newyorker--2020-12-21--The Mixed-Up Masters of Early Animation

The Mixed-Up Masters of Early Animation

There appeared to be a boundless reservoir of historical cartoon styles—with some , the Bugs Bunny cartoons , clearly made on a theatrical scale and with big budgets and full orchestras , and others , like the Bullwinkle cartoons , cheaply made but slyly imagined , rich in satiric push .
It all came at the viewer in an indiscriminate collage .
R. Crumb , the great underground cartoonist , had the imagery so stored up inside that , amid LSD trips in the sixties , everything came spilling out—what he called “ a grotesque kaleidoscope , a tawdry carnival @ @ @ @ @ @ @ characters for the rest of his career .
The flow of cartooning past so imprinted itself on us that nobody found it odd that the 1996 movie “ Space Jam ” paired peak Michael Jordan with characters who had first appeared long before he was born , or that the relatively unsuccessful “ Bullwinkle ” series , which concluded in 1964 , could inspire four feature films three and four and even five decades later .
In “ Wild Minds : The Artists and Rivalries That Inspired the Golden Age of Animation ” @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Mitenbuler recalls that flood—and points out that the vintage cartoons within it were often censored by later distributors in ways that robbed them of their original spice and sex appeal .
Of the kinds of popular books that have proliferated in the past few decades—the little thing that changed everything ( cod , longitude , porcelain ) , the crime or scandal that time forgot ( Erik Larson ’ s specialty ) —none are more potent than the tale of the happy band of brothers who came together to redirect the world .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ s “ The Right Stuff ” through Jenny Uglow ’ s “ The Lunar Men , ” and Mitenbuler ’ s “ Wild Minds ” is an attempt to do the same for the history of American animation .
“ Wild Minds ” assembles its history with love and a sense of occasion .
The chronicle that results , as Mitenbuler explains in a prefatory note , also appears at a moment when , for the first time in the history of the form , everything is available .
Obscurities that in the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ find in a stray MOMA screening are now online .
Even the lewd ( though government-sponsored ) “ Private Snafu ” cartoons , made for G.I.s during the Second World War and written by Theodor Geisel , better known as Dr. Seuss , can be found at a touch of the YouTube tab .
The act of pulling everyone together in this way is new , and significant .
The peculiar excellence of “ The Right Stuff ” was not that it showed astronauts to the world but that it showed the astronauts @ @ @ @ @ @ @ were far from dim-witted test pilots : they knew what they were doing and what was being done to them .
Mitenbuler ’ s larger aim is similar : to show us that the best cartoonists were not haphazard artisans but self-aware artists , working against the constraints of commerce toward a knowing end of high comic , and sometimes serious , art .
The book ’ s governing idea lies in its heroes ’ collective intuition that animated films could be a vehicle for grownup expression—erotic , political , and even scientific—rather @ @ @ @ @ @ @ became .
A cartoon tradition that could seem child-bound , sexless , and stereotyped was once vital , satiric , and experimental .
Mitenbuler explains that the familiar form of the cartoon arose , in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries , because the same persistence of vision that enables a rapid sequence of photographic stills to give the illusion of movement works if you draw the images , with a pen .
The joy of this discovery , made by a close succession of animators , was that it set you free @ @ @ @ @ @ @ could make anything you imagined exist on film , from waltzing dinosaurs to talking mice .
Along with this discovery came a subsequent , painful one—that drawing the frames , one by one , was insanely laborious and expensive .
( The commercial history of animation from then on was basically a contest between the pleasure taken in seeing the extravagant imagination come alive and the shortcuts that had to be devised in order to draw the pictures ever more cheaply . )
Very early animation has a single theme , the fluidity @ @ @ @ @ @ @ called the first fully animated film , the French “ Fantasmagorie ” ( 1908 ) , is a two-minute-long study in visual metamorphosis , stick figures caught in a constantly changing two-dimensional world .
The first hero of Mitenbuler ’ s American story is therefore Winsor McCay , the author of the “ Little Nemo in Slumberland ” series , the amazing accounts of dream experience that anticipate Surrealist fantasy .
We learn that McCay , though best remembered now as a visionary fantasist , was also an editorial cartoonist in the Hearst @ @ @ @ @ @ @ inventions primarily as a means of entertainment .
In 1916 , after projecting his “ Gertie the Dinosaur ” cartoon as part of a vaudeville act , he invested his talents and money in a twelve-minute—long for the time—animated version of the sinking of the ocean liner Lusitania , which had been torpedoed by a German U-boat the previous year , with a huge loss of life .
Though drawn in McCay ’ s distinctive Art Nouveau-ish style—two elegant fish under the ocean watch an ominous torpedo approaching with dismay , and turn @ @ @ @ @ @ @ watch .
The sequence in which the ship tips over into the water , as human figures leap from it in dignified silhouette , is more memorable and affecting than anything in “ Titanic , ” exactly for its stylized equanimity .
We register the tiny figures coming down ropes , the neatly outlined eruptions billowing smoke , the inkblot clouds of fire , the ship sinking beneath the hand-drawn waves—it ’ s like an early newsreel reimagined by Hiroshige .
But McCay was limited by William Randolph Hearst , who owned him @ @ @ @ @ @ @ his political-editorial work , while seeing little profit in animation .
In “ Wild Minds , ” McCay then retreats , while Mitenbuler ’ s Chuck Yeager figure—the too often overlooked and audacious hero who inspires the later , better-known adventurers—is double : the Fleischer brothers , Max and David .
Though now mostly forgotten by non-experts , in the nineteen-twenties and early thirties the Fleischers seemed as likely as their great competitor , Walt Disney , to become the masters of animated cartoons .
Proudly Jewish ( their cartoons occasionally exploded with @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Mitenbuler speculates that they started the studio with money from the race track ) , they threw their careers away in a series of misadventures worthy of a Michael Chabon novel , choosing Florida over California as the place to make cartoons and then overindulging in the pleasures of the flesh once there .
The Fleischers , we learn , began by inventing a once famous clown , Ko-Ko , who was a fellow-traveller of the first famous cartoon figure , Felix the Cat , both drawn under the orbit of Chaplin , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ found everywhere .
The Fleischers didn ’ t see why animation needed to remain a diminutive form .
Having made stake money with Ko-Ko , they took up what they thought was as obvious a subject for animation as , say , the adventures of Pocahontas or the working life of any number of dwarves : Einstein ’ s special and general theories of relativity .
Earning Einstein ’ s approval , the silent film , released in 1923 , is still an astonishingly early and sophisticated popularization of his theory .
But @ @ @ @ @ @ @ l Al the Light Beam or the like—it was a flop , according to Mitenbuler .
Two years later , undeterred , the Fleischers used the occasion of the Scopes trial to goose up a history of life on earth as imagined by Darwinian evolution .
( It caused a riot at the American Museum of Natural History when it débuted , but seems to have made little money . )
The Fleischers—having secured backing from Paramount—had another go at presenting the drama of sexual reproduction : they invented Betty Boop , the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ bowdlerized , and remembered now mainly for her “ Boop-oop-a-doop ” cry , Betty was in her day a full-fledged mini-Mae West .
A zaftig Broadway showgirl , she went topless , routinely seduced Bimbo the dog , and was just as routinely seduced , and occasionally spanked , by her animal cartoon lover .
( “ Wan na be a member , wan na be a member ?
” she sings , after rubbing her hands up and down her body , in one bizarre fantasy about the initiation rites of a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Betty Boop was not .
In the mid-thirties , her skirt got lengthened and her manners curbed when Catholic groups pressed the Production Code on Hollywood , and the Fleischers turned their attention to Popeye , from E. C. Segar ’ s lovely strip .
They simplified the action ; Popeye ’ s deus ex canica of spinach first became iconic in their cartoons .
In one of the great misplaced bets in American show business , however , the Fleischers moved their studio to the nascent town of Miami , where their @ @ @ @ @ @ @ sometimes had a hard time with swamp insects and other swamp creatures .
“ On the mornings after Ku Klux Klan rallies , the air sometimes smelled like the turpentine used to burn the crosses , ” Mitenbuler records .
Many of them fled back home .
( Others had already been poached by the Disney studio , all the way out in California . )
Even before this difficult time , the Fleischers—Max , especially—clearly had in mind the hot-ice-cream dream of a feature-length cartoon , made fearsomely difficult by the number @ @ @ @ @ @ @ needed to produce so many frames .
Time-saving tricks were sought .
Max had developed the technique of rotoscoping , which is still in use and which enables live-action film to be overlaid with animation .
It created the quivering , noir-El Greco effect of their heroic figures , including the Superman series of the early forties .
After Disney came out with a feature , the saccharine but successful “ Snow White , ” in 1937 , Paramount finally gave the Fleischers the money to work on a feature of their own @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ s Travels , ” which was released in 1939 .
It lacks Swift ’ s satiric fire , but the juxtaposition of the rotoscoped and vividly human Gulliver with the smooth-edged cartoon Lilliputians has an almost creepy intensity that suits the subject .
( In films with both human movement and cartoon movement , like “ Who Framed Roger Rabbit , ” it ’ s always the real-world footage that looks coarse , otherworldly , and disturbing . )
The contrast between the practices of the Disney studios in Los Angeles and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ debt to Paramount—is the material for an American comedy .
At Disney , classes in drawing and composition were compulsory .
Mitenbuler tells us that “ Jean Charlot , a Mexican artist who had painted murals alongside Diego Rivera , a revolver strapped to his hip , provided lessons on composition and geometry , ” while Rico Lebrun , an expert on animal anatomy , “ dragged a deer carcass into the studio and , over the course of several sessions , peeled back layers of pink tissue until he finally struck bone.
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ , a professor at U.S.C.
, taught the theory of humor , announcing , “ Ve vill now explain vott iss a gak.
” ( In the manner of the Russian formalists , he had analyzed “ over two hundred gags into thirty-one basic types , ” Mitenbuler reports . )
While the Disney animators were dutifully studying life drawing , the Fleischers were living the life .
Mitenbuler writes that the red light above Dave ’ s door sometimes meant that he was having sex with his secretary , and that when @ @ @ @ @ @ @ front of visiting suits from Paramount , David told them that Max was having an affair with his own secretary .
“ The tryst soured Max ’ s already stormy relationship with his wife , Essie , ” Mitenbuler adds , who “ was occupied with her gambling habit .
In order to reach her bookie at any hour , she had wired the palm trees of their estate with telephones.
” Soon the Paramount executives , no surprise , more or less foreclosed on the Fleischers and took ownership of all their @ @ @ @ @ @ @ his studio or his momentum , or , for that matter , his relationship with his brother .
It was easier to blame his mishandling of his career on a business rival than on a character flaw .
Throughout his long and mostly unhappy afterlife , this usually good-natured man would , at the mere mention of Disney ’ s name , mutter , “ That son of a bitch.
” If the Fleischers are the doomed Hectors of Mitenbuler ’ s tale , his favorites are the hyper-energetic , demonic band of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ animation studio in the thirties and forties , inventing Daffy Duck , Porky Pig , Pepé Le Pew , and , eventually , Wile E. Coyote and the Road Runner .
It was during one of those irresistible creative moments that , for a brief time , everything fell right : Mel Blanc , the voice artist , was integral to the invention of the characters .
( At least one is a caricature of a studio executive . )
Happy accidents happened : Porky Pig was voiced by an actor with an @ @ @ @ @ @ @ it to creative use .
The wild-man directors of the “ Looney Tunes ” cartoons , Tex Avery and Chuck Jones and Frank Tashlin , were hardly loony about their art .
Tashlin articulated their purpose bluntly .
“ We showed those Disney guys that animated cartoons don ’ t have to look like a fucking kids ’ book , ” he said .
Chuck Jones ’ s list of rules for his art are acute and broadly applicable : “ You must learn to respect that golden atom , that single-frame of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ between lightning and the lightning bug may hinge on that single frame.
” What is true of frames is true of words , and notes .
The Warner Bros. cartoons remain the high point of what might be called American Wise Guy comedy .
Where Felix and Ko-Ko ( and Chaplin ) represented a beleaguered immigrant-naïf comedy , Daffy and Sylvester the Cat and , above all , Bugs Bunny are celebrations of unashamed American ingenuity .
It ’ s a kind of second-generation-immigrant comedy , where wheedling and scheming are admired , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ later Sgt .
Bilko .
Bugs isn ’ t mean , but he ’ s always ready to protect himself from the Elmer Fudds of the world with his own cleverness .
In the Second World War , Bugs became every put-upon G.I.
’ s totem and hero .
Indeed , what ’ s demonstrated by the recirculation of those lewd training films—directed by , among others , Chuck Jones and voiced by Mel Blanc—is that the voice of the Everyman , Private Snafu , is indistinguishable from Bugs ’ s .

Anyone who came of age in the latter part of the twentieth century will recall the constant flow of animated cartoons that made up most of children’s programming on TV. In a culture of supposedly short memories, they were an art form that reached right back across time. On the radio, “oldies” were a separate genre within pop music, but on the kids’ shows there was a steady stream of cartoons from half a century’s creation, reality intruding mostly with commercials for pre-sweetened breakfast cereals. Everything ran together: bending, bug-eyed dogs and cats playing bad swing jazz on living clarinets from the thirties, spinach cans popping open and tattooed muscles popping up from the nineteen-forties, and Japanese animation of the sixties so limited that it hardly moved.
There appeared to be a boundless reservoir of historical cartoon styles—with some, the Bugs Bunny cartoons, clearly made on a theatrical scale and with big budgets and full orchestras, and others, like the Bullwinkle cartoons, cheaply made but slyly imagined, rich in satiric push. It all came at the viewer in an indiscriminate collage. R. Crumb, the great underground cartoonist, had the imagery so stored up inside that, amid LSD trips in the sixties, everything came spilling out—what he called “a grotesque kaleidoscope, a tawdry carnival”—and gave him a cast of characters for the rest of his career. The flow of cartooning past so imprinted itself on us that nobody found it odd that the 1996 movie “Space Jam” paired peak Michael Jordan with characters who had first appeared long before he was born, or that the relatively unsuccessful “Bullwinkle” series, which concluded in 1964, could inspire four feature films three and four and even five decades later.
In “Wild Minds: The Artists and Rivalries That Inspired the Golden Age of Animation” (Atlantic Monthly Press), Reid Mitenbuler recalls that flood—and points out that the vintage cartoons within it were often censored by later distributors in ways that robbed them of their original spice and sex appeal. Of the kinds of popular books that have proliferated in the past few decades—the little thing that changed everything (cod, longitude, porcelain), the crime or scandal that time forgot (Erik Larson’s specialty)—none are more potent than the tale of the happy band of brothers who came together to redirect the world. The genre runs from Tom Wolfe’s “The Right Stuff” through Jenny Uglow’s “The Lunar Men,” and Mitenbuler’s “Wild Minds” is an attempt to do the same for the history of American animation.
“Wild Minds” assembles its history with love and a sense of occasion. The chronicle that results, as Mitenbuler explains in a prefatory note, also appears at a moment when, for the first time in the history of the form, everything is available. Obscurities that in the past one would have waited years to find in a stray MOMA screening are now online. Even the lewd (though government-sponsored) “Private Snafu” cartoons, made for G.I.s during the Second World War and written by Theodor Geisel, better known as Dr. Seuss, can be found at a touch of the YouTube tab. The act of pulling everyone together in this way is new, and significant. The peculiar excellence of “The Right Stuff” was not that it showed astronauts to the world but that it showed the astronauts as worldly. Wolfe explained that they were far from dim-witted test pilots: they knew what they were doing and what was being done to them. Mitenbuler’s larger aim is similar: to show us that the best cartoonists were not haphazard artisans but self-aware artists, working against the constraints of commerce toward a knowing end of high comic, and sometimes serious, art. The book’s governing idea lies in its heroes’ collective intuition that animated films could be a vehicle for grownup expression—erotic, political, and even scientific—rather than the trailing diminutive form they mostly became. A cartoon tradition that could seem child-bound, sexless, and stereotyped was once vital, satiric, and experimental.
Mitenbuler explains that the familiar form of the cartoon arose, in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, because the same persistence of vision that enables a rapid sequence of photographic stills to give the illusion of movement works if you draw the images, with a pen. The joy of this discovery, made by a close succession of animators, was that it set you free from the constraints of realism: you could make anything you imagined exist on film, from waltzing dinosaurs to talking mice. Along with this discovery came a subsequent, painful one—that drawing the frames, one by one, was insanely laborious and expensive. (The commercial history of animation from then on was basically a contest between the pleasure taken in seeing the extravagant imagination come alive and the shortcuts that had to be devised in order to draw the pictures ever more cheaply.)
Very early animation has a single theme, the fluidity of form: what’s sometimes called the first fully animated film, the French “Fantasmagorie” (1908), is a two-minute-long study in visual metamorphosis, stick figures caught in a constantly changing two-dimensional world. The first hero of Mitenbuler’s American story is therefore Winsor McCay, the author of the “Little Nemo in Slumberland” series, the amazing accounts of dream experience that anticipate Surrealist fantasy. We learn that McCay, though best remembered now as a visionary fantasist, was also an editorial cartoonist in the Hearst stable. Nor did McCay see his inventions primarily as a means of entertainment. In 1916, after projecting his “Gertie the Dinosaur” cartoon as part of a vaudeville act, he invested his talents and money in a twelve-minute—long for the time—animated version of the sinking of the ocean liner Lusitania, which had been torpedoed by a German U-boat the previous year, with a huge loss of life.
Though drawn in McCay’s distinctive Art Nouveau-ish style—two elegant fish under the ocean watch an ominous torpedo approaching with dismay, and turn away in synchrony—it is still piercing to watch. The sequence in which the ship tips over into the water, as human figures leap from it in dignified silhouette, is more memorable and affecting than anything in “Titanic,” exactly for its stylized equanimity. We register the tiny figures coming down ropes, the neatly outlined eruptions billowing smoke, the inkblot clouds of fire, the ship sinking beneath the hand-drawn waves—it’s like an early newsreel reimagined by Hiroshige.
But McCay was limited by William Randolph Hearst, who owned him as a kind of property and valued his political-editorial work, while seeing little profit in animation. In “Wild Minds,” McCay then retreats, while Mitenbuler’s Chuck Yeager figure—the too often overlooked and audacious hero who inspires the later, better-known adventurers—is double: the Fleischer brothers, Max and David.
Though now mostly forgotten by non-experts, in the nineteen-twenties and early thirties the Fleischers seemed as likely as their great competitor, Walt Disney, to become the masters of animated cartoons. Proudly Jewish (their cartoons occasionally exploded with Hebrew lettering) and extremely louche (Mitenbuler speculates that they started the studio with money from the race track), they threw their careers away in a series of misadventures worthy of a Michael Chabon novel, choosing Florida over California as the place to make cartoons and then overindulging in the pleasures of the flesh once there. The Fleischers, we learn, began by inventing a once famous clown, Ko-Ko, who was a fellow-traveller of the first famous cartoon figure, Felix the Cat, both drawn under the orbit of Chaplin, whose influence on early animation can be found everywhere.
The Fleischers didn’t see why animation needed to remain a diminutive form. Having made stake money with Ko-Ko, they took up what they thought was as obvious a subject for animation as, say, the adventures of Pocahontas or the working life of any number of dwarves: Einstein’s special and general theories of relativity. Earning Einstein’s approval, the silent film, released in 1923, is still an astonishingly early and sophisticated popularization of his theory. But lacking, perhaps, a mascot—Li’l Al the Light Beam or the like—it was a flop, according to Mitenbuler. Two years later, undeterred, the Fleischers used the occasion of the Scopes trial to goose up a history of life on earth as imagined by Darwinian evolution. (It caused a riot at the American Museum of Natural History when it débuted, but seems to have made little money.)
The Fleischers—having secured backing from Paramount—had another go at presenting the drama of sexual reproduction: they invented Betty Boop, the first frankly sexy cartoon character. Later bowdlerized, and remembered now mainly for her “Boop-oop-a-doop” cry, Betty was in her day a full-fledged mini-Mae West. A zaftig Broadway showgirl, she went topless, routinely seduced Bimbo the dog, and was just as routinely seduced, and occasionally spanked, by her animal cartoon lover. (“Wanna be a member, wanna be a member?” she sings, after rubbing her hands up and down her body, in one bizarre fantasy about the initiation rites of a mystical order.)
A Disney princess Betty Boop was not. In the mid-thirties, her skirt got lengthened and her manners curbed when Catholic groups pressed the Production Code on Hollywood, and the Fleischers turned their attention to Popeye, from E. C. Segar’s lovely strip. They simplified the action; Popeye’s deus ex canica of spinach first became iconic in their cartoons. In one of the great misplaced bets in American show business, however, the Fleischers moved their studio to the nascent town of Miami, where their largely Jewish and very New York employees sometimes had a hard time with swamp insects and other swamp creatures. “On the mornings after Ku Klux Klan rallies, the air sometimes smelled like the turpentine used to burn the crosses,” Mitenbuler records. Many of them fled back home. (Others had already been poached by the Disney studio, all the way out in California.)
Even before this difficult time, the Fleischers—Max, especially—clearly had in mind the hot-ice-cream dream of a feature-length cartoon, made fearsomely difficult by the number of artists and the amount of time needed to produce so many frames. Time-saving tricks were sought. Max had developed the technique of rotoscoping, which is still in use and which enables live-action film to be overlaid with animation. It created the quivering, noir-El Greco effect of their heroic figures, including the Superman series of the early forties.
After Disney came out with a feature, the saccharine but successful “Snow White,” in 1937, Paramount finally gave the Fleischers the money to work on a feature of their own, a full-length version of “Gulliver’s Travels,” which was released in 1939. It lacks Swift’s satiric fire, but the juxtaposition of the rotoscoped and vividly human Gulliver with the smooth-edged cartoon Lilliputians has an almost creepy intensity that suits the subject. (In films with both human movement and cartoon movement, like “Who Framed Roger Rabbit,” it’s always the real-world footage that looks coarse, otherworldly, and disturbing.)
The contrast between the practices of the Disney studios in Los Angeles and those of the Fleischers in Miami—long in debt to Paramount—is the material for an American comedy. At Disney, classes in drawing and composition were compulsory. Mitenbuler tells us that “Jean Charlot, a Mexican artist who had painted murals alongside Diego Rivera, a revolver strapped to his hip, provided lessons on composition and geometry,” while Rico Lebrun, an expert on animal anatomy, “dragged a deer carcass into the studio and, over the course of several sessions, peeled back layers of pink tissue until he finally struck bone.” Bambi was born. Boris Morkovin, a professor at U.S.C., taught the theory of humor, announcing, “Ve vill now explain vott iss a gak.” (In the manner of the Russian formalists, he had analyzed “over two hundred gags into thirty-one basic types,” Mitenbuler reports.)


newyorker--2020-12-21--Some Notes on Funniness

Some Notes on Funniness

In that Sunday-school class of my epiphany , the teacher , a rather pedantic and self-important man , was droning on about a passage in Psalms— “ If I forget thee , O Jerusalem , may my right hand forget its cunning and my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth.
” Suddenly , I found myself standing up .
In a loud voice , I said , “ If I forget thee , O Jerusalem , may my right hand forget its cunning.
” As I spoke , I extended my right hand from my body at a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ right arm .
I finished the passage with my attempt to replicate the speech of someone whose tongue had cleaved to the roof of his mouth .
The class exploded with laughter .
The teacher simply exploded .
I was ejected from the room .
Was I then transformed into the class clown—the kid who sneaks a whoopee cushion under the pad on the teacher ’ s chair and is regularly sent to the vice-principal ’ s office ?
No .
For one thing , there were guardrails at home to prevent that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , as I interpreted my father ’ s aspirations for me , he wanted me to become the President of the United States and his fall-back position was that I not become a ward of the county .
I ’ m certain that there were some callings in between that he would have considered acceptable , but none of them began with regular sessions in the vice-principal ’ s office .
I did , though , make some attempts at humor during my school days .
For a high-school literary society , I @ @ @ @ @ @ @ all of which , I devoutly hope , long ago disintegrated at the bottom of some landfill .
In a speech to decide the presidency of the Southwest High School student council , I remember saying that more wastebaskets in the halls were needed and that I ’ d thought of making my campaign slogan “ Get swept into office with wastebaskets in the halls.
” Feeble ?
Yes , but it got a laugh .
Also , another student and I briefly had a sort of standup act .
My partner did @ @ @ @ @ @ @ was enhanced by the fact that most of the people in that audience of Kansas City high-school students had never met a foreigner .
The one joke I can remember from the act was a weatherman saying , “ Tomorrow will be muggy , followed by Tueggy , Weggy , Thurggy , and Frieggy.
” My only defense for that one is that we didn ’ t make it up ; we stole it from a radio disk jockey .
At graduation , I wasn ’ t voted the Funniest Boy .
That @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to a classmate who acted out the records of Spike Jones and His City Slickers , a band that was to music more or less what the Harlem Globetrotters are to basketball .
I was voted third Most Likely to Succeed .
Third Most Likely to Succeed—now , that ’ s funny .
For those of us whose attempts at humor are mostly written rather than verbal , the audience is an editor—an audience we , unlike the standup comic , have to please without the tools of timing or expression .
In @ @ @ @ @ @ @ The New Yorker , the pieces that we were trying to sell—the sort of light pieces that would these days run under the rubric of Shouts & Murmurs or possibly Personal History—were referred to around the office as “ casuals.
” Some of the people submitting casuals were , like me , reporters who thought of casual-writing as a sideline .
Some were fiction writers drawing a small salary that was ostensibly for writing Talk of the Town pieces .
Some were people with no connection to the magazine who simply thought they @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Burton Bernstein , a colleague who published a biography of James Thurber , the nonpareil producer of casuals , wrote once that the casual , which sounds like something tossed off , is actually “ one of the more difficult and painstaking forms of writing known to humankind.
” Contemplating casual-writing over the past fifty years or so , I ’ m reminded of how I began a talk I once gave to people graduating from Columbia with master ’ s-of-fine-arts degrees .
“ When I tried to think of an appropriate subject @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ re going into , ” I said , “ the only thing I could come up with was ‘ Rejection.
’ ” It ’ s not that we didn ’ t sell some casuals .
But what stands out in my memory is rejection .
Burt Bernstein , for instance , worked for untold hours on a palindromic casual .
It was in the form of a play called “ Look , Ma , I Am Kool !
, ” and it had characters delivering lines like “ Nail a timid god @ @ @ @ @ @ @ dim Italian.
” The New Yorker passed .
The alternative market for palindromic casuals was not large .
Some months later , Burt showed up at my office to announce that he was compiling and editing a book of casuals written by the generation that followed the legendary era of New Yorker writers like Thurber and Benchley and White and Perelman .
He asked if I had any pieces that might be included .
“ If I may ask , ” I said , “ am I correct in thinking that this is @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to get ‘ Look , Ma , I Am Kool !
’ into print ?
” “ In that case , ” I said , “ Count me in.
” For a time , the magazine had a policy of tacking on a bonus for anyone who sold six casuals in a calendar year .
As I recall , the bonus was a higher rate for casuals sold during the remainder of the year , but I always imagined it as something akin to the pinball machine in the movie version of William @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Life ” : when the machine is finally beaten , lights flash and bells ring and an American flag pops out to wave while “ America ” is played .
Toward the end of one year in what must have been the mid-sixties , Tom Meehan and I had both sold five , and our typewriters were burning up .
Tom had written one of the magazine ’ s iconic casuals— “ Yma Dream , ” presented as his dream of hosting a party at which he has to introduce people with names @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ ‘ Ona and Ida , ’ I say , ‘ surely you know Yma and Ava ?
Ida , Ona—Oona , Abba.
’ ” ) But he couldn ’ t come up with the sixth casual that year .
Neither could I .
When I think of that period , the visual metaphor that comes to my mind is Tom and I meeting on the stairs between our floor and the appropriate editor ’ s office , one of us carrying a rejected casual and one of us carrying a casual that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the mid-seventies , Tom , a lovely man , seemed to be struggling .
His wife was not well .
Writing casuals and free-lance pieces was a chancy occupation for a man with a family to support , and the project he ’ d spent years working on otherwise , the book for a musical , had the marks of a nonpaying long shot .
Then , in 1977 , the musical actually made it to Broadway .
It was “ Annie.
” It won Tom the first of what turned out to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ seemed destined to run forever .
Not long after “ Annie ” opened , my wife and daughters and I had tea with Tom and some of the kids who appeared in the musical .
I told Tom that everyone at the magazine was delighted about his reversal of fortune .
He said that there had been a time when he was beginning to feel like that Woody Allen character in “ Annie Hall , ” who said life is divided into the terrible and the miserable .
That same year , Burt @ @ @ @ @ @ @ It contained , after an astute foreword by Burt on the state of what he termed “ literate humor , ” contributions from a wide range of casual writers .
( I contributed two of my favorites—both New Yorker rejects that had eventually found homes in other magazines . )
The title of the anthology was “ Look , Ma , I Am Kool !
And Other Casuals.
” During roughly the final fifteen years that Johnny Carson hosted the “ Tonight Show , ” I was a guest on the show a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ was almost always in what we called the authors ’ ghetto—the final guest on the program , the guest who was fated to be bumped if the show went too long .
By chance , I never did get bumped , and one time I was actually not last .
I was followed by a man who played the saw—the rare guest who was , if necessary , as expendable as a writer .
Appearing on the “ Tonight Show ” was an odd and unexpected gig for someone whose main line of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ New Yorker—one evening , the guests were Mr. Rogers , Hulk Hogan , and me—but I enjoyed doing it .
I found it easy to talk to Johnny Carson .
Part of the reason , I always thought , was that we came from the same part of the country and had similar notions of what was funny .
I admired his skill .
He could extend a guest ’ s joke without taking the joke away , for instance , and he could enliven a flat remark with a quip or an @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a guest waiting in the greenroom to go on : it greatly reduced the chances that your appearance would turn into a total debacle .
After the show was taped , the “ talent coördinator ” who booked me , Jim McCawley , and I would often repair to a nearby Mexican restaurant for a snack before I was picked up and deposited at the airport for the red-eye to New York .
One evening , Jim said that Johnny ( everyone called him Johnny ) was interested in having more “ civilians @ @ @ @ @ @ @ program .
He ’ d recently been impressed with a chicken-plucker .
( I neglected to ask whether that civilian plucked chickens on the air or demonstrated a new chicken-plucking machine or displayed a talent completely unconnected with his chosen profession . )
When Jim asked if I had any suggestions , I said , “ I know a remarkable smoke-ring blower—Harry Garrison , from Cincinnati .
His personality takes a bit of getting used to—he can seem imperious , particularly when he ’ s demanding still air for his performance and says @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of human breathing ’ —but he ’ s an absolutely brilliant smoke-ring blower .
By far the best smoke-ring blower I ’ ve ever seen .
Maybe the best there is.
” “ What does he do for a living ?
” Jim asked , assuming correctly that smoke-ring blowing had to be a sort of sideline .
Jim looked excited .
“ Where do I find him ?
” he said .
No more than three or four days later , Jim phoned to say , “ Watch Tuesday.
” I couldn @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that there were movie stars who ’ d waited months or even years for a booking on the “ Tonight Show ” —perhaps demeaning themselves in a variety of ways in attempting to hurry along the process .
Harry Garrison had been booked after one phone call from Jim McCawley .
Then I got busy finishing a piece of reporting and totally forgot to watch the show on Tuesday .
The next day , I was having lunch with a friend who asked , “ Did you happen to see Carson last night @ @ @ @ @ @ @ trying to blow smoke rings .
”

Epiphany
In an interview some years ago, I was asked when I realized that on occasion I could actually make people laugh. Remarkably, I knew. It was in Sunday school. I think I was in sixth grade. I was a shy little boy and, up to that point, insanely well behaved. The story that exemplifies that level of decorum—the only story of my grade-school years in Kansas City that my daughters have ever enjoyed hearing—goes like this: In about third grade, our teacher announced on a Monday morning that there would be an extra recess period on Friday for anyone who had gone the entire week without a check mark for any sort of misbehavior or disturbance. When Friday arrived, I was the only one in the class with no check marks, so my reward was to spend an extra period on the playground all by myself—lonely, bored, and insanely well behaved.
In that Sunday-school class of my epiphany, the teacher, a rather pedantic and self-important man, was droning on about a passage in Psalms—“If I forget thee, O Jerusalem, may my right hand forget its cunning and my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth.” Suddenly, I found myself standing up. In a loud voice, I said, “If I forget thee, O Jerusalem, may my right hand forget its cunning.” As I spoke, I extended my right hand from my body at a weird angle, dangling from a limp right arm. I finished the passage with my attempt to replicate the speech of someone whose tongue had cleaved to the roof of his mouth. The class exploded with laughter. The teacher simply exploded. I was ejected from the room.
Was I then transformed into the class clown—the kid who sneaks a whoopee cushion under the pad on the teacher’s chair and is regularly sent to the vice-principal’s office? No. For one thing, there were guardrails at home to prevent that. I’ve often mentioned that, as I interpreted my father’s aspirations for me, he wanted me to become the President of the United States and his fall-back position was that I not become a ward of the county. I’m certain that there were some callings in between that he would have considered acceptable, but none of them began with regular sessions in the vice-principal’s office.
I did, though, make some attempts at humor during my school days. For a high-school literary society, I wrote a few comic short stories, all of which, I devoutly hope, long ago disintegrated at the bottom of some landfill. In a speech to decide the presidency of the Southwest High School student council, I remember saying that more wastebaskets in the halls were needed and that I’d thought of making my campaign slogan “Get swept into office with wastebaskets in the halls.” Feeble? Yes, but it got a laugh. Also, another student and I briefly had a sort of standup act. My partner did foreign accents, the effectiveness of which was enhanced by the fact that most of the people in that audience of Kansas City high-school students had never met a foreigner. The one joke I can remember from the act was a weatherman saying, “Tomorrow will be muggy, followed by Tueggy, Weggy, Thurggy, and Frieggy.” My only defense for that one is that we didn’t make it up; we stole it from a radio disk jockey. At graduation, I wasn’t voted the Funniest Boy. That honor, as I remember, went to a classmate who acted out the records of Spike Jones and His City Slickers, a band that was to music more or less what the Harlem Globetrotters are to basketball. I was voted third Most Likely to Succeed. Third Most Likely to Succeed—now, that’s funny.
Casuals
A stickler for precise language would probably argue that the bookstore shelf labelled “Humor” should really say “Attempts at Humor,” since the word standing alone implies that everyone will be amused. (Describing yourself as a humorist, Ring Lardner said, would be like a baseball player who’d been asked which position he plays saying, “I’m a great third baseman.”) What strikes one person as funny might strike another person as not funny at all. If that scowling man at one of the near tables doesn’t think what the comic just said was funny, there’s no use trying to persuade him that it was. A reminder that the audience at the dinner show found the same joke hilarious wouldn’t help.
For those of us whose attempts at humor are mostly written rather than verbal, the audience is an editor—an audience we, unlike the standup comic, have to please without the tools of timing or expression. In the first decades of my time at The New Yorker, the pieces that we were trying to sell—the sort of light pieces that would these days run under the rubric of Shouts & Murmurs or possibly Personal History—were referred to around the office as “casuals.” Some of the people submitting casuals were, like me, reporters who thought of casual-writing as a sideline. Some were fiction writers drawing a small salary that was ostensibly for writing Talk of the Town pieces. Some were people with no connection to the magazine who simply thought they had come up with something funny. Burton Bernstein, a colleague who published a biography of James Thurber, the nonpareil producer of casuals, wrote once that the casual, which sounds like something tossed off, is actually “one of the more difficult and painstaking forms of writing known to humankind.” Contemplating casual-writing over the past fifty years or so, I’m reminded of how I began a talk I once gave to people graduating from Columbia with master’s-of-fine-arts degrees. “When I tried to think of an appropriate subject for people going into the fields you’re going into,” I said, “the only thing I could come up with was ‘Rejection.’ ” It’s not that we didn’t sell some casuals. But what stands out in my memory is rejection.
Burt Bernstein, for instance, worked for untold hours on a palindromic casual. It was in the form of a play called “Look, Ma, I Am Kool!,” and it had characters delivering lines like “Nail a timid god on rood. Door no dog, dim Italian.” The New Yorker passed. The alternative market for palindromic casuals was not large. Some months later, Burt showed up at my office to announce that he was compiling and editing a book of casuals written by the generation that followed the legendary era of New Yorker writers like Thurber and Benchley and White and Perelman. He asked if I had any pieces that might be included.
“If I may ask,” I said, “am I correct in thinking that this is essentially a scheme you’ve hatched to get ‘Look, Ma, I Am Kool!’ into print?”
“But of course,” Burt said cheerfully.
“In that case,” I said, “Count me in.”
For a time, the magazine had a policy of tacking on a bonus for anyone who sold six casuals in a calendar year. As I recall, the bonus was a higher rate for casuals sold during the remainder of the year, but I always imagined it as something akin to the pinball machine in the movie version of William Saroyan’s “Time of Your Life”: when the machine is finally beaten, lights flash and bells ring and an American flag pops out to wave while “America” is played. Toward the end of one year in what must have been the mid-sixties, Tom Meehan and I had both sold five, and our typewriters were burning up. Tom had written one of the magazine’s iconic casuals—“Yma Dream,” presented as his dream of hosting a party at which he has to introduce people with names like Yma Sumac and Uta Hagen (“ ‘Ona and Ida,’ I say, ‘surely you know Yma and Ava? Ida, Ona—Oona, Abba.’ ”) But he couldn’t come up with the sixth casual that year. Neither could I. When I think of that period, the visual metaphor that comes to my mind is Tom and I meeting on the stairs between our floor and the appropriate editor’s office, one of us carrying a rejected casual and one of us carrying a casual that is about to be rejected.
In the mid-seventies, Tom, a lovely man, seemed to be struggling. His wife was not well. Writing casuals and free-lance pieces was a chancy occupation for a man with a family to support, and the project he’d spent years working on otherwise, the book for a musical, had the marks of a nonpaying long shot. Then, in 1977, the musical actually made it to Broadway. It was “Annie.” It won Tom the first of what turned out to be three Tony Awards, and it seemed destined to run forever.
Not long after “Annie” opened, my wife and daughters and I had tea with Tom and some of the kids who appeared in the musical. I told Tom that everyone at the magazine was delighted about his reversal of fortune. He said that there had been a time when he was beginning to feel like that Woody Allen character in “Annie Hall,” who said life is divided into the terrible and the miserable.
“A Broadway hit can change a lot,” I said.
Tom smiled, and said, quietly, “Smash hit.”
That same year, Burt Bernstein’s anthology was published. It contained, after an astute foreword by Burt on the state of what he termed “literate humor,” contributions from a wide range of casual writers. (I contributed two of my favorites—both New Yorker rejects that had eventually found homes in other magazines.) The title of the anthology was “Look, Ma, I Am Kool! And Other Casuals.”
Here’s Johnny
An essential fact about being a guest on a late-night talk show is this: you don’t have to answer the question. It’s not at all like being interviewed on “60 Minutes.” If you’re asked about how you came to write your novel, and, knowing that a thorough answer could induce mass drowsiness, you tell an amusing story about your mother’s cooking, the host is perfectly satisfied. He’s in the business of entertainment, not information gathering.
During roughly the final fifteen years that Johnny Carson hosted the “Tonight Show,” I was a guest on the show a couple of times a year. I was almost always in what we called the authors’ ghetto—the final guest on the program, the guest who was fated to be bumped if the show went too long. By chance, I never did get bumped, and one time I was actually not last. I was followed by a man who played the saw—the rare guest who was, if necessary, as expendable as a writer.
Appearing on the “Tonight Show” was an odd and unexpected gig for someone whose main line of work was doing reporting pieces for The New Yorker—one evening, the guests were Mr. Rogers, Hulk Hogan, and me—but I enjoyed doing it. I found it easy to talk to Johnny Carson. Part of the reason, I always thought, was that we came from the same part of the country and had similar notions of what was funny. I admired his skill. He could extend a guest’s joke without taking the joke away, for instance, and he could enliven a flat remark with a quip or an expression. That skill was comforting to a guest waiting in the greenroom to go on: it greatly reduced the chances that your appearance would turn into a total debacle.
After the show was taped, the “talent coördinator” who booked me, Jim McCawley, and I would often repair to a nearby Mexican restaurant for a snack before I was picked up and deposited at the airport for the red-eye to New York. One evening, Jim said that Johnny (everyone called him Johnny) was interested in having more “civilians”—that is, non-show-business people—on the program. He’d recently been impressed with a chicken-plucker. (I neglected to ask whether that civilian plucked chickens on the air or demonstrated a new chicken-plucking machine or displayed a talent completely unconnected with his chosen profession.) When Jim asked if I had any suggestions, I said, “I know a remarkable smoke-ring blower—Harry Garrison, from Cincinnati. His personality takes a bit of getting used to—he can seem imperious, particularly when he’s demanding still air for his performance and says something like ‘I detect the sound of human breathing’—but he’s an absolutely brilliant smoke-ring blower. By far the best smoke-ring blower I’ve ever seen. Maybe the best there is.”


newyorker--2020-12-21--Harry Bliss’s “In with the New”

Harry Bliss’s “In with the New”

In the cover for this year ’ s Cartoon Issue , Harry Bliss pays homage to Charles Addams , whose @ @ @ @ @ The New Yorker , and whose most famous creation , the Addams Family , has @ @ @ @ @ recently talked to Bliss about discovering Addams and his life as a cartoonist .
What @ @ @ @ @ a cartoonist ?
I wanted to be a painter .
My training was academic : @ @ @ @ @ color theory , sculpture , anatomy , etc .
But then I rediscovered the depth @ @ @ @ @ work .
I had loved his work as a child , when I was a @ @ @ @ @ an adult I marvelled at his terrific artistic skill .
I had an epiphany of @ @ @ @ @ the beauty of Addams ’ s renderings with my desire to make people laugh .
@ @ @ @ @ cartoonist .

In the cover for this year’s Cartoon Issue, Harry Bliss pays homage to Charles Addams, whose macabre work routinely appeared in The New Yorker, and whose most famous creation, the Addams Family, has spurred countless adaptations. We recently talked to Bliss about discovering Addams and his life as a cartoonist.
What made you want to be a cartoonist?
I wanted to be a painter. My training was academic: drawing from plaster casts, color theory, sculpture, anatomy, etc. But then I rediscovered the depth of Charles Addams’s work. I had loved his work as a child, when I was a class clown, but as an adult I marvelled at his terrific artistic skill. I had an epiphany of sorts: I could meld the beauty of Addams’s renderings with my desire to make people laugh. That turned me into a cartoonist.


newyorker--2020-12-21--“Acting Class,” by Nick Drnaso

“Acting Class,” by Nick Drnaso

This excerpt is drawn from “ Acting Class , ” by Nick Drnaso , out in 2022 from Drawn & @ @

This excerpt is drawn from “Acting Class,” by Nick Drnaso, out in 2022 from Drawn & Quarterly.


newyorker--2020-12-21--Holiday Poem: “Greetings, Friends!”

Holiday Poem: “Greetings, Friends!”

Friends one and all !
Let us unmute , Excite the timbrel and the lute , Make merry with our pots and pan ( The hour is seven , so we can ) , Shout from the balcony or lawn For joy at what will soon be gone , And praises sing for what is here : The end to this undreamt-of year !
Commune with us , dear friends , while we Strew gifts abundant ’ round the tree , And help us pick out something nice For New York ’ s Dr. David Price , The Bronx ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in Cincinnati , Dr. L. Woodward , of U .
Miss.
, Dr. Pernell ( she ’ s our own Chris ) , L.A. ’ s Dr. Anna Darby , Arizona ’ s Dr. Barbee , Harold Varmus , the Nobel-er ( Doc of reputation stellar ) , Ashley Bartholomew , R.N .
And when we check the list again It unscrolls out across the floor , With health-care stalwarts by the score— By the millions !
Heroes true !
( Forgive their student-loan debts—do ! )
As we replay two-oh in slo-mo @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Is not amiss , nor would it be For bat virologist Zheng-Li Shi , Steak Diane , the cool mask-maker , Dolly Parton , Peter Baker , Jennifer O ’ Malley Dillon , Issa Rae , Calvin ( Bud ) Trillin , Stacey Abrams , Mikie Sherrill , Andrew Rea , and Colin Farrell .
The passing Comet Neowise , Which , lacking hands , can ’ t sanitize Them , yearns to be the wise men ’ s star Instead , and shining from afar Lays tender beams upon A. Blinken , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ re thinkin ’ , Too , on David Miliband , A ’ Lelia Bundles , Michael Land , Gretchen Whitmer , fearless gov , Jon Ossoff , whom we ’ re so fond of , Chris Krebs , and Tyler , the Creator ; Brightly and not one bit later , It shines on Amy Westervelt , Whose podcast , we have always felt , Is great ; on Alice Oswald , too ; And , similarly , on a few Deserving folks like James McBride , Fern Finkel ( Brooklyn ’ s @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Mr. Brokaw ( Tom ) , Meg Knox , and wondrous Rosa Baum .
“ Yay !
” for Jack and Marta Handey , And our ol ’ pal Peter Canby !
A super surge of Christmas glee To Joe and Jill from me and thee , And all good things to Kamala And Doug from us and Momma-la .
This year , just in case you ’ ve wondered , Roger Angell turned a hundred !
Unequalled master of this rhyme From back when it was in its prime , He rocks @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Who is the best and that ’ s for sure , man !
To those who lift us up : Godspeed !
We hope Josh Gad has all he ’ ll need ; For Alexander Vindman And bro Yevgeny , we ’ ve a plan To wish them both benignity ; And with no loss of dignity Shout season ’ s blessings to Jack Black , Mystery writer Steven Womack , Jay Inslee , John Hickenlooper , David Chichester , Chris Cooper ( With , by the by , a friendly “ Hi @ @ @ @ @ @ @ s pensive fly ) .
Should Christmas comfort be deployed , May it descend on Terrence Floyd , Philonise Floyd , and their relations ( Rev .
Al , thanks for your oration ) ; May peace , whatever peace there be , Enfold the family Arbery ; May justice come to all who thirst And hunger for it through the worst .
Dear friends , if we could rhyme away The year ’ s vast losses , we might say These stumbling lines were justified As right in step with Christmastide .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ ?
The only rhyme word here is “ mystery.
” Let gladness rise , despite , despite ; “ Love one another ” routs the night , And kindness is a folding chair We carry with us everywhere .
In depth of winter , prospects brighten ; Mighty streams of light will lighten The miles ahead , and goodness reign— Once more , the angels ’ grand refrain !

Friends one and all! Let us unmute,
Excite the timbrel and the lute,
Make merry with our pots and pan
(The hour is seven, so we can),
Shout from the balcony or lawn
For joy at what will soon be gone,
And praises sing for what is here:
The end to this undreamt-of year!
Commune with us, dear friends, while we
Strew gifts abundant ’round the tree,
And help us pick out something nice
For New York’s Dr. David Price,
The Bronx’s Dr. Ernest Patti,
Every nurse in Cincinnati,
Dr. L. Woodward, of U. Miss.,
Dr. Pernell (she’s our own Chris),
L.A.’s Dr. Anna Darby,
Arizona’s Dr. Barbee,
Harold Varmus, the Nobel-er
(Doc of reputation stellar),
Ashley Bartholomew, R.N.
And when we check the list again
It unscrolls out across the floor,
With health-care stalwarts by the score—
By the millions! Heroes true!
(Forgive their student-loan debts—do!)
As we replay two-oh in slo-mo,
A Christmas cheer for Andrew Cuomo
Is not amiss, nor would it be
For bat virologist Zheng-Li Shi,
Steak Diane, the cool mask-maker,
Dolly Parton, Peter Baker,
Jennifer O’Malley Dillon,
Issa Rae, Calvin (Bud) Trillin,
Stacey Abrams, Mikie Sherrill,
Andrew Rea, and Colin Farrell.
The passing Comet Neowise,
Which, lacking hands, can’t sanitize
Them, yearns to be the wise men’s star
Instead, and shining from afar
Lays tender beams upon A. Blinken,
Dr. Fauci, and, we’re thinkin’,
Too, on David Miliband,
A’Lelia Bundles, Michael Land,
Gretchen Whitmer, fearless gov,
Jon Ossoff, whom we’re so fond of,
Chris Krebs, and Tyler, the Creator;
Brightly and not one bit later,
It shines on Amy Westervelt,
Whose podcast, we have always felt,
Is great; on Alice Oswald, too;
And, similarly, on a few
Deserving folks like James McBride,
Fern Finkel (Brooklyn’s courtroom pride),
Reid Singer, Mr. Brokaw (Tom),
Meg Knox, and wondrous Rosa Baum.
“Yay!” for Jack and Marta Handey,
And our ol’ pal Peter Canby!
A super surge of Christmas glee
To Joe and Jill from me and thee,
And all good things to Kamala
And Doug from us and Momma-la.
This year, just in case you’ve wondered,
Roger Angell turned a hundred!
Unequalled master of this rhyme
From back when it was in its prime,
He rocks! And so does Peggy Moorman,
Who is the best and that’s for sure, man!
To those who lift us up: Godspeed!
We hope Josh Gad has all he’ll need;
For Alexander Vindman
And bro Yevgeny, we’ve a plan
To wish them both benignity;
And with no loss of dignity
Shout season’s blessings to Jack Black,
Mystery writer Steven Womack,
Jay Inslee, John Hickenlooper,
David Chichester, Chris Cooper
(With, by the by, a friendly “Hi!”
To V.P. Pence’s pensive fly).
Should Christmas comfort be deployed,
May it descend on Terrence Floyd,
Philonise Floyd, and their relations
(Rev. Al, thanks for your oration);
May peace, whatever peace there be,
Enfold the family Arbery;
May justice come to all who thirst
And hunger for it through the worst.
Dear friends, if we could rhyme away
The year’s vast losses, we might say
These stumbling lines were justified
As right in step with Christmastide.
Does meter link up hope and history?
The only rhyme word here is “mystery.”
Let gladness rise, despite, despite;
“Love one another” routs the night,
And kindness is a folding chair
We carry with us everywhere.
In depth of winter, prospects brighten;
Mighty streams of light will lighten
The miles ahead, and goodness reign—
Once more, the angels’ grand refrain!


newyorker--2020-12-21--How Morgan Wallen Became the Most Wanted Man in Country

Wallen had never been on an airplane until he flew to L.A. for the taping , and he was unsure what kind of singer he wanted to be .
He auditioned with a husky version of “ Collide , ” an earnest ballad from the two-thousands , which impressed Shakira , one of the celebrity judges .
“ Your voice is unique—it has this raspy tone , gritty sound to it , ” she said .
“ It ’ s as manly as it gets.
” Even so , Wallen was eliminated a month later , and he returned to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a few industry connections , and a newfound awareness that he had what many Californians considered a thick Southern accent .
“ They ’ d be , like , Where are you from ?
” he recalls .
He began thinking about that question , too .
These days , Wallen is a country-music star .
His signature hit , “ Whiskey Glasses , ” is a perfectly constructed ode to a woman and a drink , lost and found , respectively : “ I ’ m a need some whiskey glasses / @ @ @ @ @ @ @ na see the truth.
” According to Billboard , it was the top country-radio song of 2019 .
The music video depicts a fictionalized version of the makeover that Wallen underwent after “ The Voice.
” He rips off the sleeves of a plaid flannel shirt and shaves the sides of his long hair , transforming himself into an Everyman rock star : Bruce Springsteen meets Larry the Cable Guy , crowned with a glorious mullet .
Through this process , Wallen became not just a singer but a character—and , in a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Nashville professionals , a sex symbol , beloved by an army of fans who appear to be disproportionately female and thirsty .
An innocuous photograph of him leaning against a truck recently drew nearly half a million likes on Instagram , and almost ten thousand comments , including a prayerful declaration from a young mother in South Carolina : “ Lord have mercy im bout to bust.
” Wallen was alarmed when the live-music industry shut down in March , but 2020 has turned out to be the best year of his career @ @ @ @ @ @ @ his radio ubiquity , and his homebound fans made him a TikTok favorite , reacting to snippets of songs and recording their own versions .
Some non-country listeners first heard about Wallen in the beginning of October , when “ Saturday Night Live ” announced that he would be the musical guest on an upcoming episode .
Many more of them heard about him a few days later , when the show announced that Wallen ’ s appearance had been cancelled because of video footage that was circulating , on TikTok ( naturally @ @ @ @ @ @ @ bar the previous weekend , sharing kisses—and , for all anyone knew , virions—with at least two different women .
Wallen acknowledged his mistake in a downbeat but charming two-minute video , apologizing for what he called “ short-sighted ” behavior and signalling a temporary withdrawal from the spotlight .
“ It may be a second before you hear from me , for a while , ” he said .
He wasn ’ t gone long .
In early December , Wallen made it to “ S.N.L.
, ” performing a couple of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ which he reënacted his fateful trip to that Alabama bar and begged forgiveness , singing , “ I thank you in advance / For giving this poor Southern boy a second Yankee chance.
” On Twitter , viewers debated his hair , his hygiene , and his general persona .
“ Go to any Circle K in Indiana and you ’ ll find yourself a Morgan Wallen , ” one user wrote .
But it is not clear that Wallen would consider this an insult .
On January 8th , he will release @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ( Big Loud ) , which takes pains to reassure listeners that he is still a small-town guy , albeit one with a marvellously grainy voice and a knack for singing clever songs that are sometimes wistful , sometimes rowdy , and almost always boozy—in this way , at least , he is a country traditionalist .
One of the advantages of his sleeveless-shirt image is that it provides him occasional opportunities to upend listeners ’ expectations .
“ Ain ’ t it strange the things you keep tucked in your heart , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of one song .
And this unexpectedly philosophical flourish helps draw out the double meaning in the next line , which suggests personal growth while also recapitulating the excuse that he must have offered to “ Saturday Night Live ” executives , not long ago : “ I found myself in this bar.
” After “ The Voice , ” Wallen moved to Nashville , where he found a like-minded producer : Joey Moi , known for his work with Nickelback , who had reinvented himself as a country hitmaker .
Wallen was @ @ @ @ @ @ @ flourishes to arrive at a mellow but muscular country-rock hybrid .
“ He had no idea how good he was , ” Moi recalls .
Wallen ’ s first album , “ If I Know Me , ” from 2018 , started with a likable lead single , “ The Way I Talk , ” which stalled at No .
30 on the country-radio chart—an ominous sign for a new singer .
But then came a trio of No .
1 country hits , helped by a collaboration with another Moi client , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and by that haircut , a staple of nineties country fashion that had come to seem stylishly retro .
( One of the most famous mullets belonged to Billy Ray Cyrus , whose daughter Miley has lately contributed to their revival . )
“ If I Know Me ” reached No .
1 on the Billboard country-album chart in August , more than two years after it was released .
By then , Wallen had a new song heading up the country charts , “ More Than My Hometown , ” an anthem @ @ @ @ @ @ @ inevitably , a love story .
He underenunciates , using his drawl to make the wordy verses sound casual : “ I ain ’ t the runaway kind , I can ’ t change that / My heart ’ s stuck in these streets , like the train tracks / City sky ain ’ t the same black.
” And in the chorus he makes his choice , declaring , over classic-rock guitar , “ I guess I ’ ll see you around / ’ Cause I can ’ t love you more @ @ @ @ @ @ @ first album in a rush , squeezing recording sessions into a ten-day window between gigs .
This year , like many people , he found himself with more free time , and that explains why “ Dangerous ” contains thirty songs .
For tradition ’ s sake , the album is split into two “ sides , ” the first of which is gentler and better , starting with a lovesick Tennessee boy in a “ sunburnt Silverado , ” reminiscing about a beachside fling .
Near the end comes “ More Than @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ 7 Summers , ” which fans first heard in April , when Wallen uploaded part of a demo to Instagram .
“ 7 Summers ” uses a pair of major-seventh chords to evoke the breezy sound of Fleetwood Mac and the bittersweet memory of an old flame .
“ We thought we were cutting this deep cut , ” Moi says .
But Wallen ’ s fans grew obsessed , posting and reposting the snippet and begging him to release the final version .
When he eventually did , a few months @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
6 on the Billboard Hot 100 , thereby making reality-television history .
“ The Voice ” recently concluded its nineteenth season , and Wallen is the only contestant ever to score a Top 10 hit .
On the second half of “ Dangerous , ” Wallen reminds listeners who he is and where he ’ s from .
This is something that mainstream country singers are obliged to do , especially the men , who are expected to inject new life into familiar lines about pickup trucks and women in cutoff jeans @ @ @ @ @ @ @ efforts in this regard are up to his usual standards , especially during a four-song stretch that includes “ Somethin ’ Country ” and “ Country A $ $ Shit ” and “ Whatcha Think of Country Now.
” ( It would not be a surprise to learn that one or more of these compositions began with a songwriter losing a bet . )
But more often he establishes his bona fides with a wink , as in “ Blame It on Me , ” a mock apology to a woman who “ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ has a hard time going back .
Perhaps it is no coincidence that “ Blame It on Me , ” with its evocation of cultural authenticity , is actually a musical hybrid : a tidy pop song , partly propelled by a drum machine .
Since the twenty-tens , country singers have grown increasingly adept at borrowing from contemporary hip-hop and R. & B. , and Wallen sometimes sings with a rapper ’ s sense of rhythm , even as he defines himself against urban sounds and urban life .
“ Beer don @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the city , ” he sings .
“ Beer don ’ t buzz with that hip-hop , cuz / But it damn sure does with a little Nitty Gritty.
” Although he is wrong about beer , he is surely right that many of his listeners like to think of him as one of their own—loyal to a country community that harbors , even now , mixed feelings about the cultural dominance of hip-hop .
When Wallen found out that “ Saturday Night Live ” had rescinded its initial invitation , in October @ @ @ @ @ @ @ room in midtown Manhattan , getting ready for rehearsal .
As he processed the news , a member of his management team ordered him a steak dinner from a nearby restaurant , which he ate in his room before flying back to Tennessee .
This month , when he returned to New York for his second chance , he sounded excited to be on the show , though he didn ’ t pretend to be a regular viewer .
“ I think this is a huge opportunity for me to hopefully give ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ he said , from a different room in the same Manhattan hotel .
This time , he promised not to do anything to violate quarantine protocol .
( TMZ cameras spotted him on his way to the set—dressed , counterproductively , in a camouflage sweatshirt . )
Although his appearance went smoothly , it also illustrated how wide a gap remains between the media mainstream and the country mainstream .
During Wallen ’ s sketch , he bantered cheerfully with Jason Bateman , the host , and Bowen Yang , a cast member @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the future , sent back in time to stop him from partying away his big chance at stardom ; both actors did notably inexact impressions of his accent .
But during his final performance Wallen seemed defiant , as if he weren ’ t sure that he liked being the butt of all these New York jokes .
“ Call it cliché , but hey , just take it from me / It ’ s still goin ’ down out in the country , ” he sneered , using hip-hop slang to convey @ @ @ @ @ @ @ itself .
During this year ’ s lockdown , TikTok has emerged as a new way for country singers to get noticed , much the way TV singing competitions did a couple of decades before .
FM radio , not television or social media , still defines the country mainstream , but sometimes it scrambles to keep pace .
“ 7 Summers ” was , fittingly , a summer hit on the Hot 100 , which includes data from streaming services .
But it is only now starting to ascend the country airplay @ @ @ @ @ @ @ its thirty songs , seems designed to keep radio stations busy well into the post-pandemic era .
The album includes plenty of party songs—so many , in fact , that some of Wallen ’ s fans may worry about him .
( In May , Wallen was arrested , but not prosecuted , for public intoxication and disorderly conduct after an incident at a Nashville bar owned by a local celebrity who turned out to be sympathetic : Kid Rock . )
Wallen has said that he wants to change his habits for @ @ @ @ @ @ @ was born in July .
And tucked near the end of the album ’ s first half is his version of “ Cover Me Up , ” by the celebrated singer-songwriter Jason Isbell .
The lyrics tell the story of a man recuperating from a bender , or a lifetime of benders , surrendering to love and , maybe , sobriety ; Isbell ’ s original is quavering and uncertain , as if he were still learning to believe what he sings .
Wallen ’ s interpretation , which has been streamed nearly @ @ @ @ @ @ @ is brawnier and perhaps more suggestive .
“ Girl , leave your boots by the bed , we ain ’ t leavin ’ this room , ” he sings , in a voice that justifies the enthusiasm of both Shakira and a certain mother in South Carolina .
Wallen ’ s record company hasn ’ t decided whether to make it a single and try to persuade radio stations to play it .
Isbell ’ s songs are not typically heard on country radio—but these days just about anything Wallen sings sounds like @ @ @ @ @ @

Nearly seven years ago, a shaggy singer with a shy smile introduced himself to America. “My name is Morgan Wallen, I’m twenty years old, I’m from Knoxville, Tennessee, and I’m currently a landscaper,” he said. He was standing on a stage in Los Angeles, competing for a spot on “The Voice,” one of those reality shows in which established stars offer aspiring ones a chance to discover, first hand, just how heartbreaking the music industry can be. He was wearing a tie and a cardigan, with shoulder-length hair and most of a beard, and he explained that his promising baseball career had been ended, during his senior year in high school, by a debilitating injury to his ulnar collateral ligament. “I’m just a normal small-town kid, and I really don’t have a clue how to get into music—other than this,” he said.
Wallen had never been on an airplane until he flew to L.A. for the taping, and he was unsure what kind of singer he wanted to be. He auditioned with a husky version of “Collide,” an earnest ballad from the two-thousands, which impressed Shakira, one of the celebrity judges. “Your voice is unique—it has this raspy tone, gritty sound to it,” she said. “It’s as manly as it gets.” Even so, Wallen was eliminated a month later, and he returned to Tennessee with a slightly higher profile, a few industry connections, and a newfound awareness that he had what many Californians considered a thick Southern accent. “They’d be, like, Where are you from?” he recalls. He began thinking about that question, too.
These days, Wallen is a country-music star. His signature hit, “Whiskey Glasses,” is a perfectly constructed ode to a woman and a drink, lost and found, respectively: “I’m a need some whiskey glasses / ’Cause I don’t wanna see the truth.” According to Billboard, it was the top country-radio song of 2019. The music video depicts a fictionalized version of the makeover that Wallen underwent after “The Voice.” He rips off the sleeves of a plaid flannel shirt and shaves the sides of his long hair, transforming himself into an Everyman rock star: Bruce Springsteen meets Larry the Cable Guy, crowned with a glorious mullet. Through this process, Wallen became not just a singer but a character—and, in a development that seems to have surprised many Nashville professionals, a sex symbol, beloved by an army of fans who appear to be disproportionately female and thirsty. An innocuous photograph of him leaning against a truck recently drew nearly half a million likes on Instagram, and almost ten thousand comments, including a prayerful declaration from a young mother in South Carolina: “Lord have mercy im bout to bust.”
Wallen was alarmed when the live-music industry shut down in March, but 2020 has turned out to be the best year of his career. A new single helped him maintain his radio ubiquity, and his homebound fans made him a TikTok favorite, reacting to snippets of songs and recording their own versions. Some non-country listeners first heard about Wallen in the beginning of October, when “Saturday Night Live” announced that he would be the musical guest on an upcoming episode. Many more of them heard about him a few days later, when the show announced that Wallen’s appearance had been cancelled because of video footage that was circulating, on TikTok (naturally), showing him at an Alabama bar the previous weekend, sharing kisses—and, for all anyone knew, virions—with at least two different women. Wallen acknowledged his mistake in a downbeat but charming two-minute video, apologizing for what he called “short-sighted” behavior and signalling a temporary withdrawal from the spotlight. “It may be a second before you hear from me, for a while,” he said.
He wasn’t gone long. In early December, Wallen made it to “S.N.L.,” performing a couple of songs and starring in a sketch in which he reënacted his fateful trip to that Alabama bar and begged forgiveness, singing, “I thank you in advance / For giving this poor Southern boy a second Yankee chance.” On Twitter, viewers debated his hair, his hygiene, and his general persona. “Go to any Circle K in Indiana and you’ll find yourself a Morgan Wallen,” one user wrote. But it is not clear that Wallen would consider this an insult. On January 8th, he will release “Dangerous: The Double Album” (Big Loud), which takes pains to reassure listeners that he is still a small-town guy, albeit one with a marvellously grainy voice and a knack for singing clever songs that are sometimes wistful, sometimes rowdy, and almost always boozy—in this way, at least, he is a country traditionalist. One of the advantages of his sleeveless-shirt image is that it provides him occasional opportunities to upend listeners’ expectations. “Ain’t it strange the things you keep tucked in your heart,” he murmurs, near the end of one song. And this unexpectedly philosophical flourish helps draw out the double meaning in the next line, which suggests personal growth while also recapitulating the excuse that he must have offered to “Saturday Night Live” executives, not long ago: “I found myself in this bar.”
Wallen grew up in Sneedville, Tennessee, an isolated town in a valley near the Virginia border, where his father was for a time the pastor of the local Southern Baptist church. Wallen took classical-violin lessons as a boy, but by the time his family settled in Knoxville, when he was in high school, he was listening to unpretentious radio-friendly rock bands like Breaking Benjamin and Nickelback. In Wallen’s account, his embrace of country music was less a stylistic choice than a cultural imperative. “It may not have been the biggest influence in my life, as far as musically,” he says. “But once I started writing songs, it just sounded country. And I was, like, well, I guess I’ll sing country music, because this is the life I know.”
After “The Voice,” Wallen moved to Nashville, where he found a like-minded producer: Joey Moi, known for his work with Nickelback, who had reinvented himself as a country hitmaker. Wallen was streamlining his singing style, excising bluesy flourishes to arrive at a mellow but muscular country-rock hybrid. “He had no idea how good he was,” Moi recalls. Wallen’s first album, “If I Know Me,” from 2018, started with a likable lead single, “The Way I Talk,” which stalled at No. 30 on the country-radio chart—an ominous sign for a new singer. But then came a trio of No. 1 country hits, helped by a collaboration with another Moi client, the country duo Florida Georgia Line, and by that haircut, a staple of nineties country fashion that had come to seem stylishly retro. (One of the most famous mullets belonged to Billy Ray Cyrus, whose daughter Miley has lately contributed to their revival.) “If I Know Me” reached No. 1 on the Billboard country-album chart in August, more than two years after it was released. By then, Wallen had a new song heading up the country charts, “More Than My Hometown,” an anthem of civic pride that is also, inevitably, a love story. He underenunciates, using his drawl to make the wordy verses sound casual: “I ain’t the runaway kind, I can’t change that / My heart’s stuck in these streets, like the train tracks / City sky ain’t the same black.” And in the chorus he makes his choice, declaring, over classic-rock guitar, “I guess I’ll see you around / ’Cause I can’t love you more than my hometown.”
“Really, Mom? You wrapped up the clothes I left on the floor?” Cartoon by Caitlin Cass Copy link to cartoon Copy link to cartoon Shop Shop
Wallen made his first album in a rush, squeezing recording sessions into a ten-day window between gigs. This year, like many people, he found himself with more free time, and that explains why “Dangerous” contains thirty songs. For tradition’s sake, the album is split into two “sides,” the first of which is gentler and better, starting with a lovesick Tennessee boy in a “sunburnt Silverado,” reminiscing about a beachside fling. Near the end comes “More Than My Hometown,” as well as “7 Summers,” which fans first heard in April, when Wallen uploaded part of a demo to Instagram. “7 Summers” uses a pair of major-seventh chords to evoke the breezy sound of Fleetwood Mac and the bittersweet memory of an old flame. “We thought we were cutting this deep cut,” Moi says. But Wallen’s fans grew obsessed, posting and reposting the snippet and begging him to release the final version. When he eventually did, a few months later, they pushed it to No. 6 on the Billboard Hot 100, thereby making reality-television history. “The Voice” recently concluded its nineteenth season, and Wallen is the only contestant ever to score a Top 10 hit.
On the second half of “Dangerous,” Wallen reminds listeners who he is and where he’s from. This is something that mainstream country singers are obliged to do, especially the men, who are expected to inject new life into familiar lines about pickup trucks and women in cutoff jeans. Not all of Wallen’s efforts in this regard are up to his usual standards, especially during a four-song stretch that includes “Somethin’ Country” and “Country A$$ Shit” and “Whatcha Think of Country Now.” (It would not be a surprise to learn that one or more of these compositions began with a songwriter losing a bet.) But more often he establishes his bona fides with a wink, as in “Blame It on Me,” a mock apology to a woman who “goes country” for him, and has a hard time going back. Perhaps it is no coincidence that “Blame It on Me,” with its evocation of cultural authenticity, is actually a musical hybrid: a tidy pop song, partly propelled by a drum machine. Since the twenty-tens, country singers have grown increasingly adept at borrowing from contemporary hip-hop and R. & B., and Wallen sometimes sings with a rapper’s sense of rhythm, even as he defines himself against urban sounds and urban life. “Beer don’t taste half as good in the city,” he sings. “Beer don’t buzz with that hip-hop, cuz / But it damn sure does with a little Nitty Gritty.” Although he is wrong about beer, he is surely right that many of his listeners like to think of him as one of their own—loyal to a country community that harbors, even now, mixed feelings about the cultural dominance of hip-hop.


newyorker--2020-12-21--Eugene Ashe Time-Travels to the Harlem of the Past

When the filmmaker Eugene Ashe was growing up , in Harlem , he watched Sidney Lumet shooting “ Serpico ” in his neighborhood .
“ It was the scene where Al Pacino got shot in the face , and they took him into the emergency room , ” he said the other day , walking past the old Knickerbocker Hospital , now a senior-citizen residence .
He pointed to the rooftop where he had perched , as the movie people created a fake downpour : “ I remember being seven years old and sitting there and watching them make it @ @ @ @ @ @ @ elementary school , where Spike Lee shot exteriors for “ Jungle Fever.
” Harlem and the movies are all tangled up for Ashe , especially now that he has written and directed “ Sylvie ’ s Love , ” a romantic drama set in the late fifties and early sixties , which will be released on Amazon this week .
Tessa Thompson plays the title character , a young woman who works at her father ’ s record store , where she meets a handsome jazz saxophonist named Robert ( Nnamdi Asomugha ) @ @ @ @ @ @ @ with stubble and catlike eyes , said that he wanted to emulate the big-screen romances of the era— “ Breakfast at Tiffany ’ s , ” “ That Touch of Mink ” —but with Black characters .
“ When we talk about the sixties and Black folks , it ’ s often framed through our adversity , ” he said .
“ What I saw growing up was very different.
” Ashe was born in 1965 , and the characters are loosely inspired by his parents , Vinnie and Dolores .
Near St. @ @ @ @ @ @ @ filmed a scene for “ Edge of the City , ” he pointed out the building where he lived until he was eight , across a courtyard from his grandmother ’ s place .
“ They used to run a clothesline , and my grandmother would wash my brother ’ s and my clothes , ” he recalled .
The neighborhood , in the pre-crack years , had a swanky middle class .
In “ Sylvie ’ s Love , ” the colors are saturated , the clothes elegant .
( Chanel lent @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to see ‘ Ms .
Thompson ’ s gowns by Chanel ’ in the credits , ” Ashe said .
Because of Thompson ’ s schedule , he couldn ’ t shoot on location , so he re-created Harlem on Hollywood back lots , taking visual cues from old family photos .
He pulled one up on his phone : his father in front of a blue tail-finned Chevy , with Ashe ’ s older brother , Tony , in a kid-size suit from Barneys .
“ This is what Black folks looked @ @ @ @ @ @ @ mother ’ s cousin Juanita Hardy was Poitier ’ s first wife , and Ashe remembers visiting them in Pleasantville , in Westchester County .
“ There ’ d be all kinds of people there , like Ossie Davis and Ruby Dee , ” he said .
Sylvie , after breaking up with Robert , moves to the suburbs with her husband , who disapproves of her burgeoning television career .
Ashe ’ s mother also worked , at a telephone company .
“ I don ’ t think my mother was going @ @ @ @ @ @ @ housewife , ” he said .
His parents split up when he was thirteen : like the movie , a not quite happy love story .
“ You look at these old pictures and you wonder .
It looks so idyllic , right ?
” Walking through City College , he squinted at a photo of his mother on the campus , posing with his brother ’ s baby carriage near a bust of Lincoln .
Ashe stopped a passerby and asked , “ Do you have any idea where the Lincoln head @ @ @ @ @ @ @ inside the building now , ” the woman said , nodding toward Shepard Hall .
“ His nose is completely polished , because the students rub it for good luck.
” The campus was shut down , so Ashe ambled on to Hamilton Terrace , a brownstone-lined street .
“ This is what I was going for , when Robert walks Sylvie home , ” he said .
After studying at Parsons School of Design , Ashe began working at an interior-design firm , but found it “ boring.
” In the early @ @ @ @ @ @ @ turn toward R. & B. stardom , when his cousin , tapped by the C+C Music Factory producer David Cole , started a Boyz II Men copycat group , called the Funky Poets , and got Ashe to join .
They had a track on the “ Free Willy ” soundtrack and a spot on “ The Arsenio Hall Show ” ( “ which thrilled my dad ” ) , but Ashe didn ’ t like the attention .
“ When you are the soap that you ’ re selling , it ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” he said .
The group ’ s record deal lapsed , but he transitioned to writing music for TV shows such as “ Oz.
” En route to becoming a filmmaker , he opened two restaurants on the West Side , Réunion Surf Bar and Playa Betty ’ s , which he ’ s been struggling to keep afloat during the pandemic .
Rounding back onto Convent , Ashe looked wistful .
His brother had died the day before , from cancer , years after he was a first responder at Ground @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Sylvie ’ s Love ” in his last months .
“ He ’ s a big history buff , so he really dug it , ” Ashe said .
“ But he lives on in these photographs and the memory of this time .
There were four of us : my mom , my dad , me , and my brother .
And I ’ m the only one left.
” ♦

When the filmmaker Eugene Ashe was growing up, in Harlem, he watched Sidney Lumet shooting “Serpico” in his neighborhood. “It was the scene where Al Pacino got shot in the face, and they took him into the emergency room,” he said the other day, walking past the old Knickerbocker Hospital, now a senior-citizen residence. He pointed to the rooftop where he had perched, as the movie people created a fake downpour: “I remember being seven years old and sitting there and watching them make it rain.” Across Convent Avenue was his elementary school, where Spike Lee shot exteriors for “Jungle Fever.”
Harlem and the movies are all tangled up for Ashe, especially now that he has written and directed “Sylvie’s Love,” a romantic drama set in the late fifties and early sixties, which will be released on Amazon this week. Tessa Thompson plays the title character, a young woman who works at her father’s record store, where she meets a handsome jazz saxophonist named Robert (Nnamdi Asomugha). Ashe, who is soft-spoken, with stubble and catlike eyes, said that he wanted to emulate the big-screen romances of the era—“Breakfast at Tiffany’s,” “That Touch of Mink”—but with Black characters. “When we talk about the sixties and Black folks, it’s often framed through our adversity,” he said. “What I saw growing up was very different.”
Ashe was born in 1965, and the characters are loosely inspired by his parents, Vinnie and Dolores. Near St. Nicholas Park, where Sidney Poitier once filmed a scene for “Edge of the City,” he pointed out the building where he lived until he was eight, across a courtyard from his grandmother’s place. “They used to run a clothesline, and my grandmother would wash my brother’s and my clothes,” he recalled. The neighborhood, in the pre-crack years, had a swanky middle class. In “Sylvie’s Love,” the colors are saturated, the clothes elegant. (Chanel lent five dresses.) “I wanted to see ‘Ms. Thompson’s gowns by Chanel’ in the credits,” Ashe said.
Because of Thompson’s schedule, he couldn’t shoot on location, so he re-created Harlem on Hollywood back lots, taking visual cues from old family photos. He pulled one up on his phone: his father in front of a blue tail-finned Chevy, with Ashe’s older brother, Tony, in a kid-size suit from Barneys. “This is what Black folks looked like,” Ashe said. His mother’s cousin Juanita Hardy was Poitier’s first wife, and Ashe remembers visiting them in Pleasantville, in Westchester County. “There’d be all kinds of people there, like Ossie Davis and Ruby Dee,” he said. Sylvie, after breaking up with Robert, moves to the suburbs with her husband, who disapproves of her burgeoning television career. Ashe’s mother also worked, at a telephone company. “I don’t think my mother was going to be happy sitting around being a housewife,” he said. His parents split up when he was thirteen: like the movie, a not quite happy love story. “You look at these old pictures and you wonder. It looks so idyllic, right?”
Walking through City College, he squinted at a photo of his mother on the campus, posing with his brother’s baby carriage near a bust of Lincoln. Ashe stopped a passerby and asked, “Do you have any idea where the Lincoln head is?”
“It’s inside the building now,” the woman said, nodding toward Shepard Hall. “His nose is completely polished, because the students rub it for good luck.”
The campus was shut down, so Ashe ambled on to Hamilton Terrace, a brownstone-lined street. “This is what I was going for, when Robert walks Sylvie home,” he said. After studying at Parsons School of Design, Ashe began working at an interior-design firm, but found it “boring.” In the early nineties, his life took an unexpected turn toward R. & B. stardom, when his cousin, tapped by the C+C Music Factory producer David Cole, started a Boyz II Men copycat group, called the Funky Poets, and got Ashe to join. They had a track on the “Free Willy” soundtrack and a spot on “The Arsenio Hall Show” (“which thrilled my dad”), but Ashe didn’t like the attention. “When you are the soap that you’re selling, it’s a lot to deal with,” he said. The group’s record deal lapsed, but he transitioned to writing music for TV shows such as “Oz.” En route to becoming a filmmaker, he opened two restaurants on the West Side, Réunion Surf Bar and Playa Betty’s, which he’s been struggling to keep afloat during the pandemic.
Rounding back onto Convent, Ashe looked wistful. His brother had died the day before, from cancer, years after he was a first responder at Ground Zero. He got to see “Sylvie’s Love” in his last months. “He’s a big history buff, so he really dug it,” Ashe said. “But he lives on in these photographs and the memory of this time. There were four of us: my mom, my dad, me, and my brother. And I’m the only one left.” ♦