{"id":147436,"date":"2020-09-11T15:28:15","date_gmt":"2020-09-11T19:28:15","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=147436"},"modified":"2020-09-11T16:07:17","modified_gmt":"2020-09-11T20:07:17","slug":"staff-picks-night-skies-b-sides-and-neon-lights","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2020\/09\/11\/staff-picks-night-skies-b-sides-and-neon-lights\/","title":{"rendered":"Staff Picks: Night Skies, B Sides, and Neon Lights"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"<\/a>

Joanna Klink. Photo: \u00a9 Antonia Wolf.<\/p><\/div>\n

When I picked up Joanna Klink\u2019s new poetry collection The Nightfields<\/em><\/a>, I had half a mind to rush to the main event, Night Sky\u2014a long sequence inspired by James Turrell\u2019s massive land art project Roden Crater<\/em>. (Paris Review <\/em>readers got a preview of Night Sky<\/a> in the Fall 2018 issue). For fans of Turrell (I consider myself one, as do Drake and, recently on the Daily<\/em><\/a>, Scott O\u2019Connor), the cinder cone crater is the culmination of his life\u2019s work\u2014and also a fiercely guarded work in progress. The Arizona site is closed to the public, leaving followers to squint over elevation drawings at museum exhibitions and trawl the internet for artist-approved and illicit photos. Now we can turn to Klink\u2019s metaphysical sequence to get a different sort of visit to the earth work. Her poems do a tricky thing of being at once urgent and geologically slow (every breath and breeze is noticed, but time passes such that copper is \u201cgreening\u201d and stars \u201cthicken\u201d); the sequence is imbued with depth and color and all the possibilities of a pitch-black night. Before I leave, I should acknowledge my other half a mind: like a dutiful editor, I started The Nightfields<\/em> at the beginning and found prior to Night Sky several exquisite poems about the passage of time (\u201cMost weeks I am no more than the color of the walls\u2009\/\u2009in the room where we sit\u201d) and the liminal space between seasons (\u201cThe bright key of morning.\u2009\/\u2009The bay fanned with foam\u201d) that make the quotidian nearly as beautiful as Turrell\u2019s monument. \u2014Emily Nemens\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n

Every night is date night, or none of them are, for my man and me in 2020. But to set Friday apart this past weekend, we watched an entire feature film that, though not new, was new to us. Rafiki<\/em><\/a>, currently available on the Criterion Channel, was the first film from Kenya to be screened at the Cannes Film Festival even as it was banned in its home country for a \u201ctoo hopeful\u201d portrayal of homosexuality. Wanuri Kahiu\u2019s 2018 film can be dazzling in its use of light and love. When the afternoon sun, a candle, or the club\u2019s neon light plays on the face of the actress Sheila Munyiva, it is easy to surrender to the movie\u2019s charms\u2014or to the charms of Munyiva herself, who, especially in Kahiu\u2019s hands, is so beautiful as to test hearts of any gender and the laws of any nation, to say nothing of the bounds of time and space. The movie\u2019s plot, which concerns a love affair between two young women who are the daughters of rival politicians, is less groundbreaking. The threats of intolerance and discovery are always at the door, and the chorus of gender expectations is with them either way. Still, Kahiu and her talented actresses do the hardest thing, whether under the jacarandas or under COVID<\/small>: they make love new again. \u2014Julia Berick<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

Eric Berryman in The B-Side: \u201cNegro Folklore from Texas State Prisons,\u201d A Record Album Interpretation<\/em>. Photo: Bruce Jackson.<\/p><\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

The B-Side: \u201cNegro Folklore from Texas State Prisons,\u201d A Record Album Interpretation<\/em> (streaming through September 14 on the Wooster Group\u2019s website<\/a>) may consist mainly of men singing along with a record, but it is not a sing-along. It is a channeling of spirits. After briefly explaining his fascination with a 1965 LP titled Negro Folklore from Texas State Prisons<\/em><\/a>\u00a0and a book called Wake Up Dead Man: Hard Labor and Southern Blues<\/em><\/a>, the performer Eric Berryman plays the record almost straight through, only breaking to read from the liner notes or the book and explain, for example, the type of work a song might be sung to or a historical fact about a character named in the chorus\u2014like Jack of Diamonds, a monstrous prison guard said to have challenged the devil for control of hell. On the record, each track is sung or spoken by a different prisoner or group of prisoners. Onstage, Berryman\u2014or one of two supporting cast members, Jasper McGruder and Philip Moore\u2014matches his voice to the lead so exactly, taking on the prisoner\u2019s accent, timbre, or tremor, even coughing when he coughs, that sometimes it\u2019s unclear whether we are really hearing two voices or one. The stage, apparently, is an eternal portal between 1965 and 2017, when The B-Side<\/em> was first produced. Other times, there is a minuscule lag between ancestor and reenactor, a drastic thinning of the decades just short of perfect communion. In the end, Berryman stares out a Harlem apartment window and sees a chain gang chopping wood. Through the essential medium of human voices, The B-Side<\/em> brings into the present a moment of song and story that itself was born from all preceding moments. If you want to think about eternity, I recommend this play. \u2014Jane Breakell<\/strong><\/p>\n

Charlie Kaufman\u2019s I\u2019m Thinking of Ending Things<\/em><\/a> has knocked me out of my hiatus from watching films, and I couldn\u2019t be more grateful. With this stream-of-consciousness narrative, Kaufman clearly demonstrates how much he trusts his audience in the midst of narrative fragmentation. Of course, the cast delivers exemplary performances all around. But to be entirely honest, the film left me unsettled in a way few have. I felt as though I were watching a cerebral horror movie at some points and a romantic drama at others. But this juggling of genres\u2014or perhaps a joyous disregard for them\u2014kept me utterly immersed. The uneasiness I felt could be sated only with more unease, and therein lies the biggest strength of the film: the most satisfying comfort lies after cumulative and seemingly endless discomfort. If I hadn\u2019t finished it, I wouldn\u2019t have been able to stop thinking about it. I probably still won\u2019t be able to stop thinking about it, but I\u2019m perfectly content with that. \u2014Carlos Zayas-Pons<\/strong><\/p>\n

When my college shut down for lockdown in March, I left with two suitcases in hand and a promise from the administration that the pile of boxes in the middle of my stripped-bare room would be shipped home to me sometime that spring. Spring came and went, and it wasn\u2019t until this week, six months later, that a freight box of my belongings finally arrived at my door. As I unpacked, there were moments when I felt like I was sifting through some other girl\u2019s things. Who was this version of me whose belongings I had gone six months without? And what was I supposed to do with her unused mini blender, her collection of mason jars, her tapestries? But there were little joys, moments of self-recognition, especially as I did what we all do when packing and unpacking piles of books: flicking through, reading the highlighted lines, stopping at the dog-eared pages. I moved some of those books from my boxes to my bedside and am taking my time with them now. Up first is A. Van Jordan\u2019s most recent poetry collection, The Cineaste<\/em><\/a>, in which he chronicles his life as a moviegoer through the films he loves and the experiences of watching them. Some of the poems are ostensibly retellings of famous and obscure films through his own lens; the middle section, The Homesteader, is a series of poems formatted like a screenplay, each taking cues and borrowing lines from the one before it to weave cinematic worlds and characters together; and other poems describe becoming like a child again on every visit to the cinema. Missing my favorite place in the city, the Roxy Cinema, as much I do, it is no surprise that I started here, with poems so vivid and multivalent in their study of the simple \u201cmagic moviegoers still believe in,\u2009\/\u2009the way voters and lovers do not.\u201d \u2014Langa Chinyoka<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

A. Van Jordan.<\/p><\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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