newyorker--2020-02-21--How Stephen Miller Manipulates Donald Trump to Further His Immigration Obsession

One afternoon in November , a half-dozen government officials sat at a conference table in the White House , waiting for the arrival of Stephen Miller , a senior adviser to Donald Trump .
Miller had summoned officials from the Departments of Homeland Security , State , and Justice to discuss a new Administration policy initiative : a series of agreements with the governments of Central America that would force asylum seekers to apply for protection in that region instead of in the United States .
Miller , who had helped make the deals , wanted to know when their @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , everyone rises when top White House officials enter a room .
But when Miller walked in , wearing a dark suit and an expression of wry resolve , everyone remained seated , their eyes cast down .
“ You go into meetings with Miller and try to get out with as little damage as possible , ” a former Administration official told me .
Miller has a habit of berating officials , especially lower-ranking ones , for an agency ’ s perceived failures .
Chad Wolf , now the acting head of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ placate Miller by picking one item from his long list of demands , and vowing to execute it .
“ It ’ s a war of attrition , ” Wolf told them .
“ Maybe he forgets the rest for a while , and you buy yourself some time.
” One participant in the November meeting pointed out that El Salvador didn ’ t have a functioning asylum system .
“ They don ’ t need a system , ” Miller interrupted .
He began speaking over people , asking questions , then @ @ @ @ @ @ @ meeting ended , Miller held up his hand to make a final comment .
“ I didn ’ t mean to come across as harsh , ” he said .
His voice dropped .
“ It ’ s just that this is all I care about .
I don ’ t have a family .
I don ’ t have anything else .
This is my life.
” Miller , who is thirty-four , with thinning hair and a sharp , narrow face , is an anomaly in Washington : an adviser with @ @ @ @ @ @ @ has come to define an entire Administration .
“ We have never had a President who ran , and won , on immigration , ” Muzaffar Chishti , of the Migration Policy Institute , told me .
“ And he ’ s kept his promise on immigration.
” Miller , who was a speechwriter during the campaign , is now Trump ’ s longest-serving senior aide .
He is also an Internet meme , a public scourge , and a catch-all symbol of the racism and malice of the current government .
In @ @ @ @ @ @ @ he has embraced the role of archvillain .
Miller can be found shouting over interviewers on the weekend news shows or berating reporters in the White House briefing room ; he has also vowed to quell a “ deep state ” conspiracy against Trump .
When he ’ s not accusing journalists of harboring a “ cosmopolitan bias ” or denying that the Statue of Liberty symbolizes America ’ s identity as a nation of immigrants , he is shaping policy and provoking the President ’ s most combative impulses .
Jeh Johnson @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Security under Barack Obama , told me , “ D.H.S .
was born of bipartisan parents in Congress , in the aftermath of 9/11 , when there was support for a large Cabinet-level department to consolidate control of all the different ways someone can enter this country.
” D.H.S .
is the third-largest federal department , with a fifty-billion-dollar budget and a staff of some two hundred thousand employees , spanning the Federal Emergency Management Agency , the Cybersecurity and Infrastructure Security Agency , and Immigration and Customs Enforcement .
From its founding @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of Obama ’ s Presidency , the department had five secretaries ; under Trump , it has had five more .
“ Immigration is overheated and over-politicized , and it has overwhelmed D.H.S.
, ” Johnson said .
“ The massive changes Miller engineered in border and immigration policy required that the policymaking process at D.H.S .
be ignored , ” Alan Bersin , a former senior department official , told me .
“ Who do you think has filled the vacuum ?
” Miller has cultivated lower-level officials in the department who @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , policy updates , and data , often behind the backs of their bosses .
“ At the beginning of 2017 , none of us could have foreseen that he would wield this kind of power , ” a former Trump Administration official told me .
Of thirty current and former officials I interviewed , not one could recall a White House adviser as relentless as Miller , or as successful in imposing his will across agencies .
These officials resented him as an upstart and mocked his affectations—his “ arrogant monotonal voice @ @ @ @ @ @ @ going on the record , even after leaving the government .
Miller is famously vindictive , and , as Trump runs for a second term , he is sure to grow only more powerful .
“ Miller doesn ’ t have to get Trump to believe everything he does , ” one of the officials told me .
“ He just has to get Trump to say it all.
” When Miller and I spoke by phone , it was off the record .
Without an audience , he gave the same message @ @ @ @ @ @ @ points about all the ways in which the President had delivered on his campaign promises .
Afterward , the White House sent me a quote for attribution : “ It is the single greatest honor of my life to work for President Trump and to support his incredible agenda.
” Miller ’ s obsession with restricting immigration and punishing immigrants has become the defining characteristic of the Trump White House , to the extent that campaigning and governing on the issue are no longer distinguishable .
In the past three and a half @ @ @ @ @ @ @ immigration policies and precedents that took shape in the course of decades , using current laws to intensify enforcement against illegal immigration and pursuing new ones to reduce legal immigration .
Trump has slashed the refugee program ; virtually ended asylum at the southern border ; and written a rule denying green cards to families who might receive public benefits .
Miller has choreographed these initiatives , convincing Trump that his political future depends on them—and on going even further .
If Trump is not reëlected , Miller will never again have such @ @ @ @ @ @ @ me , “ Going into 2020 , Miller is at a crossroads.
” The radicalism of Miller ’ s views tends to obscure how much he has evolved as a tactician since he arrived in Washington .
He grew up in Santa Monica , California , the son of Jewish Democrats , but , by the time he entered high school , he had become a strident conservative .
“ He was going to a very liberal , diverse school , ” Megan Healey , one of his classmates , told me .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ were considered cool , he was still the guy that nobody liked.
” The terrorist attacks of 9/11 took place when he was a junior , cementing his persona .
“ Anti-Americanism had spread all over the school like a rash , ” he later wrote .
“ Osama Bin Laden would feel very welcome at Santa Monica High School.
” At Duke , where he studied political science and wrote a column for the student newspaper , he became a familiar presence on conservative television and radio programs .
His hostility toward @ @ @ @ @ @ @ but did not stand out .
He opposed left-wing bias in the classroom , invited controversial speakers to campus , and organized “ Islamo-Fascism Awareness Week.
” “ America without her culture is like a body without a soul , ” he wrote in one column .
“ Yet many of today ’ s youth see America as nothing but a meeting point for the cultures of other nations.
” His most notable cause was to defend a group of white lacrosse players who had been falsely accused of raping a black woman @ @ @ @ @ @ @ The editor of his column later told The Atlantic , “ He picked the most contrarian of stances to articulate , wrote the most hyperbolic prose he could .
.
.
then sat back and waited for people ’ s reactions .
”

One afternoon in November, a half-dozen government officials sat at a conference table in the White House, waiting for the arrival of Stephen Miller, a senior adviser to Donald Trump. Miller had summoned officials from the Departments of Homeland Security, State, and Justice to discuss a new Administration policy initiative: a series of agreements with the governments of Central America that would force asylum seekers to apply for protection in that region instead of in the United States. Miller, who had helped make the deals, wanted to know when their provisions could go into effect. Typically, everyone rises when top White House officials enter a room. But when Miller walked in, wearing a dark suit and an expression of wry resolve, everyone remained seated, their eyes cast down. “You go into meetings with Miller and try to get out with as little damage as possible,” a former Administration official told me. Miller has a habit of berating officials, especially lower-ranking ones, for an agency’s perceived failures. Chad Wolf, now the acting head of D.H.S., used to advise colleagues to placate Miller by picking one item from his long list of demands, and vowing to execute it. “It’s a war of attrition,” Wolf told them. “Maybe he forgets the rest for a while, and you buy yourself some time.”
One participant in the November meeting pointed out that El Salvador didn’t have a functioning asylum system. “They don’t need a system,” Miller interrupted. He began speaking over people, asking questions, then cutting off the answers.
As the meeting ended, Miller held up his hand to make a final comment. “I didn’t mean to come across as harsh,” he said. His voice dropped. “It’s just that this is all I care about. I don’t have a family. I don’t have anything else. This is my life.”
Miller, who is thirty-four, with thinning hair and a sharp, narrow face, is an anomaly in Washington: an adviser with total authority over a single issue that has come to define an entire Administration. “We have never had a President who ran, and won, on immigration,” Muzaffar Chishti, of the Migration Policy Institute, told me. “And he’s kept his promise on immigration.” Miller, who was a speechwriter during the campaign, is now Trump’s longest-serving senior aide. He is also an Internet meme, a public scourge, and a catch-all symbol of the racism and malice of the current government. In a cast of exceptionally polarizing officials, he has embraced the role of archvillain. Miller can be found shouting over interviewers on the weekend news shows or berating reporters in the White House briefing room; he has also vowed to quell a “deep state” conspiracy against Trump. When he’s not accusing journalists of harboring a “cosmopolitan bias” or denying that the Statue of Liberty symbolizes America’s identity as a nation of immigrants, he is shaping policy and provoking the President’s most combative impulses.
Jeh Johnson, who headed the Department of Homeland Security under Barack Obama, told me, “D.H.S. was born of bipartisan parents in Congress, in the aftermath of 9/11, when there was support for a large Cabinet-level department to consolidate control of all the different ways someone can enter this country.” D.H.S. is the third-largest federal department, with a fifty-billion-dollar budget and a staff of some two hundred thousand employees, spanning the Federal Emergency Management Agency, the Cybersecurity and Infrastructure Security Agency, and Immigration and Customs Enforcement. From its founding, in 2002, to the end of Obama’s Presidency, the department had five secretaries; under Trump, it has had five more. “Immigration is overheated and over-politicized, and it has overwhelmed D.H.S.,” Johnson said.
“The massive changes Miller engineered in border and immigration policy required that the policymaking process at D.H.S. be ignored,” Alan Bersin, a former senior department official, told me. “Who do you think has filled the vacuum?” Miller has cultivated lower-level officials in the department who answer directly to him, providing information, policy updates, and data, often behind the backs of their bosses. “At the beginning of 2017, none of us could have foreseen that he would wield this kind of power,” a former Trump Administration official told me. Of thirty current and former officials I interviewed, not one could recall a White House adviser as relentless as Miller, or as successful in imposing his will across agencies. These officials resented him as an upstart and mocked his affectations—his “arrogant monotonal voice” and tin-eared bombast—but few were comfortable going on the record, even after leaving the government. Miller is famously vindictive, and, as Trump runs for a second term, he is sure to grow only more powerful. “Miller doesn’t have to get Trump to believe everything he does,” one of the officials told me. “He just has to get Trump to say it all.”
When Miller and I spoke by phone, it was off the record. Without an audience, he gave the same message at half the volume—a litany of talking points about all the ways in which the President had delivered on his campaign promises. Afterward, the White House sent me a quote for attribution: “It is the single greatest honor of my life to work for President Trump and to support his incredible agenda.”
Miller’s obsession with restricting immigration and punishing immigrants has become the defining characteristic of the Trump White House, to the extent that campaigning and governing on the issue are no longer distinguishable. In the past three and a half years, the Trump Administration has dismantled immigration policies and precedents that took shape in the course of decades, using current laws to intensify enforcement against illegal immigration and pursuing new ones to reduce legal immigration. Trump has slashed the refugee program; virtually ended asylum at the southern border; and written a rule denying green cards to families who might receive public benefits. Miller has choreographed these initiatives, convincing Trump that his political future depends on them—and on going even further. If Trump is not reëlected, Miller will never again have such power. A D.H.S. official told me, “Going into 2020, Miller is at a crossroads.”
The radicalism of Miller’s views tends to obscure how much he has evolved as a tactician since he arrived in Washington. He grew up in Santa Monica, California, the son of Jewish Democrats, but, by the time he entered high school, he had become a strident conservative. “He was going to a very liberal, diverse school,” Megan Healey, one of his classmates, told me. “In a school where the nerds were considered cool, he was still the guy that nobody liked.” The terrorist attacks of 9/11 took place when he was a junior, cementing his persona. “Anti-Americanism had spread all over the school like a rash,” he later wrote. “Osama Bin Laden would feel very welcome at Santa Monica High School.” At Duke, where he studied political science and wrote a column for the student newspaper, he became a familiar presence on conservative television and radio programs. His hostility toward immigrants formed part of his politics, but did not stand out. He opposed left-wing bias in the classroom, invited controversial speakers to campus, and organized “Islamo-Fascism Awareness Week.” “America without her culture is like a body without a soul,” he wrote in one column. “Yet many of today’s youth see America as nothing but a meeting point for the cultures of other nations.” His most notable cause was to defend a group of white lacrosse players who had been falsely accused of raping a black woman who was stripping at a party. The editor of his column later told The Atlantic, “He picked the most contrarian of stances to articulate, wrote the most hyperbolic prose he could . . . then sat back and waited for people’s reactions.”
After graduation, in 2008, he was offered a job as press secretary for Michele Bachmann, a Republican representative from Minnesota, who gained national attention after an undocumented immigrant near her district crashed her car into a school bus, killing four children. Miller pushed Bachmann to go on television. On Fox News, she described the tragedy as an example of “anarchy versus the rule of law,” and, in a later campaign stop, blamed immigrants for “bringing in diseases, bringing in drugs, bringing in violence.” The following fall, after Bachmann was reëlected, Miller left his post, and took a communications job in the office of Jeff Sessions, of Alabama, then the Senate’s staunchest opponent of immigration.
Sessions and Miller approached immigration from different perspectives. During the nineties and early two-thousands, immigration had quadrupled in Alabama, and Sessions, a resolute populist, grew alarmed at the state’s increasingly foreign workforce. Miller’s concerns tended to be more cultural and inflammatory—he raised questions about the ability of Latin Americans to learn English and of Islam’s compatibility with American norms.
“He really embodies the soul of mid-level management blues.” Cartoon by Lars Kenseth Copy link to cartoon Copy link to cartoon Shop Shop
Sessions introduced Miller to such think tanks as NumbersUSA and the Center for Immigration Studies, which produced data-laden reports on the societal costs of immigration. Soon Miller was attending weekly meetings at the Heritage Foundation, the conservative-policy institute, with a small group of congressional staff. “He’d arrive with these policy notions he’d just conjure up,” a participant told me. “He came across as super smart, but super right wing.” To most Republican staffers, he was known for his mass e-mails about immigration, full of links to articles from fringe Web sites. “I just started deleting them when I’d see his name,” a senior Republican staffer told me. “Everyone did.”
Mitt Romney ran for President, in 2012, on a platform that included a commitment to reducing illegal immigration. He argued that, if the federal government made life harder for undocumented immigrants by limiting their employment opportunities, large numbers would “self-deport.” After Romney lost, the Republican National Committee commissioned an emergency report on the future of the Party, in which pollsters and elected officials concluded that Republican candidates had moved too far right. The report warned that if the Party did not “embrace and champion comprehensive immigration reform” its appeal would “continue to shrink to its core constituencies.” On the night of Obama’s second Inauguration, in January, 2013, his former chief of staff, Rahm Emanuel, whose reluctance to tackle the issue of immigration—the “third rail of American politics,” he called it—was well known inside the Administration, told White House officials that now “even a blind person” could steer a comprehensive reform bill through Congress.
In the spring of 2013, a bipartisan group of senators known as the Gang of Eight—which included the Republicans Marco Rubio, John McCain, and Lindsey Graham—proposed a bill that would have made changes to the immigration system while creating a pathway to citizenship for millions of undocumented people. The legislation was widely embraced in the Senate, but it was premised on a compromise that repulsed Sessions: legalization in exchange for increased border-security measures. Or, as he saw it, amnesty for nothing.
At meetings throughout the spring and summer of 2013, Republican staffers debated the terms of a possible bill. When Miller was allowed to sit in, he took notes and asked questions about esoteric provisions. Sessions was one of a half-dozen senators who weren’t expected to vote for a bill in any form; Miller was there to “take the information, punch it up, and make it into an attack,” according to a senior Republican Senate aide. “It was sending a signal to Senate Republicans to stay away from the bill, or to give them heartburn over it. And it was a kind of Bat-Signal to the House Republicans.”
Steve Bannon, then the head of Breitbart News, compared the work that Sessions and Miller were doing to stop the bill to “the civil-rights movement in the nineteen-sixties,” and he began communicating regularly with Miller, who sent the Web site ideas and details for immigration stories. The far-right press characterized a provision introduced by Rubio to distribute cell phones in border areas, so that residents could report border crossings, as a measure to give “amnesty phones” to migrants; a pathway to citizenship would end in “benefits to line-jumping illegal aliens.” Miller took reporters’ calls late into the night, making himself indispensable to anyone covering the policy fight in Washington. “As a staffer, serving his boss, he was excellent,” Julia Preston, a former correspondent for the Times, told me. She spoke to Miller regularly. “This stuff is emotional for him.” In a conversation about H1-B visas, “he was talking so passionately that he actually wept.”
Opponents of the bill began to feel more confident. “Miller played a pretty substantial role” in “bruising” the legislation, the senior Senate aide said. A crisis was developing at the southern border, where tens of thousands of unaccompanied children, as well as families from Central America, were arriving in search of asylum. The Obama Administration tried to downplay the situation, but the crisis coincided with the Republican primary campaigns, in which populist Tea Party members were challenging members of the G.O.P. establishment. On June 10th, the day before Republican staffers in the House were scheduled to present a version of the bill to the Party leadership, the second-highest-ranking Republican in the House, Eric Cantor, of Virginia, lost his primary to Dave Brat, an academic and a political neophyte, who had run to the right of Cantor on immigration. “That’s really when the bottom started falling out,” Cecilia Muñoz, who worked at the White House at the time, told me. The immigration bill had already passed the Senate, but the Speaker of the House, a Republican, never brought it to the floor for a vote.
Miller “got a master’s degree in immigration policy during that process,” one of the Republican aides who worked with him at the time told me. “Before that, he didn’t have any policy experience at all. It was all communications. In 2013, he learned where all the bodies were buried.” Miller studied decades’ worth of immigration regulations, rules, and discretionary judgments, which were designed to guide and temper enforcement. He objected to the reluctance of establishment politicians to strictly interpret the existing laws. “He’d say, ‘It’s easy to simply execute the law as it’s written,’ ” a former colleague of his told me. “That’s actually when he would make his most impressive arguments. Fact-based, legal arguments. He used to say, ‘There’s a lot of bureaucratic procedure imposed on the law. Why do we need to concern ourselves with all the extra stuff?’ ”
Miller pointed out the many loopholes in immigration laws, especially the widespread practice of “catch and release,” in which large numbers of migrants were allowed to remain in the U.S. while they waited for their cases to be heard by immigration judges. Sessions had proposed amendments to end the policy, but they failed to gain support among Republicans. “Miller’s response was ‘The laws need to change,’ ” the aide said. “He was unimpressed by the promises of more border-patrol agents, or a trillion dollars for a virtual wall. People were taking advantage of the laws, not just of a porous border.”
In January, 2015, when Republicans took control of the Senate, Miller and Sessions published a rebuttal to the Party’s 2012 postmortem, called “Immigration Handbook for the New Republican Majority.” They wrote, “On no issue is there a greater separation between the everyday citizen and the political elite than on the issue of immigration.”
Five months later, Trump declared his candidacy, and, in January, 2016, Miller took a leave from Sessions’s office to join the campaign. Sessions, who considered Trump an ally on immigration, had doubts about his electability, but in February Bannon convinced him that Trump could win. Sessions became the first senator to endorse him. Bannon, who was advising Trump, had also persuaded Corey Lewandowski, Trump’s main handler, to promote Miller to the position of speechwriter. “You just can’t wing it. Immigration is too important,” he recalled saying. “You need policy people on this.”
Trump’s candidacy felt more like a low-grade insurgency than like a professional operation. The campaign rallies, with their ecstatic crowds, emboldened Miller, who often served as a warmup act for Trump. Pacing the stage with a relaxed smile, he resembled an insult comic, leading chants of “Build the wall.” He’d flash a peace sign, and make way for Trump, who would recite a list of crimes committed by undocumented immigrants. Then, growing sombre, he’d invite the parents of a victim onstage to offer his condolences.


newyorker--2020-02-21--Le Crocodile’s Bold Brooklyn Ambitions

Le Crocodile’s Bold Brooklyn Ambitions

The answer to the question of what you should order at Le Crocodile , a new French restaurant in Williamsburg , is hiding in plain sight .
On the postcard that comes with your check and on the books of matches and toothpicks by the host stand , a series of charmingly naïf illustrations depict a chicken , standing alone or disappearing into the toothy , gaping jaw of a somewhat gleeful-looking reptile .
At Le Crocodile , you are the crocodile—get ready to toss le poulet lustily down your gullet .
Half of a roasted one comes dripping with @ @ @ @ @ @ @ its crisp skin the same shade of golden as the bistro-style French fries piled high beside it .
It ’ s a thrillingly enormous portion of food , befitting this thrillingly enormous sort of restaurant , which took the place of Andrew Tarlow ’ s Reynard at the Wythe Hotel .
The poulet frites is not instead of steak frites , it ’ s in addition to it—and Le Crocodile ’ s steak frites is not just plain old steak frites , it ’ s steak frites au poivre , meaning that the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ finished with a velvety spoonful of pan sauce .
The menu offers four varieties of pâté , plus a duck-and-rabbit rillette .
There are leeks vinaigrette and leek gratin , pot-au-feu and cassoulet .
There are six varieties of gin-and-tonic , and no fewer than twelve desserts : profiteroles and madeleines , flourless chocolate cake and chocolate pot de crème , tarte au citron and tarte tatin .
The chefs , Aidan O ’ Neal and Jake Leiber , mastered the art of the neighborhood restaurant with Chez Ma Tante , the French-ish @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
At the Wythe , their ambition is bolder—Williamsburg has become an extension of Manhattan , the hotel ’ s swanky vibe would have you believe , and they can make it here , too .
Le Crocodile is Brooklyn ’ s answer to Balthazar ; with just a few smart design tweaks ( higher wainscoting , built-in booths , velvet chairs ) , the dining room has been transformed from rustic wedding venue to glamorous brasserie .
As at Balthazar , the menu ’ s breadth of fine-tuned favorites gives it an @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that tend toward the novel or the esoteric .
At Bar Bête , which opened in December , in Carroll Gardens , a mid-course omelette filled with peekytoe crabmeat , topped with togarashi , and served with seaweed butter overpromised and underdelivered ; at Le Crocodile , a much simpler , technically perfect omelette , served with greens and lightly pickled chanterelles , held its own among the murderers ’ row of plats principaux .
This is not to say that Le Crocodile resists risk or trends entirely .
One of the four @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , maitake , and cremini mushrooms and achieves a remarkably convincing I-can ’ t-believe-it ’ s-not-liver texture .
A pork chop is served with kale , anchovies , and a slice of burrata ( which was described by a server as “ a palate cleanser ” ) ; a gloriously fatty duck breast is strewn with sticky-sweet kumquats .
You ’ ll find cacio-e-pepe orzo , and a crab salad with the spicy Japanese condiment yuzu kosho .
But what ’ s most exciting about Le Crocodile is that its young and energetic @ @ @ @ @ @ @ gently revising—an encyclopedia of classics .
A plate of de-shelled escargot and thinly sliced fennel in a broth fragrant with Pernod was powerfully transportive .
A French 75 made with Cognac left me wondering what I had against the stuff—it had seemed suited only for a snifter in a smoke-filled library or , worse , a trashy night club , but suddenly struck me as elegant and refreshing .
One evening , two women at the next table enjoyed separate orders of the roast chicken .
At a moment in restaurant culture when @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” is practically a mandate , this seemed like a radical , liberating move , and one that a menu like this encourages .
Even with a large party , you couldn ’ t possibly try everything in one visit , so you might as well order just exactly what you feel like .
Share in pleasure , if not plates , then come back for more .
( Dishes $ 9- $ 91 . )
♦

The answer to the question of what you should order at Le Crocodile, a new French restaurant in Williamsburg, is hiding in plain sight. On the postcard that comes with your check and on the books of matches and toothpicks by the host stand, a series of charmingly naïf illustrations depict a chicken, standing alone or disappearing into the toothy, gaping jaw of a somewhat gleeful-looking reptile. At Le Crocodile, you are the crocodile—get ready to toss le poulet lustily down your gullet. Half of a roasted one comes dripping with jus and sprinkled with chopped parsley, its crisp skin the same shade of golden as the bistro-style French fries piled high beside it.
Poulet frites, or half a roast chicken with fries, dripping with herb jus. Photograph by Cole Wilson for The New Yorker
It’s a thrillingly enormous portion of food, befitting this thrillingly enormous sort of restaurant, which took the place of Andrew Tarlow’s Reynard at the Wythe Hotel. The poulet frites is not instead of steak frites, it’s in addition to it—and Le Crocodile’s steak frites is not just plain old steak frites, it’s steak frites au poivre, meaning that the meat is encrusted in cracked peppercorn and finished with a velvety spoonful of pan sauce. The menu offers four varieties of pâté, plus a duck-and-rabbit rillette. There are leeks vinaigrette and leek gratin, pot-au-feu and cassoulet. There are six varieties of gin-and-tonic, and no fewer than twelve desserts: profiteroles and madeleines, flourless chocolate cake and chocolate pot de crème, tarte au citron and tarte tatin.
The menu offers four pâtés, including country pâté, pictured, and a meatless one made with mushrooms, plus a duck-and-rabbit rillette. Photograph by Cole Wilson for The New Yorker
The chefs, Aidan O’Neal and Jake Leiber, mastered the art of the neighborhood restaurant with Chez Ma Tante, the French-ish place they opened in Greenpoint in 2017. At the Wythe, their ambition is bolder—Williamsburg has become an extension of Manhattan, the hotel’s swanky vibe would have you believe, and they can make it here, too. Le Crocodile is Brooklyn’s answer to Balthazar; with just a few smart design tweaks (higher wainscoting, built-in booths, velvet chairs), the dining room has been transformed from rustic wedding venue to glamorous brasserie.
As at Balthazar, the menu’s breadth of fine-tuned favorites gives it an edge over French restaurants with smaller menus that tend toward the novel or the esoteric. At Bar Bête, which opened in December, in Carroll Gardens, a mid-course omelette filled with peekytoe crabmeat, topped with togarashi, and served with seaweed butter overpromised and underdelivered; at Le Crocodile, a much simpler, technically perfect omelette, served with greens and lightly pickled chanterelles, held its own among the murderers’ row of plats principaux.
Among the dozen desserts are pineapple sorbet and a maple pie. Photograph by Cole Wilson for The New Yorker
This is not to say that Le Crocodile resists risk or trends entirely. One of the four pâtés is meatless, made with shiitake, maitake, and cremini mushrooms and achieves a remarkably convincing I-can’t-believe-it’s-not-liver texture. A pork chop is served with kale, anchovies, and a slice of burrata (which was described by a server as “a palate cleanser”); a gloriously fatty duck breast is strewn with sticky-sweet kumquats. You’ll find cacio-e-pepe orzo, and a crab salad with the spicy Japanese condiment yuzu kosho.
With a few smart design tweaks, including built-in booths, the dining room that once housed Reynard went from rustic wedding venue to glamorous brasserie. Photograph by Cole Wilson for The New Yorker
But what’s most exciting about Le Crocodile is that its young and energetic chefs seem focussed mainly on perfecting—and occasionally gently revising—an encyclopedia of classics. A plate of de-shelled escargot and thinly sliced fennel in a broth fragrant with Pernod was powerfully transportive. A French 75 made with Cognac left me wondering what I had against the stuff—it had seemed suited only for a snifter in a smoke-filled library or, worse, a trashy night club, but suddenly struck me as elegant and refreshing.
One evening, two women at the next table enjoyed separate orders of the roast chicken. At a moment in restaurant culture when “everything is meant to be shared” is practically a mandate, this seemed like a radical, liberating move, and one that a menu like this encourages. Even with a large party, you couldn’t possibly try everything in one visit, so you might as well order just exactly what you feel like. Share in pleasure, if not plates, then come back for more. (Dishes $9-$91.) ♦


newyorker--2020-02-21--A Grim Take on “West Side Story”

A Grim Take on “West Side Story”

The Belgian director Ivo van Hove is invariably referred to as “ avant-garde , ” but , considering that he has spent more than two decades making theatre in this country , including three recent productions on Broadway , that thorny honorific no longer really fits .
The avant period is over ; he is simply part of the garde , influential and much imitated , not least by himself .
Van Hove is celebrated for his austere , violent , video-heavy stagings , which attempt to reveal the hidden layers of classic texts .
When it was announced that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Side Story , ” among the most beloved and fraught of American musicals , the buzz began .
Now , after more than a year of preparation and no shortage of complications—two injured stars , one of whom had to drop out ; a delayed opening ; a nightly rally , held in front of the theatre , to protest the casting , as Bernardo , of Amar Ramasar ( a New York City Ballet principal who was fired from and then reinstated to that company after sharing nude photos of a colleague @ @ @ @ @ @ @ producers have responded to in stiff , baffled fashion—van Hove ’ s “ West Side Story ” has at last opened ( at the Broadway ) .
The production is an infuriating example of what happens when a powerful style calcifies into shtick—infuriating because so much that is exciting , even revelatory , here is crushed beneath the director ’ s insistence on a vision that feels narrow and doctrinaire .
He wants to make us see an iconic work with new eyes , but all we can see is him .
The @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , opens in moody silence , as a line of young men files onto the vast , naked stage .
Their faces are projected by video camera onto the enormous wall behind them , and the orchestra strikes up its first notes .
The menace and the delight of Leonard Bernstein ’ s score feel irrepressible , but these boys know how to repress—to “ play it cool , ” as they later sing .
They are in street wear , immaculate sneakers and glossy track jackets , sweatsuits , and beanies ( @ @ @ @ @ @ @ costume design ) ; they have branded their necks with tattoos reading “ Jet for Life.
” Another line of boys appears , edgy and coiled—the Sharks—and a fight breaks out .
Someone is knifed ; somebody else films the assault with a smartphone , and shaky footage of the grimacing boy clutching his bloody ear fills the backdrop as bodies thrash below .
The melee is interrupted by the nasty Lieutenant Schrank ( Thomas Jay Ryan ) , and the Sharks scatter , leaving the Jets to regroup and pledge their allegiance @ @ @ @ @ @ @ lyrics , imprinted on generations of American brains , are as thrilling as ever , but when the Jets ’ leader , Riff ( Dharon E. Jones ) , sings them they are not so much a declaration of solidarity as a threat .
He and his crew are far from the carefree showboaters of the original , 1957 Broadway production or the 1961 movie , snapping and leaping in Jerome Robbins ’ s indelible choreography .
Those Jets were inventing the American teen-age experience , coming alive to the possibility of power @ @ @ @ @ @ @ authority had crumbled ; their bragging felt childish , all hot talk , until , suddenly , the game got real .
These Jets know that they have signed a death pact .
The turn is typical of van Hove , who is determined to snuff out any lightness that might temper the full-blown tragedy to come .
( To that end , he has cut the song “ I Feel Pretty ” and trimmed Arthur Laurents ’ s sleek book , already one of the shortest in Broadway history , to keep @ @ @ @ @ @ @ forty-five minutes . )
There ’ s no joy to be found on these streets .
But what streets are they ?
As the Jets discuss their plans to challenge the Sharks at the school dance that evening , the video screen shows a dead-end block lined with shuttered warehouses , a nowhere land that could be on the edge of any city in the industrialized world .
( Van Hove ’ s partner and frequent collaborator , Jan Versweyveld , did the scenic and lighting design ; Luke Halls did the video @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a slow dolly shot , producing the weightless , gliding momentum of a first-person shooter game .
This moving streetscape , like others that occur throughout the play , bears no perspectival relationship to the actors on the stage ; it shrinks and dislocates them .
When the Jets sing , van Hove projects recorded footage of the cast gallivanting around Brooklyn , chewing on gold chains and mugging for the camera in pastiches of rap-music videos , which dwarfs the actors with their own gigantic images .
In the next scene , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ disappear into Doc ’ s drugstore , a bodega cut into the back wall that looks as tiny as a doll house , and the action is live-streamed onscreen above the abandoned stage .
As a metaphor—for the insignificance of these characters ’ lives in a vast , hostile world , perhaps ?
—the technique is banal .
As a theatrical device , it is a ludicrous waste , verging on an insult to the actors , who can ’ t hope to compete with the billboard-size versions of themselves that loom over @ @ @ @ @ @ @ more disappointing because they are a gorgeous cast , youthful , fresh—more than thirty actors are making their Broadway débuts—and physically spectacular , especially in Anne Teresa De Keersmaeker ’ s choreography , which , with its sharply thrown elbows and triangular formations , closes the gap between modernist constructivism and TikTok preening .
When Tony ( Isaac Powell ) appears , he is lithe and jittery , jabbing the air with his hand as if he wanted to freestyle , though he is contractually obliged to sing one of the simplest and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ Something ’ s Coming , ” which he does , beautifully , with a supple , mellow voice .
Shereen Pimentel ’ s Maria is another revelation .
In body and attitude , Pimentel is the welcome opposite of Natalie Wood , who fixed the role in the American mind as a virgin verging on sainthood .
This Maria is a girl with curves and spirit , and one of the things that the production gets right is the puppyish attraction between the young lovers , who touch each other with a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ senselessness of the tragedy that befalls them is not that they were destined to be together forever .
It ’ s that they could have helped each other get out , grow up , and learn how to be free .
Van Hove , who auditioned more than a thousand actors , has done something unusual and intriguing in his casting .
The Puerto Rican Sharks are played by Latino actors , which is a relief ; we are far from the miserable days of brownface .
( Yesenia Ayala , who moves @ @ @ @ @ @ @ is a highlight as Anita ; Ramasar , leaning heavily on a gluey “ Spanish ” accent , is the weak link . )
Meanwhile , the Jets , originally a white gang made up of the sons and grandsons of Irish , Italian , and Polish immigrants— “ an anthology of what is called ‘ American , ’ ” Laurents wrote in the script—are a diverse bunch ; in fact , the white actor Ben Cook , who was first cast as Riff , was replaced by the talented Jones , who @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
With apologies to Cook , that may have been a stroke of luck , since it ’ s more conceivable that white street kids would pay allegiance to a black leader—there ’ s that haunted idea of American “ cool ” again , inextricable from white obsession with African-American culture—than the other way around .
And yet the casting introduces tangled layers of complexity that van Hove has either misunderstood or ignored .
The lyrics of the film version of “ America ” —in which Anita and the Shark women sing of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ capitalist conveniences , and the men sing of its brutality and bankrupt racism—remain as current as Twitter discourse , if , mercifully , a lot cleverer .
“ Life is all right in America , ” the women sing , and the men reply , “ If you ’ re all white in America , ” but I didn ’ t hear that line in this production , maybe because it makes less sense for the Sharks to sing it when it no longer applies to their adversaries .
Meanwhile , the production @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ immigrant status .
“ Who asked you to come here ?
” Riff says to Bernardo ; Bernardo ’ s retort— “ Who asked you ?
” —has a bitter , unintended irony in the context of African-American history .

The Belgian director Ivo van Hove is invariably referred to as “avant-garde,” but, considering that he has spent more than two decades making theatre in this country, including three recent productions on Broadway, that thorny honorific no longer really fits. The avant period is over; he is simply part of the garde, influential and much imitated, not least by himself. Van Hove is celebrated for his austere, violent, video-heavy stagings, which attempt to reveal the hidden layers of classic texts. When it was announced that he would be taking on “West Side Story,” among the most beloved and fraught of American musicals, the buzz began. Now, after more than a year of preparation and no shortage of complications—two injured stars, one of whom had to drop out; a delayed opening; a nightly rally, held in front of the theatre, to protest the casting, as Bernardo, of Amar Ramasar (a New York City Ballet principal who was fired from and then reinstated to that company after sharing nude photos of a colleague), a foreseeable controversy that the producers have responded to in stiff, baffled fashion—van Hove’s “West Side Story” has at last opened (at the Broadway). The production is an infuriating example of what happens when a powerful style calcifies into shtick—infuriating because so much that is exciting, even revelatory, here is crushed beneath the director’s insistence on a vision that feels narrow and doctrinaire. He wants to make us see an iconic work with new eyes, but all we can see is him.
The play, loosely updated to the present, opens in moody silence, as a line of young men files onto the vast, naked stage. Their faces are projected by video camera onto the enormous wall behind them, and the orchestra strikes up its first notes. The menace and the delight of Leonard Bernstein’s score feel irrepressible, but these boys know how to repress—to “play it cool,” as they later sing. They are in street wear, immaculate sneakers and glossy track jackets, sweatsuits, and beanies (An D’Huys did the appealing costume design); they have branded their necks with tattoos reading “Jet for Life.” Another line of boys appears, edgy and coiled—the Sharks—and a fight breaks out. Someone is knifed; somebody else films the assault with a smartphone, and shaky footage of the grimacing boy clutching his bloody ear fills the backdrop as bodies thrash below. The melee is interrupted by the nasty Lieutenant Schrank (Thomas Jay Ryan), and the Sharks scatter, leaving the Jets to regroup and pledge their allegiance to themselves:
When you’re a Jet,
You’re a Jet all the way
From your first cigarette
To your last dyin’ day.
Stephen Sondheim’s lyrics, imprinted on generations of American brains, are as thrilling as ever, but when the Jets’ leader, Riff (Dharon E. Jones), sings them they are not so much a declaration of solidarity as a threat. He and his crew are far from the carefree showboaters of the original, 1957 Broadway production or the 1961 movie, snapping and leaping in Jerome Robbins’s indelible choreography. Those Jets were inventing the American teen-age experience, coming alive to the possibility of power and control in a world where adult authority had crumbled; their bragging felt childish, all hot talk, until, suddenly, the game got real. These Jets know that they have signed a death pact. The turn is typical of van Hove, who is determined to snuff out any lightness that might temper the full-blown tragedy to come. (To that end, he has cut the song “I Feel Pretty” and trimmed Arthur Laurents’s sleek book, already one of the shortest in Broadway history, to keep the play to an intermissionless hour and forty-five minutes.) There’s no joy to be found on these streets.
But what streets are they? As the Jets discuss their plans to challenge the Sharks at the school dance that evening, the video screen shows a dead-end block lined with shuttered warehouses, a nowhere land that could be on the edge of any city in the industrialized world. (Van Hove’s partner and frequent collaborator, Jan Versweyveld, did the scenic and lighting design; Luke Halls did the video design.) The camera advances in a slow dolly shot, producing the weightless, gliding momentum of a first-person shooter game. This moving streetscape, like others that occur throughout the play, bears no perspectival relationship to the actors on the stage; it shrinks and dislocates them. When the Jets sing, van Hove projects recorded footage of the cast gallivanting around Brooklyn, chewing on gold chains and mugging for the camera in pastiches of rap-music videos, which dwarfs the actors with their own gigantic images. In the next scene, he plays peekaboo with them as they disappear into Doc’s drugstore, a bodega cut into the back wall that looks as tiny as a doll house, and the action is live-streamed onscreen above the abandoned stage. As a metaphor—for the insignificance of these characters’ lives in a vast, hostile world, perhaps?—the technique is banal. As a theatrical device, it is a ludicrous waste, verging on an insult to the actors, who can’t hope to compete with the billboard-size versions of themselves that loom over their heads.
This is all the more disappointing because they are a gorgeous cast, youthful, fresh—more than thirty actors are making their Broadway débuts—and physically spectacular, especially in Anne Teresa De Keersmaeker’s choreography, which, with its sharply thrown elbows and triangular formations, closes the gap between modernist constructivism and TikTok preening. When Tony (Isaac Powell) appears, he is lithe and jittery, jabbing the air with his hand as if he wanted to freestyle, though he is contractually obliged to sing one of the simplest and most sublime songs in musical theatre, “Something’s Coming,” which he does, beautifully, with a supple, mellow voice. Shereen Pimentel’s Maria is another revelation. In body and attitude, Pimentel is the welcome opposite of Natalie Wood, who fixed the role in the American mind as a virgin verging on sainthood. This Maria is a girl with curves and spirit, and one of the things that the production gets right is the puppyish attraction between the young lovers, who touch each other with a hunger tinged by natural self-consciousness. The senselessness of the tragedy that befalls them is not that they were destined to be together forever. It’s that they could have helped each other get out, grow up, and learn how to be free.
Van Hove, who auditioned more than a thousand actors, has done something unusual and intriguing in his casting. The Puerto Rican Sharks are played by Latino actors, which is a relief; we are far from the miserable days of brownface. (Yesenia Ayala, who moves like a knife across the stage, is a highlight as Anita; Ramasar, leaning heavily on a gluey “Spanish” accent, is the weak link.) Meanwhile, the Jets, originally a white gang made up of the sons and grandsons of Irish, Italian, and Polish immigrants—“an anthology of what is called ‘American,’ ” Laurents wrote in the script—are a diverse bunch; in fact, the white actor Ben Cook, who was first cast as Riff, was replaced by the talented Jones, who is black, when Cook was injured. With apologies to Cook, that may have been a stroke of luck, since it’s more conceivable that white street kids would pay allegiance to a black leader—there’s that haunted idea of American “cool” again, inextricable from white obsession with African-American culture—than the other way around.
And yet the casting introduces tangled layers of complexity that van Hove has either misunderstood or ignored. The lyrics of the film version of “America”—in which Anita and the Shark women sing of their love of the country’s capitalist conveniences, and the men sing of its brutality and bankrupt racism—remain as current as Twitter discourse, if, mercifully, a lot cleverer. “Life is all right in America,” the women sing, and the men reply, “If you’re all white in America,” but I didn’t hear that line in this production, maybe because it makes less sense for the Sharks to sing it when it no longer applies to their adversaries. Meanwhile, the production has confusingly kept references to both gangs’ immigrant status. “Who asked you to come here?” Riff says to Bernardo; Bernardo’s retort—“Who asked you?”—has a bitter, unintended irony in the context of African-American history.
Or take the classic comic number “Officer Krupke,” which van Hove reframes as an indictment of the carceral state and accompanies with a bleak video montage of young men being humiliated and abused by the police. Naturally, this plays to big applause, but the effect is obvious and pandering, effacing the specificity of the characters’ experience in favor of generic sociological observations. Changing the tone of the song, which is performed here with spitting fury, would have been enough. The dark side of the American Dream is not a subtext of “West Side Story,” waiting to be excavated through appallingly didactic images—like that of the Puerto Rican and American flags strung up on a chain-link fence, which appears during “America,” or, worse, an aerial shot of the border wall with Mexico that looks like something out of a dystopian travel infomercial. The critique has been right there on the surface all along.
Van Hove used to wage war on naturalism. Naturalism, however, has caught up to him. It is no longer strange to see the world filtered through a screen; that’s how we do most of our seeing. Here and there, we get startling glimpses of what van Hove could do, if he were to return to eye level and reground himself in the idiom of the stage. The rumble that closes the first act is one such exquisite moment. The screen goes blessedly dark, and we are free to focus on the enraged, passionate bodies that fly and claw at one another, as lightning crackles through the theatre and an unseen sky opens to release torrents of rain. It’s like witnessing an act of God—clear, spectacular, and all too brief. ♦


newyorker--2020-02-21--The Search for New Words to Make Us Care About the Climate Crisis

The reason we find ourselves verging toward planetary extinction is fairly simple : for quite some time , it ’ s been profitable for humans to behave this way .
For business and government , it ’ s always been easier to toggle between plunder and neglect than to mind long-term , civilizational time lines .
The actual conspiracy is that we are made to feel as though humanity ’ s fate were purely a matter of personal choice—our desire to buy this , that , or nothing at all , our collective willingness to recycle or compost .
This @ @ @ @ @ @ @ possess no power at all .
But the scale of the problem is difficult to comprehend , and discussions leave many of us feeling overwhelmed and paralyzed , reduced to myopic debates about whether we are too scared or not scared enough .
Perhaps , as Matthew Schneider-Mayerson and Brent Ryan Bellamy argue , our inability to imagine another path forward reflects a limited vocabulary .
Their modest contribution is the recently published “ An Ecotopian Lexicon , ” a collection of essays that seeks to expand the language we use to describe @ @ @ @ @ @ @ At this point , as they note in their introduction , we know how bad it is out there .
They are interested in the “ struggle to understand , ” at the level of both politics and emotions , how we might meaningfully respond to life in the Anthropocene , the term that scientists use to describe the present geologic epoch , where human activity has substantially influenced the climate and environment .
For Schneider-Mayerson , an assistant professor of environmental studies at Yale-NUS College , in Singapore , and Bellamy , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in science-fiction studies and energy humanities , our emerging reality requires a new language .
They invited a range of writers , scholars , and artists to choose a word or phrase , mainly taken from the non-English-speaking world , that might help us understand this struggle anew .
These are what linguists call loanwords , or “ terms that are adopted into one language from another without translation.
” Leaving the words in their original language—in this case : Thai , Gaeilge , Norwegian , and Luganda , among others—is a reminder @ @ @ @ @ @ @ everyday thought .
“ An Ecotopian Lexicon ” is part dream , part provocation .
In his foreword , the writer Kim Stanley Robinson describes Schneider-Mayerson and Bellamy ’ s book as a “ science fiction story in the form of a lexicon.
” As Robinson notes , science-fiction writers often invent new words out of necessity , in order to describe new technologies or social formations .
Some of the lexicon ’ s most provocative moments involve recent neologisms .
A “ blockadia , ” Randall Amster writes , arises in the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ describes the “ vast but interwoven web of campaigns ” against the fossil-fuel industry .
Today , activists see blockadia not as one place but more of a roving space of protest .
A blockadia manifests wherever and whenever people use direct action to oppose resource extraction .
Coming up with a single term broad enough to describe these movements around the world would help normalize these demonstrations .
Rather than scattered fringe protests , they are part of a whole , constituting the last line of defense against new pipelines or fracking @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” a term coined by the Swedish novelist Kerstin Ekman , which roughly translates to “ foot memory.
” “ Fotminne , ” Ahlberg writes , describes a kind of primeval awareness , a felt connection to all who have walked these grounds before and the ways they changed it .
But it can also have a contractual dimension : our foot “ strikes a deal with the ground ” with each step we take .
Daniel Worden writes of the “ cibopathic , ” a trait possessed by characters in the comic @ @ @ @ @ @ @ cibopath ” is able to access the full history of something—where it was grown , how it was harvested—by tasting it .
Then again , as the book suggests , the intuitive , almost metaphysical link between time and place , past and present , isn ’ t so futuristic at all .
For some , it ’ s an innate part of one ’ s identity .
There are essays on the Luganda salutation “ gyebale , ” which Jennifer Lee Johnson translates as “ thank you for the work you do @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ in lak ’ ech—a la k ’ inn , ” which John Esposito translates as “ I ’ m another you .
You ’ re another me.
” Both suggest a kind of communal ethos baked into how two strangers might regard each another .
Allison Ford and Kari Marie Norgaard discuss the Arabic word “ ghurba , ” a kind of melancholic longing for home .
They try to explore how such a term would resonate in a time when we are “ confronted with deep collective loss.
” “ What @ @ @ @ @ @ @ fear losing ?
How might we mourn those aspects that will be lost ?
How might we bring aspects of home into the future , so that when we arrive there we do not have to feel like strangers ?
” Perhaps this seems fatalistic .
But feelings of instability will only grow more common as the climate crisis deepens , so maybe language that forces us to confront loss directly and thoughtfully might prevent the onset of total despair .
Maybe it can lead us somewhere else altogether .
Sam Solnick borrows @ @ @ @ @ @ @ poet Evelyn Reilly .
The “ apocalypse ” part is clear ; the “ calypso ” part , not so much .
Solnick is interested not in celebrating tumult but in describing that strange ecstasy one might feel among a crowd of strangers , resisting something together .
“ Apocalypso ” offers a “ fusion of joy and critique ” that collects our diffuse energies rather than sending us off into our “ individualist survival fantasies.
” Naturally , there is a risk that borrowing someone else ’ s language , terminology , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ feel like a fetishizing gesture .
But as Schneider-Mayerson and Bellamy note early on , citing the environmental critic Ursula Heise , the current crisis is one that requires a new kind of global thinking , one that resists single languages or cultures .
This is a globalization that seeks to destabilize the center , not absorb everything toward it .
There ’ s a wonky yet infectious hopefulness to “ An Ecotopian Lexicon.
” It highlights the cognitive gaps of English to think about the untranslatability of “ qi , ” the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , equilibrium-seeking , life-force energy .
Reading these entries , each so careful and thoughtful about their small terrain in a larger debate , one can ’ t help but slow down .
Perhaps not , as many contributors implore , to recalibrate to “ plant time.
” But to at least reassess the language we use , the sleek , clipped rhythms of modern life , or the disruptive clunk of “ Anthropocene.
” Think of the terms we use to capture the conveniences and efficiency of today , and how living @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the minimalism of “ cord-cutting ” actually obscures , say , the vast amounts of electricity required to sustain the Internet .
Finally , consider the difference between calling it “ climate change ” and a “ crisis , ” the entire history that lives between an organization called Greenpeace and a movement called Extinction Rebellion .
It ’ s easy to feel weighed down by the discourse , but maybe we ’ ve simply been using the wrong words .
Perhaps , at a time of such stark extremes , there ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ transition , a state of in-betweenness .
“ Godhuli , ” Malcolm Sen explains , is a Bengali term .
It means “ twilight ” but also “ the fleeting moments that immediately follow sunset , ” when the cows trample up dust and return from pasture .
Sen treats “ godhuli ” as a kind of conceptual placeholder .
It ’ s a mood , a metaphor , a prism through which to admire anew our relationship to “ space and time , light and dust.
” It ’ s a word @ @ @ @ @ @ @ which invariably passes each day .
“ An Ecotopian Lexicon , ” as Robinson notes , is a story .
But it ’ s one with a dozen different endings , bound by a collective push to rethink what we resign to inevitability .

The reason we find ourselves verging toward planetary extinction is fairly simple: for quite some time, it’s been profitable for humans to behave this way. For business and government, it’s always been easier to toggle between plunder and neglect than to mind long-term, civilizational time lines. The actual conspiracy is that we are made to feel as though humanity’s fate were purely a matter of personal choice—our desire to buy this, that, or nothing at all, our collective willingness to recycle or compost. This isn’t to say that we possess no power at all. But the scale of the problem is difficult to comprehend, and discussions leave many of us feeling overwhelmed and paralyzed, reduced to myopic debates about whether we are too scared or not scared enough.
Perhaps, as Matthew Schneider-Mayerson and Brent Ryan Bellamy argue, our inability to imagine another path forward reflects a limited vocabulary. Their modest contribution is the recently published “An Ecotopian Lexicon,” a collection of essays that seeks to expand the language we use to describe the present-day crisis and its possibilities. At this point, as they note in their introduction, we know how bad it is out there. They are interested in the “struggle to understand,” at the level of both politics and emotions, how we might meaningfully respond to life in the Anthropocene, the term that scientists use to describe the present geologic epoch, where human activity has substantially influenced the climate and environment.
For Schneider-Mayerson, an assistant professor of environmental studies at Yale-NUS College, in Singapore, and Bellamy, an instructor at Trent University who specializes in science-fiction studies and energy humanities, our emerging reality requires a new language. They invited a range of writers, scholars, and artists to choose a word or phrase, mainly taken from the non-English-speaking world, that might help us understand this struggle anew. These are what linguists call loanwords, or “terms that are adopted into one language from another without translation.” Leaving the words in their original language—in this case, Thai, Gaeilge, Norwegian, and Luganda, among others—is a reminder of the histories and cultures embedded in everyday thought.
“An Ecotopian Lexicon” is part dream, part provocation. In his foreword, the writer Kim Stanley Robinson describes Schneider-Mayerson and Bellamy’s book as a “science fiction story in the form of a lexicon.” As Robinson notes, science-fiction writers often invent new words out of necessity, in order to describe new technologies or social formations. Some of the lexicon’s most provocative moments involve recent neologisms. A “blockadia,” Randall Amster writes, arises in the work of Naomi Klein, and it describes the “vast but interwoven web of campaigns” against the fossil-fuel industry. Today, activists see blockadia not as one place but more of a roving space of protest. A blockadia manifests wherever and whenever people use direct action to oppose resource extraction. Coming up with a single term broad enough to describe these movements around the world would help normalize these demonstrations. Rather than scattered fringe protests, they are part of a whole, constituting the last line of defense against new pipelines or fracking.
Sofia Ahlberg discusses “fotminne,” a term coined by the Swedish novelist Kerstin Ekman, which roughly translates to “foot memory.” “Fotminne,” Ahlberg writes, describes a kind of primeval awareness, a felt connection to all who have walked these grounds before and the ways they changed it. But it can also have a contractual dimension: our foot “strikes a deal with the ground” with each step we take. Daniel Worden writes of the “cibopathic,” a trait possessed by characters in the comic-book series “Chew.” A “cibopath” is able to access the full history of something—where it was grown, how it was harvested—by tasting it.
Then again, as the book suggests, the intuitive, almost metaphysical link between time and place, past and present, isn’t so futuristic at all. For some, it’s an innate part of one’s identity. There are essays on the Luganda salutation “gyebale,” which Jennifer Lee Johnson translates as “thank you for the work you do,” and the ancient Maya greeting “in lak’ech—a la k’inn,” which John Esposito translates as “I’m another you. You’re another me.” Both suggest a kind of communal ethos baked into how two strangers might regard each another. Allison Ford and Kari Marie Norgaard discuss the Arabic word “ghurba,” a kind of melancholic longing for home. They try to explore how such a term would resonate in a time when we are “confronted with deep collective loss.” “What is special about our homelands that we fear losing? How might we mourn those aspects that will be lost? How might we bring aspects of home into the future, so that when we arrive there we do not have to feel like strangers?”
Perhaps this seems fatalistic. But feelings of instability will only grow more common as the climate crisis deepens, so maybe language that forces us to confront loss directly and thoughtfully might prevent the onset of total despair. Maybe it can lead us somewhere else altogether. Sam Solnick borrows the term “apocalypso” from the poet Evelyn Reilly. The “apocalypse” part is clear; the “calypso” part, not so much. Solnick is interested not in celebrating tumult but in describing that strange ecstasy one might feel among a crowd of strangers, resisting something together. “Apocalypso” offers a “fusion of joy and critique” that collects our diffuse energies rather than sending us off into our “individualist survival fantasies.”
Naturally, there is a risk that borrowing someone else’s language, terminology, or scraps of larger belief systems might feel like a fetishizing gesture. But as Schneider-Mayerson and Bellamy note early on, citing the environmental critic Ursula Heise, the current crisis is one that requires a new kind of global thinking, one that resists single languages or cultures. This is a globalization that seeks to destabilize the center, not absorb everything toward it.
There’s a wonky yet infectious hopefulness to “An Ecotopian Lexicon.” It highlights the cognitive gaps of English to think about the untranslatability of “qi,” the Chinese faith in a kind of all-governing, equilibrium-seeking, life-force energy. Reading these entries, each so careful and thoughtful about their small terrain in a larger debate, one can’t help but slow down. Perhaps not, as many contributors implore, to recalibrate to “plant time.” But to at least reassess the language we use, the sleek, clipped rhythms of modern life, or the disruptive clunk of “Anthropocene.” Think of the terms we use to capture the conveniences and efficiency of today, and how living a “wireless” life or embracing the minimalism of “cord-cutting” actually obscures, say, the vast amounts of electricity required to sustain the Internet. Finally, consider the difference between calling it “climate change” and a “crisis,” the entire history that lives between an organization called Greenpeace and a movement called Extinction Rebellion.
It’s easy to feel weighed down by the discourse, but maybe we’ve simply been using the wrong words. Perhaps, at a time of such stark extremes, there’s something meaningful about language that describes transition, a state of in-betweenness. “Godhuli,” Malcolm Sen explains, is a Bengali term. It means “twilight” but also “the fleeting moments that immediately follow sunset,” when the cows trample up dust and return from pasture. Sen treats “godhuli” as a kind of conceptual placeholder. It’s a mood, a metaphor, a prism through which to admire anew our relationship to “space and time, light and dust.” It’s a word that describes something ephemeral, that moment which invariably passes each day. “An Ecotopian Lexicon,” as Robinson notes, is a story. But it’s one with a dozen different endings, bound by a collective push to rethink what we resign to inevitability.


newyorker--2020-02-21--“The Call of the Wild” and “Emma.,” Reviewed

After a period of reflection , lasting as long as four seconds , I decided to watch “ The Call of the Wild , ” a new film of Jack London ’ s novel , at a dog-friendly screening .
There really was no choice .
The opportunity to see a pug fall into a bucket of popcorn doesn ’ t come along that often , and you should grab it with both paws .
And don ’ t worry about the disturbance .
There isn ’ t any .
A canine audience , I can now confirm , is @ @ @ @ @ @ @ human equivalent .
No texting , no soda-sucking , and no chatter , save for a thoughtful yap every now and then .
In the row behind me was Paulie , the most—perhaps the only—well-behaved cockapoo in captivity .
“ He ’ ll fall asleep before the movie starts , ” his owner predicted , and so it proved .
The seat in front was occupied by Gatsby , a Chinese crested , though whether he was of the hairless or the powderpuff variety was hard to tell in the dark .
Sometimes @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , but , that aside , Gatsby was great .
Afterward , I was introduced to a French bulldog named Daffodil , aged eleven months , and assured that she had been a model of propriety throughout .
Try taking a one-year-old child to a full-length film and see how you get on .
The hero of the movie , as of the novel , is Buck , a cross between a St. Bernard and what London describes as a “ Scotch shepherd , ” presumably a fervid Presbyterian .
Buck , a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and sold , learns the ropes of pulling a sled in the frozen North , and winds up as the free-running master of himself— “ a thing that preyed , living on the things that lived.
” Such was the template laid down on the page , and , by and large , it ’ s faithfully followed onscreen .
The one major tweak , introduced by the writer , Michael Green , and the director , Chris Sanders , involves the demeanor of Hal ( Dan Stevens ) , a greenhorn who @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the book , he is cruel but useless ; in the film he becomes a villain so melodramatic , with his bristling mustache , his lunatic stare , and his suit of scarlet plaid , that Chaplin would have refused him entry to “ The Gold Rush.
” Then , there is Harrison Ford .
When I first saw his name on the poster for “ The Call of the Wild , ” I didn ’ t know whether he would be playing John Thornton , the kindly adventurer who takes Buck under @ @ @ @ @ @ @ One thing ’ s for certain : Ford is indisputably the shaggier dog .
His beard would be the envy of any husky , and , as befits his growl , he serves as the narrator , too , intoning the sort of gee-whiz buildup ( “ Skagway , Alaska , gateway to the Yukon ” ) that I associate with old travelogues on TV .
Alas , poor Thornton is saddled with a maudlin backstory , about a son of his who died and a marriage that collapsed .
Isn ’ t @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ?
Don ’ t the filmmakers realize that Ford can supply the necessary sorrow with his gaze and his voice alone ?
Compare Robert Redford , in “ All Is Lost ” ( 2013 ) , as another lonely grump ; he never revealed what private storms had driven him to sea , as a solo yachtsman , and he was right not to .
It was the quest that counted .
The rest was not our business .
What really stifles this “ Call of the Wild , ” oddly enough , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ with Clark Gable as Thornton , say , in 1935 , or Charlton Heston , in 1972 ) , dogs were played by dogs .
Their agents wouldn ’ t have it any other way .
The newfangled Buck , however , is unreal , from tail tip to snout ; the fangling was done by computer , though Terry Notary—recently seen in “ The Square ” ( 2017 ) , mimicking a crazed ape—provided a visual blueprint , performing Buckishly alongside Ford .
The result is remarkable , yet it ’ s @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and I reckon that the pooches in the cinema could tell the difference .
They could spy a big Buck , and they could hear the rustle of his digital fur , but they couldn ’ t smell him .
Maybe that ’ s why they kept so quiet .
To return to London ’ s novel these days , and to read of Buck ’ s desire to “ wash his muzzle to the eyes in warm blood , ” is quite a shock .
Was a more savage text ever approved @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in 1903 , it remains ferally fast and lithe , the teeth of the prose barely blunted by the years , and there ’ s something prophetic , at the start of a warring century , in London ’ s vision of civilization molting away at speed— “ the decay or going to pieces of his moral nature , a vain thing and a handicap in the ruthless struggle for existence.
” That ’ s Buck , forgetting his former self and learning to swipe food , but it could be any man @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that struggle persists in the current film , which softens everything it touches .
Mortal peril gives way to slapstick ; atavistic fears are reduced to a quizzical cock of the head ; and , as for Buck , he ’ s brave , he ’ s loyal , and he ’ s about as forbidding as Scooby-Doo .
As I left the screening , I bumped into Zeus , an Alaskan malamute of lupine proportions .
Though a gentle soul , he had immense self-possession and a magnificent coat , and , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ with Buck—not London ’ s Buck but the one we ’ d just been watching—my money would be on Zeus .
To be honest , even a Chinese crested powderpuff would be in with a chance .
The fact that the new Jane Austen adaptation is titled not “ Emma ” but “ Emma.
” should be taken , I imagine , as a punctuational joke about period drama .
The script is by Eleanor Catton , the author of “ The Luminaries , ” and the director is Autumn de Wilde .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ for her music videos and her photographs of bands , including Death Cab for Cutie .
Ideal training for the world of Regency England .
Anya Taylor-Joy plays Emma Woodhouse , “ handsome , clever , and rich.
” At the mellow age of twenty-one , Emma is an old hand at both scrutinizing and choreographing the romantic endeavors of other people .
Or so she likes to think , though her neighbor , senior , and friend Mr. Knightley ( Johnny Flynn ) would beg to differ .
To him , she @ @ @ @ @ @ @ he believes , will come of her intrusions , especially in the case of Harriet Smith ( Mia Goth ) , a young lady of nice comportment but unknown parentage .
Guided , or misguided , by Emma , Harriet spurns the hand of a mere farmer and aims for seemlier targets .
There is Mr. Elton ( Josh O ’ Connor ) , the local vicar , who , like Mr. Collins , in “ Pride and Prejudice , ” reminds us that Austen could , for the daughter of a rector @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ; Frank Churchill ( Callum Turner ) , an incoming cad with thin eyes , beneath whose layers of waistcoat lurks either a heart of flint or , more likely , no heart at all ; and even , yes , Knightley himself .
This is one of those films which begin haltingly and , bit by bit , develop a smooth stride .
The early sequences are peremptory and pastel-hued , with a jaunty score and a whiff of the fashion show .
The haberdashery in Emma ’ s village is a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ but so is the home that she shares with her father ( Bill Nighy ) , a first-class hypochondriac .
( In one lovely shot , he is surrounded by so many screens , each designed to fend off a nonexistent draft , that all you can see is his head . )
Fans of Sofia Coppola ’ s “ Marie Antoinette ” ( 2006 ) will be in heaven , as will anyone who labors under the impression that being alive in Austen ’ s day was like dwelling inside a doll @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .

After a period of reflection, lasting as long as four seconds, I decided to watch “The Call of the Wild,” a new film of Jack London’s novel, at a dog-friendly screening. There really was no choice. The opportunity to see a pug fall into a bucket of popcorn doesn’t come along that often, and you should grab it with both paws. And don’t worry about the disturbance. There isn’t any.
A canine audience, I can now confirm, is infinitely calmer and more respectful than its human equivalent. No texting, no soda-sucking, and no chatter, save for a thoughtful yap every now and then. In the row behind me was Paulie, the most—perhaps the only—well-behaved cockapoo in captivity. “He’ll fall asleep before the movie starts,” his owner predicted, and so it proved. The seat in front was occupied by Gatsby, a Chinese crested, though whether he was of the hairless or the powderpuff variety was hard to tell in the dark. Sometimes my view was obscured by his topknot, but, that aside, Gatsby was great. Afterward, I was introduced to a French bulldog named Daffodil, aged eleven months, and assured that she had been a model of propriety throughout. Try taking a one-year-old child to a full-length film and see how you get on.
The hero of the movie, as of the novel, is Buck, a cross between a St. Bernard and what London describes as a “Scotch shepherd,” presumably a fervid Presbyterian. Buck, a family pet in California, is kidnapped and sold, learns the ropes of pulling a sled in the frozen North, and winds up as the free-running master of himself—“a thing that preyed, living on the things that lived.” Such was the template laid down on the page, and, by and large, it’s faithfully followed onscreen. The one major tweak, introduced by the writer, Michael Green, and the director, Chris Sanders, involves the demeanor of Hal (Dan Stevens), a greenhorn who assumes brief ownership of Buck. In the book, he is cruel but useless; in the film he becomes a villain so melodramatic, with his bristling mustache, his lunatic stare, and his suit of scarlet plaid, that Chaplin would have refused him entry to “The Gold Rush.”
Then, there is Harrison Ford. When I first saw his name on the poster for “The Call of the Wild,” I didn’t know whether he would be playing John Thornton, the kindly adventurer who takes Buck under his wing, or Buck himself. One thing’s for certain: Ford is indisputably the shaggier dog. His beard would be the envy of any husky, and, as befits his growl, he serves as the narrator, too, intoning the sort of gee-whiz buildup (“Skagway, Alaska, gateway to the Yukon”) that I associate with old travelogues on TV. Alas, poor Thornton is saddled with a maudlin backstory, about a son of his who died and a marriage that collapsed. Isn’t there enough mushing in this tale already? Don’t the filmmakers realize that Ford can supply the necessary sorrow with his gaze and his voice alone? Compare Robert Redford, in “All Is Lost” (2013), as another lonely grump; he never revealed what private storms had driven him to sea, as a solo yachtsman, and he was right not to. It was the quest that counted. The rest was not our business.
What really stifles this “Call of the Wild,” oddly enough, is Buck. In previous versions (with Clark Gable as Thornton, say, in 1935, or Charlton Heston, in 1972), dogs were played by dogs. Their agents wouldn’t have it any other way. The newfangled Buck, however, is unreal, from tail tip to snout; the fangling was done by computer, though Terry Notary—recently seen in “The Square” (2017), mimicking a crazed ape—provided a visual blueprint, performing Buckishly alongside Ford. The result is remarkable, yet it’s still a hairbreadth away from credible, and I reckon that the pooches in the cinema could tell the difference. They could spy a big Buck, and they could hear the rustle of his digital fur, but they couldn’t smell him. Maybe that’s why they kept so quiet.
To return to London’s novel these days, and to read of Buck’s desire to “wash his muzzle to the eyes in warm blood,” is quite a shock. Was a more savage text ever approved for use in schools? First published in 1903, it remains ferally fast and lithe, the teeth of the prose barely blunted by the years, and there’s something prophetic, at the start of a warring century, in London’s vision of civilization molting away at speed—“the decay or going to pieces of his moral nature, a vain thing and a handicap in the ruthless struggle for existence.” That’s Buck, forgetting his former self and learning to swipe food, but it could be any man in a similar fix.
Little of that struggle persists in the current film, which softens everything it touches. Mortal peril gives way to slapstick; atavistic fears are reduced to a quizzical cock of the head; and, as for Buck, he’s brave, he’s loyal, and he’s about as forbidding as Scooby-Doo. As I left the screening, I bumped into Zeus, an Alaskan malamute of lupine proportions. Though a gentle soul, he had immense self-possession and a magnificent coat, and, if it came to a straight fight with Buck—not London’s Buck but the one we’d just been watching—my money would be on Zeus. To be honest, even a Chinese crested powderpuff would be in with a chance.
The fact that the new Jane Austen adaptation is titled not “Emma” but “Emma.” should be taken, I imagine, as a punctuational joke about period drama. The script is by Eleanor Catton, the author of “The Luminaries,” and the director is Autumn de Wilde. Until now, she has been famed for her music videos and her photographs of bands, including Death Cab for Cutie. Ideal training for the world of Regency England.
Anya Taylor-Joy plays Emma Woodhouse, “handsome, clever, and rich.” At the mellow age of twenty-one, Emma is an old hand at both scrutinizing and choreographing the romantic endeavors of other people. Or so she likes to think, though her neighbor, senior, and friend Mr. Knightley (Johnny Flynn) would beg to differ. To him, she is a meddler. No good, he believes, will come of her intrusions, especially in the case of Harriet Smith (Mia Goth), a young lady of nice comportment but unknown parentage. Guided, or misguided, by Emma, Harriet spurns the hand of a mere farmer and aims for seemlier targets. There is Mr. Elton (Josh O’Connor), the local vicar, who, like Mr. Collins, in “Pride and Prejudice,” reminds us that Austen could, for the daughter of a rector, be withering about men of God; Frank Churchill (Callum Turner), an incoming cad with thin eyes, beneath whose layers of waistcoat lurks either a heart of flint or, more likely, no heart at all; and even, yes, Knightley himself.
This is one of those films which begin haltingly and, bit by bit, develop a smooth stride. The early sequences are peremptory and pastel-hued, with a jaunty score and a whiff of the fashion show. The haberdashery in Emma’s village is a decorous riot of silks and trimmings, but so is the home that she shares with her father (Bill Nighy), a first-class hypochondriac. (In one lovely shot, he is surrounded by so many screens, each designed to fend off a nonexistent draft, that all you can see is his head.) Fans of Sofia Coppola’s “Marie Antoinette” (2006) will be in heaven, as will anyone who labors under the impression that being alive in Austen’s day was like dwelling inside a doll’s house, or a hatbox.
Yet something happens. Much as the heroine of Max Ophüls’s “The Earrings of Madame de . . .” (1953) falls in love with her partner in the course of a single waltz, so Emma and Mr. Knightley, hitherto content with badinage, surprise themselves into emotional gravity, during a dance—in closeup, to be exact, as their hands interlock. The movie continues to find strength in minor moments, as in the picnic scene, on a hillside, when Emma oversteps the mark and insults Miss Bates (Miranda Hart), whose only fault is a surplus of good will. When I saw the film, there was a sharp communal intake of breath around me; thanks to Hart, we share in the gust of confusion and hurt that crosses the victim’s face.
In the wider scheme of things, of course, a foolish remark, tossed from one genteel person to another, with servants hovering in the background, couldn’t matter less. But Austen knew that, like it or not, we are stuck in a narrower scheme, and that our fleeting follies matter a great deal. That is why “Emma” worked so well when transplanted to a high school, in “Clueless” (1995), and why a reboot of that movie, laced with the toxins of social media, would be close to unendurable. De Wilde’s film is a more clueful affair, and Flynn (soon to star in a bio-pic of David Bowie) makes an arresting Knightley—more bruiser than smoothie, with a hinterland of unhappiness. He proposes, eventually, beneath the spreading glories of a horse-chestnut tree in flower. The doll’s house has been put away, and nature is back in vogue. ♦


newyorker--2020-02-21--Yuna’s Vibrant R. & B.-Infused Pop

Yuna’s Vibrant R. & B.-Infused Pop

Rouge can be a color of love , boldness , and vibrance ; for Yuna , who dropped an album @ @ @ @ @ in July , it seems to embody all of those things and then some .
@ @ @ @ @ earlier releases tended toward chillier sonic shades , her latest—a collaborative collection of R. & @ @ @ @ @ it is bright—feels warm and more confident than ever , an apt progression for the @ @ @ @ @ , her “ Rouge ” finds a perfect contrast at Blue Note in six acoustic @ @ @ @ @ .

Rouge can be a color of love, boldness, and vibrance; for Yuna, who dropped an album named for the rosy hue in July, it seems to embody all of those things and then some. Where the singer’s earlier releases tended toward chillier sonic shades, her latest—a collaborative collection of R. & B.-infused pop as polished as it is bright—feels warm and more confident than ever, an apt progression for the Malaysian star. This week, her “Rouge” finds a perfect contrast at Blue Note in six acoustic shows, running Feb. 27-29.