Those who are fans of “The Amateur,” a 1981 spy-thriller novel by author Robert Littell, will surely be thrilled to hear that an updated Hollywood film adaptation of the story is now screening in cinemas around the country. 

The majority of our readers, however, have never heard of it. Those who Googled the novel are probably wondering why exactly this out-of-print- though not completely obscure- book was deemed worthy of being put to film a second time, after first being adapted by a Canadian production company the same year that the novel was released.

The protagonist of the film, as in the book, is Charlie Heller, played on screen by Rami Malek. A genius cryptographer working for the CIA in Langley, the idyllic opening scene depicts Heller restoring a crashed light aircraft in his garage as his loving wife, Sarah, dotes on him. Even before anything goes awry, the man’s disdain for authority and willingness to bend the rules is made apparent when we witness correspondence between him and “Inquiline,” a mole with whom he communicates via email. 

Two different PDFs can be seen on his monitor, one being the official copy, claiming that a recent incident in Pakistan was a terrorist suicide bombing, and the other being the redacted original copy provided by Inquiline, which claims that it was a politically-motivated assassination carried out by the CIA via a drone. The production, screenwritten by Ken Nolan and Gary Spinelli, with James Hawes as the director, chose to update the story to a modern setting instead of preserving the novel’s Cold War background as a period piece.

The impetus for our protagonist’s vengeance-fueled quest quickly arises when terrorists carry out a hostage-taking at a conference in London- the conference Sarah is attending on a business trip. Sure enough, she is the unlucky one chosen as a pawn to be dragged out and executed in the streets, as an example to others in the room who might try to fight back. The heartbroken Heller cuts short his bereavement leave and, without much difficulty, identifies the perpetrators who are still at large in Europe.

Heller is so surprised at the nonplussed reaction of his superiors to these revelations that he decides the only way for justice to be served is at his own hands. His boss, Alex Moore, played by Holt McCallany, rightfully scoffs at his demand to be trained as a special operative until he lays out evidence implicating him in the aforementioned Pakistani incident and other rogue operations. Blackmailed, he begrudgingly agrees, sending him off to be trained under Colonel Robert Henderson, played by Laurence Fishburne.

It is at this training camp that we find out our “hero” is not only someone who seemingly can’t bring himself to kill, but is unable to hit anything at all with a gun. This does not stop him from fleeing to Europe in the middle of the night on a fake passport to execute his mission, not least because, having found out that his threats to leak details to the media were empty, his bosses decided to eliminate him and frame his death as a training accident.

Two steps ahead, Heller travels to Paris and confronts the first accomplice seen on CCTV alongside Horst Schiller, the German arms dealer directly responsible for Sarah’s death. Former Armenian Secret Service agent Gretchen Frank, played by Barbara Probst, escapes death by Heller’s gun when he freezes up and is unable to shoot, just like Colonel Henderson predicted, but that doesn’t stop him from breaking into a doctor’s office the following day and torturing Frank by filling a locked hyperbaric chamber with pollen. Suffocating too badly to cough out the whereabouts of Schiller, she bolts from the office and is fatally struck by a car as soon as the agent opens the door again.

After meeting up with the person behind “Inquiline” in Istanbul – a middle-aged Russian widow who took over from her ex-KGB husband after he “fell out of a window” – he uses his skills in cryptography and jerry-rigging, which compensate for what he lacks in combat disciplines, to track down the second accomplice, Mishka Blahzic, played by Mark Rissman, and the third accomplice, Ellish, played by Joseph Millson. Heller finally gets Schiller’s whereabouts from Ellish, but leaves him to die in a booby-trap explosion after promising to disarm it.

This dishonorable conduct is brought up in what I consider to be the movie’s highlight, the final scene in which Heller confronts Schiller on a fishing boat in Russian waters. Schiller points out that, having killed three people in pursuit of his goals, he is really not so different. The film culminates with Schiller being arrested by Interpol, as Heller hacked the boat to drive itself into Finnish waters.

My main criticisms of this otherwise very solid and worthwhile movie are the fact that the protagonist is somewhat of a Mary Sue, finagling his way out of all sorts of predicaments without enduring much suffering beyond that caused by his wife’s death. Also, though I have never shot a person myself, I question the realism of a character that is so callous about killing people indirectly and causing collateral damage having such a strong hangup over pulling the trigger. 

However, if this, and the widely commented-on formulaicness of the film, are an issue, it is worth noting that they are perhaps not the fault of the film producers – the original book received similar comments, with one blogger calling it “cartoonishly simplified (with way too many convenient coincidences).”

Overall, “The Amateur” is far from an amateur effort and is an enjoyable film worth seeing, so long as you don’t expect anything that breaks the mold.

Last Friday, April 11, the fine art community at the University of Maine and interested members of the student body and general public came together for a wonderful reception at the Lord Hall Gallery, during which department chair and Art History professor Dr. Justin Wolff recognized and awarded dozens of the most talented students in the program for their work this year.

The reception lasted from 5PM to 7PM, beginning with an hour in which guests of the well-attended function dined on canapés and toured the gallery at their leisure, taking in the art and speaking to the many artists that were in attendance. The all-important awards ceremony began at 6, starting, fittingly enough, with the “Smallest but Mightiest Award”, an accolade for students earlier in their studies; Ruby Day, Haley Kesterson, Lily McFlaherty, Bella Moore, Haley Metzger, John-Paul Gagnon, Valentine Paisley, Taylor Brunish, Clyde Nelson and Catherine Black were all recognised as promising freshmen in the arts department and rewarded with a $50 gift card. At the other end of the spectrum – in seniority, not artistic talent – was Sarah Renee-Ozlanski, who took home the 300-dollar Outstanding Graduating Senior award for a track record of excellent work, including “Homeport”, a piece showcased at the gallery consisting of a woodcut of a fishing boat overlaid on a nautical chart.

Subsequent awards included (but were not limited to, as the full award list would be unwieldy to provide here), the Nancy Kittredge Jellison Class of ‘61 Scholarship, in the amount of $1,523, which went to Nix Chase. The late Professor Emeritus of Art and former Department Chair Michael H. Lewis, a long-serving and highly influential figure whose absence is still acutely felt in the Department of Art seven years after his passing, set up an endowment fund upon his retirement, and the prestigious accolade in his honor, to the tune of $7,400, went this year to Piper Gallipeau, a multi-medium artist whose works include “Greenhouse”, a woodblock print of a messy, rustic kitchen reminiscent of an illustration in a nostalgic children’s book, “Variegation”, an artistic black-and-white closeup photo of a man holding a leaf, and my favorite, “Winter Walk”, a “peacefully gloomy” oil painting of a Maine street late at night blanketed in freshly fallen snow – a sight perhaps endearingly familiar (for the right reasons or otherwise) to any student who has partaken in Orono’s nightlife during the winter months.

After the granting of the individual scholarship awards made possible by the generosity of patrons, the smaller Highest Honors, then High Honors, and finally Honors awards were then handed out to several deserving recipients in the department. Other awarded artists whose work I took note of included Rosemary Lavin, whose oil painting “View from the Art Museum” depicts exactly what it says on the tin, at night, in a style somewhat reminiscent of early American colonial art, Laura Poveda Pastrana who features strong female characters in works such as “Las Berrocas”, a painting of two muscular women dressed in Mexican wrestling outfits, and Cooper Keene, in whose thought-provoking woodcuts such as “Or Be Hunted”, all is not right; in said piece, an anthropomorphic deer can be seen sitting next to a rifle leaned against a log cabin, and in the doorway a haunting glow shines beneath an indistinct object hanging from a noose that could be another animal’s head – or maybe not. Also impressive is his surrealist photoshop piece, “Future Reflections”.

No less worthy of mention are the artists whose names stuck in my mind primarily by virtue of me being impressed with their works as I toured the gallery, rather than from me hearing them announced during the awards ceremony – although several of them did receive awards as well, such as Ruby Day, one of the “Smallest but Mightiest” recipients whose virtuosity shined through in “Echoes of the Feathered Mind”, a beautiful, fantastical group portrait of two elves with a crow overhead. “Stirring Amalgam” by Clayton Slauenwhite is a whimsical clay bottle in the form of a six-legged animal with the face of the Cheshire Cat from Alice in Wonderland, but a shape and color pattern that almost makes it look like a Pokémon. 

My favorite painting was probably “Maine” by Allison Bishop, a surrealist piece depicting a giant eye in the sky crying tears of blueberries over a craggy mountain range as a bluebird flies past, and which displays impressive technical and compositional skill alike. I was fortunate enough to be able to speak with the artist, whose other works displayed include a set of porcelain sculptures of produce and animals; she said that there was no deep message behind the choice of name for her first venture into surrealism after previously painting in a more realistic style, calling it “Maine” after completing it purely on the basis of it containing blueberries – as good a reason as any, we concluded. Also peculiarly named was “Last Boat to the Underworld” by Mads Owen, but alas, the artist had left before I got a chance to ask her what connection the seemingly straightforward bronze figurine of a snail had, if indeed any, to the Underworld.

Another attendee I spoke with, Roshanne, mentioned that this year’s exhibition was sparser than last year’s, due to the especially discerning standards of curator Amy Tingle. Pieces that weren’t admitted to the main gallery or couldn’t be completed in time weren’t left out of the event entirely, as the Salon des Indépendants, consisting of spaces on the second and third floors, hosted such works, but only for the duration of the reception – unfortunately so, as I also found them very impressive, especially “Grieving”, an oil painting of a blue Northern Cardinal, and “Lady in Hat Master Copy”, a Picassoesque technicolor painting of a woman in a fancy hat, both by Madison Clarke.

In conclusion, I greatly enjoyed the 2025 Student Art Exhibition in general and the Friday reception, and I encourage all readers to come and witness the talent of our homegrown student artists. The exhibit will remain open until the 2nd of May in the Lord Hall Gallery; admission is free to students and visitors alike.

On March 31, Maine freelance radio producer, podcaster and documentarian, Caroline Losneck, visited the IMRC to discuss her experiences in the media business, specifically her efforts to find and recount unique stories of the lives of unsung individuals across Maine. “Making Stories in Maine,” as it was called, was one part of “From Talkies to TikTok – A Century of Storytelling,” the 2024-25 edition of the McGillicuddy Humanities Center Annual Symposium.

The speech began with an introduction that detailed the producer’s first foray into documenting lesser-known facets of North American culture. During her time living in British Columbia, she worked with the forestry department on the west coast of Vancouver Island as a treaty between the Canadian government and the Huwayat band of Nuxalk Indians (likely while the Maa-Nulth Final Agreement, signed in 2009 and implemented in 2011 was being drafted). Her role was to survey the old-growth woods for “culturally-modified trees,”  ones that had been altered by the First Nations people, in some cases having been carved into entire unfinished dugout canoes. Such trees could then be declared off-limits to logging.

Somewhere far away from the Pacific Northwest, but surprisingly similar in geography, lies the coast of Maine, off of which is North Haven Island, the setting of the first podcast Losneck played during the lecture. The similarities don’t end there, as it was the Seattle-founded “Riot grrrl” feminist-punk movement that influenced locals Fiona Robins, Claire Donnelly and Courtney Naliboff to create their own feminist punk band, “Bait Bag.” Its name is both a reference to an item used by local fishermen and the antonyms “jailbait” and “old bag,” applied derisively to women, which the group seeks to reclaim the meaning of by intentionally using in spite of unsavory connotations. Based on the sample of music played in the podcast, I didn’t think the group had much lyrical originality or musical virtuosity to speak of, a sentiment echoed by one man Losneck interviewed during the ferry ride to the island, though neither he nor another interviewee who was more positive about their music were bigoted against the underlying sentiment.

Though relatively light on background details about her line of work, Losneck’s speech did bring up a few interesting points, the first of which pertained to editorial content. Apparently, major publications such as the New York Times are, to this day, less eager to hear gritty details about the lives of Mainers, as they instead prefer to present a stereotyped view of the state.

 With the Times in particular being simultaneously praised for its liberal and worldly attitude and derided as an “ivory tower,” it is perhaps easier to see whence the latter charge originates if, as one may suspect based on Losneck’s assessment, they see economically and politically different parts of their home country as something of an “acceptable target” and do not hold themselves to the same standards of balance as they would when covering, for instance, a crisis in Africa.

Another reality of radio production, according to Losneck, is that there can sometimes be up to 40 minutes of raw audio behind one minute of a published interview. This was the case for “Music as a Refuge,” a radio segment about the Somali-born lutist Hadithi Abdulle and his experiences moving to Maine as a refugee. Growing up in Somalia, Hadithi had been fascinated by the oud — the Arabian version of the lute — for as long as he can remember, and not being otherwise drawn to academics, it was his local schoolteacher’s experience with the instrument that motivated him to not skip class as a child.

 As his country grew increasingly war-torn, he witnessed his father get in trouble for writing anti-government poetry and was himself accosted by extremists for being “anti-Islamic,” even though there was nothing plainly blasphemous about his lyrics. As such, he decided in 2016 to seek refuge in Lewiston, like many other Somalis. Though he struggled with racism and poverty, as long as he had his trusty lute beside him, he could always take enough comfort in his music to never find the situation dire. The radio segment concludes by detailing his work with local music teacher Greg Boardman, to whose attention he first came via the Internet whilst still in Somalia, and volunteering at a local center for grieving children.

Losneck’s final work showcased during the talk was an op-doc: a short, opinionated documentary that she produced on behalf of the New York Times. Focusing on the hard but fulfilling life of scallop fisherman James Sewell of Cushing, Maine, “Diving for Scallops” immerses viewers in the often bleak, yet always iconic North Atlantic environment familiar to everyone who lives in Maine or is fond of it via media depictions, with underwater photographers following  James as he picks scallops off the seafloor. Its focus on emotions over facts and downplaying of the trauma in the man’s life — it is only halfway through the video that we are shown that he has to do all of this with one arm, having lost the other in a snowmobile accident — was not Losneck’s creative decision. She mentioned that most of the “newsy” content she had wanted to include, including mentions of climate change, were cut at the behest of the Times.

All in all, “Making Stories in Maine” was an interesting look at the efforts of one journalist to cover lesser-known but fascinating local stories that make the state of Maine truly special.

“Taliesin… I sing perfect metre, which will last till the end of the world. I know why there is echo in a hollow, why silver gleams…” begins the spoken-word accompaniment to the utterly-masterful synth instrumentals of “Loss of Life (Part 2).” It serves as the curiously-named opening track of, and prelude to MGMT’s eponymous first major-studio album since 2018.

The renowned experimental rock band, fronted by Andrew VanWyngarden and Benjamin Goldwasser, may come across as something of a one-album wonder to most people with the release of their debut album “Oracular Spectacular” in 2008. But to suggest that they have failed to reclaim the level of mainstream success they once had would be missing the point by a country mile . Far from having spent all of their creative energy on “Kids”, their subsequent and no less exquisite output reflects the band’s steadfast commitment to its internal and proudly independent creative drive, refusing to record highly-marketable material, even if the resulting lack of radio airplay and other forms of promotion on the part of record companies stands to relegate them from superstardom back to more indie levels of popularity.

However, neither “Loss of Life,” released in February of 2024, nor their earlier albums contain any purely experimental or avant-garde music. Their signature kaleidoscopic sound, with layered synths and warped psychedelic harmonies, almost always keeps the other foot planted in the realm of more conventional rock and pop, and does so to great effect. Some liken the experience to listening to music on hallucinogenic drugs when they hear the fusion of the otherworldly synths with the lead guitar and drums, in this case replicating ‘90s pop ballads more so than their previous ‘80s influences.

Indeed, MGMT’s music is far more accessible to “philistines” than its lack of reach might imply. The band’s disillusionment with the stylistic demands made of them by major record labels and the knock-on effects of their own fame are a perennial theme in their lyrics; simultaneously wishing for their style of music to be appreciated as much as trite mainstream modern pop, yet groaning under the pressure of success. 

This perhaps contradictory attitude is illustrated in track #9, “I Wish I Was Joking,” where lead vocalist Andrew “wishes he was joking” about the drudgery of fatherhood, while distancing himself from past drug use. The previous track, “Phradie’s Song” is more unequivocally positive, being dedicated to his two-year-old daughter Phradie as a sort of lullaby. 

Dancing in Babylon, third on the album, features French artist Rahim Redcar in the band’s first such collaboration. More ballad-like than the rest to start, but introducing obvious melodic callbacks to the group’s first albums as it progresses, the song, like a few others on the album, is a commentary on what the band perceives as the decadence of modern society and politics, but carries a positive and optimistic message of spreading joy.

“Bubblegum Dog,” an upbeat fan favorite, emphasises the value of musical originality, and exposing oneself to influences worldwide and throughout time. MGMT has always practiced what they preach here, from the synth sounds evocative, intentionally or not, of “obsolete” instruments like the harpsichord and cornett, to the poem in this album’s first track — translated from its original Welsh, and attributed to the legendary bard Taliesin, it is thought to date back at least 1,000 years.

Upon discovering the origin of these lyrics, I was immediately reminded of the semi-historical painting “The Bard” by John Martin, depicting a fictional Welsh bard similar to Taliesin standing defiantly atop a cliff, in a landscape based on a real location but hugely exaggerated in scale for dramatic effect. Set in the 13th century, the bard prepares to jump into the river and meet his end on his own terms as the invading English army is seen snaking down the valley.

References to death are peppered throughout the record, culminating in the final track, and in my opinion the highlight of the album, “Loss of Life.” However, unlike the implied fate of the bard, anything macabre about the material is merely metaphorical. The album can instead be seen as the musical equivalent of the “Death” card in tarot fortune-telling, which does not signify literal death, but rather the death of old ways of life and personal rebirth. 

If this interpretation isn’t evident enough from the album’s overall tone and lyrics in which the band members yearn for both personal and societal restructuring, and the correction of past mistakes, remember the out-of-order naming touched upon earlier – “Loss of Life (Part 2),” at the beginning of the album, shares the melody of the album-ending track, and can easily be listened to right after it as a continuation. 

Taliesin isn’t about to jump, for he hasn’t given up on himself or his society — he’s only just getting started.

Ever heard of the Occitan language, the native tongue of the South of France? It is a language spoken by so few nowadays that even those who have vacationed multiple times in Nice, Cannes or anywhere else along the sun-kissed coast can be forgiven for answering “no.” Yet, turn back the clock just one hundred years, and any vacationer to those parts attempting to speak Standard French to a village winemaker, wood-carver or anyone else not in the upper classes, or accustomed to catering to tourists, would likely not get very far.

In the music world, however, things could not be more different. As I recently discovered via YouTube, an extensive back-catalogue of diverse Occitan music composed and recorded throughout the late 20th century exists, and even today, a new release in Occitan isn’t rare enough to raise any eyebrows. Much of it was spawned by a musical revival movement termed the “Nòva cançon”, whose adherents, including Jacmelina Conte and the still-active Claudi Martí, channeled much the same creative energy that is responsible for the offbeat yet indelible mark inked into the pages of American musical history by Bob Dylan, Pete Seeger and fellow front-runners of our own contemporary folk revival.

Was I surprised to discover all of this? Absolutely. But at the same time, not really. You see, the existence of the Nòva cançon is on the one hand paradoxical, as in almost all cases, the production of commercially-released media in a dying language, to say nothing of amateur poetry and folk songs, withers away long before words in it cease to be exchanged over rural general-store cash registers – yet the situation on the ground for Occitan is dire.

The reason the vibrancy of Occitan music is less surprising is the fact that the Nòva cançon artists, talented as they were, didn’t exactly have to start from scratch. Many have probably heard of the Troubadours, a guild of Southern French musicians who composed and sang in Occitan, and who, via the patronage of monarchs across Europe, set the standard for what was considered the height of musical art. They, much like the Knights Templar, continue to enjoy an outsized fascination in the minds of the public, probably because both groups’ reigns over their respective domains were cut short — the Templars abolished by the self-serving actions of an indebted king, and the Troubadours wiped out at the peak of their popularity by the Black Plague.

It was the album that first introduced me to this movement that probably captures that legendary sound more than most. “Cant e musica de provença XIIe – XXe” (meaning “Songs and Music of Provence, 12th-20th Centuries) by the group Mont-Jòia eschews modern twists in favor of historically-informed performances of ten troubadour and folk songs from the last 800 years. Band members Frances Dupont, Jan-Maria Carlotti, Patrice Conte, Patricia Conte and Patricia Favaro, with Patrice Conte taking the only vocal role in this album, use an eclectic array of instruments including three-stringed Turkish lutes, the tromba marina (a stringed instrument, in spite of its name), Iranian hammered dulcimers, and traditional European lutes which, whilst not necessarily authentic themselves, are used to create an unrestrained, powerful, almost proto-punkish sound that is a bit rough around the edges, and definitely brings to mind a village band from the Middle Ages. This is in contrast to many other recordings of medieval music, which aim for a more delicate “courtly” arrangement, and resembles the kind of “vulgar music” that medieval religious fundamentalists once railed against with vague overtures.

From the initial toleration of the Cathar Christians to the establishment of the Avignon Papacy, the denizens of the Occitan region have rarely been sticklers for Catholic strictures. A rebellious spirit such as this is obvious from the get-go in the album, with the first song being “Ai vist lo lop, lo rainard, lo lebre” (I saw a wolf, a fox and a hare). This upbeat folk tune, dating back to at least the 1300s and with versions known throughout the French-speaking world, is literally about a hard-working peasant who sees “a wolf, a fox and a hare” dancing around a tree, whilst complaining about how little his hard work counts for in the face of high costs. However, the animals are widely understood as metaphors for members of the social elite, and their “dancing” to be sexual in nature; the peasant is therefore angered at the lascivious display by the same people who would prescribe the most severe of penalties in a heartbeat if he were the one caught fornicating.

The other highlight of the album, in my opinion, is “A L’Entrada Del Temps Clar,” from the B-side, an equally old tune that can only be described as the troubadours’ 750-year-early answer to the hit song “Hey Ya” by OutKast. Not only is the refrain, “Hey-Ya!,” similar, but so is the theme, with the song making fun of a “loose” queen who has no intention of remaining loyal to her old crone of a king, and encouraging handsome young suitors to “hit the road” for the palace in the hopes of winning her heart. Given the estimated date of composition, it may even be referring to Eleanor of Aquitaine, who would go on to become Queen of England and, being regarded as “headstrong” in a good way, is unfairly demonised by the song.

The other tracks on the album are more obscure and harder to find context for, but all are worth their salt. “Rampaleda e Corsa de La Tarasca” might have been composed in the 15th century as a sort of theme song for the Festival of Tarrasque in the town of Tarascon, an offbeat carnival where an effigy of a monster is wheeled through the streets and practical jokes are played upon unsuspecting victims that still takes place today. My search for a backstory for the jolly instrumental “L’Esquiron et Lei Cocots” was completely fruitless, but that doesn’t make it any less enjoyable to listen to.

In conclusion, the works of Mont-Jòia provide a fascinating snapshot of an otherwise long-dead genre of music in an otherwise practically dead language, whereas the more modern pop-oriented artists within the Nòva cançon scene are essentially creating an intriguing alternate history; if it wasn’t for the untimely demise of the Troubadours and the suppression of Occitan, its musical traditions may well have a far greater place in mainstream European pop without their intervention.

It was a cold, gray Tuesday morning, with the campus blanketed in snow, when I first set foot in the Lord Hall gallery to cover its latest art exhibition. Despite having opened not long before I arrived, there weren’t many attendees, save for one near the end of my visit. There, in the silent room, bathed in overcast light, stood just me and the artworks – collages of fabrics stitched to canvases, braided strips of multicolored paper and bundles of waste balled up with plastic wrap and string, some of them bearing an almost unsettling resemblance to cartoonishly-drawn human organs, either arranged on the floor like planets on the page of a textbook or hanging as chandeliers. 

ORBITS, as the exhibition is titled, focuses on work crafted from repurposed trash and other discarded materials, and my first impression was certainly a mixed one. I have never considered myself an aficionado of abstract or modernist art, or someone easily capable of viewing most such works on the same level as the output of the old masters, so on the merits of the paper collages of Tom Jessen, spherical sculptures of Ian Trask, and fabric stitching’s of Isabelle Maschal O’Donnell, I resolved to suspend judgement until I could gain additional context at next Friday’s reception and poetry reading. This was to be attended by all three artists and the poets tasked by the University of Maine’s English department with composing reaction pieces to the art.

It is probably amiss of me to mention these poems so far down in the article, as in my opinion, they were the highlight of my first visit. Though starting off grounded in aspects of the artworks’ creation, the poets soon let their imaginations run wild; Leslie Moore, for example, sees a tempestuous storm in the fabric collage “High Tide” by O’Donnell that is nonetheless valiantly braved by a little redpoll – an original addition of the author, as there is nary a hint of red on the canvas. Jessen’s paper collage “High Tide” was touchingly interpreted by Matt Bernier as a metaphorical bridge, being built by a Maine farmer out of wood planks in various colors in an effort to reconcile with an estranged son. “Hands tighten around the woven threads […] clutching and crumpling […] pulling taught the slack cloth […] until each side of the fissure […] is tension separated by intention” is how Monique Bouchard began a wonderful poem about the fabric collage “Pavement Blossoms.”

In contrast to my first encounter with the works of ORBITS, the reception, held on Friday, Feb. 7, was much better attended, and I appreciated the chance to speak with all three artists and hear the reaction poems read aloud by their authors. When asked about where he sourced the materials that went into his spherical sculptures, Trask confirmed that they were indeed scavenged, with empty paint markers, for example, coming from an artist friend in Portland.

If I failed to see any overarching metaphor during the Tuesday visit, it was, as it turns out, not because I am a philistine; all three artists rejected the suggestion of a grand moral to their visual stories in favor of more down-to-earth motivations. Trask said that his works aimed to promote repurposing, as well as to indulge, as he put it, his “impish satisfaction in making trash beautiful.” Another interesting fact about Trask’s works is the way some of them are designed according to geometrical principles both for beauty and for ease of transporting between galleries. The intricate diagrams drawn on graph paper are presented next to the hanging sculptures themselves.

Jessen’s collages, which range from simple linear patterns on paper canvases to large snaking pretzel-like shapes, were the result of a spur-of-the-moment decision to quash indecision; he had long been putting waste cardboard packaging through a shredder to save space in a recycling bin, and had been intending to use the chaff in a future art project, but rather than wait for a grand stroke of inspiration, he one day decided to just stick it to a canvas in technicolor lines, resulting in the birth of “High Tide” and the start of the collage series. If there’s a message hidden amongst the tantalising specks of shredded text that one knows once spelled out famous brands, but can now no longer make any sense of, it is the celebration of the simple, meditative pleasure of repetitive work. Jessen concluded with the interesting fact that he experiments with deliberately distancing the artist – himself – from the creative process by rolling dice to determine which color of chaff he will lay down next.

Finally, O’Donnell, whose works were the catalyst for some of the best reaction poems, mentioned her fascination with the different types and consistencies of repurposed fabric. Formerly working in the medium of paint, especially semi-abstract floral paintings, she one day decided to instead put her childhood passions for stitching and quilting to canvas, marking a definite departure from both her old medium and style.

In conclusion, I enjoyed my experience at the ORBITS exhibit, and think that regardless of one’s view on modernist or avant-garde art, there is always something to be said for the desire to repurpose often non-recyclable materials that would have otherwise gone to waste, and an attitude that allows one to see the amusing and inspiring side in everything.

ORBITS will be running until March 14 in the Lord Hall Gallery. Admission is free to all regardless of UMaine enrollment.

Over 1,500 years after its mystery-shrouded fall, the Roman Empire continues to captivate the imaginations of audiences around the world, at least in the Western world to a degree that few other ancient civilizations rival. “Gladiator II”, directed by Ridley Scott, aims to take viewers back in time to the “beginning of the end” of the once-great empire with a snapshot of the much-debated “years of decadence” where “bread and circuses” distracted the populace from mounting issues and the misrule of tyrannical emperors, honor and morality had increasingly little weight and a Roman Army stretched too thin became unable to stave off the constant nibbling of enemies at the Empire’s borders.

The film certainly is a blast from the past. “Gladiator II” does what it says on the tin, and does it well, with plenty of thrilling gladiatorial action on offer, including the first recreation of a naumachia (a staged naval battle in a flooded arena) in a blockbuster film, with a solid plot to tie the action-driven screenplay together and direction that avoids veering into overly gratuitous or camp territory.

The star of the show, in terms of plot role if not acting, is Paul Mescal’s main character Hanno, introduced as a humble farmer living near an unnamed city in the North African region then known as Numidia. Not even a few minutes after the movie begins is the call to aid sounded from the city walls. The Romans have arrived, and as Hanno finds out when the city’s army is defeated, the Romans are rarely merciful in their treatment of newly conquered peoples.

Branded as a slave and shipped off to the Roman port of Ostia, where he is pitted in a ring against horrifying, uncharacteristically aggressive hairless CGI baboons, he impresses the highly influential businessman and patron of the gladiatorial games Macrinus, skillfully played by Denzel Washington, who purchases him. In subsequent dialogues, the cynical Hanno is asked what will motivate him to fight to the death in his service. His lofty request – the head of Acacius, the general that led the expedition into Numidia – is granted, and Macrinus is not one bit sarcastic about his intention to make good on his promise. He, in fact, has his eyes on the throne and sees his new champion as his way to curry favor with the masses of Rome and lubricate his usurpation of the supreme position.

Hanno, however, should not have been so quick to judge Acacius. As is revealed in his first meeting with the delightfully decadent, happy-go-lucky twin Emperors Geta and Caracalla (partially inspired, if Wikipedia is to be believed, by Beavis and Butthead of all muses), the general was just following orders in his Numidian campaign, and does not agree with the brothers’ policy of reckless expansionism. With the support of the disgruntled Senators, he has his own designs on the throne, from which he seeks to end the corruption and restore the fairness of the Roman Republic. 

The grand games commence, but Macrinus has his finger in every pie. After winning a bet against the corrupt Senator Thraex, he extracts details of Acacius’ impending coup from him in return for debt forgiveness, and has the scheming general branded as a traitor and pitted into the arena. After handily defeating the first wave of condemned convicts, the crowd, which is at this point no longer able to contain their anger with the current government, loudly cheers for Acacius in a tacit expression of their disapproval for the regime’s decisions, just as Hanno enters the ring for a final showdown. Geta and Caracalla take notice, but so does Macrinus, who is one step ahead – realising that showing no mercy to the general could initiate a revolt that paves the way for him to take power, he goads the twins into ordering Hanno not to accept his former enemy’s surrender. Hanno, however, has realised that Acacius is on his side, and the honor of ending his life is left to the archers of the Praetorian Guard.

In the intrigue-filled chaos following the unpopular verdict, the twin Emperors and the mother of “Hanno” – revealed in a dramatic moment to actually be Lucius Verus Aurelius, the son of the “Gladiator I” protagonist Maximus, and the illegitimate heir to the dynasty that Acacius sought to restore – lose their lives, and it seems that Macrinus is ready to take the throne. However, the usurper has competition – the revolting gladiators bring a message to Acacius’ rebel army still massed outside of the city, and Lucius emerges victorious in a final showdown, eager to restore the Republican ideal to Rome.

Those who have seen the first “Gladiator” will no doubt notice the similarities, and when the sequel is criticized for rehashing many of the first film’s plot amplifies further criticism of historical inaccuracy. The original had veered into alternate history territory with its portrayal of highly fictionalised real events, leading to different outcomes compared to reality. However, the timeline was reset to the way it was in the real world, only so that the sequel can break it again. 

In my opinion, the inaccuracies largely don’t stray beyond the realm of necessary artistic license, and more curiously, can themselves be seen as adding historicity to the production. Anybody who has studied ancient history even in brief will know, spicing up stories with gobs of violence, representing foreign animals inaccurately and taking liberties with the details regarding historical events was par for the course back then.

For all of these reasons, if you set aside these nitpicky flaws and lack of avant-garde innovation upon this genre that should only be apparent to those reading deeper into the film, “Gladiator II” is a thrilling and compelling period drama that the Romans would approve of, and which I would recommend others to watch.

From its independence in 1922 up until the late 20th century, the lay government of the Republic of Ireland was closely intertwined with the Roman Catholic Church, and the consequences of this lack of separation of church and state are only beginning to bubble to the surface. The Church did things its own way within its broad domain, and meddled in legislation – for instance, it was only in 1985, coincidentally the year the film is set, when it became possible to buy contraception without a prescription.

The Church’s solution to the resulting high rates of teenage pregnancy, as well as that of prostitution motivated by poverty, came in the form of the Magdalene Laundry, institutions that vulnerable women could voluntarily check into and in which they would be housed, fed and paid for gainful employment – in theory.

In practice, it was widely thought that the system was corrupt, with most laundries managed as for-profit businesses with little regard given to the welfare of their imprisoned workers, or their illegitimate children who were put up for adoption for sizable fees. It was also a racket, with the nuns in charge “relieving” the Irish state of the duty of caring for certain female orphans who stepped only slightly out of line, or in some cases, faced ridiculous charges of hypothetical, future promiscuity.

This history lesson is necessary because “Small Things Like These,” a film dealing with the Magdalene Laundries, is not a documentary, docudrama or hero-driven David and Goliath story. It is, quite intentionally, a highly introspective and detail-light film focusing closely on the day-to-day life and internal struggles of protagonist Bill Furlong, played skillfully by Cillian Murphy. It is also, if what other critics say is to be believed, a highly faithful adaptation of the 2021 novella by Claire Keegan, so any shortcomings in plot are not the fault of the director.

The film opens to show Bill going about his daily routine as a coal and charcoal merchant in the Irish town of New Ross. The camera rarely strays far from his face, and the undramatized cinematography creates a dreary atmosphere, something that will mostly persist throughout the film.

The Good Shepherd Convent, the local Magdalene Laundry, which in real life closed its doors in 1967, is one stop on his delivery route. As he arrives, he witnesses a teenage girl being dragged kicking and screaming into the Laundry by her parents, and not long after, the source of his consternation is revealed. A flashback to Bill’s youth, delivered in such an unceremonious manner that I wasn’t the only reviewer to initially think two new characters were being introduced in the present day, establishes that Bill himself is the son of a teenage mother, spared from the Laundries because her employer, the wealthy farmer Mrs. Wilson was nice enough to keep her on the payroll as a live-in maid despite her illegitimate pregnancy. The older farmhand, named Ned, is friendly to young Bill for a very good reason – it is later revealed that he is his father.

Motivated by his upbringing, scenes of domestic abuse and poverty he witnesses in the present day and flashbacks to the discrimination he faced for being a “bastard child” and Ned’s abusive relationship with his mother, Bill decides that the current system cannot stand. In practice, the film trudges along through the dreary Irish winter, making it clear that Bill is just a cog in a machine without much power to effect change.

The highlight of “Small Things Like These” has to be a subsequent coal delivery to the Laundry, during which Bill finds a girl named Sarah locked in the coal bunker. Taking her to the door, he is greeted by Sister Mary, played by Emily Watson, who brings the two upstairs into a luxurious office far removed from the penitential trappings expected in a cloister. 

Sitting down for a “friendly cup of tea,” Watson’s character delivers a masterful dialogue that would see Father Jack Hackett – another famous fictional Irish cleric who loves liquor and hates nuns in equal measure – perform without hesitation his usual escape act of crashing through a closed window and frantically leaping to the ground, if said window were on the top floor of the Empire State Building and holding back a floor-to-ceiling inundation of cask-strength Jameson’s. The steely tone of her speech, in which she acts cordially to Bill whilst dropping hints of what may be to come should he continue to cause trouble for the Church, and chides Sarah for “putting herself in that predicament,” is intimately familiar to anybody who has seen a film with scenes set in a Nazi war room, or one where a gangster double-crosses another.

The idea that the girl got trapped in the coal bunker by accident instead of locked in as a punishment is utter balderdash, as Sarah knows it, Bill knows it and Mary knows it. Thanks to Watson’s skillful use of non-verbal undertones in her character’s doublespeak, even the biggest philistine in the audience will likewise know that this was no result of a game of hide and seek.

The movie then cuts to a church sermon presided over by the same Sister Mary, who sanctimoniously preaches the importance of true Christian values in her piercing tone, all while scenes of suffering and abuse flash on screen. At this point, Bill’s discontent bubbles over and he returns to the Laundry in the middle of the night to collect Sarah –once again in the coal bunker–  and brings her home.

I wasn’t sure what to make of “Small Things Like These”, although it did grow on me a bit after leaving the theater. My first impression was that it felt like a one-hour-and-37-minute-long opening sequence to a film that never got off the ground. The main character’s dreary, complacent personality retroactively becomes forced and incongruent right at the end, when it is established that he is, in fact, willing to make waves and oppose the Church’s power. The film’s main strength is its ability to flesh out a more complete story from a script with very few lines using motifs, non-verbal subtext in dialogue and skillful cinematography. On the flip side, its main weakness is the paucity of material to work with that made this necessary in the first place.

In conclusion, “Small Things Like These” is sure to be a polarizing film that won’t wow everybody. If you are fond of introspective movies like it, the cinematography and acting are certainly up to scratch. Still, if you are looking for a story of a man willing to take on injustice head-on or an opportunity to actually learn about the Magdalene Laundry scandal, you should look elsewhere.