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Jessica Perry March 24, 2014 | 5:30pm EST Would you pay less than 12 Euro to travel through Dali’s head? In Figueres, Catalonia, you can. But be warned—no drugs are needed for this trip. He created the museum, Teatro-Museo Dali, by his own hand and head to house his artwork. It is the largest surrealist object in the world, crafted from a former theatre destroyed during the Spanish Civil War. It’s compartmentalized yet open; logical yet irrational; and predictably erratic. In Dali’s autobiography, The Secret Life of Salvador Dali, he confesses to not completing quotidian activities like telling time, tying his shoes, and looking before crossing the street. Considering his nature, he left a surprising worldwide legacy. The museum is part of it. It is discernable from simple surroundings because of its exterior, comprised of enormous egg sculptures and bread carved into the walls solely because he felt they were necessary ingredients for life. Or for a building. Located in his hometown, it is the area’s main attraction. The small town feels much too quiet and relaxed to hold something so strange. But it’s there anyway. Nothing about it makes sense, or maybe it makes all the more sense because of the lack of sense. It was Dali, after all. Inside the museum, each room is loosely thematic. The main area is a high-vaulted entrance with a view of walkable gardens in the building’s outdoor center. The circular outdoor center features snails carved into surrounding rock, a raining car contraption, and a nude woman on top pulling chains. The entrance’s ceiling is hand painted by Dali á la Sistine Chapel style- emotionally full of meaning and movement- accompanied by a spacious, bright interior. To the left is the “Jewels” exhibit, a cramped, barely ventilated box laced with red velvet. He considered it his jewelry box and put his most meaningful paintings there. Most of them pertain to his wife Gala, as if to preserve her. Not to mention the hedges outside form “G” shapes in her honor. Sarcastically, one might go so far as to say he was in love. Who knew. The next room, up winding stairs, leads to a dark space with objects that form a giant face. Or maybe it’s furniture if you look at it literally, with a couch for a mouth and curtains of hair. Actual hair. But you can only see the face if you walk up more stairs and view it from a specific angle under a microscope. It’s surrounded by a porthole where you can glimpse a green holographic world, absurd paintings of breast feeding, and contorted human sculptures (furnished with fabulous mustaches). The following rooms are less easily described. They are deepened with more alien-like holograms of men playing cards and a reflection of the viewer behind them, sunken displays of strange armor, spiral spoon sculptures descending from the ceiling, distorted mannequins: broken things, full things, simple things, complex things, nonsensical things. Everywhere. It’s a mesmerizing mania you can’t escape. Throughout the museum, though, there are moments of mental peace: a realistic depiction of a floating balloon, a plain coin designed by Dali, or a posed portrait of Gala. These moments, when you realize that the simple things aren’t so simple, are the museum’s true treasures. They are obscured by absurdity, but when you see something recognizable, logical, “normal”—you pause. Breathe. You question what is normal, who defines normal, who decides what is real and what isn’t and what could be. Dali’s remains lie in the museum’s basement, but his art’s talent of forcing interpretation, or simply acceptance, is alive in Figueres.

Kat Lukes March 15, 2014 | 2:56pm EST Annie Clark, better known by her nom de guerre St. Vincent, dragged the guerre to the stage this past Sunday, March 2nd for the second performance of a two-night stint at the 9:30 Club. Both shows sold out weeks in advance, and needless to say the venue was packed with fans eager to hear work off of her self-titled fourth album dropped just a week earlier. After the completely underwhelming warm-up artist Holly Herndon wrapped up a 30 minute set of organ-rattling bass lines and ambient moaning, St. Vincent and company finally strutted on stage. Opening with the first track off of her new album, “Rattlesnake,” the audience was immediately revved for an incredible set. Following with “Digital Witness,” “Cruel,” and later “A Mouth Full of Blood,” it was obvious that she’d be mixing up her set list and pulled from her entire discography (the complete set list can be found here). I’ll admit I rarely sit through an entire St. Vincent album, largely because the songs can get tedious. Her work is an incredibly precise interpretation of chaos, as if every musical knot and tangle were positioned with a magnifying glass and a pair of tweezers. While intricate, I usually find myself wishing for some basic foundation of musical meat that goes missing from her music in its sterile, pre-recorded form. Live, St. Vincent is a completely different story. Every song had a new sense of grounded urgency and anchored power, and the flexibility of each track allowed her to deviate from the recording without pissing off the fans. That’s not to say that St. Vincent was any less in control. In fact, Annie controlled her show like a storm cloud on a taught leash; her music had a seemingly delicate and tenuous entry, only to be followed by rolling, distorted power-riffs extracted from her guitar with confident dexterity. And even though she played her usual wide-eyed, broken doll gimmick, every once in awhile you could catch her breaking character with a satisfied half-smile, an expression that said, “This is what I do for a living and it’s fucking awesome.” These moments where the audience could see that she took herself seriously, but not too seriously helped the show walk St. Vincent’s signature fine line between music and performance art. Her avant-garde dress, robotic movements, and occasionally screechy singing were a little heavy-handed. Had she not subtly broken character or stopped to chat with the audience, the concert could have easily slipped into pretentious art-house territory. If anything, St. Vincent is a calculated storyteller. Maybe not in the traditional narrative sense, but her Sunday performance had a definitive arch and resolution. After closing the show with a powerhouse performance of the psycho dance party tune “Krokodil,” Annie Clark tiptoed back on stage for a heartbreakingly raw acoustic version of “Strange Mercy,” allowing the audience a moment of reflection. When the encore ended with “Your Lips Are Red,” you could tell the audience was reluctant to call it a night. For two hours, St. Vincent had expertly rattled through her repertoire, inviting her fans along for the ride. And even if you’re like me and don’t quite get her style, St. Vincent is certainly one not to miss.

Evan Mills March 15, 2014 | 2:52pm EST If you haven’t gone down to E Street Cinema in downtown Washington, D.C. you might want to displace your butt from that couch and replant it in one of their fine, reclining bucket-seats ASAP. Whether you’re taking your date out to an arm-clinching, smooch-fest like In Secret, or throwing plastic spoons at the screen during a drunken, midnight showing of The Room, this theater does it right. The crowd tends to be less of the mainstream herd of cattle you can typically find at a giant, corporate-type cinema. Most importantly there are far fewer children. But of course do be prepared to sit next to someone wearing flannel or trimming their moustache. Upon entering the theater you are likely to recognize the bored guy standing miserably behind the ticket counter. You may even think, “Damn, this is just another movie theater.” But it is the table of bootleg-style, cult classics directly behind him that caught my eye. There’s a plethora of great indie films such as Fruitvale Station and the anime classic My Neighbor Totoro. Once you purchase your student-discounted $9.50 ticket, you can either proceed conveniently down the escalator, or trot down the thrice-terraced staircase. At the bottom of the stairs you are presented with two options: Bathroom or full bar. Not like movie theaters that suck, E Street Cinema is awesome mostly because of the bar. In fact, you can purchase a film-themed mixed drink, a craft beer or a full blown bottle of wine. And as you struggle to hand the ticket guy your tickets without dropping your booze, you are glad to remember that the bathrooms are at the bottom of the thrice-terraced staircase and conveniently located next to the bar which you will likely visit again (and again [and again]). Midnights on weekends are also great at E Street Cinema. They feature different classics such as Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, and the original Batman. The seats are usually packed and sometimes it feels more like a party than a movie theater. They also show regular live performances of The Rocky Horror Picture Show. E Street Cinema also features films that are astonishingly terrible, and is a great place for Washingtonians to gather and marvel at the shit-cinema projected before them. Recently I saw The Room as mentioned above, and enjoyed the obscure, profane banter the audience shouted at the screen. As the commonly agreed upon shittiest movie of all time, a viewing of The Room is special in the absurdity of the plot and the audiences hilarious reactions to its shittyness. Before the screening of most movies, there is a real-life person that comes out and informs the audience of future screenings and, in true vaudevillian fashion, entertains the audience and prepares them for the featured performance. I say you haven’t experienced cinema unless you’ve been to E Street Cinema for a classic showing. Seeing movies like Nightmare on Elm Street or A Clockwork Orange is a totally different experience on the big screen. You will understand the bygone era of filmmaking when the theater was truly a part of the presentation. The easiest way to get to E Street Cinema is taking the Red line to Metro Center and walking south the couple blocks to E Street and the cinema is between 10th and 11th.

Mia Saidel March 15, 2014 | 2:49pm EST In 1920s Japan, people suffered life with the Great Depression, poverty, disease, and the Great Kanto Earthquake. Then, Japan plunged into war. How did Japan’s youth survive such a time? So begins one trailer to the pièce de résistance of Japanese animator Hayao Miyazaki’s career about a Japanese man with romantic dreams of building beautiful airplanes during a period rife with struggle and conflict. However, such a seemingly morose question is not answered with an equally dark response. True to Miyazaki’s masterful approach to his craft, his final film counters a historically dark time with dazzling visuals of the Japanese urban and rural landscape as well as narrations of profound relationships among people connected through a shared fight for optimism. The Wind Rises is a testament to the beauty that can be found during the bleakest of times. The film opens with a charming sequence of Japan’s countryside terrain free of dialogue. Instead, the combination of accordion, harmonica, mandolin, and violin make for an Italian-sounding melody that sets the tone. This is fitting, as a young Japanese boy is dreaming and meets the great Italian aeronautic engineer Gianni Caproni on his stunning aircraft. They walk side by side on the wings of the plane, and Caproni encourages him to challenge his expertise in a quest for building the most beautiful airplane the world has ever seen. The boy’s traditional Japanese trousers and shoes are in stark contrast with Caproni’s smart suit and hat. He wakes up, eager to start a life dedicated to the art of creating an innovative vehicle for aviation. This is how we are introduced to Jiro Horikoshi, the chief engineer of Japan’s legendary fighter planes during World War II, whom the film is based off of. Jiro’s story is one about spirit and determination during turbulent times. The rest of the film focuses on Jiro’s pursuit in building what would later become the world-famous Mitsubishi A6M Zero aircraft, created exclusively for the Imperial Japanese Navy during the war, during arguably the most turbulent period in the country’s history. What makes the film so special is hardship, while evidently present, is not aggressively forced into the spotlight; Jiro and his fellow engineers at the Mitsubishi headquarters eat the same variation of lunch every day, either a piece of meat or fish with rice; the trains that Jiro rides have nicer accommodations up front than they do in the back; several wooden incense sticks with the names of the deceased are seen propped up on the sea grass by the ocean. These respective scenes and images speak enough about food shortage, wealth disparities, and death that were indicative of the period without the presence of gore and battle cries. Miyazaki understands that subtlety is enough to create poignancy. The wind rises, we must try to live. “Le vent se lève. Il faut tenter de vivre.” Naoko recites the first line of the French poem by Paul Valery to Jiro, who then follows her words instinctively with the second when they meet each other on the train for the first time. Naoko is a girl with a unique passion for life, a worthy counterpart to Jiro’s ambitious nature. They both share an understanding of life’s unpredictability, as well as the same spirit to face it. Their meeting is significant in that it does not just represent the start of a lifelong love. Their exchange of words also represents what lies ahead. The earthquake hits Tokyo immediately after their encounter, famine and bank failure shatter their community, and Naoko is beset with tuberculosis when she and Jiro decide to marry. It seems as if life had taken a turn for the worst. The wind can carry turmoil and sadness, which are characteristic of life. However, Naoko and Jiro realize that it is up to the individual to bear whatever life brings and simply live. Time and time again Jiro meets with Caproni in his dreams to discuss how to improve his aircraft design. The curved fish bones that Jiro picks from his meager lunch translate into the design of his finished product. Despite the ongoing war that causes millions of families to be left hungry on the streets, Jiro’s dream has not died. He walks as a grown man with Caproni in his dream for the last time, this time on his own plane. The last dream represents his accomplishment of not only finishing the fighter plane, but also surviving a tumultuous era. It is appropriate that Miyazaki’s last film has a core theme of flight. Porco Rosso, Nausicaa of the Valley of the Wind, and Kiki’s Delivery Service, to name a few, all include elements of aerodynamics. But this time, Miyazaki does not need elements of the fantastic or magical to show us that that we as humans are not bound to the ground. With his last masterpiece, Miyazaki bids us farewell with a final piece of advice: we can always develop the best of our abilities, whether the wind brings conditions good or bad. Our dreams are worth pursuing because we often have to go against the current to achieve them. According to Miyazaki, that is life. The Wind Rises is playing at West End Cinema located at 23rd and M north of Washington Circle. The closest available Metro Stop is Foggy Bottom on the Blue and Orange lines.

Molly Pfeffer March 15, 2014 | 2:47pm EST After dizzily making my way around the second floor of the Smithsonian Institution’s National Museum of Natural History, a sign guided me though the rocks and minerals gift shop and finally to the newest temporary exhibit. Unintended Journeys, a collection of award-winning photographs journaling the life within environmental refugee locations, is ironically tucked away in the museum’s Special Exhibits Gallery. Spotlighting the rapid human displacement, environmental change and hardships resulting from climate change and natural disasters the last ten years, Unintended Journeys features photographs by Magnum Photos, a photography collaborative that strives to make the experiences of these regions reality. Dimly lit, the nook of an exhibit is organized by natural disaster – Haiti after the earthquake, desertification in East Africa, New Orleans post-Katrina, tsunami-struck Japan, and Bangladesh under coastal flooding. The quiet murmur of a few voices struck me first. Two women in their fifties intelligently pondered the photos of Japan, a young backpacked couple sat to watch a video about Katrina, and a family embarked on an unintended journey from the back entrance just to pass through. Something about the silence of the photographs’ subjects juxtaposed with the lack of much discussion in the room explained what the exhibit may attempt to portray. Everything quiet and hauntingly peaceful about the images fencing viewers into the onlookers’ reality. Whether intentional or not, each region appeared to have a theme. Japan’s was of nature versus industrialization. The photos showed urban areas drenched in concrete rubble, small mothers making camp in a school gymnasium, and a family sitting down to eat microwaved noodles. I thought about the lives of survivors. With everything collapsed around them, the people appeared to be doing their best to cope with the tragedy while still trying to live how they did pre-tsunami; to live with stuff. The Japan photos were the most surreal. Faces stood out in the photographs of Haiti. The images captured close-ups of patients in pop-up medical facilities, people holding dirt-covered dolls, and a father with his two kids. Their eyes pierced through the print. But there were smiles on many faces too, and they sadly made me smile. Thousands of war refugees trekked through the photos of desertification in East Africa’s largest refugee settlement, Dadaab. Beautiful yes, but the pictures show more than the history of a severely degraded region. I felt the most separated from the people and the place – the scenes seemed stereotypical and thus speaking to the lack of awareness museum-goers may have of the land’s severity. The photographs of Bangladesh underneath water from quick sea-level rise were vibrant and high contrast. The photographers captured a sort of natural flow between the environmental events and the adaptation of Bangladesh people. Despite the geography’s future, the people and places in these photos put the disaster into an odd, accepting perspective. And of course, the photographs of the Gulf of Mexico after Hurricane Katrina finished up the circular collection. The visuals many Americans may already have in the back of their minds about the New Orleans catastrophe are brought back to present consciousness. With all of the photographs in Unintended Journeys, comes an odd challenge to the onlookers to think about time in particular. Despite the exhibit’s smallness and thus, a perhaps unconsciously attached sense of unimportance, its size speaks to the difficulty in comprehending the tragedies that have all occurred within the last decade. Vivid in their visual development and storytelling, Unintended Journeys should be on the compass of more visitors. For its modesty, I believe, is what will make people take it to heart. Unintended Journeys runs till August 13 at the Natural History Museum, most easily accessible from the Smithsonian Metro stop on the Blue and Orange lines.

Vera Hanson March 15, 2014 | 2:58pm EST Since viewing the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston’s John Singer Sargent exhibit a few months ago, I’ve been drawn to watercolors. So, when I saw that The Phillips Collection had a new watercolors exhibit, I was eager to visit. After wandering the museum for a little while, unable to find the exhibit, I asked where the watercolors were located. I was told to head to the second floor, but I was not told that the exhibit was occupying a corner room of the museum so small that it makes a dorm room seem spacious. Within the hidden “alcove” are dozens of tiny watercolors the size of index cards. The title of the exhibit, Jean Meisel 50-65 Horizon Line, explains why it is that each painting is lined up matching the horizon lines within each watercolor. The walls of the tiny room are a deep blue and the watercolors wrap around them in a singular line. A local DC artist, Meisel’s watercolors are dreamy, despite their small-scale. The paintings range in colors from light blues and greens to richer pinks and oranges. They are especially interesting due to their tone and texture, which leaves a subtle, but beautiful impression on viewers. Because of this, the exhibit is more about the emotions the paintings evoke rather than the paintings themselves. Meisel once said, “The horizon is something that is always there, yet we take for granted. It is a steady line that is always present, yet always hides something.” In many ways this quote reflects the ambiguity and mysteriousness of the exhibit and the refinement of her paintings. Because of the small space, the dark blue walls, and the nature of the watercolors, the exhibit definitely acts as a tranquil escape for visitors. This makes the hidden exhibit peaceful, but also a bit underwhelming considering the way the museum marketed the exhibition. If you are looking for a few minutes tucked away in a calm nook of The Phillips Collection, definitely take the time to check out her work. If you are, instead, hoping for Sargent-sized watercolors and diverse subject matter, you will not find it here. That is not to say that Meisel’s paintings are not excellent, they are great. Just be mindful of the size of both her watercolors and the room they inhabit. Meisel’s work is on view through May 4th and the museum is only a quick walk from the Dupont Circle metro station on the Red line.

Denis Sgouros March 15, 2014 | 3:59pm EST I wonder what went through the ticket master’s head as he looked me in the eyes and handed me tickets to Normal with a smile and a nod. Was he looking forward to seeing me stumble out at the end of the 70 minute 1-act play? Disheveled and questioning all I had ever known? I’ll never know for certain. At the end, I was too busy lunging for the restroom to pay the ticket master any heed. You see, the volume of liquid courage I had previously soaked up that night underwent a cruel transmutation, as the play went on, into liquid hell-terror screaming for release. Set upon a small stage with sparse props the play set is seemingly as unassuming as a small beady eyed spider. However, this spider has bite that betrays its size and its venom is potent story telling. The story takes place in 1930s Dusseldorf. Peter Kurten, the Dusseldorf ripper, has been caught and must now stand trial for his crimes. Enter Dr. Justus Wehner, defense attorney for Peter Kurten, this man seeks only to prove that Kurten, despite being a monster, cannot be held accountable for his crimes pleading insanity. Kurten asks of the jury and audience alike to consider: “Do we punish murder with murder? Do we [as a society] bear monsters or do we create them?” Wehner may aim to stay Kurten’s execution but the Dusseldorf ripper has other plans for this lawyer…In a thrust of irony it becomes apparent that the Dusseldorf ripper and his wife read the left handed lawyer as easily as the yellow legal notepad he jots his case notes upon. When Kurten speaks to Wehner it is like a lion stalking his prey. When Kurten stands the metaphorical corpse of all victims lie in his shadow, blanketed in white and wearing an eerie porcelain mask. At times goofy and cartoon like, while at others terrifying and violent, what is consistent throughout this production is the terror. I’ve never had a date clutch my arm in fright before. This happened when I saw this play, and trust me, it was a perfectly Normal reaction. Showtimes are Thursday-Sunday at 7:30PM, from now until March 30th at the DCAC in Adams Morgan. Tickets are pay what you can on Thursday and $25 Friday-Sunday. Use code: fantom10 for $10 off admission thanks to Fantom Comics in Union Station! If you’re interested in further works by Molotov Theatre Company, check out their website for other upcoming events.

Kat Lukes March 2, 2014 | 4:33pm EST I’ll be honest—I had no idea what to expect from last Friday’s performance of HABITAT at the AU Katzen Museum. Composed by Steve Antosca, performed by Ross Karre, and digitally altered by William Bent, HABITAT promised to combine sound, physical space, and live computer transformation. I had seen the event unceremoniously advertised on the Katzen website, and the short explanation described it as a “concert-length percussion solo,” which instantly conjured images of a leather-clad Christopher Walken demanding his prescription for more cowbell. While the cowbell did make an appearance, HABITAT proved itself to be a complex, multi-media performance, intertwining a collection of mediums in conversation for an immersive concert that moved from station to station through the museum. When I first walked into the museum, I was a bit confused; chairs were set up at various points near Karre’s instruments, with a cluster underneath the stairs, some angled along the wall in a separate gallery, and several rows in the central rotunda. Audience members were not given much direction by the staff, and I didn’t want to choose a seat only to later find myself listening to the majority of the concert through a wall. As the concert progressed, I was confused as whether to follow Karre through the space as he moved from station to station in an awkward game of musical chairs or to stay in my seat. The chairs ultimately interrupted the audience’s freedom to explore the space and musical composition equally. Each movement of the concert was distinct, both stylistically and spatially. Moving from the rotunda to the neighboring gallery, then to the stairway and up into the second and third floors, each section mimicked its environment in tone and register. The audience was able to experience how each movement interacted with the gallery space, resonating in different ways depending on where and what Karre was performing at that moment. The effect was transformative, molding the museum’s galleries into a meditative and other-worldly space. Higher tones and sounds reminiscent of wind characterized the portions performed on the second and third floors, while the rotunda’s movement was written with wider, rounder notes. The result was beautiful musical architecture; Antosca drew up the blueprints for the gallery in his score and decorated the walls with Bent’s digital alteration. But what HABITAT did most successfully was feign naturalism. Each movement felt organic, filling up the space by its own volition. Watching Karre play on “found” instruments like clay pots and coffee tins reinforced this idea. In reality, every movement performed by Karre and Bent was calculated and predetermined, written on a score sheet in what I interpreted as brilliant detail. The entire concert was paired with video projections of twisting strings and other linear forms. Being that the other elements of the performance were so accomplished, the visuals felt like more of an after-thought than a fully integrated part of the performance (as if to say, “Here’s a really challenging and innovative piece of avant-garde percussion which explores resonance in both a traditional and spatial fashion— also here’s some twine”). More so, while there was obvious consideration for the architectural space of the AU Museum, there was not for the artwork hanging on the walls. While clumsy in some areas, HABITAT successfully immersed its audience in a three-way dialogue between percussion, computer, and space. The composition catered to the museum’s galleries and complexly dealt with the traditional conventions of music by integrating contemporary sensibilities, even though the visuals could have been fine-tuned. Antosca’s composition walked the line of conceptual and concrete—although maybe I’d recommend a little more cowbell. Special thanks to Caroline Salant.

Nolan Miller and Vera Hanson March 1, 2014 | 4:13pm EST Starting off with a sob and an uncomfortable laugh, Denmark’s “Helium” and the U.K.’s “The Voorman Problem” are the first two films in the theatrical release collection of the Oscar nominated live action shorts of 2014. They are reviewed by Nolan Miller. “Helium” introduces us to the little blonde Danish boy named Alfred who is bedridden with a crippling and life-threatening disease. Enzo, a new janitor in the hospital, becomes friends with poor Alfred who reminds him of his own brother he lost as a young boy. With each successive visit to Alfred’s room we learn piece by piece of Helium, the collection of houses suspended by balloons where sick children go when they die to “get their strength back.” As Enzo gets close to the end of his fantastic tale complete with brief scenes of Alfred’s imaginings of Helium depicted on screen, Alfred’s condition suddenly takes a turn for the worst. The short ends with Alfred, supposedly close to death, finally leaving for Helium by way of the gigantic, gold and red zeppelin called the “Helium Express.” An overly sentimental piece complete with a soundtrack oscillating back and forth between melancholy and hopeful tracks to shove its point home, “Helium” is designed to tug, no, yank violently at the heart strings of the audience. The United Kingdom’s “The Voorman Problem” lightens the mood, but only temporarily. For a film that takes place almost exclusively in a prison, the film is overall pretty light-hearted and fun, especially after the Danish sob story. The short starts with the prison warden explaining to William the pragmatic psychiatrist why he was hired: essentially to declare prisoner Voorman insane by any means necessary so the warden can have him deported to an insane asylum. The prisoner has become a huge problem for the warden because Voorman believes himself to be a god. As if that wasn’t bad enough, the constant chanting of his name heard in the background is an auditory testament to how Voorman has convinced the entire prison population of his divinity as well. During his interviews with “God,” William becomes less and less sure of Voorman’s insanity until the psychiatrist is confronted with evidence he cannot deny. Comedic, yet nonetheless extremely alarming, “The Voorman Problem” is quite a ride from reality to insanity and back again. Reviewed by Vera Hanson, the final three live action shorts come from France, Spain, and Finland. The French short, “Avant Que De Tout Perdre” (Just Before Losing Everything),tells the story of a wife struggling to escape from her abusive husband. With the help and support of her coworkers, she anxiously attempts to leave town with her two children. The film, which is 29 minutes long, does an excellent job at slowly revealing elements of the story to viewers. Everything that happens seems to occur in a rushed daze. Details are, at first, withheld from the audience as a way to build, not only confusion, but also suspense. The wife, played by Léa Drucker, captures the anxiety, hurt and fear of her character in a restrained, yet unbelievably heart-wrenching manner. The film was effective in that the moments of suspenseful silence were just as effective as the moments of rushed whispers and conversations. “Aquel No Era Yo” (That Wasn’t Me) is a raw and, at times, horrific Spanish short film telling the story of Spanish aid workers who are taken hostage in an African military compound. The story unfolds abruptly as the aid workers are forcefully taken from their vehicle at a checkpoint when the African General suspects them of kidnapping his child soldiers. From this moment on, the audience watches as countless atrocities unfold in the violent and brutal world of the soldiers and their General. Several minutes into the film comes the first switch to a present-day auditorium where one of these former child soldiers speaks to a large auditorium. It’s through these moments of reflection from the young man that the film truly takes on a whole new dimension. His insights and commentaries on what it was like to have been a child soldier offers a layer of perspective that makes the film all the more chilling. The final short comes from Finland and is titled “Pitääkö Mun Kaikki Hoitaa?” (Do I Have to Take Care of Everything?). After the undeniably somber first four films, this Finish comedy offers a sigh of relief, to say the least. Only seven minutes long, the film follows a Finish family’s morning as they rush to try and make it to a friend’s wedding. With the kind of relatable humor that seems to reach each and every one of us in unique ways, the film emphasizes the hilarity in the chaos of our day-to-day lives. Perhaps I enjoyed this film so much because it provided a light-hearted end to a series of films dealing with overwhelmingly heavy topics. Even so, the director’s impeccable choice of familial moments to portray in the race to the wedding was spot-on considering the seven-minute time frame.

Denis Sgouros March 1, 2014 | 2:46pm EST Asterios Polyp is a man haunted by the searing embers of his past; just ask the narrator, Ignazio, his still-born twin. Introduced looking broken and disheveled, Asterios lies alone on his king sized bed meant for two. He fidgets with his zippo, sounds of feminine ecstasy emanating from a television set its picture just out of frame, when a clap of thunder sparks the plot. It also sparks a fire in his apartment building. So it goes that on his 50th birthday, Asterios watches from out in the rain as all the mementos of his past go up in flames and he flees. He takes a wad of soggy $10 bills out of his wallet and purchases a greyhound ticket asking “how far would this take me?” The answer is Apogee. Formerly a renowned “paper architect,” an architect whose designs are lauded but never constructed, Asterios develops a humble life in Apogee. He tends to automobiles as a mechanic and rents the spare room in his boss’s house. However, he is still haunted by the linear outline of his dead brother’s ghost and he still wrestles with the demons of his past. His arrogance; he belittled his students and cruelly mocked them. His indifference; Asterios would abide the diminutive little conductor’s snide innuendoes towards his wife. His loss; Hana, his wife, could no longer tolerate his “holier than thou” attitude nor his unfaltering failure to defend her from the conductor’s subtle but vile advances. She leaves Asterios, burning him more than any blazing fire could. Flashbacks of Asterios’ previous life unveil his self-destructive behavior towards others. It is fitting that he was renowned as a paper architect because it becomes apparent it is not in his nature to create meaningful relationships so much as break others down. Apogee, meaning the highest point in the development of something, is the perfect place for Asterios to begin a new life because it is there that he begins to rebuild himself from the top down.

Sarah Shelton February 26, 2014 | 9:44pm EST After all the snow, class cancellations and the heart filled holiday, I took it upon myself to run way off campus to a much cooler place. I escaped to Chinatown where the National Portrait Gallery is putting famous photographs of famous people on display in the American Cool exhibit. Within the American Cool exhibit are original photographs of individuals from America’s past and present that fit into the nation’s idea of “cool.” To be cool is to something new and unattainable. Including everyone from celebrity rock stars, such as Jimmy Hendrix and Kurt Cobain, to timeless prose writers like Earnest Hemingway, the photographs offer an interpretation of what the term “cool” really means and how it is applied to a wide variety of people. Next to the welcoming purple neon sign that screamed American Cool are four definitions for the word cool. An original artistic vision carried out with a signature style, cultural rebellion or transgression for a given generation, iconic power, or a recognized cultural legacy are all definitions, which the various photographs explain. For example, from the early twentieth century were artists such as Georgia O’Keefe and Duke Ellington and the current symbols of cool included Tony Hawk, Jay-Z, and Susan Sarandon. Diane Keaton has been recently buzzed about as a major snub of the exhibit; the epitome of cool with her menswear wardrobe and casual attitude, Keaton’s version of cool was not cool enough apparently. Off of the main hall where every inch of wall space is filled with images of timelessly cool Americans are a number of small rooms that display hundreds more. Despite the vast array of black and white photographs, and some color, the exhibit still manages to feel intimate in its cool grey blue walls. The photographs themselves are full of depth and allow the audience to sneak a glimpse into the soul of every subject. No two were alike, each and every print portraying an individualistic view point of “cool”. Every moment spent inside the picture filled walls of the American Cool show were well spent indeed. The exhibit exemplified a more exact and accurate description of what it means to be cool rather than the stereotypical and vague definition, which was charming and refreshing. Cool does not necessarily mean having 1,000 friends on Facebook, but rather carving a path as a free spirit, allowing honest creativity to follow. The exhibit is open from February 7, 2014 until September, and just like all of the Smithsonian Museums, there is no cost of entry.

Ruthie Zeltzer February 26, 2014 | 6:20pm EST A refreshing and eye-opening exhibit, Our America: the Latino Presence in American Art, celebrates the stories and experiences of American artists with Mexican, Cuban, Puerto Rican, and Dominican cultural roots. All text in the exhibit is written in both Spanish and English. Many of the actual pieces feature both languages and combine Latin and American cultural paradigms. The harmonious blending of cultures exemplifies the notion of shared identity claimed by both the artist and viewer. Through numerous mediums, the exhibit explores themes such as the journey, heritage, tradition, family, and community. Using a variety of approaches, the viewer catches a glimpse of the cross-section of cultures that influence the artists’ own experiences as Americans. Sometimes painful, sometimes beautiful, and often both–the works evoke strong and sincere emotions. The protest art on display is particularly strong; demanding justice across various swaths of social issues, the collection of works had a tremendous impact on me. One of my favorites was “Sun Mad,” by Ester Hernandez. In the screen-print, she transforms the Sun Maid of the famous raisin company into a skeleton to protest the pollution that impacted her family and hometown. With graphic colors and a jarring subject, this piece also demands justice for the workers and consumers that were harmed by the company’s policies around the time the print was produced. Another work that caught my eye was Melesio “Mel” Casas’ “Humanscape 62.” Along with many other activists during the 1970s, Casas demanded that Frito Lay remove the Frito Bandito from circulation. Here, he includes an image of the Bandito atop an Aztec image, a Girl Scout, and many other “brown” stereotypical iconography stemming from Latino and indigenous cultures. Perhaps one of the most moving pieces in the exhibit, Ken Gonzales-Day’s “Erased Lynchings” is made up of fifteen edited ink-jet prints of U.S. postcards depicting lynchings of Mexicans and Mexican-Americans that took place in California during the late nineteenth and early-twentieth centuries. To call attention to the perpetrators rather than the victims, Gonzales-Day first photographed the images and then edited out the victims completely, lending an even more haunting element to his work. The single most moving piece that I encountered during my time at the exhibit is pictured below. Carelessly written on the reverse of a postcard depicting a lynching, I read the words “this is what he got.” Although not for the faint of heart, head over to the American Art Museum soon if you are interested in getting a vivid taste of the Latin-American experience. Our America: the Latino Presence in American Art is on exhibit until March 2, 2014. The Smithsonian America Art Museum is located on 8th and G, and it is open from 11:30am-7:00pm daily. For more information, visit AmericanArt.si.edu/ouramerica.