newyorker--2020-05-28--Boris Johnson, Dominic Cummings, and a Very British Debate About Rules

At a parliamentary hearing in the United Kingdom , on Wednesday , which was conducted by videoconference , Yvette Cooper , a senior member of the Labour Party , asked Prime Minister Boris Johnson if he could sort through some of the wreckage of his Conservative government ’ s coronavirus-lockdown policies , in the wake of a scandal involving Dominic Cummings , his senior adviser .
Cummings was already a polarizing figure in British politics ; he was portrayed by Benedict Cumberbatch in a television drama about the 2016 Brexit referendum , in which he had helped to engineer the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ But the revelation , last week , that Cummings and his wife , Mary Wakefield , a columnist for The Spectator , and their four-year-old son had driven two hundred and sixty miles to relocate from London to his father ’ s farm , near Durham , in the North of England , after Wakefield developed COVID-19 symptoms , seems close to uniting the country in outrage .
The journey appears to violate the plain language of the government ’ s rules ; so does a side trip that they took to Barnard @ @ @ @ @ @ @ drive from the farm , after Cummings , too , had developed symptoms .
Cummings said that he had every right to consider what was best for his child .
At a press conference in the garden of 10 Downing Street , on Monday , he argued that the rules actually allowed such discretion , which was news to the general public .
His defense was , essentially , that everybody else had been reading the rules incorrectly , and only he had got it right .
Specifically , Cooper asked if Johnson @ @ @ @ @ @ @ symptoms remain , as they had been , to “ stay at home unless there is a risk to life ” and , in a crisis , to contact “ community hubs ” or other social services .
( Travel rules are stricter in the United Kingdom than in the United States ; generally speaking , people with symptoms are not supposed to leave home at all for fourteen days after the onset of symptoms , nor is anyone else in their household .
There is also an instruction that no one should @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to isolate , with few exceptions . )
Cooper noted that members of Johnson ’ s government are now suggesting that parents can travel to wherever they have a “ support network ” —Cummings said that his nieces , who live in another house on the family farm , stood ready to babysit .
She asked which was correct : The rules as written ?
Or , as Robert Jenrick , Johnson ’ s Secretary for Communities , put it this week : “ If you don ’ t have ready access to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Dominic Cummings did ” ?
Members of the government have also given conflicting answers about whether people who have received fines , which can be as much as a hundred pounds , for breaking travel rules for reasons involving children might now have the penalty rescinded , and whether there will still be such fines going forward .
In defending Cummings , in other words , was the government contorting the coronavirus guidelines— “ saying all these fudgy things , ” as Cooper put it—to fit his actions ?
Based on Johnson ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ it is doing just that .
“ I ’ m not certain that there is as much of a discrepancy as you suggest , ” Johnson told Cooper .
He noted that the guidelines already say that , “ if you ’ ve got ‘ exceptional ’ difficulties with child care , you should take account of them.
” She replied , “ O.K.
, but we ’ re not talking about ‘ exceptional ’ difficulties with child care .
We ’ re talking about the very normal difficulties with child care.
” @ @ @ @ @ @ @ exceptional ” clause was added to address circumstances where all possibilities had been exhausted or lives were at risk—for example , in which parents and children are dealing with domestic violence—not for well-connected , well-resourced couples who worry , as Cummings said he did , that , if they both became ill , they might not have a niece nearby to call on .
When the family left London , late on March 27th , Wakefield was only somewhat ill , and Cummings , by his account , did not yet have symptoms @ @ @ @ @ @ @ weren ’ t necessary : although Cummings became quite ill , Wakefield did not .
There is no doubt that the situation would have been frightening .
When , at one point , their son became ill , Wakefield rode with him in an ambulance to a hospital in Durham , and Cummings picked them up the next morning .
( The boy tested negative for the coronavirus . )
And yet the situation was frightening for many people in similar and worse circumstances .
Cummings , at his press conference , said @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ was in such an exceptional circumstance ” that he could adapt the rules as he judged fit .
One reporter , speaking for many , said that he was “ staggered ” to hear it .
The British rules are strict , which is why the government sold them to the public with talk of shared sacrifice and the spirit of the Blitz .
A number of reporters brought up heartbreaking stories that they ’ d heard from people who , because they ’ d followed the guidelines , weren ’ t @ @ @ @ @ @ @ them before they died .
Those people “ feel like mugs now , ” one said .
As Laura Kuenssberg , of the BBC , summed it up , what angers many Britons is the sense that there “ is one version of the rules for you , and one version of the rules for everyone else.
” It didn ’ t help that Cummings and others in the government had obfuscated his movements ; the story only came out after a joint investigation by the Guardian and the Daily Mirror .
In @ @ @ @ @ @ @ after the press conference , seventy-one per cent of respondents felt that Cummings had straight-out broken the rules .
Even forty-six per cent of Tories thought so .
The numbers are striking , given how closely Cummings is associated with Johnson , with Brexit , and with the Tories ’ victory in this year ’ s general election , which he also helped to manage , and how forcefully Johnson has defended him .
Cummings ’ s rationalizations veer from arrogance to downright loopiness .
For example , why , on April 12th @ @ @ @ @ @ @ for two weeks , did the whole family drive thirty miles to Barnard Castle ?
Simple , Cummings said .
Downing Street needed him , and had received “ medical advice ” that he could go back to work .
But he was “ weak ” and his “ eyesight seemed to have been affected by the disease ” ; his vision was “ a bit weird.
” And so he and Wakefield “ agreed that we should go for a short drive to see if I could drive safely.
” The idea @ @ @ @ @ @ @ was , in reality , a vision test provoked mockery ; it also occasioned a warning from the chair of the Police Federation of England and Wales that people shouldn ’ t drive when their vision is impaired .
And there were more questions : Couldn ’ t Wakefield have driven ?
Couldn ’ t Johnson have sent a car , if Cummings ’ s presence was crucial ?
( Cummings says that he mentioned that he was in Durham to Johnson , who , at the time , was also ill with @ @ @ @ @ @ @ was not only weird-visioned but exhausted and indeed “ sick ” enough to have to sit by the river in Barnard Castle for a quarter of an hour to settle himself , why was he planning to go back to Downing Street ?
( He drove to London the next day , and was at work the following morning . )
Peggy Mordaunt , a senior Tory , raised that point in a letter to her constituents , noting that there were “ inconsistencies ” in Cummings ’ s account .
She added @ @ @ @ @ @ @ took risks , ” and that the public-health message had been “ undermined .
”

At a parliamentary hearing in the United Kingdom, on Wednesday, which was conducted by videoconference, Yvette Cooper, a senior member of the Labour Party, asked Prime Minister Boris Johnson if he could sort through some of the wreckage of his Conservative government’s coronavirus-lockdown policies, in the wake of a scandal involving Dominic Cummings, his senior adviser. Cummings was already a polarizing figure in British politics; he was portrayed by Benedict Cumberbatch in a television drama about the 2016 Brexit referendum, in which he had helped to engineer the Leave side’s winning campaign. But the revelation, last week, that Cummings and his wife, Mary Wakefield, a columnist for The Spectator, and their four-year-old son had driven two hundred and sixty miles to relocate from London to his father’s farm, near Durham, in the North of England, after Wakefield developed COVID-19 symptoms, seems close to uniting the country in outrage. The journey appears to violate the plain language of the government’s rules; so does a side trip that they took to Barnard Castle, a scenic town a half-hour drive from the farm, after Cummings, too, had developed symptoms. Cummings said that he had every right to consider what was best for his child. At a press conference in the garden of 10 Downing Street, on Monday, he argued that the rules actually allowed such discretion, which was news to the general public. His defense was, essentially, that everybody else had been reading the rules incorrectly, and only he had got it right.
Specifically, Cooper asked if Johnson’s instructions to parents with COVID-19 symptoms remain, as they had been, to “stay at home unless there is a risk to life” and, in a crisis, to contact “community hubs” or other social services. (Travel rules are stricter in the United Kingdom than in the United States; generally speaking, people with symptoms are not supposed to leave home at all for fourteen days after the onset of symptoms, nor is anyone else in their household. There is also an instruction that no one should relocate to a second home, even to isolate, with few exceptions.) Cooper noted that members of Johnson’s government are now suggesting that parents can travel to wherever they have a “support network”—Cummings said that his nieces, who live in another house on the family farm, stood ready to babysit. She asked which was correct: The rules as written? Or, as Robert Jenrick, Johnson’s Secretary for Communities, put it this week: “If you don’t have ready access to child care, you can do as Dominic Cummings did”? Members of the government have also given conflicting answers about whether people who have received fines, which can be as much as a hundred pounds, for breaking travel rules for reasons involving children might now have the penalty rescinded, and whether there will still be such fines going forward. In defending Cummings, in other words, was the government contorting the coronavirus guidelines—“saying all these fudgy things,” as Cooper put it—to fit his actions?
Based on Johnson’s reply, it sounded as though it is doing just that. “I’m not certain that there is as much of a discrepancy as you suggest,” Johnson told Cooper. He noted that the guidelines already say that, “if you’ve got ‘exceptional’ difficulties with child care, you should take account of them.” She replied, “O.K., but we’re not talking about ‘exceptional’ difficulties with child care. We’re talking about the very normal difficulties with child care.” British journalists have noted that the “exceptional” clause was added to address circumstances where all possibilities had been exhausted or lives were at risk—for example, in which parents and children are dealing with domestic violence—not for well-connected, well-resourced couples who worry, as Cummings said he did, that, if they both became ill, they might not have a niece nearby to call on.
When the family left London, late on March 27th, Wakefield was only somewhat ill, and Cummings, by his account, did not yet have symptoms. As things turned out, nieces weren’t necessary: although Cummings became quite ill, Wakefield did not. There is no doubt that the situation would have been frightening. When, at one point, their son became ill, Wakefield rode with him in an ambulance to a hospital in Durham, and Cummings picked them up the next morning. (The boy tested negative for the coronavirus.) And yet the situation was frightening for many people in similar and worse circumstances. Cummings, at his press conference, said that it seemed to him that he “was in such an exceptional circumstance” that he could adapt the rules as he judged fit. One reporter, speaking for many, said that he was “staggered” to hear it. The British rules are strict, which is why the government sold them to the public with talk of shared sacrifice and the spirit of the Blitz. A number of reporters brought up heartbreaking stories that they’d heard from people who, because they’d followed the guidelines, weren’t able to support stricken relatives or see them before they died. Those people “feel like mugs now,” one said. As Laura Kuenssberg, of the BBC, summed it up, what angers many Britons is the sense that there “is one version of the rules for you, and one version of the rules for everyone else.”
It didn’t help that Cummings and others in the government had obfuscated his movements; the story only came out after a joint investigation by the Guardian and the Daily Mirror. In a YouGov poll conducted on Monday, after the press conference, seventy-one per cent of respondents felt that Cummings had straight-out broken the rules. Even forty-six per cent of Tories thought so. The numbers are striking, given how closely Cummings is associated with Johnson, with Brexit, and with the Tories’ victory in last year’s general election, which he also helped to manage, and how forcefully Johnson has defended him.
Cummings’s rationalizations veer from arrogance to downright loopiness. For example, why, on April 12th, when they had been in Durham for two weeks, did the whole family drive thirty miles to Barnard Castle? Simple, Cummings said. Downing Street needed him, and had received “medical advice” that he could go back to work. But he was “weak” and his “eyesight seemed to have been affected by the disease”; his vision was “a bit weird.” And so he and Wakefield “agreed that we should go for a short drive to see if I could drive safely.”
The idea that a jaunt to a picturesque town was, in reality, a vision test provoked mockery; it also occasioned a warning from the chair of the Police Federation of England and Wales that people shouldn’t drive when their vision is impaired. And there were more questions: Couldn’t Wakefield have driven? Couldn’t Johnson have sent a car, if Cummings’s presence was crucial? (Cummings says that he mentioned that he was in Durham to Johnson, who, at the time, was also ill with COVID-19.) And, if he was not only weird-visioned but exhausted and indeed “sick” enough to have to sit by the river in Barnard Castle for a quarter of an hour to settle himself, why was he planning to go back to Downing Street? (He drove to London the next day, and was at work the following morning.) Penny Mordaunt, a senior Tory, raised that point in a letter to her constituents, noting that there were “inconsistencies” in Cummings’s account. She added that “there is no doubt he took risks,” and that the public-health message had been “undermined.”
And, yet, Johnson, like Cummings, is unable to apologize. He has taken the position that Cummings not only acted correctly but, somehow, in an admirable manner. “I think he followed the instincts of every father and every parent. And I do not mark him down for that,” Johnson said, over the weekend. Was the Prime Minister telling ordinary people that Cummings is more loving than they are, and more clever about working around the rules? Johnson’s words contain a hint that the finest feelings are to be found in the highest places, although, if anything, the Cummings story demonstrates the opposite. As Fintan O’Toole wrote in the Guardian, “In Johnson’s defence of Cummings, the only value is the individual ‘instinct’ of the members of the ruling caste.” The episode, O’Toole wrote, “squeezes the meaning out of” all the talk about the shared sacrifice of the lockdown.
One of the many British writers to bring up the spirit of the Blitz—the “analogy that England apparently cannot escape,” as O’Toole put it—was, as it happens, Mary Wakefield. In late April, before the story of her family’s travels came out, she wrote a breezy and deceptive column for The Spectator in which she made it sound, for all the world, as if the family was shuttered in London. She described how she and her son “made a palace out of polystyrene packaging”—a detail seemingly designed to elicit a sigh about children being kept inside and away from green spaces. And she said that, after dealing with their symptoms, “we emerged from quarantine into the almost comical uncertainty of London lockdown,” where, for all the talk of the Blitz, Wakefield reported finding “something of the spirit of East Berlin, too.” How so? “Social distancing is supposed to be a helpful and communal act, but people smile noticeably less. I think it’s guilt by association.” It wasn’t clear who the guilty were, though the British public might have some ideas. Instead, she offers her “only really useful advice for other double-Covid parents or single mothers with preschoolers: get out the doctor’s kit and make it your child’s job to take your temperature. Any game that involves lying down is a good game.” Are there two sets of rules for that game?
The Cummings story, for all of its distinctly British battiness and its focus on Tory personalities, misses much about how jumbled the government’s response to the coronavirus crisis has been. In a sense, the strictness of the U.K.’s lockdown rules—which are already easing, and will do so more next week—does not reflect the strategy as a whole. The government was relatively slow to introduce them—losing time with a flirtation with the idea of allowing the virus to spread in order to achieve “herd immunity”—and undisciplined in its message. Nearly forty thousand people in the U.K. have died from COVID-19. Embedded in Cummings’s account, in fact, is a reference to another humiliating weakness in the government’s response, one shared by the United States: insufficient testing. Cummings mentioned that he was not tested before leaving London, even though he had been exposed to the virus, because, as a special adviser, he did not qualify for one of the limited number of tests available. And he was not tested before returning. Indeed, Cummings still has not been tested.
A Guide to the Coronavirus


newyorker--2020-05-28--Larry Kramer Had the Courage to Act on His Fear

Larry Kramer taught me the importance of a catastrophic imagination .
No one I ’ ve known has feared as passionately as did Kramer , who died on Wednesday , at the age of eighty-four .
He feared death .
He feared tyranny .
He feared for himself and others .
He had the courage to imagine the implications of the things he feared , to act on his fear , and to demand that others imagine and act with him .
I first interviewed Kramer in 1988 , when his collection of essays on AIDS , “ Reports from @ @ @ @ @ @ @ The way he told the story , he was not interested in politics until the AIDS epidemic .
He had become rich working in the film industry , as a producer and a screenwriter ; he was nominated for an Academy Award for his adaptation of D. H. Lawrence ’ s “ Women in Love , ” for which Glenda Jackson won an Oscar .
Larry had encountered homophobia , especially as a student at Yale University , in the mid-fifties , but he positioned himself as a wealthy white man who learned @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
In a 1993 speech , he said , “ In the last twelve years , I have learned what it is like to be treated like a kike .
.
.
like a faggot , like a piece of shit .
I have learned that people are not very nice , that there is no such thing as the Judeo-Christian tradition , and that intentional genocide is allowed.
” Back then , it was unusual to hear a wealthy white man speak consciously about his position of privilege and the shock of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ striking sort of reflection for a founder of ACT UP—the AIDS Coalition to Unleash Power—an activist organization that was animated in large part by the outrage of wealthy white men who could not believe that the government , the media , and the public would stand idly by while they died .
But , before Larry was political as he understood it , he already felt the fear .
His 1978 novel , “ Faggots , ” a grotesque portrayal of New York gay party life , was full of dread .
It @ @ @ @ @ @ @ sort of retribution for his community ’ s promiscuity and drug use .
It seemed he might expect a plague .
The book was panned by gay activists as moralistic and preachy .
“ It was a badge of honor not to have read the book , ” the longtime gay activist Andy Humm said , on Wednesday , during a broadcast of “ Gay USA , ” a television show he co-hosts .
But perhaps Larry recognized the catastrophe when AIDS arrived because he had already imagined it .
“ It ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ alarmist or too emotional or just plain scared , ” he wrote , in the gay newspaper New York Native , in August , 1981 , when a hundred and twenty gay men in the United States had been diagnosed with a rare cancer or a strange pneumonia that no one was quite sure yet had the same cause .
Thirty people had already died of it .
Soon Larry stopped pretending not to want to sound scared .
In March , 1983 , he wrote what might be his most famous column @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and Counting.
” It began , “ If this article doesn ’ t scare the shit out of you , we ’ re in real trouble .
If this article doesn ’ t rouse you to anger , fury , rage , and action , gay men may have no future on this earth.
” Just about every remembrance of Larry makes note of the anger that often made him uncomfortable company .
His moralism made him uncomfortable , too .
He was no gay liberationist .
His radicalism was of a different @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
He believed that he belonged to a people with a history .
He was also no social-constructionist—he believed that gay people had always been around , overlooked and written out of history .
He set out to set the record right in his magnum opus , “ The American People , ” a sprawling , two-volume revisionist history in the form of a novel , of sorts , that traces the legacy of homosexuals in American history .
Larry was proud of his heritage .
“ I love being gay , ” @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , during the Reclaim Pride Coalition Rally ( an alternative celebration to the commercialized Pride march in New York ) .
He was frail , in a wheelchair , with hearing aids in both ears , and , clearly , very happy to be addressing the crowd .
“ I love my people .
I think in many ways we are better than other people .
I think we are smarter and more talented and more aware of each other.
” On other occasions , he admonished his people , saying that “ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ than inaction , better than the idea that gayness was merely a matter of sexual orientation .
He made the case for thinking of gay people as a people not unlike the Jews , and , as a Jew and a gay man , he insisted on the political importance of using the term “ holocaust ” to describe the decimation wrought by AIDS .
A fan and careful reader of Hannah Arendt , he admired her “ hugely for having the guts to raise .
.
.
the question of the Jews @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” He was referring not only to a controversial and often misinterpreted passage in “ Eichmann in Jerusalem ” but , more broadly , to Arendt ’ s thinking on anti-Semitism , which she attributed in part to European Jews ’ failure to claim political power as Jews .
In an unpublished 2018 interview with the academic researcher Gregg Drinkwater , who is currently working on a paper on Larry and Arendt , Larry said , “ When AIDS came along and gays were not mobilizing in any sufficient way , she was @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the Jews at that time—that they should have their own army , for instance , which is what I looked upon ACT UP as being.
” Before ACT UP , Larry started Gay Men ’ s Health Crisis : in January , 1982 , he organized what amounted to a medical briefing for a group of his friends in the living room of his apartment on Fifth Avenue near Washington Square Park .
He used his columns in the Native to put out the call for money .
But he quickly got frustrated @ @ @ @ @ @ @ : home health care , meals , and safer-sex education .
His anger and constant demands for political mobilization , in turn , frustrated his fellow board members .
Two years after the founding , Larry had to leave G.M.H.C .
Most people who knew Larry for a long time spent some of that time on his list of people he was not speaking to .
The day he died , the writer and ACT UP historian Sarah Schulman posted on Facebook a picture of herself with Larry with the caption , “ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Larry called and screamed at me and said he would never talk to me again and then a few weeks later he gave me and Jim Hubbard $ 10,000 for our film UNITED IN ANGER : A History of ACT UP.
” I was never close enough to Larry to have him scream at me , but after he visited me in Moscow , in 2007—he and his husband , David Webster , were in town for a wedding and came over for dinner—he told me in no uncertain terms , repeatedly , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Everything was his business , and everything required his action .

Larry Kramer could imagine the worst like no one else. But he also believed that the worst could be staved off with action. Photograph by Catherine McGann / Getty
Larry Kramer taught me the importance of a catastrophic imagination. No one I’ve known has feared as passionately as did Kramer, who died on Wednesday, at the age of eighty-four. He feared death. He feared tyranny. He feared for himself and others. He had the courage to imagine the implications of the things he feared, to act on his fear, and to demand that others imagine and act with him.
I first interviewed Kramer in 1988, when his collection of essays on AIDS, “Reports from the Holocaust,” was published. The way he told the story, he was not interested in politics until the AIDS epidemic. He had become rich working in the film industry, as a producer and a screenwriter; he was nominated for an Academy Award for his adaptation of D. H. Lawrence’s “Women in Love,” for which Glenda Jackson won an Oscar. Larry had encountered homophobia, especially as a student at Yale University, in the mid-fifties, but he positioned himself as a wealthy white man who learned his first political lessons in the nineteen-eighties. In a 1993 speech, he said, “In the last twelve years, I have learned what it is like to be treated like a kike . . . like a faggot, like a piece of shit. I have learned that people are not very nice, that there is no such thing as the Judeo-Christian tradition, and that intentional genocide is allowed.” Back then, it was unusual to hear a wealthy white man speak consciously about his position of privilege and the shock of learning its limits. It was a striking sort of reflection for a founder of ACT UP—the AIDS Coalition to Unleash Power—an activist organization that was animated in large part by the outrage of wealthy white men who could not believe that the government, the media, and the public would stand idly by while they died.
But, before Larry was political as he understood it, he already felt the fear. His 1978 novel, “Faggots,” a grotesque portrayal of New York gay party life, was full of dread. It seemed evident that the author expected some sort of retribution for his community’s promiscuity and drug use. It seemed he might expect a plague. The book was panned by gay activists as moralistic and preachy. “It was a badge of honor not to have read the book,” the longtime gay activist Andy Humm said, on Wednesday, during a broadcast of “Gay USA,” a television show he co-hosts. But perhaps Larry recognized the catastrophe when AIDS arrived because he had already imagined it. “It’s difficult to write this without sounding alarmist or too emotional or just plain scared,” he wrote, in the gay newspaper New York Native, in August, 1981, when a hundred and twenty gay men in the United States had been diagnosed with a rare cancer or a strange pneumonia that no one was quite sure yet had the same cause. Thirty people had already died of it. Soon Larry stopped pretending not to want to sound scared. In March, 1983, he wrote what might be his most famous column of the period, called “1,112 and Counting.” It began, “If this article doesn’t scare the shit out of you, we’re in real trouble. If this article doesn’t rouse you to anger, fury, rage, and action, gay men may have no future on this earth.”
Just about every remembrance of Larry makes note of the anger that often made him uncomfortable company. His moralism made him uncomfortable, too. He was no gay liberationist. His radicalism was of a different kind: he was a gay nationalist. He believed that he belonged to a people with a history. He was also no social-constructionist—he believed that gay people had always been around, overlooked and written out of history. He set out to set the record right in his magnum opus, “The American People,” a sprawling, two-volume revisionist history in the form of a novel, of sorts, that traces the legacy of homosexuals in American history. Larry was proud of his heritage.
“I love being gay,” Larry said in a speech last June, during the Reclaim Pride Coalition Rally (an alternative celebration to the commercialized Pride march in New York). He was frail, in a wheelchair, with hearing aids in both ears, and, clearly, very happy to be addressing the crowd. “I love my people. I think in many ways we are better than other people. I think we are smarter and more talented and more aware of each other.” On other occasions, he admonished his people, saying that “we are better than this”—better than inaction, better than the idea that gayness was merely a matter of sexual orientation. He made the case for thinking of gay people as a people not unlike the Jews, and, as a Jew and a gay man, he insisted on the political importance of using the term “holocaust” to describe the decimation wrought by AIDS. A fan and careful reader of Hannah Arendt, he admired her “hugely for having the guts to raise . . . the question of the Jews’ own complicity in their mass extermination.” He was referring not only to a controversial and often misinterpreted passage in “Eichmann in Jerusalem” but, more broadly, to Arendt’s thinking on anti-Semitism, which she attributed in part to European Jews’ failure to claim political power as Jews. In an unpublished 2018 interview with the academic researcher Gregg Drinkwater, who is currently working on a paper on Larry and Arendt, Larry said, “When AIDS came along and gays were not mobilizing in any sufficient way, she was very helpful with what she said about the Jews at that time—that they should have their own army, for instance, which is what I looked upon ACT UP as being.”
Before ACT UP, Larry started Gay Men’s Health Crisis: in January, 1982, he organized what amounted to a medical briefing for a group of his friends in the living room of his apartment on Fifth Avenue near Washington Square Park. He used his columns in the Native to put out the call for money. But he quickly got frustrated with his colleagues’ focus on services: home health care, meals, and safer-sex education. His anger and constant demands for political mobilization, in turn, frustrated his fellow board members. Two years after the founding, Larry had to leave G.M.H.C.
Most people who knew Larry for a long time spent some of that time on his list of people he was not speaking to. The day he died, the writer and ACT UP historian Sarah Schulman posted on Facebook a picture of herself with Larry with the caption, “My 50th Birthday. The next day Larry called and screamed at me and said he would never talk to me again and then a few weeks later he gave me and Jim Hubbard $10,000 for our film UNITED IN ANGER: A History of ACT UP.” I was never close enough to Larry to have him scream at me, but after he visited me in Moscow, in 2007—he and his husband, David Webster, were in town for a wedding and came over for dinner—he told me in no uncertain terms, repeatedly, that I should leave the country. Everything was his business, and everything required his action.


newyorker--2020-05-28--Pleasure and Pain on HBO Max

Pleasure and Pain on HBO Max

Snappy as it sounded , the term “ streaming wars , ” in retrospect , was an overblown way to describe the competition between the companies that hoped to monopolize TV streaming .
Little about the rollouts of the major subscription services this year has seemed grand or strategic .
A better martial allusion ?
Clusterfuck .
Teasers promise portals to unprecedented ways of viewing programs new and old , but so much curation soon starts to look like clutter .
Subscribe to Apple TV+ , Disney+ and Hulu , Netflix , the ill-fated Quibi , and now HBO Max—the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , in late May—and find yourself participating in a bitter joke : we have invented cable .
HBO , the tentpole of WarnerMedia , is still a symbol of prestige television , and a lingering fidelity to the network will , I suspect , draw many people to HBO Max , even though the network has done a poor job of explaining what the new service actually is , or how it differs from the video-on-demand fixture that predates it , HBO Now .
Subscribers , paying up to fifteen dollars a month @ @ @ @ @ @ @ series , more than two thousand feature films , other WarnerMedia television properties , and attractive extras like the works of the Japanese animation director Hayao Miyazaki ’ s Studio Ghibli .
The library is nowhere near as deep as Netflix ’ s , but that lends HBO Max a veneer of the bespoke .
Still , as economic depression looms , what seemed like a necessity a few months ago may now be , for many people , an unjustifiable luxury .
HBO Max meant to celebrate its inauguration with a newly @ @ @ @ @ @ @ series , which WarnerMedia grabbed from Netflix , along with “ The Big Bang Theory , ” is its biggest syndication coup .
But the novel coronavirus doesn ’ t like reunions .
Several original series were also put on pause mid-development , which is fine , since the real draw is WarnerMedia ’ s archive .
The new shows that came into being just before the shutdown are plastic simulacra of shows of yore—the kind of pretty , algorithmic television that pleasantly empties a quarantined mind .
“ The Sopranos ” is @ @ @ @ @ @ @ any of them .
“ Love Life , ” from the newcomer Sam Boyd , starring the fizzy Anna Kendrick as a twentysomething struggling to find romance in New York City , is like “ Girls ” on low-battery mode .
“ Legendary , ” a competition between houses in the ballroom community , has an irksome superficiality ; you can always tell when producers forget that reality TV is a craft .
It dazzles because of its contestants but is cavalier in its shiny corporatizing of a queer art .
The best @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Not-Too-Late Show with Elmo , ” on which Cookie Monster serves as co-host and guests include such child-friendly celebrities as John Mulaney , who made a quirky and moving children ’ s special last year for Netflix , and a giggling Jimmy Fallon .
Elmo is a conscientious interviewer and an icon for our homebound time ; like all of us , he is perpetually pantsless and very hairy .
I asked Xavier , my five-year-old nephew , what he thought of “ Not-Too-Late , ” and he said it was “ the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ An anomaly on this cutesy slate is “ On the Record , ” a wrenching film about sexual assault in hip-hop .
It was directed by Kirby Dick and Amy Ziering , who , in the documentaries “ The Invisible War ” and “ The Hunting Ground , ” about sexual assault in the U.S. military and on college campuses , respectively , have forged an empathetic style of muckraking .
More than a dozen women have accused Russell Simmons , the mogul co-founder of Def Jam Recordings , of sexual misconduct , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ such as Melena Ryzik and Joe Coscarelli , at the Times , have found the accusers credible , but Simmons , despite being forced to leave his companies in 2017 , has suffered relatively few legal ramifications .
Years ago , he reinvented himself as a mild-mannered yogi ; recently , he moved to Bali .
He and other pioneers of the scene have been accorded a complicated veneration in the black-music space .
In some ways , this esteem is more intractable than that given to any individual artist .
Cancel R. @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
But how to excommunicate a forefather who successfully pitched hip-hop to the world as valuable , in every sense of the word ?
Cancel Russell Simmons , and the house falls .
How “ On the Record ” came to HBO Max is a lesson in power and its caprices .
In January , shortly before the film was to première at Sundance , Oprah Winfrey , who had signed on as an executive producer , pulled out .
Apple TV+ , working with Oprah , dropped out , too .
Speaking @ @ @ @ @ @ @ framed her decision in terms of journalistic caution : “ I just care about getting it right , and I think there are some inconsistencies in the stories.
” She has also said that Simmons pressured her to drop the project but that his efforts did not influence her decision .
Regardless , the commotion overshadowed the film before it was widely seen .
“ On the Record , ” which HBO Max picked up in February , follows Drew Dixon , the daughter of Sharon Pratt , the first black female mayor @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a music obsessive in D.C. and , after graduating from Stanford , came to New York in 1992 , to make a name for herself in the industry ; early in the film , we watch as she walks down the Bedford-Stuyvesant blocks where , a generation ago , she befriended the Notorious B.I.G .
When Dixon , a phenomenal speaker and a true believer , was working in A .
& R. at Def Jam in 1994 , she recalls , one of Simmons ’ s handlers warned her to make herself @ @ @ @ @ @ @ have time for any of Simmons ’ s “ tall , skinny bitches.
” ( In the film , Dixon , transported by the memory , imitates the handler ’ s accent , her eyes flickering . )
Dixon details her sustained sexual harassment by Simmons , who , she alleges , exposed himself to her at work and lured her to his apartment in 1995 and raped her .
( Simmons said in a statement to the filmmakers , “ I have issued countless denials of the false allegations against me .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ life honorably as an open book for decades , devoid of any kind of violence against anyone.
” ) The title is a double entendre ; the directors watch as Dixon , in 2017 , goes to the Times with her story , and then takes calls from Coscarelli , who tells her that other women have accused Simmons of misconduct as well .
The intimate portrait soon seamlessly expands to include testimonies from the activist and former model Sil Lai Abrams , the rapper Sherri Hines , and the screenwriter Jenny Lumet @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Simmons in an open letter published in the Hollywood Reporter .
“ On the Record ” is an alternative history , a version of VH1 ’ s “ Behind the Music ” narrated not by the male victors but from a black feminist perspective that sees hip-hop as the enterprise of ingenious yet wounded men .
The underdog status accorded to the genre , the film suggests , permitted unchecked decadence and unchecked power .
“ I didn ’ t want to let the culture down , ” Dixon says .
“ I @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Jam , Dixon worked for the record executive L. A. Reid , who she alleges harassed her , and then left the music industry .
( Reid denies having harassed Dixon . )
No emergent hip-hop fanatics can claim their education complete without hearing the sociological analyses delivered in the film by the music journalist and theorist Joan Morgan , the legal scholar Kimberlé Crenshaw , and Kierna Mayo , the longtime steward of Ebony .
The film ’ s buzziest line of inquiry is its audit of # MeToo , which did @ @ @ @ @ @ @ black women .
The mixture of rage and resignation I felt after watching was compounded by the suspicion that “ On the Record ” may get lost in the shuffle .
♦

Snappy as it sounded, the term “streaming wars,” in retrospect, was an overblown way to describe the competition between the companies that hoped to monopolize TV streaming. Little about the rollouts of the major subscription services this year has seemed grand or strategic. A better martial allusion? Clusterfuck. Teasers promise portals to unprecedented ways of viewing programs new and old, but so much curation soon starts to look like clutter. Subscribe to Apple TV+, Disney+ and Hulu, Netflix, the ill-fated Quibi, and now HBO Max—the latest of the big-deal bundles to première, in late May—and find yourself participating in a bitter joke: we have invented cable.
HBO, the tentpole of WarnerMedia, is still a symbol of prestige television, and a lingering fidelity to the network will, I suspect, draw many people to HBO Max, even though the network has done a poor job of explaining what the new service actually is, or how it differs from the video-on-demand fixture that predates it, HBO Now. Subscribers, paying up to fifteen dollars a month, will get access to all HBO series, more than two thousand feature films, other WarnerMedia television properties, and attractive extras like the works of the Japanese animation director Hayao Miyazaki’s Studio Ghibli. The library is nowhere near as deep as Netflix’s, but that lends HBO Max a veneer of the bespoke. Still, as economic depression looms, what seemed like a necessity a few months ago may now be, for many people, an unjustifiable luxury.
HBO Max meant to celebrate its inauguration with a newly shot “Friends” special. The series, which WarnerMedia grabbed from Netflix, along with “The Big Bang Theory,” is its biggest syndication coup. But the novel coronavirus doesn’t like reunions. Several original series were also put on pause mid-development, which is fine, since the real draw is WarnerMedia’s archive.
The new shows that came into being just before the shutdown are plastic simulacra of shows of yore—the kind of pretty, algorithmic television that pleasantly empties a quarantined mind. “The Sopranos” is in no danger of being surpassed by any of them. “Love Life,” from the newcomer Sam Boyd, starring the fizzy Anna Kendrick as a twentysomething struggling to find romance in New York City, is like “Girls” on low-battery mode. “Legendary,” a competition between houses in the ballroom community, has an irksome superficiality; you can always tell when producers forget that reality TV is a craft. It dazzles because of its contestants but is cavalier in its shiny corporatizing of a queer art. The best of the new shows is “The Not-Too-Late Show with Elmo,” on which Cookie Monster serves as co-host and guests include such child-friendly celebrities as John Mulaney, who made a quirky and moving children’s special last year for Netflix, and a giggling Jimmy Fallon. Elmo is a conscientious interviewer and an icon for our homebound time; like all of us, he is perpetually pantsless and very hairy. I asked Xavier, my five-year-old nephew, what he thought of “Not-Too-Late,” and he said it was “the best thing in the world!”
An anomaly on this cutesy slate is “On the Record,” a wrenching film about sexual assault in hip-hop. It was directed by Kirby Dick and Amy Ziering, who, in the documentaries “The Invisible War” and “The Hunting Ground,” about sexual assault in the U.S. military and on college campuses, respectively, have forged an empathetic style of muckraking. More than a dozen women have accused Russell Simmons, the mogul co-founder of Def Jam Recordings, of sexual misconduct, from the eighties to 2014. Journalists such as Melena Ryzik and Joe Coscarelli, at the Times, have found the accusers credible, but Simmons, despite being forced to leave his companies in 2017, has suffered relatively few legal ramifications. Years ago, he reinvented himself as a mild-mannered yogi; recently, he moved to Bali. He and other pioneers of the scene have been accorded a complicated veneration in the black-music space. In some ways, this esteem is more intractable than that given to any individual artist. Cancel R. Kelly, and R. & B. endures. But how to excommunicate a forefather who successfully pitched hip-hop to the world as valuable, in every sense of the word? Cancel Russell Simmons, and the house falls.
How “On the Record” came to HBO Max is a lesson in power and its caprices. In January, shortly before the film was to première at Sundance, Oprah Winfrey, who had signed on as an executive producer, pulled out. Apple TV+, working with Oprah, dropped out, too. Speaking to Gayle King on CBS, Winfrey framed her decision in terms of journalistic caution: “I just care about getting it right, and I think there are some inconsistencies in the stories.” She has also said that Simmons pressured her to drop the project but that his efforts did not influence her decision. Regardless, the commotion overshadowed the film before it was widely seen.
“On the Record,” which HBO Max picked up in February, follows Drew Dixon, the daughter of Sharon Pratt, the first black female mayor of Washington, D.C. Dixon grew up a music obsessive in D.C. and, after graduating from Stanford, came to New York in 1992, to make a name for herself in the industry; early in the film, we watch as she walks down the Bedford-Stuyvesant blocks where, a generation ago, she befriended the Notorious B.I.G. When Dixon, a phenomenal speaker and a true believer, was working in A. & R. at Def Jam in 1994, she recalls, one of Simmons’s handlers warned her to make herself invisible, because he didn’t have time for any of Simmons’s “tall, skinny bitches.” (In the film, Dixon, transported by the memory, imitates the handler’s accent, her eyes flickering.) Dixon details her sustained sexual harassment by Simmons, who, she alleges, exposed himself to her at work and lured her to his apartment in 1995 and raped her. (Simmons said in a statement to the filmmakers, “I have issued countless denials of the false allegations against me. . . . I have lived my life honorably as an open book for decades, devoid of any kind of violence against anyone.”)
The title is a double entendre; the directors watch as Dixon, in 2017, goes to the Times with her story, and then takes calls from Coscarelli, who tells her that other women have accused Simmons of misconduct as well. The intimate portrait soon seamlessly expands to include testimonies from the activist and former model Sil Lai Abrams, the rapper Sherri Hines, and the screenwriter Jenny Lumet, who described her alleged assault by Simmons in an open letter published in the Hollywood Reporter.
“On the Record” is an alternative history, a version of VH1’s “Behind the Music” narrated not by the male victors but from a black feminist perspective that sees hip-hop as the enterprise of ingenious yet wounded men. The underdog status accorded to the genre, the film suggests, permitted unchecked decadence and unchecked power. “I didn’t want to let the culture down,” Dixon says. “I love the culture.” After leaving Def Jam, Dixon worked for the record executive L. A. Reid, who she alleges harassed her, and then left the music industry. (Reid denies having harassed Dixon.)
No emergent hip-hop fanatics can claim their education complete without hearing the sociological analyses delivered in the film by the music journalist and theorist Joan Morgan, the legal scholar Kimberlé Crenshaw, and Kierna Mayo, the longtime steward of Ebony. The film’s buzziest line of inquiry is its audit of #MeToo, which did not make space for the experiences of black women. The mixture of rage and resignation I felt after watching was compounded by the suspicion that “On the Record” may get lost in the shuffle. ♦


newyorker--2020-05-28--A Guide to the Economics and Politics of the Coronavirus Recovery

Just a month ago , experts were predicting that the American economy would be slow to recover from the coronavirus @ @ @ @ @ record highs , but , as the country begins to reopen , federal policies that @ @ @ @ @ bailed out big ones seem to have helped avoid another Great Depression .
John Cassidy @ @ @ @ @ how good news about the economy complicates Joe Biden ’ s campaign against Donald Trump @

Photograph by Marco Bello / Reuters
Just a month ago, experts were predicting that the American economy would be slow to recover from the coronavirus pandemic. Unemployment remains at record highs, but, as the country begins to reopen, federal policies that have bolstered small businesses and bailed out big ones seem to have helped avoid another Great Depression. John Cassidy joins Dorothy Wickenden to discuss how good news about the economy complicates Joe Biden’s campaign against Donald Trump.


newyorker--2020-05-28--Can Christopher Nolan Save the Summer?

Can Christopher Nolan Save the Summer?

Ever since Christopher Nolan decided to hold firm to a July 17th release date for his futuristic spy thriller “ Tenet , ” Hollywood has been speculating whether Warner Bros. would go through with it .
Would theatres be open in time ?
What would happen if the theatres opened but infection rates spiked ?
In March and April , when studios yanked franchise after franchise from the summer schedule for safer dates later on—the postponements include the new Bond film , “ No Time to Die , ” Disney ’ s live-action “ Mulan , ” Paramount ’ s @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” Sony ’ s “ Ghostbusters : Afterlife , ” and Marvel ’ s “ Black Widow ” —Nolan ’ s determination to stick with his July date , which is right on the edge of the most optimistic reopening scenarios , seemed to reflect a calculus going far beyond that required by the release and distribution of a film .
“ Tenet ” has attained talismanic status as the movie that will not just spearhead a return to theatres and save the summer , but also reboot the entire entertainment industry .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ it to the 150,000 workers of this great American industry to include them in those we help , we owe it to ourselves , ” Nolan wrote in a Washington Post editorial in March , after six thousand cinemas had shuttered .
Little is known about “ Tenet , ” which is described as a “ quantum Cold War thriller , ” and was shot under the director ’ s usual cloak of secrecy .
But , based on the recent trailers , the movie seems to take place in a quasi-futuristic universe @ @ @ @ @ @ @ rules as “ Inception , ” wherein the tropes of traditional movie spycraft—yachts , private clubs , cyanide capsules , high-security vaults , Russians—rub shoulders with a science-fiction conceit having to do with reversed time , or “ inversion.
” An agent , played by John David Washington , is seen taking aim with a gun at a concrete target in a firing range ; he pulls the trigger , but , instead of a bullet firing from the chamber , a spent cartridge flies into his gun and a small crater in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Similar reversals are enjoyed by a huge container ship ploughing backward through waves and an un-crashing car , tumbling end over end to land back on its wheels .
“ What happened here ?
” asks another character , played by Robert Pattinson .
“ It hasn ’ t happened yet , ” replies Washington ’ s agent .
The film ’ s title , “ Tenet , ” is , of course , a palindrome , reading the same backward as forward .
Clearly , Nolan is intent on the kind of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” into a layer cake of converging time lines and “ Memento ” into a Möbius strip of entwined plots .
The idea of reversed photography goes back to Sergei Eisenstein ’ s “ October , ” from 1928 , in which a shattered statue of Tsar Alexander III is seen reassembling itself to suggest the retrenchment of tsarism .
“ For that scene , Edmund Meisel recorded the music in reverse , ” Eisenstein said , “ but I do not suppose anyone noticed this musical trick.
” One of the earliest @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Mark Twain ’ s posthumously published novel , “ A Mysterious Stranger , ” which he began writing in 1897 , in which Satan , attempting to explain to a printer that “ life itself is only a vision , a dream , ” takes them both on a reverse trip around the clock face : As even this short passage makes clear , the device is hard to sustain without falling into inconsistency : Why would the wounded be hit again and then complain about it ?
Wouldn ’ t it be @ @ @ @ @ @ @ would the backward-speaking people not understand one another ?
Similar snafus afflict Lewis Carroll ’ s “ Sylvie and Bruno Concluded , ” from 1893 , in which a dinner is eaten backward ( “ an empty fork is raised to the lips : there it receives a neatly cut piece of mutton and swiftly conveys it to the plate , where it instantly attaches itself to the mutton already there ” ) but the conversation flows forward .
Carroll ’ s novel also introduced the idea of semordnilaps , or “ half @ @ @ @ @ @ @ word entirely when read backward , like “ evil.
” Nolan is fond of such parallelism and patterning at both the macro and micro levels .
The action of his first American film , “ Memento , ” from 2000 , is generally misdescribed as proceeding backward , although it is the order of the scenes that is reversed , not the action within the scenes .
The device is a surprisingly effective evocation of the discombobulation of its amnesiac hero , Leonard , whose memory wipes every ten minutes , leaving him @ @ @ @ @ @ @ As he explains : “ There are things you know for sure .
Such as ?
I know what that ’ s gon na sound like when I knock on it .
I know what that ’ s gon na feel like when I pick it up .
See ?
Certainties .
It ’ s the kind of memory you take for granted .
You know , I can remember so much .
The feel of the world.
” On the twentieth anniversary of “ Memento , ” Nolan appears to have found @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of an entire plot .
“ Don ’ t try to understand it .
.
.
.
Feel it , ” urges Clémence Poésy in the first trailer for “ Tenet.
” The director ’ s fascination with the feel of time—its distortions , dislocations , and disquiet—will surely strike a resonant chord with the endless hours of our coronavirus summer .
Don ’ t we all wish we could roll back recent history ?
An oft-noted paradox of the pandemic is that time has started to behave in mysterious ways : each @ @ @ @ @ @ @ yet the hours just disappear , and the months before COVID-19 seem a lifetime ago .
The physicist Alan Lightman described the feeling in The Atlantic :

Ever since Christopher Nolan decided to hold firm to a July 17th release date for his futuristic spy thriller “Tenet,” Hollywood has been speculating whether Warner Bros. would go through with it. Would theatres be open in time? What would happen if the theatres opened but infection rates spiked? In March and April, when studios yanked franchise after franchise from the summer schedule for safer dates later on—the postponements include the new Bond film, “No Time to Die,” Disney’s live-action “Mulan,” Paramount’s “A Quiet Place Part II,” Sony’s “Ghostbusters: Afterlife,” and Marvel’s “Black Widow”—Nolan’s determination to stick with his July date, which is right on the edge of the most optimistic reopening scenarios, seemed to reflect a calculus going far beyond that required by the release and distribution of a film. “Tenet” has attained talismanic status as the movie that will not just spearhead a return to theatres and save the summer, but also reboot the entire entertainment industry. “We don’t just owe it to the 150,000 workers of this great American industry to include them in those we help, we owe it to ourselves,” Nolan wrote in a Washington Post editorial in March, after six thousand cinemas had shuttered.
Little is known about “Tenet,” which is described as a “quantum Cold War thriller,” and was shot under the director’s usual cloak of secrecy. But, based on the recent trailers, the movie seems to take place in a quasi-futuristic universe that cleaves to the same set of rules as “Inception,” wherein the tropes of traditional movie spycraft—yachts, private clubs, cyanide capsules, high-security vaults, Russians—rub shoulders with a science-fiction conceit having to do with reversed time, or “inversion.” An agent, played by John David Washington, is seen taking aim with a gun at a concrete target in a firing range; he pulls the trigger, but, instead of a bullet firing from the chamber, a spent cartridge flies into his gun and a small crater in the concrete suddenly smooths itself out. Similar reversals are enjoyed by a huge container ship ploughing backward through waves and an un-crashing car, tumbling end over end to land back on its wheels. “What happened here?” asks another character, played by Robert Pattinson. “It hasn’t happened yet,” replies Washington’s agent. The film’s title, “Tenet,” is, of course, a palindrome, reading the same backward as forward.
Clearly, Nolan is intent on the kind of coup de cinéma that turned “Inception” into a layer cake of converging time lines and “Memento” into a Möbius strip of entwined plots. The idea of reversed photography goes back to Sergei Eisenstein’s “October,” from 1928, in which a shattered statue of Tsar Alexander III is seen reassembling itself to suggest the retrenchment of tsarism. “For that scene, Edmund Meisel recorded the music in reverse,” Eisenstein said, “but I do not suppose anyone noticed this musical trick.” One of the earliest literary instances of the device appears in Mark Twain’s posthumously published novel, “A Mysterious Stranger,” which he began writing in 1897, in which Satan, attempting to explain to a printer that “life itself is only a vision, a dream,” takes them both on a reverse trip around the clock face:
Everywhere weary people were re-chattering previous conversations backwards and not understanding each other, and oh, did they look tuckered out and tired of it all! And always there were groups gazing miserably at the town clocks; in every city funerals were being held again that had already been held once, and the hearses and processions were marching solemnly backwards; where there was war, yesterday’s battles were being refought, wrong-end first; the previously killed were getting killed again, the previously wounded were getting hit again and complaining about it.
As even this short passage makes clear, the device is hard to sustain without falling into inconsistency: Why would the wounded be hit again and then complain about it? Wouldn’t it be the other way around? And why would the backward-speaking people not understand one another? Similar snafus afflict Lewis Carroll’s “Sylvie and Bruno Concluded,” from 1893, in which a dinner is eaten backward (“an empty fork is raised to the lips: there it receives a neatly cut piece of mutton and swiftly conveys it to the plate, where it instantly attaches itself to the mutton already there”) but the conversation flows forward. Carroll’s novel also introduced the idea of semordnilaps, or “half palindromes”—words that create a different word entirely when read backward, like “evil.”
Nolan is fond of such parallelism and patterning at both the macro and micro levels. The action of his first American film, “Memento,” from 2000, is generally misdescribed as proceeding backward, although it is the order of the scenes that is reversed, not the action within the scenes. The device is a surprisingly effective evocation of the discombobulation of its amnesiac hero, Leonard, whose memory wipes every ten minutes, leaving him only his sense memory for guidance. As he explains: “There are things you know for sure. Such as? I know what that’s gonna sound like when I knock on it. I know what that’s gonna feel like when I pick it up. See? Certainties. It’s the kind of memory you take for granted. You know, I can remember so much. The feel of the world.”
On the twentieth anniversary of “Memento,” Nolan appears to have found a way to make inversion the MacGuffin of an entire plot. “Don’t try to understand it. . . . Feel it,” urges Clémence Poésy in the first trailer for “Tenet.” The director’s fascination with the feel of time—its distortions, dislocations, and disquiet—will surely strike a resonant chord with the endless hours of our coronavirus summer. Don’t we all wish we could roll back recent history? An oft-noted paradox of the pandemic is that time has started to behave in mysterious ways: each day can seem like an eternity, yet the hours just disappear, and the months before COVID-19 seem a lifetime ago. The physicist Alan Lightman described the feeling in The Atlantic:
At home, time and space have opened up in our minds. Even for those who continue their professional life working online, schedules have become more flexible. Demands have retreated. Daily routines have been interrupted. We suddenly have unstructured, free-floating, beckoning time. This terrible disaster has freed us from the prison of our time-driven lives.
The actress and singer Bette Midler captured the sentiment more succinctly in a recent tweet.
It’s Saturday. I think. Like you, I find my days a blur, one day very similar to the next . . . news, housework, bad news, emails, worry, phone calls, cooking, eating. It’s surreal, only real. Am I in an episode of a reality show?
Meanwhile, a recent New Scientist article reported that a stratospheric balloon launched by NASA with radio antennae pointed back at Earth detected evidence of a high-energy particle—extremely high-energy neutrinos—coming up from the Earth’s surface, but no source. “Explaining this signal requires the existence of a topsy-turvy universe created in the same Big Bang as our own and existing in parallel with it,” the New Scientist reported. “In this mirror world, positive is negative, left is right and time runs backwards.” When the release of the “Tenet” trailer was delayed by a few hours last Thursday, one of the many waiting fans had this comment about the parallel universe: “Guess that’s where the Tenet trailer is releasing.”
It’s hard to imagine a richer subsoil for a Nolan film to implant itself in. “Tenet” is not about a global pandemic, but the global pandemic has turned us all into Nolanoids—twitchy chronomaniacs stuck in limbo like the heroes of “Memento” and “Inception,” mourning lost time while the cities outside our windows empty of their populations. Many have commented that our lives have turned into a dystopian science-fiction movie. Could “Tenet” be that movie? Among the most intriguing details of the trailers are the oxygen masks worn by Washington and, in another scene, by Kenneth Branagh—surely an accidental echo of the omnipresent imagery of masks in the era of self-quarantine and P.P.E. shortages, but an eerie one nonetheless. Come July, we could be treated to the sight of cinemas half full of patrons wearing masks and cheering on Nolan’s masked heroes as they thwart threats of global annihilation.


newyorker--2020-05-28--The Case for Eating Crickets

The Case for Eating Crickets

Three years ago , Jude Tallichet , a visual artist and educator , received an unusual request from her friend Adam Brody : Would she host his crickets in her home for the summer ?
Brody , a novice cricket farmer , was leaving the country for two months , heading to Jordan for an artist ’ s residency .
“ I couldn ’ t take all my adult crickets on the airplane , ” he told me recently , “ although I managed to sneak some babies with me in a tin .
So I needed someone to babysit @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the crickets have stayed in her studio ever since .
In the video above , the pair , who are frequent artistic collaborators , discuss life with their stock of insects—an orchestra that ranges in size from five to seven thousand—which they are raising for food .
Crickets match cows in their protein value , but raising cattle requires thirteen times more space to produce the same amount of meat , making insects an earth-conscious alternative to industrial mammal husbandry .
Starting your own farm takes little more than a few escape-proof containers @ @ @ @ @ @ @ crickets to live in .
They will eat anything you give them .
Brody , a freelance video editor and musician , first wondered about cultivating a homegrown source of protein in 2016 , and he turned for advice to Tallichet , his former art professor .
“ Jude said , ‘ Look at yourself in the mirror and ask if you want to be a cricket farmer , ’ ” he says in the film .
“ And I did , and I was , like , ‘ Yeah !
’ ” @ @ @ @ @ @ @ on the project .
The insects Brody and Tallichet rear , Acheta domesticus , or house crickets , are highly communal .
They ’ re “ comfortable with being in densely populated areas , ” Brody explains—a quality they share with other New York inhabitants .
This urban sensibility also sets them apart from their cousins the mole crickets , which “ have their own little burrow and don ’ t want another cricket near , ” he adds .
The cricket farm takes up some twenty square feet at Tallichet ’ s @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , a two-story building that was formerly a synagogue .
Most of the insects are housed in two big crates , which bring to mind British telephone booths laid on their side : they ’ re made of old window frames that Tallichet and Brody salvaged at Brooklyn ’ s Big Reuse , sealed with silicone , and painted red and white .
“ They are where the worship space was , on the second floor , ” Tallichet told me .
Instead of a Torah ark , the crates face a pink-and-green @ @ @ @ @ @ @ heart .
“ This is a cricket house of worship now , ” she added , laughing .
The farm ’ s third large container is currently marooned at the Children ’ s Museum of the Arts , where the duo had staged a multimedia exhibition before lockdown , performing music alongside gently modulated chirping , which was amplified via a wireless microphone placed inside one of the crates .
When the coronavirus began to spread , the museum closed to the public .
The box is now sitting empty : “ We @ @ @ @ @ @ @ crickets out of it , ” Tallichet told me .
“ Those were the ones we cooked on camera.
” In the video , Tallichet puts some two hundred crickets into the freezer for half an hour .
“ They go from dormancy to freezing , ” she explains , adding , “ These guys are six months old .
They ’ ve really had a long life.
” She then fries them in coconut oil with cumin and paprika , and mixes them into fried rice .
Sitting down to their plates @ @ @ @ @ @ @ clink water glasses .
“ To quarantine , ” they say , both smiling .
They just cooked up four per cent of their stock .

Three years ago, Jude Tallichet, a visual artist and educator, received an unusual request from her friend Adam Brody: Would she host his crickets in her home for the summer? Brody, a novice cricket farmer, was leaving the country for two months, heading to Jordan for an artist’s residency. “I couldn’t take all my adult crickets on the airplane,” he told me recently, “although I managed to sneak some babies with me in a tin. So I needed someone to babysit the rest.” Tallichet loved the idea—and the crickets have stayed in her studio ever since.
In the video above, the pair, who are frequent artistic collaborators, discuss life with their stock of insects—an orchestra that ranges in size from five to seven thousand—which they are raising for food. Crickets match cows in their protein value, but raising cattle requires thirteen times more space to produce the same amount of meat, making insects an earth-conscious alternative to industrial mammal husbandry. Starting your own farm takes little more than a few escape-proof containers and some cardboard egg crates for the crickets to live in. They will eat anything you give them.
Brody, a freelance video editor and musician, first wondered about cultivating a homegrown source of protein in 2016, and he turned for advice to Tallichet, his former art professor. “Jude said, ‘Look at yourself in the mirror and ask if you want to be a cricket farmer,’ ” he says in the film. “And I did, and I was, like, ‘Yeah!’ ” A year later, Tallichet joined him on the project.
The insects Brody and Tallichet rear, Acheta domesticus, or house crickets, are highly communal. They’re “comfortable with being in densely populated areas,” Brody explains—a quality they share with other New York inhabitants. This urban sensibility also sets them apart from their cousins the mole crickets, which “have their own little burrow and don’t want another cricket near,” he adds.
The cricket farm takes up some twenty square feet at Tallichet’s Ridgewood, Queens, home and studio, a two-story building that was formerly a synagogue. Most of the insects are housed in two big crates, which bring to mind British telephone booths laid on their side: they’re made of old window frames that Tallichet and Brody salvaged at Brooklyn’s Big Reuse, sealed with silicone, and painted red and white. “They are where the worship space was, on the second floor,” Tallichet told me. Instead of a Torah ark, the crates face a pink-and-green neon sign: a cricket inside a heart. “This is a cricket house of worship now,” she added, laughing.
The farm’s third large container is currently marooned at the Children’s Museum of the Arts, where the duo had staged a multimedia exhibition before lockdown, performing music alongside gently modulated chirping, which was amplified via a wireless microphone placed inside one of the crates. When the coronavirus began to spread, the museum closed to the public. The box is now sitting empty: “We did manage to rescue most of the crickets out of it,” Tallichet told me. “Those were the ones we cooked on camera.”
In the video, Tallichet puts some two hundred crickets into the freezer for half an hour. “They go from dormancy to freezing,” she explains, adding, “These guys are six months old. They’ve really had a long life.” She then fries them in coconut oil with cumin and paprika, and mixes them into fried rice. Sitting down to their plates of crickets and rice, the pair clink water glasses. “To quarantine,” they say, both smiling. They just cooked up four per cent of their stock.


newyorker--2020-05-28--In Netflix’s “Space Force,” Steve Carell Is Stranded Between the Caustic and the Cutesy

“ Space Force , ” on Netflix , created by Steve Carell and Greg Daniels , takes the founding of the actual U.S. Space Force—a long-simmering concept made real by President Trump in 2019—to its absurd extremes , many of which are insufficiently absurd enough to stand up against contemporary reality .
By turns winningly silly , curiously flat , and hauntingly off-key , the series presents a case study in the artistic perils of trying simultaneously to present a fresh satire of the military-industrial complex and a comfort-food buffet of workplace-sitcom commonplaces .
It seems stranded between the caustic @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” is perhaps best appreciated as a gallery of cherished stars and character actors who will kindle warmth in the hearts of an indulgent audience .
Carell is Mark Naird , an Air Force officer promoted by his Commander-in-Chief to lead an extraterrestrial adventure in manifest destiny .
The series does not invoke Trump ’ s name , but it conjures the spectre of a moody executive with a twitchy Twitter finger ; this POTUS tweets , of the Space Force , that he wants “ boots on the moon by 2024 , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ boobs.
” This is too small a joke for a world so tragic as our own .
Naird ’ s situation is of a man with ramrod-straight posture prostrated and disarrayed at many odd angles .
This is a person who , waking with dread in the dead of night , remakes his bed upon rising .
This is also a person who , to compose himself at a difficult moment , sings the Beach Boys ’ “ Kokomo ” alone in his office , as if it were a meditative mantra @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ s talents for squareness and stiff bumbling , like a baby-boomer joke without a punch line .
Naird ’ s family—a desperately grinning wife ( Lisa Kudrow ) ; an averagely sulky teen-age daughter ( Diana Silvers ) —fitfully settles into the Colorado cowtown where the Space Force is headquartered .
There , Naird ’ s close colleague and regular foil is Dr. Adrian Mallory , a civilian scientist played by John Malkovich , whose delicate superciliousness is among the show ’ s primary pleasures .
Their office is staffed by chipper @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , greasy attachés , and dutiful underlings , and the series hesitates to follow the lead of , say , the U.S. version of “ The Office , ” also created by Daniels and starring Carell , in arranging for this group to somehow form a family .
There ’ s too much sprawl to the ensemble to allow for that , and the sensibility of “ Space Force ” is such that it navigates an odd path between the sweet tropes of a calming network sitcom ( as when Naird returns from @ @ @ @ @ @ @ help his daughter with her trigonometry homework ) and its spasms of rage at governmental power ( as when , defending the existence of the Space Force , he compares its record of atrocities to that of the other service branches , saying , “ We haven ’ t had a My Lai yet ” ) .
Though “ Space Force ” often assumes the shape of a topical comedy , it ’ s squishy about its purposes .
In the third episode , Naird and Mallory venture to Capitol Hill , where @ @ @ @ @ @ @ will determine the fate of their project .
At the witness table , Naird fields a pointed question about government waste from a young New York legislator named Anabela Ysidro-Campos , who bears a resemblance to Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez that is both impressive and pointless .
The general rises to the challenge of her reasonable query with a heart-stirring speech , and the score swells beneath his words , in a way that is not totally in earnest but not quite mocking , either .
The show wants to satirize an extraterrestrial adventure in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ apple pie , too .
The light-hearted dystopia of “ Space Force ” is too close to home to serve as an entertaining escape—the show can not escape the gravity of its own premise .

“Space Force,” on Netflix, created by Steve Carell and Greg Daniels, takes the founding of the actual U.S. Space Force—a long-simmering concept made real by President Trump in 2019—to its absurd extremes, many of which are insufficiently absurd enough to stand up against contemporary reality. By turns winningly silly, curiously flat, and hauntingly off-key, the series presents a case study in the artistic perils of trying simultaneously to present a fresh satire of the military-industrial complex and a comfort-food buffet of workplace-sitcom commonplaces. It seems stranded between the caustic and the cutesy.
“Space Force” is perhaps best appreciated as a gallery of cherished stars and character actors who will kindle warmth in the hearts of an indulgent audience. Carell is Mark Naird, an Air Force officer promoted by his Commander-in-Chief to lead an extraterrestrial adventure in manifest destiny. The series does not invoke Trump’s name, but it conjures the spectre of a moody executive with a twitchy Twitter finger; this POTUS tweets, of the Space Force, that he wants “boots on the moon by 2024,” while mistyping “boots” as “boobs.” This is too small a joke for a world so tragic as our own.
Naird’s situation is of a man with ramrod-straight posture prostrated and disarrayed at many odd angles. This is a person who, waking with dread in the dead of night, remakes his bed upon rising. This is also a person who, to compose himself at a difficult moment, sings the Beach Boys’ “Kokomo” alone in his office, as if it were a meditative mantra. The scene plays, despite Carell’s talents for squareness and stiff bumbling, like a baby-boomer joke without a punch line.
Naird’s family—a desperately grinning wife (Lisa Kudrow); an averagely sulky teen-age daughter (Diana Silvers)—fitfully settles into the Colorado cowtown where the Space Force is headquartered. There, Naird’s close colleague and regular foil is Dr. Adrian Mallory, a civilian scientist played by John Malkovich, whose delicate superciliousness is among the show’s primary pleasures. Their office is staffed by chipper blunderers, earnest eye-rollers, sleazy climbers, greasy attachés, and dutiful underlings, and the series hesitates to follow the lead of, say, the U.S. version of “The Office,” also created by Daniels and starring Carell, in arranging for this group to somehow form a family. There’s too much sprawl to the ensemble to allow for that, and the sensibility of “Space Force” is such that it navigates an odd path between the sweet tropes of a calming network sitcom (as when Naird returns from a harried night of international intrigue to help his daughter with her trigonometry homework) and its spasms of rage at governmental power (as when, defending the existence of the Space Force, he compares its record of atrocities to that of the other service branches, saying, “We haven’t had a My Lai yet”).
Though “Space Force” often assumes the shape of a topical comedy, it’s squishy about its purposes. In the third episode, Naird and Mallory venture to Capitol Hill, where a hearing before the Armed Services Committee will determine the fate of their project. At the witness table, Naird fields a pointed question about government waste from a young New York legislator named Anabela Ysidro-Campos, who bears a resemblance to Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez that is both impressive and pointless. The general rises to the challenge of her reasonable query with a heart-stirring speech, and the score swells beneath his words, in a way that is not totally in earnest but not quite mocking, either. The show wants to satirize an extraterrestrial adventure in manifest destiny and to have its all-American apple pie, too. The light-hearted dystopia of “Space Force” is too close to home to serve as an entertaining escape—the show cannot escape the gravity of its own premise.


newyorker--2020-05-28--How the Coronavirus Exacerbated Oregon’s Bitter Political Divide

The first time that Samantha wore a mask at work , her manager issued a reprimand .
A customer had complained .
She was scaring people , the shopper had told Samantha ’ s boss at the grocery store where she ’ s a cashier and service-desk attendant .
This was mid-March , with the coronavirus outbreak in full bloom and spreading through the country .
Although Oregon had yet to detect even a hundred cases , and there were none confirmed in the rural town along the Columbia River where Samantha lives and works , Washington State , just @ @ @ @ @ @ @ more than seven hundred confirmed cases and more than forty deaths .
( Samantha ’ s name has been changed , due to fears of retribution from her employer . )
Because she shares a household with her in-laws , both of whom are in their seventies and , therefore , vulnerable to coronavirus infection , Samantha paid extra close attention to COVID-19 and its dangers early on .
Covering her nose and mouth , she knew , could help prevent transmission of the virus , and donning a mask during her shift @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a decision that could save shoppers ’ lives .
Yet this shopper accused Samantha of wearing it to boost a socialist agenda , to hype the pandemic , to strike fear in the minds of those wheeling their carts down aisles to procure the week ’ s groceries .
The customer , a former employee at the store , likely held sway with Samantha ’ s boss , who pulled her from her work station .
“ So I spent an hour in the office being talked to about how they had to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ I couldn ’ t wear it , and they ’ re going to have to send me home , ” Samantha told me .
About a week later , on March 23rd , with a hundred and ninety-one confirmed cases in the state , Governor Kate Brown issued a stay-at-home order , closing businesses deemed unable to maintain social distancing ( including theatres , boutiques , malls , gyms , and restaurants without takeout options ) and most parks , and insisting that Oregonians keep six feet apart—measures the governor later described to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ aggressive actions.
” When the grocery chain where Samantha works finally adjusted its policy , at first allowing and then requiring employees to wear masks , there was no vindication , no apology .
Instead , Samantha and her co-workers absorbed , and continue to absorb , more accusations of fearmongering .
“ A lot of people make .
.
.
remarks at us about how we ’ re feeding hysteria , how there ’ s nothing going on and it ’ s a government thing , ” she said .
Feeding hysteria @ @ @ @ @ @ @ masks as emblems of nanny-state rule .
These charges echo far beyond Samantha ’ s checkout line .
They ’ re now part of a political landscape that belies Oregon ’ s image as a progressive enclave .
The state presents blue on electoral maps : it ’ s voted Democratic in the past eight Presidential elections ; Governor Brown is a Democrat , as are both the state ’ s U.S. senators and four of its five U.S. representatives ; and the Party dominates the state house and state senate .
Pan @ @ @ @ @ @ @ though , and you gain a more discordant picture .
If your vision of Oregon comes via “ Portlandia ” —the sketch-comedy show on IFC starring Fred Armisen and Carrie Brownstein , which , for eight seasons , both lampooned and gushed affection for a certain stripe of twee progressivism—this other Oregon will come as a surprise .
This other Oregon is less likely to obsess over craft beer and bike lanes , tiny houses and food carts .
The majority of the state ’ s counties are red , and this generally @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , white , G.O.P.-voting .
Then there ’ s the other other Oregon .
The Oregon of Ammon Bundy ’ s armed takeover of the Malheur National Wildlife Refuge , in 2016 .
The Oregon where multiple counties are attempting to secede and join unambiguously red Idaho .
The Oregon where the pandemic , while not the source of these tensions , has exacerbated them .
All of this is despite—and possibly because—the state has a much lower infection rate than the two Pacific Coast states that it ’ s caught between .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ Governor Brown ordered much of the state closed , this other Oregon was in orbit around the capitol , in Salem—a parade of cars and pickup trucks from which issued whoops and honks and the sputtering of diesel engines which sounded like the clearing of throats .
On the capitol steps , below the white marble Art Deco tower , hundreds of protesters stood in a lashing rain , hoisting signs representing a spectrum of right-wing ideology : Trump-reëlection signs ; signs that took aim at the Governor ( “ Down with Dictator @ @ @ @ @ @ @ d rather have COVID than KATE , ” “ Kate Brown for Prison !
” ) ; signs that deemed the coronavirus a hoax ( “ END THE PLANDEMIC , ” “ This is a mass vaccination campaign hosted by Bill Gates , Big Pharma + Fauci .
Paid for by our jobs and economy ” ) .
Trying to spot even one person wearing a mask would be like playing the world ’ s weirdest , most futile find-it game— “ Where ’ s Waldo ?
: MAGA Edition.
” Unless you @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of red hats and camo , the slight frame of the University of Oregon professor Joseph Lowndes .
An expert in populist movements and the co-author of “ Producers , Parasites , Patriots : Race and the New Right-Wing Politics of Precarity , ” Lowndes quickly recognized the far-right groups at the rally : the Proud Boys , the Three Percenters , Patriot Prayer .
Many participants slung semi-automatic rifles and were sheathed in Kevlar .
“ Then , a lot of people who just look like middle-class white families , ” Lowndes @ @ @ @ @ @ @ adolescents and kids and babies in strollers.
” Lowndes attends rallies like this for research .
He ’ s inured to the spectacle : the barely-cloaked racist rhetoric , the rage , even the weapons .
But a highly contagious virus ?
All those uncovered mouths and nostrils releasing who knows what ?
Potentially lethal spittle ?
That was new .
“ Everybody ’ s breathing and shouting and chanting in close proximity .
Suddenly , the actual bodily threats were much more grave and much more unsettling , ” Lowndes told me @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , carnival-esque feel .
I think these people were so thrilled to be together , and to be able to transgress these new social norms together.
” In the crowd also lurked proponents of QAnon , the conspiracy theory that stars Donald Trump as a warrior genius central in the fight against the so-called deep state , with its predictions that all the President ’ s enemies will soon be jailed .
These proponents , their “ Q ” placards held high , had a candidate , Jo Rae Perkins , running in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ U.S. Senate a few weeks later .
And Lowndes identified another festering tension on display : the state ’ s rural-versus-urban divide .
Many of the protesters hailed from counties with few or virtually no coronavirus cases , counties where the pandemic isn ’ t regarded as just a “ government thing ” but also a “ city thing ” —often code for “ nonwhite.
” And “ white ” is etched into the region ’ s earliest vision of itself .
In the eighteen-forties and fifties , in a series of exclusion @ @ @ @ @ @ @ blacks ( “ it shall not be lawful for any negro or mulatto to enter into , or reside ” in the territory , one read ) .
“ So it was set up as a white polity from the very beginning , ” Lowndes said .
“ And something about the Oregonian racism , the Oregonian white identity , is really in its constitutional makeup , in both the metaphoric and literal sense .
”

The first time that Samantha wore a mask at work, her manager issued a reprimand. A customer had complained. She was scaring people, the shopper had told Samantha’s boss at the grocery store where she’s a cashier and service-desk attendant. This was mid-March, with the coronavirus outbreak in full bloom and spreading through the country. Although Oregon had yet to detect even a hundred cases, and there were none confirmed in the rural town along the Columbia River where Samantha lives and works, Washington State, just over the river, had already clocked more than seven hundred confirmed cases and more than forty deaths. (Samantha’s name has been changed, due to fears of retribution from her employer.) Because she shares a household with her in-laws, both of whom are in their seventies and, therefore, vulnerable to coronavirus infection, Samantha paid extra close attention to COVID-19 and its dangers early on. Covering her nose and mouth, she knew, could help prevent transmission of the virus, and donning a mask during her shift seemed not only wise but responsible, a decision that could save shoppers’ lives.
Yet this shopper accused Samantha of wearing it to boost a socialist agenda, to hype the pandemic, to strike fear in the minds of those wheeling their carts down aisles to procure the week’s groceries. The customer, a former employee at the store, likely held sway with Samantha’s boss, who pulled her from her work station. “So I spent an hour in the office being talked to about how they had to ‘O.K. things,’ and I couldn’t wear it, and they’re going to have to send me home,” Samantha told me.
About a week later, on March 23rd, with a hundred and ninety-one confirmed cases in the state, Governor Kate Brown issued a stay-at-home order, closing businesses deemed unable to maintain social distancing (including theatres, boutiques, malls, gyms, and restaurants without takeout options) and most parks, and insisting that Oregonians keep six feet apart—measures the governor later described to me as “very early and very aggressive actions.” When the grocery chain where Samantha works finally adjusted its policy, at first allowing and then requiring employees to wear masks, there was no vindication, no apology. Instead, Samantha and her co-workers absorbed, and continue to absorb, more accusations of fearmongering. “A lot of people make . . . remarks at us about how we’re feeding hysteria, how there’s nothing going on and it’s a government thing,” she said.
Feeding hysteria. A government “thing.” Cloth masks as emblems of nanny-state rule. These charges echo far beyond Samantha’s checkout line. They’re now part of a political landscape that belies Oregon’s image as a progressive enclave. The state presents blue on electoral maps: it’s voted Democratic in the past eight Presidential elections; Governor Brown is a Democrat, as are both the state’s U.S. senators and four of its five U.S. representatives; and the Party dominates the state house and state senate. Pan out, away from the cities, though, and you gain a more discordant picture.
If your vision of Oregon comes via “Portlandia”—the sketch-comedy show on IFC starring Fred Armisen and Carrie Brownstein, which, for eight seasons, both lampooned and gushed affection for a certain stripe of twee progressivism—this other Oregon will come as a surprise. This other Oregon is less likely to obsess over craft beer and bike lanes, tiny houses and food carts. The majority of the state’s counties are red, and this generally means a traditional, no-frills conservative base—Christian, white, G.O.P.-voting. Then there’s the other other Oregon. The Oregon of Ammon Bundy’s armed takeover of the Malheur National Wildlife Refuge, in 2016. The Oregon where multiple counties are attempting to secede and join unambiguously red Idaho. The Oregon where the pandemic, while not the source of these tensions, has exacerbated them. All of this is despite—and possibly because—the state has a much lower infection rate than the two Pacific Coast states that it’s caught between.
On May 2nd, forty days after Governor Brown ordered much of the state closed, this other Oregon was in orbit around the capitol, in Salem—a parade of cars and pickup trucks from which issued whoops and honks and the sputtering of diesel engines which sounded like the clearing of throats. On the capitol steps, below the white marble Art Deco tower, hundreds of protesters stood in a lashing rain, hoisting signs representing a spectrum of right-wing ideology: Trump-reëlection signs; signs that took aim at the Governor (“Down with Dictator Kate!,” “I’d rather have COVID than KATE,” “Kate Brown for Prison!”); signs that deemed the coronavirus a hoax (“END THE PLANDEMIC,” “This is a mass vaccination campaign hosted by Bill Gates, Big Pharma + Fauci. Paid for by our jobs and economy”).
Trying to spot even one person wearing a mask would be like playing the world’s weirdest, most futile find-it game—“Where’s Waldo?: MAGA Edition.” Unless you happened to glimpse, in that sea of red hats and camo, the slight frame of the University of Oregon professor Joseph Lowndes. An expert in populist movements and the co-author of “Producers, Parasites, Patriots: Race and the New Right-Wing Politics of Precarity,” Lowndes quickly recognized the far-right groups at the rally: the Proud Boys, the Three Percenters, Patriot Prayer. Many participants slung semi-automatic rifles and were sheathed in Kevlar. “Then, a lot of people who just look like middle-class white families,” Lowndes told me, “with teen-agers and adolescents and kids and babies in strollers.”
Lowndes attends rallies like this for research. He’s inured to the spectacle: the barely-cloaked racist rhetoric, the rage, even the weapons. But a highly contagious virus? All those uncovered mouths and nostrils releasing who knows what? Potentially lethal spittle? That was new. “Everybody’s breathing and shouting and chanting in close proximity. Suddenly, the actual bodily threats were much more grave and much more unsettling,” Lowndes told me. “It had almost a macabre, carnival-esque feel. I think these people were so thrilled to be together, and to be able to transgress these new social norms together.”
In the crowd also lurked proponents of QAnon, the conspiracy theory that stars Donald Trump as a warrior genius central in the fight against the so-called deep state, with its predictions that all the President’s enemies will soon be jailed. These proponents, their “Q” placards held high, had a candidate, Jo Rae Perkins, running in the G.O.P. primary election for the U.S. Senate a few weeks later. And Lowndes identified another festering tension on display: the state’s rural-versus-urban divide. Many of the protesters hailed from counties with few or virtually no coronavirus cases, counties where the pandemic isn’t regarded as just a “government thing” but also a “city thing”—often code for “nonwhite.” And “white” is etched into the region’s earliest vision of itself. In the eighteen-forties and fifties, in a series of exclusion laws, Oregon banned slaves and free blacks (“it shall not be lawful for any negro or mulatto to enter into, or reside” in the territory, one read). “So it was set up as a white polity from the very beginning,” Lowndes said. “And something about the Oregonian racism, the Oregonian white identity, is really in its constitutional makeup, in both the metaphoric and literal sense.”
Over the decades, the G.O.P. in the state has moved further right, Lowndes said. In the past three years, it’s grown more radical. And more defiant. Lately, Republicans have taken to staging walkouts. Last June, eleven state senators left the capitol with the goal of derailing a vote on a climate-change bill. Several fled Oregon so that state troopers, dispatched by Governor Brown to find them, wouldn’t have the jurisdiction to cross state lines and drag them back. The senate minority leader issued a statement: “We have endured threats of arrest, fines, and pulling community project funds from the governor, Senate president and majority leader. We will not stand by and be bullied by the majority party any longer.”
Kim Thatcher was one of the Republican state senators who walked out. She represents a district of suburbs and rural communities southwest of Portland, and is currently running for Oregon secretary of state, Governor Brown’s previous job. She rejects the notion that the walkout, or any other rifts of the past, are akin to current disagreements about the pandemic response. “The tensions that exist for the shutdown are not the same tensions that were there [before], at least not from my point of view,” Thatcher told me.
Governor Brown’s response to the outbreak has been confusing and inconsistent, the senator said, and a classic example of government overreach—the picking of winners and losers. She said, “I don’t like that some services were considered essential and some were not.” Why, Thatcher asked, could she stand in line with a bunch of people at, say, Home Depot, but not go to the park with her family? “Come on. . . . And I couldn’t go camping? I mean, that’s the epitome of social distance.”
As for the rally in early May, Thatcher told me that she didn’t see the images, broadcast statewide, of the unmasked protesters in large groups. “A lot of the people standing in close proximity may have been [members of the same] household,” she said. “I don’t know.” But she understands the demonstrators’ frustrations. People are fed up, she said. “I think we had a really coöperative citizenry at first. I think that’s how Oregonians are. We want to do the right thing. But I think we’re getting to the point that we need to be treated like adults.”
The economic fallout of Brown’s policies worries Thatcher most of all. The pandemic has already spiked the state’s unemployment rate, from 3.7 per cent at the end of 2019 to 14.2 per cent in April. Oregon, she warned, is always among the first to go into recession. “And we’re usually the last out.”
Governor Kate Brown has touted Oregon’s response to the coronavirus as a national success story. Photograph by Gillian Flaccus / AP
Kate Brown’s gubernatorial career was forged in crisis—crisis and also the succession plan sewn into the Oregon constitution. John Kitzhaber, a former E.R. doctor and the longest-serving governor in state history, was early into the last of his four nonconsecutive terms when scandal broke. The target of an ethics investigation involving his fiancée and her influence over clean-energy policies, Kitzhaber stepped down in February, 2015, after losing the support of fellow-Democrats, including Brown, who was then the secretary of state; she questioned his mental state in a press release detailing a “bizarre” private meeting she had with him. The day after the press release, Kitzhaber resigned. Brown, as next in line, was sworn in the following week and became the nation’s first openly bisexual governor.
One local paper deemed her a “breath of fresh air,” gregarious and animated where her predecessor had been taciturn and cool. Raised in Minnesota, Brown moved to Oregon for law school, practiced family and juvenile law, and served in the state house and senate for eighteen years. She handily won her second (and first full) term as governor in November, 2018, despite polling that suggested a tight race against the Republican challenger. The economy thrived under her stewardship; last year, the state achieved its lowest unemployment rate since the nineteen-seventies.
Then this new crisis hit: the closures, the loss of life, financial ruin. Last week, state economists released a quarterly report concluding that Oregon is entering its worst downturn since the Great Depression. Like Thatcher, the Republican state senator running for secretary of state, Brown is haunted by Oregon’s track record of slow recovery, even when there isn’t a deadly pandemic. “That’s always a struggle for us,” the governor told me, when we spoke in early May, six days after the Salem rally.
During our conversation she touted her handling of the crisis as a national success story—not without good reason. Oregon’s infection rate is far lower than its Pacific Coast neighbors. State health officials have identified slightly more than four thousand confirmed cases, with a per-capita infection rate of ninety-six per hundred thousand, compared with Washington State’s more than twenty thousand cases and its per-capita infection rate of two hundred and seventy-nine per hundred thousand. Several factors account for the high numbers in Washington, which was the first state in the nation to experience a large cluster of infections and deaths and has a denser population than Oregon. Brown credits her own swift action and the coöperation of Oregonians, protesters on the capitol steps notwithstanding.