newyorker--2020-07-06--A Theme Park of Donald Trump’s Dreams

A Theme Park of Donald Trump’s Dreams

On Friday , Donald Trump signed an executive order , “ On Building and Rebuilding Monuments to American Heroes.
” It is a snapshot of his view of the world and his place in it , but unlike some of his other executive orders , it isn ’ t explicitly cruel and vengeful , or empty and threatening ; it is , rather , the creation of a theme park .
At the moment , he feels that he is losing his grasp on Trump ’ s America , so he wants to build it in stone and fence it @ @ @ @ @ @ @ live there when all is lost .
Americans , in the largest protest movement in this country ’ s history , have been toppling monuments .
When nations topple monuments , they often place them in parks—or , more often , in unmarked and unlandscaped spaces that are gradually reconfigured as parks after they are suddenly decorated with statuary .
New Delhi didn ’ t start toppling its colonial monuments until a decade after independence ; in the nineteen-sixties , a number of British nobles ’ likenesses were transported to a vast , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ graveyard of statues .
There they lay for another thirty years , decaying , as birds defecated on them and visitors marked them up .
In the nineteen-nineties , local authorities decided to transform the space into a park designed to celebrate India ’ s triumph over its fallen rulers .
The plan never came to fruition , though , and the park is now unfinished and overgrown , a ruin .
In Moscow , when a hard-line coup failed in August , 1991 , bringing down the Soviet state , monuments to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the founder of the secret police to the first education minister to Stalin himself , were toppled—or , in the case of Stalin , dug up , for this particular monument had been buried in a sculptor ’ s yard for three decades—and hauled to what was then an empty lot opposite Gorky Park .
Bolsheviks in bronze , granite , and plaster lay on the grass for a number of years .
People jumped and climbed and drew all over them .
As Russia began to grow nostalgic for its Soviet past @ @ @ @ @ @ @ fallen leaders were set upright , then cleaned of graffiti , then restored to their pedestals , and finally fenced off , viewable only from a distance , which made them seem grand again .
By the time Vladimir Putin officially assumed the office of the Presidency for the third time , in 2012 , the formerly empty space , which by then was called the Sculpture Park and charged admission , had become a theme park of Soviet glory .
Trump seems to want to leap over a process that took Russia @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a theme park of American grandeur .
On June 26th , he signed an executive order that painted demonstrators protesting Confederate and other monuments as a violent mob of Marxists intent on destroying American history itself .
It directed the federal government to step in and prosecute people who damage monuments and to withhold federal funds from jurisdictions that “ permit the desecration of monuments , memorials , or statues.
” A week later came the executive order on “ building and rebuilding , ” which puts the story told in the first @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Administration will not abide an assault on our collective national memory.
” To preserve this memory , the order creates a task force charged with establishing “ a statuary park named the National Garden of American Heroes ( National Garden ) .
” The garden , which has a planned opening for before July 4 , 2026 , is intended to house statues of American heroes , some of whom are listed in the order : John Adams , Susan B. Anthony , Clara Barton , Daniel Boone , Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Douglass , Amelia Earhart , Benjamin Franklin , Billy Graham , Alexander Hamilton , Thomas Jefferson , Martin Luther King , Jr. , Abraham Lincoln , Douglas MacArthur , Dolley Madison , James Madison , Christa McAuliffe , Audie Murphy , George S. Patton , Jr. , Ronald Reagan , Jackie Robinson , Betsy Ross , Antonin Scalia , Harriet Beecher Stowe , Harriet Tubman , Booker T. Washington , George Washington , and Orville and Wilbur Wright .
The list suggests a Trumpian view of what constitutes American greatness .
The Presidency @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Madison , Jefferson , Lincoln—and Reagan .
The First Lady singled out for inclusion in the park is Dolley Madison .
No F.D.R.
, no J.F.K.
, no Eleanor Roosevelt .
The twentieth century is represented by two generals , a soldier , a pilot , an astronaut , the inventors of the airplane , a baseball player , a conservative Supreme Court Justice , two members of the clergy ( Graham and King ) , and Reagan .
There are no artists or scientists on this list .
The only writer is @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Tom ’ s Cabin.
” This is America as Trump sees it : a skeletal , heroic history , with a lot of shooting , a lot of flying , and very little government .
Excluded from this history entirely are Native Americans ; this is made explicit in Section 7 , which defines the term “ historically significant American ” as an American citizen or someone who “ lived prior to or during the American Revolution and were not American citizens , but who made substantive historical contributions to the discovery , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ United States.
” The proposed park , in other words , is one of settler-colonialist history .
The executive order also dictates aesthetics : “ All statues in the National Garden should be lifelike or realistic representations of the persons they depict , not abstract or modernist representations.
” This passage appears twice .
It is as though Trump is stomping his foot in the order , to make it clear , once and for all , that he wants his past comfortable and easy to read .
The author of the document @ @ @ @ @ @ @ American monuments that are modernist or abstract , such as the Wall of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial .
In the history that the National Garden will tell , there is no modern or contemporary art , and there are no social movements that such art may represent .
Earlier this year , the White House considered issuing an executive order that would have instituted a unified style for federal architecture , dictating that “ the classical architectural style shall be the preferred and default style.
” The American Institute of Architects , among @ @ @ @ @ @ @ appears to have been shelved .
But , as Trump often does , he has returned with the same desire expressed in a different package .
The aesthetic represents Trump well : classical architecture in the twenty-first century is always an imitation , an act of plagiarism performed artlessly , as when Melania Trump borrowed the words of a Michelle Obama speech , or when Inauguration bakers copied the design of Obama ’ s cake—as though the Trumps just thought that this was what power looks like .
Even the name of the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ human achievement : “ building ” and “ rebuilding ” stand in parallel , as though they are in effect the same thing .
The original and its hollow , mass-produced copy do look the same from a distance .
The gold curtains that Trump hung in the Oval Office and the gilded cherubs that litter his apartment belong in the same category ; we might call it kitsch , if we thought Trump capable of play or irony .
For all its hand-wringing and foot stomping , the executive order is also @ @ @ @ @ @ @ least retrenchment .
In the face of a changing history and a country in uprising , Trump wants to create a land—a garden—in which he can walk among the statues of men whom he imagines to have been great .
There would probably be a fence .
This is a territorial cordoning off of history , which is what the entire Trumpian project has been .

On Friday, Donald Trump signed an executive order, “On Building and Rebuilding Monuments to American Heroes.” It is a snapshot of his view of the world and his place in it, but unlike some of his other executive orders, it isn’t explicitly cruel and vengeful, or empty and threatening; it is, rather, the creation of a theme park. At the moment, he feels that he is losing his grasp on Trump’s America, so he wants to build it in stone and fence it off, perhaps so that he can live there when all is lost.
Americans, in the largest protest movement in this country’s history, have been toppling monuments. When nations topple monuments, they often place them in parks—or, more often, in unmarked and unlandscaped spaces that are gradually reconfigured as parks after they are suddenly decorated with statuary. New Delhi didn’t start toppling its colonial monuments until a decade after independence; in the nineteen-sixties, a number of British nobles’ likenesses were transported to a vast, empty space that became known as the graveyard of statues. There they lay for another thirty years, decaying, as birds defecated on them and visitors marked them up. In the nineteen-nineties, local authorities decided to transform the space into a park designed to celebrate India’s triumph over its fallen rulers. The plan never came to fruition, though, and the park is now unfinished and overgrown, a ruin.
In Moscow, when a hard-line coup failed in August, 1991, bringing down the Soviet state, monuments to a variety of Soviet leaders, from the founder of the secret police to the first education minister to Stalin himself, were toppled—or, in the case of Stalin, dug up, for this particular monument had been buried in a sculptor’s yard for three decades—and hauled to what was then an empty lot opposite Gorky Park. Bolsheviks in bronze, granite, and plaster lay on the grass for a number of years. People jumped and climbed and drew all over them. As Russia began to grow nostalgic for its Soviet past, the lot transformed: the formerly fallen leaders were set upright, then cleaned of graffiti, then restored to their pedestals, and finally fenced off, viewable only from a distance, which made them seem grand again. By the time Vladimir Putin officially assumed the office of the Presidency for the third time, in 2012, the formerly empty space, which by then was called the Sculpture Park and charged admission, had become a theme park of Soviet glory.
Trump seems to want to leap over a process that took Russia twenty years and proceed directly to creating a theme park of American grandeur. On June 26th, he signed an executive order that painted demonstrators protesting Confederate and other monuments as a violent mob of Marxists intent on destroying American history itself. It directed the federal government to step in and prosecute people who damage monuments and to withhold federal funds from jurisdictions that “permit the desecration of monuments, memorials, or statues.” A week later came the executive order on “building and rebuilding,” which puts the story told in the first order in loftier words: “My Administration will not abide an assault on our collective national memory.” To preserve this memory, the order creates a task force charged with establishing “a statuary park named the National Garden of American Heroes (National Garden).”
The garden, which has a planned opening for before July 4, 2026, is intended to house statues of American heroes, some of whom are listed in the order: John Adams, Susan B. Anthony, Clara Barton, Daniel Boone, Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain, Henry Clay, Davy Crockett, Frederick Douglass, Amelia Earhart, Benjamin Franklin, Billy Graham, Alexander Hamilton, Thomas Jefferson, Martin Luther King, Jr., Abraham Lincoln, Douglas MacArthur, Dolley Madison, James Madison, Christa McAuliffe, Audie Murphy, George S. Patton, Jr., Ronald Reagan, Jackie Robinson, Betsy Ross, Antonin Scalia, Harriet Beecher Stowe, Harriet Tubman, Booker T. Washington, George Washington, and Orville and Wilbur Wright. The list suggests a Trumpian view of what constitutes American greatness. The Presidency is represented by Washington, Adams, Madison, Jefferson, Lincoln—and Reagan. The First Lady singled out for inclusion in the park is Dolley Madison. No F.D.R., no J.F.K., no Eleanor Roosevelt. The twentieth century is represented by two generals, a soldier, a pilot, an astronaut, the inventors of the airplane, a baseball player, a conservative Supreme Court Justice, two members of the clergy (Graham and King), and Reagan. There are no artists or scientists on this list. The only writer is Stowe, the author of “Uncle Tom’s Cabin.” This is America as Trump sees it: a skeletal, heroic history, with a lot of shooting, a lot of flying, and very little government. Excluded from this history entirely are Native Americans; this is made explicit in Section 7, which defines the term “historically significant American” as an American citizen or someone who “lived prior to or during the American Revolution and were not American citizens, but who made substantive historical contributions to the discovery, development, or independence of the future United States.” The proposed park, in other words, is one of settler-colonialist history.
The executive order also dictates aesthetics: “All statues in the National Garden should be lifelike or realistic representations of the persons they depict, not abstract or modernist representations.” This passage appears twice. It is as though Trump is stomping his foot in the order, to make it clear, once and for all, that he wants his past comfortable and easy to read. The author of the document really seems to hate the few existing American monuments that are modernist or abstract, such as the Wall of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial. In the history that the National Garden will tell, there is no modern or contemporary art, and there are no social movements that such art may represent.
Earlier this year, the White House considered issuing an executive order that would have instituted a unified style for federal architecture, dictating that “the classical architectural style shall be the preferred and default style.” The American Institute of Architects, among others, objected, and the order appears to have been shelved. But, as Trump often does, he has returned with the same desire expressed in a different package. The aesthetic represents Trump well: classical architecture in the twenty-first century is always an imitation, an act of plagiarism performed artlessly, as when Melania Trump borrowed the words of a Michelle Obama speech, or when Inauguration bakers copied the design of Obama’s cake—as though the Trumps just thought that this was what power looks like. Even the name of the executive order betrays this aspiration-free view of human achievement: “building” and “rebuilding” stand in parallel, as though they are in effect the same thing. The original and its hollow, mass-produced copy do look the same from a distance. The gold curtains that Trump hung in the Oval Office and the gilded cherubs that litter his apartment belong in the same category; we might call it kitsch, if we thought Trump capable of play or irony.
For all its hand-wringing and foot stomping, the executive order is also a gesture of retreat, or at least retrenchment. In the face of a changing history and a country in uprising, Trump wants to create a land—a garden—in which he can walk among the statues of men whom he imagines to have been great. There would probably be a fence. This is a territorial cordoning off of history, which is what the entire Trumpian project has been.


newyorker--2020-07-06--Back to Church—But Not, Let’s Hope, Back to Normal

I went to church for the first time in many months on Sunday ; in fact , it was the first even mildly routine public thing I ’ ve done since March .
The service was outdoors , of course , in a small open-sided tabernacle built here in the Adirondacks , along the banks of the upper Hudson , in 1908 , to serve a Methodist campground where congregations began meeting in 1871 .
Though families still come to the small collection of summer houses along the shore , the place—like Methodism—is a shadow of its former glory : @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the straight-backed wooden pews for the service , so social distancing was not a problem , and though I am no young man I considerably lowered the average age when I sauntered in .
We all wore masks , and only the preacher , a safe twenty feet from the front pew , sang the hymns ; still , it felt deeply familiar and deeply comforting .
The first hymn , “ We Gather Together , ” which is often sung at Thanksgiving , had me very nearly in tears , if only @ @ @ @ @ @ @ we have done without of late .
And , of course , for the understanding that there are a hundred and thirty thousand fewer of us to gather than there should be .
But the point of church is not just comfort or familiarity .
It is , or should be , coming to grips with the relentless radicalism of Jesus—with the gospel demand that we love our neighbors in effective ways .
The preacher on Sunday was Janet Douglass , and she had journeyed up from Troy , near Albany , where @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , helping the homeless .
Her message was informed by COVID-19 and by climate change , but mostly by the ongoing push for racial justice that has been the summer ’ s great hope .
Douglass described the way that , in Biblical days , Roman power offered people the choice of acquiescence or—should they choose to fight—obliteration , and that Jesus had helped pioneer an alternative tactic , of nonviolent resistance to unjust power that he , of course , was willing to take to the grave .
This sermon came just @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in Seattle had died , when a driver in a white Jaguar rammed into her , and it all felt very real , even amid the pines and cedars , with the river murmuring through the rocks fifty yards to the east .
“ Faith is a team sport , ” she said .
“ What are we going to do ?
What are you going to do ?
” It seems the only question , as our institutions of all kinds begin to come slowly , fitfully back to life .
Our @ @ @ @ @ @ @ : the main goal can ’ t simply be to return things to normal , because , in a world that watched George Floyd die , anything like normal is clearly unjust ; in a world that is rapidly warming , anything like normal is dangerous .
And the challenges that these institutions have in the past been willing to mount to that injustice and danger have been too feeble , too sporadic , too easily ignored in the press of routine .
You can tell how much work we have to do @ @ @ @ @ @ @ institutions are taking even now : the decision by some companies to pull ads from Facebook for a single month is both highly unusual and remarkably puny .
The Redskins might change their name ?
Great , but it took this to get there ?
Even voting out Trump will be but a necessary small step in the change that must be made .
That comforting hymn “ We Gather Together ” has a sting in its sentimental lyric .
“ The wicked oppressing , now cease from distressing , ” it demands @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the growing recognition that most of us are implicated in that oppression .
One way to think about this pause in our lives is as a rare—likely a once-in-a-lifetime—opportunity for a reset .
We actually stopped , the one thing our societies have never heretofore done .
Things ground to a halt , offering us the chance to examine our lives and our institutions .
And now , if we want it , we have a chance to rearrange them .
Sometimes we can see those rearrangements : wise cities are replacing car-dominated @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , for instance .
But most of it will necessarily be less visible .
If your city council or state legislature resumes normal operation without massively shifting its budget priorities , if your business just deploys its army of lobbyists to look for some more tax breaks , if your church just performs some delayed funerals and then goes back to where it was in January—well , in that case , none of this will have counted .
Much as I enjoy singing hymns , I was glad we were still masked and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ had to sit apart , that instead of passing the peace with a handshake or a hug we were restricted to a namaste bow .
One hopes that these kinds of changes will last for many months to come , and not simply for reasons of public health .
They are uncomfortable reminders that we should remain uncomfortable even as life starts back up .
Normal is the enemy .

I went to church for the first time in many months on Sunday; in fact, it was the first even mildly routine public thing I’ve done since March. The service was outdoors, of course, in a small open-sided tabernacle built here in the Adirondacks, along the banks of the upper Hudson, in 1908, to serve a Methodist campground where congregations began meeting in 1871. Though families still come to the small collection of summer houses along the shore, the place—like Methodism—is a shadow of its former glory: there were but nineteen of us on the straight-backed wooden pews for the service, so social distancing was not a problem, and though I am no young man I considerably lowered the average age when I sauntered in. We all wore masks, and only the preacher, a safe twenty feet from the front pew, sang the hymns; still, it felt deeply familiar and deeply comforting. The first hymn, “We Gather Together,” which is often sung at Thanksgiving, had me very nearly in tears, if only for the sense of how much normal we have done without of late. And, of course, for the understanding that there are a hundred and thirty thousand fewer of us to gather than there should be.
But the point of church is not just comfort or familiarity. It is, or should be, coming to grips with the relentless radicalism of Jesus—with the gospel demand that we love our neighbors in effective ways. The preacher on Sunday was Janet Douglass, and she had journeyed up from Troy, near Albany, where she works on, among other things, helping the homeless. Her message was informed by COVID-19 and by climate change, but mostly by the ongoing push for racial justice that has been the summer’s great hope. Douglass described the way that, in Biblical days, Roman power offered people the choice of acquiescence or—should they choose to fight—obliteration, and that Jesus had helped pioneer an alternative tactic, of nonviolent resistance to unjust power that he, of course, was willing to take to the grave. This sermon came just a few hours after a peaceful protester in Seattle had died, when a driver in a white Jaguar rammed into her, and it all felt very real, even amid the pines and cedars, with the river murmuring through the rocks fifty yards to the east. “Faith is a team sport,” she said. “What are we going to do? What are you going to do?”
It seems the only question, as our institutions of all kinds begin to come slowly, fitfully back to life. Our churches, our governments, our businesses: the main goal can’t simply be to return things to normal, because, in a world that watched George Floyd die, anything like normal is clearly unjust; in a world that is rapidly warming, anything like normal is dangerous. And the challenges that these institutions have in the past been willing to mount to that injustice and danger have been too feeble, too sporadic, too easily ignored in the press of routine. You can tell how much work we have to do by the smallness of the steps that institutions are taking even now: the decision by some companies to pull ads from Facebook for a single month is both highly unusual and remarkably puny. The Redskins might change their name? Great, but it took this to get there? Even voting out Trump will be but a necessary small step in the change that must be made. That comforting hymn “We Gather Together” has a sting in its sentimental lyric. “The wicked oppressing, now cease from distressing,” it demands, and so must we, with the growing recognition that most of us are implicated in that oppression.
One way to think about this pause in our lives is as a rare—likely a once-in-a-lifetime—opportunity for a reset. We actually stopped, the one thing our societies have never heretofore done. Things ground to a halt, offering us the chance to examine our lives and our institutions. And now, if we want it, we have a chance to rearrange them. Sometimes we can see those rearrangements: wise cities are replacing car-dominated streets with bike lanes and pedestrian malls, for instance. But most of it will necessarily be less visible. If your city council or state legislature resumes normal operation without massively shifting its budget priorities, if your business just deploys its army of lobbyists to look for some more tax breaks, if your church just performs some delayed funerals and then goes back to where it was in January—well, in that case, none of this will have counted.
Much as I enjoy singing hymns, I was glad we were still masked and silent on Sunday morning, that we had to sit apart, that instead of passing the peace with a handshake or a hug we were restricted to a namaste bow. One hopes that these kinds of changes will last for many months to come, and not simply for reasons of public health. They are uncomfortable reminders that we should remain uncomfortable even as life starts back up. Normal is the enemy.


newyorker--2020-07-06--Hasan Minhaj on Being His Ancestors’ Wildest Dreams

Hasan Minhaj , a comedian and political commentator , is the host of Nexflix ’ s “ Patriot Act with @ @ @ @ @ has won both an Emmy and a Peabody—has frequently gone viral .
Last year , @ @ @ @ @ when he testified before Congress on the weight of student-loan debt .
He spoke with @ @ @ @ @ New Yorker Festival about how he got invited to Washington , D.C. , developing his @ @ @ @ @ working as a correspondent on “ The Daily Show , ” and how his family @ @ @ @ @ voice as a comedian .
“ You don ’ t know how long you have @ @ @ @ @ he tells Battan .
“ To me , if you do have that privilege , @ @ @ @ @ way you use it .
”

Photograph by Craig Barritt / The New Yorker / Getty
Hasan Minhaj, a comedian and political commentator, is the host of Nexflix’s “Patriot Act with Hasan Minhaj.” His show—which has won both an Emmy and a Peabody—has frequently gone viral. Last year, Minhaj became a household name when he testified before Congress on the weight of student-loan debt. He spoke with Carrie Battan at the 2019 New Yorker Festival about how he got invited to Washington, D.C., developing his specific brand of writing while working as a correspondent on “The Daily Show,” and how his family has helped to shape his voice as a comedian. “You don’t know how long you have these shows for,” he tells Battan. “To me, if you do have that privilege, just be surgical in the way you use it.”


newyorker--2020-07-06--The Foolish, Impulsive Delights of “Search Party”

When the second season of the dark comedy “ Search Party ” came to an end , in 2017 , the four entitled millennials whose bumbling shenanigans animate the show were in very hot water .
( For those of you who haven ’ t watched , spoilers ahead ! )
Dory Sief ( Alia Shawkat ) , who , in her meandering search for a purpose in life , began pursuing the trail of Chantal Witherbottom , an old college acquaintance who had gone missing , was arrested for the killing of Keith Powell , the private investigator who @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ s accomplices in the crime—her mild-mannered , preppy ex-boyfriend , Drew ( John Reynolds ) , her self-important , self-loathing gay friend , Elliott ( John Early ) , and her ditzy , excitable actress B.F.F.
, Portia ( Meredith Hagner ) —knew that their time was almost up , too .
And , though more than three years have passed since the series last aired , “ Search Party ” ( which has , in the meantime , decamped from TBS to the new HBO Max platform , where it is @ @ @ @ @ @ @ with no preamble , right where it had left off .
As the first episode opens , a fashionably turned-out Dory , hauled offstage by police in the midst of an Election Night celebration for a senator whose campaign she worked on , finds herself in the back of a squad car , en route to be booked .
Hearing of the arrest and fearing that they might be next , Drew , Elliott , and Portia , huddling for an emergency consultation under a subway overpass , agree to “ just go @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , ” as Drew puts it .
“ O.K.
, so we do nothing .
It ’ s a pact !
” Portia rejoins .
Good luck with that !
If characters did nothing , we wouldn ’ t have plot , and , though this holds true for most forms of narrative art , it ’ s perhaps especially so for a show like “ Search Party , ” whose crowded story lines advance by dint of its protagonists ’ irrepressible propensity for foolish , impulsive action .
Much of the show @ @ @ @ @ @ @ tension , proceeds from observing these characters ’ blinkered doings : their self-involvement keeps them from considering any kind of larger picture , and yet they forge ahead into the world , blindly and obstinately .
Even Dory ’ s decision to seek out Chantal , which served as the series ’ spur , was revealed , in the course of the first season , as deeply misguided .
( “ I guess you could say I mishandled my ambition , ” a handcuffed Dory tells an old high-school classmate she runs into @ @ @ @ @ @ @ season ’ s first episode . )
Chantal , it soon became clear , was not a tragic heroine who needed to be saved , as Dory had convinced herself and her friends was the case , but a bratty drip , whom the gang couldn ’ t wait to get away from as soon as they found her .
Far from being imperilled , she was taking a self-pitying vacation from her own life after a middling breakup , holing up in a plush Montreal summer home .
Dory and her friends @ @ @ @ @ @ @ attempting , paranoiacally and incautiously , to clean up the fallout from this needless rescue mission .
It ’ s no surprise that , in the show ’ s third season , these characters ’ instincts continue to be uniformly terrible , as they become increasingly embroiled within ever-murkier , ever-more-complex schemes .
“ Search Party ” is a noir , but also a comedy of manners , and , this season , a courtroom melodrama , besides ; what unites these cross-genre turns , however , is the sure sense that no @ @ @ @ @ @ @ s protagonists will do the wrong thing , and that , as viewers , we will get to observe , with both laughter and dread , the amusing , maddening paths they take .
Once Dory is hauled in by the police , the gang , far from lying low , springs into action .
Drew attempts to flee to Shanghai but is arrested on the plane .
Elliott and Portia abscond to a summer share ( “ I know a place that is far , far away from all of this.
” @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Hamptons !
” ) , find themselves roped into babysitting a gaggle of wealthy , towheaded children ( “ I just hate these rich kids !
They don ’ t listen to us at all !
, ” Portia complains , oblivious to the obvious correspondence between herself and her charges ) , dye their own blonde hair Addams Family black in a harebrained attempt to conceal their identities , and end up being taken in by the cops , anyway .
Like other works whose central gambit is “ friends and a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ genteel “ The Secret History ” ; Danny Boyle ’ s comically grim “ Shallow Grave ” ; delinquent-teen shockers like Larry Clark ’ s “ Bully ” or Tim Hunter ’ s “ River ’ s Edge ” — “ Search Party ” pits the group against its members .
Will the bonds of friendship be robust enough to keep individuals from attempting to save their own skins by admitting the dark secret they swore to keep ?
Part of the joke in “ Search Party , ” however , is that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ characters have rarely , if ever , thought of anyone but themselves .
On catching the news of Dory and Drew ’ s arrest on TV , Chantal goes into a fit , moaning , “ What does this mean for me ?
” And , though the gang ’ s self-perception largely depends on the distinction they like to make between themselves ( cool , attractive cognoscenti ) and people like Chantal ( corny , sappy duds ) , her frantic self-absorption , in fact , reflects theirs exactly .
Oblivious narcissists @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and “ Search Party ” largely allows its characters their nutty , egomaniacal foibles , without going too much into their past traumas or family histories .
The show occasionally treads on uneven ground during moments in which we are meant to learn something further , and perhaps more typically affecting , about a character ’ s past—such as when , in the fifth episode , we meet Dory ’ s Iraqi immigrant parents , who come into town when she goes on trial , and from whom she appears alienated .
( @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of an Iraqi-immigrant father . )
It ’ s unclear , at such moments , whether we are supposed to understand the character more deeply—embody her viewpoint and identify with her psychology , as we would with a figure in a more conventional show .
What most distinguishes Dory this season , however , is her transformation into a media sensation over the course of her trial .
As she sheds the outward hesitancy that typified her character in the show ’ s earlier seasons , Shawkat plays her as increasingly vampy and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ thought being so known was going to feel so dangerous !
” she headily muses to a circle of rapt admirers at an event . )
Hagner ’ s turn , this season , as a born-again seeker who moonlights as a crop-top-wearing pop singer in a church band , and Reynolds ’ s as a clean-cut heartthrob murderer pursued by crazed female fans , including a flirty juror , are great , as well .
And John Early once again delivers a tour-de-force performance as the flamboyant Elliott , whose bitchy self-satisfaction @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of a jumpy , quasi-hysterical uncertainty .
( “ Guys , it is what it is .
Let ’ s just drive home and stop at that really good ceviche place in Watermill and just get taken in for questioning , already !
” ) But it is the minor characters who just as often steal the show here .
Clare McNulty as the pain-in-the-neck crybaby Chantal ; Michaela Watkins as a blunt , ambitious prosecutor ; Jay Duplass as an amoral theatre-director guru ; Chloe Fineman as a rotten-to-the-core conservative TV pundit @ @ @ @ @ @ @ not-getting-any-younger defense lawyer ( “ The Chicago Tribune called him the best defense attorney on the East Side of Chicago in 1988 !
” ) ; and , perhaps especially , Shalita Grant , who gives a real star turn as Dory ’ s first-time defense attorney , a “ thirty and single ” pampered-girlboss type .
( “ It ’ s , like , bitch , just admit you like to shop , ” she mutters , rolling her eyes at Watkins ’ s no-nonsense , nineties-feminist-style prosecutor . )
None of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Search Party ” isn ’ t a standard morality tale .
We are not meant , I don ’ t think , to love or hate the characters , to identify with them or completely reject them .
What we can do is enjoy watching as they veritably crackle with kinetic energy .
The series remains at its best when it approaches its players ’ individualized tics and gestures from a slight remove—its gaze amused , sometimes even a little sympathetic , but , in the end , thoroughly unsentimental .

When the second season of the dark comedy “Search Party” came to an end, in 2017, the four entitled millennials whose bumbling shenanigans animate the show were in very hot water. (For those of you who haven’t watched, spoilers ahead!) Dory Sief (Alia Shawkat), who, in her meandering search for a purpose in life, began pursuing the trail of Chantal Witherbottom, an old college acquaintance who had gone missing, was arrested for the killing of Keith Powell, the private investigator who was also looking for Chantal. Dory’s accomplices in the crime—her mild-mannered, preppy ex-boyfriend, Drew (John Reynolds), her self-important, self-loathing gay friend, Elliott (John Early), and her ditzy, excitable actress B.F.F., Portia (Meredith Hagner)—knew that their time was almost up, too. And, though more than three years have passed since the series last aired, “Search Party” (which has, in the meantime, decamped from TBS to the new HBO Max platform, where it is now streaming) begins its third season with no preamble, right where it had left off. As the first episode opens, a fashionably turned-out Dory, hauled offstage by police in the midst of an Election Night celebration for a senator whose campaign she worked on, finds herself in the back of a squad car, en route to be booked. Hearing of the arrest and fearing that they might be next, Drew, Elliott, and Portia, huddling for an emergency consultation under a subway overpass, agree to “just go home and act like we are innocent, ” as Drew puts it. “O.K., so we do nothing. It’s a pact!” Portia rejoins.
Good luck with that! If characters did nothing, we wouldn’t have plot, and, though this holds true for most forms of narrative art, it’s perhaps especially so for a show like “Search Party,” whose crowded story lines advance by dint of its protagonists’ irrepressible propensity for foolish, impulsive action. Much of the show’s hilarity, along with its tension, proceeds from observing these characters’ blinkered doings: their self-involvement keeps them from considering any kind of larger picture, and yet they forge ahead into the world, blindly and obstinately. Even Dory’s decision to seek out Chantal, which served as the series’ spur, was revealed, in the course of the first season, as deeply misguided. (“I guess you could say I mishandled my ambition,” a handcuffed Dory tells an old high-school classmate she runs into after being booked, in the current season’s first episode.) Chantal, it soon became clear, was not a tragic heroine who needed to be saved, as Dory had convinced herself and her friends was the case, but a bratty drip, whom the gang couldn’t wait to get away from as soon as they found her. Far from being imperilled, she was taking a self-pitying vacation from her own life after a middling breakup, holing up in a plush Montreal summer home. Dory and her friends spent the show’s second season attempting, paranoiacally and incautiously, to clean up the fallout from this needless rescue mission. It’s no surprise that, in the show’s third season, these characters’ instincts continue to be uniformly terrible, as they become increasingly embroiled within ever murkier, ever more complex schemes. “Search Party” is a noir, but also a comedy of manners, and, this season, a courtroom melodrama, besides; what unites these cross-genre turns, however, is the sure sense that no matter what happens, the show’s protagonists will do the wrong thing, and that, as viewers, we will get to observe, with both laughter and dread, the amusing, maddening paths they take.
Once Dory is hauled in by the police, the gang, far from lying low, springs into action. Drew attempts to flee to Shanghai but is arrested on the plane. Elliott and Portia abscond to a summer share (“I know a place that is far, far away from all of this.” “Our imaginations?” “The Hamptons!”), find themselves roped into babysitting a gaggle of wealthy, towheaded children (“I just hate these rich kids! They don’t listen to us at all!” Portia complains, oblivious to the obvious correspondence between herself and her charges), dye their own blond hair Addams Family black in a harebrained attempt to conceal their identities, and end up being taken in by the cops, anyway. Like other works whose central gambit is “friends and a dead body”—Donna Tartt’s genteel “The Secret History”; Danny Boyle’s comically grim “Shallow Grave”; delinquent-teen shockers like Larry Clark’s “Bully” or Tim Hunter’s “River’s Edge”—“Search Party” pits the group against its members. Will the bonds of friendship be robust enough to keep individuals from attempting to save their own skins by admitting the dark secret they swore to keep? Part of the joke in “Search Party,” however, is that, even before committing murder, the characters have rarely, if ever, thought of anyone but themselves. On catching the news of Dory and Drew’s arrest on TV, Chantal goes into a fit, moaning, “What does this mean for me?” And, though the gang’s self-perception largely depends on the distinction they like to make between themselves (cool, attractive cognoscenti) and people like Chantal (corny, sappy duds), her frantic self-absorption, in fact, reflects theirs exactly.
Oblivious narcissists are a great boon to comedy, and “Search Party” largely allows its characters their nutty, egomaniacal foibles, without going too much into their past traumas or family histories. The show occasionally treads on uneven ground during moments in which we are meant to learn something further, and perhaps more typically affecting, about a character’s past—such as when, in the fifth episode, we meet Dory’s Iraqi immigrant parents, who come into town when she goes on trial, and from whom she appears alienated. (Shawkat, too, is the daughter of an Iraqi-immigrant father.) It’s unclear, at such moments, whether we are supposed to understand the character more deeply—embody her viewpoint and identify with her psychology, as we would with a figure in a more conventional show.
What most distinguishes Dory this season, however, is her transformation into a media sensation over the course of her trial. As she sheds the outward hesitancy that typified her character in the show’s earlier seasons, Shawkat plays her as increasingly vampy and self-aggrandizing. (“I just never thought being so known was going to feel so dangerous!” she headily muses to a circle of rapt admirers at an event.) Hagner’s turn, this season, as a born-again seeker who moonlights as a crop-top-wearing pop singer in a church band, and Reynolds’s as a clean-cut heartthrob murderer pursued by crazed female fans, including a flirty juror, are great as well. And John Early once again delivers a tour-de-force performance as the flamboyant Elliott, whose bitchy self-satisfaction never ceases to pulse with an undercurrent of a jumpy, quasi-hysterical uncertainty. (“Guys, it is what it is. Let’s just drive home and stop at that really good ceviche place in Watermill and just get taken in for questioning already!”)
But it is the minor characters who just as often steal the show here. Clare McNulty as the pain-in-the-neck crybaby Chantal; Michaela Watkins as a blunt, ambitious prosecutor; Jay Duplass as an amoral theatre-director guru; Chloe Fineman as a rotten-to-the-core conservative TV pundit; Louie Anderson as a snoozy, not-getting-any-younger defense lawyer (“The Chicago Tribune called him the best defense attorney on the East Side of Chicago in 1988!”); and, perhaps especially, Shalita Grant, who gives a real star turn as Dory’s first-time defense attorney, a “thirty and single” pampered-girlboss type. (“It’s, like, bitch, just admit you like to shop,” she mutters, rolling her eyes at Watkins’s no-nonsense, nineties-feminist-style prosecutor.) None of these people are good, but “Search Party” isn’t a standard morality tale. We are not meant, I don’t think, to love or hate the characters, to identify with them or completely reject them. What we can do is enjoy watching as they veritably crackle with kinetic energy. The series remains at its best when it approaches its players’ individualized tics and gestures from a slight remove—its gaze amused, sometimes even a little sympathetic, but, in the end, thoroughly unsentimental.


newyorker--2020-07-06--How “Starship Troopers” Aligns with Our Moment of American Defeat

It has become clear , in these last decades of decadence , decline , towering institutional violence , and rampant bad taste , that American life is stuck somewhere inside the Paul Verhoeven cinematic universe .
In the bloody , satirical sci-fi films that made his name with American audiences , Verhoeven dealt in a singularly unappealing vision of the future , one both luridly inventive and careful about where not to be imaginative .
“ RoboCop , ” from 1987 , set in a futuristic Detroit , is a gleeful exaggeration of the anxieties of Reagan-era urban life : @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , and their boardrooms more brazenly sociopathic ; the popular culture is a tick or two more savage and leering ; the police are more overmatched and the streets more ungovernable .
“ Total Recall , ” released in 1990 and adapted from a short story by Philip K. Dick , does feature humans living on Mars , a private company that implants bespoke memories in its clients , and a brassy three-breasted space prostitute , but its vision of 2084 is in other respects familiar .
Mars is dirty , violent , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ overseen by the private security force of a capitalist who has staked out a monopoly on oxygen itself .
Few directors who have spent as much screen time in the future have taken as relentlessly dim a view of the prospect .
Where “ RoboCop ” and “ Total Recall ” exist in grimy , crowded , dangerous futures that look and feel like degraded versions of the already degrading present , Verhoeven ’ s bizarre masterwork “ Starship Troopers , ” from 1997 , is set in the more distant days of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , long after the end of history .
“ This year , we explored the failure of democracy , how the social scientists brought our world to the brink of chaos , ” Rasczak , a history teacher ( played by the Verhoeven favorite Michael Ironside ) , barks at his high-school students in an early scene .
“ We talked about the veterans and how they took control , and imposed the stability that has lasted for generations since.
” Rasczak himself is a disfigured war veteran , as are all of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to steer their students toward enlisting in a galaxy-wide war against a species of giant , lethal bug .
In this universe , humankind is divided into “ civilians ” and “ citizens ” ; only citizens have the right to vote , and citizenship can be won only through “ federal service ” in the military .
“ Something given has no value , ” Rasczak explains .
“ When you vote , you are exercising political authority .
You are using force .
And force , my friends , is violence—the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ derive.
” Daily life in the Federation may be cleaner and brighter than in any of Verhoeven ’ s other futures , but every ambiguity has been displaced by the certitudes , coercions , and doublespeak of endless , totalizing conflict .
To defend the Federation , some suspiciously adult-looking teens leave behind their comfortable space-bourgeois youth for a chance to earn citizenship and enjoy some adventures killing bugs on a faraway planet .
We meet them at the end of their school days in Buenos Aires , and see their arena football @ @ @ @ @ @ @ receiver Johnny ( Casper Van Dien ) is dating Carmen ( Denise Richards ) , who is interested in the rival football star and rising flyboy Zander ( Patrick Muldoon ) ; Dizzy ( Dina Meyer ) , the team ’ s quarterback , has an unrequited crush on Johnny ; Carl ( Neil Patrick Harris ) is a chipper egghead who might also be psychic .
Everyone is beautiful and selfish and mostly awful to each other , both in the thoughtless ways that teen-agers are and because their society is designed @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of them will find a way to serve the colonial war : Johnny and Dizzy join the mobile infantry ( where a drill sergeant welcomes Dizzy to the unit by pressing his knee into her throat until she falls unconscious ) ; Carmen and Zander win spots in flight school ; Carl ’ s gifts allow him to disappear into military intelligence .
The Federation is , to all appearances , losing the permanent war , and much of “ Starship Troopers ” is given over to watching the teens as they fight @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of Verhoeven ’ s main goals is to depict a society whose fixation on force has left it preening , idiotic , and paradoxically weak .
This state manifests as endless columns of cultishly revered and supremely well-equipped violence workers who know how to do only one thing , and a culture that exists exclusively to celebrate their efforts .
If it ’ s unsettling to recognize similarities between the crumbling futures of “ RoboCop ” and “ Total Recall ” and our own cultural moment , it ’ s terrifying how familiar @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Troopers ” are to contemporary ears .
It ’ s a comedy , of course .
“ It ’ s an idiotic story : young people go to fight bugs , ” Verhoeven told the Guardian in 2018 , long after the film , which met with puzzled and mostly negative reactions upon release , had undergone a full reappraisal and become a cult classic .
Ed Neumeier , screenwriter of “ RoboCop , ” adapted “ Starship Troopers ” from the 1959 science-fiction novel of the same name , by Robert A.
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ director found “ militaristic , if not fascistic , ” was dedicated “ to all sergeants anywhen who have labored to make men out of boys.
” Verhoeven told Empire , in 2014 , that he couldn ’ t finish reading it .
With the possible exception of Mary Harron ’ s “ American Psycho , ” it ’ s hard to think of a film adaptation that ’ s more invested in refuting and satirizing its source .
The anti-Fascism of “ Starship Troopers ” is mordant and merciless , but Verhoeven @ @ @ @ @ @ @ frame lavishly , overbearingly Fascist .
( When studio executives complained that the Federation ’ s banner was “ a Nazi flag , ” Verhoeven reassured them : “ No .
.
.
it ’ s completely different colors.
” ) The movie ’ s biggest laughs come from following ultra-hoary war-movie conventions to their most savage and illogical conclusions , but the whole project is stilted and off-putting by design .
Other war films try to give viewers some humanity to hang on to .
Verhoeven offers only sheer surfaces and one @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of screens .
The Federal Network has queasy affinities with Fox News , which débuted thirteen months before “ Starship Troopers ” arrived in theatres .
Every machine-tooled chunk of media on the ubiquitous propaganda network ends with the words “ Would you like to know more ?
” ( More than YouTube ’ s algorithm bothers to ask . )
The programming is strident and sappy in saluting the troops , and more ardent in its manic villainizing of the enemy .
The debate-shaped play-fights on the Federal Network unfold along familiar @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the Arachnid enemy are capable of thought , her priggish interlocutor blusters , “ Insects with intelligence ?
Have you ever met one ?
I can ’ t believe I ’ m hearing this nonsense.
” Presented with evidence that “ brain bugs ” might inform the actions of the insect infantry that had just demolished the first human offensive against them , the bow-tied anti-expert pouts , “ Frankly , I find the idea of a bug that thinks offensive.
” The film ’ s climax-of-sorts also hinges on the bugs ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ s squadron avenges a fallen comrade with a heroic assault on a bug stronghold , Carl , now kitted out in full S.S.-officer regalia , uses his Federation-honed psychic powers to ascertain that humanity ’ s Arachnid enemies are now afraid .
Everyone cheers .
Although Phil Tippett ’ s visual effects deliver some memorable creatures—the Arachnids attack in sudden skittering hordes , or erupt through the sand , or belch out punishment from pulsating blue bladders—the film ’ s broader loathsomeness flattens the impact significantly .
The mobile infantry ’ s strategy @ @ @ @ @ @ @ waves of Arachnids , because their leaders persistently underestimate the enemy and because it ’ s all the space grunts have ever been trained to do .
In short , the fighting isn ’ t much fun to watch—intentionally so , it seems .
“ With a title like Starship Troopers , people were expecting a new Star Wars , ” Verhoeven told the Guardian .
“ They got that , but not really : it stuck in your throat .
It said : ‘ Here are your heroes and your heroines , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ fascists.
’ ” Verhoeven borrows from Leni Riefenstahl ’ s Nazi propaganda documentaries “ Olympia ” and “ Triumph of the Will , ” not just in individual moments and shots but also in what is exalted and what is left out .
The film covers Susan Sontag ’ s list of the ruling fetishes of Nazism , from her 1975 essay “ Fascinating Fascism ” ( “ the cult of beauty , the fetishism of courage , the dissolution of alienation in ecstatic feelings of community ; the repudiation of the intellect @ @ @ @ @ @ @ up what ’ s missing elsewhere .
When Johnny wins a training exercise at boot camp , Verhoeven shows him triumphantly waving a flag in a backlit , low-angle shot , then matches it from another , more distant angle .
The first shot is startlingly well-replicated Riefenstahl iconography .
The second is just a square-jawed young jock on a platform , yelling .

It has become clear, in these last decades of decadence, decline, towering institutional violence, and rampant bad taste, that American life is stuck somewhere inside the Paul Verhoeven cinematic universe. In the bloody, satirical sci-fi films that made his name with American audiences, Verhoeven dealt in a singularly unappealing vision of the future, one both luridly inventive and careful about where not to be imaginative. “RoboCop,” from 1987, set in a futuristic Detroit, is a gleeful exaggeration of the anxieties of Reagan-era urban life: the office towers are even more isolated, and their boardrooms more brazenly sociopathic; the popular culture is a tick or two more savage and leering; the police are more overmatched and the streets more ungovernable. “Total Recall,” released in 1990 and adapted from a short story by Philip K. Dick, does feature humans living on Mars, a private company that implants bespoke memories in its clients, and a brassy three-breasted space prostitute, but its vision of 2084 is in other respects familiar. Mars is dirty, violent, and unequal, and the colony is overseen by the private security force of a capitalist who has staked out a monopoly on oxygen itself. Few directors who have spent as much screen time in the future have taken as relentlessly dim a view of the prospect.
Where “RoboCop” and “Total Recall” exist in grimy, crowded, dangerous futures that look and feel like degraded versions of the already degrading present, Verhoeven’s bizarre masterwork “Starship Troopers,” from 1997, is set in the more distant days of the twenty-third century—and, it quickly emerges, long after the end of history. “This year, we explored the failure of democracy, how the social scientists brought our world to the brink of chaos,” Rasczak, a history teacher (played by the Verhoeven favorite Michael Ironside), barks at his high-school students in an early scene. “We talked about the veterans and how they took control, and imposed the stability that has lasted for generations since.” Rasczak himself is a disfigured war veteran, as are all of his fellow-teachers, and their job is to steer their students toward enlisting in a galaxy-wide war against a species of giant, lethal bug. In this universe, humankind is divided into “civilians” and “citizens”; only citizens have the right to vote, and citizenship can be won only through “federal service” in the military. “Something given has no value,” Rasczak explains. “When you vote, you are exercising political authority. You are using force. And force, my friends, is violence—the supreme authority from which all other authorities derive.” Daily life in the Federation may be cleaner and brighter than in any of Verhoeven’s other futures, but every ambiguity has been displaced by the certitudes, coercions, and doublespeak of endless, totalizing conflict.
To defend the Federation, some suspiciously adult-looking teens leave behind their comfortable space-bourgeois youth for a chance to earn citizenship and enjoy some adventures killing bugs on a faraway planet. We meet them at the end of their school days in Buenos Aires, and see their arena football games and glossy proms: star wide receiver Johnny (Casper Van Dien) is dating Carmen (Denise Richards), who is interested in the rival football star and rising flyboy Zander (Patrick Muldoon); Dizzy (Dina Meyer), the team’s quarterback, has an unrequited crush on Johnny; Carl (Neil Patrick Harris) is a chipper egghead who might also be psychic. Everyone is beautiful and selfish and mostly awful to each other, both in the thoughtless ways that teen-agers are and because their society is designed to channel them toward awfulness. Each of them will find a way to serve the colonial war: Johnny and Dizzy join the mobile infantry (where a drill sergeant welcomes Dizzy to the unit by pressing his knee into her throat until she falls unconscious); Carmen and Zander win spots in flight school; Carl’s gifts allow him to disappear into military intelligence.
The Federation is, to all appearances, losing the permanent war, and much of “Starship Troopers” is given over to watching the teens as they fight and die for the cause. One of Verhoeven’s main goals is to depict a society whose fixation on force has left it preening, idiotic, and paradoxically weak. This state manifests as endless columns of cultishly revered and supremely well-equipped violence workers who know how to do only one thing, and a culture that exists exclusively to celebrate their efforts. If it’s unsettling to recognize similarities between the crumbling futures of “RoboCop” and “Total Recall” and our own cultural moment, it’s terrifying how familiar the thudding martial beats of “Starship Troopers” are to contemporary ears. It’s a comedy, of course.
“It’s an idiotic story: young people go to fight bugs,” Verhoeven told the Guardian in 2018, long after the film, which met with puzzled and mostly negative reactions upon release, had undergone a full reappraisal and become a cult classic. Ed Neumeier, the screenwriter of “RoboCop,” adapted “Starship Troopers” from the 1959 science-fiction novel of the same name, by Robert A. Heinlein; that book, which the director found “militaristic, if not fascistic,” was dedicated “to all sergeants anywhen who have labored to make men out of boys.” Verhoeven told Empire, in 2014, that he couldn’t finish reading it. With the possible exception of Mary Harron’s “American Psycho,” it’s hard to think of a film adaptation that’s more invested in refuting and satirizing its source. The anti-Fascism of “Starship Troopers” is mordant and merciless, but Verhoeven advances his argument by making its every frame lavishly, overbearingly Fascist. (When studio executives complained that the Federation’s banner was “a Nazi flag,” Verhoeven reassured them: “No . . . it’s completely different colors.”) The movie’s biggest laughs come from following ultra-hoary war-movie conventions to their most savage and illogical conclusions, but the whole project is stilted and off-putting by design. Other war films try to give viewers some humanity to hang on to. Verhoeven offers only sheer surfaces and one clenched fist after another.
And screens—lots of screens. The Federal Network has queasy affinities with Fox News, which débuted thirteen months before “Starship Troopers” arrived in theatres. Every machine-tooled chunk of media on the ubiquitous propaganda network ends with the words “Would you like to know more?” (More than YouTube’s algorithm bothers to ask.) The programming is strident and sappy in saluting the troops, and more ardent in its manic villainizing of the enemy. The debate-shaped play-fights on the Federal Network unfold along familiar beats. When a scientist suggests that the Arachnid enemy is capable of thought, her priggish interlocutor blusters, “Insects with intelligence? Have you ever met one? I can’t believe I’m hearing this nonsense.” Presented with evidence that “brain bugs” might inform the actions of the insect infantry that had just demolished the first human offensive against them, the bow-tied anti-expert pouts, “Frankly, I find the idea of a bug that thinks offensive.” The film’s climax-of-sorts also hinges on the bugs’ state of mind. When Johnny’s squadron avenges a fallen comrade with a heroic assault on a bug stronghold, Carl, now kitted out in full S.S.-officer regalia, uses his Federation-honed psychic powers to ascertain that humanity’s Arachnid enemies are now afraid. Everyone cheers.
Although Phil Tippett’s visual effects deliver some memorable creatures—the Arachnids attack in sudden skittering hordes, or erupt through the sand, or belch out punishment from pulsating blue bladders—the film’s broader loathsomeness flattens the impact significantly. The mobile infantry’s strategy amounts to blasting away at endless ravening waves of Arachnids, because their leaders persistently underestimate the enemy and because it’s all the space grunts have ever been trained to do. In short, the fighting isn’t much fun to watch—intentionally so, it seems. “With a title like Starship Troopers, people were expecting a new Star Wars,” Verhoeven told the Guardian. “They got that, but not really: it stuck in your throat. It said: ‘Here are your heroes and your heroines, but, by the way—they’re fascists.’ ” Verhoeven borrows from Leni Riefenstahl’s Nazi propaganda documentaries “Olympia” and “Triumph of the Will,” not just in individual moments and shots but also in what is exalted and what is left out. The film covers Susan Sontag’s list of the ruling fetishes of Nazism, from her 1975 essay “Fascinating Fascism” (“the cult of beauty, the fetishism of courage, the dissolution of alienation in ecstatic feelings of community; the repudiation of the intellect”), but also slyly plays up what’s missing elsewhere. When Johnny wins a training exercise at boot camp, Verhoeven shows him triumphantly waving a flag in a backlit, low-angle shot, then matches it from another, more distant angle. The first shot is startlingly well-replicated Riefenstahl iconography. The second is just a square-jawed young jock on a platform, yelling.
For most of “Starship Troopers,” humanity, in every possible facet, gets its ass kicked. A culture that reveres and communicates exclusively through violence—a culture very much like one that responds to peaceful protests with indiscriminate police brutality, or whose pandemic strategy is to “dominate” an unreasoning virus—keeps running up against its own self-imposed limitations. Once again, the present has caught up to Verhoeven’s acid vision of the future. It’s not a realization that anyone in the film can articulate, or seemingly even process, but the failure is plain: society has left itself a single solution to every problem, and it doesn’t work.
Donald Trump didn’t empty American politics of everything but violence; he’s just what was left afterward. He is more an emblem of American defeat than its author. The world of “Starship Troopers” aligns with our moment in its wastefulness and brutality, and most of all in being so helplessly recursive. At the end of the film, the human survivors of the bug siege become the heroes of a bombastic military-recruiting ad. A splash of onscreen text cheers, “They’ll keep fighting . . . and they’ll win!” The second promise is extraneous. All that’s left to win is the chance to fight more, and to fight off the realization that the fighting itself has become the point.


newyorker--2020-07-06--Pence Walks Out of “Hamilton” Again in Own Living Room

WASHINGTON , D.C. ( The Borowitz Report ) —Mike Pence ’ s turbulent relationship with “ Hamilton ” continued over the weekend , as he walked out of the Broadway show in his own living room .
Pence , who walked out after the Tony Award–winning musical in 2016 , when the cast tried to address him , told reporters that he tuned in to the streaming version of “ Hamilton ” on July 4th specifically to walk out of it once more .
“ I wanted to send the cast of ‘ Hamilton ’ a strong message , ” @ @ @ @ @ @ @ began , I turned to my wife and said , ‘ Mother , I ’ m out.
’ ” He immediately followed through on his threat , leaving Mrs. Pence alone in their living room for the next two and a half hours as she watched “ Hamilton ” in its entirety .
Pence dismissed reporters ’ questions about the limited impact of his gesture , since the cast of “ Hamilton ” was unable to see him get up from his couch and leave in a huff .
“ President Trump told @ @ @ @ @ @ @ room , and I am grateful for the opportunity to obey him , ” Pence said , adding that he intends to walk out of “ Hamilton ” again tonight .

WASHINGTON, D.C. (The Borowitz Report)—Mike Pence’s turbulent relationship with “Hamilton” continued over the weekend, as he walked out of the Broadway show in his own living room.
Pence, who walked out after the Tony Award–winning musical in 2016, when the cast tried to address him, told reporters that he tuned in to the streaming version of “Hamilton” on July 4th specifically to walk out of it once more.
“I wanted to send the cast of ‘Hamilton’ a strong message,” Pence said. “The minute it began, I turned to my wife and said, ‘Mother, I’m out.’ ”
He immediately followed through on his threat, leaving Mrs. Pence alone in their living room for the next two and a half hours as she watched “Hamilton” in its entirety.
Pence dismissed reporters’ questions about the limited impact of his gesture, since the cast of “Hamilton” was unable to see him get up from his couch and leave in a huff.
“President Trump told me to walk out of my living room, and I am grateful for the opportunity to obey him,” Pence said, adding that he intends to walk out of “Hamilton” again tonight.


newyorker--2020-07-07--When This Is Over

When This Is Over

When this is over , I will get off my damn phone already .
No more true-crime food blogs , one-eared-feral-fox-Instagram k-holes , or endless scrolling through Mars-landing conspiracy sites .
I will use my phone only for absolutely necessary tasks : calls , texts , e-mail , maps/directions , the weather , my alarm clock , music and podcasts , taking pictures , posting pictures , jotting down stray thoughts , seeing what I look like with different filters , Uber , Venmo , Minesweeper , and the app that reminds me to drink water .
When this is @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to my community .
I ’ ll donate time , money , and blood .
Well , not my blood , because I have really skinny veins .
The nurse at my doctor ’ s office told me they were the smallest veins she had ever seen , and that I needed to drink more water , which is why I downloaded that app , although so far it hasn ’ t affected my vein girth .
But I ’ ll give money !
After I pay off my credit card .
And @ @ @ @ @ @ @ I probably shouldn ’ t be giving away money until I ’ m totally financially independent because I do still occasionally charge my MetroCard to my mom ’ s account .
I guess I could ask my mom to give money .
Or blood—my mom has huge veins .
When this is over , I ’ m going to get my ass to the concerts , plays , and other live entertainment the city has to offer .
As long as I can afford the tickets , because , again , my mother @ @ @ @ @ @ @ And as long as the crowds aren ’ t too crowded , because you never know if the person next to you is sick .
Or a terrorist .
Or a sick terrorist .
And if I ’ m being honest , my favorite kind of entertainment is movies , and all the good movies end up on Netflix eventually , so I could stay home and count that as a cultural experience that is also very safe .
Should I really be dropping my mom ’ s cash on tickets to the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ bombers—before I ’ ve seen “ Okja ” ?
Also , books .
When this is over and I can see my friends again , I ’ ll never say no to a night out .
I ’ ll go to bars and clubs and karaoke rooms and roof parties and raves .
I ’ ll down every shot that ’ s offered to me , to the point that my friends are , like , “ This is worrisome behavior—are you O.K .
?
” And I ’ m , like , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ re only young once !
” And my friends are , like , “ Well .
.
.
have fun , but we ’ re going home , it ’ s five in the morning.
” And then I make best friends with a stranger in line for the ladies ’ room , but it turns out she ’ s a scam artist who persuades me to pay for her villa in St. Barts , but it all works out because I ’ m too drunk to remember my bank-account information anyway @ @ @ @ @ @ @ won ’ t be so picky about men .
I ’ ll say yes to a date with any guy who is taller and older than me , but under forty , with a good job , who can play an instrument and speaks a language besides English and likes cats and feels exactly the same way about Joe Biden as I do and smells nice and has good table manners and tips well and doesn ’ t own any of those Funko Pop dolls because I think they ’ re really ugly @ @ @ @ @ @ @ sure why adults collect them .
Actually , he can have up to three of those dolls , but they can ’ t be too prominently displayed in his home , and they definitely can ’ t be in the bedroom—those freaky blank eyes looking at me , I ’ d never fall asleep .
I just realized that if I ’ m going to meet these guys I will need to be on dating apps , so that ’ s another thing I need my phone for .
Plenty of fish in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ t catch a fish without a rod , can you ?
( The rod is my phone . )
When this is over , it shall be as if I have been born anew , regenerated , replenished , humbled , and galvanized , ready to embrace the world in its fullness and live life with a verve such as I have never had before .
When this is over , I will not go back to the gym .

When this is over, I will get off my damn phone already. No more true-crime food blogs, one-eared-feral-fox-Instagram k-holes, or endless scrolling through Mars-landing conspiracy sites. I will use my phone only for absolutely necessary tasks: calls, texts, e-mail, maps/directions, the weather, my alarm clock, music and podcasts, taking pictures, posting pictures, jotting down stray thoughts, seeing what I look like with different filters, Uber, Venmo, Minesweeper, and the app that reminds me to drink water.
When this is over, I am so giving back to my community. I’ll donate time, money, and blood. Well, not my blood, because I have really skinny veins. The nurse at my doctor’s office told me they were the smallest veins she had ever seen, and that I needed to drink more water, which is why I downloaded that app, although so far it hasn’t affected my vein girth. But I’ll give money! After I pay off my credit card. And, come to think of it, I probably shouldn’t be giving away money until I’m totally financially independent because I do still occasionally charge my MetroCard to my mom’s account. I guess I could ask my mom to give money. Or blood—my mom has huge veins.
When this is over, I’m going to get my ass to the concerts, plays, and other live entertainment the city has to offer. As long as I can afford the tickets, because, again, my mother still subsidizes many of my expenses. And as long as the crowds aren’t too crowded, because you never know if the person next to you is sick. Or a terrorist. Or a sick terrorist. And if I’m being honest, my favorite kind of entertainment is movies, and all the good movies end up on Netflix eventually, so I could stay home and count that as a cultural experience that is also very safe. Should I really be dropping my mom’s cash on tickets to the ballet—which is probably full of diseased suicide bombers—before I’ve seen “Okja”? Also, books.
When this is over and I can see my friends again, I’ll never say no to a night out. I’ll go to bars and clubs and karaoke rooms and roof parties and raves. I’ll down every shot that’s offered to me, to the point that my friends are, like, “This is worrisome behavior—are you O.K.?” And I’m, like, “I’m fine! You’re only young once!” And my friends are, like, “Well . . . have fun, but we’re going home, it’s five in the morning.” And then I make best friends with a stranger in line for the ladies’ room, but it turns out she’s a scam artist who persuades me to pay for her villa in St. Barts, but it all works out because I’m too drunk to remember my bank-account information anyway.
When this is over, I won’t be so picky about men. I’ll say yes to a date with any guy who is taller and older than me, but under forty, with a good job, who can play an instrument and speaks a language besides English and likes cats and feels exactly the same way about Joe Biden as I do and smells nice and has good table manners and tips well and doesn’t own any of those Funko Pop dolls because I think they’re really ugly and tacky and I’m not sure why adults collect them. Actually, he can have up to three of those dolls, but they can’t be too prominently displayed in his home, and they definitely can’t be in the bedroom—those freaky blank eyes looking at me, I’d never fall asleep.
I just realized that if I’m going to meet these guys I will need to be on dating apps, so that’s another thing I need my phone for. Plenty of fish in the sea, but you can’t catch a fish without a rod, can you? (The rod is my phone.)
When this is over, it shall be as if I have been born anew, regenerated, replenished, humbled, and galvanized, ready to embrace the world in its fullness and live life with a verve such as I have never had before.
When this is over, I will not go back to the gym.


newyorker--2020-07-07--What Fighting the Coronavirus Feels Like

Beth saw her first dead body of the day just as she was leaving the emergency department .
Earlier , she ’ d admitted a patient with the coronavirus ; now she was on her way to an upstairs doctor ’ s lounge to finish writing her notes .
Standing by the elevators , lost in thought , she nearly missed the orange body bag as it was rolled out of the car that had just opened in front of her .
She decided to take the next one .
Seconds later , another elevator opened behind her .
She @ @ @ @ @ @ @ more bodies .
While she watched , every elevator in the bay opened its doors , expelling stretcher after stretcher of bodies .
“ I felt surrounded , ” she said .
“ I ’ d never seen anything like it .
I thought I might throw up.
” An endocrinologist by training , Beth—whose name has been changed for this story—usually sees patients in an office ; when she first volunteered to help on the wards , she was nervous .
As the pandemic deepened , she ’ d grown comfortable in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ d thought .
She turned to a junior colleague with whom she ’ d been waiting .
“ I knew I had to be brave , ” she said .
“ I kept it together for her.
” Thinking back now , she recalls not just the orange bags but the young woman ’ s petrified face .
For many health-care workers , initial concerns about the rationing of ventilators , masks , and gloves have been replaced with the weighty recognition that the fight against COVID-19 is not a momentary disruption @ @ @ @ @ @ @ More than a hundred and thirty-two thousand Americans have died of the virus , and the pandemic is still making its way across the country , with case counts spiking as states reopen .
There are no game-changing treatments for the disease , and no vaccine .
The pandemic will be sticking around for a while .
Even in normal times , health-care workers are at high risk for mental-health problems .
Doctors commit suicide at twice the rate of the general population ; a quarter of I.C.U .
nurses have symptoms of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ show signs of depression ; more than ten per cent of graduating medical students report having suicidal thoughts.For several years , Srijan Sen , a professor of psychiatry at the University of Michigan who studies the well-being of physicians , has been following medical residents in China , using an app that asks doctors there questions about their moods .
Usually , as the Chinese New Year approaches , their collective mood improves ; this year , when the pandemic cancelled celebrations , “ we saw a pretty concerning decline in mood and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ said .
Sen ’ s work is consistent with other recent research .
A study of nurses and doctors caring for COVID-19 patients in China found that nearly three-quarters had experienced psychological distress ; half reported symptoms of depression , and a third had difficulty sleeping .
A preliminary study in Italy found that half of health-care workers there had symptoms of P.T.S.D .
In April , these statistics became real for those in New York ’ s medical community , after two clinicians , an emergency physician and an emergency medical technician @ @ @ @ @ @ @ psychiatry practice , Sen cares for doctors struggling with mental health ; these days , he works over Zoom .
“ There ’ s an increase in concern for patients , a feeling of not being able to do as much as they normally would , ” Sen said .
“ Then there ’ s the added concern for themselves and their families .
On one hand , they feel , ‘ This is why I became a doctor.
’ On the other , it ’ s , ‘ I ’ m putting @ @ @ @ @ @ @ children at risk.
’ ” In his prior work , Sen found that the prevalence and severity of mental-health issues varied from hospital to hospital .
He believes that these disparities offer a lesson for this moment .
“ My sense is that stress and anxiety will be worse in places where clinicians feel that leadership is more concerned with finances than with safety , or is not being upfront about masks and P.P.E.
, ” he told me .
“ Ultimately , you want to know that your institution is behind you.
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ Kochav , a cardiology fellow in New York City , has cared for hundreds of critically-ill COVID-19 patients .
He describes his emotional state as having progressed through three phases .
They mirror what I ’ ve heard from other doctors , and my own experience as a hospitalist working in coronavirus wards and I.C.U.s .
The first phase , which began as the virus started its explosive , relentless spread across the city , was imbued with excitement and fear .
The excitement had to do with venturing into uncharted territory , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and trying to subdue it .
“ We were learning on the fly , but , just by being at the epicenter , we were soon among the world ’ s most experienced at treating this disease , ” Kochav said .
The fear—of losing his patients , his loved ones , his own life—was equally unprecedented .
“ When I was first treating COVID-19 patients , I knew I would get it , ” he continued .
“ I knew my wife would get it .
I had visions of her being @ @ @ @ @ @ @ scared my parents would get sick and die .
I thought about which hospital I would bring them to.
” As it turned out , Kochav did get sick .
So did his wife , who has also been treating people with COVID-19 .
The fear changed how he interacted with patients and their families .
“ Dealing with family members was particularly emotional , ” he told me .
“ I saw my fears coming true in what they were experiencing .
I could so easily project myself into their position.
” @ @ @ @ @ @ @ patients with chronic ailments , such as heart disease or diabetes .
Not so with a virus that threatens to infect everyone .
As the weeks went on , Kochav experienced a gradual hardening : phase two .
“ When you ’ re exposed and exposed and exposed to something , it becomes less scary , ” he said .
“ There was this desensitization and detachment.
” He noticed colleagues who had previously changed into street clothes before and after shifts departing the hospital in scrubs ; some forgot to put on @ @ @ @ @ @ @ rooms , scurrying back to collect face shields .
His own approach to patients began to shift .
Everyone had the same disease ; many fared poorly regardless of what he did ; treatment became mechanical .
“ I felt disconnected , ” he said .
“ I ’ m not sure if it ’ s because I overinvested earlier and was just emotionally spent , or because every day was an endless stream of the same thing .
But I went from seeing every patient as my mom , my dad , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ as a lab value and ventilator setting.
” Others apparently felt the same way , because soon Kochav ’ s I.C.U .
developed a plan to restore humanity to its work .
The unit began asking families to send in photos and double-sided sheets describing each patient ’ s life and interests .
Some families wrote from the first-person perspective of the patient—he was introducing himself .
Soon , I.V .
poles were covered with paragraphs describing years past and laminated pictures of children , grandchildren , vacations , and graduations .
“ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ patient ’ s ventilator settings and suddenly I ’ d see their smiling face at a barbecue , ” Kochav said .
“ I ’ m caring for people again.
” He hopes this new , third phase will last .
Coronavirus patients go through phases , too .
In early March , David and his partner , Emily , left the city with his sister and brother-in-law to stay on Long Island .
( They asked me not to use their real names to protect their privacy . )
David exercised six @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , had never been seriously ill .
When he woke up feeling unwell , he attributed his fatigue to a bad night ’ s sleep .
That evening , he entered the kitchen , where his sister was eating a sweet potato ; overcome by nausea , he started up the stairs , then fainted , hitting his head on a railing and opening a gash above his left eyebrow .

Beth saw her first dead body of the day just as she was leaving the emergency department. Earlier, she’d admitted a patient with the coronavirus; now she was on her way to an upstairs doctor’s lounge to finish writing her notes. Standing by the elevators, lost in thought, she nearly missed the orange body bag as it was rolled out of the car that had just opened in front of her. She decided to take the next one.
Seconds later, another elevator opened behind her. She turned—out came two more stretchers, two more bodies. While she watched, every elevator in the bay opened its doors, expelling stretcher after stretcher of bodies. “I felt surrounded,” she said. “I’d never seen anything like it. I thought I might throw up.”
An endocrinologist by training, Beth—whose name has been changed for this story—usually sees patients in an office; when she first volunteered to help on the wards, she was nervous. As the pandemic deepened, she’d grown comfortable in her new role, or so she’d thought. She turned to a junior colleague with whom she’d been waiting. “I knew I had to be brave,” she said. “I kept it together for her.” Thinking back now, she recalls not just the orange bags but the young woman’s petrified face.
For many health-care workers, initial concerns about the rationing of ventilators, masks, and gloves have been replaced with the weighty recognition that the fight against COVID-19 is not a momentary disruption but a new way of life. More than a hundred and thirty-two thousand Americans have died of the virus, and the pandemic is still making its way across the country, with case counts spiking as states reopen. There are no game-changing treatments for the disease, and no vaccine. The pandemic will be sticking around for a while.
Even in normal times, health-care workers are at high risk for mental-health problems. Doctors commit suicide at twice the rate of the general population; a quarter of I.C.U. nurses have symptoms of P.T.S.D.; a third of residents show signs of depression; more than ten per cent of graduating medical students report having suicidal thoughts. For several years, Srijan Sen, a professor of psychiatry at the University of Michigan who studies the well-being of physicians, has been following medical residents in China, using an app that asks doctors there questions about their moods. Usually, as the Chinese New Year approaches, their collective mood improves; this year, when the pandemic cancelled celebrations, “we saw a pretty concerning decline in mood and increase in depressive symptoms,” he said.
Sen’s work is consistent with other recent research. A study of nurses and doctors caring for COVID-19 patients in China found that nearly three-quarters had experienced psychological distress; half reported symptoms of depression, and a third had difficulty sleeping. A preliminary study in Italy found that half of health-care workers there had symptoms of P.T.S.D. In April, these statistics became real for those in New York’s medical community after two clinicians, an emergency physician and an emergency medical technician, died by suicide.
In his psychiatry practice, Sen cares for doctors struggling with mental health; these days, he works over Zoom. “There’s an increase in concern for patients, a feeling of not being able to do as much as they normally would,” Sen said. “Then there’s the added concern for themselves and their families. On one hand, they feel, ‘This is why I became a doctor.’ On the other, it’s ‘I’m putting myself, my spouse, and my children at risk.’ ” In his prior work, Sen found that the prevalence and severity of mental-health issues varied from hospital to hospital. He believes that these disparities offer a lesson for this moment. “My sense is that stress and anxiety will be worse in places where clinicians feel that leadership is more concerned with finances than with safety, or is not being upfront about masks and P.P.E.,” he told me. “Ultimately, you want to know that your institution is behind you.”
Since the pandemic started, Jonathan Kochav, a cardiology fellow in New York City, has cared for hundreds of critically-ill COVID-19 patients. He describes his emotional state as having progressed through three phases. They mirror what I’ve heard from other doctors, and my own experience as a hospitalist working in coronavirus wards and I.C.U.s.
The first phase, which began as the virus started its explosive, relentless spread across the city, was imbued with excitement and fear. The excitement had to do with venturing into uncharted territory, unravelling the mysteries of a new virus and trying to subdue it. “We were learning on the fly, but, just by being at the epicenter, we were soon among the world’s most experienced at treating this disease,” Kochav said. The fear—of losing his patients, his loved ones, his own life—was equally unprecedented. “When I was first treating COVID-19 patients, I knew I would get it,” he continued. “I knew my wife would get it. I had visions of her being intubated in an I.C.U. I was scared my parents would get sick and die. I thought about which hospital I would bring them to.”
As it turned out, Kochav did get sick. So did his wife, who has also been treating people with COVID-19. The fear changed how he interacted with patients and their families. “Dealing with family members was particularly emotional,” he told me. “I saw my fears coming true in what they were experiencing. I could so easily project myself into their position.” A doctor can feel some distance from patients with chronic ailments, such as heart disease or diabetes. Not so with a virus that threatens to infect everyone.
As the weeks went on, Kochav experienced a gradual hardening: phase two. “When you’re exposed and exposed and exposed to something, it becomes less scary,” he said. “There was this desensitization and detachment.” He noticed colleagues who had previously changed into street clothes before and after shifts departing the hospital in scrubs; some forgot to put on eye protection as they walked toward patient rooms, scurrying back to collect face shields. His own approach to patients began to shift. Everyone had the same disease; many fared poorly regardless of what he did; treatment became mechanical. “I felt disconnected,” he said. “I’m not sure if it’s because I overinvested earlier and was just emotionally spent, or because every day was an endless stream of the same thing. But I went from seeing every patient as my mom, my dad, my wife, to seeing every patient as a lab value and ventilator setting.”
Others apparently felt the same way, because soon Kochav’s I.C.U. developed a plan to restore humanity to its work. The unit began asking families to send in photos and double-sided sheets describing each patient’s life and interests. Some families wrote from the first-person perspective of the patient—he was introducing himself. Soon, I.V. poles were covered with paragraphs describing years past and laminated pictures of children, grandchildren, vacations, and graduations. “I’d go to check a patient’s ventilator settings and suddenly I’d see their smiling face at a barbecue,” Kochav said. “I’m caring for people again.” He hopes this new, third phase will last.
Coronavirus patients go through phases, too. In early March, David and his partner, Emily, left the city with his sister and brother-in-law to stay on Long Island. (They asked me not to use their real names to protect their privacy.) David exercised six days a week and, at thirty-five, had never been seriously ill. When he woke up feeling unwell, he attributed his fatigue to a bad night’s sleep. That evening, he entered the kitchen, where his sister was eating a sweet potato; overcome by nausea, he started up the stairs, then fainted, hitting his head on a railing and opening a gash above his left eyebrow.
In the coming days, he developed fevers, cough, and muscle aches. He was tired and couldn’t catch his breath. “I’d never experienced anything like it,” he said. “It felt like my chest was in a vise. I remember coughing up the most disgusting phlegm of my life.” He self-isolated. Emily started sleeping downstairs, and his sister and brother-in-law moved out. “It was extremely anxiety-provoking,” David said. “I tried to avoid the news, but inevitably I’d come across a story about some young person who was intubated and died.” His fever reached a hundred and three, and wouldn’t break with Tylenol; he began sleeping with wet towels draped over his body. His breathing grew more labored, and he took to calling Emily at the start of each night, leaving his phone on speaker until morning. “It made me feel better knowing she could hear me,” he said. “I felt a little less alone.”
Emily, who was working long hours remotely, also became David’s primary caregiver. She left meals, water, and tea outside his door, showering after every trip upstairs. “It was non-stop,” she said. “It was exhausting, and it was extremely isolating. I felt like I was on autopilot. There was no room for emotion. I had to work, care for him, and somehow try not to get sick.” One night, at around 2 A.M., David knocked on Emily’s door. “I think we should go to the hospital,” he said. She drove, and he sat in the back; both wore masks—two of their remaining four. They kept the windows open, to reduce Emily’s chances of breathing in the virus, and David couldn’t stop shivering. Forty-five minutes later, they arrived at a triage tent in a hospital parking lot. David waited with dozens of coughing patients until it was his turn to see the doctor, who took his oxygen level and told him that he didn’t meet the criteria for hospital admission. “That’s when I broke. I felt so desperate,” David told me. “He basically said, ‘You’re not sick enough to be admitted.’ I said, ‘I feel terrible. What do I need to show?’ He said, ‘If it gets worse, come back.’ I was, like, ‘It’s already worse!’ ’’
Emily saw David walking back. “That was the scariest moment,” she said. “I was praying they would admit him. He was so sick. The idea that I would have to monitor him until things got worse was terrifying. It felt like we were basically waiting for it to get so bad he might not recover.” When they returned home, Emily opened a bottle of Clorox to wipe down the kitchen. She couldn’t smell the bleach. “I stuck my nose in the bottle and took four deep inhales,” she said. “I thought maybe it was just old.” It wasn’t until later, when she couldn’t smell her mint tea, that it dawned on her. “I thought, Oh, duh, the Clorox wasn’t old. I have it, too.”
When I spoke with David, two months after he first developed symptoms, he was still nowhere near his pre-coronavirus self. “The most common question I get is whether I’m back to one hundred per cent. The answer is not even close,” he said. He’d lost fifteen pounds during his illness, and had managed to gain back only a few; he still sometimes felt short of breath when talking, and his heart raced when he walked too fast. “It’s very discouraging. I used to work out every day. Now I can’t even jog,” he said. “But I try to focus on the positive. I’m grateful to have some basic level of health back.” He plans to donate his blood to clinical trials that use antibodies from COVID-19 survivors to treat patients. “If there’s even a small chance it might prevent others from going through what I went through, I’m glad to do it.”