Dearest Zombie,
I hope you will excuse the 
unprompted message. You see, I 
just can’t hold my emotions back 
anymore.
Your 
latest 
performance 
in “The Last of Us” made me 
consider all the times I have 
seen your work throughout the 
years, and how despite your 
fluctuations in popularity, your 
off years and the countless times 
people have tried to dismiss you 
entirely as lowbrow, formulaic 
drivel — you return, back from 
the dead, to prove them wrong. 
I can’t tear my eyes away from 
you. I think it’s time I explain 
why.
People say once they have seen 
one of your movies, they’ve seen 
them all. Filmmaker George 

Romero 
posited 
that 
“The 
Walking Dead and Brad Pitt just 
sort of killed it all” — “it” being 
your role in movies, of course. 
They forget that you are a paint 
we put over any other story; 
you make them shine. You’ve 
got range: You have been in 
romances like “Warm Bodies,” 
comedies 
like 
“Zombieland” 
and “Shaun of the Dead,” heart-
wrenching, 
bloodcurdling 
dramas like “28 Days Later” and 
“The Walking Dead,” and action 
films like “I Am Legend.” You 
can tell any story, and you can 
tell those stories well. While 
some may see your inclusion in 
these stories as a limitation, I 
see you for who you are. 
People today assume when 
you’re in a film, the film is 
simply a gorefest, a game of cat 
and mouse with a predictable 
end. While it’s true you make 
my heart race, that’s only the 

beginning. Any horror film can 
introduce a monster that makes 
us want to run. Few horror 
films make me dig beneath the 
surface of my fight or flight 
reflexes and make me consider 
other primordial emotions: love 
and melancholy. I don’t simply 
root for your co-stars because 

of their peril, but because of 
the nature of the stories you 
are featured in. Your films 
often highlight family (found 
families 
or 
otherwise) 
and 
when you’re not around, there 
are moments of compassion 
and whimsy that make your 
terror all the more moving. In 

“28 Days Later,” amid the chaos 
of high-speed car chases and 
a race through an apartment 
building, is a lighthearted picnic 
where characters laugh and 
chat. In “The Last of Us,” I’ve 
seen Ellie (Bella Ramsey, “Game 
of Thrones”) and Joel (Pedro 
Pascal, “Game of Thrones”) 
trade stupid puns and trauma 
alike. You make your co-stars 
and the audience clutch their 
loved ones close, not for fear but 
for love. And therein lies my own 
love. When I watch characters 
run away from you, I don’t want 
them to survive for survival’s 
sake. I want them to live.
You make us question what is 
natural to the world and what 
we’ve only shoddily constructed 
over the course of humanity. 
After all, you are a harbinger 
of 
the 
apocalypse 
but 
not 
necessarily a harbinger of the 
end. As society crumbles with 

your arrival, you give us the 
opportunity to imagine society 
anew — to question what we’d 
like to keep and what we’d like 
to leave behind. You remind 
us of the labor that often goes 
unappreciated, the kind that is 
the backbone of our society’s 
survival. You make us question 
what work is essential and what 
is not, and why some people are 
forgotten while others are not. 
You make cold-blooded, lone 
wolf–types care for others, often 
against their will at first. You 
make us see that sometimes the 
real danger is ourselves, not you. 
In the end, it’s the simple fact 
that you remind me what it is to 
be alive, you undead creature 
you. So when people call for the 
end of your stories, keep telling 
them. Keep us humble, keep us 
human and rise again.

4 — Wednesday, February 15, 2023
Arts
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com

A 
true 
knowledge 
and 
understanding of oneself is a 
fleeting enigma that human beings 
have been chasing after for as 
long as anyone can remember. 
If “knowing thyself” truly is the 
beginning of wisdom, then there 
is not a single person on this Earth 
who can call themselves truly 
wise. The essence of humanity is 
uncapturable, but artists have been 
trying to pin it down and bottle 
it up for years, chasing down a 
tangible explanation for what it 
is to be human: who we are, why 
we do what we do, what drives us 
and what defines us. Art has the 
power to capture and illuminate 
these convoluted and confusing 
facets of humanity — the good and 
the bad — serving to make us feel 
seen, appreciated and sometimes 
uncomfortable.
As a young woman in an ever-
changing society with constantly 
shifting standards, I often feel as 
though I might never truly know 
myself. My self-perception changes 
with every tacky trend; I seem 
to wake up every morning a new 
version of myself. In a period of my 
life where nothing seems stable, it is 
often art that grounds me. Art can 
make you uncomfortable, yes, but it 
can also make you feel seen, leading 
you step-by-step to that elusive 
achievement of true self-awareness 
with its uncanny ability to know 
you better than you could ever 
know yourself. Here are five pieces 
of art that truly see me for who I am, 
or who I hope to be.
“A Room Called Earth” by 
Madeleine Ryan
“I 
worry 
that 
intimacy 
and 
tenderness 
are 
becoming 

impossible ideals, rather than lived 
experiences. Surviving on this 
planet right now seems to be more 
about figuring out how to withstand 
being violated and exploited than 
it is about cultivating fulfilling 
relationships with ourselves, and 
with others.”
This book cracked me open 
like an egg, scrambled up my very 
essence in a skillet over high heat 
and mercilessly ate me for breakfast. 
Hyperbolic personifications aside, 
that apt metaphor describes exactly 
what it felt like to read this book 
for the first time: as if the book had 
somehow peered into the depths of 
my soul, reflecting back what it saw 
inside with the words on the page. 
“A Room Called Earth” follows 
a young autistic woman as she 
embarks on the task of preparing to 
attend a house party and navigating 
the peculiarities of other people. 
The story is told through only 
one narrator’s perspective, and her 
constant inner monologue guides 
you through the events of her 
evening, sometimes side barring 
with uncanny criticisms of human 
nature. As I made my way through 
her monologues I found that I 
identified with the story she was 
telling, but not in a way I liked — I 
didn’t feel a kinship with her, but 
with the self-conscious and eager-
to-please party attendees who she 
disparaged and their desperate 
desire to fit in with the crowd. The 
narrator is disturbingly observant, 
confident, spiritual and sharp, 
and as I progressed through the 
novel I found myself enamored 
with her. But just as she so justly 
criticized 
the 
attention-seeking 
nature and hive-mind behavior of 
those around her, I know that she 
would see right through my false 
bravado and insecurities, viewing 
me through that same critical lens. 

Art can see you for who you are, and 
this book certainly did — but that 
doesn’t mean you’re going to like it. 
Needless to say, I will never attend 
a house party the same way again. 
When the Pawn… by Fiona Apple
“When the pawn hits the conflict 
he thinks like a king / What he 
knows throws the blows when he 
goes to the fight / And he’ll win the 
whole thing ‘fore he enters the ring / 
There’s no body to batter when your 
mind is your might / So when you go 
solo, you hold your own hand / And 
remember that depth is the greatest 
of heights / And if you know where 
you stand, then you know where to 
land / And if you fall it won’t matter, 
cuz you’ll know that you’re right.”
Sometimes when you’re feeling 
unsure of yourself and anger is 
bubbling up inside of you, there’s a 
desperate and pressing need to let 
loose a scream into the void. When 

the Pawn… is the sound of the void 
screaming back. A show-stopping 
second studio album, When the 
Pawn… is a lyrical masterpiece that 
encapsulates the rage, heartbreak 
and intensity of being a young 
woman — especially one in the 
public eye. With her debut album 
Tidal, Apple entered into a battle 
with public opinion using her 
written words as her weapon, 
fighting against misogynistic and 
misguided attempts to place her in 
the box of a “precocious showgirl” 
or a “Lolita-ish suburban party 
girl” whose success is only kept 
afloat by the men around her. With 
When the Pawn…, Apple hits back, 
winning not only the battle but the 
war.
No criticism can undermine 
the beauty of Apple’s writing, or 
her innate ability to make you 
feel. On “A Mistake,” Apple sings 

over anxiety-inducing and urgent 
synthetic beats about the urge to 
do something dangerous. With 
“Get Gone,” she growls out a 
vicious dismissal of her current 
lover, realizing that she is worth 
more. And with the devastating 
“Paper Bag,” Apple laments the 
lack of affection from the person 
she loves and the cruel knowledge 
that she will always be “too much” 
for him. Apple’s album is feminine, 
furious 
and 
all-consuming, 
allowing me to tap into powerful 
emotions I had never previously 
felt. It encapsulates not the human 
condition, but my condition; I 
love nothing more than to let 
her carefully crafted words and 
melodies wash over and devour me 
completely. 
“Miracle Creek” by Angie Kim
“But that was the way life 
worked. Every human being was 

the result of a million different 
factors 
mixing 
together…every 
friendship and romance formed, 
every accident, every illness — 
resulted from the conspiracy of 
hundreds of little things, in and of 
themselves inconsequential.”
“Miracle Creek” is a novel that 
never fails to induce wracking 
sobs and floods of tears. Set in a 
small town in Virginia, “Miracle 
Creek” follows the aftermath of 
a freak disaster that claimed two 
lives, leading the authorities to 
question whether or not it was 
truly an accident. As you examine 
the event through the eyes of a 
diverse cast of characters, each 
more intriguing than the last, 
you begin to unravel a story that 
doesn’t seem to make sense — 
until the sky comes crashing down 
and everything falls into place. 
“Miracle Creek” is more than just 
a mystery; it’s a perturbing and 
enlightening examination of what 
we would do, or not do, for the 
people we love. This book is by no 
means an easy read — it traverses 
across topics like male infertility, 
toxic masculinity, dysfunctional 
families and, most importantly, 
the impact of raising children 
with disabilities. The actions, or 
reported actions, of the characters 
will disturb and sicken you, but 
your visceral response to the words 
on the page is what makes you 
human. No matter who you are, 
this book feels personal. It took my 
deepest fears and nightmares and 
splayed them out on the page in 
front of me, rendering me helpless 
and enraptured by the story I held 
in my hands. Each time I revisit 
“Miracle Creek,” I learn something 
new about myself, and I am a better 
person because of it. 

I’d 
like 
to 
believe 
that 
everyone has works of art that 
strike them in their soul. Hit 
them right in the feels, if you 
will. If you’re shaking your head 
in disagreement, clearly you 
haven’t listened to “She Used to 
be Mine” from the “Waitress” 
soundtrack.
Engaging with art is an 
intimate experience in and of 
itself. If you read a book, watch 
a film or binge a TV show, you 
spend hours upon hours with 
the characters, dissecting their 
lives. You know them. You 
unconsciously (or consciously) 
compare your lives, trying to 
find a speck of relatability. Or 
maybe you engage with them to 
escape your own life, if only for a 
short period of time. 
Richard 
Linklater’s 
(“Boyhood”) “Before” trilogy is 
the type of art that strikes me 
right in the heart. The films 
have permanently altered my 
understanding 
of 
love 
and 
intimacy — I can’t remember 
the first time I watched them, 
yet somehow they’ve stuck with 
me years later. Three films were 
made about two people who 
walk and talk in European cities 
— and the trilogy sold. 
The first film of the trilogy, 
“Before Sunrise,” follows Jesse 
(Ethan Hawke, “Dead Poets 

Society”) 
and 
 
Céline 
(Julie 
Delpy, “Two Days in Paris”), 
two strangers who spend one 
magical 
night 
together 
in 
Vienna after Jesse, an American 
traveling 
around 
Europe, 
convinces 
Céline, a Parisian 
student, to get off the train 
with him there. They form an 
inexplicably strong connection 
over the course of one night. But 
real life awaits them as Jesse’s 
flight for the U.S. leaves in the 
morning and 
Céline has to get 
back to Paris, so they vow to 
reunite in six months.
Their 
story 
is 
relatively 
simple: boy meets girl, they form 
a connection, fall in love and 
then part ways. It’s all wrapped 
up in a nice 105-minute run time. 
Except their story doesn’t end 
there. 
“Before Sunset” takes place 
nine years later, when Céline 
and Jesse reunite at Jesse’s 
book signing in Paris. With 
only an hour until Jesse must 
leave for the airport, the two 
play catch-up, delving into their 
complicated (and dissatisfied) 
lives.
Hawke once said, “The first 
film is about what could be. The 
second is about what should 
have been. ‘Before Midnight’ is 
about what it is.”
The first film is my favorite, 
the second is the best one and 
the third is the most painful to 
watch.
“Before Midnight” picks up 

nine years after the events of 
“Before Sunset,” and 18 years 
after 
“Before 
Sunrise.” 
In 
this final installation, Céline 
and Jesse have finally gotten 
together. Throughout the film, 
they’re on vacation in Greece 
with their twin girls, and the 
two spend the majority of the 
film arguing — perhaps it’s the 
most realistic aspect of the 
trilogy. The arguments span 
across all of the real and gritty 
aspects of their lives together 
— parenthood, careers — and 
starkly contrast the dreamy 
romance 
the 
previous 
two 
films built. There is no more 
romanticization of what could 
have been; instead, they see 
the 
tribulations 
of 
finally 
committing to each other.
The “Before” trilogy is about 
conversation, being present and, 
of course, intimacy. Although 
it isn’t explicitly stated, it’s 
the only word I would use to 
describe 
Céline 
and 
Jesse’s 
time together: intimate. But the 
films are more than the physical 
attraction Céline and Jesse share 
for each other. What lies at the 
heart of the films is seemingly 
simple: human connection. In 
“Before Sunrise,” Céline says, 
“You know, I believe if there’s 
any kind of God it wouldn’t be in 
any of us, not you or me but just 
this little space in between. If 
there’s any kind of magic in this 
world it must be in the attempt of 
understanding someone, sharing 

something. I know, it’s almost 
impossible to succeed, but who 
cares really? The answer must 
be in the attempt.” 
During one scene in “Before 
Sunrise,” 
a 
palm 
reader 
approaches Céline and Jesse, 
and tells her, “You need to resign 
yourself to the awkwardness 
of life. Only if you find peace 
within yourself will you find true 
connection with others.” Every 
time I hear it, it resonates with 
me deeply. I’m a really emotional 
person. I blame my astrological 
sign — Crybaby Cancer over 
here — more than anything. 
But I hate being touched. Please 
don’t try to hug me, I promise 
it’ll just be awkward. I find it so 
difficult to get close to people 
and to form connections. The 
“attempt” 
is 
excruciating. 
I 
rarely say the words “I love you” 
to those closest to me. I imagine 
myself to be cold, distant and, 
worst of all, a bitch. I love my 
independence, and most of the 
time, I enjoy being alone. Maybe 
I’m just another melodramatic 
child of divorce, but the mere 
idea of intimacy scares the shit 
out of me.
The “Before” trilogy helps 
me to conceptualize love and 
intimacy, but at the same time, 
I fear that I will never have 
anything close to what Céline 
and Jesse have. In “Before 
Sunset,” Céline says to Jesse, “I 
guess when you’re young, you 
just believe there’ll be many 

people with whom you’ll connect 
with. Later in life, you realize it 
only happens a few times.”
In the digital age, connection 
has never been easier — or 
harder. Everything about the 
“Before” trilogy should be a 
little off-putting. The idea of 
a stranger asking me to get off 
the train with them in a foreign 
country sounds terrifying … But 
here I am rooting for Céline 
and Jesse to get together and 
stay together all throughout the 
films. Maybe I’m nostalgic for a 
simpler time (1995) when Tinder 
didn’t exist and hookup culture 
didn’t ravage college campuses. 
When it comes to physical 
intimacy, I’ve seen (and read) 
it all. Despite my own lack of a 
love life, I’m a self-proclaimed 
romance expert due to my 
extensive romcom and romance 
novel knowledge. I mean, I 
started reading Wattpad and 
Nicholas Sparks books at the 
ripe age of 12, and my love for the 
romance genre has only grown 
since then. What can I say, Emily 
Henry is my queen. Romance 
novels take up a lot of space on 
my bookshelf and in my head. 
Like the films in the “Before” 
trilogy, they’re comforting and a 
source of escapism. 
There’s 
something 
about 
two people, walking around 
and making conversation that 
is so fascinating to me. The 
picturesque filming locations 
only enhance my fascination. 

These films have very little plot 
to them but a lot of dialogue 
— it’s what makes the films 
memorable and enjoyable. But 
mostly, it’s the little things that 
make up these films. It’s the fact 
that Céline and Jesse talk about 
everything and nothing. It’s 
when Jesse goes to wipe the hair 
out of 
 
Céline’s face in the first 
film, or when 
Céline attempts 
to do the same in the second 
film. It’s the way they continue 
to gravitate toward each other, 
years later.
Céline and Jesse’s relationship 
is certainly idealistic, at least in 
the first two films. 
In “Before Sunrise,” Jesse 
even admits to feeling like he’s 
in a “dream world” — the “real” 
world doesn’t exist in the time 
the two spend together. The 
characters are so self-aware, 
it’s 
almost 
ironic. 
Even 
in 
the trilogy’s design, “Before 
Midnight” is the first film to 
have relevant side characters 
with names and their own stories 
— the trilogy is unmistakably 
Céline and Jesse’s story through 
and through. 
The “Before” trilogy isn’t the 
“Most Realistic Story About 
Love” and it’s not the “Greatest 
Trilogy of All Time,” but it 
may have one of the dreamiest, 
shimmering love stories of all 
time. And I, for one, am grateful 
for it.

On art and self-discovery: a love letter

Design by Tamara Turner

What Richard Linklater’s ‘Before’ trilogy taught me about emotional intimacy

A love letter to a zombie

Design by Phoebe Unwin

ANNABEL CURRAN
Senior Arts Editor

SARAH RAHMAN
Managing Arts Editor

Read more at MichiganDaily.com

Read more at MichiganDaily.com

Read more at MichiganDaily.com

AVA SEAMAN
Books Beat Editor

