newyorker--2020-11-23--Preparing to Spin the Wheel of Fortune

Preparing to Spin the Wheel of Fortune

I am here to spin .
It ’ s 3:30 p.m. on a Friday in late January , in Los Angeles—specifically , Culver City .
I am in a freezing-cold studio on the Sony lot .
I like saying “ on the Sony lot.
” I ’ m on the Sony lot , in a studio , and it ’ s freezing cold .
But I am thankful for this temperature .
My skin rests atop a roiling sea of sweat .
I am often a boat adrift on this sea .
A friend once saw my wedding photos and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a pool—you know , one of those weddings .
Nope , just plain old sweat .
My friend went silent .
I am no longer married .
I have three children : boy and girl and girl , eighteen and seventeen and twelve .
My parents were married for more than fifty years .
My father died five years ago .
Toward the end , he became panicked by every chill and practically lived with a pulse oximeter on his index finger .
My marriage fell apart a few months after his death @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Pat , and thank goodness things are much better now .
But I ’ m talking to myself , because Pat Sajak has yet to stroll into this freezing-cold studio on the Sony lot in Culver City .
I stand before the wheel while Pat is in his dressing room , putting on his Thursday suit .
I am Thursday .
Or one of three people who constitute Thursday , March 26 , 2020 .
To my right is Mark , from Brentwood .
To my left is Cyndi , from Baltimore .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
We are loosening our spinning arms while two contestant handlers prep us , their eyes strobing between frantic and calm .
It seems that an airplane door has slid open and the next twenty minutes are ten thousand feet below .
They tell us to just have fun .
They tell us to clap without clapping , because actual clapping might mess up the audio .
They tell us to smile and stand straight and speak loudly and clearly and remember the used-letter board and on Free Play call a vowel and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , oh , just have fun , that ’ s the important thing , Mark , David , Cyndi , have fun and be yourself .
I nod and fiddle with my nametag .
Then I nod again and practice clapping without clapping .
The theme of the week is Gone Fishin ’ , so the set has been decorated as an Adirondack-style lodge by way of the Country Bear Jamboree .
Rough-hewn logs and fieldstone have been fashioned from high-density urethane foam .
There are canoes and a tackle box and over @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
My fly-fisherman father would ’ ve liked this place .
In the rafters , a studio audience hangs like the seventh circle of spectator hell : those doomed to witness game shows .
The contestant handlers are almost mystically upbeat , as if earlier they had chopped up a rainbow and snorted its brightly colored lines .
Wind seems to blow through their hair as they warm up our voices by having us shout random letters .
T !
N !
R !
S !
They remind us to reach for the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and grip near the top with our thumbs raised .
They ’ ve obviously seen accidents .
Perhaps disasters .
Contestants thrown onto the wheel , impaled , crucified , crushed .
This multicolored grindstone weighs more than a ton .
All jewelry has been removed from our spinning hands .
I imagine myself slipping forward and becoming a dopey version of the Vitruvian Man , going around and around .
Just remember to buy vowels .
And to clap without clapping .
The makeup person comes over for the last touch-up .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ fingerless gloves .
She dabs a brush into mysterious powder and gessoes me new again .
I love this woman .
Earlier , in the hair-and-makeup room , she punched up my always tired eyes .
I seem to be getting my father ’ s eyes .
Like those cups that hold soft-boiled eggs .
And she clipped a few rogue hairs from my eyebrows .
I am fifty-two years old .
I flew in yesterday .
Many of the other male contestants joked about sitting in the hair-and-makeup chair .
They asked @ @ @ @ @ @ @ swish .
Or if they were bald they requested curls .
I always try to avoid my own gaze in the mirror .
I am no good at looking at myself .
I see every fault .
Every bump and blemish and rash .
I keep my eyes lowered as if I were passing a potential mugger .
“ Thank you , ” I say , hoping my thank-you is imbued with extra meaning .
She says good luck to us all .
The contestant handlers give us water pulled from a contestant @ @ @ @ @ @ @ nod .
We sip again .
The floor is being buffed to its final black onyx shine .
The stage manager and his production cohorts bustle along the sidelines .
Cues are called , cameras focussed and primed for the opening shot with the overhead sweep of Pat Sajak and Vanna White entering the studio like the king and queen of TV prom , Vanna heading for the puzzle board , Pat for the wheel , where his Thursday awaits .
“ Remember , just be yourself , ” the contestant handlers say @ @ @ @ @ @ @ We smile .
We are ready .
Merv Griffin , night-club singer and recorder of “ I ’ ve Got a Lovely Bunch of Coconuts.
” Merv Griffin , star of the syndicated “ Merv Griffin Show , ” which aired on WNEW Channel 5 New York .
This was the Merv I knew .
Merv and Mike Douglas and Dinah Shore and sometimes Joe Franklin and always “ The Brady Bunch ” and “ The Partridge Family ” and “ I Dream of Jeannie ” and “ The Odd Couple ” and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and Son ” and “ Get Smart ” and “ Green Acres ” and “ My Three Sons ” and “ The Honeymooners ” and “ All in the Family ” and “ The Hollywood Squares ” and “ The Gong Show ” and “ The Price Is Right ” and “ The $ 20,000 Pyramid ” and “ Match Game ” —man oh man , “ Match Game ” —and whatever else was available for a kid freed from school and eating cinnamon toast in his parents ’ bedroom .
Sitting four @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
Manipulating the Jerrold remote with its twelve hard-click buttons and toggle switch that travelled between three planes of existence : standard ( 2-13 ) , extra ( 14-25 ) , and extra weird ( 26-37 ) .
I might ’ ve been talentless at the piano but I was Rick Wakeman on that motherfucking Jerrold , alternating between “ Hogan ’ s Heroes ” and “ The Flintstones ” without missing a canned beat .
Those were happy days , made happier only on Saturday mornings , when I parked myself in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Zenith—oh , the glory of those additional six inches—and participated in a network ménage à trois of children ’ s programming : ABC with “ The Scooby-Doo/Dynomutt Hour ” and “ The Krofft Supershow ” and “ Super Friends ” and CBS with “ The Sylvester and Tweety Show ” and “ The Bugs Bunny/Road Runner Hour ” and “ Fat Albert and the Cosby Kids ” and NBC with “ The Pink Panther Show ” and “ Speed Buggy ” and “ Land of the Lost.
” Click , click , click-click-click @ @ @ @ @ @ @ my upbringing , and my generation might have been the last to share this cathode-ray DNA with our parents and grandparents .
We could all talk Lucy .
Merv Griffin always struck me as Johnny Carson lite .
His show taped from the Celebrity Theatre , in the heart of Hollywood , and Merv himself had the demeanor of a gold bracelet hanging loosely from a wrist .
His guests oozed a sincere shallowness I found intriguing .
Zsa Zsa .
Marty Allen .
Charo .
Rip Taylor .
Natural performers , all @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Steve Martin showed up .
It was my first taste of this specific kind of cheese .
Little did I know Merv was also an innovator .
In 1963 , he and his wife came up with “ Jeopardy !
” He even wrote the thirty-second ditty for Final Jeopardy .
It ’ s called “ Think !
” and it earned him additional millions in music royalties .
Then , in 1975 , he duplicated this success by marrying the game hangman with Vegas-style roulette and , voilà , “ Wheel of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , later of “ Love Connection ” fame , was the original host , and his co-host , the model Susan Stafford , was the letter turner .
The initial show involved a fair amount of shopping , but in the eighties the format settled into its present-day incarnation , with Pat Sajak and Vanna White .
All of this made Merv Griffin a very rich man .
In 1986 , he sold his empire to the Coca-Cola Company , and soon he started buying casinos and hotels , and even had disastrous @ @ @ @ @ @ @ died in 2007 , a billionaire .
His epitaph reads , I will not be right back after this message .
God bless the man , now a pile of bones and a collection of YouTube videos I ’ ve recently watched , along with the entire series run of “ Ark II ” and “ Monster Squad.
” “ Can we change ?
” my youngest asks during Double Jeopardy .
“ Let ’ s not , ” I say , since I ’ ve always been decent with general knowledge , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ than Encyclopædia Britannica .
And maybe I want my daughters to be impressed with their dad .
I remember doing the same with my father , answering the questions—or , more accurately , questioning the answers—hoping he might notice what a clever son he had .
My father adored television .
He watched a lot of sports , and as a boy I would always forget which team we were rooting for .
The white team ?
No , no , the blue team .
In retirement , he took in a lot @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the background like a Jack Russell terrier .
He also enjoyed shows like “ Deadliest Catch ” and “ Swamp People ” and “ Duck Dynasty , ” where seemingly real men did seemingly real-man things .
My father had no idea how to change a tire , but he could take down a marathon of “ Ice Road Truckers.
” As an adult , whenever I visited him , the most I expected was a temporary muting of the volume .
I hardly took this as an offense ; rather , I @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
I think he chose being aloof over being shy , perhaps for the sake of corporate self-preservation .
And maybe parenthood baffled him as well .
He operated nearer the surface .
But he had a sweet and sentimental underbelly , which could be glimpsed when he was scratched the right way .
The closest moment I ever had with him was on the day he was buried and I was tasked with identifying his body in the coffin .
This happened at the Frank E. Campbell funeral home , in Manhattan @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Eighty-first Street , a grand brownstone that resembles a consulate for the dead .
The funeral director led me into the empty chapel : the coffin was on a bier near a door , where , on the other side , the hearse was parked and waiting .
The two of us walked to the coffin .
The lid was already raised .
I noticed the familiar dark-blue blazer .
My father ’ s uniform even in death .
And then came the hair .
How strange it was to see it combed @ @ @ @ @ @ @ I saw the trace of stitching that zigzagged across his lips .
That was disturbing .
And almost a cliché .
The same with the waxy Madame Tussauds complexion .
In that coffin , my father looked cored of meaning , hollow and shrunken , but this was him , and I put my hand on his empty chest and told him I loved him .
He never seemed more vulnerable .
More human .
As if reborn to me .
Oh , Dad , I remember thinking , I ’ m sorry @ @ @ @ @ @ @ would let you know .
But now “ Jeopardy !
” is finishing and “ Wheel of Fortune ” is beginning , and both my daughters enjoy trying to solve the puzzles , so we tuck into Pat and Vanna .
“ Wheel of Fortune ” puzzles come in a variety of categories .
There ’ s Food & Drink , Person , Thing , Before & After , What Are You Doing ?
, On The Map , Phrase , Crossword , etc .
Before & After might be BALD EAGLE SCOUT @ @ @ @ @ @ @ THE SUNSET .
Crosswords have multiple interconnected answers revolving around a clue , as in “ Seeing Red ” : LOBSTER , ROSE , BLUSHING .
“ Jeopardy !
” this ain ’ t .
The game starts with two tossups , worth a thousand dollars and two thousand dollars .
No spinning is involved .
Letters are randomly revealed until a contestant rings in with the correct answer .
Tossups also appear toward the end of the game , in the form of the Triple Toss-Up , three puzzles done in rapid @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
If you can dominate the tossups , you can bank nine thousand dollars without ever spinning .
No luck is involved ; it ’ s just a matter of wits .
Occasionally , I can get on a roll , and I must ’ ve got on one of these rolls , with the five tossups and the four regular puzzles , because during the bonus round , where the winner of the regular round could win a car or cash , my youngest turns to me and says , “ You @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ You ’ re really good at it .
”

The closest moment I ever had with him was on the day he was buried and I was tasked with identifying his body in the coffin. This happened at the Frank E. Campbell funeral home, in Manhattan, on the corner of Madison and Eighty-first Street, a grand brownstone that resembles a consulate for the dead. The funeral director led me into the empty chapel: the coffin was on a bier near a door, where, on the other side, the hearse was parked and waiting. The two of us walked to the coffin. The lid was already raised. I noticed the familiar dark-blue blazer. My father’s uniform even in death. And then came the hair. How strange it was to see it combed in a slightly different fashion. Then I saw the trace of stitching that zigzagged across his lips. That was disturbing. And almost a cliché. The same with the waxy Madame Tussauds complexion. In that coffin, my father looked cored of meaning, hollow and shrunken, but this was him, and I put my hand on his empty chest and told him I loved him. He never seemed more vulnerable. More human. As if reborn to me. Oh, Dad, I remember thinking, I’m sorry.
If I could tell you I would let you know.
Who is W. H. Auden?
But now “Jeopardy!” is finishing and “Wheel of Fortune” is beginning, and both my daughters enjoy trying to solve the puzzles, so we tuck into Pat and Vanna. “Wheel of Fortune” puzzles come in a variety of categories. There’s Food & Drink, Person, Thing, Before & After, What Are You Doing?, On The Map, Phrase, Crossword, etc. Before & After might be BALD EAGLE SCOUT. What Are You Doing? WATCHING THE SUNSET. Crosswords have multiple interconnected answers revolving around a clue, as in “Seeing Red”: LOBSTER, ROSE, BLUSHING. “Jeopardy!” this ain’t. The game starts with two tossups, worth a thousand dollars and two thousand dollars. No spinning is involved. Letters are randomly revealed until a contestant rings in with the correct answer. Tossups also appear toward the end of the game, in the form of the Triple Toss-Up, three puzzles done in rapid succession and worth two thousand dollars apiece. If you can dominate the tossups, you can bank nine thousand dollars without ever spinning. No luck is involved; it’s just a matter of wits. Occasionally, I can get on a roll, and I must’ve got on one of these rolls, with the five tossups and the four regular puzzles, because during the bonus round, where the winner of the regular round could win a car or cash, my youngest turns to me and says, “You should go on ‘Wheel of Fortune.’ You’re really good at it.”
“Trust me, I’m not.”
But she, ever enthusiastic, is convinced of my genius, and she goes and grabs my laptop and within minutes has found the online application for becoming a contestant. I humor her because I know they will never pick me.
The e-mail told me to be honest with myself—uh-oh—and consider the following questions before deciding to attend the “Wheel of Fortune” audition: Do I think I can solve puzzles in front of a national audience? Um, I doubt it. Am I able to stay focussed and control my nerves under pressure? Historical evidence suggests otherwise. Can I call letters with a clear and confident voice? Define confident. Do I have good presence and vitality and energy? Hmm, I think so, as I recheck the address in the e-mail, having already walked a block in the wrong direction after exiting the subway. But here I am, outside the Ink 48 hotel, on the far West Side of midtown Manhattan. The e-mail informs me that there will be a coffee stand in the lobby for guests staying at the hotel. Please do not drink this coffee! This is not for us. There will be a water station in our audition room. I wish I had brought coffee. But I like the line “This is not for us.” That could be the title of something.
On the fifth floor, in the Helvetica Room, I’m greeted by Jackie, a contestant handler. I instantly like her. She reminds me of Suzi Quatro playing Leather Tuscadero. I try to do the thing where I signal my acknowledgment of the absurdity of participating in this embodiment of American kitsch, but Jackie cuts through my muddled irony with her positive you-betcha energy, and I take a seat near the back.
Soon, Jackie and two of her colleagues get things rolling. “Is everyone excited?!” they shout, and we shout back in the affirmative, and we clap and smile, because we know clapping and smiling are an integral part of the audition, so we clap and smile ourselves into possible game-show existence. Look at us sparkle. Some whoop. Then others whoop. I myself refrain from whooping. Instead, I nod as I clap and smile, hoping my nodding indicates an amused detachment. Then I whoop.
We are put through our “Wheel of Fortune” paces. A puzzle is projected onto a monitor and one of the contestant handlers reads a random name from a clipboard and the random name stands up and a travel-sized wheel is spun and the wheel stops and the random name calls a letter, ideally in a clear and confident voice—T! N! R! S!—and either the letter is revealed or there’s a buzz and we’re on to the next random name. It’s all very quick and professional. These contestant handlers run a well-oiled contestant-culling machine.
“Running on empty,” the man sitting next to me whispers.
“I hear you,” I say.
“No, no, the puzzle. It’s RUNNING ON EMPTY.” (To maintain the sanctity of the audition process, this answer and the answer below have been fabricated.)
I realize he’s right. He’s solved with only the “N”s revealed. This man must be a “Wheel of Fortune” savant. And this happens over and over again, the “Wheel” savant figuring out the answer early on and whispering it to me. But, when my name is finally the random name, the puzzle is brand new and I get no whispers from my Rain Man, so I squint and call “T” and there’s a buzz and I sit back down. Soon enough my neighbor is summoned. He calls a few letters before solving: BEAUTIFUL ISLAND SUNSET. Correct. We clap and smile. They throw him a “Wheel of Fortune” T-shirt. The only thing I go home with is a small No. 2 pencil that says I tried out for “Wheel of Fortune.”
Two weeks later, there’s a letter in my mailbox, the “Wheel of Fortune” insignia emblazoned on the upper right corner. CONGRATULATIONS! I am standing in the lobby of my apartment building. I shake my head, NO and WAY playing in stereo. It’s like being accepted to cartoon Stanford. I look around for someone to tell, but nobody’s there. I grab my phone. My youngest is at pony camp. My oldest is on a camping trip. My middle is with her mom. I text her and wait for the dot-dot-dot of Are you serious?, the dot-dot-dot of OMG, but no dot-dot-dots appear, so I call and leave a message and then head upstairs to read the rest of the letter. I’m told the show tapes only four days a month, five or six episodes a day, with the actual taping schedule not formed until two weeks in advance, which will be as much notice as I will get. I am responsible for all my expenses. Most important, and printed in bold, there is an appeal to keep things in perspective. “Being a contestant on Wheel of Fortune is a wonderful opportunity!” the letter continues. “But it shouldn’t take precedence over other important areas of your life.” They want me to make sure I’m financially sound before I decide to head to Los Angeles. And if I’m not feeling physically sound, no problem, they’ll have me appear at a later date. “Your health is more important than spinning the wheel!” There’s a tender seen-it-all quality to the prose, as if the “Wheel of Fortune” people can hear your shouts of joy, and they’re shouting right along with you, because this is exciting, but they’re also reminding you that this is just a blip on the radar of life, and maybe you’ll win a lot of cash and tons of prizes, and maybe you won’t, but guaranteed you’ll have some fun. That said, please please please don’t do anything stupid to be here, like quit your day job. The “Wheel” will accommodate.
My phone rings. It is mid-January, 2020. Over New Year’s, a massage therapist told me that this year is going to be my year, and I believe her, which is unlike me, believing in this kind of optimism, but fuck it, I believe her, so I answer the Culver City area code.
“David, it’s Jackie from—”
I agree immediately. They have asked me twice before, and for various reasons I’ve had to say no, but this third offer, well, that’s the formulaic charm. I soon receive a FedEx with important information about my future “Wheel of Fortune” appearance: the release forms, the travel details, the hotel recommendations, the schedule, the request for notification about any possible felonies in my past, etc. The wardrobe section is by far the most interesting part: men get a brief paragraph—dress “business casual” and NO JEANS! NO TENNIS SHOES!—while women are bombarded with multiple paragraphs concerning the positives of two-piece outfits, and solid colors, and blazers, and well-fitted, padded bras, and the negatives of tight tops, and loose tops, and clingy tops, and striped tops, and black or bright red or white tops, and any sort of bold pattern, and silk blouses, and low-cut blouses, and necklaces, and pins, and bracelets.
I choose a pair of dark-blue pants, a medium-blue shirt, and a suit jacket.
Of course, I envision the ridiculous outfits I could wear, as well as the ridiculous things I could do, like trying to solve the puzzle right from the start —I HAVE A POOP IN MY PANTS—real sophisticated stuff, stuff my father hated at the dinner table. I claim iconoclasm, but the truth is more desperate. The closer my appointment with the “Wheel” gets the more fraught my appearance seems. How should I act? What are the proper levels of self-consciousness, micro and meta? I laugh again at the absurd prospect of being a contestant—I’ve been laughing a lot, short bemused snorts, like unexpected sneezes. And then I have a moment of dread. What if I fuck up royally? What if, instead of JAMAICAN COFFEE BEANS, I guess JAMAICAN COFFEE BEARS? Because I could so easily do that.
This is a very bad idea.
I am sitting in the contestant waiting room, at the “Wheel of Fortune” studio, on the Sony lot, in Culver City. The room is more like a locker room, with rows of lockers and a modest spread of breakfast items and weak coffee. We might as well be factory workers on break. Our cell phones have been locked inside these lockers. We can have no reading materials, either. We must simply exist, as ourselves, full of impounded energy, twenty of us, including alternates, representing five days in March and one day in April. We size one another up. I take note of those who have followed the dress code and those who have not. Two of us will be our competition. I try to slip on a journalistic mask, but I’m too self-deprecating and too eager to please. I am a monkey grinding himself.
I remember dancing once, like really spinning-around-and-flopping-all-over-the-place dancing, in the living room of my boyhood apartment. I have no idea why I was dancing; maybe the TV was playing a song I liked, maybe I just wanted my share of attention. I must have been ten, though my memories often reduce down to ten. I’m flailing around, as loose as Steve Martin, and my father lowers his newspaper and stares at me and says, “What are you, some kind of fag?” I know that my father is teasing, as he’s prone to do, though “fag” is more familiar during school recess, circa 1977, than after dinner on Seventy-third and Lex. I hardly recall my reaction, but I know that I stop dancing and retreat to my bedroom, which is wallpapered with posters of the rock band Kiss, as well as hundreds of photographs of the band meticulously clipped from Rolling Stone and Circus and Creem. Maybe I slip on headphones. Maybe I listen to “Flaming Youth.”
This is a big mistake, I think, picking over a Danish.
This isn’t funny.
“We had rats?” Cartoon by Liana Finck Copy link to cartoon Copy link to cartoon Shop Shop
Wuss. Wimp. Pussy. Candy-ass.
I am hardly a man.
There are gasps in the contestant room. “Hello, everyone.” It’s Vanna White. She’s in a robe. “This is the real me,” Vanna tells us, “before the magic of makeup and wardrobe.” And yet she glows. Vanna has repeated the same dress only once, out of more than seven thousand. She wishes us luck and leaves. It’s all very quick. No autographs, just kind words. People might joke about Vanna White having the world’s cushiest job, earning millions for “turning” letters four days a month, but “Wheel of Fortune” would not be the same without her. Because Vanna is pure goodness. She just is. She humanizes the blank coldness of the puzzle board with her confident gait and soft touch and radiating warmth. She is sexless sex appeal, her smile a slice of apple pie. Vanna responds to our call when we are right, and when we are wrong she frowns with sympathy. She might clap for us without clapping, but we hear her loud and clear. Pat is O.K., though Pat has the startled appearance of the class clown who has found himself the butt of the joke. Vanna is the show’s beating heart.
After Vanna, we have an hour-long thrill-a-thon with the legal department, and then we are brought into the freezing-cold studio for an introduction to the wheel and the mechanics of the game, and we record our “howdy” for our particular affiliates, which is beyond embarrassing (“Watch me play ‘Wheel of Fortune’ on WABC!”), and return to the contestant room and are given our contestant groupings (hello, Cyndi, from Baltimore; hello, Mark, from Brentwood) and draw numbered golf balls to determine what day we will be (we are Thursday) and then draw again to determine our placement on the wheel platform (I’m the center position), after which we head back into the subzero studio (I now understand the padded-bra suggestion) and speed through a pretend game with a pretend Pat Sajak, who resembles my high-school English teacher, but this Mr. Rushton seems more the literary-actor type, and as we spin and practice, and spin and practice, the studio audience begins to file in, plus the guests of the contestants—oh, and what about my youngest, who started this ridiculousness? Well, she has a school trip this weekend, and, though she isn’t going on the school trip, she’s sort of made plans to, like, hang with all her other friends who aren’t going on the school trip, so, yeah, Dad, do you mind if I, like, stay put? Um, O.K. And my middle has a party she wants to go to. Fine, fine. And my oldest is away at school and has no desire to come to L.A. and watch his father play “Wheel of Fortune.” Yeah, yeah, I get it.
The space inside a television is bigger than expected, the distances free of edits, the vantages seen through eyes rather than cameras. “Ladies and gentlemen, here are the stars of our show, Pat Sajak and Vanna White.” There I am, between Mark, from Brentwood, a precision runner, and Cyndi, from Baltimore, who during the introductions will show Pat her self-professed skill on the mouth trumpet, her puckered lips going toot-toot-toot. But the mouth trumpet has been cut from the broadcast. Now it’s just Cyndi, who lives with her beautiful wife, Kailie, and their dog, GG. And I am David, from New York. I imagine my children, laughing at their goofball dad. The space inside a television is familiar yet alien, like one of those dreams of being in your house but the house isn’t your house. It is uncanny. That’s the word. I’d like to solve, Pat: UNCANNY SENSATION. It is a doll-house version of “Wheel of Fortune,” and we have been shrunk. We are Mike Teavee in the chocolate factory. Look at me, I’m on TV! I notice my head, my nose, my smile. And my voice, horrible. But my skin looks decent—thank you, makeup person, wherever you are. I see my father. In the head. In the nose. In the smile. I imagine my father watching me from his chair in the living room. His small-bore son. Unserious. I have decided, in this moment, to try to be myself. I will honor the game and play earnestly. Whatever viewing party I had planned before the pandemic is now happening via text message. My children are with their mother. I will win a thousand-dollar gift card to Cabela’s by solving AMAZING CLOUD FORMATIONS. My middle texts, “Congrats dude.” My oldest texts, “What’s the Hulu password?” Today is Thursday, Episode 139 of Season 37 of Our Lord, “Wheel of Fortune.” But most Americans have discovered a new day of the week, previously unknown, which has steamrolled all the other days into an endless, featureless horizon. The clock has started. Less than twenty minutes will be spent inside this television. Vanna is wearing a sapphire-blue princess-cut shift-style dress. Pat has on a silver-gray suit and a silver-blue tartan tie. I am clapping, and then I remember and clap without clapping. With all the flashing lights and sounds and colors, I feel as though I’ve dropped within an A.D.H.D. diagnosis. When I was twelve, I saw Kiss in concert at Madison Square Garden. This was peak Kiss. My father took me. He wore a blazer, like the blazer he was buried in, Brooks Brothers, dark blue. A lot of the people around us sported makeup. The Demon. The Starchild. The Catman. The Spaceman, who was always my favorite. My father must’ve been baffled and possibly disturbed by this scene. And here was his son, enraptured. Halfway through, he asked what was happening up there onstage, and I, wide-eyed and deranged, shouted that Gene Simmons was spitting up blood. This was the apotheosis. God knows what my father made of me. But taking me to the Kiss concert became his story, a story he told with great pleasure. And I didn’t expect him to show up here. In his chair with the remote. Watching me as Pat approaches and we pick up our ringers for the first tossup of the game. Maybe because I’ve been thinking about death. Maybe because I know how petrified my father would be if he were alive in this moment of the coronavirus, eighty-six years old, his lungs already ravaged by years of smoking. Stay away. Stay away. Even more than usual. Stay away. I place my hand on his chest. The space inside a television is nothing but a space to be filled, and I try to fill my father’s emptiness with love, seeing him as a person, which is ironic, since he’s just a husk, and yet I see him. The worst has happened. Time will say nothing but I told you so. And I want my father to feel my love regardless, my love for him, my recognition of us. We were both helpless to help. And all I want is for my children to see me, even as I have a hard time seeing myself. I swear during “Rock and Roll All Nite” my father swayed his shoulders a bit. Confetti fell from the ceiling, fell all over us. It was the final encore. And here we are, at the end, which is the beginning, my father dead and my relationship with him just starting. I try pouring myself into him before the lid is closed forever. The opening tossup is revealed with a chime, the category What Are You Doing?
▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢
I watch as the letters reveal themselves like ticks on a metronome.
▢ ▢ ▢ T ▢ ▢ G M ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢
Cyndi will win twelve thousand five hundred dollars. Mark will win nine thousand dollars, which includes a trip to London.
▢ ▢ I T ▢ ▢ G M ▢ ▢ ▢ O K
And, though I’m no good with tossups, I know this one. A hundred per cent I know this one. I can’t quite believe it. Practically made for me. Maybe this game will go my way. Maybe I’m destined to win big. Maybe the gods are telling me something. This could be my year, after all.
I ring in.
Pat says, “David,” with Pat-like anticipation.
“WRITING MY BOOK,” I answer in a clear and confident voice.
“Nope,” Pat says.
I will come in third, otherwise known as last. Three thousand one hundred and fifty dollars, plus the Cabela’s.
A few more letters are revealed.
Cyndi rings in.
“BAITING MY HOOK.”
“Yeah,” Pat says. “There you go.”
I see myself nod and smile. It’s a good smile, I decide. A natural smile. ♦


newyorker--2020-11-23--In Georgia, the Dullest Spectator Sport in the World

Recount , audit , formality , scam : opinions varied as Georgia took another look at the five million ballots its citizens cast in the Presidential election .
Joe Biden had won by around thirteen thousand votes—the first Democrat to take the state since Bill Clinton .
But Georgia Republicans had their doubts , and , in some cases , their delusions .
“ Notice anything fishy ?
” Marjorie Taylor Greene , congresswoman-elect and QAnon fan , tweeted , on November 10th , alongside a chart comparing the number of Georgia absentee ballots cast this year ( a lot @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ( not very many ) .
“ Wait ’ til you hear about the pandemic , ” a commenter deadpanned .
The counting , which began on a Friday , was a sprawling affair , a television-unfriendly November Madness occurring simultaneously across Georgia ’ s hundred and fifty-nine counties , from a probate court in Peach County to a former Sam ’ s Club in DeKalb .
The main action was in Atlanta , in Fulton County , where about a tenth of the state ’ s votes were cast .
By Saturday @ @ @ @ @ @ @ at the Georgia World Congress Center—the Peach State ’ s Roland-Garros of recounting—were staffed with masked-up counters .
Observers hung around on the sidelines , speaking in mid-match whispers .
“ She ’ s fast , ” one said , pointing to a woman at Table 113 , who was tallying , stacking , and re-tallying with unusual speed .
“ Fast isn ’ t the goal , ” someone else said .
“ We finished one container , ” Norma , a middle-aged white woman , announced , pausing for a snack @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” ( It had taken ninety minutes . )
A Black woman named Aya described “ separating ballots into the different candidates , writing down how many of each , and putting them back in the box.
” She added , “ So far , so good .
Any questions I did have , they come and answer it really quick.
” An umpire boomed over a loudspeaker : “ As you count them and put them in stacks of ten , please be reminded that you must count them again.
” A @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the action : two children sorting ballots into piles .
“ Basic instructions , ” Larry Korn , a bored-looking local lawyer , said as he watched .
“ ‘ One , two , three .
.
.
’ I don ’ t feel like I can actually skip a number.
” He offered some inside baseball as he waited for his at-bat .
“ They need their base stirred up , ” he said , referring to the state ’ s Republican senators , Kelly Loeffler and David Perdue , who are @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of the U.S. Senate .
“ Claiming there ’ s voting fraud when there ’ s no evidence of any of it.
” When did Korn expect these two to accept the outcome of the Presidential election ?
“ January 6th ” —the day after their Senate runoffs— “ would be my guess , ” he said .
There was a live feed of the action online .
Hecklers chimed in from afar .
“ Their recount is a scam , means nothing , ” one , named Donald Trump , tweeted .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ prohibited by stupidly signed & unconstitutional consent decree.
” One of the counters , Kermit Ashford , an art teacher with dreadlocks , whose mask was pulled below his chin , was amused .
“ There ’ s no proof a mask prevents anything , ” he said .
He had two books in his lap ; one was “ Critical Impact , ” a romance novel .
“ Our job is to be fair , to not have any biases , ” he went on .
This was easy for him : @ @ @ @ @ @ @ They ’ re all actors to me , ” he said , of the candidates .
“ This is a puppet show.
” He figured he ’ d be there for nine hours : “ I think we ’ ll be getting some hazard pay.
” Over in the nosebleed section sat Marilyn Marks , an election-integrity activist wearing a colorful scarf , who ’ d come down from North Carolina .
She was tweeting on her laptop .
“ This is a Frankenstein illicit audit , ” she told an observer .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ She offered her monocular , which she used to get a closer look at the action .
A man sat down next to Marks , looking overheated .
“ We human beings have three main problems , ” he said .
“ We are slow , dishonest , and error-prone.
” His name was Harri Hursti , and he was an international-hacking-and-security expert .
Marks was paying him to help her observe , and to capture “ problems with the process ” with his long-lens camera , to be used in an ongoing @ @ @ @ @ @ @ machines .
“ I saw unattended ballots , ” Hursti said .
“ They were blank .
Non-malicious—but just wrong.
” He compared the U.S. to Estonia and Indonesia , where he has also observed elections .
“ One of the worst on earth , ” he said .
Marks pointed to a man hunched over a computer .
She was concerned about digital security ; he was inputting official table tallies .
“ He ’ s using the Wi-Fi , ” Hursti noted .
“ Not smart.
” By midafternoon , the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Table 107 went to the rest room and never returned .
Elsewhere in Georgia , voting-related lawsuits were tossed up and swatted down , like a weak layup .
♦

Recount, audit, formality, scam: opinions varied as Georgia took another look at the five million ballots its citizens cast in the Presidential election. Joe Biden had won by around thirteen thousand votes—the first Democrat to take the state since Bill Clinton. But Georgia Republicans had their doubts, and, in some cases, their delusions. “Notice anything fishy?” Marjorie Taylor Greene, congresswoman-elect and QAnon fan, tweeted, on November 10th, alongside a chart comparing the number of Georgia absentee ballots cast this year (a lot) with that of past election years (not very many). “Wait ’til you hear about the pandemic,” a commenter deadpanned.
The counting, which began on a Friday, was a sprawling affair, a television-unfriendly November Madness occurring simultaneously across Georgia’s hundred and fifty-nine counties, from a probate court in Peach County to a former Sam’s Club in DeKalb. The main action was in Atlanta, in Fulton County, where about a tenth of the state’s votes were cast. By Saturday morning, a hundred and fifty tables at the Georgia World Congress Center—the Peach State’s Roland-Garros of recounting—were staffed with masked-up counters. Observers hung around on the sidelines, speaking in mid-match whispers. “She’s fast,” one said, pointing to a woman at Table 113, who was tallying, stacking, and re-tallying with unusual speed. “Fast isn’t the goal,” someone else said.
“We finished one container,” Norma, a middle-aged white woman, announced, pausing for a snack. “About nine hundred ballots!” (It had taken ninety minutes.) A Black woman named Aya described “separating ballots into the different candidates, writing down how many of each, and putting them back in the box.” She added, “So far, so good. Any questions I did have, they come and answer it really quick.”
An umpire boomed over a loudspeaker: “As you count them and put them in stacks of ten, please be reminded that you must count them again.” A video looped on a large screen above the action: two children sorting ballots into piles. “Basic instructions,” Larry Korn, a bored-looking local lawyer, said as he watched. “ ‘One, two, three . . .’ I don’t feel like I can actually skip a number.” He offered some inside baseball as he waited for his at-bat. “They need their base stirred up,” he said, referring to the state’s Republican senators, Kelly Loeffler and David Perdue, who are competing in runoffs that will determine control of the U.S. Senate. “Claiming there’s voting fraud when there’s no evidence of any of it.” When did Korn expect these two to accept the outcome of the Presidential election? “January 6th”—the day after their Senate runoffs—“would be my guess,” he said.
There was a live feed of the action online. Hecklers chimed in from afar. “Their recount is a scam, means nothing,” one, named Donald Trump, tweeted. “Must see fraudulent signatures which is prohibited by stupidly signed & unconstitutional consent decree.” One of the counters, Kermit Ashford, an art teacher with dreadlocks, whose mask was pulled below his chin, was amused. “There’s no proof a mask prevents anything,” he said. He had two books in his lap; one was “Critical Impact,” a romance novel. “Our job is to be fair, to not have any biases,” he went on. This was easy for him: he hadn’t voted. “They’re all actors to me,” he said, of the candidates. “This is a puppet show.” He figured he’d be there for nine hours: “I think we’ll be getting some hazard pay.”
Over in the nosebleed section sat Marilyn Marks, an election-integrity activist wearing a colorful scarf, who’d come down from North Carolina. She was tweeting on her laptop. “This is a Frankenstein illicit audit,” she told an observer. “A big, muddled mess.” She offered her monocular, which she used to get a closer look at the action.
A man sat down next to Marks, looking overheated. “We human beings have three main problems,” he said. “We are slow, dishonest, and error-prone.” His name was Harri Hursti, and he was an international-hacking-and-security expert. Marks was paying him to help her observe, and to capture “problems with the process” with his long-lens camera, to be used in an ongoing lawsuit about the accuracy of state voting machines. “I saw unattended ballots,” Hursti said. “They were blank. Non-malicious—but just wrong.” He compared the U.S. to Estonia and Indonesia, where he has also observed elections. “One of the worst on earth,” he said. Marks pointed to a man hunched over a computer. She was concerned about digital security; he was inputting official table tallies. “He’s using the Wi-Fi,” Hursti noted. “Not smart.”
By midafternoon, the fervor had faded. A man from Table 107 went to the rest room and never returned. Elsewhere in Georgia, voting-related lawsuits were tossed up and swatted down, like a weak layup. ♦
Read More About the 2020 Election


newyorker--2020-11-23--Green-Wood Cemetery’s New Artist-in-Residence

Among the residents of Green-Wood Cemetery , in Brooklyn , are the actor Frank Morgan ( 1890-1949 ) , who played the title role in “ The Wizard of Oz ” ; Emma Stebbins ( 1815-82 ) , the sculptor of the Bethesda Fountain angel ; and Walter Hunt ( 1796-1859 ) , who invented the safety pin .
This winter , they ’ ll get a new , temporary neighbor .
In July , the cemetery called for submissions for its inaugural artist-in-residence program : the recipient would get an honorarium , nine months of on-site studio space , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ inspired by beautiful natural landscape , stunning monuments , and compelling history.
” The cemetery expected a few hundred applications ; it received nearly a thousand .
“ Some artists leaned too much on the creepy , ” Harry Weil , Green-Wood ’ s director of public programs and special projects , said .
“ We try to avoid that.
” The winner was Heidi Lau , a thirty-three-year-old ceramic artist who lives in Chinatown .
“ A lot of my work has to do with the afterlife , ” she said @ @ @ @ @ @ @ new digs .
Lau has short , punky hair and wore a surgical mask and a thrift-store jacket with straitjacket-style buckles .
She was born in California but grew up in Macao , and her work includes a clay-chain-mail version of a Han-dynasty jade burial robe .
For her residency , she plans to work with local Chinese funeral homes to re-create the elaborate Taoist rites she remembers from when her grandparents died , which include burning joss paper representing money for the afterlife and moving a photograph of the deceased across a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ announced on Green-Wood ’ s Instagram account , she said , she got a spate of new followers , mostly “ tattoo goth people.
” Weil met her at the entrance , and a swanky black van pulled up .
“ We call it the Beyoncé car , ” Weil said .
Their first stop was the Fort Hamilton Gatehouse , on the south side of the property .
It was built in the eighteen-seventies as a rest stop for visitors .
“ It ’ s meant to look like a Victorian parlor @ @ @ @ @ @ @ led Lau into a wainscotted room that would serve as her private studio .
“ Wow !
” she said , snapping pictures .
She had been renting an industrial space in Ridgewood , Queens , and this was way better .
Upstairs was a dark attic with a brick chimney in the center .
( “ There must be a fireplace , but we can ’ t find one , ” Weil said .
Creepy . )
Lau was elated .
“ I ’ m going to , like , roll around @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , ” she said .
They took the Beyoncé car to the Yard , a building containing a woodshop , a horticulture center , and a restoration studio , crammed with mausoleum chunks and an angel that had fallen over during a storm .
Weil showed Lau a musty welding shop , where she would store her kiln .
“ The two people who did the metalwork both retired , so the shop has been kind of vacant , ” he said .
Back in the van , they drove past the final @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ) , known as the Soda Fountain King .
“ He perfected making soda , ” Weil said .
“ Thank you !
” Lau shouted out the window .
She asked if there were “ term limits ” on the burial sites .
Weil said that families own their plots indefinitely .
In Macao , Lau said , most burial plots are rented for seven years : “ After that , they take out your bones , grind them up , and put them into an urn .
So almost nobody gets @ @ @ @ @ @ @ she has always been interested in “ the other side.
” When she was a child , her grandmother would bring her to a Taoist temple , point to a statue of the gatekeeper of Hell , and tell her , “ Say hi to your great-grandfather.
” ( As a girl , her grandmother had been seriously ill , and her family had performed a ritual to make her the gatekeeper ’ s goddaughter , for protection . )
In 2016 , Lau ’ s mother died , of leukemia , and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ seen her relatives go through the Cultural Revolution , she really wanted to have a ‘ good death , ’ because so many of her relatives didn ’ t , ” she said .
“ Their bodies were never found .
She always had this idea , ‘ I want to be in the ground.
’ ” Not everyone would want to work alone in a cemetery , but Lau said that the place gave her a “ strange sense of peace.
” She went on , “ Sometimes I think , How @ @ @ @ @ @ @ As a diasporic person , what is my final place ?
Is it Macao or here ?
Or I can get cremated and have my ashes be in two different places , like my life is ?
” ♦

Among the residents of Green-Wood Cemetery, in Brooklyn, are the actor Frank Morgan (1890-1949), who played the title role in “The Wizard of Oz”; Emma Stebbins (1815-82), the sculptor of the Bethesda Fountain angel; and Walter Hunt (1796-1859), who invented the safety pin. This winter, they’ll get a new, temporary neighbor. In July, the cemetery called for submissions for its inaugural artist-in-residence program: the recipient would get an honorarium, nine months of on-site studio space, and the chance to create a project “inspired by beautiful natural landscape, stunning monuments, and compelling history.” The cemetery expected a few hundred applications; it received nearly a thousand. “Some artists leaned too much on the creepy,” Harry Weil, Green-Wood’s director of public programs and special projects, said. “We try to avoid that.”
The winner was Heidi Lau, a thirty-three-year-old ceramic artist who lives in Chinatown. “A lot of my work has to do with the afterlife,” she said recently, during a walk around her new digs. Lau has short, punky hair and wore a surgical mask and a thrift-store jacket with straitjacket-style buckles. She was born in California but grew up in Macao, and her work includes a clay-chain-mail version of a Han-dynasty jade burial robe. For her residency, she plans to work with local Chinese funeral homes to re-create the elaborate Taoist rites she remembers from when her grandparents died, which include burning joss paper representing money for the afterlife and moving a photograph of the deceased across a miniature bridge. When her appointment was announced on Green-Wood’s Instagram account, she said, she got a spate of new followers, mostly “tattoo goth people.”
Weil met her at the entrance, and a swanky black van pulled up. “We call it the Beyoncé car,” Weil said. Their first stop was the Fort Hamilton Gatehouse, on the south side of the property. It was built in the eighteen-seventies as a rest stop for visitors. “It’s meant to look like a Victorian parlor,” Weil explained, as he led Lau into a wainscotted room that would serve as her private studio. “Wow!” she said, snapping pictures. She had been renting an industrial space in Ridgewood, Queens, and this was way better. Upstairs was a dark attic with a brick chimney in the center. (“There must be a fireplace, but we can’t find one,” Weil said. Creepy.) Lau was elated. “I’m going to, like, roll around on the floor when I move in,” she said.
“If we’re lucky, Aunt Jane will seat us at the children’s table—out of the line of fire.” Cartoon by William Haefeli Copy link to cartoon Copy link to cartoon Shop Shop
They took the Beyoncé car to the Yard, a building containing a woodshop, a horticulture center, and a restoration studio, crammed with mausoleum chunks and an angel that had fallen over during a storm. Weil showed Lau a musty welding shop, where she would store her kiln. “The two people who did the metalwork both retired, so the shop has been kind of vacant,” he said. Back in the van, they drove past the final resting place of John Matthews (1808-70), known as the Soda Fountain King. “He perfected making soda,” Weil said.
“Thank you!” Lau shouted out the window. She asked if there were “term limits” on the burial sites. Weil said that families own their plots indefinitely. In Macao, Lau said, most burial plots are rented for seven years: “After that, they take out your bones, grind them up, and put them into an urn. So almost nobody gets a plot forever.” She said that she has always been interested in “the other side.” When she was a child, her grandmother would bring her to a Taoist temple, point to a statue of the gatekeeper of Hell, and tell her, “Say hi to your great-grandfather.” (As a girl, her grandmother had been seriously ill, and her family had performed a ritual to make her the gatekeeper’s goddaughter, for protection.) In 2016, Lau’s mother died, of leukemia, and was buried in Macao. “Having seen her relatives go through the Cultural Revolution, she really wanted to have a ‘good death,’ because so many of her relatives didn’t,” she said. “Their bodies were never found. She always had this idea, ‘I want to be in the ground.’ ”
Not everyone would want to work alone in a cemetery, but Lau said that the place gave her a “strange sense of peace.” She went on, “Sometimes I think, How do I want to be buried? As a diasporic person, what is my final place? Is it Macao or here? Or I can get cremated and have my ashes be in two different places, like my life is?” ♦


newyorker--2020-11-23--How Venture Capitalists Are Deforming Capitalism

“ You are correct , ” Son said .
“ But you , ” he added , with a hint of concern , “ are not crazy enough.
” The V.C .
industry has grown exponentially since Perkins ’ s heyday , but it has also become increasingly avaricious and cynical .
It is now dominated by a few dozen firms , which , collectively , control hundreds of billions of dollars .
Most professional V.C.s fit a narrow mold : according to surveys , just under half of them attended either Harvard or Stanford , and eighty per cent @ @ @ @ @ @ @ as perpetually on the hunt for radical business ideas , they often seem to be hyping the same Silicon Valley trends—and their managerial oversight has dwindled , making their investments look more like trading-floor bets .
Steve Blank , an entrepreneur who currently teaches at Stanford ’ s engineering school , said , “ I ’ ve watched the industry become a money-hungry mob .
V.C.s today aren ’ t interested in the public good .
They ’ re not interested in anything except optimizing their own profits and chasing the herd , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that could have gone to innovation that actually helps people.
” This clubby , self-serving approach has made many V.C.s rich .
In January , 2020 , the National Venture Capital Association hailed a “ record decade ” of “ hyper growth ” in which its members had given nearly eight hundred billion dollars to startups , “ fueling the economy of tomorrow.
” The pandemic has slowed things down , but not much .
According to a report by PitchBook , a company that provides data on the industry , five of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ making more deals than they did last year .
In recent decades , the gambles taken by V.C.s have grown dramatically larger .
A million-dollar investment in a thriving young company might yield ten million dollars in profits .
A fifty-million-dollar investment in the same startup could deliver half a billion dollars .
“ Honestly , it stopped making sense to look at investments that were smaller than thirty or forty million , ” a prominent venture capitalist told me .
“ It ’ s the same amount of due diligence , the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ meetings , the same amount of work , regardless of how much you invest.
” Critics of the venture-capital industry have observed that , lately , it has given one dubious startup after another gigantic infusions of money .
The blood-testing company Theranos received seven hundred million dollars from a number of investors , including Rupert Murdoch and Betsy DeVos , before it was revealed as a fraud ; in 2018 , its founders were indicted .
Juicero , which sold a Wi-Fi-enabled juice press for seven hundred dollars , raised more than @ @ @ @ @ @ @ as Google ’ s investment arm , but shut down after only four years .
( Consumers posted videos demonstrating that they could press juice just as efficiently with their own hands . )
Two years ago , when Wag !
, an Uber-like service for dog walking , went looking for seventy-five million dollars in venture capital , its founders—among them , a pair of brothers in their twenties , with little business experience—discovered that investors were interested , as long as Wag !
agreed to accept three hundred million dollars .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ to expand internationally , but it was too poorly run to flourish .
It began shedding its employees after , among other things , the New York City Council accused the firm of losing dogs .
Increasingly , the venture-capital industry has become fixated on creating “ unicorns ” : startups whose valuations exceed a billion dollars .
Some of these companies become lasting successes , but many of them—such as Uber , the data-mining giant Palantir , and the scandal-plagued software firm Zenefits—never seemed to have a realistic plan for turning a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Martin Kenney , a professor at the University of California , Davis , argued that , thanks to the prodigious bets made by today ’ s V.C.s , “ money-losing firms can continue operating and undercutting incumbents for far longer than previously.
” In the traditional capitalist model , the most efficient and capable company succeeds ; in the new model , the company with the most funding wins .
Such firms are often “ destroying economic value ” —that is , undermining sound rivals—and creating “ disruption without social benefit.
” Many @ @ @ @ @ @ @ choice but to flood startups with cash .
In order for a Silicon Valley startup to become a true unicorn , it typically must wipe out its competitors and emerge as the dominant brand .
Jeff Housenbold , a managing partner at SoftBank , told me , “ Once Uber is founded , within a year you suddenly have three hundred copycats .
The only way to protect your company is to get big fast by investing hundreds of millions.
” What ’ s more , V.C.s say , the big venture firms @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , and trying to persuade the same coveted entrepreneurs to accept their investment dollars .
To win , V.C.s must give entrepreneurs what they demand .
Particularly in Silicon Valley , founders often want venture capitalists who promise not to interfere or to ask too many questions .
V.C.s have started boasting that they are “ founder-friendly ” and uninterested in , say , spending an afternoon a week at a company ’ s offices or second-guessing a young C.E.O .
Josh Lerner , a professor at Harvard Business School , told me @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of expected now.
” One of the bigger V.C .
firms , the Founders Fund , which has more than six billion dollars under management , declares on its Web site that it “ has never removed a single founder ” and that , when it finds entrepreneurs with “ audacious vision , ” “ a near-messianic attitude , ” and “ wild-eyed passion , ” it essentially seeks to give them veto-proof authority over the board of directors , so that an entrepreneur need never worry about being reined in , let @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Tom Perkins once prided themselves on installing good governance and closely monitoring companies , V.C.s today are more likely to encourage entrepreneurs ’ undisciplined eccentricities .
Masayoshi Son , the SoftBank venture capitalist who promised WeWork $ 4.4 billion after less than twenty minutes , embodies this approach .
In 2016 , he began raising a hundred-billion-dollar Vision Fund , the largest pool of money ever devoted to venture-capital investment .
“ Masa decided to deliberately inject cocaine into the bloodstream of these young companies , ” a former SoftBank senior executive said @ @ @ @ @ @ @ say , ‘ Hey , either take a billion dollars from me right now , or I ’ ll give it to your competitor and you ’ ll go out of business.
’ ” This strategy might sound reckless , but it has paid off handsomely for Son .
In the mid-nineties , he gave billions of dollars to hundreds of tech firms , including twenty million dollars to a small Chinese online marketplace named Alibaba .
When the first Internet bubble burst , in 2001 , Son lost almost seventy billion dollars @ @ @ @ @ @ @ war chest to outlast its competitors , and today it ’ s valued at more than seven hundred billion dollars .
SoftBank ’ s stake in the firm is more than a hundred billion dollars—far exceeding all of Son ’ s other losses .
“ Venture capital has become a lottery , ” the former SoftBank executive told me .
“ Masa is not a particularly deep thinker , but he has one strength : he ’ s devoted to buying more lottery tickets than anyone else.
” Despite the unprofessional atmosphere at @ @ @ @ @ @ @ year .
“ Everyone wanted in , ” a venture capitalist told me .
“ If you could deliver a piece of WeWork to your partners , they ’ d never fire you.
” Neumann lay at the heart of the company ’ s allure .
He had moved to New York in 2001 , intent , he later said , on “ hitting on every girl in the city.
” Not long afterward , he started a company that sold women ’ s shoes with collapsible heels .
When that venture failed @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that made baby clothes with kneepads .
Its tagline : “ Just because they don ’ t tell you , doesn ’ t mean they don ’ t hurt.
” After that startup also sputtered , Neumann and a partner , Miguel McKelvey , rented an office in Brooklyn , divided it into small spaces , and established themselves as co-working entrepreneurs .
When potential funders came to visit , Neumann instructed employees to pretend to be his tenants , socializing enthusiastically in the hallways .
“ He was crazy , but exactly @ @ @ @ @ @ @ you believe he could pull this off , ” another venture capitalist said .
“ He was the most charismatic pitchman I ever saw.
” By 2014 , Neumann was fielding so many inquiries from V.C.s that he issued an ultimatum : henceforth , he would work only with investors willing to give him a majority of voting control over the company ’ s board .
Bruce Dunlevie , the investor at Benchmark who sat on WeWork ’ s board , had become a mentor to Neumann , and he thought that this @ @ @ @ @ @ @ He took it upon himself to get Neumann to abandon his demand .
Dunlevie is widely considered to be one of Silicon Valley ’ s intellectuals .
Most V.C.s are technocrats in Tesla fleeces obsessed with obscure nutritional supplements ; Dunlevie donates to museums , has a history degree from Cambridge , and is known for quoting nineteenth-century English writers .
He once helped save an independent bookstore after Amazon had pushed it to the edge of extinction .
He described himself to me as being in the “ persuasion business , ” @ @ @ @ @ @ @ headstrong founders to make better choices .
( To underscore the point , he keeps a textbook of pediatric psychiatry on his desk . )
At a board meeting , Dunlevie urged WeWork ’ s other directors to deny Neumann ’ s demand for complete control by quoting Lord Acton : “ Power tends to corrupt , and absolute power corrupts absolutely.
” Neumann , who attended the meeting , said that he didn ’ t care about Lord Acton .
Nobody else on the WeWork board supported Dunlevie ’ s effort .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ resigned from WeWork ’ s board of directors , or gone public with his objections .
He had taken such stands in the past .
In the late nineties , Dunlevie and Benchmark planned on partnering with Toys R Us to create what everyone anticipated would be one of the largest online retailers .
Dunlevie had recently helped propel eBay to enormous success , earning Benchmark five billion dollars in profits .
Toys R Us asked for guidance in entering the e-commerce sphere , and promised to give Benchmark a free hand to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ was a total rock star , ” a Toys R Us executive from that period told me .
“ He had this incredible vision and moral authority .
He knew exactly what we needed to do , and was there , every step of the way , pushing to make it happen.
” It quickly became clear , however , that numerous middle managers at Toys R Us felt threatened by the e-commerce plans and were undermining the effort .
Dunlevie , who is six feet four and played quarterback in high school @ @ @ @ @ @ @ s chief executive .
“ This is bullshit !
” he told him .
“ None of what you represented is true !
” As Randall E. Stross reported in a 2000 book about Benchmark , “ eBoys , ” Dunlevie soon met with his Benchmark partners about Toys R Us and told them that his “ every inclination is just to say , ‘ Let ’ s get the fuck out of here.
’ ” The only thing holding him back , he said , was a sense of obligation to Toys @ @ @ @ @ @ @ He ’ s not a bad guy , ” Dunlevie told his partners .
“ This poor son of a bitch needs us.
” Over the next month , Dunlevie cajoled executives , and pleaded with new hires to stick around .
“ He did everything possible , ” the former Toys R Us executive said .
“ He fought and fought.
” But the internal resistance was too great , so Dunlevie cancelled the planned partnership with Toys R Us , forfeiting a guaranteed hundred-million-dollar payout .
The toy retailer , he @ @ @ @ @ @ @ about its internal deficiencies .
“ Bruce stood on principle , ” the former executive said .
“ He refused to be part of something that was so dysfunctional .
”

In six years, Neuner opened nine NextSpace locations, as far east as Chicago. “But I was so burnt out by everyone saying I was a failure just because I didn’t want to dominate the globe,” he said. In 2014, Neuner resigned, and NextSpace began closing its sites. “It was heartbreaking,” he said. “V.C.s seem like these quiet, boring guys who are good at math, encourage you to dream big, and have private planes. You know who else is quiet, good at math, and has private planes? Drug cartels.”
As NextSpace’s offices shut down or were sold off, WeWork opened forty new locations and announced that it had raised hundreds of millions of dollars more. It became one of the biggest property lessors in New York, London, and Washington, D.C. One fall day in 2017, as Neuner was browsing in a bookstore near NextSpace’s original location, in Santa Cruz, he passed a magazine rack and saw that Forbes had put Adam Neumann on its cover. The accompanying article described how Neumann had met with Masayoshi Son, one of Japan’s wealthiest men and the head of the enormous investment firm SoftBank. Son had been so impressed by a twelve-minute tour of WeWork’s headquarters that he had scribbled out a spur-of-the-moment contract to invest $4.4 billion in the company. That backing, Neumann had explained to the Forbes reporter, was based not on financial estimates but, rather, “on our energy and spirituality.”
The article also detailed how, a few months after Son made that commitment, Neumann travelled to Tokyo to toast the deal with him. As they celebrated, Son asked Neumann a philosophical question: “In a fight, who wins—the smart guy or the crazy guy?”
“Crazy guy,” Neumann replied.
“You are correct,” Son said. “But you,” he added, with a hint of concern, “are not crazy enough.”
From the start, venture capitalists have presented their profession as an elevated calling. They weren’t mere speculators—they were midwives to innovation. The first V.C. firms were designed to make money by identifying and supporting the most brilliant startup ideas, providing the funds and the strategic advice that daring entrepreneurs needed in order to prosper. For decades, such boasts were merited. Genentech, which helped invent synthetic insulin, in the nineteen-seventies, succeeded in large part because of the stewardship of the venture capitalist Tom Perkins, whose company, Kleiner Perkins, made an initial hundred-thousand-dollar investment. Perkins demanded a seat on Genentech’s board of directors, and then began spending one afternoon a week in the startup’s offices, scrutinizing spending reports and browbeating inexperienced executives. In subsequent years, Kleiner Perkins nurtured such tech startups as Amazon, Google, Sun Microsystems, and Compaq. When Perkins died, in 2016, at the age of eighty-four, an obituary in the Financial Times remembered him as “part of a new movement in finance that saw investors roll up their sleeves and play an active role in management.”
The V.C. industry has grown exponentially since Perkins’s heyday, but it has also become increasingly avaricious and cynical. It is now dominated by a few dozen firms, which, collectively, control hundreds of billions of dollars. Most professional V.C.s fit a narrow mold: according to surveys, just under half of them attended either Harvard or Stanford, and eighty per cent are male. Although V.C.s depict themselves as perpetually on the hunt for radical business ideas, they often seem to be hyping the same Silicon Valley trends—and their managerial oversight has dwindled, making their investments look more like trading-floor bets. Steve Blank, an entrepreneur who currently teaches at Stanford’s engineering school, said, “I’ve watched the industry become a money-hungry mob. V.C.s today aren’t interested in the public good. They’re not interested in anything except optimizing their own profits and chasing the herd, and so they waste billions of dollars that could have gone to innovation that actually helps people.”
This clubby, self-serving approach has made many V.C.s rich. In January, 2020, the National Venture Capital Association hailed a “record decade” of “hyper growth” in which its members had given nearly eight hundred billion dollars to startups, “fueling the economy of tomorrow.” The pandemic has slowed things down, but not much. According to a report by PitchBook, a company that provides data on the industry, five of the top twenty venture-capital firms are currently making more deals than they did last year.
In recent decades, the gambles taken by V.C.s have grown dramatically larger. A million-dollar investment in a thriving young company might yield ten million dollars in profits. A fifty-million-dollar investment in the same startup could deliver half a billion dollars. “Honestly, it stopped making sense to look at investments that were smaller than thirty or forty million,” a prominent venture capitalist told me. “It’s the same amount of due diligence, the same amount of time going to board meetings, the same amount of work, regardless of how much you invest.”
Critics of the venture-capital industry have observed that, lately, it has given one dubious startup after another gigantic infusions of money. The blood-testing company Theranos received seven hundred million dollars from a number of investors, including Rupert Murdoch and Betsy DeVos, before it was revealed as a fraud; in 2018, its founders were indicted. Juicero, which sold a Wi-Fi-enabled juice press for seven hundred dollars, raised more than a hundred million dollars from such sources as Google’s investment arm, but shut down after only four years. (Consumers posted videos demonstrating that they could press juice just as efficiently with their own hands.) Two years ago, when Wag!, an Uber-like service for dog walking, went looking for seventy-five million dollars in venture capital, its founders—among them, a pair of brothers in their twenties, with little business experience—discovered that investors were interested, as long as Wag! agreed to accept three hundred million dollars. The startup planned to use those funds to expand internationally, but it was too poorly run to flourish. It began shedding its employees after, among other things, the New York City Council accused the firm of losing dogs.
Increasingly, the venture-capital industry has become fixated on creating “unicorns”: startups whose valuations exceed a billion dollars. Some of these companies become lasting successes, but many of them—such as Uber, the data-mining giant Palantir, and the scandal-plagued software firm Zenefits—never seemed to have a realistic plan for turning a profit. A 2018 paper co-written by Martin Kenney, a professor at the University of California, Davis, argued that, thanks to the prodigious bets made by today’s V.C.s, “money-losing firms can continue operating and undercutting incumbents for far longer than previously.” In the traditional capitalist model, the most efficient and capable company succeeds; in the new model, the company with the most funding wins. Such firms are often “destroying economic value”—that is, undermining sound rivals—and creating “disruption without social benefit.”
Many venture capitalists say that they have no choice but to flood startups with cash. In order for a Silicon Valley startup to become a true unicorn, it typically must wipe out its competitors and emerge as the dominant brand. Jeff Housenbold, a managing partner at SoftBank, told me, “Once Uber is founded, within a year you suddenly have three hundred copycats. The only way to protect your company is to get big fast by investing hundreds of millions.” What’s more, V.C.s say, the big venture firms are all looking at the same deals, and trying to persuade the same coveted entrepreneurs to accept their investment dollars. To win, V.C.s must give entrepreneurs what they demand.
Particularly in Silicon Valley, founders often want venture capitalists who promise not to interfere or to ask too many questions. V.C.s have started boasting that they are “founder-friendly” and uninterested in, say, spending an afternoon a week at a company’s offices or second-guessing a young C.E.O. Josh Lerner, a professor at Harvard Business School, told me, “Proclaiming founder loyalty is kind of expected now.” One of the bigger V.C. firms, the Founders Fund, which has more than six billion dollars under management, declares on its Web site that it “has never removed a single founder” and that, when it finds entrepreneurs with “audacious vision,” “a near-messianic attitude,” and “wild-eyed passion,” it essentially seeks to give them veto-proof authority over the board of directors, so that an entrepreneur need never worry about being reined in, let alone fired.
Whereas venture capitalists like Tom Perkins once prided themselves on installing good governance and closely monitoring companies, V.C.s today are more likely to encourage entrepreneurs’ undisciplined eccentricities. Masayoshi Son, the SoftBank venture capitalist who promised WeWork $4.4 billion after less than twenty minutes, embodies this approach. In 2016, he began raising a hundred-billion-dollar Vision Fund, the largest pool of money ever devoted to venture-capital investment. “Masa decided to deliberately inject cocaine into the bloodstream of these young companies,” a former SoftBank senior executive said. “You approach an entrepreneur and say, ‘Hey, either take a billion dollars from me right now, or I’ll give it to your competitor and you’ll go out of business.’ ” This strategy might sound reckless, but it has paid off handsomely for Son. In the mid-nineties, he gave billions of dollars to hundreds of tech firms, including twenty million dollars to a small Chinese online marketplace named Alibaba. When the first Internet bubble burst, in 2001, Son lost almost seventy billion dollars, but Alibaba had enough of a war chest to outlast its competitors, and today it’s valued at more than seven hundred billion dollars. SoftBank’s stake in the firm is more than a hundred billion dollars—far exceeding all of Son’s other losses. “Venture capital has become a lottery,” the former SoftBank executive told me. “Masa is not a particularly deep thinker, but he has one strength: he’s devoted to buying more lottery tickets than anyone else.”
As NextSpace dissolved and WeWork expanded, a perverse dynamic emerged: the more that rumors spread about WeWork’s predatory tactics and odd culture, the more that Adam Neumann was courted by venture capitalists. Investors whispered that WeWork’s top employees were told to attend weekly sessions with a guru; tales circulated of office tequila parties and recreational drug use among the staff. Sex at the WeWork headquarters was so commonplace, one employee told me, that every day for a week she found a different used condom in a stairwell. Neumann smoked marijuana at the office; someone who worked closely with him told me that, on her first day, Neumann “lights up a joint and starts blowing it in my face, almost like a test.” Neumann also spent lavishly on perks for himself, such as a Maybach car and a chauffeur, and a cold-plunge pool and an infrared sauna in his office.
Despite the unprofessional atmosphere at WeWork, its valuation was doubling every year. “Everyone wanted in,” a venture capitalist told me. “If you could deliver a piece of WeWork to your partners, they’d never fire you.” Neumann lay at the heart of the company’s allure. He had moved to New York in 2001, intent, he later said, on “hitting on every girl in the city.” Not long afterward, he started a company that sold women’s shoes with collapsible heels. When that venture failed, he founded Krawlers, a company that made baby clothes with kneepads. Its tagline: “Just because they don’t tell you, doesn’t mean they don’t hurt.”


newyorker--2020-11-23--Don’t Typecast Lesley Manville

Don’t Typecast Lesley Manville

The British actor Lesley Manville , O.B.E.
, is best known for her wide-ranging , expressive work in Mike Leigh ’ s films—she has appeared in eight of them , including “ Secrets & Lies ” and “ Another Year ” —and for her Oscar-nominated performance in Paul Thomas Anderson ’ s “ Phantom Thread , ” as Cyril , the serenely iron-fisted sister of Daniel Day-Lewis ’ s dressmaker character .
( “ Don ’ t pick a fight with me—you certainly won ’ t come out alive , ” she tells him , mildly , sipping her tea @ @ @ @ @ @ @ through you and it ’ ll be you who ends up on the floor.
” ) On a recent , rare day off , Manville , sixty-four , cheerfully Zooming from an apartment in Budapest , wore a striped shirt and dangly geometric earrings , her hair in a relaxed updo .
“ It ’ s a national holiday here , ” she said .
After “ Phantom Thread , ” Manville declined offers for several Cyril-like roles .
“ I don ’ t want to get up every morning and do the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ I want to get up and think , I ’ m going to be Blanche Weboy today .
And now I ’ m going to be sweet Mrs. Harris.
” In her current project , “ Mrs .
Harris Goes to Paris , ” Manville is Mrs. Harris , and Budapest is Paris .
“ It ’ s like a musical without music , ” she said .
“ A bit of , Is she going to fall in love with him ?
Is he going to fall in love with her @ @ @ @ @ @ @ dress ?
Isn ’ t she ?
It ’ s just delightful.
” Thomas Bezucha ’ s “ Let Him Go , ” released this month , is less of an escapist confection .
Kevin Costner and Diane Lane play ranchers in mid-twentieth-century Montana who travel to North Dakota to confront the menacing Weboy clan , who have the couple ’ s toddler grandson .
Blanche is the Weboys ’ chain-smoking , platinum-blond matriarch .
Her jocular first line— “ I hope you like pork chops !
” —inspires trembling .
“ I @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , ” Manville said .
( “ Long Day ’ s Journey Into Night , ” “ Six Degrees of Separation.
” ) “ But I haven ’ t played an American in an American film.
” She ’ d also never attempted a North Dakota accent .
“ The director said , ‘ Don ’ t worry too much about the North Dakota.
’ Well , that is like a red rag to a bull to me .
If she ’ s from North Dakota , I ’ m going to do @ @ @ @ @ @ @ played Margaret Thatcher in a little drama documentary .
They said , ‘ Don ’ t worry about doing the voice.
’ I thought , It ’ s all right if she sounds like she ’ s from the Gorbals in Glasgow ?
Of course I ’ ve got to do Thatcher.
” She worked with a dialect coach for Blanche .
“ He said , ‘ The thing about North Dakota is that it ’ s very musical : “ I hope you like pork chops !
” ’ ” Manville waved @ @ @ @ @ @ @ if tracing notes on a scale .
“ Bop-bop !
It should have this kind of song to it .
” Manville sang before she acted .
She grew up in Brighton , on the southern coast of England .
“ My parents were rather glamorous—quite a sexy couple , ” she said .
Her mother was a former ballet dancer .
“ My dad was a Jack-of-all-trades : a bookmaker , a taxi-driver , a plumber .
I idolized him .
He was very charismatic , a bit of a crooner .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ sister Diana and I had good classical singing voices , and we ’ d go entertain people at little cabaret clubs , ” she continued .
“ People might be playing bingo .
We ’ d put on our little catsuits and sing a few songs and get paid a pound.
” At fifteen , she went to London , to study singing , then dance , then acting : “ I did anything and everything .
I did pantomime , I did TV , I did children ’ s-show presenting , I @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the Royal Shakespeare Company— “ I met Mike Leigh , and the rest is history.
” In March , Manville was starring in Tony Kushner ’ s adaptation of Dürrenmatt ’ s “ The Visit , ” at the National Theatre , when COVID hit .
“ I live on my own in London , ” she said .
“ I couldn ’ t see my son ” —Alfie Oldman , thirty-two— “ for twenty weeks.
” In lockdown , she kept busy .
She filmed a monologue for Nicholas Hytner ’ s @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Talking Heads.
” “ I narrated that HBO series ‘ Love Life ’ —ten episodes , from my walk-in wardrobe , ” she said .
“ I did two audiobooks , from the same said walk-in wardrobe .
But I did slow down .
I still had time to clean my cupboards.
” Now , in Budapest , “ Sunday is a lovely free day ” ; she reads books about Princess Margaret , whom she will play in Seasons 5 and 6 of “ The Crown , ” succeeding Helena Bonham Carter @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , ” Manville said .
She hadn ’ t yet seen Season 4 .
“ I ’ m in Budapest to December , so I ’ m quite happy to start binge-watching , ” she said .
♦

Lesley Manville Illustration by João Fazenda
The British actor Lesley Manville, O.B.E., is best known for her wide-ranging, expressive work in Mike Leigh’s films—she has appeared in eight of them, including “Secrets & Lies” and “Another Year”—and for her Oscar-nominated performance in Paul Thomas Anderson’s “Phantom Thread,” as Cyril, the serenely iron-fisted sister of Daniel Day-Lewis’s dressmaker character. (“Don’t pick a fight with me—you certainly won’t come out alive,” she tells him, mildly, sipping her tea. “I’ll go right through you and it’ll be you who ends up on the floor.”) On a recent, rare day off, Manville, sixty-four, cheerfully Zooming from an apartment in Budapest, wore a striped shirt and dangly geometric earrings, her hair in a relaxed updo. “It’s a national holiday here,” she said. After “Phantom Thread,” Manville declined offers for several Cyril-like roles. “I don’t want to get up every morning and do the same performance,” she said. “I want to get up and think, I’m going to be Blanche Weboy today. And now I’m going to be sweet Mrs. Harris.”
In her current project, “Mrs. Harris Goes to Paris,” Manville is Mrs. Harris, and Budapest is Paris. “It’s like a musical without music,” she said. “A bit of, Is she going to fall in love with him? Is he going to fall in love with her? Is she going to get the dress? Isn’t she? It’s just delightful.” Thomas Bezucha’s “Let Him Go,” released this month, is less of an escapist confection. Kevin Costner and Diane Lane play ranchers in mid-twentieth-century Montana who travel to North Dakota to confront the menacing Weboy clan, who have the couple’s toddler grandson. Blanche is the Weboys’ chain-smoking, platinum-blond matriarch. Her jocular first line—“I hope you like pork chops!”—inspires trembling.
“I’ve played Americans onstage in England,” Manville said. (“Long Day’s Journey Into Night,” “Six Degrees of Separation.”) “But I haven’t played an American in an American film.” She’d also never attempted a North Dakota accent. “The director said, ‘Don’t worry too much about the North Dakota.’ Well, that is like a red rag to a bull to me. If she’s from North Dakota, I’m going to do North Dakota! Years ago, I played Margaret Thatcher in a little drama documentary. They said, ‘Don’t worry about doing the voice.’ I thought, It’s all right if she sounds like she’s from the Gorbals in Glasgow? Of course I’ve got to do Thatcher.” She worked with a dialect coach for Blanche. “He said, ‘The thing about North Dakota is that it’s very musical: “I hope you like pork chops!” ’ ” Manville waved her finger up and down, as if tracing notes on a scale. “Bop-bop! It should have this kind of song to it. ”
Manville sang before she acted. She grew up in Brighton, on the southern coast of England. “My parents were rather glamorous—quite a sexy couple,” she said. Her mother was a former ballet dancer. “My dad was a Jack-of-all-trades: a bookmaker, a taxi-driver, a plumber. I idolized him. He was very charismatic, a bit of a crooner. We used to sing duets. My sister Diana and I had good classical singing voices, and we’d go entertain people at little cabaret clubs,” she continued. “People might be playing bingo. We’d put on our little catsuits and sing a few songs and get paid a pound.” At fifteen, she went to London, to study singing, then dance, then acting: “I did anything and everything. I did pantomime, I did TV, I did children’s-show presenting, I did a musical. Then”—at the Royal Shakespeare Company—“I met Mike Leigh, and the rest is history.”
In March, Manville was starring in Tony Kushner’s adaptation of Dürrenmatt’s “The Visit,” at the National Theatre, when COVID hit. “I live on my own in London,” she said. “I couldn’t see my son”—Alfie Oldman, thirty-two—“for twenty weeks.” In lockdown, she kept busy. She filmed a monologue for Nicholas Hytner’s production of Alan Bennett’s “Talking Heads.” “I narrated that HBO series ‘Love Life’—ten episodes, from my walk-in wardrobe,” she said. “I did two audiobooks, from the same said walk-in wardrobe. But I did slow down. I still had time to clean my cupboards.” Now, in Budapest, “Sunday is a lovely free day”; she reads books about Princess Margaret, whom she will play in Seasons 5 and 6 of “The Crown,” succeeding Helena Bonham Carter. “I’m so excited,” Manville said. She hadn’t yet seen Season 4. “I’m in Budapest to December, so I’m quite happy to start binge-watching,” she said. ♦