Tag: cult classic

REVIEW: Heathers: The Musical

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MUSKET’s production of Murphy and O’Keefe’s Heathers took place at the Power Center for the Performing Arts this past weekend. MUSKET impressively holds the title of the oldest and largest student-run theater troupe on campus. They produce one fully staged and orchestrated musical each semester with an entirely student-led cast, crew, and production team. It serves as an essential platform for non-musical theater majors to participate in musical theater, offering endless opportunities for leadership, production, and performance to university students.

I observed several standout aspects of this performance. Firstly, the costume design (by Katy Sanchez) was beautifully crafted, immediately conveying the identities of the characters to the audience. The costumes adhered to the expected classic “Heathers” outfits, featuring heavy pumps, short skirts, and the distinctive red, green, yellow, and blue colors defining each character. Katy honored the original looks while bringing her flare into the mix.  

Secondly, the jocks, played by Ram Sweeney (Dylan Bernstein) and Kurt Kelly (Sohil Apte), had me chuckling at their scenes throughout the show. I appreciated their physicality, and even from my seat towards the back of the house, I could pick up their movements very well. Sohil, wrapping up his third production with the troupe, has become a frequent MUSKET actor.

Additionally, the dance numbers were an exciting aspect of the show, with choreography by Marcus Byers Jr and assistant Kate Player. The numbers were bright and intentionally crafted for the scene, adding significantly to the storytelling rather than existing as a mere spectacle. At times, the choreography compromised good vocal quality, but overall the actors handled this well. 

“Dead Gay Son” stood out as my favorite number in the show. It brought a blazing burst of energy immediately after intermission, and a bleak ending to Act I. The crowd responded accordingly to this excitement. Kurt’s Dad (Evan Hoefer) and Ram’s Dad (Zoltan Berensci) hysterically and passionately committed to the campiness of the scene.

Music direction was led by Madeline Nolen, and the band featured 7 players. This pit was mighty for the minimal orchestration in the score. They played together well—this score is not easy for anyone! Likewise, Madeline conducted with passion and kept the ship running smoothly. The vocal harmonies dazzled in select moments, and some other times were a tad uncoordinated, possibly due to the stuffy mics.  

The licensed version of Heathers is the official West End version, which differs slightly from what I usually remember in a production of Heathers. Some songs in this revised edition felt superfluous to the plot, and some songs were removed or changed from the original Broadway version. Because of this, the pacing suffered a bit. However, I understand the tricky nature of navigating changing dark and often insensitive themes while trying to convey an aggressive message on mental health awareness through the music.

 

 

 

Image thanks to @UMMUSKET on Instagram. 

REVIEW: The Silence of the Lambs

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Every so often, the Michigan or State Theater will screen a classic— last Thursday, it was The Silence of the Lambs, the quintessential 1991 psychological horror, directed by Jonathan Demme and starring Jodie Foster and Anthony Hopkins. I went into the screening without any expectations, knowing only that the film involved a cannibalistic serial killer fittingly named Hannibal and I could probably expect gore. The horror was done incredibly well, but the genius of The Silence of the Lambs is that the gore and terror of murder were only a fraction of the film’s emotional appeal. Demme fills each scene with the psychological unease of reality as the story follows an FBI trainee, Clarice, who is constantly shown to be looked down upon or disrespected because she is a woman. The script declares this outright with creepy remarks from higher-ups and even from Hannibal himself, but this is also accomplished with careful framing: throughout the movie, close-ups force us to stare into the eyes of men as Clarice sees them, hauntingly blank or grotesquely hungry, eyes either pointing condescendingly down at the camera or unnervingly straight into our own. Clarice is often alone, often being hit on or disregarded by serial killers and FBI agents alike, and cannot avoid it despite her skillful maneuvering of misogynistic encounters. This inspires a very real fear rooted in our awareness of her vulnerability. We’re quick to doubt the intentions of the film’s men— which is where the character of Hannibal becomes complicated, who should be the easiest to distrust.

Clarice and Hannibal are expertly crafted, and their relationship keeps us on our toes. Close-ups of Hannibal, played perfectly by Anthony Hopkins, reveal his sunken features, his icy and unblinking stare, and the sense that every word is part of a secret, sinister plan; close-ups of Clarice reveal unwavering confidence and sly intelligence. The interrogation scenes between the two are laden with tension and electricity, the investigation unfolding to be double-sided as Hannibal and Clarice race to break each other down. As the film progresses, this relationship becomes tangled and unclear; despite being the most clearly deranged and untrustable character, Hannibal treats Clarice with more respect and curiosity than the rest of her peers. The psychological horror of the film lives largely in this relationship as we struggle to decode Hannibal’s intentions and predict his next move.

The Silence of the Lambs is evenly polished: the score is haunting but not overbearing, each scene is intentional, and moments of crude humor balance the gore. I can see how this film earned so many awards and became a classic— it has a cinematic simplicity familiar to the 90s, attaining the perfect balance of explaining some while leaving some to the imagination. Besides the more fast-paced third act, our fear relies on insinuations about what happened or what’s going to happen, close shots of corpses and bloody nail marks down a wall. The only point of the film that left a sour taste in my mouth was the film’s handling of Buffalo Bill, a serial killer who believes he is transgender and who multiple characters claim isn’t truly transgender, but rather psychologically confused and tormented on a more complex level. As much as Buffalo Bill is distanced from the transgender community, described as obsessed with transformation and envious destruction rather than conventions of gender, his portrayal aligns too closely with common stereotypes about transgender women being deceitful predators. The social commentary is fitting for the time of its release, and it is nuanced, but given this film’s insane popularity, it’s inevitable that some audiences would fit this portrayal into pre-existing biases and fail to critically analyze the character.

I loved the experience of watching this movie for the first time in a small theater; the audience was visibly excited, gasping at gory shots and laughing at absurd one-liners. The big screen amplified the intensity of close-ups and the architecture of the old theater amplified the nostalgia of the early 90s. Keep your eyes peeled for the next screening of a cult classic in downtown Ann Arbor, and keep a weekend night open so you can catch one; student tickets are only $8.50!

REVIEW: Reservoir Dogs

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Reservoir Dogs has Quentin Tarantino’s fingerprints all over it— or, rather, it is Tarantino’s fingerprint. The plot revolves around a group of laughably dysfunctional thieves that encounter trouble when an undercover cop joins their diamond heist. Obscenity-heavy dialogue bounces between twisted characters in a landscape so grim and hopeless that it borders on absurd. Morality is skewed in Tarantino’s world— one minute, the group is discussing the necessity of tipping waitresses, and the next minute a wailing bloodbath is dismissed as a careless blunder. As his writing and directing debut, Reservoir Dogs not-so-gracefully showcases Tarantino’s filmmaking and character-building style; he invalidates the idea that his characters can be redeemed but retains their humanity through witty conversations and vulnerable relationships. There are no villains, heroes, or even a plot structure that feels rewarding; everything is justified and so everything is disappointing. It’s a caricature of the consequences and tragedy of the real world, just framed in a more shocking and theatrical context, and with a lot more blood for a dramatic flourish.

Watching this movie in the Michigan Theatre felt like committing a sin. Reservoir Dogs felt too gritty and grotesque for the ornate and gilded antiquity of the theatre, creating this visceral irony. The experience itself was an oxymoron. Watching the film in such a comfortable space reminded me of the experience of watching Tarantino’s The Hateful Eight, a similarly gruesome tale of bloody stand-offs and unredeemable acts. There is no fitting place to watch these movies without feeling strangely guilty and disturbed, which I’m beginning to think is exactly the feeling Tarantino is trying to evoke. Reservoir Dogs is intended to make you squirm in your seat and want to avert your eyes but the magnetism of the characters won’t let you. This is bound to be a memorable experience regardless of whether you like the movie or not.

Being his directorial debut, Reservoir Dogs isn’t without its flaws. I had predicted that there would be close-ups of some feminine feet in this film— a weird fetish of Tarantino’s— but there were not. I attribute this to the fact that there were zero women in this movie for more than a brief second. Whether or not this is a flaw is a complicated question, because Reservoir Dogs is mostly set in a claustrophobic space with just a few key characters and the film makes a point of subtly ridiculing the hypermasculinity of the group. Constantly screaming at each other, the group of thieves is everything but emotional apt and professional. The explicit racism in the dialogue also felt a bit too far at times, although it also functioned to deepen the immorality of the characters. The script’s edginess felt a little forceful and phony but retained its entertainment value overall.

The consensus is that Reservoir Dogs is a staple Tarantino, but that also means it isn’t for everyone. If you’re in the mood to laugh a little while feeling thoroughly disturbed, check it out at your own risk. Catch another movie at the Michigan Theatre before the year ends. Don’t miss out on the cheap student tickets!

PREVIEW: Reservoir Dogs

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This Friday night, the Michigan Theatre is screening yet another cult classic— the grotesquely dramatic Reservoir Dogs, a 1992 Tarantino-directed tale of men committing bloody crimes in an experienced manner and turning on each other with machismo flair. I’ve never seen Reservoir Dogs, but judging from Quentin Tarantino’s typical style of writing and directing, I’m expecting dialogue ridden with deadpan jokes, bloody spurts of gunfire, and maybe a few close-up shots of manicured feet.

Reservoir Dogs is celebrating its thirtieth anniversary this year, so it comes as no surprise that the cult-classic-obsessed Michigan Theatre is giving the film a night to shine. The plot of Reservoir Dogs entails a diamond heist attempted by a group of thieves. One of the thieves tips off the police, unraveling a group investigation into which member of the group is a wolf in sheep’s clothing. My opinions on Tarantino’s works fall all across the spectrum— Kill Bill entranced me with its memorable characters and enthralling journey; Django: Unchained exhibited the thrill of revenge with beautiful violence; Pulp Fiction, however, fell short as an incohesive mess that tried to make up for its lack of plot with good chemistry and fresh edginess. Will Reservoir Dogs drone on aimlessly or reward itself with character arcs and a cleanly wrapped ending? My intuition leans toward the latter, taking the quiet cultural appreciation for the film as a positive sign. Regardless, it’s bound to be an adventure! I can’t say enough that student tickets are $8.50, so grab a ticket to a classic before the school year ends!

REVIEW: Fight Club

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On yet another numbingly cold night in Ann Arbor, the Michigan Theatre stood dazzlingly bright amongst the empty streets, promising warmth and the excitement of another cult classic in its Late Nights at the Michigan series. If you have a pulse and live in America, you either know about Fight Club or you’ve seen it. Regarded as David Fincher’s directorial masterpiece, or at least undeniably his most popular film, the 1999 dramatic thriller offers everything that other films don’t: a seemingly insane and ripped Brad Pitt, a smoker who attends meetings for cancer patients, and a plot twist that leaves you analyzing every scene of the film for days on end. The plot can’t be explained without ruining the fun, but be aware that every scene packs a punch and leaves you breathless.

Also revered for Gone Girl and The Social Network, David Fincher’s distinct style is what makes Fight Club a masterpiece. Sharp monologues and witty dialogue inject life into the characters, somehow sculpting believable people that are so bizarre and morally corrupt that the concept of hero versus villain goes out the window. Once you become fully invested in the unpredictable lives of these troubled people, Fincher draws you in with clever shots and action sequences, balancing bloody fists with genius cinematography and a bold anti-capitalist war cry. The plot never stays in one place, constantly escalating and spinning, but the ride is exhilarating and somewhat relieved by clever deadpan humor. Each shot is a stunning puzzle that offers perfectly placed hints.  Fight Club is a total psychological riddle garnished with tasteful edginess and outright fury— a dangerous recipe that Fincher does best.

My admiration grows with each movie screening I attend at the Michigan Theatre. Historic and timelessly elegant, the theatre somehow still feels cozy, offering a sense of community through the collective anticipation that all moviegoers feel. There is something especially magical about an energized group experience in the midst of a lonesome pandemic. Throngs of students chatting and munching popcorn on a weekend night is an almost forgotten spectacle. The Michigan Theatre’s elaborate COVID-19 precautions ensure that the experience is free of anxiety, allowing a couple of hours of carefree escapism into a world untainted by COVID numbers and homework deadlines. If you find yourself longing for a temporary vacation from the burdens of college life, or you’re noticing that your Friday nights could use more excitement, check out the Late Nights at the Michigan series. Upcoming screenings include Princess Mononoke, Star Wars: Episode II, and The Princess Bride. Student tickets are only $8.50, so get them while you can!

REVIEW: Nosferatu

Emma Pinchak 3 Comments

Nosferatu is oddly enough a character who is easy to relate to. I, too, am looking for suitable housing (an impossible task in Ann Arbor), sleep at hours these mortals deem “strange,” and have an awkward gait. But more deeply than that is a common feeling between Nosferatu and I of a sensationalized otherness. Perhaps his placement as a social pariah is based in folklore more ancient than my own, but the results are the same, creating a clear boundary between ourselves and genteel society. But this is not a feeling I suspect is unique to myself; however much we interact with others there seems to lurk some lingering doubt of our place amongst humanity. It is exactly this relatability to the undisputed villain of a story that enriches and truly enthralls.

Besides the titular character, I am most struck by Ellen, the heroine who is married to the real estate agent that is saddled with the responsibility to sell Nosferatu a house. She is the epitome of 1920s silent film glamour, with her wide eyes, expressively drawn eyebrows, and impossibily pale complexion. She is similarly ghoulish in appearance to Nosferatu, looking perfectly skeletal in the strength of her jaw and the hollows of her orbital cavities. Although the lady in distress act is a terrifyingly misogynistic trope, I think she is still able to exhibit her character’s strength even while continuously fainting and falling all over her brave husband. She is the reason Nosferatu is defeated, even if she is not credited much for her bravery. And through all the distress this lady goes through, her ringlets remain immaculate.

         

The movie as a whole is simply so encapsulating to experience. The architecture is dominated by heavy stone and dense wood, underground cavernous spaces and grand buildings that feel claustrophic despite their massive size. Though created and set in a time after the gothic period, that sense of aesthetics is present in all aspects of the film, from the buildings to the formality in the characters’ behavior and clothing.

Furthermore, the great Andrew Rogers added to the ambiance and feeling of the movie through his greatly talented organ playing. After the show, he came on stage and answered questions about his work. Amazingly, though there is some composed music for Nosferatu’s organ accompaniment, Rogers chooses to play it freestyle, taking his love of the movie and his knowledge of the instrument and turning it into song that perfectly plays up emotional moments and adds tension. He spoke with such passion, and I could feel how much he cared for the organ and its preservation. Though the movie is an hour and a half long, he doesn’t feel so much time passing, equating the performance to ten minutes of playing. His commitment to keeping this art form alive is truly inspiring, and it was so nice to see how fully lost he got in what he loves.

Andrew Rogers speaking on his experience with the ancient organ (which has just been completely refurbished, a painstaking procedure that was long overdue!).
As promised, I dressed for the occasion.

If you have not seen Nosferatu, I’d recommend renting it, especially during this Halloween season. Watch it alone in a dank, dark basement (if you dare) or with a group of friends and family all dressed as your favorite characters. Though I have not had the pleasure of group Nosferatu costuming, I feel that applying and rocking a bald cap with the people you love is a fabulous bonding experience.