newyorker--2020-09-02--American Christianity’s White-Supremacy Problem

Early on in “ Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass , ” the first of three autobiographies Douglass wrote over his lifetime , he recounts what happened—or , perhaps more accurately , what didn ’ t happen—after his master , Thomas Auld , became a Christian believer at a Methodist camp meeting .
Douglass had harbored the hope that Auld ’ s conversion , in August , 1832 , might lead him to emancipate his slaves , or at least “ make him more kind and humane.
” Instead , Douglass writes , “ If it had any effect @ @ @ @ @ @ @ more cruel and hateful in all his ways.
” Auld was ostentatious about his piety—praying “ morning , noon , and night , ” participating in revivals , and opening his home to travelling preachers—but he used his faith as license to inflict pain and suffering upon his slaves .
“ I have seen him tie up a lame young woman , and whip her with a heavy cowskin upon her naked shoulders , causing the warm red blood to drip ; and , in justification of the bloody deed , he would @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that knoweth his master ’ s will , and doeth it not , shall be beaten with many stripes , ’ ” Douglass writes .
Douglass is so scornful about Christianity in his memoir that he felt a need to append an explanation clarifying that he was not an opponent of all religion .
In fact , he argued that what he had written about was not “ Christianity proper , ” and labelling it as such would be “ the boldest of all frauds.
” Douglass believed that “ the widest possible @ @ @ @ @ @ @ religion of this land ” and “ the pure , peaceable , and impartial Christianity of Christ.
” Yet , a hundred twenty-five years after Douglass ’ s death , the American church is still struggling to eradicate the legacy of the slaveholding religion he loathed .
In a 2019 nationwide survey , eighty-six per cent of white evangelical Protestants and seventy per cent of both white mainline Protestants and white Catholics said that the “ Confederate flag is more a symbol of Southern pride than of racism ” ; nearly two-thirds of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of African-American men by the police are isolated incidents rather than part of a broader pattern of mistreatment ; and more than six in ten white Christians disagreed with the statement that “ generations of slavery and discrimination have created conditions that make it difficult for blacks to work their way out of the lower class.
” In his new book , “ White Too Long ” ( Simon & Schuster ) , Robert P. Jones , the head of the Public Religion Research Institute , a nonpartisan polling and research organization , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ out a startling case that “ the more racist attitudes a person holds , the more likely he or she is to identify as a white Christian.
” The correlation is just as pronounced among white evangelical Protestants as it is among white mainline Protestants and white Catholics—and stands in stark contrast to the attitudes of religiously unaffiliated whites .
Jones ’ s findings make for some wrenching inferences .
“ If you were recruiting for a white supremacist cause on a Sunday morning , you ’ d likely have more success hanging @ @ @ @ @ @ @ average white Christian church—evangelical Protestant , mainline Protestant , or Catholic—than approaching whites sitting out services at the local coffee shop , ” he writes .
Much has been made of white evangelicals ’ support for Donald Trump in the 2016 election .
( According to exit polls , eighty-one per cent of white evangelical Protestants voted for him . )
Less attention has been paid to the fact that sizable majorities of white Catholics ( sixty-four per cent ) and white mainline Protestants ( fifty-seven per cent ) also backed him .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ again be reliant upon the white Christian vote if he hopes to defeat his Democratic opponent , former Vice-President Joe Biden .
Trump ’ s racism has defined his Presidency—driving his exclusionary immigration policies , his Twitter tirades , his reluctance to condemn white-nationalist protesters in Charlottesville , and his scapegoating of China for the coronavirus pandemic .
Yet polls show that most white Christians continue to approve of his job performance .
It is a perplexing , distressing trend , one that may be irrevocably damaging to the church , as increasing @ @ @ @ @ @ @ leave Christianity .
In December , when Mark Galli , who was then the editor-in-chief of Christianity Today , the flagship publication of evangelicalism , wrote an editorial calling for Trump to be removed from office , he urged Christians to consider how their support of Trump influenced their “ witness ” —the degree to which their lives point to the example of Jesus Christ .
“ Consider what an unbelieving world will say if you continue to brush off Mr. Trump ’ s immoral words and behavior in the cause of political @ @ @ @ @ @ @ If we don ’ t reverse course now , will anyone take anything we say about justice and righteousness with any seriousness for decades to come ?
” In some sense , Trump ’ s Presidency has merely given modern form to racist attitudes that have long festered in American Christianity .
In his book “ The Color of Compromise ” ( Zondervan ) , published last year , the historian Jemar Tisby traces the revivalist origins of evangelicalism in America , and notes how the movement ’ s emphasis on individual conversion @ @ @ @ @ @ @ The evangelist George Whitefield , who was instrumental in the Great Awakening , in the early eighteenth century , condemned the cruelty of slaveowners but campaigned for slavery ’ s legalization in the colony of Georgia .
The theologian Jonathan Edwards pressed for the evangelization of the enslaved but owned several slaves ; he believed the practice could be countenanced as long as they were treated humanely .
“ Within this evangelical framework , one could adopt an evangelical expression of Christianity yet remain uncompelled to confront institutional injustice , ” Tisby writes @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the Second Great Awakening , which brought with it a moral fervor to perfect human society , helped spark abolitionism and other reform movements .
Even outspoken critics of slavery , however , remained committed to the entrenched racial hierarchy .
Charles Finney , an influential revivalist preacher and abolitionist , barred slaveholders from taking communion in his churches , but he opposed the intermingling of races and prohibited Blacks from holding church office .
For Finney , social reform was always secondary to the ministry of the Gospel .
“ When I @ @ @ @ @ @ @ had made up my mind on the question of slavery , and was exceedingly anxious to arouse public attention to the subject , ” he writes in his memoir .
“ I did not , however , turn aside to make it a hobby , or divert the attention of the people from the work of converting souls.
” In the South , church leaders developed an elaborate system of scriptural justifications for slavery .
A Baptist pastor in Alabama , the Reverend Dr .
Basil Manly , Sr. , became the country @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of the institution , playing a central role in the establishment of the Southern Baptist Convention—formed in the aftermath of the Baptists ’ schism over slavery—and delivering the invocation when Jefferson Davis was inaugurated as President of the Confederacy .
After the South ’ s defeat in the Civil War , Southern church leaders struggled to help their congregants make sense of their loss .
The result was the religion of the Lost Cause , a mythology that ennobled the Confederacy and idealized the antebellum South as a bastion of Christian piety and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ cultural values , delivered from the pulpit , helped to legitimize a social order that continued to subjugate Blacks .
Later , as evangelical Christianity , anchored in the South , grew to become the dominant expression of Christianity in America , its cultural scaffolding , rooted in white supremacy , spread as well .
During the era of Jim Crow , when Southern statutes enforced the strict separation of races and restricted the rights of Blacks , Northern Protestant churches remained largely segregated and muted in their criticism .
Many white Christians @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ s plan for humanity .
During the civil-rights era , even as Black clergy became prominent leaders in the movement , few white church leaders fully embraced it .
The Reverend Billy Graham held racially integrated revivals and criticized segregation at his meetings , but the primacy of his evangelistic mission—and his desire for the widest possible audience for it—made him cautious .
During a crusade in Jackson , Mississippi , in the summer of 1952 , he told the audience that segregation had no place in the church .
“ There @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” he said .
“ The ground at the foot of the cross is level.
” But when his remarks drew the ire of white Southerners , he equivocated .
“ I came to Jackson to preach only the Bible and not to enter into local issues , ” he told the local newspaper .
Graham would later invite the Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King , Jr. , to deliver the opening prayer at a crusade in Madison Square Garden , but he refrained from a full-throated endorsement of King ’ s movement @ @ @ @ @ @ @ after King wrote his “ Letter from Birmingham Jail , ” Graham declined to characterize himself in an interview with the Times as a “ thoroughgoing integrationist , ” and said that the civil-rights protesters ought to “ put the brakes on a little bit.
” In his autobiography , “ Just as I Am , ” Graham writes that King encouraged him to “ stay in the stadiums , Billy , ” because his impact would be greater there .
King also told Graham that “ if a leader gets too far @ @ @ @ @ @ @ they will lose sight of him and not follow him any longer.
” Graham wrote that he followed King ’ s advice .

Early on in “Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass,” the first of three autobiographies Douglass wrote over his lifetime, he recounts what happened—or, perhaps more accurately, what didn’t happen—after his master, Thomas Auld, became a Christian believer at a Methodist camp meeting. Douglass had harbored the hope that Auld’s conversion, in August, 1832, might lead him to emancipate his slaves, or at least “make him more kind and humane.” Instead, Douglass writes, “If it had any effect on his character, it made him more cruel and hateful in all his ways.” Auld was ostentatious about his piety—praying “morning, noon, and night,” participating in revivals, and opening his home to travelling preachers—but he used his faith as license to inflict pain and suffering upon his slaves. “I have seen him tie up a lame young woman, and whip her with a heavy cowskin upon her naked shoulders, causing the warm red blood to drip; and, in justification of the bloody deed, he would quote this passage of Scripture—‘He that knoweth his master’s will, and doeth it not, shall be beaten with many stripes,’ ” Douglass writes. Douglass is so scornful about Christianity in his memoir that he felt a need to append an explanation clarifying that he was not an opponent of all religion. In fact, he argued that what he had written about was not “Christianity proper,” and labelling it as such would be “the boldest of all frauds.” Douglass believed that “the widest possible difference” existed between the “slaveholding religion of this land” and “the pure, peaceable, and impartial Christianity of Christ.”
Yet, a hundred twenty-five years after Douglass’s death, the American church is still struggling to eradicate the legacy of the slaveholding religion he loathed. In a 2019 nationwide survey, eighty-six per cent of white evangelical Protestants and seventy per cent of both white mainline Protestants and white Catholics said that the “Confederate flag is more a symbol of Southern pride than of racism”; nearly two-thirds of white Christians over all said that killings of African-American men by the police are isolated incidents rather than part of a broader pattern of mistreatment; and more than six in ten white Christians disagreed with the statement that “generations of slavery and discrimination have created conditions that make it difficult for blacks to work their way out of the lower class.” In his new book, “White Too Long” (Simon & Schuster), Robert P. Jones, the head of the Public Religion Research Institute, a nonpartisan polling and research organization, marshals this and other data to lay out a startling case that “the more racist attitudes a person holds, the more likely he or she is to identify as a white Christian.” The correlation is just as pronounced among white evangelical Protestants as it is among white mainline Protestants and white Catholics—and stands in stark contrast to the attitudes of religiously unaffiliated whites. Jones’s findings make for some wrenching inferences. “If you were recruiting for a white supremacist cause on a Sunday morning, you’d likely have more success hanging out in the parking lot of an average white Christian church—evangelical Protestant, mainline Protestant, or Catholic—than approaching whites sitting out services at the local coffee shop,” he writes.
Much has been made of white evangelicals’ support for Donald Trump in the 2016 election. (According to exit polls, eighty-one per cent of white evangelical Protestants voted for him.) Less attention has been paid to the fact that sizable majorities of white Catholics (sixty-four per cent) and white mainline Protestants (fifty-seven per cent) also backed him. In November, President Trump will once again be reliant upon the white Christian vote if he hopes to defeat his Democratic opponent, former Vice-President Joe Biden. Trump’s racism has defined his Presidency—driving his exclusionary immigration policies, his Twitter tirades, his reluctance to condemn white-nationalist protesters in Charlottesville, and his scapegoating of China for the coronavirus pandemic. Yet polls show that most white Christians continue to approve of his job performance. It is a perplexing, distressing trend, one that may be irrevocably damaging to the church, as increasing numbers of people, particularly millennials, leave Christianity. In December, when Mark Galli, who was then the editor-in-chief of Christianity Today, the flagship publication of evangelicalism, wrote an editorial calling for Trump to be removed from office, he urged Christians to consider how their support of Trump influenced their “witness”—the degree to which their lives point to the example of Jesus Christ. “Consider what an unbelieving world will say if you continue to brush off Mr. Trump’s immoral words and behavior in the cause of political expediency,” he wrote. “If we don’t reverse course now, will anyone take anything we say about justice and righteousness with any seriousness for decades to come?”
In some sense, Trump’s Presidency has merely given modern form to racist attitudes that have long festered in American Christianity. In his book “The Color of Compromise” (Zondervan), published last year, the historian Jemar Tisby traces the revivalist origins of evangelicalism in America, and notes how the movement’s emphasis on individual conversion and piety constrained its social vision. The evangelist George Whitefield, who was instrumental in the Great Awakening, in the early eighteenth century, condemned the cruelty of slaveowners but campaigned for slavery’s legalization in the colony of Georgia. The theologian Jonathan Edwards pressed for the evangelization of the enslaved but owned several slaves; he believed the practice could be countenanced as long as they were treated humanely. “Within this evangelical framework, one could adopt an evangelical expression of Christianity yet remain uncompelled to confront institutional injustice,” Tisby writes.
In the early nineteenth century, the Second Great Awakening, which brought with it a moral fervor to perfect human society, helped spark abolitionism and other reform movements. Even outspoken critics of slavery, however, remained committed to the entrenched racial hierarchy. Charles Finney, an influential revivalist preacher and abolitionist, barred slaveholders from taking communion in his churches, but he opposed the intermingling of races and prohibited Black congregants from holding church office. For Finney, social reform was always secondary to the ministry of the Gospel. “When I first went to New York, I had made up my mind on the question of slavery, and was exceedingly anxious to arouse public attention to the subject,” he writes in his memoir. “I did not, however, turn aside to make it a hobby, or divert the attention of the people from the work of converting souls.” In the South, church leaders developed an elaborate system of scriptural justifications for slavery. A Baptist pastor in Alabama, the Reverend Dr. Basil Manly, Sr., became the country’s leading religious voice in support of the institution, playing a central role in the establishment of the Southern Baptist Convention—formed in the aftermath of the Baptists’ schism over slavery—and delivering the invocation when Jefferson Davis was inaugurated as President of the Confederacy.
After the South’s defeat in the Civil War, Southern church leaders struggled to help their congregants make sense of their loss. The result was the religion of the Lost Cause, a mythology that ennobled the Confederacy and idealized the antebellum South as a bastion of Christian piety and morals. This fusion of religious and cultural values, delivered from the pulpit, helped to legitimize a social order that continued to subjugate Black people. Later, as evangelical Christianity, anchored in the South, grew to become the dominant expression of Christianity in America, its cultural scaffolding, rooted in white supremacy, spread as well. During the era of Jim Crow, when Southern statutes enforced the strict separation of races and restricted the rights of Black people, Northern Protestant churches remained largely segregated and muted in their criticism. Many white Christians saw segregation as simply part of God’s plan for humanity.
During the civil-rights era, even as Black clergy became prominent leaders in the movement, few white church leaders fully embraced it. The Reverend Billy Graham held racially integrated revivals and criticized segregation at his meetings, but the primacy of his evangelistic mission—and his desire for the widest possible audience for it—made him cautious. During a crusade in Jackson, Mississippi, in the summer of 1952, he told the audience that segregation had no place in the church. “There is no scriptural basis for segregation,” he said. “The ground at the foot of the cross is level.” But when his remarks drew the ire of white Southerners, he equivocated. “I came to Jackson to preach only the Bible and not to enter into local issues,” he told the local newspaper. Graham would later invite the Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., to deliver the opening prayer at a crusade in Madison Square Garden, but he refrained from a full-throated endorsement of King’s movement. In April, 1963, shortly after King wrote his “Letter from Birmingham Jail,” Graham declined to characterize himself in an interview with the Times as a “thoroughgoing integrationist,” and said that the civil-rights protesters ought to “put the brakes on a little bit.” In his autobiography, “Just as I Am,” Graham writes that King encouraged him to “stay in the stadiums, Billy,” because his impact would be greater there. King also told Graham that “if a leader gets too far out in front of his people, they will lose sight of him and not follow him any longer.” Graham wrote that he followed King’s advice.
By the nineteen-nineties, the evangelical movement had come to embrace racial reconciliation as a Biblical mandate. Repenting of racial divisions became a pillar of the Promise Keepers, a Christian ministry that drew tens of thousands of men to stadium revivals. In 1995, on the occasion of its hundred-and-fiftieth anniversary, the Southern Baptist Convention issued a formal “resolution on racial reconciliation,” apologizing for the ways its leaders had defended slavery, opposed the civil-rights movement, and excluded Blacks. Pastoral leaders across the country spoke passionately of the need to build “multiethnic” churches. Yet there were clearly limits on how far white evangelicals were willing to extend the ministry of reconciliation. In 2015, at a triennial student missions conference organized, in St. Louis, by the campus evangelical organization InterVarsity Christian Fellowship, a raging controversy ensued after the evening’s speaker, Michelle Higgins, a Black woman who led worship at a local Presbyterian church, delivered a fiery sermon denouncing the influence of white supremacy in the church.
The boundaries that evangelical leaders draw around “reconciliation” may help explain a seeming contradiction in the polling data on race and religion. In surveys that measure how warmly people say they feel about Black people, the sentiments of white evangelical Protestants exceed those of the general population. (Other white Christians’ responses fall close to the mean.) Yet the vast majority of white Christians remain indifferent to the symbols of white supremacy and skeptical of the realities of racial inequality. In “Divided By Faith” (Oxford), published in 2000, the sociologists Michael O. Emerson and Christian Smith suggest a cultural and religious framework for understanding this inconsistency. Evangelical theology is individualistic and interpersonal—it stresses both a believer’s relationship with Jesus Christ and the way that forgiveness from God impels forgiveness of others. As a result, white evangelicals’ understanding of the race problem tends to be rooted in beliefs about individual decisions and shortcomings rather than the ways that broader social forces, institutions, and culture can constrain and shape them. It’s as if they’re wearing reading glasses when their problem is nearsightedness—a failing, Tisby showed in his book, that has troubled the American church throughout its history.
Jones’s research, along with additional work conducted by Emerson and another sociologist, Jason Shelton, examining attitudes on race of Black and white Protestants, suggest that white mainline Christians have been afflicted by similar blinders, even as their churches have traditionally placed greater emphasis on social concerns. The Roman Catholic Church in the United States has its own ugly history of promoting slavery and resisting integration. When Black people fleeing discrimination in the South streamed into Northern cities during the Great Migration, many white Catholics, in particular, fought to keep them out of their neighborhoods and parishes. “White Christian churches, both Protestant and Catholic, have served as institutional spaces for the preservation and transmission of white supremacist attitudes,” Jones writes.
The fact that history, theology, and culture all contribute to the racist attitudes embedded in the white church makes dislodging them especially difficult. One potential pathway is for white church leaders to absorb exegetical lessons from the Black church. Black Christians share many of the same broad faith commitments as white Christians, but the African-American ecclesial tradition also has a long history of confronting injustice. In a new book, “Reading While Black” (IVP Academic), Esau McCaulley, an assistant professor of New Testament at Wheaton College and an Anglican clergyman, writes that the Black church’s gift to American Christianity is the teaching that the Christian message impels both personal and societal change. He recounts his own journey, growing up in the Black church in Alabama, studying African-American history in college, and then attending a mostly white seminary to pursue a master of divinity. “In my evangelical seminary almost all the authors we read were white men,” he writes. “It seemed that whatever was going on among Black Christians had little to do with biblical interpretation. I swam in this disdain.” Evangelicalism’s foundational beliefs are typically understood to include the “born again” experience, the evangelistic mission for believers, the authority of the Bible, and the importance of the cross. But McCaulley found other, unspoken ones—a “reading of American history that downplayed injustice and a gentlemen’s agreement to remain silent on issues of racism and systemic injustice.”
McCaulley asserts that an “unapologetically Black and orthodox reading of the Bible” can speak to Black Christians today. Left unsaid is that it can also speak powerfully to white Christians. In his book, McCaulley outlines a theology of policing, political witness, Black identity and anger, and justice. On policing, for example, many white Christians focus on the opening verses in Romans 13, when the Apostle Paul urges people to submit themselves to the “governing authorities” because they have been “instituted by God.” But McCaulley traces the logic of the next two verses, when Paul writes, “Rulers are not a terror to good conduct, but to bad. Do you wish to have no fear of the authority? Then do what is good, and you will receive its approval.” McCaulley argues that, while Paul states that the rulers are “not a terror,” he is also articulating an ideal, one that can undergird a Christian approach to the problem of police violence. “Paul recognizes that the state has a tremendous influence on how the soldier/officer treats its citizens,” McCaulley writes. “This is grounds in a democracy for a structural advocacy on behalf of the powerless.” McCaulley also dwells on Jesus’ call in the Beatitudes for his people to be “peacemakers.” Biblical peacemaking involves resolving conflicts between nations and individuals, so it must necessarily involve “making a judgment about who is correct and who is incorrect,” McCaulley writes. A false choice between calling out injustice and preaching the Gospel has burdened American Christianity. “Through our efforts to bring peace we show the world the kind of king and kingdom we represent,” McCaulley writes. “The outcome of our peacemaking is to introduce people to the kingdom.”
In the end, however, ameliorating the theology of white Christianity is likely inadequate. In “Taking America Back for God” (Oxford), published earlier this year, the sociologists Andrew L. Whitehead and Samuel L. Perry examine racist and xenophobic attitudes among white Christians through the lens of a distinct set of cultural beliefs—most notably, the idea that America is, and should be, a Christian nation. They find that this collection of cultural markers, which they call “Christian nationalism,” was a better predictor of support for Trump in the 2016 election than economic discontent, religious affiliation, sexism, or any number of other variables. The defining concern of Christian nationalism is the preservation of a certain kind of social order, one threatened by people of color, immigrants, and Muslims. Crucially, Whitehead and Perry find that Christian nationalism is not the same as personal religiosity. In fact, religious commitment—as measured by church attendance, prayer, and Scripture reading—tends to improve attitudes on race, serving as a progressive influence. This suggests the root of the white church’s problem may not be “Christianity proper,” as Douglass put it, so much as the culture around white Christianity, which narrows and diminishes the American project. Today’s “slave-holding religion” is preached on Fox News, conservative talk radio, and the rest of the right-wing media ecosystem; they daily bear false witness. Jesus’ blessing for peacemakers may demand that Christians confront these institutions of demagoguery and division in the name of the kingdom.


newyorker--2020-09-02--Daily Cartoon: Wednesday, September 2nd

Daily Cartoon: Wednesday, September 2nd

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newyorker--2020-09-03--So, You’re Absolutely Certain You Want a Refund?

We have received your refund request for the Def Leppard concert tickets you purchased in January .
First of all , let us say that we completely understand why you made this request , even though we haven ’ t actually cancelled this event but have just postponed it to a future date that is yet to be determined but definitely exists , we think .
We are entirely prepared to issue you a full refund for the tickets—assuming that this is something you still want and not something you changed your mind about after reading that previous sentence emphasizing @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , not cancelled .
Please take some time to think about whether you still want a full refund , and please keep in mind that the memory of going to this definitely not-cancelled concert will last forever , whereas the money you would be refunded would probably only last for a few minutes , given that the many prior messages you sent us made it pretty clear that you would have to spend it almost immediately on back rent .
So , you ’ re sure you still want the refund ?
Well @ @ @ @ @ @ @ re definitely prepared to give it to you , and we ’ re only repeating ourselves to show you how serious we are about that , not to make this message intimidatingly long to the point where you get frustrated enough to just stop reading and let us keep your money .
The first thing you ’ re going to have to do to get your refund is explain why you want it .
I guess we could have done the standard thing and let you choose a prewritten option with some short @ @ @ @ @ @ @ event postponed , ” but because we value your individuality so much we ’ re going to let you write your own explanation !
Doesn ’ t that sound fun ?
Your answer must be at least five thousand characters long or you will be unable to proceed to the next step .
The second thing you ’ ll have to do is explain the difference between the words “ cancelled ” and “ postponed.
” We ’ re still not totally convinced you understand that they aren ’ t synonyms , and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a while , you decide that you don ’ t want a refund after all—hey , that ’ s great !
The third thing you ’ re going to have to do is explain the causes of the Protestant Reformation .
Please be thorough .
And , finally , we ’ re going to need you to record a video of yourself pinpointing the exact moment when you realized that it was no longer worth it to you to spend money to hear the music of Def Leppard .
We will then send @ @ @ @ @ @ @ drummer , Rick Allen , to help him understand why relearning how to play the drums after losing his left arm , in a car crash , was ultimately just a waste of time .
O.K.
, and we ’ re all set !
With the first phase !
The second phase is much longer , and , yes , it does require you to revise your essay on the Protestant Reformation .
Your first draft did not devote nearly enough attention to the 1521 Edict of Worms .
All right , and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ re just going to need you to reënter your credit-card number ; yell at us on the phone two more times ; reënter your credit-card number again , because we lost it ; sign an affidavit affirming that you will not use this money to buy tickets to a Quiet Riot concert ; give us a blood sample , just for fun ; reënter your credit-card number again , because we enjoy watching the rage build up inside of you ; and—there you go !
You ’ re all set , and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ eight coronavirus waves .
Thank you for your continued support during these difficult times .

Dear Valued Customer,
We have received your refund request for the Def Leppard concert tickets you purchased in January. First of all, let us say that we completely understand why you made this request, even though we haven’t actually cancelled this event but have just postponed it to a future date that is yet to be determined but definitely exists, we think.
We are entirely prepared to issue you a full refund for the tickets—assuming that this is something you still want and not something you changed your mind about after reading that previous sentence emphasizing how the concert has simply been postponed, not cancelled. Please take some time to think about whether you still want a full refund, and please keep in mind that the memory of going to this definitely not-cancelled concert will last forever, whereas the money you would be refunded would probably only last for a few minutes, given that the many prior messages you sent us made it pretty clear that you would have to spend it almost immediately on back rent.
So, you’re sure you still want the refund? Well, O.K., then. We’re definitely prepared to give it to you, and we’re only repeating ourselves to show you how serious we are about that, not to make this message intimidatingly long to the point where you get frustrated enough to just stop reading and let us keep your money.
The first thing you’re going to have to do to get your refund is explain why you want it. I guess we could have done the standard thing and let you choose a prewritten option with some short and boring reason, such as “event postponed,” but because we value your individuality so much we’re going to let you write your own explanation! Doesn’t that sound fun? Your answer must be at least five thousand characters long or you will be unable to proceed to the next step.
The second thing you’ll have to do is explain the difference between the words “cancelled” and “postponed.” We’re still not totally convinced you understand that they aren’t synonyms, and if, after thinking about this for a while, you decide that you don’t want a refund after all—hey, that’s great!
The third thing you’re going to have to do is explain the causes of the Protestant Reformation. Please be thorough.
And, finally, we’re going to need you to record a video of yourself pinpointing the exact moment when you realized that it was no longer worth it to you to spend money to hear the music of Def Leppard. We will then send that video to the band’s drummer, Rick Allen, to help him understand why relearning how to play the drums after losing his left arm, in a car crash, was ultimately just a waste of time.
O.K., and we’re all set! With the first phase! The second phase is much longer, and, yes, it does require you to revise your essay on the Protestant Reformation. Your first draft did not devote nearly enough attention to the 1521 Edict of Worms.
All right, and, for the last phase, we’re just going to need you to reënter your credit-card number; yell at us on the phone two more times; reënter your credit-card number again, because we lost it; sign an affidavit affirming that you will not use this money to buy tickets to a Quiet Riot concert; give us a blood sample, just for fun; reënter your credit-card number again, because we enjoy watching the rage build up inside of you; and—there you go! You’re all set, and your refund should arrive within six to eight coronavirus waves. Thank you for your continued support during these difficult times.
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Keys

This is the ninth story in this summer ’ s online Flash Fiction series .
You can read the entire series , and our Flash Fiction stories from previous years , here .
Years after leaving his wife and taking up with Isabel , Daniel would dream that he was back home , with Rachel .
They were together again .
Isabel had left him , or he had never really left Rachel .
Or somehow both .
He felt reassured , but also extremely anxious , like a man emerging from a coma , uncertain whether he is alive @ @ @ @ @ @ @ dreams , his thoughts would go to a bunch of keys .
Somewhere , in a bag or a jacket pocket , there was a tangle of old keys .
The keys to a small flat , he thought .
A place whose rent he had been paying for years , without actually using it .
A place where he could be alone , without Rachel or Isabel .
Or where he could invite Isabel , without Rachel .
But , for some reason , it was impossible for him to look for @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
It was impossible to do anything at all .
In some variations , he tried to phone Isabel , to ask why she was no longer in touch , but the screen wouldn ’ t respond to his fingers .
Strange symbols appeared that he could not interpret .
Then he would wake up with Isabel beside him , sleeping soundly .
He felt immensely relieved and happy .
But one night Daniel ’ s dream took another turn .
This time he woke from another dream and found not Isabel but @ @ @ @ @ @ @ made up between them and they were together in placid old age .
At once he was looking for his phone to call Isabel .
How had things ended between them ?
And where were the missing keys ?
It was crazy paying rent for a place you never used .
Then he woke properly , beside Isabel , but shaken .
This time he told her about his dream .
She pondered .
Perhaps , she said , in a part of yourself , you wish you were back with Rachel .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ hadn ’ t said anything and decided to steer clear of the subject .
But , some days later , Isabel asked , What ’ s Rachel like , in these dreams of yours ?
Dreams are so vague , he said .
A month later , it came again .
Afterward , Daniel lay awake , as if he had been assigned a puzzle to solve .
He and Rachel had been in an expensive house where there was a large , airy room that for some reason they never used .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ gathering in a pool on the floor .
Rachel was a hazy figure in a white nightdress .
It seemed they had just made love .
What was Rachel like in these dreams ?
Daniel remembered Isabel ’ s question and cast about for an answer .
She had been busy , sorting out a cupboard full of dish towels .
And there was something sad about her , but resilient , as if she had survived a serious illness .
Sarcastic , too .
She found him ridiculous , like a little @ @ @ @ @ @ @ his mind to the keys .
They would be in one of those places where you stored things that you weren ’ t immediately using .
A kitchen drawer , a garage shelf .
The main fact about Rachel , though , was simply that she was Rachel .
His ex-wife .
Daniel lifted himself on an elbow to watch Isabel sleeping .
Calm and snug .
Daniel and Isabel enjoyed going for long walks in the country .
The following weekend , they stopped at a pub and took beers outside to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ her ex had been in touch recently .
Geoff .
He had sent her a link to some political article he thought might interest her .
Sounding off about corruption .
A line or two .
To be friendly .
But I never dream about being back with him .
It ’ s not that I want to have these dreams , Daniel said .
You always imagine I ’ m accusing you !
After all , she added , it makes sense—you were with Rachel for twenty years .
I only knew @ @ @ @ @ @ @ beers and set off home .
But the conversation was well and truly started now ; it would have to be taken somewhere .
The problem is , Daniel said , that we ’ re talking as if dreams had meaning .
If they were completely random , why would you go on having the same one ?
I have plenty of other dreams .
But you don ’ t fuss over them .
Daniel said maybe the problem , deep down , was that he was afraid that Isabel would leave him @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Isabel protested that she never would .
Then asked , But supposing I did , would you go back to Rachel ?
Of course not !
Alone , Daniel wondered about the phantom flat that always came to mind in these dreams , the place the keys would open .
He had a vague impression of a semi-basement bedsit in the eastern suburbs of the city .
The kind of place where a wounded animal might go to hide .
He had looked at any number of flats after leaving Rachel , and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
Sometimes I wonder if it isn ’ t physiological , he told Isabel .
There are these old experiences , half dissolved , you know , clogging up some mental drain .
We need to pour some Mr .
Muscle down there .
Isabel laughed , but , when her friend Hilary came to dinner , a few days later , she poured prosecco and said , Dan has been dreaming of being back with his ex .
Uh-oh !
Hilary said , laughing .
Time for the analyst !
Daniel was @ @ @ @ @ @ @ hadn ’ t expected .
He had long since signed off with his analyst , he said , and had no desire to go back .
I ’ m a perfectly happy man , he declared .
So why did you mention it ?
Isabel raised her eyes across the table .
No , you did the right thing , Dan .
I wouldn ’ t want you worrying about something and not talking to me about it .
Perhaps you needed a problem , Hilary proposed .
You ’ re too happy @ @ @ @ @ @ @ agreed .
But the dream came again .
He and Rachel were in a beautiful room , full of light , except there was a pond on the floor between the sofa and the piano .
Rachel was knitting at the dining table .
He had nothing to do and was staring into the water of the pond , which was choked with bright-green weeds .
Tiny insects flitted across the surface .
Then very distinctly Rachel said , If you want , you can invite her to dinner .
Invite who ?
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ ?
she said , laughing .
Your latest squeeze .
Daniel was dumbfounded .
What do I care what you do ?
Rachel added .
You ’ d never have the courage to leave me .
Waking in a sweat , Daniel decided to say nothing about this .
“ Squeeze ” was offensive , and these dreams had caused enough trouble already .
Later that week , though , Isabel hit a curb and had a flat tire .
Pulling the spare from the boot , Daniel found , beneath it , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ leather loop .
They were the keys to the canoe club , near his old home—a key for the outside gate , a key for his locker , and another for the paddle rack .
How I loved canoeing , he thought .
For the first time , Daniel stopped thinking about his dreams and cast his mind directly to the past .
It had been seven years now since he and Rachel had split up , and he realized that he couldn ’ t quite recall how or why it had all @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ t known Isabel then .
Of course , there had been any number of quarrels and betrayals , but none of them seemed to explain why he had walked out when he did .
The past is a dream , Daniel thought .
There is no way to make sense of it .
He did remember , though , that , the summer before the marriage ended , in an attempt to save things , he had invited Rachel to go canoeing with him .
And they had gone twice , on @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the river .
Those outings had seemed promising .
They ’ d had a good time .
But then she ’ d refused to go anymore .
You ’ re good at canoeing , she explained .
I ’ m not .
Daniel thought about this for a whole week .
Spring was coming , and these were the first mild days .
What about going canoeing , next weekend ?
he proposed to Isabel .
Weather permitting .
We could take a picnic .
Great idea , she said .
She frowned @ @ @ @ @ @ @ me how , though .
No problem , he said .
It ’ s not that hard .
After a little reflection , he tossed the old keys in the recycling .
But he kept the shabby leather loop , for old times ’ sake .

This is the ninth story in this summer’s online Flash Fiction series. You can read the entire series, and our Flash Fiction stories from previous years, here.
Years after leaving his wife and taking up with Isabel, Daniel would dream that he was back home, with Rachel. They were together again. Isabel had left him, or he had never really left Rachel. Or somehow both. He felt reassured, but also extremely anxious, like a man emerging from a coma, uncertain whether he is alive or dead.
Always, in these dreams, his thoughts would go to a bunch of keys. Somewhere, in a bag or a jacket pocket, there was a tangle of old keys. The keys to a small flat, he thought. A place whose rent he had been paying for years, without actually using it. A place where he could be alone, without Rachel or Isabel. Or where he could invite Isabel, without Rachel. But, for some reason, it was impossible for him to look for those keys on their shabby leather loop. It was impossible to do anything at all.
In some variations, he tried to phone Isabel, to ask why she was no longer in touch, but the screen wouldn’t respond to his fingers. Strange symbols appeared that he could not interpret.
Then he would wake up with Isabel beside him, sleeping soundly. He felt immensely relieved and happy.
But one night Daniel’s dream took another turn. This time he woke from another dream and found not Isabel but Rachel beside him; all had been made up between them and they were together in placid old age. At once he was looking for his phone to call Isabel. How had things ended between them? And where were the missing keys? It was crazy paying rent for a place you never used.
Then he woke properly, beside Isabel, but shaken. This time he told her about his dream.
She pondered. Perhaps, she said, in a part of yourself, you wish you were back with Rachel.
Not at all!
I’m not accusing you, Dan.
He wished he hadn’t said anything and decided to steer clear of the subject. But, some days later, Isabel asked, What’s Rachel like, in these dreams of yours?
Daniel sighed.
Just curious, she added.
Dreams are so vague, he said.
A month later, it came again. Afterward, Daniel lay awake, as if he had been assigned a puzzle to solve. He and Rachel had been in an expensive house where there was a large, airy room that for some reason they never used. Water was streaming down the walls and gathering in a pool on the floor. Rachel was a hazy figure in a white nightdress. It seemed they had just made love.
What was Rachel like in these dreams? Daniel remembered Isabel’s question and cast about for an answer. She had been busy, sorting out a cupboard full of dish towels. And there was something sad about her, but resilient, as if she had survived a serious illness. Sarcastic, too. She found him ridiculous, like a little boy playing truant. Her accusation turned his mind to the keys. They would be in one of those places where you stored things that you weren’t immediately using. A kitchen drawer, a garage shelf. The main fact about Rachel, though, was simply that she was Rachel. His ex-wife. Daniel lifted himself on an elbow to watch Isabel sleeping. Calm and snug.
Daniel and Isabel enjoyed going for long walks in the country. The following weekend, they stopped at a pub and took beers outside to a splintery table.
Isabel mentioned that her ex had been in touch recently. Geoff. He had sent her a link to some political article he thought might interest her. Sounding off about corruption.
Did you reply?
A line or two. To be friendly. But I never dream about being back with him.
It’s not that I want to have these dreams, Daniel said.
You always imagine I’m accusing you! After all, she added, it makes sense—you were with Rachel for twenty years. I only knew Geoff for two.
They finished their beers and set off home. But the conversation was well and truly started now; it would have to be taken somewhere.
The problem is, Daniel said, that we’re talking as if dreams had meaning.
If they were completely random, why would you go on having the same one?
I have plenty of other dreams.
But you don’t fuss over them.
Daniel said maybe the problem, deep down, was that he was afraid that Isabel would leave him; she was so much younger.
Isabel protested that she never would. Then asked, But supposing I did, would you go back to Rachel?
Of course not!
And so?
Alone, Daniel wondered about the phantom flat that always came to mind in these dreams, the place the keys would open. He had a vague impression of a semi-basement bedsit in the eastern suburbs of the city. The kind of place where a wounded animal might go to hide. He had looked at any number of flats after leaving Rachel, and they had all seemed dusty and melancholy.
Sometimes I wonder if it isn’t physiological, he told Isabel. There are these old experiences, half dissolved, you know, clogging up some mental drain. We need to pour some Mr. Muscle down there.
Isabel laughed, but, when her friend Hilary came to dinner, a few days later, she poured prosecco and said, Dan has been dreaming of being back with his ex.
Uh-oh! Hilary said, laughing. Time for the analyst!
Daniel was unsettled by this disclosure, which he hadn’t expected. He had long since signed off with his analyst, he said, and had no desire to go back. I’m a perfectly happy man, he declared.
So why did you mention it?
I wish I hadn’t.
Isabel raised her eyes across the table. No, you did the right thing, Dan. I wouldn’t want you worrying about something and not talking to me about it.
Perhaps you needed a problem, Hilary proposed. You’re too happy.
That sounds about right, Daniel agreed.
But the dream came again. He and Rachel were in a beautiful room, full of light, except there was a pond on the floor between the sofa and the piano. Rachel was knitting at the dining table. He had nothing to do and was staring into the water of the pond, which was choked with bright-green weeds. Tiny insects flitted across the surface. Then very distinctly Rachel said, If you want, you can invite her to dinner. Invite who? he asked. Who do you think? she said, laughing. Your latest squeeze. Daniel was dumbfounded. What do I care what you do? Rachel added. You’d never have the courage to leave me.


newyorker--2020-09-03--“Tenet” is Dazzling, Deft, and Devoid of Feeling

Word has it that Christopher Nolan ’ s new film , “ Tenet , ” is hard to understand .
Not so .
It ’ s a cinch—no more difficult than , say , playing mah-jongg inside a tumble dryer , while the principles of quantum mechanics are shouted at you in fluent Esperanto .
In case that feels too easy , Nolan fiddles with the sound mix of the movie , thus drowning out important conversations .
If you thought that Bane , the villain in Nolan ’ s “ The Dark Knight Rises ” ( 2012 ) , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the folks in “ Tenet.
” Most of them make Bane sound like Julie Andrews .
The protagonist of the new film is listed in the end credits as “ The Protagonist , ” denying us a handhold on his identity .
If only he were called Rodney or Little Merv .
Of his background we know next to nothing , though I happen to love that lack ; one sure sign of an action hero is the trading of personal history for present cool .
Hence the opening sequence of “ Tenet @ @ @ @ @ @ @ John David Washington , whose nonchalant intensity lent such verve to “ BlacKkKlansman ” ( 2018 ) —is tested for initiative and spunk during a terrorist attack on an opera house in Ukraine .
Who are the attackers , what do they want , and what ’ s our guy doing there ?
Search me .
The point is that , having aced the test , he is given his next task .
Think of it as “ Mission : Indecipherable.
” The nuts and bolts of the assignment are laid out by @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ) .
We know that she ’ s a scientist , because she wears a white coat ; either that , or she ’ s a fishmonger who moonlights in techno-ballistics .
She shows the Protagonist a gun that sucks bullets out of their target and back into the chamber—a feat of amazingness that is triggered neither by magnetism nor by magic but by a reversal of time .
Barbara describes the bullets as inverted .
“ Someone ’ s manufacturing them in the future , ” she says , looking a bit @ @ @ @ @ @ @ news from 2050 .
Anyway , here ’ s the scoop .
A Russian arms dealer , Sator ( Kenneth Branagh ) , is trading not in regular weapons but in what Barbara calls “ the detritus of a coming war.
” One way to get to that detritus—chunky whatchamacallits that somehow enable chronological slippage—is via Sator ’ s willowy English wife , Kat ( Elizabeth Debicki ) , who regards him with fear and loathing but is forced , for the sake of their young son , to stick around .
The @ @ @ @ @ @ @ : make nice to Kat , and take it from there .
Anyone who saw the TV adaptation of John le Carré ’ s “ The Night Manager , ” in which a secret agent had to drift into the orbit of a wealthy arms dealer ( whose English girlfriend was played by , yes , Elizabeth Debicki ) will know the territory .
Look out for large yachts .
“ Tenet ” is a two-hundred-million-dollar charm bracelet , strung with one shiny set piece after another .
If some of the charms @ @ @ @ @ @ @ because we ’ ve seen their glitter before .
Sator , being a rich daredevil , races his catamaran at such a lick that it almost flies over the waves , but then so did the title character in “ The Thomas Crown Affair ” ( 1999 ) .
And , while it ’ s always refreshing to see a 747—a real one , not a model—trundle grandly into an airport building and burst into flames , the sight of 007 preventing similar mayhem , by the merest squeak , in “ Casino @ @ @ @ @ @ @ no less fun .
As for the vehicle chase along a freeway , with some drivers trying their luck against the flow of traffic , well , although Nolan stages the chaos with his usual thunderous panache , I couldn ’ t help reflecting that , for Jason Bourne , heading the wrong way up a busy road is pretty much a daily commute .
So , what ’ s new ?
The answer is that the vehicles impeding the Protagonist are—brace yourself—travelling in the opposite direction through time .
( If you @ @ @ @ @ @ @ don ’ t even think about calling your insurance company .
Just pay up . )
Such is the Möbius strip into which this movie twists itself , and , rather than getting tangled up in it , you might as well sit back and enjoy the discombobulating show .
Wrecked buildings rear up and self-repair before your eyes ; explosions funnel down and taper to nothingness .
What ’ s curious , however , is that grandeur is no guarantee of impact .
The climax , in which two military forces lock @ @ @ @ @ @ @ one of them fighting forward and the other fighting backward , or something , is less memorable than the all-too-human bafflement that you glimpse on the Protagonist ’ s face when muddy water , caught in a miraculous anti-splash , slurps back from his boot onto the ground .
All those special effects , piled high like Christmas presents , and what stays with you is a puddle .
Through no fault of its own , “ Tenet ” has become a Brian of a film .
In other words , it is @ @ @ @ @ @ @ from perfect entity that has been lumbered with the duties of a messiah .
Being the first blockbuster to be released for public viewing since the reign of COVID-19 , it bears with it the hopes of an entire industry .
Will people rise from their couches and , having weighed their craving for collective entertainment against the risk to their health , flock once more to the pictures ?
Time will tell—although time , as “ Tenet ” demonstrates , should not be trusted .
As of September 3rd , it is @ @ @ @ @ @ @ New York and California being two of the five .
The cavernous IMAX auditorium in London in which I saw the movie was decidedly unthronged ; of more than seven hundred seats , roughly a tenth were occupied .
Studio accountants will soon gather , muttering , around the box-office returns , like ancient priests inspecting the entrails of a sheep .
What will count , in such eager divination , is not “ Tenet ” alone but the competing figures for Disney ’ s “ Mulan , ” which , forgoing a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the living rooms of American viewers , at thirty dollars a pop .
What if “ Mulan ” cleans up , and “ Tenet ” falls on its ass ?
Might other filmmakers not cut their losses and switch their loyalties to the small screen—that homely and unmysterious shrine , where nobody needs to sanitize ?
One could argue that , given a year or two , and a vaccine , we will return to our ticketed seats and our sodas , but I can all too easily imagine a permanent failure of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in the dark , among strangers , staring up at a bright screen , and watching a story unfold has been around for only a century and a quarter , and our faith in it has been waning for decades ; maybe COVID-19 will complete the process .
Some habits , once broken , are never resumed .
Either way , whether “ Tenet ” winds up as the savior of cinema or as the portent of doom , it ’ s the right film for the job .
It both gleams with @ @ @ @ @ @ @ earlier moviegoing joys .
The old visual thrill , long muted by mass tourism , of seeing beautifully dressed characters hop from one location to the next receives a peculiar boost , in these quarantine-ridden days , from Nolan ’ s extravagant plot ; O happy Protagonist , swanning from London to Mumbai , Tallinn , and the Amalfi Coast just when the rest of us can ’ t !
The lushest spectacle of all is that of Robert Pattinson , who plays the Protagonist ’ s very British sidekick .
He has @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a firm grasp of the Estonian language , and a forelock for which the past and the future might well , with good reason , go to war .
Ellen Page , with her sportive smile , brought a leavening amusement to Nolan ’ s “ Inception ” ( 2010 ) , and Pattinson , loucheness incarnate , does the same for “ Tenet .
”

Word has it that Christopher Nolan’s new film, “Tenet,” is hard to understand. Not so. It’s a cinch—no more difficult than, say, playing mah-jongg inside a tumble dryer, while the principles of quantum mechanics are shouted at you in fluent Esperanto. In case that feels too easy, Nolan fiddles with the sound mix of the movie, thus drowning out important conversations. If you thought that Bane, the villain in Nolan’s “The Dark Knight Rises” (2012), verged on the inaudible, wait for the folks in “Tenet.” Most of them make Bane sound like Julie Andrews.
The protagonist of the new film is listed in the end credits as “The Protagonist,” denying us a handhold on his identity. If only he were called Rodney or Little Merv. Of his background we know next to nothing, though I happen to love that lack; one sure sign of an action hero is the trading of personal history for present cool. Hence the opening sequence of “Tenet,” in which the Protagonist—played by John David Washington, whose nonchalant intensity lent such verve to “BlacKkKlansman” (2018)—is tested for initiative and spunk during a terrorist attack on an opera house in Ukraine. Who are the attackers, what do they want, and what’s our guy doing there? Search me. The point is that, having aced the test, he is given his next task. Think of it as “Mission: Indecipherable.”
The nuts and bolts of the assignment are laid out by a scientist named Barbara (Clémence Poésy). We know that she’s a scientist, because she wears a white coat; either that, or she’s a fishmonger who moonlights in techno-ballistics. She shows the Protagonist a gun that sucks bullets out of their target and back into the chamber—a feat of amazingness that is triggered neither by magnetism nor by magic but by a reversal of time. Barbara describes the bullets as inverted. “Someone’s manufacturing them in the future,” she says, looking a bit glum. Maybe she just got bad news from 2050.
Anyway, here’s the scoop. A Russian arms dealer, Sator (Kenneth Branagh), is trading not in regular weapons but in what Barbara calls “the detritus of a coming war.” One way to get to that detritus—chunky whatchamacallits that somehow enable chronological slippage—is via Sator’s willowy English wife, Kat (Elizabeth Debicki), who regards him with fear and loathing but is forced, for the sake of their young son, to stick around. The Protagonist’s plan is as follows: make nice to Kat, and take it from there. Anyone who saw the TV adaptation of John le Carré’s “The Night Manager,” in which a secret agent had to drift into the orbit of a wealthy arms dealer (whose English girlfriend was played by, yes, Elizabeth Debicki), will know the territory. Look out for large yachts.
“Tenet” is a two-hundred-million-dollar charm bracelet, strung with one shiny set piece after another. If some of the charms are slightly tarnished, it may be because we’ve seen their glitter before. Sator, being a rich daredevil, races his catamaran at such a lick that it almost flies over the waves, but then so did the title character in “The Thomas Crown Affair” (1999). And, while it’s always refreshing to see a 747—a real one, not a model—trundle grandly into an airport building and burst into flames, the sight of 007 preventing similar mayhem, by the merest squeak, in “Casino Royale” (2006), was no less fun. As for the vehicle chase along a freeway, with some drivers trying their luck against the flow of traffic, well, although Nolan stages the chaos with his usual thunderous panache, I couldn’t help reflecting that, for Jason Bourne, heading the wrong way up a busy road is pretty much a daily commute. So, what’s new?
The answer is that the vehicles impeding the Protagonist are—brace yourself—travelling in the opposite direction through time. (If you crash into someone from the past, don’t even think about calling your insurance company. Just pay up.) Such is the Möbius strip into which this movie twists itself, and, rather than getting tangled up in it, you might as well sit back and enjoy the discombobulating show. Wrecked buildings rear up and self-repair before your eyes; explosions funnel down and taper to nothingness. What’s curious, however, is that grandeur is no guarantee of impact. The climax, in which two military forces lock horns in a bleak Siberian quarry, one of them fighting forward and the other fighting backward, or something, is less memorable than the all-too-human bafflement that you glimpse on the Protagonist’s face when muddy water, caught in a miraculous anti-splash, slurps back from his boot onto the ground. All those special effects, piled high like Christmas presents, and what stays with you is a puddle.
Through no fault of its own, “Tenet” has become a Brian of a film. In other words, it is a decent, generous, and far from perfect entity that has been lumbered with the duties of a messiah. Being the first blockbuster to be released for public viewing since the reign of COVID-19, it bears with it the hopes of an entire industry. Will people rise from their couches and, having weighed their craving for collective entertainment against the risk to their health, flock once more to the pictures?
Time will tell—although time, as “Tenet” demonstrates, should not be trusted. As of September 3rd, it is showing in all but five states, New York and California being two of the five. The cavernous IMAX auditorium in London in which I saw the movie was decidedly unthronged; of more than seven hundred seats, roughly a tenth were occupied. Studio accountants will soon gather, muttering, around the box-office returns, like ancient priests inspecting the entrails of a sheep. What will count, in such eager divination, is not “Tenet” alone but the competing figures for Disney’s “Mulan,” which, forgoing a theatrical release, will be streamed into the living rooms of American viewers, at thirty dollars a pop.
What if “Mulan” cleans up, and “Tenet” falls on its ass? Might other filmmakers not cut their losses and switch their loyalties to the small screen—that homely and unmysterious shrine, where nobody needs to sanitize? One could argue that, given a year or two, and a vaccine, we will return to our ticketed seats and our sodas, but I can all too easily imagine a permanent failure of our nerve. The idea of mustering in the dark, among strangers, staring up at a bright screen, and watching a story unfold has been around for only a century and a quarter, and our faith in it has been waning for decades; maybe COVID-19 will complete the process. Some habits, once broken, are never resumed.
Either way, whether “Tenet” winds up as the savior of cinema or as the portent of doom, it’s the right film for the job. It both gleams with high-concept modernity and gazes hungrily back at earlier moviegoing joys. The old visual thrill, long muted by mass tourism, of seeing beautifully dressed characters hop from one location to the next receives a peculiar boost, in these quarantine-ridden days, from Nolan’s extravagant plot; O happy Protagonist, swanning from London to Mumbai, Tallinn, and the Amalfi Coast just when the rest of us can’t! The lushest spectacle of all is that of Robert Pattinson, who plays the Protagonist’s very British sidekick. He has a master’s in physics, a firm grasp of the Estonian language, and a forelock for which the past and the future might well, with good reason, go to war. Ellen Page, with her sportive smile, brought a leavening amusement to Nolan’s “Inception” (2010), and Pattinson, loucheness incarnate, does the same for “Tenet.”
The problem that dogs this film is not its complexity. Indeed, many fans will delight in unpicking the clever clues that stitch the tale together. No, what strikes you is how determinedly bare of feeling it seems, even when emotional opportunities present themselves. Thus, the Protagonist is drawn to Kat, and you want them to want each other, yet his efforts to rescue her from her fiend of a husband, though noble, have a procedural rather than a passionate air. That dryness reaches into the smallest nooks of the narrative; gold bars, for instance, tumble from the belly of the 747, clinking on the asphalt, but when you think of the comparable moment at the end of Stanley Kubrick’s “The Killing” (1956), in which stolen banknotes are strewn beside a plane, what you recall is the robber’s agonized expression, as his ill-gotten gains swirl away like moths in the night. No such agony ever troubles “Tenet.”
Above all, there is Barbara’s instruction, as she ushers the Protagonist into the wonders of temporal inversion. “Don’t try to understand it. Feel it,” she says to him. The echo is clear: “Do not try to understand. Just believe.” That is what the hero of Cocteau’s “Orpheus” (1950) is told as he prepares to pass through a mirror into the underworld. Like Nolan, Cocteau sprinkles his film with reverse-motion images, but each one of them gives off a lyrical shimmer, and when a dead woman, lying on a bed, is ordered to rise, her body springs to the perpendicular as if reborn, and the hearts of viewers lurch and lift in response. Although “Tenet” is dazzling and deft, rarely does it pause, as “Orpheus” does, to savor the strangeness of its own creations. Does Christopher Nolan flinch from what he might find there, like someone afraid to analyze his dreams? Maybe he hasn’t got the time. ♦


newyorker--2020-09-03--When The World Isn’t Designed for Our Bodies

“ What Can a Body Do ?
How We Meet the Built World , ” a new book by the artist and design researcher Sara Hendren , opens with a challenge .
A curator named Amanda has come to Hendren ’ s classroom at the Olin College of Engineering , where the author teaches courses on technology and disability .
Amanda , who gives frequent presentations for historians and gallery-goers , wants a lectern .
Hendren pauses to consider the proposition .
Lecterns , she notes , play “ a sturdy supporting role in so many formalized rituals .
.
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ more or less alike , ” so nondescript as to be invisible .
But lecterns are also inscribed with expectations about who speaks and who doesn ’ t ; they assume that the most important voices belong to people of literal “ standing ” —people who are more than five feet tall .
Amanda , who has dwarfism , falls outside of that “ canopy of normalcy.
” She therefore meets Hendren ’ s criteria for disability : a mismatch exists between her and her environment .
Hendren ’ s students could devise @ @ @ @ @ @ @ could use tools to augment her body , “ curing ” her height “ deficit ” with a pedestal or step stool ; this approach relies on a medical model of disability that locates impairment ( and the responsibility for overcoming it ) solely in the individual .
But Amanda didn ’ t ask for a step stool .
She wanted to appear before audiences as she was ; when she presented her work , she wanted the room to temporarily adapt to her .
Amanda ’ s request—a lectern scaled to her @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , a two-way street .
This re-envisioning is one goal of Hendren ’ s book .
“ Ability and disability may be in part about the physical state of the body , ” Hendren writes , “ but they are also produced by the relative flexibility or rigidity of the built world.
” Think of kneeling buses that enable wheelchair users to commute , or the need for one-size-fits-all airline seats .
If disability is a matter of not being able to , say , take the bus or board a plane , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ operates rigidly , with a brittle and scripted sense of what a body does or does not do.
” What can a body do , then , but also : What can design do to empower the body ?
How can design help us reimagine what “ doing ” looks like , in a way that embraces difference rather than pathologizing it ?
Hendren explains that her book arose out of an understanding that “ there is a brute-force and impoverished definition of disability at work in the world.
” This definition owes @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of “ normalcy ” as a modern standard of measure .
Before the nineteenth century , Hendren writes , quoting the scholar Lennard Davis , “ the concept of the ‘ ideal ’ was the regnant paradigm in relation to all bodies ” —compared to gods and angels , everyone fell short .
It wasn ’ t until social scientists began to collect population data , in the eighteen-hundreds , that averages , means , and distributions—ways of thinking about human beings relative to one another—came into vogue , fed by a Darwinian @ @ @ @ @ @ @ thus natural , and thus good .
But , as Hendren reports , the most recent World Health Organization estimate suggests that roughly a billion people—fifteen per cent of humans—live with disability .
Disability is , itself , normal .
Nor is it a fixed identity : as infants , we are all dependent , and many of us pass through phases of disability throughout our lives , after surgery or during sickness , or as we age .
The word has a fluidity that is often denied .
As Hendren writes , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ human animal is co-extensive with its tools ” ; we see with the help of contact lenses , we correct our stride with orthopedic shoes .
Our general reliance on technology doesn ’ t erase the particular challenges faced by the disabled , who deal with a larger gap between the self and the world than most , but it does crystallize how , for humans , states of dependence are the rule , not the exception .
These insights lead Hendren to a profound conclusion : that disability , the condition of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ collective , ” which “ arises in the form of shared bodily vulnerability.
” By “ shared , ” Hendren means shared among everyone .
It is a daring claim—that weakness , above all , is what defines and unites us .
But the book does not see this as discouraging , really .
Hendren , who intends the universality of dependence to inspire in readers a sense of common obligation , critiques the American cult of self-reliance , which equates need with failure and empathy with naïveté .
As an inventor @ @ @ @ @ @ @ brightened future , and she takes less interest in shame than in ingenuity .
Given the reality of limits , how do we then transcend them ?
As a text about good design , “ What Can a Body Do ” models its subject .
It has well-made sentences and an elegant structure .
( The book radiates out thematically , from “ the limbs of the body .
.
.
to furniture , to rooms and buildings , to the public realm of streets , and finally to the clock.
” ) @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a kind of deep beauty that is neither separable from design nor fully accountable to it .
Some molecular-level harmony obtains when writing seems so committed to being both interesting and humane .
Chapters splurge on context and thrum with anecdote , especially as Hendren , the mother of a child with Down syndrome , threads her own experience with disability into her reporting .
The book ’ s first section looks at prosthetic body parts .
There is a high-tech bionic arm , a low-cost Jaipur Foot , and a series of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ about physical disability has evolved , Hendren suggests .
Up through the early nineteen-hundreds , the “ handicapped ” were seen largely as tragic .
They ’ d made heroic sacrifices on the battlefield or were freaks of nature : their bodies were mistakes or glorious ruins .
But the waves of wounded soldiers returning from the World Wars forced the country to reimagine physical disability .
It was vital that veterans resume work and regain their economic power ; it was vital , therefore , to conceive of these men as capable @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and a host of new cultural narratives : feel-good tales in which the wonders of technology seemed to erase the horrors of combat .
In the unpicking of these fantasies , Hendren ’ s humanism shines .
She writes that the new stories , while uplifting , emphasized machines , not people , clouding “ the quietly extraordinary dynamism of a body in its immediate world.
” We meet Chris , an engineer who , born without an arm , found the prostheses pressed upon him by doctors heavy and awkward—so he improvised @ @ @ @ @ @ @ son ’ s diaper , a rope sling dangling from his shoulder suspends the baby ’ s legs ; he puts on a glove by bracing its elastic wrist against the edge of a table .
Hendren ’ s aim here isn ’ t to throw cold water on innovation ; it ’ s to re-center the people , behind the tools , who must work with their surroundings , their adaptations at least as miraculous as the technology that helps them .
If we ’ re overly besotted with objects that promise @ @ @ @ @ @ @ our default objects—the givens of the built world—can seem so incompatible with our needs .
Look down .
Your chair , Hendren declares , is murdering you .
( The historian Galen Cranz has noted correlations between chair use and “ back pain of all sorts , fatigue , varicose veins , stress , and problems with the diaphragm , circulation , digestion , and general body development.
” ) Yet long stretches of sitting are a societal norm .
Why ?
Hendren invokes the chair ’ s historical function : in many @ @ @ @ @ @ @ seats symbolize power and status .
We may also be drawn to chairs ’ animal charisma , to their torsos , bottoms , and four sturdy legs .
Regardless , Hendren argues , we could be sitting so much more comfortably if furniture makers were to attend as closely to matters of substance and sustainability as they do to matters of style .
Disability activists , of course , have been making such arguments for years .
One corollary of universal design—the idea that my perfect chair equals your perfect chair—states that improvements @ @ @ @ @ @ @ likely to benefit everyone .
( The telephone , for instance , emerged out of Alexander Graham Bell ’ s work with deaf students . )
Hendren gives universal design a hearing , but she would rather remain alert to difference .
The book thus lingers over “ diffuse design , ” which thrives on grassroots connections .
In the diffuse model , artists , guided by local desires , make bespoke modifications to a received archetype .

“What Can a Body Do? How We Meet the Built World,” a new book by the artist and design researcher Sara Hendren, opens with a challenge. A curator named Amanda has come to Hendren’s classroom at the Olin College of Engineering, where the author teaches courses on technology and disability. Amanda, who gives frequent presentations for historians and gallery-goers, wants a lectern. Hendren pauses to consider the proposition. Lecterns, she notes, play “a sturdy supporting role in so many formalized rituals . . . covered in wood veneer and all more or less alike,” so nondescript as to be invisible. But lecterns are also inscribed with expectations about who speaks and who doesn’t; they assume that the most important voices belong to people of literal “standing”—people who are more than five feet tall.
Amanda, who has dwarfism, falls outside of that “canopy of normalcy.” She therefore meets Hendren’s criteria for disability: a mismatch exists between her and her environment. Hendren’s students could devise a prosthetic solution for Amanda. They could use tools to augment her body, “curing” her height “deficit” with a pedestal or step stool; this approach relies on a medical model of disability that locates impairment (and the responsibility for overcoming it) solely in the individual. But Amanda didn’t ask for a step stool. She wanted to appear before audiences as she was; when she presented her work, she wanted the room to temporarily adapt to her. Amanda’s request—a lectern scaled to her dimensions—cast disability as a partially social phenomenon, a two-way street.
This re-envisioning is one goal of Hendren’s book. “Ability and disability may be in part about the physical state of the body,” Hendren writes, “but they are also produced by the relative flexibility or rigidity of the built world.” Think of kneeling buses that enable wheelchair users to commute, or the need for one-size-fits-all airline seats. If disability is a matter of not being able to, say, take the bus or board a plane, then it can result when society “operates rigidly, with a brittle and scripted sense of what a body does or does not do.”
What can a body do, then, but also: What can design do to empower the body? How can design help us reimagine what “doing” looks like, in a way that embraces difference rather than pathologizing it? Hendren explains that her book arose out of an understanding that “there is a brute-force and impoverished definition of disability at work in the world.” This definition owes, in part, to the rise of “normalcy” as a modern standard of measure. Before the nineteenth century, Hendren writes, quoting the scholar Lennard Davis, “the concept of the ‘ideal’ was the regnant paradigm in relation to all bodies”—compared to gods and angels, everyone fell short. It wasn’t until social scientists began to collect population data, in the eighteen-hundreds, that averages, means, and distributions—ways of thinking about human beings relative to one another—came into vogue, fed by a Darwinian fascination with what was common, and thus natural, and thus good.
But, as Hendren reports, the most recent World Health Organization estimate suggests that roughly a billion people—fifteen per cent of humans—live with disability. Disability is, itself, normal. Nor is it a fixed identity: as infants, we are all dependent, and many of us pass through phases of disability throughout our lives, after surgery or during sickness, or as we age. The word has a fluidity that is often denied. As Hendren writes, some philosophers even contend that “the human animal is co-extensive with its tools”; we see with the help of contact lenses, we correct our stride with orthopedic shoes. Our general reliance on technology doesn’t erase the particular challenges faced by the disabled, who deal with a larger gap between the self and the world than most, but it does crystallize how, for humans, states of dependence are the rule, not the exception.
These insights lead Hendren to a profound conclusion: that disability, the condition of “misfit,” is also a “collective,” which “arises in the form of shared bodily vulnerability.” By “shared,” Hendren means shared among everyone. It is a daring claim—that weakness, above all, is what defines and unites us. But the book does not see this as discouraging, really. Hendren, who intends the universality of dependence to inspire in readers a sense of common obligation, critiques the American cult of self-reliance, which equates need with failure and empathy with naïveté. As an inventor, her business is possibility, the brightened future, and she takes less interest in shame than in ingenuity. Given the reality of limits, how do we then transcend them?
As a text about good design, “What Can a Body Do” models its subject. It has well-made sentences and an elegant structure. (The book radiates out thematically, from “the limbs of the body . . . to furniture, to rooms and buildings, to the public realm of streets, and finally to the clock.”) But Hendren’s project also has a kind of deep beauty that is neither separable from design nor fully accountable to it. Some molecular-level harmony obtains when writing seems so committed to being both interesting and humane. Chapters splurge on context and thrum with anecdote, especially as Hendren, the mother of a child with Down syndrome, threads her own experience with disability into her reporting.
The book’s first section looks at prosthetic body parts. There is a high-tech bionic arm, a low-cost Jaipur Foot, and a series of humble zip ties. Americans’ thinking about physical disability has evolved, Hendren suggests. Up through the early nineteen-hundreds, the “handicapped” were seen largely as tragic. They’d made heroic sacrifices on the battlefield or were freaks of nature: their bodies were mistakes or glorious ruins. But the waves of wounded soldiers returning from the World Wars forced the country to reimagine physical disability. It was vital that veterans resume work and regain their economic power; it was vital, therefore, to conceive of these men as capable of near-total rehabilitation. Enter prostheses, and a host of new cultural narratives: feel-good tales in which the wonders of technology seemed to erase the horrors of combat.
In the unpicking of these fantasies, Hendren’s humanism shines. She writes that the new stories, while uplifting, emphasized machines, not people, clouding “the quietly extraordinary dynamism of a body in its immediate world.” We meet Chris, an engineer who, born without an arm, found the prostheses pressed upon him by doctors heavy and awkward—so he improvised. Now, when Chris changes his son’s diaper, a rope sling dangling from his shoulder suspends the baby’s legs; he puts on a glove by bracing its elastic wrist against the edge of a table. Hendren’s aim here isn’t to throw cold water on innovation; it’s to re-center the people, behind the tools, who must work with their surroundings, their adaptations at least as miraculous as the technology that helps them.
If we’re overly besotted with objects that promise assistance, maybe that’s because our default objects—the givens of the built world—can seem so incompatible with our needs. Look down. Your chair, Hendren declares, is murdering you. (The historian Galen Cranz has noted correlations between chair use and “back pain of all sorts, fatigue, varicose veins, stress, and problems with the diaphragm, circulation, digestion, and general body development.”) Yet long stretches of sitting are a societal norm. Why? Hendren invokes the chair’s historical function: in many cultures, including corporate culture, throne-like seats symbolize power and status. We may also be drawn to chairs’ animal charisma, to their torsos, bottoms, and four sturdy legs. Regardless, Hendren argues, we could be sitting so much more comfortably if furniture makers were to attend as closely to matters of substance and sustainability as they do to matters of style. Disability activists, of course, have been making such arguments for years. One corollary of universal design—the idea that my perfect chair equals your perfect chair—states that improvements undertaken with disabled bodies in mind are likely to benefit everyone. (The telephone, for instance, emerged out of Alexander Graham Bell’s work with deaf students.) Hendren gives universal design a hearing, but she would rather remain alert to difference. The book thus lingers over “diffuse design,” which thrives on grassroots connections. In the diffuse model, artists, guided by local desires, make bespoke modifications to a received archetype.
The following chapter, on rooms, delves deeper into this notion. Hendren visits Gallaudet University, a bastion for deaf education. She encounters innovations geared toward deaf flourishing: ramps are preferred to stairs, so that students can walk and talk without looking down frequently; windows let in natural light and provide a link to the outdoors; seating configurations are tiered or feature multiple sightlines; and wood helpfully conducts vibrations. Gallaudet’s architecture incarnates a philosophy. It attunes itself to how specific bodies interact in space, because communication for the hearing-impaired is richer in gesture, more three-dimensional and kinesthetic, than communication for the hearing. Here, as elsewhere, Hendren tacks gracefully between the concrete and the theoretical. At one point, she explores the history of the “Rolling Quads,” a group of paraplegic students who moved into their own dormitory at the University of California, Berkeley, in the late nineteen-sixties. The story is absorbing in its own right; and in Hendren’s hands, it becomes a parable, illustrating the difference between “self-sufficiency,” the ability to navigate life unassisted, and “self-determination,” the ability to navigate life with dignity and agency.
Agency, both individual and civic, is a central motif for Hendren. The word carries a charge; it captures something that is at once valuable and ungovernable. Reading “What Can a Body Do,” one starts to think that design exists in part to safeguard, against the tyranny of convenience or efficiency, the agency that is every person’s right. But agency, when repressed, can also overflow design, or drive it forward. In a chapter on city planning, Hendren distinguishes between official routes and “desire lines,” which are informal paths worn by wayward feet. These tracks, shimmering with “casual disobedience,” lead Hendren to other instances in which people’s intuitions fall out of step with the built world. “Streets,” Hendren notes, “have long been designed for working men with physically strong bodies and no meaningful caretaking responsibilities.” The government didn’t mandate curb cuts on every corner until 1990, when the Americans with Disabilities Act passed. Just as lectern design expresses a theory about who deserves to speak, city design expresses a political theory, about who deserves access to public life. It is when “sidewalks and streets are built for some bodies and not for others” Hendren writes, that “thick injustice”—a kind of dense, monolithic inequity, which seems to exist everywhere and nowhere—sets in.
How “thick” is the injustice that now surrounds us? The book’s last, devastating chapter argues that our most closely packed biases have less to do with space, finally, than with time. If contemporary society diminishes the disabled, Hendren claims, it is because we have appointed the clock the highest judge of our moral and economic value. Modernity severs time from the body; we often eat or sleep when it is “time” to do so, not when we desire food or rest, and everywhere market priorities run rampant over physical needs. Industrial time, as the historian Lewis Mumford suggested, in 1934, is meant to synchronize our actions. But disability desynchronizes us. It extracts a fifty-year-old from middle age and deposits her in the body of an eighty-year-old. It gives a teen-ager the mind of a child. The world, Hendren writes, needs a “countervailing understanding of personhood and contribution and community,” one that lives “outside the logic of the market and its insistent clock.” Hendren’s book asks us to reimagine cognitive, physical, and emotional development as a dance, not a race. She pleads for “a future with slowness in it.”
This is, all in all, a strange text to read under the current circumstances—a “misfit,” maybe, or a changeling from an alternate timeline. Every sentence Hendren writes serves and strengthens a nexus of uncontroversial values: self-determination, creativity, care. Why aren’t people like her in charge? One should be grateful, I suppose: if a global pandemic affords us an opportunity to restructure rooms and buildings and streets, to rethink time, then Hendren is a valuable voice to consult, a person who’s earned her “standing.” But also: doing as the book asks is hard. Once you embrace a definition of disability that makes its existence a partial indictment of the social environment, then the word is not easily uncoupled from shame. Indeed, as Hendren writes, disability “reveals just how unfinished the world really is.” Her gift, perhaps, is to see that as an invitation.