Washington Square News - The Arts Issue

DESIGNED BY RACHEL BUIGAS-LOPEZ, HAILEY NUTHALS AND LAURA SHKOURATOFF

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This issue is a love poem to Venn diagrams. It is an ode to intersectionality. It is a peace offering to partisanship.

I’m a very graphic learner. At the age of nine, I learned how to waterski by watching my younger sister get dragged by the boat for what her arms must have felt like were hours, until she successfully stood up behind the boat and skied. When my turn came, I was able to stand up on my first try. This isn’t because I’m a better athlete than my sister — I’m not. If I had gone first, I’m sure the roles would have been perfectly reversed. But luckily for me and my pitiful upper-body strength, I went second. I got to watch her fall until she didn’t, and when I got behind the boat, I had already learned enough to pop right out of the water.

I fell a few minutes later, if you’re wondering.

The point, though, is that visuals are a huge educational aid. Venn diagrams in particular are my favorite graphic tool for displaying information — they show context and relationships in a way few other infographics can manage. Overlap is omnipresent in every part of our life, but the relative similarity between things is too often forgotten. We know that learning to play an instrument aids in mathematic instruction and that learning a foreign language improves our ability to speak our own. Yet somehow it never occurs to us that studying theater can help us understand politics or that documentaries can teach us how to construct a narrative that says only what we want it to convey.

This issue is a series of pieces on topics near and dear to each writer’s heart. It is an exploration of how nothing is as different as you think it is and the reasons why that is. It is full of qualifications, explanations and exploration. It is a collection of passion projects — the culmination of endless drafts — too many emails full of conceptual questions and hours spent thinking really, really hard about not just art, but how we interact with it.

This is the Arts Issue: Venn Diagrams.

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By MICHAEL LANDES Staff Writer

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ctober 13, 2016 brought a shock to the literary world. For the first time in 115 years, the Nobel Prize in Literature was awarded to a man best known not for his published works but for his musical records: legendary American songwriter Bob Dylan. From tweets to thinkpieces, reactions immediately plastered the internet. All, however, were forced to answer one question — is songwriting literature?

Sara Danius, the permanent secretary of the Swedish Academy — the institution that awards Nobel Prizes — commented on the controversy in a post-announcement interview.

“I came to realize that we still read Homer and Sappho from ancient Greece, and they were writing 2,500 years ago,” Danius said. “They were meant to be performed, often together with instruments, but they have survived, and survived incredibly well.”

Countless writers between ancient Greece and Bob Dylan have blurred the line between music and poetry, including previous Nobel winners like Rabindranath Tagore. Why is it that poetry and

lyrics seem like sharply distinct categories of writing today?

It may have to do with the divergent path that Western poetry followed after Modernism took hold in the early 20th century. Writers like Ezra Pound and T.S. Eliot made free verse a permanent form of poetry, when most poetry was previously metrical. Metrical poetry shared more with musical performance than non-metrical poetry — meter and rhyme are necessary for song and music, but Modernists proved they were unnecessary on the printed page. The decline of meter and form resulted in a creative revolution that shaped 20th-century poetry and served as the final step in poetry’s transformation from an oral tradition like that of Sappho and Homer to a printed format.

This was the fate of Western poetry, which is what the Nobel committee most frequently rewards.

But many other forms of poetry continued orally, frequently due to limited resources that prevented writers from publishing. The American folk music tradition is just one example, with its roots in slavery.

The earliest recordings of blues musicians depict great American poets

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who distributed their work through music. These artists often used their work to rise from their circumstances. Josh White, a staunchly anti-segregationist blues guitarist, became the first black performer in the White House in 1941. Lead Belly went from incarceration in the South to international fame. These men and women were poets like Eliot and Pound, but due to racist and classist constraints, they were regarded as performers first and artists second.

In Dylan’s work, the great folk music of America meets European writers like Francois Villon, Bertolt Brecht and Dante. This fusion, along with his race and location in New York gave him an advantage over earlier folk songwriters. Much of the criticism of Dylan’s Nobel win came from these identity politics. Dylan’s win meant that every Nobel in 2016

was given to men, and his praises are mostly sung by white male intellectuals with little regard for the black traditions Dylan draws on. These criticisms do not center on Dylan’s own work or whether he should be called a poet, but rather on his privileged place in the canon. If he is a poet worthy of literary consideration, then Lead Belly and Josh White should be similarly regarded.

In fact, American musical lyricism these past few decades has been a vastly black area in the form of rap — a musical genre born in the Bronx that blended hip hop culture with new technology that sampled previous records to create musical loops.

The genre quickly became noted for complex lyricism from groups like Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five and Warp 9. Since the 1980s, the genre has been associated with lyricism for good reason: in statistical and rhetorical analyses of vocabulary, rap almost always pulls ahead of other genres. In fact, numerous artists — during both the golden age of hip-hop and more contemporary periods — pulled ahead of some of English’s most verbose writers

such as Shakespeare and Melville.

Though such data-driven analysis does not necessarily prove poetic quality, a great deal of evidence also exists to support the poetic interpretation of hip-hop. Jay-Z explicitly calls for a poetic reading of hip-hop music in his memoir, “Decoded,” and Pulitzer Prize-winning novelist Michael Chabon made headlines in 2015 when he contributed to a crowd-sourced explanation on the website Genius of Kendrick Lamar’s lyrics on his album “To Pimp A Butterfly.”

Did Bob Dylan deserve the Nobel? Yes, undoubtedly. As is true every year, many other writers deserve it just as much. Some of those writers are novelists and published poets, such as Ngugi Wa Thiong’o, Adunis and Jon Fosse. Some are Americans like John Ashbery, Lydia Davis and Joyce Carol Oates. A number are lyricists, like Nas, Lauryn Hill and Rakim. Lyricism and poetry are not only related — in many regards they are genetically the same. It does both genres good to recognize that love of one a love for both.

Email Michael Landes at books@nyunews.com.

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By RYAN MIKEL Staff Writer

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verything is beautiful at the ballet.

Graceful men lift lovely girls in white.” These lyrics, from the Broadway musical “A Chorus Line,” perfectly encapsulate the grandeur of ballet — copious tutus, rosin-covered pointe shoes, the Sugar Plum Fairy, a corps of white swans. But hey, what about black swans? Considering the country’s long overdue progressive push for diversity and equal representation, the ballet industry is still very monochromatic — in other words, white.

Classical ballet and diversity have historically struggled to become unified, often existing in two separate spheres.

American Ballet Theatre’s Misty Copeland, the first African-American woman promoted to the esteemed rank of principal dancer at ABT, is one prominent black swan challenging this issue.

“Ballet is a European art form, and you’re used to seeing a certain type of person as a ballerina,” Copeland said in an interview with ABC. “I don’t look like a lot of the

girls around me.”

But one token principal dancer of color here and there is simply not enough. Copeland mentioned in an interview with E! News that small steps toward racial equality don’t mean the tides have changed.

“Barack Obama [then] President of the United States doesn’t mean racism has disappeared," Copeland said. "We have to be aware that the work never ends.”

While Copeland's well-deserved promotion is a milestone for dancers of color, the numbers are still overwhelmingly white. Out of ABT’s more than 90 dancers, there are only two African-American ballerinas joining Copeland.

At Lincoln Center Plaza, the New York City Ballet’s roster of almost 100 dancers features only two African-American ballerinas and one Asian-American ballerina — all three in the lowest rank of corps de ballet.

Among the country’s leading ballet troupes, the spheres of classical ballet and diversity still grapple with unification. Tisch sophomore and San Francisco Ballet School alum Maxfield Haynes believes

that intersectionality in today’s foremost companies provides role models for young dancers.

“When a major dance company such as San Francisco Ballet opens up space for bodies of all race, class and ethnicity, a really beautiful shift can occur,” Haynes said. “Ballet is probably the most imperial and traditionally white art form that has historically been reserved for a select class of individuals. When dancers such as Anthony Spaulding [African-American Soloist at San Francisco Ballet] are seen on stage portraying typically white roles, they open up the world for younger dancers of color to believe that it is possible to achieve at that level in a world that is so rooted in tradition.”

The same city that boasts leading ballet companies like ABT and NYCB is also home to two of the most historically diverse companies in the ballet world — Dance Theatre of Harlem and Alvin Ailey American Dance Theatre. DTH enjoys a roster of 16 dancers, all of whom are people of color. Ailey — comprised of two companies — features 40 dancers, a majority of whom are also people of

color. These companies evidence the critical and commercial success of integrating the seemingly opposing spheres of diversity and classical ballet.

Nicholas Rose, a member of Dance Theatre of Harlem, sees the company as a trailblazer.

“We are like no other company around,” Rose said. “The legacy of being the first black classical company speaks for itself. We are pioneers of the 21st century, bringing diversity to the people. People love DTH, because the audience knows they are witnessing history in the making.”

Jacoby Pruitt, a member of Ailey 2 — Alvin Ailey American Dance Theatre’s second company — considered it an honor to dance with such a diverse company.

“Ailey’s pioneering mission was to establish an extended cultural community that provides dance performances, training and community programs for all people,” Pruitt said.

With progressive, inclusive companies like DTH and Alvin Ailey and dancers like Copeland at the forefront of ballet, more aspiring

dancers are seeing themselves represented onstage — tiaras, tutus and all. Tisch sophomore Patrick Yeboah attributes the glacial yet growing diversity in the arts to the next generation of students and teachers.

“I think it is the teachers on the smaller scale making the difference, training the dancers of the future who may not fit into these molds,” Yeboah said.

Many companies seem to agree and have started establishing community outreach programs, fellowships and scholarship funds to promote and support the next generation of diverse and talented dancers — ABT's “Project Plie,” Miami City Ballet’s “Ballet Beyond Borders” and “Ballet Bus,” New York City Ballet’s “Beauty of Ballet” and Pacific Northwest Ballet’s “Dance Chance," to name a few. It is in these programs that we will find our swan queens of every color to show that diversity and classical ballet should thrive together as one.

Email Ryan Mikel at entertainment@nyunews.com.

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By RACHEL RUECKER Senior Editor

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s the world grows increasingly aware of intersectional identities, art too is shifting away from binary models for everything from gender to politics, and is no longer satisfied with singular categorization. Theater, at the heart of New York, has seen a shift in form from traditional proscenium musicals and plays — and though those are still widespread, works are springing up that fuse theatre with other mediums.

A softer example of this interplay exists in the fall’s tour-de-force fun of “Oh, Hello” on Broadway. The entire show was built on a skit from comedians Nick Kroll and John Mulaney that grew into something more. It was a glorified late-night bit that got some footing and became a sensation. Funny plays aren’t a new concept, but this was no ordinary funny play. It was two very funny people having an absolute blast onstage with inside jokes, stabs at theatrical convention and a new celebrity guest every night.

In a lot of ways, it shouldn’t have worked, but it really, really did.

Further afield, however, are the even murkier waters of theater — installations and performance art.

Celebrated French-Canadian theater-maker Robert Lepage’s

autobiographical one-man show "887" defied categorization as theater at BAM in March with its use of extraordinary multimedia involvement. The spectacle contributed to the show's narrative of growing up in the linguistically divided Quebec City. Lepage used many props — everything from intricate models of his 887 Murray Ave. childhood home to detail his neighbors, who came alive through projections, to his own phone to take live video of different pieces of the action that were projected for the audience to see.

The production emblematizes not just the kind of theater that Lepage is pioneering, but also a universal shift in what counts as theater.

This fusion of styles is not without bumps in the road. Notably, during Cirque du Soleil’s Broadway debut last spring, New York proved less eager than its Sin City counterpart to welcome the circus with open arms, and the show will close this month. But the attempt was there, and it is important.

Non-traditional theater spaces are also starting to take center stage. St. Ann’s Warehouse, a tobacco warehouse-turned-theater destination for theatregoers and makers alike, recently hosted the conclusion to the Donmar Ware-

house co-production of William Shakespeare's “The Tempest,” which is set at a women’s prison.

The in-the-round production literally locked the audience in, adding impact to the already dripping-with-meaning production.

Meanwhile, the Park Avenue Armory on the Upper East Side “is dedicated to supporting unconventional works in the visual and performing arts that need non-traditional spaces for their full realization, enabling artists to create, students to experience and audiences to consume epic and adventurous presentations that cannot be mounted elsewhere in New York City,” according to its website. Its current mounting of the O’Neill classic “The Hairy Ape” uses this non-traditional space to its full advantage, with a soundscape that surrounds the audience and a set that rolls in conveyor belt style with sterility and impact. Director Richard Jones brought the staging from the United Kingdom. The massive space breeds possibility in its unlikelihood. It seems fitting then that Lepage himself will bring his next work there later this year.

But where would a discussion of testing theatre and its limits be without mention of its not-so-

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distant cousin, performance art?

MoMA defines performance art as “usually [consisting] of four elements: time, space, the performer’s body and a relationship between audience and performer. Traditionally, the work is interdisciplinary, employing some other kind of visual art, video, sound or props.”

Experimentation over stories is the centerfold of this art-form.

There is no better poster-woman for this genre than Marina Abramovic. The Serbian performance artist’s pivotal works have brought the form into popular culture, particularly with her 2010 exhibit “The Artist is Present,” which became the subject of a 2012 documentary of the same name. The exhibit looked back at her work as an artist and was punctuated by the titular piece in which spectators got the opportunity

to sit across from Abramovic and share an exchange. This art relies not on a plot but a concept and shared humanity.

What’s most fascinating about the implementation of multimedia in non-traditional spaces and the cross-pollination of artistic mediums is that though it may feel new, it really isn’t. Concerts are a tried and true tradition that revolve around theatrics and high production value. You don’t go to Lady Gaga just for her — you go to see the spectacle of it all. Her 2017 Super Bowl performance was not just a half-time show but a historical moment, especially given the political climate and the American-ness of football. This all invites a new blending of mediums — which again, really isn’t new at all — art and politics. The possibilities are endless.

Traditional theater will remain present. Arthur Miller’s and Tennessee Williams’ plays won’t die, but the form will evolve. It has to.

Stylistic amalgams are essential to pushing the form forward. Art may imitate life, but in this vital moment, art may have to set the example for life to follow.

Email Rachel Ruecker at rruecker@nyunews.com.

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By BLAIR BEST Staff Writer

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ed velvet ropes loosely hug the bustling line of people outside the theater. The doors have opened and ushers begin checking bags and scanning tickets. Some are tourists who have been waiting outside, working to perfect their New York selfie. Others, decked in expensive clothing, pull up by taxicab, waltz straight into the theater and have just enough time to comfortably read the program before the curtain rises. Some patrons have traveled all the way from New Jersey for their Friday night dates. There are also college students, having just sprinted from the subway station, still carrying their backpacks.

And there will always be that straggling dinner couple who lost track of time after their third glass of wine and find themselves shamefully shimmying through the rows to their seats, though the show began 10 minutes ago.

Current Broadway performer Jonalyn Saxer spoke with Washington Square News about how audiences perceive the shows they watch.

“Whether audiences know it or not, how they are feeling in the moment affects what theater they

choose to see,” Saxer said. “Those feelings are most often driven from what is happening in the world around us. Theater answers either the need to entertain in way of a distraction or immediate happiness, or as a way of engaging in a current cultural issue.”

The audience plays an important role when looking at theater as a form of political discussion or even artistic protest — theater is culture, and culture is inherently political. Associate Director of the NYU Tisch Classical Studio and Dramatic Writing Professor Daniel Spector said politics inherently holds some ties with theater.

“Whoever you represent is going to be put underneath the scrutiny of identity politics,” Spector said.

“Whenever cultural perception is represented on the stage through characters, it is sure to speak to the audience in a political or personal light.”

Current Broadway performer Jeff Heimbrock expressed similar sentiments to Spector’s, and contributed his own thoughts on how people interact with theater.

“The only thing that prevents it from being completely political is the way it is received,” Heimbrock

said. “The collective inhale of a piece of theater is going to affect people in a different way.”

Any given audience is filled with a wide spectrum of people. Where someone grew up, what they do for a living, what language they speak, the color of their hair — even how they got to the theater that evening — influences their shared responses to the performance. “[The audiences’ reactions] depend on who is seeing the theater and what discourse and vocabulary they’re familiar with,” Spector said. “Are they there looking at the politics of representation, or are they there listening to the good tunes and watching some attractive actors onstage?”

There is a silent understanding in the space that lives between the audience and the performers.

This perceptive energy allows the actors to tell a story while completely relinquishing agency to the audience members, thus allowing the audience to shape its own opinions and responses to what it perceives. Whether the crowd is overtly passionate, terribly defensive or utterly unenthusiastic, the overriding political and cultural values they hold will undoubtedly

influence whatever their emotional critiques may be.

“Everyone is going to experience something different based on who you are, but the piece will remain the same,” Heimbrock said. “It’s a conversation really between the piece and the audience that in some ways will make it more political.”

Herein lies the belief that all theater has the ability to be political or act as a form of protest. When it began, the very core of theater was a way for people to respond to political and cultural events in a rhetorical light. For Spector, Shakespeare’s work is a prime example.

“One of the reasons I like directing Shakespeare is [that] it’s a way to not take a stance on a particular matter, and as a director I feel like my job is to get out of the way and to let the material speak for itself and to trust the material to go wherever it goes,” Spector said. “He doesn’t take a stance on whatever’s going on in his plays — in other words, he tends to advocate equally for everyone in his plays. You might say that itself is a political stance.”

The conversations behind Shakespeare’s plays have spanned even

to the present day, because his writing is so truthful and reaches so close to the core of human interaction. Although the political sphere of today differs from Shakespeare’s time, the basis of cultural communication that lives through his plays is still produced.

“Theater — and new theater — only exists as a reaction to culture,” Saxer said. “In both storyline and content as well as the style of music, if people don't feel there is a need for the show in the world, it won't be produced or created.”

The small world of New York City theater acts as a continuous spiral of provocative, fertile material that recurrently blossoms into rich cultural conversation. The conversation is completely at the discretion of the audience. This is the political behavior that theater allows — it gives us a pathway into communication.

“The playwright, the actors, the director — nobody has total control over how their work will be received or reviewed,” Heimbrock said. “This is the great equalizer in theater.”

Email Blair Best at theater@nyunews.com.

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By TRISTEN CALDERON Staff Writer

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he success and acclaim of Marvel’s latest feature film “Logan” is undeniable. In its raw, uninhibited style, “Logan” delivers iconic characters like fans have never seen before. They call it “The Dark Knight” of the Marvel Cinematic Universe. But why was either film so highly acclaimed?

Social issues saturate today's superhero films and characterize the heroes themselves — note the recent controversies surrounding superheroes Iron Fist and America Chavez. People can easily forget that art doesn’t necessitate a political or social statement. Art can exist purely to entertain. This abstention from argument, in effect, delivers its own statement — one that many growing artists could benefit from. The artwork is made by the artist and the artist comes from the society, but the artwork is not made by society. People will always gravitate toward art that is genuine, individualistic and representative of the essence of the artist. Any adaptation will be successful if and only if it captures this personal quality.

Today, the most popular films are those that allow the audience to escape from the monotony and tedium of daily life. People of every age, culture and gender will

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suspend their beliefs of normality in exchange for that possibly lost sense of wonder. Without entirely ignoring social structures, superhero fictions at their core are a source of entertainment. They create liminal worlds for everyday dreamers where the impossible is possible, and that has driven their success for decades. The reality is that Marvel and DC’s blockbusters are becoming the contemporary canon of socially relevant feature films. So it is becoming increasingly imperative for these adaptations to not stray too far from what made their source material so loved, and this is where “Logan” is second-to-none.

Rather than being tasked with saving the world, in “Logan” viewers witness a superhero's — and ultimately a man's — internal struggle as he seeks the will to save others and himself.

More people can understand and empathize with these emotions — they make these intense worlds and characters much more approachable. Though the plot isn’t groundbreaking, the film's character development evokes a kind of nostalgia. Beyond its super elements, there are priceless moments of familial drama, love, loyalty and loss. While some components — primarily the antagonist — felt underdeveloped, they still served a purpose to the entire narrative. In terms of drama, “Logan” has not only succeeded, but it has also set a new standard for the industry.

After 17 years of watching Wolverine’s development, we expect more than a good time — we expect truth and quality, and “Logan” aptly delivers. With an ending and a beginning deserving of our admiration, the film empha-

sizes human obstacles like pubescent attitudes, senility, language barriers, monetary struggles and winding plots. Seeing the indestructible Wolverine face everyday problems as well as his own mortality, we find a vulnerability that has more substance than an endless list of scripted, witty quips.

Wolverine is a shark. By design he is meant to survive, so it’s a special engagement to explore this character’s weaknesses. And what will keep “Logan” at the forefront of many minds is its unique success in capturing the human essence at the core of this tired hero.

Visually-stunning wild plot rides will not stand the test of time. With good filmmaking, how the story is told can be more important than the story itself. Fluid presentation and strong performances are important, but what audiences connect with most is the heart of the artwork. Believable emotion, intention and motivation solidify works like “Logan” and “The Dark Knight” as all-around strong works of art. As fun as Marvel's recent blockbusters have been, the future of superhero films lies in capturing those intimate and personal moments that the comic books are known for. Even 2016’s absurd “Deadpool” shows the appeal of candidness. Geoff Johns,

one of the most powerful comic writers in contemporary fiction, will do DC some good in this area.

Even the ongoing works of Scott Snyder, Benjamin Percy, Dan Slott and Brian Michael Bendis provide ample ammunition to bring an audience in and pull on their heartstrings and mindstrings.

When you walk into a superhero film looking for a social issue to grapple with, you will leave the film contentious and offended.

But honesty and vulnerability speak more to humanity, and they can speak just as loud as any pointed argument. These qualities cannot be forgotten, especially in today’s art. It’s why Frank Millar’s “The Dark Knight Returns” will forever be superior to Nolan’s “The Dark Knight Rises.” Heroes and artists alike don’t have to exist as godlike champions, and “Logan” proves this with utter intelligence. Lifelong fans and newfound followers will appreciate everything this movie has to offer, from its artful bloodshed to its fearless tears. Hugh Jackman’s Wolverine was the perfect protagonist to make this silent statement, and it will hopefully open a new chapter of filmmaking.

Email Tristen Calderon at film@nyunews.com.

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By CARTER GLACE Staff Writer

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t becomes more apparent by the day that Marvel Studios is in unstoppable, perpetual motion. Even in the wake of “Iron Fist” — the studio’s first complete critical failure — focus has already shifted to “Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 2” and “Spider-Man: Homecoming.” Marvel’s multimedia shared universe shows no sign of slowing down at this point with its a massive Venn diagram of films, television, comics and toys all sharing endless hype and profit in the center.

But is this shared universe truly multimedia anymore? Is the Marvel comic universe a Venn diagram, or merely separate circles?

A big epiphany comes in “Jessica Jones,” when a character mentions the Battle of New York — the world-saving battle between the Avengers and Loki’s army. But that battle technically happenedwhen the film was released 2013, and

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“Jessica Jones” came out in 2015.

Between these two years? Ironman saved the President, Captain America exposed Hydra insurgents in S.H.I.E.L.D., London was nearly destroyed by Dark Elves and Pym Industries imploded. Yet the most significant thing that happened in this universe is still the Battle of New York.

This plot neglect becomes especially egregious by “Luke Cage.”

The television series takes pace after the Superhero Civil War in "Captain America: Civil War," but no one wants to mention that Captain America and multiple Avengers are now wanted fugitives for committing treason.

It’s become an open secret that the television and film departments of Marvel Studios are not seeing eye-to-eye, creating a jarring amount of disconnect as the series grow increasingly separated from their franchises. When “Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.” was first announced, audiences were tantalized with the promise of a new television world crossing over and co-existing with the blockbuster films. But while producers, writers and actors play coy with the idea of “The Defenders,” “Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.” and the upcoming “Inhumans” crossing over with “The Avengers” and “Guardians of the Galaxy,” the lengthy

film cycle seems to be preventing television actors from making the leap into cinema.

In an interview at a panel for the Television Critics Association about the release of “Luke Cage,” Marvel TV head Jeph Loeb attributed the difficulty of cross-format interaction to the difference in production schedules.

“Part of the challenge of doing this sort of thing is that the movies are planned out years in advance of what it is that we are doing,” Loeb said. “Television moves at an incredible speed. The other part of the problem is that when you stop and think about it, if I’m shooting a television series and that’s going to go on over a six-month or eightmonth period, how am I going to get Mike [Colter] to be able to go be in a movie? I need Mike to be in a television show.”

A reasonable-sounding argument — but upon further inspection it doesn’t make sense. Given that it would be all in-house, certainly a schedule could be made where various projects are spaced out enough as to not strain any actor — though that would force Marvel to consider not releasing three films a year and show just a bit of restraint. Actors wouldn’t be pulled between Paramount and Universal — it’s all one studio.

Not to mention that stunt doubles and computer-generated imagery could help fill in a lot of the action gaps. And how are the television writers not kept up to speed with the overarching film plans? That wasn’t a problem with “Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.,” where the revelations in “Captain America: Winter Soldier” rolled right into the television show the following week.

Internal studio conflicts also feed the issue. While Marvel would never comment on these reports and rumors, there has been much talk about Marvel’s Creative Committee.

What was the Creative Committee? Devin Faraci of Birth. Movies.

Death. explained that it is a now-defunct team that provided feedback on upcoming Marvel productions.

“It was a group of people who would give notes and thoughts on Marvel productions as they made their way from script to screen.," Faraci said. "Some of the guys on the committee included Alan Fine, who came with [Ike] Perlmutter to Marvel through Toy Biz, Brian Michael Bendis, who is a prolific Marvel Comics writer, Dan Buckley, publisher of Marvel Comics and Joe Quesada, former editor-in-chief of Marvel Comics and the current Chief Creative Officer of Marvel Enterprises.”

Over time, the Committee be-

came infamous for its constant interference in the pettiest of details. Its termination is publicly understood to be primarily because of this nagging involvement.

Are Marvel’s big heads refusing to integrate their various departments out of professional pettiness? No. But it does seem that the headaches created — on top of the complications of coordinating projects — result in a scenario where no one is rushing to make it work.

Actor Anthony Mackie recently commented at Wizard World Cleveland on the Marvel multiverse with his own opinions, saying he didn’t think too much overlap would work.

“Different universes, different worlds, different companies, different designs,” Mackie said. “Kevin Feige is very specific about how he wants the Marvel Universe to be seen in the film world. It wouldn’t work. It wouldn’t work at all.”

But wasn’t the premise of Marvel Studios to bring together different worlds and universes? To take the various separate media circles comic books exist in and combine them?

It can be done. Sure, it’s difficult — nothing about making a shared universe is easy. But someone needs to make that Venn diagram.

Email Carter Glace at entertainment@nyunews.com.

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By CAROLINE ZEMSKY Staff Writer

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ou know that feeling when it’s announced that your favorite book is becoming a movie?

More books than you can imagine have been adapted into movies, and in movies you thought were created from nothing nowadays have a high chance of having been based on books.

There are the ones you know, like all those Nicholas Sparks movies ( becasue who doesn’t love a good ol’ sappy rom-com? ) and franchises like “Harry Potter,” “Twilight” and “The Hunger Games."

But then there are movies you thought were just that — movies.

“Mrs. Doubtfire,” “101 Dalmatians,” “Shrek,” “Forrest Gump” and “Apollo 13” were all movies that were based on books.

There are obviously extreme similarities between fiction and feature, books and film. The same characters, plot and setting are all incorporated. However, soundtracks are added, characters are brought to life and the actors might portray scenes differently than what one might have imagined while reading. This is a major concern throughout the process of adapting books into movies.

The book publishing process is relatively easy. On the other hand, as Jane Friedman points out in her essay “How a Book Becomes a Movie,” producing a film is a

whole other beast.

“The movie-making process is filled with U-turns, dead-ends, and uncertainty,“ Friedman wrote.

A book’s publication works like this: proposal review and approval, contract agreement, writing, production, publication, marketing and release. A movie’s production works similarly. However, authors often don’t have much control over the movie process and instead put their trust in the filmmakers.

First, there’s the pitch. What would be the benefit of this movie? Then comes the contract agreement. All the logistics — budgets, production schedules, who gets ownership and credits and so on — are set forth. Then, there is the development stage.

Screenwriters have to be sought and hired — rarely does the author make their own screenplay. It is not uncommon to have multiple screenwriters in the process because the demands are so heavy.

The film will either be accepted

into production or trashed in the development stage. Production then assumes the responsibility of bringing the film together: the talent, the finance and the marketing.

What is at stake in the adaptation process, though? One of the wonderful things about reading is that everyone can create their own ideas of the characters’ looks, thoughts and interactions. Our minds fill in the empty space that words lend us.

When books make it onto the big screen and the actors don’t meet one’s expectations, the letdown can be crushing.

When casting, producers must consider not only which actors will best embody the characters, but also which actors will draw the most viewers. Actors must use their popularity to attract the largest possible audience while still fulfilling the expectations of the book’s fans. For example, take Emma Watson in the live-action “Beauty and the Beast.” Watson

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is cute, likable and even resembles Disney’s original Belle. Everyone wants to see her on movie screens, and it’s easy to imagine her as your favorite childhood princess.

But this is a huge risk authors are willing to take. Without someone like Watson who can appeal to all expectations of the role, the situation can become controversial. For instance, casting Emma Stone in “Aloha” as an obviously white woman in the role of a native Hawaiian islander created a lot of backlash.

Whitewashing is a huge problem in the film industry. Stone is a popular actress and has a face that will gather a crowd to the theatres, but her casting compromises the film and the story as a whole. But the author unfortunately does not have much say in the matter once under contract.

So should authors risk losing profit at the risk of diminishing the reputation of their creations? Or should they pass up on an opportunity and shut down the option altogether? With movies like the “Harry Potter” and “Twilight” series, it is almost absurd not to take advantage of the book's potential to become a movie. Profits in both of these franchises reached around $100 million within their first weeks.

But a film is less personal than its book — it targets a crowd instead of an individual. The majority of

the audience will be composed of the book’s lovers and experts. Film adaptations always run the risk of being a huge disappointment to their fanbase.

However, movies can still add to their original stories. When readers see their favorite book come to life, it is magic — the viewer is like a kid at Disney World. When actors truly nail the role of the character, there is no better feeling for the audnence. Executing a moviebased-novel well does wonders — for the fans, for the author and for the film industry. The author and franchise will make millions.

Thus, the choice depends on the author’s goals. Do they write for the fame and fortune or for a more enlightening purpose? Do they seek money and worth, or acknowledgment and enjoyment of their work? When executed properly, a movie can gain money, publicity and acclaim. But this process is a hard one and is quite the toss up. Do they risk the reputation of their work in hopes of a whole new kind of success, or do they remain complacent with what they have, with the possibility of missing a huge opportunity? The risk, ultimately, never goes away but neither hard-and-fast rules nor time can predict success.

Email Caroline Zemsky at books@nyunews.com.

11

By SOPHIE BENNETT Staff Writer

F

ilms have been adapted from books since the beginning of the film industry. Reading was the main form of entertainment before film and television, so film adaptation was a natural progression for this very new industry. However, adapting written stories into movies lately is becoming increasingly common compared to years past. Some people look down on this practice — they believe stories from books are meant for the individual’s creative mind, not for an actor to make their own character on screen, while others welcome the idea of a different interpretation of the same material. No matter the opinion, some adaptations to the screen fare better than others do. The question is, what story elements can be adapted into an engaging film?

Some of the most popular adaptations come from young adult novels such as “Twilight,” “The Hunger Games” and “Harry Potter.” There are also series targeted toward older demographics, like “Girl with the Dragon Tattoo” and “Game of Thrones.” These films and TV series’ immediate popularity likely stems from the close

relationship the readers have with the characters. “Harry Potter,” for example, was a series in which readers felt enveloped by the story and the world that J.K. Rowling created. Fans were — and still are, judging by the success of “Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them” — obsessed with the story, wanting as much of it as they can get.

However, this is also a series in which many fans still feel got lost in translation. The books were so detailed and complex that there was no way a screenwriter could capture them all, even if the last book was broken into two films. So much of the stories remains only in the books and the imaginative minds of their readers.

Characters are often adapted in movies to better fit the film and stray away in their descriptions from books. In “Harry Potter,” there are frequent little plot changes throughout the movies that put fans on edge. When — spoiler — Dumbledore is murdered in the “The Half Blood Prince” Harry watches without doing anything. In the book, he doesn’t act, because he is Stupefied. That detail was left out in the movie, which confused

fans of the books and first-time watchers alike. Still, although there were both minor and serious changes in “Harry Potter,” the franchise as a whole is tremendously successful.

On the other hand, there are other series that have been recognized more for their interpretations as movies rather than books. “James Bond” and “Jason Bourne,” both action series, were never able to fully capture their stories’ plots as books. The films brought them to life.

Many people are completely unaware that some of the most famous Hollywood movies have been adapted from books. Classics like “Psycho,” “Dr. Strangelove,” “Breakfast at Tiffany’s” and "The Graduate” were all originally books, but the films became popular and achieved critical acclaim, going on to inspire generations of moviemakers. It is difficult to think of “Psycho” as a book when Alfred Hitchcock’s film was such a significant part of Hollywood history — its radical challenging of censorship and shocking violence stunned audiences.

Some approaches to films are also far more interesting than the novels were. “Fantastic Mr. Fox,”

one of Wes Anderson’s most creative and quirky films, took a completely different approach to the story by using stop-motion animation. The book, classic as it may be, simply does not have the ability to be as engaging in its literary format.

More recently, there have been many adaptations of less popular books. The highly-acclaimed 2015 film “Room” was based off director Emma Donoghue’s novel of the same name. Although the basic story was the same, filmmakers altered the plot in noticeable ways.

They erased characters and extraneous plot lines from the novel to keep the attention on the mother and son protagonists. The extra focus strengthened the apparent bond between the two.

What’s more, “Room”'s soundtrack brought it to a level that a silent book never could have. It’s worth noting that this was also a case where the book did not have the same fanatic following that its adaptation acquired.

“Room” was easily a case in which adapting it to film was one of the smartest choices the author could have made.

The film and entertainment industry is a big part of our so-

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ciety and culture, and it’s not going anywhere. Adapting written stories has brought us many incredible films. Movies like “The Godfather,” “Fight Club,” “Blade Runner,” “Apocalypse Now,” “Silver Linings Playbook,” “Moonlight” and “Hidden Figures” all came first from literature. Although pieces of the stories can be lost in the adapting process, nothing beats a great story on the big screen.

Email Sophie Bennett at film@nyunews.com.

12

By HAILEY NUTHALS Arts Editor

I

t seems like the easiest way to keep a trend alive is to pronounce it dead. For as many times as music videos have been pronounced defunct, they come back in yet bigger and newer ways. Since the era of the Beatles, who produced full-length films like “A Hard Day’s Night” for their album of the same name, to the debut of Michael Jackson’s 1983 “Thriller” music video on the fledgling MTV, music videos have been an experiment. They were promotional materials in many cases, but history has rewarded those who push the boundaries of film into the boundaries of music videos.

“Thriller” shook its audience to the core when it was released. With a budget nearly 10 times what other videos of the time had, its 13-minute run time and narrative plot played

by Hollywood stars, it was miles beyond anything that had been done before. Even today, musicians as prolific as Beyoncé cite “Thriller” as the inspiration for their own boundary-pushing projects. In Yoncé’s case, it was for her eponymous surprise album release in 2013, in which each song was accompanied by a brand-new music video.

Unlike Beyoncé’s 2016 project “Lemonade,” a visual album that has a through-line across the entire film, her self-titled project is a series of intensely personal visual pieces that accompany the songs on the album, giving her fans a clearer glimpse into her mind than they could get with the music alone.

She explained the decision in a set of five videos released in tandem with the project.

“I see music," Beyoncé said. "It's more than just what I hear. When I'm connected to something, I immediately see a visual or a series of images that are tied to a feeling or an emotion, a memory from my childhood, thoughts about life, my dreams or my fantasies. And they're all connected to the music."

Other artists have gone less into the artistic, expressive side of music videos, sticking with the branding and promotional side of the format, while still managing to push its boundaries. Young Thug made headlines with his video earlier this year for “Wyclef Jean” — a $100,000 affair that he never showed up for. The whole video features shots of B-roll that the director Ryan Staake, managed to get without Thugger, paired with

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text where he sardonically explains how the video was made. The video even superimposed dotted outlines of the rapper where he should have been in shots.

The “Wyclef Jean” affair raises eyebrows about celebrity personalities and egos, but when this article was published, the video had more than 21 million views on YouTube when this article was published.

Whether it was a planned stunt or a colossal failure, it definitely wasn’t a flop. After all, his record label representatives still allowed its release. This wasn’t some rogue move that Staake pulled in a surge of vindictive rage.

Then there’s “Lemonade,” its predecessors and the projects it inspired. Short films of all stripes have become — if not a norm — not a

surprise at least within the musical community. Grimes, on her European “AC!D REIGN” tour in 2016, created what W Magazine calls a seven-song “visual mixtape” of videos shot in Europe with her friend and fellow songstress Hana. The duo, along with Grimes’ brother Max Boucher, edited the footage together into “guerrilla-style” videos off her latest album “Art Angels.” The result is dreamy — not narrative but not disjointed, full of silken dresses and castles.

Even Taylor Bennett, Chance the Rapper’s younger and equally talented brother, has hopped on the wagon with his short film “Broad Shoulders.” The project takes songs from his 2015 album of the same name and creates a 13-minute story that strikes all the emo-

tional chords of a feature-length project. Bennett, in an email interview with Noisey, where the film was originally premiered, described his project as an attempt to inspire other artists akin to how he had been inspired.

“I hope that the film inspires other artists to consider what can be possible when it comes to visual content while also opening up fans to a new way of experiencing their work,” Bennett said.

All of this is to say that while MTV is no longer a 24-hour reel of popular music videos and the complaints about our shrinking attention spans will probably never cease, there is never going to be a death of the music video. Its boundaries will continue to push film and other formats.

Whether by legends like Beyoncé with her constant innovation of the form or experimenters like Taylor Bennett and Sampha — who released his own short film with Kahlil Joseph on Apple Music March 31 — music creators will do what they have always done. They will create with every tool they can, and it will be amazing.

Email Hailey Nuthals at hnuthals@nyunews.com.

13

By SATISH REGINALD Contributing Writer

I

t’s 1970, and you’re in a record store stroking through never-ending crates of records lining every aisle. An album’s artwork possesses the ability to either grab consumers’ attention or cause them to continue skimming. Artwork could drastically impact sales, and as a result, album artwork was overtly eye-catching — often utilizing tactics such as bright, shocking and sexualized images. Some covers even became works of art themselves — think the Velvet Underground’s iconic Andy Warhol banana.

But in today’s digital domains, the function of album artwork itself differs. While eye-catching moments are found in publicity stunts and artists are often sexualized in music videos, a consumer likely views an album cover on their smartphone only once they are already listening to the product. It is merely an afterthought.

In lieu of previous pressures to bolster sales, more freedom exists nowadays for album artwork.

2015 marked a shift in the music industry’s landscape when the total revenue from digital consumption surpassed physical retail for the first time. The transition

from physical to digital sales is well-documented, and streaming has most recently affected a wide array of aspects of the industry.

However, in today’s digital domains, one paradigm shift often unnoticed is how album cover art has changed alongside the shift in format preference.

Consider the evolution of Drake’s cover art. Some may perceive 2016’s “Views,” a miniscule image of Drake perched on the CN Tower, as bland and complacent. However, here he has freed himself from selling his looks as he did on his 2010 debut “Thank Me Later,” which depicted his cleancut face. On “Best I Ever Had,” a single from a mixtape prior to the release, he even rapped “I could probably sell a blank disk / when my album drop [women] will buy it for the picture.”

Furthermore, the shift from physical to digital has allowed cover art to be branded far less obviously.

Now, it’s 1990, and you’re combing through bottomless shelves of CDs. If you couldn't figure out what an album was, you would likely glaze over it. In this way, including an artist’s name and the title of their work was almost a foregone conclusion.

Today, however, when viewing an album on most digital music applications, an artist’s name and the title of their work are already listed elsewhere on the interface.

Including the information on the artwork becomes redundant. As a result, it has become increasingly popular for album artwork to not incorporate the information at all, allowing artists to use the entire space more freely. In fact, out of the four best-selling albums of 2016 — Drake’s “Views,” Adele’s “25,” Beyonce’s “Lemonade” and Rihanna’s “Anti” — none of their covers contain the respective artists’ names, and only “Lemonade” contains the title. However, this change does not come without possible drawbacks, and certain traditions may fade as artists find more and more creative ways to incorporate text into art, such as the Beatles did in their 1967 release of “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band.”

Perhaps the album artwork that utilized its newfound freedom the most — or perhaps the least — was that of Kanye West’s 2013 release “Yeezus.” The album shipped to physical retail in a clear case with no artwork at all. And even though

the digital artwork is now simply a photograph of his artless product, it has become artwork in its own right. West’s creative director Virgil Abloh explained in an interview with XXL magazine that “it represented the death of a CD. It’s an open casket for a format of music we were raised off of.”

Like the rest of the world, the music industry is changing drastically to adapt to technological change, and many major artists are leading the musical transformation by redefining industry standards. Kanye West's latest album "The Life of Pablo" was continually updated in the months following the physical album's release to demonstrate "a living breathing changing creative expression." And Drake's most recent originals were simply released as a playlist. These prominent precedents challenge and alter the very concept of an album.

Subsequently, so does album artwork. Does the cover of “Views” positively illustrate Drake’s newfound freedom to use artwork to depict his albums’ concepts rather than selling his looks? Or does it negatively illustrate how today’s covers' lack of impact on commercial performance has led to more boring and complacent artworks?

Was the art for “Yeezus” — or lack thereof — a brilliant ode to CDs, which showcased the beauty and universal familiarity of the reflecting aluminum-encased polycarbonate plastic? Or was he just too lazy to find actual artwork?

Like all art, the answers to these questions are subjective. Nevertheless, it is certainly intriguing to see how album artwork will further evolve alongside both music and technology in the years to come. Now it's the twenty-teens, as you're scrolling through Spotify albums — and you're not sure what to look for.

Email Satish Reginald at music@nyunews.com.

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14

By ZUZIA CZEMIER-WOLONCIEJ Contributing Writer

D

ocumentary films are finally experiencing a revival of interest. The widespread popularity of Ava DuVernay’s “13th” and Ezra Edelman’s “O.J. Made in America” alongside the success of more unconventional documentaries like “Cameraperson” and “Life, Animated” in last year’s festival circuit demonstrate that non-fiction films can be as captivating as — if not more captivating than — fictional narratives. Perhaps it is due to the alarming rise of uncertainty in facts that permeates popular media that audiences seek a less fictional representation of their respective realities.

At the same time, the rigid distinction between documentary and fiction as opposing genres seems to persist in popular opinion — this division is more economic than structural. It’s hard to imagine producers and distributors successfully promoting a film as unclassifiable or somewhere in between — except among the tight avant-garde circles. But documentaries are not only for the enthusiasts of the weird, unobvious or non-didactic — addressing expectations of genre becomes important in the act of spectatorship.

As documentaries increasingly engage all types of viewers, it seems relevant to ask once again what kind of filmmaking it is, or rather what it is not.

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If fiction is an imaginative narrative and nonfiction is a series of evidential claims, then the latter appears more factually accurate. From this angle, we expect documentaries to be entirely non-fictional.

But nothing could be more misleading. In fact, the dichotomy between fiction and nonfiction predates documentary filmmaking by far — it can be traced as far back as 1855 when during the Crimean War, Roger Fenton shot two photographs of The Valley of the Shadow of Death. The photograph Fenton exhibited to the public showed cannon balls scattered across a road, but another photo on his reel depicted the road partly cleared. Debate blew up over which photo was taken first and if Fenton altered the landscape, begging the question of whether his photograph was historically valid.

The most intriguing answers support Fenton's possible alteration, arguing that by doing so, he gave a more forceful depiction of the ongoing war — without detracting from factual accuracy.

Centuries later, documentaries

still tread this delicate path but are disputed with even greater impact.

In “The Thin Blue Line,” filmmaker Errol Morris famously showed that imaginative re-enactments can service truth more than a purely observational approach. Morris’ investigation into the shooting of a Dallas police officer involved milkshakes flying in slow motion and interviews with bizarre non-participants, yet it still proved the main suspect innocent, counter to the prosecutor’s ill-researched verdict.

The social and political consequences of re-enactments are similarly made evident in Joshua Oppenheimer’s “The Act of Killing,” in which two perpetrators of mass executions in Indonesia took pride in rehearsing and staging glamorous versions of their crimes.

Oppenheimer’s perversely lush account of history gives the only proper insight into the corrupting appeal of brutality and fame that motivated the killings. By acknowledging the real-world impact of these two films, we can see that documentaries need not rely on objective evidence — they can tell true stories through cleverly-constructed narratives and various emotive techniques.

The most accurate distinction between fiction and documentary narratives lies then in the latter’s quest for truth. Errol Morris commented on “the verite in cinema” in an article for The Boston Globe.

“No art form can give us truth on a

silver platter,” Morris said. “But [documentary] can present evidence in such a way that we can think about what is true and what is false.”

Here truth becomes both a quest and a broad category. A filmmaker can strive for emotional truth, factual truth or epistemic origins of a given subject. This is why employing fiction is not simply a dramatic strategy. The overlap between drama and testimony allows us to better understand our relationship to truth and reality, as it is always filtered and skewed through subjective perspectives.

What’s exciting about current documentaries is that they celebrate an ever more creative approach to truth-seeking. For example, “Actor Martinez” and last year’s “Kate Plays Christine” look at identity creation by having actors play themselves, while also attempting to perform a role. Raoul Peck’s widely acclaimed “I’m Not Your Negro” mixes an overwhelming amount of pop culture and historical footage, past and present, to transpose James Baldwin’s reality of the 1960s onto today.

Counter to conventional wisdom, such hybridity should feel natural.

After all, fiction is an integral part of our daily lives. In the era of ubiquitous social media, we are constantly creating our own narratives and fashioning our identities. This doesn’t always have to detract from our sense of truth — the selectivity and the performance are in themselves signifiers of how we understand facts.

Yet the attitude toward genre

tends to be less imaginative. Documentary still connotes facticity.

Given that we satisfy our own needs for a particular lens or filter on a daily basis, why are we surprised when a filmmaker toys with narrative in documentary to transport us into someone else’s reality?

On one hand, we’re no longer allowed to suspend disbelief as we would do in “Christine,” the film account of real-life journalist Christine Chubbuck. On the other, we have to reject the naive notion that what happens onscreen in “Kate Plays Christine” is what in fact happened on set. The truth is found somewhere in between.

If our expectations are at least in part what determine genre, then by easing the insistence on didactic form we can widen the space for hybrid filmmaking. Filmmaking that has a better chance of addressing the nature of facts and the ethics of storytelling — an especially pertinent quest now that alternative facts and the aesthetics of reality television seep into our politics.

So whether you're watching the straightforward “13th,” or the unsettlingly entertaining “Making a Murderer,” keep in mind the filmmaker’s freedom to bridge and overlap material. Done well, it will not result in a blurring of facts but in a merging of worlds — past and present, local and global, private and public.

Email Zuzia Czemier-Wolonciej at film@nyunews.com.

15

By DANIELLA NICHINSON Staff Writer

I

n the 1930s, going to the movies meant donning your best evening attire — gowns , tuxes, the works. Even the theaters themselves were lavish, decorated with red velvet seats and gold-encrusted details. In the latter half of the 20th century, movie theaters evolved into a more commonplace attraction but remained still a prominent part of American life.

And people now are abandoning theaters for their cellphone screens and laptops. It seems reasonable: why leave the comfort of your own home, when almost any film you can imagine is right at your fingertips?

Especially with the almost ubiquitous Netflix, watching a movie is easier than ever before.

In February, it was announced that Netflix had acquired the rights to Martin Scorsese’s upcoming film “The Irishman,” starring Al Pacino and Robert De Niro. Had it been any other filmmaker, this would not have come as such a shock. Scorsese, however, has consistently been a proponent of the movie theater experience. In an interview at British Film Institute Southbank, he argued that “even watching a film at home on a big-screen TV, there is

still stuff around the room. There’s a phone that rings. People go by. It is not the best way.” Netflix and other streaming services like Amazon had never been considered major contenders against Hollywood studios and movie theaters until recently.

But with its constant release of original films and expansive library of old ones, Netflix seems to be the ideal medium for watching films whenever and wherever.

The streaming platform had more than 86 million subscribers in 2016 Many American households use this platform. What began as an updated, more efficient Blockbuster has transformed into its own unique Hollywood studio. When Netflix’s first original series “House of Cards” premiered, it established the streaming service as a competitor for such premium channels as HBO and Showtime. Since then, Netflix has moved to creating original films and has garnered numerous Golden Globe nominations. Netflix has now essentially replaced film, if it has not placed itself atop the same pedestal. Its success with producing original content not only threatens the cinema industry but also poses a potential problem for film as a

whole: has Netflix become the preferred medium for serious artistry?

On the surface, Netflix is a fantastic tool for broadening one’s knowledge of cinema and experiencing a beloved art form. It’s accessible and allows more people — who can’t always go to a theater — to watch films. Netflix is on many levels equivalent to the original ideas behind filmmaking: tell a story and unite an audience. What it lacks, however, is the genuine and unparalleled experience of seeing a film in its traditional form.

To respect a movie as art and to appreciate the arduous process

of filmmaking, you should see the film in a theater. Everything about a film is planned around the expectation that an audience will watch it on the big screen — the immensity of it, the grandeur, can easily be lost in translation when a film is adapted into a format that is more than 100 times more compressed than a theater screen. “Lawrence of Arabia,” a classic film that has cemented its place in cinema history since its 1962 release, is an epic masterpiece. It relies on and revolves around the deep expanses of the desert — a setting that also acts as one of the film’s most for-

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midable antagonists. The audience in a theater feels consumed by the heaps of sand and senses the heat of the sun burning their skin. However, the enormity of the desert is lost on the viewer on a laptop.

It’s not a sin to watch a film on a laptop or a television, because there are not many movies available at a theater at any given time.

However, it is undoubtedly true that viewers will have a tremendously better experience if they watch a film in the medium it was originally created for.

Unfortunately, a smartphone, a laptop or even a television cannot recreate the sensations of going to the cinema. A film isn’t just supposed to evoke a mental reaction, but also a physical one, and sometimes, that physical reaction can only be felt when the images are viewed on a vast screen. As technology continues to advance and spread throughout society, art will still persist. While Netflix will continue to rise and likely gain more subscribers, film and the cinema will not be left behind.

Email Daniella Nichinson at film@nyunews.com.

16

By HAILEY NUTHALS Arts Editor

L

eslie Jamison’s essay “The Devil’s Bait” explores the world of Morgellons disease — a medically unofficial diagnosis for a condition that can manifest itself in many symptoms including inexplicable pain, the sensation of formication or insects crawling across one’s skin and fatigue. The one symptom all the diagnosed share, however, is the appearance of fibers protruding from one’s skin. The fibers come in many colors — red, white, blue, black, transparent — and always without explanation.

Mary Leitao coined the name Morgellons as she searched for help for her son, who was afflicted with sores on his lips, formication and the appearance of fibers. Leitao was originally told that her son likely had another controversial condition — Munchausen syndrome by proxy. Undeterred, she insisted that was not the case. She eventually built a community of others affected by the condition, adopting the nickname “Morgies.” In 2006, The New York Times profiled the

condition in an article titled “Is It Disease or Delusion?” The Center for Disease Control was prompted to investigate butconcluded nothing of note. Soon after, an annual conference in Texas formed to support those who believed the disease was valid.

“The Charles E. Holman Foundation started putting together an annual Morgellons conference in Austin for patients, researchers, and health-care providers — basically, anyone who gave a damn,” Jamison wrote in her essay. “The conference offers Morgies refuge from a world that generally refuses to accept their account of why they suffer.”

Jamison’s essay does not make any overt call for attention to Morgellons disease or how it can be treated. It instead muses over the question of what it takes for pain to be recognized and for illness to be taken seriously.

In writing “The Devil’s Bait,” Jamison follows a long line of writers and artists who have used their crafts to tackle different health concerns. Whether it is mental or physical, art is a form of visual or

sonic expression and communication — and it has the knack for expressing and communicating what has been neglected outside of creative outlets. Art is most effective when its audience feels a connection — for the artist or for the artist’s subject. Healthcare, too, requires empathy for patients — the very desire to treat illness and pain is that empathy, and many people believe that more empathetic healthcare providers provide better care for their patients.

In 1991, Tony Kushner published his play “Angels In America,” a heart-wrenching account of two gay lovers, one of whom has just been diagnosed with AIDS. While the victim’s partner tries coping with the news, the world falls apart, dancing between a world of angels and one of relative demons. The play came 10 years after what is now considered the beginning of the AIDS crisis in the United States. These days, ads urging citizens to #PlaySure, part of the campaign to help distribute and encourage use of the newly developed PrEP pill that helps prevent the HIV virus that leads to

AIDS, plaster the subways of New York. Smiling faces of all races, ages and genders reassure New Yorkers that all is well as long as they play safe. As of 2012, an estimated 1.3 million people are living with HIV infection.

Ariel Levy, a columnist and journalist at the New Yorker, is currently promoting her recent memoir, “The Rules Do Not Apply.” The book is an account of her miscarriage and the events surrounding it. Levy wrote it because she felt she owed it to all the women of the world, who inevitably have some sort of drama around their reproductive capacity. During a reading at The Strand last week, she commented on her intentions while writing the book.

“I knew what I wanted the art to be,” Levy said. “I knew what I wanted the point to be. I didn’t think it was a cautionary tale, because a cautionary tale is ‘be careful or you could end up like me.’

And I love my life.”

Even when it comes to something as simple as expressing heartache in countless songs about breakups or recounting the

experiences of the traumatized in spoken-word poetry, health and art are inextricably entwined.

And this, I believe, is how it should be. When arguments serve only to alienate opponents, when open letters only serve to make legislators defensive, when people feel too depressed to even attempt to explain their emotions to their friends — art can communicate.

Everyone can tell that “Hello” is a sad song, even if they weren’t the ones who got dumped by Adele’s ex. Pablo Picasso’s “Guernica” is tragic, even if viewers don’t know the history of the Spanish Civil War. “Hamilton” brings audiences as disparate as Vice President Mike Pence to revel in the brotherhood of American history.

Art allows those who cannot possibly converse about their illnesses to speak. It allows those who cannot or are not listening to hear. It is the copper wires through which empathy flows — electric and powerful — lighting up entire worlds with its strength.

Email Hailey Nuthals at hnuthals@nyunews.com.

17

By GRACE HALIO Editor-at-Large

I

want to start by making it clear that I am writing this piece because I am learning, unlearning, reading and educating myself. And in doing that, I have recognized a great deal about the intersection of art and action and that activism is the easiest descriptor for action, but not quite the most explicable action itself.

If you are involved in rallies, protests or marches, consider — are you just showing up? Or are you contributing something more than a tweet, a poster or your presence? It is easy to call yourself an activist, but it is more difficult to be accountable for your actions.

When that march ends, are you walking away from the issue entirely? What is the implication of your participation?

Constructing unity is nearly impossible without creating some kind of oppression and power hierarchy. Gallatin professor Amin Husain is an artist and a founding member of several collectives — Global Ultra Luxury Faction, Tidal: Occupy Theory, Occupy Strategy and MTL — that combine organizing and art to effect social change.

“The distinction between activism and organizing is really important,” Husain said. “One is accountable, and the other isn't. The

specialization is where the kind of counterinsurgency is — in the sense that you're actually creating divisions in the process.”

Tweeting a hashtag for a cause has been typified as slacktivism, but at the core the action is the commitment to raising consciousness. It ultimately avoids confronting power structures, despite the fact that spreading information is obviously necessary for education.

“Once you leave your Women's March, what's next?” artist as organizer and one of the key organizers of the exhibit “Decolonize This Place” Marz Saffore said.

“And that's the difference — that's where the organizer comes in. Organizers work beyond the public performance of unity.”

“Decolonize This Place” aimed to use the politics of “decolonization is not a metaphor” as a framework where the exhibit could fit together five concepts that centered on internal and external colonization. In September 2016, DTP transformed Artists Space, a Tribeca gallery, into a “de-occupied” space that promoted action on issues such as indigenous struggle, black liberation, Free Palestine, global wage workers and de-gentrification.

DTP broke into the gallery

schema and works to upend traditional capitalism-driven ideology.

“Capital is power — power fixes ideology in language,” Husain said. “That leads to the exclusion of many different forms of art coming from many different communities.”

DTP aimed to change this by putting the art world in the same conversation as decolonization.

“So, specifically addressing the fact that although we're artists, and we're so forgiving and understanding, we're still a major part of the problem,” Saffore said.

For proof of effective organizing on a smaller scale that hits closer to home, look no further than the Barney Building at 34 Stuyvesant St. A collaborative action in Steinhardt’s Department of Art and Art Professions brought DTP to NYU’s campus in the form of DEPT. Saffore and Steinhardt junior Olivia Chou, two organizers of DEPT., addressed neoliberalism and Eurocentrism within Steinhardt. “[These] structures promote white masculinity and tokenize or erase the experiences of marginalized students,” Chou said. “DEPT.’s work has been focused on reimagining what these spaces would be if decolonized, and creating spaces where folks of color can exist.”

Politics in the art world can be a politics of guilt — when an artist engages with issues from a distance, their guilt doesn’t challenge anything. Art movements come to fruition in changing sociopolitical climates and can manifest themselves in a number of ways.

“There are specific art practices dedicated to social change such as ‘social practice,’ ‘institutional critique’ and ‘protest art.’” Chou said.

DEPT. consciously avoids falling into one of the first two practices, because those categorizations are oppressive and marginalizing — the former because it tends to fall under slacktivism and the latter because it comes from the traditional colonial hierarchy of power that DEPT. is looking to decolonize.

“Often, the artists who practice in those fields come from a place of privilege that they don’t take into consideration,” Chou said.

Art can mean different things to different people. Think about how art measures up to you, and how you measure up to it.

“In other words, who defines art?” Husain said. “You define it.

This is what art 'is' — [it is] based on your concerns and issues, right?”

So what is the next step? How do you take activism and turn it into something productive and ef-

ficient and conscious?

Start with research. Look at the history of your neighborhood and your street if you’ve recently moved. Consider displacement and gentrification — no matter where in the five boroughs you are. Get to know who lives and works there, look for pre-existing organizing groups in your community, and you’ll be able to figure out who is on the ground and what you can bring to them.

“Your mentality should never be that of ‘I have all this privilege, I can really go help out and make a difference,’” Saffore said. “That kind of actually bursts the non-hierarchical idea at the seams.”

Articulating the antiquated nature of activism makes it easier to identify organizing as a productive means toward what Husain refers to as “a shared horizon of liberation.” The term “art activism” slips from our mouths easily, because it is a vague, simple smushing together of words that puts aesthetics and action in the same breath — but what is missing? Accountability. And accountability is up to the individual in the ways they act and identify themselves.

Email Grace Halio at arts@nyunews.com.

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