 

the Anderson aesthetic, I drove to Michigan’s 
west side with two friends, making tourist stops 
on the way to my parents’ home. Upon seeing a 
bright white church, its double doors painted a 
fire-engine red, my friend walked up the steps, 
touched the brass handles and pantomimed 
opening them simultaneously. She looked back 
and exclaimed, “It’s like I’m in a Wes Anderson 
film!” The rest of us laughed, looked up at the his-
toric spire and agreed. If we squinted, we were on 
a movie set, playing ourselves, putting on a show 
for the world to see.

It’s this combination of the visually satisfying 

and the publicly popular that allows the Insta-
gram account @accidentallywesanderson to 
flourish. Abbreviated AWA, its profile is full of 
centered foregrounds and symmetrical roofli-
nes, colorful walls and coordinated landscapes, 

PHOTO BY SELENA SUN/DAILY

Read more at 
MichiganDaily.com

