newyorker--2020-05-09--We Are Living in the Age of the Black-Panic Defense

The most basic conception of racial profiling holds that it is a form of institutionalized bias practiced by police departments in which the color of a person ’ s skin is considered a barometer of criminality .
This idea is problematic enough on its face , but our experience in the eight years since Trayvon Martin ’ s death has complicated this issue greatly .
Martin was killed by a civilian—a self-appointed neighborhood watchman—who had no legal authority but presumed that the seventeen-year-old Martin was a burglar , confronted him , and killed him in a gated community in Florida @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of John Crawford , who was shot by police while examining a gun for sale in an Ohio Walmart , and Tamir Rice , a twelve-year-old who was shot by a Cleveland police officer while playing with a toy gun in a park , point to difficulties in neatly dividing the racial biases of the public from those of law enforcement .
In both of those instances , police shot innocent black males after responding to a call from a civilian who had imagined them to be dangerous .
These nuances are relevant @ @ @ @ @ @ @ witness to an addition to a gruesome genre of black death .
On February 23rd , according to his mother , the twenty-five-year-old Ahmaud Arbery left his home , in Brunswick , Georgia , to go running .
He entered a nearby subdivision called Satilla Shores .
At some point , he came to the attention of two residents , Gregory and Travis McMichael , a father and son who also live in the community .
The older McMichael reportedly told his son that he thought Arbery was the man suspected of breaking @ @ @ @ @ @ @ grabbed their firearms ( a .357 Magnum revolver and a shotgun ) and pursued Arbery , whom the father described as “ hauling ass ” down the street .
They chased him in their pickup truck while a neighbor , William Bryan , followed in a separate vehicle , recording the chase on his phone .
The horrific scene that unfolds in the video resembles a suburban game hunt .
With the two armed men in the truck already ahead of him , and another car rapidly approaching from behind , Arbery begins @ @ @ @ @ @ @ off the street , cuts across a lawn , and then angles back into the road in front of the truck , where Travis McMichael is standing .
The view is momentarily obscured by the vehicle , and a shot rings out .
( It ’ s not clear which of the McMichaels fired the first shot . )
The next time we see Arbery , he is struggling with Travis McMichael and a second shot is fired off camera , then a third is fired as they come back into view .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ only a half-dozen steps before he collapses in the street , his limbs arrayed in terrible , deathly sprawl .
The video , which was released on Tuesday , inspired a cascade of fury .
Within twenty-four hours , a search of the term “ lynching ” on Twitter returned a long , bitter scroll of tweets , most of them with the hashtag # AhmaudArbery .
But Alan Tucker , an attorney with ties to the McMichaels , apparently released the video in an attempt to defuse tensions surrounding the case .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ Jacksonville , Florida , outlet , `` I didn ’ t want my community to be burned to the ground .
This is a mixed community and they don ’ t deserve this.
” On Thursday , he released a statement that further confounded his reasoning .
Some of those questionable assumptions , though , came from law-enforcement officials .
Two local prosecutors who had had access to the video decided that the McMichaels had not done anything criminally prosecutable .
On Friday , Glynn County commissioners announced that Jackie Johnson , the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ County police from arresting the two men .
Jackie Johnson , the Glynn County district attorney , saw no reason to arrest either McMichael—Gregory McMichael , the father involved in the shooting and a former police officer , had worked as an investigator in Johnson ’ s office for years .
That conflict led to Johnson ’ s recusal , and the case was sent to George Barnhill , the D.A .
in nearby Waycross , Georgia .
Barnhill later recused himself as well , saying that his son had at one point @ @ @ @ @ @ @ The Atlanta Journal-Constitution reported on Thursday that McMichael and Barnhill ’ s son worked together on the prosecution of Arbery two years ago on a shoplifting charges .
The elder McMichael told police that Arbery had been captured on surveillance video committing other break-ins .
( The police report doesn ’ t say how McMichael would have known that . )
This is significant because , in April , before Barnhill recused himself from the case , he wrote a letter to the Glynn County Police Department stating that the McMichaels had been @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Arbery under a Georgia law that makes citizen ’ s arrests legal if a person witnessed or has direct knowledge of a crime committed by the suspect .
But neither Barnhill nor Johnson had mentioned any surveillance video of Arbery .
A local news station reported that there had been only one reported burglary in the Satilla Shores community between January 1st and February 23rd : a car break-in .
The handling of the case by the two prosecutors suggests a coverup of a killing by a former police officer that has obvious @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to have been troubled by the disparity between Gregory McMichael ’ s account in the police report and what Williams ’ s video reveals .
As First Coast News reported , McMichael told officers at the scene that his son got out of the car with his firearm after Arbery had ignored their attempts to talk to him .
But , as the video shows , Travis McMichael was already outside the vehicle when Arbery caught up to it , and Arbery was shot two seconds after that .
This sequence wouldn ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ self-defense , even if Arbery had previously been captured on surveillance video committing burglaries

The most basic conception of racial profiling holds that it is a form of institutionalized bias practiced by police departments in which the color of a person’s skin is considered a barometer of criminality. This idea is problematic enough on its face, but our experience in the eight years since Trayvon Martin’s death has complicated this issue greatly. Martin was killed by a civilian—a self-appointed neighborhood watchman—who had no legal authority but presumed that the seventeen-year-old Martin was a burglar, confronted him, and killed him in a gated community in Florida. Other cases, such as those of John Crawford, who was shot by police while examining a gun for sale in an Ohio Walmart, and Tamir Rice, a twelve-year-old who was shot by a Cleveland police officer while playing with a toy gun in a park, point to difficulties in neatly dividing the racial biases of the public from those of law enforcement. In both of those instances, police shot innocent black males after responding to a call from a civilian who had imagined them to be dangerous. These nuances are relevant because, once again, we are witness to an addition to a gruesome genre of black death.
On February 23rd, according to his mother, the twenty-five-year-old Ahmaud Arbery left his home, in Brunswick, Georgia, to go running. He entered a nearby subdivision called Satilla Shores. At some point, he came to the attention of two residents, Gregory and Travis McMichael, a father and son who also live in the community. The older McMichael reportedly told his son that he thought Arbery was the man suspected of breaking into nearby homes. The two men grabbed their firearms (a .357 Magnum revolver and a shotgun) and pursued Arbery, whom the father described as “hauling ass” down the street. They chased him in their pickup truck while a neighbor, William Bryan, followed in a separate vehicle, recording the chase on his phone.
The horrific scene that unfolds in the video resembles a suburban game hunt. With the two armed men in the truck already ahead of him, and another car rapidly approaching from behind, Arbery begins weaving as he runs. He swerves off the street, cuts across a lawn, and then angles back into the road in front of the truck, where Travis McMichael is standing. The view is momentarily obscured by the vehicle, and a shot rings out. (It’s not clear which of the McMichaels fired the first shot.) The next time we see Arbery, he is struggling with Travis McMichael and a second shot is fired off camera, then a third is fired as they come back into view. Arbery attempts to flee, but takes only a half-dozen steps before he collapses in the street, his limbs arrayed in terrible, deathly sprawl.
The video, which was released on Tuesday, inspired a cascade of fury. Within twenty-four hours, a search of the term “lynching” on Twitter returned a long, bitter scroll of tweets, most of them with the hashtag #AhmaudArbery. But Alan Tucker, an attorney with ties to the McMichaels, apparently released the video in an attempt to defuse tensions surrounding the case. Tucker told First Coast News, a Jacksonville, Florida, outlet, “I didn’t want my community to be burned to the ground. This is a mixed community and they don’t deserve this.” On Thursday, he released a statement that further confounded his reasoning.
I released the video of the shooting on February 23 in Satilla Shores. There had been very little information provided by the police department or the district attorney’s office, but there was entirely too much speculation, rumor, false narratives, and outright lies surrounding this event. I didn’t release this to “show that they did nothing wrong” as is being circulated. I was raised in this community. I love this community and have spent my career helping people in this community. My sole purpose in releasing the video was absolute transparency because my community was being ripped apart by erroneous accusations and assumptions.
Some of those questionable assumptions, though, came from law-enforcement officials. Two local prosecutors who had had access to the video decided that the McMichaels had not done anything criminally prosecutable. On Friday, Glynn County commissioners announced that Jackie Johnson, the county district attorney, had blocked Glynn County police from arresting the two men. Johnson saw no reason to arrest either McMichael—Gregory McMichael, the father involved in the shooting and a former police officer, had worked as an investigator in Johnson’s office for years. That conflict led to Johnson’s recusal, and the case was sent to George Barnhill, the D.A. in nearby Waycross, Georgia. Barnhill later recused himself as well, saying that his son had at one point been Gregory McMichael’s co-worker. The Atlanta Journal-Constitution reported on Thursday that McMichael and Barnhill’s son worked together on the prosecution of Arbery two years ago on a shoplifting charge.
The elder McMichael told police that Arbery had been captured on surveillance video committing other break-ins. (The police report doesn’t say how McMichael would have known that.) This is significant because, in April, before Barnhill recused himself from the case, he wrote a letter to the Glynn County Police Department stating that the McMichaels had been within their rights to pursue and confront Arbery under a Georgia law that makes citizen’s arrests legal if a person witnessed or has direct knowledge of a crime committed by the suspect. But neither Barnhill nor Johnson had mentioned any surveillance video of Arbery. A local news station reported that there had been only one reported burglary in the Satilla Shores community between January 1st and February 23rd: a car break-in. The handling of the case by the two prosecutors suggests a coverup of a killing by a former police officer that has obvious racial implications.
Neither D.A. appears to have been troubled by the disparity between Gregory McMichael’s account in the police report and what Williams’s video reveals. As First Coast News reported, McMichael told officers at the scene that his son got out of the car with his firearm after Arbery had ignored their attempts to talk to him. But, as the video shows, Travis McMichael was already outside the vehicle when Arbery caught up to it, and Arbery was shot two seconds after that. This sequence wouldn’t square with any reasonable concept of self-defense, even if Arbery had previously been captured on surveillance video committing burglaries.
A third district attorney, Tom Durden, asked the Georgia Bureau of Investigation to look into the case but then changed course, filing murder and aggravated-assault charges against both Gregory and Travis McMichael. They were arrested on Thursday night, two and a half months after Arbery’s death. Yet questions about why it took so long to get to this point persist. Barnhill’s argument that the McMichaels were within their rights to attempt a citizen’s arrest begins with the presumption that Arbery had, in fact, committed a crime. Gregory McMichael said that they drew their weapons in case Arbery was armed. Later, as the young man lay dying in the street, the elder McMichael turned him onto his back to see if he had a firearm. He did not, meaning that, in a distinct echo of the Trayvon Martin case, two armed men had stalked an unarmed black man, cut off his means of escape, drew weapons and, when a fight ensued, killed him. Yet, according to Barnhill’s letter, none of this warrants prosecution.
The index of cases like this one seems to point to racial presumptions implicit in how we interpret the concept of self-defense. It is reminiscent of the “gay panic” defense of old, in which violence committed in the name of self-defense was acceptable based on a straight person’s allegedly rational fear that a presumably gay person might assault him. We are living in the age of the black-panic defense.
There was no conviction in the trial of George Zimmerman, who killed Trayvon Martin, and no charges were brought in the deaths of John Crawford and Tamir Rice. But no one can seriously believe that if two armed black men chased down and shot a white man in Glynn County, Georgia, they would walk around freely for more than two months. Whatever Tucker’s motives, his release of the shooting video appears to have accelerated the arrest and charging of the McMichaels with murder and aggravated assault. The efforts to bury the case have failed, but it remains hugely significant that two prosecutors saw the video and thought that the two men should go free. The question is whether a jury of twelve Georgians will agree with them.


newyorker--2020-05-09--Little Richard, the Great Innovator of Rock and Roll

One of the most foolish things that you can do is to begin the day by checking the news .
This Saturday morning , the news came that Richard Wayne Penniman—Little Richard—had died .
He was eighty-seven and had been in failing health .
A different President might take the time to commemorate the passing of a great American , one who shaped the culture and its national sound .
Don ’ t hold your breath .
But please do play his music and watch his performances : “ Tutti Frutti ” will lift your heart .
“ Rip It @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the chair .
And isn ’ t that what you need ?
The core of Little Richard ’ s career was brief—he recorded an incandescent string of hits in the mid-fifties and then went off to rediscover his faith .
In the years that followed , he ’ d dip in and out of show business , and there were some inspired moments , but he was a comet , not a planet .
The trail of light that he left behind was , and is , everywhere .
Try to imagine Muhammad @ @ @ @ @ @ @ persona , his swing and swagger ( “ I am the King !
” ) .
Try to imagine James Brown , the Beatles , Jimi Hendrix , Otis Redding , Bob Dylan , Mick Jagger , David Bowie , Janis Joplin , Elton John , and Prince without his electrical charge .
Little Richard was an original , and he did not hesitate to remind his students of their debt .
He once looked into a television camera and , with affection , told Prince , “ I was wearing purple before @ @ @ @ @ @ @ than watch the news–––it can wait––go to YouTube and watch Little Richard ’ s performances of “ Tutti Frutti , ” “ Long Tall Sally , ” “ Rip It Up , ” “ She ’ s Got It , ” “ Lucille , ” “ Slippin ’ and Slidin ’ , ” “ The Girl Can ’ t Help It , ” “ Good Golly Miss Molly.
” Banging boogie-woogie time with his right hand and singing miles beyond anyone ’ s idea of a “ register , ” he is a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ voltage in one of those three-minute performances than there is in a municipal power station .
One of the underrated books in the pop music library is “ The Life and Times of Little Richard : The Quasar of Rock , ” an authorized biography-slash-oral biography , by Charles White .
Calling on multiple voices , it tells a revolutionary , ecstatic , sometimes heart-breaking story .
Richard Penniman was born in 1932 into a large , poor Christian family , in Macon , Georgia .
His father was a brick mason and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ s legs was shorter than the other , making him a source of mockery among other children .
“ They thought I was trying to twist and walk feminine , ” he once told Rolling Stone .
“ The kids would call me faggot , sissy , freak.
” As a boy , Richard was raised in the Pentecostal Church and sang gospel on Sundays with a family group called the Penniman Singers and another group called the Tiny Tots Quartet .
His earliest musical influences included Mahalia Jackson , Sister Rosetta Tharpe @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ Thunderbolt of the Middle West.
” Even as a child singer , Richard was known for his high range and incredible volume .
But , in his father ’ s eyes , he was unbearably effeminate and not to be tolerated .
When Richard was a teen-ager , he was thrown out of the house and went to live with Ann and Johnny Johnson , a white couple who ran a local venue , the Tick Tock Club .
Richard was a poor student but , musically , he was a fast @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the piano in church , but after hearing Ike Turner ’ s recording “ Rocket 88 , ” and studying the style of S. Q. Reeder , Jr. , better known as Esquerita , he adopted a pounding , mesmeric style .
Throughout his teens , he was in and out of outfits like Buster Brown ’ s Orchestra ( where he got the name Little Richard ) and the Tidy Jolly Steppers .
He sang , sometimes wearing a red evening gown , under the name Princess Lavonne , in Sugarfoot Sam @ @ @ @ @ @ @ serving his musical apprenticeship in the last days of these minstrel shows ; he also inhabited a world of strippers and drag queens and brash comedians .
He studied the flashy showmanship of Atlanta-based performers like Roy Brown , who had a hit with “ Good Rockin ’ Tonight , ” and he adopted the pompadour and pancake makeup of the jump-blues singer Billy Wright .
He played the Dew Drop Inn , in New Orleans , where the m.c .
was a famous female impersonator and performer named Patsy Vidalia .
Little @ @ @ @ @ @ @ early fifties , but his career didn ’ t quite ignite .
He was still washing dishes in a Greyhound bus station to make a living .
Things changed in 1955 when Art Rupe of Specialty Records put him together with some stellar New Orleans players , including the drummer Earl Palmer and the saxophonist Lee Allen .
On September 14th of that year , they recorded “ Tutti Frutti , ” a bawdy boogie-woogie that Little Richard had been performing in countless drag bars .
It included lewd verses such as , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ If it don ’ t fit , don ’ t force it / You can grease it , make it easy.
” At the instruction of the producer Robert ( Bumps ) Blackwell , a songwriter named Dorothy LaBostrie worked with Little Richard to tone down the lyrics .
But it wasn ’ t so much the lyrics as the beat and the ecstatic yowl— “ A wop bop a loo bop a lop bam boom !
” —that made the song a hit .
The record sold widely to black and whites @ @ @ @ @ @ @ business among white listeners when Pat Boone recorded it . )
For the next couple of years , Little Richard was a star at the highest level of the new art of rock and roll .
In the late fifties , while touring Australia , Little Richard said that he saw a powerful vision in the sky that caused him to give up rock and roll , come home , and enroll in Oakwood Bible College , in Huntsville , Alabama .
In the years to come , he made forays back into @ @ @ @ @ @ @ he was always torn .
When Little Richard played the Star Club , in Hamburg , the Beatles were his opening act .
“ He used to read from the Bible backstage and just to hear him talk we ’ d sit around and listen , ” John Lennon told an interviewer .
Despite Little Richard ’ s own ambivalence about rock and roll , his influence spread quickly , and it ran deep .
In the Iron Range town of Hibbing , Minnesota , a high-school kid named Robert Zimmerman listened all @ @ @ @ @ @ @ music , blues music , and the first rock-and-rollers : Chuck Berry , Elvis Presley , Buddy Holly , Gene Vincent , Bill Haley , and , the one he loved the most , Little Richard .
In his high-school yearbook , he wrote that his ambition was “ to join ‘ Little Richard.
’ ” His high-school band , the Golden Chords , played Little Richard covers .
At a talent show in Hibbing High ’ s unaccountably ornate auditorium , the principal yanked the curtain shut on the Golden Chords and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
Zimmerman wore his hair in a high , poufy pompadour , just like his idol .
“ I was trying to look like Little Richard , my version of Little Richard , ” he told an interviewer years later .
“ I wanted wild hair , I wanted to be recognized.
” He left town and became a star in Greenwich Village with a new name : Bob Dylan .

The core of Little Richard’s music career was brief, but his influence was, and is, everywhere. Photograph from Michael Ochs Archives / Getty
One of the most foolish things that you can do is to begin the day by checking the news. This Saturday morning, the news came that Richard Wayne Penniman—Little Richard—had died. He was eighty-seven and had been in failing health. A different President might take the time to commemorate the passing of a great American, one who shaped the culture and its national sound. Don’t hold your breath. But please do play his music and watch his performances: “Tutti Frutti” will lift your heart. “Rip It Up” will get you out of the chair. And isn’t that what you need?
The core of Little Richard’s career was brief—he recorded an incandescent string of hits in the mid-fifties and then went off to rediscover his faith. In the years that followed, he’d dip in and out of show business, and there were some inspired moments, but he was a comet, not a planet. The trail of light that he left behind was, and is, everywhere. Try to imagine Muhammad Ali without Little Richard’s winking persona, his swing and swagger (“I am the King!”). Try to imagine James Brown, the Beatles, Jimi Hendrix, Otis Redding, Bob Dylan, Mick Jagger, David Bowie, Janis Joplin, Elton John, and Prince without his electrical charge. Little Richard was an original, and he did not hesitate to remind his students of their debt. He once looked into a television camera and, with affection, told Prince, “I was wearing purple before you was wearing it!”
Rather than watch the news–––it can wait––go to YouTube and watch Little Richard’s performances of “Tutti Frutti,” “Long Tall Sally,” “Rip It Up,” “She’s Got It,” “Lucille,” “Slippin’ and Slidin’,” “The Girl Can’t Help It,” “Good Golly Miss Molly.” Banging boogie-woogie time with his right hand and singing miles beyond anyone’s idea of a “register,” he is a human thrill ride. There is more voltage in one of those three-minute performances than there is in a municipal power station.
One of the underrated books in the pop music library is “The Life and Times of Little Richard: The Quasar of Rock,” an authorized biography/oral biography, by Charles White. Calling on multiple voices, it tells a revolutionary, ecstatic, sometimes heartbreaking story. Richard Penniman was born in 1932 into a large, poor Christian family, in Macon, Georgia. His father was a brick mason and a bootlegger. One of Richard’s legs was shorter than the other, making him a source of mockery among other children. “They thought I was trying to twist and walk feminine,” he once told Rolling Stone. “The kids would call me faggot, sissy, freak.”
As a boy, Richard was raised in the Pentecostal Church and sang gospel on Sundays with a family group called the Penniman Singers and another group called the Tiny Tots Quartet. His earliest musical influences included Mahalia Jackson, Sister Rosetta Tharpe, and Brother Joe May, the “Thunderbolt of the Middle West.” Even as a child singer, Richard was known for his high range and incredible volume. But, in his father’s eyes, he was unbearably effeminate and not to be tolerated. When Richard was a teen-ager, he was thrown out of the house and went to live with Ann and Johnny Johnson, a white couple who ran a local venue, the Tick Tock Club.
Richard was a poor student but, musically, he was a fast learner. He first learned to play the piano in church, but after hearing Ike Turner’s recording “Rocket 88,” and studying the style of S. Q. Reeder, Jr., better known as Esquerita, he adopted a pounding, mesmeric style. Throughout his teens, he was in and out of outfits like Buster Brown’s Orchestra (where he got the name Little Richard) and the Tidy Jolly Steppers. He sang, sometimes wearing a red evening gown, under the name Princess Lavonne, in Sugarfoot Sam’s Minstrel Show. He was serving his musical apprenticeship in the last days of these minstrel shows; he also inhabited a world of strippers and drag queens and brash comedians. He studied the flashy showmanship of Atlanta-based performers like Roy Brown, who had a hit with “Good Rockin’ Tonight,” and he adopted the pompadour and pancake makeup of the jump-blues singer Billy Wright. He played the Dew Drop Inn, in New Orleans, where the m.c. was a famous female impersonator and performer named Patsy Vidalia.
Little Richard signed with RCA Victor in the early fifties, but his career didn’t quite ignite. He was still washing dishes in a Greyhound bus station to make a living. Things changed in 1955, when Art Rupe of Specialty Records put him together with some stellar New Orleans players, including the drummer Earl Palmer and the saxophonist Lee Allen. On September 14th of that year, they recorded “Tutti Frutti,” a bawdy boogie-woogie that Little Richard had been performing in countless drag bars. It included lewd verses such as “Tutti Frutti, good booty / If it don’t fit, don’t force it / You can grease it, make it easy.” At the instruction of the producer Robert (Bumps) Blackwell, a songwriter named Dorothy LaBostrie worked with Little Richard to tone down the lyrics. But it wasn’t so much the lyrics as the beat and the ecstatic yowl—“A wop bop a loo bop a lop bam boom!”—that made the song a hit. The record sold widely to blacks and whites. (And it did even bigger business among white listeners when Pat Boone recorded it.) For the next couple of years, Little Richard was a star at the highest level of the new art of rock and roll.
In the late fifties, while touring Australia, Little Richard said that he saw a powerful vision in the sky that caused him to give up rock and roll, come home, and enroll in Oakwood Bible College, in Huntsville, Alabama. In the years to come, he made forays back into music, secular and religious, but he was always torn. When Little Richard played the Star Club, in Hamburg, the Beatles were his opening act. “He used to read from the Bible backstage, and just to hear him talk we’d sit around and listen,” John Lennon told an interviewer.
Despite Little Richard’s own ambivalence about rock and roll, his influence spread quickly, and it ran deep. In the Iron Range town of Hibbing, Minnesota, a high-school kid named Robert Zimmerman listened all night to faraway radio stations playing country music, blues music, and the first rock-and-rollers: Chuck Berry, Elvis Presley, Buddy Holly, Gene Vincent, Bill Haley, and, the one he loved the most, Little Richard. In his high-school yearbook, he wrote that his ambition was “to join ‘Little Richard.’ ” His high-school band, the Golden Chords, played Little Richard covers. At a talent show in Hibbing High’s unaccountably ornate auditorium, the principal yanked the curtain shut on the Golden Chords and their cover of a Little Richard tune. Zimmerman wore his hair in a high, poufy pompadour, just like his idol. “I was trying to look like Little Richard, my version of Little Richard,” he told an interviewer years later. “I wanted wild hair, I wanted to be recognized.” He left town and became a star in Greenwich Village with a new name: Bob Dylan.


newyorker--2020-05-09--What to Stream: The Films of the Great Documentarian Leo Hurwitz, on a New Site Devoted to His Work

One of the greatest of all documentaries , “ Strange Victory , ” directed by Leo Hurwitz , from 1948—in which he contrasts America ’ s involvement in the defeat of the Nazi regime with the homecoming of black American soldiers to the racist Jim Crow regime—was long unavailable .
It came out a couple of years ago in DVD and Blu-ray editions from Milestone Films , which is crucial—physical media are the guarantors of some kind of shared permanence—but it wasn ’ t available to stream until now .
It comes as part of an overflowing collection of treasures @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , that ’ s devoted to the filmmaker ’ s life and work and offers many of his films , free of charge .
The site also features a wealth of biographical and historical resources about Hurwitz—including texts by his son Tom Hurwitz ( who ’ s one of the great documentary cinematographers—including on Lee Grant ’ s “ Down and Out in America ” ) and Manfred Kirchheimer , himself one of the great documentary filmmakers , who worked with Hurwitz as a cinematographer .
Hurwitz ’ s career was thwarted by @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Communist , he was banned from the movie and television industries between 1951 and 1961 .
( The site features excerpts from Hurwitz ’ s F.B.I .
files . )
He nonetheless managed to make films in that period , including the pioneering proto-cinéma-vérité films “ Emergency Ward ” and “ The Young Fighter , ” using a primordial synch-sound portable-camera setup devised by the cinematographer Fons Iannelli .
( Because of the blacklist , Hurwitz directed the latter film remotely , guiding Iannelli through phone calls in the course of the shoot @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in Hurwitz ’ s imagination , and that fusion reached its apogee in the feature “ In Search of Hart Crane , ” from 1966 , which was produced by National Educational Television ( the forerunner of PBS ) .
What ’ s amazing about the film is that its form should have been a filmmaking commonplace for decades—the cinematic oral history .
The rise of talking pictures in the late nineteen-twenties , even with their burdensome , studio-bound equipment , ought to have ushered in a new kind and a vital era @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of all sorts would have been brought in front of the camera and the microphone to create a wide-ranging cinema of first-person experiences , as well as a historic archive of the talk of the times and the recollections of those who ’ d lived in them .
Instead , it was left to studio television to record talkers—and to do so in such an aesthetically numb way as to give the very notion a bad name ( “ talking heads ” ) .
With “ In Search of Hart Crane , ” @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ s life and work—John Unterecker , a Columbia professor who was working on a biography of Crane .
The film begins with Unterecker taking viewers on a brief but affecting dive into the Crane archive , displaying and discussing manuscripts , notebooks , and artifacts ( punctuated with sharply targeted citations of Crane ’ s poems , read on the soundtrack by the actor Gary Merrill ) , before raising the curtain on the film ’ s main events : Unterecker ’ s on-camera discussions with Crane ’ s friends and colleagues @ @ @ @ @ @ @ These participants , however , are more than just Crane ’ s associates ; they ’ re also his contemporaries , all seemingly in their sixties or beyond .
As a result , the extraordinary interviews , filmed by Kirchheimer , as cameraman , reveal more than just the particulars of life with Crane ; in the specificity of memories and the very voices in which they ’ re delivered , they conjure virtual images of the times .
The stories present Crane—who was born near Akron , Ohio , in 1899 , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in New York , in the late nineteen-teens , to the time of his death , in 1932 , when he jumped off a ship off the coast of Florida , in what is widely believed to be a suicide .
The speakers , who include the artist Charmion von Wiegand ; the critics Gorham B. Munson , Waldo Frank , and Malcolm Cowley ; the translator Margaret Babcock ; and the writer Peggy Baird , with whom Crane had an affair and who was travelling with him at the time of his @ @ @ @ @ @ @ involve Crane ’ s enthusiastic writing ( von Wiegand describes him rummaging through a thesaurus to find a word with which “ he gave a shock treatment to a line ” ) , as well as his efforts to earn a living as an advertising copywriter .
Crane never finished high school , and Frank describes him as “ a man from the provinces , almost like a farmer dressed up in his best suit ” who nonetheless had an “ inner vibrance ” that conveyed , in daily action and through his @ @ @ @ @ @ @ exceptional artistry .
The discussions consider Crane both intimately and artistically ; the subjects include his penchant for friendship and the outrageous behavior with which he lost friends ; his growing alcoholism and increasingly reckless and destructive actions ; his suicide attempts ; his homosexuality and his intense conflicts with himself over it ; his bitter relations with his parents ; and his own fear , toward the end of his life , of his poetry having reached heights that it might never again attain .
The discussions depict the artistic community in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a quintet with Munson , Frank , Jean Toomer , and Alfred Stieglitz , and Munson describes the friends as the “ supporters of Crane ’ s mystical development ” and , together , as “ climbers on this new slope of consciousness.
” He and others also describe the daily struggle for money that the poet ’ s life entailed , and that was exacerbated by the Depression .
The participants in “ In Search of Hart Crane ” all speak in voices that are , in effect , archival .
There @ @ @ @ @ @ @ others from elsewhere in the United States , all of whom have accents that were formed in an era that left them undiluted by the unifying flatteners of national radio , movies , and television .
The movie ’ s interviews reflect a time when the hive of artistic energy that New York embodied was already a lure for ambitious and freethinking young people nationwide—and when , in the age before mass media , the distances and differences between the “ provinces ” and the metropolis seemed larger .
It ’ s a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ up against the demands of mere subsistence—and the psychological price of that conflict on the most vulnerable , sensitive , and original of people .
It ’ s also a drama , one that ’ s somewhat muffled by the broadcast standards and social manners of the time , about the destructive power of traditional moralism that persisted even in America ’ s bohemian capital—the conjoined struggle for personal freedom , social acceptance , and legal equality that , along with the liberating forces of urbanity , endures to this day .

One of the greatest of all documentaries, “Strange Victory,” directed by Leo Hurwitz, from 1948—in which he contrasts America’s involvement in the defeat of the Nazi regime with the homecoming of black American soldiers to the racist Jim Crow regime—was long unavailable. It came out a couple of years ago in DVD and Blu-ray editions from Milestone Films, which is crucial—physical media are the guarantors of some kind of shared permanence—but it wasn’t available to stream until now. It comes as part of an overflowing collection of treasures on a new Web site, leohurwitz.com, that’s devoted to the filmmaker’s life and work and offers many of his films, free of charge.
The site also features a wealth of biographical and historical resources about Hurwitz—including texts by his son Tom Hurwitz (who’s one of the great documentary cinematographers—including on Lee Grant’s “Down and Out in America”) and Manfred Kirchheimer, himself one of the great documentary filmmakers, who worked with Hurwitz as a cinematographer. Hurwitz’s career was thwarted by McCarthyite repressions: accused of being a Communist, he was banned from the movie and television industries between 1951 and 1961. (The site features excerpts from Hurwitz’s F.B.I. files.) He nonetheless managed to make films in that period, including the pioneering proto-cinéma-vérité films “Emergency Ward” and “The Young Fighter,” using a primordial synch-sound portable-camera setup devised by the cinematographer Fons Iannelli. (Because of the blacklist, Hurwitz directed the latter film remotely, guiding Iannelli through phone calls in the course of the shoot.)
Form and technique were fused in Hurwitz’s imagination, and that fusion reached its apogee in the feature “In Search of Hart Crane,” from 1966, which was produced by National Educational Television (the forerunner of PBS). What’s amazing about the film is that its form should have been a filmmaking commonplace for decades—the cinematic oral history. The rise of talking pictures in the late nineteen-twenties, even with their burdensome, studio-bound equipment, ought to have ushered in a new kind and a vital era of documentary filmmaking, in which people of all sorts would have been brought in front of the camera and the microphone to create a wide-ranging cinema of first-person experiences, as well as a historic archive of the talk of the times and the recollections of those who’d lived in them. Instead, it was left to studio television to record talkers—and to do so in such an aesthetically numb way as to give the very notion a bad name (“talking heads”).
With “In Search of Hart Crane,” Hurwitz recruits a guide into the poet’s life and work—John Unterecker, a Columbia professor who was working on a biography of Crane. The film begins with Unterecker taking viewers on a brief but affecting dive into the Crane archive, displaying and discussing manuscripts, notebooks, and artifacts (punctuated with sharply targeted citations of Crane’s poems, read on the soundtrack by the actor Gary Merrill), before raising the curtain on the film’s main events: Unterecker’s on-camera discussions with Crane’s friends and colleagues, in their offices or homes. These participants, however, are more than just Crane’s associates; they’re also his contemporaries, all seemingly in their sixties or beyond. As a result, the extraordinary interviews, filmed by Kirchheimer, as cameraman, reveal more than just the particulars of life with Crane; in the specificity of memories and the very voices in which they’re delivered, they conjure virtual images of the times.
The stories present Crane—who was born near Akron, Ohio, in 1899, and raised in Cleveland—from his early days in New York, in the late nineteen-teens, to the time of his death, in 1932, when he jumped off a ship off the coast of Florida, in what is widely believed to be a suicide. The speakers, who include the artist Charmion von Wiegand; the critics Gorham B. Munson, Waldo Frank, and Malcolm Cowley; the translator Margaret Babcock; and the writer Peggy Baird, with whom Crane had an affair and who was travelling with him at the time of his death. Their wide-ranging and candid discussions involve Crane’s enthusiastic writing (von Wiegand describes him rummaging through a thesaurus to find a word with which “he gave a shock treatment to a line”), as well as his efforts to earn a living as an advertising copywriter. Crane never finished high school, and Frank describes him as “a man from the provinces, almost like a farmer dressed up in his best suit” who nonetheless had an “inner vibrance” that conveyed, in daily action and through his very presence, a sense of his exceptional artistry.
The discussions consider Crane both intimately and artistically; the subjects include his penchant for friendship and the outrageous behavior with which he lost friends; his growing alcoholism and increasingly reckless and destructive actions; his suicide attempts; his homosexuality and his intense conflicts with himself over it; his bitter relations with his parents; and his own fear, toward the end of his life, of his poetry having reached heights that it might never again attain. The discussions depict the artistic community in Greenwich Village. Crane formed something of a quintet with Munson, Frank, Jean Toomer, and Alfred Stieglitz, and Munson describes the friends as the “supporters of Crane’s mystical development” and, together, as “climbers on this new slope of consciousness.” He and others also describe the daily struggle for money that the poet’s life entailed, and that was exacerbated by the Depression.
The participants in “In Search of Hart Crane” all speak in voices that are, in effect, archival. There are many Midwesterners in the group and others from elsewhere in the United States, all of whom have accents that were formed in an era that left them undiluted by the unifying flatteners of national radio, movies, and television. The movie’s interviews reflect a time when the hive of artistic energy that New York embodied was already a lure for ambitious and freethinking young people nationwide—and when, in the age before mass media, the distances and differences between the “provinces” and the metropolis seemed larger. It’s a portrait of the rage to create crashing up against the demands of mere subsistence—and the psychological price of that conflict on the most vulnerable, sensitive, and original of people. It’s also a drama, one that’s somewhat muffled by the broadcast standards and social manners of the time, about the destructive power of traditional moralism that persisted even in America’s bohemian capital—the conjoined struggle for personal freedom, social acceptance, and legal equality that, along with the liberating forces of urbanity, endures to this day.


newyorker--2020-05-09--A Quiet London Celebrates the Seventy-fifth Anniversary of V-E Day

“ When the day finally came , it was like no other day that anyone can remember , ” Mollie Panter-Downes , the London correspondent for this magazine , wrote of May 8 , 1945 , the day that the war in Europe officially ended .
“ It had a flavor of its own , an extemporaneousness which gave it something of the quality of a vast , happy village fete as people wandered about , sat , sang , and slept against a summer background of trees , grass , flowers , and water.
” This holiday atmosphere was @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the commemoration of the seventy-fifth anniversary of Victory in Europe Day had in mind when it was announced , last June , that , in 2020 , the bank holiday typically observed on the first Monday of May would be moved to Friday , May 8th .
This rescheduling would permit a three-day-long celebration of that long-ago victory , with bagpipers playing from atop the four highest peaks in England , Scotland , Wales , and Northern Ireland , and bells ringing from the towers of churches and cathedrals nationwide .
As recently @ @ @ @ @ @ @ city of Wuhan was locked down , three weeks after the first cases of COVID-19 were reported in the U.K. , and a day after the first deaths as a result of the disease were reported in Italy—the government was releasing further plans : these included a service of thanksgiving at Westminster Abbey , to be attended by veterans , and what was being billed as “ the Nation ’ s Toast , ” during which publicans , whose licensing hours would be extended to 1 A.M. , would encourage patrons “ to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ World War II.
” The official Web site of the anniversary , VE Day 75 , suggested forties-themed street parties , dances in village halls , and the baking of ration-book-era recipes , such as Lord Woolton pie , a root-vegetable and pastry confection .
“ Don ’ t forget the Spam !
” the site warned cheerily , proposing the consumption , or at least the purchase , of the reviled processed meat as the ultimate in kitsch depri-tainment .
Less than a month later , though , the first deprivations of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Boris Johnson ordered both pubs and churches to cease operations , and police were deployed to prevent wandering , sitting , or dozing in public spaces .
Rather than remembering the end of the Second World War from the safe distance of twenty-first-century peace and global—if not always personal—prosperity , Britons arrived upon the anniversary feeling some glimmer of proximity to the endurance and privations of the past .
On May 8 , 1945 , Londoners awakened to a thunderstorm that dissipated into what Panter-Downes described as “ that perfect , hot , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ one sometimes feels , is to be found only in the imagination of the lyric poets.
” In London , Friday , May 8 , 2020 , also dawned gloriously .
The air was clear and fresh , pollution in the capital having dropped by as much as fifty per cent in some areas since the cessation , seven weeks earlier , of all-but-essential commerce , travel , and industry .
Temperatures were in the low seventies , perfect for lazing in the park or picnicking—two of the activities that are reportedly going @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of restrictions .
With some government sources having , presumably , leaked the picnic-go-ahead rumor , other government sources quickly sought to tamp down expectations : changes would be “ modest , small , incremental and very carefully monitored , ” Dominic Raab , a senior minister , said on Thursday evening .
V-C Day was definitely not yet in sight , nor is it likely to be .
For all the martial metaphors that politicians on both sides of the Atlantic like to invoke , humanity is not so much at war @ @ @ @ @ @ @ cohabiting with it , with nowhere more hospitable to escape to .
The messaging for V-E Day changed in the days running up to the holiday weekend : Britons were being encouraged to celebrate at home .
They were to deck their living rooms with bunting rather than waving flags on a sidewalk ; to hold back-garden tea parties—simultaneously with their neighbors , if they wished , at an appropriate social distance—instead of street parties .
Panter-Downes had witnessed , in London , the apparition of groups of beautiful young women , who @ @ @ @ @ @ @ streets like flocks of twittering , gaily plumaged cockney birds.
” In lieu of that kind of liberty , Britons this weekend had a downloadable “ VE Day Party Pack , ” created by English Heritage , the charity that oversees many of the nation ’ s monuments .
It was about as festive as you ’ d expect in a social landscape in which any public embracing of handsome , uniformed strangers by young women in summer dresses would result not in cheers from onlookers but in tut-tutted condemnation .
Instead of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Lindy Hop around one ’ s kitchen , or download a recipe for cheese-and-marmite swirls .
Still , Spam was for sale : two pounds per can on the Tesco supermarket ’ s Web site , and available for home delivery if you could get a slot , which you couldn ’ t .
A schedule of events had been issued—a timetable around which the population , isolated at home , was invited to cohere , just as it has every Thursday evening since mid-March , for doorstep cheers for the National Health @ @ @ @ @ @ @ 11 A.M. , a two-minute moment of silence in honor of the war dead , for which Britons were asked to stand on their doorsteps in solidarity .
On one street in North London , at least , not a single householder was seen making the gesture , unless the guy sitting on his doorstep and looking at his phone could be counted , which somehow seemed unlikely .
In London , it might have made more , if counterintuitive , sense to have called for a moment of noise .
The symbolic @ @ @ @ @ @ @ when tools have already been downed for weeks , with an estimated seven out of ten firms furloughing staff .
Londoners have been observing not moments but weeks of silence , and any passing appreciation of enhanced birdsong and the absence of jackhammers is more than outweighed by the moral obscenity of , for example , a new population of homeless , comprising unemployed hospitality and restaurant workers , who have been driven onto the streets of central London .
On May 8 , 1945 , central London was alive with revellers , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ their hair done up in red-white-and-blue ribbons , to beaming elderly couples who , utterly without self-consciousness , strolled up and down the street arm in arm in red-white-and-blue paper hats.
” Arm-in-arm strolling has been a no-no for a while now : the city ’ s pedestrians are all hewing closely to the right or left of too-narrow sidewalks , seeking to avoid rival pedestrians and shoppers queuing six feet apart from one another .
Elderly couples may , possibly , be beaming as they walk through the streets these days , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ behind the face masks that so many of them have taken to wearing in public , and the alarmed eyes that widen whenever a younger jogger comes puffing into view would suggest otherwise .
“ The crowds milled back and forth between the Palace , Westminster , Trafalgar Square , and Piccadilly Circus , ” Panter-Downes wrote .
That ’ s quite a distance to mill , especially in a crowd , as Londoners who last gathered en masse to protest Brexit—and who are now forbidden from congregating in groups larger than their @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Friday , Londoners were traversing those routes not on foot but by bicycle .
In recent weeks , it ’ s been easy to feel at times as if the British capital has been transformed , winningly , into Copenhagen , with hordes of cyclists whistling through the Royal Parks , which have never looked greener or more beautiful .
At Westminster , opposite the Houses of Parliament , an occasional passerby took a photo of the statue of Churchill , whose appearance on the palace balcony on V-E Day drew “ a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” from the crowd , Panter-Downes recorded .
The clock tower of Big Ben , which is presently under repair , was clad in black drapes , looking as if it had been the target of arson .
To behold it was to recall Boris Johnson ’ s sloganeering in late January , when he prevailed upon Britons to “ bung a bob for a Big Ben bong ” —contribute to a fund to make the bell temporarily functional—in order to celebrate Britain ’ s departure from the E.U.
, and to wonder @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the Prime Minister had brushed aside in his Brexit Day bluster .

“When the day finally came, it was like no other day that anyone can remember,” Mollie Panter-Downes, the London correspondent for this magazine, wrote of May 8, 1945, the day that the war in Europe officially ended. “It had a flavor of its own, an extemporaneousness which gave it something of the quality of a vast, happy village fete as people wandered about, sat, sang, and slept against a summer background of trees, grass, flowers, and water.” This holiday atmosphere was, presumably, what the architects of the commemoration of the seventy-fifth anniversary of Victory in Europe Day had in mind when it was announced, last June, that, in 2020, the bank holiday typically observed on the first Monday of May would be moved to Friday, May 8th. This rescheduling would permit a three-day-long celebration of that long-ago victory, with bagpipers playing from atop the four highest peaks in England, Scotland, Wales, and Northern Ireland, and bells ringing from the towers of churches and cathedrals nationwide.
As recently as February 23rd—a month after the Chinese city of Wuhan was locked down, three weeks after the first cases of COVID-19 were reported in the U.K., and a day after the first deaths as a result of the disease were reported in Italy—the government was releasing further plans: these included a service of thanksgiving at Westminster Abbey, to be attended by veterans, and what was being billed as “the Nation’s Toast,” during which publicans, whose licensing hours would be extended to 1 A.M., would encourage patrons “to raise a glass to the Heroes of World War II.” The official Web site of the anniversary, VE Day 75, suggested forties-themed street parties, dances in village halls, and the baking of ration-book-era recipes, such as Lord Woolton pie, a root-vegetable and pastry confection. “Don’t forget the Spam!” the site warned cheerily, proposing the consumption, or at least the purchase, of the reviled processed meat as the ultimate in kitsch depri-tainment. Less than a month later, though, the first deprivations of the coronavirus crisis began. Prime Minister Boris Johnson ordered both pubs and churches to cease operations, and police were deployed to prevent wandering, sitting, or dozing in public spaces. Rather than remembering the end of the Second World War from the safe distance of twenty-first-century peace and global—if not always personal—prosperity, Britons arrived upon the anniversary feeling some glimmer of proximity to the endurance and privations of the past.
On May 8, 1945, Londoners awakened to a thunderstorm that dissipated into what Panter-Downes described as “that perfect, hot, English summer’s day which, one sometimes feels, is to be found only in the imagination of the lyric poets.” In London, Friday, May 8, 2020, also dawned gloriously. The air was clear and fresh, pollution in the capital having dropped by as much as fifty per cent in some areas since the cessation, seven weeks earlier, of all-but-essential commerce, travel, and industry. Temperatures were in the low seventies, perfect for lazing in the park or picnicking—two of the activities that are reportedly going to be permitted after an anticipated lightening of restrictions. With some government sources having, presumably, leaked the picnic-go-ahead rumor, other government sources quickly sought to tamp down expectations: changes would be “modest, small, incremental and very carefully monitored,” Dominic Raab, a senior minister, said on Thursday evening. V-C Day was definitely not yet in sight, nor is it likely to be. For all the martial metaphors that politicians on both sides of the Atlantic like to invoke, humanity is not so much at war with the virus as uneasily, unwillingly cohabiting with it, with nowhere more hospitable to escape to.
The messaging for V-E Day changed in the days running up to the holiday weekend: Britons were being encouraged to celebrate at home. They were to deck their living rooms with bunting rather than waving flags on a sidewalk; to hold back-garden tea parties—simultaneously with their neighbors, if they wished, at an appropriate social distance—instead of street parties. Panter-Downes had witnessed, in London, the apparition of groups of beautiful young women, who “streamed out into the parks and streets like flocks of twittering, gaily plumaged cockney birds.” In lieu of that kind of liberty, Britons this weekend had a downloadable “VE Day Party Pack,” created by English Heritage, the charity that oversees many of the nation’s monuments. It was about as festive as you’d expect in a social landscape in which any public embracing of handsome, uniformed strangers by young women in summer dresses would result not in cheers from onlookers but in tut-tutted condemnation. Instead of dancing in the streets, one could Lindy Hop around one’s kitchen, or download a recipe for cheese-and-marmite swirls. Still, Spam was for sale: two pounds per can on the Tesco supermarket’s Web site, and available for home delivery if you could get a slot, which you couldn’t.
A schedule of events had been issued—a timetable around which the population, isolated at home, was invited to cohere, just as it has every Thursday evening since mid-March, for doorstep cheers for the National Health Service. The first event was at 11 A.M., a two-minute moment of silence in honor of the war dead, for which Britons were asked to stand on their doorsteps in solidarity. On one street in North London, at least, not a single householder was seen making the gesture, unless the guy sitting on his doorstep and looking at his phone could be counted, which somehow seemed unlikely. In London, it might have made more, if counterintuitive, sense to have called for a moment of noise. The symbolic downing of tools has considerably less impact when tools have already been downed for weeks, with an estimated seven out of ten firms furloughing staff. Londoners have been observing not moments but weeks of silence, and any passing appreciation of enhanced birdsong and the absence of jackhammers is more than outweighed by the moral obscenity of, for example, a new population of homeless, comprising unemployed hospitality and restaurant workers, who have been driven onto the streets of central London.
On May 8, 1945, central London was alive with revellers, “from the smallest babies, with their hair done up in red-white-and-blue ribbons, to beaming elderly couples who, utterly without self-consciousness, strolled up and down the street arm in arm in red-white-and-blue paper hats.” Arm-in-arm strolling has been a no-no for a while now: the city’s pedestrians are all hewing closely to the right or left of too-narrow sidewalks, seeking to avoid rival pedestrians and shoppers queuing six feet apart from one another. Elderly couples may, possibly, be beaming as they walk through the streets these days, but it’s hard to tell behind the face masks that so many of them have taken to wearing in public, and the alarmed eyes that widen whenever a younger jogger comes puffing into view would suggest otherwise.
“The crowds milled back and forth between the Palace, Westminster, Trafalgar Square, and Piccadilly Circus,” Panter-Downes wrote. That’s quite a distance to mill, especially in a crowd, as Londoners who last gathered en masse to protest Brexit—and who are now forbidden from congregating in groups larger than their own immediate family—will dimly recall. On Friday, Londoners were traversing those routes not on foot but by bicycle. In recent weeks, it’s been easy to feel at times as if the British capital has been transformed, winningly, into Copenhagen, with hordes of cyclists whistling through the Royal Parks, which have never looked greener or more beautiful. At Westminster, opposite the Houses of Parliament, an occasional passerby took a photo of the statue of Churchill, whose appearance on the palace balcony on V-E Day drew “a deep, full-throated, almost reverent roar” from the crowd, Panter-Downes recorded. The clock tower of Big Ben, which is presently under repair, was clad in black drapes, looking as if it had been the target of arson. To behold it was to recall Boris Johnson’s sloganeering in late January, when he prevailed upon Britons to “bung a bob for a Big Ben bong”—contribute to a fund to make the bell temporarily functional—in order to celebrate Britain’s departure from the E.U., and to wonder what briefings about the alarming new virus the Prime Minister had brushed aside in his Brexit Day bluster.


newyorker--2020-05-10--How Chris Hayes Makes Sense of the “World-Historical Cataclysm”

Before the coronavirus pandemic reshaped media priorities , along with just about everything else , the MSNBC host Chris Hayes was spending most of his time covering the Democratic Presidential nomination and the transformation of the Democratic Party , of which Hayes himself was arguably a harbinger .
Born in the Bronx , Hayes graduated from Brown in 2001 and began a career in print journalism .
He wrote for In These Times and The Nation—two unapologetically left-wing magazines—and made a name for himself as an affirmatively progressive , antiwar commentator in George W. Bush ’ s America .
I @ @ @ @ @ @ @ or so years ago in Washington , and asking his advice on the business .
He was generous with his time , and wonky , even by the standards of the profession .
He seemed , in short , about the least likely person to make the jump to television .
You could certainly hear progressive voices on mainstream television back then , but they almost always took the form of a Phil Donahue or Keith Olbermann , both older white men with a lot of broadcast history .
And yet , by @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ s Rachel Maddow—a young historian and another unlikely cable-news star—before getting his own weekend program .
In 2012 , Hayes published his first book , “ Twilight of the Elites , ” which looked at how our cherished meritocracy had gone rotten .
The following year , he began hosting the weekday evening program “ All In with Chris Hayes , ” which mixes breaking news and analysis , offering an ideologically consistent but notably unshouty approach to the day ’ s events .
In 2017 , Hayes published his second book @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , ” about how our notions of policing and justice are informed by race and American history .
He also hosts the podcast “ Why Is This Happening ?
, ” a series of interviews on politics and other topics .
Hayes has been in the news recently for reporting on Tara Reade ’ s accusation of sexual assault against Joe Biden , which caused a subsection of MSNBC viewers to demand his firing .
On Wednesday , I spoke with him by phone about that controversy and a range of other topics @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the news environment to why Bernie Sanders lost the Democratic-primary race to Biden , to recent upheavals at NBC News .
Our conversation , edited for length and clarity , is below .
How has your daily routine changed because of the coronavirus ?
The daily routine is profoundly different , as it is for basically everybody in America .
We are in a house outside the city , where near us there is a remote location that I can go to for broadcasting .
The benefits of that are I see my @ @ @ @ @ @ @ I get home a few minutes after I finish the show , as opposed to like an hour later .
I ’ m not doing the normal things that we all do in the working world as parents of young kids : dropping your kids off at school , and then starting your workday , and then coming home at night .
Instead , the domestic sphere is constantly present .
My wife is just working her ass off doing numerous things , aside from being a law professional and a podcast host @ @ @ @ @ @ @ I home-school them for a few hours .
She is definitely doing more .
So that part of it is totally different , and very intense .
Again , world ’ s smallest violin .
I am a hundred per cent aware that I am in an incredibly privileged position that I am grateful for basically every second , which has actually been a huge part of the experience of this—just gratitude , constant gratitude , about family and health , and all those things .
But , that said , I ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the way that a lot of people are , and home-schooling your children , and then working , is hard .
How has your show changed ?
I have hosted a show for seven-plus years , and so I ’ ve been in periods where there ’ s very low exogenous audience interest , and very high exogenous audience interest .
Right now is a period where the interest is there .
But the thing that ’ s both gratifying and animating when you ’ re in a moment with a hugely important @ @ @ @ @ @ @ is that you ’ re able to jettison the concerns you have often in this business of “ How do we get people to watch ?
How do we get people ’ s interest ?
How do we draw them in ?
” Which is taxing , and sometimes people are just not that interested .
It ’ s a business that revolves around audience attention , and so the weirdly liberating thing is that I ’ m not thinking in those terms now .
I ’ m basically , like , “ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that we are tasked with covering and explaining as best we can , with as much clarity and moral urgency and empathy and context and precision and rigor as we can martial every day , and that ’ s our job every day , ” and I don ’ t have to worry about a lot of the other stuff .
The really important story is for now the story that people want to read or watch , which is not always the case .
There are fewer cross-pressures .
We ’ re @ @ @ @ @ @ @ best job we can covering this story .
I think there ’ s probably some fatigue setting in .
I have some .
I think we all do .
But I would also say that what really makes this story different than any other story I ’ ve ever covered is that it encapsulates the full spectrum of human institutions , structures , forms of knowledge , and zones of interest .
It ’ s a medical story ; it ’ s a biological story ; it ’ s an epidemiological story ; @ @ @ @ @ @ @ it ’ s a sociological story ; it ’ s an education story ; it ’ s an economic story ; it ’ s a government story ; it ’ s a political story .
There is no story that is not a COVID-19 story right now .
Well , there are also just fewer other stories , because there are no sports , and there are no movies , and there are no other bills being passed in Washington .
I guess Mitch McConnell ’ s getting a judge through .
Yeah @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ s also , in a weird way , liberating , because it means you don ’ t feel beaten into the ground by repetition .
It ’ s not a missing plane that you ’ re covering for thirty-five days straight .
Let the record show that you were yawning while you were saying it ’ s not a boring story , but O.K .
You ’ re someone who does podcasting , and you do cable , and you ’ re very active on Twitter .
How do you see your @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , if you do ?
They all have their unwritten rules .
I think my voice is my voice across all three , but different in terms of how it interacts with the platform .
Cable news is a medium where we have , on our best nights , over two million viewers .
You have to be cognizant of the spectrum of people you ’ re talking to , which is a very wide spectrum .
Twitter is a medium that is much looser , casual , more profane , and also @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ re replying more ; you ’ re also constantly referencing things others said , and inside jokes and memes and things like that , which wouldn ’ t work as well on cable .

Before the coronavirus pandemic reshaped media priorities, along with just about everything else, the MSNBC host Chris Hayes was spending most of his time covering the Democratic Presidential nomination and the transformation of the Democratic Party, of which Hayes himself was arguably a harbinger. Born in the Bronx, Hayes graduated from Brown in 2001 and began a career in print journalism. He wrote for In These Times and The Nation—two unapologetically left-wing magazines—and made a name for himself as an affirmatively progressive, antiwar commentator in George W. Bush’s America. I remember meeting him for coffee a dozen or so years ago in Washington, and asking his advice on the business. He was generous with his time, and wonky, even by the standards of the profession. He seemed, in short, about the least likely person to make the jump to television.
You could certainly hear progressive voices on mainstream television back then, but they almost always took the form of a Phil Donahue or Keith Olbermann, both older white men with a lot of broadcast history. And yet, by 2010, Hayes began guest-hosting for MSNBC’s Rachel Maddow—a young historian and another unlikely cable-news star—before getting his own weekend program. In 2012, Hayes published his first book, “Twilight of the Elites,” which looked at how our cherished meritocracy had gone rotten. The following year, he began hosting the weekday evening program “All In with Chris Hayes,” which mixes breaking news and analysis, offering an ideologically consistent but notably unshouty approach to the day’s events. In 2017, Hayes published his second book, “A Colony in a Nation,” about how our notions of policing and justice are informed by race and American history. He also hosts the podcast “Why Is This Happening?,” a series of interviews on politics and other topics.
Hayes has been in the news recently for reporting on Tara Reade’s accusation of sexual assault against Joe Biden, which caused a subsection of MSNBC viewers to demand his firing. On Wednesday, I spoke with him by phone about that controversy and a range of other topics, from how the coronavirus has changed the news environment to why Bernie Sanders lost the Democratic-primary race to Biden to recent upheavals at NBC News. Our conversation, edited for length and clarity, is below.
How has your daily routine changed because of the coronavirus?
The daily routine is profoundly different, as it is for basically everybody in America. We are in a house outside the city, where near us there is a remote location that I can go to for broadcasting. The benefits of that are I see my wife and family a lot more. I get home a few minutes after I finish the show, as opposed to like an hour later.
I’m not doing the normal things that we all do in the working world as parents of young kids: dropping your kids off at school, and then starting your workday, and then coming home at night. Instead, the domestic sphere is constantly present. My wife is just working her ass off doing numerous things, aside from being a law professor and a podcast host, and also home-schooling the kids. I home-school them for a few hours. She is definitely doing more. So that part of it is totally different, and very intense. Again, world’s smallest violin. I am a hundred per cent aware that I am in an incredibly privileged position that I am grateful for basically every second, which has actually been a huge part of the experience of this—just gratitude, constant gratitude, about family and health, and all those things. But, that said, I’m also a parent of young kids the way that a lot of people are, and home-schooling your children, and then working, is hard.
How has your show changed?
I have hosted a show for seven-plus years, and so I’ve been in periods where there’s very low exogenous audience interest, and very high exogenous audience interest. Right now is a period where the interest is there. But the thing that’s both gratifying and animating when you’re in a moment with a hugely important story that people want to hear about is that you’re able to jettison the concerns you have often in this business of “How do we get people to watch? How do we get people’s interest? How do we draw them in?” Which is taxing, and sometimes people are just not that interested.
It’s a business that revolves around audience attention, and so the weirdly liberating thing is that I’m not thinking in those terms now. I’m basically, like, “There is an urgent, world-historical cataclysm that we are tasked with covering and explaining as best we can, with as much clarity and moral urgency and empathy and context and precision and rigor as we can marshal every day, and that’s our job every day,” and I don’t have to worry about a lot of the other stuff.
The really important story is for now the story that people want to read or watch, which is not always the case.
There are fewer cross-pressures. We’re basically going to try to do the best job we can covering this story. I think there’s probably some fatigue setting in. I have some. I think we all do. But I would also say that what really makes this story different than any other story I’ve ever covered is that it encapsulates the full spectrum of human institutions, structures, forms of knowledge, and zones of interest. It’s a medical story; it’s a biological story; it’s an epidemiological story; it’s a public-health story; it’s a sociological story; it’s an education story; it’s an economic story; it’s a government story; it’s a political story. There is no story that is not a COVID-19 story right now.
Well, there are also just fewer other stories, because there are no sports, and there are no movies, and there are no other bills being passed in Washington. I guess Mitch McConnell’s getting a judge through.
Yeah. Exactly. I would say that’s also, in a weird way, liberating, because it means you don’t feel beaten into the ground by repetition. It’s not a missing plane that you’re covering for thirty-five days straight.
Let the record show that you were yawning while you were saying it’s not a boring story, but O.K.
Well, I’m tired, Isaac.
You’re someone who does podcasting, and you do cable, and you’re very active on Twitter. How do you see your role being different in these three mediums, if you do?
They all have their unwritten rules. I think my voice is my voice across all three, but different in terms of how it interacts with the platform. Cable news is a medium where we have, on our best nights, over two million viewers. You have to be cognizant of the spectrum of people you’re talking to, which is a very wide spectrum. Twitter is a medium that is much looser, casual, more profane, and also more recursive, more dialogic. You’re replying more; you’re also constantly referencing things others said, and inside jokes and memes and things like that, which wouldn’t work as well on cable.
We had a moment the other night where I had a tweet about the President taking this new line about how the citizens have to think of themselves as warriors, which I just find unimaginably—just incomprehensibly—perverse, and morally bankrupt. I had a tweet that the President was trotting out the idea of doing a Pickett’s Charge against the virus, with nursing-home residents as the infantry. We were going back and forth about the script, and I was, like, “Should we use the Pickett’s Charge line?” Then we were, like, “You need to explain what Pickett’s Charge is.” A tweet you could look at, and you can be, like, “Oh, I don’t know what Pickett’s Charge is.” You could Google it or not, or you know it or you don’t, and you scroll through. But if you do that on cable, for people that don’t know it, it’s weird and alienating, or confusing. Then why would you be doing that?


newyorker--2020-05-10--Obituary for the Analyst: Richard C. Friedman and the Quelling of My Depression

In 1995 , I was severely depressed and embarked halfheartedly on the process of selecting a psychotherapist .
I met with at least a dozen , recounting my story over and over in what came to feel like a studied monologue .
I was drawn to Richard C. Friedman in part because of my intense desire for clarity and order .
My most stable friend ’ s therapist had highly recommended him .
But I didn ’ t feel the warmth from him that I thought I wanted .
There was someone else in the running who had industrial-strength empathy @ @ @ @ @ @ @ I had met with Friedman a few times , I told him that he was one of the finalists .
He said matter-of-factly , “ You have a severe mental-health condition .
I ’ m quite important in my field , and you ’ re lucky that I have time and willingness to take you on.
” I was surprised by this seeming display of hubris , but I was also curiously reassured by it .
My own confidence lay shattered around me , and he seemed to be certain he could treat @ @ @ @ @ @ @ from a traumatic experience with a psychoanalyst who had shuttered her practice abruptly , and I didn ’ t want to endure another therapeutic crisis .
I felt that I could trust Friedman , that he knew what he was doing .
I didn ’ t need to charm him , and he was not going to beguile me for my fee .
He saw something in me that was worth his time .
I didn ’ t know what it was ; I couldn ’ t see it myself .
But I @ @ @ @ @ @ @ actualize whatever he perceived .
I left the other finalists by the wayside .
I little imagined that I would go to his office every Thursday for the next quarter century , from the time I was thirty-one to the time I was fifty-six .
I believed in psychodynamic therapy , but I wasn ’ t up for full-fledged psychoanalysis again .
We agreed on a weekly double session of ninety minutes .
We wouldn ’ t have made it past six months if I hadn ’ t so enjoyed his company .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ , but the magnetic force that kept me in his orbit was his inexorable acumen .
No one else had seen me as clearly as he did .
I try to write and live honestly , but I also construct myself in all my human relationships , and I did so less with Friedman than with anyone else .
Over time , I began to refer to him , affectionately , as Dr. F. I spent the first few years carapaced by previous difficulties that prevented me from opening up .
He seemed @ @ @ @ @ @ @ previous analyst , Dr. F was never seductive .
She had been given to flights of lyricism in an exquisite office ; he was given to intellectual discourse in a yellow room full of papers in nearly squalid chaos , lit primarily by an unflattering chandelier .
I , myself , have hidden in lyricism too often .
Even as I erected defenses in my sessions with Dr. F , he was unwavering , equipped with ground-penetrating radar that could detect the subterranean foundations of structures long ago destroyed .
I wanted him @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to like me .
Yet even in the throes of transference , I knew in those early days that his liking me was of little interest to him .
He seemed to have a will of steel , an unyielding determination , and he often spoke with a shocking certainty .
As a major in the Army , he had encountered extreme situations that galvanized him .
The anguish and pain of soldiers returning from Vietnam gave him a new appreciation for what the human psyche can endure , and persuaded him that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ helped .
He seldom proposed anything as a possibility ; he talked in absolutes .
Yet he also appreciated conditionality .
I have often wanted to sort people into polar categories , to delineate the good and bad guys .
He would have none of it .
While I tried to achieve singular revelations that would expose someone ’ s whole character , Dr. F would say , repeatedly , “ You ’ re talking about a person .
People aren ’ t simple .
They are full of nuance and contradiction.
” @ @ @ @ @ @ @ myself a tragic person , whose life would never work out .
A few years in , Dr. F. said , “ If you want to build a constructive love relationship , you have what it takes.
” He had been so circumspect until that time that his confidence gave me pause .
I couldn ’ t pretend that he romanticized or overestimated me , because he had withheld reassurance about so many things on so many occasions .
He now averred that I had the resilience for a good life , that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ could have children if I wanted and would love them if I had them , that my writing could find its audience and would help others .
I seldom cried with Dr. F. He had a box of tissues right next to the big Eames chair in which I sat on all those Thursdays .
But I didn ’ t feel the need to punctuate my stories with tears .
We talked about my not crying .
I had assumed it was a defense , but he thought otherwise .
He was helping @ @ @ @ @ @ @ sorrow , and we often processed things about which I ’ d already cried elsewhere .
He had little room for sentimentality .
His purpose wasn ’ t to tease more extreme emotions out of me , as my previous analyst had done , but to lay bare the networks of ambivalence behind every feeling I had—and ambivalence is not , in general , a tearful state .
I theatricalize my own life , and he was the exacting dramaturg of my extravagance .
Over time with him , I became less extreme @ @ @ @ @ @ @ highly reactive , ” and we worked on my being less so .
Early in his career , Dr. F had investigated the role that exhaustion plays in medical errors made by interns and residents .
He demonstrated that punishing schedules damaged not only incipient doctors but also their patients , a revelation that revolutionized hospital practice .
Then he developed an unlikely interest in “ deviant sexuality , ” writing “ Male Homosexuality , ” the book , from 1988 , that destigmatized homosexuality within the field of psychoanalysis .
It was @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , and his willingness to see gay people as equals packed a radical punch , even long after those views had entered the mainstream .
Dr. F not only accepted that homosexuality was probably biological but also averred that it was not a deficit .
Then he did something extraordinary : he praised the strength and vitality of gay people .
He wrote in his book , “ The contemporary clinician no longer need consider why homosexual men are paranoid , since there is no evidence that they generally are .
It must @ @ @ @ @ @ @ not more often paranoid .
Homosexuality begins in childhood , and many gay people grow up in environments that are virulently homophobic and sexist .
One might expect that as a result .
.
.
homosexual males would tend to develop paranoid psychopathology .
Since this does not occur with unusual frequency , we must ask whether unusually adept coping mechanisms coexist with homosexuality in many individuals.
” Because I had told him in our first meeting that I couldn ’ t bear another abrupt termination , he told me early on about @ @ @ @ @ @ @ cardiac procedures and was in treatment for it .
Over the years , he missed sessions because of heart-related interventions , and he always told me what was going on .
In that regard , we had reciprocal openness .
He said that I deserved to know .
He was private , sometimes even secretive , but also blunt .
Knowing when he suffered a setback set me free to be unconcerned the rest of the time .

In 1995, I was severely depressed and embarked halfheartedly on the process of selecting a psychotherapist. I met with at least a dozen, recounting my story over and over in what came to feel like a studied monologue. I was drawn to Richard C. Friedman in part because of my intense desire for clarity and order. My most stable friend’s therapist had highly recommended him. But I didn’t feel the warmth from him that I thought I wanted. There was someone else in the running who had industrial-strength empathy and a captivating personal style. After I had met with Friedman a few times, I told him that he was one of the finalists. He said matter-of-factly, “You have a severe mental-health condition. I’m quite important in my field, and you’re lucky that I have time and willingness to take you on.” I was surprised by this seeming display of hubris, but I was also curiously reassured by it. My own confidence lay shattered around me, and he seemed to be certain he could treat me. I was a year out from a traumatic experience with a psychoanalyst who had shuttered her practice abruptly, and I didn’t want to endure another therapeutic crisis. I felt that I could trust Friedman, that he knew what he was doing. I didn’t need to charm him, and he was not going to beguile me for my fee. He saw something in me that was worth his time. I didn’t know what it was; I couldn’t see it myself. But I instinctively knew that he could help me actualize whatever he perceived. I left the other finalists by the wayside.
I little imagined that I would go to his office every Thursday for the next quarter century, from the time I was thirty-one to the time I was fifty-six. I believed in psychodynamic therapy, but I wasn’t up for full-fledged psychoanalysis again. We agreed on a weekly double session of ninety minutes. We wouldn’t have made it past six months if I hadn’t so enjoyed his company. He was funny and generous of spirit, but the magnetic force that kept me in his orbit was his inexorable acumen. No one else had seen me as clearly as he did. I try to write and live honestly, but I also construct myself in all my human relationships, and I did so less with Friedman than with anyone else. Over time, I began to refer to him, affectionately, as Dr. F.
I spent the first few years carapaced by previous difficulties that prevented me from opening up. He seemed unfazed by my reserve. Unlike my previous analyst, Dr. F was never seductive. She had been given to flights of lyricism in an exquisite office; he was given to intellectual discourse in a yellow room full of papers in nearly squalid chaos, lit primarily by an unflattering chandelier. I, myself, have hidden in lyricism too often. Even as I erected defenses in my sessions with Dr. F, he was unwavering, equipped with ground-penetrating radar that could detect the subterranean foundations of structures long ago destroyed. I wanted him to like me; I wanted everyone to like me. Yet even in the throes of transference, I knew in those early days that his liking me was of little interest to him.
He seemed to have a will of steel, an unyielding determination, and he often spoke with a shocking certainty. As a major in the Army, he had encountered extreme situations that galvanized him. The anguish and pain of soldiers returning from Vietnam gave him a new appreciation for what the human psyche can endure, and persuaded him that even those in the direst straits could be helped. He seldom proposed anything as a possibility; he talked in absolutes. Yet he also appreciated conditionality. I have often wanted to sort people into polar categories, to delineate the good and bad guys. He would have none of it. While I tried to achieve singular revelations that would expose someone’s whole character, Dr. F would say, repeatedly, “You’re talking about a person. People aren’t simple. They are full of nuance and contradiction.”
In my early thirties, I considered myself a tragic person whose life would never work out. A few years in, Dr. F. said, “If you want to build a constructive love relationship, you have what it takes.” He had been so circumspect until that time that his confidence gave me pause. I couldn’t pretend that he romanticized or overestimated me, because he had withheld reassurance about so many things on so many occasions. He now averred that I had the resilience for a good life, that I would meet someone, that I could have children if I wanted and would love them if I had them, that my writing could find its audience and would help others.
I seldom cried with Dr. F. He had a box of tissues right next to the big Eames chair in which I sat on all those Thursdays. But I didn’t feel the need to punctuate my stories with tears. We talked about my not crying. I had assumed it was a defense, but he thought otherwise. He was helping me to turn neurotic grief into common sorrow, and we often processed things about which I’d already cried elsewhere. He had little room for sentimentality. His purpose wasn’t to tease more extreme emotions out of me, as my previous analyst had done, but to lay bare the networks of ambivalence behind every feeling I had—and ambivalence is not, in general, a tearful state. I theatricalize my own life, and he was the exacting dramaturg of my extravagance. Over time with him, I became less extreme. He had described me as “highly reactive,” and we worked on my being less so.
Early in his career, Dr. F had investigated the role that exhaustion plays in medical errors made by interns and residents. He demonstrated that punishing schedules damaged not only incipient doctors but also their patients, a revelation that revolutionized hospital practice. Then he developed an unlikely interest in “deviant sexuality,” writing “Male Homosexuality,” the book, from 1988, that destigmatized homosexuality within the field of psychoanalysis. It was not a popular topic among straight doctors, and his willingness to see gay people as equals packed a radical punch, even long after those views had entered the mainstream. Dr. F not only accepted that homosexuality was probably biological but also averred that it was not a deficit. Then he did something extraordinary: he praised the strength and vitality of gay people. He wrote in his book, “The contemporary clinician no longer need consider why homosexual men are paranoid, since there is no evidence that they generally are. It must now be asked why homosexual males are not more often paranoid. Homosexuality begins in childhood, and many gay people grow up in environments that are virulently homophobic and sexist. One might expect that as a result . . . homosexual males would tend to develop paranoid psychopathology. Since this does not occur with unusual frequency, we must ask whether unusually adept coping mechanisms coexist with homosexuality in many individuals.”
Because I had told him in our first meeting that I couldn’t bear another abrupt termination, he told me early on about his physical vulnerabilities. He required multiple cardiac procedures and was in treatment for it. Over the years, he missed sessions because of heart-related interventions, and he always told me what was going on. In that regard, we had reciprocal openness. He said that I deserved to know. He was private, sometimes even secretive, but also blunt. Knowing when he suffered a setback set me free to be unconcerned the rest of the time.
Unlike many therapists and analysts, he was very much a doctor, and he understood the brain and body and how they relate. For my own rather complex psychopharmacological needs, however, he referred me to his eponymous colleague, Richard A. Friedman, who has guided the biology of my brain ever since. They were professional collaborators and personal friends.
It was perhaps five years into our work together that I ended up in social conversation with another psychiatrist who told me about Dr. F’s troubled first marriage, and the children from whom he was estranged. I didn’t want to confront Dr. F with gossip, but I didn’t feel I could remain in therapy without expressing what I knew. So I told him what I’d heard. He said simply that he felt deep regret about the mistakes he had made, and that his personal life had no bearing on our work together. I was not so sure. A few weeks later, he said he wanted to tell me that he had a wonderful marriage, that his wife’s name was Sue, and that they had a grown son, Jeremiah, whom they adored. We opened up a surprising reciprocity that day, one that, he made clear, was not his usual way of interacting with patients. In the two decades that followed, he offered occasional, usually cheerful, glimpses into his marriage and personal experience. I came to know Dr. F’s life by proxy. By coincidence, I interviewed one of his close friends for a book I was writing. Norm Rosenthal adored Dr. F, and Dr. F talked about Norm enthusiastically. Of course, Dr. F controlled his side of our dialogue, and what I knew about his life was only what he chose to tell me, but it convinced me that he had built for himself the kind of life he was helping me build.
During our first decade together, I entangled myself in two romantic relationships that ended in devastation. In the aftermath of the second splintering, in 1999, I dove back into depression. I universalized relentlessly. I was certain that I was too damaged to make anything work. Dr. F thought things had foundered because I had made poor relationship choices, and that I could make better ones. I would huddle in the Eames chair, my knees up under my chin, awash in despair. He never told me to pull my socks up and get on with it, but he did say that my mistakes could be instructive. He was implacably calm. His calm annoyed me. While Richard A. Friedman worked intensely on my biochemistry, Dr. F simply said that I had survived other depressions and would survive this one. He gave me his home number, however, and said I should be in touch if I felt like the depression was escalating. When I was depressed, he would be in contact with my father (when I was younger) or with my husband (in later years), and tell them how to keep an eye on me. We agreed that patient privacy during a crisis was terribly overrated.
In 2001, I met John. Our relationship had a rocky start, but Dr. F believed this one would work—and that if it didn’t, I would find another. He coached me along, and I went through a phase of longing for Thursdays, when I could air the grievances that I had to forbear mentioning at home. Dr. F often took John’s side in the arguments I recounted, which was aggravating but sobering. John and I did some couples therapy, but I often found I could accept what had been said by our counsellor only after it had earned Dr. F’s imprimatur. One way or another, we made it through the rough period, and through the negotiation about having a family. My life began to take shape. When John and I married, in England, in 2007, I invited Dr. F, who deserved a great deal of credit for my getting to this moment. I was comforted by having him there, and seated him next to the rabbi who blessed the union. That was the sacred table.
Over the years, I would write down things he said that were especially witty or perceptive. One Thursday, I was nearly hysterical about an injustice from someone I had trusted. When I acknowledged that I was overreacting but complained that I couldn’t calm myself down, he said, “You have a reservoir of autonomous dysphoria that you attach to whatever life circumstances come your way.” When I talked about someone who I felt had treated me grudgingly, he said, “He’s one of those people who feels drained by loving someone else, not increased by it. He’s not someone who feels that loving other people enhances him; he believes it depletes him, and that’s how he acts.” I complained that someone wanted to throw me under the bus; Dr. F said, “You are under the bus already. Just try to be Gumby and deal with the impact.” And when I said I didn’t feel it was worth prolonging an argument with someone who had hurt me badly, he said, “Don’t allow good judgment to be upstaged by altruistic masochism.”
Dr. F was amused by my habit of recording such statements on the index cards he kept beside the chair where I sat in his office. “But what are you planning to do with them?” he would ask, and I’d tell him about the novel I was going to write, set in a psychiatrist’s office. It never occurred to me that his aphoristic remarks would make their first showing in a remembrance such as this one. When someone had treated me badly, I said that the situation made me want to commit suicide. “Why don’t you kill him and leave out the middleman?” Dr. F said. When I described the disruptions in an acquaintance’s marriage, he said, “He thought he could use his wealth to make her do what he wanted; she thought she could use his wealth to do what she wanted. They have both been disappointed.” But it would be a mistake to suggest that our relationship was predicated on repartee. Late in our work, I said that I was in chaotic depression and felt like I was melting away. He looked at me for a minute, then said, “If you turn into a pool of water, I’ll find a glass.”
Some people go into therapy because they want to be released from their constraints. I wanted to break out of some of mine, and I did—but what I really wanted was containment. When I discovered and achieved ways to break free, he consistently found the glass. At other times, when I felt my mental health was stable, I questioned the utility of spending so much time in treatment. I sometimes wanted my Thursdays for other purposes. But when I was feeling even momentarily unhinged, I could go to Dr. F and tell him what was going on, and the very nature of his listening smoothed out the jagged line of my emotional life. He acknowledged that I had a very broad emotional range and discouraged my occasional wish that it be narrower. “You live more of life than most people,” he once said. He didn’t think I had to feel less to be healthier; he thought I had to learn how to corral my feelings by understanding their origins more clearly. Our work was intensely psychodynamic in that regard; I checked what I felt by understanding its origins, and so defanged the anguish and terror that besieged me when I was unwell. We both knew that I had core instabilities, but he did not believe, as I did at first, that they were uncontrollable; he believed that they could be regulated. Our work was insight-oriented, in the jargon of our day; I couldn’t imagine what therapy would be for if it weren’t for insight. Dr. F’s discernments helped me to be less angry, to compass my own sadness, to see the people around me as clearly as Dr. F saw me. Insight lay behind his mordant wit. His insight made him kind to me when I was unkind to myself. He made me think even when I didn’t want to. He believed that feelings were facts.


newyorker--2020-05-10--Sunday Reading: The Power of Comedy

Sunday Reading: The Power of Comedy

The best comedy can always reveal what ’ s hidden , or trying to hide .
This week , we ’ re bringing you a selection of pieces about comic performers and their art .
In “ Julia Louis-Dreyfus Acts Out , ” Ariel Levy profiles the comedian and considers her work on “ Seinfeld ” and “ Veep , ” and also her battle with breast cancer .
In “ A Pryor Love , ” Hilton Als writes about Richard Pryor ’ s legendary standup career .
Vinson Cunningham chronicles Tracy Morgan ’ s evolution as a performer and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ troubled adolescence .
In “ Quiet Depravity , ” from 2005 , Dana Goodyear profiles Sarah Silverman as her career is taking off , and , in “ Last Girl in Larchmont , ” Emily Nussbaum examines the complicated life and groundbreaking candor of Joan Rivers .
We hope that these comic excursions give some lift to your Sunday afternoon .
The actress on challenging comedy ’ s sexism , fighting cancer , and becoming the star of her own show .
The life and times of America ’ s comic prophet of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , the actor got enough money from a settlement that he no longer has to work .
But , with his own TV series and a return to standup , he has become even more ambitious .
Joan Rivers was a survivor of a sexist era : a victim , a rebel , and , finally , an enforcer .

Photograph from Bettmann / Getty
The best comedy can always reveal what’s hidden, or trying to hide. This week, we’re bringing you a selection of pieces about comic performers and their art. In “Julia Louis-Dreyfus Acts Out,” Ariel Levy profiles the comedian and considers her work on “Seinfeld” and “Veep,” and also her battle with breast cancer. In “A Pryor Love,” Hilton Als writes about Richard Pryor’s legendary standup career. Vinson Cunningham chronicles Tracy Morgan’s evolution as a performer and describes how comedy saved him during his troubled adolescence. In “Quiet Depravity,” from 2005, Dana Goodyear profiles Sarah Silverman as her career is taking off, and, in “Last Girl in Larchmont,” Emily Nussbaum examines the complicated life and groundbreaking candor of Joan Rivers. We hope that these comic excursions give some lift to your Sunday afternoon.
—David Remnick
Photograph by Ryan Pfluger for The New Yorker
The actress on challenging comedy’s sexism, fighting cancer, and becoming the star of her own show.
The life and times of America’s comic prophet of race.
Photograph by Elizabeth Renstrom for The New Yorker; source photograph from Scott Gries / Getty (cutouts)
After a near-fatal car crash, the actor got enough money from a settlement that he no longer has to work. But, with his own TV series and a return to standup, he has become even more ambitious.
Photograph by David Montgomery / Getty
Joan Rivers was a survivor of a sexist era: a victim, a rebel, and, finally, an enforcer.
The demure outrages of a standup comic.