Stephen Chbosky’s novel The Perks of Being A Wallflower is one of my all time favorite books. Ever since I heard the rumors (circa 2010) that Emma Watson would be taking on the role of Sam, I was tremendously excited to see the film adaptation of the book. A few weeks ago I ventured to the second floor of the State theater (which, in my opinion, is the most suitable movie theater on the planet for this film) and was mesmerized by gorgeous cinematography, attractive people and a familiar storyline. However, despite these stellar qualities, the film does not barely compare to the book. As an epistolary, the novel’s strongest feature is the insight the reader gains into Charlie’s mind and soul. The narrator’s voice is of paramount importance, and although there is a narrator in the movie, it is much less present and has thus has far less of an effect. I remember reading it for the first time and empathizing with Charlie more so than I have with any other character in a book I’ve ever read. His simplicity- his brilliance- lies in his unique cognition. The language of his thoughts characterizes his genuinely warm heart and his profound struggles to make sense of his world. Without this technique, the film loses a considerable amount of impact.

The film did, however, have a few redeeming qualities the book lacks. The cinematography was impeccable; everything from the lighting to the costumes to the scene transitions was the perfect representation of the book. The pacing also frequently changed, allowing us to identify with Charlie’s scattered mindset. There is an amazing scene in which Charlie’s family is at Church on Christmas, and the scene switches from an up close shot of someone putting a communion cracker on his tongue, to an up close shot of two teenagers putting strips of LSD on their tongues. Visual effects such as this are (obviously) impossible to convey in a book, and thus brought the story to new dimensions. I was surprised to see how the setting changed from print to screen. The book never mentions in which city Charlie lives, but in the movie it is abundantly clear the setting is placed in Pittsburgh. Furthermore, the characters are all in the upper-middle class, as evidenced by their large, lavish homes and expensive parties. This fact is not presented in the book. I was also surprised at the way Patrick’s character evolved in the medium switch. In the movie, he is much more flamboyant, hilarious and charismatic than his character in the book.

There were many other smaller details that make me think the book is far superior to the movie. A quintessential characteristic of Charlie’s is how often he cries- it defines his emotional range and adds a unique element to his personality. However, in the movie Charlie only cries once, and it happens to be in one of the most important scenes of the movie. And the list continues. Too much time is spent on Mary Elizabeth. Charlie’s sister never gets pregnant or has an abortion. Charlie does not have his breakdown during his intimate night with Sam. The relationship between Charlie and his aunt is far too underdeveloped. Even more so, Bill is a minor character in the movie while he is a major, major presence in the book. The scene where Bill invites Charlie to his house at the end of the story is one of my favorites, and it does not exist in the film. Overall, while the movie is incredibly pleasing to watch, and is aesthetically wonderful, it lacks the emotional depth and profundity of the original.

Alright. Hold up. Can we talk about ads for a minute?

As someone who paints, draws, is in the business school, is kind of a socialist, is definitely a feminist, and calls herself a fashionista, advertising provokes contradictory feelings. I want to go into marketing and advertising (maybe) because of the strategy aspect; using imagery and visuals to provoke feelings that will then make you do something (spend yo money) sounds like an intellectual challenge I’m up for. But… is wanting to make people want to buy something moral? It is a form of manipulation and propaganda… right?

Je ne sais pas.

Mais, I have respect for people responsible for the images you see in the media today. Yes, most of them are fucked up for perpetuating stereotypes and causing insecurities but to me, they are still a form of art and extremely beautiful and, sometimes, even genius.

Like Tom Ford. Tom Ford is a goddamn visionary. He is one of the most talented designers ever but due to his lack of connections, he lied, cheated, and clawed his way to the top of the fashion industry. Known for a classic and minimalistic aesthetic, his ads are amongst the most controversial ever. Yet, there is something about them…

Yes, ladies and gentlemen. This is an actual ad. There is a raw beauty to it; somehow, Tom Ford managed to make a woman with a bottle of perfume covering her vagina classy, not vulgar. Yet, it objectifies women and portrays the stereotypical thin, white woman we see all too often in the media. So, what is it about that image that I (and other people) find beautiful? Is it the angle? Is the audacity that went into the conception and creation of this ad? Je ne sais pas.

And Apple. Oh my goodness, Apple. If there ever was a company that epitomized marketing genius, it is Apple. I remember taking a basic marketing class and reading Purple Cow by Seth Godin, the modern bible of marketing. Apple popped up more times than any company and was used as an example for… well, every good marketing strategy. Remember the ad below? And all those just like it? How could anyone forget?

Goodness gracious, the glorious minimalism of it. The sheer genius of not having that much text on a poster. <3

And Coca-Cola invented Santa Claus. Let that sink in. A company created the phenomenon modern Christmas is centered around through a marketing strategy and compelling and artistic visuals.

The art used in advertising… I’m not sure if I’m impressed or repulsed. It’s beautiful. But what purpose does it serve?

There is something magically beautiful in something that can never be.

I’m not talking about reading all of Ulysses in a night or not finishing a box of cheesy bread. I’m talking about the past in the most nostalgic, clichéd, Midnight in Paris-esque way. Tragedy drips from this impossibility like water from a roof—slowly forming a puddle that will soon submerge my foot as I’m running late to a meeting and which will leave me cold, numb, and sad for the entirety of the day. That is my impossibility. That is my art.

This never-can-happen thing, however, was just within my grasp by a few years. It’s not ancient Egypt, it’s not revolutionary France, it’s not even the roaring 20’s.

1980’s America in the midst of the AIDS Crisis is my impossibility.

[Sidenote: Do not misunderstand me though. I’m not nostalgic for a time when I most likely would have died. I’m not nostalgic for a time when I would have seen my best friends and lovers suddenly die in front of me. I’m not nostalgic for a time when the government refused to say the word “AIDS,” nor for a time when AIDS only “affected” men, nor for a time when the AIDS only “affected” gay men, nor for a time when AIDS was seen as a punishment to gays. This is not my nostalgia.]

My nostalgia is for community.

I had the opportunity to watch “United in Anger,” a documentary by Jim Hubbard. It played at the Michigan Theatre and was an amazing way to spend my first time in that space. Now, as I’ve seen many a film on AIDS (having taken English 314: Culture of Aids, with David Halperin) I was prepared to cry. To shout. To literally shake in my seat. To want to light the world on fire. To love like I will never be able to love. And this movie made me feel all.

It put me in the action and perspective of ACT UP (AIDS Coalition to Unleash Power) in such a fresh way. It showed me how the group started, transformed, and how they were able to achieve their goals. And the film even did more than that. It showed me a sense of community. These people faced death everyday; they faced active discrimination and a government that did absolutely nothing. And to see a group of people protest is one thing. To see a group of people do a “die-in” in St. Patrick’s Cathedral is another. They didn’t care if anyone liked them (because in my opinion, had they been liked they would have been doing something wrong). ACT UP was ruthless in their attempts to save their own lives and the lives of those they loved.

This is my nostalgia.

I long for the period when identifying as a gay man meant so much more. It meant community, it meant family, it meant weird and different, it meant being tied to a disease that would kill you (even given the fact that sex doesn’t cause AIDS but HIV does). And it meant action. It meant anger.

What I’m trying to get at is: gay people weren’t fighting to be assimilated into a heteronormative culture dominated by the belief that gay marriage is something interesting to fight for. They weren’t fighting to be normal. They were fighting for survival. And in doing so, they created a way of life that is beyond my imagination.

I crave a community that is tied together intrinsically and I will never have it. I’m lucky to live in a time where there is vast knowledge about HIV prevention and where antiretroviral drugs are not only effective but also accessible. I’m privileged enough to never have to experience sheer terror and I’m thankful for that. I’m so lucky that I can feel safe.

But still, there is something so artful in something that can never be.

I’m certain that there is nary a student at the University who is not feeling the stresses, pressures, and struggles that final exams present. You’re either a freshman, going through the insomnia for the first time, unsure what to expect, where to study or how much to study. You’re a sophomore, and you now care about your grades, you regret not caring nearly as much when you were a freshman, and now you realize you need an internship and well, your grades matter. You could be a junior and, well, reality has likely struck and not only are you intimately aware that your grade matters, but potentially, whatever internship you had this coming summer could offer you a job, and bingo, here life swings.

And there then are the seniors. A fourth are graduating this semester, a fourth are taking a kind 9 credits, and a fourth already have job offers. And there then is the last fourth, the fourth that is applying to graduate school, petrified that their grades of this semester will be the final decision makers, or those who do not yet have jobs and are just as terrified that these grades will be the ones that will or will not ensure their job placement. Of which, the latter fourth, I am a part of.

It’s my seventh time dealing with the finals grind, but somehow, it’s never gotten any easier. Instead, it only seems to get more and more overwhelming – the insurmountable pressures that hold for seniors, realizing that real life is around the corner, every grade, every test, every moment matters.

And so, just when the pressure is about to make me burst, I remember the one thing that I can always count on to make me happy – art. I’ve created a folder on my desktop of my favorite works, over 100, that I just sift through when the pressure makes my throat constrict, my palms sweat, and my knees shake. I hate finals, but hey, at least there’s beautiful art to lessen the pain.