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