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(10/10/19 10:04am)
“The important things in your life,” Katherine Arden ’11 said, “happen when you say, ‘screw it, let’s do it.’” Arden and I sat in the Adirondack chairs by McCullough on one of the last warm days in Middlebury, which comes about two months earlier than in many other places. Arden, a current Middlebury resident, is no stranger to this phenomenon. The national best-selling author, with five published novels and six more on the way, had no idea that post-Midd life would include being a full-time novelist.
Her plan was to take time off, get a masters degree in interpretation, and eventually work for the U.N. That path couldn’t be more different from the one she’s on now. Recounting her fascinating detour, Arden said that she worked on a farm in Hawaii with World Wide Opportunities on Organic Farms (WWOOF) during her free time. “I got bored farming so I started writing a book,” she said. “I enjoyed it and decided to put the interpreting on hold to finish the book, and I sold it to a publisher as part of a trilogy.” Arden’s first book, “The Bear and The Nightingale,” was published in 2017, and the series’ second and third installments were published in the two years that followed. More recently, Arden has written two children’s books titled “Small Spaces” (2018) and “Dead Voices” (2019).
“It’s been super rewarding and I enjoy the freedom, the traveling and making stuff up for a living,” Arden said.
Of course, as a college student, I was curious about how Arden’s Middlebury education had impacted her career. Arden graduated with a degree in Russian and French. She recalled using what she learned in class to “seed” her first novel, which is set in Russia. “I guess trying to create an authentic sense of a place is challenging, and it helps to have been there and to have studied it,” she said.
[pullquote speaker="Katherine Arden '11" photo="" align="center" background="on" border="all" shadow="on"]You don’t have to know everything right away and make decisions right away. The achievements will still be there, the advanced degree will still be there if you take two or three years and just discover.[/pullquote]
On the topic of practicality and stability in career choice, Arden said that she is the only one of her friends to pursue the same career path since leaving college. “Everyone tries different stuff, everyone goes back for a second degree, everyone tries to make it work in this weird 21st-century economy,” she said. “It’s important to make decisions based off what is right for you. You can’t think, ‘This career won’t give me security,’ because, well, it has for me. Professionally, financially… spiritually. It’s been a good and stable career. You never know, and there’s so much self-motivation involved.”
Cognizant of the pressure that students feel to have their futures mapped out, Arden offered words of advice. “One thing that happens in college is that you have this sense that ‘I must hurry, I must decide, I must not get behind everyone else — the sense of a rush. In reality, when you’re 21 you have so much time; you have tons of time. Take a year off, go be a ski bum in Colorado. Do what I did and go work on a farm in Hawaii. You don’t have to know everything right away and make decisions right away,” she said. “The achievements will still be there, the advanced degree will still be there if you take two or three years and just discover.”
This leads us to another monumental influence in Katherine’s life: travel.
Already having spent a year in France and Russia before coming to the college, Arden returned to France and Russia in her junior year abroad. Before returning to Vermont, she farmed in Hawaii on two separate occasions, worked as a teaching assistant in the French Alps and backpacked across the world. “Traveling is important. It’s how you grow and learn about places that aren’t your place,” she said. “And it’s more than just being a tourist. It means going and trying to live somewhere else. Just going and looking at the Eiffel Tower isn’t going to make a difference,” she said. “Life surprises you, I didn’t expect to come back to Vermont. But I did, and it ended up being home.” According to Arden, it was travel that gave her confidence in herself and her purpose.
It’s easy to get caught up in the culture we establish on this campus. It’s even easier to get caught up in the opinions of others — on our goals, our majors, our summer plans. But coming from someone who has been in our Blundstones, who has hiked up the same Snake Mountain and found success in doing what she loves every day, I ask that you don’t take her advice too lightly.
“Take advantage of the freedom while you have it,” Arden said. “Because you will eventually have responsibilities, and then it gets harder to keep exploring. You might discover weird life curve balls, like being a novelist.”
(05/02/19 9:59am)
Imagine a collection of rivers running parallel to one another, never touching but ultimately flowing into the same ocean. This is the sort of storytelling that comes to life in Dominga Sotomayor’s feature, “Tarde Para Morir Joven” (“Too Late to Die Young”). From the very beginning, we’re given a string to follow when Frida, the neighborhood dog, gallops away from her owner in a hypnotic travelling shot. The film comes back into focus on the rest of the characters and their own unraveling narratives as they prepare for the New Year’s party, where their stories eventually reconcile.
The film is set in the summer of 1990, in a newly democratic Chile shortly after the fall of the dictatorship. The nation, young and temperamental, mirrors the 16-year-old lead, Sofía. Categorically, this film would fall into a coming-of-age story, but it does much more than that. It follows not only Sofía, but the rest of the rural, sun-drenched community, offering snapshots of small and intimate moments. The village itself is gorgeous and idyllic,in way that makes you want to pack your bags and book the next flight out — if you’ve seen “Call Me by Your Name,” you’ll know what I’m talking about (they have the same producer). Sotomayor’s style captures everything and nothing all at once — it’s a film that has to be felt rather than analyzed. It is a wholly immersive experience.
Despite the seemingly utopian setting, Sofía finds herself struggling with imminent adulthood. This peeks through in the way she defends her smoking habit. In a particularly amusing shot Sofía tells her dad it’s too late, she’s already a smoker, and he needs to get over it. Rather than joining her friends in preparation for the New Year’s Party, Sofía is constantly seen on her own in a typical daze of teenage angst. Her character and her struggles don’t seem to fit within the frame of her bohemian community, and she longs to move to the city. Amidst her turmoil, Ignacio, who is older and embodies everything that draws Sofía to the city, returns to the village. His arrival unnerves her childhood best friend Lucas, evident from his myriad glares and awkward silences.
Streaming alongside this is another story. Sofía’s neighbor, a 10-year-old named Clara who loses her dog Frida at the start of the film, searches tirelessly for her best friend. After weeks of stapling posters and mournful glances, Clara finds a dog who looks just like Frida living with another family in the city. In a breath of hope, Clara brings the dog back just to realize she’s not Frida after all. In the final shot of the movie — and in the same style as the very beginning — we see Clara’s new companion bounding away in a cloud of dust.
In all of its sweeping observations, the film never seems to land on any particular aspect or continuous storyline. Each individual struggle feels as if it flows alongside the other, twisting and curving, but never overlapping until the night of the long-awaited party. Even then, we only see the combined frustration and tension of the characters without being told how it can be resolved.
There is a beautiful moment when Sofía gets up to sing “Eternal Flame” for the party, and she sees Ignacio in the crowd. In that moment, it’s hard to tell the difference between Sofía’s feelings and your own; it’s something universal.
Neither Sofía’s, Clara’s nor Lucas’s struggles ever reach a breaking point, they’re all just “there.” Over and over, the film edges on raw emotion, but as soon as it comes close to any point of resolution, it pulls away and zooms into another detail of the jigsaw puzzle-like narrative. It’s an “almost, almost, not quite” feeling — leaving you entranced but not satisfied.
(04/25/19 9:58am)
When you think of Italy, what comes to mind? Idyllic sunsets on the Mediterranean? A gondolier rowing past old Venetian architecture? Or maybe just a steaming plate of carbonara. Whatever comes to mind, it probably doesn’t include a sinister, run-down town with a crime problem. “Dogman,” Matteo Garrone’s award-winning film, offers an honest window into a country often perceived as picture-perfect while telling a bone-chilling story of morality, revenge and the human psyche.
The film follows Marcello, a dopey but deeply kindhearted everyman who owns a dog-sitting shop in a small seaside town. His priorities are his daughter, his dogs and the good-will of his neighborhood — in that order. However, while trying to remain in everyone’s good graces, Marcello runs into quite a big problem in the form of Simone — the neighborhood criminal who snorts coke and gets into fights like clockwork.
While most of the neighborhood despises Simone, Marcello is more tolerant, either due to fear or his trusting personality (most likely a combination of the two). When his neighbors propose to hire a hitman to get rid of Simone, Marcello stays quiet. When Simone is shot and seriously wounded, Marcello pulls the bullet out himself. He even helps Simone on his numerous illegal outings and sells him coke on the side. That sounds bad, but stay with me.
There is a warmth that radiates from Marcello.
In fact, there is one scene which perfectly encapsulates his character. As Marcello is coming home from work, Simone pulls up beside him and asks Marcello to drive the van as Simone breaks in and robs a house in the nicer part of town. Marcello obliges, as any good friend would. As they drive back, Simone’s accomplice jokes about having thrown a noisy pet Chihuahua into the freezer so as to not get caught. This visibly shakes Marcello. After dropping off his fellow delinquents, Marcello speeds back to the scene of the crime, breaks back into the house and resurrects the frozen Chihuahua (who got the Palm Dog Award at Cannes Film Festival, by the way.)
The same kindness extends to Marcello’s daughter, whom he takes on scuba-diving vacations with the little money he earns. There’s an endearing scene in which Marcello holds his daughter, facing away from the audience, as they coast along the sea. Even with Simone’s looming presence, life doesn’t seem too bad for Marcello.
The turning point, and where Marcello’s story becomes much darker, happens when Simone bullies Marcello into betraying a friend in the neighborhood. The following day, Marcello is escorted to the police station and asked to give up Simone. Marcello refuses and is sent to jail instead of Simone, even knowing it would mean a year of his life and the comradery he so valued in his community would be lost.
When Marcello returns and tries to speak to Simone about the incident, Simone beats him to a pulp. Once again, we see Marcello holding his daughter on the sea, but this time he’s turned toward the audience, and we see his battered face. There’s a palpable change in the tone of the film, and the events following cascade into complete chaos. Inevitably, Marcello is driven to madness, and the result is so horrifying it’s hard to keep your eyes on the screen. And yet, you’re still rooting for Marcello; your heart hurts for him. You feel for him as you feel for a small child when they’ve accidentally dropped your phone in the toilet. Angry but understanding.
There’s an interesting dichotomy to Marcello’s character and his life. His actions are all at once good and evil, and the line between the two is barely visible. Not only can you justify and pity him, but you start to ask yourself if you wouldn’t do the same given his position. It’s a scary question to ask, and it’s even more frightening to see how fast the life he built was swept out from under him. It’s something reminiscent of “Death of a Salesman” — haunting, conflicting and simultaneously very real. It’s “life” in ultra HD, a resolution we often try to avoid when faced with reality.
(04/11/19 9:58am)
It is a story we are all familiar with. The plot is fairly simple – three men, one moon and a comical number of American flags. In fact, it is a story we are so familiar with that we often forget the undeniable magic it holds – the type of magic that deserves to be acknowledged, told and retold.
Todd Douglas Miller’s documentary “Apollo 11” does just this. Through a gripping collage of authentic footage and animated diagrams, Miller plunges you into the out-of-this-world summer of 1969.
The documentary is unusual and exciting. There is no acting, no commentary – it allows you to feel the journey for yourself through a cleverly assembled collection of video clips and voice recordings taken during the mission. The stars of the film, Neil Armstrong, Buzz Aldrin and Michael Collins, appear as themselves, adding to the truly genuine emotion of the film and deepening the audience’s appreciation. We feel their excitement, their stress and their accomplishment. It gives the film its weight, its soul. In truth, “Apollo 11” embodies a living, breathing history textbook.
Along with its authenticity, “Apollo 11” is deeply aesthetic. As the film careens through the crowd of onlookers, zooming in on gaudy flower caps and tailgates spread out across Florida’s glistening beaches, it is hard not to feel nostalgic. When the illustrious Saturn V is rolled onto the launch pad, you see the beauty behind the grueling mechanics of the launch. The same red painted on the sides of the rocket is later seen in the stripes of the American flag as it stands on the moon.
Even more impressive is the quality of the footage taken half a century ago. The colors are surprisingly fresh and the atmosphere they create is undoubtedly mesmerizing.
What’s more critical yet is the documentary’s ability to bring the astounding feat back down to earth. It focuses profoundly on the human aspect of the event rather than the scientific or political, even with Nixon’s address to the crew. It does not cast the astronauts, scientists or technicians as anything more than they are. They were real people who did a genuinely unreal thing.
We see Armstrong, Collins and Aldrin as they are transported to the launch pad. We hear their heart rates at the start of the mission and as they land on the moon, and our hearts are pounding for them. We hold our breath as Armstrong steps off the lunar module and says those twelve words ingrained in our memories since we were children: “That’s one small step for [a] man, one giant leap for mankind.” But this time they sound different, they’re no longer a cheesy cliché — we can feel them in our bones.
Suddenly the story we thought we knew so well is washed in an entirely new light. You feel as if you yourself have been part of the mission control, the astronauts and the technicians who created history in a matter of eight days. Towards the end of the film as our heroes are flying back home, the camera zooms past a sea of white coated scientists, technicians and mechanics. It is a moment of pride, not just for the nation which put the first man on earth, but for the entire human race. We did that. We are capable of exploring a world beyond our own, and in a time when we are questioning the capacity of human unity and achievement, this movie comes as breath of fresh air.
Whether it is the long-lost footage finally resurfaced, the thrilling symphonic soundtrack or simply the story itself, “Apollo 11” restores a sense of wonder to a somewhat outdated topic. If you have seen “First Man” or any other interpretation of the mission, this film is sure to eclipse the rest. In the words of Marvin Gaye — ain’t nothing like the real thing.
(03/21/19 9:58am)
From its very first moment, you are submerged into the intoxicatingly chaotic and bewildering world of colonial Argentina — into the world of “Zama.” Based on the 1956 novel written by Antonio Di Benedetto, “Zama” follows the story of a Spanish officer, Don Diego de Zama, as he attempts to obtain a transfer letter from the King. A letter which never arrives. He feels cheated by the system and hopeless in his attempts to better his own life and return to his children.
The elaborate costumes, breathtaking landscapes and incredible wildlife all contribute to the authentic aesthetic of the film, based on the 1956 novel written by Antonio Di Benedetto.
But not all is focused on beauty in this film. Throughout, there are scenes of disease and violence that are as present and as inevitable as the tropical heat itself. For instance, Zama’s close friend, El Oriental, contracts cholera and dies amidst Zama’s blooming relationship with the noblewoman, Luciana — a relationship which then turns out to be as false and contrived as Zama’s hopes of a transfer. While Zama seems stunned, everyone else around him remains unmoved. His other interactions had a similar sense of frivolity and deception, creating a resounding feeling of isolation not only for the officer but the audience as well.
After many years of relentless disappointment and fruitless relations, the officer joins a search party to capture an infamous criminal, Vicuña Porto. The criminal is blamed for every wrongdoing and calamity in Zama’s town and serves as an overarching scapegoat for the bureaucracy. Porto joins the group alongside Zama in the search party for himself, unknown to anyone but the officer. Zama discovers that the criminal is not in fact the omnipresent and vile villain which the apparatus paints him to be — Vicuña Porta is searching for the same light as Zama in the vast swamp of colonial corruption.
In an ironic and cruel twist, Zama tries to explain to Porto the futility of his mission, the lack of hope in his endeavors. He tells Porto, “I am trying to tell you what no one told me before,” Porto responds by mutilating Zama.
Although there is a palpable cultural barrier, to those unfamiliar with the period’s history and the Spanish tongue, the emotive language of the film is genuine and familiar. Director Lucrecia Martel makes an interesting decision to omit subtitles for the native language speaking scenes of the film. As if to say that amidst the backdrop of colonization, this part should be left untouched.
The plot itself is cyclical and remains in the confines of Zama’s struggles against the backwards nature of his government. At times difficult to watch, it established true empathy towards the officer, as his frustrations become your own.
The film moves slowly; it takes its time. It leaves no choice but to pay attention to every look, every line and every long pause which would otherwise be lost. It’s deeply emotional and conceptual, much more so than it is climactic or even conclusive. Zama answers no questions, but asks plenty in return.
I left the theater unsettled but fully enthralled by the fascinating yet daunting portrait painted by this film. There is a tale told at the start of the film, of a fish that spends its entire life swimming against the current of the water which tries to spit it onto the shore. It fights to stay stagnant all the while hoping to swim farther. Zama is ultimately a story of expectation, desire and the perpetual question of destiny. Will we, or won’t we?
(10/04/18 10:01am)
Whether you are a Middlebury student, professor or just a passerby, chances are you have seen the West Cemetery. You might know it as the shortcut to the gym, or the place with the mummy. Regardless, it is hard to miss.
What many people have not seen is Middlebury’s other cemetery — a well-hidden treasure tucked into the far side of the knoll, with no markers or tombstones; buried in this graveyard lay hundreds of sacred texts. The texts range from entire prayer books to Genizah scraps.
On Friday, Sept. 28, Rabbi Kevin Hale, a visiting Torah scribe, led Middlebury’s second sacred scroll burial. The proceeding closely resembled a traditional funeral. There were shovels, rabbis, prayers and sentiments. The occasion was described by many as both joyous and sad — a celebration and a letting go. Rabbi Hale regarded this as a natural process, a way to “give life to sacred practices by letting them go with respect” and as a “celebration of a creative process that keeps on going.”
This symbolism extends beyond the Jewish faith. Middlebury’s Muslim Chaplain and Advisor Saifa Hussain spoke of an Islamic tradition in which sacred texts must be returned to the earth by means of burial, burning or submerging the text in a body of water — a beautiful metaphor for respecting the earth and its gifts.
“We give [the texts] back to the earth,” Talia Rasiel ’22 said. “The idea is that you came from dust and you return to dust.”
Throughout the burial, it was easy to forget that the object of the ritual was a series of texts. The way the attendees spoke of the scrolls as living, breathing entities meant to be read, kissed, danced and interacted with made it seem as though the writing truly has a life of its own.
When asked about this sentiment, Rabbi Hale said, “It doesn’t so much suggest idolatry as it does honoring and showing respect and love for the text. When you hold a Torah scroll it feels as though you are holding a baby.”
The multiplicity of religions represented at the burial of these Jewish texts begs the questions: how does this practice relate to other practices and beliefs? Is Middlebury doing enough to organize and welcome beautiful and meaningful events such as this?
“I grew up with a huge respect for all religions,” Evan Killion ’21 said. “They all have something special. I love learning about the different conceptions of god. People here are taking various religion classes that don’t correspond to their own faith because they are genuinely curious — they want to learn more and they have a deep respect.”
Ultimately, the event offered an intriguing glimpse into traditions that surround the end of the lives of sacred texts and reminded us of the myriad ways we reflect on our place on earth.