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upfront

contents

editor's note Dear Readers,

upfront

Perhaps this is a bit unexpected coming from the Editor-inChief of an arts magazine, but I am always a bit skeptical about the magnitude of the impact of most works of art. Don’t get me wrong: I believe that TV shows and novels and plays and sculptures and performance displays where we light sugar cubes and Barbies on fire (as well as all the other kinds of art I’ve left out) are all important. I just don’t know if, on a regular basis, art changes lives as much as penicillin or indoor plumbing.

But let’s set aside the merits of art relative to other human endeavors for a bit (and let’s also not split too many hairs about what art is right now). I do think that the impacts of art are often underestimated simply because they are hard to isolate. (Just look at the impact of telenovelas on fertility in Brazil. Spoiler: they lowered the fertility rate.)

That’s why it excites me a bit to see genuinely strange (or at least fringe) works come to mainstream attention, from post-apocalyptic “Simpsons” re-enactments to wounded female sociopaths.

features 3 • escape rooms

Claribel Wu 4 • a romantic notion

Halley McArn

lifestyle

Best,

Yidi

4 • “other-wordly”

ClaribelWu 5 • phishing

Jonathan Rubins 8 • aches and pains

Natalie Fondriest

arts & culture 6 • reading fantasy

Gabrielle Hick 6 • nordic noir Emma Murray 7 • a portrait of a (ma)lady Devika Girish

staff

Editor-in-Chief Yidi Wu Managing Editor of Arts & Culture Abby Muller Managing Editor of Features Monica Chin

Arts & Culture Editors Liz Studlick Mollie Forman Features Editors Lauren Sukin Halley McArn

Managing Editor of Lifestyle Cissy Yu

Lifestyle Editors Rebecca Ellis Claire Sapan Corinne Sejourne

Managing Editor of Online Amy Andrews

Creative Director Grace Yoon

Copy Chiefs Alicia DeVos Serif Sheriffs Logan Dreher Kate Webb Head Illustratrix Katie Cafaro Staff Writers Sara Al-Salem Tushar Bhargava Katherine Chavez Loren Dowd

Rebecca Forman Joseph Frankel Devika Girish Gabrielle Hick Lucia Iglesias Anne-Marie Kommers Joshua Lu Ameer Malik Aubrey McDonough Caitlin Meuser Emma Murray Spencer Roth-Rose Ryan Walsh Joshua Wartel Claribel Wu

Staff Illustrators Alice Cao Peter Herrara Jason Hu Beverly Johnson Jenice Kim Emma Margulies Michelle Ng Mary O’Connor Emily Reif Yoo Jin Shin

Cover Katie Cafaro

upfront

3

escape rooms thinking outside the box by locking yourself into one CLARIBEL WU staff writer 385 South Main Street. That was the address on the Escape Rhode Island website and the address that we put into our Uber app, but when we pulled up beside a dimly lit, rickety-looking building, I had some doubts. There was nobody in the area, and after our driver left, the street settled into a discomforting stillness.

My boyfriend had come to visit me from California, and I wanted to make sure that we had a fantastic time here in Providence over spring break. Thus, I was inspired to look up “escape rooms near me.” If you’re unfamiliar with the concept of an escape room, according to Escape Rhode Island’s website, it is a “cooperative, real-life mystery space where nothing is as it seems. You and your team are trapped; you have 60 minutes to escape a room by solving a series of puzzles that will challenge your mind and confound your senses. Explore, adapt, work together, think creatively–– and you just might succeed.”

It seemed that our experience with perplexity began even before we entered the actual room. It wasn’t until we spotted an obscure black sign with a white key on it that we realized we were at the right place. With hesitation, we entered the building and followed a series of signs up the stairs and into the quaint space of their headquarters.

After a 10 minute introduction to the rules of the game, we were led into our room, titled “Ex Machina.” The following is the official description: “During a recent renovation project in our building, a secret room was discovered littered with old mechanical contraptions. Their purposes are unknown, and there is a mysterious vault door that no one can open. What secrets are inside? And who doesn’t want us to get in?”

Three other, older strangers––two men and one woman––were going to be on our team, and with conviction they introduced themselves as experienced escapists; apparently they had set multiple records across the nation. Meanwhile, we were two inexperienced first-timers who were out to have a good time.

The coordinator guided us through a portentous hallway lit with a pink neon light into a small room decorated with a mid-19th century aesthetic. Copper tubes protruded from the walls, and a huge door equipped with various contraptions and gears stood beside the real door. The one-hour timer started as soon as the door closed, and with that the game began.

Without revealing too much, I can confirm that it was very interactive, seeming to pull out all the stops, with lights flashing, objects falling from above, musical aspects, locks, hidden messages, improvisation, magnets, alarms, and algorithms. At first, I felt didn’t know where and what to even start on. There were so many puzzles and locked boxes around

the room, and everyone seemed engaged already. I talked with the other woman in the room, and we eventually figured out one of the puzzles. From there, we took what we got from that puzzle and figured out a way to unlock the next one.

The whole team helped each other out when anyone was stuck on a particular problem, and it was satisfying to solve two mysteries by bringing them together. There was one man who warned us that he was prone to “taking over.” He solved one of the biggest puzzles, which we uncoded and used to open a lock, but he remained fixated on it and was convinced that he had not fully figured it out. He spent the whole time on that one puzzle, and I think that we might have had a greater success if he was less adamant.

I observed that the other two were easygoing, and not at all the cut-throat escapists I had expected. They seemed to seek us for help pretty often, and I appreciated the camaraderie and shared frustration that we had when we could not figure out certain discombobulations. Sometimes, everyone would be certain that this object was supposed to open that other object or this code was meant for that lock. There were times when we would have to abandon those conceptions, which would eventually lead us to the actual solution. This is something that definitely relates to our everyday struggles with conflict and how the answers to our problems are not always apparent or expected.

We got decently close to figuring our way out by the time the clock ran out, but we unfortunately did not escape. In our defense, “Ex Machina” has a 12 percent success rate, and the record time is 50 minutes. If you are looking for something that will really challenge you, this is the best option. It challenged even our team members, who usually expect to at least escape the room if not set a record.

If you are seeking the pleasure of actually escaping, perhaps the other two rooms would be better. “The Study” can have up to six players. This is the story line: “You and your team of secret agents have broken into the mansion of a reclusive billionaire, where many of your fellow agents have gone missing. You have 60 minutes to find out what secrets he is hiding, learn what happened to your fellow agents, and escape before he returns . . .”

The coordinator described this room as a classic favorite. It has a 21 percent success rate, and the record time is 34 minutes and 22 seconds.

If you’re looking for something in between the two extremes, The Gallery is the room for you. It can have up to 10 players and is a bit more difficult than “The Study,” but easier than “Ex Machina.” The basis of this one is described: “A locally famous artist and critic has suddenly gone missing. You rush to her

studio to investigate. Can you find clues to her disappearance and escape before the police arrive to take over the investigation?”

The success rate is 15 percent for this room, but the record time is 39 minutes and 10 seconds.

The Escape experience isn’t for everyone, of course. It is a test of your ingenuity, patience, collaborative capacity, and efficiency. It is, in some sense, a recipe for frustration if you enter with a narrow mentality. Be willing to confront challenges, think flexibly, and expect that success will not come immediately.

However, if this is appealing to you, I definitely recommend trying it at least once in your lifetime. It tests your boundaries in a more visceral way than online escape games can, and you definitely gain something from working with other people in this unconventional context. There was an interesting dynamic in my team, and I think both I and my boyfriend started off feeling intimidated by our “experienced” companions.

I realized that in this room, though,

we were each vital to the ultimate goal of escaping despite our varying backgrounds. It is an incredibly validating feeling to struggle with a puzzle, solve it, and figure out how it fits into the big picture of what the whole group is working toward.

In the brief hour I spent locked in an unfamiliar room with other strangers, I think I built some character. Of course, this would also be really fun to do with a room full of your friends or family. Most of the time, we stay inside of our comfort zone, because it is the convenient thing to do. Spend one of your regular Thursday, Friday, or weekend nights at Escape RI, and you might see a different side of the people you know, or even a different side of yourself.

Sometimes, to think outside the box, you have to lock yourself in and find the key out.

For more information, visit www.escaperhodeisland.com/about.

Illustration by Corinne Sejourne

4

features

a romantic notion

holding on to the starry-eyed imagination

HALLEY MCARN features section editor Alone, Annie—a somber Meg Ryan— looks down on New York City from the observation deck of the Empire State Building.

Her body seems to sigh into the metal fence that keeps her from the ground below. Sam isn’t coming. She should go home.

But finally, a young Tom Hanks emerges from the elevator, walking out into the world he had only imagined until now—one with Annie in it. There is an infinite moment between the two. It is visibly tortured and longing in the oppressive silence of the nighttime sky deck, all the while placidly content in its breathlessness. Sam utters: “We better go.”

No, my body screams. You can’t just leave, Sam! After all this time, Sam: It’s Annie. Annie is the one. Annie’s body heaves again, gently accepting disappointment for a second time that night. She smiles a sad, yet knowing smile. This is goodbye.

But then: Sam lifts out his hand to her.

“Shall we?” My eyes well up. Go with him, Annie. She looks into herself for a moment.

And then she lifts her hand and firmly places it into his. Their hands lock together in place. I am sobbing at the end of “Sleepless in Seattle,” for probably the 25th time or so, as Sam and Annie’s content silhouettes fade into rolling credits.

As I sit here, blubbering at some impossible, and undoubtedly sexist, romantic fantasy, I realize that I cannot deny it anymore: I am a blatant romantic nerd. However cringeworthy, backwards, and irritating this description is, it is a component of me that is here to stay, for a while at least. The fantasy provided by romantic comedies, Sarah Dessen novels, and Taylor Swift ballads is frighteningly present in my mind, day in

and day out. I am the girl who sees a cute boy and instantly pictures our future life together (three dogs and a quaint brownstone in Brooklyn). One meaningless glance from a guy while I walk down the street and I am convinced of his attraction for me. My brain can’t seem to shake a constant momentum to derive romantic meaning in my life. And each frustrating, recycled romantic thought that crosses my mind each day serves as a reminder of a recently made-conscious fact: I am very uncomfortable with the idea of being alone.

But I am alone, at least in the traditional, romantic sense of the word. Sure, I do find happy moments of singledom in which I can’t find a reason to truly need a significant other in my life. Sometimes, there’s a freedom to it. But then there are the times when it is harder. There are the awkward hookups initiated solely with the purpose of evading inevitable loneliness. There are the constant mind games about self-esteem, not to mention the challenge of acting like an emotionless blob without greater romantic aspirations for herself. There is the endless questioning of if I even deserve to be with someone else—if I’m even capable of it.

The ups and downs are hard to track, and their unpredictability is a source of anxiety. I am the first to acknowledge that this mindset is in no way healthy or something to aspire to. I do not claim some sort of breathless, romantic, rose-colored-glasses perspective. I don’t conceive of myself as someone who was born in the wrong time, or who can claim to “bring respectability back” to college romance. Nevertheless, I have been taught, and even have encouraged myself, to seek

the romantic validation of males as the sole determinant of my self-worth.

When I first fully realized the problems with the position I was in, I set out to find something to blame for this preoccupation.

Could it be my parents (isn’t it always)? The nature of my past relationships? All that chick lit, rom-com, Cosmopolitan brainwashing? While there is merit in searching for an explanation, it often leaves me with more questions than when I began: Why does this have to happen to me? What am I doing wrong? Why am I making a big deal out of this—other people must feel this too, right?

With time and self-reflection I’ve found that my preoccupation with romance has somewhat receded, making room for a more healthy conception of my relationships with others. I can now more clearly articulate my goals for myself as a person, beyond contentment in a romantic relationship, and in turn I find myself engaging less and less in the over-analysis of romantic possibilities in favor of more productive and rewarding modes of thought.

Yet there remains, unprecedentedly, a frustration with the ideas involved in the campus hookup culture that surrounds me.

I’ve heard similar reactions—about the exhausting politics of hookups, the unnecessary complexity of forging any kind of relationship—from fellow students, too. While I’ve experienced my share of the hookup culture here, I’ve realized that it’s not for me, no matter how hard I try to convince myself.

I don’t see Brown giving up on hookup culture any time soon, and I don’t think that’s necessarily a bad thing. Having time

to figure out who you like, what you like, and what kind of situation is right for you seems like a really healthy approach to sexuality. But this kind of romantic culture can lend itself to the denial of the possible overlap of sex and emotional attachment. It can create anxiety and frustration in the people for whom romantic feelings do surface. Sex and emotion don’t have to come together, but it is dangerous to assume that they only exist together in an entirely separate reality, beyond our campus, in the “real world” of “adulthood.” For those who, like me, tear up at rom-coms, the prevalence of this perspective may be particularly dangerous. And though I’ve had ups and downs, I’m going to hold on to my romantic imagination in some form and leave the preoccupation behind. It may not be Tom Hanks on the top of the Empire State Building out there waiting for me, but whoever it is—or even if it’s no one at all—I’ll be ready.

Illustration by Mary O’Connor

“other-wordly”

captivating language and where it can take you

CLARIBEL WU staff writer As much as I’d like to take credit for the fantastic pun “other-wordly,” it belongs to the URL of one of my favorite tumblrs (other-wordly.tumblr.com). It is a blog dedicated to the appreciation of strange and lovely words. Yee-Lum, a creative writing major and the mind behind other-wordly, elaborates on the concept: “Sometimes those are words from other languages that can’t be translated. Sometimes they’re words for feelings we’ve felt but never been able to name.

Sometimes they’re just words that sound good.”

Kairos (n.) the perfect, delicate, crucial moment; the fleeting rightness of time and place that creates the opportune atmosphere for actions, words, or movement; also, weather —Greek There is only one elevator in this building, with 10 floors and a near constant stream of people. But, from 2:45 to 4:45 p.m. every day, after the lunch rush and before people start to leave for home, the elevators are quiet.

He noticed this, once, when he woke up too late and had to rush to work. The eleva-

tors weren’t surrounded by the usual mob, and he could make the journey to the seventh floor without raising his blood pressure.

From then on, he decided that he would always take his lunch break at 2:45 p.m., and luxuriate in his brief monopoly over the elevators.

Of course, there is always that one moment that changes things. This moment came a month later when the elevators broke.

He begrudgingly walked six flights of stairs, with the handle of a plastic take-out bag digging into the palm of his hand and the greasy contents swinging against his leg. Each floor has a gray steel door, with a small window where you can see through to the window of the opposite staircase. On the second floor, he peered through the opening and made accidental eye contact with a vaguely familiar, boyish face.

He had silky black hair that flopped onto his forehead and a smattering of freckles across his nose. It was Arnie, the graphic designer who he had briefly noticed in the kitchen last week. Something electric passed between their eyes in that instant, and then he was gone. On the third floor, this awkward instant happened again, and it slowly

evolved into a race to the seventh floor. Each time they reached the small window, they would flash each other a smug grin before racing up the next flight.

Once they got to the seventh floor, they opened the heavy gray doors and met in the middle of the hallway. He had sweated through his work shirt, and by now, the contents of his take-out box threatened to give. They caught their breaths and laughed before shaking hands and shyly introducing themselves. Their hearts were warm and their cheeks flushed. This was the beginning of something new and something beautiful.

Kintsukuroi (n.) (v. phr.) “to repair with gold”; the art of repairing pottery with gold or silver lacquer and understanding that the piece is more beautiful for having been broken —Japanese She was an artist, mostly. Some might call her a doctor, or a surgeon, but she believed that she was principally an artist. She passed through the hospital and stopped at the bedside of a little girl. Her eyes were frosted over; she was blind. With a syringe, the artist dipped into her silver paint and painted

a constellation underneath the girl’s eyelids, and the stars danced and flashed until the little girl stirred and revelled. Every other time she blinked, a shooting star would escape and get tangled in her eyelashes.

The artist drifted toward a boy with a weak heart that fluttered and sighed and sputtered. She drew out her syringe again, dipping into the golden paint and plunging it deep into his chest. The iridescent liquid pulsed through the chambers of his heart, until it started to beat with exuberance. In the sunlight, you could see the golden glint of his veins through his semi-translucent olive skin, like marble. He could still only take shallow breaths, but his cheeks flushed and glittered.

Throughout the hospital, flashes of silver and gold danced under the cheap fluorescent lights as the patients sat up and admired themselves. She could not fix their supposed “brokenness” because they were not broken in the first place. Even before she did her work, they were each artworks, masterpieces.

All she did was add some superficial lacquer that would eventually help them realize their own self-worth, which was so much more than just silver and gold. She rejoiced in

lifestyle

these imperfections. She stashed away the supplies and limped out the door, her silver leg clicking against the linoleum and echoing through the hall.

Sillage (n.) the scent that lingers in air, the trail left in water, the impression made in space after something or someone has been and gone; the trace of someone’s perfume — French He had been dead for exactly 43 seconds, but it seemed as if time was unraveling to reveal a different reality. Now just a sentient consciousness, he looked down on his physical vessel gently, nostalgically. He had passed in his sleep on the living room armchair, and the episode of Judge Judy he had been watching continued with indifference. A hazy bluish essence floated around the elderly body, a strange phenomenon he had never seen before.

He turned to the upright piano that sat in the corner; the air around it was tinged with a light red. This must be his daughter’s

aura, she used to love this piano. He was then drawn to a warm yellow energy that surrounded a window ledge, what used to be his wife’s favorite reading spot. Her essence smelled of daisies and dusty library corners.

He looked back at his body, and saw that the corners of his blue essence looked green, evidence of his wife’s presence in his soul. Other parts looked purple where they mixed with his daughter’s red. He could see the whole dynamic of the world now, the offering and exchange of soul matter that occurred with every interaction. Two young lovers shared a first kiss, and small wisps of their souls mingled with each other, creating a new color between them. A stray dog, with an exuberant orange radiance, bounded across the alley to nuzzle his best friend in the world, a stuffed cat toy tinted with the same orange glow.

Whenever someone invests energy into a person, place, or thing, a smudge of their essence is left behind. To share oneself is to let the colors bleed outside the lines. Colors can clash and stain something forever, but they

5

can also blend beautifully and create something new. It is that vulnerability, that risk, that allows people to feel passion, empathy, pain, and love.

The soul is something that lingers after one departs, and it can be found in the smallest of places. It goes unseen, but not unfelt.

It is so beautiful to discover a word that describes what was previously indescribable, and there is the equivalent to that feeling in every avenue of expression and language. It is finding the perfect chord progression, meeting someone you click with, or watching a favorite movie for the first time. These are the moments where life seems to fall into place, and things make sense.

Illustrtion by Jenice Kim

phishing hook, pick-up line, and sinker JONATHAN RUBINS contributing writer It all began with bluefish423, a sumptuous blonde 23-year-old Brown grad in the Big Apple. She was beautiful, both inside and out (naturally)—anyone would gather this through her enticing OkCupid profile and infectious smile. Too good to be true, some might wonder. Well, like most, she did have one flaw—she was me.

In my sophomore year of college, I found myself interning for an online dating service.

Don’t ask how—I can’t give a good explanation—but it was exhilarating. Their angle was that customers had no profile, hence no meaningless online interactions with one another. You sent them your credentials (face included), and they would set you up on a group date: three men, three women. Endless possibilities. No hassle, no commitment, freedom to choose. My job was to recruit— by any means necessary. The plan was simple: infiltrate the platforms that people were undoubtedly tired of using. Thus, bluefish423 was spawned. I was taught all of the insider tips and tricks to navigating the sexual cyberspace that is OkCupid: how to reel them in before explaining your fishing strategy, how

to boost your profile to the top of New Yorkers’ screens, and most importantly, how to not get banned. It wouldn’t be long before I branched out to other platforms, but I’ll never forget my first.

The pink and blue landscape invited me in with a grand welcoming party. Bluefish was awarded the most extraordinary praise, none that the real fish would have ever received. A flurry of messages snowballed into a blizzard, and before I knew it, I was warned that my inbox was 90 percent full.

I had set up my digital workplace only six days prior. Sifting through self-deprecating I’m-probably-not-your-type men and damngirl-you’re-hot boys, I quickly learned that my work was more difficult than I had imagined. Each conversation was unique—something I would have appreciated if I were on display, but it meant that I had to tailor each approach with tact. I broke these men into groups based on their approach, recycling a well-formed conversation style to match each type, and anticipated almost every move and countermove. It was around the fourth message that I would reveal the lure,

offer the hook (a discount if they mentioned my name—Sarah), and wait for a bite. It wasn’t long before I exhausted my options, sifting through every profile in the nearest five area codes. I had to start branching out to other cities and services. And so began the dating game, travelling between kingdoms of internet domain names scattered across an alien landscape of bicep-flexing photos and contrived autobiographies.

The League, an app-based dating service, claims to only allow the crème de la crème— the most date-worthy and eligible. You have to sit on a waiting list while their team evaluates your “credentials,” deciding if you’re an upstanding, worthy citizen. Among the seven tabs on the top of the webpage, one is entirely dedicated to “Differentiators.” They offer six ways that their service is far superior to all others. A personal favorite: “No randoms: an advanced screening algorithm keeps our community well-balanced and high-quality.”

Well-balanced? High-quality? As a scientist I’d love some numbers, but as a human with emotions, I’d really love some numbers.

Naturally, the website doesn’t provide any metrics for these evaluations. Why? Because they instantly reject you if you haven’t gone to a Tier 1 university and are not attractive enough by their standards. It’s scripted into their not-so-cryptic advertisements: “You Deserve the Best: We’re not saying Tinder doesn’t have its uses (hello Vegas!) but why not spend your time a little more … intelligently?” And my favorite: “Our concierges have no qualms about kicking bad apples out either (there’s other apps for them).” Did they legitimately say concierge, and make such a pedestrian grammar faux pas? Shame.

These are nothing but baseless attacks on those without the proper education—those who maybe couldn’t afford the price tag, or came from underprivileged communities and therefore couldn’t break down the gates of an excessively hyped institution. Needless to say, Brown was accepted, and my state school was not. This crowd was fun to investigate, but I’ll say this: Ivy may grow higher than most vines, but not without the aid of institutionalized brick to ride on.

Tinder changed the rules. Connect to Facebook. I had enough experience at this

point that I wasn’t afraid to show the world the real bluefish, and it was about time that I started reaching out to a new demographic—women. It wasn’t long before they told me that I was out of likes. Out of likes? But I was just getting started! A 24-hour refractory period gave me plenty of time to get to work on my fresh catch. I managed to finagle 28 matches—a sad fraction of the number that I gave the thumbs-up to (all). Smiling at the camera wasn’t cutting it. I did some field research: what do women want (online)? Unfortunately, I had no photos of me on a boat, striped bass cradled in my rippling arms (re: guysholdingfishontinder.tumblr.com).

I didn’t own salmon shorts, and the only J. Crew gingham button-down that I had ever worn still sits in my ex-boyfriend’s closet (re: @thatjcrewginghamshirt). I found a shirtless photo of me on a beach, not exactly a display of “wealth,” but I had some tone. Post.

Swipe. The school swam right into my trawling (trolling) net: 112 new matches. Thumbs tired, eyes burning, and an awkward match with an old friend left me bored and behind on school work. A fun game, but it was time to pack up my pictures and one-liners and move forward.

I quit after three months. Unpaid and overworked, I felt little return from the writing and rewriting of the same, tired responses. Who knows, I may have been an extra in someone’s whirlwind love story. On the back end, I never got this validation. What I did gain however, was insight. What do women want? What do men want? Exclusivity. Why does The League have enough members to be a league? Why do people value matches more than flipping through profiles themselves? We want to feel wanted. We spend hours on a clever bio, revisiting and polishing it when our numbers are low. We want them to message first, to ensure unequivocal interest. Are we worthy of this validation? If everyone sought it to the same degree, the system would fail. So, we play the game, spin the wheel, swipe right, cross our fingers.

Trawling behind a screen won’t get you far.

Maybe we should go fishing.

Illustration by Emily Reif

6

arts & culture

reading fantasy the craft of storytelling GABRIELLE HICK staff writer As of two weeks ago, I’ve read 38 of the 41 “Discworld” novels, a massive and intricately detailed fantasy series written by the late and intensely wonderful Terry Pratchett. My older sisters gave me the sixth book, “Wyrd Sisters,” as a Christmas present when I was in my early teens. It was the first book that ever made me laugh out loud—and not once, but many, many times.

This first foray into fantasy literature evolved into a love for the genre that is intense, obsessive, and pure. Intense because I am one of the biggest advocates for the genre and will embroil myself in any argument to defend it.

Obsessive in the sense that the other day I sat down to read the 760 pages of “The Hero of Ages” by Brandon Sanderson and stood up six hours later. And pure because it is the one genre of literature—and I am open to and have favorites in all kinds—that consistently overwhelms me, in the best way possible. Fantasy novels, the best ones, offer the complexity of myth, the narrative crafting of fiction, and the emotional resonance of nonfiction. But the worldbuilding in fantasy is, I think, what sets it apart from other genres. Not to negate the creativity that goes into the creation of spaces in other fiction, but the breadth of creative thought that goes into fantasy is often astounding.

I’ve mentioned Brandon Sanderson, the author of numerous epic series (my favorites are the “Mistborn” series and the as of yet unfinished “Stormlight Archive”) and the author I would most recently credit with helping me procrastinate doing my homework. He spent over a decade doing the research required to create the series’ world, including developing the realm’s geography and weather patterns, the details of a complex religion and a culture’s societal structure, and the minutiae of the magic that exists in the domain of the story.

His worlds are so careful and precise, and the narratives so well crafted, that it is hard not to feel as if these places exist in reality, but perhaps somewhere outside of the space and time we live in now. But the fact that they don’t actually exist, apart from inside the imaginations of author and readers, is a testament to the transcendent quality of this literature. When I read the stories of these worlds, these magical, complicated worlds, am there.

The complexity of the worldbuilding in fantasy novels often means that the books themselves are quite long—Patrick Rothfuss’s

first novel of “The Kingkiller Chronicle” trilogy clocks in at around 660 pages. But the investment is worth it because the stories in the best fantasy novels are so damn good, so engaging and transporting and fascinating, and somehow so real, that the pages fly. They are really an investment of your emotions more than your time, for no matter how impossible the powers and deeds of the characters in these novels are, you journey with them. I have read Guy Gavriel Kay’s outstanding fantasy novel “Tigana” (almost 700 pages) at least four times, and the last few chapters make me weep—not cry, weep—every single time.

“The Kingkiller Chronicle” is also a good example for demonstrating the dedication of a fantasy author to bringing his readers into the world of the book. In this series, Rothfuss takes the time to construct a narrative schema that parallels the action. Each book in the trilogy is presented as a “night,” wherein main character Kvothe sits in his inn after hours and recounts the story of his life to a man known as the Chronicler. These parts are told in the third person and from the perspectives of a myriad of characters. The other parts are Kvothe’s life story, told from his perspective, and also contain other stories-within-stories told from the perspectives of other characters who play some part in his life. This construction of narrative may seem complicated, but it works, really and truly, and the intricacies of the narrative edifice are matched by the detail of the world that it shows us. It is a truly amazing series and deserves a read by any who value the craft of storytelling.

But despite the popular success and television and filmic adaptations of such fantasy epics as George R. R. Martin’s “A Song of Fire and Ice” series, or, of course, J. R. R. Tolkien’s “The Lord of the Rings,” a kind of stigma seems to persist when it comes to fantasy novels. Too often have I heard people say that they would never read a fantasy book because it’s “nerdy.”

Yes, it probably is, if the definition of “nerdy” is something that is intelligent and passionate.

I don’t believe there is anything socially inept in admiring the worlds and stories of fantasy novels. It is not anything less than humbling to witness the work and effort of fantasy writers to create those worlds. I understand that some genres of literature simply do not appeal to some people, and the sheer length of many fantasy books can seem particularly daunting. But I will never sit by quietly as someone

dismisses a fantasy novel—which I have read and know to be good—as too geeky to warrant an attempt at reading.

I asked my older sister Amy, responsible for my introduction to many of the fantasy authors I now love greatly, for her thoughts on why fantasy novels deserve a reader’s time and obsession. Amy, who wished to be sourced as noted tea drinker and professional grammar buzzkill, told me: “I think [fantasy novels] have real value for kids and teens—that’s when I first started to love them. Probably starting with the Narnia series when I was six or seven. I think the exposure to that kind of breadth of worldbuilding is incredibly beneficial in terms of imagination and creativity. But [it] also offers a safe space for kids. It certainly did for me. And as you get older, I think you realize that that power extends to de-creating too. That instead of imagining an alternate world from whole cloth, you can break down your actual world. And understanding that you can change your world is fundamental.”

(As you might be able to tell, Amy is an exceptionally smart cookie, who, to date, has only ever recommended one book to me that I haven’t liked.)

She also said: “For kids and young adults who don’t grow up within a religion, there’s a lack of richness of story and myth and rules and legend. But fantasy novels give you structures for how magic works in any given world; they are often mythic—they have hierarchies and genealogies. I liked that feeling that you’ve understood a system. And that always spilled over into real life. I researched witches and magic and read all kinds of Wiccan how-to books and wanted to learn Norse runes.”

While I never tried to learn Norse runes, what Amy says about fantasy creeping into real life rings true: I think reading fantasy novels, where magic and dragons and witches permeate the richly complex worlds, allows one to look at this world with wider eyes. And even if the magic or the dragons don’t seem possible in this world, it is the qualities that they share with us that resonate with us. Courage is cour-

age, and love is love.

Reading good fantasy is, I think, similar to reading epics like the “Odyssey” or the “Aeneid.” The journeys that Odysseus and Aeneas undergo in Homer’s and Virgil’s stories are incredible and implausible, including gods and goddesses, Cyclopes and ghosts. But the themes within these works are timeless— overcoming hardship, trying to find home, the consequences of unrequited love—and find echoes in our own lives. Some fantasy writers also draw on existing histories or mythologies, like Guy Gavriel Kay. Each of his novels deals with a different time and place that exists within our history, like Moorish Spain, or the troubadour culture that rose in Provence during the High Middle Ages, or Tang Dynasty China. What I admire most about Kay is his ability to spin out documented and existing beliefs about mysticism into magic. His own stories, unbounded by the practicalities of the real world but drawing upon real history, expose the reader to the details of distant times, and make the past seem just a little bit more transcendent.

When Terry Pratchett died, his assistant took to his Twitter account to announce his death, but he did not write in his own voice.

He instead used the voice of the character of Death, who speaks in the “Discworld” series in all capital letters. When I read the tweets, I cried because of his passing, because he was the first fantasy writer I ever loved, because he would never write again, because it was so poignant, so perfect, that a character from a fantasy world he created and gave to us as a gift would lead him out of this one.

Tweet: AT LAST, SIR TERRY, WE MUST WALK TOGETHER. Tweet: Terry took Death’s arm and followed him through the doors and on to the black desert under the endless night.

Tweet: The End. Illustration by Peter Herrara

nordic noir

from macabre to mainstream

EMMA MURRAY staff writer You’ve probably heard the story before.

The protagonist: a pessimistic, troubled detective, far from classically heroic. The premise: a gripping, intricate, and disturbing crime. The backdrop: a rainy, bleak northern European city. The twist: a complexity in the detective’s personal life, never touted as a big deal but usually compelling and maybe surprising. The romance: often sex, but little love, nothing too complicated, dare we say straightforward? The conclusion: calm, simple resolution.

I picked up my first mystery crime thriller

when I was 17. I started it on a Thursday, and

by Sunday I was at the library hunting for the sequel. And by the end of that week, I’d returned again for the third in the series, exhausted but ravenous. Within 10 days I’d read all 2,256 pages of the Millennium series, Stieg Larsson was my new hero, and Lisbeth Sanders, the titular girl with the dragon tattoo, was my new idol.

I figure my parents must’ve taken at least some solace in the fact that I wasn’t the only one obsessed with the macabre genre, the

twisted, depressing plot, or the bleak realism characterizing Larsson’s Millennium series. Fifteen million other Americans also read it, and over 30 million copies of “The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo” have sold worldwide since its publication in 2004—a figure that sets Larsson’s book sales alongside those of Dan Brown and Harper Lee. Larsson’s trilogy is perhaps the most popular collection to emigrate from Sweden, but in his wake dozens of other Scandinavian authors sprouted similar darkly compelling works,

some of which have also gained worldwide acclaim. Almost overnight, from the depths of what is often thought of as one of the most peacefulregions of the world, Nordic Noir materialized.

So how is it that these predictably dark, depressing, and cynical novels have dominated the thriller genre for the past 10 years? In an article published following Larsson’s death in 2004 (right before his trilogy was published), Vanity Fair noted that bookstores “now have special sections for the Scandinavian phenom-

arts & culture

enon.” What makes these books so special?

Why do we like them so much?

The Economist speculated in March of 2010 that there are “three factors [that] underpin the success of Nordic crime fiction: language, heroes, and setting.” This generalization is true to a surprising extent. When comparing the works of Larsson to Jo Nesbø (Norway)

and Henning Mankell (Sweden), two other prominent Nordic writers involved in cementing the new genre, you can find more similarities than differences in the works. The most variance is in their individual plots.

For all three, diction is simple and straightforward. Nothing flowery, no metaphors.

Characters’ emotions are typically portrayed

through logical body language—a nod or a cringe, rarely emphasized or explained—or via rational thought, whether inner monologue or dialogue. Each series’ detective is a troubled character, an outsider who struggles with some personal vice, be it drinking, women, or other social relationships. Each protagonist is worn down by years of police service and repeated disappointment. Though the settings of these novels vary from city to countryside, they are always bleak and cold, haunted by eternally overcast weather and strikingly ordinary communities.

“When I write, I always try to reflect the reality we live in,” Mankell told The Telegraph in 2011. “A reality that is becoming rougher and more violent. This violence and its impact on people around it is what I try to reflect in [my main detective character]. But reality always surpasses the poem.”

Through their work, Mankell, Larsson, and Nesbø all seem focused on shattering the world’s utopian Nordic stereotype.

“Sweden is still a very peaceful country to live in. I think that people in Britain have created this mythology about Sweden, that it’s a perfect democratic society.” Mankell said.

“That’s bullshit and one of the things I’ve tried to do is correct that.”

The genre’s popularity has even been translated from page to the screen. In August 2011, BBC Four ran an episode as a part of their Timeshift documentary series titled “Nordic

7

Noir: The Story of Scandinavian Crime Fiction” that explored the lives of Larsson, Mankell, and Nesbø. In November 2015, Netflix released “River”, a new six-part series featuring Swedish actor Stellan Skarsgård as—maybe you can guess—a troubled detective trying to solve a dreary European city’s problems while running up against a host of personal vices. It was well received: The Telegraph touted the show as “one of the year’s best homegrown TV dramas” for its “beautifully written” screenplay, stylishly directed scenes, and superb acting.

Niclas Salomonsson, a literary agent representing nearly all the up-and-coming Scandinavian crime writers, proposed that the style of the books, “realistic, simple, and precise … and stripped of unnecessary words,” is what what sets them apart and makes them so widely popular. “The plain, direct writing, devoid of metaphor, suits the genre well.”

So, for many Americans—at least 15 million of us—life isn’t only about happiness, sunshine, and rainbows. It’s also about simplicity, straightforwardness, and direction. Though we aren’t near either spectrum of Nordic fame, neither peacefully utopian nor pessimistically macabre, Larsson, Mankell, and Nesbø still manage to hook us and imprint a message: We naturally like what’s simple and realistic, a surprisingly affirming takeaway from a pessimistic Nordic thriller.

Illustration by Ruth Han

a portrait of a (ma)lady

a review of trey shults’ stunning krisha

DEVIKA GIRISH staff writer Speaking at the recently concluded Ivy Film Festival, Trey Edward Shults—the 26-year-old debutant director-writer-editor of “Krisha”—expressed his fascination with the creative problem-solving ethos of the “Dogme 95” movement. Started in 1995 by Lars Von Trier and Thomas Vinterberg, this movement aspired to a pure cinema built on the “traditional values of story, acting, and theme and excluding the use of elaborate special effects or technology” by imposing an eclectic set of restrictions on filmmaking. These included shooting exclusively on location without any external props and using only sync sound, natural lighting, and handheld cinematography. “Krisha” is, by no means, a Dogme film (as Shults was quick to clarify), but like many young, aspiring filmmakers lacking wealth and pedigree, Shults made the film under his own set of Dogmelike restrictions, not imposed by some idiosyncratic vision of what true cinema should be, but by sheer circumstances: a microbudget of $100,000, a non-professional cast consisting of family members, a family house doubling as a set, and a nine-day shoot for a 90 minute movie.

As it turns out, “Krisha” is, simply put, a masterpiece. It is a work of astounding formal finesse and emotional complexity in itself, but the story of its journey, from homemovie-like origins to the Grand Jury Prize and Audience Award at SXSW, official selection at Cannes, and nearly unanimous critical praise—the wet dream of any 20-something film student—lends it a hallowed air.

It is a Hollywood rarity: fulfilled ambition.

The films opens with 60-year-old Krisha (played by Krisha Fairchild, Shults’ aunt) as she makes her way across a lawn to her sister’s house, where the family is gathered for Thanksgiving. She is welcomed by a coterie of sisters, brothers-in-law, nieces, and nephews with cautious, measured warmth. Greetings are tinged with the unmistakable un-

dercurrent of old wounds and unsaid things.

The plot slowly begins to trickle in, through glances and passing comments: We piece together that Krisha has been absent from the family for years and is now recovering from a long history of substance abuse. Shults has a knack for allowing the story to tell itself through small and sometimes unexplained details: Krisha’s bandaged, half-missing finger that no one talks about, her repeatedly unanswered calls to someone, her strained and pained exchanges with Trey ( S h u l t s himself ), one of the boys in the family.

Shults isn’t an absolute newcomer to Hollywood. He got his foot into the industry as an intern on the Terrence Malick’s “Tree of Life” and has worked on two more of the director’s films. So, it is unsurprising that “Krisha” comes off as the work of someone very literate about cinema. One can see traces of Shults’ self-proclaimed influences—which include Paul Thomas Anderson, John Cassavetes, and Malick and his frequent collaborator Emmanuel Lubezki—in the film, but it is ultimately the work of a fiercely original auteur who makes his presence felt in every carefully crafted shot. He performs acrobatics with the film’s form: The dynamic camerawork follows Krisha closely, tracking, twisting, and teetering as she struggles to moor herself; the editing is an expressionist montage that jumps back, forth, and across characters, spaces, and chronology; the eclectic, frenetic score by Brian McOmber suffuses the film with a veneer of anxiety that crescendoes to aural chaos at moments of climax.

The direction is unabashedly formalist, but never overwrought or indulgent. Each stylistic choice is evocative, carefully deepening and complicating viewers’ understanding of the film, its characters, and their relationships. Viewing the film is like watching Shults conduct an orchestra of visuals, sound, and editing, varying and permuting them

with a mathematical precision to produce just the right mood, just the right tone, just the right combination of suspense, anxiety and despair. In a brilliant sequence inspired by “Punch Drunk Love,” Krisha stands in the kitchen, preparing the turkey that she has insisted on cooking herself. Shults puts the spectator right inside Krisha’s head: The noise of family activity surrounding her—people zigzagging across the space, dogs barking, the sounds of sports on TV and of men cheering raucously, utensils clinking and scraping—is magnified to grotesque levels and mixed in with hair-raising, bubbling sounds. The camera pans right and left dizzyingly as she attempts to orient herself, like a jagged piece trying to fit into the family puzzle.

It also helps that this stylization is balanced by deeply honest, organic performances, a remarkable feat by the more inexperienced actors in the film. According to Shults, the making of the film was a collaborative effort between the cast and crew, and it pays off: The improvised moments shine through, especially a conversation both hilarious and caustic between Krisha and her brazen brother-in-law. This organic quality also derives from the blurring of fact and fiction within the film. The interactions between Krisha and her sister Robyn (Robyn Fairchild), who is her sister as well as Shults’ mother in real life, are charged with an ineffable, intense tenderness that can only come from a shared history.

Krisha Fairchild, so far a small-time actress with a background mostly in voicework, is the true revelation and lynchpin of the film. It begins and ends with close-ups of her wizened face, anguished but unreadable, and between these two poles is a mercurial graph of emotion that she embodies

with a controlled fluidity: She flits from ferocity to vulnerability to wreckage with the ease of a veteran actor. “You are heartbreak incarnate,” her brother-in-law says to her with cruel honesty, and one cannot help but believe him. It is also extremely refreshing to see a film spearheaded by an older, silverhaired woman who does not fit the classic Hollywood mold—the type, as Jordan Hoffman at The Guardian puts it, that “we see in life but never on film.”

Krisha’s commanding and layered performance adds a sense of depth that occasionally runs thin in the film. Despite its stylistic sophistication, “Krisha” sometimes lacks subtext; it offers a keenly observed portrait of an addict unraveling but stops short of saying something about it. As a result, the film’s explosive denouement, though expertly choreographed, feels a little anti-climactic: all show and little tell. However, this is a minor quibble with a film that is not just an artistic tour-de-force, but also provides much-needed affirmation for all of us college-age filmgeeks that good cinema can flourish even with limited resources, as long as you have talent, commitment … and a preternaturally gifted family.

Illustration by Soco Fernandez-Garcia

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lifestyle

topten

ridiculous things to do at adoch

1. light up on the main green #420blazeit 2. have dinner at the ratty!!!!!!!!!!

3. climb the mysterious main green rock wall 4. find and pet as many puppies as you can 5. hang out with alicia devos (email her at alicia_ devos@brown.edu)

Professor: The correct modifier is always fuckin’. Don’t waste your time with wicked or stupid...go right for fuckin’.

I will beat him to death with a banana.

Leave me alone, I’m trying to change my Fitbit photo.

I’ve always wanted to trip a prefrosh.

“

hot post time machine

“

I wish there was a Plan B for kissing.

6. got a personal backrub from cpax 7. do dog yoga (doga) 8. get homesick and leave early 9. go to a chocolate fountain naked party 10. make friends

If you’re looking for an authentic Providence experience, I highly recommend getting your car stuck on a one-way street downtown.

off the hill • 12/14/14