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upfront

Editor-in-Chief Yidi Wu Managing Editor of Arts & Culture Abby Muller Managing Editor of Features Monica Chin Managing Editor of Lifestyle Cissy Yu Managing Editor of Online Amy Andrews Arts & Culture Editors Liz Studlick Mollie Forman Features Editors Lauren Sukin Nate Shames Lifestyle Editor Corinne Sejourne Copy Chiefs Lena Bohman Alicia DeVos Serif Sheriffs Ellen Taylor Logan Dreher Her Grey Eminence Clara Beyer Head Illustratrix Katie Cafaro Staff Writers Kalie Boyne Kevin Carty Katherine Cusumano Rebecca Forman Joseph Frankel Devika Girish Emilio Leanza Caitlin Meuser Caity Mylchreest Tanya Singh Bryan Smith Staff Illustrators Yoo Jin Shin Alice Cao Emily Reif Beverly Johnson Michelle Ng Peter Herrara Mary O’Connor Emma Margulies Jason Hu Jenice Kim Cover Katie Cafaro

contents 3 upfront

jurassic world and ivory-saurus Mollie Forman please, not another euphemism Emma Murray

4 features

growing up is a nightmare Lauren Sukin

5 lifestyle

toward the path of peace JS fireflies in tennessee Mollie Forman

6 arts & culture biased observer Anne-Marie Kommers the sound that fuels the soul Jacylyn Torres

7 arts & culture what’s making me happy Amy Andrews

8 lifestyle

top ten overheard at brown over it Caitlin Meuser

editor’s note Dear readers,

The road to becoming a curmudgeon is a happy one. At least, it is in most senses uneventful. You stroll along, smelling the flowers and noting the interesting influences in the architecture, and at once you find yourself in unfamiliar territory: listening to NPR at night while wearing your fuzzy slippers and sipping herbal tea. I heard chatter outside my room last night around midnight as I was settling for the night. I kid you not, readers, my first thought was, “Hooligans!” (Should they be doing their homework or getting a good night’s sleep?)

The transformation is not yet complete. I admit I’ve slid into bed once or twice this year to the sound of morning bird calls after a night of being up to no good. More important, I can still spin myself into circles over something as innocuous as a career fair. I look forward to the day when I wake up an old soul in total (read: responsible and at peace).

But the curmudgeon in me would like nothing more than to curl up with this week’s issue. At heart, being a curmudgeon is about wanting to linger and take a bit more time, to give time and credit to things we find thoughtful and worthwhile, and to hold onto things that other people no longer seem to want. It reflects on sweeter, younger selves who had no qualms about sharing those selves with the world. It reflects on present selves, caught between assurance and fear. It has interesting and useful information about going with the flow (flip to see). It even has NPR. Best,

Yidi

we’re taking this week off...

send us your photos! more press is good press!

upfront

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jurassic world and ivory-saurus a film of pygmalion proportion

MOLLIE FORMAN a&c section editor The story of Pygmalion is one of the oldest myths in the Western canon. He is also one of the original fuckboys.

According to the myth (most famously transmitted through Ovid’s Metamorphoses), while in Cyprus Pygmalion witnesses the acts of the Propoetides, a group of prostitutes so perverse “they lost the power to blush.” Pygmalion is so ashamed and disgusted that he swears off women— wives in particular. Still, he’s lonely, and in his loneliness decides to fashion himself a woman of ivory. He is so enamored with his own creation that he falls in love; a prayer to the gods brings the woman to life, and she goes on to bear Pygmalion a son.

The central conceit of this tale—that human women are imperfect and that the only way to achieve an acceptable female, flawless and fertile, is for her to be fashioned by a man’s hands—remains a powerful structuring myth in modern film and television. The story of the man disgusted by women’s immorality (one might even say complexity) is, after all, a common one; look to Landry Clarke from Friday Night Lights or Xander Harris from Buffy the Vampire Slayer and you will find men personally offended by the fact that their love objects are insolent enough to not want them. Despite being quite flawed themselves, male characters are rarely accepting of their imperfect female counterparts. This is in large part because these men are being written mostly by male writers who have been socialized to think in the same way. The male domination of the industry makes all of cinema, all of TV, into Pygmalion’s studio: female characters are all potential ivory women.

The recent blockbuster Jurassic World is a prime example of the sculpting that imperfect women are forced through in order to satisfy the narrative, and their male peers. Claire Dearing, the female lead played by Bryce Dallas-Howard, is initially presented as heartless, rigid, and sterile: She enters the film through a slow pan up her body, which is covered nearly head to toe in a pristine white outfit. From the beginning, the film frames her as the Frigid Woman (aka, not a woman at all), blowing off her nephews for work and dedicating herself to numbers and profits instead of empathizing with the park’s visitors and prehistoric inhabitants. Although she is afforded some level of sexuality through a history with the studly Owen Grady

(played with swagger, smolder, and sensitivity by Chris Pratt), that, too, is marked by disapproval. “Who prints out an itinerary for a night out?” Owen exclaims, recalling their failed first date; Claire’s reasoned reply of, “I’m an organized person” is brushed off in favor of further ridicule.

On its own, this exchange might be seen as nothing more than combative flirtation, but the sheer number of times this type of interaction occurs leaves little doubt that this is ridicule. Practically every interaction Claire has in the first part of the movie is antagonistic—not because she picks fights, but because her personality and personal choices are met with disapproval at every turn. Owen, park owner Masrani, and employee Lowery all criticize her for treating the dinosaurs like “numbers on a spreadsheet,” and her sister Karen invalidates Claire’s choice not to have children by insisting that one day her opinion will change.

It is this last point that clinches Claire’s status as a Problem. Behind every disparaging comment, every trivializing assumption, is a single, scorching objective: to make Claire, a woman labeled as unfeminine because of her aversion to reproduction, more motherly. And in the end, these attempts seem to succeed. In the final scene of the film, Claire watches longingly as her nephews embrace their parents. She forces herself to look away, searching the crowd for... Owen, the virile male most able to give her the children she now longs for.

Claire deciding she wants to become a motherly woman after all is not the problem. The issue lies in the fact that Claire was bullied onto this path instead of choosing it for herself. And, perhaps more importantly, she makes this journey of self-improvement alone.

While Claire’s arc is about her being pressured into becoming a “better” version of herself—and more feminine as a result—Owen undergoes no parallel journey. This gives the sense that he needs no such journey: From his opening hero shot, commanding his raptors and framed by the sun, Owen is in complete control of himself and his environment. The only people who criticize him are Claire (mistakenly, as the film proves through her capitulation to Owen’s preferences) and the crudely-drawn villains.

This relationship—the rigid, unfeeling character with the empathetic one—is a common trope in relationships between

male characters; in those circumstances, however, there is no right or wrong role.

Take Hermann and Newt from Pacific Rim. They have similar ideological stances to Claire and Owen, but in Pacific Rim, Hermann’s obsession with numbers is considered useful and valid by the people in authority. Hermann is never forced to revolutionize his viewpoints in order to fit a new ideological mould; he and Newt grow toward each other, recognizing the best part of the other and incorporating it into their own growth. In Jurassic World, Claire does an ideological 180, while Owen is proven already correct in all matters, the perfect male specimen. The character “growth” is completely one-sided, non-mutual, and coerced.

Owen’s particular brand of softened masculinity reveals just how stark and unbalanced the relationship between Claire and Owen really is. In an article on British horror cinema, Linnie Blake talks about the feminized masculine hero. Before the Reagan/Thatcher era, masculinity and femininity were diametrically opposed— men were valued, and “hypermasculine characteristics such as aggressively individualistic ambition [were appreciated] over all others.” The post-Thatcher era, on the other hand, brought us figures like British Prime Minister Tony Blair: strong, militaristic men who nevertheless were valued for their dedication to family. The negative legacy of the Thatcher regime meant that, for progressives at least, jingoism for the sake of jingoism was no longer acceptable—it needed to be tempered by familial concerns, accepting of building alongside destruction.

Owen is a prime example of the postThatcher hero. Perpetually squinting, swagger-hipped, built like a brick house, he is framed as a modern-day Harrison Ford—rough and tumble and emerging from the dirt with a flex and a wink. “Your boyfriend’s a badass,” Claire’s nephew Zach

exclaims in one of many moments that display the hero worship (you might even say crush) that he directs towards Owen.

It’s the old cliché: Women want him, men want to be him. Claire herself is proof of his devastating charm: A woman who begins the narrative shunning anything that doesn’t contribute to her work, she quickly succumbs to Owen’s gravitational force.

Owen isn’t merely a badass, though—he is also a mother. Mother, that is, to a brood of velociraptors that he trains and protects from the evil designs of a hyper-militaristic villain, who wishes to turn Owen’s “children” to evil use. Owen is perfection, from beginning to end—a nurturing, dino-slaying badass, haloed by the sun. Claire has no such access to this dualism. Owen can mother without forfeiting his masculinity, but Claire cannot be a woman without the accompanying characteristics of maternity.

This molding of Claire serves as a powerful example of the Pygmalion paradigm of womanhood: an imperfect woman made “perfect” by the men around her. She begins as someone who breaks the mould, a woman who rejects reproductivity; she ends a woman prepared to raise a child, just as she’s been pressured to be since the beginning. The compulsion evident in her transformation makes the “success” not really hers. This is not to say that Claire is a weak or badly-crafted character. There are many empowering aspects of her journey, the infamous “running in heels” scene first among them. This doesn’t mitigate, however, that whatever triumphs she makes during the course of the film remain circumscribed by the writers’ choices—trapping her, like many a dinosaur, in a prehistoric enclosure all her own.

Illustration by Katie Cafaro

please, not another euphemism

menstrual products and social stigma

EMMA MURRAY staff writer We find a million ways to avoid saying it —it’s “that time of the month,” or “Aunt Flo came for a visit.” For those not feeling so delicate, they’re “on the rag” or “surfing the crimson tide.” When the cramps get bad, many women still claim headaches or stomach bugs. Tampons, pads, and panty liners are hidden in discreet little purses and inundated with fragrances. This doesn’t speak for all women, but since the advent of female hygiene products, the underlying social message seems clear: Menstruation is an embar-

rassing hygiene problem that women should conceal.

Researchers such as Ingrid Johnston-Robledo and Joan C. Chrisler have argued that menstruation is socially stigmatized, and some say this stigma obstructs the path towards social gender equality. They purport that when women feel uncomfortable about their womanhood, their fight for gender egalitarianism can be compromised. And while change is always slow in coming, current research suggests that reusable

menstrual products could be the next feminist tools to fight against this particular social stigma because they can safely and efficiently foster acceptance of menstruation within women’s circles and that will penetrate mainstream society.

Controlling the flow The monthly ritual of trying to safely and efficiently live with a period has been a process governed by trial and error. As early as 15th century B.C., Egyptians used soft papyrus to

soak up their menstrual blood. Ancient Roman women would use wool. The Japanese taped special paper to themselves that they’d change every hour. Traditional Hawaiians employed the furry part of the hapu’u fern. Beginning around the 18th century, American women used fabrics and eventually disposable pads that were large, cumbersome, and not unlike diapers. The modern tampon didn’t emerge until the 1930s, when Tampax was patented and hired “Tampax Ladies” to tour the country, giving speeches at

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colleges to educate and convince the public that tampons were safe and effective.

Reusable menstruation products were invented around the same time, but were shunned from society because disposable products were easier and less intimidating. Only within the past two decades have reusable menstruation products garnered more mainstream use and risen as a new powerful feminist technology. Their efficiency and environmental benefits and the personal growth they inspire provide valuable tools for combating the debilitating unease and embarrassment associated with menstruation.

Reusable menstrual products come in various forms. Products like DivaCups and MoonCups are tampon-like silicone cups that are inserted into the vaginal canal to collect menstrual blood.

Before and after each use they are sterilized with boiling water, and they can be reused for up to 10 years if properly taken care of. Reusable pads, like GladRags and Lunapads, function similarly: washable and reusable cloths that fix to a woman’s underwear and soak up menstrual blood.

Changing attitudes Through all the progressive changes surrounding women since the 1930s, the embarrassment associated with menstruation has not yet lifted. Common euphemisms have all but replaced the words “period” and “menstruation” in western vernacular. Circumventing the words has become a temporary solution for a much larger problem that Dr. Gillian Russell, a Boulder-based psychologist with a Ph.D. from the University of London, calls “a huge challenge in today’s society.” The base of the problem is a great societal revulsion toward anything “menstrual,” which Russell believes has a deeper psychological seed.

“There’s this overarching theme in today’s society of wanting to be in control… [and the] thing is, menstruation represents something messy, dirty, out of control,” Russell says. “Nowadays that’s not how women think they should be.”

Carolina Ramirez, a women and gender studies student researcher at the University of Colo-

rado Boulder, says, “Menstruation has been seen as an individual health issue and has no space in the public health discourse.”

Earlier this year Ramirez conducted research on the consequences of the silence that surrounds menstruation. Her findings showed that if girls are discouraged to talk about menstruation and female health at a young age, a culture of shame and silence carries into their adult lives and contributes to the continued stigmatization. What exacerbates the problem is that feminine hygiene products and the media have primed women to think this way. According to tampon boxes, menstruation is something that requires “protection” and “discreet” solutions. It’s something that should be hidden, something that women should be embarrassed about. According to them, menstruation is something that requires a defense mechanism.

Dr. Russell notes that the squeamishness plaguing menstruation conversations can be harmful to a young girl’s development, making her more self-conscious and shy at a pivotal point in her life. When menstruation is always an unwanted topic, menstruation becomes an unwanted occurrence. She believes using reusable feminine products are the best way to cut the stigma. “The idea is that [with reusable feminine products] you’re really touching yourself more and acknowledging [it] more. You aren’t disposing of your ‘mess,’ you’re living with your body,” she says.

Madison Murray, a Women’s Studies research student at Old Dominion University in Virginia, agrees that products like the Diva Cup can be a catalyst for major change. “Menstrual cups are a perfect feminist technology,” she says. “Part of women empowerment is understanding the vagina in its own beauty and not just being a source of reproduction or sex. Women are often taught to shy away from self-exploration, but there is much to understand. We all have our own flow and understanding it can help one see what your body needs.”

Physical, mental, and environmental health According to the DivaCup product descrip-

tion, “Many women feel uneasy about changing their menstrual care routine. Years of dealing with the sights and odors of disposable tampons and pads cause the familiar reaction: ‘ick!’ The DivaCup empowers women to connect with their bodies and menstrual cycles like never before.”

The environmental benefits of trading tampons and pads for the DivaCup are also impossible to neglect. According to Slate Magazine, “The average woman throws away 250 to 300 pounds of ‘pads, plugs, and applicators’ in her lifetime.”

One tampon has the same amount of plastic as three grocery bags, which doesn’t even include the packaging, wrappings, or backing strips that also end up in landfills. One DivaCup weighs, including packaging, less than two ounces.

Switching to the DivaCup is also a healthier alternative. Because the DivaCup is non-absorbent, it doesn’t cause dryness. The DivaCup claims that “when a tampon is inserted, its composition of rayon and cotton absorbs your vagina’s protective fluid, drying out and disrupting its normal pH levels.” The cup can be left in for up to 12 hours at a time—meaning fewer bathroom trips and less stress about leakage—because it can

hold up to three times a much as one tampon.

The silicon composition ensures there is zero risk of toxic shock syndrome, a bacterial illness that can cause death. Health benefits aside, economically the DivaCup is a steal. While it will last for multiple years, it only costs about the equivalent of three months worth of disposable supplies.

To help normalize menstruation, Russell recommends more dialogue. “If we could get even freer about this, if it could be as normal as buying toilet paper or Kleenex, then we can make some progress. This is a challenge,” Russell says. “Really, it’s mothers and female role models that will change things.”

Quotes from Russell, Murray, and Ramirez were from interviews conducted on 6/23/2015, 6/24/2015 and 6/30/2015, respectively. Information from Robledo and Chrisler were drawn from a joint article entitled “The Menstrual Mark: Menstruation as Social Stigma,” published in the January 2013 issue of an academic journal called “Sex Roles.”

Illustration by Yidi Wu

growing up is a nightmare LAUREN SUKIN

taxes, vacuums, and becoming a real adult

features section editor David Brooks had written another think piece disparaging Millennials, and I was having a nightmare. Or, more accurately, David Brooks had written a think piece disparaging Millennials in my nightmare, a fact that I became aware of by checking my dream email and receiving, from my grandmother, a supportive soliloquy in which she said “at least you’re in the New York Times!”

Brooks had apparently written a column about the disintegrating state of journalism. The uninformed, he claimed, had taken over the Internet, posting willy-nilly on topics of their fascination—all without the training to back their

arguments up. Prime suspects were undergraduates, especially those at elite institutions, who, enthralled with their own desires to one day say something meaningful, sought publication as another bullet point on their already laden resumes.

Brooks had called me out by name, citing one of my summer publications in the Bulletin of Atomic Scientists, in which I argue that Saudi Arabia’s legitimate need for alternative energy could be a main driver for their desire to build a nuclear energy program. It’s not as difficult as it sounds, but then again, who am I to talk about the fate of the world? I woke up in a sweat, panicking about

whether I would need to issue a formal apology for having the gall to play academic on so public a forum as the Internet.

The Bulletin article is real—and aside from the existential terror the dream created, I’m quite excited about it (even “nerding out,” as my sister noted)—but, thankfully, David Brooks has no idea who I am. It’s highly unlikely he’s read anything I’ve ever published, let alone that he has an interest in writing about it. (But David, if you are reading this, hello, and please do mention me someday. Just not yet.) Fortunately, I don’t have to apologize for the piece, yet still I have a nagging feeling that maybe the anxiety in my dream was well-founded: that maybe I just don’t know enough yet, that maybe I am still a child masquerading as an adult, a student acting the part of an intellectual.

The dream awakened a fear that has since colored my thoughts on my thesis, my graduate school applications, my job search: that perhaps I don’t have any idea what I’m talking about. All the anxiety, I think, boils down to one thing: the fear that, despite all the years of schooling, there’s still something missing. And I would venture to bet that I am not alone. To those who are fretting about how soon May feels: how are we supposed to know when we have finished learning, when we are prepared for the real world?

As I enter my senior year, I realize how young I am, how young my friends seem, how I still feel

sometimes like I’ve been thrust back into that anxious first week of freshman year, and somehow never got any older. And maybe I haven’t.

I had to Google how to put air in a car tire. I still need recipes for nearly everything I cook. I sometimes put off laundry until the last sock or leave chores on to-do lists for weeks. I still call my mom when I’m sick. I have never done my own taxes. I was amazed recently at the price of vacuum cleaners.

And yet in a few short months, I’ll be on my own, part of the large class of “adults” contributing in some real way to the knowledge and economy of the world. And even if no one is calling me out on it—yet—I don’t feel ready.

I guess that’s what the rest of this year is for. I still have some time to be a kid, to be confused, to read op-eds with indignation at their antipathy for Millennials, rather than with sympathetic distaste for whatever generation comes afterwards. To learn how to do my own taxes. But I think what I will really learn this year, when I look hard enough, is that there is always much more to learn, that it is exceedingly rare to feel as though one is ever fully qualified and completely prepared for everything on one’s plate. So here’s to the rest of my senior year, and to the rest of your time at Brown, too. Let’s learn some things together—but let’s leave a little left to be learned.

Illustration by Emily Reif

lifestyle

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toward the path of peace

a call for religious dialogue at brown

JS contributing writer Providence often surprises. Every time I venture off the hill, the unassuming capital of Little Rhody reveals little treasures. If you’ve never been to Federal Hill, for instance, take a stroll while the weather is still fine, and your stomach will discover what I’m talking about.

But as wonderful as this city can be, I want to speak about a different Providence. This other Providence can be at once as delightful as cannoli and as dreadful as last year’s winter (unusually cruel, for those who missed out).

This Providence can be much more surprising.

I speak, namely, of the ways of God. My freshman self would be stunned to hear me speak this way. When I came to Brown, my Christian faith required intellectual gymnastics, and I felt I was steadily falling off the balance beam. But possessed by a streak of perfectionism, I wasn’t going to quit the exercise, because it seemed childish. I was going to finish it, or it was going to finish me. That meant I had to prove Christianity false. I was pretty sure I would complete this routine, leave this little ideological circus, and find my way out to the real world.

What bothered me, really, were the supernatural claims. I was on board with Christian

ethics—I thought them rather civilized, actually—but the supernatural claims were ridiculous. We are supposed to be joyful but not necessarily expect happiness in this life? We have to die to ourselves in order to live? It’s a project of paradoxes—a god who is also man and who teaches that suffering, the Cross, is the path to wholeness. Naturally, it didn’t seem to agree with the logic of the world. Of course, now that I think about it, Jesus says as much, but then why say these things at all? As Ecclesiastes 3:7 says, there’s a “time to keep silent, and time to speak.” It seemed Jesus missed that first part.

We would be much better off without illogical sayings, thank you very much.

But, as life often teaches us, things are sometimes not what they seem. I didn’t really understand the Christian God. I was looking for Him in books (as if my self-selected readings were really going to show me who God was). I had difficulty believing because every Christian I had met didn’t fully live what he or she believed (do any of us?). Well, because I was a bit small-minded, God had to do something rather obvious and give me a phenomenal Meiklejohn who was not only an active leader on campus but also an intensely dedicated Christian. He didn’t just sit on his Bible, nor did he shove it

down people’s throats, but his faith inspired his actions. So the way I really began to know the Christian faith was the way Jesus taught the world, through a wonderfully lived human life.

It seemed Jesus, if he was who he said he was, did know something after all about teaching us simple creatures.

My Meiklejohn owned his faith. He didn’t hold to his beliefs because he was raised on them, but because in them he saw Truth. This Truth is not an impersonal system trumpeting solutions to the world’s problems or an ideology with vague utopian promises. It is a Truth that shines in the lives of those who believe. It is a Truth so assured that it accepts the violence done to it without resistance. It is a Truth willing to die on a cross.

Eventually, as I talked openly with Christians at Brown, I began to see that indeed, here and there, the Gospel could be fully realized in life. I encountered people who really lived to love their neighbors as themselves. And so began the deepening of my faith, and so it continues.

Of course, it is all nice-and-well for me to say this. You may say that Christians do not always accept violence unto themselves the way Christ did. You may say Christians can be rath-

er violent themselves. You may say we often talk too much and do too little. And this, of course, is sadly true.

But this is why I write. Let’s begin a dialogue on campus, religious and non-religious. The Brown community values open-mindedness, but, when it comes to religion, I have found it more often silent or dismissive. And I beg you to bring well-meaning comment and criticism!

But I would also like to urge all of us, religious or not, to look at ourselves and determine how we measure up. Too often, we criticize without building up; we look for the speck in someone else’s eye without attending to the log in our own. To the Christians at Brown: Do not be complacent! If you believe the Gospel to be true, strive daily to live it out. Do not force others to live as you do, but be a witness through your life. If you hold to another tradition or to other beliefs, please, share the joy of that life with everyone else! We can learn much from each other. And if you do not believe or do not identify with the communities I have mentioned, you are as necessary and as valuable as anyone else. We need to hear your voices. I pray that, in time, all of us would be lifted above our petty squabbles to become our better selves.

fireflies in tennessee Q&A with filmmaker henry chaisson MOLLIE FORMAN a&c section editor Most undergrads are still figuring out how to make their mark on the world. Music concentrator and filmmaker Henry Chaisson ‘16, on the other hand, is well on his way to real-life success.

Post- sat down with Henry to talk about his short film “Theodora,” as well as the craft of filmmaking, career advice, and more!

MF: You had two films featured in this past summer’s Rhode Island International Film Festival; one of them, “Theodora,” has been selected for the Vortex Sci-Fi Festival this October—and you’re still an undergrad! How does it feel to have achieved this level of success so early?

HC: It’s been pretty overwhelming. I went to RIIFF maybe three years ago as a consumer, and I never would have anticipated showing there. Even when we shot the film, which we shot in Long Island with no budget, just kind of scraping everything together at the last minute, shooting it in two days—even then I never would have thought, “Oh, this is something that people will want to see or program in their film festival.” So it’s been unexpected and great, and definitely opened a lot of doors in terms of being able to meet people, collaborators, or mentors whose stuff I respect.

MF: So you’re looking towards a career in film?

HC: I would love to find something to do in film—directing, I love editing, I love scoring stuff. That’s what I love about film, there’s so much to do within that world that’s super fulfilling. I love being a Production Assistant on other people’s films. I’m curious when the films go online, what’ll happen then.

MF: “Theodora” is very visual without much verbal information. Did you have any idea of

the backstory for the character?

HC: Yeah, totally. It’s minimal narrative, but part of the fun and the due diligence of preparing for it was coming up with a backstory and fleshing out the character—figure out what her world was, what her universe was. That doesn’t show up in the surface plot of the film, but it definitely seeped into other aspects of production. A lot of [the lead actress’s performance] was informed by her asking us questions about every single thing she was doing and needing us to prove why she should do it. And even down to things like set design—there are a lot of little touches that the production designer did based on that story. Theodora’s an amateur zoologist, so the house is sprinkled with artifacts of that, or Theodora has absentee parents and the only things in their kitchen cupboard are a bottle of half-empty whiskey and a can of sprinkles.

There’s definitely a backstory, and it definitely helped fill out other parts of the production.

MF: I know you worked with mostly Brown alumni; what was that like?

HC: It was either Brown alumni or one degree removed; our cinematographer was a RISD alum who worked on a lot of Brown films also. Tess Carroll (who wrote it) went to Brown, Mike [Makowsky] (who produced it) went to Brown, I went to Brown, so there’s an existing network. In my case I did a lot of Brown TV stuff and met people through that. Our sound guy was someone I met through the music department who did WBRU stuff. It’s been great because there are so many people here who do so many different things really excellently.

MF: How do you think the Brown experience in general has shaped you as a filmmaker?

HC: I’m mostly self-taught in terms of filmmaking. I have a love of the craft and read a lot about it and tried to absorb things from movies

I liked. But then Brown came along and I feel like it let me contextualize that and get a firmer grasp on the theory behind all of those practical skills. Plus, Brown has such awesome extracurricular groups for pretty much everything. I feel like that definitely fills in the gap in terms of Brown not being a film school. It has a community of people who really like film and are actively interested in making stuff and constantly trying to better their craft.

MF: What advice would you give a college student who wanted to do the same stuff that you’re doing?

HC: A helpful realization was that you can reach out to anybody in the world whose work you respect, and they’ll usually talk to you. I shot a documentary in June in Tennessee about a ghost town that’s currently being demolished, but there’s this phenomenon of synchronous fireflies in the woods around the ghost town that make people want to save the town. Going into that, I just kind of email blasted people whose documentaries I’d seen. There’s this documentary Room 237 about The Shining by a guy named Rodney Ascher, and I dug up his email address somewhere. I think he was really happy to hear from a young person who had seen his niche stuff. I was able to meet with him a few times and get advice on how you get a good interview of a person who’s not used to being in the presence of cameras, and things like that.

There’s a great Ira Glass article on the gap between taste and work. There are the films that you really love and there are the films you want to make, and there’s the stuff you actually do make, and there’s a process of degradation between those. You can have people get into creative fields because they have good taste in that field and they feel like they have something

to say, but it’s always a hard process. The first things you make don’t reach that level that you’ve set for yourself. Everything I do, I always feel falls short of what I wanted to do. Just keep making stuff no matter what it is. The more you make, the more that gap will close.

MF: Do you have any idea what you’re working on next?

HC: I’m doing a thesis film in the spring which will be another short film. I’m really interested to now do something within the system. Not necessarily view it through a more academic lens, but consult about it extensively with professors or people at the school whose classes I’ve taken or whose work I like. I want to make it something that’s an example of the kind of thing that I want to make after graduating.

I’ve done a few shorts that have been super varied, just as a way to explore what’s out there.

It’s daunting because there are so many different filmmakers or artists or things that I love, and it’s hard to know where I step in. There are so many different things you can make within that world. So I’m trying to focus and make something that’s exemplary of right now, what I want to try and do.

“Theodora” will screen for free October 20 at 4:00 p.m. at the Providence Public Library as part of the Vortex Sci-Fi, Fantasy & Horror Festival.

Visit vortex2015.sched.org for more information.

Illustration by Jenice Kim

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arts & culture

biased observer ANNE-MARIE KOMMERS

a review of harper lee’s go set a watchman

contributing writer Unlike many American high school students, I was never assigned to read Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird before coming to college. It was not until last summer that I read the story in anticipation of the release of Lee’s second novel, Go Set a Watchman, published 55 years after her first.

I fell in love with the defiant voice of Scout and her various exploits with Jem and Dill in Mockingbird, and I was eager to read a new story that, according to a plethora of news articles, offered a more honest and nuanced version of Atticus Finch. Unfortunately, Go Set a Watchman has failed to live up to its hype.

Go Set a Watchman is marketed as a sequel, but according to an article in the New York Times the book is really an early draft of To Kill a Mockingbird. Lee originally wrote about Scout as an adult, but her editor suggested that she focus on Scout’s childhood instead. For this reason, many plot details in Go Set a Watchman are different from those in To Kill a Mockingbird. The circumstances surrounding the famous trial of

the first book are altered. Some new characters have been introduced. Maycomb is much the same, but it lacks the charm it had when viewed through the eyes of a child.

The story begins as a grown-up Scout (now called “Jean Louise”) returns to Maycomb after living in New York City. She is reunited with her Aunt Alexandra, her father Atticus Finch, her new boyfriend Henry Clinton, and her uncle Jack Finch. After a few cozy days at home, Jean Louise sneaks into a meeting of the Maycomb County Citizen’s Council, a white supremacist organization. She is horrified to discover that Atticus is a member of the Council who believes that black Southerners “are still in their childhood as a people.” The rest of the book explores Jean Louise’s reaction to this unpleasant discovery of Atticus’s true nature.

In terms of pure mechanics, there are distracting problems with the novel’s writing. Lee frequently switches between different points of view, often within a single paragraph, which left

me confused about who was speaking or thinking in a given sentence. The book also rambles with backstories and details that have nothing to do with the plot. There is one particularly memorable chapter involving a flashback to Jean Louise’s first school dance, in which she wore a pair of fake breasts. Although the breasts were lost and then found with relative ease, it took me considerably more time to reorient myself to the novel’s present once the flashback was over.

More importantly, there are flaws with the way in which the characters are portrayed. Anton Chekhov wrote that the author should not be “the judge of his character(s) and their conversations, but only an unbiased observer.” Lee fails to be an unbiased observer in Go Set a Watchman; it is clear that she is on the side of Jean Louise. This makes for a boring and unrealistic world with characters lacking depth and complexity.

There is one scene in particular in which Lee seems to be trying to force the reader to form negative opinions of everyone except Jean Louise.

Aunt Alexandra hosts a gathering with the ladies of Maycomb while Jean Louise quietly judges everyone. The problem with this scene is not that Jean Louise holds a negative opinion of her old neighbors, but that the women are not portrayed with any nuance. Lee describes how “the Newlyweds chattered smugly of their Bobs and Michaels,” and the women’s dialogue is reduced to short phrases separated by ellipses: “When Jerry was two months old he looked up at me and said… toilet training should really begin when… he was christened he grabbed Mr. Stone by the hair and Mr. Stone… wets the bed now.” The scene suggests that we “thinking” people (who are presumably the only ones who will read this book in the first place) can pat ourselves on the back for not being shallow like these women, and we can amuse ourselves by observing these women’s strange behavior.

In contrast, Lee portrays Aunt Alexandra much more effectively in To Kill a Mockingbird. Aunt Alexandra is similar to the Maycomb women in that she embraces values that subordinate women and holds racist and classist views.

However, these qualities are shown through her actions, not through other characters’ dismissive judgments, and Aunt Alexandra occasionally shows a more compassionate side that complicates her character. To Kill a Mockingbird allows people to make their own judgments, while Go

the sound that fuels the soul

Set a Watchman forces an opinion on the reader.

Lee also takes a side when Jean Louise is arguing about racism with Atticus. Tolerant people should feel morally aligned with Jean Louise’s point of view, but as readers we should not feel manipulated by the author to take a side. As Chekhov pointed out, the author should portray people as human beings instead of using characters to make a point. Much of the dialogue in Go Set a Watchman feels forced, as if the characters are merely mouthpieces for Lee to present an argument about American racism. When Uncle Jack and Jean Louise talk about Atticus, Uncle Jack tells his niece, “The time-honored, commonlaw concept of property—a man’s interest in and duties to that property—has become almost extinct. People’s attitudes toward the duties of a government have changed.” Uncle Jack’s dialogue sounds more like a political speech than a conversation.

One aspect of the book that I enjoyed was a flashback to Jean Louise’s childhood. In just a few sentences, Lee transitions from the flat world of Jean Louise’s Maycomb to a delightful story about Scout, Jem, and Dill, in a time when lemonade “was a daily occurrence” and the three friends always “found the remainder of the morning lying emptily before them.” This part of the book shares many similarities with To Kill a Mockingbird, with beautiful descriptions of the Southern landscape and sly humor involving mischievous children. More importantly, the characters in this brief flashback are as real and complicated as they are in the original book. It is easy to see why Lee’s editor suggested that she recast her original story as a story about Jean Louise’s childhood.

The end of the book offers an insightful conclusion about growing up and forming an individual conscience separate from that of those you admire. Jean Louise’s uncle tells her that “every man’s island, Jean Louise, every man’s watchman, is his conscience. There is no such thing as a collective conscience.” It is disappointing that Harper Lee could not translate that lesson into another literary masterpiece.

Illustration by Katie Cafaro

exploring alternative music

JACLYN TORRES contributing writer From a young age, I’ve always prided myself on my passion for music. I would walk around holding a walkman and wearing clunky headphones on my ears.

When I was ten years old, my family took a plane trip to Florida. I had never flown before and got to sit alone. “Finally, a chance at independence,” I thought to myself. I placed my headphones over my ears and took out my rainbow CD case.

A few days before the trip, I had forced my older sister to make me a CD with all of my favorite songs. As I didn’t know how to work technology (and still don’t), I couldn’t make it myself, so instead I aggressively micromanaged her creation of the CD. This playlist needed to be perfect. Before I was even buckled in, I had taken out the CD, creatively named “Jaclyn’s Tunes.”

I carefully placed the CD in my Walkman, and I started immediately groov-

ing in my middle seat as my ears caught the first few beats of “Somewhere Only We Know” by Keane. I began singing the instrumentals, making up words as I went. When the singer came in slowly, I started singing along. My head swung to the beat. I couldn’t see the two adults on either side of me sharing questioning looks with each other. I couldn’t hear my siblings giggling a few rows behind me. At the start of the chorus, I couldn’t contain my excitement anymore. I turned up the volume and shouted the lyrics, “IF YOU HAVE A MINUTE WHY DON’T WE GO? / TALK ABOUT IT SOMEWHERE ONLY WE KNOW.” I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned to the right. My dad was leaning over the aisle seat to calmly tell me that everyone could hear me. “You can’t belt out lyrics in the middle of an airplane,” he chuckled. I could feel my face flush as I took in

arts & culture

this new information. “Oh,” I said, mortified. “Sorry about that.”

But his caution didn’t deter me from my jam session. Though I was silent, I became more theatrical as my embarrassment wore off, lip-syncing the words and adding in my own hand movements and facial expressions. The performance continued and the headphones stayed on until I was forced to rejoin civilization.

Through the years, technology has changed, but my passion for sound has not. In middle school, I began to grow my collection of alternative music by listening to bands like Jack’s Mannequin, The Format, Carolina Liar, The Killers, and We the Kings. As I grew older, I looked for new sounds and rhythms.

There’s something special about enjoying music crafted by people passionate about

its creation. These musicians are not in it for the money, but rather produce music for the entertainment and the emotion.

Entering my freshman year at Brown, I had the misconception that my music taste was eclectic. After all, no one at home listened to what I did. A few weeks into school, I was doing homework with some friends and decided to play some music out loud. After a few lyrics, one friend said, “Oh yeah, I know this song! I love it.” It was an incredible feeling, having that sense of camaraderie over music.

Last year, I was working at the Ivy Room and one of my co-workers had control of the music. She turned on a song and I recognized the beat instantly.

“On Our Way” by The Royal Concept was blasting from behind the counter. I turned to look at her and said, “You know

The Royal Concept?” She responded, “Know them? Try love them! Their latest album is incredible!” We bonded over our obsession with them and our desire to see them in concert.

At Brown, indie music is everywhere.

I am constantly being invited to concerts at Lupo’s Heartbreak Hotel—I’ve seen Lorde, Walk the Moon, Passion Pit, and Cold War Kids. When I walk into the Blue Room, I almost always hear a song I recognize, and, if I don’t know it, I enjoy its sonic experimentation and work hard to find out the name.

In the last two years at Brown, I have become more confident in my music style. Much like eleven years ago, I still walk around with headphones on, jamming to alternative music. It’s always a great conversation starter. This fall, I was

7

in the Blue Room, doing work and listening to music. As I was feeling the music and grinding out some reading, my friend came up to me and leaned over to see what was on my computer. My Spotify was up and I was listening to the Glitterbug album by The Wombats. Homework forgotten, we started talking about music. We gave each other recommendations and searched through our playlists. The collaborative nature of Brown makes it an incredible community in which to explore music. My passion for music has further grown, and my exploration of sound beats on.

Illustration by Bev Johnsonw

what’s making me happy the best happy hour around AMY ANDREWS managing editor of online You know those WWJD—“What Would Jesus Do?”—bracelets? I’ve never actually seen one in real life, but that particular phrase construction has lent itself to a lot of parodies.

I’m not religious, so I wouldn’t wear a WWJD bracelet. But I have considered wearing a bracelet emblazoned with WWLD—“What Would Linda Do?” The Linda in question is Linda Holmes, host of NPR’s Pop Culture Happy Hour (PCHH), the first podcast I ever listened to regularly and my all-time favorite.

My best friend introduced me to the podcast last summer, and since that first fateful listen I have become a devout follower of pretty much everything Linda says and does: on her pop culture and entertainment blog at NPR, her twitter, and—of course—on the podcast.

I will admit that I was always predisposed to like Linda, because she grew up in my hometown of Wilmington, Delaware and went to high school not far from where I did. Several of the podcast’s regular guests also grew up in the mid-Atlantic, and I love the occasional references to Wawa and water ice and Philly radio stations that feel specific to my own growing up. But the hometown connection isn’t the biggest draw for me—it’s the people who make the show.

PCHH’s first episode aired on July 16, 2010, when I was still in high school and barely even knew what a podcast was. The four panelists on the first episode were Linda Holmes, Stephen Thompson, Glen Weldon, and Trey Graham, who write (respectively) about pop culture and entertainment, music, books and comic books, and theatre and movies for NPR. Though there were sometimes guest panelists, these remained the core four until 2014. When I started listening last summer, Graham had recently left NPR, so the fourth chair on the show began rotating through personalities from NPR and elsewhere (Gene Demby, Kat Chow, Audie Cornish, Chris Klimek, Margaret H. Willison… the list goes on). Now, more than five years after that first episode, the podcast has produced more than 250 full-length episodes. Since I only started listening in the summer of 2014, that means there are still plenty of old episodes I’ve never heard. For a few months I was systematically making my way through the backlog, but I only got to the beginning of 2013. I’ve never listened to the first episode of the show. (The completionist/super-fan part of me vows that

I will eventually listen to every episode, but it may take me a while).

A typical episode of the podcast is split into three sections. The first two vary week by week.

Recent episodes have included sections on what makes a great talk-show guest, the return of Stephen Colbert, title sequences, Straight Outta Compton, whether or not there’s such a thing as “too much television,” amusement parks, and more. These discussions are often topical, focused on books/movies/albums that have recently come out, listener-suggested topics, or recurring features like the “Regrettable Television Pop Quiz” and “People We’re Pulling For.” But everyone’s favorite part of PCHH, panelists and listeners alike, is the third and final segment that appears every single week, “What’s Making Us Happy.” The aptly titled segment allows each panelist to discuss books, movies, podcasts, TV shows, pieces of journalism, and miscellany that they’re enjoying at that particular time. This segment is how I’ve discovered other great podcasts, where I find new books to add to my reading list or new albums to track down on Spotify. Best of all, it’s a good exercise in positive thinking. As I listen to Linda and Stephen and Glen enthusiastically describe their new favorite things, it encourages me to do the same—to reflect on what’s currently making me happy, both in the pop culture realm and in my personal life.

Though no alcohol is involved in the taping of the show, the term “happy hour” couldn’t be more appropriate. I have never listened to a podcast before or since where it seems like the panelists are so genuinely happy to be there. There is such palpable camaraderie between these people, who clearly care about each other and respect each other’s work. Each episode of the show feels like eavesdropping on a conversation between good friends, but better, because somehow you feel included, too.

The panelists all get along and love each other, and it’s pleasant to hear them talk passionately about the pop culture they love. I like that I can listen to episodes focusing on areas of pop culture I know nothing about (like recent episodes on the TV show “Mr. Robot” and the miniseries “Show Me A Hero”), and still find them as engaging as if they were about my favorite shows—I might even decide afterwards to go ahead and check them out. And I like saving episodes to listen to until after I’ve seen the movie or read the book or watched the TV

show, so that I can formulate my own thoughts and then see what my pals Linda and Stephen have to say about it. (It is probably presumptuous to refer to them on a first-name basis and to call them “pals,” but that’s the magic of this podcast. It really does feel like they’re your friends.)

That’s not to say there aren’t disagreements and arguments on the podcast—friends argue, and it makes sense that a group of four distinct personalities will have four distinct opinions about a topic. But even differing points of view are treated with such respect that it’s never uncomfortable to listen to. My favorite part of any episode actually has the most heated debate I’ve ever heard on the show. The episode, from mid-November 2014, contained a segment about pop culture dichotomies: Beatles vs.

Rolling Stones, Star Trek vs. Star Wars, Gale vs. Peeta, Mac vs. PC, and so on. But the discussion moved away from the strictly pop culture realm towards other things, eventually settling on food. This became an absurdly passionate (and hilarious) debate about the merits of creamy vs. crunchy peanut butter.

Choice quotes include: “Creamy peanut butter is slimy” – Linda. “It’s not called slimy peanut butter, it’s called creamy peanut butter. Words have meanings!” – Glen. “Creamy peanut butter is an abomination before the Lord.” – Barrie Hardymon, the fourth chair for this particular episode. Meanwhile in the background, Stephen keeps restating simply that he is an equal-opportunity peanut butter lover and will eat it in any form. For two glorious minutes, I am more invested in this peanut butter debate than anything else in my life, until the nut

butter–related tension is at last dispelled with a joke about the Great Papal Schism of 1378. (It may sound like a non sequitur, but trust me, it works.) It’s this quick wit and goofy passion, even about seemingly insignificant things, that makes the show so funny and so fun to listen to.

On a recent episode entitled “Labor Pains and Inspirations,” one of the panelists mentions the problem of consuming pop culture that is so inspiring it overwhelms you—when you feel like the book or movie or TV show is so much better than anything you could create that it prevents you from making anything yourself.

That’s actually how I felt while writing this article. I kept listening to episodes, trying to take note of all the things I love about the podcast that I wanted to include, but I struggled to write anything because I so wanted to do it justice. I hope I have. Ideally, every person who reads this piece will instantly go download at least an episode or two so they can understand how great it is. One of the best things about PCHH is the experience of sharing it with people—I recently got my mom to start listening to the show, and every time she mentions to me something “our pal Linda” has said, it makes me so happy that this is something we both enjoy.

So if you ever see me walking around campus with headphones in, grinning, WWLD bracelet on my wrist, you can bet that Pop Culture Happy Hour is what I’m listening to. It’s what’s making me happy this week, and every week, hopefully for many years to come.

Illustration by Jake Reeves

8

lifestyle

I can no longer fulfill my JWow sex bathroom dreams.

A: When do they ring the bell on top of University Hall?

B: I don’t know. Birth of the new savior or something?

I’m only capable of drawing George Washington and the Iron Giant, and the infinite amount of faces between the two.

Pros to Calvin Coolidge: pretty chill presidency, great name. Cons: completely ruined the economy.

“My mom sent me this!” - girl carrying a life size Greek bust out of JWW If you don’t think a quesadilla’s a sandwich I’ll fight you.

And when I walked in, they were going at the cake like zombies from the Walking Dead.

A: I have this habit of trying to shotgun beer out of my shoe when I’m drunk.

B: I think that would just give you a soggy shoe.

hot post time machine “By the time I left at 7:34, all but the fringes of the swelling crowd had been satiated with the glorious cake.” a very brown birthday

-03/12/2014

topten

free things we got at the career fair

1. despair 2. a pinterest-branded terrarium 3. a very soft shirt that absorbs tears 4. a job (jk) 5. the sudden realization that I shouldn’t have been a Lit Arts concentrator 6. a classy new linkedin photo 7. consultation (seriously what does “consulting” mean) 8. anxiety about the one spelling mistake on my resume 9. a therapist’s business card (really) 10. 256mb usb drive

over it

the groanings of a stuck senior

CAITLIN MEUSER staff writer The day I moved into my senior housing, my sister was already weeks into her freshman year of college.

She called me later that night, regaling me with tales of her first football game and the silly antics of her new group of friends. She relayed with exacting detail the inordinately comfortable study space she had found in a well-lit corner of the student lounge. She extolled the virtues of her regular weekend brunches where she was able to indulge in special gluten free pancakes. Throughout the entire conversation, her voice was breathy and high-pitched, her delight evident in every rushed word. She was experiencing newness, and I envied how even the communal shower experience, while disgusting, was something of an adventure to her.

As a senior who did not study abroad, I have spent more than enough time at Brown. That is not to say that I am ready to graduate right this instant, but the campus and surrounding city no longer seem teeming with alluring secrets and new opportunities. I know where I like to study, what to order at Blue State, and where I want to hang out come Friday night. While there is something nice about this familiarity, this comfort I have found for myself away from home, there is also something stifling. Sometimes it seems as if I am just biding my time, waiting for graduation, until I can start my life in the city. I am lucky to know what I want to do come graduation, yet the classes that stand between now and then seem like necessary roadblocks instead of enjoyable steps.

I recognize that moving on is a good thing, an inevitable step. I should want to move to the city. I should want to start a job that pays

me next to nothing but allows me to read and write as much as I want.

At the same time, I should also recognize the value of slowing down.

All these opportunities will still be there for me come May, but Brown won’t. Perhaps this is what scares me the most. By looking forward, I’m ignoring the fear that my present has a looming termination date. I will have to say goodbye to people I’ve known and grown up with over four exciting (sometimes terrifying) years. I will have to leave academia and the academic freedom that comes with a Brown education. I know that these fears are not unique to me, and that these are formative and necessary fears. I know this, but I do not have to like it.

I walked behind a tour group yesterday on my way to an afternoon seminar. The tour group was small, filled with high school seniors and their eager parents taking notes on Brown’s open curriculum and absorbing the campus with wide, appreciative eyes. The air hinted at autumn, the wind, brisker than summer’s tepid breeze, smelled of damp dirt and dying leaves. Students were lounging around the Main Green, discussing shopping period while inhaling Blue Room iced coffee. It was a quintessential Brown image, and for a moment I tried to imagine that I was a member of the tour group, seeing Brown for the first time. I felt for a brief second that wonder that comes from romanticizing an intellectual haven. I recalled the optimistic anticipation of imagining nights spent in old libraries discussing classic literature and days spent enjoying the temperamental New England weather on a 250-year-old campus. It’s so easy to forget how beautiful Brown is, how

lucky we are.

This weekend I made a list: 20 things to do before graduation. It’s my own sort of bucket list filled with atypical tasks that carry varying significance to me. I want to watch the sunset from Prospect Terrace Park, travel to Newport in the winter to walk the freezing beach, ice skate in Kennedy Plaza, and walk through Swan Point Cemetery. While these tasks probably won’t recreate that sense of newness my sister is experiencing, they are tasks that will take me out of my usual routine and perhaps show me something new about the surrounding Rhode Island area. I don’t want to speed past this last year of college intent only on getting a job and making it in the city. I don’t want to see my schoolwork as a necessary roadblock that I simply have to surpass. I want to experience, for perhaps the last time, that feeling of walking to class through a fresh pile of fallen leaves, my backpack full of unused pencils and a notebook filled with notes from a class discussion about a life changing book. I want to experience rainy Providence Sundays writing papers and catching up with friends over coffee. I love learning. I love Brown. And I’m so lucky to have one more year here.

Illustration by Jenice Kim