“Nice guys finish last.”
The phrase, coined in 1946 by
Dodgers manager Leo Durocher
to slam the New York Giants, has
become the motto of millions of
manipulative,
pseudo-feminist
“incels” all over the world, and I, for
one, am ready to talk about it.
If you haven’t been online in
the last few years, or haven’t had
the pleasure of speaking to one in
person, let me fill you in on exactly
who I’m talking about. “Incels”
(short for “involuntary celibates”)
is defined by the ever-trustworthy
Urban Dictionary as “a community
online who seem to have large
issues with the world around them,
unable to cope with the rejection
they receive… They blame women,
other men and pretty much anyone
for their unsuccessful attempts
at finding love or sex.” While the
term “incel” has only been recently
popularized, their ideology has
been around far longer than the
online mediums they use in the
form of “nice guys.” The “incel”
may still be a fresh idea, but the
“nice guy” has been around since
the dawn of time. And the most
prominent thing about him? His
title is entirely self-proclaimed.
Perhaps the best example of
a “nice guy” I can give you is
everyone’s least favorite Central
Perk regular, Doctor Ross Gellar
(David Schwimmer, “Intelligence”).
I think a big part of how characters
should be perceived is the tone with
which they’re written. But what
baffles me about Gellar is the fact
that he’s written from a completely
unironic perspective — we are
genuinely supposed to like him
and be on his side. The audience
is supposed to see Gellar as a good
guy and feel sympathetic when bad
things happen to him, despite him
showing up at Rachel’s (Jennifer
Aniston, “We’re the Millers”) job
just to check if she was cheating
on him, deleting her voicemails to
prevent other guys from calling
(when they weren’t even dating),
claiming that “not all men are like
that” (despite literally being the
“men” in question) and a multitude
of other strange, manipulative
decisions that should have gotten
him voted out of his beloved friend
group. Truth be told, if you identify
with Gellar, you’re probably more
of a Joe Goldberg (Penn Badgley,
“Gossip Girl”) from “You” — overly
weird, uncomfortable to be around
and super fucking creepy.
In the spirit of the recent “The
Hunger Games” (Josh Hutcherson,
“Bridge to Terabithia”) renaissance,
I want to take this opportunity
to talk about one of my favorite
love triangles of all time: one that
features the “nice guy” trope in
a starring role. At first glance,
“The Hunger Games” seems to
feature a simple nice guy, Peeta
(Josh
Hutcherson,
“Bridge
to
Terabithia”), and a deeper, more
complex character, Gale (Liam
Hemsworth, “The Last Song”). But
this isn’t the case at all. Whenever
I argue over this love triangle
with anyone (which I have to say
occurs embarrassingly often), I
constantly hear the argument
that Gale took care of Katniss’s
(Jennifer Lawrence, “Silver Linings
Playbook”) family while she was in
the Games. I admit that this was
a kind thing to do for Katniss and
her family. But I don’t think Gale’s
actions are what’s important here
— it’s his motive. It’s no secret that
Gale had been in love with Katniss
for a long time.
Design by Abby Schreck
Romantic comedies: you know
them, you love them. The genre
has been around forever and has
resulted in all kinds of stories that
have warmed millions of hearts.
Just as with all forms of art, there
was an easily identifiable “golden
age” of romcoms: Dynamic duos
like Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan
or
Adam
Sandler
and
Drew
Barrymore, the iconic teen movie/
classic lit retelling subgenre and too
many people living in fancy New
York apartments while working
for newspapers or magazines are
just a few trademarks of the late
’80s-early 2000s era. Whether
you come for the love stories,
the humor or the soundtracks,
there’s something for everyone
in
romcoms.
Unfortunately,
nowadays, good romcoms are few
and far between. Some have even
gone so far as to declare the genre
dead, but I disagree — here are five
of my favorite romantic comedies
that were made in the last decade.
“Love, Rosie” (2014)
I have been in love with this
movie ever since I first watched
it. Rosie (Lily Collins, “Emily in
Paris”) and Alex (Sam Claflin, “Me
Before You”) have been best friends
since childhood, but could they be
something more? The film, based
on Cecelia Ahern’s novel “Where
Rainbows End,” follows Rosie and
Alex from their high school days
well into adulthood, the paths they
take and the many, many times
they almost end up together. It’s
a “will they/won’t they” of epic
proportions. The friends-to-lovers
trope is one of my favorites to read,
and though I will admit that, in
this particular story, the slow burn
drives me insane. But of course, it is
worth it in the end. But because it
takes the pair so long to confess their
true feelings, we see them develop
as unique individuals outside of
their relationship. Plus, it’s a decent
book-to-screen adaptation, if that
appeals to you. If anyone can find
me a DVD copy of this movie, I will
love you forever.
“Set It Up” (2018)
This Netflix flick is the perfect
example of a modern romcom.
Harper (Zoey Deutch, “Not Okay”)
works for sports journalist Kirsten
(Lucy Liu, “Kill Bill: Vol. 1”),
while Charlie (Glen Powell, “Top
Gun: Maverick”) is the assistant
to Rick (Taye Diggs, “Rent”), a
venture capitalist. Both Harper
and Charlie are overworked, so
they hatch a plan to make their
demanding bosses fall in love and
get themselves some well-deserved
free time. It works, perhaps better
than they expected. Part of what
makes “Set It Up” so enjoyable is
its realistic feel. Maybe the “‘Parent
Trap’-ing your bosses to get them
laid” aspect isn’t too real, but the
characters are real, and far from
perfect. Deutch and Powell have
a very casual chemistry; it’s easy
to believe that their characters are
genuinely falling for each other. The
growth that they both show in their
careers and their relationships,
is entertaining as well. This
movie feels very reminiscent of
many iconic romcoms that have
come before it, and I hope that it
continues to get the attention it
deserves.
“Crazy Rich Asians” (2018)
Based on Kevin Kwan’s novel
of the same name, “Crazy Rich
Asians”
follows
Rachel
Chu
(Constance Wu, “Hustlers”) as
she travels to Singapore with her
longtime boyfriend Nick Young
(Henry Golding, “Last Christmas”).
What she doesn’t know, however, is
that Nick comes from a rich family,
and his mother (Michelle Yeoh,
“Everything Everywhere All At
Once”) is hard to win over.
Everything about this movie
is gorgeous: the cast, the location
and the glamour of the “crazy rich”
lifestyle. But behind that facade,
there is so much modernity and
vulnerability in the characters.
Rachel is the epitome of a strong,
independent woman who doesn’t
need a man (even though she
has one), and is graceful, even
towards those going out of their
way to exclude her. Nick remains
in her corner, even when doing so
conflicts with his family. The film
is a landmark for Asian American
representation as well, an upward
trend that will hopefully continue.
Every day that passes without an
update on the sequel I die a little
inside, but I’m still holding out
hope.
4 — Wednesday, February 1, 2023
Arts
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
Found family is the best trope,
and that is a hill I will die on.
Occasionally, my sister and I
play this game where we go back
and forth discussing different
metaphorical hills we would die
on, things that we would defend
against anyone to the absolute
end. We talk about singers, items
of clothing, movies, TV shows and
seasons of certain TV shows until
finally, we reach books, which
upon one occasion prompted me
to give perhaps the coldest take
possible by declaring that I would
take a bullet to the heart for the
“Six of Crows” duology. Maybe
that’s a little dramatic, but the love
I felt for those books when I read
them for the first time makes that
declaration feel reasonable.
I’m almost 20. How could a
young adult fantasy book series
written for an audience much
younger than myself still be my
favorite? According to Goodreads,
I’ve read 72 books in the past year,
so it’s not that I have nothing to
compare it to. There is something
about the “Six of Crows” series that
makes it so special.
For those who haven’t had the
life-altering experience of reading
the “Six of Crows” duology (first of
all, I envy you — I wish I could read
it again for the first time), it is one
of three separate series in Leigh
Bardugo’s Grishaverse. Set in an
East
Asian/European-inspired
world, both books (“Six of Crows”
and “Crooked Kingdom”) in the
duology feature a high-risk heist
and a band of teenage criminals,
aka the Crows, hungry for money
and revenge. While incredibly
plot-driven, what really makes
the series beloved by so many is
the character development. Each
chapter switches to a different
one of the six “crow’s” points of
view, giving readers glimpses
into each character’s thoughts.
Doing
so
allows
Bardugo
to
create
six
distinct
characters
with
thoroughly
fleshed-out
backstories,
motivations
and
purposes. Readers get to uncover
and understand each of the main
characters at a very intimate
level as they are exposed to their
innermost thoughts.
There is so much more to each
character than Bardugo lets on with
her brief descriptions of each in the
back-cover blurb of “Six of Crows,”
and it is the reader’s discovery of
each character that makes the book
so impactful. In our cast of six, we
have “a convict with a thirst for
revenge” (who also has to unlearn
the hateful brainwashing bestowed
on him from his home country), “a
sharpshooter who can’t walk away
from a wager” (but is also one of the
most loving, loyal and witty people
you will ever meet), “a runaway
with a privileged past” (but who
also had a verbally abusive father
who attempted to murder him), “a
spy known as the Wraith” (who
was sold into indentured servitude
and separated from her family), “a
Heartrender using her magic to
survive the slums” (who will be
killed if she falls into the wrong
crowd) and “a thief with a gift for
unlikely escapes” (and a deeply
traumatic past and an impossibly
difficult childhood).
Each character was crafted so
intentionally and with so much
purpose that it is impossible not to
fall in love with them as they fall in
love with each other.
The
relationships
between
characters are so nuanced: the
platonic
sibling
love
between
Inej and Jesper, the respect
and understanding and longing
between
Kaz
and
Inej,
the
sisterhood between Nina and Inej
as two women stripped away from
their homelands, the bind to a
certain code of honor felt by both
Mattias and Kaz, the hatred for a
world that abandoned them shared
by Kaz and Wylan. At their lowest,
their realest and their rawest, they
connect, and they love each other.
This love between the characters
radiates off the page, and that is
what makes “Six of Crows” so
incredible. Feeling that love is
what had me slapping my hand
over my mouth and chucking my
book across the room (“Crooked
Kingdom,” Chapter 31), had tears
streaming down my face (“Crooked
Kingdom,” Chapter 40) and had
me wanting to turn away from the
sheer intimacy of two characters
who were barely even touching
(“Crooked
Kingdom,”
Chapter
27). The love the characters have
for each other that they were not
given, the love they had to find and
the love they had to build is are
what make the characters and the
series so special.
If we want to label it, that is the
found family trope. Classifying
these books as merely a trope feels
reductive given what they actually
are, but for simplicity’s sake, the
series is an outstanding example of
the found family trope. However,
as far as tropes go, it seems like
one of the least talked about. It’s
always “enemies to lovers” this and
“fake dating” that. Don’t get me
wrong, the “Folk of the Air” series
is also one of my favorites, and “To
All the Boys I’ve Loved Before”
remains a comfort movie of mine,
but what about found family? Why
doesn’t it get the same appreciation
as these other tropes? To me, the
answer is obvious. Found family
is about platonic love, while nearly
everything else is about romantic
love.
We’re taught by the media to
crave romantic love. The endless
void of cheesy romcoms, Netflix
dating shows, romance books and
love songs will all tell you the goal:
find romantic love. We’re reminded
by our parents, grandparents,
aunts, uncles and family friends
during the holidays: find romantic
love. In middle school: Who do you
have a crush on? In high school:
Who are you dating? In college:
How does marriage sound? Love,
romantic love, is everywhere. We
are obsessed. Romantic love and
its marketability is what are what
keep these messages around and
make them so apparent. The crux
is that we view romantic love as
something so untouchable that
we almost ruin the mystique if we
examine it too closely and realize
that it is susceptible to influence by
media, too.
The year is 1998. My diaper-
clad sister waddles through the
fuzzy, VCR-striped living room and
clumsily picks up the bulky battery
pack of the camera my grandpa is
filming her on. She turns, looks
innocently at my grandpa and puts
the cord in her mouth.
My whole family laughs. It’s
nearly 25 years later and we’re
sitting on the couch. Our home
videos have been digitized through
a complicated technical process
that none of us really care to
understand. What matters is that
the old VHS tapes that collected
dust in our basement have been dug
up from the grave of obsolescence
and can now be viewed on the
13-inch screen of a MacBook.
Watching
these
videos
—
watching my parents watch these
videos — something in my head
clicks. No, it isn’t the realization
that my parents were once young
people just like I am, figuring it
out just like I am. I’ve had that
one before. It’s something else,
something newer — the notion that
maybe, the world might have felt
just as unstable to them then as it
does to me now. In 1994, the famous
O.J. Simpson car chase took place a
few blocks down from where my
newlywed parents were living in
Los Angeles. In 1997, my mom was
schlepping a newborn pair of twins
across town on a public bus when,
talking about Princess Diana’s
death, a woman said loudly, “Oh,
the Queen had her knocked off.” In
1998, Bill Clinton was impeached.
And in the midst of this, my
parents were falling in love, getting
married and having babies. Despite
the deafening roar of the modern
world, despite the unsustainable
push of technological progress,
two people started a family.
And that fundamental human
experience,
perhaps
the
most
human experience of all, remained
untarnished.
In one of my favorite books,
“Beautiful World, Where Are You”
by Sally Rooney, two long-distance
Irish best friends named Alice and
Eileen navigate their new adulthood
as they approach 30. While half the
chapters narrate the humdrum of
their lives and the ebb and flow of
their relationships, in the chapters
in between, the women write each
other long, cerebral emails fretting
about environmental destruction,
the monotony and consumption
of late-stage capitalism, and what
they perceive as a general death
of culture and beauty unique to
the 21st century. While Rooney’s
previous novels often used politics
as an accessory, “Beautiful World”
shines a light on a new kind of
psyche: the built-in millennial
angst of entering adulthood during
the climate crisis and what feels
like the political apocalypse, all the
while watching it unfold rapidly on
the internet.
However, the book offers Alice
and Eileen an out. By the end, both
women are in happy heterosexual
relationships
and
Eileen
is
pregnant. As is her contemplative
nature, she worries whether it’s
right to bring a child into the world
at a time like this, and concludes
that if children are the future, she
wants to be on their side.
I never understood the ending
of “Beautiful World.” It felt like the
drama of the story was wrapped up
too nicely, like a superficial ribbon
that Rooney pinned on hastily
at the end to assure her angsty
millennial readership that yes,
there is hope after all. But watching
my toddler sister play with the
camera battery, it begins to make
more sense to me. I wonder now
if Eileen’s predicament resembles
what my parents felt when my
sisters and I were born — knowing
that the world is kind of like an
ever-accelerating hamster wheel
where everyone dies at the end,
but deciding to have kids anyway
because isn’t that what humans
have always done? As Eileen writes
in one of her emails to Alice, “Maybe
we’re just born to love and worry
about the people we know, and to
go on loving and worrying even
when there are more important
things we should be doing.”
It’s a nice idea — being in love in a
way that makes you feel okay about
the world. It’s what Taylor Swift
has been trying to put into words
ever since she met Joe Alwyn. It’s
the escape Maggie Rogers longs
for on her 2022 album Surrender.
It’s all over The 1975’s Being Funny
in a Foreign Language, an album
that combines a chaotic onslaught
of cultural criticism with a slew
of sappy, unironic love songs, and
concludes at the end that “The only
time I feel I might get better / is
when we are together.”
But is it the best we’re going
to get? Is the wealth gap so
hopelessly large, the environment
so irreversibly damaged, the social
fabric really so threadbare that
the most we can hope for is to fall
in love and forget about it? It’s a
privilege to be able to forget about
the world’s problems — namely a
white, middle-class, Global North
privilege. That’s not to say that
each of us alone should shoulder
the burden of every demoralizing
headline that crosses our social
media feeds, because we couldn’t
if we tried, and we shouldn’t have
to. But the apathy that this idea
allows for makes me uneasy, and
it’s underlined by a concealed sense
of individualism.
What the “Beautiful World”
argument reeks of is positive
psychology: a movement that rose
to popularity in the early 2000s and
has probably trickled down into all
our lives one way or another since
(raise your hand if you have been
personally victimized by positive
psychology — if your eighth-grade
teacher forced you to write down
three things you were grateful
for every day, for instance, like
mine did, you may be entitled to
financial compensation). Positive
psychology’s whole schtick is self-
help — the pursuit of happiness
through unbridled optimism, and
the value of personal fulfillment
above all. And it’s not a new idea.
In a 2008 study, professors
Dana Becker and Jeanne Marecek
link positive psychology to that
prized, quintessentially American
individualism, arguing that, in the
view of positive psychologists, “The
greater good is no more than what
How the found family trope in ‘Six of Crows’ taught me to love
NINA SMITH
Daily Arts Writer
Millennials getting married won’t save the world
The romantic comedy is more
modern than you’d think
JENNA JAEHNIG
Daily Arts Writer
HANNAH CARAPELLOTTI
Daily Arts Writer
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Why ‘nice guys’ do finish last
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OLIVIA TARLING
Daily Arts Writer
Design by Serena Shen
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