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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.

Kate Broadwell February 26, 2014 | 5:56pm EST I’ve recently made an effort to get off campus more to explore DC and discover some nice study spots that will motivate me to get things done. This past drizzly Wednesday I hopped on the Redline to head anywhere but AU to find a place where I could sit down and crank out my well-postponed philosophy paper. Enter Busboys and Poets, a renowned restaurant/coffee shop/bookstore that’s a ten-minute walk from the Gallery Place/Chinatown metro stop. Busboys and Poets boasts a low-key vibe and is most recognized for the variety of art related events hosted daily at its four separate locations, particularly poetry readings. Located on 5th and K, the building can’t be missed with its bright orange sign, colorfully painted crate flowerboxes, and metal yellow sculpture out front. Upon entering, the spacious interior has an airy, almost industrial feel with exposed pipes crisscrossing the ceiling that reaches more than 25 feet high. The inside is bigger than you might think, with a lot of space towards the back and a spiraling staircase leading to a whole other upstairs floor. I was immediately greeted by the smiling staff and shown a large variety of seating choices that ranged from comfy couches tucked away in cozy corners to huge tables in front of expansive windows. I decided to settle down in a red voluptuous leather armchair. Looking around, the bowler hat and overall sporting staff was very approachable and whisked around carrying mouthwatering dishes. Despite Busboys and Poets also being a restaurant, I loved that you have the option to stay and relax for a while like in a traditional café. While working, I also enjoyed glancing around at the artworks hanging liberally on the walls – each location circulates local artwork twice annually, aiming to show case local artists. The colorful artworks make the environment even more vibrant and interesting and I frequently found myself procrastinating by looking around at them all. I was handed a menu upon sitting down filled with a glorious abundance of delicious sounding dishes, including sweet potato fries, pan seared scallops, and hazelnut chocolate cake (I was about to die and go to heaven, okay?). However, there are also tons of vegan, vegetarian, and gluten-free options for anyone with special dietary needs. Double bonus: there’s free Wi-Fi. The menu is a little pricey for certain items, but the servings were pretty large and certainly tempted me to drop a few pennies. I ended up getting a basic latte, which did not disappoint. Before leaving, I stopped to look at the small, conveniently located mini bookstore by the entrance. Although small, I enjoyed browsing through a selection of books by local artists and subjects relating to social justice. All in all, I wholeheartedly recommend Busboys and Poets as a great brunch place or study spot for all of those who want a fresh change from their local Panera. Though a bit of a metro ride away from campus, the change of scenery and a fresh bite to eat certainly made it worthwhile.

Evan Mills February 24, 2014 | 2:32pm EST Xiu Xiu (the demon-baby of San Jose native Jamie Stewart) recently released their latest album Angel Guts: Red Classroom. It is a comically dark and suspenseful journey into a dank basement of Frankenstein-inspired electronic doom. The slow and simple midi rhythms drip lifelessly like water droplets and splatter into a puddle of cold, stagnant and a-tonal clambering. What Xiu Xiu does well is create a dark and enveloping mood that sounds like something very old and very cutting edge simultaneously. Their music does not follow specific and traditional song structures or have hooks or even distinguishable melodies, but rather generates an ominous vibe. They use repetition effectively and lure their victims/listeners into a cryptic trance. They then assault the unsuspecting listener with ludicrously offensive and vile lyrics that are worked in between the spaces of their electronic pings and drum kit smashes. The vocals give the otherwise soulless music a somewhat human element, so it is not accurate to describe Xiu Xiu as purely electronic. There are elements of traditional songwriting beneath the layers of synthesizer machinery. This album succeeds in being dark and creepy but is also sometimes hard to take seriously. I dig it for its dark, trance-like vibe. But I often grew tired of the over the top ghoul-like ranting.

Nolan Miller February 17, 2014 | 10:00pm EST Marvel is commonly considered as lighter, more fantastical, and at times even sillier than the only other comic book publisher that rivals its titanic size, namely DC. However, the company’s relatively new (2012) NOW! imprint (Superior Spider-Man, All New X-Men, Hawkeye) possesses both a darker tone and an exceptionally sophisticated writing style unheard of for Marvel since the beginning of the “adults only” MAX imprint back in 2001. The blonde-mained, Norse god of thunder Thor of recent movie fame was one of the first characters to get his Marvel NOW! reboot with the start of Thor: God of Thunder on November 14, 2012. The New York Times best-selling series is now on its twenty-first issue, published this past Wednesday. This review, however, will focus only on the first five issues, which were collected in the paperback graphic novel released earlier this month titled Thor: God of Thunder, Vol. 1: The God Butcher. Simply put, I was completely blown away by Jason Aaron and Esad Ribic’s fresh take on a character that has been a Marvel icon for over half a century. Aaron’s multi-dimensional writing and Ribic’s beautiful illustration combines to form a gripping, intense comic book reading experience I never expected from a Marvel book. The story revolves around Gorr the God Butcher, a seemingly unstoppable killing machine, who is striving to rid mortals of the chains of worship he perceives as having been thrown upon them by the gods of the universe. Three different timelines, which include young Thor in the late 800s, present day Thor, and old, bearded Thor of the far future (with a fourth small episode taking place at literally the beginning of time thrown in towards the end of the novel), run side-by-side cataloging Gorr’s relentless pursuit of immortal genocide. The mysterious Butcher’s deeds left me awestruck, and the whole plot remains masterfully unpredictable throughout, never letting up on the ever growing sense of absolute doom. The visceral drawing lends the appropriate amount of dramatic heft to horrific events, such as the killing of the first god who created life and the torture of Thor by Gorr, while simultaneously being careful not to go overboard. To give you an idea, Ribic’s illustration resembles Alex Ross’s painting, exhibited in novels such as Marvels, Kingdom Come, and Justice, and yet somehow still seems to stay true to the character’s old school roots. Ribic is really one of a kind and Thor: God of Thunder is his most eye-catching work to date. In addition to being the best start to a series I have ever read, The God Butcher is one of the best graphic novels ever in my book. I recommend it to readers new to the genre as well as “comic book nerds,” to use an amiable term. However, I feel obligated to warn you, the novel ends right in the middle of the larger story, which really is the only predictable thing about it. The soul-crushing cliffhanger works on a maddening amount of levels, dangling in front of the reader’s nose the team-up of all three Thors in a godless future, the story of the origin of Gorr, and the start of the Butcher’s “new age of freedom” after 900 years of work. Never have I been more compelled to buy the next installment of a series after such a desolate and depressing ending; you’ve been warned.

Tiffany Wong February 16, 2014 | 6:05pm EST Revered by The New York Times and The Washington Post, D.C.’s own humble food magazine has been making the rounds around the country and rapidly increasing in popularity. The collage-crazy Runcible Spoon is completely handmade, with letters cut out to make headlines, news columns individually pasted in, and pages layered with scrap photos that have been harvest over time. To give you an idea, in its latest issue called The Cheap Issue a haphazardly cut photo of a surprised Nicki Minaj is displayed on the same page as a satirical article, “Always Thank the Chef,” and a vintage stock photo of a boy in a lobster costume. I recently met up with Malaka Gharib, the ‘zine’s creator and driving force, to talk about her beloved Runcible Spoon. What made you want to make a food ‘zine rather than any other ‘zine? When I was growing up, I thought that music was cool, fashion was cool, but when I became an adult, I was no longer interested in that stuff. I was interested in food. What drove you to make a ‘zine that would be mass distributed? In the ‘zine world, there are different kinds of ‘zines. Personal ‘zines are the kind you think are personal and made in small batches. But I come from a magazine background, so I’m more comfortable making something that’s more like a magazine that’s distributed to as many people as possible. It’s a format I feel comfortable with. People who like weird foods, we’d love to share it with. I noticed that your ‘zine has a certain aesthetic and you personally came up with most of it. What drew you to that type of style? The “zine-est” part of our ‘zine is that we do everything handmade from scratch. I also don’t know how to use Photoshop or Illustrator or Adobe InDesign, so my limited capability of layout is me cutting and pasting everything by hand. But, I will say that I also have been collaging paper, which has always given my ‘zines and journals a certain aesthetic. Your ‘zine has the craziest themes, for example, The Mad Science Issue, The Gross Issue, and The Salt Issue. How do you come up with the themes? That’s a joint decision we make with our editors. We decide what is a really fun topic and we choose that. We basically have a week where we think of all the ideas we can, and then we have a meeting where we share our different themes. Whichever is the best idea, we’re going to run with that. Growing up, were you artistic? I would say so. My mom worked at the airport, so she would come home with stacks of magazines from around the world, like Elle China and The Tattler from the U.K. I would open them up and see them as little worlds or reflections of how one of the worlds look like, and I would cut them up and use them in my art projects. I used to collect scraps and if I saw a picture of a small, tiny thing that I liked, like a lemon or a flower, I would cut it out. I would have a box of these little scraps that I would keep. I’ve always been interested in paper and magazines. Do you think that your artistry also runs in your family? My aunt is a doctor in Los Angeles, but I think she’s always had a creative streak in her. She always collected stamps and my grandmother was always interested in teaching me how to use my hands, like sewing. I would make dolls, I would cook, I would go to the garden and make my own geraniums. She was very interested in that domesticity and I really like that too. How do you find your writers and contributors? A lot of them now come to us, but most of them are our friends. A lot of times, people come to us and say that they’re interest in writing. Other times, we’ll see a writer in real life or an artist we really like, and we’ll reach out and ask them to come and do stuff for us. More often than not, they say “yes,” so that’s good! How do you feel about your success with Runcible Spoon and how it’s been catching on recently? I’ve always wanted to work for a food magazine, like Saveur. I was offered an internship there, but I couldn’t afford to move out to New York. I was very sad to decline it and have to work a real job in DC, but a friend of mine once told me, “You can always get into the party from the back door.” Making the ‘zine, I’m entering the party and working in the food world, but in a different way. I think it’s been more rewarding than taking the traditional path of interning at a food magazine and then working there. I feel very proud that I was able to make it into the industry that way. Where did you get the name for your ‘zine? The first book I ever bought from Scholastic Books – you remember that? – was The Owl and the Pussycat. Runcible Spoon is a line from that book. It’s a made up word that means nothing. What are you planning for Runcible’s future? I think that slow and steady wins the race. Perfecting the way that we reach out to people, doing more events, and making the ‘zine longer and better quality is my idea. I’m happy to do the ‘zine for another five years, or another two years, but I have other things to offer in this world. There are so many years to live, so let’s work on this project first and we’ll see how it goes. Runcible Spoon is sold at Each Peach Market, Qualia Coffee, Seasonal Pantry, and Treasury Vintage, which are all in D.C. Other locations can be found here. To buy online, visit the ‘zine’s Etsy page.

Jeoffrey Pucci February 16, 2014 | 5:57pm EST Film and cinema provide modes of explanation in the most varied domains, because they are often for us the site of profound change and reflection, crucial for self-development and experiencing what we call “the self.” Perhaps a film occurs in a manner similar to that of an “event.” For each of us it is easy enough to show that the concept of who we are and the question of how we became “ourselves” is as old as the history of the Western tradition itself. Nevertheless, the experience of molding the self is often shared — up to this point, I have sought to stake out it, marking and drawing us together into a certain nexus of experience. The function of this shared or lived experience is not to disorient us, but rather, to orient us together, balancing and organizing our horizons of meaning toward a common meridian. If each film we watch may be explained as a certain puncturing or rupturing of our distinct horizons, let us endeavor to conceive of this “event” as a profound return or remembrance of our commonality. Now, let us consider the very basic premise of John Carpenter’s film They Live (1988): a relatively simple working class man discovers a box full of sunglasses that allow him to see the hidden message behind very common and mainstream advertisements. A billboard of a woman tanning in the sun is transformed into simple one or two word phrases such as “Obey”, “Marry and Reproduce”, “Stay Asleep”; Newspapers become “Obey Authority” and “Watch T.V.”. This experience of the decay of urban society and the blind compulsion towards acts of consumption is not difficult to locate within a certain political context. However, in order to determine the status of these glasses, the film tempts us towards a certain ideological re-inscription. We are tempted to articulate a contemporary critical (Leftist) perspective, which speaks of the alienation of labor, distractedness presented in consumerism, materialist greed eroding society, and so on. In a certain sense, They Live serves as a model par excellence for a kind of materialist interpretation of consumerism, because, as we see, it is the poor who work on the construction of objects, and are much more easily awoken to the political and economic exploitation than those closer to the ruling ideology, i.e., the construction-site workers, and the tenants of the homeless shelter as opposed to the police and store-clerks. However, the brilliance of They Live is how it becomes an event wherein we become a sublime object of ideological reflection. Subtly, what we at first encounter is simply an ideology that is being forcibly stripped bare in front of our very eyes by another ideology. In the most basic sense, as the film unfolds we perpetuate an aggression into the landscape of this film. Thus, the “event” that I outlined earlier — a certain rupture, the puncturing motion of our common horizon, embodied in our aggression towards advertisement — is both our feelings towards the film and the brilliance of this film. Without knowing that the uneasiness we feel towards these “fake” advertisements is actually an aggression towards our own ideological position, They Live makes us both the aggressor and victim of these “glasses” of truth. Carpenter, the astute director, at first, perpetuates a simple horizon of meaning, i.e., we meet the main character Nada and shortly after he gets a job working at a construction site. All the signs of the symbolic world are evident around him; lavish riches, expensive cars, high rises and so on. Then we see a radical line of separation set in; Nada discovers the true message behind the advertisements and responds with an uncannily violent rampage; escaping the police, gaining multiple firearms, and assaulting a bank. In short, we, in viewing, ascend into relatively common and acceptable depiction of everyday life, and then, quickly watch it be retracted away from us as Nada and us affix the ideological glasses into our horizon. Thus, the common reality, one which we come to know as our own reality, is inverted and thrown right back at us. The changes that the film introduces do not point toward some bizarre secondary reality, one that is simply lying underneath this reality. Rather, this film makes reality, as a Lynchian would say, that seems more real than it already is — in sum, it forces us to see that this second world is actually apart of the first world — our world. In the age of daily psychological (Symbolic) reconstitution (i.e., a new product is released, we gain opinions of the performance of it, develop ideas regarding how this product effects the brand, and so on), the role of advertisement has a distinctive role in daily life. We come to experience and know advertisements in two profound ways. The first is as either an indication of a certain system of classification, i.e., social class, or, as Jean Baudrillard says, a social code within “consumer society.” A mark that lacks actual active syntax, but nevertheless formalizes a universal system of recognition of “social statuses” or a certain “code of social standing,” as he puts it. And the second, much more simply, we opt to understand the world through these codes or stereotypes of knowledge, thus consolidating a product into a larger idea of “brand.” Thus, we understand the product only in relation to the “brand” it comes from (but also, paradoxically, only know the “brand” through its product). Herein lies the subtle brilliance of They Live. What comes before all of this is the drive towards consumption, the desire to “know” this system, and this drive towards knowing the system manifests itself in acts of consumption. In a very profound scene when Nada gives a pair of glasses to his best friend Frank (Keith David), he tells Frank to not wear the glasses for too long because, as he says, “It becomes harder to take them off.” What is curious of this exchange is how each character that we observe in this film, as he or she wears the glasses, seems to revert to a passive observer, one that is content with watching the different types of individuals consuming the various products present in society. It is as if these two characters need to keep the glasses on in order to make sense of the advertisements they are bombarded with on a day-to-day basis. What we have here is a hidden reversal of the film’s simple anti-consumerist political message, in which we come to say that advertisements create, as Marcuse would say, “false needs”: the obscene, uncanny, and absurd messages behind the advertisements only have a second dimension because the first dimension. Let us be clear here: we can only perceive this second “truthful” dimension because we have possession of the first. In many scenes we are located in small shops, banks, or grocery stores, and at each, we see where there is a relatively homogeneous collection of people: some, those at banks or high brow stores are not even human, while others at lower end stores all resemble each other. The longer we observe this film, the clearer this homogeneity becomes to us. Each individual that is consuming seems to consume the same type of product as those with similar tastes, looks, and affects as him or herself. This is not incredibly surprising. However the real genius of They Live is that each individual, when given the chance to change this pattern of consumption, won’t. It is here we leave behind the simple materialist conception of consumerism, and broach a very Derridian conclusion: one “reality” only exists because of the other “reality.” It is no coincidence that we dreamers invent our own logic. The perception of one “reality” must be affixed to the other “reality.” Thus, in our case we must be driven towards and into a certain “reality” of consumption in order to understand this second “reality,” that is, the drive to consume objects becomes a necessary component to the individual’s life since the products are as much apart of the individual’s identity as they apart of this second “reality.” The glasses and the awakening of class consciousness observed in Nada and Frank then takes on a new dimension. As Derrida puts it, a certain becoming of the “I” – that is, one must be interpolated as a consumer first to come to see this second anti-consumerist reality. The “event” I have called for earlier now interlocks itself with a certain rupture in the history of Marxism itself. It consists in reflecting on the status of consumer ideology and why we have not yet “replaced” this consumer reality with another one, i.e., the proletarian one. Thus, They Live ventures a very daring Post-Marxist interpretation: We cannot simply “replace” this reality with another, because the other reality would only be entangled within a system of relations and exchanges with the older replaced reality. We see in They Live that the act of consumption is never driven directly by a material mode of production nor of a societal code of “affluence”, it is rather, much more akin to our daily lives and experiences, in this discord between the visual substance and the imagery and messages affixed unto them, collectively signifying the organization of the system that one wants to have as their system of understanding. What is consumed is not objects, but as Baudrillard says, “the relationship itself” — that is, the consumption of products, “brands”, “identities” constitutes consumption in a purely virtual sense: “[S]ignified and absent, included and excluded at the same time – it is the idea of the relation that is consumed in the series of objects which manifests it. This is no longer a lived relation: it is abstracted and annulled in an object-sign where it is consumed” (Baudrillard, The System of Objects:22). This virtual act of consumption has to be conceived precisely in the sense of the individual consumer, as we commonly say today, ‘buys into a certain lifestyle.’ Thus, we profoundly see that a consumer never simply purchases one object nor is it about simply replacing this “reality” with another “reality.” All at once, we have to think about when we purchase something, we are flushed with a new desire, one more object to adorn this manikin, within a greater constellation of reflecting and bifurcating desires. How do we escape this? Unlike the conclusion of the film, which ends in a traditional revolutionary fantasy (akin to the Leninist party with a total violent revolution), the real message is simple: these are realities of consumption, without consumption neither of these would be possible.

Jeoffrey Pucci February 9, 2014 | 3:04pm EST What we encounter in Michelangelo Antonioni’s Red Desert (1964) is the most paradoxical reading of modernity offered yet, which presents us with a final conclusion to his previous trilogy of films (L’Avventura, La Notte and L’Eclisse). Antonioni assures our most basic relationships with an industrialized and modern conception of Western Civilization; we are swept across the rise of heavy industry, observe an increase in existential alienation in social relations, and experience the development of ecological problems. We know this. The uncanny and yet even distinctly modernized form of social society is what we are now. This is familiar to what we experience when we imagine ourselves traveling from the rural country into the urban center: the slow reduction of natural forms, the injection of more and more geometrically consigned shapes, the uncannily feeling of parking our car on a ubiquitous street, and the sense of anxiety we feel for being “away” from our “world” for too long, perhaps missing key or essential developments there while we were away. This momentary injection back into modernity’s preconditioned modeling is experienced in only its purest emotional form: despair. However, this is how we experience modernity; for all of its developments, it is the landscape we call home. And thus, we are brought to Antonioni’s most mature theme, which we only were able to catch glimpses of in his previous trilogy: one should not simply observe modernity, nor should one try to apply old traditions or ideas to modernity, but rather, one must adapt to modernity. Therefore, let us begin by saying there remains two distinct ways of interpreting Antonioni’s Red Desert. The first is to follow the director’s rather symmetrical structural analysis, drawing one into a classist depiction of the aesthetically alienating and socially subversive sub-structure of the 20th century bourgeois. The landscapes, sceneries and omnipresent sounds of machinery dominate what we perceive; each frame of this film bears the distinct mark of industrialization. In a certain sense, this film can be viewed as a mature and sublime reflection of the unimaginable progression of heavy industry into all latitudes and altitudes of society. The late industrial settings posses all the features one would expect: workers protesting, ubiquitous and imposing smoke stacks, military guards escorting wealth prospectors, a starving woman and a small, young looking boy. It is no accident that cinematic commentaries on this era of heavy industrialization are so keen on the sense of despair, isolation and alienation; however, the type of despair that confronts us in Red Desert is not the same which was found in Antonioni’s previous trilogy of films. Therefore, let us consider a much more radical and cynical way of understanding the industrial decay and disintegration of social structures occurring through this maelstrom of muted and flattened horizons. What we are confronted with in Red Desert is a very subtle and yet intelligible sense of despair that is immediately evident when we encounter the familiar character of Giuliana, played by Monica Vitti. We observe Vitti’s character only resisting the introduction of mechanized reality into her psychical landscape, without making any attempt at accepting it. A sense of despair emerges in the simplest of scenes, starting at the very beginning of the film: Giuliana stumbles through gray mud in her red heels; she doesn’t know where the closest convenience store is and must beg for food from a striking worker; the noise of the factory makes conversation with her husband impossible when she encounters him. In modernity, the bourgeois, which Giuliana embodies, functions as a paradoxical threshold. We understand them as either a backward glance of recognition towards, as De Tocqueville says, an Ancien Régime, an inherited or thrown historical background, or as a spontaneous assembly of new possibilities; in a certain sense, either as an affirmation of older traditions or a creative gesture towards new ones. In Antonioni’s previous films, we opted to perceive the bourgeois as perplexed and troubled beings, stale with the ideas of their most ancient aristocratic heritage, only to be understood as fundamentally divided – unhappy, and incomplete – as the very epitome of existentially alienated. This method was helpful in unpacking the narrative arcs of Antonioni’s L’Avventura and La Notte. However, Red Desert is not so easily decoded. At the very beginning of the film, Vitti’s character confesses to having been in a car accident, which left her in the hospital for over a month. She claims it was a simple accident, one which required a rather long stay in the hospital. Then, we learn of a recurring dream; she lies in bed, only to realize the bed is moving, moving because it is resting atop quicksand. Vitti explains that the bed sinks deeper and deeper into this pit. The longer we observe Vitti over the course of the film, the more we become aware of her emotional and psychical distance from her environment. She has bought a shop; it is unfinished, empty and half painted in shades of gray, blue and silver; a telephone that rests on the floor; she hopes to transform the space into a ceramics shop, despite possessing absolutely no knowledge of ceramics. In this light, the narrative development is similar to Antonioni’s other classist stories, i.e., the intelligentsia have no real actual knowledge of how to be happy, they think the accumulation of objects of great value will produce happiness. However, the extent to which Vitti’s character is alienated from her reality is unsettling, which plunges us into a deeply psychotic landscape uncommon to the previous narrations. In Sickness unto Death, Soren Kierkegaard introduces a notion of despair that is similar to the general sense of consciousness found in Vitti’s character: “On the contrary, the torment of despair is precisely this: not to be able to die. So it has much more in common with the situation of the moribund when he lies and struggles with death, and cannot die (Kierkegaard,341). The Monica Vitti and her possession over despair takes a new form, as Kierkegaard puts it, declaring despair, despair over oneself — a desire to be someone else, somewhere else. The invocation of trauma, mental distress, and psychical dissolution are common themes in the 20th century. What is of crucial importance in this film though, is not that Vitti’s character is a reciprocal for trauma, but rather, a second and more striking feature of this film, is the closely linked relationship between modernity and trauma: the trauma of not rendering the essential elements of modernity as they really are, i.e., the noise, the alienation, the striking workers, the dead ponds, the indifferent sexual encounters. The first thing that strikes us is the complete collapse of social reality as a consequence of the “golden rules of efficiency” and of capital expansion. Like the lost characters of Antonioni’s previous films, modernity stretches and rearranges all social orders quickly and efficiently. However, Vitti’s character in this film is somehow resistant to these changes; it is as if the character, and we as the observer, somehow see the rapid changes and developments occurring before us and can somehow reject it, negate it. In Antonioni’s universe, this “no” is hard to locate in reality. The environment, the social engagements, the disillusionment of familiar structures all seems to be status-quo. The psychical space of Vitti though, is here phenomenologically depicted as entirely removed or separate from all ever-changing world. In a certain sense, Antonioni’s depiction of Vitti’s character offers a powerful argument for the re-definition of Marx’s idea of ideology, the paradigm of modern socialism where, to quote Marx directly from The German Ideology, “in history up to the present it is certainly an empirical fact that separate individuals have, with the broadening of their activities into world-historical activity, become more and more enslaved under a power alien to them (a pressure which they have conceived of as a dirty trick on the part of the so-called universal spirit, etc.), a power which has become more and more enormous and, in the last instance, turns out to be the world market” (Concerning the Production of Consciousness, The German Ideology). For Antonioni’s film, the possession of ideology is what torments Vitti’s character, whereas Vitti’s lover, Corrado (played by Richard Harris) is portrayed as the antithesis of herself; adaptable and completely at home within the landscape he is thrown within: As one who possesses the correct ideology. Approximately half way through the film, Vitti asks Harris’s character what he is bringing with him to South America. He responds, somewhat surprised, “Nothing, a bag or two.” At this moment, the film encounters its last and most critical point of inflection: Vitti explains that she would have to take everything if she were in his place. This is the clearest example of her inability to adapt to her environment. But what is more troubling is how damning her attachment to her misconfigured ideological perspective is. For Antonioni, the perplexing injunction of Vitti’s unhappiness is how she fully resists the re-colonization of her psyche by a new symbolic order, be it one of a consumer, or a nationalist, or a socialist. Vitti’s character, along with our perspective, is bombarded with the loud noises of factory work, shipping horns, and car horns, but never seems to attempt to conjoin itself within the landscape. We are struck again and again by the utter incomprehensibility of modernity – Vitti declares that she is “afraid of factories, colors, smoke, people”, in sum everything. As the world changes, Vitti resists it and is thus forced into an all-too-familiar traumatic scene of despair for not accepting or affirming the world one is within: that is to say, following Kierkegaard again, “[i]n despair at not willing to be oneself; or still lower, in despair at not willing to be a self; or lowest of all, in despair at willing to be another than himself… Think of a self (and next to God there is nothing so eternal as a self), and then that this self gets the notion of asking whether it might not let itself become or be made into another than itself. And yet such a despairer, whose only wish is this most crazy of all transformations, loves to think that this change might be accomplished as easily as changing a coat” (Kierkegaard,353). In our case though, there is no coat waiting for Vitti to change into. We encounter this sense of despair in the all moments of the film. It transgresses the separation between frames, encounters with the modern features, the social engagements. Vitti’s relationship to her inability to conjoin and access the world she lives-in stands for the radical message underpinning Antonioni’s message in this film: the reversal of rejecting modernity into the real acceptance of modernity. It occurs when we enter into the space between Vitti and the modern texture of reality.

Tiffany Wong December 3, 2013 | 10:30am EST With less than a week before AmLit’s release party, we know you’re getting antsy, so here’s Part II of our “Best of Issuu.com” to satisfy your creative needs. Freckled Magazine http://issuu.com/freckledmag Recent issue: http://issuu.com/freckledmag/docs/freckled_summer_2013 Created in Vancouver, Canada, Freckled Magazine describes itself as a “season, non-profit online visual inspiration magazine featuring photography, writing, traditional art forms, fashion and music.” Sounds overwhelming for an online publication, but Freckled manages to balance its dreamy photography and art pieces with interviews with emerging photographers, artists, fashion pioneers, and bands, especially when Freckled is over 100 pages. In its most recent issue, Summer 2013, Freckled Magazine features photography spreads of Croatia, paintings and illustrations of characters from another world, and personal written pieces. Like its past issues, the magazine seems to take pleasure in transporting its readers to a place that doesn’t exist in the real world – where everyone has the time to take long road trips and watch the sun set, documenting their adventures along the way. Little White Lies http://issuu.com/lwlies Recent issue: http://issuu.com/lwlies/docs/lwlies_47 Unbeknownst to many of us, Little White Lies is a popular publication hailing from London and focuses on the wonderful world of movies. Each of its issues are dedicated to a single film, interviewing its main actors and exploring different aspects of the film’s creation. Unlike many other publications that feature films, Little White Lies relies heavily on graphic design rather than generic movie stills or photographs from behind the scenes. Each of its covers are a work of art and it’s obvious that every page’s design was created with a purpose. As for its verbal content, Little White Lies is able to hold its readers’ attention, dividing its issues into different acts. In its “latest” issue on issuu.com (which came out five months ago; because the magazine stopped publishing online yet continues to churn out hard copies, reading its back issues will more than suffice), the magazine focuses on Man of Steel, the most recent film for the Superman franchise. Notable features include an analysis of hilarious vintage Superman comic covers, an exposé on the woman who served as the inspiration for Lois Lane, and an article on the five different ways Superman’s story was transformed in order to humanize a superhero who seems invincible. Loud and Quiet http://issuu.com/loudandquiet Recent issue: http://issuu.com/loudandquiet/docs/loudandquiet54 For those of us tired of the usual music magazine that focuses an obscene amount of attention on the same old artist that’s writing the same old music about the same old thing (love and heartache?) in the same way for a new album, there’s the U.K.- based Loud and Quiet. What better way to be ahead of the curve than to learn about new artists from the P.O.V. of another country? Its most recent issue includes short interviews with nine bands about things that piss them off, an interview with Lee Ranaldo of Sonic Youth fame in his own home, and numerous profiles of artists on the rise. Have you ever heard of the German band called Autobahn who’s compared to the likes of Joy Division, or the London-based band Shopping that produces “DIY funk punk”? I haven’t, but I definitely want to know what “DIY funk punk” sounds like.

Emma Bartley November 23, 2013 | 7:28pm EST Meet Mikala Rempe – my partner in crime. The empty voids in both of our lives were filled the day we were brought together as assistant poetry editors for AmLit. If you’re wondering what that position even is, it basically just means that we get to geek out about poems while excessively using the words “dude” and “literally,” along with a somewhat shameful list of colorful expletives. Rest assured, while this girl most definitely talks the talk, she can also walk the walk. At the AmLit open mic early this semester, she wowed everyone with her slam piece, “Early Onset.” So, without further adieu, enjoy these wise musings from the ultimate poetry babe herself. What got you into slam poetry? When did you start? I started slamming at the start of my senior year of high school. I have been writing short stories and poems pretty much since I could spell, and I started to watch slam videos on Youtube and became obsessed with the art and the way that page meets stage. I didn’t really gain the confidence to join a team until my best friend forced me into it. It was the best thing that could have ever happened to me. It’s amazing the sense of community you gain from slam. Talk a little about your writing process. Where does most of your content seem to come from? How have you played around with form? In what ways do you use – or perhaps avoid – certain formal elements of poetry, like rhyme and rhythm? Coming from a slam background I now write for cadence and sound above anything else. When I write poetry I have to read all of my lines out loud, just to find where my voice naturally builds and falls. I like to play with form in unconventional ways. Lots of slam poets do list poems where they number each stanza, so I like to play with that form. I have a poem about my dad’s battle with early onset Alzheimer’s. One test to diagnose Alzheimer’s is to ask the patient to count backwards from 100 by 7’s to test their cognitive state. So in this poem I number my stanza 100…93…86… and so on, like the test. I absolutely loathe traditional rhyme scheme, like nothing turns me off from a poem more, but I am in love with internal and slant rhyme. Have you written much poetry outside of the slam genre? If so, describe how your writing process for these poems differs from writing slam. Hmm, not so much right now. But I will say that I don’t think that the majority of slam poems transfer well to the page, so I definitely want to try my hand at more academic poetry. I also tend to write longer poems, so I want to play around with shorter poems and see if I can still write evocatively. How are you pursuing your passion for poetry at American? I work with AmLit’s poetry genre and it has been so eye opening to see what other people appreciate about poetry. All of the other editors make comments on poetry that I never would have thought to comment on. Everyone that came to the AmLit poetry review sessions made me appreciate poetry so much more, and the feedback has pushed me to make my own writing better. Whether it’s other poets, musicians, or visual artists, what creative work has influenced your own writing? I could talk about influences for days! I always write to music, and it can range anywhere from some old school Frank Sinatra or lately I’ve really been into Chance the Rapper’s Acid Rap. I definitely would say whatever I’m listening to is reflected in my writing. My favorite slam poets are Sam Cook from the twin cities and Jeanann Verlee from NYC. I could seriously listen to their poems all day. My favorite page poet will always be Langston Hughes, like if I ever have a son I will probably name him Langston. I also just feel the need to admit my love for Kate Chopin’s The Awakening, I can only reread that novel if I am okay with my view on life being completely flipped upside down… that book is probably the reason I am a literature major.