Post- 11/02/17

NOV 02 – VOL 20 – ISSUE 8

In this issue...

Suburbia, Shops, and Sororities

3

Editor’s Note

FEATURES

Dear Readers,

Dead Time

3

– Anna Harvey

RISD Eat the World

4

– Matthias Matsui

5 LIFESTYLE Sorority Shambles

5

– Anonymous

Conversations with

6

Myself

In honor of her upcoming sixth studio album, Reputation, Post- is dedicating the November 16 issue to Swift.

Titled after her lead single, “Look What You Made Us Do” will cover Swift’s transition away from country, question her feminist credentials, and, of course, review the new album. In debating whether the world’s biggest popstar can break new ground, we will also highlight the efforts of Brown’s music media (WBRU and B-Side) to adjust to technological and audience changes.

So are you...ready for it?

Josh

section editor

– Sonya Bui

7

From the haunted history of the Biltmore Hotel to the scary-bad new George Clooney movie, Suburbicon, Post- is struggling to leave Halloween behind this week.

But, as you read this week’s issue, shake it off and brush away the teardrops on your guitar: Taylor Swift is coming.

ARTS & CULTURE Somewhere That’s Green

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– James Feinberg

Disaster in ‘50s Dreamland

7

– Zander KIm

New Beginnings – Chantal Marauta

8

This Time in Ages Past...

Hot Post- Time Machine “Why can’t my life be like an episode of Friends?”

— Chantal Marauta, Why Can’t My Life Be Like an Episode of Friends 11.05.2015 “Likewise, I can only spend so many Fridays eating chicken fingers at the V-Dub before I start questioning my life desicions and my commitment to keeping off freshman fifteen.”

— Anna Cheng, Food and Feelings 11.11.2016

Post- Staff Editor-in-Chief Saanya Jain

Creative Director Grace Yoon

Features Managing Editor Jennifer Osborne

Head of Media Claribel Wu

Lifestyle Managing Editor Annabelle Woodward

Features Editors Anita Sheih Kathy Luo

Arts & Culture Managing Editor Joshua Lu Head Illustrator Doris Liou Copy Chief Alicia DeVos Layout Chief Livia Mucciolo

Lifestyle Editors Amanda Ngo Marly Toledano Divya Santhanam Arts & Culture Editors Celina Sun Josh Wartel Copy Editor Zander Kim

Layout Assistants Eojin Choi Julia Kim Gabriela Gil

Natalie Andrews Sonya Bui Sydney Lo Veronica Espaillat

Media Assistant Samantha Haigood

Staff Illustrators Caroline Hu Erica Lewis Harim Choi Kira Widjaja Nayeon (Michelle) Woo

Staff Writers Andrew Liu Anna Harvey Catherine Turner Chantal Marauta Chen Ye Claire Kim-Narita Daniella Balarezo Dianara Rivera Eliza Cain Emma Lopez Jack Brook Karya Sezener

Cover Illustrator Caroline Hu

Dead Time Haunted Happenings at the Biltmore Hotel

L

ocated on 11 Dorrance Street in the heart of downtown Providence, the Biltmore Hotel is most recognizable by its neon red sign.

On many an evening drive back to College Hill from T.F. Green Airport, I’ve seen the flickering crimson glow as a beacon of sorts, a herald of home.

Streetside, the Biltmore is refined, a Beaux Arts-style building designed by the same company responsible for Grand Central Terminal in New York City. It’s not hard to imagine the mayors, debutantes, and industrial magnates who twirled in its ballrooms in its first resplendent decades. Yet, there is something odd about the Biltmore, the neon sign bringing a bit of roadside diner amidst the regality. Despite (or sometimes because of ) its respectable clientele, the Biltmore has been embroiled in a variety of debauched activities throughout its history. Some say the remnants of those participants quite literally stalk the halls. In other words, the Biltmore Hotel is haunted.

Given the circumstances surrounding its construction, it actually isn’t too surprising that the Biltmore’s history has included the supernatural.

Though ostensibly just one in a series of Bowman-Biltmore chain hotels across the country, the Providence Biltmore only got off the ground due to the generosity of Johan Leisse Weisskopf, a known Satanist. Weisskopf financed the hotel in 1918 with the underlying goal of familiarizing stuffy New Englanders with the joys and extravagances of his religion. He had chicken coops installed on the roof to maintain a steady supply of birds for weekly sacrifices and dug hot springs in the basement for purification rituals. He hired a team of nude waitresses, naming them the Bacchante Girls after the Biltmore’s dining room, and hosted bacchanalian parties attended by the likes of Louis Armstrong and F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald.

Weisskopf ’s religious leanings, however eccentric, were not the primary reason the Puritan progeny of Rhode Island viewed the Biltmore warily. Modern day Satanists have claimed that Weiskopf ’s elaborate rituals kept spirits at bay, and allegations of haunting only appeared after the authorities intervened to “clean the place up,” dismantling the chicken

coops, forbidding blood sacrifices, and boarding up the basement springs. It was, rather, Weisskopf ’s connection to the mob that gave the Biltmore a bad name. (Indeed, this association has endured through the decades: Former Providence mayor and convicted felon Buddy Cianci saved the hotel from demolition in 1979.) The hotel’s heyday was during Prohibition, and Rhode Island’s notoriously lax interpretation of the liquor ban allowed the Biltmore’s basement to function as a speakeasy. Men of the government and law bypassed the 25-cent drink fee, and the collaboration between those breaking the rules and those intended to enforce them set off a chain of

a falling male body hurtle past their windows. When they rush to the balcony to look, however, no body materializes on the street below. He remains unknowable, mirage-like, a spectral presence vanishing before the eye can register it was ever there. *** Despite its spooky legacy, the Biltmore receives mostly positive reviews on TripAdvisor. Its “excellent” ratings—of which there are 666— overwhelmingly praise its sleeping arrangements, with multiple reports indicating that the beds alone warrant a return visit. That said, several visitors report ghostly activity interfering with their sleep. User Lori K.,

strange events. Between 1920 and 1933, six police officers were implicated in eight murders that took place within the Biltmore’s walls. A governor (accused of six sexual assaults and one murder), a mayor (one murder), and a cardinal (the drowning of an 11-yearold prostitute in a bathtub) were also involved. Each of the victims’ ghosts is now said to haunt the hotel, and raucous parties, complete with clinking glasses and foot-stomping dancing, are said to be heard between midnight and 2 a.m., the period paranormal experts call “dead time.”

Though plenty of 20th-century luminaries visited the hotel, the most famous ghost is that of an unnamed financier who was staying at the Biltmore when the stock market crashed on October 24, 1929. Upon hearing the news, he was so devastated that he leapt from his window on the 14th floor, plummeting to his death. His spirit does not haunt only his room or his floor: Guests staying in rooms on lower floors have reported seeing

from Stratford, Connecticut, describes feeling a soft padding motion around her pillowed head, “like a dog slowly stepping,” before the being jumped off and proceeded to scrabble about the bathroom floor. The incident woke her boyfriend, who is now “no longer a skeptic.” Similar stories abound on more underground forums, with ghostsofprovidence.blogspot.com being one of the most comprehensive.

The comments section under the 2009 entry on the Biltmore is one of the most active on the website, with past and prospective visitors sharing their experiences and anticipations. User Sarita Moldovan reports waking at 1:15 a.m. after feeling pressure on her eyes, and again at 3 a.m., struggling to breathe under the weight of “what felt like a man pressing down on me.”

User cheezmuffin describes an actual sighting—inspired by rumors of ghostly activity on the 16th floor, they went up to investigate, heard loud giggling, at which point, cheezmuffin says, “I SWEAR I saw a ghost whizz by.”

Another user named CAL points to the abundance of YouTube videos showing doors slamming and curtains fluttering as evidence of paranormal activity.

CAL also offers a story—while attending an alums conference at Alpert Medical School, CAL awoke between 2 and 3 a.m. to find the TV turned to full volume, all of the windows fully open with the curtains billowing, and the shower running. “No one could have entered the room while I was asleep,” CAL says, because “the latch bolt was engaged.” In the morning, the front desk confirmed that similar situations have happened to other guests.

Other commenters are more skeptical. Jorge F. calls the anecdotes “all a crock” and Rachael declares the claims are “absolutely and totally fraudulent,” saying she’ll bet five dollars that the writer of the article is either an employee of the hotel looking to drum up business or someone who works for ghost hunting shows wanting to film “random ghost specials” at the Biltmore. The most compelling evidence against supernatural activity, however, might come from the-new-zero: “Brought cult robes, candles, inverted crosses, and pentagram leather arm gauntlets...and NOTHING. Total rip.”

Regardless of whether you believe in spirits, nude dance parties, or chicken sacrifice, the Biltmore is an undeniably intriguing part of Providence lore. Some may consider it a historical landmark, as the 1977 board of the National Register of Historic Places did. Others may say it’s a place for artistic inspiration (word on the street is that Stephen King used it as the basis for the Overlook Hotel in The Shining, though the man himself assigns that honor to the Stanley Hotel in Estes Park, Colorado.) All I know is that, walking under its heated lamps on a cuttingly windy night, the Biltmore enveloped me with something.

Curiosity, maybe, or unconscious longing for a mattress nicer than my Twin XL, or nostalgia for a time I’d never known. Or maybe it was just the ghosts.

Anna Harvey staff writer

Michelle Woo

staff illustr ator

“Each of the victims’ ghosts is now said to haunt the hotel, and raucous parties, complete with clinking glasses and foot-stomping dancing, are said to be heard between midnight and 2 a.m., the period paranormal experts call ‘dead time’.”

RISD Eat the World

I

t was a perfect day to be outside.

The houses that line Benefit Street served as a channel for the autumn breeze. In harmonious fashion, the trees swayed to the rhythm of the wind. The late afternoon sun, determined to make its presence known, used its remaining rays to penetrate the coverage of the trees, highlighting the evergreen tops with a yellow tinge.

The light also managed to seep through the loose arrangement of clouds acting as a canopy for the blue sky, breaking through the cracks and crevices of the buildings to create sharp white edges.

The event that many people on College Hill were thrilled to participate in was finally here: Eat the World.

The rhythm of a large ensemble of taiko drums resonated throughout Benefit Street. The colorful array of the different flags that lined the street livened the surrounding brick structures. As the ocean of people who came to surround the taiko drumming finally dispersed at the end of the performance, the hosts of Eat the World warmly welcomed everyone.

Eat the World is an annual gathering organized and led by members of the RISD Global Initiative, a student group that promotes global citizenship through collaboration with clubs and organizations. Eat the World is one of the school’s most anticipated food events. This year, groups representing 24 different countries, ranging from Jordan to South Korea, teamed up with RISD’s dining services to sell foods that represent some of their countries’ culinary delights. In addition to the many dishes that would satiate anyone’s palate, student performances displayed aspects of their culture as well. Too busy appreciating the intricacies of the environment, I realized I was late to my

4

Celebrating Culture Through Food

shift at the Hong Kong Students Association’s food stall.

Scurrying through the wide street, I managed to find the right stall neatly arranged within an array of tables and banners. The Hong Kong Students Association was tasked with selling two popular Hong Kong-style street foods: egg waffles and curry fish balls.

One person was busy with the delicate process of spreading batter over the waffle maker. The sugary scent permeated throughout the stall, causing many onlookers and passersby to turn their noses towards us. The curry fish balls had been cooked prior to the start of the event, but they remained warm underneath a foil wrapping. As the designated curry fish ball distributor, I was quickly put to work as curious faces poked into

variety of cultures represented in the event. The father chuckled as the eager girl scarfed down her curry fish balls, licking her lips in a display of satisfaction. The father was more patient with his food, taking longer to relish the savory curry sauce. He looked slightly disappointed as he finished licking the remaining drops of sauce from the bag and asked me if he could have some more. I gladly obliged. After the girl and her father finished eating their food, they hurried over to watch the Hindi singing performance.

Talking about your culture can be hard, especially if you are interacting with people you have just met. Navigating the stories of other cultures and backgrounds can be overwhelming and hard to absorb in a short amount

“One member of the crowd explained that had it not been for this event, he never would have discovered the sweet taste of Jordanian baklava, or the savory smell of Canadian poutine.” the stall to ask for food. The waffles were admittedly far more popular than the curry fish balls—some people explained that they had previously tried egg waffle at a dessert shop, and they were more than willing to try it again.

Regardless of people’s familiarity with egg waffles, Eat the World managed to bring together people from different places. In one instance, an inquisitive young girl came up to the Hong Kong food stall to ask if she could buy both of our dishes. Her father explained that his family had come to Eat the World last year and had been impressed by the

of time. These interactions are made easier through food, the tangible representation of one’s culture becoming easier to appreciate and (literally) digest. Eat the World engages people in celebrating the diversity of cultures in Providence through food. One member of the crowd explained that had it not been for this event, he never would have discovered the sweet taste of Jordanian baklava, or the savory smell of Canadian poutine. Cross-cultural exchange was not restricted to participants of the event. As I tried to encourage people to sample some Hong Kong dishes, I

became increasingly interested in the other food stalls around me. I discovered a newfound taste for japchae, a South Korean dish made from stir fried glass noodles and packed with both flavor and texture. I saw many leaders of cultural clubs offering their home country’s food in exchange for another country’s dish. Such events are necessary in order to celebrate the diversity of backgrounds that exist within Providence.

As I helped load the boxes of trays, pots, and pans into the RISD dining service truck after the afternoon wound down, I was amazed by the success of the event. Hundreds of people crowded Benefit Street during the event’s peak hours. The successful coordination of the event had allowed for stall organizers to proudly display aspects of their cultures, and the many different kinds of food provided a productive and enjoyable way to engage in cross-culture exchange. The afternoon of culinary indulgence had other benefits as well.

As people ate dishes at the food stalls, they frequently inquired about ways in which they could learn more about the various countries represented in the event. Some people at the Hong Kong food stall asked me if I could point them to more ways in which they could learn about Hong Kong’s culture, which they had found so appealing. As I prepared for an impending food coma, I became increasingly excited about next year’s Eat the World and the continuation of cultural celebration.

Matthias Matsui

contributing writer

Lisa Fasol

illustr ator

5

Sorority Shambles

T

here’s a reason why it took me a long to tell this story, albeit still anonymously.

I can’t help but think of the students who’d be naively charmed by the glammedup sorority dorm interiors and the primped ladies. I know I was.

When rushing, I would hear time and again that Brown’s Greek life was far more low-key than that of chapters in other institutions, and that was an appeal itself—but perhaps a misleading one.

“Oh, it’s so manageable, and we’re very accommodating about your schedule and needs,” they said, nodding and smiling tightly. Only a year later, when it was my turn to recruit, I’d learn that this was just one of the many scripts a national representative would instruct us to recite line by line, despite our sorority’s oft-repeated mantra of “being our true selves.” My stomach churned realizing how sickeningly performative the recruitment was, if not the sorority in its entirety.

Being a member of any organization naturally comes with responsibilities. I’m not saying sororities shouldn’t be able to make demands of their members. Rather, I’m pointing out that this aspect of sisterhood often gets sugarcoated during recruitment so as to not dissuade potential new members. You can only find out the “catch” once you’re in, but once in, it’s incredibly difficult to get out mainly due to the social consequences.

As soon as I was accepted into the sorority, something felt off. I couldn’t help but feel that no matter how hard I tried to reach out, how dedicated and engaged I was, members had little interest in hanging out with me past the mandatory meetings.

At first, I attributed my fellow sorority members’ indifference to the fact that they were understandably exhausted from the long hours of recruitment and the series of mandatory lunch dates with new members that were soon to follow. Maybe they just had a lot of work that had been put off for the sake of sorority obligations. Yet I’d hear laughter and animated voices reverberating through the walls and find myself wondering how it was possible that I felt so isolated in my room within the sorority-designated dormitory that I was committed to live in for the rest of the year. *** After that year, I decided to take some time off from school. But already, I was having some thoughts of leaving the organization. Two weeks before I moved out, I sat down with my Little at the Starbucks on Thayer, apologetically admitting that even if I returned to school, that may not necessarily entail returning to the sorority.

While I was away, I connected with some Brown alums in my town who were also my sorority sisters. Awkwardly enough, I’d introduce myself and immediately retract by saying, “But actually, I’m going to leave our organization—.” While I didn’t quite fit in or feel fulfilled, I still feared losing all of the connections I had cultivated, however few.

I would ask the alum sisters, “Did you ever think about leaving?”

They’d stare wide-eyed and fumble for a bit before saying that, yes, they’d had thoughts of leaving many times, that it

My Greek Experience

didn’t take long for them to discern the negative aspects of the sorority and become disillusioned. I would ask again, what made them stay in spite of those reasons to leave. They had little consolation to offer, usually mumbling, “And then, well, what d’you know, time flew and I was graduating anyways.”

I wasn’t sure if last year had gone fast enough and how much longer I’d have to wait. I was still left in the dark, grappling with whether staying in a sorority unhappy was better than having nothing at all. *** I officially resigned mid-January, about three weeks after my return to Providence.

Since November, I had tried to get ahold of the relevant student-executive officers about my membership in tandem with my return to school. While expressing my thoughts on leaving, I was asking for some adjustments to my membership requirements as a way for me to stay—namely, being excused from recruitment for primarily academic reasons.

After being bounced around from one person to another, I sought to speak with the very student in charge of formal recruitment.

Contrary to what I had been previously informed, she said that regardless of what membership accommodation I had requested and been granted for the semester, it had no impact on my obligation to participate in recruitment. If I missed it, I would be charged $45 per day.

Upon hearing this, I became hysterical and demanding answers. She snapped and retorted that while she “sympathized” with me as a student, she was obligated to follow the bylaws which don’t allow any current members to be excused from recruitment.

She added that the sorority had already made too many exceptions for me and that they couldn’t keep bending the rules. It wouldn’t be fair to the other members.

Something about the way she angrily expressed herself, with irritated, furrowed brows and rapid hand gestures, really made me realize: They’d never truly empathize with me, nor would I ever be happy if I continued staying there. I was only an unnecessary burden to them. They didn’t care, they didn’t want me there.

That Wednesday night, I returned to my room and immediately crawled into my bed and wept. Thoughts of my insignificance and unwantedness swarmed my mind.

The next day, I sought a different student-executive officer to tell about my decision. Many times I couldn’t help but break into tears. It was astounding how composed and happy I had been since returning to Providence—peacefully enjoying RISD’s Wintersession. Two days after Brown resumed, I had back-to-back breakdowns.

And that’s the thing—it took me almost a year to regain my energy, my health.

It was extremely alarming how this sorority business started triggering unwanted emotions, behaviors, and states of mind.

And let’s be real—if I didn’t resign then, I would have spent the rest of my time at Brown stressing over whether I should resign. Staying in the sorority at this point

for me was a non-action. It was time to change that.

And no, it was not just about getting extra free time over that single recruitment weekend. It was about recognizing that what was supposed to be enjoyable and fulfilling was in fact a major source of stress that I couldn’t bear anymore.

It would be an understatement to say that the sorority left an indelible mark on my Brown experience. Even the process of resigning turned messy, as much as I would’ve liked to have disappeared seamlessly and silently.

As sorority members, we are told (verbally, in meetings or conversations) that dues can be paid in 3–4 installations throughout a given semester, which left us with the impression that, if we decided to leave, we wouldn’t be obligated to pay whatever dues remained.

It was not until the day I went to sign the resignation document that I saw the citation of approximately $250 that I still owed for the remainder of the semester.

Upon demanding why, I was told by the national representative that all of this information was clearly stated in the bylaws, and she added condescendingly that I should act like a more accountable adult, better aware of the policies of the organizations I join, whether by reading the bylaws myself or asking the student officers for the relevant information.

Such a blow knocked me over. On my end, I was cognizant of the many emails I’d sent since November, the many times I was instead directed from one uncaring person to the next, all the while told that the matter could wait until the start of the semester.

No other woman stood up for me in this regard, not pointing out that I had been in communication in advance. Not only that, but even the very few women I managed to stay friends with post-resignation and to whom I disclosed my situation would stare back in horror, claiming that they themselves were unaware of such policies—yet no one ventured to step in and help. Was it because I was not one of them anymore?

Words can’t describe how betrayed I felt. The only way I can rationalize their silence and apathy is to believe that they were chained by these bureaucratic rigidities, like puppets who actually couldn’t do anything for me even if they wanted to.

They were bound to a greater system that prevented them from expressing their compassion to anyone that did not subscribe to this toxic group mindset.

But to stand my ground and continu-

ously refuse to pay would make me equally culpable of upholding that same toxic structure. Somebody had to take the hit, and I was outnumbered anyway. I gave in.

After a phone call with my parents, embarrassingly informing them of the situation and asking for their support—financial and emotional—I agreed to pay.

In the midst of these conversations and protocol debates, I’d run into my then-sisters in and around the campus; at Gala, where some would slur and bemoan how much they missed me, but only the next day, back on campus, would give me a single glance before turning their heads away.

For almost a year, I could not walk across the Main Green without the acute anxiety of crossing paths with any former sorority sisters and getting the cold shoulder—pretending to not notice or know me, as if we’re complete strangers. So much for “once a sister, always a sister,” another sugary axiom turned to dust. Not that they should continue doting on me and pretending that nothing happened. It was—is—an uncomfortable situation that no one can fully ignore.

Which leaves me wondering, what is left of the Greek life experience that makes it special, that makes it worth paying those monthly or semesterly dues?

I’m sure that other Greek life members were able to find the answer to these questions; the fact that I didn’t might just be a reflection of my own rotten luck.

But the repercussions that I’ve had to suffer, the acute anxiety I’ve developed, spatially and socially, the bridges burned— all seem too much for one person to bear just because they wre not “the fit” for Greek life. Moreover, it’s not just about “the fit” but about the ways that a member, current or former, can end up being a victim of the lack of transparency, manipulativeness, and the inefficient structures of communication and delegation in a given chapter and beyond. And, most importantly, it’s how these problems can drastically and negatively alter the peer-to-peer dynamics—leaving a nasty scar on a student’s overall college experience.

Anonymous writer

Linda Liu

illustr ator

Conversations with Myself

55 Days and Counting

[1]

times it drizzles. sometimes it pours.

a couple minutes to 5 a.m. you find yourself staring blankly at your laptop screen.

anything but the overbearing tropical sun, remember? it’s behind you. happy now?

55 days and counting.

one time you considered putting on a scarf, but ended up throwing it back in your closet. scarves have never been your thing, though they’re your mother’s staples.

you can count the number of times you’ve called home on one hand. you haven’t spent enough time with snippets and trickles of thoughts in your head. you hang out with them wrapped around your neck, hovering above your shoulders to keep you company. go make more friends, perhaps?

6

at this point you can no longer read her messages in her voice.

[2] “even sweetness can scratch the throat, grandma said, so stir the sugar well.” - ocean vuong

it’s been chilly in providence. some-

there’s so much chocolate in everything.

stop, and it gets scary.

two months into college, and you can recall the taste of chocolate just by thinking about it. yikes.

is four years a long time? or is it just enough to get used to something or someone before you part ways and move on with your lives?

ever tasted anything so sweet it dries your throat and makes you want to throw up?

[4] faint laughter erupts in the distance.

late-night air tastes sweet jammed in your lungs so you feast on it. you breathe and breathe and breathe and breathe and breathe until you’re exhausted.

evade the noises and go be happy instead. what is happiness?

“...thus nourishment defined by extinction.” - ocean vuong

you don’t define it. you feel it, and don’t think about the moment it stops.

in contrast, being jammed among throngs of people and people and people and people and people and people tastes cheap.

silence rings the loudest.

[5] tap water is clean, which is great.

[3] others tell you there’s still so much time to figure things out and you’re only half convinced. which makes it all right if your mind is always late for its trains.

everything else, though, needs to be filtered.

Sonya Bui

staff writer

Diana Hong illustr ator

sometimes the express trains never

Somewhere That’s Green

A

s a musical, Howard Ashman and Alan Menken’s 1982 Little Shop of Horrors is near flawless. Infused with a spirit of anarchic, savage irony, and drawn from Roger Corman’s original 1960 film, it fires on all cylinders primarily because of its perfect score: an early-’60s blend of doo-wop, bubble-gum pop, and rock-and-roll.

The original production ran for five years Off-Broadway. In the midst of that period, Frank Oz directed the 1986 cult classic film adaptation of the same name and brought along Ashman as screenwriter and, perhaps more importantly, Ellen Greene as star. Among critics, the film was a smashing success—and rightly so.

Why, then, did it underwhelm at the box office and suffer through torturous cuts and reshoots that to this day leave at least three versions of the picture extant?

Providence audiences had a new chance to consider this question when the director’s cut of the film, first seen by public audiences in 2012 and now receiving its first limited theatrical release, screened at Providence Place Cinemas on October 29 and 30. Marketing Little Shop as a Halloween story is iffy; the story of the vast alien Venus flytrap who preys

Reflections on Frank Oz’s Little Shop of Horrors

on a Skid Row florist’s assistant is an allegory for capitalist soul-selling, a fully American theme appropriate at any time of the year. But whatever the season, the screening provides ample opportunity to reflect on Oz’s remarkable talents as a filmmaker.

Shot entirely on the vast soundstages of London’s Pinewood Studios, with its ability to conjure a self-contained and fantastical world, Little Shop rivals the greatest films of the golden age of movie musicals. In throwing himself into the musical’s generous helpings of camp, Oz finds a visual style that is every bit as satisfying as the show’s most electrifying numbers (which are most of them).

A sweetly closing bedroom door in a fantasy of suburban life transitions to the flipped page of the Better Homes and Gardens magazine that inspired the illusion; a crane shot of downtrodden citizens in the number “Skid Row (Downtown)” concludes with the dancers snapping their faces downward so that the scene ends in a sea of shadow; and in shot after shot, the Motown girl-group (Tichina Arnold, Tisha Campbell, and Michelle Weeks) that constitutes this story’s Greek chorus keeps popping up in the least expected places. Oz’s passion for puppetry is the kind of trait that

could wear on a film like this one, but the versatility of execution evident in the various puppets representing the flytrap, Audrey II (Levi Stubbs), redeems what could otherwise be somewhat self-conscious quirkiness.

Ashman’s impact as a screenwriter, too, is keenly felt. His only three stage musicals were all based on existing works, and his talent for adaptation, his capacity to transcend

part Off-Broadway, singlehandedly inventing Audrey’s kewpie-doll sweetness, and proves, in the film, to be one of those rare actors who can truly be said to have been born to play a particular role. But Oz would have to pull some kind of miracle to match the thrill encapsulated in just the list of guest-stars who cannonball into the film throughout—John Candy, Jim Belushi, Christopher Guest,

“But just as the original theatrical release’s ending felt false in its Tim Burton-esque portrait of an only-slightly -happy ending, so here is something lost from stage to screen.” medium, keeps the story going even when Oz loses the thread slightly in the last quarter of the film. Yes, the lag is especially evident in the restored director’s cut, which is truer to the musical and much stronger dramatically than the version released in theaters, but this version forces itself to narrow its focus only to Rick Moranis and Ellen Greene’s Seymour and Audrey. They’re wonderful—especially Greene, who originated the

Bill Murray, and, most significantly, Steve Martin, in what is unquestionably the greatest performance of his career. His role as a sadistic dentist is certainly the only occasion that the wildness of his stand-up persona has been effectively translated to film.

He functions as a microcosm for the film insofar as the darkness of his character can never truly wash away the overwhelming charm exuded by every frame.

7 Except for the restored ending, that is. The intended final sequence to Little Shop, based on the stage musical’s finale, “Finale Ultimo— Don’t Feed the Plants,” is an extended depiction of the fiery end of the world as alien plants wreak havoc on cities across the globe. It’s a bravura piece of filmmaking, unafraid about wallowing in the tangibility of the human race’s demise, and the visual effects are uniformly great. But just as the original theatrical release’s ending felt false in its Tim Burton-esque portrait of an only-slightly-happy ending, so here is something lost from stage to screen. In the musical, our heroes sing “Don’t Feed the Plants” from inside the plant, having been swallowed, digested, and turned into flower pods in its ever-increasing vegetative bulk. In the film, the song is intoned by disembodied voices, and we lose our last look at the characters we’ve so quickly grown to love.

It’s telling that, despite everything, what’s stayed with audiences

across the years is Moranis’s nebbishy stammering, Greene’s terrific belt, Martin’s pouting hair flip, and, of course, Levi Stubbs’s warbling as that “Mean Green Mother from Outer

Disaster in ‘50s Dreamland

G

eorge Clooney is a prolific actor and a respected director who, since his first film behind the camera in 2002, the well-received Confessions of a Dangerous Mind, has directed exactly one film every three years. Clooney is assuredly quite selective with his projects, which makes his newest release, Suburbicon, a film about a picture-perfect white American suburb, his most puzzling project yet.

The cliches begin early in Suburbicon, with a fairy tale leatherbound book opening as a narrator introduces us to the local town of Suburbicon in 1950s America, where everyone knows everyone, nothing goes wrong, and everyone works a nine-to-five job happily in a stable economy. Oh, and the town is all white.

In this model town reside the Lodges. Matt Damon plays Gardner,

Space.” Little Shop’s innovation has always been visual, but its staying power is in its characters. They’ll be in our collective unconscious for 31 more years—and beyond.

James Feinberg staff writer

Seo Jung Shin

staff illustr ator

Suburbicon is Suburbibad

who works at an unspecified office during the day and lives at home with his wife, Rose (Julianne Moore), and his son, Nicky (Noah Jupe). They live in a square house with a square lawn like everyone else, copied and pasted in the editing room—the model family of a model town. They are the family you see in brochures, the grinning faces you see plastered on the sides of ice cream trucks. Suburbicon is a beautiful, carefree town with beautiful, carefree people.

The residents’ lives and well-beings are turned upside down, however, when the Mayers, a black family of three, move into one of the homes.

Smiles quickly fade, and voices hush among the townies. As picket fences are constructed around their lawns and the racist citizens turn into mobs, the Mayers stand their ground and defend their right to live wherever they please.

The narrative quickly switches from a racism plotline back to the Lodge family when two men from the mob invade their home. These strangers not only rob Gardner but commit murder as well, leaving the rest of the home’s occupants in a state of shock and mourning. And then the rest gets messy, boring viewers with far-reaching schemes and unjustified actions.

The film is a parody of itself, and by the time Oscar Isaac enters as a caricature of a wacky insurance agent, the film is all but unsalvageable, leaving the audience unsure how to react. The scenes with Isaac are refreshing, as he fully commits to being the original quirky character. With his high-pitched

voice and good-cop, bad-cop routine while investigating some insurance claims, Isaac shows us a glimpse into the film’s potential. But alas, we are continually disappointed with every twist.

Written by Clooney with Grant Heslov and the Coen brothers, Suburbicon features filmmaking styles that clearly clash, oozing an awkward blend of Clooney’s well-meaning, fun nature and the Coen brothers’ offbeat, violent humor. Not only is the pacing of the film off, but the scenes themselves struggle with what style they want. Whether interrogation scenes are meant to be funny or serious is unclear, and they fail to bring the characters to life the way Isaac does. The dialogue is too slow to be funny, and the music is too overdramatic for the visuals, which include visual comedy that hits harder, if at all, in the trailer than in the movie.

Suburbicon’s character development, like Suburbicon itself, is surface level and essentially nonexistent. No character is given a backstory, and even Matt Damon can’t play a convincing lead. No character’s motivations are justified, and for a film that’s focused so much on racism, it would have been nice to see the Mayers, whose mere presence causes a main conflict in the story, get more than 10 lines.

Instead, the Mayers are subjected to cheap and lazy racist encounters—ones we’ve seen or heard countless times in film, but with nothing original added.

The Mayers’ storyline also takes on a completely separate arc than that of the Lodge family, making the Mayers seem

almost like an afterthought that adds not-so-subtle race commentary to an uninspired crime flick.

The suburb itself is intriguing but never returned to, despite its potential to be a creative component in an otherwise confusing, unemotional story.

There are, however, some nice elements. The production design is strong, and some shots look nice, particularly in Clooney’s office. But other than that, Suburbicon feels unfinished—the Coen brothers originally wrote the plotline in the ’80s—and like a project that was revived just because Clooney felt like reviving it. Unfortunately, Clooney’s influence on the film does not seem to benefit it, and we’re better off forgetting these towns exist.

Release | 27 October, 2017 (US) Genre | Crime, Drama, Mystery Director | George Clooney Writers | Joel Coen, Ethan Coen, George Clooney, Grant Heslov Main Cast | Matt Damon, Julianne Moore, Oscar Isaac, Noah Jupe Rating / Runtime | R / 1h 44m Personal Rating | 4.0/10

Zander Kim copy editor

Kira Widjaja

staff illustr ator

New Beginnings

L

eaving my friends behind for a year to go and study abroad was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.

After two years of getting to know a group of incredible people and forming an amazing family around me, I now had to leave it all behind and start fresh. The thing that killed me the most was that for an entire year, I was going to miss out on not only large milestones in my friends’ lives (and they in mine), but also the little things— sitting together in the SciLi basement at 1 a.m., crying over midterms; catching the midnight showings of random movies at Providence Place Mall; and going on donut runs on Sunday mornings, head pounding from the four hours of sleep we’d enjoyed the night before.

The first month of being away from all of that was hard. I watched as my friends filtered into Providence one by one at the end of the summer, grouping together, going on Starbucks runs, and having wine and movie nights in their brand new apartment. Of course, they sent me Snaps and messaged me frequently to let me know that they hadn’t forgotten about me, and I appreciated it to no end. But at the same time, a nagging feeling inside told me that I was missing out on simple yet meaningful moments that I would never be able to make up.

The first week at Oxford was quite challenging. When I went clubbing, I’d hear songs that my friends and I used to listen to, and I’d get so sad. I’d come back home to my single room every evening and miss seeing my equally-stressed roommate.

I’d miss talking to—and freaking screaming with—her into the early hours of the morning. I’d miss being able to just wander into my housemates’ rooms to get a hug when I was feeling down. After two whole years, I was once more thrown into the lion’s den of talking to complete strangers and trying to build a home in which I could be comfortable and thrive.

But then, gradually, something happened. Little by little, I made connections around me and formed a stable routine.

I had the most random conversations— about politics, religion, and love—with strangers who then became my friends, and in their own small ways, they enabled me to see things in a different light.

As soon as I stopped comparing every-

8

And Why Sometimes They’re the Best Thing thing—and everyone—in Oxford to Providence, I started to remember how lucky I am to be here. This is a city teeming with history, the place where C.S. Lewis, J.R.R. Tolkien, and Lewis Carroll brainstormed and wrote some of English literature’s most iconic works, and where in 1141, Empress Matilda escaped her captors by climbing down St. George’s tower in a white bed sheet and running for her life across a freezing lake. This is a place of revolution, of discovery, of creativity, of heartbreak, of stress, and of laughter. Being in the midst of these phenomenal minds, and walking alongside the ghosts of hundreds of years of academic prestige and cultural revolution, is an indescribable feeling.

Yes, the workload is not ideal. I live between my desk and the Radcliffe Camera (“Radcam”), the History Faculty Library that also happens to be the iconic dome in every Oxford logo and postcard. Every single day, I spend hours and hours reading, preparing an essay, stressing about presenting said essay at my tutorial, and then starting the process all over again. There are no “rest days.” The phrase “it’s not a sprint, but a marathon” has never felt more real. At the same time, however, the college bar serves pretty decent cocktails, and every night of the week there is some form of club night or other where my new friends and I dance the night away to Top 40 bangers from the last decade and a half (seriously, I somehow managed to jam to “Get Busy” by Sean Paul and “Galway Girl” by Ed Sheeran on the same night). We’re all stressed, and we all work so incredibly hard to prove to ourselves that we can do what we think is impossible and actually be good at it. Yet, we play hard and make sure to drag each other out and have fun.

I’m aware that my study abroad experience is different from most. I can’t travel every weekend because I’m stuck in the library preparing an essay and presentation.

While most study abroad experiences are fun with a sprinkle of academics, Oxford is pretty much academics with a sprinkle of fun. But the fact that my peers and I stress in solidarity has helped us bond, and I live for the nights when, after a long day of studying, we chill in the pub, get drunk on beers, and have really deep conversations about life.

It’s only been a month, but I feel like

I’ve been here for so much longer. For that, I am grateful. I didn’t realize just how much I needed to be here, in a new place with (mostly) new people and a life that didn’t remind me of the stresses and insecurities I felt my freshman and sophomore years. Helping the first-years navigate the topsy-turvy world of college has helped me mature and, for the first time, take on the role of mentor and big sister. Meanwhile, chilling with the second- and third-years who don’t seem to be as stressed with the job search as people back home has helped me take a step back and stop worrying so darn much. And, most excitingly, I’m lucky enough to have my childhood best friend— my Facebook wife of six years—studying at one of the colleges near mine, which has made the transition so much easier.

Living away from an environment I thought I couldn’t live without has ironically done me worlds of good. That’s not to say anything against the places and people I’ve temporarily left behind, because they continue to be a huge part of my life and my heart that I will no doubt cherish forever. But being in a different environment has allowed me to see myself, and the world

around me, in a different light. A breath of fresh air can clear your mind, and in many ways, this new beginning has done just that.

So as the days go on and each stress is replaced by a new one, I’m starting to realize that happiness is not the absence of worry. Instead, it is rooted in being sure enough of yourself to know that you can get through it all, and it is letting yourself have faith in those around you. By seeing the good in them, and knowing that they will help me if I’m only brave enough to ask, I remember that I am not facing this new adventure alone.

This new beginning has helped me grow, live in the moment, and for the first time in forever, appreciate the inexplicable, ever-exciting beauty of the present.

Chantal Marauta staff writer

Lillian Xie

illustr ator

It’s November and National Novel Writers Month is here...

Ideas for NaNoWriMo 1 What it’s like to be Donald Trump’s son 2 Your life, but with magic 3 A historical event, but with magic 4 Coming of age 5 The afterlife 6 Intersectionality

“Tiredness is a mentality!”

7 Satire, Jane Austen style, but about hipsters 8 Dystopian Ratty 9 One Direction fanfiction 10 Winds of Winter (Come on, George R. R. Martin)

“I kn than ow more se the p irate a shanti es a cap ella.”