Cannibals have saturated art for centuries. From Bram Stoker’s “Dracula” to modern masterpieces like “Bones and All,” we are fascinated with monstrous immortals. We look at them as the ultimate sinners — traitors to their species — but we’re obsessed with what makes them tick because, deep down, that hunger lives in us all. We make films about their love, write songs about their horror, craft TV shows that send us down their inhuman spiral because they speak to humanity’s most primal unleashing. They refuse to deny themselves of their desires, taking their indulgence to the extreme. We might cover our eyes when their gory cravings take over, but there’s always the urge to peek out at their depravity. The only thing that separates us, people living under the social contract, and them, the breakers of that contract, is restraint. 

Vampires are the restrained cannibal we’ve been satisfied with for the past few decades. The way we portray them in media shows them feeling guilty for their crimes — disgusted at the monsters they’ve become — and yet it doesn’t stop them from draining their victims dry. “Buffy the Vampire Slayer” and “The Vampire Diaries” both became popular because of their characters’ compellingly anguished struggle against their bloodlust. The Twilight Saga even pushes its central vampiric characters into a “vegetarianism” that relegates them to only consuming animal blood. This further restrains the monster inside them, but doesn’t satisfy the beast within. The Cullens are still hungry for the kind of blood only humans can provide, their self-control just prevents them from acting on it. Self-control is also what prevents our vampire lead Edward (Robert Pattinson, “The Batman”) from fully committing to his human lover Bella (Kristen Stewart, “Spencer”). His desire for her is so closely paralleled to his desire for blood that the two become wholly intertwined. Within the cultural psyche, cannibalism speaks to the carnal desire for all-consuming passion. Most people don’t want to ever actually taste human flesh, but we all have an innately primal desire to have the all-consuming love that we so often deny ourselves. 

But what happens when we stop denying ourselves? 

The collective unraveling of restraint has pushed cannibal media into the really gory stuff, removing any pretense of civility. We’re no longer satisfied with vampires. Now, we’re seeing art about the messier, wilder, more intimate cannibal. They don’t shy away from their own monstrosity or desire; rather, they embrace it in a way that reveals the animalistic nature of their seduction. They don’t stop at the blood; they need to consume the entirety of a person, and sometimes that’s still not enough. This image captures the depravedly romantic desires that humanity suppresses and gives them an outlet to run free with the metaphor of consumption. 

Different media following these characters aestheticizes them uniquely, but they all manage to flout expectations of heartlessness. On the contrary, the idea of the apathetic cannibal is completely absurd. There is an inherently visceral sense of emotion behind the act of needing someone so badly that it leads you to consume them. Even in restrained, stoic cannibals like Hannibal Lecter (Mads Mikkelsen, “Another Round”) on NBC’s “Hannibal,” the driving motivation behind his peculiar eating habits is love. He appreciates his human meals to the point of artfully crafting them into gourmet entrées. He cherishes the experience of integrating others into himself and the power afforded to him through the act, but his mask of civility cannot hide the violence of his love. 

Within the context of civilized society, Hannibal is an outlier who shows love through control. But, if this love were to be transplanted into a primal environment without civilized restraints, what would it really look like? Showtime’s incredible series “Yellowjackets” transplants a tight-knit group of girls into a secluded wilderness and leaves them to fend for themselves. Free of the judgment of civilization, their cannibalism becomes a form of sustenance that keeps them alive in the face of starvation. It saves them from the brink of death, and it’s still all about love. The first person to take a bite of Jackie’s (Ella Purnell, “Arcane”) perfectly cooked corpse is her lifelong best friend Shauna (Sophie Nélisse, “The Book Thief”). Their love for each other was too intense for her to let Jackie go, and in a trance-like state, Shauna whispers that Jackie “wants them to” from beyond the grave. It paints the cannibalized as someone offering themselves up as a gift to their devourer, like a pious sacrifice to their most beloved. The cannibal, thus, eagerly accepts the offering as a way to forever remain with their loved one.

This deeply romantic idea is also brilliantly explored in Hayden Silas Anhedönia’s junior album “Preacher’s Daughter.” The album follows her on-stage persona, Ethel Cain, through her difficult life even through the end of being murdered and eaten by her lover. The moment he begins to devour her, she repeats “I just wanted to be yours / Can I be yours? / Can I be yours?” as a soft piano melody continues in the background. When he puts the flesh to his teeth, she becomes irrevocably his. Now, the metaphor peels back to reveal the facet of ownership. She loves him so much that she wants to belong to him, but she loses ownership of herself in the process. It’s almost a holy experience for her to remain a part of him, even from beyond the grave. This isn’t even about her spirit, which watches from above and cannot belong to her lover; he can only have the flesh. It speaks to the carnal human desire to be touched and remain impossibly close to another person.

Being consumed is the closest one person can be to another. You literally become a part of them. When asked about the motif of cannibalism in her work, Anhedönia stated that, before she ever knew about sex, each time she had a crush, she wanted to “open (herself) up and pull someone into (her) and devour them.” This desperate need for physical intimacy is exactly what the cannibal metaphor points out to us in the most glaring way possible. It’s the darker side of love and sex that nobody wants to acknowledge but that everybody knows is there, lurking in us all. Anhedönia sees the metaphor as “an act of devotion.” What could be greater devotion than offering up all that you are? It isn’t about a love that sets boundaries, but the desire for all-consuming passion that none of us can ever truly escape. For Anhedönia, escape is boring. Love isn’t real “if I don’t want to eat you.” 

In her song “Dog Days,” she tells her lover to “cut her up and eat her like the bread and blood at church.” This line and the haunting vocals behind it paint the primal need for physical closeness as something holy, like an act of worship. He’s “a feral dog” that she “worships in bedroom ceremonials.” Despite his depravity, she still subjugates herself for him. Her lover “walk(s) a fine line between god and animal,” which is the perfect intersection of the dynamics at play here, highlighting a twistedly pious devotion. It’s an animalistic act unconcerned with the immortal soul, one that cares only about the physical pull of desire itself. But the power imbalance between the worshiper and the worshiped cannot be ignored. 

Once a worshiper has been consumed, they can never be consumed by another. But the cannibal can devour as many people as they want. To be eaten is the ultimate act of devotion by a humble lover, but to eat is to accept the offering and continue on with immortality. This isn’t a fair or democratic love but one that operates on the laws of the wild. Eat or be eaten. Find food or starve. The loser in this game will eventually learn how to fight back. The act of devouring Cain’s character makes her lover sick. It’s her own revenge for taking too much of her and leaving her with nothing. He may have loved her in life, but treated her poorly, so despite her love for him in death, she’ll do the same. 

The only way to level the playing field is to have both lovers on equal ground. Luca Guadagnino’s film “Bones and All” is a love story between two cannibal characters. Having them both be capable of devouring each other makes the game of love all the more dangerous. They understand each other in a way nobody else can because they’ve accepted their intensely ugly desires. The love they share is one that can only be achieved through their core similarities, but it still has the same outcome. Because neither of them is intrinsically subjugated by the other, one of them must willingly relinquish their power and offer themselves up. When Lee (Timothée Chalamet, “Dune”) begs Maren (Taylor Russell, “Escape Room”) to eat him, he does so out of the desire to nourish his lover with his final act. It’s an explicitly consensual act of devotion as he pleads to become a part of her. 

This is the kind of love we don’t want to look at. It isn’t clean or chaste or juvenile. It is heavy and obsessive and overwhelming, but it lives within us regardless of whether we choose to accept it or not. This, as my meemaw Ethel Cain would say, is “the face of love’s rage.” Its all-consuming intimacy sustains and destroys us, but our animal forms yearn for it nonetheless. Now that the mask of civility has been forcibly removed, we’re seeing more and more media about cannibals. It isn’t so easy to look away from it anymore, so we need to confront it and find the beauty behind the ugly gore. 

Daily Arts Writer Mina Tobya can be reached at mtobya@umich.edu. 

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Clare (Kathryn Hahn, “WandaVision”) is a mess. 

After watching her break into her own home in the middle of the night, interact with her husband who recently kicked her out, talk with a daughter who wants nothing to do with her and Uber back to her workplace where she illegally sleeps on the floor of one of her patients’ rooms — this much is made perfectly clear. Suffering the damages made to her family’s dynamic after using her daughter’s college money to support her struggling brother, Clare is 49 (not 50) years old and feeling like a “shell of a person.” I won’t tell you that “Tiny Beautiful Things” is always an easy watch. But I will tell you that, in a society that loves Hollywood media and glamorizes serious topics to fit the flashiness, a show as real and raw as “Tiny Beautiful Things” is nothing if not refreshing. 

The Hulu drama is based on the book of the same name by Cheryl Strayed, a former advice columnist known for her “Dear Sugar” collection. “Tiny Beautiful Things” fictionalizes the autobiographical content of Strayed’s book and tells the story of her life and family in flashbacks and flashforwards: specifically, before, during and after the tragic loss of her mother to cancer.

To be honest, there’s something about portraying a real-life person on screen that makes me nervous, especially if the story is based on that exact person’s words and perspective. Most people are the hero in their own story; why wouldn’t you paint yourself that way? But what truly sticks out to me is that this isn’t the case in this show. Clare, though heavily based on Strayed’s life and experiences, is an entirely morally gray character. She wants the best for her daughter but isn’t immune to putting her own needs first. She loves her husband but often puts him in difficult situations due to her impulsive and occasionally irrational nature. She wants to be good for herself and for the people around her but has absolutely no clue where to start. Clare is undoubtedly what most creators are too scared to portray themselves as: a real human being. 

“Tiny Beautiful Things” is not only successful in its portrayal of its protagonist, but in all of its characters. Clare’s kind but self-respecting husband, Danny (Quentin Plair, “Welcome to Chippendale’s”) wants the best for Clare but refuses to let her walk all over him and their daughter. Clare’s daughter, Rae (Tanzyn Crawford, “Servant”), desperately needs freedom and independence — but is also in desperate need of comfort and reassurance. “Tiny Beautiful Things” finds its strength not just in plot, writing or characters, but in its ability to see the gray in the world, leaving us with the message that what matters isn’t if you’re perfect. It’s if you’re trying. 

I couldn’t wrap this review up, however, without mentioning the acting that takes an already raw and beautiful show to the next level. In a completely unsurprising turn of events, Kathryn Hahn continues her streak as one of the most consistent and reliable performers working today. Throughout the series, Hahn brings drama to the screen without ever sacrificing the iconic comedic charm that built her career.

In a world that loves media filled with glamor and over-the-top portrayals of unrealistic situations, “Tiny Beautiful Things” is a breath of fresh air. With raw and honest storylines and character decisions, this new series is interesting, thought-provoking and real. Congratulations Cheryl Strayed — you’ve created one more tiny, beautiful thing. 

Daily Arts Writer Olivia Tarling can be reached at tarling@umich.edu.

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Every year, I start my fall with a “Gilmore Girls” rewatch. Like clockwork, September hits and I have to reenter my chunky sweater, Team Jess, “oy with the poodles” era. But the weirdest and most irrational part of “Gilmore Girls fall” has got to be the sudden itch to get out every textbook you own and study like Rory Gilmore (Alexis Bledel, “Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants”).

From being the number-one member of the Alex Dunphy (Ariel Winter, “Sofia the First”) fan club to specifically watching the SAT episode of “Gossip Girl” before taking my standardized tests (for Blair Waldorf (Leighton Meester, “The Roommate”)-related reasons), the “smart girl” trope has become a key aspect of my TV viewing experience, and of my personal life. But the existence of this trope and the frequency with which it shows up on our screens begs the question: is it an opportunity to inspire an audience and show them all that they have the potential to achieve? Or is it an overused stereotype that gives viewers unrealistic expectations for their future academic success? 

Let’s start simple: What even is the “smart girl” trope? According to The Take, the “smart girl” trope refers to a young female character who is typically an “overachiever” and a “career woman in the making,” citing Lindsay Weir (Linda Cardellini, “Dead to Me”) of “Freaks and Geeks” and Lisa Simpson (Yeardley Smith, “Herman’s Head”) of “The Simpsons” as prime examples. From the more alternative “smart girls” to the queens of teen TV, the trope has become a staple of modern television. But as they become more and more normalized, it’s easy for audiences to treat these characters more like people than the over-the-top portrayals they are specifically designed to be. In other words, it’s easy to wonder whether the “smart girl” trope is doing its viewers more harm than good. 

I considered removing Lisa Simpson’s name from this article because of one specific reason: “The Simpsons” is satire. Lisa is written to be blown out of proportion and to make viewers laugh. But just as I was about to delete her name, I had a second thought: so is Rory Gilmore. And so is Blair Waldorf. In fact, so is almost every “smart girl” portrayed in the media. These characters are larger-than-life and specifically designed to get a laugh out of an audience or to add drama to a plot line — not necessarily to be accurate. But after scrolling through TikTok after TikTok based on the “Rory Gilmore aesthetic” or “studying like Spencer Hastings,” it’s become clear to me that “smart girls” don’t just fulfill their onscreen roles and leave people’s minds for good: they inspire people. Young girls want to be their “smart girl” idols, despite their completely unrealistic depictions. 

I think that this is a great thing — in moderation. I grew up on Hermione Granger, and I doubt my personality would be what it is today without Annabeth Chase. “Smart girl” characters are important, and they can change lives and act as inspiration for viewers of all ages and gender identities. I’m honestly grateful for the “smart girl” trope, and I really hope it sticks around. But I can’t pretend that it’s not without flaws. 

Like I said, as this trope becomes more and more common in the media, it’s becoming easier to treat these characters like real people. When Rory Gilmore pulls an all-nighter studying for a Chilton exam, we find ourselves impressed and thinking we can do the same, with no regard for the fact that Alexis Bledel probably shot that scene, left the set and went home to sleep for a healthy seven to nine hours. When we see everything Alex Dunphy put herself through to get into CalTech, we find ourselves feeling as though we aren’t doing enough, with no acknowledgment of the fact that Ariel Winter wasn’t involved in biochemistry or robotics during her late teens (that I know of). Either way, it’s easy to feel like you’re not living up to your full academic potential when someone onscreen seems to be working 10 times harder than you, and being 10 times more successful, even though these people have unlimited time to devote to achieving. Because they aren’t real. As fun as it can be to scroll through the aesthetic videos filled with academic montages of typed-up essays and cups of coffee, feeling as though we should be working harder to live out our full potential in our “Rory Gilmore eras,” let’s be real for a minute. TV has accidentally tricked us into academically competing with young women who don’t even exist.

I don’t say this to be a downer. I say this because I’ve seen the negative effects of going too fast, too soon when it comes to academics. In fact, one of my favorite episodes of “Modern Family” explored this exact idea with its very own “smart girl.” After a mental breakdown during her own birthday party, Alex checks herself into therapy and begins to unpack the mental load that being her family’s designated academic achiever has placed on her psyche. And honestly, this is the most accurate depiction I’ve seen of a “smart girl” in the media. Although being academically successful from a young age sounds great in theory, burnout experienced in high school and/or college is bound to follow if a person dives headfirst into their schoolwork with no regard for the mental repercussions; inaccurate characters that give young viewers unrealistic academic expectations aren’t likely to help with any of this. 

Once again, it’s not that I don’t like the “smart girl” trope. It inspires young women to live up to their best and brightest potential and to stand their ground when they know it’s right. But I think it’s time we acknowledge the shortcomings of the trope, in that it has a tendency to build up academia in a way that viewers romanticize and misunderstand, leading to mental health issues in the long term. 

So, even though my yearly “Gilmore Girls” rewatch may make me yearn for academic success à la Rory Gilmore, sometimes I have to take a step back and wonder how much of my mental health I’m willing to sacrifice to make that happen. After all, I’m not Rory Gilmore. I’m real. 

Daily Arts Writer Olivia Tarling can be reached at tarling@umich.edu.  

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The year is 2020: The world is abuzz with fear and anxiety over the COVID-19 crisis. Schools are closing. Everyone is going stir-crazy — celebrities included. In such difficult times when the most exciting part of our days were the weekly Centers for Disease Control broadcasts featuring the beloved Dr. Anthony Fauci, what could possibly bring all of humanity together and restore the peace and stability that once was? Enter: the first season of Netflix’s hit reality television series, “Love is Blind.” With a unique premise and the promise of a cast of relatively normal and relatable people — just like us! — the show was, unsurprisingly, a smashing success. After all, there was nothing else to do. But, after only four seasons, something about the “Love is Blind” spiel has grown stale. 

For those of you who remained miraculously unseduced by “Love is Blind,” here’s the lowdown. The show is marketed as a social experiment based on one question: Can you fall in love with someone without having ever seen their face? Contestants on “Love is Blind” are thrust into a never-ending round of speed dating (my own personal hell) with the hope of finding their one true love, the only caveat being, of course, that they are never allowed to see their dates’ faces. Separated into small “pods,” the participants can spill their guts to their suitor with zero clue as to their height, hair or eye color. Once they’ve found their special someone, and have proposed, contestants can finally lay eyes on their fiancés for the very first time, embarking on a whirlwind adventure of an engagement in order to answer the question once and for all: Is love truly blind?

Of course, the show doesn’t revolve solely around the idea of the so-called social experiment. The vast majority of the episodes of “Love is Blind” are dedicated to the gripping drama following the contestants’ release from the pods and their scramble to announce an engagement and plan a wedding in mere weeks. Much like other popular reality shows that revolve around romance, such as “The Bachelor” and “The Bachelorette” or “Love Island,” there is plenty of interpersonal drama and salacious gossip to satiate the masses — with this season being no exception to the rule. With quite a few unexpected prenuptial breakups and one shocking second-chance proposal, it wouldn’t be much of a stretch to call this season the most thrilling and drama-filled of the four — so why has sitting through each hour-long episode of “Love as Blind” begun to feel like such a drag?

The answer can be found in the very premise of the show itself. When “Love is Blind” first aired in 2020, it sported a novel, never-before-seen concept. What other reality TV execs could possibly dream up the idea of tossing their contestants into small, gaudily decorated boxes for the duration of their first few episodes? It was genius, truly. But the novelty has begun to wear off, with only the superficial drama of the show’s contestants to keep it afloat. Aspects of the show that, at its start, were tolerable have become simply unbearable. It would be easy to rattle off the seemingly never-ending list of the show’s more irritating traits — its consistently conventionally attractive contestants, its insistence on featuring solely heterosexual relationships, its loosey-goosey and lackadaisical use of the word “experiment” — but the core fault with the show is much simpler. In short, it has become painfully predictable, so much so that it has become almost unwatchable. 

The show fails its audiences on two fronts: in the pods and at the altar. Part of the initial intrigue of “Love is Blind” came from the show’s consistent ability to keep stakes high for contestants — and viewers — at all times. Who will participants choose in the pods? How will the pairs react upon first seeing each others’ faces? And, later, how will their engagement work out? Will they say yes at the altar? These questions drove viewership and overall interest in the show, keeping us all firmly and permanently on our toes. But as “Love is Blind” has churned out one season after another, the stakes have lowered considerably, with the answers to these once elusive questions now seeming much more obvious. While some participants may have difficulty choosing between prospective partners in the pods, the romantic trajectory of most pairs is made clear by both their individual interviews and the show’s own clipping and editing. Although the most interesting aspect of the show may be its very literal take on the term “blind date,” the auspicious moments in which each pair’s physical characteristics are revealed are surprisingly low stakes; with such attractive contestants, most couples have very few complaints, and even those that do are known to put a pin in their concerns, opting to carry on with the “experiment” and keep marching towards the wedding. So, that’s the excitement of the pods unceremoniously quashed. The lead-up to the weddings is a little more exciting than the unorthodox courtship of the pods, yet the ridiculously low success rate of the show’s couples renders the “I do’s” and “I don’ts” of the wedding ceremonies virtually meaningless. No matter which words the couples choose to say at the altar, we all know they’ll end up alone eventually. Thus, the weddings — one of the show’s most dramatized and supposedly-thrilling plot points — are, too, rendered obsolete. 

But, perhaps that’s the fun of a show like “Love is Blind” — watching each and every one of the contestants’ relationships ultimately crumble in dramatic fashion. I myself have spent many an hour in front of my television watching the “Love is Blind” couples skip merrily along on their paths to individual disaster and devastation, hideous wine glasses in hand. When the first episodes dropped, I stayed parked on my couch for each and every one, managing to drag my roommate, and later her boyfriend, into joining me in my amused, and mildly disturbed, reverie. Repetitive and ultimately meaningless as it may be, at the very least we can say that “Love is Blind” provides us with plenty of spectacles and mindless entertainment. And, really, isn’t that what reality TV is all about?

Senior Arts Editor Annabel Curran can be reached at currana@umich.edu. 

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Picture this: It’s 1954, and you’re dreading to depart from a steamy, romance-filled summer but geared up to walk into Rydell High for yet another year of high school. You dream of running for student council with the arm candy you’ve messed around with all summer as your running mate. But there’s a hold-up — that arm candy, the one you’re “going steady” with, has leaked rumors that you went all the way. Gasp. Hands to the face. Rydell High is abuzz, and your reputation is swindled. What will these 1950s teenagers do with such juicy gossip? This is the story of Jane Facciano (Marisa Davila, “Atypical”), the new, innocent girl at Rydell High who comes all the way from New York. “Grease: Rise of the Pink Ladies” is a 10-episode musical series spin-off of the 1978 classic “Grease.” It takes an uplifting twist to the life of 1950s teens.

You may be wondering, if it’s a “Grease” spin-off and includes multiple musical numbers in each episode, who the hell wrote the new music? Your answer, the musical genius behind this work of art, is Justin Tranter, a singer-songwriter who has co-written with famous artists, including Britney Spears and Gwen Stefani.

Since I hold musicals dear to my heart, the choice to write about “Grease: Rise of the Pink Ladies” was an easy one. The show uses its musical numbers to uplift deserving topics but also brings excitement to the series. I will use this as an opportunity to comment on some of my favorite songs from the first two episodes, in no particular order. 

“Grease is the Word” 

“Grease is the Word” is a banging opener for the series with an infectious beat that makes you want to get up and shake your hips. The audience is introduced to the four “pink ladies,” and each of their dense, flavorful and unique sets of pipes. While the lyrics are the same as the song “Grease” from the 1978 film, this version is much quicker and appears less like a rock song with its fast-paced, pop rhythm. I couldn’t help but think of the film series I grew up on, “High School Musical,” after listening to this opener a couple of times. “Grease is the Word” gives a similar beat as “Get’cha Head in the Game” and immediately brings a feeling of high school nostalgia (something that I constantly dreamed about before my high school career). Whether you’re in high school, graduated or on the precipice of freshman year, series and songs like “Grease is the Word” glamorize some of the least glamorous moments of life. I love it. 

“I Want More” 

There’s no just way to describe this song other than to say that it’s incredible. Davila handles this song and these chords with amazing talent, and you can tell it comes from deep inside her. In this scene, Jane realizes that her college dreams could be crushed after her ex-boyfriend spread rumors that they had sex. She’s been shamed by other girls at the school for something she didn’t do and feels beaten. Coupled with the sympathetic lyrics and heartfelt performance, Jane’s dancing sets the tone for the weight of the song. She lifts her arms and cranks her back like she’s Frankenstein’s monster, and crunching sounds complete the tone (think of the music video for “Thriller”). She’s a walking shell of a personality that once was. The thing that I like most about this song is that it represents women who are emotionally and physically pressed to their limits, but still fight back for what they know they deserve. Jane is better than the treatment she receives, and she’s pissed for good reason. Unfortunately, her reputation lies on the shoulders of those who decide to believe or not believe the truth. Sounds familiar, doesn’t it? 

“Good Girl Act”

One of the fellow Pink Ladies, Olivia (Cheyenne Isabel Wells, debut), aims to put an end to Jane’s self-deprecation and instead give her the confidence to get past the spreading rumors. After emotionally navigating her own “scandal,” Olivia has learned to lean into what people are saying rather than fight it. Give them what they want, right? Olivia wants Jane to stop preserving the reputation of her family and ex-boyfriend and instead start channeling the lioness-like female pride that Jane likely saw in New York. In the 1950s, sex stereotypes often placed women in a box, not giving them room to see beyond marriage and the raising of their husbands (you’re supposed to laugh here) and children. In a most likely intentional act, this musical number takes place in Rydell High’s home economics class, where solely women learn “cooking, cleaning, rearing children, sewing and budgeting for the home.” Not only does “Good Girl Act” have a bouncy, empowering air to it, but it cuts through the box Jane has been forced into and where she is trapped, criticizing the societal norms of the time. Just as in the original “Grease,” Jane is advised to change herself. However, rather than become the apple of her boyfriend’s eye by changing her style and hair like Sandy Olsson (Olivia Newton-John, “Xanadu”) did for Danny Zuko (John Travolta, “Pulp Fiction”), Jane gains confidence in herself and does what she wants for her own benefit. It’s refreshing. 

“World Without Boys” 

“Imagine, imagine, no more obsessing in the mirror, no more covering up ourselves, we’re way more than just exterior.” This is how “World Without Boys” begins. After being roofied by the “popular boys” at a party, the two cliques of chicks (the Pink Ladies and the “popular girls”) join forces in this musical number to imagine what their lives would be like without boys. What I appreciate most about this song is the subconscious acknowledgment of the relationship between the male gaze and actions that women perform to live up to it, such as dressing a certain way or wearing makeup to look more socially acceptable rather than for personal enjoyment. Throughout the party, the women are objectified by the boys who time how long it takes for them to have sex in a closet, cop a feel of their breasts during “spin the bottle” and shamelessly make remarks about how the women identify themselves. Imagine what a “World Without Boys” would do for female confidence. Imagine what a “World Without Boys” would do for female mental health. Imagine what a “World Without Boys” would do for girls everywhere.  

The 1978 film looks at the complicated romance of Danny and Sandy. Just as the original, “Grease: Rise of the Pink Ladies,” has your jocks, greasers, popular girls, nerds and outcasts, but this spin-off focuses less on romance and more on the empowerment of underdog personalities. Both the series and the original movie chose strong female leads to belt the chords necessary to make chill-inducing scenes. For example, the critically acclaimed rendition of “Hopelessly Devoted to You” from “Grease” was first released in Australia in 1978 and quickly reached No. 2 on their billboard and later No. 3 in the U.S. While the numbers from the original movie are a spectacle, the 2023 spin-off takes a different direction. It appears that “Grease: Rise of the Pink Ladies,” is not about romance with another person but loving oneself and redemption for the cruel world we live in.  

“Grease: Rise of the Pink Ladies” awaits eight more episodes, which will air on Paramount Plus, and I will surely be there to watch them. If you’re a fan of poodle skirts, leather jackets, slicked-back hair and unforgettable musical lines, take my hand and twist into the final episodes with me. 

Daily Arts Writer Eliza Shearing can be reached at elizamae@umich.edu. 

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We all have a mortal enemy: someone who, just by existing, ignites a scorching rage that could burn their house down. I think my long-held grudge against Matthew Morrison (“Glee”) for his many crimes against humanity has festered into enemy territory. Simply put, I have serious beef with him. But Danny (Steven Yeun, “Minari”) and Amy (Ali Wong, “Paper Girls”) take beef to a new extreme. While I might just gag at the sight of Matthew’s face during a hate-watch of “Glee,” Danny infiltrates Amy’s house just to pee on her bathroom floor and she destroys his business in retaliation. These two get so startlingly creative with their feud, it’s wild to think that all it took to light this fire was some poorly-timed road rage. 

We are first introduced to Danny while he’s in line at a supermarket trying to return a handful of hibachi grills. He’s clearly at his wit’s end and on the brink of a nervous breakdown while searching for his receipt to no avail. He holds back screams as he walks to his beat-up old truck, grills in tow, and begins reversing out of the parking spot. That is, until someone in a pristine white Mercedes Benz comes up behind him, honks their horn for 20 seconds, flips him the finger and drives off. Now, Daniel has had enough. He shifts his car into gear, high-tails it out of the parking lot and starts a full-on car chase with this stranger. They outmaneuver him, bringing the chase to an abrupt halt as we follow the two in their equally stressful lives. Danny initially assumes the driver to be a man, but quickly learns it was, in fact, Amy behind the wheel. 

It becomes very clear from Amy’s barely-held-together mask of serenity that she is also at her wit’s end. Swamped with work she has no interest in and forced to bend to the will of everyone around her, she’s essentially powerless in her own life — just like Danny. This parallel between the two protagonists despite their very different socioeconomic statuses posits them as equals in their rivalry. Each without any sort of healthy outlet for their rage, they take all of their frustrations out on one another in a sadistic back-and-forth. They’re more alike than they even realize: They are both desperately trying to provide for their families to the point of neglecting themselves. Following each of them as they go about their daily lives reveals just how hard they’re trying to keep their heads above water, but — as they lament multiple times — “there’s always something” that comes along to push them underneath. 

The hope from the brief moment of air quickly turning to growing disappointment at another breathless period is a poignant portrayal of the immigrant experience. Though Danny and his brother still live in California, their parents have been deported back to South Korea. He sees how they have worked themselves to the bone and wants nothing more than to provide a secure home for them in the U.S., but simply doesn’t have the means to do so. This hyper-awareness of your parents’ sacrifices and internal pressure to provide for them speaks to the reality that so many of the show’s audience members have likely experienced. It validates the frustration of this situation through its intrinsic understanding of it. This is the kind of honest representation that should be embraced by all audiences. Yeun’s performance elevates his character’s desperation and manages to balance it out with a unique humor when paired with Wong’s. Their interactions are so over-the-top outrageous that they provide a tonal reprieve from the otherwise heavy topics explored by the plot. 

One of the central similarities between Daniel and Amy is their lack of control over their lives. All Amy wants to do is stay home with her daughter, but she can’t stop running the rat race of corporate life. All Daniel wants is to make enough money to fix the mistakes that led to his parents’ deportation, but he can’t seem to keep a job. The only time they truly feel in control is when they’re messing with each other. To me, the root of the problem is clear: capitalism. While these two born-poor characters can’t seem to catch a break because of how worried they are about money, all the extravagantly wealthy characters like Amy’s nepo-baby husband and her “richer than entire countries” boss just can’t grasp why anyone would need to harbor such rage. With the added context of Daniel’s immigrant background and the farcical nature of their failed “American Dream,” it’s clear that the system works against characters like him and in favor of people like Amy’s boss and husband. I haven’t seen a clearer example of class divide. The show perfectly encapsulates the frustration of the lower class — even those who have gotten in the system’s good graces — and the immigrant experiences of trying to pull yourself and your loved ones out with the odds stacked against you. 

Regardless of how Amy and Daniel try to put on the face of peaceful, upper-class calm that their uber-wealthy bosses and friends assume, their rage at the system and their place in it leaves a primal anger festering underneath. This leads them to retaliate against one another in a cycle of malicious infighting, vowing to take down the only person who could truly understand them, rather than going for the real villains, who are, of course, the rich. This is a fresh take on class warfare that even Marx might have been glad to see played out on screen. 

Amy and Daniel might be trying to gain a sliver of control by making each other’s lives miserable, but the real control rests with the rich. That’s a raw deal no one wants to sign, but no one has the control to turn down. Those with the power feed Amy mushrooms and give Daniel spicy chicken sandwiches, but the two’s craving for beef can’t be satiated by anyone besides the other. While it’s fun to watch them bicker on screen, I think it might be more fun to watch Amy key her boss’s car or break her husband’s terrible art. And while the real enemy is always capitalism, we should also remember that Matthew Morrison remains a worse threat to human society.

Daily Arts Writer Mina Tobya can be reached at mtobya@umich.edu.

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Ah nepotism. Defined by Merriam Webster as “favoritism (as in appointment to a job) based on kinship,” nepotism and online discussion of “nepo-babies” (children of celebrities) has certainly increased as of late. Personally, I lost my mind when I found out Gracie Abrams is JJ Abrams’s daughter. And I guess our obsession with nepotism has finally reached Netflix as they released a new office-comedy “Unstable” starring real-life father and nepo-baby son, Rob Lowe (“The Outsiders”) and John Owen Lowe (“Holiday in the Wild”), as fictional father and nepo-baby son Ellis and Jackson Dragon, respectively.

Ellis Dragon is an eccentric biotech genius and CEO who has gone off the rails since the death of his wife and is facing threats of removal from his company’s board. To put him back on the right track, the company’s CFO (and arguably the best character), Anna (Sian Clifford, “Fleabag”), wrangles Jackson from New York to come back and help his father while also repairing their relationship. Jackson constantly feels that his father is trying to make him in his image and doesn’t feel supported in who he is, while Ellis just wants to help his son be the best that he can be. 

For all “Unstable” tries to be witty and heartwarming, it comes up just short at both. Now, comedy is subjective, and some kinds of humor just don’t land for everybody. Many fans have taken to Twitter to express their love for this show and would go as far as saying it was hilarious. I chuckled at times, but it certainly was no “Modern Family” or “New Girl.” “Unstable” did have many unique bits (my favorite was easily the whole invisibility cloak schtick), the plot took some funny turns, most notably a kidnapping-turned-friendship, and the dialogue was also quick and had witty banter at times, but it wasn’t anything special. The jokes felt overused, especially an ongoing bit about two twins on the company’s board whose “humor” was just them being incredibly annoying and, frankly, dumb in the least charming way.

However, where “Unstable” really fell short was in its failure to deliver on the father-son relationship. More than anything, the basis of Ellis and Jackson’s problems felt like simple miscommunication, and the whole “estranged relationship” part of the plot was pretty much resolved by the end of the second episode. I was hoping to see some family therapy and a real discussion of how the death impacted Ellis and Jackson, but the most emotional scene we get is when Jackson breaks down in tears over the last jar of peanut butter that his mom made. She almost isn’t even referenced beyond that point, even though there is still so much baggage left to be unpacked. Both Ellis and Jackson reference how she helped serve as a bridge between them, so some flashbacks or recalls of conversations or advice she had for them would’ve given both characters so much more depth and would’ve added a powerful dimension to the show. After repairing the father-son relationship so quickly, the series shifts focus to the new dynamics of Jackson working at his father’s company and the relationships between different characters in the office. This isn’t necessarily bad — in fact, a lot of these relationships were well-developed and enjoyable to watch — but by comparison, it diminished the emphasis on Ellis and Jackson’s relationship.

While Ellis and Jackson weren’t bad or single-dimensional characters (they certainly did have stable characterization and were consistently themselves), the side characters were still the stars of the show. Anna maintained a solid character with a strong and standoffish, yet loving demeanor and an impeccably dry sense of humor. Her banter with Ellis, Jackson and many of the other employees at the company made up most of my favorite scenes. I also appreciated the relationship between Ellis and Anna and how it was never made into a remotely romantic one. It’s nice to see sheer platonic love and just that.

Ultimately, “Unstable” tried and failed to balance humor with depth. At times, the show felt like it was created just for Rob Lowe and his son to act together, but at least they were father and nepo-baby son in the show too, and I can appreciate the humor in that. “Unstable” is a good show for some decently okay humor, and the bizarre plot lines and relationships developed between characters are enjoyable to watch. Keep your standards low and your appreciation for nepotism high, and you might just like it.

Daily Arts Writer Jenna Jaehnig can be reached at jjaehnig@umich.edu. 

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“Great Expectations” is a story told time and time again. Whether by reading the original Charles Dickens novel in a high school English class or watching one of the 17 previous screen adaptations of the tale, it is highly likely that you have encountered this story before. Following the journey of Pip, a young boy in England, as he is plucked from the common class and elevated through society, “Great Expectations” is a commentary on how wealth and power impact happiness, making people question if or when they will be satisfied in their lives. The character of Miss Havisham, a bizarre woman who was unable to move on after being left at the altar, and her adopted daughter Estella, add a touch of female rage to the story. They twist love from something heartwarming into a tool of manipulation. The morals of “Great Expectations” are timeless, as the characters continue to be intriguing and the story so well told that it still has mass appeal more than 150 years after its publication date. This new FX adaptation of “Great Expectations” leans into gothic storytelling, introducing viewers to a grimy and dark twist on the beloved story. But with a story so oft-retold, what is there to make this adaptation worthwhile?

The showrunners certainly think that a darker, more twisted approach to the content makes this adaptation valuable. The sets are cold and dreary, and the cinematography focuses on the harsh winter and nature of the marshes. The opening scene of the episode is that of an adult Pip (Fionn Whitehead, “Emily”) prepping for a suicide attempt, something that is never even suggested in the novel. It seems that this focus on darkness is the sole purpose of the creative team, at the expense of making meaningful changes and staying true to the intent of Dickens. Leaning into the grittier side of life isn’t entirely a bad thing. Some viewers might feel it more accurately captures the hardships of life in the 1800s, allowing this adaptation’s characters to express what they are dealing with fully. However, others might think it pushes the story too far. While there are touches of that darkness in Dickens’ writing, grittiness isn’t its sole purpose. Dickens is able to keep levity in his storytelling and preserve hope amongst the despair.

Additionally, the darker perspective may prevent this from being suitable for families to watch, which makes it harder to introduce the story of “Great Expectations” to younger viewers who may not have seen any of the other 17 adaptations. Despite the stylistic diversion in this adaptation, all of the actors, including the young cast, nobly commit to their roles. Tom Sweet (“The Nutcracker and the Four Realms”) does well as a young Pip, expressing the standard amount of aloofness and dissatisfaction necessary as a pre-teen, while Bronte Carmichael (“Andor”) packs a big punch as Pip’s kind and down-to-earth friend Biddy. 

Despite the level of detail in production design, interesting cinematography and devoted performances, this adaptation ultimately feels pallid and detached. Something feels as though it’s lacking here. Even though the series had solid pieces, they don’t come together in a way that holds attention. So much time is spent developing the conflict between prisoners Magwitch (Johnny Harris, “A House in Jerusalem”) and Compeyson (Trystan Gravelle, “Documentary Now!”) that, unless you know how they come into play later in the story, it is incredibly easy to lose interest. While Dickens had the motivation to flesh out the writing and allow the plot to move slowly (the novel was originally published as a series of weekly installments), this method of storytelling isn’t as satisfying for television audiences. Viewers expect big moments in every episode, which isn’t exactly the case here. Only in the last few minutes of the premiere episode, when Olivia Colman (“Puss In Boots: The Last Wish”) makes her appearance as Miss Havisham, do things begin to get interesting. Colman instantly fills the space with an eerie aura, setting the stage for episodes to come. The pieces are all in play now, leaving us to hope that future episodes will be more captivating.

Daily Arts Writer Mallory Edgell can be reached at medgell@umich.edu.

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Picture the world we live in now: A world where female politicians are critiqued for every aspect of their being, from their shoes to the expression on their face. Where women can’t get access to information or care for their bodies. Where schools don’t feel safe and girls are told to calm down when they try to express their emotions. Based on the 2016 novel by Naomi Alderman by the same name, Prime Video’s new series “The Power” places these real-world issues at its forefront, but with one vital twist: What if women were forced to evolve in order to survive? In “The Power,” young women between the ages of 12 and 19 develop an organ like that of an electric eel, which allows them to create their own electrical pulses. Once this mutation is discovered it sparks a wave that will permanently change the power dynamics of society. 

In the hands of a different creative team, this premise could’ve easily become cheesy, too much like your average superhero story. Or, it might have seemed a bit too close to the many young adult dystopian stories already out there. In reality, yes, the development of this power is a bit contrived and the science behind it is likely very weak. But there is a shocking amount of nuance here. The setting of the story isn’t some far off future or a colorful comic book. It is a world just like our own, facing the same issues as our own. These women aren’t superheroes or villains; they are just people trying to survive in a world where the odds are stacked against them. While the show’s focus could have easily been placed on how the mutation first developed, “The Power” instead examines what happens in the aftermath of the girls’ discovery. 

As it turns out, the fallout was complicated. There was no single response, as each community and person reacts differently to the life-altering events. Rather than honing in on one family’s story, the series takes a global perspective, with distinct plotlines examining perspectives from women all around the world. It is easy in ensemble shows such as this for one setting or performance to fall flat, but that is not the case in “The Power.” Equal attention and devotion has been given to each storyline explored. No setting feels under-developed or lacking, from the family of a crime boss in London, England, to a journalist in the metropolis of Lagos, Nigeria and even to a convent of ex-communicated activist nuns in South Carolina. Ria Zmitrowicz (“Foresight”) delivers a powerful performance as the daughter of said crime boss, while Halle Bush (debut) has a fantastic on-screen presence as Allison, a girl running away from her foster family. In Seattle, Auli’i Cravalho (“Moana”) convincingly plays strong-minded teen Jos, as she pushes away her politician mother, Margot (Toni Collette, “The Estate”). The developments of the electrical power in these women affect each specific character differently. Yet “The Power” doesn’t just gloss over this fact, but instead embraces it and succeeds because of it.

What makes “The Power” work unbelievably well is its theorization of how events like these would disrupt and alter our way of life. These women aren’t celebrated, or even feared exactly; instead, they become even more controlled. At the outset of the series, this power isn’t a gift, but a threat. Schools force their students to report classmates with the power, and then detain the affected girls in the gym. The FBI investigates a 12-year-old girl as they would a terrorist because of a power she didn’t even know she had. The male governor of Washington state tries to cover up the cases in order to save his senate campaign, but in doing so denies women access to information about the developments in their bodies. These first three episodes provide a scathing examination of women’s place in society. The story may be implausible, but if the power was in fact a reality, who’s to say our real world wouldn’t respond in the same way? 

But throughout the premiere episodes, there are also meaningful moments of these women seizing their power amongst the confusion and continuing attempts at control. This is where the storytelling of “The Power” feels its strongest. As women, we are already used to narratives of control and manipulation, and seeing them on screen in “The Power” can possibly feel like overkill, repeating in fiction the issues we deal with everyday. But “The Power” also allows its women to embody their rage: Their electricity is a vessel for catharsis. It gives them a tool they need to survive in their world; whether it’s escaping an abusive foster father, fighting off attackers or simply building one’s self confidence, their power gives them a way to take their lives into their own hands.

It will be interesting to see how the gender dynamic continues to develop and change in the upcoming episodes. Hopefully the victories of the women in “The Power” will grow from only personal wins into sweeping policy and social change across the whole world. Regardless, if “The Power” wants to continue to succeed, it should keep leaning into its global perspective on the events and posing questions that make viewers think critically about how these stories are reflected in the real world.

Daily Arts Writer Mallory Edgell can be reached at medgell@umich.edu.

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One of the scariest moments of my life was when I was 7 years old and watching the new episodes of Pendleton Ward’s (“Bravest Warriors”) “Adventure Time” with my siblings. There was a time when we would religiously watch it every week, obsessed with the ridiculous plot lines and hilarious characters. However, this particular set of episodes was not quite as funny as the others. I remember being horrified the first time I saw what was to be the main antagonist of “Adventure Time” cause such a face of hopelessness in Finn (Jeremy Shada, “Julie and the Phantoms”) and Jake (John DiMaggio, “Futurama”) as The Lich (Ron Perlman, “Hellboy”) causes them to almost die by taking over their minds. True terror had never been instilled in me as much as a single word from The Lich could — his icy breath being able to take down the seemingly invincible Finn with one word, the insinuation that he couldn’t die and would never die, the thought that it took all of Ooo to trap him and that it would take all of Ooo to trap him again. Never having experienced such an intense atmosphere in a show, I can’t explain the sheer degree of fear I felt at that time. It was a scene that I would be afraid of for years to come, and one that still sends shivers down my spine.

Of course, I now recognize the incredible storytelling of the writers behind “Adventure Time,” utilizing absurdist concepts to emphasize the more serious episodes of the series that followed. However, the only reason I know that now is because that terrifying scene was burned into my brain for more than a decade. Although Ward is an absolute monster for giving enjoyers of animation around the world nightmares through this show and others that he has created, like “The Midnight Gospel,” he has also made it clear that children’s media are often only appreciated fully when it is as ridiculous as it is terrifying. Now, I am not saying that we should simply traumatize all children for the fun of it. But by incorporating semi-nightmare fuel into the right places and at the right amounts, one is left with a creation that is most memorable, intriguing and meaningful. 

Another great example of a show full of terror: “Gravity Falls.” More like “Adventure Time” in its exploration of absurdism, its occasional terrifying themes made it an extremely memorable piece of media. For example, the very first episode is oriented towards showcasing how weird of a town Gravity Falls is in the first place without necessarily tackling that concept in a scary way. Instead, it introduces the “strangeness” of the town with a red herring: A character who is seemingly a zombie but instead turns out to be a bunch of gnomes stacked on top of one another. Something so ridiculous is not considerably scary in any way, allowing the episodes that followed to shock its viewers with genuinely terrifying themes and plotlines that ultimately offered deeper, more impactful messages. I still remember the absolute insanity that went on in my household when the season two midseason finale of “Gravity Falls” aired, as the stakes were high and my siblings and I all genuinely believed that Mabel (Kristen Schaal, “Bob’s Burgers”) was going to get the entire town killed. I still think about what that scene means to me — about the message of trusting one’s heart over everything else, and how wonderful of a season finale it was because of it. The genuine fear in my heart made that message all the sweeter, and I don’t know if I would have remembered that episode as well otherwise.

However, horror in children’s media does not always mean one will remember the points of each episode for the better. For example, “Courage the Cowardly Dog,” a popular show in the early 2000s, has memorable characters and themes, but not too many memorable plot points. This is likely due to the sheer consistency of terrifying characters in every episode, as the show is centered around main character Courage’s overactive imagination. This allows the artist to load the show with nightmare fuel in extraordinarily clever and thoughtful ways. The over-exaggerated animation style of each episode’s antagonist along with the genuinely terrifying situations the characters would be put through was more than enough to make the show scary as all hell. However, it didn’t have the dichotomy between horror and lighthearted absurdity that most other memorable shows with a scary nature do. Although I am certain “Courage the Cowardly Dog” had many intriguing life lessons (as most children’s media does), I cannot recall the lesson nor the plot of a single episode, due to how terrifying all of them were. That, along with the fact that most media in the early ’00s opted towards pocket episodes rather than consistent storylines, makes it difficult to truly remember what sort of stories “Courage the Cowardly Dog” told in the first place.

Horror without a purpose made the sights memorable, but it feels nearly impossible to remember the plot that came with it. This doesn’t mean that any show that focuses more on pocket episodes or artistry than plot is a bad show, but it does make it less effective on the viewer in the long-run. The creators of “Courage the Cowardly Dog” were wise and creative enough to have antagonists portrayed with several different forms of art media with different reasons they were scary, but nonetheless it is hard to remember it for anything but being a beautifully scary show. There is only so much variation that can be portrayed in a deserted field with a single house, and the show did amazingly with what it had. Meanwhile, shows like “Gravity Falls” and “Adventure Time” emphasize other aspects of the worlds they’ve created, making the terrifying parts even scarier because it was possible to contrast it from the other encounters the protagonists had. 

Overall, I have come to learn that being scared for a large portion of my childhood due to the media I watched was less harmful to my psyche than one would guess. Fear ensures that important messages properly stick to one’s memory, citing back moments and feelings whenever a significant decision is to be made. A show might scare a child, but it is more important that a child learns that fear is a regular emotion that is to be understood and accepted as normal and temporary. Good children’s media teaches kids to overcome those fears, trust themselves and always look forward to being braver and better — just as Finn from “Adventure Time,” Mabel from “Gravity Falls” and Courage from “Courage the Cowardly Dog” taught me.

Daily Arts Writer Adaeze Uzoije can be reached at auzoije@umich.edu.

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