newyorker--2020-06-17--“The Plight of the Fight”: A View from Atlanta After the Killing of Rayshard Brooks

On Monday , Marty X , a social worker in his twenties who asked that I not use his real name , was dropping food off at a church on the southwest side of Atlanta when I reached him on a friend ’ s phone .
His own phone was still in police custody .
“ I know the world does not love my blackness as much as I love it , ” he said .
“ That ’ s something I contend with.
” Marty grew up in Bankhead , a predominantly black neighborhood in west Atlanta .
“ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ known as ‘ the food guy ’ and ‘ the after-school guy , ’ ” he told me , noting that he also runs an after-school program .
He attended Brandeis University , where he got a degree in political science .
“ The legacy of Brandeis is in the educational liberation of Jewish people in America , ” he said .
“ But it ’ s also the university of Angela Davis and Anita Hill—voices of black liberation.
” Last Friday , Marty visited a gay club for the first time , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ this revolutionary shit was going down there , too , ” he said , “ which was dope.
” He got home after the sun rose .
A few hours later , he was scheduled to take a mentee out to lunch to discuss , as he put it , “ how it feels being a black man in the state of America.
” He got on Instagram to send his mentee a message , and that ’ s where he saw it , he said .
“ Another black person had been @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Rayshard Brooks being shot to death by a white police officer outside of a Wendy ’ s where Brooks had fallen asleep in his car , not far from Marty ’ s grandparents ’ house .
“ I instantly thought of my homeboy DreDre , ” Marty said .
“ The parallels.
” Three years ago , Marty ’ s close friend Deaundre Phillips , a twenty-four-year-old black man , was also killed by an Atlanta police officer ; the case has stalled , and charges have not been brought against the officer @ @ @ @ @ @ @ sleeping just before the confrontation that resulted in his death .
He ’ d been outside a police annex station , where he ’ d gone with a friend to retrieve some possessions .
Like Brooks , Phillips was killed as he tried to flee .
Surveillance video contradicted the initial police account in the case .
“ History repeats , ” Marty told me .
“ Unless we do something.
” As we spoke on Monday , Marty was driving through traffic , using a headset to talk with me .
A @ @ @ @ @ @ @ at one point .
“ I ’ m not breaking the law right now , ” Marty told me , sounding apprehensive .
“ An officer just got out of his car .
I think he ’ s trying to direct a funeral.
” He paused .
“ All right , he ’ s gone.
” On Wednesday afternoon , the Fulton County District Attorney , Paul L. Howard , Jr. , announced that the officer who shot Rayshard Brooks will be charged with felony murder and aggravated assault with a deadly weapon @ @ @ @ @ @ @ charges were being read , Marty told me by phone , through tears , “ Thank you , God , Rayshard will get his justice soon .
And DreDre will get his day in court.
” He yelled out , “ This shit is bananas.
” Marty ’ s account of a weekend of unrest in Atlanta , leading up to the charges against Atlanta police , has been edited and condensed .
“ I meet regularly on Sundays with , like , ten people to discuss revolutionary principles and ways that we @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ourselves ‘ the posse.
’ On Saturday morning , we got on our phones , and we were , like , ‘ No Sunday meeting , we got ta go to University.
’ There ’ d already been stuff circulating on Instagram about meeting on University Avenue at eight o ’ clock .
“ My grandfather stays in the area .
He taught me my earliest revolutionary principles .
He said it was my generation ’ s job to do in practice what his generation could only do in theory .
I left @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a hug .
And then I went to express my First Amendment rights .
“ We walked three minutes to the 75 South overpass , where they were doing a blockade .
It was five of us from the posse and a friend recently released from prison .
It was his first real night out on the city .
I wanted him to see that while he thought the world was peacefully passing him by , a war was going on outside .
I wanted him to see that as far as criminalization @ @ @ @ @ @ @ dealing with the same shit as an astute college graduate from the university ranked twenty-eighth in the goddam country .
“ We got to the overpass around eight-forty-five .
A gentleman with a megaphone was telling everybody to move toward the Wendy ’ s .
I ’ m seeing a lot of stuff about white people setting the Wendy ’ s on fire .
Yo , let me be the first to say that shit was a community effort .
The love and unity that went into burning that motherfucking Wendy ’ s @ @ @ @ @ @ @ not gon na give white people credit .
Black people were angry .
We were organized .
There was a bomb squad there within the revolution .
They had fireworks—using them to signal that police were coming , where to meet .
There was also anti-drone teams from other parts of the world : Venezuela , Seattle , Minneapolis .
Boots on the ground , sharing the gospel about defunding the police .
I saw lasers big enough to put on telescopes pointed up at the drones , disrupting their feeds .
“ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ s for hours before we arrived .
Maybe three hundred people .
There wasn ’ t much conversation about larger revolutionary principles .
It was just people expressing their anger at this object , which gave us an outlet .
There were some people there to fuck shit up , but , generally speaking , the people were there in support of the movement .
I was saving bricks for motherfuckers throwing for Rayshard , not because you just want to throw a brick .
What we ’ re doing is based in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ The Black Lives Matter agenda .
The revolution agenda .
The ending of overpolicing and police brutality and corporate violence .
Burn it down .
“ The scariest moment was when the fire truck came to put it down , at about nine-forty-five .
I was like , ‘ Nah.
’ Two police squad cars came to clear the scene , going at an unreasonable speed , using their vehicles as weapons .
One police officer used his car as a battering ram .
He hit at least five protesters point-blank .
We @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ll use our bodies as battering rams.
’ Me and three young men , we lay down on the chrome piece on the front of the fire truck .
‘ Y ’ all not putting this fire out.
’ The firemen stopped and watched from inside their trucks .
The police continued pushing civilians with their fucking S.U.V.s .
When they retreated , the fire trucks got up out of there .
[ The Atlanta Police Department did not respond to multiple requests for comment . ]
“ Then the people at the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , chanting ‘ To the precinct !
’ It was a thirty-minute walk .
We got there and we could see the initial police barricade outside .
There were dudes with microphones directing people , engaging with the police .
I broke up a fight between two black protesters about what we should do next .
I didn ’ t want to see fighting among comrades .
Pretty soon , we got to the front of the gun line .
One officer had about six weapons on him , including what looked like @ @ @ @ @ @ @ were his own guns .
Right next to him was an officer one or two shades lighter than me .
And I ’ m a dark-skinned dude .
I said , ‘ Yo , I came to you because you ’ re a dark-skinned brother .
Just tell me , do you feel the crunch that we ’ re in , as a black man ?
I ’ m standing in front of you as a human .
I ’ m not here for the bullshit .
I ’ m gon na give @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Department did not give Deaundre Phillips or Rayshard Brooks .
Treat me as your little brother , because I ’ m here on behalf of mine .
I want to go home tonight and tell my brother that I saw a black man tonight at a crossroads.
’ That ’ s when I saw the blue wall go down .
He said , ‘ I am at a crossroads .
I feel the burn as a black man.
’ He said , ‘ You know what was happening to me before I joined @ @ @ @ @ @ @ racially profiled , too .
That ’ s why I became a police officer .
I tried to stop it .
I tried to better my community.
’ I said , ‘ But you ’ re killing brothers like me !
How ’ s that work ?
’ We spoke for about fifteen minutes , he and I , finding common ground .

On Monday, Marty X, a social worker in his twenties who asked that I not use his real name, was dropping food off at a church on the southwest side of Atlanta when I reached him on a friend’s phone. His own phone was still in police custody. “I know the world does not love my blackness as much as I love it,” he said. “That’s something I contend with.” Marty grew up in Bankhead, a predominantly black neighborhood in west Atlanta. “In my hood, I’m known as ‘the food guy’ and ‘the after-school guy,’ ” he told me, noting that he also runs an after-school program. He attended Brandeis University, where he got a degree in political science. “The legacy of Brandeis is in the educational liberation of Jewish people in America,” he said. “But it’s also the university of Angela Davis and Anita Hill—voices of black liberation.”
Last Friday, Marty visited a gay club for the first time, as a straight ally. “All this revolutionary shit was going down there, too,” he said, “which was dope.” He got home after the sun rose. A few hours later, he was scheduled to take a mentee out to lunch to discuss, as he put it, “how it feels being a black man in the state of America.” He got on Instagram to send his mentee a message, and that’s where he saw it, he said. “Another black person had been executed.” He watched a video of Rayshard Brooks being shot to death by a white police officer outside of a Wendy’s where Brooks had fallen asleep in his car, not far from Marty’s grandparents’ house. “I instantly thought of my homeboy DreDre,” Marty said. “The parallels.” Three years ago, Marty’s close friend Deaundre Phillips, a twenty-four-year-old black man, was also killed by an Atlanta police officer; the case has stalled, and charges have not been brought against the officer. Phillips, too, had been sleeping just before the confrontation that resulted in his death. He’d been outside a police annex station, where he’d gone with a friend to retrieve some possessions. Like Brooks, Phillips was killed as he tried to flee. Surveillance video contradicted the initial police account in the case. “History repeats,” Marty told me. “Unless we do something.”
As we spoke on Monday, Marty was driving through traffic, using a headset to talk with me. A police officer was approaching vehicles near him at one point. “I’m not breaking the law right now,” Marty told me, sounding apprehensive. “An officer just got out of his car. I think he’s trying to direct a funeral.” He paused. “All right, he’s gone.” On Wednesday afternoon, the Fulton County District Attorney, Paul L. Howard, Jr., announced that the officer who shot Rayshard Brooks will be charged with felony murder and aggravated assault with a deadly weapon, among other charges. As the charges were being read, Marty told me by phone, through tears, “Thank you, God, Rayshard will get his justice soon. And DreDre will get his day in court.” He yelled out, “This shit is bananas.”
Marty’s account of a weekend of unrest in Atlanta, leading up to the charges against Atlanta police, has been edited and condensed.
“I meet regularly on Sundays with, like, ten people to discuss revolutionary principles and ways that we can aid the fight. We call ourselves ‘the posse.’ On Saturday morning, we got on our phones, and we were, like, ‘No Sunday meeting, we gotta go to University.’ There’d already been stuff circulating on Instagram about meeting on University Avenue at eight o’clock.
“My grandfather stays in the area. He taught me my earliest revolutionary principles. He said it was my generation’s job to do in practice what his generation could only do in theory. I left my keys with him and gave him a hug. And then I went to express my First Amendment rights.
“We walked three minutes to the 75 South overpass, where they were doing a blockade. It was five of us from the posse and a friend recently released from prison. It was his first real night out on the city. I wanted him to see that while he thought the world was peacefully passing him by, a war was going on outside. I wanted him to see that as far as criminalization of skin goes, he’s dealing with the same shit as an astute college graduate from the university ranked twenty-eighth in the goddam country.
“We got to the overpass around eight-forty-five. A gentleman with a megaphone was telling everybody to move toward the Wendy’s. I’m seeing a lot of stuff about white people setting the Wendy’s on fire. Yo, let me be the first to say that shit was a community effort. The love and unity that went into burning that motherfucking Wendy’s down was incredible. I’m not gonna give white people credit. Black people were angry. We were organized. There was a bomb squad there within the revolution. They had fireworks—using them to signal that police were coming, where to meet. There was also anti-drone teams from other parts of the world: Venezuela, Seattle, Minneapolis. Boots on the ground, sharing the gospel about defunding the police. I saw lasers big enough to put on telescopes pointed up at the drones, disrupting their feeds.
“The crowd was working the Wendy’s for hours before we arrived. Maybe three hundred people. There wasn’t much conversation about larger revolutionary principles. It was just people expressing their anger at this object, which gave us an outlet. There were some people there to fuck shit up, but, generally speaking, the people were there in support of the movement. I was saving bricks for motherfuckers throwing for Rayshard, not because you just want to throw a brick. What we’re doing is based in very real anti-government scholarship and politics. The Black Lives Matter agenda. The revolution agenda. The ending of overpolicing and police brutality and corporate violence. Burn it down.
“The scariest moment was when the fire truck came to put it down, at about nine-forty-five. I was like, ‘Nah.’ Two police squad cars came to clear the scene, going at an unreasonable speed, using their vehicles as weapons. One police officer used his car as a battering ram. He hit at least five protesters point-blank. We said, ‘Cool, we’ll use our bodies as battering rams.’ Me and three young men, we lay down on the chrome piece on the front of the fire truck. ‘Y’all not putting this fire out.’ The firemen stopped and watched from inside their trucks. The police continued pushing civilians with their fucking S.U.V.s. When they retreated, the fire trucks got up out of there. [The Atlanta Police Department did not respond to multiple requests for comment.]
“Then the people at the Wendy’s went to the precinct, chanting ‘To the precinct!’ It was a thirty-minute walk. We got there and we could see the initial police barricade outside. There were dudes with microphones directing people, engaging with the police. I broke up a fight between two black protesters about what we should do next. I didn’t want to see fighting among comrades. Pretty soon, we got to the front of the gun line. One officer had about six weapons on him, including what looked like a machine gun. He said they were his own guns. Right next to him was an officer one or two shades lighter than me. And I’m a dark-skinned dude. I said, ‘Yo, I came to you because you’re a dark-skinned brother. Just tell me, do you feel the crunch that we’re in, as a black man? I’m standing in front of you as a human. I’m not here for the bullshit. I’m gonna give you the courtesy that the Atlanta Police Department did not give Deaundre Phillips or Rayshard Brooks. Treat me as your little brother, because I’m here on behalf of mine. I want to go home tonight and tell my brother that I saw a black man tonight at a crossroads.’ That’s when I saw the blue wall go down. He said, ‘I am at a crossroads. I feel the burn as a black man.’ He said, ‘You know what was happening to me before I joined the police force? I was being racially profiled, too. That’s why I became a police officer. I tried to stop it. I tried to better my community.’ I said, ‘But you’re killing brothers like me! How’s that work?’ We spoke for about fifteen minutes, he and I, finding common ground.
“Then shit got lit. A protester told us to go inside the precinct and fill out police reports. I said, ‘Motherfucker, we just burned down a Wendy’s! What police report?’ Everyone else said, ‘No, push against the cops. We’re about to push them inside the precinct and make them fear to come out. These are our streets.’ I told the black officer, with tears in my eyes, ‘Look, brother, I’m here for Deaundre Phillips. Do you know who he is?’ He said no. I said, ‘Y’all murdered him at a police annex station. I’m here and I’m gonna push for him. I know you gotta do your job. Just remember, I’m a human, man. I’m pushing up against your three guns and your shield and your bulletproof vest. And all I have is a shirt that says “I Can’t Breathe.” ’ He said he wasn’t going to hurt me. I said, ‘You are. I know you are. I can see the officers with guns and tear gas.’


newyorker--2020-06-17--White House Staff Seething with Envy After Fauci Reveals He Has Not Spoken to Trump in Two Weeks

WASHINGTON ( The Borowitz Report ) —White House staffers are seething with envy after Dr. Anthony Fauci revealed that he @ @ @ @ @ J. Trump in two weeks , envious staffers have confirmed .
News of the break @ @ @ @ @ men sent shockwaves through the White House , with scores of staffers demanding to know @ @ @ @ @ trick that they could employ to similar effect .
“ Two freaking weeks ?
” @ @ @ @ @ .
“ I ’ d settle for one hour.
” Fauci said that there was @ @ @ @ @ to stop talking to him , but suggested , “ Generally speaking , if you @ @ @ @ @ , that ’ s usually enough to do it.
” Recognizing that members of the @ @ @ @ @ unaccustomed to uttering factual statements , Fauci said , “ Another thing you can try @ @ @ @ @ ‘ Mr .
President , I ’ m really looking forward to reading John Bolton @ @ @ @ @ should get you two weeks , minimum .
”

WASHINGTON (The Borowitz Report)—White House staffers are seething with envy after Dr. Anthony Fauci revealed that he has not spoken to Donald J. Trump in two weeks, envious staffers have confirmed.
News of the break in communication between the two men sent shockwaves through the White House, with scores of staffers demanding to know whether Fauci had a secret trick that they could employ to similar effect.
“Two freaking weeks?” Jared Kushner was overheard muttering. “I’d settle for one hour.”
Fauci said that there was no secret to getting Trump to stop talking to him, but suggested, “Generally speaking, if you pepper your sentences with facts, that’s usually enough to do it.”
Recognizing that members of the White House staff may be unaccustomed to uttering factual statements, Fauci said, “Another thing you can try is saying to him, ‘Mr. President, I’m really looking forward to reading John Bolton’s book.’ That should get you two weeks, minimum.”
Read More Satire from the Borowitz Report


newyorker--2020-06-17--How the Coronavirus Will Reshape Architecture

In 1933 , the Finnish architect and designer Hugo Alvar Henrik Aalto , along with his first wife , Aino , completed the Paimio Sanatorium , a facility for the treatment of tuberculosis in southwest Finland .
The building is rigidly geometric , with long walls of expansive windows wrapping its façade , light-colored rooms , and a wide roof terrace with railings like the ones on cruise ships—all the hallmarks of what we now know as modernist architecture , which emerged in the twenties from the work of the Bauhaus , in Germany , and Le Corbusier , in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of material and design weren ’ t just aesthetically fashionable .
“ The main purpose of the building is to function as a medical instrument , ” Hugo would later write .
Tuberculosis was one of the early twentieth century ’ s most pressing health concerns ; each element of the Paimio was conceived to promote recovery from the disease .
“ The room design is determined by the depleted strength of the patient , reclining in his bed , ” Aalto explained .
“ The color of the ceiling is chosen for @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of the patient 's field of vision , the heating is oriented toward the patient ’ s feet.
” ( The combination of cold feet and a feverish head was seen as a symptom of the disease . )
Broad daylight from the windows as well as the terraces , where patients could sleep , was part of the treatment , as sun had been proved effective at killing tuberculosis bacteria .
At the sanatorium , the architecture itself was part of the cure .
Much of modernist architecture can be understood as @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , a desire to eradicate dark rooms and dusty corners where bacteria lurk .
Le Corbusier lifted his houses off the humid ground to avoid contamination .
Adolf Loos ’ s ultra-boxy Villa Müller in Prague , from 1930 , included a separate space in which to quarantine sick children .
Architects collaborated with progressive doctors to build other sanatoriums across Europe .
“ Tuberculosis helped make modern architecture modern , ” the Princeton professor Beatriz Colomina writes in her revisionary history “ X-Ray Architecture.
” The industrialized austerity of Ludwig Mies van @ @ @ @ @ @ @ unambiguously that of the hospital , ” the empty white walls , bare floors , and clean metal fixtures are all “ surfaces that , as it were , demonstrate their cleanliness.
” As extreme as the aesthetic of modernist architecture seemed in the early twentieth century , people could at least be reassured that it was safe .
A character in Thomas Mann ’ s novella “ Tristan , ” from 1903 , described a “ long , white , rectilinear ” sanatorium for lung patients : “ This brightness and hardness @ @ @ @ @ @ @ reserved strength .
.
.
has upon me the ultimate effect of an inward purification and rebirth.
” A tuberculosis vaccine began to be used on humans in 1921 , but the association between modernism and good health stuck ; the austere sanatoriums were marketed as palliatives for mental illnesses , too .
In recent months , we have arrived at a new juncture of disease and architecture , where fear of contamination again controls what kinds of spaces we want to be in .
As tuberculosis shaped modernism , so COVID-19 and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ months on end will influence architecture ’ s near future .
During quarantine , “ we are asked to be inside our own little cells , ” Colomina told me when I called her recently at her apartment , in downtown Manhattan .
“ The enemy is in the street , in public spaces , in mass transit .
The houses are presumably the safe space.
” The problem is , the modernist aesthetic has become shorthand for good taste , rehashed by West Elm and minimalist life-style influencers ; our homes and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ blank , empty boxes .
We ’ ve gone , Colomina said , “ from hospital architecture to living in a place like a hospital , ” and suddenly , in the pandemic , that template seems less useful .
Unlike the airy , pristine emptiness of modernism , the space needed for quarantine is primarily defensive , with taped lines and plexiglass walls segmenting the outside world into zones of socially distanced safety .
Wide-open spaces are best avoided .
Barriers are our friends .
Stores and offices will have to be @ @ @ @ @ @ @ spatial routines fundamentally changed .
And , at home , we might find ourselves longing for a few more walls and dark corners .
Quarantine makes all nonessential workers more intimately acquainted with the confines of their homes .
We know everything about them , especially their flaws : the lack of daylight in one room , the dirty floor in another , the need for an extra bathroom .
Space is all we have to think about .
For architects , it ’ s a soul-searching exercise , especially if you happen @ @ @ @ @ @ @ for yourself .
The architect Koray Duman lives with his partner and their sixteen-month-old child in an apartment he designed , in the Lower East Side .
Quarantine has led them to grow exhausted with the things they keep in the space , even though—with the exception of toddler accessories—they are relatively few .
“ You look at every detail of things .
They limit you .
If you have less you feel like you are more free , in a weird way , ” Duman told me .
Sustained scrutiny can breed @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , “ interior designers got very busy , ” he said .
“ People are , like , ‘ I hate this space.
’ ” Spending so long in one place might require an environment that can change more freely so that we don ’ t get bored .
Usually a wall is static ; “ I don ’ t know that that ’ s necessary , ” Duman said .
“ If it was on wheels , imagine how much fun you would have.
” Florian Idenburg and Jing Liu , a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ SO-IL—which has designed art museums , housing developments , and pop-up projects like the tent for the Frieze Art Fair—have been staying in their home , near the Brooklyn Navy Yard , with their two young daughters .
It ’ s a bright white-walled duplex with open-plan common spaces .
“ Luckily , both our girls have their own rooms with thick doors , ” Idenburg said .
The arrangement comes in handy when the children have video-chat school sessions at the same time .
Acoustic divisions have become more important while the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ long , Idenburg noted .
“ The loft , the New York City typology , seems to be not the romantic thing at the moment .
Everyone ’ s on Zoom calls.
” A lack of privacy or the chance to move to a different room is harder to bear when bars , cafés , and stores can ’ t offer an escape .

Architects have long been preoccupied with the concept of “existence minimum” or “the minimum dwelling,” as the critic Karel Teige titled his 1932 book. Teige proposed, to solve housing shortages, “for each adult man or woman, a minimal but adequate independent, habitable room.” The idea got an update with the Japanese Metabolist movement in the nineteen-sixties, which envisioned buildings that would expand and contract based on the needs of a city. Tokyo’s Nakagin Capsule Tower, by Kisho Kurokawa, one of Metabolism’s few built structures, is a series of individual boxes set around central spires, each containing what one person needs to live, at least for a brief period: a circular window, a television, a stereo, a desk, a bed, shared showers. The grand vision didn’t pan out; today, Nakagin is under constant threat of demolition, and the apartments now exist more as works of art.
Existence minimum has been on the mind of Paola Antonelli, a senior curator at the Museum of Modern Art’s department of architecture and design. On March 13th, she was called into the museum with the rest of the curatorial staff and given a few hours to pack all the books she needed for two months. Ever since, she’s been in her apartment, relying on a tripod for Zoom calls, a yoga mat for exercise, and excursions outside on Citi Bikes. Existence minimum suggests the least you need to feel comfortable in a space. For twenty-first-century city dwellers, that quantity has expanded over time, from Meyer’s bed, chairs, and phonograph to the mobile suite of accessories we carried with us everywhere pre-pandemic, as on a commute: headphones, smartphone, laptop, charging cords. Together, it formed a kind of “existence maximum”: as much as possible in as small a space as possible. “I have a bubble of personal space that is metaphysical, that is bigger than the physical space around me,” Antonelli said. “I can be squeezed in a subway car and I still have my world.”
Neither existence minimum nor existence maximum quite works at the moment. Personal spaces need to be both virtually connected and physically enriching even in the midst of social distancing—not the clean, white, anonymous smoothness of contemporary minimalist modernism but a textured hideaway, like an animal’s den, full of reminders that the rest of the world still exists, that things were once normal and might be again. We have to be able to hibernate.
II. Office Space
COVID-19 calls for prophylactic design. Masks and gloves barricade our bodies like a second skin. Taped circles spaced six feet apart make sure we don’t contaminate others while standing in line at the grocery store. “Tape is one of the greatest materials in architecture,” Idenburg said, with a laugh. Other ad-hoc strategies have emerged as more businesses reopen. A Dutch restaurant built greenhouse-like glass booths around its outdoor tables to shield diners and waitstaff from each other. A German café tested out hats with pool noodles attached so that guests would know not to get too close to one another. A casino in Florida installed a thick sneeze guard of plastic on its poker tables, with clearance on the bottom for players’ hands.
It all amounts to a life-size infographic: you must remain this far apart. “If you want to change those habits of being close to people, we need to have very clear guidelines,” Jeroen Lokerse, the managing director of the Netherlands for the international real-estate conglomerate Cushman & Wakefield, said in a call from his home in Amsterdam. “Visualization is key to make sure people feel safe.” On March 25th, Lokerse had a meeting with the Dutch minister of economic affairs and the secretary of state about a relief plan for the retail sector. He drove back to his empty office and started wondering what could be done to make it safe for what the government was calling “the 1.5-metre society.”
The result was “the 6 Feet Office.” Carpet tiles demarcate six-foot black circles around every desk in the open floor plan. Extra chairs, positioned outside of the circles, facilitate conversation among colleagues. Conference-room chairs have been thinned out, and closed spaces must be exited clockwise, in unison, so that co-workers don’t bump into each other. “Hotdesking,” or the sharing of one desk by multiple workers, is made possible with disposable paper desk pads, on which a worker sets her laptop or keyboard and mouse when she arrives.
Cushman & Wakefield is slowly testing the 6 Feet Office design at its Amsterdam office, which used to hold two hundred and seventy-five people but now only has seventy-five at a time. As the lockdown lifts, Lokerse expects to start with twenty-five per cent of employees back at the office, but as more workers come back they’ll have staggered start times to avoid overcrowding on public transportation, and thirty-per-cent fewer desks over all. Bruce Mosler, the chairman of global brokerage at Cushman & Wakefield, noted that office spaces were already feeling too crowded before the pandemic and had started to limit crowding, a trend that is now accelerating. “We got carried away in the over-all densification process, in the effort to be as efficient as possible,” he said. “We went a bit too far. This is going to change that.”
One refrain of the quarantine is that at least it will have the benefit of killing off the much-maligned open office. Unfortunately for workers, companies might adapt before the template can be vanquished. Cushman & Wakefield’s circular floor tiles are low-cost and can be installed within forty-eight hours. Lokerse also has a surveillance program in mind to make sure that the guidelines are followed—there will be virtual walls, if not physical ones. Beacons will track the movements of workers’ phones, and the company tested but decided against using an app to signal when an employee moves within six feet of someone else. (Subtler than a pool-noodle hat.) Lokerse said that, should the company change its mind on the app, workers will be asked to join such tracking measures “voluntarily and anonymously.”
The architect Deborah Berke runs an eponymous firm, in New York; it’s known for a flavor of contemporary modernism that is clean but also contextual. In thinking about designing for the pandemic, Berke has looked to the example of spaces designed for the deaf, like Gallaudet University, in Washington, D.C. Such spaces need good lighting for signing or lip-reading, and devices like flashing lights to let people with hearing impairment know when someone has entered a room. We’ll have to be hyper-aware of the infrastructure of cleanliness, she told me: “Are people taking their shoes off at the door? Are coat closets big enough and far away enough? Is there a place by the door where you wash your hands?” Le Corbusier solved the last problem by installing a freestanding sink in the entryway of his Villa Savoye, from 1931.
Instead of replicating the old hygienic vacuum of modernism, Berke has been inspired by the vernacular devices that she notices popping up, the lines and barriers that individuals improvise from whatever’s at hand—plexiglass walls, shower curtains, or taped-together garbage bags that protect cashiers. Hula hoops help children stay apart in parks, and athletic trainers are using scaffolding as group pullup bars. “People are becoming, if not architects, the craftsmen and makers of safe spaces,” she said. “I don’t want us, the world of design professionals, to lose some of the positives, the democratization that’s coming out of some of this.” In architecture there’s always the temptation to seek a stable solution, the perfect design that will solve a problem forever, beyond the reach of human foibles. Such was the faded dream of the Bauhaus: a universally perfect space for all people, repeated around the world, imposed from a privileged position upon those with presumably worse taste. The better designs might be those that evolve from the bottom up as we all figure out our post-pandemic routines. Face masks are already presenting a democratized aesthetic. They all look different—patterned handkerchiefs, repurposed T-shirts, or celebrity-branded numbers from the Weeknd—but they all accomplish the same thing.
III. City Space
Quarantine turns us into explorers of the familiar. The young architect Ilias Papageorgiou moved from New York back to his home town of Athens, Greece, a year ago to start his own firm. (He used to be a partner at SO-IL.) Papageorgiou first left when he was eighteen; returning has given him a new experience of the city, particularly during quarantine, which he is spending with his wife and son in an apartment with a rooftop terrace, in the city’s downtown. When I spoke with him, the constant birdsong was loud enough to hear over the phone, an auditory postcard of sun and blue sky. “I’m feeling like I’m discovering a place,” he said.
Athens is laid out for cars; in the absence of workers commuting, the city is performing a different role for its residents. “Now you see people just walking around outside in random residential areas that they would never walk in, because there’s nothing there,” Papageorgiou said. “There is an occupation of the public space that’s unrelated to any commercial activity. It’s just purely being out in the city.” He pushes his son’s stroller down the middle of the empty street. There’s a sense of reclamation as residents stay in their own neighborhoods, like newly sequestered villages. “You meet people outside, everyone says hi to each other. It’s very strange,” he said.


newyorker--2020-06-17--Bob Dylan’s “Rough and Rowdy Ways” Hits Hard

A few weeks into quarantine , time became liquid .
All the usual markers and routines—waking up and lurching down the block to buy a cup of coffee , dressing carefully for a work meeting , corralling friends for karaoke on a Sunday afternoon—were nullified , and the days assumed a soft , amorphous quality .
Then , at midnight on a Friday , Bob Dylan suddenly released “ Murder Most Foul , ” an elegiac , thickset , nearly seventeen-minute song ostensibly about the assassination of J.F.K.
, but so laden with cultural allusions that it somehow felt even @ @ @ @ @ @ @ first piece of original music Dylan had released since his album “ Tempest , ” in 2012 , and , on first listen , I found the song surreal .
It went on forever ; it was over before I knew it .
The instrumentation ( piano , bowed bass , faint percussion ) is hazy and diffuse .
Dylan ’ s vocal phrasing , always careful , felt particularly mesmeric .
Rub-a-dub-dub , Altamont , Deep Ellum , Patsy Cline , Air Force One , Thelonious Monk , Bugsy Siegel , Pretty @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ?
What year ?
Two months later , “ Murder Most Foul ” hits different : “ We ’ re gon na kill you with hatred / Without any respect / We ’ ll mock you and shock you / And we ’ ll put it in your face , ” Dylan sings in the song ’ s first verse .
His voice is withering .
“ It ’ s a Murder .
Most .
Foul.
” Dylan has spent decades seeing and chronicling American injustice .
Forty-four years ago , on “ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ police brutality : “ If you ’ re black , you might as well not show up on the street / ’ Less you want to draw the heat.
” This week , Dylan will release “ Rough and Rowdy Ways , ” a gruesome , crowded , marauding album that feels unusually attuned to its moment .
Unlike many artists who reacted to the pandemic with a kind of dutiful tenderness— “ Let me help with my song !
” —Dylan has decided not to offer comfort , nor to hint at @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ s either cracking weird jokes ( “ I ’ ll take the ‘ Scarface ’ Pacino and the ‘ Godfather ’ Brando / Mix ’ em up in a tank and get a robot commando ” ) or operating in a cold , disdainful , it-ain ’ t-me-babe mode .
Dylan ’ s musicianship is often undersold by critics , but on “ Rough and Rowdy Ways ” it ’ s especially difficult to focus on anything other than his voice ; at seventy-nine , he sounds warmed up and self-assured .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ be chewing on his own mortality—he recently told the Times that he thinks about death “ in general terms , not in a personal way ” —but mostly he sounds elegant and steady , a vocal grace he might have acquired while recording all those standards .
“ Three miles north of Purgatory , one step from the great beyond , ” he sings calmly on “ Crossing the Rubicon.
” It ’ s sometimes hard to think of Dylan doing normal , vulnerable things like falling in love , though he sings @ @ @ @ @ @ @ indulgence of its wounds—constantly .
My favorite track on “ Rough and Rowdy Ways ” is “ I ’ ve Made Up My Mind to Give Myself to You , ” a gentle ballad about deliberately resigning oneself to love and its demands .
It ’ s not the album ’ s richest or most complicated song— “ Key West ( Philosopher Pirate ) ” is Shakespearean—but I ’ ve been listening to it constantly , mostly for its evocation of a certain kind of golden-hour melancholy .
Imagine sitting on a porch @ @ @ @ @ @ @ apartment building , nursing a big drink in a stupid glass , and reluctantly accepting your fate : “ Been thinking it all over / And I thought it all through / I ’ ve made up my mind / To give myself to you.
” It ’ s not quite romantic , but , then again , neither is love .
The song ’ s emotional climax comes less than halfway through , when Dylan announces , “ From Salt Lake City to Birmingham / From East L.A. to San Antone / @ @ @ @ @ @ @ bear to live my life alone !
” Ever so briefly , his voice goes feral .
Dylan is a voracious student of United States history—he can , and often does , itemize the various atrocities that have been committed in service to country—and “ Rough and Rowdy Ways ” could be understood as a glib summation of America ’ s outlaw origins , and of the confused , dangerous , and often haphazard way that we preserve democracy .
He seems to understand instinctively that American history is not a series of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ evolving idea that needs to be reëstablished each day—things don ’ t happen once and then stop happening .
In this sense , linear time becomes an invention ; every moment is this moment .
This is why , on “ Murder Most Foul , ” Buster Keaton and Dickey Betts and the Tulsa race massacre of 1921 and Lindsey Buckingham and Stevie Nicks and the Birdman of Alcatraz can coexist , harmoniously , in a single verse .
That Dylan named another dense , allusive song on the album , “ I @ @ @ @ @ @ @ stanza from Walt Whitman ’ s “ Song of Myself ” — “ Do I contradict myself ?
/ Very well then I contradict myself , / ( I am large , I contain multitudes . )
” —also seems to indicate some reckoning with the vastness and immediacy of American culture .
( Dylan ’ s interests are so wonderfully obtuse and far-ranging that it ’ s sometimes hard to discern precisely what he ’ s referring to : Is the “ Cry Me a River ” that he mentions on “ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the jazz standard made famous by the actress Julie London , in 1955 , or to the dark , cluttered revenge jam that Justin Timberlake supposedly wrote about Britney Spears , in 2002 ?
My money is on the latter . )
Now thirty-nine albums in , it ’ s tempting to dismiss Dylan as sepia-toned—a professor emeritus , a museum piece , a Nobel laureate coasting through his sunset years , the mouthpiece of some bygone generation but certainly not this one .
( It ’ s hard , admittedly , to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” finding viral purchase on TikTok . )
The sheer volume of writing about his life and music suggests a completed arc , which makes it easy to presume that there ’ s nothing useful , interesting , or pertinent left to say .
Yet , for me , Dylan ’ s vast and intersectional understanding of the American mythos feels so plainly and uniquely relevant to the grimness and magnitude of these past few months .
As the country attempts to metabolize the murder of George Floyd , it is also attempting @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , odious , or unjust murder of a black person—to understand a cycle that began centuries ago and somehow continues apace .
What is American racism ?
It ’ s everything , Dylan insists .
Indiana Jones and J.F.K .
and Elvis Presley and Jimmy Reed—nothing exists without the rest of it .
None of us are absolved , and none of us are spared .

A few weeks into quarantine, time became liquid. All the usual markers and routines—waking up and lurching down the block to buy a cup of coffee, dressing carefully for a work meeting, corralling friends for karaoke on a Sunday afternoon—were nullified, and the days assumed a soft, amorphous quality. Then, at midnight on a Friday, Bob Dylan suddenly released “Murder Most Foul,” an elegiac, thickset, nearly seventeen-minute song ostensibly about the assassination of J.F.K., but so laden with cultural allusions that it somehow felt even bigger than that. It was the first piece of original music Dylan had released since his album “Tempest,” in 2012, and, on first listen, I found the song surreal. It went on forever; it was over before I knew it. The instrumentation (piano, bowed bass, faint percussion) is hazy and diffuse. Dylan’s vocal phrasing, always careful, felt particularly mesmeric. Rub-a-dub-dub, Altamont, Deep Ellum, Patsy Cline, Air Force One, Thelonious Monk, Bugsy Siegel, Pretty Boy Floyd. What day was it? What year?
Two months later, “Murder Most Foul” hits different: “We’re gonna kill you with hatred / Without any respect / We’ll mock you and shock you / And we’ll put it in your face,” Dylan sings in the song’s first verse. His voice is withering. “It’s a Murder. Most. Foul.” Dylan has spent decades seeing and chronicling American injustice. Forty-four years ago, on “Hurricane,” he sang frankly about police brutality: “If you’re black, you might as well not show up on the street / ’Less you want to draw the heat.”
This week, Dylan will release “Rough and Rowdy Ways,” a gruesome, crowded, marauding album that feels unusually attuned to its moment. Unlike many artists who reacted to the pandemic with a kind of dutiful tenderness—“Let me help with my song!”—Dylan has decided not to offer comfort, nor to hint at some vague solidarity. Lyrically, he’s either cracking weird jokes (“I’ll take the ‘Scarface’ Pacino and the ‘Godfather’ Brando / Mix ’em up in a tank and get a robot commando”) or operating in a cold, disdainful, it-ain’t-me-babe mode. Dylan’s musicianship is often undersold by critics, but on “Rough and Rowdy Ways” it’s especially difficult to focus on anything other than his voice; at seventy-nine, he sounds warmed up and self-assured. There are moments when he appears to be chewing on his own mortality—he recently told the Times that he thinks about death “in general terms, not in a personal way”—but mostly he sounds elegant and steady, a vocal grace he might have acquired while recording all those standards. “Three miles north of Purgatory, one step from the great beyond,” he sings calmly on “Crossing the Rubicon.”
It’s sometimes hard to think of Dylan doing normal, vulnerable things like falling in love, though he sings about heartache—his compulsion toward it, his indulgence of its wounds—constantly. My favorite track on “Rough and Rowdy Ways” is “I’ve Made Up My Mind to Give Myself to You,” a gentle ballad about deliberately resigning oneself to love and its demands. It’s not the album’s richest or most complicated song—“Key West (Philosopher Pirate)” is Shakespearean—but I’ve been listening to it constantly, mostly for its evocation of a certain kind of golden-hour melancholy. Imagine sitting on a porch or on the front steps of an apartment building, nursing a big drink in a stupid glass, and reluctantly accepting your fate: “Been thinking it all over / And I thought it all through / I’ve made up my mind / To give myself to you.” It’s not quite romantic, but, then again, neither is love. The song’s emotional climax comes less than halfway through, when Dylan announces, “From Salt Lake City to Birmingham / From East L.A. to San Antone / I don’t think I could bear to live my life alone!” Ever so briefly, his voice goes feral.
Dylan is a voracious student of United States history—he can, and often does, itemize the various atrocities that have been committed in service to country—and “Rough and Rowdy Ways” could be understood as a glib summation of America’s outlaw origins, and of the confused, dangerous, and often haphazard way that we preserve democracy. He seems to understand instinctively that American history is not a series of fixed points but an unmoored and constantly evolving idea that needs to be reëstablished each day—things don’t happen once and then stop happening. In this sense, linear time becomes an invention; every moment is this moment. This is why, on “Murder Most Foul,” Buster Keaton and Dickey Betts and the Tulsa race massacre of 1921 and Lindsey Buckingham and Stevie Nicks and the Birdman of Alcatraz can coexist, harmoniously, in a single verse. That Dylan named another dense, allusive song on the album, “I Contain Multitudes,” after a much-quoted stanza from Walt Whitman’s “Song of Myself”—“Do I contradict myself? / Very well then I contradict myself, / (I am large, I contain multitudes.)”—also seems to indicate some reckoning with the vastness and immediacy of American culture. (Dylan’s interests are so wonderfully obtuse and far-ranging that it’s sometimes hard to discern precisely what he’s referring to: Is the “Cry Me a River” that he mentions on “Murder Most Foul” a reference to the jazz standard made famous by the actress Julie London, in 1955, or to the dark, cluttered revenge jam that Justin Timberlake supposedly wrote about Britney Spears, in 2002? My money is on the latter.)
Now thirty-nine albums in, it’s tempting to dismiss Dylan as sepia-toned—a professor emeritus, a museum piece, a Nobel laureate coasting through his sunset years, the mouthpiece of some bygone generation but certainly not this one. (It’s hard, admittedly, to imagine bars of “I Contain Multitudes” finding viral purchase on TikTok.) The sheer volume of writing about his life and music suggests a completed arc, which makes it easy to presume that there’s nothing useful, interesting, or pertinent left to say. Yet, for me, Dylan’s vast and intersectional understanding of the American mythos feels so plainly and uniquely relevant to the grimness and magnitude of these past few months. As the country attempts to metabolize the murder of George Floyd, it is also attempting to reckon with every crooked, brutal, odious, or unjust murder of a black person—to understand a cycle that began centuries ago and somehow continues apace. What is American racism? It’s everything, Dylan insists. Indiana Jones and J.F.K. and Elvis Presley and Jimmy Reed—nothing exists without the rest of it. None of us are absolved, and none of us are spared.


newyorker--2020-06-17--Daily Cartoon: Wednesday, June 17th

Daily Cartoon: Wednesday, June 17th

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newyorker--2020-06-17--What to Stream: The Best Movies in the Korean Film Archive

Americans are attuned to Korean film like never before .
The awakening came with the dominance of this past year ’ s Academy Awards by Bong Joon-ho ’ s “ Parasite , ” whose four Oscars included not just Best International Feature Film but Best Picture , an unprecedented victory for a non-English-language film .
In the past twenty years , critics and film-festival habitués have consistently ranked South Korea ’ s film industry among the most exciting in the world , but many more casual moviegoers , it seems , still required the imprimatur of the Hollywood establishment before @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of Bong ’ s visceral tale of class warfare in Seoul , viewers new to Korean cinema will notice a lingering , distinctly un-Hollywood-like aftertaste .
They may wonder what other impressive , unsettling pictures have come out of a country whose most popular cultural exports , historically , have been elaborate ( if rigorously formulaic ) pop-music videos and television dramas .
The answer is on YouTube , where the Korean Film Archive ( KOFA ) maintains a channel of nearly two hundred movies , from the nineteen-thirties through the end of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ watch and with English subtitles available .
Created in 2011 , the channel has become an invaluable resource , especially now that so many of us are desperate for streaming entertainment .
Part of South Korea ’ s Ministry of Culture , Sports and Tourism , KOFA is just one product of the government ’ s considerable support for its domestic film industry .
In addition to restoring the often poorly preserved films from the past , KOFA also operates a free film library and theatre in Seoul ’ s Digital Media City @ @ @ @ @ @ @ frequented since arriving in Korea .
In that time , I ’ ve often been asked why I came here in the first place , and for that I can credit another government-funded organization : the Korean Film Council ( KOFIC ) , the distributor of the Korean classics on DVD that I happened upon one fateful day in my university ’ s library .
Despite having prided myself on the breadth of my viewing habits , I ’ d never seen anything quite like those Korean movies , by turns carefully constructed @ @ @ @ @ @ @ by a range of emotions that Western genre conventions punctiliously separate .
The distinctive qualities of South Korean films can ’ t be untied from the distinctive qualities of South Korean history : its foundation by division , its compressed industrialization , its sudden social and political dislocations .
In its seventy-one years of existence , the country has endured fluctuations in economic conditions , industrial policies , and the influence of censors ; its film industry , too , has oscillated between periods fertile and fallow .
And yet each chapter of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ poise , creativity , and insight .
Here are ten of the best of them , now free to watch on KOFA ’ s YouTube channel .
“ Madame Freedom ” : The first golden age of Korean cinema began soon after the Korean War ended , and at its height saw the country producing more than a hundred features a year .
In 1956 , the director Han Hyeong-mo scandalized audiences by dramatizing a working wife ’ s extramarital affairs .
The backdrop was a society grappling with modernity : the arrival @ @ @ @ @ @ @ luxury goods , jazz clubs , even film itself .
This transformation had been set in motion decades before , by Korea ’ s Japanese colonial rulers , but the mid-nineteen-fifties flooded the country with more Western influence , in particular , than ever before .
Han ’ s film treats that heady era both more vividly and more subtly than its source material , a didactic novel that finally sides with the scholarly husband over the libertine wife .
“ A Flower in Hell ” : In 1978 , the South Korean @ @ @ @ @ @ @ behest of North Korea ’ s then-dictator Kim Jong Il , a movie-lover intent on building up his own country ’ s film industry .
Kim would have recognized in Shin ’ s work the kind of emotional and aesthetic vitality that North Korea ’ s stiff , unconvincing productions had always lacked , especially in this early feature by the director , from 1958 .
He would also have appreciated the anti-American themes of its story , in which a young black-marketeer attempts to loot a U.S. military base and free his @ @ @ @ @ @ @ A so-called Western princess catering to American servicemen , she ’ s played by Shin ’ s wife , Choi Eun-hee , in what was then an unthinkably daring performance—one so memorable , perhaps , that Kim had her kidnapped first .
“ Aimless Bullet ” : The protests that ousted South Korea ’ s first President , Syngman Rhee , in 1960 , also ushered in a golden age within Korean cinema ’ s golden age .
The period ’ s most impressive achievement was “ Aimless Bullet , ” Yu Hyun-mok @ @ @ @ @ @ @ society .
Told with a striking mixture of modernist and realist techniques , along with a few genre thrills , the film follows two war-refugee brothers trying to provide for their family under vicious , inhuman circumstances—a context that Korean officials would have preferred went unseen .
In fact , Yu ’ s vision of a Seoul full of shantytowns and desperate criminals earned his movie a ban from the government .
Only the advocacy of an American consultant to the just-established Korean National Film Production Center secured its release ; had the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ reign of the general turned President Park Chung-hee , it wouldn ’ t have seen the light of day .
“ Mist ” ( or “ The Foggy Town ” ) : Nearly every Korean student reads the story “ A Journey to Mujin.
” Written in 1964 by the Korean novelist Kim Seung-ok , it follows a young pharmaceutical executive as he voyages out of the heat and noise of an industrializing Seoul and into the quiescence of his coastal home town .
The town ’ s name , “ Mujin , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ belonging to “ no place , ” and , in his film adaptation , Kim Soo-yong renders both town and country with a texture of unreality .
The protagonist and the Mujin schoolteacher with whom he eventually falls into bed are played by Shin Seong-il and Yoon Jeong-hee , two of the biggest stars in Korean film history , and Kim ’ s audacious and dreamlike portrayal of their encounter has haunted generations of filmgoers .
“ The Insect Woman ” : Korean cinema has specialized in melodrama long enough to produce some @ @ @ @ @ @ @ psychosexual horror shows of Kim Ki-young .
In this film , which KOFA includes on a playlist of Bong Joon-ho ’ s personal favorites , Kim works with his signature materials : “ Western-style houses , appliances , food , and other appurtenances of the new bourgeoisie , ” as the film scholar Chris Berry lists them , alongside “ jealousy , adultery , ghosts , shamanism , rats , paranoia , sexual dysfunction , psychotic delusions , and gruesome murders.
” A nineteen-seventies grindhouse Grand Guignol , it studies the havoc that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ her professor-husband ’ s mistress into their basement .
This isn ’ t the only time Kim told such a story , but seldom did he tell it with such over-the-top flair , a quality that assured him ( after his work ’ s rediscovery , in the nineteen-nineties ) a place among the most influential Korean filmmakers of all time .
“ Night Journey ” : In the nineteen-seventies , Korean distributors ’ right to import Hollywood movies was contingent on producing Korean movies , which resulted in an abundance of cheaply @ @ @ @ @ @ @ lining , writes the Seoul-based American film critic Darcy Paquet , was that filmmakers “ prepared to deal with rushed schedules and low production values ” could work “ with little interference from above or pressure to conform to commercial expectations.
” Paquet names “ Night Journey ” as one such gem , but Kim Soo-yong ’ s depiction of a wealthy yet increasingly infernal Seoul started a years-long struggle with the censors .
In the film , Seoul provides the setting of long walks taken by a socially and sexually frustrated bank @ @ @ @ @ @ @ collaboration with Kim that began in “ Mist ” ) , who is driven ever deeper into the city by the sheer boredom of life under military dictatorship .

Americans are attuned to Korean film like never before. The awakening came with the dominance of this past year’s Academy Awards by Bong Joon-ho’s “Parasite,” whose four Oscars included not just Best International Feature Film but Best Picture, an unprecedented victory for a non-English-language film. In the past twenty years, critics and film-festival habitués have consistently ranked South Korea’s film industry among the most exciting in the world, but many more casual moviegoers, it seems, still required the imprimatur of the Hollywood establishment before sampling its fruit.
Whatever they think of Bong’s visceral tale of class warfare in Seoul, viewers new to Korean cinema will notice a lingering, distinctly un-Hollywood-like aftertaste. They may wonder what other impressive, unsettling pictures have come out of a country whose most popular cultural exports, historically, have been elaborate (if rigorously formulaic) pop-music videos and television dramas. The answer is on YouTube, where the Korean Film Archive (KOFA) maintains a channel of nearly two hundred movies, from the nineteen-thirties through the end of the twentieth century, all free to watch and with English subtitles available. Created in 2011, the channel has become an invaluable resource, especially now that so many of us are desperate for streaming entertainment.
Part of South Korea’s Ministry of Culture, Sports and Tourism, KOFA is just one product of the government’s considerable support for its domestic film industry. In addition to restoring the often poorly preserved films from the past, KOFA also operates a free film library and theatre in Seoul’s Digital Media City, both of which I’ve frequented since arriving in Korea. In that time, I’ve often been asked why I came here in the first place, and for that I can credit another government-funded organization: the Korean Film Council (KOFIC), the distributor of the Korean classics on DVD that I happened upon one fateful day in my university’s library. Despite having prided myself on the breadth of my viewing habits, I’d never seen anything quite like those Korean movies, by turns carefully constructed and seemingly improvisational, each one colored by a range of emotions that Western genre conventions punctiliously separate.
The distinctive qualities of South Korean films can’t be untied from the distinctive qualities of South Korean history: its foundation by division, its compressed industrialization, its sudden social and political dislocations. In its seventy-one years of existence, the country has endured fluctuations in economic conditions, industrial policies, and the influence of censors; its film industry, too, has oscillated between periods fertile and fallow. And yet each chapter of Korean history has produced films of startling poise, creativity, and insight. Here are ten of the best of them, now free to watch on KOFA’s YouTube channel.
“Madame Freedom”: The first golden age of Korean cinema began soon after the Korean War ended, and at its height saw the country producing more than a hundred features a year. In 1956, the director Han Hyeong-mo scandalized audiences by dramatizing a working wife’s extramarital affairs. The backdrop was a society grappling with modernity: the arrival of commuter trains, business suits, luxury goods, jazz clubs, even film itself. This transformation had been set in motion decades before, by Korea’s Japanese colonial rulers, but the mid-nineteen-fifties flooded the country with more Western influence, in particular, than ever before. Han’s film treats that heady era both more vividly and more subtly than its source material, a didactic novel that finally sides with the scholarly husband over the libertine wife.
“A Flower in Hell”: In 1978, the South Korean filmmaker Shin Sang-ok was kidnapped at the behest of North Korea’s then-dictator Kim Jong Il, a movie-lover intent on building up his own country’s film industry. Kim would have recognized in Shin’s work the kind of emotional and aesthetic vitality that North Korea’s stiff, unconvincing productions had always lacked, especially in this early feature by the director, from 1958. He would also have appreciated the anti-American themes of its story, in which a young black-marketeer attempts to loot a U.S. military base and free his girlfriend from her life of prostitution. A so-called Western princess catering to American servicemen, she’s played by Shin’s wife, Choi Eun-hee, in what was then an unthinkably daring performance—one so memorable, perhaps, that Kim had her kidnapped first.
A scene from Yu Hyun-mok’s “Aimless Bullet.” Source: Korean Classic Film / YouTube
“Aimless Bullet”: The protests that ousted South Korea’s first President, Syngman Rhee, in 1960, also ushered in a golden age within Korean cinema’s golden age. The period’s most impressive achievement was “Aimless Bullet,” Yu Hyun-mok’s unrelenting indictment of postwar Korean society. Told with a striking mixture of modernist and realist techniques, along with a few genre thrills, the film follows two war-refugee brothers trying to provide for their family under vicious, inhuman circumstances—a context that Korean officials would have preferred went unseen. In fact, Yu’s vision of a Seoul full of shantytowns and desperate criminals earned his movie a ban from the government. Only the advocacy of an American consultant to the just-established Korean National Film Production Center secured its release; had the film been made during the imminent eighteen-year reign of the general turned President Park Chung-hee, it wouldn’t have seen the light of day.
“Mist” (or “The Foggy Town”): Nearly every Korean student reads the story “A Journey to Mujin.” Written in 1964 by the Korean novelist Kim Seung-ok, it follows a young pharmaceutical executive as he voyages out of the heat and noise of an industrializing Seoul and into the quiescence of his coastal home town. The town’s name, “Mujin,” has connotations of nonexistence, of belonging to “no place,” and, in his film adaptation, Kim Soo-yong renders both town and country with a texture of unreality. The protagonist and the Mujin schoolteacher with whom he eventually falls into bed are played by Shin Seong-il and Yoon Jeong-hee, two of the biggest stars in Korean film history, and Kim’s audacious and dreamlike portrayal of their encounter has haunted generations of filmgoers.
“The Insect Woman”: Korean cinema has specialized in melodrama long enough to produce some unlikely hybrids, such as the melodramatic psychosexual horror shows of Kim Ki-young. In this film, which KOFA includes on a playlist of Bong Joon-ho’s personal favorites, Kim works with his signature materials: “Western-style houses, appliances, food, and other appurtenances of the new bourgeoisie,” as the film scholar Chris Berry lists them, alongside “jealousy, adultery, ghosts, shamanism, rats, paranoia, sexual dysfunction, psychotic delusions, and gruesome murders.” A nineteen-seventies grindhouse Grand Guignol, it studies the havoc that breaks out when a Seoul businesswoman moves her professor-husband’s mistress into their basement. This isn’t the only time Kim told such a story, but seldom did he tell it with such over-the-top flair, a quality that assured him (after his work’s rediscovery, in the nineteen-nineties) a place among the most influential Korean filmmakers of all time.
“Night Journey”: In the nineteen-seventies, Korean distributors’ right to import Hollywood movies was contingent on producing Korean movies, which resulted in an abundance of cheaply made “quota quickies.” The silver lining, writes the Seoul-based American film critic Darcy Paquet, was that filmmakers “prepared to deal with rushed schedules and low production values” could work “with little interference from above or pressure to conform to commercial expectations.” Paquet names “Night Journey” as one such gem, but Kim Soo-yong’s depiction of a wealthy yet increasingly infernal Seoul started a years-long struggle with the censors. In the film, Seoul provides the setting of long walks taken by a socially and sexually frustrated bank clerk (Yoon Jeong-hee, continuing a collaboration with Kim that began in “Mist”), who is driven ever deeper into the city by the sheer boredom of life under military dictatorship.


newyorker--2020-06-18--Facebook Defends Free Speech

Facebook Defends Free Speech

It has come to our attention that a recent post , which falsely warned of a fire in a crowded theatre , led to the trampling of many patrons , in addition to the end of democracy as we know it .
After a great deal of thought , and after many meetings with fire-safety groups , along with arsonists and the manufacturers of matches , we here at Facebook have made the difficult decision to continue our policy of free speech .
As a result , we will not be altering in any way the post declaring that the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ has never been so much as warm .
This tough choice was made after a thorough reëvaluation of Facebook ’ s policies , and has nothing to do with our personal opinion , which is that most crowded theatres—including the one mentioned in this post—are not burning .
We know that we are going to take a lot of heat ( so to speak ) from traditional media , which is burdened by having to fact-check the theatre fires they report .
And yet , who ’ s to say that one of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ burning theatres isn ’ t actually on fire ?
It ’ s up to the people in those theatres to decide , usually by looking down from their phones to see if they ’ re being consumed by hot flames .
You see , we believe in our users and their ability to sense their own aflameness .
We also believe in giving them the right to post messages like “ YOU ARE BURNING UP !
JUMP OUT OF YOUR WINDOW NOW !
” as many times as they want ( or as @ @ @ @ @ @ @ feature to get more views of your burning-theatre posts ) .
That ’ s the kind of freedom of speech we like—literally !
The Little Boy may be physically diminutive , but his many posts about voracious wolves have made him big in terms of the number of views and shares .
Depriving him of this platform would not only damage Facebook ’ s fragile information ecosystem but , also , would remove a very important source of wolf news from our site .
Though some critics claim that the reported wolves aren @ @ @ @ @ @ @ our users to decide for themselves .
Our studies have shown that , if our users read enough about wolves being real , they do in fact become real—at least on Facebook—and we need to service the need for information about those real Facebook wolves !
We realize that this decision will upset people inside the company , especially those who ’ ve been hiding in their offices from wolves .
After another thoughtful evaluation of our policies , Facebook has decided to allow Henny Penny ’ s numerous posts about the sky @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Please note that this has absolutely nothing to do with Henny Penny and her barnyard friends being among our biggest ad buyers .
This is a policy built on principle , and that principle is that our users are best equipped to tell whether or not the sky is falling , even if the only things they ever read are posts telling them that they are about to be crushed by that thing over our heads , which is , without a doubt , somewhat menacing to begin with .
We can all @ @ @ @ @ @ @ little chicken , is a very famous one .
As a result , what she has to say about the falling sky is newsworthy , whether we happen to agree with it or not .
We feel strongly that we would be remiss in not allowing her to express herself , especially when notable followers like Cocky Locky , Goosey Loosey , Ducky Lucky , and Turkey Lurkey are commenting on this admittedly controversial content and sharing it .
This has nothing to do with our personal opinion .
To make this bold @ @ @ @ @ @ @ separate ourselves from that , as well as from any chunks of sky that may or may not have fallen on top of us .
In fact , the head of Facebook recently told Henny Penny in a phone call that , while what she wrote did not violate Facebook ’ s guidelines , he found it to be “ harmful and inflammatory.
” He then invited her , along with her friends Cocky Locky , Goosey Loosey , Ducky Lucky , and Turkey Lurkey , to a dinner in his den to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ s one thing that the Facebook C.E.O.
, Foxy Loxy , believes , it ’ s that only through the free exchange of ideas can our huge appetites for unrestricted access to information be sated .
After reviewing the last few posts by Pinocchio , Facebook has made the difficult but brave decision to leave them up .
Users concerned about their veracity are encouraged to click through to Pinocchio ’ s nose cam .

It has come to our attention that a recent post, which falsely warned of a fire in a crowded theatre, led to the trampling of many patrons, in addition to the end of democracy as we know it. After a great deal of thought, and after many meetings with fire-safety groups, along with arsonists and the manufacturers of matches, we here at Facebook have made the difficult decision to continue our policy of free speech. As a result, we will not be altering in any way the post declaring that the crowded theatre is indeed burning when it has never been so much as warm.
This tough choice was made after a thorough reëvaluation of Facebook’s policies, and has nothing to do with our personal opinion, which is that most crowded theatres—including the one mentioned in this post—are not burning. We know that we are going to take a lot of heat (so to speak) from traditional media, which is burdened by having to fact-check the theatre fires they report. And yet, who’s to say that one of those burning theatres in our posts about burning theatres isn’t actually on fire? It’s up to the people in those theatres to decide, usually by looking down from their phones to see if they’re being consumed by hot flames.
You see, we believe in our users and their ability to sense their own aflameness. We also believe in giving them the right to post messages like “YOU ARE BURNING UP! JUMP OUT OF YOUR WINDOW NOW!” as many times as they want (or as their budget allows—please check out our boost-post feature to get more views of your burning-theatre posts). That’s the kind of freedom of speech we like—literally!
The Little Boy may be physically diminutive, but his many posts about voracious wolves have made him big in terms of the number of views and shares. Depriving him of this platform would not only damage Facebook’s fragile information ecosystem but, also, would remove a very important source of wolf news from our site. Though some critics claim that the reported wolves aren’t real, we look to our users to decide for themselves. Our studies have shown that, if our users read enough about wolves being real, they do in fact become real—at least on Facebook—and we need to service the need for information about those real Facebook wolves!
We realize that this decision will upset people inside the company, especially those who’ve been hiding in their offices from wolves.
After another thoughtful evaluation of our policies, Facebook has decided to allow Henny Penny’s numerous posts about the sky falling to remain on the site. Please note that this has absolutely nothing to do with Henny Penny and her barnyard friends being among our biggest ad buyers. This is a policy built on principle, and that principle is that our users are best equipped to tell whether or not the sky is falling, even if the only things they ever read are posts telling them that they are about to be crushed by that thing over our heads, which is, without a doubt, somewhat menacing to begin with.
We can all agree that Henny Penny, though a little chicken, is a very famous one. As a result, what she has to say about the falling sky is newsworthy, whether we happen to agree with it or not. We feel strongly that we would be remiss in not allowing her to express herself, especially when notable followers like Cocky Locky, Goosey Loosey, Ducky Lucky, and Turkey Lurkey are commenting on this admittedly controversial content and sharing it.
This has nothing to do with our personal opinion. To make this bold decision, we’ve had to separate ourselves from that, as well as from any chunks of sky that may or may not have fallen on top of us. In fact, the head of Facebook recently told Henny Penny in a phone call that, while what she wrote did not violate Facebook’s guidelines, he found it to be “harmful and inflammatory.” He then invited her, along with her friends Cocky Locky, Goosey Loosey, Ducky Lucky, and Turkey Lurkey, to a dinner in his den to discuss the matter, because if there’s one thing that the Facebook C.E.O., Foxy Loxy, believes, it’s that only through the free exchange of ideas can our huge appetites for unrestricted access to information be sated.
After reviewing the last few posts by Pinocchio, Facebook has made the difficult but brave decision to leave them up. Users concerned about their veracity are encouraged to click through to Pinocchio’s nose cam.


newyorker--2020-06-18--Dave Chappelle’s Rough-Cut Humorlessness in “8:46”

On the subject of the aging , if not old , male idol , concern tends to begin with questions of temperament : Has he kept up with the times ?
Is he still with us ?
In no industry is this truer than in the funny business , and in comedy nowhere truer than in black comedy , which relies on comics ’ ability to take in all the world ’ s hostility and spit it back out without cracking up themselves .
When Dave Chappelle made his Netflix début , in 2017 , with a pair of specials @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Texas ” and “ The Age of Spin , ” many of my peers feared that we were losing him .
Sexism and homophobia , which he ’ d once couched in whip-crackling bits on the eternal race problem and other American absurdities , were now Chappelle ’ s main event , far too conspicuous and convenient to justify as “ difficult ” comedy .
It seemed that Chappelle was no longer as sharp as he ’ d been given credit for .
Perhaps edge had passed him by .
“ 8:46 , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ special of sorts—runtime : twenty-seven minutes and twenty seconds , including some postscript footage of police aggression at recent protests—was posted last Thursday night to the Netflix-run YouTube account Netflix Is a Joke ( untangle that how you will ) .
It begins with Chappelle climbing onto a small outdoor stage in Yellow Springs , Ohio , and grasping the mike like a balancing stick , the cigarette in his other hand a counterweight .
Where once he was spindly , dressed in a facsimile of workman ’ s attire , the Chappelle @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the Internet was agog to learn from courtside photos taken in 2016 , back when there was basketball .
His round delts and flared lats give way to a small tummy , emphasized , onstage , by a thin black tunic over low-slung black sweats , in , as my boyfriend pointed out , quintessential dad-bod fashion .
Throughout the set , Chappelle assumes a variety of confiding , almost familial postures : he leans forward , incredulous , on the wooden four-legged stool , Nike high-tops curled under ; he talks through @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of Leonard Washington , the dice-thrower from “ Chappelle ’ s Show.
” When he takes to his feet , it is in the heat of the same incredulity .
He waves a notebook like it ’ s holy ; he primly retakes his seat , legs crossed , the same book flared in his lap , red Solo cup nearby .
Chappelle is Unc now , and the world is his barbershop .
As if in atonement for the past years ’ hubbub—including his 2019 special , “ Sticks & Stones , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ public campaigns against sexism , transphobia , and abuse to the spectre of “ cancel culture ” —Chappelle begins by offering a “ shout-out ” to protesters , whom he refers to as “ young ones.
” The audience applauds .
“ You kids are excellent drivers , ” he adds .
“ I am comfortable in the back seat of the car.
” Resigned but not contrite : it ’ s the kind of pat on the head we ’ re used to from the established and the establishment , as when @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to “ get a life , ” expressed her awe for Greta Thunberg , a child activist fifty-five years her junior .
Better a back-seat driver than a roadblock , I suppose , though people of any age who are out in the streets , fighting for all black lives—trans lives very much included—might be less than impressed by Chappelle ’ s show of solidarity .
The déjà vu doesn ’ t end there .
As the credits tell us , the set was filmed on June 6th , “ 87 days since @ @ @ @ @ @ @ That ’ s twelve days after the police officer Derek Chauvin kneeled on the neck of George Floyd , Jr. , for eight minutes and forty-six seconds , the lethal time stamp from which the special takes its name .
( It ’ s ten days after Tallahassee police fatally shot Tony McDade , a trans man . )
Chauvin ’ s murder of Floyd is the central matter of the performance , which Chappelle addresses in anger- , grief- , and fatigue-laden sentiments identical to the ones plunging down my Twitter timeline @ @ @ @ @ @ @ don ’ t want to see this because I can ’ t unsee it ” ; “ every institution that we trust lies to us ” ; “ I ’ m tired of explaining.
” This is less a commentary on current events than a demonstration of the degradation of our exasperated discourse , all the more so for the extreme onlineness of everyday life .
In case anyone needed a reminder , the special also includes a clip of Ramsey Orta ’ s footage documenting the police officer Daniel Pantaleo killing Eric @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that , like a proper Gen X-er , Chappelle ’ s medium of choice is television .
He dares CNN ’ s Don Lemon , “ that hotbed of reality , ” to add his name to the call sheet of celebrities that the anchor accused of remaining silent on the topic of the protests .
“ Has anybody ever listened to me do comedy ?
” Chappelle says , and the ask sounds genuine .
“ Have I not ever said anything about these things before ?
” And yet he also @ @ @ @ @ @ @ voice , professing himself loathe to “ talk over the work ” of the people .
“ Do we give a fuck what Ja Rule thinks ?
” he asks , evoking an old joke of his and letting it evaporate just as quickly .
Chappelle doesn ’ t want to be a spokesman , but he is confident that the people—or , some people—want to hear from him , not as a comedian but as a citizen .
While other celebrities in this moment have rushed to their front-facing cameras in order @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the contradictory crux of how to say nothing .
“ It ’ s hard to figure out what to say about George Floyd , ” he says , early in the set .
“ So I ’ m not gon ’ say it yet.
” He laughs .
This is all very “ weird , ” Chappelle says , using one of his preferred words , which is always and forever enlivened by his trademark cartoonish vowels .
If his comments are too earnest to bring the weird themselves , it must come @ @ @ @ @ @ @ structure , the skeleton , the contours of performance writ large .
With its half-length and home on YouTube , “ 8:46 ” undermines the expected polish of the streaming-sponsored comedy special .
Advanced promotion was nonexistent and remains mostly absent from Netflix-branded accounts on Twitter .
( The video has nonetheless accrued more than twenty-three million views as of this writing . )
Chappelle ’ s stage is set before an audience socially distanced in black chairs demarcated by neon lawn-safe paint .
Shots of the crowd reveal that their mouths , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ are masked , denying us the visual pleasure of faces caught in laughter or shock .
The attendees seem muted as a result , reduced to their eyes , and the sparse moments of laughter that do occur might be attributable to the unnerving absence of jokes .
“ George Zimmerman is nobody , ” Chappelle says .
A white couple whose face coverings sport the Tito ’ s Handmade Vodka logo fidget slightly and nod .
Speaking of editorial intervention , and weirdness , late on the night that the special was @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a portion of the video ’ s closed captioning that seemed to mistakenly include an outtake from the Don Lemon bit .
It read : Don Lemon is a funny newscaster because he ’ s clearly gay , but .
.
.
You know what I mean ?
He ’ s just gay .
He ’ s the anomaly , he ’ s black and gay but unlike my other gay black friends , he ’ s got this weird self-righteousness and I ’ m watching his show and he goes—and he literally @ @ @ @ @ @ @ mean to make this impression disparaging .
He ’ s like , Just kidding .

On the subject of the aging, if not old, male idol, concern tends to begin with questions of temperament: Has he kept up with the times? Is he still with us? In no industry is this truer than in the funny business, and in comedy nowhere truer than in black comedy, which relies on comics’ ability to take in all the world’s hostility and spit it back out without cracking up themselves. When Dave Chappelle made his Netflix début, in 2017, with a pair of specials, “Deep in the Heart of Texas” and “The Age of Spin,” many of my peers feared that we were losing him. Sexism and homophobia, which he’d once couched in whip-crackling bits on the eternal race problem and other American absurdities, were now Chappelle’s main event, far too conspicuous and convenient to justify as “difficult” comedy. It seemed that Chappelle was no longer as sharp as he’d been given credit for. Perhaps edge had passed him by.
“8:46,” Chappelle’s new, abbreviated special of sorts—runtime: twenty-seven minutes and twenty seconds, including some postscript footage of police aggression at recent protests—was posted last Thursday night to the Netflix-run YouTube account Netflix Is a Joke (untangle that how you will). It begins with Chappelle climbing onto a small outdoor stage in Yellow Springs, Ohio, and grasping the mike like a balancing stick, the cigarette in his other hand a counterweight. Where once he was spindly, dressed in a facsimile of workman’s attire, the Chappelle of recent years definitely lifts, as the Internet was agog to learn from courtside photos taken in 2016, back when there was basketball. His round delts and flared lats give way to a small tummy, emphasized, onstage, by a thin black tunic over low-slung black sweats, in, as my boyfriend pointed out, quintessential dad-bod fashion.
Throughout the set, Chappelle assumes a variety of confiding, almost familial postures: he leans forward, incredulous, on the wooden four-legged stool, Nike high-tops curled under; he talks through lighting his cigarette, his mumbling reminiscent of Leonard Washington, the dice-thrower from “Chappelle’s Show.” When he takes to his feet, it is in the heat of the same incredulity. He waves a notebook like it’s holy; he primly retakes his seat, legs crossed, the same book flared in his lap, red Solo cup nearby. Chappelle is Unc now, and the world is his barbershop.
As if in atonement for the past years’ hubbub—including his 2019 special, “Sticks & Stones,” in which he continued to reduce public campaigns against sexism, transphobia, and abuse to the spectre of “cancel culture”—Chappelle begins by offering a “shout-out” to protesters, whom he refers to as “young ones.” The audience applauds. “You kids are excellent drivers,” he adds. “I am comfortable in the back seat of the car.” Resigned but not contrite: it’s the kind of pat on the head we’re used to from the established and the establishment, as when Hillary Clinton, who once implored environmentalists to “get a life,” expressed her awe for Greta Thunberg, a child activist fifty-five years her junior. Better a back-seat driver than a roadblock, I suppose, though people of any age who are out in the streets, fighting for all black lives—trans lives very much included—might be less than impressed by Chappelle’s show of solidarity.
The déjà vu doesn’t end there. As the credits tell us, the set was filmed on June 6th, “87 days since Dave Chappelle last performed on stage.” That’s twelve days after the police officer Derek Chauvin kneeled on the neck of George Floyd, Jr., for eight minutes and forty-six seconds, the lethal time stamp from which the special takes its name. (It’s ten days after Tallahassee police fatally shot Tony McDade, a trans man.) Chauvin’s murder of Floyd is the central matter of the performance, which Chappelle addresses in anger-, grief-, and fatigue-laden sentiments identical to the ones plunging down my Twitter timeline at any given hour: “I don’t want to see this because I can’t unsee it”; “every institution that we trust lies to us”; “I’m tired of explaining.” This is less a commentary on current events than a demonstration of the degradation of our exasperated discourse, all the more so for the extreme onlineness of everyday life. In case anyone needed a reminder, the special also includes a clip of Ramsey Orta’s footage documenting the police officer Daniel Pantaleo killing Eric Garner.
It’s no surprise that, like a proper Gen X-er, Chappelle’s medium of choice is television. He dares CNN’s Don Lemon, “that hotbed of reality,” to add his name to the call sheet of celebrities whom the anchor accused of remaining silent on the topic of the protests. “Has anybody ever listened to me do comedy?” Chappelle says, and the ask sounds genuine. “Have I not ever said anything about these things before?” And yet he also retreats from the sound of his amplified voice, professing himself loath to “talk over the work” of the people. “Do we give a fuck what Ja Rule thinks?” he asks, evoking an old joke of his and letting it evaporate just as quickly. Chappelle doesn’t want to be a spokesman, but he is confident that the people—or some people—want to hear from him. While other celebrities in this moment have rushed to their front-facing cameras in order to say something, Chappelle lands on the contradictory crux of how to say nothing. “It’s hard to figure out what to say about George Floyd,” he says, early in the set. “So I’m not gon’ say it yet.” He laughs.
This is all very “weird,” Chappelle says, using one of his preferred words, which is always and forever enlivened by his trademark cartoonish vowels. If his comments are too earnest to bring the weird themselves, it must come from elsewhere, from toying with the structure, the skeleton, the contours of performance writ large. With its half-length and home on YouTube, “8:46” undermines the expected polish of the streaming-sponsored comedy special. Advance promotion was nonexistent and remains mostly absent from Netflix-branded accounts on Twitter. (The video has nonetheless accrued more than twenty-three million views as of this writing.) Chappelle’s stage is set before an audience socially distanced in black chairs demarcated by neon lawn-safe paint. Shots of the crowd reveal that their mouths, the noisemaker primarily associated with standup, are masked, denying us the visual pleasure of faces caught in laughter or shock. The attendees seem muted as a result, reduced to their eyes, and the sparse moments of laughter that do occur might be attributable to the unnerving absence of jokes. “George Zimmerman is nobody,” Chappelle says. A white couple whose face coverings sport the Tito’s Handmade Vodka logo fidget slightly and nod.
Speaking of editorial intervention, and weirdness, late on the night that the special was released, an ABC10 digital editor tweeted a portion of the video’s closed captioning that seemed to mistakenly include an outtake from the Don Lemon bit. It read:
Don Lemon is a funny newscaster because he’s clearly gay, but . . . You know what I mean? He’s just gay. He’s the anomaly, he’s black and gay but unlike my other gay black friends, he’s got this weird self-righteousness and I’m watching his show and he goes—and he literally says this and I don’t mean to make this impression disparaging. He’s like, Just kidding.
No such riff appears in the video of Chappelle’s set, and, by the time I watched the special, the closed captioning had been made unavailable. It’s not clear why this particular section was removed, whose decision it was to remove it, or what else besides this homophobic preamble was excised from the final cut of the file. (Netflix did not respond to questions about it.)
“8:46” is most impactful if received as a workshop. Chappelle just about announces it as such, periodically taking the audience’s temperature (figuratively, that is, though B-roll footage at the start of the video shows attendees lined up for “temperature checks” with a forehead thermometer). He leans into the untried nature of the performance. “The only way to figure out if this shit works,” he begins, “is to do the goddamn show.” He gives his audience the opportunity to watch an iconic American comedian toil to narrate a manifold event that’s too immediate for disciplined humor—an event whose other side we can’t yet perceive, and which may leave no room for discipline anyhow. “We’ll keep this space open—this is the last stronghold for civil discourse,” Chappelle says, at the end of the set, coy about what’s meant by “this.” (The stage? Comedy? The current state of things?) In the indeterminate, agonizing space between sincerity and hilarity, there is only “fucking weird”—burps, sighs, sipping, smoking, yelling, coughing, mumbling, and tired ole sentiment. “Am I boring you?” the comedian asks. “No,” the crowd responds. And so the comedian continues.
Race, Policing, and Black Lives Matter Protests